Her laugh was more a hiccough than anything else, but it loosened the knot in her chest. Cluny wiped her eyes against Crocker's robe, and Shtasith's fiery spot in the back of her thoughts flared up. "Have you room there," his breathy voice asked, "for an ungrateful whelp of a firedrake?"
She looked up to see him drop onto Crocker's shoulders, and Crocker blew out a breath. "Oh, great. You lie to them, too?"
"Lie?" Shtasith drew back his neck. "Shtasith the Immolater does not lie! I was thrown from that august body of fools for telling them the truth!"
"Truth?" Cluny's tail prickled. "You didn't—??"
"Fear not, my Cluny." He lowered his head and his voice. "I merely informed the learned Council that, even though they are individually and collectively a waste of baryonic matter, I did recognize their desperate need to affirm their illusory importance. So I gave them a secret, one I'm entirely certain they will not wish to share with their masters."
Cluny blinked at him. "Shtasith, secrets are what got us into this mess! How can more of them do anything but—??"
He snorted, waved the pin-point claws of his right front foot. "If this Familiars' Council wishes to be a secret society, I am not a one to deny them the opportunity!"
Crocker's mouth went sideways. "Spill it, Teakettle. What did you do?"
Shtasith's eyes glittered like obsidian. "Do you recall, my Cluny, the method whereby you gathered me into service?"
"Of course." How could she forget? Accidentally disrupting another student's summoning, she and Crocker had somehow managed to bind the firedrake with— "My healing water spell? I mean, sure, it's handy when fireball practice gets out of control, but it's not really much of a secret."
"Ah, but it killed me, you see," Shtasith said matter-of-factly. "Still reeling and uncertain in this non-fiery realm, then plunged into magical water, I died that day."
Cluny felt the stillness in the grotto get even stiller, then Crocker puffed a breath. "You can't die with a healing spell on you! Even I know that!"
Shtasith nodded to him. "Exactly. And that is the secret for binding a mystical familiar. A wizard must cast a spell that both kills and revivifies the creature in question."
"Huh." Crocker's brow wrinkled. "You're sure those familiars won't tell their wizards about that? 'Cause it sounds like the sort of thing—"
"Shtasith!" Cluny couldn't keep from sputtering. "That's terrible! You just told all those familiars how their wizards could replace them with more powerful creatures!"
As smug a look as she'd ever seen came over his face. "The secret will not leave that stable, I'm certain, though I was also certain that the water within Esteemed Tadon's head would likely boil over, he was so furious."
"And rightfully so," came an amused voice from her right, and Cluny looked over to see Hesper settled among the ferns, her front hoofs crossed demurely. "That you would give out such information shocked me into momentary speechlessness!"
"Whoa..." Crocker said, and Cluny felt that awe wash over her again at the quiet power within the unicorn's slight frame.
But— "Ha!" from Shtasith. "The truth, my Lady, need never apologize for itself!"
"Just so." Hesper nodded. "And if what you'd said had in fact been true, I'd not have felt the need to issue a correction after you left us in such dudgeon."
"What??" Shtasith's gasp blasted hot and dry between Cluny's ears. "But what I told you all—!"
"Reflected your own individual circumstance." She smiled. "You had personal reasons, I believe, for wishing a swift and unconditional departure from the Realms of Fire, and I find myself doubting that your method would do more than annoy a mystical being truly set against becoming a familiar. Still, I must confess..." The unicorn's eyes moved, and Cluny found herself wrapped in that gaze again. "Your master has much to intrigue one about her."
"Uhh..." Crocker cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon and all, ma'am, but, uhh, I'm the master here. I mean, the wizard, y'know?"
"Of course." Hesper shook herself, and Cluny could blink and breathe again. "And so I shall swear to all who ask."
The morning twilight of the grotto glowed suddenly sweeter against Cluny's whiskers. "You...you'd lie about us, ma'am?"
Hesper gave a sound that, from any other creature, Cluny would have called a snort. "Truth is a medicine. It must be administered properly to have its desired effect." The unicorn stood. "I foresee that the group of you will have more to do with sundering than healing, but my mistress Evantrue and I will welcome your visits. Trudy makes a chili, Shtasith, that can only be appreciated by one who has supped from the Lakes of Burning Pitch." She stepped sideways and scattered into the air like sunlight on a moving stream.
For a long moment, the only sounds were those of the forest around them—water trickling, leaves rustling, some non-sapient birds chirping in the tree canopy—then Shtasith gave a little burp. "But I am allergic to burning pitch."
"Me, too." Crocker sighed. "Still, anyone for breakfast?"
Cluny felt her muscles relax for the first time all morning. "Yeah." She turned a smile up at them. "To celebrate our actual graduation."
Inquisition for Blood
Michael Spence & Elisabeth Waters
Speaking of the trials of the scholastic life, the term hasn't even begun, and Lady Wizard Sarras is having major problems. She is (a) in charge of the department, albeit temporarily, which is a challenge, and (b) having to make up the Master Schedule, which is worse, but losing one of her best professors—who is also a fellow Guardian—is really more than anyone should have to cope with on top of (a) and (b).
Having looked at fantasy writing from both sides now, Michael Spence has learned that "Where do you get your ideas?" is the wrong question. There are others more appropriate, including "In what bizarre context could this idea possibly make sense?" and "How do women think?" Both figure prominently in the origin of the following tale. On the latter subject he realizes he still has much to learn, which, he says, "is why it's a Very Good Thing that I've been privileged to share creation of the Treasures stories with Elisabeth Waters, who Gets It."
An expatriate Virginian, Michael lives with his wife and their canine Guardian in Indiana. His reflections on SFF, faith, and other fundamental subjects appear in "Brother Osric's Scriptorium," at http://michaelspence.us.
Lady Wizard Sarras scowled at the stacks of paper covering the large table in her workroom. While admittedly she owed Lord Wizard Logas her life, her sanity, and probably her soul, she wasn't sure if that balanced the "favor" she was currently doing for him. He had taken a group of students for a study-abroad program in the Holy Land during the upcoming term, leaving her in charge of their department.
No, she decided. It doesn't even come close.
Fortunately, Sarras had a suitable assistant. Like Sarras and Logas, Lady Wizard Alyssa was a Guardian, responsible for one of the Treasures of the Western World, and was several centuries old. Surely the two of them had experience enough to manage, even though Logas was older than both of them put together.
"What's next?" she asked, eyeing the few papers Alyssa held. How big a problem could they represent?
"Three students need to take Advanced Hebrew this term to graduate on time," Alyssa explained.
"Aren't we offering the course?" Sarras almost reached for the Master Schedule, but stopped herself. She already had a headache.
"Yes. In Jerusalem."
Sarras sighed. "Surely someone other than Logas can teach it."
"That's not the problem. University policy doesn't allow a class with fewer than seven students."
"Of course not. Why should they make our jobs easy—or even possible? It's less than four weeks until Michaelmas term starts, and the Master Schedule gets worse every time we work on it. It's like juggling rocks. Different sized rocks. With sharp edges."
"Distance learning." Alyssa leaned forward to meet her eyes. "It's the only answer. The class is taught before Terce there, which makes it just before Prime her
e. The time difference isn't that large, and the students don't have anything else scheduled then."
"Of course they don't; most of them are still asleep!"
"You belong to an order that gets up before dawn to say Matins, and you're worried about three students having to get up at dawn? They'll survive." Alyssa shrugged. "Or they can refuse to take the course and delay their graduations. They can't say we're not giving them a choice."
"True." Sarras conceded that point. "So how do we fund this? We'll need a full-size distance mirror, rather than a few small scrying glasses. And we've been trying to get that into the budget for the past six years!"
"Not a problem," Alyssa said airily. "Order the mirror. I'll arrange for an anonymous restricted donation to cover it."
Sarras looked at her suspiciously. This wasn't the first such donation Alyssa had arranged. "What do you do, blackmail people?"
Alyssa laughed. "Unlike you and Logas, I never joined a religious order or took a vow of poverty, and I was managing my parents' estate before I became a Guardian. I have an investment portfolio that's doing very nicely."
Sarras realized she hadn't considered the financial ramifications of joining a Benedictine order when she was still a child—
Blackness took her before she could finish the thought.
* * * *
She came to, her upper body sprawled across her workroom table. Her chest was one large stabbing pain, and her body appeared to have forgotten how to breathe. She consciously forced air into her lungs, which restarted her breathing but did nothing to lessen the pain. A moan from across the table told her Alyssa was also regaining awareness.
"What was that?" Alyssa's voice was a harsh whisper.
Sarras had taught for over half her life, and this was the first time she wished she didn't know the answer to a question. She had been through this once before, long before Alyssa was born, and she would have been happy never to go through it again.
"That," she said, "was the murder of a Guardian."
"Who?" Alyssa asked, dazed.
Her throat suddenly constricted. No, it can't be... but it was.
Alyssa had realized it too. Sarras heard both their voices say, "Lady Catherine."
As they pushed themselves erect, Alyssa said, "The Paten—to whom does it pass?" She sounded more awake now. "Something's wrong with me; I can't tell who the new Guardian is."
Sarras frowned. The Guardians of the Western Treasures knew each other; the identity of Lady Catherine's successor should have been clear to both of them immediately. And yet... "As far as I can tell," she said slowly, "there is no new Guardian."
* * * *
Alyssa remained in the office, observing that the Blade of Unmaking, which she guarded, was not wanted at a crime scene. Sarras had to agree with her. The Blade, an anti-Treasure, made anyone other than its Guardian either suicidal or homicidal.
When Sarras arrived at Ferguson Hall, she was surprised to find the doorway already crossed with the scarlet cord that marked a crime scene. Halfway across the room was a team of campus guardsmen, uniformed in forest-green tunics with the University insignia on one shoulder and "PSALM 9:12" stitched over the left breast. "...inquisition for blood"? Well, this time it's literal.
Senior Guardsman Craig looked up and saw her. He rose and came to meet her at the doorway. "Good morning, Lady Sarras. How may I help you?"
"I came to see Lady Catherine—to see what happened to her, that is." When Craig said nothing, she continued, "I'm department chairman pro tempore."
"The magic words," he said. "Thank you." He spoke some words of his own, authorizing her to pass through the warding spell contained in the scarlet cord.
More scarlet awaited within the lecture hall. Sarras had not known what to expect, but had certainly not anticipated seeing her friend and fellow Guardian lying on the floor, surrounded by a growing pool of blood.
Two officers flanked Lady Catherine's body, their hands and eyes busily weaving magical constructs that zipped here and there around the room, racing over the furniture, walls, and ceiling, taking various measurements that would later be used to recreate the scene for analysis.
"How did you get here so quickly?" Sarras asked. "It occurred less than ten minutes ago. I thought I'd be the first to arrive."
Craig frowned but didn't ask how she knew the time of death before his on-site forensics team. Instead he said, "Students saw a girl running out of the building screaming 'She's dead, she's dead'; we came here and found this." He waved his hand toward the front of the hall.
"Where is the girl now?"
"Infirmary. She was hysterical; it took two officers to restrain her. The nurse sedated her. We'll question her as soon as we're able."
Sarras intended to be there when they did. "So she's a suspect?"
"Surely. Often the culprit's the one who 'finds' the body."
Finding the killer, Sarras reminded herself, was his job. Hers lay elsewhere, hopefully close by. She scanned the room, frowning. "Do you have Lady Catherine's briefcase?" she asked. "I don't see it."
He shook his head. "Nothing's been removed yet. We arrived, sealed off the room, and started recording. What does it look like?"
"Black leather..." Sarras gestured with her hands to indicate the dimensions, "rigid frame... two clasps on the front, plus a spell lock."
"Anybody see a black leather briefcase?" Craig called out.
"Over here, sir," came a voice from behind the lectern.
"I realize it's part of your crime scene," Sarras said, "but it needs to be turned over to another Guardian, namely me, as soon as possible."
The still-locked briefcase was quickly processed and released. Back in her office, the lock stubbornly resisted all Sarras's efforts to open it. "I suppose we'll have to call in Lord Robert to get this open," she said to Alyssa with a sigh.
As if picking up on her words, another voice sounded in the room. "Calling. Calling. Calling. Calling..."
The Talking Head was a gift from Stephen, former advisee and now fellow faculty member, a skilled sculptor currently in China studying pottery soldiers in some kind of cave. Ordinarily Sarras liked the sculpture's abstract grace—carved from white jade, its contours suggested a chin and a nose, with two delicate recesses flanking the latter. At the moment, however, it threatened to drive her headache to the point of explosion. It's a question of whether I smash that head first or it smashes mine. She leaned over her desk and tapped the head. Its steady bleat ceased.
"Could you get the cabinet doors, please?" she said to Alyssa, who was already moving toward the shallow cupboard on the wall beside the window.
Alyssa opened the doors to reveal a frame mounted against the rear of the cabinet. Through the frame they saw a wood-paneled room with small, round windows and, behind those, the horizon. But surely the horizon wasn't supposed to be at that angle, nor had God intended it to move quite that way. Apparently the young woman looking back at them through the frame didn't think so either. Although "green" might be an exaggeration, her face certainly lacked the healthy glow Sarras had seen in it weeks earlier. Indeed, it lacked color altogether.
Sarras wanted to reach through the frame and hug the young woman. Instead she could only say, "Good morning, Melisande. How is the voyage?"
"I'm almost home, thanks be to God—and I'll thank him a great deal more when I am home. The launch from Canton went smoothly, high pageantry and all—Stephen and Laurel and the Fist of Heaven saw me off—and splashdown was two weeks ago. At the minute we're in the Mediterranean, almost to Gibraltar, and I'm still seasick. I'm living on tea and powdered ginger root. I've reached the 'I have always been seasick; I will always be seasick' stage. I hate sailing. I hate ships. And I really hate this feeling I have that you're dealing with something that involves ships so that I'll still have to think about them when I get home." She paused to draw in a slow, careful breath. "So what are you doing?"
Sarras shook her head. "The only unusual event here is that Lady Catheri
ne died this morning."
Melisande sagged backward. "Oh, no! What happened?" They filled her in on the morning's events, and she asked, "Does she have family?"
"We don't know for sure. I hope so; I'm working on finding out. All we know is that the Paten doesn't seem to have a successor."
"No successor?" The young woman's face was puzzled. "But how can that—"
Alyssa broke in. "Wait a minute." She stared at Melisande and said, "I think—I'm not sure, but I think... it's you."
"What?" said Sarras, astonished. "How do you—wait." She paused and took stock once more. "No, I get no impression of that at all. And you do?"
"Yes," said Alyssa. "I see Melisande, and I feel the kind of recognition that tells me I'm looking at the new Guardian of the Paten."
"Me?" Melisande's eyes and mouth flew open in horror. "No!"
"No?" said Sarras. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean no, I can't be one of you! Not now, not ever!" Suddenly the image in the frame warped and twisted until it settled into the astonished faces of Sarras and Alyssa. The scrying mirror in the cabinet was once again a mirror.
"Why is she so upset?" Sarras wondered.
"Stephen," Alyssa said, "and Laurel." At Sarras's blank look, she elaborated. "She loves her husband; we both know that. When his sister became a Guardian last year, they all had to deal with the fact that Laurel will age very slowly and will outlive them by centuries. I'm guessing Melisande doesn't want to watch Stephen—and everyone else she loves—die."
* * * *
A light knocking sounded at the office door. It cracked open quietly, and Sarras's assistant leaned in. "My lady, there's a man here from the Registrar's Office."
Sarras glanced up from her desk. "Send him in, Therese."
The assistant's head withdrew, and seconds later the door pushed open to admit a young man in junior administrator's robes. "Lady Sarras, I'm Keven, the second assistant registrar." Sarras offered him tea, which he gladly accepted, and introduced him to Alyssa. Keven continued, "Lord Robert wishes to know whether you will be offering the Chaldean magic lectures this fall."
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXV Page 5