“James?” Sherry asked. “Are you coming to eat?”
He had almost let himself forget that long-practised ruthlessness the Great Game Aurieleteer had taught him. His fingers closed a few times convulsively on the sill, and though they were still not properly his, the movements were the last fumbling reaches towards what he forced himself to acknowledge was a mirage. The water was elsewhere, and if he drank of illusion he could not expect to be refreshed.
With that realization composure filled him, a cool plastic force fitting neatly into all the nooks and cracks of his selfhood. He must be in control: that was the ground of his duty. He stepped away from the window, and magic filled his vision again, and his temptations fell silent.
“‘Every sky has its beauty,’” he said, quoting George Gissing with a feeling of gratified destructiveness, like stomping thin ice in a puddle. He sat down on a cushion and Sherry passed him the lamb and rice and accompaniments. He felt distant, protected by his composure, enveloped by their presence but untouched by it.
They ate in silence for a while, then Kasian turned to Sherry and asked her what the chutney was. Raphael kept his thoughts trained on smoothing the recently bound and easily-roused magic swirling behind the dams, responding desultorily to Angelica’s occasional attempts to draw him into the conversation.
After several helpings Kasian set down his plate on the table and stretched languorously. “That was excellent, Amiar Sherry.”
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled at him so that dimples Raphael had never noticed before became apparent. “Do you have plans for this evening?”
“Yes, I am to visit with our cousin. Much of my, ah, goods are in his house.”
“You have a cousin here?” Sherry said. “I’ve never heard you mention any relatives, James. Who is he?”
He said nothing, knowing that Kasian would answer for him. His brother did so, though not without directing a look at him. “Gabriel the messenger.”
Angelica looked speculative. “And tomorrow? Do you have plans?”
“I do not know,” he said. “Raphael, what say you?”
It took Raphael a moment to realize his brother meant the question, and another while for him to formulate an answer. Finally he said, “We don’t.”
“None at all?”
Thunder rumbled a bit in the background of his thoughts. He ignored it. “I do.”
“But we do not.”
“No.”
“Have you a suggestion of what I shall do tomorrow, then?”
Kasian’s voice was sharp. Raphael could hear the authority straining to come out from the forcibly nonchalant phrasing. He was glad that his brother suppressed his emotions. “You should stay with Gabriel. I have things to do.”
“Things to do,” Kasian repeated. Sherry and Angelica exchanged glances, but between his brother, his magic, and the storm straining to be free to pound London, Raphael could spare no attention for them. “Do you care to explain yourself?”
He knew with utter certainty that he must not. “No.”
At this Kasian flushed, paled, and flushed again into a high noon-tide brilliance. Little froths of emotion spurted up beneath Raphael’s skin, but he refused to let himself be moved. Before either of them said anything more, Sherry, a consummate hostess, said: “We have a treat for our afters.”
She rushed off, returned remarkably quickly (or perhaps that was just him, as he folded his magic away again, folded his temper away again, tried to ignore Kasian’s accusatoryexpression) with a tray of tea things. Or not tea; in the centre was a tall pitcher like a chocolate pot, though the scent rising up with the steam was almost not unfamiliar.
Raphael touched it curiously with his magic, discovered the beverage was from Daun, with overtones of spices from even farther away, Voonra perhaps. Before he could decide whether to bother analyzing it further Sherry said, “Kasian brought some Daven slaurigh for us to share.”
“Yes, it did seem to me a drink once you liked, Raphael. Or not Daven slaurigh but Kaphyrni we had in Astandalas.”
At first he wondered when on earth Kasian had had the opportunity to give Sherry anything, as he hadn’t carried it with them in the taxi. Then he was washed over with a deep guilt that Kasian should have to go to such roundabout lengths to share such a thing with him, had done so despite the displays of icy temper and bad behaviour. At once so prickly and so cold. He gathered himself into character, smiled apologetically at Kasian, who, however, frowned.
As he sipped from the cup Sherry gave him, Angelica asked, “What is the difference between Daven and Kaphyrni slaurigh?”
“They do come from a differing world.”
The slaurigh had a complex lingering taste, somewhere between coffee, chocolate, and crème brûlée. Raphael remembered the slaurigh of his childhood as a magical adult drink, expensive and imported, only to be had on high days and holidays. Nutmeg and cloves he could taste, and something softly fruity, like blackcurrant. Slaurigh was mostly derived from some tropical nut, like chocolate or coffee, and probably had caffeine in it too.
It made him relax, remembering happy moments, before he had magic, when his only problems were his persnickety father and the odd bully, both of them buffered by Kasian. Trying to learn swordplay and failing, for the most part, though he’d later discovered he remembered far more of swordsmanship than he’d ever thought possible as a child. He smiled a little more readily at his twin as the drink coursed through him.
Although he felt rather warmer the room seemed to be draining of its depth of colour, everything collapsing into a strange hardness of outline, the air fading invisibly into faint touches on his skin. The colours were definitely cooler as his temper softened.
The North Wind had arrived, he thought, and automatically lifted his awareness to check. Nothing happened. He focused abruptly on his brother.
Kasian had been explaining their older brother Cael’s trading empire at length. He concluded with, “And so, you see, the Daven slaurigh is spiced otherwise, and the most rare and precious is this, nirgal slaurigh, nirgal meaning in Calandran—”
“Snowfall.”
“Yes, I thank you, Amiar Scheherezade. ‘Snowfall’ because to every one it is calling, sorry, calming, and to magi it lets them forget their magic for a while. You sit inside yourself by the fire while the snow falls, see?”
Raphael realized with horror that this was so. His magic had drained out of himself as it had out of the room. He locked his face into calm, carefully did not stir except to set his cup down in its saucer.
It rattled.
The other three all jumped and looked at him. He saw them through strange eyes, ordinary eyes, mind huddled into his physical perceptions. He’d always considered Scheherezade one of the most beautiful women he’d ever known, with her rich black hair and shapely face, luminous eyes, her voice strong and flexible; through her whole demeanour her great soul shone forth. She was lovely to his eyes: but now he saw in terms of formal aesthetics that Angelica (along with many women, perhaps) was the prettier.
Sherry’s voice was even lovelier, however. “James? Shall I pour you some more?”
“No!” His own voice sounded completely strange to him. He cleared his throat. “No. Thank you. No. How … how long, do you know, does the ‘snowfall’ effect last?”
“I am unmindful of your magic,” Kasian said, ambiguously. “It seems to be one thing for one, another for another.”
“I’ve heard anything from a few hours to a few days,” Sherry offered. “Usually a day or so.”
“Ah,” he said with as much self-control as he could muster. A day from now was the final duel of the Game. He finally looked at Kasian, who was regarding him with a mixture of speculation, defiance, and guilt that suggested nothing so much to Raphael as that his brother had just poisoned him on purpose.
He didn’t cry aloud. He who was so controlled, so perfectly in command of his body, the great actor (he was that, if never superlative because there was always a
part of him he never let into the character): he didn’t break.
He stared at his hand holding the saucer now with absolute steadiness. It looked strange to him, a bit burned from the border with Eahh last night, the prick that Ishaa had given him a faint red welt, the sinews standing out from his knuckles as if they belonged to Michelangelo’s David.
How many years, hundreds of years, thousands of bitter-rooted years, he had spent battering himself into control. All for the end of the Game tomorrow. All for the moment he had to stand there to defend or lose the crown of Ysthar. All he had given up for that: which was, what? Everything. He had never gone to the land of the dead, he had never left Ysthar to find his family, he had never said to anyone he—
He was so fully present in his body it hurt. But he did not lose control. He was grimly proud of that fact. Instead he gently set down his saucer on the coffee table and said, “And what plans do you have for tomorrow, Angelica?”
She stared at him with something like wonder, something like fear. “I didn’t know you were a mage, James.”
“It’s a quiet magic,” he replied, with supreme indifference. “No reason you should have known.”
“Oh …” She continued to stare, while he ruthlessly compressed all these extraneous emotions into polite courtesy. He smiled with faint encouragement, and she faltered onwards, gathering strength as she spoke. “I have shopping to do. A new gown for the Spring Ball. They say they’ve invited the Lord of Ysthar to come, though of course that’s not very likely, is it? He never goes anywhere so public. Will—will you be going, James?”
“Possibly.”
“Will you still be here, Kasian? The magic folk have a gathering ball every year in the spring. It’s quite marvellous. You must come if you’re still here.”
Kasian had reclaimed his own social countenance, though it was more troubled than Raphael let his be in public. He said, “I am not certain how long it is I will be remaining upon Ysthar.”
There was a faint question in that. Raphael ignored it, as he ignored also the worry in Sherry’s face as she looked on him.
He shifted to cross legs the other direction, and felt bruises from that brief fight with the muggers on Sunday night, from falling upon the dragon’s treasure, from the sword of Damocles plummeting down upon his head.
Kasian was frowning. Raphael smiled brilliantly at Angelica and said, “Do you have plans for the summer?”
She glanced uncertainly at Kasian, bit her lip in a gesture as consciously charming as Raphael’s present demeanour. “I’ve been thinking of going into business for myself, actually.”
“How delightful. What business are you considering?”
“Interior decorating.” She blushed. “I know, that sounds silly, but I am good with helping people set up their places, you know, I helped Angharad with her new place. It’s just that the magic folk usually don’t know where to go to get all the things they need here, you know, like sword racks or alambrics.” She giggled self-consciously. “That’s not the right word, is it?”
“Not if you mean an alembic, or possibly a baldric?”
“Alembic, that’s what it is. Sherry has been helping me to plan, and get the word out, and I think this summer I’ll be able to do it. Assuming the Game ends well. When I was talking to Darius today he said the borders were closed yesterday. That’s why I have the day off, nothing can go through Talaria Travel while they’re down. Up. I don’t know how you describe it. So we just have to wait and see what happens. But I’m sure the Lord will win.”
The tentativeness of hope in her face was lacerating. Raphael slammed his emotions down again and said with utter honesty if mendacious tone, “We can hope so.”
“Yes,” Sherry said, but when Raphael glanced at her he saw she was resolutely keeping her eyes fixed on the nirgal slaurigh pot. She continued after a moment, her voice not doubtful but not particularly certain either, “I have no doubt he will triumph.”
“Hopefully,” said Kasian, “at not too high a cost. Though richer and more rare than merriweather cloth, the crown of Ysthar is yet merely a crown. It is to be hoped the Lord of Ysthar will not forget the purposes of his power.”
“Inshallah,” murmured Sherry.
Raphael felt like the bottle of ginger beer in the Underground, effervescence gathering force. He wondered what Kasian would do if he said, It is your doing I may fail.
He told himself dispassionately he would not shatter. If tomorrow he had to face Circe with his sword and his crown alone and nothing more, he would.
Into the silence that billowed around them there came a knock on the door. All started but Raphael, whose muscles were now too much under his control to do anything so unconsciously. Sherry stood up and went to answer it, her voice carrying down the short hall: “Come in.” A pause, then: “You were out in the garden?”
Raphael turned to see Hazel Isling. She smiled fitfully at him. “I saw James standing in the window and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to the theatre.”
“Yes,” he said. “Let me get my coat.”
“Of course,” she replied, brushing her hands down the front of hers. “It’s turned cold, I fancy, just now.”
He readied himself and came back to the edge of the sitting room. Against the dark window Kasian was an inverse silhouette, glaring. Raphael turned to Sherry. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
She said nothing in reply, merely looked at him. He nodded to Angelica and did not look directly at his brother. “Good afternoon,” he said in general, and touched Hazel lightly on her sleeve. She seemed to come to herself with a start and with a jerky, compulsive smile at the others went before him to the door. He shut it behind them with a strong sense of relief and an even stronger sense of wrongness for the shape and tenor of the world around him.
They walked down the stairs and let themselves out of the front door. He let Hazel lead the way, which she did, walking quickly towards the nearest Tube station. He felt battered by the stares and second glances of people as they passed, resolutely folded his person back into protective anonymity. After a bit she said, “How do you know Sherry?”
He felt his attention lurching, replied belatedly. “We found each other once, in a desert in Persia.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Getting lost.”
They walked on. The air was thick and dark and murky, each streetlight casting a cone of light that illuminated little but its immediate environs. It was colder, the North Wind arriving. Passing in and out of shadow Raphael managed to push himself into James Inelu not-being-famous, that stranger people saw when they looked at his face. Fewer people stared after that, but the physical world was oppressively heavy. His neck ached.
“It comforted me so, somehow, to see you standing there,” Hazel said, with a clear attempt at poise, but her voice trailed off and he said nothing.
She swallowed a sobbing gasp. “My fiancé left me this afternoon. He’s been with someone else. For months, he said.”
He tried to tug at a little wind, found all he had done was lift his hands, pretended he had intended to rearrange his scarf. The burned bit on his hand throbbed. She went on in a quieter voice. “I feel so used.”
He smoothed his thoughts again, like pressing down a dog’s hackles, like brushing out knots in a horse’s coat, like polishing a carving. Hazel stumbled a bit and clutched his arm. He paused and waited for her to regain her balance. When she did they walked on again, her hand resting on his elbow.
He couldn’t feel anything but the touch, but he hated that she touched him and he was unprotected. Much as he hated the almost non-sensation of people touching him when he was protected by his magics, this was worse.
“Why did you look at me like that?” she asked. “For a moment I didn’t know who you were. I was afraid. Then you pointed at the sunset, and I saw it was you, and I—I don’t know—I think I thought that you understood, that you knew what I was feeling, that … Oh, I’m so
unding so silly. How could you have known?”
He couldn’t remember what he had thought, couldn’t remember what he had been doing, until he remembered the tree losing its few remaining leaves in this unfriendly wind that was gusting coldy around them. He had watched her stumble around a garden while listening to someone telling the story of his own grief.
He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t say he knew that some sorrows cut to the quick of the soul, and bleed away the strength of the heart until one ends up between the rock of the passions and that of the intellect. He had no words to say that. Words were not his strength. Oh, how hard it was sometimes for the vegetable soul, the soul that is merely to do with the basest processes of life, to keep the blood circling and the air rushing and the body fed.
They descended to the Underground, not so far down as to the platform with the bottle. He didn’t have an Oyster card, had to fumble with change with the tourists. Hazel watched him as if he were suddenly a stranger to her as well.
It was the heavy hour for traffic, but he found a seat for Hazel and stood half-balanced before her. He was tightly controlled; no one recognized him now; no one looked twice. Neither spoke until they made their way to the surface again and began to walk towards the theatre. At length she stirred. “Tell me, James, what it was that made you look at me like that.”
Though she phrased it as an order there was nothing of the knife-edged arrogance of power in it: she ordered because she could not bear to ask and be refused. It was not what he did; he did not ask questions when he could not bear to hear no answer.
He looked at her for a long while, trying to formulate what he felt, then gave up, and in his mind ran over the words of others, trying to find a way to express it. They came to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, intent on him as a bird is intent upon its food.
“‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,’” he said at last, and her face transformed with something he could not name, “‘and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.’”
Till Human Voices Wake Us Page 12