by CJ Brightley
It had been nearly two months now and she still had not discovered his final project, the one Marie claimed had kept him “outside in the cold.” Perhaps she should go through his notes. The wards on his workroom, fortunately, were keyed to allow her to enter or she would have had to wait until they faded—and for wards set by a mage like Oron, that could take nearly a year. Her parents would have returned by then, certainly.
Ardhuin hesitated, then swung her feet down. They could return at any time. If she were going to figure it out, it would be best not to wait. Opening the big, heavy double library doors, she conjured a ball of magefire to light her way in the dark hallway. So much easier than fussing with a lamp, and she was always afraid she would trip and drop it and set something on fire.
She stepped through the wards of the workroom, feeling the strong resistance before they parted and allowed her to enter. As always, the careless disorder made her eyes well up. She could almost imagine her great-uncle still there, giving her a thoughtful sidelong look before setting her another test of skill. Since the servants could not enter, any cleaning was done by him, and rarely—and the cleaning spell would have been a dangerous distraction. Dust covered everything.
Almost everything. The big worktable with the racks of tuned thaumaturgical devices was relatively clear, as was an ornately carved cabinet with four panel doors. That would be the best place to start looking, since he would have disturbed them most recently.
The worktable had nothing. Ardhuin opened the cabinet and found a sheet of paper with her great-uncle’s spidery handwriting. Retention of control and precision in great workings using disparate elements, it said, with a description below. It appeared to simply be a practice magic, to develop skill, the kind of thing he had had her do so many times.
“I can do this,” Ardhuin said to herself. “A central element of light, then surrounded by a stasis, which is itself surrounded by a shielding….” It was trickier than she had thought. Keeping the separate magical elements active and not touching was crucial, or the whole thing collapsed. It took her three tries, but she finally assembled the entire structure. It looked like a filigree globe, lit from within, spinning gently in the air before her.
She smiled, feeling triumphant, then remembered what she was searching for and let the magic dissipate. Just as she turned back to the cabinet, Ardhuin felt her ears pop. She looked around, startled. Now she could hear a high-pitched creak. She went to the door and reached for the latch, encountering the wards in between. They were shuddering.
Ardhuin snatched her hand away. Had she done something wrong? No, the amount of power she had just used was nothing compared to the strength of the wards, and none of the components were active. She darted a glance at the worktable. Sparks and runnels of light, changing in color from green to purple to red, danced over the equipment.
Power. A fearsome amount of power. It wasn’t coming from her, and her great-uncle was dead, so it had to be someone else. Someone outside.
They seek Oron. “He’s not here!” she whispered, sinking to the floor and clutching the heavy leg of the worktable. It would offer no protection if the wards failed, but the instinct to seek shelter could not be overcome. Why were they attacking?
After what seemed like an eternity the multicolored sparks faded and disappeared, and when she worked up the courage to test the wards they were normal. Outside the workroom there was no sign that anything had happened, until she ventured into the library. Outside the main window, shimmers of light, like an aurora, flickered in a shell around the house.
Well. Now she knew what his last “project” was. The main house wards followed the shape of the building itself, but this formed a giant dome. Since outsiders had come and gone from that area unhindered, it must be purely for protection against magical attack. Her great-uncle had anticipated this.
Ardhuin started to shake. The attack was intended to destroy Oron—or was it? Had this mysterious enemy detected the magic she had done and thought her great-uncle was still alive, or did they know about her?
Could she leave the house and live?
2
The cart creaked to a stop, and Dominic roused himself from his doze. They had arrived at the promised crossroads. At least he hoped so; he had no idea where he was or how far he was from his destination, the train station in the town of Baranton.
His first attempt at tutoring had ended on a fairly cordial note, with his return transportation being provided by the family. A series of unlucky investments had put his employer in need of retrenchment. Dominic suspected his services still might not have been dispensed with had his young charges been less eager to test the knowledge they had gained—in particular, the attempt to communicate with smoke plumes of different sizes in the manner of the Yunwiyans, which had resulted in the destruction of a favorite antique carpet.
This latest position had not gone well from the beginning, and had resulted in his unceremonious ejection from the house. He was not at all sorry to go. He had only one student this time, but he was a boy of little intellect, spoiled and indulged, who enjoyed nothing more than finding some unsuspecting animal and tormenting it to death. Dominic had found it necessary to watch him constantly.
“Tha’llt have a gert road of it,” the farmer driving the cart said, waving in a westerly direction. “Hold aboot and the town be retchely then.”
Dominic lifted his trunk and bag out of the back of the farmer’s cart, trying to decipher what he had been told. He gave up.
“Does that road go to Baranton?” he asked, pointing at the most heavily traveled road.
“It trannelt oot,” the farmer said, nodding. “Nay, ha’ done, spirkin,” he added when Dominic attempted to hand him a few coins. “Our hap to aid.” He picked up the reins and slapped them lightly on the rump of his old horse, which plodded away.
“Thank you!” called Dominic, and the farmer raised a hand in farewell without looking back.
Dominic picked up his luggage and set off. He had been fortunate to encounter the farmer. All he had to do was find the train station and go back to Dinan. He’d saved up enough that he could survive for a few months. Now he could attempt to make a living at writing, for he was more determined than ever not to continue as a tutor.
“Time to write. Hah!” Dominic shifted his trunk to the other shoulder. “Where did Botrel get that idea?” He’d hardly dared take time to sleep in his last position. With the first family, his brief attempts at his own activities had usually resulted in catastrophes like the Great Carpet Conflagration.
Nor had he enjoyed much adult conversation. To the family, he was little better than a servant; to the servants, an outsider. He had never felt so alone. Only Phillipe’s occasional letters kept him in good spirits.
Dominic trudged along the road, wondering how his few precious books had turned into lead in his trunk. It was unusually hot for a summer day, even so far south as this. He tried to keep up his spirits by whistling, but the dust soon put an end to that.
How far had it been from where he’d left the farmer? Baranton should be less than five leagues, if his guess was correct, and he’d gone farther than that. He was beginning to suspect that he had taken the wrong road. This looked nothing like it would lead to a village with a train station.
He came to another crossroad and studied the weatherbeaten signpost. The arm in the direction he was heading was missing, of course, and the sign pointing to the road that went to the left was almost completely illegible. It looked like the first letter was “P,” so it couldn’t be Baranton—unless the elements had altered it. The name didn’t look long enough to be “Baranton” either. He glanced down the side road, uncertain. It went down a gentle slope, the road shaded by huge oak trees. He could just make out a corner of a roof beyond the trees.
Dominic hesitated, then set off down the side road. He could ask for directions at the house, and perhaps rest in the shade for a while.
At first the house looked promising—a small, ra
mbling chateau of an unusual creamy-gold stone, the high walls nearest the road showing occasional oval windows. But as he approached more closely he could see the signs of neglect; shutters broken or missing, paint peeling, tiles missing from the roof. When he reached the gates, they were chained and rusty.
“Pfui!” He stared at them, annoyed he had been brought out of his way for nothing. Then his curiosity took hold. Why was it abandoned and empty?
He decided to explore, and since his trunk was really starting to become painful, he looked about for a place he could safely hide his belongings. A small gatehouse stood by the gate, and when he tried the door it was unlocked. The interior was bare save for a large cupboard underneath the window that faced the road. He stashed his trunk and bag inside the cupboard, out of sight, and set out on his tour.
The house and grounds stood at the edge of one of the dark, brooding forests that were to be found in Morbihan, and Dominic the writer of fantastic tales nodded approvingly. On the other side of the house a long, high stone wall hid the grounds from view. He could just see a mass of white blooms over the top of the high wall, and when he came closer, discovered they were roses. He had never seen any rose so white in his life, nor smelled one with such a delicate, sweet scent.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and smiled. The discomfort of the trunk, the hot dusty road—all his difficulties seemed to fade away in his mind. Such pretty roses! He wondered if he could reach one over the wall. Then his eye caught sight of the small gate. It opened with a rusty screech.
The garden was a tangle of overgrown paths and general neglect, but he could see glimpses of color in the tall grass; vivid azure blue, fiery red mixed with orange. The white rose hedge was the least of its beauties.
Dominic suddenly realized he had to write down a description of the mysterious abandoned garden or he would lose the fresh edge of his vision. He went back to the gatehouse to get his journal.
When he got there, his bag and trunk were gone.
She had found a few hints since the attack. Since she dared not leave the house or even use magic, there was not much else to do. Tantalizing hints, but no real answer to her problem. If anything, what she had learned only made it worse.
Ardhuin reluctantly turned away from the library window and picked up her great-uncle’s final letter to her, the one unsent when he died. She had it nearly memorized by now. She could feel his frustration as she read it again, wanting to warn her but still uncertain what the danger was.
I am convinced that these disquieting signs are connected to my duties as Mage Guardian. We took great care to ensure we had accounted for all the mages of the Grand Armeé, even the minor ones, so I find it hard to credit this is their work. Perhaps a gifted student found some of their notes—it does not matter now. Forgive me, petite—but I must require you, my heir, to ensure that this is not a threat to Aerope. If it is, God forbid, you must deal with these people resolutely. The world must not see such horror again.
She put the letter down, fighting a sudden wave of despair. How could she find out anything? The magic of the attack was unlike anything she’d ever seen. The only certainties were it was mage-level magic, and that it came from a distance. She couldn’t even write to ask for help from her great-uncle’s associates. Most of them were dead, at least the ones he had mentioned, and why would they believe her? Perhaps he’d planned to introduce her, overcome the storm of objections that were bound to be raised, but he had not lived to do it. Her great-uncle preferred to avoid tedious arguments.
Perhaps these unseen enemies thought he might be dead or injured, and had first sent smaller spells to be certain. They would have found the wards still up and functioning, so they had sent a stronger attack. Ardhuin drew a deep breath. If they knew where the Mage Guardian Oron lived, they would be able to discover his real name—and whether he was still alive.
She shuddered. If Oron was dead but Peran was still defended, of course they would think it occupied by his heir, or someone privy to the secrets of his life. There was no point in trying to hide the fact a magician was present. She should still be cautious, though. They did not need to know her true strength. Even more important, she should prevent them from confirming they had found the correct house. There must be other mages in Bretagne.
It just didn’t make any sense. The Mage War had been over for many years and had devastated Aerope. Gaul still had not recovered. Why would anyone want to start that again?
A loud metallic creak came from outside. It took her a moment to realize what it was, and then she darted to the window, being careful to stay hidden behind the drapes. Someone had entered the garden.
Ardhuin peeked out. A man in a dark coat stood just inside the gate, looking about the garden. That was impossible. The Lethe roses should have stopped him. Unless he was a magician and knew how to protect himself.
Fear held her motionless. She should have thought of that. If they believed they had destroyed the mage living here, they would not fear coming to his house.
The man made an impatient gesture, as if he had forgotten something, and went out the gate again. Ardhuin cast about wildly for inspiration. She needed a weapon. Using magic directly would give it all away. The letter opener? It was sharp, but she’d have to get too close to use it. The exotic swords on the wall in the entry would just make him laugh. Then she saw the fireplace tools. Yes, a frightened woman might use a poker. It was iron, too.
She grabbed the poker and ran down the stairs to the front parlor, tripping on a hidden chair leg under the shrouding muslin covers. Easing back the curtain, she looked out the front. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. No sign of the stranger. She checked from other vantage points, seeing nothing until she tried the front stair landing. A glimpse of a dark head moving along the side path. Back to the garden.
What on earth was he doing? If he was checking to see if anyone had survived, why hadn’t he even glanced at the house?
She moved cautiously to the kitchen, crouching down so she could see out the glass panes set in the top half of the outer kitchen door. Yes, he had returned. Ardhuin frowned. She still couldn’t see his face clearly, but he seemed unhappy now, almost distraught. His shoulders were slumped in despair, and his walk was slow and tired.
This did not make any kind of sense. He wandered towards the other roses, his back to the house. She eased open the door just enough to reach her shaking hand outside the wards. She could test for illusion inside them, but it would take more power and would be more likely to be noticed.
He was not an illusion. He was, however, a problem. If he noticed any of the visibly magical roses, it would confirm he had found the right place. No other mage had ever been able to merge the natural and the magical as her great-uncle had done. If he didn’t leave on his own, she would have to make him leave. But how?
She could see him more clearly now. His lean, clean-shaven face was all planes and angles, shadowed by the sun, but mobile—she imagined she could read his emotions as they flickered over his face. His deep-set eyes glanced searchingly all over the garden, looking…lost?
The stranger stopped by the Judgement rosebush and reached out to pick one of the flame-orange blooms. Her jaw dropped, and before she could stop herself, Ardhuin charged out the door yelling “No!”
He spun around, staring at her with an expression of shock and horror. His face was as pale as if he had seen an apparition—which, she realized with a sinking feeling, she resembled more than she should. Anyone would be frightened by the sudden appearance of a giant poker-waving woman with a wild mane of red hair. She was wearing one of her favorite dresses, too—indigo swirls on a cream background in the old-fashioned high-waisted style, decidedly unusual in cut and color. Her mother would be appalled.
Ardhuin felt her face go hot with embarrassment, which made her even more angry. She took a deep breath and pointed the poker at him. He was a trespasser and she didn’t care how she looked.
He held up his hands as if to wa
rd her off.
“M-mademoiselle. I beg you pardon, I did not intend to intrude! I thought the house was empty!”
It was a reasonable assumption to make, she had to confess. That still left some questions unanswered.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice wavered a little, but the poker didn’t. “I saw you leave, but you came back.”
A look of anguish crossed his face. “I was on my way to Baranton, to take a train to Dinan,” he said after a moment. That part seemed true enough. She could see the dust of the road on his shoes.
“This isn’t the road to Baranton,” Ardhuin pointed out, suspicious.
“Damnation!” The pale face flushed. She noticed with annoyance that the reaction, which would make her look like a boiler on the point of exploding, merely made him look more interesting. Divine Providence was not only unkind, but malicious as well. “My apologies, mademoiselle. I am sadly out of temper, but that does not excuse my language. I suspected I had taken the wrong road and hoped to ask at your house for directions, but when I saw the locked gate I thought no one was living here.”
Perhaps she had overreacted. “Well, there is. You want to go back to the signpost and take the left turning about half a league, then take the next road. It’s not far.” He looked distressed and made no attempt to leave. “The last train to Dinan leaves in a few hours,” Ardhuin hinted.
“Thank you, mademoiselle.” He sighed. “My plans have changed, since someone has just stolen my luggage and my money. I can no longer afford train fare.” He made an attempt to smile. “I don’t suppose you know anyone in town in urgent need of a tutor?”
“You had your luggage with you when you came here, did you not?” Ardhuin asked, suspicious again. “When was it stolen?”