Phoenix and Ashes em-4

by Mercedes Lackey

  Once I learn to move among the Planes, once I really understand the Plane of Earth magic, I will find the key to break her spells! She knew that; it made perfect sense. Knowledge and understanding, not force, were going to be the keys to her shackles.

  But to do that, to be able to step beyond this Middle Earth and into the rest, she would have to do a lot of work. She had once thought that preparing for the examinations to get into Oxford was hard work. This would be ten times harder. She was going to have to go completely beyond what she had always taken as "the truth" into a whole new set of truths—and then believe in them. Well, no one said it was going to be easy.

  She got up and ran through her usual chores in an absentminded fashion; her hands and body did the work, while her mind repeated some of what she thought she was beginning to understand from the books.

  It might have seemed odd, but amid all those philosophical musing, she did not forget to wash all those cotton shirtwaists and linen skirts she had brought down from the attic, nor to put them up—well out of sight of the bedroom windows—on lines in the garden to dry. It seemed very strange to be doing all these intensely common and practical things while her head was buzzing with alchemical esoterica.

  And as she worked, she kept remembering links to the symbology of even the most ordinary things—as she scrubbed, she was also thinking. Water, is the Sphere of Emotion; although there are emotions associated with all the Elements, they all have more strength here in Water. Especially the nurturing ones—that's the Light Path, though, the Dark Path is the emotions that destroy, like a flood washing everything away in its path. And Water is mutable—solid to liquid to gas and back again, so it represents change, while unchanging Water, the Dark Path, is stagnation. And nothing can grow without it, so it also has an aspect of growth, but too much water can kill, so there's death. It can purify and pollute. It can fill or drown. The alchemical creature is the Hippocampus, showing the links among Water, Air, and Earth. Water is hard to control because it's hard to contain, not as hard as Air, though.

  And then that, and a whiff of flowers, sent her into Air, the Sphere of Mercury, the Sphere of Memory. The strongest memory-trigger there is, is scent. More of a Sphere of Intellect than Emotion, though Mercury is changable and volatile, more so than water. The Zephyr refreshes, the Tempest sweeps away. Too much Air can intoxicate, too little and you die. It can cleanse, too, or destroy. Mostly, it's too thin to support emotion, or at least, intense emotion. Memories generally come at a distance; you can forget how you felt when you went through those incidents originally. Pride, though; there's pride there. And that's why Mercury is the god of liars, because people lie to bolster their pride and maintain their pride. And thieves, because thieves are proud of their skill. That's the Dark Path; there's no reason why you shouldn't take pride in your work, and there's nothing wrong with change. Hardest of the Elements to contain, but not so hard to control, since Fire devours it, Water ignores it, Earth deflects it—the Alchemical creature is the Phoenyx, even though the Phoenyx is also a Fire Elemental, showing the links among Air, Water, and Fire.

  Scrubbing the floor led to—Earth. Alison's Element. The Sphere of Passion—Love, on the Path of Light, Lust on the Dark Path. Seduction, which sits on the line between the two Paths. Not changeable, no—it takes a lot to force the Earth to change. Passion is a really useful thing; you can't really create something that will live without it. Passion is an implacable force, like an avalanche—once you start it, it takes a long time to stop it. Maybe that's why she had to wait until I was in an emotional breakdown before she could bind me. The Dark Path isn't stagnation though—it's rot or sterility. Creator and Devourer; Earth is, among others, the Goddesses Erda and Hera, who are both prone to creation and destruction. There may be a key to defeating Alison in that, but what is it? The Alchemical creature is the Gryphon, showing the links among Earth, Air, and Water, even though the Gryphon is also an Elemental of Air.

  She mused over that while she cooked, then lingered over her breakfast, having come around to her own Element at last. Fire— Sphere of Anger. Mars. The Alchemical Creature is the Dragon, showing the links among Air, Earth, and Fire. The Dragon of the Light is wise and ancient, the Dragon of the Dark is almost mindless and constantly in a rage. Fire cleanses and destroys. The Dark Path is the Fire that only devours, I suppose, since there is no Fire that is not in a state of constant change. The Light Path would be the Fire that cleanses? Or maybe the Fire that serves, instead of the uncontrolled fire that eats everything in its path. I suppose Anger can be productive; righteous anger, but what a narrow divide between Light and Dark! Righteous anger should lead you to Justice, which is why Justice is also here, but. . . but Justice is blind, and there is no Mercy in the Sphere of Fire. Justice? Judgment is more like it. And Anger, like Fire, is hard to control and the most apt to turn and destroy the person trying to control it. Hate—channeled anger. How do I control my anger? Because if I don't, it will control me. . . .

  Intellect and imagination, that was what it had to be. That was what it seemed to come down to. Somehow she had to use both. No wonder Fire was supposed to be the most dangerous of the Elements!

  And the most seductive; anger was intoxicating, she knew that already. And when anger ran out—

  Another branch on the Dark Path—Despair. Oh, I know the taste of that. Despair, because it's Self Hate; yes, that belongs here in Fire, too. Like Fire, Despair devours what sustains it. . . and Despair can coil you right back to Anger again, unthinking Anger, the kind that just lashes out.

  She almost wished she had never picked up that book; never read what was in those pages. Sarah's way had been so much simpler]

  Sarah's way would never have gotten me where I need to go.

  She had to become a Master if she was going to break Alison's hold on her. She was beginning to think that there were masters and there were Masters—those who used their magic, and those who really, truly understood it. And maybe Alison hadn't gotten to her Mastery by following this course, but—

  But if she hasn't, then that may be her weakness. If she's gone the simpler, most direct route to power, it means she's left all those other paths that are still there unwatched, unguarded. It's like having a fortress and leaving all the windows open while you carefully lock the only door.

  Eleanor finished her breakfast and tidied up, her mind still turning over all the things she had studied. Fire is Swords, in the Tarot deck; there's Mars again. So that's my weakness, the one she'll try to exploit, because if there's one thing she really does understand, it's how to use someone's weaknesses against him, and how to turn a strength into a weakness to exploit. Anger, hate, and despair—

  She stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen and clapped her hand to her mouth as a sudden revelation hit.

  She already has] She already has! The night we got the news about Father being killed! I was in despair, and she pounced on it!

  And the more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her that Alison's spells always got stronger the more depressed that Eleanor was. The question was, did Alison know about the alchemical philosophy, or was this a case of something else—the simple siphoning of dark power from someone who was generating a lot of it?

  The sooner she knew the answer to that question, the better off she would be.

  And—Imagination and Intellect—the answer just might be right under my nose. . . .

  18

  May 2, 1917

  Longacre Park, Warwickshire

  REGGIE HALF-WOKE SEVERAL TIMES DURING the night, responding to a vague feeling of presences in his room with him. Most narcotics and soporifics actually had the effect of taking down the mental barriers between even ordinary folk and the Unseen, but Doctor Maya had seen to it that Reggie's prescriptions had added components to them that had the opposite effect. Or so he assumed, anyway, since after he had started taking the drugs that she had prescribed, his sleep was no longer troubled by unwanted visitors.

  So th
e feeling of presence was never enough to trouble his dreams or fully wake him out of slumber. The painkillers did their job, and he woke late in the morning of the second of May feeling stiff and sore, but not half-crippled. He dressed without assistance, and made his way down to breakfast with only the aid of a cane.

  There was an odd addition to the usually spartan breakfast menu. Tea-cakes, split and lightly toasted, in place of actual toast, scones, or crumpets. He eyed them with amusement; it seemed that there were still leftovers from the School Treat.

  "Waste not, want not," he said aloud, and treated them like toasted crumpets or scones. His mother, always an early riser, had long since had her breakfast, and was probably out with the gardener, dealing with the inevitable damage done to the gardens by the children. There were always accidents, and little ones too small to know any better who would tear up flower beds making bouquets. Fortunately the famous roses were perfectly capable of defending themselves, the herb garden was in a walled and hedged space of its own that was off-limits during the school treat, and the current gardener was not likely to threaten suicide over some torn-up plants.

  After a quite satisfactory breakfast, he went to the windows of the terrace and spotted her, as he had expected, pointing to places in the flower beds and presumably talking over repairs with the gardener. It was too far for him to hear what they were saying, but when he went outside to the balustrade, she saw him watching and waved, and shortly thereafter joined him upon the terrace.

  "The little terrors]" she said fondly. "The primroses are quite decimated, and the tulips and daffodils as well. Luckily they did not actually tear up any bulbs this year, and we planned for this, at any rate. There are more than enough plants coming along in the greenhouse to cover the damage. In two days no one will know they were here."

  "Hmm," he replied, giving her a sideways glance. "I seem to recall a certain little boy who presented his mother with a May Day bouquet of all of the exceedingly rare double-ruffled tulips that the gardener had been cosseting over the winter in hopes of finally getting a good show out of them."

  "And very lovely they looked in a vase on my desk, too," she chuckled. "Furthermore, despite all predictions to the contrary, they gave just as good a show the next spring. And the times being what they are, I would rather have happy children than a perfect garden."

  "You're a trump, Mater," he said warmly, bending down to kiss her cheek.

  "I have my moments," she agreed. "Oh! Your aunt is definitely coming, and I must say, I am glad of it. The Brigadier offered to bring her in his motorcar, so they'll be arriving together."

  "Good! And we ought to start having small parties with some of our neighbors, too," he said, even though that was really the last thing he wanted. He was going to enjoy having the Brigadier here, and his aunt would be good company for his mother, but—

  But the truth was, he would have been a great deal happier with no more than that. Aunt has an instinct for when I want to be left alone, and the Brigadier does a good job of keeping himself to himself. But some of the neighbors. . . .

  Nevertheless, he could see for himself how much more animated his mother was. She needed the company, even if he didn't want it. It was about time she started to live again.

  "Well, we'll see what your aunt suggests," was all his mother said— but he knew there would at least be some dinners, and some card-parties, and very probably things would start simmering and break out in tea dances and garden parties, and tennis parties, and possibly even—

  He resolved not to think about it until it happened, but he knew what his mother was thinking when she said, altogether too casually, "I must say I was pleasantly surprised by the strength of your gramophone. It quite takes the place of musicians, doesn't it?"

  May 2, 1917

  Broom, Warwickshire

  It was the second of May, and Eleanor was still alone in the house. She could hardly believe her good fortune. Whatever was keeping her stepmother and stepsisters away, Eleanor hoped it was vastly entertaining. The longer they stayed away, the better.

  Now, since the entire party had gone off by motorcar, Eleanor knew that she would not be seeing them until evening at the earliest if they even returned today at all. Alison preferred to rise as late as possible and travel in a leisurely manner. So this meant that today, at least, she should have the whole of the day in freedom.

  Or at least, relative freedom. More freedom than she'd had for three years. . . .

  In that moment, she felt a shadow of depression fall over her. Freedom! She wasn't free. To use that word, even to herself, was to mock her own condition. She could only leave the house for an hour or two at most. She couldn't talk to anyone and be believed. What food she ate that wasn't stolen was scant and poor. Her clothing was the rags of what she'd owned three years ago. She labored as a menial from dawn to dusk, unpaid, no better than a slave. Any tiny crumb of pleasure she got could be snatched away at any time. Such freedom! When her stepmother was in the house, she couldn't leave it. Only one person besides the village witch recognized who she really was, and she couldn't tell him the truth, because her very words were hedged about and compelled by spells.

  Freedom . . . scullery maids had more freedom than she did.

  She felt her eyes stinging, and stifled a sob.

  What's the use? I'm a prisoner no matter what happens.

  But she felt rebellion against that despair stirring inside her after a moment. And she scrubbed the incipient tears away with the back of her hand, fiercely. All right. She was a prisoner now—but less of one than she had been a few months ago. Alison was no longer the only one with magic at her command; her compulsions and spells were weakening under the steady pressure of what Eleanor was learning to master. And there was the promise of freedom in her mother's workbook. One day, Eleanor would be a Master of Fire.

  She would hold to that hope, and that promise. Hope—so much could be endured so long as there was hope.

  I will work! she pledged herself, fiercely. I will become a Master of Fire! And then I will take back my freedom. Nothing else matters. Even if I have to make my way as a servant because no one will believe what happened, I will have that]

  And meanwhile—meanwhile life would go on. She would steal what pleasure she could. She would win whatever scraps she could. She would learn by day and hide her growing power under the mask of the meek and frightened girl that Alison expected to see.

  And she might as well use Alison's absence to remake some of those skirts and shirtwaists, for instance. Or one set, at any rate. A simple, unadorned skirt and an altered blouse should not be beyond her sewing ability.

  In its way, that was rebellion too. Maybe no one would notice, but she would be less ragged, less beggarly, and have regained just a little more dignity, if only in her own mind. It was hard to feel anything but a victim when all you had was patched and threadbare clothing not even a street urchin would want. She would gain back a little of her own pride, in spite of Alison.

  The thought was the parent to the deed; after as little cleaning of the house as she could get away with to satisfy Alison's spells, she attacked the now dry and clean skirts and blouses with scissors and needle. She did all her cutting-out at once, because she might not get another chance, took the scraps and put them in the rag-bag to hide them, then laid the pieces away under her bed—all but the makings for one new skirt and shirtwaist.

  She had been an indifferent seamstress before Alison arrived; why should she be any good at it, when she'd never had to so much as turn up a hem in her life? But she'd been forced to learn, mostly by observing the maids, for Alison had no intention of parting with a single penny to keep Eleanor clothed—and of course, once all of the maids were gone, Eleanor added the task of mending her stepsisters' clothing to the rest of her chores.

  By then, she had learned on her own garments, as they grew shabbier with each day. Hems came down, seams ripped, and when one did all the rough work of the house, sooner or later things got
torn. All of her current clothing dated from 1914 and before. Most of it was looking like something even a gypsy would be ashamed of, and the best of it was shabby.

  Well, there's one blessing, she thought, as she sat out in the garden, sewing as quickly as she could. There's not a lot of material in a modern skin, compared to the ones I just cut up. If I'd been living fifty years ago, this would take days.

  The old linen was soft and heavy, like a damask tablecloth, and if the color had faded from its original indigo to a softer blue, at least it had faded evenly and the color was still pretty. And she could use the time while her fingers worked to continue to puzzle out the cryptic things she had read in the alchemy books last night.