It chafed him to have to be so solicitous toward a treacherous, criminal, conquered race—not even human. At the banquet, he went through the ritual mechanically, passing the bowl back and forth with a Faitoren—Vulpin, the one who now styled himself their leader. Aruendiel only wished that the meaningless display would be over soon. The wine seemed to have no effect on him, except to make him feel duller than usual. The sound of the bowl smashing on the floor, the end of the toast, caught him by surprise.
Aruendiel returned to his seat and watched the other toasts. The hall grew noisier with talk and laughter. Some of the younger knights had started dancing at the far end of the room, their arms flailing as they whirled. It was a country bull-dance. The Faitoren guests looked on, amused. Then a few Faitoren got up and joined the dance, too. Monstrous, half-human figures—yet they moved with quick, uncanny grace. There was something satiric in the studiously precise way they emulated the human dancers, copying the drunken sway of their bodies, stamping with exaggerated force.
“Never thought I’d be entertaining that rabble under my roof.” It was Luklren, their host, bawling through the din into Aruendiel’s ear. “And I’ll tell you—after tonight, never again.”
Aruendiel nodded curtly. He was in full agreement, but there was no need to state the obvious. Besides, he doubted that the Faitoren had any great desire to socialize with Luklren any more than they were required to.
“Hideous, aren’t they?” Luklren continued. “I can hardly stand to look at them. That one with the mouth—ugh. And they say they want to look this way. Why? That’s what I want to know. It’s not natural.”
“Natural for them,” Aruendiel corrected him. “And in any case, the new treaty prohibits them from using their old glamours.”
Luklren went on, unheeding: “How could you want to look like that?” He pointed at a Faitoren whose eyes swiveled restlessly on fleshy stalks. “I liked it better when they took the trouble to look human. You remember that girl we picked up last year, up Sheepfold Hill?”
“She was no Faitoren. I told you then.”
“Wasn’t she? That little beauty with the tits?” Luklren looked puzzled, then took another swig of wine. Aruendiel turned away. The stupid doll’s countenance hiding Nora’s own sweet, clever face—if anything, the memory of her Faitoren enchantment made him angrier now than it had before.
He suddenly wished that at this very instant he could look into her clear brown eyes, so steady and bright with understanding. Then he pushed that thought away.
This defeat of the Faitoren was a flawed, rotten victory, Aruendiel thought. There was no reason to celebrate when Ilissa and Raclin, his real enemies, were still at large. When his old friend Hirizjahkinis was dead—or as good as dead, even if Nansis Abora was right—and even faithful, stubborn Mrs. Toristel, who had spent all her life in his service, was gone.
But at least he had resolved the question of Nora. That was perhaps the one fortunate result from this whole fiasco, Aruendiel reminded himself. He had handled the matter honorably, restored her to her family and friends, and put her safely beyond Ilissa’s reach. He had nothing to reproach himself with. All very satisfactory.
She was beyond the boy Perin Pirekenies’s reach, too. That thought gave him pleasure, although not as much as it had previously. If Nora had decided to stay to marry Pirekenies, she would be here now in this banquet hall, near at hand. She would be watching intently the toasts and the dancing and all things that were new to her, the way she always did. And sitting at Pirekenies’s side, wearing the red betrothal veil. She might spare an occasional smile for the old, crippled magician who had taught her. Then she would turn back to Pirekenies, their heads close as she spoke to him.
Foolishness, Aruendiel rebuked himself. It was hard enough to see her go into the other world without trying to imagine what her future would have been in this one. Then he realized someone had touched his shoulder to get his attention, and that it was the boy Pirekenies.
“What do you want?” Aruendiel asked roughly. He was pleased to see that the younger man moved back a half step.
“To inquire after Lady Nora,” Pirekenies said. “She said she would try to return to her world. Has she—?”
“Yes. She has gone back to her people.”
Pirekenies looked steadily at Aruendiel. “How do I know you are telling the truth?”
“What?”
“All I have is your word that she traveled into another world”—Pirekenies frowned, as though it disturbed him to repeat such nonsense—“and did not meet some other, worse fate.”
Wonderful, the boy’s stark foolishness. Aruendiel stood up, his hand on his sword hilt, and glowered down at Pirekenies. “What, you suspect I murdered her?”
“I’d simply like an assurance of her safety.”
“You think I would have harmed Nora?” He added, more menacingly: “You doubt the word of a peer and a magician?”
“I don’t mean to insult you,” Pirekenies said. Evidently he was not a complete idiot. “I only want your reassurance that she is well.”
“She is well,” Aruendiel said. “She reached her parents’ house in safety. I can attest to this.”
In fact, Aruendiel had done the observation spell that very afternoon, finally succeeding, after several tries, in finding his way to Nora’s father’s home in the other world. There he had moved around the house like a restless ghost, looking for Nora. She was not in the house, but he overheard her being discussed by her father and a woman who was no doubt her stepmother. They spoke too quickly for him to make out all the English words. He gathered, though, that Nora was buying food at the market, that she would cook the dinner that night. (Just as she had done in his own household, he thought.) They were concerned about her—he could hear it in their voices—but from what they said, as far as he could tell, there was nothing wrong with her health or spirits.
He had waited, hoping to see Nora when she came home, but his candle had gone out and the spell had ended before she appeared.
“If you doubt me,” Aruendiel said to Pirekenies in a more measured tone, “you can speak to the magician Nansis Abora, who also saw her travel back to her own world.”
“Another magician,” Pirekenies said, with a distrustful smile.
“Yes, and an honest man. If that is not enough for you,” Aruendiel added reasonably, “my sword can continue this argument with yours.”
Pirekenies stood stock-still for a moment, as though considering Aruendiel’s offer, then smiled again. “It’s not necessary. I’ll accept your reassurances. Thank you.” He bowed, then went back to his seat at the other long table.
Aruendiel did not resume his own seat. Instead, he made his way through the crowd, out of the hall. The insult from the boy Pirekenies had roused his blood, but then his anger had lost its savor. Now he felt only a great weariness. There was nothing to keep him in this place any longer. Going to the stables, he shook a dozing groom awake and retrieved his horse and saddle.
The night was blessedly cold and silent as he rode away.
There had been a thaw in the Uland, so that all the snow had melted, and then the weather had turned cold again. Stripped of winter’s white blanket, the village, the fields around the castle, even the deep woods beyond the river had a tired, dirty look, still unprepared for the slightest shoot of green.
The castle, however, was very clean. Aruendiel could not remember the last time it was so tidy or smelled so strongly of beeswax and rosemary.
That was Lolona’s doing. She and two of her daughters had apparently spent the days after her mother’s death sweeping, scrubbing, buffing the castle’s living quarters to a high polish in a way that Mrs. Toristel had not had the energy to do for decades, even with Nora’s help.
They had already burned Mrs. Toristel’s body, in the Pelagnian way. It was what she would have wanted, Lolo said; Pelagnia was her
mother’s birthplace, after all, and she’d always considered it home, even after so many years in the Uland. Aruendiel visited the large, blackened patch where the pyre had been and smeared a dark line of ash down his face. Mrs. Toristel would have been pleased by the remembrance. Still, Aruendiel felt unexpected regret that she had not been buried properly, like an Ulwoman, her curled body shrouded in wool and set to rest in earth—or better, the castle vault. His ancestors were also hers, although she’d never known that. It would be more fitting for a daughter of his line to rest with them instead of being roasted like a piece of meat.
Aruendiel also braided a white ribbon into his hair, as was correct. It caused some comment among the villagers, who thought it was odd that he would wear mourning for a servant. The ribbon was for Hirizjahkinis, too, although they could not be expected to know that.
He was startled, though, when one of the village girls stopped him on the road one morning to ask if he was wearing the white ribbon for Nora.
“Of course not! What idiocy!” he snapped.
The girl shrank back, looking terrified, although she was a strapping young woman, almost as tall as he was. Morinen, that was her name, he recalled. She had been friendly with Nora.
In a gentler tone, he told her the same thing he had told Pirekenies, that Nora had returned to her people. Unlike Pirekenies, Morinen did not doubt him.
“Ah, that is good,” she said with obvious relief. “I was afraid—we heard she’d been taken away by the lady that killed Mrs. Toristel.”
“She is safe now,” Aruendiel said.
“Well, I will miss her. She was a funny one, but I liked her. I could always tell her anything, it felt like.”
“Yes,” Aruendiel agreed, frowning slightly.
“She would listen so carefully, and then say something that I never thought of before. I liked to listen to her.”
He’d noticed the same acuity in Nora, so many times. This girl Morinen was not as foolish as he’d thought. He nodded. “Mistress Nora was ever perceptive, with a rare gift of discernment. Conversing with her was a singular—happiness.”
“Oh, yes! I used to laugh at her sometimes, her odd notions. But I don’t think she ever minded, she was so kind and good-hearted.”
“Yes. She was.” He corrected himself: “She is.”
“And I wanted her to come to my wedding!” The girl beamed, obviously very proud. “She would have liked to hear that I’m getting married, especially since she introduced me to my fiancé.”
Aruendiel now noticed the red scarf covering the girl’s hair and perceived that congratulations were in order, so he gave her good wishes for a warm hearth and a full cradle. Morinen’s husband-to-be, he discovered, was his own manor tenant, Peusienith. A very good match for a girl from one of the largest and poorest families in the village. Nora had apparently made the introduction during the last Null Days.
“He doesn’t mind that I’m so big,” Morinen added. “He likes it! I wish I could tell Nora.”
“She would be happy to hear your news,” Aruendiel agreed. His own spirits felt lighter, to hear Morinen rattle on.
“But it’s good that she’s back with her people,” Morinen said. “She talked about her world a lot, how different it was. I didn’t understand everything she said, but it must have suited her. Well, now maybe she’ll be able to marry, too! It’ll be easier for her to find a husband there, where her family is, won’t it?”
“No doubt,” Aruendiel said, his mouth twisting. He tried, without complete success, to keep the ice out of his voice, not wishing to frighten the child again. “Good day to you, Mistress Morinen.”
Nora’s wax tablets, her stylus, and the books she had last consulted still lay on the table in his library. He could not bring himself to put them away. She had made notes both in Ors—some observations he had given her on water magic—and in her own language. It was immediately obvious how much more assured her flowing, horizontal English scrawl was, next to her clumsier Ors script. Aruendiel thought he should take some comfort in that. It was a sign that she was back in the place where she belonged.
There were very few other traces of Nora in the castle, perhaps because of Lolona’s formidable housecleaning—perhaps because whatever Nora had made with her own hands had been foodstuff, consumed and forgotten—perhaps because she’d had few possessions of her own. Aruendiel had gone through her room himself. Her clothes were still folded in the wooden chest—the rough blue breeches and thin, shapeless shirt that had come from the other world (did women really wear such garments there?); some linens; a woolen dress that he recognized as one of the two that had been made from the cloth he had bought in Semr. It was the dark red dress, the one he liked better on her—it looked so warm against her lightly tanned skin. Nora was all different shades of brown, like a wren. On the floor by the bed was the bracelet that she wore sometimes. She’d said once that the bracelet was a clock that would not work anymore because some part of it was dead. Aruendiel had not known exactly what she meant but had not wanted to reveal his ignorance by asking further questions.
Also in the room was the book that Nora had been translating for him. An uneventful story, hardly worth the paper—girls seeking husbands—but once you started following the narrative, it was surprisingly engrossing. Nora had gotten halfway through, and then he had stopped her. Why, he was not sure now. He had looked forward each day to reading what she had translated.
Aruendiel flipped through the book. The black lines of print were alien, inscrutable. He had never learned to read English when he was in Nora’s world so long ago, and now there was no Nora to tell him what the words meant.
Nora’s belongings were here. Where was she? The possessions of the dead are a puzzle that can never be solved again. But she wasn’t dead, Aruendiel reminded himself irritably. He was as bad as that village girl. Yet it was better to think of her as dead.
Not long after, he did the observation spell for the last time. He knew the way now. And this time, prowling unseen through Nora’s father’s house, he saw Nora herself. She was lying on a divan, reading, the book propped up against her knees. Her sister—the child he’d met before—lay on the same divan, facing Nora, also reading.
He watched them, transfixed, from an arm’s length away. Nora turned a page, then another page. Her eyes moved easily, contentedly through the maze of sentences. (But had she not seemed just as happy and absorbed when she sat reading in his own library?) Her hair was unbraided, flowing over her shoulders. She was wearing the same kind of long, coarse breeches that he had just seen in her clothes chest. Apparently women did wear clothes like that in her world. She was still lovely in her strange dress. After a while, her sister spoke to her, and Nora responded, squeezing the girl’s foot affectionately. What were they saying? The English words slipped past him too fast for comprehension, but he listened hard anyway, relishing the sound of her voice.
Then he noticed that the child seemed to be staring directly at him. Once before, she had seen him when he cast the observation spell. Could she see him now? In some confusion, he blew out the candle that governed the spell. He had no wish for Nora to know that he was secretly observing her. Spying on her, in fact. Well, he was finished with spying. He had established beyond any doubt that Nora had survived the passage to her world, that she was happy, that she was at home in all senses of the word.
That was all to the good, so why did he feel more restive and bereft than ever? Yes, it would be better to think of Nora as dead, removed to some peaceful, inaccessible heaven.
Aruendiel found himself grateful that Lolona had stayed in the castle after her mother’s death. Not so much for the castle’s unaccustomed cleanliness or even for the meals she cooked for him—Lolo was a better cook than her mother, although not as good as Nora—as for the sound of her voice and her footsteps moving through the house during the day. On a few evenings he even went across the re
ar courtyard to the Toristels’ small dwelling, to sit at their fireside for an hour, drinking a tankard of Lolona’s excellent ale. If Lolo was surprised to see him there, she didn’t show it. She was a loud, cheerful talker with news from Barsy and her brewery to share, as well as strong views on the state of local agriculture—the farmers were not growing enough hops to suit her, and the price was getting too high—and on many of the villagers, although her observations were never malicious enough to qualify as gossip. Rather, it was more that she felt an honest regret that many other people around her were not industrious or intelligent or disciplined enough to take advantage of the opportunities that life offered them.
Mr. Toristel sat close to the fire, saying little. He had aged in the weeks since his wife’s death. There was a watery look in his old eyes, and a noticeable hunch in his spine. Looking at him, Aruendiel felt twinges of both sympathy and fear, but he only allowed himself to think, I will have to hire a new groom soon.
From time to time, one of Lolo’s daughters would get up to adjust her grandfather’s shawl or to pour him more ale. The two girls were fourteen and sixteen. Lolo had no compunction about dissecting their marriage prospects in front of them, while they giggled or rolled their eyes. Aruendiel had little to contribute to this kind of discussion, but it was more absorbing than he would have expected. It reminded him of Nora’s book. And then, he reflected uneasily, the girls were his descendants, even if he was losing count of how many generations they were removed from him.
Nora had urged him to tell Mrs. Toristel the truth, that he was her ancestor. She’d been fiercely insistent; it would make Mrs. Toristel so happy, she’d said. Now it was too late. What about telling Lolo? Aruendiel considered the idea. So much time had passed, perhaps he could avoid the troublesome question of exactly where everyone fit on the family tree.
How to Talk to a Goddess and Other Lessons in Real Magic Page 6