Bones of the Fair

by Host, Andrea K

  Finally, a gift brought from Atlarus for her father, a day-candle scented with orange oil and clove. In the long wait for tomorrow's dawn she wanted to look at it and think of orange groves, and her father's love of scent, and see how much longer she had to endure.

  Out in the night she felt a whisper of power, distant casting. A little too far away for her to read intent, but she could guess the others were following Aristide's suggestion about shields. It was to be a morning full of experiments. Closer to, the murmur of the saecstra warned that her own was about to begin.

  Last night had been bad timing. She'd been determined to enjoy herself, to buoy herself up in preparation for this, and had, right up until she'd come face to face with Aristide's capacity to hurt her. Not a deliberate thing, and well within character, but she'd stopped being quite so diverted by this unexpected passion. And he'd followed with a theory she couldn't quite refute, even after Princess Kestia had asked why Suldar didn't simply wipe them from existence. The party had broken on a distinct note of trepidation.

  "What doesn't the valley's shield keep out?" she asked the man who came to stand in her doorway.

  "Raw power. Your morning visitor." Those brilliant eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Darest."

  "Hardly coincidence that all this started a few days after I returned."

  "Unlikely," he agreed, with what she considered unnecessary readiness, moving to settle in the chair by her bed. "Did the name strike any chord?"

  "No. But it doesn't seem wrong, either. I would like to know where It – she – actually is if she's trying to get into this valley rather than out of it. I would certainly hope we'd have noticed her wandering about Darest. And there didn't seem to be any hint of her in that area of no magic which surrounds this place."

  He answered this with a silence that was admonitory, the kind of pause a teacher would use to prompt a good student to think a little harder. Resentful, and feeling suddenly vulnerable, Gentian drew her knees up to her chest. Because she knew full well the most likely answer, one he hadn't spelt out the previous night. Selvar was nowhere.

  "There are no Darien legends of ghostly Fae stalking about. And it goes quite against the idea of Suldar being Regent because she has an elder sister, if that sister is dead."

  But it would begin to answer the question of why the heirs of the West had been brought here: the lost dead, those trapped between the Sun and Moon's embrace, could draw precious little power without a physical anchor. A ghost would have reason to usurp the strength of the living.

  "You don't even need to be true-mage to see a ghost. If that's what she's become, why am I the only one to sense her?"

  "Not only you." Aristide used the very mild tone she'd come to associate with things that annoyed him. "The Fair do not dwell in Darest for a reason."

  Gentian stared at him. "My parents asked the aid of more than one of the Fair," she said, voice low and face hot. "They claimed to be unable to detect whatever it was waking me."

  "Probably true in the most precise sense. But remember Suldar's words to you."

  "'...you are not of the Blood'."

  "Her surprise was that you were not Fae, not that you were woken. It must touch them in some way."

  "And the region is held to be tainted." Gentian blinked, then thrust the possibilities away with a quick motion of her hand. "They do make it hard to like them." She gazed at Aristide, who had lived among the Fair and was equally trying. "I would have preferred not to have learned Its name that way," she added, wishing her voice would stop trying to stifle itself. She had thought them at least working to the same purpose, allies, whatever else he felt.

  "I would have preferred you not learn that name at all," Aristide replied and, when her eyes widened, added: "Do you really wish this thing to gain even more power over you?"

  "I should like some power over It," she said, with utmost sincerity. "And–" She frowned at him. "And, yes. Given the disparity in our strength, knowing Its name would not give me the advantage. Rather the reverse. Must you always be right?"

  The corners of his eyes creased fractionally, giving them a warmer light, though his mouth did not alter. It brought a little frisson of awareness, underlining the fact that they were together and alone, and she sat in her night-clothes on a very large bed. Just a hint of surprise surfaced in his eyes, and they both went very still.

  But then pure sardonic amusement swallowed all else, and he looked past her, drawing power. A moment later there was a strangled squawk, and a thud from the room next to hers. Aspen. A long pause followed this rude awakening, then muffled thumps suggested he was trying to dress quickly in the dark.

  As a diversion this was excellent, and Gentian allowed it, appreciating the time to analyse that brief moment of exposure. He found her attractive? He found that funny?

  "Does Aspen really do nothing at Court but gossip and look decorative?" she asked, to fill the silence.

  "Choraide's own description, I assume?" Aristide accepted the change of subject without an eye-blink. "He is known as a devotee of scandal and conquest."

  "And takes a good deal of pride in it," she said, having spent a portion of the previous night not quite enjoying listening to Aspen outline his plan to snare his three current favourites.

  Aristide was still looking highly entertained – by himself, or just her? He tipped a hand to one side with a suggestion of a shrug. "Choraide serves the useful purpose of providing the Rathen Champion with a friend and confidant, and has proven an able intelligencer on her behalf, capable of keeping his mouth closed on occasion. If he poured the same amount of energy into developing his talent he would be formidable. As it is – perhaps Captain Djol will serve our immediate need by making a cook of him."

  The subject of their conversation came at double-pace through the door, drew himself up and offered Aristide a deep and magnificent courtesy, rich with reproach. "How may I serve, my Lord, my Master? Your every whim, your most passing desire–"

  "Sit down." The tone was flat, disinterested, and those sapphire and crystal eyes turned briefly toward the window to remind them of dawn's approach. Dawn. "What did you use to keep yourself awake, Magister Calder?"

  She handed him the spell she'd written down, and drank off a glass of water while he read it. "No, not something my parents taught me. I found it in a collection in Goldenrod's attics. I've ancestors with exciting pasts, it seems."

  This earned her a long, steady survey. Aristide was not pleased, but he made no comment, crediting her with the judgment to set this course – or at least seeing the lack of alternatives. Experiments limited to one moment each morning did not suit a race against time.

  He handed the piece of paper to Aspen before beginning to cast, and Gentian, wary of being caught late, followed suit. Her spell was concise, designed to be held on trigger, and she had no trouble binding it off ready to be used. Looking back, she found Aspen staring at her in horror.

  "This–"

  "–is necessary. I can't shield against or nullify whatever makes me sleep. This overwhelms it."

  "But...it'll hurt you."

  Genuine abhorrence. Gentian found herself suddenly very grateful for Aspen. "All things being equal, I'd rather cast this than wake to It," she told him. "It's having to spend the day in bed afterwards that makes it a problem."

  "The aftermath you described sounds very like a form of spell backlash," Aristide commented, as he looked down from the knot of divination he'd set on the ceiling.

  "The fever and aches? I know. But not the increasing exhaustion." She shrugged. Lady Arista had fastened on those symptoms as well, and she had expected this. "You're the one always talking about doing things from fact, not supposition. See what your divinations tell you."

  "As you suggest, Magister," he said, with an unexpectedly respectful inclination of his head. He may not have baulked at the nature of the experiment, but it seemed he honoured the cost.

  Gentian lost herself to him all over again, astonished desire threatenin
g to swallow her whole just as the Moon ate the Sun in his eyes. Only the approach of dawn was enough to drag her free of the eclipse and she looked away, feeling impossibly exposed, on uneven ground. What had happened to her, that the smallest taste of approval from this man could overwhelm her?

  There was, at least, little time to feel embarrassed. Before sleep could take her Gentian tightened her grip on her knees and curled down to shut her audience away. Reluctant but resigned she whispered the trigger, and burned.

  It was the thought of fire, a conviction of heat. Embers swimming beneath her skin, boiling her blood. She screamed, or tried not to, wasn't sure, only that it hurt, that she was dying, burning, that every part of her was char and ash and a dragon was eating her bones–!

  And not.

  How triumphant she'd been, that first time. A twelve year girl who'd cast a torture spell, whose screams had brought her parents running. And through the haze of her body's shocked aftermath she'd gloated that she hadn't slept, that she'd won. It would never touch her again. Her father had yelled at her, the first time ever, a furious scolding. And she'd shouted back, so angry that he wouldn't understand how necessary it was, that anything was better. Anything.

  Then the tingling of outraged nerves had given way to an oppressive ache, and the spell's false fire transmuted to fever. Her day of triumph became an ordeal and she'd marked the cost of battle by the terror in her parents' eyes. Another lesson: she was no better able to fix this thing than anyone else.

  Gentian took a slow breath, unlocking frozen muscles, then grimaced because a mountain had come to sit on her head. And magic had become a thing that itched and rubbed: the divination Aristide had set, the saecstra, and whatever he was casting now, all scratching unpleasantly behind her. It was only going to get worse, which was the other edge to the sword of knowing what would come next. She was already beginning to sweat.

  Turning gingerly, Gentian found Aristide unpacking the divination he'd set above her head. His face was abstract, revealing no hint of triumph or frustration – or sympathy. Aspen was for some reason glaring at her, but right now Gentian frankly couldn't care enough to wonder why. She shut him from her attention and watched Aristide, beautiful and opaque. The man had had a lifetime's practice giving nothing away.

  "If you would cast, Magister?" he said, having finished reviewing the inaudible results of his divination. She wanted very much to know what it had told him, but instead obediently drew true-magic to spark the candle to flame, and had to swallow against the accompanying rush of nausea. Her head pounded.

  "Classic indicators of spell backlash." She'd never heard his voice so expressionless. "At the same time, absolutely no sign that you cast anything but a successfully triggered piece of unpleasantness. It is possible that your spell covered another, almost negligible expenditure of power, but the backlash for a minor casting would not justify the effect on you. Can you write out for me a general history of past attempts to diagnose this? With the obvious avenues of investigation unproductive, we will need to look for another approach, and I would like to avoid covering the same ground."

  "What I can remember of it," Gentian said, wearily. "A great deal went on when I was very young."

  Aristide nodded and rose, glancing at the ceiling as he reset his divination. "We will follow the development of this weakness, to see whether it reveals its source. Will you need anything during the day, Magister? I can place a numbing on you."

  "No." She said that a little too forcefully, and winced. "No, my mother tried that. I feel anything cast on me too strongly for it to work."

  "Then we will check with you around midday."

  They departed, leaving her looking unenthusiastically up at the divination. At least the saecstra was now receding into the distance. It was going to be a long day, made longer by the reflection that it was wasted suffering, that for all Aristide's much-vaunted mastery, he was achieving exactly as much as his predecessors.

  Nothing.

  ooOoo

  Gentian had discovered a great fondness for the kitten. While laboriously trying to write some kind of account of past failures, she had watched the little creature prowling about the confines of the room, far more confidant than the previous night's hiding-under-the-furniture performance. The return of Aristide and Aspen at lunchtime sent the creature back under a table, but after that she had apparently decided Gentian was an acceptable being, and allowed herself to be coaxed on to the bed by a piece of string.

  This passed the time perfectly for Gentian, who couldn't settle to anything that required thought. The kitten savaged the string with satisfying enthusiasm, then settled down to be tickled, only occasionally deciding that Gentian's fingers were also worthy adversaries. Gentian was wishing Aspen would come back so she could send him out for milk when there was a light tap at the door, and she looked over to see Prince Rydan holding a large bouquet of flowers.

  "Would you like a visitor?" he asked, obviously uncomfortable. "Maistrice Choraide said you were ill."

  And your brother sent you straight here to try to gain a little ground, Gentian thought. Neither of the Saxans had tried to break Seylon's monopoly of her the previous night, but she had gained the distinct impression that she now primarily represented a piece of one-upmanship between Sax and Cya. Any idea of the game bothering Aristide had no doubt died after the single, sardonic look he'd bent on his brother's performance.

  "I was hoping someone would come," she told Rydan truthfully, for all she found it unspeakably boring when people chased her for enhance-the-bloodline reasons. "And should thank you again for the kitten. I've been glad of her today."

  This produced a more natural smile. "Then I'm glad as well," he said, promptly. "Have you thought of a name for her?"

  "Koltai. A famous hunter in Atlaran legend. Could you do me a favour, Highness, and bring me up something for her to eat? I think there's some leftovers from last night's dinner."

  "Of course. I'll find a vase for these as well," he said, waving the bouquet with just the faintest air of disparagement before heading out the door. Gentian shook her head, and stroked Koltai's stomach until he came back with the flowers in a vase, a kitten-sized bowl of milk, and a full jug – using true-magic as extra hands. "I noticed you had nothing to drink," he said, replacing the two empty pitchers by her bed. "I remember, oh, a few years ago now I had Semnes Fever, and was thirsty all the time."

  Mildly impressed, Gentian thanked him and accepted the mug he poured out for her. He set the plate on the corner of the bed and they occupied themselves with watching Koltai.

  At least, Gentian did. Rydan spent his time casting sidelong glances under long lashes. She supposed herself to be a less than appealing subject for courtship, all flushed and sweaty and lank. "It's a kind of spell backlash," she told him. "A not very successful experiment."

  He nodded, seating himself tentatively on the far side of the bed. "So Maistrice Choraide said. You will forgive me for disturbing you, I hope." Then, unexpectedly, he snorted. "And for the wholly transparent pursuit as well. You must be wishing a pile of rock would fall on me and Lord Heresar both. Will you allow me to stay a little while, so I can make a pretence of having won your good graces?"

  "Is it so important to do so?" she asked, pleasantly surprised.

  "Easier, I guess. Dutifully obeying a long-standing–" Cheeks reddening, he met her eyes with obvious effort. "Games aside, Magister, is there any chance you would be interested in a contract as a third? And playing the part of leverage?"

  Gentian, not quite up to dealing with propositions, tried to puzzle out the reason for it. "Captain Djol?" she hazarded.

  "This is hardly a compliment to you, I know. But the Varpatten reputation is such that it might just be possible, should you show a partiality for Leton, that I could turn this encounter to his advantage." He stopped, gauging the expression on her face, and sighed. "Oh, ignore me. Pipedreams, I know, but I can see so few ways to help him."

  "Is his situation so ve
ry bad? Your brother seems to hold him in esteem." she asked, struggling to keep up through the wool in her head.

  "My brother isn't the problem. And he deserves better than this bodyguard role. Anyone can see that. But–" Rydan pulled a face, then leaned forward hesitantly. "I watched you speaking to him, after the battle. He gave you his sword."

  "I asked to see it," Gentian replied neutrally. "It's an interesting piece."

  "I've never before seen him allow anyone to touch it." Rydan searched her face, then continued slowly: "He has been with us six months, a little more. My father produced him one day, set him in charge of our safety, and...gloats over him. When he was tasked to be my swordmaster, I began to see why. But there is more to it, I know. Father would object to my courting Leton, I think, unless I can provide a high incentive."

  "Like the Varpatten bloodline."

  "But if you were going to have children to benefit someone else's ambitions, you'd have done so already." His voice was resigned, unsurprised, but long lashes swept down to hide disappointment.

  "It's the first time anyone's suggested I rescue someone in the process. But, truly, Captain Djol doesn't strike me as a man in need of help. Perhaps he isn't exactly where he'd like to be, but–" She wondered how to put this. "He's not without resource."

  "No." A faint smile, which made Gentian wonder what she looked like when talking about Aristide. Then Rydan lifted a hand to close the subject, and glanced toward the window where the light was shifting past late afternoon. "But sometimes being resourceful can't be enough. At least we've stopped these puppet games."