The master took a prudent step back and bowed. “Daughter.”
Leksand, no longer smiling, stood at her shoulder. “Harn’s come.”
“Are you ready to begin? Maleonarial?” Kait asked gently.
—faded from thought. “I’m ready,” he told her.
* * *
Tidy your mess. Show respect. She’d used Her Words to scold a roomful of mage scribes as if they were a bunch of drunken loggers causing a ruckus. The loggers she knew by name and family, Kait thought wildly, men and women rightfully abashed—later the next morning—to have misbehaved.
She’d yet to have names for any here but Maleonarial. Who now wore master blue, had decent boots, and proved by his means of arrival an intimate knowledge of this place. Most likely he knew all their names. She’d ask, later.
Anger was no excuse, not even if most of it had been seeing Leksand’s dismay at the spectacle greeting them, when they’d expected a solemn funeral.
Which they’d have, by The Lady, or she’d pin back their ears again.
Not, Kait decided, wincing as she swallowed, that she’d invoke Her Words. Though to be honest, she hadn’t expected them to react as they had, to obey as if they’d understood.
Something else to ask. Or not.
Something of obedience lingered, or their startlement at Maleonarial’s appearance did the trick, for in short order he had everyone standing in respectful silence before Saeleonarial’s body. Dom would be gratified.
Mostly silent. Kait noticed a trio of students gawking at Leksand—or was it the bedraggled Harn, standing with her son, who had them whispering to each other? Harn, she decided, and what they whispered wasn’t kind. A mother learned the signs. Kait stared back at them until one noticed her attention. When she raised an eyebrow, he paled, nudging the others. They fell silent.
Good.
The master who’d spoken to Maleonarial kept looking at Leksand. His regard reminded her of the cunning fox who’d gone after their hens until meeting Ferden’s axe. Lacking an axe, Kait nodded congenially at him, before going to stand with the damesen and Tercle.
To hear Maleonarial say good-bye to his friend.
* * *
“Sael came to us as Sael Fisherson . . .”
Pylor’d thought the Fell terrifying, until Kait Alder spouted gibberish and the world danced in answer.
“. . . leaves with a brother here, good Braneonarial, but Sael treated all as family . . .”
She’d believed The Lady had chosen a humble, unimpressive vessel for Her Designate, until sixty or so mage scribes, from master to student, jumped to obey.
“. . . as Saeleonarial, represented the school to the rest of Tananen with grace and compassion. Those beyond these walls grieve his loss with us . . . .”
They’d had no choice. Resentment and fear filled in their eyes when they risked a glance at the daughter and she sympathized. Who was Kait? What was she?
“. . . went to Riverhill to help those without magic, who were being attacked with it. Saeleonarial gave the last of his life to The Deathless Goddess not for profit, but so She could end this tragedy. Hear the name of Her Designate, Her Witness. Leorealyon of Tiler’s Hold. Honor her sacrifice.”
Pylor risked her own glance. Tears slipped down Kait’s face, leaving tracks in the dust on her round cheeks, and no longer questioning why or what, Pylor reached for her hand, feeling hers taken in a warm, calloused grip.
* * *
The trolley, with its fancy wheels and blue drape, with its lost friend and scribemaster and family, was rolled from the hall by Braneonarial, who cursed any who offered to help like the fisher he’d been born. Like his brother, he wore a belled wig, having lost his hair too since he’d arrived and Maleonarial left. Lost hair, and gained a belly. There were spots on the backs of his hands.
He’d been fifteen, twelve years ago. To look at Bran now, he appeared older than the damesen. Was older, the mage reminded himself. Hadn’t he lived the truth of The Hag’s toll?
Harn stayed with Leksand, who remained beside his mother. Kait, with Pylor and Tercle, sat by the fire, nursing cups of tea. The rest of the students slipped away, seeing their masters preoccupied.
Preoccupied? Maleonarial found himself the eye of a storm. The masters—the nine who remained, for two more had been “sent to their rooms” after Pageonarial, and the remaining pair had never left confinement—shed their awe of him and wanted answers. Wanted a great number of things, from their bellowing, including to be rid of a daughter from their midst, and weren’t slow to object to the very notion of anyone not with Her Gift staying the night.
Not, he noted, that any volunteered to write the intention to make it possible for the damesen, Tercle, and Kait to return to Alden for the night, the latter hopefully not to return.
Teacups rose and lowered with studied calm, the individuals in question leaving him to sort this out; fair, though he’d begun to think fondly of resuming life as a hermit.
As for the student-prospect? To no surprise it was Xareonarial who broached the subject, arguing a boy whose Gift was potent enough to distract must sign his former name promptly and be admitted to the school—once his mother left.
Which wasn’t about to happen, Maleonarial pointed out when those swarming him stopped for breath. Their guests could house for the night with staff and tomorrow morning would have to do.
Tomorrow, because if this many overstressed mage scribes, presently deprived of pen and ink, saw what Leksand carried? One or more would lose the battle for self-preservation. They already had to worry about students set loose to write The Hag knew what. At minimum, firemoths to light their way—
And what of Harn—
He wasn’t scribemaster.
Xareonarial drew breath for another round of argument. “But—”
“We’ve more important matters to discuss.” Maleonarial took a fistful of hair and bells, shook it at them. “Unless you aren’t interested?”
“We’re interested,” Braneonarial said grimly.
“Good.” Catching the eye of a server wiping the table, Maleonarial beckoned him to approach. “Please escort our guests to the kitchen and ask the cook to take care of them. They’ll be staying the night.”
The man grinned. “Happy to, sir.” Kait had made some friends today, if not among the masters. “And yourself, sir?”
A tactful question that covered another: did he plan to take back the scribemaster’s quarters?
Maleonarial considered those who stood in expectant silence around him and what he had to say.
“I don’t think I’ll be sleeping.”
* * *
The sun sank toward the hills behind the school, surrounded by inbound cloud. Late afternoon, but the air already had an ugly chill that encouraged quick steps. Pylor stopped at the top of the little bridge, in no mood to be rushed off by weather or mage. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
Kait tipped her head to the servant who stood waiting. “Eaple’s kindly taking us to quarters. Domozuk will have your bags. We’ve ours.” She lifted a small black valise. Leksand had his sack over one shoulder and the damned box under an arm.
Of course Kait knew the servant’s name. Pylor tapped her cane. “What’s the mage up to back there?”
“Who cares?” Tercle shivered, shifting from foot to foot. “C’mon, Py. It’s been a long day. We could use a hot supper.”
Of course they were ready to settle for the night, to eat and rest and sleep. Think themselves safe.
“Cook’ll have one waiting,” Harn promised.
“Don’t you have a place to be?” Pylor snapped.
He hung his head, that ridiculous lone bell waving with his hair, and his, “Yes, Damesen,” was more subdued than its ring.
“The rest of you go ahead,” Kait said, as if she were in charge. “We’ll be ri
ght behind.”
Her son hesitated. His mother nodded meaningfully at Harn, as if the mood of a student mattered among all else. “G’on with ye.”
Pylor waited impatiently for the four to enter the building on the other side of the pond, but before she could speak, Kait turned, her face shadowed. “Alden’s closed her gates. Affarealyon won’t open them till I send word the Fell are no longer a threat.”
“I—” She collected herself. “Thank you.”
The daughter gave a surprised little huff. “Why? It’s hardly good news. None of us can leave till we’re done, not even your friend.”
“I know.” Pylor let out a long breath. “But something’s being done. Others know. I was afraid—” She stopped there.
“Aie.” Soft, understanding. “As am I, Damesen. By The Lady, how can we not be? But for right now, the best we can do is rest. Make ourselves eat, to keep up our strength. The mage will come to us once he has any news.”
Pylor looked toward the hall. “He’s with his own now,” she said, uneasy. “Can we still trust him?” When Kait didn’t answer at once, she stared down at her. “Do you?”
The daughter nodded. “I’ve no doubt of Maleonarial. Only of whether he’ll find any answers.” She shook herself. “C’mon with ye,” she finished briskly. “We’re like t’catch our deaths out’re.” A wave to the black waters of the pond. “’Nd no tell’n what’s swim’n.”
As if in answer, there was a large splash.
Pylor found she could take quick steps after all.
* * *
The cook’s name was Nelisti Barnswallow, her kitchen spotless, and whatever Eaples had told her of them made her snatch Kait up in a giant’s hug. Her face mushed to an apron that, frankly, wasn’t spotless, the daughter managed to squeak, “Thank you—”
“NARRR!” the cook exclaimed, thrusting her back. She rounded on the damesen who dropped hastily into the closest chair to avoid the same fate. A pleasant “Harrr!” came next, with a gap-toothed smile and wave of a spoon with a handle longer than Kait’s arm.
“Supper’s coming,” Eaples interpreted.
A plank worktable, well-sanded, formed the center of the kitchen, pots, hams, and skinned fowl swaying above. Caged firemoths illuminated the back counter and sinks, where staff were busy washing dishes. Double doors led into the dining hall, presently dark, while a plainer open door showed the way to the larder.
The brick bread oven and immense fireplace were aglow, heating the room to summer. Like the others already here, Kait shed her cloak as she joined them at one of three smaller tables.
Leksand leaned forward conspiratorially. “Harn warned me new students tell the cook their troubles, believing she can’t tell the masters. He said she writes just fine.”
At the furthest table, Dom and Rid sat with tankards of ale, deep in conversation with two others. Eaples dropped into the remaining seat, greeted warmly. Old friends, that said, and Kait was glad. She looked around. “Where’s Harn?”
“You sent him off.” Tercle scowled at the damesen. “That wasn’t right, Py.”
“I didn’t mean—” The damesen’s eyes were haunted.
By more than one regret, Kait knew, so she interceded, “The lad should be with his friends.” Remembering the students she’d seen, she added, “In his own bed.”
“He won’t sleep. Harn needs to write magic. Has to.” Leksand patted the box he’d set on the windowsill. “He wanted to use these so badly it hurt.”
Her son, who’d known nothing of mages and their magic a day ago, looked older and serious, as if he’d learned his own future.
The damesen looked up. “I suggest you not judge the masters or school by what we’ve seen today.” She managed a smile. “Other than Maleonarial.”
Leksand’s face brightened. “He was the best. Is the best, isn’t he?”
“He’s something,” Tercle commented dryly, being innocent of the Fell and their hopes for the mage.
Would Pylor tell her tonight? Warn her? The two were close, Kait thought, meaning she should, unless it was a kindness not to add that burden—or Pylor knew Tercle wouldn’t believe her.
Aie, Kait decided.
“Harrr.” The cook set a long tray on their table. Kait’s mouth watered at the loaf of steaming bread, the slices of fruit—though too late in the year for peaches and melon, so she had to assume magic was involved—and crock of cheese curds. There were curls of crisped bacon wrapped around tiny onions and a bowl of cooked eggs sprinkled with fresh pepper.
A smiling younger woman added plates, cups, and a pot of tea. Another used a hooked pole to place a caged firemoth on a waiting stand, for the light coming through the window was waning.
“This is most kind and appreciated,” the damesen said for them all. She bowed her head to the cook. “Thank you, Nelisti, for your hospitality.”
The cook bared crooked teeth in a fierce smile. “Naarr.”
The sun set before they emptied the tray and second pot of tea. Leksand alone went for dessert, gobbling the baked pudding with appetite. The cook knew what to put before a growing boy; reassuring to a mother.
If nought else was.
Stairs inside the larder led to staff quarters above. Eaples showed them to rooms doubtless vacated for their arrival. Leksand, not yet a student, would share with Dom, who had his room still. They’d given Kait her own, housing the damesen with Tercle; not an arrangement Tiler’s Hold would find acceptable for the hold lord’s cousin and representative, but Pylor merely asked Eaples convey their gratitude, thanked Dom for bringing up their luggage, and went inside without another word.
Exhausted. They all were. Kait lingered to watch her son disappear into his room, by his yawn probably to drop to sleep at once, then stepped inside and closed her door.
Stood, bag in hand, knowing what she had to do. Afraid to do it—
They were all scared. Here she was, useful as teats on a tree. What would Atta and Pincel say?
Do what needs doing.
Someone, likely the room’s rightful inhabitant, had turned down the colorful quilt and fluffed the pillow. Thoughtfully left a proper lamp burning on the nightstand and curtains drawn, as well as started a cheery little fire in the black heat stove that filled a corner and sent its pipe through the ceiling to a chimney above, and none of it would do.
Kait dropped the bag on the floor. No point looking inside for clean clothes; the remaining made-thrush had had ample time to soil what was packed and normally she’d be curious what the bloody thing found to eat to produce so much. She pulled on her cloak, putting her arms through and digging her fingers into the thick wool for courage.
Then got to work. She moved the chair near the window. Doused the fire and turned the key to shut off the lamp, grabbing the quilt on an afterthought.
Once sat in the chair, wrapped as best she could in quilt and cloak, Kait opened the curtains. The window was deeply set on its stone sill, so she had to stand again to reach its lock, then push it ajar. Cold air rushed in.
Nought wrong with that. It’d clear her head. Keep her awake.
Being staff quarters, this side of the building overlooked the midden and fish ponds. Past those, Dom had told them, they’d left the damesen’s carriage and wagons.
Kait stared out into the night. Gradually, her eyes grew accustomed, letting her pick out breaks in the cloud overhead. Stars, distant and unhelpful. Closer, lower, what might be fireflies on a summer’s night, dozens of them, moved across the hills, if fireflies were large as a horse or woman. Gossamers.
They weren’t dancing or whatever gossamers did at night. Those she could see, that let her see them, moved in one direction, steadily and with purpose. Away from the school.
She wished them well.
Putting her hands on the stone sill, Kait let down her guard and listened. Nothing. The Lady was s
ilent, but Her neglect had grown to an accustomed loss, like the scab over a wound she must carry.
She listened harder, half-closing her eyes, then stiffened. There.
Wind—
But wasn’t.
It was—breathing. Like to that she’d first heard in the bog, each breath steady as stone and slow as seasons. Each enormous, greater than the singer’s, impossible, as if the world itself drew in, let out, what wasn’t air at all.
Not the Fell. Not—not like anything else. What took these breaths slumbered. How could she have forgotten?
Forgotten. Overlooked. Safe—
But wasn’t.
Had she lost her mind? Kait opened her eyes, shivering. How could there be anything safe about whatever terrifyingly strange new thing she could hear? Whatever it was, if one and not, Goddess help her, two, the sleeper didn’t belong under the same stars as the likes of her or anyone of flesh and blood.
Nor did the Fell.
She took a steadying breath of her own. Insignificant, that breath, barely moving the curtain. A drop of cream in a cup of tea.
Everyone here was in her care tonight, whether they knew it or not. Guarded by a daughter from Woodshaven, sitting huddled in the dark by an open window, growing colder by the hour.
Should have brought tea.
She would listen. If the Fell escaped their prison, she would hear.
And if they did, Kaitealyon would speak Her Words and sound the alarm.
Fundamental Lexicon
The world has one shape.
Babes resemble their parents and their parents’ parents in a lineage stretching back to the cessation of ice, or fire, depending on your belief.
Mage scribes create what never before has been seen, though some would point out the requests they fulfill most often resemble what has. Made-oxen. Made-fowl. Made-roses. Practical intentions, to improve or entertain. A prudent lack of imagination, to stay close to what works.
The Gossamer Mage Page 25
