Mistress of the Wind (Arucadi Series Book 1)

by E. Rose Sabin

  “What sort of message?” Kyla demanded.

  Again Master Stebbins squirmed and scowled, apparently holding an internal debate on how much to tell her. She waited, determined to glean all the information she could.

  Finally he said, “A message pertaining to the mystical powers once wielded by great mages but now unknown here. I am a student of history and have read accounts of the incredible feats performed before the mages disappeared from the land. I think it possible that the books’ message explains where they went and why. Possibly it even reveals the source of their power. Unfortunately, without the twelfth book, which holds the key, the messages cannot be assembled into a coherent whole.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” The words burst from Kyla before she thought. “I’ve read all those books, and there is nothing of the sort in them.”

  Master Stebbins sniffed. “Nothing that you were aware of. Not surprising if you stole the books, as the innkeeper said.”

  “I did not steal them. I told you that they belonged to my father, who was no mage. Perhaps your customer made up this story as an excuse not to buy the books.”

  “No customer needs an elaborate excuse to refuse a purchase,” Master Stebbins said. “I tell you, I was shown proof that the hidden message exists.”

  “Well, unless you show me that proof, I can’t accept the story.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me whether you accept it or not,” Master Stebbins said angrily. “You’ve confirmed that a twelfth book exists. All I want is its location.”

  She almost told him, It’s in the Starmist Mountains, on Starwind Peak, in the home of a powerful mage, and there is no way you can get it. Something held her back—a reticence to give the location of Alair’s home to this stranger. The hope lingered that Alair might be using this bizarre scheme to rescue her. She said only, “I can’t give you that.”

  “You’re being foolish,” he snapped. “I’m offering you enough credits to buy your freedom.”

  Freedom. What a wonderful sound that word had. Almost it persuaded her. It would have, had Master Stebbins not said, “Of course I can give you those credits only after I find the book and make the sale.”

  “In that case, we have nothing more to say to each other, because even if you knew where the twelfth book was, you could not recover it.”

  “The book hasn’t been destroyed, has it?” He regarded her anxiously through the thick lenses.

  “No, it’s safe enough, in a place you can’t reach.”

  He leaned forward. “Tell me where that place is. I’ll find a way to reach it.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t. Anyway, the books are mine. You’ve no right to sell them.”

  He rose, came out from behind the table, and glared at her. “You’ll never see those books again. Not a single one.” Brushing past her, he yanked open the door.

  Matron stumbled inside. She’d probably had her ear pressed against the door throughout the conversation.

  “If you change your mind, you can notify your matron. She knows how to reach me.” With that parting word, Master Stebbins stomped away.

  Matron grabbed Kyla’s wrist and dragged her back to the sewing room. Marta paused in her work and sent Kyla a sharp look. The girl was always alert to any new event, any change of routine that she could work to her advantage.

  She couldn’t ask now; Master Amos was watching. For once Kyla was glad of that scrutiny; she wasn’t ready to fend off Marta’s questions. As she slipped back into her seat, snipped angrily at the puckered seam, and set her needle in place, the interview with Master Stebbins kept replaying in her mind.

  She arranged her material for sewing and tried to fall into the usual automatic pattern, but her thoughts continued to dwell on the interview with Stebbins. His story had to be false, though whether it was his invention or he was the innocent dupe of his mysterious customer, Kyla couldn’t decide. She was positive her father’s books could not contain a mage’s message. The books had all contained passages that she had found puzzling or incomprehensible, but that was only because she’d been so young when she read them.

  A sudden realization halted her hand on the wheel and stopped the forward movement of the cloth.

  Of course the story of the twelve books being a set was false. Eleven of the books were very old and too fine to have been produced in Noster Valley. They might have been a mage’s gift to her father, though if so, why would her father not have said so? The twelfth book, though, was of her father’s own making: The Record of Deeds and Transfers of Ownership of All Plots of Land In and Adjacent to Waddams. He’d compiled the book over the years, recording each time land changed ownership or passed from father to son. Its pages were of the coarse paper made at the Fenley Mill, its leather cover sewn by a Weaversville saddle crafter. Older by far than she, it was still not as old as the rest of the books, and her father had printed it in his own fine hand. It could not possibly be part of a “set” containing a mage’s cryptic history.

  A sharp crack of Master Amos’s rod across her knuckles brought her back to the present. “Get to work,” the overseer ordered as he passed by. “You have a lot of lost time to make up.”

  She jerked her garment forward and gave the wheel a rapid spin. Her finger slid under the descending needle; the sharp point drove into it. She stared in horror, unable to think past the pain.

  Marta was at her side as Kyla’s stunned cry left her lips. “Hold still,” she ordered, pressing one hand on the pierced finger. Her other hand slowly reversed the wheel and lifted the needle from the flesh. Blood welled from the wound. Kyla jabbed her aching finger into her mouth and stanched the flow of blood with her tongue.

  “I want to know what Matron wanted with you,” Marta whispered. “Sit with me at supper tonight.”

  Despite her pain Kyla smiled at the girl’s transparency. It wasn’t concern that had brought her to Kyla’s side. Kyla had no chance to respond; Master Amos brought his stick down on Marta’s shoulders, forcing her back to her station. He applied the stick next to Kyla. The burning pain in her shoulders blotted out the dull ache in her finger.

  Ignoring pain and ache and blanking her mind to all but the rhythm of her machine, Kyla focused on the needle’s rise and fall and the straight row of stitches left in its wake.

  That evening Marta walked beside Kyla to the dining hall and sat next to her at the table. Kyla had to decide how much to tell her; the girl could be unbearably persistent.

  At least the table conversation was kept brief. Under Matron’s watchful eye they managed only brief whispers.

  “I had a visitor,” Kyla murmured as she passed Marta a bowl of mashed turnips. “He wanted information about some old books I had that he’d bought.”

  “What information? Why?”

  Marta’s terse questions required fuller answers than Kyla could give at the table. Not wanting to antagonize the closest thing to an ally she had in this hostile place, Kyla shared snatches of her story as they walked to the ward, a bit more while they undressed, and more details the next morning in the bathhouse.

  Although Kyla tried to keep her story brief, Marta couldn’t understand Master Stebbins’ demands without hearing something about Kyla’s background and the journey to Line’s End. She told very little about Alair, omitting entirely the fact that he was a mage. Somehow Marta wheedled from her an account of traveling with a baby, though she carefully avoided any mention of Claid’s magical powers or of the mindstealers, knowing that Marta would neither comprehend nor believe.

  “You little fool!” Marta berated her in harsh whispers as they filed back to the ward. “You threw away a chance to escape.”

  “What could I do?” Kyla whispered back. “I can tell him where to find the missing book, but he won’t pay until he actually has it, so telling him wouldn’t do any good. He can’t get the book.”

  Marta cast a scathing look. “The answer is obvious, but if you don’t see it, I’ll tell you. Only you have to promise to get me out, to
o.”

  Kyla quickly agreed, but Sadie stepped up beside them, postponing further conversation.

  At breakfast Marta sat beside Kyla. When no one was watching, she leaned close and whispered, “Tell him you can’t tell him where the book is, but you can take him to it. Say that he has to get you out of here and let you lead him to the place.”

  That was it? Marta’s wonderful scheme? It might get them out for a brief time, but when Master Stebbins understood that Kyla could not retrieve the book, he’d bring them back, and they’d be in more trouble than ever.

  Marta insisted that her plan would give them a chance to escape—possibly the only one they’d ever get. In the disjointed snippets that passed for conversation, she added details.

  Though skeptical, Kyla agreed that it could be their only hope.

  Kyla waited in an agony of suspense, not sure that Matron would deliver her message, doubting that Master Stebbins would respond if she did. Her garment production fell; not even the hope of earning another blanket could focus her attention on her sewing.

  The summons came. She dared not look at Marta as she left her station. Her knees trembled so, she feared Matron would notice. When she was placed again in the small room where Master Stebbins waited, she sank onto the stool before her legs gave way.

  “You’ve changed your mind?” he asked when the door closed behind Matron.

  “I’ve come up with a plan,” Kyla said, keeping her voice low in case Matron was listening at the door. “I’ll lead you to the person who has the book. You could never find the place on your own. It won’t be an easy journey, and it’s a dangerous one for me. But I’ll do it to get out of this place.”

  “I can’t pay enough to get you out of here,” Master Stebbins thundered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Kyla sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap. At the conclusion of his outburst she said, “I thought you had a wealthy client who was willing to pay. If I misunderstood, I’ve wasted your time by calling you here.”

  He shot her an infuriated look. “My client will pay only when I have all twelve books. Until then I have nothing and can offer you nothing.”

  “It’s not true that you have nothing. You’re a merchant. You can invest in the trip to recover the book.” She felt proud of her use of the term “invest.” She’d learned it from Marta.

  Master Stebbins leaned back and stared at the ceiling. After several agonizing minutes, he turned his gaze to her. “I could possibly make a small investment,” he conceded. “The books are of considerable value. How long would it take to recover the missing one?”

  “It’s a bit complicated.” She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Do you know about the baby I had with me when I came to this town?”

  “What does the baby have to do with the book?”

  This part was Kyla’s own refinement of Marta’s plan. “I left the book with the man I stole the child from. If I go back without the baby, he’ll kill me. You or your client will have to take me to him and offer to exchange me and the baby for the book.” She was taking a big chance, but she had to try to rescue Claid.

  “That’s an impossible plan. Tell me where to find the man, and I’ll take the child to him.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing. I’ve explained that it’s not a place you could find without my help.”

  His long fingers stroked his chin. “The baby was placed in an orphanage in another town. He won’t be easy to recover.”

  A thrill passed through Kyla. He knew where Claid was. He was considering her plan. She concealed her sudden excitement.

  “It will cost dearly to get you released. You can expect no other payment.”

  Kyla fought the temptation not to risk what she’d won. What she was about to do was folly, but she’d promised Marta. She swallowed twice before she could get words through a dry and constricted throat. “I do need something else. I need you to release my friend Marta as well. I’ll need her help with the baby. I won’t go without her.”

  Master Stebbins stood and leaned over the table, glaring. “You presume too much. You can rot here, and your friend, too.”

  He stalked to the door. Kyla swiveled around on the stool. “You say the book’s worth a fortune to you,” she said softly. “Come back if you want that fortune.”

  He hesitated, his hand on the latch. She held her breath. He opened the door and pushed past Matron.

  Matron conducted Kyla back to the sewing room with the air of a conqueror leading a triumphal procession. Kyla wiped tears from her eyes. She’d been so close. If she hadn’t made that foolish promise … Marta wasn’t even a friend, not really, but most of the plan had been Marta’s. Kyla would never have tried it without Marta’s urging.

  Marta had been a prostitute, as Sadie had charged. She had confirmed it. It had kept her alive on the streets after her parents abandoned her. That explained her bitterness and the hard lines etched on her young face. Marta might be only using Kyla, but having lost her own parents at a young age, Kyla could not abandon the girl.

  As she took her seat at her machine, she glanced at Marta and shook her head.

  Marta mouthed the word, “Wait.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TRAIN RIDE

  Kyla saw no justification for Marta’s confidence in what seemed a hopeless scheme.

  “Greed,” Marta explained. “It won’t let the shopkeeper rest. He’ll be back.”

  Each day that passed strengthened Kyla’s conviction that Marta was wrong. Then on the fifth day, Matron called both of them from the sewing room. With a grin and a wink, Marta got up from her machine and walked with Kyla to where Matron waited.

  “You’ve both been indentured to Master Stebbins,” Matron said in a surly voice. “He’s taken on your debts, but if you don’t serve him well, you’ll be right back here, debts and all.”

  Looking as though she’d just eaten a green chirberry, Matron led them through a corridor and into a beautifully furnished sitting room. Kyla had never seen it before, and she was sure none of the workhouse inmates were allowed in it.

  Nor were Kyla and Marta permitted to sit in the comfortable armchairs. They were made to stand before Master Stebbins, who was ensconced on a plush settee. Afraid we’ll dirty the upholstery. Kyla seethed, but Marta only smiled and bowed respectfully to Master Stebbins.

  She lost her smile when the guards shackled their ankles, linked her and Kyla with a short chain, snapped metal bands onto their wrists, and linked those with a longer chain, the end of which was entrusted to Master Stebbins. Kyla deeply resented that treatment, and guessed that it galled Marta, too, though the girl kept silent.

  Matron and the guards led the way to the front door, unlocked it, and formed a gauntlet through which Master Stebbins led his hobbled charges. Kyla expected to be snatched back at the last minute or to have the guards rain blows on her, but nothing worse happened than that Matron fixed a loathing stare on her as she passed. Only when she stood on the street and heard the door slam behind her did Kyla feel free of the despised workhouse.

  The pale winter sun felt wonderfully bright on her face. She breathed deeply. Alien and colorless though it was, the cold wind cleansed her lungs of the sewing room’s stale, lint-filled air. Her excitement soared; she wanted to sing and dance with the wind.

  While Marta kept her gaze fixed on Master Stebbins, Kyla drank in the sights and sounds and smells of Line’s End, minding neither the curious stares of the townspeople nor the hobbling weight of the chains.

  Master Stebbins had not spoken since receiving them into his custody, and Kyla did not ask where they were going. He was leading them away from the workhouse; that was enough.

  He led them down back streets and narrow alleys, avoiding the main streets. At each corner he peered carefully up and down the side streets. He cast frequent glances behind him as if fearing pursuit.

  “He’s up to something,” Marta muttered into Kyla’s ear. “Watch him. He may try to get rid of me.”
>
  So that was her worry! It wasn’t groundless. Master Stebbins needed Kyla and he’d believed her claim to need baby Claid in order to retrieve the book. He didn’t need Marta. He might well have agreed to take her only because he’d found a way of getting rid of her as soon as it was safe.

  “I won’t let him do that,” Kyla vowed, though how she’d keep that promise she didn’t know.

  Heedless of how their shackles limited their pace, Master Stebbins rushed them along, forcing them to take short, awkward running steps to keep up. His route took them to a long, narrow wooden building on the edge of town. He stopped and gazed around furtively before opening the door. After cautiously peering in, he drew them inside.

  The building consisted of a single large room furnished with rough wooden benches, a few occupied, most empty. A counter ran along one side. A bored-looking man in a flannel shirt and wide suspenders stood behind it. On the wall behind him hung a slate on which rows of numbers and times were chalked.

  Master Stebbins pulled Kyla and Marta with him to the counter. “Three tickets to Dabney,” he said.

  The clerk looked up from a paper he’d been studying. “Good morning, Master Stebbins. Will that be one way or with return?” He swept a curious gaze over Kyla and Marta, taking in the chains, but didn’t comment.

  “With return.” Master Stebbins took out a leather purse and extracted several copper coins of three different sizes. Kyla watched with considerable interest. These must be the coins represented by the numbers in the credit and debit columns of her account.

  “One great, five middies,” the clerk said.

  Master Stebbins pushed one large copper disk and five medium-sized ones across the counter. The clerk picked them up and counted them as though he mistrusted his own eyes. Nodding, he handed Master Stebbins three long strips of paper in return. “Train’ll be here in half an hour. Got any baggage?”