The Gossamer Mage

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The truth must be told.

  He applied more soap, unable to tell if the words were his or whispered by the coy breeze, newly sprung up to chill the bare wet skin of his back. “Enough, Hag,” he grumbled. “I’ll not lie.”

  With any luck at all, he’d end Her before the need arose.

  * * *

  If they entered in preset order, Kait couldn’t discern it. The grand hall of Tiler’s Hold filled with the shuffle of slippered feet and attendant whistles, throaty warbles, and chimes, for most chins, male and female, bore a complex artifice. While some were dainty, others were too large to be reliably attached by glue, requiring chains and wires of gold to hold them to their wearers. The fashion had arrived from the Whitehold Isles, to be modified by those with access to the services of a mage scribe.

  Through a lattice lens, Kait saw each artifice contained life, none of it real, much of it grotesque. Made-birds with two mouths to sing. Made-toads with tongues like flickering rainbows. Made-lizards with gems for eyes. Her magic, squandered on ornamentation. Mages presumably well-paid, given the life they’d spent.

  The display of heedless wealth wasn’t for mages or the likes of her. The courtiers preened to impress one another, like birds themselves. Kait didn’t believe for an instant the soberly dressed groups of foreign merchants settling to one side cared a jot.

  They were here for the hold lord.

  Breakfast had been whisked away, replaced by pitchers of water and cups. Through the door leading to the Daughter’s Quarters had poured those trained in business and languages, arranging themselves in chairs, a couple at tables with parchment and pen poised to make notes and calculations. Tiler’s shadow court didn’t, so the prospects were told, overtly communicate during the hold lord’s audience, meeting afterward in private session to approve, modify, or deny any particular dealings. Acolytes, including Ursealyon, stood with fingers on the wires, ready to focus on whomever caught the hold daughter’s attention.

  Wendealyon sat brooding, her chair centered on the hall, chin in hand as she watched the assembly form on the other side of the lattice. If she paid attention, Kait thought it to what couldn’t be seen, the peculiar charge set on her as well.

  Yet there were ordinary matters amiss, of import to her as successor-Designate. Over porridge and bitter fish, Kait learned the hold lord had orchestrated the villager’s report about the hermit mage as a public display to force Wendealyon’s hand and the scribemaster’s.

  This very morning, they’d a report Insom ordered his cousin to the mage school, ostensibly on a trade matter, but the acolyte bearing the news added the damesen had orders to question those at the school about this mage and his magic.

  The hold daughter didn’t dispute Damesen Ternfeather’s qualifications to represent the hold on a trade matter, particularly one involving the inks used at the school. What toppled the apples, in Woodshaven terms, was that matters of Her magic—including questions to any studying and teaching its use—were the rightful concern of the hold daughter, not lord.

  Appalling secrets to add to breakfast.

  This growing fixation on the hermit mage was of a different nature than Insom’s compulsion for light and maps. It risked a perilous trespass. Should Insom the Second perish of The Lady’s displeasure, his heir would be selected from the courtiers milling before the lattice.

  Kait had her doubts about the tall one with toads hanging from his chin. While there were a few more seriously garbed, none, according to Wendealyon’s biting assessment, were a better choice. They must support the lord they had and guide him to prudence.

  While the stones muttered.

  She’d good ears—could catch the morning lark’s lilting voice before her young son and be ready with his breakfast. Larks and sons being far from this place, Kait listened, straining as she was certain the others did to catch what weren’t sounds amid the cacophony of the hall. There was, in Ursealyon’s chilling words, no place more vulnerable in the hold. They were to be aware. To bear witness.

  Kait’s fingers wanted to clench the wool of her cloak.

  Insom arrived, walking the carpet patterned like a desert, courtiers bowing like waves. As much as their artifices allowed, that was, and Kait found herself hoping one would topple forward, a lesson in excess for his fellows. None did, implying practice.

  The hold lord wasn’t alone. Or was, since those with him had been made, not born, and thus were what they did, nothing more. Two were bulky mauls, armored and drooling, creatures more dog than man who existed to attack any physical threat Insom might face.

  She’d heard these weren’t as terrifying as he’d like, the mage scribe responsible for these having been fevered at the time and obsessed with dappled rabbits or some such.

  Four made-servants, attentive and well-groomed. At a guess, they’d been modeled after sheep, having broad backs suited to carrying a tray around a room. They dispersed through the hall, tentacles, six in number, appearing to proffer a selected item. The tentacles whisked away debris too and she’d have liked a peek underneath, to see where it went, but the made-servants were robed in the hold colors.

  Insom the Second gathered attention as he approached, a large and brawny man, muscled and sun-scoured from a life on the water. He walked with the roll to his step Kait observed in others along the wharves. The rich red velvet of his jerkin, the white silk of leggings and gloves, the crafted leather boots struggled to fit, as though he couldn’t be bothered to sit still for his tailors.

  Beneath dark tattoos, keen pale eyes, alike enough to Wendealyon’s to suggest a family tie, swept over the lattice and Kait flinched. Never would Insom have set foot in the Daughter’s Portion, but he knew well who watched him.

  Or believed he did. Feeling a fraud, Kait eased left, out of line with the nearest lens. Ursealyon, at the farther end of the lattice, noticed and gestured sharply for her to return to position.

  Reluctantly, Kait obeyed.

  Under other circumstances, such as innocence, she’d have been fascinated. Insom’s steward introduced the waiting delegations, this one with a trade proposal, that one with a dispute. If not for the scale of their commerce, the different accents and unusual dress as those foreign to Tananen approached, what transpired wasn’t much different from the business of Woodshaven. Goods to be ordered. Those received to be paid for, fairly but not always in coin. Explanations for delays offered and exceptions made—or not. Through it all, Insom sat at seeming ease, his back to the hold daughter and her court, giving prompt and reasonable responses.

  No mutters or breathing other than from those gathered. No sign of the Fell. Kait found her attention wandering to a pitcher of water, temptingly near.

  “—Woodshaven.”

  Startled, she grasped the wire and turned the lens, trying to focus on the speaker, forgetting only acolytes were to do so, and only then at Wendealyon’s behest. A hand closed on her wrist and Kait met a tattooed frown. Denial.

  “Approach,” Insom ordered whomever it was, his deep voice carrying the word to every corner.

  Like an echo rose the horrible muttering from the stone. This time it traveled and Kait’s head spun to follow what rolled like thunder along a wall, to the ceiling. Went over the lattice to enter the hall.

  What wasn’t sound at all yet shouted inside her head until she felt dizzy.

  Worse—much worse—a shadow went with it, sucking away the light, or was it a dark fume drifting sideways, as if the stones exhaled what was foul and dire—

  The hand on her wrist released but she couldn’t move. “What is it?” Urgent that whisper, but she couldn’t answer.

  The fume moved on, sank, split into black smoke-like streams that billowed among those courtiers nearest the lattice and wall, passing through the filigree and bars of their artifices. Made-beasts became ash in their cages, gems dropped to the floor like rain. The robe of a made-servant colla
psed, spilling delicacies from a back no longer there, and commotion sped through the hall, courtiers shouting in surprise and outrage.

  Seeing the result, if nothing of the cause—

  “What do you see, Kaitealyon?”

  As if no one else could, and wasn’t that a nightmare—

  “ENOUGH!” Insom roared, thrusting out his arm.

  The courtiers fell silent.

  The fume vanished.

  And the sound from the stone was no more.

  His arm lowered, Insom’s voice calmed, became bizarrely jovial. “Come now. The makings of a mage don’t last. I am disappointed to find this many in my hall so lax in their deportment. You receive what you pay for, is that not true?”

  Kait could see uneasy looks. A few appeared taken aback, but none dared show offense.

  “Now!” The hold lord threw up his arms. “Welcome our honored travelers!”

  As curious murmurs broke out in the hall, every lens whispered and clicked into place, bringing the two who approached the hold lord into focus. An elderly man, travel-worn and weary; though his hand was on the shoulder of his companion for support, there was a proud lift to his head.

  His companion was but a boy, though as tall as she since midwinter and with the hint of whiskers on his still-soft cheeks.

  The muttering from the walls burst forth again, louder, more agitated. Kait covered her ears, but it wasn’t sound and she couldn’t block the Fell, only endure.

  What brought her son, with her uncle, to the audience hall of Tiler’s Hold, Kait couldn’t imagine.

  What made the stone—what was in the stone—take notice?

  She didn’t dare guess.

  * * *

  As the others readied to leave, Maleonarial harvested galls from a strip of wildflowers by the roadside, habit and need in one. Harn’s inks were the commonest sort. To do what he planned would take the most exquisite craft.

  And materials he couldn’t afford, so galls it was. He’d boil them tonight when they camped. Begin carving a pen. Scrape his own parchments. No time to waste.

  He’d spent years, lost more, in search of an intention to stop The Deathless Goddess. The problem was, he’d succeeded. Something he’d done had produced what gave the village boy the ability to steal and use Her magic, without cost. She’d come to collect, but it was a starting point.

  If only he knew which intention of the many it had been.

  Domozuk had insisted on dealing with his now-clean hair, Nim and Rid enlisted to hold the locks while the servant’s experienced fingers twisted lengths together. The result was a thick but tidy mass down Maleonarial’s back, with a braid on either side of his jaw.

  Heedless of dirt or order, the bells rang as freely as they had before.

  A breeze tickled his face, tugging hairs from the leather strip he’d tied around his forehead, blowing dust in his eyes.

  It would take far more to distract him.

  The galls went in a pocket of what had been Sael’s work jerkin. A belt snugged the soft ink-stained leather over one of Domozuk’s shirts. Rid had donated a pair of leggings to his attire; the faint aroma of horse hardly mattered, given they’d be riding all day. They’d no boots to fit. Domozuk having burned what remained of Maleonarial’s footwear, there’d be a stop at the first village or town to make that purchase.

  Becoming young again had robbed his feet of their useful calluses.

  Rid and Nim helped Harn mount. Despite being told the made-horse couldn’t let him fall, the student clutched its mane with his good hand, already looking green.

  Domozuk was already mounted, the made-horses with burdens waiting beside his with tree-like patience. As they’d wait till dissolving to ash, a span he’d set at four days. Sufficient. “Ready when you are, sir.”

  Maleonarial grabbed a hunk of mane and swung himself up and over in one easy move, a feat he hadn’t been able to perform since his third year at the school. He glanced at Harn as he settled himself. Did the lad see it yet? That what The Hag took for each use of Her magic was as intimate a theft as it was inescapable?

  For now. West by south would take him to Aote, though he’d avoid the hold itself and keep to farmland, then overland to Her Tears—

  The nuisance breeze became pressure against his skin, as if to discourage.

  Or warn—

  “Tiler’old.” Rid spat in that direction, sharing his opinion of the lord who’d sent Saeleonarial to his death. “Bould’rt’n’s north.”

  The intersecting roads offered other directions—and closer towns—but Boulderton lay on the route to Alden and the mage school. “Our path,” Domozuk declared.

  Maleonarial opened his mouth to say it wasn’t his, to bid them farewell, when the servant lifted high a slender branch. From it fluttered a ragged pennant, a bold black stroke across white. The scribemaster’s sigil. Saeleonarial’s. Saved from the wagon’s ruin, hidden till now.

  With stick and scrap, Domozuk made them a funeral procession as official as any in Tananen.

  Without comment, Maleonarial set his made-horse to the northern road, kicking it into a lope. The others followed, Harn giving a squeak of dismay.

  He’d accompany them as far as Alden Hold, see Sael home, if only to spite Her. Barter an intention or two for supplies, and be gone before the masters of the school were aware of his presence.

  For all their sakes, before they learned what he planned.

  * * *

  Her feet were on the floor. Her breaths came steady, after one betraying gasp, but she was entitled to that.

  Her son being here, instead of home.

  “This way,” the acolyte whispered, taking her hand.

  So much for steady, Kait realized. She was grateful for the anonymity of the lattice as the acolyte drew her through the others, grateful no one on this side looked at her. Their attention was for the hall and those in it.

  Leksand. With her mother’s brother, Ferden Haulerson, who’d retired from logging under protest when his eyes clouded—and continued to split kindling, despite the times they’d hide his axe. Ferden was not a person able to travel, but had.

  Coming here.

  The acolyte brought her to the hold daughter, bowed, then left. Wendealyon beckoned Kait close, so she knelt at her side. The woman leaned down, fish-scented breath warm against Kait’s cheek. “You heard the Fell.”

  Kait nodded. “I saw—”

  The hold daughter stiffened. “Later.”

  For Insom was speaking. “Hold Daughter. Will you grant the boon these two ask?”

  What boon? She’d missed what was said before. Kait turned to the lattice, stunned to find Leksand’s face sliced across dozens of lenses. In some, only an anxious brown eye. In others, the nose he’d inherited from his father; the wide cheekbones and generous mouth so like hers.

  Wendealyon lifted her right hand and acolytes spun the lenses, then stopped them.

  Another quick bend and whisper. “Your son.”

  Kait gave another nod.

  “As I too shall gift these important travelers,” the hold lord declared, rising to his feet amid a stir from those assembled. The surviving made-birds shrilled. Something shrieked. “They shall continue their journey speedily and in comfort, with my trade caravan.”

  Cheeks blushed. Eyes widened, their pupils dark holes. Leksand, understandably, flattered by the lord’s attention, and it was all Kait could do to keep her mouth closed, because nothing Insom offered was safe, not for her son.

  A hand gripped her shoulder. With her other, Wendealyon stuck a long thin rod, painted black, through the lattice to give the hold lord a firm poke in the backside.

  The man sat quickly. “I but offer my assistance,” he added in a calmer tone. “Those The Lady claims are the business of the Daughter’s Court.”

  Good thing Kait was kn
eeling, for the floor seemed to move beneath her. A hold lord’s assistance for a lad from Woodshaven? Who shouldn’t be here at all, and she’d have harsh words with her uncle, she would, as soon as they were alone. Because it couldn’t be right, what Insom the Second said.

  The Lady couldn’t have claimed her son. Wouldn’t steal him from her. Mustn’t fill his beautiful mind with Her Words and make him a mage scribe, to age and die before his time—

  Like his father before him.

  Hands clapped in applause on the other side of the lattice, for a mage scribe was a valued commodity and rare.

  On this side, hands found Kait in her huddle of misery, and held her tight.

  * * *

  “Don’t you ‘be patient’ me, Dolren Keeperson. It’s bloody shameful your damesen waits in the courtyard with the horses. Move your smarmy ass and find out what dung heaps are wasting our time and hurry them up, or I swear I will!”

  In full agreement, Pylor didn’t hush her irate apprentice. Especially with Dolren, Insom’s own man, clinging to the carriage doorway like an obsequious leech. He’d bad teeth and fouler breath, and, according to Tercle, an outstanding ability to shirk responsibility while licking the right boots.

  Maybe that’s why he always stared at the ground when dealing with nobles, Pylor thought uncharitably. Assessing the flavor.

  The man did have a talent for organization—and for annoying others until they did what he wanted—of use, she supposed, in whatever arrangements must be made to expedite their travels.

  “They’ll be here soon,” Dolren soothed, though he knew nothing of the sort. “We’re ready to go at once.”

  Unlikely. They’d tarried in the courtyard so long everyone from guards to herself had made a quick trip indoors to relieve themselves, no one about to use the so-called convenience of travel pots before forced on the road. A second trip was imminent, let alone the frustrating effort to calm horses removed from stables and food sooner than necessary. “We should have made-horses,” she murmured to herself.