The Changespell Saga

by Doranna Durgin

  “This baggage happens to know Arlen’s domain better than anyone else you can get,” Carey responded heatedly. “If you’re going to go after Calandre, you’re going to need what I know.”

  “We’re not going after Calandre.”

  “You’re not?” Mark blurted in surprise. “Then you’ve confused the hell out of me.”

  “There’s no point in going after her. She’ll have plenty of advance warning—we assume she’s intercepting at least half our messages, despite our precautions—and she’ll have a retreat set up. We would need many more wizards than we’ll have if we wanted to try a quarantine spell.”

  Dayna frowned. “Then....”

  “You’re going after Arlen,” Carey said, relief showing in his eyes. He closed them briefly, took a deep breath, and sat back. “Even if you’re doing it just to keep the spell from her, you’re finally going to get him out of there.”

  Sherra’s expression started out as stern and faded to sad; she shook her head. “I’m sorry we’ve given you cause to think like that. I’ve already told you she may very well have that world-travel spell already, and is simply trying to delay while she plays with it. She’s risked everything for this, you realize. We may not even get our hands on her before we finish cleaning up her mess, but she’ll be an outcast, nonetheless, and eventually, she will come to justice. But if she’s able to run amok in other worlds, she just may get her hands on something that we can’t deal with—and then, she’ll have us. If our motivation was simply Calandre, it’s still much to our advantage to stay here and work on the checkspell.”

  “You’re going after Arlen,” Dayna murmured to herself; it was meant to be to herself, though they all looked at her.

  “Yes. We no longer have any reason not to try.”

  “Then let me come,” Carey said fiercely. He reached over and intercepted her hand on the way to the cool tumbler, capturing it in a grasp that made her wince. “I can get in there and back out again before any of her guards even know someone’s there. Hell, I can use that special recall—” she was shaking her head and his tone grew desperate. “Sherra, what have you got to lose? I can get him out!”

  “I, too, know my way around that hold, Carey,” Sherra said, gently disentangling her fingers. “And I can protect myself against the magic she’s likely to throw my way. I can even protect Arlen. But I can’t guarantee I can protect all three of us.”

  “I’m not asking for guarantees!” Carey cried, and slapped his hand down on the table in frustration, turning abruptly away from all of them.

  Sherra’s obvious sympathy did nothing to melt the resolve in her voice. “I’ve told you our plans in hopes that it will ease your mind. You’ll return to the room for another day—until it’s too late for you to rush in on horseback—and then you can join the rest of the locals in preparation for any physical attacks that might come this way. Not an unlikely prospect, given the wizards that will still be here.” She shoved her tumbler into the middle of the table and stood, gesturing to the other end of the room where Gacy waited. “Now, I have plenty of work to get done. Gacy will escort you back to the room and reset the spell when you’re ready. Wish us luck.”

  “You’d better believe it,” Mark said fervently. He waited only until she was across the room, then gave Carey a little frown of puzzlement. “If it’s too hard to magic along people who can help, and they won’t get there any sooner anyway, why don’t they just ride to Arlen’s?”

  Carey gave a snort of wry laughter. “Because they can’t ride!”

  Dayna nodded. “If they’re good enough to mage-travel, they probably don’t bother going long distances any other way.”

  “They sure don’t,” Carey agreed. “It’s going to be a real surprise when they find out I’ve gotten there first.”

  “Do you still think we should do it?” Dayna frowned.

  “Hell, yes,” Carey responded without hesitation. “Whatever magic Sherra has, she can’t duplicate that recall spell. Calandre’s sure to have magical barriers in place, and Sherra’s only option will be to try to chip a hole in them. The recall isn’t going to have to batter its way through, because its origin is within the hold.” His confidence faltered, and he scowled faintly. “If I understand it right, that is.”

  When he looked to Dayna for confirmation, she could only shrug. “I certainly haven’t gotten into anything like that,” she said. “Ask me for different colors of glow balls, why don’t you.”

  “Well,” he said, with renewed determination that dared them to gainsay him, “All I can do is get us set up, and then try it. But if we’re going to make it, we’ve got to go tonight.”

  “You’re forgetting the threshold spell,” Dayna reminded him pointedly.

  “The stone that keeps magic from acting on me will probably do the trick—it’s a handy little stone. And if it doesn’t,” he smiled, a trifle too airily for her comfort, and she knew what was coming next—”that’s where you come in. That spell has an on-off switch—you’ve seen it work. Surely you can figure out how to flip the switch.”

  She wondered if he would have spoken so offhandedly about on-off switches if he hadn’t spent time on her own world. “Right,” she said sourly. Dayna the unwilling wizard. The thing was, he was right. She had absorbed that much, whether her tutors realized it or not.

  He shrugged. “The details plan themselves after that. We sneak into the stable, saddle up the horses I’ve already got picked out, and ride out.”

  “The gate,” Mark reminded him.

  “I don’t think we’ll have any problem,” Carey asserted. “I doubt the guard’s alerted to stop people who are going out, especially since Sherra thinks I’ll be safely tucked away in that room. Otherwise, well...we’ll have to handle it.” He picked up Sherra’s tumbler and sipped the cool water, pensive but apparently satisfied.

  Much more satisfied, in fact, than Dayna herself. She stared at the strong lines of Carey’s lean face and into his deep-set eyes, less shadowed than usual in this airy eating hall. “And then we ride for—how long? A day?”

  “Day and a half, probably.”

  “A day and a half, until we reach some nice little spot that you think is a good defensible camp for us to wait in while you zap into Arlen’s place and snatch up Arlen and Jaime.”

  His gaze moved back to her, a certain amount of amusement held therein. “Dayna, relax. I know just where the nice little spot is—and Calandre’s people aren’t that familiar with the area. It’ll be a safe place to get our breath and decide our next move. That’s going to depend on how much trouble Sherra’s forces have stirred up—they’ll probably be in the area soon after I get into the hold. We may even be able to count on them for help.”

  “May,” Dayna snorted skeptically. At Carey’s briefly rolled eyes of frustration, she said, “Don’t give me that look—being aware of details is my strength, Chiara said so.”

  “Children,” Mark murmured reprovingly, a comment so out of character that it did indeed shut them both up.

  Carey eventually shrugged, a gesture of finality. “We’ll make most of it up as we go along, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I can do about that—except maybe get some more sleep so I’ll be ready for whatever comes our way.” He stood, and nodded to Gacy. “At least she stuck me in a room with a good bed,” he added wryly, and strode to meet Gacy, his shoulders set with such determination that they would have clearly given him away had Sherra been there to see.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter Seventeen

  It must be broken, Jaime decided—not for the first time, as her fingers hovered over the bridge of her nose. She’d been breathing through her mouth for three days, barely able to eat the rough meal rations because of her tender mouth and lips. But for all their disregard, the wizard woman and her two cohorts had not offered to hurt her any more, either.

  At first Jaime had hoped the woman, Willand, would provide sympathetic support, but she soon realized the woman’s motives for stopping th
e beating at the cabin had nothing to do with her. Everything the woman did centered around whether it would improve her status in Calandre’s eyes, and she had offered Jaime no favors, no conversation, and no hope. Jaime kept her conversation to nods and one word responses, trying to conceal her origins. Marion, Ohio. She had the feeling that information would give her much more attention than she wanted.

  The travelers had broken camp extra early this morning, expecting to make Arlen’s place by late afternoon. Jaime squinted as they broke out of a thick stretch of woods and into hot bright sunlight, and then, warned only by the shift of Willand’s weight, she grabbed the scant security of the saddle cantle just as their horse shifted into a canter. She’d never ridden double before this trip—at least not in the back seat—and she’d discovered it was an entirely different experience, one that often left her mounted only by determination. Willand never bothered to tell her before a gait transition, or when the changeable terrain presented them with dips or fallen trees. Since her pride wouldn’t allow her to clutch Willand’s waist, Jaime had only the back of the saddle to cling to, and it wasn’t always enough.

  The prolonged canter took them first by well-tended vegetable gardens, and then a small group of livestock pens, while a craggy hill jutted up in the background and looked over it all. Not until they were slowing down in front of the abrupt hill did Jaime see the straight, man-made lines of Arlen’s hold, a structure that melded with the rock and was clearly inside the hill as much as on top of it. Behind the hill, a green panorama of similar miniature mountains thrust up through tended pasture lands.

  “Off,” Willand said shortly, even as she stopped the horse. “And don’t be stupid enough to run. You won’t get far.”

  Jaime slid right off the horse’s rump, preferring it to the clumsy process of dismounting without bumping into Willand. Don’t be stupid enough to run, indeed, she sniffed internally, and indulged in an uncharacteristic daydream of a shrieking Willand on her runaway horse. As long as she was this close to Arlen, Jaime certainly wasn’t going to run without trying to take him along. Especially not while Whiskers—whose real name she refused to remember—was still mounted.

  Willand conferred briefly with her companions while Jaime stuck with her nonchalance, then dismounted to take Jaime’s arm in a peremptory grip, steering her toward a dark spot at the base of the hill that turned out to be a cave-like doorway. Inside, Jaime shook off the clutching fingers, and Willand accepted the change by not acknowledging it. The rough walls of the entrance corridor soon turned smooth, and coolness enclosed them along with heavy stone. Willand led her briskly up a brief, single flight of steps, then down a hallway, and then up a series of short flights that wound around themselves with hallways branching off at each turn.

  An unshuttered window graced the final landing, and Jaime got a glimpse of the gardens as they hurried by. This hall was short, and ended in a guarded door. Willand took her to the only other room off the hall, striding through the doorway with only the barest of pauses to knock.

  “Ah, you’ve returned. What have you discovered?” The question came from a woman who didn’t bother to turn around. She was of unimposing stature, a reed-thin woman whose robe fell unimpeded by curves of any sort. Her dark hair, thick and curly to the point of frizz, was winning its battle with the thong tied back at the base of her neck. Jaime was singularly unimpressed and had to remind herself that this was a woman who had the whole of Camolen swaying with the breeze of her whims.

  “Nothing on the spell,” Willand admitted without hesitation. “A few scribbled pages that looked like checkspell material, but I’m not sure it’s worth much. I did bring back something else you might find useful.”

  At that Calandre turned, still holding the small book she’d been consulting, her carriage totally at odds with the cheerfully asymmetrical room. She turned out to be about Jaime’s age—not so old for all the chaos she’d caused, at that. Her eyebrows, fine and set above angular features, rose at the sight of her captive. “Yes?”

  “One of Arlen’s couriers. She was on a run to Theo’s; stumbled right into us. She was on one of Carey’s duns, so I thought she might be of some use with Arlen.”

  Calandre eyed Jaime’s face. “It looks like someone has already done some persuading.”

  “She tried to run,” Willand said simply.

  Calandre set the book down and carefully marked her place before closing it, and Jaime eyed her warily as the woman approached in a stalk that was all the more intimidating because it was obviously uncalculated. “What’s your name?”

  “Jaime,” Jaime said in her best I’m-not-impressed voice, still trying to figure out the best strategy for staying alive.

  “Well, Jaime, did you learn anything?”

  “Only that I should have kicked Whisker’s balls up to his throat before I ran,” Jaime said perversely, knowing better. But Calandre seemed amused rather than annoyed, and Jaime gathered that she simply wasn’t worth the effort of anger.

  “So,” she said. “You were one of the ones who got away. And now you’re back again, finally to be of some use to us.”

  Jaime suddenly realized that Arlen certainly wouldn’t have been the only person caught in Calandre’s attack. “What happened to the others?” she asked warily.

  “You mean the ones who had the courage to stay and fight?” Unlike you—unspoken words that stabbed her even though she hadn’t even been there. “They died, of course. Very unfortunate; we could have used the leverage before this—in fact, we’ve been looking for someone like you.”

  “I wasn’t here when you attacked,” Jaime said in a low voice, still stinging over the implications in Calandre’s words.

  “Whatever,” Calandre replied, obviously not believing her, and not caring, either. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

  “Do you want her cleaned up before Arlen sees her?” Willand asked.

  Calandre eyed Jaime’s face and shook her head decisively. “A little dried blood will make our threat more immediate.”

  Jaime scowled. She’d tried to wash her face off in a stream the day before, but several of the cuts had opened again, and it was true she’d had another nosebleed.

  “Try to maintain that expression, if you can,” Calandre said lightly. “It will certainly have good effect on Arlen.” Her face, all angles and hollow cheeks, held amusement, and Jaime closed her eyes and took a deep breath, reminding herself that this bizarre situation was as real and as serious as anything she’d ever done. It was real—and she was no longer Jaime Cabot, accomplished equestrian with her own sort of following, but Jaime Cabot, prisoner of some crazed wizard woman.

  A powerful crazed wizard woman.

  “Come along,” Willand said in irritation, and Jaime opened her eyes to discover that Calandre had already gone out into the hall. She gave Willand a haughty look—she dared that much—and preceded her out of the room.

  She’d wondered if there would be another disorienting trek through the innards of the stone structure, but Calandre was merely waiting for them at the guarded door. The guard stared curiously at Jaime, but looked quickly away when Calandre glanced at him. She pushed open the door and swept into the room, calling Arlen’s name with the air of a long-awaited guest.

  The room within was considerably more homey than the workroom, well-lit by the afternoon sun streaming in the window. Although the furnishings were simple and well-used, they had the look of cherished and comfortable things. Faded but still thick rugs covered the floor, books were scattered about with bookmarks trailing out of them, and one special chair seemed entirely devoted to embroidery work, the accouterments of which were spread out on the arms of the chair and the worn leather stool in front of it. A flash of movement caught her eye, and Jaime caught the tip of a cat’s white tail as it disappeared under the chair.

  “Still hiding from us?” Calandre asked, and Jaime thought she was talking to the cat until she saw that the woman looked into a second room, her arms folded i
n front of her in a mannerism that only pressed the dark material against the boniness of her hips and collarbones. “Well, no matter. I’ve brought a visitor whom I think will interest you. You might even feel like talking.”

  “I doubt that.” Arlen’s voice was low and without strength, but still managed a matter-of-fact defiance. Calandre beckoned to Jaime, and she reluctantly moved up to stand in the doorway.

  Arlen looked at her without recognition, and with the beginnings of a frown. Desperation led Jaime to offer, “I’m riding for Sherra now. Carey brought me there, and loaned me Lady.”

  Arlen’s expression shifted rapidly through a maze of emotions and slid into deadpan even as Calandre lashed out and slapped Jaime resoundingly across the cheek. Jaime gasped as the blow rekindled all the sharp pains in her nose, and couldn’t help the few tears that followed, fatigue and pain and fright bundled up into two trails of saltwater.

  Calandre said coldly, “When I want to hear from you, it’ll be screams of pain to make this annoying old wizard talk. Until then, keep your helpful little comments to yourself.”

  Willand offered tentatively, “At least we’ve confirmed it, Carey is back. So they really do have something to build the checkspell on.”

  Calandre seemed to relax out of her anger. “True enough, little Willand. It seems you brought me back more than you thought. I’ll have to remember to question her before she’s beyond speech. Unless, of course,” she added, turning to Arlen with brows upraised, “you want to skip the torture and give me the spell now?”

  Jaime stared at the man, knowing her life hinged on what he might say next—this man who had never met her and could not possibly care about her. He stared back, appraising her, warm brown eyes beneath disheveled long hair and gaunt, unshaven cheeks that were at obvious odds with the mustache that had been cultivated above a slight over-bite. Despite Calandre’s words, he was certainly not old, or even past his mid-forties. She wondered if she really saw the tiny nod or only imagined it, and if that was really recognition of a sort in his gaze.