Wren paused, expecting laughter—at least disbelief.
Teressa just smiled and shook her head.
Wren gasped. “Teressa. You knew.”
“He wrote me just after New Year’s. A letter full of impertinence, of course, in his usual style, and at first I was quite ready to pitch it in the fire,” Teressa admitted, as a servant opened the door and carried in a fine-carved tray with all the chocolate things on it. “Thanks, Mira.”
When she and Wren were alone again, Teressa poured out two cups of gently steaming chocolate. “But I got to thinking. What would happen if I could make friends with him? Maybe even win him to an alliance? Surely that would be far better than having him angry and possibly scheming behind my back.”
“He’ll be doing that anyway, whether he’s here or somewhere else,” Wren stated. “You know you can’t trust him. He even hinted as much himself, at the end of the war, there. He’ll do what he wants when he wants, and too bad for the rest of us.”
Teressa lifted her cup but did not sip. Instead, she gazed out the window at the fluffy clouds drifting across the sky. Presently she said, “I’m not so sure about that.”
Wren gave a big gusty sigh. “Tess. This is Hawk. Who tried to kill Connor and me. Who nearly killed Tyron. Who tried to capture you, and hold you for ransom against the highest bidder—which could have been Angleworm Andreus, for all he cared!”
“But that was before he really met any of us,” Teressa said. “You have to admit he could have done any or all of those things during the war, and didn’t.”
“That’s because he’d squabbled with his former pal Andreus, and it wouldn’t have gained him anything.” Wren crossed her arms. “Tess, he’s nasty, mean, untrustworthy, and the thought of you even pretending to let him court you makes my stomach feel like a thousand snails are rumbling around in there.”
Teressa shuddered, then drank some her chocolate, as if to get rid of Wren’s too-vivid image. Then she bent toward Wren, smiling a little. “Don’t tell me you can’t look at him and admit he’s quite attractive.”
Wren snapped upright, nearly spilling her still full cup. She crashed it down onto its saucer. “Ugh! You can’t mean to say you find that nasty toadwart handsome?”
Teressa put her cup down. “But he is.”
Wren got up and stomped around the room, trying to find words to express her disgust. “Handsome!” She waved her arms. “And so’s the scarlet snake whose bite is so poisonous you’re dead before you drop to the ground, or those dragons of old, who were supposed to be very handsome indeed, and I’ll bet everyone admired their pretty scales ever so much before they got blasted into ash.” She wiggled her fingers to pantomime ash falling to the ground.
“Wren,” Teressa said in a quiet voice. “Do you really believe that just because I like someone’s looks I’d lose my brains over him?”
“Why not?” Wren exclaimed, thumping a hand on the back of her chair. “You and I laughed over so many of those court geese doing just that, before the war. Male or female, they take one look at a pretty face, and their wits flap right out the window.”
“But we’re not talking about court, Wren.” Teressa’s smile was gone, though her voice stayed gentle. “Do you really believe that I, Teressa, with the responsibilities I have now, and my parents not two years dead, would really lose my head at the first sight of a handsome face?”
Wren felt danger tingling in her palms. She stood at the window and looked back at Teressa, and saw for the first time that her old friend really wasn’t a girl any more. Her once-rounded cheeks had flattened, her cleft chin jutted, reminding Wren of King Verne, her brow was high and her eyes direct. She was a young woman, not a girl, and though they’d been friends for all these years, Wren had somehow managed not to notice the change.
She didn’t tell me, Wren thought. She knew about Hawk months ago and didn’t tell me.
And now they were on the verge of their very first argument. Ever.
So Wren said, “Of course I don’t. It’s just that I don’t trust Hawk Rhiscarlan. Annnnd . . . I guess maybe sometimes I exaggerate, just a little, when I worry.” She held up her forefinger and thumb with about a hair’s breadth space between them.
Teressa’s smile returned, but it was pensive, rather than genuine. “He’s likely to only stay a season, and I plan to find out a lot more from him than he does from me,” she said.
He’s probably down there in the stable bragging the same thing to his cronies, Wren thought, but she didn’t say it.
For the first time she couldn’t say what she wanted to her old friend. She no longer felt like one girl with another girl, but like a girl with a young woman—a queen.
Wren tried to smile. “You’ll be getting a summons that he’s here any moment. And Tyron asked if I’d teach the basic illusions class while Fliss is gone. I guess I’d better get back and prepare for it.” And after that, get busy with my journeymage project. Better to shiver underground translating old glyphs than . . .
She slipped out the door, leaving Teressa staring down at Wren’s untouched cup of chocolate.
o0o
Tyron saw a flicker of movement outside the window of the classroom. He moved closer. There was a familiar short, round figure in a brown tunic toiling up the pathway, long yellow-streaked brown braids swinging, her brow furrowed, her blue eyes narrowed in a way he hadn’t seen for at least a year.
Tyron frowned. Wren, angry? Good-natured, ever-joking Wren, who was supposed to be up at the palace now?
Uh oh.
“Did I say it wrong?”
Tyron blinked at his four staring students, their practice books open, pens sharp, ink ready for dipping.
“Let’s have that spell again,” he said.
The four chanted obediently, “The spell for cleaning water binds to the container. We begin with the summons-spell for all particles hidden and unhidden . . .”
Tyron waited impatiently until they were done with the long process for making cleaning-buckets for dishes and clothing, then said quickly, “Your assignment now is to look in the archives and find three different spells for cleaning the water in streams, perform them, and next class report on which is most effective, which is least effective, and why.”
He resisted the impulse to dash out the door ahead of them, and made himself wait until they were gone. He wore the white tunic of a master, and masters didn’t dash around yelling wildly, not without good cause. Especially these days, when so many still woke up having nightmares about the Lirwani attack.
When the last student vanished around the corner he dashed off in the other direction, straight to the dormitories for the senior students.
Wren’s door was closed. She almost always left it open whether she was there or not. Tyron hesitated, then knocked lightly.
After a long moment the door cracked opened and one light blue eye peered out.
Then Wren sighed and opened the door the rest of the way. “You may’s well come on in, though how you nosed it out so fast—”
“Nosed what out?” he interrupted.
“Teressa didn’t send you some kind of message?”
Tyron didn’t miss that rare use of Teressa’s full name. “I saw you running past my window. You’re supposed to be at the palace.”
Wren flopped down on her bed, leaving the chair for Tyron.
He lifted a couple books and papers from it and sat down. “What happened?”
Wren groaned. “It’s that disgusting skunk of a Hawk.”
“Oh. He’s here, is he?”
Wren sat up, her eyes wide. “You knew, too? Nobody told me!” She added grimly, “I suppose everyone in the entire city knows?”
“They probably will by tonight. Anyone who cares to.” Tyron lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “But until today, only Teressa and Halfrid and I knew. She showed us a letter from Hawk right after New Year’s. We talked about it. What happened to upset you?”
“I tried to talk her into letting
me send him right back to whatever stenchiferous lair he lurks in,” Wren said. “I brought up good reasons—like him having tried to kill three of us, and kidnap her—but all she said was, ‘He’s handsome.’” Wren grimaced, then rubbed her eyes. “Well, no, that’s not quite fair. But she had all these stupid reasons to let him court her. And she did say he’s handsome. When people say that, it just means trouble.”
Tyron scratched his head and looked out Wren’s window to where a couple of skylarks chased across the sky as he considered his own response.
“What is it?” Wren eyed him suspiciously. “You’re holding something back.”
“Am I?”
Wren’s grin was lopsided. “When we were younger you used to turn into a big old knot of arms and legs when you knew something awful and couldn’t tell anyone. Now you just do that with your hair until it sticks out like a fright wig for the theatre player clowns.” She mimed running her hands through her hair.
Tyron put his hands down. “I think Teressa and Hawk are playing high politics now. Testing one another.”
“That means they aren’t going to follow the same rules regular people do?” Wren asked. “And why not? Things like honesty and trust work well enough for those of us not wearing crowns. Maybe if more kings tried these same rules, there wouldn’t be so many wars.”
“You would accuse King Verne of dishonesty and untrustworthiness?”
Wren’s face was always a good mirror to her thoughts. Tyron could see her thinking back to the days when Teressa’s father had ruled. He’d been regarded as a wise, compassionate, and honest king.
And in one night the Lirwanis had smashed everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.
“No, I guess sometimes that’s not enough,” Wren said reluctantly. Then she scowled. “But that’s no excuse to open the doors to a slithering serpent like Hawk Rhiscarlan and expect him to act like . . . like . . . a petunia!”
Tyron spluttered a laugh. He suspected that Wren and Teressa had either argued, or come very close. Tyron could sympathize with how Wren was feeling now; he and Teressa argued often. His future job as Queen’s Magician was more than just mastering magic and protecting the kingdom from inimical sorcery. He also had to become what Halfrid had warned him would be, in essence, the royal conscience.
“Look, Wren, Teressa is a young queen, and that means she’s going to be courted by every power-seeker of whatever degree on this side of the continent. She might as well test her abilities against someone she knows a little.”
Wren’s angry frown turned perplexed. “But—all that talk about looks—what happens if—” Wren stopped, her hands waving in a circle, her nose wrinkling. “Ugh. The thought of them dancing together, flirting, it’s just disgusting.” She looked down at her hands. Her lower lip trembled as she added with an attempt at lightness, “And Teressa knows how I feel, and so she never told me he was coming. We talked about her cousins, and we wondered where Connor is and what he’s doing, and if he’s learning magic—if he’s happy. We gossiped about her crabby Aunt Carlas, and about the new garden and about all the new plays as well as the old plays, but she never mentioned Hawk.”
Tyron tried to think of something comforting to say, and failed.
Wren sighed. “Maybe it’s time for me to just stay away from court parties. I never liked them anyway.” She didn’t say she’d stay away from the palace, but Tyron wondered if that was what Wren was thinking.
And Tyron reached a decision. “Tell you what. Those glyphs have sat underground for a thousand years. They can wait a year or two longer. How about this. You said you were going to follow Connor to the Summer Islands after your journeymage project, and have some adventures. Test your skills. Well, why not go adventuring now? Maybe you’ll find a journeymage project on your travels. Or even meet up with your father. You know you always wanted to search for him.”
Wren looked up. She’d spent her early life thinking she was an orphan, until she and Connor had traced her family. She had an aunt, uncle, and cousin, and had found out that her father was an illusions-mage for traveling players. Tyron suspected her father still did not even know his daughter was alive; Wren had wanted to try to find him, but the war had smashed her plans.
He urged, “Go look for your father. Or for Connor. Or both. And if no suitable journeymage project happens along the way, the glyphs will still be here waiting when you get back.”
Wren’s eyes widened with longing. Tyron knew how much she missed Connor. He missed Connor as well, the only person besides Halfrid he could talk to about everything.
But Connor was on a quest to discover something about his ancestry, and thus make his place in the world. It was a journeymage quest that would not be judged by any Mage Council. It was Connor’s personal quest.
Wren smiled at Connor’s name. But the smile faded. “No, I’m being selfish. I mean, what about the illusions class, and all the things that need doing here?”
“They’re being done, and the illusions class can double up with the second year’s. It’ll be good for both classes, one to teach, the other to learn. Fliss is going to bring back two new mages who want to see if they like it here enough to stay and teach. The Magic School will be all right, and as for Teressa, one thing you know that crabby Aunt Carlas can be trusted for is to give Hawk—or any suitors not up to her standards—the Rhismordith fish-eye. And just in case, I’m here too,” he added, buffing his nails on his tunic.
“Shouldn’t we wait until either Master Halfrid or Mistress Leila return? I don’t want to bother Mistress Leila with anything less than an emergency, at least not until we know that Queen Nerith will live.”
“Quite right,” Tyron said, shaking his head. His own private opinion was that Queen Nerith Shaltar of Siradayel should not have been racing sleds down frozen river ice at night, especially after she’d been drinking far too much mulled wine. Having overturned her sled and broken several bones, she’d not only endangered herself, she’d brought Siradayel’s affairs to a standstill.
But she was mother to both Mistress Leila and Prince Connor, and was Teressa’s grandmother and ally. She was also in considerable pain even after four months. Healers could bind wounds—with painstaking effort—but the body had to heal itself; Mistress Leila had gone home for the first time since she gave up her title and was supervising both the mage-Healers and the court magicians, until her mother could recover.
“As for Master Halfrid, should I not speak with him first?” Wren asked, looking doubtful. “I mean, since I might be changing my journeymage project.”
“I think I can safely authorize it,” Tyron said.
He and the senior mages were the only ones who knew that Master Halfrid was not just visiting in the north, he was so deeply disguised no one was to contact him except in dire emergency—and that via Summons Ring, which couldn’t be traced.
“You’re already an experienced traveler, and I’ll tell you what. You can practice your transfer magic and cut some of your journey short by shifting down to Falin—Mistress Falin, now—at Hroth Falls. From there it’s just a few days’ travel to the harbor.”
Wren nodded slowly. Tyron was glad to see the unhappy pucker in her forehead starting to smooth out.
“You’ll really like Falin,” he added. “I don’t think you met her. She went away to do her journeymage project when you first came as a student, and as soon as she returned last winter, Halfrid sent her to be the new mage at Hroth Falls.”
Wren shook her head. “We never met.” Tyron could see Wren hesitating. “So Mistress Falin is really young, then?”
“About my age,” Tyron said. “In the old days before the war, she would have had to wait at least ten years, probably longer, for such an important job, but you know how shorthanded we are for mages.”
Wren looked determined. “And so I really ought to get busy myself.”
“Well, I wasn’t trying to drop any hints, but why not? You want to anyway, and you’ll have fun with Falin. She’s a
bit odd-looking, but good company, and she’ll send you off in royal style.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Wren said at last. “I’ll go get ready.” Her forehead puckered again. She said in a low voice, “But first I guess I’d better write a note to Tess.”
Three
Teressa looked from the paper in her hand to Tyron’s face. Despite their having been friends for several years, his foxy features had gotten harder to read.
“Why didn’t Wren come say her farewells in person?” Teressa asked at last. She never would have asked anyone else, even Halfrid, but she’d gotten so used to discussing everything with Tyron that it just came out.
“I sent her off while the good weather holds,” Tyron replied with the ease of the previously thought-out answer. It might even be true.
Teressa glanced down at the letter again, as if new words would appear there, giving insight into Wren’s real state of mind.
But the letter remained the same.
Tess: Tyron thinks I should go find Connor now, before the season advances. I’ve always wanted adventure, and my turn to seek it seems to have come at last, so I’m off to Hroth Harbor and then to take ship. I will scry home regularly, to make sure you are safe and happy. Wren
Teressa folded the note slowly, and slipped it into a hidden pocket in the fine velvet gown she wore, all embroidered with tiny pearls and tiny golden leaves. At least she called me Tess, the young queen thought.
Tyron said, in that same easy tone—as if he’d prepared a speech beforehand—”She had to pack her travel gear, speak to all the students she’d been working with, and she sent a message to her aunt up in Allat Los to let them know she was going. Then I had her transfer straight down to Hroth Falls before the day got too old. Mages don’t consider it polite to do night transfers unless it’s an emergency.”
Teressa fingered the pearls embroidered on her pocket. It was useless to say that she knew she was being humored, that if Wren had really wanted to see Teressa she would have found the time despite all those busy chores, but the truth was, Wren hadn’t come because her feelings had been hurt. And Teressa knew why. It wasn’t jealousy, as some might assume. Wren had never been jealous in her life. I always told Wren to ignore the differences in rank, to be honest, to say what she thought. That was fine when we both thought alike. But the very first time our opinions were not the same, I acted like a sniff-nosed queen. Not like a friend.
Wren Journeymage Page 2