A Lonely Magic

by Sarah Wynde

  Gaelith pulled a loaf of bread, unwrapped and crusty, out of the basket and placed it on the cloth. “My brothers have become quite daring,” she said conversationally, as she continued emptying the basket. “First Kaio, now Luken. One wonders what risks they’ll take next.”

  Fen’s mouth watered as Gaelith placed fruit, cheese, and several small covered bowls and plates next to the bread. Her stomach rumbled and she pressed a hand to it, mumbling an apology.

  “No, no.” Gaelith waved her apology away. “After the hours you’ve spent here, hunger is understandable. And thirst, too, I imagine.” She pulled a bottle out of the basket and two glasses.

  “Hours? It felt like days,” Fen said.

  “Indeed, no. Luken burst into our mother’s study, babbling of this misfortune but half the day gone. I proceeded to you mere moments after his departure with allies for Caye Laje.” Gaelith pinched the top of the bottle and poured liquid into the glasses. “Unfortunately, although I did my best to persuade the authorities that you would be better served visiting my mother’s home, they refused to relent. Your time in this place is not yet over.”

  Fen forced a smile. “At least I have company now.”

  “Indeed.” Gaelith passed her a glass. “We shall savor a fine meal and I shall share stories with you. One can ask no more for the present.”

  Fen would ask for plenty more, freedom and a way home being top of her list, but she didn’t argue. As Gaelith pulled out plates and broke open the bread, Fen took a sip of the liquid. It was cool and sparkling and tasted minty and green, unlike anything she’d had before. “What’s this drink?”

  Gaelith tilted her head to the side as if listening. “Again, my interpreter pattern offers options. Tea, perhaps, or soda.” She ripped off a piece of the bread and placed it on a plate.

  “What would you call it in your language?” Fen asked.

  Gaelith gave an approving smile and dipped her head, passing the plate to Fen. “A desire to learn, most excellent. In my language it would be tea. Or soda.”

  “No, I mean in your language. What are the words you would use?”

  Gaelith frowned. “Tea or—” she started, before shaking her head, an impatient look on her face. “Ah, but no. My pattern does not let me share my words with you.”

  Fen’s confusion must have shown, because Gaelith tried to explain. “Different patterns for different functions, you see?” She pulled at the shoulder of her tunic, revealing a small circular tattoo. Fen leaned closer. Interweaving lines filled the circle, looking almost like a Celtic knot. “Had I chosen a more complex interpreter, I could use both your language and my own, but time was short and this symbol is one of the simplest.”

  Fen stared. “Your tattoo translates for you?”

  “Indeed, yes. Manipulation of sound waves is a simple illusion, while the necessary data storage to interpret a single human language is trivial. Not all terms, however, have easy equivalences. Thus, tea. Or soda.” Gaelith raised an encouraging eyebrow. “Would you like an interpretation pattern of your own?”

  Fen didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Damn straight she wanted a translation tattoo. “Thank you,” she added belatedly. Had she sounded rude? Shit. Not that she cared about being polite… but maybe she kinda did when it came to Gaelith.

  Gaelith didn’t seem offended, though. She hitched up her tunic, revealing a small golden pouch at her hip, as she said, “Wonderful.” She slipped the pouch free and placed it on the table. “I brought my tools, thinking I might render you some such service. After we eat, I should be pleased to provide you with a pattern of use.”

  “You’re a tattooist?” Fen asked, surprised, before she corrected herself, “I mean tattoo artist.”

  Gaelith appeared to be thinking about the question as she removed the covers from the small bowls and plates, but finally she shook her head. “That interpretation is imperfect. I am a healer.”

  “A healer?” Fen didn’t recognize the food in the bowls or the mix of scents wafting from the table, but she took a deep sniff. “Is that why you came to Caye Laje? To heal Luke?”

  “Indeed.” Gaelith ripped off a small piece of bread and held it up as if to show Fen, before dipping it into a bowl holding a creamy white paste and popping it into her mouth. Fen followed suit. The white stuff was tangy and smooth, but tasty enough, while the bread tasted like a good Italian loaf, solid and yeasty.

  Gaelith finished chewing and spoke. “The battle in the council raged for two solid days, but Kaio has always had a way with the queen. He charmed her into agreeing that if he could find a healer willing to venture forth, none would impede them.”

  Impede them? The council? The queen? Kaio charming?

  Okay, yeah, different world.

  “You don’t travel much, I guess?” Fen asked. She pulled off a bit of bread and dipped it into a bowl of purplish stuff. It looked fruity, like grape jam. She tasted it. Sweet, although more of an apple flavor than grape.

  “Oh, no, no.” Gaelith ripped off another piece of bread and dipped it into one of the other bowls. “The sun was fascinating. So much bigger and brighter than I had imagined. And the heat—so unusual but lovely in its own way. I enjoyed it.”

  Fen dipped another bite of bread into a spicy paste, wondering. Never to have seen the sun. That sounded damn bleak to her. Why didn’t they vacation on the islands?

  “The conservatives were—are—furious,” Gaelith continued. The corner of her lip curved in a smile that mingled satisfaction and resignation. “They rant over the danger and view it as yet more proof of the queen becoming dangerously senile, but they can do nothing. My reputation is, of course, destroyed, but that matters naught to me. I have too few brothers not to risk all to save the ones I love.”

  “Your reputation?” Fen paused, another bite halfway to her mouth.

  Gaelith waved the question away. “Not important.”

  Maybe it was just the way Gaelith talked that made Fen think reputation was more Jane Austen down here then modern high school. Her own reputation had been shot to hell even before she dropped out and she hadn’t given fuck one. Maybe Gaelith was the same. So, okay, if she said it was no big, Fen would believe her.

  But still, it sounded so serious. “Why is it such a risk?” Fen asked.

  “Indeed, ‘twas not.” Gaelith spread her hands. “As it happened, I went, I repaired Luken, I returned home. No harm done.” She wrinkled her nose and broke off another piece of bread, before adding wryly, “Although I suspect when the conservatives hear of your arrival, it shall be taken as evidence of damage, for had Luken not survived, you would not be here. The happenstance is unfortunate.”

  Fen set the bread she held back on the plate.

  She hadn’t eaten nearly enough, but her appetite was gone.

  Unfortunate.

  It was the same word Eladio used what felt like eons ago.

  Discoveries

  “What are they going to do to me?” Fen asked.

  Gaelith lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug. “I promise you, I do not know. I further promise you, no one knows. The situation is most unusual.”

  Fen pressed her lips together to keep the words inside. That answer sucked. What were the options? Was death on the table? Eternal imprisonment? Solitary confinement for the next fifty years?

  Gaelith leaned forward. “But I can assure you, much, much debate will ensue before any decision that you would dislike will be made. You need not fear. You have allies who are far from helpless.”

  “If Luke’s in trouble, too, and Kaio’s out there in the world somewhere, and your reputation is ruined, who exactly are my ‘allies’ going to be?” Fen asked, using mocking air quotes. She started to rise from the table. She needed to pace, to move, to stop herself from panicking.

  “Ah, no, no.” Gaelith patted the air, as if to tell Fen to sit again or to calm herself, and laughed. “No, child, come, you must not believe that we are alone in the world. In truth, our allies are yours. My reputation m
ay be gone but my friends remain legion.”

  “I’m not a child!” Fen burst out.

  Gaelith’s smile held worlds of sympathy. “I apologize. For one of my years, your youth is delightful. But I shall use your name if you prefer. Fen.” She rolled the name in her mouth as if it were strange, before adding, a touch plaintively, “Although it is odd to me that flooded land would be a desirable namesake.”

  Fen sighed. Would nothing she said cause Gaelith to take her plight seriously? “You’re not so old,” she said, her voice sulky.

  Gaelith dipped her head. “Indeed to my grandmother, I am still the veriest youngling. But on my last birthday, I celebrated three hundred and twelve years.”

  Three hundred and twelve.

  Fen blinked. And dropped back to her knees on the cushion.

  “You’re…” Fen stared at Gaelith.

  No, that made no sense. Gaelith looked like she was in her mid-thirties. Okay, maybe a well-maintained forty, but no older.

  “But then, how old…”

  There wasn’t enough air in the room.

  Fen stopped talking, closed her eyes and breathed.

  Panic attack on its way.

  She could feel the flushing, the blood racing, the tingling in her hands and legs. Her heart pounded in her ears, da-dat-da-dat-da-dat.

  “Are my brothers?” Gaelith didn’t appear to notice. “Kaio shall celebrate his two hundredth next year. In ordinary times it would be a cause for much celebration. He would choose his path for his next score. A new skill, a new art, or perhaps revisiting a past art to explore the changes time might bring. I know the choral master would welcome his return. His voice is so exceptional.”

  Breathe, Fen, breathe, Fen told herself. Gaelith’s words were floating past her, barely skimming the surface of her brain.

  Kaio. Two hundred. New path. Got it.

  “And Luken is just gone forty,” Gaelith continued. “It was much to our mother’s dismay that he chose Watching as his first path. And on his first tour to be so grievously injured. Now this.” She shook her head. “Perhaps it is the duty of the youngest to make his mother mad with worry, but one wishes Luken would take the task less seriously.”

  Three hundred and twelve. Almost two hundred. Forty.

  Jeez, forty?

  She’d made out with an old man.

  Fen would have laughed through her panic but instead her breathing started to slow and her hearing to return to normal. “It wasn’t Luke’s fault,” she managed to say. “He saved my life. He got shot saving me. And the guy who shot him showed up on the island. We weren’t safe there.”

  “Indeed?” Gaelith gestured at the food with an open hand. “Eat. You need your sustenance. And while you do, tell me the story. Luken was less than coherent.”

  Fen picked up her bread. She wasn’t going to think.

  Nope, no more thinking.

  Questions were pushing at the back of her mind—fears, uncertainties, confusions—but she was going to ignore them.

  She’d worry later.

  She’d panic later.

  Right now, she’d take care of herself. She’d eat and she’d tell Gaelith the story.

  She ripped off a bit of bread and stuck it in her mouth, chewing carefully before she swallowed. Then she lifted her chin, straightened her back and told Gaelith what had happened on the island, her voice calm, her words interspersed with bites of bread and dips.

  “Most interesting,” Gaelith murmured when Fen finished. Shifting in her seat, she reached into a pocket under her tunic and pulled out Fen’s blue crystal. “Luken charged me to take care of this. I believe I should return it to you.”

  She placed it on the table between them.

  Fen looked at it.

  It was a little blue rock.

  Harmless. Nothing special, nothing incredible about it.

  Just a little blue rock.

  She picked it up, her mouth dry, and tucked it into her own pocket. “Thank you,” she said, pulling her hand away immediately, not letting her fingers caress the crystal the way she wanted to.

  Her eyes met Gaelith’s. The woman smiled at her, eyes steady, lips curving in an expression that held encouragement and a touch of mischief and said gently, “Remember to think softly.”

  Fen wanted to ask questions—what did think softly mean?

  But Gaelith gave her a tiny negative signal, a bare drift of her head from one side to the next, before saying, “Come now. I shall give you the pattern we discussed. And perhaps one other that might be of use to you.” Gaelith picked up her pouch and stood. “Might I also examine your art?”

  Fen looked down at her bedraggled dress. Immersion in salt water and ensuing events hadn’t been kind to it. But she still wore a bathing suit underneath it, so she shrugged and said, “Sure.”

  As she reached for the hem and pulled her dress over her head, Gaelith worked some magic with the room. The central table and cushions melted into the floor, leaving behind the cloth and the items that rested upon it. Fen dropped her dress to the ground, as Gaelith, with fine disregard for the dishes or spills, gathered up the edges of the cloth and bundled everything into the picnic basket.

  Fen turned her back to Gaelith and bent her head forward to show off the phoenix that danced across her shoulder blade, wing stretching onto her neck.

  “Lovely.” Gently, Gaelith traced a finger across the phoenix’s bright tail. Fen didn’t jump. She was floating in overload, the post-panic-attack haze where unbreakable glass separated her from reality. “Not functional but easily could be.”

  “I have another on my side, my first.” Fen turned, framing the lotus on her hip with her fingers. She’d gotten that one underage, from a guy she knew who wanted the practice. He’d needed it, too, unfortunately.

  “Hmm.” Gaelith didn’t say anything more but Fen heard disapproval in the sound.

  “And then this one,” Fen said, angling so Gaelith could see the ivy climbing up the back of her leg.

  Gaelith crouched next to her. “Ah, fine work on this. It would take but a moment to render it active.” She stood again. “A healer’s table and chair, please.”

  Fen didn’t even blink as a cushioned, jointed table rose out of the floor, a stool next to it. The table folded itself into a chair-like structure and Fen dropped into it, lying back as Gaelith seated herself on the stool.

  “Would you like me to repair all your art?” Gaelith inquired.

  Fen closed her eyes.

  The chair was so comfortable.

  She wanted to sleep.

  The day—this day—had been too much. Much too much. Maybe it was all a dream. Not entirely a nightmare, though. That glider. The island. Parts had been fun.

  “Fen, dear?” The question sounded as it came from far away.

  “Whatever,” Fen answered. The glass that kept reality away from her wasn’t breaking. She was completely safe behind it, completely sheltered.

  And so tired.

  So, so, so tired.

  Fen opened her eyes.

  Gaelith was gone.

  The lights were dim and the table she’d fallen asleep on had turned into a bed, complete with sheets and blankets and comfortable pillows.

  Fen sat up.

  She stung. A throbbing pain in her wrist, a deeper ache on her hip, a tingle on her shoulder blade and little stabbing pinpricks along the back of her leg.

  “Gaelith?”

  Information flowed into her mind. “The third and oldest surviving child of Cyntha Del Mar, currently in her fourteenth score, her third sequential score as a healer-artist. Ranked first in the city in—”

  “What the hell?” Fen jolted out of the bed, catching herself before she fell flat on the floor and landing in a standing position.

  The words in her head broke off and there was momentary silence before she heard, “Null query,” in a voice that sounded exactly like hers if she were vaguely disgruntled. “Clarify, please.”

  “What the hell is that?�
��

  “Data access pattern created by Gaelith Del Mar, year 9925.”

  Fen took a deep breath. “Are you in my head?”

  Another moment of silence before a tentative voice said, “Access pattern placed on left hip?” as if it were a question.

  Fen looked down at herself. She was still wearing the bikini she’d worn all day, but her lotus flower tattoo had been transformed. The crude black lines had become an intricate pattern of pink and white, with winding lines and crisscrossing zigzags.

  “Oh, my God,” Fen breathed the words. “What did she do?”

  “Assumptions: given context, the antecedent of the pronoun ‘she’ is the aforementioned Gaelith Del Mar. Contingent upon said assumption, Gaelith Del Mar provided subject with multiple patterns, including a traditional interpreter pattern and a non-traditional data access pattern, variable within established parameters.” The voice now sounded bright and cheerful, relieved of its uncertainty.

  Fen fell back on the bed. She held up her wrist and stared at it. In the dim light, she could barely make out the design.

  “Lights?” she said. Obediently, the room brightened.

  A Celtic knot decorated her wrist. It was a fresh tattoo. The surrounding skin was bright pink, oozing slightly, the way skin did after a tattoo. The tattoo itself—oh, it was pretty. But it was nothing special.

  It was a fucking Celtic knot.

  She sat up and looked at her hip again.

  Yep, tattoo. Different, definitely. She could see the original black ink, but it was almost invisible under the colored lines. But it was still just a picture inked into her skin.

  She craned her neck, trying to see her phoenix but when she failed, she kicked up her leg, looking at the back of it. Ivy. Just ivy. Her ivy. Nothing different, except for an outline of deeper green around some of the leaves.

  She flopped down onto the bed.

  Dream, this was all a dream.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “The city-state of Syl Var,” the voice in her head responded promptly. “One of the seven cities of the Sia Mara, located at—”