Magic Steps tco-1

by Тамора Пирс

  "Guryil is the solid partner," the harrier-mage murmured. "Guardsman, Lebua is superb with a blade and a quick thinker, but he needs a calm hand on the rein.»

  Sandry nodded, and took a better look at Guryil. He was brown to Lebua's black, a few years older, with long, crinkled hair mussed from lying on a pillow. The healer seemed to ease his pain if not mend his leg. The lines in Guryil's face were not so sharp, his body more relaxed, than when she arrived.

  A shadowy smear lay on Guryil's splinted leg, a long stripe from his thigh to his foot. The healer's magic flickered in the flesh under it, like a candle shining through dirty glass.

  "What is that?" Sandry whispered, staring.

  "What is what?" asked the mage.

  "The shadow on his leg. You can see the healing through it."

  "Seeing, is it?" The harrier-mage fumbled at a ribbon around his neck, A glass round set in a copper rim hung from it. He raised it to one eye and walked closer to Guryil, leaning over him.

  The healer glared at him. "Do you mind?" he asked. "This is hard enough without you meddling."

  The mage returned to Sandry. "It's a shadow, all right," he said, tapping his palm with the glass. Sandry glanced at it, and caught the glint of vision-spells written into lens and rim. Niko had spelled Tris's spectacles that way four years ago, before first Tris and then the rest of them developed the uncommon ability to see magic on their own.

  "Who are you, please?" Sandy asked the mage.

  He bowed. "Wulfric Snaptrap at your service, my lady."

  "Wulfric pain-in-the-rump," muttered the healer.

  "Now, if you'd just let me talk to him—," said Wulfric.

  "He was in pain. He's in less pain now, but I want him in no pain. Then you can muddle his poor head with questions," replied the healer.

  "I wonder…" murmured Sandry, thinking aloud. "Could something fight your power? Another magic?"

  "Something you may not recognize," Wulfric added. "I certainly don't."

  The healer glared at them. "If it's a magic I haven't seen before, how would I know if I were fighting it?" he demanded. "I admit, Gury here should be resistant to healing, but not like this. The more I pour in, the less it helps."

  Sandry opened her mouth, then closed it. She wasn't sure that either of these men would let her do something.

  "Speak up, my dear," the duke said from his seat beside Lebua.

  "Master healer, might I try something?" she inquired. The longer she looked at that shadow, the queasier it made her feel. She wanted it off the injured Gury and his partner Lebua as well.

  The healer raised his brows. "What did you have in mind, my lady?"

  She stepped forward. "Take your magic out of him. All of it." Guryil's eyes flew open. "I'm sorry, Guardsman," Sandry told him, "but I really think this must be done."

  Guryil nodded reluctantly.

  The healer laid his hands on the broken leg. Sandry watched as all of his magic flowed out of his patient and back into him. Guryil whimpered, and sweat poured off his forehead. His pain had returned.

  Sandry rested her hands against his foot, her fingers just missing the shadow. She closed her eyes and fell into the heart of her magic. Swiftly she collected what she needed, sorting her power into a thousand hair-fine strands.

  She opened her eyes. Looking through her power, she could see the healer's magic, Wulfric's blaze—accented by bright spots that were the spelled tools he carried—and the glow from the steady-heart charm the duke's healer had made for Vedris. Against all that brightness, the shadow was still just a thin layer of grime.

  She spread her fingers on Guryils foot, and carefully slipped a thread under that layer. The feel of it against her magic made her skin creep. She had to get every shred of it.

  Once her thread was under the shadow, she let it grow until she saw it emerge from under the darkness at Gury's thigh. She chose more threads, running them under the smear. Once she had a solid layer of vertical strands, she paid out a fresh thread along the bottom of the strip, at right angles to her vertical ones. The new thread became the smear's lower border. She thrust it then, setting it flying in and out among the vertical threads, weaving tight and fast. This was easy; she some times thought she'd spent most of the last four years weaving pure magic.

  She felt it when her moving thread hit empty air. Now her woven power lay solidly between that shadow and the injured man. She held her left hand over it and called the free end of the thread back to her. It came, folding the magical cloth in half. She looped her thread around it three times, tying the whole into a tight bundle. Only then did she let her thread break

  "Here," Wulfric said. "I carry these in my kit, just in case." He held up a silk bag that gleamed with signs to enclose and protect. "I'd thought to scrape it off, once you showed it to me. I've got a little spatula that might have done the job."

  "I was afraid to miss any." Sandry dumped the bundle into his sack, then called all the power that was hers back into herself. It came away clean, — she made certain of that. When she nodded to Wulfric, he tied the silk bag shut. "Go ahead," Sandry told the healer.

  He was already hovering. Now he sat and, poured his power into Gury. The man sighed; his head fell back on his pillow. The healer looked at Sandry, shocked. "I could feel the difference! Nice work, my lady, very nice."

  Sandry blushed. "There's some of that stuff on his partner, too." she told Wulfric. He nodded, and they went over to Lebua. Gathering the darkness on him went quickly.

  As soon as Wulfric had that second piece of shadow in one of his protected bags, he told Sandry and the duke, "I'm off to play with this. I'll let you know what I find." He strode briskly out of the infirmary.

  "What an odd man," Sandry remarked, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. The duke frowned, watching her, then offered his arm. Sandry let him walk her out into the cool night air. A gentle mist was falling. When Sandry turned her face up to it, Duke Vedris paused.

  "He is the best of the provosts mages," he said, his velvety voice easy on her ears. "He knows more about the spells used to commit and study crime than anyone else alive. If he can't pick apart what you found, then it must be fare indeed. You could do with supper, I think. So could I."

  Sandry nodded, and they returned to the duke's residence. She would have to wash her hands before she ate. Maybe a scrubbing would erase the sense that she had touched something dreadful in handling those smears.

  * * *

  The next morning Pasco arrived after breakfast. When Sandry met him in the great entrance hall, the boy had the look of a hunted fawn. "This place is so big" he told Sandry, bowing jerkily. "Don't you get lost, my lady? Should I be here?"

  She looked him over. Gone were the sandals, breeches, and worn shirt of the last two days—at Zahra Acalon's command, Sandry guessed. Now he was dressed in what had to be his best clothes: neat brown cotton breeches, a spotless yellow linen shirt, and a thigh-length brown coat that he wore unbuttoned. His feet were neatly shod.

  "Don't be silly," she informed him. "Yes, you should be here. I told you to be here. No, I never get lost. Let's find someplace quiet." She led him upstairs and opened a door to one of the sitting rooms. A pair of maids had rolled up the carpets and were busily scrubbing the floor. They started to get up, but Sandry shook her head at them and closed the door. "By the way, Pasco, you look nice."

  "Mama said I couldn't come here in normal clothes," he explained as they walked down the hall. "She even scrubbed me behind the ears, and me twelve years old! Does his grace really need so many rooms?"

  Sandry opened another door, to find it was one of the side entrances to the chancellory. Scribes turned to stare at her. She closed the door. "His grace's officials need the rooms," she told Pasco severely. "We'd better go outside." And I had better think of someplace else for us to meet, she realized. Pasco just isn't comfortable here.

  A stair led them out into the gardens. They found a seat on a stone bench that was tucked out of the day's brisk wind. Sa
ndry perched crosswise on it and drew her legs up in a tailor's seat under her skirts. She pointed sternly to the bare spot on the bench in front of her. Pasco sat. "Do you remember how we meditate?" she wanted to know.

  "You have to ward us," he said, mischief in his eyes.

  Sandry drew herself up and got off the bench with great dignity. "So you do remember yesterday's lesson, at least a bit." Let him think she had meant it as a test. He didn't need to know that mentally she was yelling at her self for almost forgetting such an important thing.

  She had to calm down to place the thread circle and enclose them in her power. By the time she rejoined him on the bench, she had to admit that, since she did ward them before his magic could spill, it was funny. Not that she would tell him so, but she thought that the duke might laugh at the tale.

  "What next?" she asked.

  "I close my eyes and breathe and count and think of nothing," he replied promptly. "Even if I'm bored."

  "Very good," she approved. "And today I want you to imagine you're fitting yourself into something small—,"

  "Like what?"

  Sandry tried to remember how Niko had explained it to them. Briar had chosen a carved wooden rose, Sandry a drop spindle, Daja a smith's hammer. Tris had never said what she had imagined. "Well, it could be one of the rocks here—,"

  "Why ever would I want to fit into a rock?"

  "Then maybe something you use at home," Sandry told him, trying to be patient. "A candle holder, or a baton. Anything, as long as it's small. You have to learn to pull all your power within your skin, so it won't escape you."

  He remembered the pattern of counting and breathing, which pleased her. Getting him to empty his mind remained a struggle. She had to wonder if she and her friends hadn't needed meditation to harness their power. The first time they had tried fitting their minds into something small, they had done it easily. Pasco pretended to try, then complained that it was too hard. He had to scratch, he fidgeted. She called his attention back to meditation. At last, the Citadel's giant clock struck the hour, completely destroying the mood.

  Sandry got stiffly to her feet and took up her warding. "Will, you at least think of something to fit into?" she asked.

  "I'll try, my lady," he told her, His look made her think he might agree, but he wouldn't do it. What would make this exasperating boy learn, the things he needed to?

  Lark had, suggested bribes. Busily Sandry shook out her skirts, driving the wrinkles from the cloth. "Pasco." she said craftily, "the sooner you learn to pull in your magic, the sooner you can dance without surprises. You might want to think about that. And if you learn to control your breathing, you'll be able to dance longer." Guiding him out of the courtyard, she asked, "Do you know Fletchers Circle?"

  He frowned. "Between Spicer Street and Fountain Street, off Bowyer Lane?"

  "That's it," Sandry replied as they entered the castle. Fletcher's Circle was closer to East District than to Duke's Citadel; she would have to travel longer to get there, which was just as well. The easier things were for Pasco, the less chance that he would try to skip his lessons. "There's an eating-house—," she began.

  "The Crooked Crow," he said promptly as they walked into the front hall.

  "Yes. Let's meet there tomorrow at this same hour." That would give her time to ride with her uncle and have breakfast before she had to meet him.

  Pasco nodded. "May I go now?"

  "Fletcher's Circle—don't keep me waiting," she added. "Yes, go."

  He trotted out of the residence, his step light. Sandry ran to the door and called after him, "No dancing!" Pasco, halfway across the courtyard, waved at her and kept going.

  She sighed and drooped against the heavy door. I am not a teacher, she told herself for the dozenth time. I am much too young. And it's so hard!

  "Excuse me, my lady." It was one of the maids. "You've guests. I took the liberty of putting them in the rose sitting room."

  Sandry thanked the woman. Who might have come to see her? When she entered the room the maid had spoken of, she found Lark and a stranger.

  Lark beamed at her. "Sandry, Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, this is Yazmin Hebet." Yazmin curtsied deeply.

  Sandry almost goggled, but caught herself in time it was unladylike. Instead she returned the curtsy. Yazmin Hebet was the most famous dancer around the Pebbled Sea, where the troupes she belonged to had toured for years. Because she danced in public festivals as well as in the castles of the rich, she was popular with all classes of people. Everyone talked of the great Yazmin, from the clothes she wore to the men she was supposed to be in involved with.

  "This is an honor," Sandry told her. To Lark she said reproachfully, "I didn't know you were friends with the dancer Yazmin. All you ever said was you had a friend with that name."

  Lark grinned. "I assumed you knew most of my friends outside the temple are performers."

  Yazmin smiled. She was pretty, with a tiny nose, large brown eyes, and a small, pointed chin. A mole on one smooth cheek accented a broad mouth with a full lower lip. She wore her tumbled mass of brown hair pinned up, with artful curls left to frame her face. When she spoke, her voice squeaked a little, as if she'd spent years raising it. "I'm honored," she told Sandry. "Larks told me so much about you. She says you're the only mage she's ever known who can spin magic."

  Sandry blushed. "It was spin magic or die, the first time I tried it," she explained. "I was just lucky I figured out how in time. Please, sit down. What can I do for you?"

  "Lark says you have a student who's a dance-mage," replied Yazmнn, arranging her skirts as she sat. "He needs a teacher?"

  Sandry looked from Lark to Yazmнn. Was help for Pasco in sight? "You know a dance-mage?" she asked.

  "I've never even heard of one," said Yazmнn. "I've seen shamans work dance spells, just as Lark has, but that isn't the only way they do their magic."

  Sandry told herself she should have known she hadn't gotten that lucky. "Then you can recommend a teacher for his dancing? I'll pay his fees," she assured Yazmнn. "I can't teach him myself—I know very few dances, and I'm not any good at them."

  Yazmнn folded her hands in her lap. They were covered with designs in henna, Sandry noticed, and henna had been used to put red tones in the dancer's hair. She painted her face, too, using kohl to line her eyes and a red coloring on her mouth.

  "Actually, I hoped to teach him myself," Yazmнn explained. "You see, I retired this year. I've been a traveling dancer for—,"

  "Twenty-three years," murmured Lark.

  Yazmнn wrinkled her nose. "You had to remind me. I would have been content with just a long time.»

  Sandry giggled, and Yazmнn smiled at her. "You aren't like most nobles I've met," she commented. "Lark said you weren't." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "This summer I opened a school on Festival Street. It's an old warehouse, not fancy, but it's a place where dancers and acrobats can stay and train during the winter. And I've tried to learn the local dances everywhere I've ever been. Your boy could study with me. Between you, me, and Lark, we can craft the kind of spells your boy could do."

  "I think you're the answer to my prayers." replied Sandry with relief. "The longer I know him, the more of a handful he is."

  "Tell me," Yazmнn ordered.

  Sandry did, starting with what she had seen on the beach of the fishing village only two short mornings ago, and going straight on through the foul-up that had set three people hanging in midair. She had finished de scribing her conversation with Pasco's formidable mother at the end of her visit to House Acalon when the door opened and the duke came in.

  "My dear, I heard Dedicate Lark was with you and came to say hello," Vedris explained as they all got to their feet.

  Lark bowed slightly—temple dedicates were not expected to show great courtesies to nobility. "It's very good to see your grace," she told him with a smile. "You're looking well this morning."

  The duke smiled back at her. "The loan of my great-niece h
as much to do with that, I believe."

  "It's good to know she's valued as she ought to be," replied Lark. "Your grace, may I present my friend Yazmнn Hebet?"

  Yazmin curtsied deeply, so graceful that Sandry was envious: while she could curtsy well, she was always afraid her knees might creak. When the dancer rose, she offered a hand. The duke bowed and kissed it, then released her. "I am a very great admirer of yours," he confessed. "I've seen you dance on many occasions."

  Yazmнn smiled at him. "I have seen your grace at quite a few of my local performances," she remarked. "I'm honored that I was able to entertain you."

  "Shall I have the pleasure of seeing you perform this winter?" asked the duke. "I have been considering opening this place up and entertaining a bit, if Sandry would like to be my hostess."

  "Yazmнn was just saying that she has retired. Uncle," Sandry pointed out.

  "Oh, well, I don't plan to give it all up," protested Yazm н n. "Certainly I’d be delighted to dance for your grace."

  "Then I must arrange something." Vedris motioned for the women to sit, and took a chair himself. "Dare I hope you're here to advise my niece regarding her new student?"

  Sandry explained as Lark and Yazmнn added details. The duke had a few suggestions for spells they could try in dances, in part because he had seen much more of Yazmнn's repertoire than had Sandry, and in part be cause he had dealt with mages all his life. Twice Yazmнn made him laugh, something that Sandry observed with interest.

  When the maid who'd directed Sandry to the room came with a tray of refreshments, she took one look at the gathering and disappeared again. She came back with all that would be needed to serve four instead of three. Once she had set out the food and filled their cups, she left the room. She soon, returned, plainly unhappy, curtsied to the duke, and said, "My apologies, your grace, but that mage my lady provost keeps has been, worriting the footmen—,"

  "If you'd just told his grace I was here, I wouldn't have 'worrited' anyone, would I?" inquired Wulfric Snaptrap, coming in on the girls heels. "I told you I needed his grace and my lady right away." His sharp eyes swept the room and returned to Lark. "Though actually I wouldn't mind getting Dedicate Lark's opinion, either. It's news that should go back to the temple in any case."