He bellowed for the cook. When she appeared, looking fearful, he ordered her to clear and clean the table and prepare him something fresh and hot. Nellie’s departure had restored his appetite.
Kyla waited in the darkness until she was certain Jerome would not return. Then, quietly, she rose and made her way through dark halls to the stairs. Clinging to the banister, she climbed slowly to the second floor, wishing she had Marta’s gift of kindling the mage fire. No light came from the attic; Mother Esterville must have completed her devotions and gone to bed.
She groped along the wall, counting each door she passed until she reached her own room. Inside, she found and lit the oil lamp and sank down onto her bed. Expending power in that hot, stuffy room had given her a pounding headache. Pretending an attraction for Jerome that she was far from feeling had sickened her. She’d loathed having to touch the man.
She should go to Marta and tell her what she’d done, but she needed some time to think first. Marta would be angry and hurt that Kyla had acted without consulting her. But Marta would have opposed the plan, though it came from Alair. Her friend might have refused to believe that it did come from Alair. She’d been so moody lately, questioning Kyla, even questioning the Power-Giver, who only counseled patience.
I hope you really do know what you’re doing, Kyla thought to Alair. I followed your instructions and kept my fingers on his pulse until I knew the binding spell had taken. Jerome’s power is bound until I release it, but he’s dangerous enough without it. We may have forced him to act before he’s ready, but I’m not sure we’re ready, either. Especially not Ed. He’s terribly vulnerable.
I’m ready, came the Power-Giver’s answer. You must trust me to protect Ed.
She sighed and lay back on her pillow, pain thudding through her head. In life Alair had been far from all-knowing. Through his own miscalculation he’d lost his human body. How could she be sure he knew what he was doing now? True, he was no longer mortal, but neither had he become a god. He had considerable power, but he was not omnipotent. He depended on her and on Marta and the others with whom he shared power to carry out his plans.
Suppose they failed? Had he the right to gamble with mortal lives when his was no longer at stake?
CHAPTER NINE
BOOKS
Marta wrapped the Breyadon in her shawl and slipped from her room. Jerome had long since left for work, but she didn’t know where Kyla was, and she hadn’t told her about recovering the spell book. Mother Esterville had gone outside to gather flowers for her shrines. She couldn’t count on “Harin” supplying them a second time, though Marta was sure she hoped for another miracle.
This was probably not the best time to show Ed the spell book and test his ability to read it, but she was bored. The enforced inactivity grated on her nerves. She couldn’t explore as she’d done the day before; Jerome had warned them to stay in the inner rooms, out of sight of the windows facing the street. Search parties would be in the vicinity, and he didn’t want so much as a shadow to pass in front of a curtained window and arouse the searchers’ suspicions.
Marta knocked softly on Ed’s door and waited anxiously, worried that he might have disappeared again. She was relieved when the door swung open and Ed greeted her with a shy smile.
“May I come in?”
He nodded and stepped aside to let her enter, casting a curious look at the shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms.
“Close the door,” she said. As he did so, she sat on the bed and unwrapped the Breyadon. “I want you to look at this. You can read, can’t you?”
He nodded and a look of pride lit his eyes, though he couldn’t seem to muster the courage to speak.
She opened the large, leather-bound book and turned it so that he could see the lines of bold writing that filled the pages. “Look at this,” she invited. “See if you can read it.”
He hunkered down in front of her and stared at the book in her lap. One finger, its nail bitten to the quick, touched the page and traced a line of writing. “This looks weird,” he said. “I never learned these words. I don’t even know all these letters.”
She tried not to let her disappointment show. “They’re magic words,” she said. “It takes magic to read them.”
“Then why can’t you read them?” he asked, his forehead puckered. “You know magic.”
“I don’t know the right kind. Anyway, I can’t read at all. So even if I could change these ‘weird words’ into regular ones, it wouldn’t do me any good.”
“You can’t read?” He looked amazed. “Then how did you learn magic?”
“The Power-Giver gave me my magic,” she said snappishly, not wanting to get into a discussion about Alair and Claid and how they’d passed the gift of power to her.
“Can’t Miss Kyla read either?”
“She can read.”
He straightened and backed away as though frightened by her peevishness. “Then she can read this book, can’t she? She’s got a lot of magic.”
“We both have a lot of magic, but we can’t do the same things,” Marta explained, remembering the need for patience and gentleness. “Yes, she can read this book. But I—we—wanted to see if you could. We know you have unusual gifts.”
Ed looked back at the Breyadon. His eyes moved, following the lines of writing. Alair’s writing, Marta mused. You’re the Power-Giver. Why can’t you tell him what the writing says? Of course, her thought received no answer.
She studied Ed’s face for some sign of understanding. He turned a page, puzzled over the writing on the new page, and after a time shook his head. “It’s just a bunch of strange words with some funny-looking loops and squiggles mixed in,” he said.
Marta sighed and closed the book. “Well, that’s one gift we know you don’t have. Though,” she said, reconsidering, “Kyla couldn’t read it at first, either. Not until she needed a spell from it real bad. She sang to it then, and it came clear to her. Maybe it’ll happen that way to you.”
“I can’t sing,” he said, shuffling his feet.
“I didn’t mean you’d have to sing to it. I only meant maybe someday when you need to read it, you’ll be able to.”
“How do you know that won’t happen to you?”
Marta laughed. “Because I can’t read at all, remember?”
He hung his head, but then raised it, excitement lighting his face. “I could teach you,” he said.
“You?”
“Sure. I listened to the teachers in Miss Abigail’s school. That’s how I learned to read. I know how they give lessons. And, look, here are books.” He bounded over to a bookshelf on the sidewall and picked out two slim volumes. He selected one and brought it to Marta.
She opened it and looked at the pages. The letters were large; each page held only a few lines of print, and black and white drawings illustrated those lines.
Ed pointed to the first word on the page. “Kitten,” he said. “See, the first letter makes the ‘k’ sound. And i-t spells ‘it.’ ‘K’-’it.’ ‘Kit.’ And the next part is ‘t’-’en.’ ‘Ten.’ ‘Kit-ten.’ See, it’s easy.” His fingers pointed out the next words. “Kitten plays with her ball. The ball is red. The ball is round. The ball rolls across the floor.”
It did sound easy. She set the Breyadon on the floor and made Ed sit beside her on the bed with the reading book open across their laps. He sounded out each letter, each word, and she repeated it after him. Time sped by as, heads together, they pored over the book.
Marta was amazed. Ed was a good teacher. His explanations were clear and simple, and he never grew angry or impatient when she failed to understand. He praised her every success, no matter how small. Before long she surprised herself by reading, word by word, the first four pages of the little book.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted the lesson. Marta barely had time to kick the Breyadon under the bed before the door opened and Kyla burst into the room.
“Searchers,” she said breathlessly. “Here. Jerome’s not with
them. Mother Esterville’s stalling them. She says we’re to hide in the shrine. Hurry.”
She wheeled around and sped from the room. Marta grabbed Ed’s arm and raced after her. Kyla halted them at the attic stairs and cautioned silence. They tiptoed up the steps, trying to avoid creaking boards. The sound of male voices rose from the first floor, interspersed with angry protests from Mother Esterville. As Kyla led them into the attic, footsteps pounded up the stairs to the second floor.
Marta hoped she’d kicked the Breyadon far enough back out of sight. What other signs of their presence would the searchers find? They'd been careless, trusting Jerome’s assurance that his mother’s house would not be searched. He might well have deliberately betrayed them.
Marta could distinguish the voices now; they were loud and angry. Huddled with Kyla and Ed just inside the attic door, she heard a man say, “Mighty odd, Miz Esterville, that with only two o’ you livin’ here, so many bedrooms seem to be in use.”
“Not odd at all,” Mother Esterville responded in a tone of injured dignity. “I’m a restless sleeper and often change rooms during the night. If I can’t sleep in one room, I move to another. I find it very helpful.”
“Peculiar habit,” a deep voice commented. “Your son do the same? Seems to be more than one room with men’s clothes in it.”
“My, you gentlemen are thorough, aren’t you? It’s comforting to know that you miss so little. I always keep a room ready for Jerome’s cousin Shavely. He’s about Jerome’s age and size, and he leaves a few things here for when he comes by.”
“Don’t remember ever hearing that Jerome had a cousin,” rumbled the deep voice. “He visit often?”
“Fairly often, but he doesn’t stay long. He’s a traveling salesman, and drops in for an overnight stay when his route brings him through Carey. He generally comes in on the evening train and leaves the next morning.”
“He don’t peddle his wares here in Carey, then?” came a new voice. “Seems a bit peculiar. What's he sell?”
“Patent medicines.” Marta admired Mother Esterville’s ability to supply responses with no hesitation. Fanatic the woman might be, but she wasn’t stupid. “He can’t sell here in Carey. Other salesmen have the license for this route. Shavely’s tried to buy the right to sell here, but the older salesmen won’t allow it.”
“Hmm. Didn’t know peddlers had to have licenses.” The voice sounded very near the attic stairs. Marta drew back into the darkness.
“He isn’t a peddler. He’s a salesman. Legitimate salesmen are always licensed, as you should know,” Mother Esterville declared with haughty indignation. “Here, you can’t go up there.”
Heavy boots thudded on the stairs, stopped about halfway. “Why not? What’s up here?”
“My shrines to Harin and the other gods,” Mother Esterville said. “It’s a holy place. I won’t let you profane it.”
“We mean no disrespect, ma’am, but we got to look everywhere. If we don’t find nothin’, we’ll go right out.”
“Bring the light, Jonathon,” the deep voice called, ignoring Mother Esterville’s protests.
“What’ll we do?” Marta whispered in Kyla’s ear.
Ed clasped Marta’s arm. “Maybe I can take us all to my secret place,” he said.
“No,” Kyla said, as the booted steps resumed their climb. “Stay back in the shadows. I can handle this.”
Ed didn’t move. Marta had to yank him back against the wall and out of sight of the door. His arm struck something: a part of a shrine. The clatter wasn’t loud, but the man on the stairs heard it. “Somebody’s up here, all right.”
He burst into the attic, Mother Esterville hanging onto his coattails, trying to hold him back. Kyla stepped in front of him. She sang a single loud, high note. The man stood still, his eyes glazed, his breathing shallow.
“You see no one,” Kyla said softly. “The attic is empty. The noise you heard must have been a rat.”
“No one here,” the man mumbled. “Musta heard a rat.”
Mother Esterville’s jaw hung open. She stepped out of the way and allowed the man behind her to enter the attic.
Kyla repeated the high, piercing note. The man stopped, as had his companion.
“There is no one here,” Kyla repeated. “You see only the shrines. Mother Esterville told you the truth.”
A third set of footsteps ascended the stairs. “Tell your friend to go back,” Kyla said. “The attic is empty.”
“Nobody here,” the man called over his shoulder. “The attic’s empty. Miz Esterville told the truth.”
“Thought I heard a woman’s voice,” called the man on the stair.
“That was Mistress Esterville,” Kyla prompted.
“Just Miz Esterville,” the man said. “Nobody else here. Go on back down.”
The steps retreated. “You go downstairs also,” Kyla told the two men planted in front of her. “Report that you found nothing in this house.”
Obediently the men turned and shuffled from the attic. Marta exhaled sharply at the sound of the retreating steps. “I wasn’t sure you could bring that off,” she said.
“Harin be praised!” Mother Esterville said. “Another miracle. I must make a special offering to Harin, and I won’t forget the other gods.”
“Harin had nothing to do with it, nor did they,” Kyla said—rashly, Marta thought. “What you witnessed was the Power-Giver, channeling his force through me.”
“Power-Giver?” Light shining through the open attic door showed a puzzled frown on Mother Esterville’s face. “Not one of these gods?” Her hand inscribed a circle that took in all the flower-decked shrines.
“No,” Kyla said firmly. “We—Marta and I—are emissaries of the Power-Giver, an immortal being who desires to share his power with those worthy to receive it.”
“Power-Giver,” Mother Esterville murmured, trying to comprehend. She gazed around the dimly lit attic. “I’ll have to add another shrine,” she said.
Jerome slipped quietly through the front door, paused, and listened. The house was ominously silent. He’d sneaked away from his own search to warn his mother and get their guests to safety. The imprint of muddy boots on the floor of the foyer told him he was too late. Unless the objects of the search had found a safe hiding place, they and his mother had probably all been hauled off to the guardhouse.
Quietly he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Again he stopped and listened in vain for voices, movement. The searchers must have gone, but he needed to know whether they had found their prey. Hurrying now, no longer concerned with stealth, he entered the rooms assigned to Kyla and Marta and checked the few hiding places large enough to conceal a person: the space under the beds, the wardrobes, a large trunk in one room. His mother’s bedroom was empty; he moved on to Eddie’s room, no longer expecting to find anyone but driven by habit to be thorough.
His cursory check beneath the bed revealed something of interest. He got down on the floor and stretched to reach the leather-bound book hidden in the shadows near the wall. When he grasped it and dragged it out his suspicion was confirmed: it was the missing spell book.
He would not have expected to find it in Eddie’s room; he'd been sure one of the women had taken it. So Simple Eddie was a thief! It was probably too late to use that knowledge, but it was worth having.
He opened the book and glanced again at the mysterious writing. It didn’t give him that peculiar sensation he’d gotten when he’d handled it before. Probably that feeling of standing before a mysterious door had been only his imagination. Still, he wished that he could decipher its secrets.
Surely Eddie could not read this incomprehensible script. The simpleton had probably purloined the book thinking it looked valuable. Maybe he'd meant it as a gift for Abigail, to get back into her good graces. That thought reminded him that with the spell book he could revert to his original plan of linking Abigail Dormer to his intended crimes.
Jerome took it to his room and hid it under h
is pillow. A hasty inspection of his own room completed his search.
A board creaked in the hall. He eased toward the door and flung it open. His mother shrieked and clasped her arms over her bosom.
“Jerome, you gave me such a fright!” She leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. “I thought the search party was back. Why are you sneaking around down here?”
“I was afraid the searchers might still be here,” he said. “Or that they’d taken you prisoner along with the women and Eddie. I’ve been looking to see if you’d hidden somewhere.”
“We’ve been in the shrine,” she said, as though that should have been obvious. “The searchers have come and gone.”
“Didn’t they find the women?”
To his surprise, his mother burst into laughter. “They did—and they didn’t,” she said.
“What does that mean?” He was in no mood for games.
“They were protected by a wonderful new god. They call him the Power-Giver. Kyla says he isn’t a god, but that can’t be right. Only a god could do what he did.”
“What did he do?” Jerome carefully hid the rage that boiled up inside him.
“Two of the three men came into the attic where I’d sent our friends to hide. They looked right at Kyla. She said to them, ‘No one is here. The attic is empty.’ And they turned around and called out to Morgan Case, waiting downstairs, that no one was there, the attic was empty. Yet Kyla was standing right in front of them, and Marta and Ed were in plain sight. It was marvelous!”
“So where are Kyla and Marta now?”
“Still in the attic. We heard someone moving around down here and thought maybe Morgan wasn’t convinced and had come back. It didn’t sound like you.”
“I was trying to be quiet, just as I said.” He reached behind him and pulled shut the door of his room. “I’ve got to get back to my own group. Don’t wait supper for me.”
“I’ll tell our friends it’s safe to come down.”
Bringers of Magic (Arucadi Book 2) Page 10