by S G Dunster
It all went around and around. Thessaly had chosen, and envied Henri his peace, and yet could not think of herself standing without the cloak of power she now had, though it frightened her, and she did not know where she would be able to learn to use it.
“We shall see what I can do, Thessaly,” Henri said. “I am sorry I am not a great practicer of the craft myself, not like my own dear mother, not like her father, who was a powerful wytch indeed. But they left their words and journals behind, and those of their fathers and grandfathers. I’ve a great many old books that might tell you a direction to take.” He held her gaze. “Thessaly, it is an utter rarity. To choose both byssus and cereus. It does not happen often, and when it does . . . .” He shook his head and passed a hand over his face. “In truth, you should not be sitting here beside me, child.”
“Aye, I know,” Thessaly murmured. She thought back to those first weeks in bed, those waves of pain. She knew why her mother had ended over a cliff. “I nearly wasn’t.”
“And the fact your mother also found herself here. You’ve strong blood, Thessaly. She made progress I’ve never seen a magicker make, before she got tangled in it.”
“I worry—“
“Don’t. Worry won’t help. You are strong, you have talent. And mayhap . . .” he studied her for a moment, “mayhap you have a thing or two Thessalia didn’t. Your father’s black temper, for one.”
Thessaly smiled reluctantly.
Rosalie piped up. “I want to learn, too,” she said.
Henri looked at her, a little startled, then amused. “I don’t know if I could support that in good conscience,” he said. “A pretty little wytch you’d make. A force to break courts you’d be, little Rosalie. Brewing love spells, bewytching king’s courts to madness.”
Rosalie laughed. “And what would be so wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all, my dear,” Holystoan replied, leaning back against the cushions. “Nothing in the least.” He smiled at her, eyes twinkling, and the serious moment passed.
They relaxed then, quietly watching the scene pass. Thessaly tried not to bite her lips. She thought for a moment she would be able to relax, that Henri would have reassuring words for her. But his reaction had been anything but reassuring.
She felt her fetters like iron bands as they rode over the somewhat-familiar cobbled streets, clean-painted shops. A river, tidy and green, running through the center, clear up to the castle. Men and women in neat, tidy homespun walked along the streets with baskets and carts gaping with goods—vegetables, woven cloth, casks of home-brewed ale for trading. And there were the ships’ merchants, too, coming to the covered pavilions to trade in woolens and tin.
“We shall have to come to market tomorrow,” Thessaly said to Rosalie. “It’s nothing like what you see in London, of course. But there are some people I got to know the summers Papa and I came here. There’s a woman makes the best hot cross buns you will ever taste.”
“Humfra,” Holystoan put in. “She’s got a new specialty lately—fig pasties. I set her a store of fruits when the last cog from . . .” he paused, gave Thessaly a little eyebrow lift. “But if I tell you, you’d not be able to declare yourself innocent in a hearing. So,” he mimed buttoning his mouth.
The castle came into view around the next bend.
Rosalie gasped, then squinted.
It wasn’t much to look at, except in contrast to the humble village. Holystoan’s castle was fat, low towers surrounded by a neat stone wall, thick as a man’s body. Thessaly sighed in satisfaction as the carriage came through the portcullis, and Taunton surrounded her; the green courtyard with its old, gnarled trees lovingly tended as if they were rare flowers; a field for tilting, hardly ever used; and a small yard for archery.
She’d have to send for her three-quarters bow before the ship left, Thessaly thought. And perhaps her father would allow Cerdic onshore for a few days.
She was yawning. In feeling settled, she realized how tired she was.
“We’ll have the two of you in the northeast suite,” Holystoan said as the carriage came to a stop by the front entrance. Two men bounded up to open the doors and help the girls down. “I predict you’ve had enough of waves and wouldn’t mind overlooking the town.”
Rosalie nodded vigorously, “Aye.”
“I need a bit of sleep first,” Thessaly put in.
“Let’s get you to some beauty’s rest, then,” Holystoan said, taking each of them by the hand, leading them into the hall’s entrance. “And we shall discuss the matters you’ve brought to my attention over a proper dinner,” he added quietly to Thessaly. “Indeed, we shall need to make some adjustments to the arrangements I’d thought through. Antonio will not be entirely pleased with them.”
“Which means I shall be more pleased,” Thessaly replied.
Henri smiled, but his smile had a hitch in it—a look of concern in the eyes. Thessaly bit her lip and forced her anxiety down deep. She had to rest. No wakeful fretting would help her.
She’d put too much store in Henri’s knowledge. He was worried for her, just as her father was. It was not a welcome revelation.
She was on her own.
Guzal followed behind quietly. Henri had only given her a word of acknowledgment, perhaps sensing the girl’s weariness and need for solitude. Thessaly was grateful. She did not know what to do for Guzal. She did not even really know what Guzal wanted. Guzal didn’t speak aloud her feelings, and Thessaly did not trust her loose magicks enough to suss them out with floes. And if she did, she was sure Margarida would not approve of forcing herself on Guzal in that way.
Poison, Thessaly thought. This world is full of small poisons to spoil every happiness.
The dark thought fell on her like an actual weight as the footmen took the chests that had come with them—a few gowns and necessary garments, a book or two Thessaly had chosen. Nur’s cage dangled from Guzal’s hand, Thessaly was grateful to see. The rest of their things were still on ship, to be unloaded once it was determined where they’d be staying.
Thessaly reached over impulsively and gave Henri a quick embrace, swallowing down her sadness. “I’m so glad to be here with you, Henri. Indeed, I am.”
Henri smiled and snapped his fingers, and Costentyn, the queenly mistress of the female staff, glided over.
“Bring these ladies up to their suite,” he said. “And a glass each of hot spiced wine, I think. They need some rest before we broach any serious subjects such as capons and cotton, and where they’re to spend the next few years.”
Rosalie giggled and Costentyn led the way up the rough stone stairs.
Their assigned room was small, and the walls were of the thick, damp stone the ancient house boasted everywhere, but it was filled with luxury—velvet and down pillows, a mattress so stuffed that when Rosalie and Thessaly lay on it, they sank. Piles of blankets, down-filled, and cotton sheets so soft to the touch Rosalie sighed as they were piled on top of her. “It is nice to have a bed that doesn’t rock on the waves,” she sighed.
Soon, two goblets of hot spiced wine steamed on the small table by the fireplace. Thessaly drank hers down, savoring the warm taste of cinnamon and cloves—her father’s, of course. Her mind grew thick and warm, and she drifted off next to her friend, whose small form curled next to her like a kitten.
She woke to find Rosalie was already gone, the covers rumpled on her side, her goblet of wine empty.
Thessaly rose, smoothed her chemise. Guzal wasn’t there, so she pulled on an underdress, the cotton one she’d worn that morning, and rooted through her trunk until she found the dark-green velvet overdress she’d chosen to wear that day. It had gold fittings down the front and left the pretty billow of cotton sleeves completely exposed. She looked in the mirror on the wall. It was a small silver-glass oval that bent her face slightly, but it served. She arranged her hair so a few waves fell forward, binding the rest in a long braid down her back. She slid a leather cord around her forehead to hold the front-hairs back and c
reate a pleasing effect of waves framing her face.
She came down to the hall with its long table. All the officers of all the fleet had come, and they made a noisy, happy bunch, chattering, laughing, drinking down wine, eating fresh beef; cutting off hunks of cheese and bread and eating at the platter of fruits, which included melons and cheese.
Rosalie sat at a smaller table with Guzal, Henri, Antonio, Waintree, and Loredan. Thessaly settled into the empty place at Henri’s left. Antonio, at his right, nodded at her, his face warming slightly with approval. “You look proper,” he said.
Rosalie nodded. “That color brings out the red in your hair.”
Loredan smiled across at her, reached for her hand. Thessaly took it for a moment and found a ripe fig in her palm. She grinned. “You’re a magician yourself,” she said.
“I’ve practiced at this and that.” Loredan bowed slightly in Holystoan’s direction.
Holystoan was uncommonly quiet during the meal, but his eyes reflected warmth and contentment. After the cheeses and fruit had been served, Loredan spoke to Antonio. “I should like to take the ladies with me as I take a first tour of taunton, He said. “If it please you,” he nodded at Thessaly and Rosalie.
“We shall come, too,” Antonio declared. “I’m in need of a brisk walk and fresh air.”
“Aye,” Waintree agreed, gusting a deep sigh and patting his over-full belly. “I’ve had a great deal of the close ships-cabin humors of late.”
“Not too brisk,” Rosalie complained, then colored as Antonio turned a mock-stern gaze on her. “It’s fine,” she hastily amended.
Antonio’s face cracked in the smile he’d been withholding. “We shall pace ourselves between brisk and leisure,” he said. “I have restless blood. Like a ship’s sail, I don’t often slack.”
“No,” Thessaly muttered in agreement. “Nor anyone around you.” She was strangely turned off by her father’s unusually high and playful spirits. She wasn’t sure why.
Holystoan laughed softly, clapping a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “You’d not be the man you were, with the means you do, were you a sluggard like me.”
Antonio turned the narrow smile on him. “You’re no sluggard either, however much you try to create such an impression, Henri.”
They finished the meal in general contentment and quiet merriment. Thessaly, Rosalie and Guzal went into the courtyard together to wait for Antonio, Loredan, Waintree, and Henri.
“This was my favorite place,” Thessaly confided to Rosalie, sitting on the edge of a stone fountain. In the center was a carven image, long worn away. It had been a figure, Thessaly was sure. The general shape was that of a torso, head, legs. She liked to stare at it, to create the details in her mind that once had marked it. The water pooled at its feet, and small, jewel-colored ducks paddled around. Rosalie exclaimed delightedly and ran to the kitchens for old bread to feed them.
Home, Thessaly thought as the men joined them. They walked together toward town, her arm linked through her godfather’s. If ever there was a place I felt as home on land, this is it.
They ventured through the shops, Thessaly squirming a little in the exclamations over her growth and appearance made by the overfriendly woman at the haberdasher’s.
There was general curiosity over Loredan. But as they ventured from small stand to little shop to open market swarming with animals and folk, he charmed everybody, and in a way that was humored, not calculated. Watching him, how he did not discriminate between people small or distinguished, pretty or ugly, Thessaly’s feelings warmed to him more and more.
She was happy, she decided.
Or could be. If Henri could only convince her father to let her study, life could be almost perfect.
Almost.
“Vinculum,” she muttered to herself as they exited the baker’s shop loaded down with plum and fig pasties and the famous cross-buns. The looser binding did not last so long, particularly in the face of strong feelings, and she had to adjust it periodically.
Henri, next to her, heard the muttered word, and gave her a sharp glance. She met his gaze, sighed, and smiled. He patted her discreetly and didn’t say anything.
They went to the docks and sampled salted fish and mussels. Rosalie was all pleasure and interest. “This is a lovely shore you have,” she said to Henri. “The cliffs, the wind, the green hills. I’d not mind living here forever, indeed.”
Waintree chortled. “Until you wanted a new gown,” he said.
Rosalie tossed her head. “London can’t be so far off, can it?”
Holystoan smiled. “Not so far by ship. A mite farther by carriage.”
They came back to the castle sated and groggy, as if fresh air were a fine vintage. They settled by the fire in the morning room. There was a low table with a few books and pamphlets. One was by a Sir Thomas Moore. Picking it up, Thessaly saw it was about the education of girls. She looked quickly at her godfather. He gave her a significant look in return.
“Have you read the recent writings of Sir Moore?” he said conversationally, as if to the room at large, but Thessaly knew his attention was more focused. “He writes about the education of women. A topic that interests me greatly. Have a look.” He took the pamphlet from Thessaly and handed it to Antonio. “As well, I’ve just got in the finest port I’ve tasted. Your country of origin is making leaps and bounds in that discipline, Tonio. You might enjoy looking it over. Come along?”
Thessaly followed him into the hall. “Thank you,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m as adamant as you are that you find some education. Thessaly,” he turned to her, suddenly serious. “That vinculum spell I heard you mutter. That is no small sacrifice, Thessaly. It is a filthy curse if I’ve ever encountered one. Where did you learn it?” He didn’t bother to wait for her answer. “From your moon-besotted Aunt Umbra, of course. She means well, Thessaly, but she does not know everything.” He paused and sighed deeply. “But then, neither do I.” His look turned sad, concerned. “I wish I could be of more help to you, goddaughter.”
“It troubles me, too,” Thessaly said. “The curse. But it’s all I’ve found to keep me comfortable in the wake of . . . after. Choosing.”
He nodded gravely. “It will serve temporarily. But I think, Thessaly, you shall have to learn another means of containing these forces.”
“Aye,” Thessaly sighed.
“It will not be an easy enterprise. But you shall succeed.” His eyes gleamed oddly in the dim light of the hall. “Have I ever taken you through my hall of portraits?”
Thessaly had seen it, long ago. “I wouldn’t mind another pass. It will give Papa time to digest the dish you just served him.”
Holystoan smiled, held out his elbow. She slid her arm through it.
They wound through the corridors. The castle was an odd setup—pieced together over generations. It started as a crude, square-shaped keep, then wings spread out from it like spiders’ legs, connected unpredictably with halls and corridors.
The corridor of portraits was grand and soaring, but narrow, lit by window slits which sent sharp, concentrated rays along the wall when the afternoon sun hit. Right now, the light was filtered and dim.
There were dozens of painted pictures of magnificent men and women, cold and serious, all staring out at the viewer from gilded frames.
“This is my father,” Henri said, indicating a portrait of fine-painted strokes, lifelike enough Thessaly almost thought he’d move. Thessaly recognized the shape of jaw and forehead, the light color of hair and eyes, but not much else made her think of Henri. The man’s hand was lifted, touching a silken wrap at his neck, and a fat diamond glistened on his smallest finger. “I never met him,” Thessaly said.
“Aye, he was dead long before I met even your mother and father. He married late and had his only son as an old man.”
Pointing at the ring, Thessaly asked, “Is that the same one you wear?”
“The very same,” Henri confirmed. He led her along the corrid
or, and as the paintings grew more ancient, they grew cruder in form and brushstrokes; flatter, darker, more archaic. The smiles, some of them, sent shivers through Thessaly.
Holystoan laughed, seeing it. “The standards of beauty and art change a great deal over time,” he said. “And that,” he added, suddenly serious again, “is why I bring you here. See these men, these women? They all practiced the art, Thessaly. All of them. They chose breath and blood or they chose fire and flesh, and they harnessed them, bridled them, spread influence and gathered resources and helped a great many. And here,” he indicated some of the earliest portraits—dye on fabrics, pieces of tapestries—figures that looked, some of them, like children’s drawings, “was before the time when there was such stricture. Such convention. They made do with such powers as they claimed. More than one of my forebears practiced all the magicks. And, Thessaly,” he leaned in, took her chin, “they lived.”
Thessaly shivered again. Emotion rose up inside her. “My mother,” she said. “She did not live.”
“She did not live, but that does not mean you cannot turn this to your good. Your mother was a sweet woman. Passionate. A wit that fired all around her . . . and,” he added, “she had limited views. She was conventional. Unlike you, she’d never use a fettering curse to keep herself contained. Already, you see, you move beyond her capacity. See beyond her sight. You shall, Thessaly,” he clapped her shoulder. “You shall conquer. Use what I have. Read the books I’ve got stored in all the dark corners of my library, for there have to be things of use to you.” He gestured to the line of pictures, fading into the dimness of the dark hall. “So many of the people who made contributions to my library managed what you are striving to manage. There are answers somewhere.”
Thessaly stayed there for a moment, ringing with the pronouncement, feeling the pressure of it—his expectation—land on her with a heaviness, but lifting her as well.
After a few more moments, he began to walk back. She turned and followed him out. “Thank you, Henri,” she said softly.