by Melanie Rawn
“But that’s not real protection,” Col argued. “It’s just distraction. People could get through if they wanted to.”
“Why would they want to? And why should I waste my energies building a Keep Out, and then spend a day recovering from it, when it would only advertise that there’s something here I don’t want people to see? Distraction does just fine. Second rule of magic, my lad: be subtle. Don’t overdo it.”
“Why tell me about it?” Col grumbled. “It’s not as if I have any magic.”
“Not a whisper,” was the blithe reply. “Be grateful. You never know what exhaustion is until you’ve Folded a hundred miles of road in a single day, or Warded a whole castle in a single night, or helped a dozen fumble-witted Novices make their first Mage Globes.” He sighed. “Still, as I told you once, everyone ought to know about magic and how we Mage Guardians work.”
“If these Wards are so good, why don’t I feel them?”
“Do you think I’m an amateur, boy?” Desse growled.
“What about the Lords of Malerris? Do they believe in subtlety, too?”
This earned him a curious look from intense green eyes. “You didn’t ask if we’re the same as they.”
Col snorted and drew aside a heavy branch so the old man could pass.
“Collan, lad, their subtleties are so unfathomable that no two of them understand the ploys of a third. What they do believe is that the first rule of magic does not apply to them.”
“Which is?”
“Harm nothing.”
Collan stopped walking and gave the Warrior Mage’s sword a skeptical look.
“Oh, I’ve killed—to my shame,” Gorynel Desse admitted. “But the one time I should have killed, my resolve failed. Here’s the first Ward,” he continued, striding forward to a brambleberry bush. “Damned inconvenient, having to renew this one every year when it leafs out. The branches don’t take, you see. Truly told, I often wonder why I didn’t use stones for all of them. Rock soaks up magic better than anything but silk and pure metal.”
He continued explaining after the Ward was reset. Whereas stones were more readily spelled than living things, a covering of dirt or leaves obscured the Ward. Unless the rock was really massive, it could be moved. Then again, large outcrops invited hammer and chisel.
“It’s a pretty problem, deciding on the substance of a Ward,” he concluded. “And a good thing I can manage to travel through Sheve every year.”
Those years were tallied infrequently in Collan’s mind. He recognized the passage of seasons, but they seemed to have little to do with his life but for the cycle of plant, harvest, hunt. He learned music, refined his technique, wrote down Falundir’s new melodies, and read the books Gorynel Desse brought.
The Mage also provided a sword. Battling a swaying branch and practicing stab-thrusts on a melon were poor substitutes for sparring with a living opponent, but Desse explained that all he need do was look as if he knew what he was doing with a sword, and most people would back off. If they didn’t—well, the boy could still run like blazes.
“Besides,” the Mage added, “your imagination can provide opponents for practice when I’m not here. And, truly told, you’re a natural at swordplay.”
One spring day he found himself at the edge of the Dark, looking past the rolling farmland of Sleginhold at the annual St. Sirrala’s Fair. Village, manor, and hillsides were aglow with flowers to honor the gentle Virgin Saint. The display was enchanting even at several miles. He hadn’t seen a St. Sirrala’s Fair since Carlon had taken him to Combel the spring before Desse had come for him. Four years ago? That made him seventeen years old. The realization was a shock.
He’d noticed he’d been growing, of course. Desse brought clothes and boots each year, too big at first but always too small by the next visit. His voice had settled into supple maturity, lacking the purity of his childish treble but richer in tone and expression under Falundir’s tutelage. It seemed, however, that he’d attained manhood unawares.
Well, almost unawares. For several years he’d been having highly embarrassing dreams with even more embarrassing results. The past two autumns he’d risked the main road during Hunt Week in hope of seeing the beauteous Lady Agatine Slegin and her ladies. Their wild rides through Sheve Dark were attended by much merriment, sending every deer and rabbit in ten miles scurrying for cover. The object was not the kill but celebration of St. Fielto’s Chase. Collan had been rewarded with many interesting views of the ladies. Deciding which was the most appealing was an exquisite frustration.
But even the humblest was far above his reach. He knew the name his mother had given him, but whether he was Blood or Tier, he had no idea. Without an identity disk, no woman above the rank of slave would permit him to touch her.
Life would’ve been much easier, he reflected as he watched the faraway fair, if he’d been born like Taguare the Bookmaster and preferred men.
He wasn’t really aware of stashing bow and quiver in the undergrowth, or of descending the grassy hillside, or of kneeling before the stream that chattered down a rocky cleft. The next thing he knew for certain was a cold splash of water on his face, delivered by his own cupped palms. He woke up—sort of—and saw where he was, but didn’t ask himself how he’d gotten there. Neither did he question why he was about to join the village revel. He wanted to hear voices—somebody other than himself or Gorynel Desse or the two elderly women who lived near Deertrack Pond, with whom he traded meat for candles and honey for Falundir’s mead. He wanted to talk with someone.
Preferably female.
And young.
And pretty.
Had he planned all winter, he could have chosen no better time or place for it than St. Sirrala’s Fair. Dozens of girls wearing spring gowns and crowns of fresh flowers drifted like bright butterflies along the booth-lined road between village and manor house. The girls were supervised by mothers, aunts, or sisters, the older ladies attended by husbands in snug coifs who delved into jingling purses to pay for ribbons, trinkets, snacks, and games. Young men strutted along daringly bareheaded, wearing shirts as brightly colored as the girls’ dresses. The whole laughing, carefree scene made Col yearn to join in. He hung back, though, the years in Sheve Dark making him shy.
Still . . . he wanted to hear voices close to, not at a half-mile remove. So he strode toward the flowered arch that marked the entrance to the Fair.
From either side of the arch tubs of climbing roses soared ten feet overhead in a sun-warmed display of yellow and orange. Tucked in at intervals were clusters of blue daisies, white Miramili’s Bells, and purple lilies. Collan passed beneath the arch with dazzled eyes and itchy nose—predictable in one accustomed to the moist, earthy scents of a green-brown forest.
He sneezed in earnest when someone handed him a sprig of Miramili’s Bells and bade him welcome. A sympathetic chuckle greeted his explosion.
“Try the booth with the beehive sign,” the young man suggested as Col wiped his streaming eyes. “Nothing better for a touchy nose than a big slice of bread dripping with local honey.”
“Personal experience?” Col asked.
The young man laughed. He was about Collan’s age, dressed in the Slegin Blood’s blue and yellow livery that complimented his wood-brown skin. “Shameful in a son of Roseguard’s Groundskeeper, isn’t it! Wish I could inherit Fa’s nose along with his position! Haven’t seen you around before—though we don’t make it to the Hold often. Fa hates to leave his roses. Name’s Verald, by the way.”
“Collan. Thanks for the advice.” He tried to hand the flowers back, but Verald shook his head.
“Slegin Blood custom. You give the Bells to the first pretty girl you see—they cluster around the gate until midmorning, trying to collect as many as they can. They’ve all gone on to the Fair by now, so you won’t be mobbed.” He paused, silver-gray eyes alight with speculation. “Do me a favor in exchange for the advice?”
/> “Sure.” Col repressed another sneeze, rubbing his nose.
“If you’ve no other preference, give them to a little girl in green with a pink sash. She’ll have a coronet of pink rosebuds—too young for the full crown, y’see.”
Col didn’t, but nodded anyway.
“She just turned ten, and it’d be the thrill of her life to be gifted with First Flowers.”
“You’re her brother?” he guessed.
Verald laughed again. “I’m her intended husband! It’s not as shocking as it sounds. Our families approve. It’s not as if she’s Blood—neither am I, truly told—although I’m six years older than she, so there’s that prejudice to deal with.”
Not knowing enough about the marriage customs of Bloods or Tiers to be shocked, he replied politely, “She sounds charming. What’s her name?”
“Sela.” He spotted more late arrivals and snatched up sprigs of Bells. Turning to give welcome, he called back over his shoulder, “Remember—green dress, pink sash!”
Col wandered away, resolving to find the child as soon as possible and get rid of the flowers. His nose felt as if it were swelling right into his brain.
But there were so many blooms decorating the booths that abandoning a single sprig would do him no good. He couldn’t avail himself of Verald’s advice about the honey, for his pockets were empty of cutpieces. Honor demanded, however, that he find this Sela. Happily, she was at one of the first booths he encountered, where children were flinging soft cloth bags at cowbells. Every score was rewarded with a sweet. The clamor of bells, shrieks, and giggles was nearly deafening after the silence of Sheve Dark.
Sela was pleading more cutpieces from a tall, sternly lovely woman who could only be her mother. The cant of green eyes and the delicate arch of cheekbones proclaimed it as surely as the woman’s words about spoiling her appetite. Col stepped around two boys arguing over a fistful of sweets and offered the tiny white Bells with a deep bow and a smile.
Sela gasped. “For me?”
Her mother fixed a long, long look on Collan. Over Sela’s head he mouthed, From Verald, and she relaxed.
“Mama! Look! First Flowers!”
“How pretty they are! Now, Sela, you must thank the kind young man.”
Col had no idea what thanks might entail. When Sela tugged at his hand, he bent down and received a slightly sticky kiss tasting of candied violets.
She blushed hotly and darted away, calling for her friends to come see her First Flowers. Her mother nodded pleasantly to Collan and followed, leaving him to contemplate his first kiss.
From a ten-year-old.
Grinning ruefully, he set out to enjoy the Fair.
The most popular booth featured young men dressed in nothing more than trousers and grins. One by one they stood on a ladder above a huge vat of cold water, each new arrival greeted with cheers and teasing laughter, while girls lined up to buy painted wooden rings. These were tossed at full winebottles. If the girl failed to score two rings on the same bottle, the next got her chance. When someone succeeded, the youth let out a yell and jumped into the water. Later, after he dried off and donned his best clothes, the couple would share the wine—under the watchful eyes of her family—during the midday feast.
Collan had learned from Carlon that this was a universal feature of St. Sirrala’s Fair—which honored virgin girls. “Personally, I find the symbolism a trifle vulgar, but it’s been a courting ritual as long as anyone remembers. Only three weeks until Maiden Moon and St. Maidil’s Day, after all.”
Then, both the symbolism and the significance of the Saint’s day had completely escaped Col. Now, at seventeen, he was certain that quite a few of these virgins wouldn’t be by the Feast of New Lovers. There was much laughter and jostling when the handsomest youths climbed the ladder, and every so often competition among the girls to be first in line grew heated, but not even the dullest-looking boys lacked attention.
After observing the game for a little while, he became aware that people were observing him. Unused to being looked at, he tried to fade into the crowd.
And then he realized that most of looks came from eyes sparkling beneath crowns of roses and daisies, and all the looks approved.
Collan immediately relaxed into it with the sure instincts of a man born to please women—though he never looked at it that way himself. For a scant ten minutes he forgot his lowly status and lack of a name. He swaggered a bit, and eyed his admirers, and smiled—until, stepping back to avoid being splashed, he bumped into the First Daughter of the Slegin Blood Herself. Abruptly he was a seventeen-year-old former slave again. The stunning crash back to reality mortified him.
Lady Agatine was as nearly tall as he, and even lovelier close-to than seen at a distance in Sheve Dark. Her skin had a dark golden sheen and her strong features were dominated by gold-flecked brown eyes below a sweep of loosely piled black hair. Her dress was pale blue, her lacy shawl pale green, and two silver hoops in each earlobe were her only jewelry. Startled contact with him had unsettled her garland of lemon blossoms, the fragrance competing with some deeper, muskier scent. All he could do was stare.
She caught her balance quickly and met his gaze. He was about to stammer an apology when a voice from about the height of his ribs said acidly, “Have you always been so clumsy, or did you take lessons?”
“Sarra!” admonished Lady Agatine.
About to admit that the accident had been entirely his fault—which was only the truth—Collan suddenly felt a rush of anger. Bloods always thought they could say and do anything they pleased. Everybody knew that. Glaring up at him was a decidedly plain little face surmounted by a coronet of white rosebuds wilting in the midmorning warmth.
“Have you always been so rude, or did you take lessons?” he snapped.
The girl, no more than eight or nine years old, sucked in a breath through her teeth. That one of them was missing and another only half grown in did not improve her looks. Her eyes were so dark a brown as to be indistinguishable from black, and at present flashed fire like night lightning. Freckles dappled a sunburned, upturned nose and pudgy cheeks. Her sole redeeming feature was a wealth of pale blonde curls cascading down her back. Col had never seen hair that color before—like silk spun of equal parts sunlight and moonbeams.
Lady Agatine was frowning at both of them now. Collan dragged his gaze from the girl’s and bowed as Carlon had taught him to do before a performance. Offending a powerful Blood was never wise, even if one of its members was a little shit.
“Your pardon, Lady. I was clumsy, and being unused to such noble company, I’m afraid I was also rude.”
“Not without provocation,” replied Lady Agatine, eyeing the child. “Sarra?”
Sullenly: “What?”
“Sarra.”
The tone was of warning now, and Collan half-turned to hide his grin from Lady Agatine. Young Sarra, however, saw every tooth in his head—just as he meant her to. Her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought she would kick him in the shins.
Then a complete transformation took place. A smooth social mask descended. Her lips curved—carefully, to hide the teeth—and her eyes became twin pools of melted molasses. He felt his own expression soften as he anticipated his gracious acceptance of a Blooded Lady’s apology.
“I forgive you,” she announced grandly.
Col’s mouth dropped open. “You what?”
She lost her composure and began to giggle.
“Sarra!” cried Lady Agatine. The exasperation held the despairing note of frequent usage, indicating near-constant chiding of this miserable infant. Better she should apply the flat of her palm to that well-padded backside.
“Oh, all right,” Sarra relented, grinning. “I shouldn’t have said it—I guess anybody with feet that big can’t help but trip over them.”
An impressively tall man wearing an unfastened black coif stepped forward and p
icked the girl up by the belt of her dress. She squealed as he lifted her effortlessly to his eye level.
“Orlin! Put me down!”
“May I ask your name, young man?” the giant asked in a voice that rumbled like an earthquake.
Looking up a full eight inches, he stammered, “Uh—Collan.”
“Honored. Mine is Orlin Renne. This is Lady Agatine of the Slegin Blood. The monster is called Sarra Liwellan.” He fixed a stern gaze on the squirming child. “Say you’re sorry for insulting Domni Collan.”
“No!”
“Say it, or I’ll tell Granna Felera—and you know how she feels about manners of the Slegin Blood.”
“Sorry!” She grabbed for the coronet dislodged in her struggles. It fell into the dirt. “Damn!”
“Now you may apologize for your language.”
“I’m sorry! Put me down, Orlin!”
Ignoring her, he turned to Col. “Damage repaired?”
“Yes, Lord Renne.”
“Good.” He lowered Sarra to the ground.
As she smoothed her rumpled dress, for all the world like a kitten inexpertly grooming, Collan bent and plucked up the flower circlet. With another bow—mockery in every line of his body—he proffered it.
“Yours, I believe?”
Snatching it from him, she jammed it askew onto her head, gave him a look to wither grass, and ran off.
Orlin Renne sighed. “Not my begetting, thank St. Geridon.”
“Sarra’s a distant cousin,” Lady Agatine told Collan. “Orphaned daughter of a very old Blood, my husband’s kin. My mother took her in, and we’ve raised her since her parents died—”
“—and done as bad a job of it as on our sons, too,” Renne finished for her, chuckling. “No, truly told, Sarra’s a good child. Just very . . . um . . . spirited.” A grin finished the characterization.
