“It’s not. It’s flat on the side. You’re the one who let the stable cat sleep—”
A head thrust between the draperies around the dressing stage; by the abundance of tousled brown ringlets, it belonged to Harn Guardson. If the sincere young student could learn to hold at least two words in his mind, he’d write his first intention and be renamed Harneonarial, “Harn, Debtor to the Lady,” so all would know his life was now forfeit to Her and his masters could take a breath between lessons. If. To give everyone a welcome respite, the boy had come on this visit to Tiler’s Hold to carry loads for Domozuk. Not to intrude in the dressing room. “My L-lord S-scribemaster—”
“Be off!” Bustling forward like an offended goose—an image his girth and abused nose made regrettably apt—Domozuk waved his free hand in fury. “Be off, boy! You know bet—”
Face red, Harn stood his ground, his hands clutching the curtains for anchor, doubtless leaving ink and sweat prints. He threw Saeleonarial a desperate look. “The Hold L-lord’s entered the hall, Master. He’s called your n-name. He’s angry. He wants answers about the hermit mage. About Maleon—”
Domozuk’s fierce “Hush!” overlapped Saeleonarial’s no less forceful warning, “Have a care!”
Red cheeks paled before the tousled head dropped down. “M-my l-lord . . .”
Master’s and servant’s eyes met. Though blood fled his cheeks, Domozuk gave the slightest nod. He knew what to do. This wouldn’t be the first hold a mage scribe had to vacate at speed, though Saeleonarial would regret becoming the first head of that venerable order to run for his life.
Hopefully he wouldn’t have to. “Well done,” he told the boy. “Stay with Domozuk. Help him. But in future, Harn, by The Goddess, keep your tongue.”
Stepping down, Saeleonarial grabbed the wig from his servant and stuffed it on his head. At Domozuk’s mute protest, he tugged it straight. Straighter. But didn’t pause. No time to waste. The others got out of his way. They’d be on their own.
“Hermit mage,” was it? Maleonarial had a new, unfortunate nickname. Old mage scribes tended to harmless eccentricity. They also stayed within the safety of the school, where no one else could notice and be alarmed.
Maleonarial might never be harmless, but he’d managed to fade from view well enough. What had he done to attract attention? Who had carried the tale? A spy in their midst? Or had one of the aging masters discovered secrets had a value loyalty did not?
Forget who.
Saeleonarial puffed as he hurried down the wide, too-empty hall. No one came late without consequence to an audience with a hold lord, not even the head of Tananen’s only magic casters. There was malice in the delayed summons. Well done, Harn.
In this part of the new wing, the floor was polished marble, so smooth he had to be wary of a slip. The walls were of the same material, midnight-dark and shot through with copper gleams, arched in ever-lit openings that awaited treasure. Tiler’s Holding bred wily, watchful lords, a consequence of owning Tananen’s only deepwater port. The Lady’s Mouth, they called it, through which poured what couldn’t be grown, made, or mined within the lands under Her influence. Ships plied between Her Mouth and the strange countries across the Snarlen Sea, ships owned by those without magic.
The merchants and seamen who came on the ships were polite but curious, their heads stuffed with rumor and wild tales. It made matters worse that such had to linger here, waiting as much on the feet of made-oxen as the mercy of tides. All freight had to move by wagon past the rapids and falls of Her Veil, to where the mighty Helthrom widened and calmed, welcoming the barges that serviced the heartland. For this reason, Tiler’s Hold boasted streets of brick warehouses, always full, and always expensive. Warehouses and inns.
For freight was welcome up the Helthrom, but not foreigners. The Deathless Goddess admitted no strangers past Her Veil. Only the cobbles of Tiler’s Hold rang to their deep voices and booted feet. Only here did Tananen touch the wider world.
Tiler’s Hold Lords kept it that way.
The latest, Insom the Second, was more than watchful. Unable to abide empty space on his charts, he insisted newcomers provide him with detailed journals. His ever-bright halls had nothing to do with vanity; he distrusted shadows and abhorred the dark. Little wonder word of a mage scribe outside the normal scheme of things would disturb him.
He would indeed demand answers.
Saeleonarial’s hasty steps and puffing filled the space. His long sleeves lifted like wings, but his feet might have been stuck in mud for all the speed he could manage. Belt tassels and a wig doubtless askew were nothing compared to affronting a hold lord.
He was too old for this.
The bells around his ears laughed at him.
* * *
Words, once written, are free. They fly from their creator, bound only by limits set in syllable and phrase. A mage scribe can no more write magic for himself than magic write itself. The very act of writing sets him apart from his words’ intent.
As well try, Maleonarial thought, to be both sun and shade.
Too much time to think, this morning. But he couldn’t pass the abundance of galls in this meadow, full and ripe, their insects still inside. Crushed fresh, cooked in rainwater, filtered and let rest. A few of the beautiful green crystals from his dwindling supply to that infusion, plus a careful shave from his final small lump of desert tree gum, and he’d have a fine black ink.
Though the morning was chill and the meadow dew-drenched, he’d stripped to his clout. Easier to dry skin than clothing. His body reminded him how little time he had left. A dozen years ago—a hundred and thirty bells less—there’d been taut smooth skin over bands of strong muscle. Now, each shivering rib had its pale loose flap, and what muscle laced his limbs was more wire than flesh. His knees and elbows were the only parts left of generous proportion, and they were knobbed and indignant, inclined to complain of the damp.
Time. He shouldn’t need much more. What he’d glimpsed as the merest possibility so long ago could become real with his next stroke of pen on parchment. He was that close.
Or that far. No telling what weakness corrupted him from within.
He would make his ink and find out.
If his ink-and age-stained hands trembled as they harvested the small, nut-hard galls, only The Deathless Goddess could judge it fear or cold.
* * *
Audience halls informed; a mage scribe learned to a nicety what a hold lord would want and what he could pay for that service with the first step inside. Those at the fringe of commerce were no-nonsense affairs, as often used to keep grain dry before shipment as to host grand suppers. Demands in such halls were usually practical as well. Livestock with special attributes: an ox that wouldn’t tire; a messenger’s horse able to see in the dark. Trees to replenish a damaged orchard. Grain sprouts to counter a too-late planting season. Hold lords knew well enough what a mage scribe could—and more importantly, could not—conjure with his words. Healing the sick wasn’t possible. A living plant from which a worthwhile potion could be made was. Payment in such a hall would be gold or silver stripes, hammered flat and thin to fit a money belt.
That plus supper and a tumble with the hold daughter’s selection, presumably willing, doubtless fertile. There was no proof Her Gift could be thrown like the color of a beard and fertility was very much a presumption in a mage of accomplishment, however willing. But men freely gambled on worse odds.
Including those mage scribes who clung to a belief that their hastened deaths were a sign of affection by The Goddess, that Her true intention was to summon those most worthy to Her assuredly ample and luxurious Bosom, there to dwell in whatever version of paradise suited the mage in every particular.
Saeleonarial snorted to himself as he paused in the doorway to Tiler’s audience hall. The notion didn’t help him sleep nights. Believers were wont to spent their lives with reckl
ess haste, an abundance of magic that inspired dangerous expectations in hold lords.
The Deathless Goddess, being oblivious to belief or expectation, did nothing to make his life easier.
The holdings nestled in Her rich heartland offered more in payment—but expected more in exchange. Their halls were constructed of magic and architecture, with an emphasis on magic. How many years of life were paid to The Deathless Goddess to reproduce the glowing snakes illuminating Aote’s hall of welcome—how many more to create the silent guardians that protected its treasury? Glorious Xcel itself required the constant attention of a dozen mage scribes to fill its hold lord’s penchant for fresh flowers and frog-filled fountains regardless of season. Mage scribes there grew wealthy almost as fast as they grew old.
The audience hall of Tiler’s Hold spoke of wealth accumulated, rather than spent. Little magic, other than what populated the beards of its court. Insom the Second preferred to display trade goods, the more precious and rare the better; his hall often hosted galas for foreigners. Birth wasted him on a throne. The man would have made an excellent merchant. There were, of course, a few graceful made-servants, waiting with their mute patience. Waiting with full trays.
Suspended service wasn’t a good sign, not good at all, Saeleonarial fussed to himself.
His delay in the wide doorway drew the scrutiny of the made-guards to either side. Mauls, they were called. Each student was required to write a set before graduating as a scribe. Dogs, really, written taller than a man, of greater bulk. Written to stand like a man, too, but most remained bent, as if unsure written arms and hands shouldn’t be legs and paws. Written to learn and obey one command: protect their hold lord.
Those hold lords who could afford to buy and replace their mauls, that is. The things did wear out. Another of their magical intentions, if unadvertised. A straightforward project that promoted peace in audience halls and reliable funding for the school, if not reliable results. Hard to convince students novelty of itself rarely meant improvement. Saeleonarial cast a critical eye over Insom’s current pair. Dappled and drooling, with as much ability to intimidate as a leaky window.
Though there’d be teeth behind those loose jowls. Large, sharp teeth. Students always liked writing those.
Before his inspection seemed other than ordinary to those waiting, Saeleonarial entered the hall. The deep heavy carpet—a new acquisition from over the sea, woven as a desert-scape of yellow and bronze—resisted his slippers and made it necessary to step with the exaggerated care of being in his cups or risk lurching from side-to-side.
The nobles and their attendants parted at once, a bowing wave of sequins, feathers, and smirks that granted the scribemaster an aisle straight to the hold lord’s impatient boots and themselves a good view. Another lesson to be read in an audience hall, he thought as he walked that gauntlet at a considered pace, trading dignified if meaningless nods. These placed more worth in bloodline than accomplishment.
No holding could support a crop of fools for long. Tiler’s might be due for the attention of The Deathless Goddess.
Saeleonarial devoutly hoped to be anywhere else if so. The Goddess wasn’t known for discrimination when She chose to clean house.
Almost there. The bows were stiffer, waists constrained by thicker tabards and girdles, though, small mercies, fewer of the dratted face confections Domozuk tormented him about. These were the cream of any hold lord’s court: sycophants of use, rivals too powerful to ignore, heirs in waiting.
No smiles here, only frowns and pursed lips, as if he’d interrupted an argument. His stomach, contrary organ, clamored for sweets. Saeleonarial ignored it and came to stand before Tiler’s Hold Lord.
In the fashion of more southerly holdings, Insom the Second sat on a plain chair, raised a single step above the floor. Behind him rose the latticework of the Daughter’s Portion, in Tiler’s carved from honey-colored wood. Mirrors filled a third of its square openings, their surfaces reflecting the bright-garbed nobles, like so many caged exotic birds.
Hands folded over his heart, the scribemaster bowed low, not to the hold lord, but the latticework. “Hold Daughter.”
No matter how poor the holdings, the latticework granting privacy to the Daughter’s Portion was a thing of beauty—be it a treasure of lacework created over generations or weavings of the freshest flowering vines. For any act of a hold lord to be legal and binding, she must be present to bear witness and record it. As the living voice of The Deathless Goddess and, not coincidentally, the sole person allowed title to a holding’s land and life, she could also put an end to any hold lord’s act or existence with a word.
Silks moved behind the latticework; shadow court or the true one? For mage scribes, the distinction was insignificant. In addition to the script of the land, every hold daughter could read and write the sacred words of The Goddess, a teaching passed from generation to generation. No mortal woman could write with magical intent or result, but these kept the key to that power. History was replete with proof that the school of mage scribes was above all a target. It didn’t matter if this or that assembly of disgruntled hold lords attacked it in some vain effort to control what was never theirs to own, or a student rediscovered how to write living fire. It didn’t matter if destruction came at the whim of The Deathless Goddess—who, truth be told, liked living fire but not disgruntled lords. The school burned to its foundation stones with deplorable frequency.
Five times, by common count, though some scholars claimed twice that. Saeleonarial doubted even The Goddess bothered to remember.
The magic remained, safe in the minds and hands of hold daughters, charged by their Lady to return it to those with Her Gift. A decimated school would be rebuilt on its scorched foundation by the obliging residents of Alden Holding, bright-eyed students would arrive, and any master wary enough to be out of the way at the right time but not enough to run beyond reach would be summoned back and put in charge of the new crop of mage scribes.
Not in his lifetime, Saeleonarial hoped uneasily. The holdings were at peace. Students well supervised. The Deathless Goddess?
Mages gave their futures for Her Gift, hoping She’d leave what remained of their lives alone.
Unfortunately, disgruntled was a mild word to use for the turmoil knotting the rank tattoos across the brow of Tiler’s Hold Lord. Insom the Second was young for the post, Insom the First having the poor judgment to dismiss his horsemaster’s concerns about a certain stallion and the cobbled streets of Tiler’s Hold. The new lord was young, but not too young. The thick brown hair might be free of gray, but years at the helm of a barge had drawn reasonably distinguished lines on his broad face. Real muscle, not padding, stretched the velvet at shoulder, chest, and thigh. No hint of weakness or dissipation appeared in the keen pale eyes that now pinned the scribemaster. Temper, yes. And a worrisome glint of fear.
“Scribemaster!” Though toned to a civil note, a voice used to bellowing across a loaded deck easily filled a hall. “What do you know of this?” A gloved hand beckoned.
“This” stepped from behind the nobles. A tanned young man, sturdily built, with an upstanding shock of thick black hair. Country-bred, Saeleonarial judged with sympathy, clearly uncomfortable in his new, rich clothing. Those balloon sleeves suited a servant to one of the useless courtiers, not someone used to plowing a field or butchering pigs. Exhausted, from what Saeleonarial could see of his face past the homespun bandages encasing the left side. Exhausted and in pain.
“Saeleonarial,” he offered with a slight bow. The unbandaged eye widened and the lad did his best to bow in turn.
“Nim Millerson . . .” The hesitation and worried glance at the impatient hold lord were clear. Young Millerson had no idea which honorific applied—to either of them.
“I’m a teacher and scribe, Nim,” Saeleonarial said kindly. “‘Sir’ will do me—as you’d give any grizzled old man of your village.”
/> “Yes . . . sir.” Doubt remained in the tone. Not surprising. The niceties of court in the eastern holdings. Lost, poor lad, in a detestable maze of manners and mockery.
The glove made a hurry-up gesture.
“Tell me what the hold lord wishes me to know.”
“I’m from Riverhill, sir. O’er by Tankerton. My uncles sent me past the Veil, here, to the Hold. For help.” From the look on his face, Nim didn’t think much of that help so far. “The rest—they stayed, sir. To guard what’s stock left us. In case o’ attack again.”
“Attack?” Saeleonarial frowned. “By what?”
“A great beast, sir. Yesterday morn. Came a’ nowhere. Tor—tor five of us t’shreds before run’n off.” Nim’s eye pleaded. “We can’t lose more o’own. Not ’n ’arvest.”
“A bear?” The guess drew impatient murmurs from the nobles behind him and Saeleonarial frowned. They must already know what he was learning from these painful gasps. He’d ask for a private audience, but delay now would only add to the distress of the honest young farmer.
“No, sir. I saw it. I swear it warn no natural beast, sir. The hermit must a’made it. The wild mage o’ the hills. ’E set it o’ us—t’push us from r’lands.” Words tumbled like rocks downhill, faster and faster. “’E’ll write anothern and anothern. You must help us, sir.”
“Magic used for harm!” the hold lord thundered. “What do you know of this, Master of all Mages? Which of your kind has gone mad?”
In the profound hush, the whisper and soft click of mirrors being turned caught everyone’s attention. Insom stiffened, but didn’t look around. When the mirrors stopped, Saeleonarial could see himself and the injured country boy reflected over and over.
Unanimity of purpose. A terror shared. He could see it writ on his own face, and schooled his expression. Mouth dry, he bowed low, very low, toward the latticework and those behind it. There were no rules or customs forbidding magic as a weapon. There didn’t need to be. Informed by a daughter of such transgression, The Deathless Goddess simply claimed all life left to that mage. At once.
The Gossamer Mage Page 2
