She glanced at the day glass on its pedestal in the corner, and the hour or two of sands left to trickle through before dawn, and added prosaically, “But not today. So. While you were on your errand, I did my duty and reported to Oalthoreh at the northern school. She said she would pass my report to the Sartoran mages.” Erai-Yanya gestured southward with her bread, and then glanced down at her sash, and the knot still tied in it. “You were there when I tied this, right? So much was going on I forgot why I tied it. Can you remember what it was I was supposed to do?”
Hibern gazed in surprise. She knew about Erai-Yanya’s habit of tying a knot somewhere to help her remember something she needed to do. But she’d always remembered the knots. “Was it about Wan-Edhe?”
“It must have been,” Erai-Yanya said, in a dissatisfied tone. She untied it and smoothed the worn fabric. “So that’s that.”
“Not quite,” Hibern said, and told her what she, Clair, and Senrid had decided, ending, “And so, whatever Senrid learns, he said he’d share. Like everyone keeps saying, our ignorance is the enemy’s first weapon. And I have no idea why, because Mearsies Heili is so small, with no strategic importance whatsoever, but Clair said that this wasn’t the first time Wan-Edhe moved against them.”
‘Strategic importance.’ Erai-Yanya knew that Hibern wasn’t thinking magically, but militarily. She drank some fresh berry juice to hide her grimace. Hibern could not help her upbringing any more than Gwasan had, all those years before.
Gwasan had had the habit of making similar remarks, until she learned better. During their student days, she, Murial, and Gwasan had covered for one another when they’d felt the necessity to steal away in spite of the strict rules. Murial had invariably returned home to deal with whatever disasters her siblings were causing their father, who had had four children over a number of years, all by different mothers.
Gwasan’s private excursions had always stayed private, until she left the school for the last time, an assassin from home right behind her.
Erai-Yanya’s private expeditions had been ventures into magical experiments that she knew she was ready for, but that the school’s strict ladder of permissions forbade.
All three had had what they considered vital reasons for breaking the rules. In retrospect, out of all of them, her own were probably the most dangerous and least well-thought-out, which had proved to Erai-Yanya that the rules were there for a reason.
So when she had taken on this Marloven student, who would have been summarily rejected by both schools because of her birth kingdom, Erai-Yanya had made a vow to avoid setting rules in favor of talking out situations, especially as Hibern had been used to struggling against a nearly impossible situation on her own.
As a result, Hibern talked to her. Erai-Yanya prided herself on that. But there were times when she was not as forthcoming in return. This was one of those times; she knew how Hibern would react if she pointed out how adamant both mage schools would be about preventing Senrid of Marloven Hess from gaining access to what probably was the best collection of concentrated evil intent in the world. So she just said, “Senrid wants to explore in the Chwahir capital?”
Hibern nicked her chin toward her collarbones, fighting impatience. Erai-Yanya wasn’t forbidding her, but her long silence, followed by the question in the carefully neutral tone of adults, meant distrust.
It was a justified distrust, Hibern had to admit. If you didn’t know Senrid. He’d been raised to think violence the first tool of kings, and when Hibern first met him, they had been enemies. But he had slowly, painfully, begun to change.
“He’s in no shape to be raiding Wan-Edhe’s library for evil magic, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Hibern said. “Even if he wanted such. He doesn’t. He’s seen the cost. Lived it. He really does think in terms of defense, knowing what your enemy is capable of. And the enemy he fears is not his neighbors but Norsunder.”
Erai-Yanya exerted herself to sound approving. “That is an excellent idea, actually. So excellent that, rather than train you in Queen Lammog’s Back Door, which is complicated and dangerous, partaking of dark magic, I’ll go with you. Also because we still cannot explain why Murial and I were gone no more than the turn of the finger glass, but returned several hours later. So I’m going to prepare a time candle.”
Hibern exclaimed, “Oh, what a good idea.”
Erai-Yanya shook her head. “Everything this day has been disturbing. Some mysterious connection between the Chwahir and Norsunder? Some kind of artifact that swallows a group of people? I have deep misgivings about powerful ancient relics suddenly turning up, when we’ve gone centuries without ’em.”
Busy, determined, the two turned their minds to all these problems, and once again the mystery of the white palace sank below the surface of their thoughts, and faded out of memory.
* * *
—
The day following, Hibern again endured the long transfer to Marloven Hess, though she had misgivings about Senrid’s ability to sit up, much less sustain a magic transfer. However, a promise was a promise.
But when she was conducted to his study, there he sat, squinting down at some papers with his one good eye, an empty cup beside his hand. His other eye was swollen shut. His hands looked as raw and bruised and swollen as his face. Hibern smelled listerblossom in the air.
“Are we still doing this?” he asked, his voice plummy.
“Erai-Yanya is already in the Chwahir capital, with Clair.”
“You have transfer tokens? I can’t make any right now.”
She frowned. “Senrid, are you able to transfer? You look—”
“I know what I look like. Let’s go.”
Transfer magic is always jolting. The farther one goes, the stronger the wrench, though no more time elapses; the distance is felt in the transfer reaction. When you add magical spells forcing past wards, it doubles the intensity.
Hibern and Senrid both emerged staggering. Hibern shut her eyes and gulped for breath, aware of a sour tinge to the air, the smell of a tightly closed room with heaps of old laundry and unwashed bedding, and under that the metallic nastiness of layers of dark magic.
She felt the last tremors of transfer reaction fade rapidly, and turned her head to discover Senrid leaning against the wall, fingers splayed against it, both eyes shut. The little portion of his face that had not been bruised looked distinctly greenish in the pale light of a glowglobe.
She tried to find words to ask if he was all right—words that would not get her nose snapped off—but then his good eye opened, and he said, “Where?”
They turned, to meet the twin shocked gazes of Clair and Erai-Yanya taking in Senrid’s battered condition, the thin flame of Erai-Yanya’s time candle reflecting in their eyes. But Erai-Yanya was by nature an observer, and seldom spoke before those she didn’t trust—and Clair knew how much Senrid hated being weak.
So she only pointed to the inner room, the thick, moldy lour curling its vapors in her throat if she tried to speak.
Senrid walked slowly into what had to be a magic chamber, his hands held out, fingers spread as he used every sense to detect lethal wards. This was certainly a place to expect lethal wards.
And there were. Erai-Yanya had brought an old quill to test for further wards and traps. A long table dominated the room, which was otherwise bare stone age-darkened with mold in the grouting. Around three sides, bookshelves extended nearly to the ceiling, and it was to these Erai-Yanya moved first, testing with her feather, as Senrid drifted toward the table, looking down at the books lying there, some open. It was clear that Wan-Edhe had expected to return.
Senrid began muttering, and the greenish flash of magic strengthened the metallic singe in the air, then all four sensed a chain of wards breaking. A chain. So much magic potential bound for such little purpose.
Senrid rapped the table lightly with his fingertips, and when noth
ing happened, Erai-Yanya set her little hour candle down in its wooden holder. The flame burned steadily, sometimes flashing greenish, and once, a disturbing blue.
Erai-Yanya thought sourly that that bruised-looking bluish flame was Wan-Edhe’s effect on the world in living metaphor. Clair wondered if there was anything in this terrible place that could help them ward against Wan-Edhe when he came back (because she didn’t believe for a moment he was gone forever—of course Norsunder would send him back) and Senrid faced the realization that this situation was far beyond his knowledge. He should be studying harder, but when would he find the time?
Erai-Yanya cautiously extended her quill toward the books on the shelves, then lowered her arm and glanced Senrid’s way. “Can you remove any wards on these?”
Senrid took a step toward the bookshelves, one hand out, then shook his head. “Only the ones I know. But it’ll take time. Every book is separately warded. And there are traps beneath ’em. On top of ’em. And . . .” He raised his head, squinting up at the top shelves. “I think there are even more up there.”
Clair pointed at the table. “These must be the books he was using before he invaded Mearsies Heili. What are they?”
“That’s what I want to find out.” Senrid moved back to the table. “That one seems to be written in Chwahir, I guess, as I’ve never seen the alphabet. This one here is . . . dark magic. I recognize some of the words . . .”
He looked back at the one written in Chwahir, switching his gaze between the two books. “This one is his experiment book, or one of his experiment books,” he said slowly, with an air of uncertainty as he touched the book.
Erai-Yanya eyed him, as questions bloomed in her mind. “You know Chwahir after all?”
“No. But these words are all in Sartoran, the version used for dark magic. And I can see the same number of letters in sentences here and here. Patterns, you might say. So I’m assuming he’s chained experiments onto these spells. Experiments.”
“What type of experiments?”
Senrid flashed a quick look her way. It was easy to see that she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw a mountain.
Hibern and Clair saw him hesitate, though his distorted face gave even less clue to his thoughts than usual. Then he shrugged, and bent over the dark magic book.
The others waited, Clair trying not to breathe too deeply in the poisonous lour, until they understood that he was done talking. Hibern and Clair both suspected the reason, and Clair cast a speculative look Erai-Yanya’s way.
The mage sensed the Marloven boy shutting her out, and turned to examine the shelves, to hide her disgust. She had spent a night digging out all her notes from her days of study with Gwasan and Murial, before Wan-Edhe killed Gwasan. She knew she only had a partial list of spells to remove traps and wards, but she began to try those, as behind her, Senrid leafed through the experiment book.
Erai-Yanya successfully removed three wards before she nearly killed herself in a trap. She sensed the building of magic as internal heat, then Senrid snapped, “Don’t!”
Erai-Yanya had already abandoned the spell a heartbeat before he spoke, but she said gravely, “Thank you,” as an oblique truce.
He heard it as typical lighter condescension, suspecting she’d made a judgment about evil Marlovens before he’d even turned up. Or else why was she even here? It was Hibern who’d asked him to come.
Hibern glanced between them, understanding that nothing was going to be learned. Meanwhile, her head throbbed. “This air is making me sick,” she said.
At the same time, Erai-Yanya pointed to the time candle. “It’s nearly gone. I think we’d better go.” She rubbed her temples, forgetting the quill in her hand, which jabbed her in the ear. Her breath hissed out.
Senrid had been studying the experiment book. He backed away, and approached Clair. “Didn’t Puddlenose talk about a boy our age who was Wan-Edhe’s current target?”
“Jilo is sort of an heir, but mostly like a hostage,” Clair said. “Wan-Edhe would never have a real heir. He wants to live forever.”
Senrid snorted in contempt, then muttered, “If you trust the hostage, then tell him to take a look at that page right there, all set up for renewal. I think . . . I’m not sure . . . I think it’s the sort of mind control spells my uncle was messing around with. The patterns are familiar—I’m almost certain my uncle got that magic from Wan-Edhe, or his brother.”
He stopped then, aware of Erai-Yanya and Hibern looking his way.
“Wan-Edhe and your uncle were allies?” Erai-Yanya asked, eyes stark.
“No,” Senrid said shortly.
Clair said peaceably, “Prince Kwenz and Senrid’s uncle traded magic books. But that’s all I know.”
Hibern put in, “Makes no sense to have an alliance, as Marloven Hess and Chwahirsland lie at opposite ends of the continent.”
Senrid had gone back to studying the two books, then carefully fingered his good eye, blinking several times.
“I think we are done here,” Erai-Yanya said, and waited until Senrid was safely gone before transferring home.
When they recovered, all four got quite a shock: the time candle had been set for half an hour . . . but the entire day had vanished.
Chapter Five
Mearsies Heili, the Junky
NOW I must introduce one who will become an important member of the Young Allies, though no one, he least of all, would have thought of a Chwahir being anyone’s ally. Being accepted as anyone’s ally.
Another quake rolled through Mearsies Heili.
Jilo, son of Quartermaster Dzan, had been chosen by old Prince Kwenz Sonscarna of the Chwahir for his meticulous bookkeeping and excellent handwriting. Perhaps the old man had seen something of himself in the boy, or perhaps he merely chose him out of idleness, but he’d been training Jilo in magic as well as in running the outpost. He’d even enjoyed sitting up in his magic library, talking about the fundamentals of magic with Jilo, who couldn’t get enough of magic studies.
Now, Jilo sat against the dirt wall of the Mearsieans’ underground hideout, hands tied behind his back and ankles bound, his head throbbing and his heart beating in his ears as the cave bedchamber around him rumbled. Rocks ground in the walls and dirt ceiling above his head, and tree roots creaked and shivered.
But again, no dirt sifted down from the smooth ceiling, and no roots broke through the walls decorated with pictures. The rumble subsided, as had the many before it. The Mearsieans might be weak and sentimental, their light magic as strong as candle wax, but their spells seemed to be holding this cave chamber together.
Jilo had been trying to puzzle out what had happened, but thought seemed to come slower than ever, a jumble of confusing memories that seemed to have no connection. He tried unsuccessfully to ease his aching arms, then gave up with a sigh.
The world seemed to be nothing but contradiction. Prince Kwenz and his brother Wan-Edhe had both lectured Jilo about how the waxers were stupid, weak, and sentimental, and deserving of being conquered. The Chwahir rulers despised as sentimental and weak those who practiced light magic. The term ‘waxer’ had started out as slang for the lowest of the low—usually women—who followed nighttime military parades, scraping up the wax drippings from torches, to be used again, dirty as it was.
Worst of all waxers were these Mearsiean brats, entirely ignorant about military discipline or training, and yet they ran around free. They’d even managed to make this underground hideout, which Jilo envied, and wanted almost as much as he’d wanted to be left alone to his studies and sketches.
And here he was.
But a prisoner.
“They are stupid,” Wan-Edhe had said repeatedly.
Jilo knew the Mearsieans weren’t stupid. The weakness was debatable. Or maybe that was his excuse for his own failures against them. And he had failed. He was still alive only because he�
�d always done what he was told. Another truism of life among the Chwahir was that heirs weren’t exempt from extreme disciplinary measures should they disobey orders, or make mistakes.
Especially heirs, for Wan-Edhe had no true heirs, having systematically killed off his entire family save only Kwenz, his brother, and Prince Kessler, who had escaped at a young age—though not young enough to keep a hold on sanity, from all accounts. Wan-Edhe fully intended to live forever. He’d held Chwahirsland in his ever-tighter grip for more than eighty years.
Though Kwenz was the elder, he’d always deferred to Wan-Edhe, which was probably the single reason he was still alive. If he was still alive. The last thing Jilo remembered was Prince Kwenz being sent to do some kind of magic in support of his brother’s latest attack against the Mearsieans, though the frail old man could barely move, these days. Jilo had used the chance to nip into the forbidden magic chambers for some unsupervised study, but then there was this loud, grinding noise, the castle stones shifting, and his stool had tipped over, pitching him backward.
Then he woke tied up in this chamber, where he’d been ever since. Except when Puddlenose brought meals, untied him, and lounged in the doorway, sword in hand, until he finished eating. Then it was back to handkerchiefs around wrists and ankles and another stretch of bone-aching tedium. At least he’d been able to feel that lump on the back of his head, and that it was going down.
Jilo tried to ease his stiff neck, stilling as a small quake shivered the cave around him. He sat with his back against the cave wall, his head uncomfortably bent forward to avoid bumping the tender spot on his head against the smooth dirt wall.
He sat between a clothes trunk decorated with painted flowers and a shelf containing ornaments. The Mearsieans didn’t even seem to have a prison, at least not in this cave hideout, for they’d stuck him in a bedroom.
He didn’t know how long he’d been a prisoner, not that it mattered. Jilo didn’t want to think of what disciplinary measures Wan-Edhe would deem suitable for a Chwahir who had let himself get captured. He knew only that if he survived, the punishment would last a long time.
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