Passages

by Passages (epub)

  Her musing was interrupted when the door opened and Timiyon stepped into the room, followed by a familiar yet unfamiliar figure; Shasta stood and nodded politely to him. He wore the familiar dark blue uniform of the Guard, but she didn’t recognize him. Timiyon smiled and pointed at him, then commenced finger-talking to her. (Shasta, this is my friend Jayan. He just got promoted and assigned here.) Timiyon finger-spelled his name for Shasta, and she repeated it, watching herself to fix it in her memory. (He arrived yesterday and is already working: he wants my help with a problem in town.)

  Of course he would: Timiyon wasn’t too forthcoming about his past, modestly claiming he was just a supply officer, but from what hints she gleaned from his stories, she was sure his job included solving problems.

  (And by that, he means us.)

  (Yes!) Shasta nodded fiercely. Of course she would help. Anything to avoid thinking of her Trial.

  Shasta noted how Jayan glanced between Timiyon’s nimble fingers and Shasta’s energetic reply. As he did many times before, Timiyon then explained Shasta’s situation: how her mother had contracted spotted fever when she was pregnant, and with no Healers around to ensure the health of her and her yet-to-be-born daughter because of the Storms. How she learned the alphabet on her fingers so her family could talk with her. How he became her tutor when the Herald who examined her said she had the Mage Gift instead of the Fetching Gift as everyone believed after her Mother’s spools of thread began to fly around her when she was upset, and how he taught her to focus her Gift as best he could.

  While Timiyon explained her situation to Jayan, she examined him as he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He had tousled brown hair that would never accept a comb, eyes that showed his every emotion, a mouth that seemed to like smiling except that it was frowning right now, and a neat uniform with an officer’s gold braid. She liked him.

  Jayan mouthed some words, and Timiyon translated them. (Jayan says Thayler, the gold merchant, was found unconscious in his counting room just after dawn this morning. The Healer says she doesn’t know what happened to him but that it wasn’t natural. Jayan suspects magic.)

  Shasta hid her smile behind a cough and her closed fist, remembering what Timiyon told her when he first started tutoring her: A Rethwellan Royal investigator once said that magic was always the answer when there was no seeming answer. Not that he was always right, but magic always made his job more difficult. Of course, only a nonMage would ever make such a statement: even she knew that magic was rarely the answer to anything.

  * * *

  * * *

  Shasta’s family moved to Sunrise Crossings, the Valdemaran trade town next to the improved road across the Valdemaran and Karsite border, when it was first built less than a decade ago. It was a convenient place for merchants from Rethwellan and Hardorn to join Valdemaran and Karsite caravans traveling between Haven and Sunhame. Shasta appreciated that the town was on one side of the road and the stables and cartwrights and other businesses and buildings to support the caravans were downwind on the other.

  Jayan escorted Shasta and Timiyon into the tallest building along the main street, up to the third floor, and into Thayler’s office.

  (This is where his housekeeper found Thayler this morning. He was lying on the floor beside the counting desk.)

  Leaving Jayan to observe from the doorway, Timiyon motioned her into the room with his head, and Shasta nodded. There was only one door, an iron-banded oaken door, and only one window, a broad, barred stained-glass window of the Sun-in-Glory that was certainly illuminated by the first rays of the Sun, which, in turn, illuminated the large wooden desk before it. Two Karsite style padded benches instead of chairs were placed before the desk, and another bench was sure to be behind the desk. Shasta also noted the many lamps on each wall.

  Timiyon pointed toward the window. (Weaponsmaster Alberich has something similar in his quarters in Haven. Very similar, indeed.)

  Shasta raised a querying eyebrow in response. Of course he would know that: he probably even saw it.

  Timiyon tapped Shasta’s hand. (Magic?)

  Shasta focused herself. There was magic here, the feather-fall tingling sensation along her fingers that magic always had, but there were fraying tag ends of magic that felt like a spell was present. The closer she moved to the counting desk, the more present that feeling seemed to be, but she didn’t know enough about magic to tell what spell or how long ago, and she signed that to Timiyon.

  Timiyon sighed. (Gold is notorious for holding on to bits and pieces of magic. Thayler holds monies for foreign merchants. Rethwellan strongboxes have strong protection spells on them, mine certainly did; it could have come from them.)

  Jayan’s querying raised eyebrow was met with a shake of Timiyon’s head. Jayan hung his head slightly at the news, then shrugged his shoulders.

  Moments later, Shasta and Timiyon were back on the street. There was a caravan mustering for departure, and Timiyon helped with the logistics, an interesting diversion in his semiretirement. Shasta, however, noted his distracted stare and was convinced he was thinking more about Thayler than loading caravan wagons. (If what happened to Thayler is not natural, then who? Why?)

  Timiyon smiled. (First we find the how. Find the how, find the who. Find the who, find the why.)

  * * *

  * * *

  Timiyon and Shasta walked into the mustering yard at the cartwright’s, and immediately into chaos. Several men in comfortable Valdemaran garb, severely plain Hardornan clothing, ostentatious Rethwellan finery, or richly embroidered Karsite tunics were either arguing among themselves or arguing with an exasperated man in a leather apron. A young student in shabby clothing leaned against a post and alternated burying his nose in a book in one hand and drinking from a flask in his other hand. A bald, blunt-faced man wearing gray velvet finery and a prominent Sun-in-Glory pendant sat on a bench nearby eating with birdlike precision, neatly slicing an apple and stabbing pieces to eat. A narrow-faced, slender-boned man in a severe gray uniform sat next to him, guarding a heavy iron chest and watching everyone through narrowed eyes as if he suspected each and every person there a potential thief, especially the Karsite family of two harried adults and four very active young children. Shasta wouldn’t trust any of them.

  When one of the merchants happened to look away and notice Timiyon, everyone clustered around him, demanding his attention, much to the relief of the leather-aproned farrier. Timiyon quickly learned that Basidi hadn’t opened the business that morning and couldn’t be found; Merrow, Basidi’s partner, left for Karse yesterday noon to help with her cousin’s first childbirth. That left Timiyon as the only person in some measure of authority.

  Timiyon convinced the merchants and travelers to follow him into his office, where he could sit and rest his ailing knees, then spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon answering questions, scheduling tasks, offering recommendations, and generally soothing frayed tempers. Shasta stayed by his side the entire time. It was no different from the interminable town council meetings Timiyon was forced to endure. Shasta sat meekly on his left, paying close attention to the participants, all of whom ignored her completely. When he wanted her advice on what their faces were saying, Timiyon would rest his hand on his leg, under the table, and Shasta would reach over and tap the lengths of his fingers in the precise location and order to finger-spell her comments. He would sometimes reply in the same manner.

  By dinner time, the merchants and travelers were mollified, the cartwrights, blacksmiths, and farriers were finished for the day, and the caravan just might leave as scheduled in the morning once Timiyon sorted out all the paperwork tonight and if Basidi returned tomorrow to make the final approvals.

  Timiyon walked up the double set of stairs to Basidi’s office, sat down behind the very messy desk, and went to work. Shasta followed him into the room and looked at the couch opposite the desk. The cushions were
in disarray, one leaning against another and a third laying on the floor. She knew from Timiyon that Basidi sometimes worked late and slept there when the caravans mustered.

  A vague feeling prompted Shasta to step closer and reach out her hand; the same fraying bits and pieces of magic she had felt in Thayler’s office were near the couch, but here, the only gold she saw was a golden Sun-in-Glory token on the floor next to the couch.

  Shasta snapped her fingers, and Timiyon got up and walked over to look where she pointed. He picked up the token and lifted his lenses to peer at it more closely.

  (This is a journey token, usually worn by followers of Vkandis who have made the journey to the Great Temple in Sunhame. There was one like it on Thayler’s desk.) Timiyon’s eyes held that same intense glitter he got when translating a difficult passage. (Two of the three richest people in town acting strangely, two of the three most prominent Vkandis worshipers, two of three involving something at their office, and two of the three . . . )

  Timiyon closed his fist, then smiled. That left Merrow, the trade factor, Basidi’s partner, who matched the caravan merchants with goods and took orders from distant merchants. (Rules of three: Something unusual happens to two of the three, I suspect something will happen to the third, as well.)

  Shasta could believe that—she had never trusted Basidi or Merrow. She also knew there was one slight problem: (Merrow is in Karse.)

  (We can still check her office, just to be sure.) She followed Timiyon into the next room over. Unlike the messiness of Basidi’s office, Merrow’s was very neat and orderly; the only thing out of place was a small golden Sun-in-Glory token on the desk. Timiyon leaned over to peer at the token. (It is the same as the others. What do you think?)

  Shasta didn’t reply; she didn’t need to reach out, she felt the magic tremble across her skin as soon as she came within arm’s reach. She stood next to Timiyon and reached out, slowly, with one hand. She felt a knot of magic there, pulsing, with a string playing out somewhere in the distance from the center. She reached closer and felt the knot quiver, then a tag-end of it lashed out at her. There was sudden implosion of air rushing inward, surrounding herself and Timiyon with darkness.

  * * *

  * * *

  Shasta fought the urge to brush her hand across her eyes to make sure they were open. Even in the darkest of rooms, there was always some faint light her keen eyes could see. Now, there was only thick darkness. Then she noticed the pain of her left arm awkwardly pinned against Timiyon’s side and her legs and feet tangled underneath her. She twisted herself to free them, only to slide down, coming to rest on her back against Timiyon’s legs with her arms and legs above her like an overturned, pitiable beetle.

  She felt Timiyon crouch beside her, taking her arms and lifting her to her feet; then his hand traveled up her arm to her hand. He cupped her hand and gently finger-spelled his question, then finished by drawing the questioning glyph on the back of her hand: (Where?)

  She reversed their hands and replied. (Inside something. Like egg.)

  (Trap spell.)

  Even Shasta recognized that.

  (Light?)

  Light, she could do. It was the first and simplest magic she ever figured out for herself. She reached into the magic within her, concentrated, and wove spiderwebs into a wan ball of amber light that appeared over her open hand. In a brief moment, she could see herself and Timiyon reflected in the curved surface around them before the light flared so blindingly and brightly white that she closed her fist and canceled the spell. She blinked several times to clear the sunspots and tears from her eyes.

  Timiyon dropped her hand, and she suspected he was knuckling his eyes to dry them. It was a long moment before he took her hand in his hands again.

  (Recognize spell. Trap for Mage. Daren’s grandfather took throne from oathbreaker brother. Mage ally made spell to trap royal Mages.)

  Shasta smiled. He might not know magic, but royal history he knew very well.

  Timiyon continued. (Spell famous. Court Mages copy.)

  (This happened to Thayler?)

  She could feel him nodding through the shaking of his hands. (Think so. Followed Vkandis. Always had light. Then darkness. No light. No sound. Vkandis Hell. Shock anyone.)

  (No sound?)

  (No sound. Trap silenced. Like you now.)

  (How get out?)

  (Unlock outside. Needs Mage.)

  Shasta nodded; that was understandable, the spell was a jail, and that meant a jailer, and keys. (Master?)

  (Journeyman locks, unlock. Simple spell, was told.)

  Shasta made a silent vow to herself and to whichever gods listened to never learn or cast the trap spell, ever, if she ever completed her Journeyman Trial. (Only way?)

  (Break spell from inside. Dangerous.)

  (How?)

  (Reflects spell like mirror.)

  Shasta thought a moment. (Does more. Makes bigger.) She had felt the magic of the trap amplify as well as reflect the magic of the light.

  Timiyon was still and silent for a long moment. (Very dangerous.)

  (Now what?)

  (What can we do?)

  (We escape!?) Shasta couldn’t help her hands shaking, but she couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or fear. If there wasn’t another Mage to unlock them, then she had to do it herself.

  (Why?) Shasta was certain Timiyon agreed, but he was testing her again.

  (Mage escape. Jail still locked. We stay.) After all, jails were not meant to unlock themselves. (We escape, catch Mage.)

  (Mage careful. Knows trap sprung. Not panic.)

  Shasta pondered that point for a long moment. (Mage planned escape?)

  (Mage smart. Retreat planned.) Timiyon was back to using military analogies, expecting the worst of his opponents. (Candlemark across border, disguise, Sunsguard bribes, safety.)

  Shasta pondered that point for a long moment. (Wait candlemark, then release?)

  (Maybe not from distance. Mage safe, why bother? Bigger problem. Not made for two people. Air gets stale. We fade, we die.)

  Shasta gulped and clapped her other hand across her mouth. (How long?) And how did he know that? Timiyon was constantly bringing up odd bits of information like this. The one time she questioned him about it, his silent sad smile and slow shaking head told her it was a question best left unanswered.

  (Can’t tell. Small space, two of us, think not long. Candlemark, maybe two.)

  (We escape.) This was now more than just a matter of justice in Shasta’s mind, it was a matter of survival.

  (We escape, chase Mage, maybe catch Mage, we live. Not escape, Mage escapes, maybe we die. Agree. Escape.)

  (How?)

  Timiyon was very still for several long breaths. (Don’t know.)

  (Scared.)

  (Scared, too.)

  Not right! The thought tore through Shasta’s mind, and she lashed her fist out against the mirror wall. Her fist bounced back forcefully, causing her to ram the point of her elbow into the opposite wall. It was only by jerking her arm around herself, and almost striking Timiyon, that she avoided striking the near wall again. She bit her lip as tears flowed from her eyes.

  (What?)

  She was so distracted by the pain that she barely felt Timiyon’s question until he repeated it, again. She finally spelled out her response through the pain. (Hit mirror. Mirror hit back. Hit elbow. About hit mirror again.)

  Timiyon’s fingers trembled on her own for a long pause. (Spell hit mirror. Mirror send spell back. Hits mirror, not you. Repeats.)

  (So?)

  (Spell break mirror, or spell drain magic. Trap breaks.)

  Shasta thought about the idea, and she also thought about being trapped here with a spell bouncing around like an angry wasp. (Can’t control direction.)

  (Make pipe. Direct spell.)

 
Shasta pondered the idea of a pipe, just big enough to guide a spark of a spell down its center, back and forth. She reached for the magic inside her and around her and wove a pipe out of spiderwebs between the closest, flattest sides of the mirror, taking special care to keep the pipe from touching the sides. She had to pause more than once, reaching for more magic, melding the rifts in the pipe, making sure to leave a seam to insert the critical spell. But when she reached for the magic around her to create the spell, all she found were tattered ends that sparkled into nothingness at her touch.

  Shasta sagged back against the mirror. (No more magic.)

  Timiyon took her fingers gently. (Always magic. Find magic.)

  She gripped his hand so hard that it hurt her fingers, too. (Can’t!)

  Timiyon gently pried her fingers apart. (Magic is. Trust self. Imagine what is.)

  Water. Timiyon had told her that Mages said magic was like water, how it moved and flowed, how it carved channels and made streams and rivers. Magic didn’t feel like that to her; it wasn’t water, something poured out of a cup. Magic was pieces, a start and an end, of different lengths, of different colors. Then she remembered her mother’s sewing room and the skeins of thread hanging on the walls, so many colors, so many thicknesses, so many of them. (Thread! Magic is thread!)

  (Imagine magic threads. Color? Shape? Size?)

  Shasta gulped several deep, calming breaths. She was very good at imagining things. What would a stream of magic threads look like? She imagined a stream of threads, thin threads, thick threads, like the varied warp and weft of her mother’s rag-rug loom, flowing in many directions at once, and found it around her. (Yes.)

  (See it. Touch it. Feel it.)

  She imagined dipping her hand into the slow-running streams. They flowed around her fingers; some of the streams stung like nettles, some tickled. She reached for a thin, passive thread, plucking one color from a twisted skein that slithered along like a serpent. The thread was straw-amber in color, smooth and slippery as the finest silk, about the length of her outstretched hand, and no thicker than a strand of her hair. She imagined, no, she felt the thread pulse in time with her heartbeat.