“Momma?”
Kait whirled to find the made-swan’s vast black and gleaming beak moving toward Leksand, atop the carriage. Before she could blink, the beak changed direction, a ponderous yet graceful movement that brought one great black eye to bear.
Her son put down the bags in his hands, then reached out to press fingers into the white down of the door’s guardian. Kait held her breath.
“Blessed Goddess. I’ve not seen her do that before,” Dom whispered.
The impossible neck curved, withdrawing the eye and beak. Leksand picked up the bags, face split with a grin.
With a motion that sent air swirling around them, the head lowered to regard the daughter from Woodshaven.
Kait could see herself reflected in the gleaming depths of the eye; watched astonishment, then awe fill her face. Hard to remember this was a made-bird, created to serve a purpose. It—Daisy—appeared curious. Might some creations exceed the intention of the mage?
Or a mage intend what almost lived. “You’re Maleonarial’s,” she told it, somehow certain.
The guardian laid its great head at her feet, wings rising to open the doors.
* * *
If Maleonarial had thought to delay recognition by driving the freight wagon to the rear of the kitchen, he should have remembered what lived there.
Stone-like lumps clung to the walls, most under eaves and windowsills. Round beady eyes shot open as the wagon passed beneath, then each lump began to shake vigorously, producing a loud chorus that sounded exactly like the ringing of mage bells.
Made-toads, they were; a practical student project to reduce the number of flies and other bothersome summer visitors entering windows left ajar at night, and they weren’t supposed to ring like bells. Nor were they supposed to ring a warning of the imminent arrival of a master mage.
Needless to say, the more talented students, including a young Maleonarial, found adding those features irresistible.
More on the wall than he remembered, implying an exceptional class this year. The poor masters. These made-toads would expire in the cold to come, making it easier for the masters to move around without being “rung.”
Today, however, he was and thoroughly. Students working at the fish ponds looked up. A window above the dining hall was thrown open so someone could look down. By the time they reached the kitchen, its back doors stood wide, staff waiting on the stoop, and he might as well have asked for trumpets.
Harn choked on a giggle.
“Dom and Rid will be here shortly,” Maleonarial reminded the student. “Let’s get this out of the way.”
With a polite nod to the kitchen staff, he sent the team past the buildings, the midden, and pools to the beaten circle where wagons bringing deliveries turned around. The circle was surrounded by a hedgerow wilder than most; no one cared for appearances here. Maleonarial backed the team until he heard the snap and crack of the wagon meeting the hedge and the rubble at its base. He set the brake and tidied the reins. “There.”
Harn craned around. “Sir? Shouldn’t we move up?”
“No.” Maleonarial jumped down to take a look. The wagon was well and truly stuck in the hedge, branches smothering the tailgate and canvas flaps, a wheel lodged between rocks for good measure. What snow had been in the shrubbery made clumps on the ground. “This’ll do.”
Maybe not to keep in the Fell, should their urns be opened, but idle students? He couldn’t see one forcing a path through the hedge just to snoop.
Harn climbed down one-handed. He staggered before catching his balance, and it would have been a kindness to send him to his room to rest, if not for the reception Maleonarial knew was waiting. “Not much longer,” he said instead.
The six made-horses, mud splattered up their perfect legs, stood waiting, their patience endless; they’d not exist much longer. He cast an anxious eye on the road, hoping Dom and Rid weren’t delayed. Lord Nedsom would have sent word ahead. There’d be a gathering underway in the main hall, more precisely a table of what the cooks had ready along with pots of the ubiquitous tea, but the combination should draw a sufficient number of masters and students to supply Saeleonarial’s corpse with a worthy greeting.
A funeral was nothing unusual here. Masters wrote their final intention, to wither and die of it, and the only hope left was they’d do so where their remains wouldn’t rot before being found. The school had a wheeled trolley covered in cloth ready to go, and go it would: out the rear door of the hall to the tidy little crematorium set into a hill—it being less than politic to leave corpses about to remind living masters of their fate, and efficient to use made-salamanders to burn bodies to ash.
Unless there was some grieving to be done. For Sael, there might be. Should be. He’d insist—
“Sir? Here they come.”
Dom and Rid brought their conveyances in line with his, though clear of the hedge. To forestall comment on his driving skills, or lack thereof, the mage gathered the three of them and pointed to the kitchen. “Make sure Harn’s fed and his arm tended. And your cut, Dom. Stay with staff, you too, Harn, till I’m back.”
None of them moved. “You’re not going to meet the masters like that, sir,” Domozuk said stolidly. “Rid?”
Rid reached up and behind the driver’s seat of his wagon, producing a roll of blue fabric. “’Er y’go, sir.”
A master’s blue tunic and pants, complete with warm cloak. Maleonarial stood speechless as Domozuk and Harn stripped him of his borrowed rags with practiced speed, right there between wagon and carriage, only moving when he could help don the new, clean clothing. “Now these,” Dom ordered, producing a pair of polished boots as if a mage himself.
Once those were on, the three regarded him critically. Maleonarial wondered with some amusement when he’d entered their care, instead of the other way around. Dom nodded brusquely. “Loose the braids. There’s no hiding your bells, sir.”
Quick as that, hair, and bells, flowed over his shoulders and back.
Harn’s eyes shone. Maleonarial frowned at him. “What?”
“Pretty as ’m nags,” Rid declared, spitting cheerfully. “Now g’on.”
Dom put a hand on Maleonarial’s shoulder, gripping tight. “Say good-bye for us.”
And a mage with more bells than ever before, younger than any master could be, a mage who’d left friendship and duty behind?
Found he’d no choice but to bow before both.
* * *
The swan doors had promised splendor. Inside? Trestle tables and well-worn benches had been stacked to the side, suspiciously bright and unsoiled carpets laid over floors past due for polish, and the main hall of the mage school prepared for an event. It was unclear what event the organizers had in mind, though possibly this was how they prepared for any gathering at all. Certainly the long table set in the center of the room, loaded with platters of meat pies and an uncut wheel of cheese, had a rugged, impromptu air about it.
Which, Damesen Ternfeather thought, begged several questions about the supposedly luxurious lifestyle of a master mage scribe. From what she’d seen so far, they lived hardly better than their students. Here, at least.
Students thronged around the food, loading their trenchers. Each had a metal cup hanging from thumb or finger, and a spoon tucked in their belt. More were coming down the staircase at the back of the hall and through doors to either side, and masters were part of the flood, as eager to eat as their charges.
“Is this a funeral or supper?” Tercle muttered.
The sole indication of the former was the long wheeled trolley, draped in blue, left before a cold fireplace. The drapery rose at toe and gut, a mannerless reminder what—who—rested beneath.
They knew Saeleonarial’s body was there. Masters and students alike assiduously avoided that side of the hall, crowding elbow-to-elbow. None looked toward it.
No
r at them. The silver-haired master who’d welcomed them had joined those seeking food.
“They’ll settle soon.” The aproned woman had a giant teapot in her gloved hands and a cheerful face. “Most forget to eat, you see. Don’t know they’re starving until we remind them.” This with a wicked little wink.
“How?” Tercle asked.
“We hide their pens.” She hefted the teapot. “Have some tea and make yourselves comfortable. Might take them a while to notice you.” Another wink. “They forget we’re here too. Those of us without magic,” she clarified, then went on her way.
Pylor and Tercle looked at one another. “I’ve had enough sitting,” the latter hinted, tipping her head to the staircase. “We could explore, Py. Maybe find the inkmaster’s rooms. Doesn’t seem anyone would mind.”
It didn’t, but Pylor felt uneasy. “Go if you wish. I’m staying.” She looked toward the trolley with its lonely inhabitant.
Tercle sighed, but nodded.
There were chairs against the wall by the fireplace, dusty as if rarely used, and they sat, alone despite the crowded room. Her friend touched her arm, nodding upward. “See the lights?”
She had not, the late afternoon sunshine slanting through large windows. She looked up, immediately puzzled, for there were no fixtures or lamps as such, only ugly balls of wire. In each was a bright spot and she squinted, trying to discern the source.
“Wait. Here’s one.” Tercle got up and reached under another chair, producing a hand-size silver ball. She quickly passed it from hand to hand. “It’s hot.”
Pylor took off her scarf, and they rested the ball on its folds. Though dented from its fall from the ceiling, there was no mistaking it was a cage. Inside was a large moth with a fat body and small wings, curled as if dead.
Tercle poked the cage.
Wings beat frantically and the body became flame, scorching the fabric and sending up smoke. Snatching up scarf and cage, Tercle tossed the mass into the fireplace. The two stood staring at where it burned white hot, safe in the hearth, but the walls were paneled with wood, beams supported the floor above, and every scrap inside, from chair leg to clothing, might have ignited.
What was wrong with oil lamps?
“Just as well I stayed, Py,” Tercle said finally. “Goddess knows what else might be roaming around.”
A thought to chill the bones. Where did the school keep those made-beasts that didn’t conveniently turn to ash? Chains in the pond, cages, fences of stone and metal grates. Precautions implying such weren’t always harmless, that the students deliberately or by mistake made dangerous things.
Insom had worried about deadly gossamers. About some new magic. What was here all along, she decided, was bad enough.
It explained Alden’s prohibition on magic, the school’s reluctance to host visitors, and Tercle was right. They’d not explore, not without a guide. Otherwise, Pylor couldn’t see how the knowledge helped, unless those dangerous things could be used against the Fell and not simply feed them.
They needed help. Had come for it, but what help was there in masters and students who must be forced to remember to eat? Two in blue robes argued over a trencher, neither letting go, so food spilled around them. Another stood staring at a wall, as if he’d already forgotten why he was there. A student came up and tried, gently, to put a spoon in his hand.
These were Maleonarial’s source of knowledge?
The swan wings parted again, admitting chill air and new arrivals.
Everything stopped. Trenchers slipped through fingers. Spoons and mugs clattered to the floor, servants throwing up their hands in dismay.
Every head, every eye, locked on the pair who’d entered. Proving the tea server’s point. The only ones noticed here were those with magic.
Kait Alder took in the scene—and mess—with one scathing glance, then turned her back to the masters and students, walking directly to the wrapped form of Saeleonarial.
Her son followed, though he glanced twice over his shoulder at the mages as if drawn, and Pylor’s mind filled with questions for which she’d no answers, about The Deathless Goddess and those she picked—and those she didn’t.
Questions of no import now. She stood to greet Kait, waving to a nearby padded bench.
Kait didn’t sit. “This is their idea of a proper funeral?” Pitched to be heard through the hall. “You allowed this?” As if a damesen had authority here.
Tercle’s grin wasn’t friendly. “They don’t see us. They see you.”
“Her Gift,” Leksand replied in a quiet, miserable voice. “That’s what they see.”
Those he’d come to live with and learn from were setting a poor standard. Pylor wasn’t inclined to sympathy.
“No. That’s their excuse.” Kait spun around, fists on hips. “All of you. Clean this up and be ready to honor your scribemaster.”
She should seem ridiculous, a small daughter from a smaller village, but wasn’t. Seem powerless, but then Kait from Woodshaven uttered incomprehensible Words. Windows rattled. Furnishings shook. The trolley rolled and Tercle grabbed for it, because Leksand—all the masters and students—were bent double, hands over their ears.
Nothing would keep them from hearing. Whatever she said insisted on it.
When the Words stopped, the world held its breath, then a student vomited and another sat abruptly on the floor.
“Well done, Kaitealyon,” said the tall master in blue, stepping through a door by the fireplace where Pylor could have sworn there hadn’t been one. Hundreds of bells sang in his now flowing hair, a sound in its way as profound and terrifying as the Words.
The master who’d been staring at the wall blinked and beamed and came back to life.
“Maleonarial!”
* * *
The language of The Deathless Goddess was not to be used lightly, for uttered aloud it seared the throat and shook those who heard. Instead, it must be memorized, letter by strange letter. Written with intention by those with Her Gift. Only thus were Her Words released safely into the world of mere flesh and bone.
The daughter from Woodshaven didn’t appear unduly worried or in outward anguish. He couldn’t deny the result was laudable. Mages might not understand Her Words when spoken, but Kait—Kaitealyon—had used them with undeniable intent. Masters and students busied themselves retrieving utensils and cups, moved before their astonished staff to scrape the worse messes from the floor. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he’d never have believed it.
Two weren’t so occupied. Xareonarial, face suffused with resentment, paced on the other side of the table, eyes locked on Kait.
The other hurried toward him as quickly as he could and Maleonarial closed the distance between them with long strides, ignoring the would-be scribemaster and the rest as their hands met. No more than fifty, Pageonarial, in years. Thanks to The Hag, he appeared twice that, wizened and so frail Maleonarial might have gripped a flower. His friend and mentor.
Their hope.
He’d take him aside, give him what little they knew. Help him to the archives. “Pageonarial. We must speak.”
“Look at you,” the aged master crowed softly, eyes shining. “Look at you.”
More and more were. “We need your scholarship, my friend,” Maleonarial said quickly but quietly. “We face an unknown threat—”
“Look at you. Look at you.” A gnarled hand reached toward his hair, the bells. Dropped short, limp as if the effort were too much. The shine in the eyes receded, their focus lost. “Look . . .”
Maleonarial felt his heart sink in his chest. “Page—”
“Don’t waste your time.” Xareonarial beckoned and two students came rushing up. “Return Master Pageonarial to his room. Bolt the door this time.” He grimaced once they’d walked away a few steps. “Mind’s so addled he’s forgotten how to use a pen.”
; “Inconvenient,” Maleonarial said, knowing the other would nod and believe he felt the same, that the least Pageonarial, once one of the best of them, could do was write a last intention and rid them of his care.
“But you, Master Maleonarial, are worthy of a great deal of time and interest.” Cold eyes considered him, from boot to bells. “Tell me. Why are you back? Why like this?”
Greed. He could almost smell it on Xareonarial’s breath and it wouldn’t be long before they were all at him, desperate to restore their own youth. Not one would have believed he’d left in the first place to try and save them from The Hag. That he planned to do it, would do it, no matter how unworthy a master like Xareonarial might be.
Having first dealt with the Fell. Was The Hag as perplexed as he felt, constrained to defeat Her enemy before returning to Her destruction?
Darker thought, had She arranged for Kait Alder to be who she was, a daughter able to convince him the Fell were the immediate threat?
He could turn himself inside out trying to decipher the mind of a goddess. The Fell had invaded Tananen by sea. Taken control of a hold lord. Wished death and destruction to all. If he had to take the word of a stranger those things were the truth, he’d take Kait’s without second thought.
After all, hadn’t she made masters and students tidy up?
“Why am I back, Xar?” Though the master before him was the least likely to care, he’d promised Nim and it was a start. “To warn the school of the existence of gossamers able to take life.” To swim in blood and gore, crush a village to tinder, all the while gazing placidly from glorious topaz eyes. “But first, to honor Saeleonarial.”
A smooth bow. An artfully stricken face. “Such a shock. A loss to us all. I will strive to do my best in his place.”
A young man’s impulse, to curl fingers into fist and contemplate the satisfaction of bloodying a nose. “You aren’t scribemaster yet,” he said instead.
“Good, you’re here.” Kait glanced up at Xareonarial, the remnants of Words swimming in her eyes like chips of ancient ice, and Maleonarial caught his breath, trapped by a question whose shape—
The Gossamer Mage Page 24
