I closed my eyes and groped along the shelves, brushing my fingers high and low in slow deliberate arcs. When I reached the space between two of the bookcases, there was a brush of invisible silk.
I opened my eyes. The shelves were stocked with rolled maps on one side, and on the other, guild records. I’d walked past both several times. The wall between the shelves had the most boring of all the shields, flat, and dull. But when I tried to focus on the details it was indistinct. Illusion!
I stretched out my fingers… and they passed through the shield to brush stone. The sense of magic flared. I moved closer, felt for the illusion again, and found a pattern of what I can only describe as blue-ice points. I stepped back, committed the wall and the plain shield to memory, then snapped away the illusion. Before I did anything else, I remade the illusion. I’d never made one that lasted any longer than a bubble, but I knew how to do it.
It worked.
Behind the illusion, a door had been fitted into a plastered wall so neatly the outline was just barely visible, one end covered with stiffened paper to hide the hinges.
I looked around for a handle, then remembered the icy points. I brushed my fingers slowly over the door until I found the pattern.
Someone had gone to considerable trouble to hide this door. I hesitated, then shrugged away the implicit warning. I was curious, a puzzle-seeker, not a political conspirator. I would remove nothing, destroy nothing, I just wanted to solve this magical problem, because solving it would aid in my quest to understand magic and thereby to follow the queen’s orders, even if I couldn’t be with Lasva.
There was a great deal I had figured out about the book I’d memorized, extrapolating from how the fire spells worked. If you could summon fire, you could employ similar patterns but substitute water for fire. More difficult were the spells for shifting wood, and even stone.
That which could be burned could be changed. I’d worked my way mentally through most of this magic during that long journey in the wagon as I tended Fnor and Retrend. My knowledge was purely theoretical, as I hadn’t been alone long enough to test any of it.
Here was a door ward. In the book it was listed as an elementary spell, but to a beginner like me, it presented almost insolvable difficulties. I say “almost” because I did solve it, after working past midday, missing Restday wine and bread, suspecting no one would think twice about my absence.
The shadows through the north windows were long and thin on the opposite walls when the door finally opened onto a narrow hallway.
Cold, dry air blew around my face, smelling of stone and paper. I ran back to the table, fetched a lamp, and lit it by magic before venturing into that hidden alcove.
The hall progressed a short distance then turned, revealing steep stairs that had to be above the hall outside this room and perhaps above the one with the empty bed. The ceiling of the upper corridor was low— I had to bend over. The air blowing along it was warm. After a few shuffling steps I wondered if I was in a very old set of vents. My neck and back ached and my legs shivered when at last the corridor ended at another stairway, and I stepped into a windowless room that contained a table, a glow globe, and two chairs. On the table lay a stack of paper and books. The air was warm and dry.
In the wavering lamp light I saw a slanted handwriting, brown with age, in that old Iascan alphabet:
An Examination of Greatness
(A Title Inda Would Have Despised)
Written as a cautionary as well as an instructive tale for whoever comes after me
And in long, swooping letters:
Fox Montredavan-An
This was the original, then. Why was it kept in this secret room?
I lifted the top leaf. I had just enough time to make out the words I first met Inda when he was ten, on his way to the academy in the year four when a flicker at the edge of my vision caused me to look up as the stone wall on the other side of the table dissolved like a thousand black moths fluttering and breaking into ash.
Cold air eddied into the secret chamber, bringing a complication of scents: cedar, bergamot mint, and a hint of smoke. Just writing those words prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. As long as I live, I will never forget that smell.
At the time, I was startled, and embarrassed to be caught where I had no business being: I could of course have no notion that I was about to meet the sixth of those important people I mentioned at the beginning of this testimony, whose lives, in crossing mine, brought me to my prison.
A man walked through the wall I’d believed to be solid and gave me an amused glance. He was about Ivandred’s height and built much the same—on the slender side—moving with that economical control, the habit of readiness that I would discover characterized those who’ve had a lifetime of training in defense.
Other than that he was nothing extraordinary to look at—his skin was the brown of most folk, hair a few shades darker and tied back simply, his robe of light gray old-fashioned weave, done in the interlocking chain pattern that had been popular centuries before. Eyes hazel, a color common in that part of the world.
“I wondered if you might find your way here,” he said. “Though I did not expect it to be within a day.” He spoke as if we’d known one another all our lives.
“Are you Sigradir Andaun?”
His eyes crinkled briefly. “No. Ivandred calls me Herskalt. It will suffice.”
At least, I thought gratefully, this is not the most dangerous man besides the king. “Herskalt? May I be permitted to ask if this is a title or a name?”
“Think of me as a tutor,” the man said. “And so you may ask your questions.”
“Thank you. Did you have some kind of ward on this record? I was seeking it just to find the original,” I explained. “I intended to learn the Marloven language by comparing it to one I translated.”
“Yes, I am aware of that particular version. If you are curious, the one you translated is Princess Tharais’s attempt to shorten the one you see before you, leaving out the entire point of it, which was how to educate Marlovans.” He pronounced the word the way that Prince Macael had, Mar-LO-vahn, and not MAR-lo-venn, as did everyone else. “So much of what Fox described has become family tradition, though that has changed in recent generations, as you will no doubt discover.”
I said, “You know who I am.”
“Of course,” the Herskalt replied, hands opening in an ironic mimicry of Harmony. “I did tell you we would talk, did I not?”
Now I recognized that voice. “You are the healer! You spoke Sartoran.”
The Herskalt snapped his fingers, and the shadowed entryway behind him was replaced by stone. “From our conversation so far, it is clear that you require practice in Marloven.”
The air around me tingled as the Herskalt sat down in one of the winged chairs. “I want to know why you kept your heroic effort at the bridge a secret. That was truly impressive magic, young scribe.”
“How do you know I had anything to do with that spell?”
“The residue of magic was still on you, and Ivandred did not perform those spells. There was no one else who could have. You used your skills effectively. Yet you permitted the prince to attribute your admirable effort to unknown mages.”
I did not know what authority he had, though he obviously had magical knowledge. If he was connected to the Sartoran Council, surely he would give me some sign—mention Greveas—maybe refer to the ring on my toe, which no one had seen outside of the bath. Oh yes, did not Haldren-Harvaldar forbid the guilds from contact with their Marloven brethren?
“I am not a mage,” I said finally. “I chanced to learn a few things. I’ve had no training.”
“That,” he said, “was evident. I am endeavoring to determine whether it would be worth my while to instruct you. Why do you want to learn magic?”
I was preparing some words about academic curiosity when he said, “Permit me to rephrase: why do you want to learn magic outside of the established process?”
> “To understand it,” I said.
“Not to use it?” He was skeptical. “Yet you used it at the border.”
“That was an emergency.”
“So you would put it to use in emergencies?”
“Yes,” I said thankfully, for that accorded with the queen’s orders and with my own conscience. “Only in emergencies.”
“And yet you do not want to return to Alsais, or go to Sartor, and go through the established process.”
I remembered Olnar’s description of his studies—how long it had taken. I thought of being sent to the kitchen for six months, and though it had been valuable in many ways, when I’d returned, if it hadn’t been for Birdy, I would have lost my sense of place. How much worse would that be now? “I would love to learn it on my own, if I may. I know how to study.”
“Very well, then. I will match lesson to student. When you can figure out how to transfer to this room, I will commence teaching you. That sloppy door spell down in the archive will be replaced. Find your way here and read that record. We will then proceed.”
I controlled the urge to exclaim that it had taken me an entire day to figure out how to get past that secret door—and that no one used the archive, so why go to the trouble of replacing a ward? I did not know the custom of this castle any more than I knew magic. So I made The Peace, and said what was topmost in my mind, “I would be grateful if you would honor me with your reasons for offering to teach me.”
He smiled. “As I said, I am a tutor, and presently there are no household students to teach. And you will put your magic to use in emergencies. This kingdom is going to have need of such skills, as you will no doubt soon discover.”
He made a gesture that seemed casual to me—fingers moving slightly in a pattern too quick to catch—and vanished, leaving the air to ruffle that secret room, disturbing the pages of the record.
I bent over it and began to read, at first with difficulty because of the old orthography and phrasing, but as always, persistence caused me to sink into it until I began to see and feel a different time and way of looking at the world. It was a way I did not relish, and the Inda in this record began to make me wonder who Birdy might have been if he were born in Inda’s time and place.
Birdy! I was supposed to meet him and Anhar in the village! As soon as this thought floated to the top of my consciousness, I also became aware of tired eyes and a stiff neck. How long had I been reading? This room was located so deeply within the structure of the castle that I could not hear the bells. I replaced the ancient pages with meticulous care and, without much hope, moved to the wall that had seemingly dissolved. Yes, it was solid stone. Perhaps there was a room adjacent, one that might even have a door, but I wasn’t going to find it today.
I made my way back through the vent, dusty and webby as it was, and thence to the door. At least it had a latch on the inside. I opened it to find the archive in darkness. How late was it?
I shut the door and fled to the bath.
As I emerged, the watch-change bells rang. I had missed the evening meal and whatever ritual the Marlovens shared for Restday. Dressed but still damp, pulling on my outerrobe as I ran, I made my way downstairs wondering how I could get to the bottom of the mountain. My frantic run eased when I heard laughing voices from the direction of the servants’ area. I ran past the drying rooms and found a small stable yard where runners and kitchen people were climbing into a wagon hitched up to plough horses.
“Going to Darchelde Town?” someone addressed me.
“Yes,” I said, thankful as someone pulled me up into the wagon and more people crowded in behind me.
In all the weeks we’d traveled with the prince and his lancers I had never heard as much laughter as I did on that journey down to the trade town. The talk was entirely ordinary—who was seeing whom, cranky chiefs, anecdotes about odd or annoying fellow workers. Then a girl pulled out a hand drum and rapped a complicated tattoo to which others began to sing a rousing ballad in a style completely unlike the subtle melodies I was used to. The rhythm counterpointed the drum beat, and the rise and fall of the melody echoed the trumpet chords we’d heard from time to time.
I discovered that this was the last wagon, that the castle people were expected to report for pickup to the town’s bell tower before the dawn bells.
The town was crowded with locals and castle people. Drum beats and singing issued from doorways as they opened and closed. The town square was bounded by shops and stables. Except for the stable, Barleywine House was the largest building, people spilling out into the frigid night air, drinking, talking, and laughing. I dodged my way through the crowd, standing intermittently on tiptoe to search.
A few people glanced at me in surprise, and one woman said, “What’s your game, Blue Robe?”
I dashed on past, frantic again—then a hand touched my shoulder. I looked up into Birdy’s happy face. Even his ears seemed part of his grin. “You’re here.” At his shoulder was Anhar, her glossy black hair startling among so many light-colored heads.
I grinned back, ready for a pleasant evening of talk and good food and whatever music Marlovens had to offer.
Then Birdy said, “I arranged for a room.”
“Privacy at last,” Anhar said, hands opening in the flower gesture signifying joy.
Privacy. My pleasant anticipation turned into the heavy inward tightening of disappointment, even alarm. I tried to speak, but the crowd had thickened. Marlovens were oblivious to shadow custom, and if there were rules for deference, they were not apparent. With determined politeness Birdy used his height to navigate, repeating “Pardon my trespass,” over and over, as Anhar and I trailed in his wake.
“Hah, foreigners!” A young man gave a laugh full of meaning.
“A threesome? Hail the peacocks!” his companion responded, and Birdy reddened as he made The Peace.
We passed the common room, which was a roar of noise and thick with the smells of food and ale.
Anhar was flushed and smiling. For her, this was the best moment of a long, dreadful trip, and she tingled from head to heels, though she looked my way from time to time. She was puzzled by my behavior. Until the fight at the bridge, I had kept my distance, though I was never condescending in word or action. When she’d tended me, she’d broken the invisible barrier against touch, and I had not rejected the most intimate attentions.
And so… what did that mean now? One more flight of stairs. “The workers have the rooms on the second floor,” Birdy said in apology. “But we’re almost there.”
The place was scrupulously clean, yet there was an undertone to the scents, an unfamiliar, musky undertone, not quite like clothes too long worn on a summer’s day, but close. I did not like it.
The door Birdy sought had three poppies painted on it. There was a bed on a platform and, behind an alcove, raised off the floor, a rudimentary bath—that is, it was small, made of wood with porcelain or ceramic tile inside. But the water was hot, and the edges of the tub glittered with the promise of the water being clean via the same magic spell used on baths, buckets, wells, and city canals the world over.
We crowded into the tiny chamber, laughing at the tub. I’d known Birdy since I was small; we had been private but never intimate. This was new territory. I felt crowded, uncomfortable, at the very same moment the other two were aflame with desire. All the world had shrunk to this moment and this space.
Birdy was waiting for us to move first. So we stood there, looking at the tub, and when the silence had grown, I looked up, and there was my own question in his face. In her face.
He grinned again. “Ah-ye.”
He reached for me first and so quickly that this moment, although meant to be tender, was desperate and clumsy—our teeth bumped—I backed away, my hands up. Birdy regarded me in dismay, but then Anhar crossed in front of me, so all I saw was her long, glossy braid, clean-smelling, rinsed with expensive herbs she must have hoarded against just such a moment.
I ducked behind her
, glad to relinquish proximity—someone trod on my toes. I fled to the door, then paused with one look back as Birdy hopped on one foot as he tried to kick off his trousers, then fell over, catching Anhar by the ankle. She whooped with laughter, and it was apparent what was going to happen—and that they were not even going to make it to the bed.
I flung myself out, then leaned against the door, my body clammy with revulsion.
I held my arms tightly against me.
Love had bloomed—of a kind. I was very sure that I was in love with Birdy. Thinking about our conversations made me feel air-light, drenched me with color, and I liked to linger over his image in every detail, from his old tunic to his hair escaping from his braid in tufts, and his big ears, his beak of a nose. He was Birdy, but when he was close to me, his breath hot and shaky, his hands reaching, I wanted peace and air.
For the first time, I comprehended that love, at least for me, had nothing to do with sex. I was elor—I didn’t want him, or her, or anyone. Not in that way.
TEN
OF THE RIDING MOON
I
took the first cart back to the castle, leaving them to follow as they would. The next time I saw Birdy, he addressed me as if nothing had happened. “Emras. How are things progressing?” “I met the prince’s tutor. I have new books to read.”
“Excellent!” He began backing hastily away. “On duty now. But I wanted to see you…” His hands rose, but a crowd of runners walked between us, and I did not see the gesture. When they’d passed, he was gone.
So I retreated to my little bedroom to continue my experiments.
Fourthday, the first blizzard of winter struck. I scarcely noticed, for by then I had transferred enough bits of paper that I attempted to shift a cushion from platform to the bed. When the internal wrench died away, I knew I was going to try to shift myself next, in spite of my dry mouth and unsteady limbs.
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