by Jean Johnson
Her dry-voiced reminder provoked a ripple of laughter in the men and women seated in the pews, thanks to the truth in her words.
“I thank you for coming, and I shall send word for the Binders to post the time and day for the next open meeting to discuss the nature of our new Patron and new Holy Guild. Feel free to discuss what we have talked about today with others; though if any of you have questions, I strongly encourage each person to come to the Consulate hall and leave a written question for my fellow guildmembers and me to contemplate the answer. In the meantime . . . it is lunchtime. Have a good day.”
Grasping the wooden handle of the stone mallet, she cracked granite against polished granite, ending the meeting. A young apprentice wearing the familiar medallion of the Messengers Guild moved up to the head table, a folded paper outstretched in his hand. “Message for you, Guild Master Longshanks.”
Nodding, Rexei dug into her pouch. All messages were prepaid for delivery, but it was courtesy to tip the apprentices for a job well-done; once a guildmember became a journeyman or higher, their pay was good enough—and presumably the service as well—to not need tips for encouragement. She handed over three square coppers and accepted the note. It wasn’t sealed, just folded over, and was fairly simple.
Rex,
I twisted my ankle on the way out of the inn, and now cannot even hobble across the room, let alone halfway across town. I know you have meetings this morning, but if you could join me for the midday meal over here, I’ll buy. Send word if you can’t make it; send yourself if you can.
Lun
Rexei quirked her brows, looking up at the apprentice. “Why didn’t you deliver this earlier?”
“He said before noon was fine, no big rush,” the youth told her, shrugging. “I had a dozen others that were. Any return message?”
“No . . . I’ll go myself. Thank you.” Watching him walk off, she absently tucked her brother’s note into her pouch. Rexei looked around for some of the other mages but couldn’t see them. They were still nervously avoiding her. Her apprentices and journeyman had already vanished as well, taking off to find their own food sources, leaving her alone. Sighing, she acknowledged that she should leave a message for Alonnen, in case he was already on his way back from the Vortex to rejoin her here.
Using the pen and paper she had brought for this morning’s meetings, she dipped the pen in the ink jar and wrote out a quick note explaining she had gone to the Fallen Timbers Inn for lunch with her brother. Rexei folded it up, writing For Master Tall on the outside. With that task done, she dropped the letter off at the front desk of the Consulate, belted her winter coat over her clothes, and headed into the damp and windy but no longer drizzling winter day.
The gusts increased as she turned down one of the main streets, heading for the Fallen Timbers. Leaning into the wind, she timed the pace of her steps to the songs that always hummed in the back of her head, masking her magical signature, warding her from detection, from attack, from—magic sizzled over her skin, disrupting that song. Just for a fraction of a moment, but it was enough to make her foot fumble.
The misstep drove her to the ground. Heart pounding, knee bruised, she twisted as she struggled back to her feet, looking all around for the source of the attack. Three men—strangers, none of them from the Heiastowne temple—converged on her from three different directions. The one on the far right scowled at her and flicked his hands. Panicking, she tried to shove to her feet, humming harder. The spell slapped into her with a jolt of pain.
For a moment, unable to see or move, she lost the thread of her protective meditations. One of the two remaining men grabbed her right elbow, saying gruffly, “Easy lad, you look ill.”
The other grabbed her left arm and pressed something to her neck. It sealed to her skin with a sizzle of magic just as she got her humming back. The pain remained, blurring her vision . . . but . . . she could hum, and that meant she could think. It was hard; Rexei felt the energies in the spell trying to drown her thoughts. She fought it to the point of humming faintly under her breath, struggling to remember the melodies of her warding spells.
“Stand up, Longshanks,” the man on her right ordered tersely. “You will act like we are helping you. Now, walk with us.”
Physical pain and cognitive dullness warred with the need to struggle, to escape. Rexei found herself walking between the two men, who still had their arms tucked through her elbows.
“Looks like your left knee is twisted,” one of them said aloud. Immediately her knee throbbed and her leg started limping in response.
Don’t panic—don’t panic—don’t panic! That frightened thought chased itself in circles, ruining the rhythm of . . . It has a rhythm! Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic . . . The warding harmonies came back, albeit at a faster, higher, more frantic pitch than usual. The more she concentrated, the clearer her thoughts felt, but at the cost of giving up some of the fight to control her body. I can do this . . . I can do this. I just need to concentrate . . . stall for time . . . don’t panic, don’t panic, concentrate, stall for time . . .
The words became a mantra, the mantra a melody. Her steps slowed with each fractional gain in her self-control.
“Walk faster,” the man on her right ordered gruffly. Her half-limped steps quickened a little. “Walk faster.”
“You twisted the boy’s knee,” the man on the left muttered. “Be thankful we need the limp as an excuse to take him off the streets, should anyone ask.”
It’s okay . . . I have time . . . and . . . and if they’re taking me to the temple, the paper roaches will see me . . . I just have to figure out . . . figure out the weak points in this controlling spell. It’s an amulet, not a collar, which means if I can somehow detach the adhesion spell, I can get rid of it and time my escape . . .
Time wasn’t on her side; the Consulate was not that far from the back door to the temple. Giving up her resistance to the body commands, she focused on trying to feel the resonances, the vibrations of the spell. Two spells, rather, one to command and one to cling. One tingled all through her body, threatening to turn her flesh numb. The other itched against her skin.
Rexei already had a spell to counteract itching, a useful ward to know when traveling through some of the more bug-infested stretches of the land. With a bit of thought, she started weaving that song into her warding melody, the one that cut down all magic in her immediate vicinity, and tied it into a countermelody to the itch. It was a long shot since she didn’t know if it would work—
Just as they reached the back door and the third man pulled it open, the stone popped off her throat. It dropped into the neckline of her winter coat. She faked a stumble the moment she felt it slithering down between the layers of wool, only to fall for real as all three men overreacted in their opposing efforts to get her steadied. Thankfully, their soft curses and grumblings hid the clack of the control stone hitting the paving stones of the alleyway. Rexei was free, yes, but only of the spell’s effects. Elbows and knees bruised, she realized from the way they were grabbing her that physically she would not be able to get away, even if she was magically free.
A scrap of colorful paper caught her eye. Quickly, she passed her hand over the doorsill, scraping the crushed paper roach out of the crack where it had been squished and left behind. She wasn’t sure if she could pull off a repair, but there was a way to transfer a bit of magic from one piece of paper to another . . . such as her brother’s note. At least, she knew the theory of it. Vaguely.
Guildra, help me, she prayed earnestly as they hauled her back onto her feet and pushed her into the temple’s back corridors. No one noticed the missing stone or the scrap of paper hidden in her hand.
Though the stone no longer forced her body into obeying their commands, she was still trapped. Two men, she could put to sleep with a spell. Three . . . four. No, five . . . six . . . Gods! Forcing her expression into the du
lled look of one of the mages who had been collared, Rexei kept her fingers curled around the rumpled paper spy. All these years, I escaped and escaped and escaped . . . but now that Mekha is gone, now is when I get trapped by the priests?
Guildra . . . if this is a joke, it isn’t funny. If it’s a priestly test of my faith, that would not be funny, either.
Archbishop Elcarei stepped into view. Moving up to her, he grasped Rexei’s jaw, lifting her head. She tried not to look too self-aware while he peered at her. His brown eyes were distant, almost clinical, then his lips moved. “Bend over and kiss my crotch.”
The only thing that saved her was how her gaze instantly dropped. Oh Netherhells . . . ! Guildra, you had better give me a chance to get free. Stooping, she puckered up her lips, aiming for a spot below the belt of his blue velvet robes. There has to be a point where they’ll leave me alone . . . I hope . . .
“Stop,” he ordered sharply. Rexei froze, balancing as best she could on her toes. “Straighten up, Longshanks, and walk down to the holding pens. First ring, first door on the right. You remember it, don’t you? The first prisoner you walked out of here? Go there, now. You, go with him. You, go fetch a control collar.”
Yes, if they leave me alone . . . she thought, turning to walk toward the first set of stairs, the ones that led up to the forbidden door . . . Gears! Three of them are still coming with me? Can’t I get a break?
Hands gripped her elbows. Fingers brushed back her scarf—No, no, NO! Panicked, Rexei quickly stepped up the state of her humming. Metal touched her neck, and for a while, the world went away, smothered in a fog of mental wool.
FIFTEEN
Both women alighted gently upon the balcony outside Alonnen’s study, each wrapped in a bubble-shield to keep them from being harmed by either the waters or the magical energies of the Vortex.
Orana looked much the same as ever: a youngish woman in her early twenties, her blonde hair braided and wrapped around her head, with a deep-sleeved robe worn over trousers and a tunic in shades of blue and cut in some foreign but comfortable-looking style. The outer robe was half black and half white, each side marked with a tower keep embroidered in the opposite color; the inner lining, of course, was pitch-black, for it was a Darkhanan Witch-robe, the symbol and possible source of her priestly powers. Alonnen didn’t know and didn’t mind not knowing.
Pelai, on the other hand, had arrived in what she thought was adequate winter clothes, a long-sleeved shirt and vest over a strange, knee-length pleated skirt made from colorfully cross-striped linen. Wool would have been much better, since she had only sandals to cover the rest of her tattoo-covered legs. Seeing the dark-haired woman shiver, Ora tucked her hands up her sleeves and pulled out a bundle of bluish green fabric.
“Here, Pelai,” she stated, her words delivered in flawless Mekhanan. “The colors will clash with the red, gold, and black of your clothes, but these leggings should keep you warm, and that’s the important part. Master Tall . . . I am pleased to meet you again. The Dark informs me that you now have a priesthood you can trust. Does this priesthood have a Guild Master?”
“Yes, but Guild Master Longshanks is in Heiastowne at the moment,” he admitted, turning his back politely so that the Mendhite could slip out of her sandals and struggle into the leggings with a semblance of privacy. He didn’t think the balcony overlooking the Vortex was all that cold, but then he was dressed for winter, with layers of wool over his linens. The scarf and cap had been set aside, leaving his lower face, throat, and carroty curls bare, but he also hadn’t just come from a country located close to the Sun’s Belt region of the world. “Why do you need to know the location of the head of our new Holy Guild, Orana?”
“I have information for the new high priest and for any followers,” Ora explained. “I used the mirror on Nightfall Isle which connected to the Guardian of Koral-tai—bypassing the Fountainways of Nightfall, which were inaccessible due to the Convocation—and asked the nuns there to look up any holy spells or prayers which a true priest could use to banish and remove demons, plus prayer-spells to cleanse Netherhell-fouled ground. Mother Naima in turn passed along my request to Pelai, here, who has done some research of her own.”
The Mendhite spoke up, grunting a little as she struggled into the leggings. “Stupid . . . too short . . . ah, there. Yes, I have a scroll with several such prayer-spells copied onto it, culled from the Great Library. It’s in the blue pack, there . . . and I wish I knew more tailoring spells,” she added under her breath. “I need a handspan more of cloth, or I’ll be forced to waddle the moment these things start to slip . . .”
“Sorry, they were made for Sir Niel, my deceased Guide,” Orana apologized, and held up her hand, palm out toward the woman beyond Alonnen’s field of view. “Basher louzaf cha-nell, k’ko . . . There, that should do it. I’ve had plenty of time to study Fortunai spellweaving techniques. Niel is tall for an Arbran, but not quite as tall as a Mendhite, I’m afraid.”
A soft sigh of happiness from Pelai made Alonnen curious, but he did not turn around. Instead, he waited until the tanned woman walked around him into his line of sight, looking pleased with her borrowed tights. They did clash a bit, but he knew she would be warmer.
“Welcome to Guildara, formerly Mekhana,” he told her. “And welcome to a rather wet and chilly winter.”
“I’ve seen Mekhana on the maps. You’re not that far north,” Pelai stated, folding her arms across her chest. Alonnen had the impression her arms were feeling cold despite the long sleeves of her shirt. “Why is it so cold?”
“We’re not as far north as some kingdoms, true,” Orana told the other woman. “This part of Mekhana is only a couple hundred miles from the northernmost point in Sundara. The land extends almost a thousand miles to the north before hitting the North Sea, where it can get quite cold in winter. However, we are high up in elevation, compared to Mendhi, and the higher one goes, the colder things get.”
“Apprentice Pelai,” Alonnen began, intending to return the subject to the reasons why both women were here.
“Doma Pelai,” she corrected him. At his blank look, the Mendhite explained. “I am a Disciplinarian; males are called Domo, females are called Doma. It means ‘controlled one’ and the suffix at the end indicates gender. My status as a Doma outranks any apprenticeship. Though I suppose, as we are all working together as near equals, you may simply call me Pelai when titles are not needed.”
“. . . Right. Thank you, Pelai, for the courtesy of informality,” Alonnen said. Regathering his thoughts, he returned to the subject at hand. “I’m afraid Master Rexei Longshanks is in Heiastowne at the moment, but if you like, I can call up the Consulate on the talker-box to see if Rexei is done with the morning’s training sessions.”
“Talker-box?” Pelai asked him.
Moving to the glazed doors, Alonnen murmured a command under his breath, waited until the image of the room beyond filled with a trio of people, then pushed the panel out of his way. “It’s an engineering device that transmits silent aether-signals to a similar machine within a day’s journey—Heiastowne lies well within its range. You listen with the cone on the cord held to your ear, and speak into the one on the metal armature, and the other person on the other end of the connection can do the same. I—”
“Master Tall! Thank goodness, you’re back,” Gabria called out to him. “We just saw something awful on one of the spying roaches. We think we saw Master Longshanks in the temple!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alonnen saw Pelai giving Gabria an interested look. Beyond her, Orana merely lifted a brow, apparently not fazed by much despite not knowing what they were talking about, unlike Pelai. Hurrying forward, he reached the spare mirror and took the crystal tablet Gabria held out to him. She pointed over his shoulder, indicating which roach symbol was the one with the recording.
He had to pause and back up the image to find a good shot . . . but it was her. T
he sight of Rexei in her gray woolen coat, black scarf and cap, and the brown woolen trousers and darker leather boots from this morning was irrefutable. The curve of her cheek, a lock of thumb-length dark brown hair, the shape of her modest nose . . . and a dull look of horror in her eyes. Dull, that was, until he manipulated the controlling spells in the block of crystal, advancing the magic-captured images painting by painting, and saw her gaze dart around, then flick straight to the roach. She didn’t lift her head, but she did shift her eyes straight to it for two full seconds, before she left its field of view.
That was the roach he had moved to sit in a corner of the curved corridor ceiling on the uppermost of the three imprisonment rings. It was supposed to count the comings and goings of all the temple residents, since it had been relocated from the power room to the hallway and had been angled with a good view of the doorway to the one stairwell that led to the outside. A man Alonnen dimly but imperfectly recognized had his arm tucked around hers, and he seemed to be guiding but not dragging her somewhere.
Orana’s voice, normally smooth and calm, sharpened with anger. “What is that thing doing on her neck?”
“What thing?” Alonnen asked. He wasn’t sure how the Darkhanan Witch knew what Rexei’s gender was, until he realized that after two hundred years, he’d probably be very good at spotting such things, too. Orana’s outrage confused him, however. “The scarf?”
“The control collar!” She pointed at the image on the mirror.
He snapped his gaze back to the mirror, reversing the image until he could see for a brief moment the rune-chased metal band clamped around Rexei’s throat. Alonnen suspected he had blinked at just the wrong moment to have missed it before. “Dammit, they’re not allowed to . . . Wait, that’s right—they’re not allowed. It’s illegal, now!”