Od Magic

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  “My grandfather.”

  “Yes, my lord. The students of magic were seduced, incited into follies of power that became very dangerous. The guard and street wardens were able to stop them from turning their magic loose in the streets of Kelior. We were not forced to pit the wizards against their own students.”

  What kind of magic? Sulys wondered, trying to envision it, like her father’s colorful and fierce menagerie, running amok through Kelior. What does magic do when it is freed?

  She heard the faintest of snores; the creature gripping her hand had gone to sleep. So had her hand. She eased it loose gently, watched the little animal curl itself into a ball, its nose in its stomach, paws over its ears.

  She heard an unexpected voice and shifted closer to the bars. Her betrothed had joined Lord Pyt and the king. Sulys regarded him glumly, wondering if he had ever laughed in his life. His face, while presentable enough, expressed itself rarely; everything in him seemed leashed, his thoughts, his words, his expressions. Young as he was, he bore a distinct resemblance to the older men; he might, Sulys thought, if he wasn’t careful, find Lord Pyt’s vinegary expression stuck on his face one day.

  “My lord,” he said to the king, then paused briefly, as though listening to something; in the pause, Sulys heard another snore. Valoren picked up the thread of his thoughts. “I asked to speak to you both in private because I’m not sure what to do. There seems to be another ambiguity in Kelior, within the school itself.”

  The king’s face turned sharply up and away from the animal he contemplated. “In Od’s school?”

  “Yes, my lord. The new gardener.”

  “A gardener?” the king and the High Warden said at once. Lord Pyt cleared his throat, yielded to the king, who continued, “How could there be anything ambiguous about a gardener? They put seeds into pots, turn them into beans.”

  “This one works with the plants susceptible to power. Though he says he has little himself. I bumped into him in the school and asked him if he had a flower—something appropriate for me to give to the princess.”

  Lord Pyt nodded. “A proper thought,” he said unctuously.

  Valoren had given her a flower, Sulys remembered. An enormous, bold trumpet of a flower, striped a bit like the colors that her aunt had chosen for the wedding gown. But, she also remembered very clearly, Valoren’s thoughts had been elsewhere when he had presented her with the unwieldy pot. It had nearly landed on her foot, an inauspicious place for a betrothal gift. She held her breath, listening carefully for a clue as to where his thoughts had actually been.

  “The gardener—a young man from the north country—told me he had been hired by Od herself and that he had entered the school by way of the door beneath the shoe.”

  The king grunted, an abrupt and vigorous noise that jolted the little animal out of its nap. “Od is alive?”

  “Nobody else can reveal the door beneath the shoe.”

  “Is she in Kelior?”

  “My lord, I don’t know. She comes and goes. The wizards haven’t mentioned Od. Nor have they mentioned the gardener. That’s what I found strange.”

  “Perhaps Od simply liked his gardening.”

  “My lord, I felt the power.”

  “Od’s?” the king asked.

  “The gardener’s.” He paused again; the two men watched him silently. “He seems oblivious of it. Indeed, it seems completely unformed as yet. He uses it to understand his plants, something which he taught himself. I don’t know what else he might be capable of teaching himself, especially in the company of the best of Numis’s wizards.” The entire menagerie seemed to be listening, Sulys thought, even the birds were silent. The king neither moved nor spoke, only waited, his eyes on Valoren’s face. “My questions are: do you want him given that freedom? And—”

  “Why,” the king finished softly, “the wizards themselves have not told me.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I will ask them,” Galin said. His voice had honed itself fine as a blade. “Thank you, Valoren.”

  Lord Pyt began to talk then, holding the king’s ear with more about his son. Valoren bowed his head, let them move away without him. He turned; so did Sulys, giving one last scratch to the small head, bent now over a leftover scrap of fruit. She felt someone beside her and jumped.

  It was her betrothed. His odd, pale honey eyes seemed to encompass all at once: the princess, the creature she petted, her solitude, her proximity to the king’s recent conversation. His tall, slightly stooped frame, the unblinking intensity of his regard made her think of great, dark, crook-necked birds that gathered in the trees near the menagerie when one of the animals was sick.

  They both spoke at once.

  “I saw you—”

  “How did you—”

  Valoren stopped; so did the princess, looking at him warily, until he began again, “I sensed you when I joined the king and Lord Pyt. You were listening?”

  “You sensed me?” she breathed, her skin prickling.

  “I must always know who is near the king when I speak to him.”

  She gazed at him, appalled. “How—Do you go into my mind? Hear my thoughts?”

  “That would be discourteous,” he told her fastidiously; it sounded oddly like a rebuke. “I only do that when absolutely necessary or when I have asked permission. I don’t expect it will be necessary between you and me. You are, after all, King Galin’s daughter; he has brought you up to share his values, his beliefs.” He paused. Her mouth opened, closed again; nothing came out. He repeated, “You were listening.”

  “Not on purpose,” she assured him a trifle crossly. “I came out here to get away from people. My father and Lord Pyt chose to stop where they did; I couldn’t help overhearing about Tyramin and the gardener. I don’t—” She hesitated, continued carefully under those wide, watchful eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re disturbed about someone who only cares about his plants. If people do small, private magics that entertain others, or harm no one, why should you or my father care?”

  “Why do you care?” he asked so astutely that again she was wordless. He waited for an answer; she found herself retreating hastily, hiding herself from him.

  “I don’t,” she said, shortly. “Why would I care about matters—”

  “It’s what we don’t know that matters.”

  “I know nothing about.”

  “Small things point the way to more complex things that could possibly be dangerous. The silence of the wizards about the matter of the gardener may also seem a small thing, but it is extremely disturbing as well.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? I hope so. It is important to me that you and I understand one another. That’s why I asked the king for permission to linger a moment with you.”

  “A moment,” she echoed hollowly.

  “As you heard, there are pressing matters to attend to.”

  “Yes. There always seem to be.” She was stuck then, face-to-face with her betrothed, unable to think of anything else to say.

  He seemed to have the same problem; a frown flitted across his pale brows. He reached into the cage, patted the little animal awkwardly, making it drop its meal. It chattered at him; Sulys wondered wistfully what it had found to say.

  “You like this one?” the wizard asked tentatively.

  “Yes,” Sulys answered, making an effort. “I find it soothing to pet.”

  “It doesn’t seem to like my petting.”

  “You startled it.”

  “You could keep a pet in the palace. Then you would have something to stroke when it rains.”

  “I don’t mind the weather. The wizards keep it warm enough even in winter. It’s more peaceful out here than in the palace.”

  He looked at her quizzically; she heard then, as though with his ears, the twitterings, mutterings, bellowings, and blasts all around them. Her mouth crooked; she told him impulsively, “My aunt Fanerl sounds exactly like this when she talks about the wedding.”

&n
bsp; But he seemed indifferent to the wedding, answering only, “Lady Fanerl has never said a word around me. She only smiles.”

  “She would.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That—” She faltered again, under his uncomprehending gaze. “Only that she is pleased with my father’s choice.”

  “As you are, I hope.”

  “How can I be anything? You and I hardly know each other.”

  “We will have years for that.”

  “I see,” she said, wondering bleakly if all that moved him was ambition. “You’ll marry me anyway, whether we know each other or not.”

  “We know each other well enough, I think.”

  “It’s my father you know, not me,” she reminded him. “What if I have—habits, shall we say, of which you can’t approve? What if—”

  “You are the king’s daughter. I’m sure you would do nothing he would not approve of, and what pleases him will please me.”

  “I am also my mother’s daughter. You must take that into consideration. And there’s my great-grandmother Dittany, who is from another country where small magics are as common as wildflowers.”

  He brushed aside those small magics with a gesture. “That’s hardly your fault. None of us can mend the habits of our relatives. I had a great-uncle who ran off to live wild in the wood like an animal. The last anyone saw of him, he pretended to know only the language of owls and refused to say a human word. Does that make me crazed?”

  “No,” she said wistfully. “I can’t imagine you indulging in any kind of wildness.”

  “There. You see. We do understand each other.” He glanced toward the castle as though he heard a silent summons. “I must go.” He made an awkward attempt at taking her hand, but missed, and gave it up. “I am good with magic.” he admitted, “but not always with people. You might as well know that about me, though it hardly matters.”

  “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

  He hovered, then swooped at her, a bit like an owl. She started; his kiss landed somewhere near her nose. He smiled then, as though he had worked some successful magic between them, and left her there among the wild things while he returned to her father’s side.

  NINE

  Arneth stood yet again in the midst of the rowdy, drunken, enchanted crowd in the warehouse by the river, watching the magician’s beautiful daughter transformed into a flock of birds. The crowd gasped and laughed, flung comments into the air after the birds. The magician watched them through whatever eyeholes had been placed in the huge globe of a mask over his head. The mask’s cheeks were apple red, its great beard and long hair the color of iron; its painted black eyes seemed glazed now and then with fire. Its lips parted in a perpetual half smile, it seemed always about to speak. The voice that came out of the dark opening was deep, powerful, confident. That voice summoned the birds abruptly, with a meaningless word and a blue-green flare of fire from the staff he raised. The fire flew free, surrounded the birds; they vanished within the glittering swirl. There was a sudden explosion; people jumped and laughed. The magician’s daughter appeared again out of a puff of smoke, brushing feathers from her sleeve and favoring the crowd with her impervious smile.

  She looked utterly unlike the woman Arneth had seen sitting on a pile of old quilts and mending a sleeve. He recognized her by her amber eyes, their color intensified by the ivory face paint. Jewels flashed in her coiled hair, on her earlobes, her fingers; even her brilliant smile seemed to catch light. She moved as though her every gesture flowed to music.

  Tyramin pointed the staff at her again. It was a long gold shaft; fire erupted easily and often out of the top. Mistral picked up a small chest, opened it, turned it upside down and shook it. She closed it, held it out toward Tyramin. Yellow fire sprang from the staff, engulfed the chest. Mistral opened it. Huge indigo butterflies swarmed out of it. The crowd clapped. She closed the lid, almost put it aside, then held the box to her ear and opened it again. A cat leaped out, sprang after the butterflies. She closed the chest. There was a thumping from within. She opened it again quickly and a lapdog jumped out after the cat. The crowd laughed and cheered, made bets on the wild race across the stage. The stage darkened slowly. Dancers wearing the white porcelain masks and circling skirts spun across it. Their lovely, mysterious faces appeared and disappeared at every turn; there and then not there as the pale ovals vanished into night-dark hair. Tyramin’s staff spat purple; their skirts swarmed with sudden stars, already fading as they flew away into the rafters.

  Tricks, Arneth thought. Trickster’s magic. Brilliant, skillful, unpredictable enough to hold a crowd in the fickle Twilight Quarter. But not true magic. Nothing dangerous nor threatening; the magician could probably not even light a candle with a thought, let alone ignite a city. Such was Arneth’s unschooled opinion. But a word with Tyramin seemed appropriate; his father would expect at least that.

  So he waited for the end of the performance. He was quite modestly dressed that night, no rank visible, nothing interesting to catch the eye or invite question. Perhaps the magician’s daughter would not remember him when he asked her to let him speak to Tyramin. Even better, perhaps he could find the magician by himself in the relaxed chaos after the performance when everyone stripped off their masks and costumes to pursue what was left of the night.

  At the end of the performance, Tyramin worked a series of wondrous and fiery illusions, impossible things appearing and disappearing, boats fishing in midair, winged horses, a dragon. His dancers, musicians, and assistants, moving among the illusions, became part of them. One by one they turned into wonders themselves, then vanished. Finally, only the magician’s daughter remained with him. All the jewels she wore flashed suddenly, and she, too, was gone, nothing left but air and a lovely porcelain mask floating in the smoky air, lingering for a moment longer than she.

  Tyramin’s staff blazed one last time, a bolt of lightning, a heart-stopping bellow of thunder. Then he, too, was gone. Only an empty stage was left for the dazed crowd to blink at, no sign, not a paper rose nor a pigeon dropping, of the marvels that had been there.

  Arneth moved more quickly than the crowd, while it was still catching its breath and wondering whether to applaud. It decided; he heard the cheers and whistles as he disappeared behind the moth-eaten curtain strung on sagging rope covering the back wall of the stage.

  He found a door there, as he had hoped, went through it quietly. He heard voices up and down the dusty halls, saw a dancer loosen her hair as she turned a corner and disappeared from view. Doors opened, banged shut. Arneth went the opposite direction from the dancer, listening tor Tyramin’s voice.

  He reached the door behind which, the previous night, he had found the magician’s daughter. He listened, heard nothing. On impulse, he opened the door. He found himself face-to-face with Tyramin.

  The great head, lying on the floor, gazed at him out of enigmatic eyes. He glanced around. No sign of the magician himself, just a long gilded staff leaning against a wall. Arneth stepped across the room to examine it. It seemed only a rounded length of wood, sanded smooth and painted gold. He inspected both ends of it, weighed it in his hand, tried to pull it apart. Not a trick anywhere in it that he could see, and, from the feel of it, solid as a broomstick.

  Where did the fire come from?

  The door opened abruptly. The magician’s daughter stood looking at him quizzically. He saw both her faces, then: one side of her face moon white, the other cleaned, revealing its faint lines; one side of her elaborate hair had been dismantled. Her mouth was still painted crimson, but she was not smiling.

  “You again,” she said.

  “Where is your father?”

  She glanced at the mask as though the magician might be under it. “My father is resting after his arduous performance.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “Who are you? What right have you to come prowling through our private quarters without asking?”

  “My name is Arneth Pyt. I am the
warden of the Twilight Quarter. My father, Lord Pyt, the High Warden of Kelior, sent me here at the king’s wishes to investigate rumors of magic.”

  “What rumors?”

  “That Tyramin’s magic may be truly magic. And therefore unlawful in the Kingdom of Numis without the king’s permission.”

  She was silent a moment, studying him. She settled herself in a fluid movement against the doorpost, folded her arms, frowning at him, but not, he thought, truly angry. An illusion of anger. Perhaps she truly had nothing to fear.

  “What would a quarter warden know about magic?”

  “Not a thing,” he admitted. “But my father trusts my judgment.”

  Her frown eased a little. “So my father must only convince you.”

  “Yes. May I see him?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not tonight. He asked me to let no one disturb him. Each performance exhausts him, but even then, he sometimes doesn’t rest. If a trick goes wrong, even if only in his eyes, he must pick it apart like stitchwork and redo it until he gets it right.” Arneth opened his mouth; Mistral held up her hand. “But. If you will be patient, I will ask him to speak with you tomorrow night for a few minutes before the performance. Will that content you? And the king?”

  He bowed his head. “Me, at least. The king will let you know.”

  He told Lord Pyt, the next day when one of their working hours crossed, what the magician’s daughter had promised. The High Warden gazed at him morosely.

  “You are a quarter warden on the king’s business, and you must wait upon this magician’s leisure?”

  “He hasn’t broken any laws,” Arneth pointed out.