A College of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

  Faris gave the rift all she could, as quickly as she could, as though she were packing in great haste for a long journey. It took all she had to offer, and took it greedily. She gave up memory and experience as freely as they occurred to her, until the white light dazzled her and she could no longer sense the movement of the rift.

  Frowning with effort, scarcely daring to breathe, Faris paused. The instant she did, she felt the white light around her start to splinter into colors. The rift shifted, slowly but remorselessly.

  Time. How long had it taken her to send Menary into the rift, and most of her own experience after? Faris had no idea. She might have been on the glass staircase for hours by now. At this rate, she could spend the rest of her life there and not mend the rift.

  Faris thought hard. Perception came first, like a cold hand over her heart. She shuddered, wondering how she would ever muster the will.

  “Responsibility,” she told herself aloud. She tried to laugh and flinched at the sound she made.

  And then she let Galazon, with its high meadows and its deep forests, its frozen rivers and its snow-covered hills, go gently into the rift.

  For Faris, the grass in the meadows bleached dry. The wind that stirred the forests fell still. The rivers sank into mud and the hills lay naked in the wind. She felt Galazon become any land, any real estate, any dirt to be bartered, and she caught her breath at the pain.

  The balance steadied. The hunger eased. There was a moment of equilibrium that made her heart jump crazily. Then the rift trembled again.

  Faris looked down at her hands. The glass they rested on was no longer green but clear, clear and cold. So cold.

  “Responsibility.” This time she was able to laugh a little, at herself, at the hopes she’d had, at the mere sound of the word. The meaningless word.

  Now, she supposed, it was her responsibility to go back and confess her failure. Tell anyone who cared. And then? Go back to Galazon and try to bear existence there? The thought made her stomach twist. Go? Yes—anywhere but Galazon. Exile on a ship that never came to land before exile in Galazon.

  Or go on up the stair? No explanations. No apologies. No farewells. Just go into the rift.

  That should be simple enough. After all, it was her responsibility.

  And it wasn’t death, or even exile, for she could not die, any more than Hilarion could, and Galazon was already there, waiting for her, within the rift. Yet even so, she was unwilling.

  Faris examined her unwillingness. It had to do with a promise, but she couldn’t remember making one. She frowned at her hands. There was something she had to do, before she stepped into the rift and pulled it tight around her like a blanket. Something she had promised to do.

  The glass key. That was it. She had promised to send the key back to Hilarion. Her hands clumsy with cold, she fumbled at the chain until she pulled the key free. She could leave it where Tyrian would be sure to find it. Because Tyrian would certainly come to look for her. Would he be able to see her, once she was in the rift? Probably not. No matter, as long as she could see him. But could she?

  Suddenly it became very important to Faris that she see Tyrian. It was not safe to leave the key on the stair. Stiffly, she rose. She would give it to him herself and see him once more and say—she couldn’t think what she’d say. But he would know precisely what she meant. That was the best thing about Tyrian, she decided. He knew her duty as well as she did herself. Or better. He had told her again and again not to look ahead. It was almost as though he had known. The rift was all that lay ahead for her.

  She wondered if she ought to have let the rift have her time with Tyrian. But if Galazon itself was not enough, how could her feeling for Tyrian, muddled and silly as it no doubt was, make any difference? And she had given up so much, so reluctantly—no. Enough. For now she would keep what little was left her.

  Slowly, careful of her footing on the treacherous stair, Faris descended. The steps turned from clear ice to seawater green. Faris looked around.

  The sky, so clear at daybreak, was overcast. To the north the clouds were as dark as if day had not yet come. The steps turned from green to white, and Faris had to slow further, for a north wind was pulling at her clothes and pushing her hair into her face.

  She reached the ground safely. As she took a step away from the stair, the pattern of white glass on white stone faded. All around her lay shattered brick and stone.

  A flight of geese came over, and their high wild song made Faris remember how homesick she had been at Greenlaw, when that sound had reminded her of Galazon. Her memory of homesickness jarred against the numbness that was all that the rift had left her of Galazon.

  The lions were awake. In the flat open space that had once been the throne room, they stirred only a little from where they had slept, but they watched with interest. Graelent, Piers and three more henchmen were sitting in a neat row, hands on their heads, before the pepper-pot tower. They regarded the lions anxiously.

  Tyrian stood over Graelent and the others, pistol in hand. Until he noticed Faris, he looked exhausted but utterly self-possessed. She saw his expression darken with alarm as she approached. In unison, they asked one another, “What happened?”

  Before either could answer, the door to the palace opened. Out spilled half a dozen armed scrub-brush guards, the king with them. Close on his heels was Agnes. A little behind her came Brinker, still yawning.

  Graelent called to Faris. “Your majesty! You’ve returned for us!” Faris scarcely heard him.

  At the sight of the pepper-pot tower and the intruders, the guards raised their weapons. The north wind rose, whirling dust everywhere. The king rubbed his eyes. “That proves the rift is gaping anew. This must be Menary’s doing. Find the child at once. At once. She’s out here somewhere. Stop her before she destroys us all.”

  Agnes, clinging to his sleeve, protested, “She’s your daughter. You can’t send armed men to capture your own daughter.”

  Brinker replied, “Unfortunately, at the moment, armed men are all he has.”

  At the sight of Faris, the king shouted, “Forget Menary. Here’s the one widening the rift. Guards! Seize her!”

  In crisp unison, the guards brought their weapons to bear.

  Graelent’s henchmen, including Piers, called out to the guards, “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot us.” Graelent spared neither the guards nor his henchmen so much as a glance. Instead, he rose and came toward Faris, hands out to her in welcome.

  Tyrian blocked his path but Graelent did not seem to notice. He confronted Faris, eyes blazing with excitement. “Your majesty—you’ve come at the perfect time. There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I quote from the English play.”

  Faris ignored Graelent. She had to clear her throat twice before she could speak loudly enough to be sure Tyrian heard her over the rising wind. “Tell Hilarion I’m sorry.”

  Frowning, Tyrian asked again, “What happened?”

  Behind him Graelent called urgently, “We are almost evenly matched with the usurper’s party. We won’t have another chance like this. Come, your majesty. Shall we behold the stars at mortal wars?”

  “I failed. I’m so sorry.” She put the key into Tyrian’s hand and started back toward the rift. She could feel it waiting for her.

  Tyrian turned to follow her.

  “The witch flees,” the king called to his guards. “Stop her! Stop her before she destroys us all, or you are as guilty as she.”

  Graelent persisted. “Very well. You do not answer. To the wilderness we wander. Come away, your majesty. Down the stairs, your majesty—wait—no—down the stairs.”

  “Halt, Faris Nallaneen,” the king roared. “Halt or we bid the soldiers shoot.”

  Graelent cried, “You dare not fire on our rightful queen.”

  Faris scarcely heard them. Dimly, she was aware that Tyrian was just behind her. The world had dwindled until only the hunger of the rift was left. There was nothing
else before her. The task was clear. The rift.

  From a great distance, Faris could make out the voices, faint but clear:

  “Ready, aim—”

  “For god’s sake, no!” That couldn’t be Brinker, though it sounded amazingly like him.

  “Don’t shoot—I surrender!” That was Graelent, face down on the ground, from the muffled sound of it.

  Agnes screamed like a doll’s teakettle coming to a boil.

  What was now unmistakably Brinker’s voice, ragged with emotion. “For god’s sake, hold your fire!”

  “Fire!”

  Obedience was not perfect, even among the king’s guard. Most of the shots went high, by accident or design.

  The crash of the guns came from far away. It was no louder than the slam of a door. Faris scarcely noticed it. But Tyrian brought her down in a flying tackle and the world came back with a jolt as she hit her chin on the ground and bit her tongue.

  The fall, beneath Tyrian’s full weight, shocked her. For a moment she lay still, trying to understand what had happened. Save for her bitten tongue and bruised chin, she felt no pain. She felt nothing at all. Only she could not move her legs. Why was that?

  Gasping, she had pushed herself up on scraped elbows before she identified the scalding wetness soaking through her clothes. Then she understood. She was quite unhurt. Tyrian sprawled across her, bleeding.

  His eyes were open. When she bent over him, she saw her worst fears confirmed in his expression. He said, as best he could on a ragged breath, “I won’t go.”

  “No, don’t go. You can’t go.” She found the glass key in his left hand. The slender stem had broken. “You have to take the key back to Hilarion for me. I promised.”

  He did not manage to smile, but one corner of his mouth lifted. “So did I.” He looked past her at the sky. “It’s going to snow.” The words took his last strength.

  When Faris pressed his fingers around the broken key, his hand was still. His eyes were empty. When she called his name, he did not respond.

  Another flight of geese came over, and another. When Faris lifted her head to look, the north wind had grown much stronger. She pushed her tangled hair back.

  The wind had driven the king, Brinker, Agnes, Graelent, and all to shelter. Even the lions had retreated. Faris was glad to be alone. She could feel the rift waiting for her still. A moment, no longer, and then she would go. There really was nothing but the rift before her now.

  She felt no pain. Even sorrow was muted by the nearness of the rift. Only the wind touched her. So welcome a scourge, the north wind. She would linger in it a little before she left.

  Out of the north she saw skein after skein of the great birds coming. Their call stirred her heart. As she watched, the first flakes of snow began to fall. She welcomed the sting of them on her face. It was just a little pain, but it was something. A token to go with her into the rift.

  And still she did not recognize the rush of wind and clouds. Still she failed to perceive the nature of the sudden storm that came out of the north to drive the geese before it. Only when she caught the scent of dry leaves and damp earth on the razor’s edge of the wind, did she finally understand.

  Last of all the things she had surrendered to the rift, she had called Galazon. Galazon had come.

  The blizzard fell like the lid of a white box. Half blind at the heart of the wind-lashed snow, Faris scrambled to her feet.

  All around her the shifting patterns of the rift had stopped. She welcomed the sorrow, the pain, the cold that struck clean through her. As the cold struck her, so the cold struck the rift. As it chilled her, so it chilled the rift. The wind buffeted her until she nearly lost her bearings. Was she in the rift? Or was the rift in her?

  As the storm reached its height, she set her last anchor far overhead. As sure of her own strength as she was of the north wind’s, she sent herself into the heart of the rift. In the heart of the rift, she found the heart of balance, the heart of rest. For a blazing, endless moment, as all pain eased, the world held still around her.

  In that instant of equilibrium, she felt Hilarion’s presence and, more faintly, two others with him. To Faris, with all her senses occupied, Hilarion’s companions seemed to brush past in haste. She glimpsed them only, yet recognized in them great wisdom and great age. Then they were gone.

  Hilarion lingered. As if admiring the color and composition of a painting, he hesitated. With the delicacy of an artist wielding his favorite brush, he made a swift adjustment, paused, and made another. Sense of balance satisfied, he withdrew, as if to step back and judge his canvas. Greatly pleased, and mildly mischievous, he regarded his work a moment longer. And then departed.

  Faris felt him go: great wisdom, great age, and amusement greater still. Her first thought was puzzlement at Hilarion’s reaction. Her next thought was that now she was utterly alone.

  The equilibrium held an instant longer. Then Faris felt, as though she felt the deep vibrations of a distant bell tolling, the new wardens of east and south and west, as they took their places in the world. In the heartbeat after the last wardency was restored, the balance altered. Rift healed at last, the world took up its ancient dance once more.

  Cold again, half blind again, Faris braced herself against the storm. Slowly the wind began to slacken. The storm eased.

  Faint and far off, Faris heard the wild geese, like a high wild song, like hounds hunting. The song stirred her, made her long for high meadows and deep forests. Even if there had been no clouds, she would not have seen the wild geese pass, for she hid her face in her hands. Only her heart could see them go.

  17

  “I dislike loud noises, particularly in the morning.”

  The wind died. The snow, which had drifted knee-deep in places, began to melt and trickle away, a small sound but steady, more musical than rainfall. The broken surface of the old throne room floor was revealed again, littered with stones, dark with damp. Overhead, the sky was still evenly overcast. But all around the horizon, a ring of clear sky began to show, like a wide blue rim on a gray bowl.

  Slowly Faris took off the black robe Graelent had given her. In her ruined silk gown, she felt cold no more. She was numb, but for the dull certainty that she would do the next thing required of her, and the next after that, and so on, until all her duty was done. At the moment, it seemed plain it was her duty to see to Tyrian.

  Dead, Tyrian’s bruised face held a curious expression. It might have been fear and surprise mingled. Faris tried to remember if she had ever seen either expression in Tyrian’s face while he lived. She did not think so, but she could not be sure. The dislocation of grief made it hard to remember. She wasn’t certain if her time with Tyrian had gone into the rift or not.

  Faris opened his left hand, searching for Hilarion’s key. To her consternation, the key she found was whole, not broken. Nor was it smoky green glass the color of sea water. This key was cut of sharp-edged crystal, loop and stem and pin and bit, flawless, and as clear as spring water. The faceted glass gave back the morning light brilliantly. The chain, long and fine as a strand of hair, was unchanged. Faris put it around her neck but let the key hang, unconcealed.

  The black robe was large enough to cover Tyrian completely. With great care, she arranged it to shroud everything.

  When she rose stiffly to her feet, Faris realized that the lions had returned while she was intent upon Tyrian. She drew herself up warily, lest they try to come near Tyrian, but they merely lay in graceful repose all around her. From time to time, one would gaze with mild interest toward the palace door. None of them seemed inclined to trouble either Faris or the robe.

  Brinker ventured slowly out of the palace door. His eyes were grave as he studied Faris.

  She was not ready to speak to anyone yet, least of all Brinker. But she could not bring herself to leave Tyrian.

  “Is any of that blood yours?”

  “Blood?” Faris looked down at herself. “Oh. No.” She discovered her throat was raw.


  “Are you all right?”

  Faris just stared at him.

  “Apparently not. I’ll take you back to the Metropol.”

  Faris flinched at his touch. “You wanted me to marry the king.”

  “I did. I still do. Pity the king detests you. It would be much the best solution. I am sorry he wouldn’t listen to me. Unfortunate about your servant. A waste. Still, you’re not hurt. That’s the important thing.”

  “You ordered the guard to hold their fire. I won’t forget that.”

  “You noticed my poor effort, did you? You seemed past noticing anything.”

  “I noticed. Thank you.”

  Faris’s gratitude seemed to pain Brinker. “I dislike loud noises, particularly in the morning. Perhaps we should leave now. You’ll probably be quite safe from the guards while you are with me. We can make a discreet departure.”

  Faris couldn’t simply leave Tyrian there. While she struggled to find words her uncle would understand, Agnes emerged from the palace door. She halted a few steps from Faris as one of the lionesses approached her.

  “What have you done to my father?” she demanded. “Where’s my sister? There’s witchcraft at work here.”

  “There’s nothing at work here,” Faris replied. “It’s over. The rift is closed.”

  “Ah.” Brinker looked warily around. “Where is Menary?”

  “She’s gone.” Faris met Agnes’s eyes squarely. “I killed her.”

  Agnes staggered. Startled, the lioness withdrew to a safe distance. As he steadied Agnes, Brinker looked bemused. “Still a natural diplomat, I see,” he said to Faris.

  “I had no choice. I had to close the rift.”

  Brinker looked intrigued.

  “You killed my sister? You killed her?” Agnes fell into a storm of weeping. Brinker attempted to comfort her but she shook him off and retreated into the palace, crying, “I must tell Father!”

  “So Menary is dead.” Brinker sighed. “Well, I’m sure you had your reasons. Now. This rift. Tell me what you know about it.”