“I only meant that I’m too young to read about marriage and being in love and all that.”
I was lying, and she knew it. “If there was anything inappropriate, I would not have left it for you,” she said.
I stared at her, thinking that she’d been young once too. When had she gone to work for my horrible great-grandfather? There was no use in asking. I was surprised she had even revealed that Deveral was her brother.
She shut the door behind her, leaving me alone.
I stepped back, and back, as though I could leave the horrible subject of my uncle on the spotless kitchen tiles. Then I whirled and ran out the front door, did the flying spell, and launched myself into the air. I flew upward as hard and as fast as I could, until my hair whipped my face and my eyes stung.
When I returned, Bren was waiting. “There you are! Let’s go to the lake!”
I ran upstairs and changed into my mother’s swimming things, but no matter how hard I yelled and played and splashed, I was always aware of the diary in the desk.
seven
Days slid by, balmy and clear—Sarendan and its problems receded into the distance, except for Bren wondering when Deon would show up.
I hadn’t yet worked out a way to help Peitar. Until I did, I wanted to have fun. Innon and Bren were my first real friends, and what had happened in Miraleste bound us together. I was in my mother’s “true home,” and I felt close to her. There was flying and swimming, and exploring her garden.
And there was the library. Most of the books were very old, beautifully copied out in the difficult handwriting of centuries past, but oh, they were dull—histories of law-making, kings, and battles. Thankfully, there was also a set of plays, which I took for nighttime reading.
Innon went to the lake every day, swimming with the local kids once they finished chores. Some days Bren joined us, but others, he plain disappeared—he’d come to meals, but when we talked about what we’d done, he stayed quiet. I kept myself too busy to read Mother’s diary, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about it.
As the days turned into a week I became restless, and one morning decided that instead of swimming I wanted to talk—and I thought of Dawn. A girl my age! And our mothers had been friends.
Before I left, I visited Mother’s portrait in the sitting room. If I stood just the right way, it was as if she looked at me. I thought she would approve of where I was going—and why.
As I flew over the garden, I thought I saw movement below me, but the trees were so thick I couldn’t be sure.
Dawn’s house, I remembered, had light blue shutters. Through the big diamond-paned window, I saw her and a boy at looms, their fingers darting fast, in and out in rhythm with the shuttle. A small girl was busy combing out wool. Seriah Evris oversaw everything as she worked at embroidery.
Dawn saw me and smiled a welcome. The door was open, and I found my way to the workroom. To my surprise, they did their tasks to the sound of a woman’s voice—but not Seriah’s. She made a quick gesture with three fingers, and the voice ceased.
More magic! It seemed to be a spell that had captured someone reading aloud and could be listened to over and over.
“We’re almost done,” she said. “Want to join us? There’s elderberry cordial in the kitchen, if you’d like to pour yourself a glass.”
When I came back, the voice was speaking again.
“. . . and as I traveled northward, to kingdoms and countries that were unknown to us in the south, I discovered that there are familiar rituals to life all over Sartorias-deles. One is the Name Day Ritual. Though Name Day customs vary, nearly all people have them. And further, those that perform the ritual with music tend to have music as part of everyday life, whereas those who perform the ritual with speech do not. . . .”
Like us, I thought. Music was something you heard only at court, mostly for dancing. As the voice told of the old melodies people sang during the grape harvest, and games that involved music, I thought about how silent Selenna House had been. My father never had music played. He said it was just noise.
A bell tolled outside, and almost immediately some little kids scampered in to tug at Dawn.
“There.” Seriah Evris stopped the voice, put down her sewing, and made shooing motions. “Noon! You are free.” She smiled at me and picked up the empty glasses to take to the kitchen. Next time, I thought, I’ll ask her about my mother.
Dawn hurriedly tidied her loom. Then she said, “What’s for today? A swim? Or are we playing Riddle?”
“Riddle!” one of her brothers said, jumping up and down. “We already did swimming in the morning, and in Riddle we’re ahead! We’re ahead!”
Outside, other kids were coming out of their houses. The older ones took the hands of the littles, and all launched into the air, flying down to the western edge of the lake, opposite the end where the bright but deadly Lure flowers grew. High above the shoreline the kids played Riddle, which was a kind of chase-and-guess game. I found it more fun to watch than to play, for I couldn’t fly as fast or as well as even the seven-year-olds. Presently a new boy arrived, and Dawn gave up her spot.
She sat down next to me. “It’s fun,” she said, “but I can do that any time. What I don’t get to do is talk to others from over the mountain. Most have no interest in life outside the valley, but I do!”
“Well, I want to know more about things here,” I said.
Dawn laughed. “Fair trade.”
“I was also hoping you might tell me where Tsauderei lives, and how I might meet him.”
Her eyes widened with delight. “You also have an interest in magic?”
“My favorite thing is history, but magic comes next.”
“I really want to learn. Tsauderei said he’d start teaching me next year, and if I do well, he’ll send me to the mage school in Bereth Ferian.”
She flew us to a high ledge, just wide enough for the small house tucked into the side of the mountain. “He lives there. You ought to go visit him—my mother says he was a great friend of your family.” Now I was the one who was surprised.
After we talked a bit about history—she, too, loved Lasva Dei the Wanderer—a kid showed up to call her back to the game, but not before she said, “There’s someone I think you should meet. I have to get permission first.”
As she left, I wondered why she didn’t mention a name—and, anyway, who could be more mysterious than a mage?
I took a deep breath, and knocked on Tsauderei’s plain wooden door.
“Come in!” he called. I entered a large room, with three walls of books. The fourth was a huge window overlooking the lake. Before it sat an old man in a rocker, a book on his lap.
He had a long, gray-streaked white beard. His braided hair was nearly as long as mine. Two gemstones, dangling on gold chains, winked from his left ear. He wore the clothes of my grandparents’ generation—a paneled blue robe over another of dark red linen, both embroidered with the vine-and-flower pattern that I’d seen all over the valley. His voice was soft and old as history. “You’ve got the Selenna family eyes.”
“I know,” I said, surprised by his abruptness. “Lizana told me. Good for seeing at night.”
He grunted. “So, what did you want?” I must have gaped, because he added, “You want something, I’ll wager, or you would not have come up here.”
“I do?” I asked. Then my face burned with embarrassment. “Does that mean you don’t want visitors?”
Tsauderei waved a hand. “Never mind that. Forgive me. I have no occasion to remember the niceties of manners, for people here understand me well enough, and I understand them. So. You are not here to beg me to fix your life with some magical spell?”
“I did have a question about magic,” I admitted. “But not about you doing spells. Dawn said that you might teach her magic. Can I learn, t
oo?”
“From what I know about your brother,” he said, smiling, “you two are more alike than I had thought.”
“Does that mean you’ll teach me?”
“It means that you would have to catch up on your education first.” He saw I was about to protest. “Lizana told me that your father forbade her to continue your lessons. I also know that you read on your own, but it’s undisciplined reading. For entertainment. Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “But first must come the basics. Learning magic is more than illusions to impress courtiers at parties.”
“How?” I asked.
“Before you can begin to learn magic you must understand its cost. I do not mean an exchange of coins for services. I mean consequences, and that means understanding history enough to perceive new patterns—how things are changing. So tell me about your reading.”
“It’s all gone now,” I said sadly.
His voice was gentle. “Selenna House was destroyed?”
“Yes. Most of it, anyway. The villagers set fire to the library.”
“Your mother gave me a fairly detailed catalogue. Most of those books were copies.”
“Really?” I asked. “Did she visit you here?”
“No,” Tsauderei said dryly. “Strictly forbidden. Her grandfather hated me from the time we were boys, you see.”
“You knew my great-grandfather?”
“We knew . . . of one another, you might say. My father was the pastry cook, so the prince would have nothing to do with me. It didn’t help that I was the best at games.” He laughed. “You wouldn’t think it, but at one time I could vault onto the back of a cantering horse and throw a lance through a ring this small.” He made a little circle with his hands. “They wanted me for the army, but I thought drilling and marching a stupid way to spend your life. So I went off to learn magic instead.”
“And my great-grandfather hated you because of that?”
“Only in part. He hated me because I kept winning. In his mind, princes always won, and peasants gawked in awe and followed obediently. Don’t know where he got that, either,” Tsauderei shrugged. “The queen, your great-great- grandmother, was an easygoing woman. The point being, when I saw injustice, I spoke my mind . . . and ended up here.” He laughed again. “Watching things from afar. As he well knew.”
“But my uncle can’t send warriors here, can he? He was never taught the magic spell.”
“Exactly. He was only here once, when he was small. Your mother was forbidden to come to my house, but the old king didn’t know that everyone—including me—visited hers. Later, I met your brother, though he was very small. That’s when she told me about Selenna House library.”
“I’ve read a lot of histories, but nothing about the Selennas. I thought they’d be stuffy and boring, like my father’s aunts.”
“Wrong.” Tsauderei shook his head, and the gemstones in his ear danced. “Your forebears were very interesting indeed. Anyway, their original records are safe. Your house just had copies. So. What do you read?”
I talked about Lasva and wanting adventure and the fashion book and court and what I knew about history and freedom and my mother’s diary, and ended up surprising myself by telling him about the revolution.
“It’s a pretty tangle,” he said, but he made “pretty” sound like an insult, as Derek had.
“You mean in Sarendan?” He made a noise of agreement. “What’s happening?” All the old memories and emotions had crowded back.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Or will you?”
My throat hurt. “The boys and I made a vow to go back,” I said quickly. “Though Peitar wants me here. All I did was cause problems before. And I don’t ever want to see my uncle again. Maybe I shouldn’t return.”
“Leaving your brother to cope all alone?” Tsauderei asked, his white brows beetling.
That hit me hard. I cried, “What can I do, except make mistakes?”
“Well, now, that’s for you to decide. But cease thinking you ‘caused’ anything. It sounds like your getting caught in that passage was just one spark among the many that caused this conflagration.”
I thought again about my mother’s diary, with Uncle Darian’s name everywhere. I wiped my damp hands on my clothes. Going back, reading the diary, keeping my promise—it was all bound together somehow in my head.
Tsauderei said, “You are probably discovering that you can run, even to as remote and pleasant a site as this, but your problems do not remain behind, tidily packed away.” I looked away. “Never mind. For now, if Dawn offers to introduce you to her friend, you might go. I think you’ll be good for one another.”
“Dawn and me?”
“No—that is, Dawn’s a fine young person. Smart and focused. She’ll make a good mage one day. No, the one I’m talking about is a secret.” He hesitated.
“I can keep secrets,” I said. “If I know it’s a secret—and why.”
“This one needs more than keeping—you can’t even whisper her name to yourself while hiding in a closet, for Norsunder has tracer spells over half the world in case she survived the war a century ago. We can talk freely only here, because my protective wards are stronger still.”
“How can someone survive a war a century ago?”
“The halting of time,” he said dryly. “Think you’re ready to hear more?”
I hesitated, then thought: If Dawn can keep this secret, why can’t I? “Yes,” I said.
“Very well. Dawn will introduce you, if you’d like to meet her. Living out at Hermit House is Princess Yustnesveas, the last living Landis, heir to ancient Sartor. I think you should meet her—you and your brother, if he ever shows up here.”
eight
I couldn’t figure out which of Tsauderei’s revelations amazed me most. One thing I knew: I had to find Bren. If anyone could convince him that art training wasn’t just for nobles, it was a mage whose father had been a pastry cook.
As I neared Irad House, I again saw movement in the garden. I touched down and walked along the winding paths, pausing only to breathe in the scents of my mother’s favorite flowers. At the far end of the ledge, in a small clearing sheltered by enormous trees with an unimpeded view of the lake, stood Bren.
He was in front of an easel, so rapt in his work that he didn’t hear me come up behind him. I watched him touch chalk to a corner of his picture, blending different shades of green to show how the sun filtered through the trees, edging each leaf with silver.
“Hoo,” I exclaimed. “That’s really good!”
Bren jumped, the chalk flying from his hand. He gave me such a strange look—midway between anger and embarrassment—that I laughed.
“Sorry, sorry!” I managed. “Oh, if you could see your face!”
“Why are you nosing around?” He sounded the way his face looked.
“I came to tell you about someone, but—why are you hiding? Your picture’s wonderful!”
“Think so?” His expression was even more comical now, for mixed in with the embarrassment and anger was hope—but this time I managed not to laugh. “I can’t get the light right. It’s not showing . . .” He fought for the right word. “Depth? Distance? Pheg!”
“Peitar was right,” I said. “You do need to train with artists.”
“I told you, art is for nobles,” he said quickly, picking up the chalk. “Derek says that artists who create things that only nobles see are just as bad as nobles.”
“So you don’t make art just for nobles. And that’s why I was looking for you. I think you should talk to the mage—to Tsauderei. In fact, I think you should draw him. He’s got the most interesting face I’ve ever seen.” He was silent. “If you don’t like it there, you can always fly away,” I said.
“That makes me sound like a hatchling.” He made a face. “I’ll go.
”
• • •
THE MORNING AFTER I met Tsauderei I woke early, as I often did. I dressed quietly and warmly, because I could see frost making a silvery lace on the grass and leaves.
Then I took to the air. The lake was dark, the ledges shrouded in blue shadow. The mountains made a frame, their eastern contours edged with peachy gold sunlight. I made a wide circle around the lake, the air ruffling over my skin and blowing through my hair. I watched lights glow in the windows of the houses as, above, the stars gradually winked out. To the west, clouds formed a dark line, blotting out the sky. Rain was on the way.
Reluctantly I headed back. Though I loved everything I did during the day, flying was my favorite of all.
After breakfast, the boys and I visited Tsauderei. With no preamble, he said to Bren, “Are you the artist?”
Bren gave me a betrayed glare. “How did you know?”
“Lizana’s told me a little, but most of the evidence is there on your clothes. I take it you found the old paints in the attic, and the paper?”
“She said we could use whatever was in the house,” he muttered.
Tsauderei waved a hand. “None of my business. But those paints are old and probably thick. If you need newer ones, you’ve only to ask. I can get some easily enough.”
Bren dropped into a chair as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up. “You can? You will?” He drew in a deep breath, then asked, “Can I draw you?”
“Why would you want to sketch a worn old stick like me? Of course you can. Just don’t interrupt me when I’m working.”
I could tell that Bren wanted to start right away—and that he didn’t want an audience. He gave us a grateful look when we made our excuses and left.
Innon raced to the lake, but I took my time, watching the slowly growing thunderheads, as I flew to Dawn’s house. Through the great window with all its different-sized panes and bits of colored glass I could see her family at work, so I waved and made to leave, but she ran outside, calling me back.
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