by Dawn Cook
“Ah!” he admonished. “Don’t interrupt. Why didn’t that ash-ridden excuse for an instructor teach you a simple protection ward?” Redal-Stan stood, his stance stiff.
Alissa opened her mouth.
“Yes, I know,” he interrupted, and her mouth snapped shut. “We cataloged your accomplishments and you didn’t mention them, but I thought it was an oversight.” He paced in jerky steps to the dark balcony, and she turned to keep him in view. “It’s not really a lesson,” he said. “It’s a necessity, like, like . . .” He gesticulated wildly. “Like breathing!” he finished.
Tired of being cut off, Alissa’s lips pursed. “Well?” he exclaimed, and she took a breath.
“You could have severely damaged your neural net,” he began again, not noticing her glare though he was staring at her. “You’re lucky, you know, that Connen-Neute and I were able to manage your weight and carry you free of the city. Channeling the emotional backwash of an entire city synchronized in thought, whipped up to that kind of frenzy, could have resulted in irreparable impairment of your ability to communicate—or worse.”
“Then I’m all right now?” she asked, pleased to have gotten the words past him.
“Quiet!” he snapped from the shadowed balcony. “I’m not done.” Finding Connen-Neute’s tall stool with his toe, he sat down on it as if he had meant to. He stared at her, and she at him. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“Thanks?” she said uncertainly, and he stiffened in disbelief. “Thanks a lot?” she tried again, and he stood, turning to clench the railing. Alissa felt a stirring of anger. “Don’t get mad at me!” she exclaimed, and he spun about. “I was brought up in the foothills, alone with my mother. Market gave me headaches, but I blamed it on the heat or the dust or that everyone was staring hatefully at me. And as for Ese’Nawoer,” she said, rising to join him on the balcony, “it’s empty! He saw no need to teach me to block out the mental backwash of three people!”
“Three?” The anger in Redal-Stan’s face vanished.
“Three!” she said, flinging herself into his balcony chair, suddenly depressed.
“Then maybe I should show you!” he said, loud enough to make her ears hurt.
“Maybe you should!”
“All right then!” Redal-Stan leaned back against the railing. “Look,” he said sarcastically as she felt a twinge upon her thoughts. “See?”
Beginning to calm, Alissa unfocused her attention to find her tracings. The pattern resonating was absurdly simple, and she nodded as she memorized it. The resonance faded.
“Set it up within an internal containment field,” he said, sounding disgusted, “and let it settle over your network as you do for disguising your tracings.”
Pleased with having learned something, her anger vanished. “Like this?” she chirped, and he sighed at her mood shift. His eyes went distant and his posture slumped as he checked it.
“Yes.” He sounded tired. “For day-to-day existence in the Hold that’s fine. Strengthen it when confronting fourteen thousand prideful people. I would suggest you not use it until you heal so you don’t develop a dependency upon it.” He frowned. “Stay out of Ese’Nawoer.”
Alissa’s fingers tapped the arm of the chair.
“Fine!” he snapped. “Do what you want!”
Mollified, she stilled her fingers and dropped the ward. “So I can resume my usual activities?” she asked meekly.
“Ignoring my instructions?” he grumbled. “Taking leaves of absence without permission, interfering with the peace of my other students, and generally making yourself a pain in my side? Of course,” he half sang in exasperation. “Go ahead.”
Alissa’s frown returned. “I meant practice my wards, talk silently to Connen-Neute.”
“Yes,” he grumped. “A pain in my ash-ridden side.” Alissa exhaled heavily, and he relented. “Yes and no.” He glanced at the black outlines of Connen-Neute’s stool, clearly wanting to sit down but refusing to sit on a student’s chair when she was in his. “You’re not entirely better. Test the air carefully, Squirrel. I wouldn’t talk soundlessly to any Keepers for a few days. Most lack a certain finesse.”
She shifted her shoulders. The only Keeper she had ever cared to speak silently to was Lodesh, and he was a subtle as Connen-Neute.
Redal-Stan seemed reluctant to say anything more. Their previous conversation was too much like an argument to lead gracefully into talk. She thought he was waiting for her to go, but she had come to appreciate his oasis of quiet at the top of the tower and was reluctant to leave, despite the awkward silence. Besides, she had nothing to go downstairs for. Lodesh was probably imprisoned in the citadel.
“Redal-Stan?” she questioned, arms wrapped about herself. “How is Lodesh?”
Redal-Stan drooped. He turned his back to her, placing his hands upon the railing to look over the cricket-laden fields to the city. The lights from Ese’Nawoer’s homes were unseen, but the stars were eclipsed by the smoke from its fires. “Like a hand into a glove,” he said. “Like a hand into a finely crafted glove. One he really doesn’t want to wear, though it suits him well.”
Alissa’s gaze dropped. Redal-Stan continued to gaze into infinity. The light behind them made the shadows uncertain, but she thought she saw a grievous sadness reflected in the old Master who had grown up in the plains as a boy. Seeing him sorrowing after Lodesh’s plight, she realized she and Redal-Stan were destined to be apart, even among their adopted kin.
They might wear a Master’s clothes, perform a Master’s tasks, fly in the mist on a moonless night, but they would always be who they were before: a farm girl growing up alone in the hills and a half-starved adolescent struggling to survive the plains. Their background marked them as much as their normal eyes and fingers, and their propensity to delight in even the smallest task their structured neural nets allowed them. They alone understood the quickness of the human existence, the tragedy of choice, and the strength that lay behind both.
Alissa stood and reached for his sleeve, allowing her un-shed tears for Lodesh to make their appearance. He turned, knowing why her eyes were full. “They don’t understand, do they,” she whispered around her tight throat, and he shook his head.
“No. For all their wisdom, rakus don’t understand the sacrifices men and women make.”
His arm went about her shoulder in a quick, fatherly embrace. Giving her a stern look, he took a step back. “No tears for Warden Lodesh,” he admonished, and she gulped. “He wouldn’t understand. It would leave him uneasy and do him no good.”
Alissa smiled sickly up at him, and he turned back to the city. “The Stryska line is strong,” he said. “Even with the sorrow, he will endure. He will do wondrous things.”
Feeling the cold of the night on her cheeks, Alissa wiped the tears from them. She gave him a mirthless smile. A decisive knock startled them both, and Redal-Stan turned, blinking. “Mav?” he questioned. “Come in.”
Mav shuffled in, followed by an anxious-looking Connen-Neute with a tray in his long hands. “Thank you, dearie,” she said. Her sharp eyes swept the room, lingering on Alissa as she sniffed loudly. “Kind of you to help an old lady,” she added. “I’ll take it from here.”
Connen-Neute willingly surrendered the tray with its teapot and three covered dishes. Hovering just inside the door, the young Master worriedly touched his shoulder. “It’s fine,” Alissa said wordlessly, and he visibly relaxed, stepping farther into the room.
Mav’s eyes narrowed at Alissa’s red eyes, and the woman set the tray down beside Redal-Stan’s moth-circled light with an attention-getting clatter.
“So glad you came back up, Mavoureen.” Redal-Stan ghosted past Alissa, intent on the sight of the covered dishes. “But I’m afraid you’ve missed the locking of the Hold’s doors.”
“Then I’ll be resting my achy bones in the stables tonight. It won’t be the first time,” she said dryly. She stepped in front of the plates, causing Redal-Stan to stop short with a comical
haste. Feigning unawareness of his abrupt halt, Mav raised a questioning brow to Alissa, seemingly for approval. With a jolt, Alissa realized the kitchen’s matriarch thought her tears had been caused by Redal-Stan. Alissa smiled and mouthed the words, Not his fault.
Mav frowned in disbelief, and Redal-Stan’s eyes narrowed. But as soon as she moved out of the way, he forgot his annoyance and started lifting lids. Mav slapped his hand with a preoccupied motion and arranged a small supper on his desk. Drawn by the promise of food, Alissa and Connen-Neute drifted closer.
“Redal-Stan?” Mav said. “Connen-Neute and I were discussing on the stairs the possibility of a Keeper or Master learning how to craft an object of metal or stone from their thoughts.” The final cover was removed, and Alissa took an eager breath. Sweet drops!
“Now.” Mav gingerly eased her body into a chair with a surprising show of familiarity. “Connen-Neute assures me that because they are so, m-m-m, dense did you say, dearie?”
Connen-Neute nodded. Alissa edged closer to the plate of sweets only to have Redal-Stan intercept her reach, pulling the plate away. Her lips pursed, and she frowned.
“Dense, yes,” Mav continued. “He tells me it would be impossible to craft, say, buttons or—a laundry kettle.”
Alissa blinked, her ire vanishing in surprise. No one had told her that. And it hadn’t been that difficult. She looked at Mav in astonishment, and the old woman slowly winked, not looking at her at all.
“He’s right,” Redal-Stan said, and while he was distracted by Mav, Alissa slipped the sweets from him, retreating to the couch with her prize. “Metal,” he continued, “stone, and even mirth wood to some degree, are too dense to be dissolutioned easily, so it’s impossible to craft them with your thoughts.” Plate in hand, Redal-Stan turned to offer Alissa first choice from one of the two plates of meat. Surprise brought him up short as he realized she had absconded with the sweets.
“I see,” Mav mused aloud. “But you can craft clay.”
“True,” he agreed, turning back to Mav. “But clay is malleable in its natural state.”
“Metal is malleable when it’s hot,” she challenged.
Nodding, Redal-Stan carefully chose his first morsel of ham. “But in its natural state, it isn’t. And if it’s too dense to break down, it’s too dense to craft from your thoughts.”
“M-m-m.” Mav closed her eyes as if in thought. “I still think it could be done.” Stifling a grin, Alissa licked the honey from her fingers, knowing where this was headed.
Redal-Stan smiled indulgently as he seated himself upon his desktop. He dangled a long leg down to the floor, effectively dominating the two plates of ham. “If it were possible, wouldn’t someone have done it already? Metal, perhaps, with much study and concentration, terrible concentration. But why bother? And you can’t dissolution stone, so you can’t form it from your thoughts.” Secure in his convictions, Redal-Stan deftly speared a ham slice with a long-handled fork, unaware that Connen-Neute was quietly screwing up his courage.
Mav sighed. “I would think it worth the effort to try,” she said slowly. “A Master who could craft, say . . . needles or candleholders would be very popular.”
Connen-Neute took a resolute breath. Alissa watched in wonder as he straightened his vest, strode to Redal-Stan, eyed him, then reached for the second plate of ham. The scrape of the dish on the desktop seemed painfully loud. Slowly the young Master returned, sitting smoothly at the opposite end of the couch from Alissa.
Redal-Stan said nothing, but his look was of astounded dismay. His student could no longer be bullied and would have to be treated with more respect.
“Redal-Stan?” Mav’s eyes glinted at Connen-Neute’s revolt. “I would wager with you.”
There was a clatter as Connen-Neute’s fork hit his plate. His face was fixed in alarm.
“A wager, you say?” Redal-Stan’s tone was far too casual.
“Yes.” The chipper woman sat straighter, daring him with her bird-bright eyes. “You know that small pantry behind the largest hearth?”
“Yes,” he drawled, arranging his three remaining ham rolls in order of size.
“If I can find someone willing to try crafting an object in stone or metal, I want it.”
Redal-Stan chose the smallest piece. “What for?”
“To sleep in, of course!” she exclaimed, and Redal-Stan ceased his chewing. “I’m tired of dragging my bones from Ese’Nawoer and back every blessed day.”
Redal-Stan swallowed. “You know I can’t sanction that. You aren’t a Keeper, or even a past student. Talo-Toecan has forbidden it for a very good reason.”
“Strell isn’t a Keeper,” Alissa offered. “Talo-Toecan allowed him to stay.”
If Redal-Stan could be any more surprised, he would have fallen off his desk. He waved his fork wildly. “It doesn’t matter,” he growled, stabbing another ham roll. “You can’t dissolution metal, mirth wood, or stone. Therefore you can’t craft them from your thoughts.”
Mav leaned forward, delicately snitching the last, largest morsel of meat from his tray. As he watched helplessly, she ate it. “I don’t see your logic, old goat.”
Connen-Neute gasped and began shoveling his remaining slices of meat into his mouth. Redal-Stan looked as if he were ready to strangle someone. Cool and confident, Mav sedately chewed, knowing she had goaded him into the response she wanted.
“Fine,” he snapped. “If you can get someone to craft metal, not try but actually do it, you can have your closet, cheeky old woman. I’ll fix it with Talo-Toecan somehow, but you,” he stabbed a finger at her, “will be dead by the time you convince someone to even try.”
“Ha!” It was a carefully contrived bark of sound. “I haven’t baked my last candied apple yet. But I want Kally to be allowed to stay as well. She’s too great a help to me.”
“Burn you to ash, woman,” Redal-Stan exclaimed. “No.”
“Yes,” she countered. “And I’ll find someone to craft stone. That’s got to be harder.”
Beside Alissa, Connen-Neute whispered, “No, Mavoureen. He’ll have your firstborn.” Alissa squirmed, wanting to show them it was possible.
“Stone, eh?” Redal-Stan calmed, looking more like a shifty plains trader than usual. Fine,” he said. “Since we are entertaining the ridiculous, I agree. If I get a candied apple on my breakfast tray every morning whether you win or lose.”
Mav gasped. “Do you know how hard those are to make?”
“You should have plenty of time,” he taunted, “if you’re staying in the Hold.”
A shaky hand went to cover her eyes, supposedly in dismay, but Alissa knew it was to hide her eyes, gleaming in victory. “Kally can stay,” she said softly. “I can stay. You get a candied apple once a week.”
Redal-Stan leaned confidently back. “Every day.”
“A full tray once a month,” she countered as she looked up.
“Done and done,” he agreed. “I should like a tray of yellow apples first,” he drawled.
Alissa waited for Mav to announce Alissa’s new skill, but the old woman merely gave her a knowing smirk and levered herself up with a heavy sigh. Mav reached for the teapot, now fully brewed. There was a tweak on Alissa’s awareness as someone warmed it up.
“Perhaps red, though,” Redal-Stan pondered aloud. “Red apples are generally sweeter.”
Pouring tea into two cups, Mav handed them to Redal-Stan and Connen-Neute.
“Until, of course, the red and green mix apples are ripe,” Redal-Stan continued. “They’re by far the sweetest.” He reached for a cup, pausing at the two empty ones on the tray. “Aren’t you having any tea?” he questioned Mav. “The doors are locked. You’ll need something to keep you warm in the stables. That closet is still mine.”
Mav swirled the pot, estimating how much was left. “Yes. I would enjoy a cup of tea before I retire, but I would rather have it in one of Alissa’s cups. They don’t slip out of my old hands as easy as yours.”
A
lissa grinned as the two Masters turned to her. “Alissa’s cups?” Redal-Stan said.
At Mav’s encouraging nod, Alissa made two cups in quick succession. Mav triumphantly blew the dust from them and filled them with tea. More pleased than anyone had a right to be, the woman sank into her chair, the steam glowing in the illumination from Redal-Stan’s light.
“But . . .” Redal-Stan stammered as Connen-Neute shook off his surprise and began to laugh. The wonderful sound was contagious, and Alissa grinned all the more. “Bone and Ash!” the old Master of the Hold shouted. “Let me see that!” He grabbed Alissa’s cup from the tray, yelping in pain as tea slopped over to burn his hand. “You said you couldn’t craft anything but clothes.”
“I was bored,” Alissa said, grinning. “And you wouldn’t let me read any of your books.”
The towel Redal-Stan had conjured to dab up the spilled tea hit his desk. “No,” he said. “You expect me to believe you made this,” he pointed to her cup, “in less than a day?”
“Of course not,” Mav said. “It took her all of last night and today.”
Redal-Stan froze, his hand halfway across his head. Alissa couldn’t stop smiling, pleased and embarrassed at the same time.
“Would anyone care for a hand or two of Slats and Shanties?” Mav dipped into her apron pocket. “Now that I’m in no hurry,” she added slyly. Connen-Neute eagerly pulled a small table close between the couch and Mav’s chair. The soft sound of sliding cards joined the crickets.
“What happened?” Redal-Stan breathed vacantly as he set her stone cup down.
“Here, Alissa,” Mav called merrily. “Sit on my right. Make Redal-Stan go last.”
“I don’t know how to play,” she admitted as she slid down the couch, and Mav waved an impatient hand.
From his desk Redal-Stan whispered, “You have a bed made up in that closet already, don’t you.”
Mav beamed, her wrinkles falling into themselves. “Are you going to play or not?” she asked, and he turned his back on them, sucking on the soft part of his hand he had burnt.
Three cards slid to a stop before Alissa. “Not yet!” Connen-Neute cried as she reached for them, and Alissa snatched her hand back.
