The Locksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  If I didn’t get over it, I would start burning things by accident. I snatched my hands away from the shelves. Why did it bother me so? Their love affair ended a century ago. It was silly of me to be jealous. I would not act like Jenny—I had more dignity than that.

  I was still hot when I met Hazel at the librarian’s desk. As we walked to the door, I plotted the shortest route to the kitchen. I would grab supper, and then dash up the service stairs to my room. If I took something for breakfast, I wouldn’t have to come out again until after the Frost Maiden was gone.

  We reached the open doorway, and came face-to-face with Mother Celeste and the Frost Maiden. I froze.

  Shock registered on the Frost Maiden’s face before the curtain of disdain dropped in place. “Well, if it isn’t the Lesser Locksmith. What are you doing here? Have you run away from…Which? The war? Or the Warlock?”

  I clutched my book to my chest, and glared at her without answering.

  She stretched out a hand and grasped my face, the great sapphire in her ring flashing. I jerked backwards, but her nails dug into my cheek and chin.

  Hazel gaped. Mother Celeste hissed, “Lorraine—”

  For an instant, the first Locksmith was as strong a presence as the Frost Maiden.

  The Frost Maiden examined me, no emotion but contempt apparent. “He has set his mark on you. How fortunate you are still with us.”

  I knocked her hand away.

  She said languidly, “You do have a temper. I am making you quite angry, aren’t I? How interesting, you do not seem to be afraid of me. Why not? Are you that stupid?”

  “Your Wisdom, I did not insult you. The Water Office is the dispenser of justice. It won’t let you kill me for expecting the same respect in return.”

  Her eyes narrowed. I had scored. Damn. She wouldn’t kill me, I hoped, but a hex that kept me from ever getting warm again might make me wish she had.

  She said, “Why should I respect you?”

  No one else was within earshot. Keeping my voice low, I said, “Because someday I may be the Fire Warlock. Would you then want me asking why I should respect you?”

  Her eyes widened. I turned my back on her and walked out of the room.

  The Frost Maiden’s touch had shocked me, and not just because of the insult and her cold hands. The sense of the first Warlock Locksmith’s presence must have come from the magic making up the Water Office. He had worked on all four Offices, but I had never expected his handiwork to be so obvious. It was begging me to read it.

  The impulse to read it strengthened as time passed. By midnight, I was fretting over the Locksmith’s spellcraft as a terrier worries a bone. It was summoning me—I was sure of it. A clock somewhere struck half-past, then one o’clock.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I pulled on a robe and stepped out into hall.

  If that spell wanted me to read it, I would.

  The Frost Maiden

  The conviction that someone, or something, was summoning me intensified as I tiptoed towards the Frost Maiden’s door.

  I shrank the flame in my mind’s eye until it was the tiniest spark possible and bade it find the Frost Maiden’s ring. It slipped under the door, and I surveyed the bedroom. She slept, the hand with the ring resting on top of the eider. I held my breath while the spark crept closer, to within touching distance. Her Office must be aware I was there. Would it encase me in ice crystals for committing such an outrage?

  I stood with both hands pressed against the door, heart hammering, breath shallow, palms sweaty. I nudged the spark closer; it brushed against the enormous sapphire. I was not frozen to death, or drowned. But I now knew that my hunch was correct. The Water Office had summoned me.

  I slid down the door until I was kneeling. I rested my head on the door, drawing in deep breaths and holding them, exhaling slowly, trying to calm my racing heart, before sitting on the cold floor. I turned and sat cross-legged, with my back to the door. I might be there a while; I might as well get comfortable. I closed my eyes, ordered the little spark to grow until just bright enough to read by, and began to study the spells.

  I still had the sense of dealing with the Locksmith’s handiwork, but I could not find the lock. As in the Fire Warlock’s Office, there was an intertwined mess of spells, few of which I recognised. The sense of the Locksmith’s presence diminished while I felt my way around. The clock struck two, then half-past. When it struck three, I gave up.

  Why did I come out on such a risky errand in the middle of the night? Why was I losing sleep over this witch? Why did Jean love her? I’d like to spit in her eye.

  The text of the lock unscrolled before me.

  As I read, astonishment drove out the other emotions, and the text blanked out halfway through. If it had not been so dangerous I would have laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of it, although the message it conveyed was not funny. I struggled to regain the right frame of mind, feeling wretched at the effort. Pity and horror warred with anger and jealousy. It took two more tries before I read the whole thing.

  If the lock on the Fire Office was like this, Jean could not have read it even if he spent a century on it.

  This lock was simple, elegant, and foolproof. The Locksmith had used the most fundamental of conditions to ensure that the lock could only be read by a level five fire witch in a jealous rage; someone, that is, nearly identical to the Locksmith herself. Everyone had assumed that the Locksmith was a man, but it was not so, and the drama the Frost Maiden and I had been engaged in had played out before, a millennium ago. Once before a fire wizard had desired a water witch, and the fire witch who wanted him had taken her revenge, locking up the water witch’s heart in the sapphire Token of Office, creating the Frost Maiden—no, a succession of Frost Maidens—who could neither love nor let go of the men they no longer needed.

  I pressed my hands on the cold stone floor, struggling to keep down the bile that rose as I pondered the all too human frailties of the members of the Great Coven. Had the Locksmith had any idea of how long the Offices would endure, and how many people would be hurt by her lust for revenge? If she had, would she have cared?

  I cared. I might be like the original Locksmith in many ways, but this aspect of her character revolted me. When I am angry, I confront the person and thrash things out face-to-face, kiss and make up, and go on. I detested the woman lying asleep in the chambers behind me, but she didn’t deserve this. Jean didn’t deserve the attacks she inflicted on him out of her frustration and pain. And what had Beorn and René done to merit the abuse they in turn would receive?

  That settled it. I could—I would—release this lock. There had been no one else in a thousand years who could do it; another locksmith might not appear for another thousand.

  Wait. Was I making a serious mistake? The Offices and their spells are intertwined. I didn’t know what would happen if I released it. Could this be the trigger for Jean’s downfall?

  I started up in horror, and, knelt on the hard floor, praying for guidance. I could never forgive myself if releasing this lock brought about his death, but the lock was an abomination. If he was already doomed, I couldn’t, in good conscience, leave it be. I wouldn’t get another chance.

  The Frost Maiden didn’t trust me. If I told her, in the morning, that I wanted to fix her Office, she would laugh at me—if I was lucky. And she would only be here one night.

  When the clock struck four, I gritted my teeth. I had to release it, and I had to do it tonight. I settled down once again with my back to the door. Time to get on with it.

  I couldn’t read the lock.

  How could I get back into the right frame of mind? I didn’t hate her anymore. I conjured up images of her and Jean together, imagining him kissing her with the same fervour with which he had kissed me. The rage and jealousy returned and the spell unfolded, but I hated myself for it. I might as well wallow in a cesspi
t.

  I read the spell again. A long one for a lock, it was a poem in the form of a villanelle, each repeated line hammering home the Locksmith’s intention of exacting revenge.

  You are Frost Maiden in your day,

  You have captured my true love’s heart,

  For this the price you must pay.

  Your words, your voice, have too much sway.

  Each thing you say pierces like a dart.

  You are Frost Maiden in your day.

  You cannot love them in any way,

  Yet, many a man loves you in his heart,

  For this the price you must pay.

  You may be as beautiful as the Fae,

  But nothing changes what thou art.

  You are Frost Maiden in your day.

  A fire witch locks your heart away.

  No one else can see all that thou art.

  This is the price you must pay.

  My anger, my jealousy, over you hold sway,

  I hate you for all that thou art.

  You are Frost Maiden in your day,

  For this the price you must pay.

  I set the flame to work at the end of the poem. It wouldn’t budge. What would it take to reverse this lock? The flame grew bright enough to sear, like looking into the sun. I cowered away from it.

  This was going to hurt.

  Compulsion

  I shoved the flame backwards through the words of the spell. Halfway through, I was drenched in sweat. Pushing the flame was like struggling with a red-hot wheelbarrow loaded down with a pile of bricks. With two tercets left to go, I was shivering as with a fever. With one tercet left, I faced possible death by fire for the third time. I lay down on the cold floor and kept shoving. My breath came in ragged gasps and my clothes were soaked through.

  Why was I torturing myself?

  I was doing it for Beorn and René. I clung to that thought like a lifeline. Let me stop, I whimpered, but some other part of my mind said, almost done, keep going, almost done.

  I shoved the flame through the last letter. With a crack as intense as the lightning bolts the Warlock had called down on the mountain, a surge of light rolled over me, followed by utter blackness.

  A worried-looking blonde woman I didn’t recognise poured gallons of cold water over me, nearly drowning me. Lights appeared. People milled around, shouting. Beorn stood astride the aerie like Thor, hurling Mjöllnir at his enemies.

  Which was real? Which was a fever-induced phantasm?

  Mother Celeste, in a wet nightgown, cradled my head in her arms. Jean, one-eyed in a slouch hat, Hugnin and Muninn on his shoulders, brooded over the world from Mount Olympus. Blue-eyed Hera by his side waited to exact revenge on any young woman his eye alighted on.

  Good grief, how did I get so muddled?

  The blonde woman reappeared and put a hand on my temple. Her eyes were cool but not unkind, not icy like those of…the Frost Maiden?

  “You will live,” she said, “although if I had not woken you might not have. Now that you are awake, will you please tell us what in Heaven’s name did you do? Something quite drastic, obviously. If you have damaged the Office of the Northern Waters you may come to wish I had left you to die, but I admit it feels more like it has been fixed than broken. Now, talk.”

  Talk? When I didn’t know what was real? The Frost Maiden, kind to a warlock? That was an hallucination.

  I looked around. I was lying in bed, dry and weak, in the room Mother Celeste had given me. From the light shining in the window, it appeared to be late morning. The Frost Maiden and the Earth Mother were both there, the Frost Maiden standing by the bed on one side, Mother Celeste rocking and knitting on the other. I tried to sit up and she waved a knitting needle at me; I couldn’t move.

  “Lie there, child,” she said. “You are in no shape to do anything but. I’m going against my better judgement as a healer to make you talk, but it can’t be helped. All the Offices are demanding to know what you’ve done to the Water Office. Besides, I’m a silly old woman who is dying of curiosity.” She put down her knitting, and the Frost Maiden sat on the foot of the bed, where she could see my face.

  “Talk,” Mother Celeste said. “But don’t move.”

  I had no hope of keeping secrets from these two witches. It didn’t matter now anyway, I didn’t feel anything—no anger, no disgust, no jealousy, no pain. Washed out, that was all.

  I talked, describing my emotional state in blunt language. I talked about the Locksmith and the love triangle in the Great Coven, whose passions still moved us in lockstep more than a millennium later, how I had determined that I would not let it continue, and what it cost me to release the lock.

  There was silence after I finished. Mother Celeste had started out watching my face intently. As I got further into the story, her gaze switched back and forth between my face and the Frost Maiden’s. Now she reached out to pat my hand. She missed on the first try, fumbling around without taking her eyes off the other witch.

  “So long,” the Frost Maiden whispered. “This has gone on for so long, and we never even knew.” She wiped her eyes, and in a few moments went on in a stronger voice. “I have read the first Frost Maiden’s memoirs, of course, and knew there were jealousies in the Great Coven, but I never connected the fire witch she despised with the Locksmith, nor guessed how I was being manipulated into doing and saying things that I have been deeply ashamed of. So many times I have left meetings with Jean feeling sick of myself…”

  I said, “Why didn’t anybody see that something was wrong when the Offices were first created?”

  She grimaced. “They may not have seen much of a change in behaviour as long as she was alive, and she lived for another century and a half. It pains me to admit it, but the first Frost Maiden was pretty much what the Locksmith seems to have thought she was—a manipulative power-hungry icicle who seduced men she was incapable of loving. There was fault on both sides, and my predecessor disgusts me as much as yours does you. Like each of her other successors, I assumed upon acquiring the Office that I would change it to be less, er, frosty, and that I would get along with the Fire Warlock when no one else had.” She laughed hollowly. “We know how well that worked.”

  “What will you do now? I mean, do you still…” My face got hot. What an impertinent question. She would say it was none of my business.

  “Do I still want Jean? Is that it?” Her eyes flashed, but she turned away to gaze out the window. “No. That romance was over a long time ago, and some of the things I have said to him since are nigh unforgivable, even if I went and grovelled—which I suppose I must do.” She grimaced again. “Even if I still wanted him, he would not want me. And you, a fire witch, are a better match for him. Not that it matters, when he is as trapped by his Office as I am by mine.”

  She stopped, her expression changing to astonishment. “Or was…” The astonishment changed to a faint smile. “Besides, there is another man for me now, a better match for a water witch. He has loved me for years, and I never even knew.” The smile broadened until her face was radiant.

  Was this the same woman? I could almost begin to like her.

  She went to the door. “I must begin a full assessment of the Office, to make sure it is not damaged in some subtle way, but I suspect that even if there are other changes, overall the Office will perform better now than it has. It feels less of a burden today than it ever has before. I am deeply in your debt, Warlock Locksmith the Greater.” She made me a deep reverence, and left.

  I gaped after her. “Mother Celeste, did you see that? She curtsied to me. A fire witch. Can you believe…”

  Mother Celeste leaned over me, hands on hips. I gulped, expecting a well-deserved tongue-lashing. But all she said was, “You are either brave or fool-hardy, I’m not sure which. Would you please avoid putting yourself in danger again while you are my guest? I
would hate to have to tell Jean you died under my care after he sent you here for safekeeping.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, dear, but I need to tell him what happened. I’ve been ignoring him ever since you seemed to be coming around, and he sounds quite angry with me. Now, sleep.”

  I said, “But I want to…” and talked to empty air. Early-morning sunlight streamed in my window. I would have to learn that sleep spell, and use it on one of them. See if they like it.

  Hazel brought me breakfast, but sitting up made my head spin. I lay in bed most of the day, napping, worrying, and thinking hard. Something gnawed at me, something insistent demanding attention, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I worried about Jean, but that wasn’t new, and mooning over him wasn’t going to help.

  I reviewed everything that had happened since the Frost Maiden had arrived. Did the Locksmith’s jealousy infect the Fire Office, too? If she had been so obsessed with Warlock Fortunatus then why didn’t she leave a way for him to retire from the Office? Too bad I couldn’t talk to Jean about it.

  Thinking about the lock on the Water Office led to further speculation. Beorn, René, and Master Sven had all tried both my original lock spell and the modified one that allowed me to still use my magic, but they hadn’t been able to make either one work. If I combined my spell with the Locksmith’s, could I create a lock that hid someone else’s magic, even from that person? I played with the wording until I had something that might work.

  Hazel came to take away my dinner tray. After asking permission, I tried the lock on her.

  She dropped the tray, and shrieked, “Take it off.”

  I released the lock, and she collapsed onto the foot of the bed.

  “Sorry, but you did say I could.”