Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Miss Connor,” he replied, the tilt of his head equally precise. He, at least, could forgo the necessity of wearing a hat while on the ship, his blond hair tousled by the breeze. “The Captain informs me that we should reach the islands tomorrow, perhaps even tomorrow morning.”

  “Lady Amara will be delighted to hear that,” Lasair replied.

  “And even more delighted to be on solid ground?” His lips did not twitch, but she could read the subtle jest in his eyes.

  She nodded, not sure what other response could possibly be appropriate, and turned her head back to the bow of the ship, to the featureless blue horizon ahead of them.

  “The steamships have certainly made this voyage easier than it would have been even twenty years ago,” she said at last, her voice as neutral as she could make it. What was it about him that unnerved her? Why did she see questions in his eyes?

  “Indeed. No more need sailors fear a calm day.” There was more than a hint of laughter in his voice, although Lasair couldn’t imagine why.

  The odd silence stretched between them until Lasair gave herself a small mental shake. Whatever he was trying to see in her was no business of hers. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and fled to Lady Amara’s stateroom without waiting for a reply.

  * * *

  The stateroom was a small suite, surprisingly well-appointed, consisting of Lady Amara’s sleeping and dressing chamber, Lasair’s own, smaller room, and a shared sitting room between them, which provided the entrance to the center passageway. It was here, near the slatted wall that allowed air to circulate, that Lasair found her mistress.

  Leaning back in the broad wing chair, fanning herself in a desultory fashion, Lady Amara Feuerberg looked up as Lasair closed the door.

  “There you are, my dear,” she murmured. “I wondered how long—” she broke off, her glance turning to an outright stare as Lasair removed her hat. “My dear, your hair! And your cheeks!” She waved toward Lasair’s room. “Take a moment to tidy up, and be sure to lotion!” No longer indolent, her voice crackled with energy. Lasair had learned early in her employment that although Lady Amara enjoyed playing the role of a lady filled with ennui, it was no more than a pretense.

  “Yes, Lady Amara.” Lasair ducked a tiny curtsy, ignoring the exasperated head shake at the deference, and moved to her tiny chamber.

  The tiny slip of silvered glass on the wall revealed that Lady Amara had been right about her hair. Quite a bit had pulled out of its pins, haloing her reddened face. Taking all of it down and wielding her brush before the slim mirror, Lasair set to reining in the auburn curls. That was odd, she thought. There hadn’t been that much wind—just brief puffs of air—and yet her hair seemed to have been picked out of its pinnings. Perhaps it had been that wildness in her appearance that had drawn Conrad Ayresbury’s quizzical attention. She bit the edge of her lip, not sure why the thought unsettled her.

  Gathering all of the long strands, she twisted and wrapped, tucking the ends to create a neat bundle, a liberal application of pins securing the twist in place at the nape of her neck. She dug through her trunk to retrieve the nearly empty jar of rosewater lotion, dabbing a tiny bit on each cheek before straightening her skirt and rejoining Lady Amara.

  “Much better, my dear,” the older woman said, scrutinizing Lasair before nodding approvingly. “Now, any news?”

  “We should arrive at the Sandwich Islands tomorrow, according to Mr. Ayresbury, who had it from the Captain.”

  “Thank the good Lord above,” Lady Amara sighed. “I shall be so happy to be off this ship and on our own again!” She fanned a little more vigorously.

  Lasair glanced up, but Lady Amara did not offer any elaboration regarding her plans for what they would do upon their arrival. She had only been Lady Amara’s companion for less than a year, and was not quite certain how the older woman would respond if she inquired further. Even though Lady Amara treated her rather more like a daughter than a companion, she still felt that she knew very little of her employer. In fact, until her guardian, Mr. Rusbourne, had introduced them, she had never even heard him mention Lady Amara before, although they must have known each other a long time for him to place Lasair in her company.

  * * *

  The scenery of the island of O’ahu was astonishing—opulent greens of exotic flora, the air redolent with strange floral scents, the sounds of the harbor and the town punctuated by raucous birdcalls, and the looming mountains above it all. After a few short expeditions inland, however, Lady Amara had shown little inclination for further exploring, and had established herself and Lasair in a large suite at one of the finer hotels. She avoided most social obligations, paying only a single call to the English ambassador, instead spending her time seeking out guides and those who could tell her more about the islands, usually leaving Lasair at the hotel with only minor tasks to be completed while she was gone.

  About a fortnight after their arrival, Lasair found herself once again alone in the suite. For the third time in a quarter hour, she glanced out the sitting room window, but there was no sign of Lady Amara. Restless in the absence of her normal duties, she began straightening the papers on the tiny writing desk. As she did, she spotted her own name written in the strong hand of her guardian.

  . . . be discreet in your use of Lasair. Others have noted the decrease in my own apparent Power since she left my company. If you are suddenly seen to have significantly greater ability than before, surely there will be questions.

  Hearing a noise in the street, Lasair looked up, her guilt warring with curiosity. A pony cart laden with flowers and fruit passed by, and all was again silent. Her fingers tightened on the paper. What was this Power, these abilities Mr. Rusbourne wrote of? And how did it relate to her?

  She glanced over the desk. The two sheets of the letter had been pushed, as if in haste, under another letter, but not completely covered. Her ears prickling and her stomach roiling with trepidation, she eased the pages out and began reading.

  Esteemed Madam,

  I am pleased that your voyage passed without event. It must have been exceedingly difficult for one of our Nature to spend that much time enclosed, nay, imprisoned, by inimical Water. Suffice it to say that I hope you will find the results you experience at your destination to have been worth such a challenge.

  I must, however, warn you as strongly as I can to be discreet in your use of Lasair. Others have noted the decrease in my own apparent Power since she left my company. If you are suddenly seen to have significantly greater ability than before, surely there will be questions. And it would not be impossible to find our common heritage.

  I doubt that this message will find you before you continue from San Francisco to the Sandwich Islands, but again, I urge caution in acting on your plans. Do not doubt that the White Lodge can find some reach, even across the globe. Though the islands themselves may have been formed by Fire, they are still surrounded by Water.

  Above all, keep the Blood safe.

  Your most Dedicated,

  Corven Rusbourne

  With trembling hands, Lasair shuffled the letter back under the other papers, recreating the untidy pile. The shame she felt over reading Lady Amara’s correspondence warred with confusion over the contents. What was this Power that Mr. Rusbourne mentioned? What was the White Lodge? Or the Blood that must be kept safe? And, perhaps most importantly, what use was Lady Amara making of her that required urgings of caution? The role of lady’s traveling companion, after all, was a common position, and her duties varied little. She kept Lady Amara company, read to her, and attended to small errands. A breeze through the nearby window brought in the now-familiar floral perfume. This time, however, it was laced with acrid smoke, and she sat down abruptly as memory flooded over her.

  A small, dark room, the smell of smoky incense heavy around her . . . a voice—Lady Amara’s?—or Mr. Rusbourne’s?—chant
ing in a strange language . . . the image of a stained piece of fabric, then a piercing headache and black silence.

  Lasair blinked, her breathing rapid as she came back to her surroundings. The breeze must have shifted, for the air was now fresh and clear, with a bracing hint of the salty ocean coming from the harbor. She took deep breaths to calm herself before studying the strange memory. It must have been a true recollection—no imagined event could have felt so real. And why would she ever have imagined herself bound—but she now realized that she had been, as surely as if ties had been closed over her wrists—in a dark room with such strange sounds and smells? She could more easily believe the whole event to have been a nightmare, except that it was the middle of the afternoon, and she had been wide-awake.

  A greeting called out by the hotel doorman disturbed her, and Lasair realized Lady Amara had returned. She bent down, thankful that she had collapsed onto the window seat, and pulled her knitting from the small basket tucked nearby. She bent her head over the needles, winding the thread through her fingers and placing the needle’s point into the next stitch of the lace pattern just as the door opened and Lady Amara swept into the room.

  “Finally, all is settled,” she said, lowering herself onto the small sofa. “I have secured a boat, lodgings on the greater island, and a guide and horses so that we may explore all of the mountains there.”

  “When do we depart?” Thankfully, Lasair managed to keep any trace of the distress she still felt from that strange memory out of her voice. An expedition to the big island had been Lady Amara’s single goal since they had landed in Honolulu. She had many times expressed her desire to see the active volcanoes, the “living, growing” mountains.

  “The day after tomorrow. I could not secure an earlier time for us and still make arrangements for our accommodations. I have no desire to make a rough camp for any more days than I would need to!”

  She laughed, and Lasair smiled back, relieved that Lady Amara had detected no alteration in her demeanor.

  * * *

  The small steamer left the harbor quite early, and Lady Amara professed to be barely awake, even as she anxiously stood at the rail as close to the bow as she could manage, studying the big island as they approached.

  Lasair was disconcerted to find Mr. Ayresbury also among those headed to Hawai’i. As they boarded the little ship, he smiled a greeting to her. “I have spent some days studying the plants of O’ahu, and thought this an opportune time to visit the greater island to see if they grow differently there.”

  “A student of Mr. Darwin?” Lasair kept her tone neutral. In some circles, to use Charles Darwin’s name was something akin to blasphemy.

  The expression in Mr. Ayresbury’s eyes was questioning, as usual. “I have read some of his theories, and found them intriguing. It is, in fact, the main reason I traveled to the United States, and then here. Do you have an interest in botany?”

  “Not in particular,” Lasair replied, glancing at where Lady Amara stood. “But Lady Amara’s tastes in reading are wide-ranging.”

  “Indeed,” was all that Mr. Ayresbury offered, before Lady Amara turned to join them.

  * * *

  When they met their native guide the following morning, Lasair was unprepared for the torrent of foreign speech that greeted her. Perplexed, she turned to Lady Amara, who seemed just as confused. It was a moment before the man-of-all-work at the tiny cabin smoothed out his own wrinkled brow and spoke.

  “You will forgive, my lady, but some of the inland people still cling to the old superstitions, as this one does.” Disapproval tinged his voice as he gestured at the guide, who had fallen silent and now stood with his head bent in Lasair’s direction. “He appears to believe that the young lady is a living incarnation of the goddess Pele, whom the superstitious still treat as the ruler of the volcanoes.” Lady Amara raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. “I believe it is the hair, my lady. Pele is often described as having hair of fire.”

  Lady Amara burst into laughter as Lasair raised a hand to her head, making sure that her bright red hair was still neatly coiffed. A passing breeze had teased a few strands to float loose about her face, but otherwise the knot at the base of her skull remained secure.

  “Well, if he will not provide us the service we require, we must look to engage someone else.” Lady Amara’s expression hardened, making the guide drop his head farther.

  “If Pele wishes to observe her own mountain as a stranger, Hana’kahi will guide her,” he muttered, his accent thick. “Hana’kahi will serve in whatever the Lady of Fire commands.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Lady Amara murmured, laughter returning to her voice as she mounted her horse.

  * * *

  The first sight of the active volcano and the blazing lava flow came as a revelation to Lasair. She had admired the steep mountains of the western United States, and had found the peaks of O’ahu attractive. But when she saw the flaming, molten earth jetting out of the blackness of the surrounding mountain, she was awestruck by its fierce beauty. She felt a pull deep within her, a desire to get nearer to the liquid fire. Glancing at Lady Amara, she saw the same fascinated yearning on the older woman’s face, mingled with something like anticipation.

  “Will we get to the flow today?” Lady Amara asked their guide, who nodded.

  “If the Lady wishes, our camp could be made near to it,” Hana’kahi said. “There would be safe places upon the rocky ridge, like the bank of a river.”

  “That will be perfect,” Lady Amara said, and Lasair gave a tiny nod when the guide looked at her for approval. Only then did he turn and continue up the narrow, leaf-grown pathway.

  * * *

  As evening approached, they neared the edge of the lava flow. Hana’kahi had said the volcano had been more active of late, the river of fire flowing farther than usual down the mountain, and that even the Princesses had come to pray—Princess Ruth to Pele, Princess Liliuo’kalani to the Virgin Mary—that the lava would slow and the town of Hilo be spared.

  It was in a sheltered clearing here, with the hissing and popping of the liquid earth in their ears, that the three of them made their tiny camp, with Hana’kahi sleeping on a mat outside Lady Amara and Lasair’s tent.

  * * *

  Lasair was wakened by a sense of pressure, a squeezing through her whole body. Moving numbly, obeying an unheard but felt command, she rose and left the tent. She was able to turn her head enough to look at Hana’kahi’s mat, and saw the lifeless body of the guide with his throat slit, his blood thick and black on his simple tunic. Unable to resist the summons, she continued walking forward, through the forest edge to the rim of rock that hedged the lava flow down the mountainside.

  Lady Amara stood near the edge of the rocky outcropping, wearing an ornate robe Lasair could not recall ever seeing among her wardrobe, but yet it seemed familiar to her. Small candles were set in a circle on the stones, and by their flickering light and the glow of the volcanic flow, Lasair saw strange symbols and patterns chalked on the rock around Lady Amara. The older woman gestured, and Lasair’s feet propelled her toward a second circle of chalked symbols.

  Once she reached its center, Lady Amara flicked her fingers, and another ring of small candles flared into life surrounding Lasair. The young woman felt herself at once frozen tightly into place, her body pinned motionless as Lady Amara began to chant, in the same strange language that Lasair recalled from the flash of memory in the hotel on O’ahu.

  The lava advanced more rapidly now, bubbling with greater energy, its level rising higher against the edge of the rock they stood upon. Imprisoned by whatever Lady Amara had done, Lasair attempted to shuffle back from the edge, but the soles of her feet stood fast while the liquid earth flowed by, little more than an arm’s-length from her bare toes. Looking at the lava, Lasair realized that her fear was not of the molten river. It was of Lady Amara, who had
stopped chanting and now reached her hands out along the flow toward the peak of the mountain, greedy anticipation lighting her face. Her expression was one of deep hunger, tinged with a hint of madness.

  Suddenly, a tiny breeze like gentle fingers lifted Lasair’s hair, teasing it out of its nighttime braid, swirling the skirts of her sleeping chemise and night robe and dancing around to tug at Lady Amara’s heavy robe. She had a sense of laughter—where could that come from, for her ears were filled with the hissing of the flowing lava and the echo of Lady Amara’s chanting?—as a bit of fabric was pulled free from a hidden pocket in the embroidered robe the older woman wore, floating toward Lasair. As the smoke swirled around them, she saw flickers outlining a shape in the air, a feathery woman-figure holding the white square out to her.

  Whatever force held her captive had eased a tiny bit. Although it was still an effort to move, Lasair could reach forward to grasp the piece of fabric—a handkerchief, she now saw, stained with three dark patches—from the wispy fingers of the transparent woman-figure. As she touched it, her fingertips closed over those rust-brown spots, and more memories and sensation stunned her.

  —Herself, as a child, held down by Mr. Rusbourne as he pierced her finger, dripping three drops of blood onto the handkerchief, and watching as he chanted, unable to move, feeling a tug from somewhere deep inside her as he conjured . . . something. Then, exhaustion and blackness . . .

  Flashes of similar events filled her mind, along with a deep, instinctive understanding. Corven Rusbourne had shaped the magic, and Lady Amara had taken it over, and they had both drained her, used her. A part of her, the part of her that had been “awake” for the last twelve years, struggled to align this revelation with what she thought she knew. The rest of her, newly roused by the return to her hand of those stolen drops of blood, burned with unfettered fury.