by Sharon Green
Jovvi’s enjoyment evaporated at the thought of Allestine and the confinement she was determined to escape. So far her plans hadn’t gone well at all, especially since she’d begun to wonder at those plans. Her ultimate aim was to be so wealthy and powerful that no one would ever be able to control her life again, and last night she’d been shaken to realize that she stood within reach of the ultimate place of wealth and power. Being a member of the new Blending…
“But that’s more fantasy than reality,” she protested to herself, trying to bring her imagination down from the heights. “Do you really think you could qualify as a member of the new Blending? Don’t you remember what the boy said about it being nobles who were chosen? You may have nobles as patrons, but you can’t be silly enough to think you’re one yourself.”
Jovvi sighed as her practical nature refused to let her lie to herself. Her family had been about as noble as an old shoe, something she refused to let herself forget. Her talent with Spirit magic was just an asset to be used like any other, not something to use in an effort to pretend she was better than everyone else. Those who talked themselves into believing they were superior in every way usually proved just the opposite with everything they did.
Like that silly girl Beldara Lant, last night at the table. Jovvi made a face at the memory, wondering how anyone above the age of five could be so self-centered. Or any woman, at any rate. Men with money and power usually demanded that life accommodate them, but most women were too practical to do the same. Money and power most often ended in the hands of men, and only the occasional woman was able to take them for her own.
Which was what Jovvi had planned to do, before delusions of fantasy had begun to turn her head. In all practicality it would never be possible to become a member of the new Blending, but the temptation to try for it was so unbelievably strong. She’d better remind herself again about what the boy had said, repeating it over and over as necessary.
“And stop calling him ‘the boy,’ even in your thoughts,” she chided herself as she sat up and ran her hands through her hair. “He’s obviously older than you, and his name is Clarion.”
Yes, Clarion Mardimil, she recalled with another sigh. He was actually more than ordinarily handsome, but there was a … lack, perhaps, or some kind of innocence that made him feel more like a boy than a man to her talent. His balance was so precarious it was difficult to understand how he’d passed his test. Most adults with so little, self-possession rarely found it possible to cope with ordinary life, not to mention extraordinary situations like his test must have been. But he had passed, and was now in the process of developing a crush on her…
Jovvi smiled as she got out of bed, wondering if Clarion even knew what was happening to him. He’d dropped out of the table conversation early and had been one of the first to go to bed, but every time he’d looked at her she’d felt him reacting the way men always did. The odd thing about it had been the distance of his own awareness, as though he’d somehow been kept from learning a normal masculinity. Jovvi didn’t understand that, but there were enough other men in the house to keep Clarion from pestering her. She’d use one or two of the others as shields, and—
Her thoughts broke off as she heard a very small but unexpected sound, at the same time feeling a wetness on her bare left foot. She looked down expecting to find herself imagining things, then blinked at what should have been imagination but wasn’t. About halfway between her knee and her ankle a tiny cluster of thunderclouds floated in mid-air, dark and threatening with lightning flashing through them and thunder rumbling around. And rain coming down from them, which was what had wet her foot and part of her nightdress.
“But all we drank last night was tea,” she protested in a murmur, staring down at the miniature thunderstorm. It was actually rather adorable, if you liked that sort of thing. What she didn’t enjoy, though, was having her foot inundated, so she stepped back to get it out of the rain. That helped for a very brief moment, and then the clouds followed to rain on her again.
That was the point she realized someone must be playing a joke, but who they might be and how they were doing it was beyond her. The only ones at the table with Water magic were Vallant Ro and that shy little stableman, Pagin Holter, and neither of them seemed the type to play jokes. She’d expected a frank and direct suggestion from Ro because of the way he’d looked at her, but using a practical joke to get her attention? It wasn’t at all likely, and the same held true for Holter. His yearning interest had been quite clear, but all traces of intent to follow up on the feelings were entirely absent.
Jovvi’s foot was beginning to get cold, so there was only one thing to do: get rid of the clouds no matter how adorable they were, and then act as if nothing had happened. That should make the prankster reveal himself, to find out what had happened if for no other reason. And it was faintly amusing, that she was willing to grant.
Dispersing the cloud wasn’t difficult. Thunderstorms were a careful balance of water and dust and air all in turbulence, and without the turbulence it wasn’t possible to have a storm. Jovvi soothed away that roiling violence with very little difficulty, and once it was gone the clouds quickly dissipated and disappeared. Her foot was now safe from the threat of drowning, but it and the carpeting could use some drying. Not to mention that small part of her nightdress.
Mopping up didn’t take long either, and then Jovvi went to work on the problem of where to hide her gold. If she were going to be fitted for new clothes today, she couldn’t very well carry it with her. But she also had no intention of leaving it lying around for the house servants to find. It had to be well hidden but easy for her to get to, and then she’d be able to dress and go looking for breakfast. Dinner last night had been quite substantial, but she’d slept for many hours and was now ready to sit down to another meal.
And possibly to speak to that nice Lorand Coll again. He was certainly handsome enough with a lovely body, but the unusual steadiness inside him was even more attractive to her than his looks. Not that she was in the midst of searching for a steady male friend. That fit not at all into any of her plans, not even the fantasy ones…
* * *
Lorand walked slowly down the stairs on his way to the dining room, glancing around to see if he could spot the practical joker. He’d awakened somewhat earlier feeling well rested and back to his usual self, and had gotten up with the intention of dressing and going to breakfast. Halfway across the floor he’d suddenly discovered that someone had put together a tiny thunderstorm in his room, and the thing was raining all over the back of his nightshirt. He’d found it possible to see the miniature clouds and their lightning only by twisting around at the waist, but he hadn’t had any trouble hearing the small thunderclaps.
But he’d done quite a bit of hopping around trying to see the thing before it occurred to him to stand still and simply twist at the waist. He hated to feel foolish even if no one seemed to be around to watch, so he’d quickly removed the dust motes that kept the tiny thunderhead together. Without that cohesion the storm had ended, spreading out and then disappearing. It had managed to get him good and wet first, though, and he’d actually had to wring out his nightshirt.
So now Lorand looked casually around, trying to spot the one who had tried to make him look like a fool. He intended to indulge in some practical-joke-getting-even by pretending nothing at all had happened even if the culprit confessed, no matter which one of them it happened to be. Ro and Holter were the two with Water magic, and it had to be one of them. He’d find out over breakfast, and then it would be his turn to laugh.
Lorand walked into the dining room to find only two of the others there before him, the man Eskin Drowd, who already sat in his place at the foot of the table and ate, and Clarion Mardimil. The latter stood at a long table set up on the side of the room, a number of odd, covered dishes with long legs arranged on the table. Small containers of what looked to be some sort of oil bubbled gently under the tall dishes, no doubt thanks to so
me servants with Fire magic. But none of the servants were currently in the room, and Mardimil was helping himself from a dish he had uncovered. That had to mean it was proper for Lorand to do the same, which came as something of a relief. He expected to get used to being served by someone other than his mother eventually, but he hadn’t yet reached that point.
Walking around Mardimil to the left showed Lorand a stack of empty platters and a neat row of forks, so he took one of each and began to look in each of the covered dishes to see what they held. The first two held things Lorand wasn’t able to identify in their cooked state, so he continued on until he reached the chicken livers in the third. They seemed to have been fried somehow and smelled wonderful, so he spooned some out onto his plate and went on with his search for eggs, potatoes, and bacon. That was what breakfast meant to him, but it didn’t seem to mean the same to these people.
Mardimil paid no attention to him as they both moved along their own sections of the table, but Lorand couldn’t help remembering what he’d decided. He owed Mardimil an apology for what he’d said in the bath house, and putting it off wasn’t likely to make the effort any easier. If he kept his voice low, the conversation would be private even from Drowd, who sat at the far end of the eating table. Eating table, dish table. Lorand shook his head over people who made them two different places, then used his finally having made a hoped-for discovery to start the conversation.
“I was beginning to think I’d have to find some chickens and coax my breakfast out of them,” Lorand commented to Mardimil, gesturing at the eggs he’d just uncovered. “Liver is a nice addition, but without eggs it just doesn’t seem like breakfast.”
“My eating habits apparently agree,” Mardimil said after something of a hesitation, his words a bit stiff but still representing a response. “Mother’s servants always place the eggs first on the buffet, even when she takes her own meal in bed.”
Lorand nodded, glanced at a Drowd who paid no attention to them, then lowered his voice. “I’d … like to apologize for what I said yesterday,” he forced out in a murmur. “It was entirely uncalled for, and you can be sure I won’t do it again.”
“But it wasn’t uncalled for,” Mardimil responded at once, at the same time looking surprised that he’d said such a thing. “It … made me think … about subjects I’d tried to avoid, even though my survival could well depend on them. You spoke the truth to a stranger, and this stranger is very … grateful.”
“I would call it being gracious instead,” Lorand replied slowly, studying the man who had briefly looked at him with such naked openness and loneliness. “Very few people in this world will thank someone for telling them what they consider a painful truth, and I consider myself lucky for having met one of them. But I don’t think you can call us strangers, not any more.”
“Why, I do believe you’re right,” Mardimil said, looking surprised again. “Those who are involved in a group undertaking can be considered comrades, and this undertaking is a group one, despite our various areas of expertise. How odd this is, to go from a distant awareness of the state to being a comrade oneself.”
“I’m more familiar with the idea of friends in adversity,” Lorand remarked as he happily located fried potatoes. “I’ll admit I know nothing about being a comrade, but we all have experience with being friends so I’ll think of it that way.”
“I’ve … never had a friend either,” Mardimil said without looking at him, the words sounding like an embarrassed confession. “Mother has always said that having many acquaintances is far superior to having a small number of friends, but occasionally I’ve wondered what friendship is like. I’ve heard that too often friends impose on one, and if one refuses the imposition he loses the friend.”
“Whoever told you that lied,” Lorand answered, feeling shocked and hurting for this very innocent victim of life. “A true friend is someone so close to you that you don’t mind helping them, because you know they’d do the same for you. A friend is someone you care about, and—”
Much stronger shock cut Lorand off in mid-sentence, all but leaving him openmouthed. He’d forgotten about Hat, he’d actually forgotten all about his best friend!
“Is something wrong?” Mardimil asked, still speaking hesitantly. “I don’t mean to pry into something that’s none of my affair, so if you’d rather not discuss it…”
“No, I’m just in the midst of cursing my own stupidity,” Lorand answered heavily, feeling very depressed. “I came here with a friend, someone who’s been a friend for most of my life, and we tested at the same time. I … was afraid to ask about him after the test was over, hoping I’d find he’d been sent to the same residence I was, but he’s not here. That became obvious last night, but I didn’t even think about him. Makes me a really great friend, doesn’t it?”
“Is it wrong not to want to admit that someone you care about could well be dead?” Mardimil asked, now sounding more sure of himself. “If I had someone like that, aside from Mother, of course, I’d certainly want to keep from admitting it. The pain of such a loss would be intense.”
“Yes, it is,” Lorand admitted, giving Mardimil a glance of gratitude. “I appreciate your trying to make me feel better about this, but Hat is dead and I’d better learn to accept it. And figure out a way to let his parents know. We can talk again later.”
Mardimil nodded before Lorand turned away, actually looking faintly sympathetic. That was quite a change from the man Lorand had met yesterday, but right now he was in no shape to appreciate the difference. He had a friend to mourn, and a meal to eat despite no longer having an appetite. He’d been raised to never waste good food, so he had to stuff down what he’d already put on his plate.
But how was he ever going to find a way to tell Hat’s parents that he was dead? Without going into details about the way it must have happened. Lorand reclaimed his place at the table from the night before, but it took a few moments before he was able to reach for the fork. Hat would have loved that residence and its upper class ways, but Hat would never see it. He was gone, and the blur of tears helped to take away the sight of what Lorand simply shoveled into his mouth.
* * *
Clarion watched the man Coll head quickly for the table without investigating the rest of what the buffet held, and Clarion sighed for him. He could only try to imagine what it would feel like to lose someone close to you, since he’d never had anyone close but Mother. And he’d done quite a bit of thinking about her, both last night and this morning.
The final warming plate on the buffet held a lovely cheese sauce, so Clarion spooned some over his eggs and then headed for his own place at the table. Teacups had been arranged in front of each place, and steaming pitchers of tea stood at intervals along the table. Drowd already sat at the table to Clarion’s right, but the man had his nose stuffed into a book and didn’t seem aware of anyone else’s presence. Clarion was tempted to feel slighted, but he had too much to think about to regret the loss of another conversation right now.
After pouring himself a cup of tea, Clarion began on his meal and his thinking at precisely the same time. The conversation he’d heard the night before had disturbed him, centering as it had on parents who raised their children to satisfy their own needs rather than those of the child. Someone had once taunted Clarion with the charge that he was only around as a backdrop for his mother, and the insult had hurt twice as much because Clarion hadn’t ever been able to find a different purpose for himself. They’d started to add that his mother had planned it that way, but then Mother had come by and chased the nasty children away.
Not that they had been small children. They and Clarion had all been sixteen or so, and Mother’s explanation of their behavior had fit the situation. They were Clarion’s social peers, she had said, and they naturally resented having been deprived of Clarion’s presence among them. They were old enough to know how precious his company really was, but not yet old enough to realize that they couldn’t possibly be considered fine enough t
o merit it.
Clarion had believed the explanation just as he always believed Mother, but some small kernel of doubt had remained. The boy who had spoken for the group hadn’t sounded deprived and jealous, he’d sounded ridiculing and amused. The rest of the children had seemed the same, and Clarion had never quite forgotten the incident. But he had continued to believe that his welfare was Mother’s first and only concern, just as she’d always told him it was.
And then he’d heard that some parents only pretended to act in their child’s best interests, and he hadn’t been able to chase the contention from his head. Clarion paused briefly in his eating, remembering how the thoughts had come flooding back once he was in his room. He could have held them off a bit longer if he hadn’t been so tired, but instead he’d had to admit to himself that much of what Mother had done hadn’t been for his best. He knew almost nothing of the world and the people who inhabited it, and that was a horrible lack rather than a benefit.
But then another thought had occurred to him, one that had permitted him to fall asleep quickly and sleep soundly. It was inconceivable that Mother would deliberately act against his best interests, so she must have done it by accident. He was her first and only child, and lack of experience at something can turn the best of intentions quickly to the reverse. She’d mistakenly done things that had put him at a disadvantage, and now it was up to him to correct that.