She was even more surprised when Levannue looked at her with approval. “You did well.”
This time, Jemeryl did not hide her smile. Levannue was not someone who would give out praise indiscriminately. It was not in her nature to either flatter or spare her subordinates’ feelings—definitely not where work was involved.
The witches were dismissed, and the two sorcerers returned to Levannue’s room, where a record book for the shields required both their signatures. Jemeryl quickly scanned the page. As she suspected, the two-name rule had been enforced only since Bramell became principal. Her smile faded when she saw that until three years ago, the sorcerer’s name beside Levannue’s had invariably been Aris.
“What is it?” Levannue must have noticed the change in her expression.
Jemeryl hesitated, but there was no reason not to tell the truth. “It’s just...Aris. Vine told me about her unfortunate...er, death.”
“Yes. She was a sad loss. Her abilities have been greatly missed.” Levannue seemed about to say something else but then stopped, in a rare show of indecisiveness. She averted her face. “You may put the book away and go.”
Levannue hurried off, as if running away. Jemeryl pursed her lips. Apparently, the head of psychic studies was not quite as unfeeling as she made out. Aris’s death clearly upset her.
Jemeryl ducked down to return the record book to its cupboard. She heard the door of the room opening, although in her crouching position, she was hidden from its view.
“Hello, Snuggums. Did it all go all right, my poppet?”
Jemeryl nearly choked. The voice was Bramell’s, but the sugary tones were unlike anything she had heard from him before. He obviously had no idea that she was there. If only Levannue were similarly unaware, Jemeryl might have kept out of sight until they had gone. However, she did not have that option. Unwillingly, she stood up.
At the sight of her, the principal’s face went through a range of expressions—all of them hard to name, whereas Levannue definitely looked embarrassed. Without a word being said, Jemeryl sidled out of the room, past Bramell, who had not moved from the doorway.
Only when she was outside the building could Jemeryl give way to giggling. Unfortunately, she dared not share the story with Vine. If the name “Snuggums” started circulating the school, both Bramell and Levannue would know who to blame. Jemeryl shook her head. She had realised that Bramell’s authoritarian manner was a facade, but she never guessed that it covered a soppy, sentimental interior.
*
The tide was ebbing. Wading birds probed the wet sand with long, thin beaks. They scattered at Tevi’s approach in a flurry of white wings and wailing cries. Only Tevi’s footprints defaced the featureless surface of freshly exposed sand—a single track leading back to Ekranos.
The high-tide point was marked by a thick line of dead seaweed, broken shells, and driftwood. Tevi stopped and looked up. Cliffs of pitted white chalk rose in broken tiers, dazzling in the morning sunshine. Irregular bands of stunted gorse and sea grass sprouted from cracks. The only break was where a wide seam of harder rock split the chalk in a diagonal line.
A narrow path picked its way down this route, hollowed by the passage of feet. Steps were cut into the chalk at the steeper points. The ledge faded into the cliffs at the top, where a wooden handrail edged the last precarious section. Higher still, the footpath disappeared over the cliff top through a small gateway set under a wooden arch—surely not to guard the rear entrance to the school of herbalism, but to mark the start of the path for those leaving.
Tevi walked farther up the beach, crossing from wet to dry sand. Sun-baked seaweed crackled under her feet, and sand flies rose in buzzing swarms. She selected a patch of clean, soft sand, then turned around and sat cross-legged, looking over the water. The familiar sour smell of seaweed and the hissing of waves evoked memories of Storenseg. Tevi rested her chin on her fists. The breeze off the sea gently lifted her hair, tickling her face and forehead.
“Tevi.”
She twisted around. Jemeryl was a third of the way down the cliff path. Tevi scrambled to her feet and raced up the beach. Dry sand slipped under her feet so that each step took her only a few inches forward. By the time Tevi reached the foot of the path, Jemeryl had completed her descent. She threw her arms about Tevi and held her close while they kissed.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”
“Only a few minutes.”
With arms wrapped around each other’s waists, they wandered along the shore until out of sight of the path. A spur of rock made a natural windbreak, sheltering a warm, sandy spot.
Tevi let go of Jemeryl and flopped down on the sand. She stretched out her legs and leaned back with her arms as props. Her eyes were closed, and she smiled, enjoying the sun on her face. Jemeryl knelt beside her and knocked a supporting arm away, pushing Tevi flat on her back.
“How long before you have to return?” Jemeryl’s smile made her intention clear. Her fingers moved to unfasten Tevi’s shirt.
Tevi struggled to sit up. “No, wait, Jem. We’ve got to talk. I’ve learnt something. Neame was in Walderim when the chalice was taken. A sailor on the docks told me. Neame must be the traitor.”
The smile left Jemeryl’s face. She sat back on her heels, braced her hands on her knees and listened to Tevi’s report of the conversation, staring silently into the distance.
“That was all he had to say?” Jemeryl asked when the account was finished.
“Yes, and I can’t be sure he was telling the truth. But in my experience, when sailors make up stories, they’re much more dramatic.”
“He’s obviously familiar with the school. And he’s getting correct information from somewhere. Levannue is taking a trip north later this year. I’ve heard about it from Vine.”
“So Neame is the one we’re after?” Tevi prompted, seeking agreement.
“It’s still only a guess. There’s no proof.”
“You can’t let your liking for people influence your judgement.”
“I know that.” Jemeryl bit her lip.
“There’s more to it. I can see it in your face.” Tevi felt a sudden certainty.
“Yes, there is. The sailor was right about a party of sorcerers being in Walderim at the time the chalice was stolen. I’m not sure who, but Neame may well have been leading it. I could ask Vine; she’s bound to know. The problem is that I don’t want to set her off wondering why I’m interested.” Jemeryl sighed and shifted around, pulling her knees up. “One member of the group I do know about was a sorcerer called Aris. But she never came back to Ekranos, with or without the chalice. She died in Walderim. The story is that she killed herself.”
A long silence followed. When Tevi spoke, her voice was soft but very serious. “That leaves us with two possibilities. Either her death is a coincidence, or she found out about the chalice, and Neame killed her and made it look like suicide. Jem, you’ve got to be careful. I know that you like Neame, but we aren’t just talking about someone playing games. We’re talking about murder. I’m worried about you. You mustn’t take risks.”
“I admit it looks bad for Neame, but we need proof.”
Despite her own conviction, Tevi could sense her lover’s unhappiness. Jemeryl had to be alert to risks for her own safety, yet a rift between them would be unbearable. She took hold of Jemeryl’s hand, trying to think of some conciliatory words. “Well, yes, I suppose we need to eliminate other people, to be totally certain. Like Levannue. She made that trip to her family. Perhaps the sailor got the dates wrong, and maybe she comes from Walderim.”
Jemeryl shook her head. “From her accent, Levannue comes from around Serac.”
“Perhaps her family has emigrated recently.”
“It’s all right, my love. You don’t have to strain conjecture too far.” Jemeryl put her arm around Tevi’s waist. “If Neame’s guilty, then we’ll get her. But it will mean that I’ve been totally duped, and I’ll never trust my own judgemen
t again.”
Jemeryl rested her head on Tevi’s shoulder. The sun was beating upon the sand and cast a dazzling glitter over the waves. The sea was deep turquoise. Birds scurried at the water’s edge, darting back and forth between the waves.
“Will you be really upset if it’s Neame?” Tevi asked eventually.
“Yes. But if Neame is guilty, then her caring manner is a sham, and the woman I admire doesn’t exist. Whatever the truth is, it can be sorted out later. For the moment, I’ve got some time with you, and it’s too precious a commodity to waste brooding.” The grin returned to Jemeryl’s face. “And you didn’t answer my original question. How long before you have to go back?”
“I’ve got to be on the docks two hours before noon.”
“Plenty of time.”
The hand around Tevi’s waist started to tug her shirt free of her belt.
“Jem! Supposing someone comes strolling along the beach?” Yet Tevi knew there was no real protest in her voice.
“I’ll set a shimmer screen for the eyes of the ungifted, and sorcerers ought to have better manners than to pry. Even Vine has her standards.” Jemeryl paused and then shrugged. “I think.”
Tevi laughed. She wrapped her arms around Jemeryl’s shoulders and fell back, pulling Jemeryl on top of her. For a while, they lay, kissing, while their actions increased in passion. Tevi’s hands burrowed into Jemeryl’s clothing until they reached the soft, warm skin. She felt Jemeryl’s mouth and teeth on her throat. Tevi knew a barrage of jokes awaited her if she returned to the docks with marks showing, but she was not worried enough to ask Jemeryl to stop.
The sounds and smells of the sea and the hot sand beneath her carried Tevi back to Storenseg. It could have been one of her adolescent fantasies made real, but the woman in her arms exceeded anything she had imagined. She was amazed at how much she wanted Jemeryl. The physical ache was the least of it. Her desire to touch Jemeryl and be touched, although rooted in her body, went far beyond. It was a passion that engulfed her soul.
Jemeryl’s hand was kneading Tevi’s breast through her shirt, taking her swiftly to a state of advanced arousal. Tevi pulled away and began loosening her clothing. It was wisest to get undressed while she could still muster some self-control. She drew the line at returning to work with torn clothes.
Chapter Six—A Sorcerer’s Pride
Jemeryl shouldered the door shut and deposited the tray containing potions and other equipment on the table. The whitewashed walls of the quarantine room were oppressively cheerless. The patient, Gewyn, lay deep in a coma, as she had since the night she arrived. Her skin was dry, hot to the touch and covered with livid blotchy marks. Scabs encrusted her lips and eyes. Jemeryl bent to pull the covers straight, gently tucking one trailing arm back under the blanket.
“She’s not getting any better, is she?”
Jemeryl glanced over her shoulder. The speaker was the fair-haired man who had scarcely left Gewyn’s side all the time she had been there. His mournful face had become a familiar sight around the hospital. He wandered listlessly across the room, pausing to look at the sky outside yellowing to evening.
“We’re doing everything we can.” Jemeryl used her most reassuring tones.
“Oh, I know. I’m very grateful, ma’am.” He left the window and joined Jemeryl at the bedside. His lips worked against each other. At last, he said, “I’m so frightened for her.”
Sympathetic noises were all Jemeryl could offer.
The young man carried on in a despairing monotone that lurched through unfinished sentences. “What will I say...her parents won’t...if I go back without her...Gewyn was so...”
“It may not come to that.”
“We’ve known each other two years. We met at the midsummer festival. She was with friends...drunk. They were falling over and singing. The first thing I noticed was her voice. She’s the worst singer you’ve ever heard. Raucous and tone-deaf and...” His rambling ground to a halt.
Jemeryl looked at him. The man’s head was bowed. The heels of his hands were pressed hard against his eyes. Her gaze shifted to the hapless patient. Gewyn was an ordinary, ungifted citizen, someone who would usually go unnoticed. Suddenly, Jemeryl was hit by the image of Tevi, also ungifted, lying near to death. She pushed the vision away, but the image stuck, so strongly that Jemeryl felt certain it was a foretelling. In panic, she clawed at the seventh dimension, and the vision dispersed, striking no resonance in the web of fate. Relief washed over Jemeryl. Not a true oracle, just normal human anxiety.
The room settled back into its standard time phase. Jemeryl looked again at the young man. Tears of sympathy stung her eyes. Almost without intending it, she put her arms around him. At her touch, his self-control broke, and he clung to her like a child, shaking with sobs. When the tremors finally subsided, Jemeryl sat him on the free bunk, filled a cup with water, and placed it in his hands. The cup chattered against his teeth as he sipped.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just—”
“Don’t apologise. I understand.”
“I’ve made your shoulder wet.” He forced a feeble smile.
“It’ll dry.”
The door opened. Neame said nothing when she entered, but she clearly absorbed the message in the man’s red eyes. Parts of her face softened in compassion, while other parts hardened in resolve. It was a strange composite expression that left no doubt of her commitment to Gewyn’s health. Neame was not magically casting a glamour. Jemeryl was certain of that. Either the response was genuine, or it was a superb piece of acting. And if she’s acting, then I’m a pink tree frog. The thought shot through Jemeryl’s mind.
The folded back covers revealed Gewyn’s plague-wracked body. Sweat marks stained the sheet, streaked with blood. Neame perched on the bed and examined the patient. Her hands moved deftly: taking the pulse, pressing the swelling at neck and groin, and probing the sticky thinness of her aura.
From the other side of the room, the young man watched with an expression of tormented misery; yet a desperate hope lay there also. Neame could probably inspire hope in the dead. Again, Jemeryl felt her eyes fill with tears.
Neame had recently platted her braid, and for once, there were no wisps of escaping hair. It would not last. Neame never bothered about her appearance while working. Her current task was a typical example. Heedless of the blood and pus, Neame had an arm around the patient’s shoulders to hold her in position while inducing her to swallow an elixir. Achieving the same thing by telekinesis would require slightly more effort, but Jemeryl knew which option she would take.
Once Gewyn was lying back on the bed, the two sorcerers daubed lotion on the raw sores. The patient showed no sign of stirring. Her breathing was shallow, but the elixir had eased the dry rasping in her throat.
“Right; nearly finished.” Neame glanced at Jemeryl. “We must change the bottom sheet. Can you lift her on your own, or shall I call another sorcerer to help?”
Jemeryl spotted a suitable sixth-dimensional current. “I should be able to manage.”
Even with the current, Jemeryl needed immense concentration to float Gewyn two feet clear of the mattress. At least Neame wasted no time in yanking the old sheet away and replacing it. In less than a minute, Jemeryl was able to lower the patient, ready to be tucked up.
While Neame exchanged a few comforting words with Gewyn’s companion, Jemeryl tidied up, aware of feeling irked. She supposed it was flattering that Neame trusted her to lift the patient on her own, but it would have been far easier if the senior sorcerer had played her part. Then Jemeryl froze, registering that Neame had offered to call someone else. Why call a third sorcerer when two were already present?
Jemeryl realised she had never seen Neame make use of the sixth dimension. At the time of the accident in the dispensary, she had been in no condition to think, but Neame had physically pulled her from the room, risking her own life with the poisonous fumes. Admittedly, the iron stove made telekinesis difficult. But it didn’t stop me throwi
ng Vine back.
The demarcation between superior witch and sorcerer was blurred; the Coven never bound itself with inflexible rules. An awareness of all seven dimensions was the customary minimum criteria for sorcerer, yet Neame’s abilities seemed suspect.
Jemeryl picked up the tray and went to wait by the door. For the first time, she considered Neame’s persona, using the full range of her senses. Now that she was alerted, it was impossible to miss the unbalanced stance and the way Neame followed rather than flowed with the currents—two classic traits of those blind to the sixth dimension.
Jemeryl jerked a small power tensor, making it seem an involuntary twitch. To a sorcerer, the effect was like a loud cough. Neame did not react. Again, Jemeryl disturbed the sixth dimension, a blatant upheaval that should have earned her a disapproving frown. However, Neame appeared no more aware than the young man she was speaking to.
Jemeryl’s eyes fixed unseeing on the washed yellow sky outside while her thoughts raced. The hunt for the renegade sorcerer was turned on its head. Neame was off the list of suspects.
*
Night had fallen by the time Jemeryl returned to her quarters. Darkness lay thick between the school buildings. Her thoughts were absorbed with Neame as she climbed the stairway and walked along the veranda, past the rooms belonging to other junior sorcerers. She pushed open the door to her shared study.
Vine was sitting at a desk overloaded with academic clutter. Encroaching piles had been elbowed aside to clear a workspace. At the edge, several books were threatening to topple off. Another book was propped open a few inches from Vine’s nose. She sighed loudly, scrunched up the paper she had been writing on and tossed it over her shoulder. It joined several others on the floor with a soft rustle. Vine was not the tidiest of workers.
The Traitor and the Chalice Page 10