Quatrain

by Sharon Shinn

  Not man enough to defend her, not fanatic enough to condemn her. She wished she was out of his house and never had to see him again.

  Night ambled out of the mountains and settled around the house like a well-fed cat. Senneth moved to the window again just for the exercise of crossing the room. Faint rectangular patches of light outlined the foundation of the house, thrown from the bottom-story windows. Occasionally shadows crossed the squares of light—servants, Senneth supposed, or any of the dozen or so townspeople who appeared to be sleeping there for the night. Now and then she could catch snatches of conversation, mostly from male speakers, and she knew there must be a sizable contingent still on hand to make sure she didn’t cause any trouble in the night.

  It was almost enough to make her want to try a little mischief.

  But this was not the time, or the situation, to give in to childish impulses.

  She had been gazing out the window for perhaps a half hour when a flicker of movement caught her attention. An undulation of yellow, as if a bright scarf had been left on the grass and just now had been caught up by a random breeze. It disappeared almost immediately. Senneth narrowed her eyes and studied the terrain more closely.

  There. At the edge of the dead garden. Another saffron wave, instantly vanishing. And there. A brilliant orange snake coiled through the grass and then burrowed beneath the soil. A red flower bloomed a handspan from the house, then wilted into darkness.

  Small fires. Flaring to life, then puffing out. No objects, no piles of rubble or handy little shrubs were actually being set on fire this time. No, the mystic was simply calling flames out of nothing for the joy of seeing the air itself burn.

  Whoever this hidden mystic was, he was among the people guarding Senneth at the house.

  During the next ten minutes, more bursts of fire flared up and died down, each one a little bigger than the last, lingering a little longer. Senneth stood immobile at the window, torn by indecision. Should she call for Degarde or Baxter and gesture toward the yard? You see? Fire leaps up even when I am wrapped in moonstones. I am not the cause of your misfortunes. Should she say nothing, and let the flames grow stronger, until they caught on some highly flammable fuel and turned into a true conflagration? It went against her nature to allow this house to burn merely out of spite, but should she allow the situation to grow dire enough that her jailors were forced to turn to her for aid?

  No—it just felt wrong—besides, she wasn’t sure they would believe she was innocent even so. They might conclude that fires set in such proximity to her prison cell must have been set by Senneth herself. They would be wrong in fact, but right in theory, since she was fairly sure she could have set such fires if she’d wanted to.

  Could she put them out, even operating under the handicap of her moonstone accoutrements?

  She flattened her fingers against the cool glass of the window and pressed her face so close to the pane that it slowly fogged over. She imagined her hands growing enormous, monstrous, calloused with ice, and then she imagined herself laying each broad palm over a half acre of the land below. She could almost feel the stiff blades of dead grass tickling against her skin, the lumps of dirt, the occasional pebble in the soil. Fire suffocated beneath her touch, and tendrils of smoke trickled between her closed fingers.

  She shut her eyes and called up a memory of the whole perimeter of Degarde’s house. She pictured herself lumbering slowly around it, a giantess bent half over so that she could touch each separate square foot of lawn with her immense fingers, squelching any remaining flames. Her imaginary hands were cool and damp, even as the palms she rested against the glass grew hot with absorbed energy. She leaned her forehead against the window and envisioned the entire small valley where Degarde’s house was nestled, the scattered gardens and the short expanse of lawn that gave way so quickly to forest. She imagined herself, the giant-woman, dropping to her knees and then settling her whole body on the ground, wrapping herself protectively around the honey-white house. Where she lay, pressed against the soil, no flame could ignite. While she guarded this place, no calamitous fire could have its way.

  The morning brought Betony, carrying food she had made for Senneth in her own kitchens, as well as a stack of novels and a sewing basket. “There’s a pillowcase in there, and thread, if you wanted to embroider,” Betony said. “I’m embarrassed to even offer you such a pastime! But sometimes sewing keeps my mind off of troubles—just to have my hands occupied—”

  “I appreciate it greatly. I appreciate even more the kindness behind the thought,” Senneth said.

  “I brought my own projects,” Betony said defiantly. “And I am going to stay here all day and keep you company, no matter what Baxter says.”

  Even though they didn’t talk much during that long, dull day, Senneth found Betony’s presence a comfort—not least because it kept Degarde from coming to the room every half hour, showing his anxious face. Baxter wasn’t much deterred, though. He arrived around noon, planted his feet squarely in the middle of the room, and sneered at Senneth where she sat on the bed, dutifully setting stitches into the fabric.

  “So,” he said. “We haven’t had a single fire since you have been locked in this room, bound with moonstones.”

  “Not even a candle or a cookfire?” she asked in mild amazement. “How inconvenient for the entire town!”

  He jutted his face forward. “I mean, a wayward fire, set to cause destruction.”

  “Then you’ve been most fortunate.”

  “We’ve been smart,” he said. “We’ve locked up the mystic.”

  “Well, you’ve locked up one of them,” Senneth said. “Not the one who means you harm.”

  He stamped away, still muttering. Watching him go, Betony said, “He seems calmer than yesterday, don’t you think? And Albert says the whole mood of the town is softening. No one is talking about stoning you anymore. They just want you gone, and no more trouble.”

  “Happy to leave,” Senneth said. “But I promise you, there will be more trouble once I’m gone.”

  “I suppose you can’t tell who the other mystic is?” Betony asked.

  “Mystics look just like anybody else, unless you catch them actively doing magic,” Senneth drawled. “That’s what makes them so frightening. How can you ever know if your friend is a mystic? Or your neighbor? Or your son? How can you know that you won’t suddenly develop magic, and turn into the very thing you have always despised?”

  Betony showed a little fear at that thought, though Senneth gave her credit for trying to cover it up. “How do you know?”

  “Most mystics discover their power pretty early—certainly before they’re twelve or fourteen,” Senneth said. “I’m guessing someone in Benneld has just figured out what he can do and still doesn’t understand it. If we knew who he was, and I could talk to him, I think I could help him control his power—at least enough to make sure he doesn’t burn down every house for five miles.”

  “That would be kind,” Betony said, “considering the way the townspeople have treated you.”

  Senneth gave her a warm smile. “Considering the way some of the townspeople have treated me,” she said, “it is the least I can do.”

  A servant brought in an early dinner, since Julia had not bothered to show her face in Senneth’s room again. The girl was followed by an elegant yellow tabby with thick winter fur, a disdainful expression, and an attitude of owning the world.

  As she set her tray down on a small table, the servant girl said to the cat, “Shoo! Get out!” The tabby ignored her and daintily circled the room, pausing to sniff at Senneth’s boots.

  “I take it this creature belongs in the barn or kitchen, catching mice,” Senneth said with a friendly grin.

  “Not even! I don’t know where it came from, but it’s been hanging around since this morning. Cook wants it gone, because it keeps stealing meat from the platters.”

  It was clear Betony was not partial to cats. “Well, Senneth has suffered enough indigni
ties in this house,” she said coldly. “She should not have to endure animals crawling through her room.”

  But Senneth’s eyes were on the golden cat, which had dropped to its haunches and curled its full tail around its front legs. The color of its eyes was a startling blue and the tilt of its head was almost aristocratic. It was staring at Senneth with unblinking intensity.

  “I like cats,” Senneth said. “Let it stay.”

  “Well, if you want it to, I guess,” the girl said doubtfully.

  “They make me sneeze,” Betony said apologetically, instantly proving the truth of her words.

  “You go on home,” Senneth said. “You’ve been here all day. Come back tomorrow if you like. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

  Betony sneezed again, got to her feet, and hugged Senneth good-bye. “I can’t tell you how dreadful I feel about what has happened to you,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” Senneth said. “Everything will be all right.”

  Betony left with the servant girl. Senneth waited until the lock fell back in place and the sound of the women’s footsteps had faded down the hall. The whole time she kept her eyes on the cat, which stared inscrutably back at her.

  When she finally judged it safe, Senneth said, “Where’s Donnal?”

  If an animal could laugh, this one did. It came to its feet, stretched out its lithe body, and kept stretching. Its spine extended; its golden fur turned to golden curls; its sharp, pointed face broadened and refined and turned into a woman’s. Within a minute, Kirra stood there, dressed for travel and insouciant as ever.

  “He’s in the kitchen, nosing around for scraps,” Kirra said. She threw herself across the room as if to take Senneth in an embrace, but Senneth flung up her right hand.

  “They’ve bound me with moonstones—you’ll burn yourself,” she warned.

  “What’s happened?” Kirra demanded, coming to a halt and hovering restlessly next to the bed. “I came to Benneld yesterday to try and track you down, and I found you accused of crimes and put under guard! And wrapped with moonstones? How dare they? And how can you stand it? I would be whimpering on the floor by now.”

  Senneth held up her left hand and inspected the moonstone bracelet, glowing with its usual pale phosphorescence. “I don’t know how I can stand it,” she said. “They burn, but—not in a way that bothers me. I have to say it pleases me—in a sort of dark, self-satisfied way—to learn that moonstones have no power over me. It was something I didn’t know before.”

  “Well, that certainly makes arrest and imprisonment completely worthwhile!” Kirra exclaimed. “How are we going to get you out of here? There must be something in the room that I can turn into a knife so you can cut the rope.”

  “I believe the house is full of guards,” Senneth said. “Tricky to slip past them.”

  “I only saw three,” Kirra replied. “If we wait till dark, I can take care of one, and I’m sure Donnal can account for two. Unless—I can’t tell—does the man of the house side with you or with your enemies? There might be a fourth one to disarm.”

  “Degarde is not sure how he feels about me,” Senneth said with a touch of humor. “Before I was accused of witchcraft, he liked me very well indeed, and even was making some vaguely romantic overtures.”

  Kirra was instantly diverted. “Oh, that must have made you uncomfortable! Was he picturing you presiding over this little house, bearing him sweet babies and settling into a blissful domesticity? The very life you would despise above any other.”

  Senneth couldn’t help grinning. “I will settle into such a life if you will.”

  “Exactly! So did you spurn his advances? Is that why he turned on you and named you a witch?”

  Senneth shook her head. “He knew I was mystic and didn’t seem to hold it against me—until inexplicable fires kept breaking out whenever I was nearby. Even so, he was more reluctant than some of his fellows to blame me for the flames.”

  Kirra arched her delicate brows. “Another mystic in town, operating in secret?”

  “The fires have certainly been magical,” Senneth said. “But I don’t know who’s setting them.”

  “And I don’t care!” Kirra replied. “We need to get you away from here before the entire town turns on you in violence.”

  “That was the original plan, but Betony tells me that, after thinking it over a day, they are not so eager to kill me.”

  “Senneth!”

  “They won’t kill me,” she said quietly. “They can’t do it.” She held up her left hand, the one decorated with the moonstone bracelet, and let fire dance from her fingertips while she talked. “I still have all my power. I could burn the rope off my body, I could set the whole house ablaze and stroll out of here through a corridor of fire, and none of them would be able to stop me. I am bound because I let them take me, and I am here because I have chosen to stay.”

  “Then you’re mad, and I should find a way to get you out of here against your will.”

  Senneth smiled tightly. “I want to solve the mystery. I want to discover who the mystic is. Or once I’m gone, those who live here will discover it in the most drastic fashion possible.”

  Kirra had coiled up on the bed beside Senneth, catlike even in human form, but now she jumped up and began pacing. “I am not so convinced you can free yourself, despite what you say,” she said. “There is a contingent of King’s Riders passing through Kianlever, a half day from here. Donnal and I passed them on the road. Shall I go fetch them?”

  Senneth was amused. King’s Riders were an elite group of soldiers with an unshakable devotion to the king and very little interest in any other human being. “I hardly think you would convince them to come riding to the rescue of a mystic,” she said.

  “I could, if I told them Baryn had commissioned you to perform a service for him. Which has the advantage of being the truth!”

  “Kirra. I’m not afraid. I’m very glad to see you, and I appreciate your offer of help, but I can handle this by myself. They want to wait one more day and see if any sorcerous flames appear when I am not near enough to call them up. After that, I believe they will release me. I would like to stay till then, just in case the rogue mystic acts again—just in case there is something I can do. But if that deadline passes and there are no more fires, I promise you, I will go directly to Ghosenhall.”

  Kirra appeared to not even be listening. “I’ll go to the Riders—I’m sure they’ll listen to me,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “But I don’t like to leave you here alone.” She nodded decisively. “Donnal will stay. He can help defend you if anyone offers you harm.”

  “Kirra—”

  Kirra turned back toward the bed, a smile on her lovely face. “You can’t stop me, so don’t even try,” she said. “Is there anything you need before I leave?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I’ll tell Donnal the plan,” Kirra said. “He’ll come up and spend the night in your room.”

  Senneth didn’t bother asking how Donnal would get in. Both of the shiftlings could transform themselves into any living shape. He might waddle under the door as a beetle or fly in as some kind of insect. “Well, if he takes dog form to sleep on the foot of my bed, it might be hard to explain him in the morning.”

  Kirra gave her that dazzling smile. “All the stray animals of the estate are drawn to your presence,” she said. “How could it be otherwise? I’ll return tomorrow one way or the other—with or without Riders at my back.”

  Senneth stood up to say farewell, carefully wrapping her right arm around Kirra’s shoulders and making sure none of the moonstones touched her. “I appreciate the effort,” she said, “but you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Somebody should worry about you,” Kirra informed her as she pulled back. “It may as well be me.”

  A few moments later, Kirra had transformed herself into a tiny mouse and scrabbled under the door into the hallway. Senneth tried to imagine her
route down the stairs and into the kitchen. It was not very late—scarcely full dark—and plenty of people were still roaming the house. A mouse had better be extremely careful if it didn’t want to fall afoul of a wide variety of hazards.

  Senneth didn’t have much time to fret about Kirra. About a half hour later, the same servant returned to collect the dinner tray. The instant she opened the door, a small black sparrow swooped in behind her and fluttered around the room before settling on the curtain rod.

  “That bird!” the girl exclaimed. “Got into the kitchen this morning, and the cook chased it with a broom, but it just kept flying around where no one could reach it. I’ll call the footmen to come get it out of your room.”

  “Don’t bother,” Senneth said. “It’ll keep me company.”

  The girl glanced around. “Where did that cat go?”

  “Under the bed,” Senneth said without hesitation.

  “Maybe the cat’ll eat the bird,” the girl said. “That would be nice.”

  “I’ll let you know if it happens,” Senneth replied.

  The door had barely locked behind the servant girl when Donnal drifted to the floor and whirled into the form of a man. Unlike Kirra, he could change shapes so quickly Senneth’s eyes couldn’t follow the transformation.

  “I brought a deck of cards,” he said by way of greeting. “Want to play a couple of hands?”

  Donnal was always the easiest company imaginable—quiet, good - humored, and undemanding, with a relaxed way of talking that was soothing to a troubled soul. At the same time, his animal instincts kept him extremely alert, and he was never caught off guard by someone barging into the room unexpectedly. Twice he looked up and, without a word, transmogrified himself into something small and unnoticeable before Senneth even heard a footfall in the hallway.

  Once the visitor was Baxter, coming to taunt her before retiring for the day. Once it was Degarde, shamefaced and nervous.