“I cannot answer your questions,” Kuralla said, staggering up from behind Eleanor. Eleanor wondered suddenly if Kuralla had seen the whole scene in the future, yet...if she recalled correctly, Oracles didn't always see their own future. The stories were contradictory and Kuralla had refused to be drawn on them. “This isn't a safe place to talk, Master Reginald.”
The magician flinched. Being named had come as a surprise, although Eleanor had no idea why. It struck her a moment later. Reginald was here without orders, defying his master, who would doubtless take a dim view of it when he found out. And he would find out if he reviewed the take from the wards. She felt an odd flicker of sympathy for Reginald, wondering just how he would be punished. Dark wizards were known for their nasty sense of humour and complete willingness to use the darkest of spells to extract revenge on those who betrayed them.
“I need to know,” Reginald said, suddenly. “Am I doing the right thing?”
Kuralla leaned forward until her face was almost touching the wards. “If you have to ask that question,” she said, “you already know the answer.” She smiled, suddenly. “And now I suggest that you do what you are considering doing.”
Eleanor blinked at her, and then frowned as Reginald pulled a sword from his back. Her father’s tutors had taught her the basics of swordplay – women were not supposed to fight with swords, although she had convinced her tutors to teach her more than most women of her class would be expected to learn – and they’d told her that wearing a sword on the back was bad tactics. It took longer to draw than a sword at the belt and every lost second could prove fatal. Reginald tapped his lips with his finger and then reached out with the sword, touching it very gently to the wards. There was a tiny flicker of magic and Eleanor understood. With a little care, they could get out of the ward without being frozen and held until someone came along to free them.
She wanted to thank him, but she didn't dare speak the words aloud. Eleanor settled for giving him a smile that should have lit up the corridor. He lifted the sword in silent salute, turned and headed down the corridor. Behind him, Kuralla closed the door firmly and turned back to bed. She looked surprisingly pleased with herself.
Eleanor shook her head in amusement. “I see,” she said, knowing that Kuralla would understand. “Would you like a game of strike?”
“Why not?” Kuralla said, reaching for the board. “It isn't as if we’re going to be going anywhere in a hurry.”
Outside, Eleanor heard horses racing out of the keep and down the road to the Golden City.
“They’re on their way,” Kuralla said, very quietly. “Pray for your brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
No one spoke as the convoy entered Garstang City, after a short examination by the City Guard. Hind had watched grimly as the guards had poked through her small collection of potion supplies and found nothing suspicious – she’d hidden the black knife under a complex illusion spell, one that only another Master Magician could have detected and undone – before warning her that potions brewing in the city was strictly supervised and that she would have to pay a tax on any potion she made and sold while she was within the city’s jurisdiction. Hind hadn't bothered to argue, although it was the first she’d heard of such a tax in Garstang; they were fairly common in most of the larger cities. The native Potion Masters objected to competition from outside elements. It helped that most potions really didn't travel very well.
Garstang City was a dour forbidding place, with cold stone buildings and a dark, almost unwelcoming attitude. It was the village they’d passed writ large. The cold air seemed to blow through the buildings and into the vehicles, sending shivers down their spines. Hind saw a handful of people walking the streets, but they all looked downcast and depressed, their faces set in a stony expression. They wore drab grey clothes, even the young girls. The women, in particular, were covered almost completely. Hind could only see their heads and hands, sometimes not even the hands. The locals cast brief, almost furtive glances at the convoy and then looked away. They didn't want to be caught staring at the outsiders.
“They’re preparing for trouble,” Eric said coldly, as a line of soldiers marched past. Their faces were as dour as the rest of their countrymen. “How much do you think they know?”
Hind shrugged. With magic, it was quite easy to send a message over considerable distances in a few seconds. Herod’s agents in the city, if he had agents in the city, might have been on the alert since the Golden Palace fell. There was no way to know if they’d been tracked, or if they’d slipped Herod’s sight completely, but there was no time to relax. She had the feeling that Garstang would turn out to be a deadly trap if they remained in the city too long, yet they would definitely have to stay overnight. They had work to do in the city.
“We need a native guide,” she said, as the convoy turned a corner and reached its final destination. The streets were all dull grey, completely unmarked. A local would be able to find his or her way around with ease, but a stranger – an outsider – would be lost within moments. She suspected that that was intentional. Some of the more repressive Lords were fond of trying to deny their people visions of the outside world, visions that might give them ideas. “I have no idea where to find the Academy House.”
Eric nodded. “We’ll ask Bran,” he said. “He’s bound to know someone who can be trusted.”
The convoy disembarked in silence, the passengers taking their leave of Bran and his family, shaking his hand before heading off into the city. There were few people waiting to greet them, but no one seemed to find that strange; after all, the timing on the convoys was notoriously unpredictable. Journeys could be delayed by bandits, or magical creatures lurking in the Greenwood...and some convoys simply vanished without trace. Hind remembered the elemental and shivered. She had an idea about what had happened to some of those convoys and it wasn't pretty.
Eric waited until the last of the passengers had gone before approaching Bran. Hind spent them chatting to Branet, who seemed unaffected by the dour atmosphere. As the only one of the convoy who remembered being turned into a tree, she’d been frustrated by how few people really believed that it had happened, even though Hind and Eric had backed her up. She’d spent the last few days trying to convince Hind to teach her a few simple potions and Hind had taught her a couple, although she’d been reluctant to teach her more until the girl went to a proper tutor for assessment. She had the curious feeling that Branet had potential that had never been fully explored.
“I need to talk to the pair of you,” Bran said, waving the rest of his family away. “You’re not brother and sister, are you?”
Eric shook his head, having decided to be honest. “Thought not,” Bran said, with a sudden grin. “You orientate on each other like lovers, not family members. Are you in some trouble?”
“Yes,” Eric said, flatly. “It would probably be better for you if you forgot ever having seen us.”
“You saved our lives, several times,” Bran said. His voice was sincere, open. “That creates a debt I need to repay. We folk don’t like leaving such debts unpaid.”
“We were saving our own lives as well,” Hind pointed out. “If we hadn't found you, we might have been stuck in the Golden City when the zombies attacked.”
“That makes no difference,” Bran said, seriously. “We owe you.” He leaned forward. “And I think that you don’t intend to stay here very long, do you? Why don't you come with us to Pittenweem?”
Eric’s eyes narrowed sharply and Hind felt his sudden burst of suspicion. Pittenweem was even more isolated than Garstang, a town so near the mountains that it was sealed in three months of every twelve. The locals were isolationist and never bent the knee to the Lord of Garstang, let alone the Emperor. They bothered no one and few could be bothered to make the harsh journey to their mountain home. It would not be an easy trip. Eric had told her – finally – that he intended to there, but he hadn’t explained why. Hind had found it frustrating, but he ga
ined so much pleasure by teasing her that she hadn’t probed too hard.
“My family were born there,” Bran admitted. Hind felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “A few of us do leave the town for the outside world, and then come back every year and tell them what we have seen. If you want to come with us, you would be welcome.”
“Perhaps,” Eric said, thoughtfully. Hind could sense his concern. Accepting the offer would make the journey easier – without Bran, they would either have to find another convoy or hire horses from Garstang – yet it exposed them to being trapped. If someone had realised who they truly were, they might follow Bran’s convoy and ambush it in unfamiliar territory. Eric looked over at her. “What do you think?”
Hind considered it. Oddly, she believed Bran’s story, for small towns in isolated locations often had to expel people they couldn't support. If they had more children than they could feed, they had to kill some to feed the rest, something that had bred massive injustices in the past. Bran might have been luckier than the others, but it still spoke well of Pittenweem that they’d let him go, rather than killing him outright.
“Please come,” Branet said, tugging on Hind’s cloak. “I still want you to teach me how to make a potion that heals the sick.”
“I think we’re coming, whatever we think about it,” Hind said wryly. Eric snorted, yet she felt his calm amusement and acceptance. He would never admit it to her, but he was rather fond of the young girl as well. “We do have to remain in the city for a few days, though. When do you expect to leave?”
“We planned to leave in three days,” Bran said. “Will that be enough time for you?”
“I think so,” Eric said, giving Hind an odd look. They weren't going to tell Bran how they’d argued over the decision of what to do now they were back in civilisation. It had been their first real argument as a couple, even though it had largely been conducted in whispers. “We also need a guide to the city.”
“I’ll come,” Branet said, quickly. “I know the city!”
“She does, too,” Bran said. “Take her with you, but feel free to send her back if she gets on your nerves. I suggest that you book in at the inn over there and get a room of your own, which should give you at least two nights in a comfortable bed before we get back on the road. It only gets colder from now on, so...”
Hind winced, but nodded in agreement. “Come on,” she said to Branet. “I need you to take us to the Academy House.”
She allowed Branet to lead them through the dour streets, chattering happily about nothing, until they finally saw the Academy House. It was a small building, surrounded by a single protective ward and guarded by soldiers wearing dark green uniforms over their armour. Somehow, Hind wasn't surprised; the Lord of Garstang would certainly want to know who went in and out of the Academy’s embassy in his capital. She guessed that the building was thoroughly shielded to protect it from being spied on by local sorcerers...if there were any. Odd as it seemed, she’d seen no sign of magic in the city, apart from the Academy building itself.
The soldiers didn't try to stop them as they walked up to the building and through the ward, although Hind could feel cold dispassionate gazes passing over her, memorising her face for further investigation at some point in the future. The ward would have cancelled out all illusion spells, leaving Eric’s disguise dependent upon the beard he’d grown while they were on the road. She hoped they didn't look too closely at him. The beard wasn't enough protection if anyone got suspicious.
She smiled as the door closed behind them and warm air flowed into their bones. The building’s master would have used his magic to ensure that the building was as comfortable as possible, even if it annoyed the locals. Hind couldn't blame him. The post of Regional Mage – in effect, the Grandmaster’s Ambassador – was rarely an easy one. She looked up at the portrait hanging over the receptionist’s desk, but she didn't recognise him. She had hoped that the Mage would be someone she knew. It would have made convincing him to help easier.
“Good Morrow, Good Folk,” the Receptionist said. She didn't sound like a local girl, but it was impossible to know for sure. The Regional Mage’s were encouraged to hire at least some locals, if only to learn how they thought. The Receptionist wasn't wearing magician’s garb, choosing instead to wear a low-cut dress and a smile that was as fake as a necromancer’s concern for his victims. “How may I be of service?”
Hind reached into her pouch and produced an amulet, one that marked her status as a Freelance Mage. She should, by rights, have surrendered it when she married Eric – a married woman had no business being a Freelance Mage – but in all the chaos she hadn't had time to go back to the Academy and return it to the Grandmaster. The Receptionist’s smile grew brighter, suggesting all kinds of services she could have performed, if Hind had been interested. Freelance Mages were important people.
“I require three sheets of foolscap, a sealed envelope and a place to work,” Hind said, briskly. “And, while we’re writing, please could you show the child around. We need to concentrate on our work.”
The receptionist bowed, produced the paper, pointed Hind and Eric into a small sealed room and took Branet off on a tour of the building. Hind exchanged a grin with Eric, reached into her pouch and produced a quill pen. Unlike the amulet, the pen was bonded to her personally and would remain with her until she died, or if it was destroyed in her service. No one else could use it without her permission. She used the sharp quill to prick her finger, allowing her blood to activate the quill’s magic, and then started to write swiftly and neatly. She hadn't learned to write until she’d gone to the academy – her family had had no time for any fancy book-learning, or so her father had said – but she’d picked it up quickly. It was one sign of an ordered mind, a requirement for a Master Magician.
She looked up at Eric and then bowed her head, continuing to write. She wrote a brief account of their escape from the Golden City and their battle with the zombies, focusing on her belief that the zombies were being controlled by Herod and Master Reginald. The mere existence of zombies proved nothing – there were packs of zombies still swarming around in some areas, centuries after the Necromantic Wars – but the existence of the black knife and how it had cut through the Emperor’s protections suggested that Herod was using necromancy. Eric hadn't wanted to send the letter at all, yet Hind had talked him into it, reminding him that she had sworn an oath to alert the Grandmaster to any sign of necromancy. If they obtained proof that Herod was using necromancy, the Grandmaster would have to take action. He would be a powerful ally.
Hind had considered trying to make a run for the Academy, but Eric had pointed out that that would be the obvious course and Herod would easily be able to block them before they reached the Grandmaster’s protection. Even if they made it, it was quite possible that Herod had allies among the Academy’s staff, people who might betray them or make it impossible for the Grandmaster to take action. It was safer to make their way on their own.
“Done,” she said, and passed it over for Eric to read. She hadn't mentioned either the elemental or their visit to Garstang, for Eric had objected strongly when she’d proposed it. He had believed that someone unfriendly to them might read the letter and know where they were going, even though the magic woven into the quill meant that only the people Hind wanted to read it could read it. She’d designated the Grandmaster and Eric himself, no one else, but she had to admit that he had a point. With necromancy, who knew what was truly possible? Eric passed her the letter back and she sealed it in an envelope, locking it with a spell that should hold it safe until it reached the Grandmaster. Very few people would dare to tamper with an Academy mail coach. “Shall we go?”
The receptionist was looking rather harassed as they stepped outside, finding herself on the receiving end of a barrage of questions from a young girl. Hind rescued her, passed her the envelope with strict orders to post it to the Grandmaster personally and led the way back out into the cold air. She shivered as the win
d struck her and only Eric’s hand around her gave her any warmth. She wanted to relax into his arms, but she couldn’t, not with Branet around. They walked back to the inn, passed Branet over to her father, and headed to the inn. It cost more than she had expected to hire a room for five days – she didn’t want to hint that they might be leaving early – but at least they asked no questions.
“Not much of a room,” Eric observed, as they closed and bolted the door. Hind cast a small spell that should alert them to anyone trying to break in or spy on them and then sat down on the bed. The room might be small, but at least the bed was comfortable. And the room was surprisingly warm. There was no magic in its construction, just good design. “Do you think they get many tourists out here?”
Hind shrugged. Garstang was on a crossroads, but seven of the nine roads leading out of the city went to dead ends, towns and villages further within the mountains. She suspected that tourists were discouraged by the weather and the locals. Garstang was definitely not a friendly city. Eric sat down beside her and put an arm around her, holding her close. She relaxed into his arms and then lifted her mouth to his for a kiss. The kiss grew longer and more passionate; she felt her heart beating faster as Eric’s hands started to roam over her body. One hand gently stroked her breast through her shirt, before he reached under her shirt to cup her bare breast. She felt a sudden burst of pleasure as her nipple hardened at his touch and felt his pleasure through the ring, an endless cycle of passion. His other hand slipped into her pants and caressed her buttocks. His passion was inflaming her...or perhaps it was the other way round. It was so hard to think clearly when her body felt as if it were on fire, with new sensations she barely understood.
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