Karl served them clam chowder in trenchers of sourdough bread, then nodded to Lord Contare and headed back downstairs with the air of a man on an errand. After meat-thanks, Lord Contare told Graegor about the ambassador as they ate. “Although one must expect intrigue surrounding a legation to a foreign court,” he explained, “in this case the Kroldon’s bribes were getting out of control—and then a woman was murdered in his house. He protested his innocence, but he would not submit to examination by the king’s magi, so the king revoked the embassy’s privilege.”
Graegor hesitated, then asked what he suspected was a stupid question. “We’re not at war with the Kroldons, are we?”
“No. But we cannot have their spies buying our secrets.”
Graegor nodded. “What will the king do?”
“The king himself shall tell us. The royal family will be dining here tonight.”
“Tonight?—I mean, I thought ... you said there would be a presentation ceremony ...” There was something both reassuring and frightening about meeting the king in Lord Contare’s tower as opposed to the throne room.
“The formal presentation is in a few days, but the entire court will be in attendance. The king and queen, understandably, wish to meet you privately.”
A dark-haired woman in blue came up with another tray, this one loaded with fruit and cheese, and she and Lord Contare chatted amiably as she bustled about the table. Her name was Marschelle, and she, too, wore a magi badge. It was apparent from some of her comments that she was married to Andru, and that the boy Graegor had seen was their son. Soon she turned back down the stairs, and Lord Contare looked after her fondly. “They’ve been with me for a long time,” he remarked. “They take very good care of this place. I’m rarely here, but everything is just right when I am.”
“Don’t they go with you to Maze Island?”
“No. I have three households.” Lord Contare said this as if he thought it was an indulgence. “Besides this tower, I own a beach house on the coast of Maze Island, and a townhouse in the city there. Installing a married couple as caretakers is the best way to ensure that a house stays in order.”
Graegor had another question. “Are all your servants magi?”
“Most. I can use telepathy to tell them I’m coming when I’m still a few days away, and they have time to ready the house for my arrival.”
“The page isn’t a magus, though, is he?” He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he’d realized it when he’d first seen the boy.
“No, but as long as his parents are my servants, he can be as well.” A gesture of on-the-other-hand followed. “Of course, you may dismiss him, or all of them, once I am gone. You need not even keep the tower.”
Graegor didn’t like being reminded of this inevitability, and he changed the subject. “The stories say King Zacharei had this built for you.”
“That’s right. He firmly believed that I should live in a tower.” His blue eyes crinkled in a silent laugh. “I think he read too much epic poetry. His architect’s first draft was wildly excessive. I was paying for it, so I pared it down to something more realistic.” He gestured around them.
“It’s very nice.” That was an inadequate word, but he didn’t want Lord Contare to think he was looking it over too closely for himself.
“Again, that’s Marschelle’s and Andru’s doing. I will admit I was worried that we would arrive too quickly, and not give them enough time to air out this room. I was almost certain that you would want to stop in Orest.”
Graegor didn’t answer at first, just looked down at the blue tablecloth. Two holy sisters had been among the passengers on their riverboat, and they had let them off at the road leading to Orest after the third day downriver. Orest was where those two ringless ones, the white heralds, had wanted to take Graegor, to meet their leader. “Do you think we should have, sir?” he asked finally.
“I think a conversation between you and Brandeis could be very interesting. And I would like to take another look at his drawings.” He gave a small shrug. “But it’s not so important right now. You seemed to want to reach Chrenste quickly.”
“Well ... sir, you said it yourself, I’m not the one the white heralds seek.”
“That’s true.”
“But if we should have gone to Orest first, my lord, I wouldn’t have refused.”
“I know, Graegor—or, I should say, I know now. At the time, I wasn’t certain. I did not want to force an uncomfortable choice upon you. You remained ...”
“Stupefied?” Graegor shook his head. “I still am, my lord.”
“But you were able to consciously use your power today,” Lord Contare pointed out. “And to do proper honors to that accomplishment, let us discuss it.”
Graegor described his focus on the motion of the waves. Lord Contare asked questions that made Graegor realize that he had seen and remembered more than he thought he had. “It is part of the process of training your mind,” the old sorcerer said when Graegor mentioned this. “Your memory will become a powerful tool for you.”
“Do you remember everything, sir?”
Lord Contare laughed. “Quite a lot, but no, not everything. For that, you need a particular mental gift. Sorcerer Pascin has that gift, which is one reason he’s so intelligent—he can see patterns the rest of us can’t, because he remembers small details the rest of us don’t.”
“Can you ... sir, can you forget anything you want? Erase it from your mind?”
The old sorcerer’s smile slipped into a long, studied gaze at Graegor. “Surely your life’s been too short for you to want to forget any of it.”
“It’s just ... a girl, she ... never mind. I’m sorry, my lord.” His cheeks were warm; he hadn’t intended to bring up Jolie.
“No apology needed. To answer your question, yes, there are ways for us to make painful memories less so. But sometimes the pain itself is hard to let go.”
Like some other things old people said, this made no sense to Graegor. “I see.”
“As long as we have brushed alongside the topic, there is something I’d like to address with you.” Lord Contare’s expression grew serious. “Please do not be offended. This is merely advice from a man who’s lived long and seen much.”
“Yes, sir.” Exactly what topic did he mean?
“We will be here for a fortnight, and you will meet many of the court’s young ladies. But it would not be a good idea for you to become too friendly with them.”
“Yes, sir,” Graegor repeated, because it was the only thing he could think to say as his face reddened again.
“They will all find you fascinating, and you may find some of them fascinating. But I must urge caution. Most sorcerers cannot father children, but Torchanes sorcerers have always been able to, and there’s no reason to believe you are any different from Carlodon or Davidon or Roberd.”
“Children?” Considering the alarming turn of this conversation, Graegor said the single word quite calmly, he thought.
“As it happens, there is a quick way to find out.” Lord Contare looked around the room, then frowned. “Ah. I don’t have any flowering plants up here. Sorcerers who can father children can also cause flowers to bloom. There is a particular creative energy involved in both. We should probably have you try it at some point.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please understand that I am not saying that any of the young ladies here at court would pursue you for the specific purpose of having your child.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But because of who and what you are, some of them might behave more boldly than they would with other young men. I believe it would be unethical for you to take advantage of this.”
It took a second for Graegor to work through what the old man had said. When he figured out that some girls would go to bed with him solely because he was the new sorcerer, he had to look away because his face felt so hot it had to be burning off.
Lord Contare watched him for a moment, then said, “It is abso
lutely none of my business, but I am guessing that you have not yet been intimate with anyone.”
It wouldn’t take a sorcerer to guess that. “No, sir,” Graegor mumbled.
“My apologies, Graegor. I did not intend to embarrass you, but to warn you of possible consequences.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I also would like you to consider the fact that there will be sorceresses in your Circle. A sorceress is a better companion for a sorcerer than any ordinary woman.”
Graegor realized that Lord Contare was waiting for his reply, and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Then, too, the magi girls on Maze Island will also find you fascinating, and one of them may suit you, but ...”
Suit me. I thought Jolie suited me ... but she didn’t. She never wanted to come with me. He could feel her slipping even further from his heart.
Lord Contare was still talking. “... much to learn, and your studies will take up nearly all your time. It might be better if you put thoughts of girls aside for now.”
“Yes, sir. I think that’s a good idea.” He certainly didn’t need the complications. “Sir ... I have a question. Why don’t sorcerers marry?”
“Ah. A complex subject.” Lord Contare poured more water into his goblet and settled back in his chair. “Some history first. Saint Carlodon was married several times, as you may know, and Saint Davidon at least once. In fact, most of the sorcerers from the first three generations had wives. But these women had normal lifespans. Sorcerers began to find it morally questionable to marry someone with whom they would not grow old, and, in most cases, with whom they could not have children. The inequality was too severe.”
“Couldn’t they marry sorceresses?”
“No sorceress has ever agreed to it. Even those of noble birth, who might be expected to marry before discovering their magic, and who might even have been betrothed—as Lady Josselin once was—were never actually married.”
“Why?” Graegor wasn’t sure why this made him feel defensive.
“The idea of a man having the right to make decisions for her does not sit well with a sorceress.”
“My mother makes her own decisions,” Graegor told him. “She’s a master in her trade. She signs her own contracts and votes in her guild just like my father does in his ...” He stopped, suddenly realizing that this was the first substantial thing he had ever told Lord Contare about his family.
The sorcerer nodded, his eyebrows slightly raised. “But your father has the right to sign those contracts and cast those votes for her. The fact that he doesn’t speaks well of him.”
“Well, yes ...”
“There are similar laws and customs all over the world, and they are offensive to women with such power as a sorceress has. A sorceress does not need insurance against poverty, or a partner for her work, or connections through in-laws. She cannot have children and will never lack companionship. Therefore, she has no reason at all to marry.”
This was interesting, if unsettling. Graegor had to admit that he himself had never taken the time to think it through. It actually wasn’t very fair for a husband to be able to make his wife’s decisions. Often, wives had more sense.
“The fifth generation—Khisrathi’s Circle—had all sorceresses, as you know. After that, the prejudice among sorcerers against marriage was firmly established. In any event, the bonds we have with each other transcend marriage.” Lord Contare’s expression grew distant. “When your minds and hearts are so joined, it is superfluous to recite vows in a chapel just to satisfy other people.”
Graegor thought about that, and found a quiet excitement in the idea that he might share a bond like that with a girl, a young sorceress—who was out there right now, maybe learning the same things, maybe trying to make sense of her life too. She would understand him in ways that Jolie never could. Was she an Adelard? A Tolander? She would speak a different language ... how would her voice sound?
“Graegor?”
He realized he’d been staring into space for a while. “Nothing, sir.” He paused. “Just ... just reconsidering a trip to Orest to see Brandeis’ pictures.”
“I’m not certain the girls in those pictures were sorceresses.”
“Do you remember what any of them looked like?”
Lord Contare laughed. “Oh, no. You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Are they pretty?” Of course, sorceresses were said to be beautiful.
“Every woman is pretty in her way—and much ugliness can hide behind lovely faces. No, I won’t give you answers to that. You’ll have to meet them yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” Graegor hadn’t expected to be stonewalled. He realized how quickly he’d grown used to his master’s willingness to tell him anything he wanted to know.
“Oh, come now.” Lord Contare’s tone lightened. “If it’s beauty you want, you’ll find plenty to appreciate among the ladies here. And if you would restrict your appreciation to ‘just looking’ for now, that would be preferable. But like everything else, it’s your choice. All the elders and priests on earth can try to tell young people to keep their hands off each other, but the young person himself—or herself—is the only one who can make that decision.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, the magus back home ... I heard that he didn’t like the Academy on Maze Island because of the way the students behaved.” He was wondering now if Magus Paul had been referring specifically to how the students behaved with girls ... among whom there could be a young maga who might suit him.
“Oh?” Lord Contare seemed amused by this. “The students constantly complain about their heavy course loads, so I doubt they have much time for bad behavior.”
“Will I be going to the Academy, sir? I mean ... I haven’t had much school ...”
“How much is not much?”
“Five years, but ... shouldn’t a sorcerer know more?”
“Of course, but your whole life is for learning. You should never, ever think that you’ve learned enough.—But as regards your question. I will be teaching you, and some of the other sorcerers will also have a hand in your instruction, but, yes, I would like you to attend classes at the Academy as well. Besides the book learning, I want you to make many friends.”
Graegor just nodded. He’d never had many friends, so he wasn’t sure how easy it would be to make them, or whether or not they’d be the sort of “friends” who only wanted to be associated with the new sorcerer.
“That is, of course, unless you do not want to attend the Academy. I can be your sole instructor if you prefer, but you will benefit from other perspectives.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lord Contare paused. “I need to make sure you understand what I told you in Farre,” he said. “No one will—no one can—force you to go to Maze Island, or to be a sorcerer. This life is your choice, and the choice must be made freely.”
“Yes, my lord.” But this wasn’t enough for Lord Contare, he knew, so he kept talking, hoping the words would come out right. “I ... I said before, I had no home when you found me. I had nothing when you found me, no life at all. And now, just because I was born at the right time in the right family, I’m going to be one of the most powerful men in the world. So I’m ... what I’m trying to say is, I’m not going to throw God’s gift in His face.”
Now Lord Contare seemed more satisfied. “And if I may add one more point,” he said quietly, “accepting God’s gifts—even one with such enormous responsibilities attached—is a sure path to happiness.”
“You are happy, sir?”
“Very.”
They were still talking when, the afternoon well advanced, Karl returned with many messages in his head and a tailor in tow. Lord Contare and Karl spoke together telepathically as the tailor took Graegor’s measurements with a marked ribbon, recording his numbers on a blacked board with chalk, murmuring to himself all the while. His brisk professionalism stood in glaring contrast to Graegor’s mother, who did not like to sew and worried over every inch.
As Gr
aegor stood still with his arms out, or down, or up, he looked out the window toward the ships he had seen, and the three Telgard warships that he and Lord Contare had seen sailing out to meet them. All six remained out beyond the breakwater, and as far as he and Contare had been able to tell, they continued to exchange messages. Graegor knew it was childish, and he wouldn’t admit it to Lord Contare, but he had been almost hoping to witness a sea battle.
Then the tailor, satisfied, stood up fully and bowed to Graegor, then to Lord Contare. Karl escorted him down the stairs, and Graegor heard him mutter “samite” and “brocade” and “silver” as he checked the marks on his board. Graegor couldn’t even guess what the new clothes would look like, and it was still very strange to him to not be concerned about how much they would cost.
Karl returned. “Marschelle asked me to tell you that the young lord’s bath is ready,” he said to them both, and for a split second Graegor honestly didn’t know who the “young lord” was. Karl caught the flash of confusion and grinned. After he led Graegor to the tiled bathing room on the servants’ floor, he asked, “May I assume you neither need nor want assistance, m’lord?”
“You assume right.” He knew that valets attended nobles in their baths, but that was a change he did not choose to make. “And Karl, didn’t we agree that you would call me by name?”
“Ah, yes, I’m sorry, Graegor. Magus Andru has such a formal air about him, though, and it inevitably seeps into my manners when I’m here.” He nodded toward the bath. “If I were you, I’d take my time. It may very well be your last chance to relax this week.”
But Graegor couldn’t relax. He was too restless, and the next couple of hours taxed his patience, because after he’d washed up, he had to spend more time standing still as the tailor and his apprentices hung different pieces of clothing on him, enough for what seemed like twenty outfits. They stood in an alcove, screened off by a row of tall plants, near a bright window on the main level of the tower. Graegor tried a couple of times to make small talk with the apprentices, who were barely older than he was. But their responses were formal and nervous, and he gave up, once again glad that he hadn’t stopped at home on the way downriver. For better or worse, and no matter how he felt about it, he wasn’t part of the artisan class anymore.
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