by S G Dunster
“Oh,” Rosalie said as they entered. She gazed around, hands pressed to her small cleavage. “This is just . . . I don’t know what to say. Lovely isn’t the right word. Maybe more . . . interesting.”
Thessaly had to laugh at that one. Obligingly, she showed Rosalie all her trinkets—the small statues from Goa that had been idols, the woven fans, the baskets she’d collected from various stops on the spice trade. She showed her a length of silk woven in the pattern of elephants. It had come from the same Berber merchant who’d sold her Nur.
Nur herself produced a lot of exclaiming and awe. Thessaly brought her down, unhooded her, and Rosalie stroked her, flinching only once when the bird stretched her wings to their full three-foot span and stirred up a draft, flapping them.
Rosalie touched Thessaly’s censer, then hissed for a second, pulling back. “It’s hot.”
“What?” Thessaly said, puzzled. It had lain cold on her shelf for weeks.
“It, I don’t know,” Rosalie said, “felt odd for a moment.” She picked it up carefully, cradling it in her palm. “It’s lovely. Smells like perfume.”
“I burn herbs in it.”
Rosalie nodded and reached for the object next to it—a long curved gourd, wound with a leather thong. “And what’s this?”
“It’s . . . ” Thessaly hesitated. She glanced at Guzal, who raised a brow. “It’s a sheath,” Thessaly said. “It’s from the Spice Islands. It goes over . . .” she patted her abdomen, “a member.”
Rosalie scrunched her face for a moment, not understanding. Then her eyes went wide, and she dropped it, taking a quick step back.
“Well,” Guzal said primly, picking it back up and placing it safely on the shelf.
Thessaly laughed, then, finally. She laughed until she cried. She sank to the floor, leaned against the bedstead, and the tears came truly then—coursing down her face.
She sobbed.
She felt helpless. Angry.
She was to be powerful as a worker of magicks. She’d always reached for it as her answer, thought to herself, in the middle of maidenish dreams of small children and a comfortable household, how she’d run with the earth’s breath and blood.
She’d pinned herself instead.
She had hoped for a chance to talk to Margarida again, but her father had sailed away from Portugal—his ship was known. He’d fired on the walls of Joao’s castle.
She was alone.
She couldn’t lie to herself, couldn’t hope. Her godfather Henri knew no more of magicks than her own father did. She was running out of things to try, things to answer.
Waves came as she let go, pouring over her. Burn. Freeze. Burn, and freeze.
A small hand rested on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Rosalie said quietly.
“Are you?” Thessaly asked. “You may be, in future.”
“Thessaly,” Guzal said, a warning note in her tone.
“No. If this girl comes with us, she comes full-knowing.” She turned back to Rosalie. “I’m a cranke, and bloody wytch. You should not sail with me, should not room with me. I’ll burn you.”
There was a moment of confusion, and then Rosalie looked around the room again, eyeing the objects more carefully, her gaze finally resting on the censer. “I believe you,” she said quietly.
“How? How can you?” Thessaly’s tears turned back to laughter—weak. “Thank you for believing me,” she said wearily, throwing herself down on the bed. “But Rosalie, you’d best not be so gullible. The world will tear you to pieces. Good night to both of you. Leave me, please.”
The small hand rested on Thessaly’s shoulder again, for a moment. “None of us are perfect, you know, Thessaly,” Rosalie said easily. “And I’ve not had a real friend in a while. I wasn’t raised to be holy, either. My father’s consulted priest, clerk, lawyer, seer, and wytch many a times in pursuit of his fortune and found help with each. If you’ll take me, a dunce with not much breeding, as a friend, I’ll take a cranke, and be glad for the force of whatever magicks you may have in my favor.”
Thessaly burned with some odd feeling. Rosalie released her and moved toward the door. Guzal held it open for her, then followed through.
Chapter 8
S
hem took her supper in her room. Cerdic came in to give her a lesson and read by the window, Guzal sewed, and Rosalie came in, too, sitting near the foot of Thessaly’s bedstead with an old primer Thessaly lent her. Cerdic helped her here and there with a hard pronunciation. Cerdic and Rosalie got on well, but Cerdic occasionally wore a puzzled expression working with her when he had to explain things more than once.
He was used to Thessaly’s quick assimilation of knowledge. Rosalie was flightier, prone to off-topic comments and observations, and he was constantly re-centering her on her work. Guzal watched with mild amusement as she sewed at dresses made from the cloths Thessaly and Rosalie had purchased. Thessaly hoped Rosalie’s father was paying Guzal well for the service. She suspected he was; he was the type who would.
A knock came.
“Enter,” Thessaly called, setting her supper tray aside.
There was surprise, perhaps a rush of pleasure as Loredan came in, shutting the door behind him.
Rosalie sighed, and her look was positively worshipful. Nothing hidden about that at all. Loredan smiled at her and she flushed prettily, burying her nose in the book, but clearly not reading.
“So,” Loredan said, sitting in the chair next to the bedstead where Thessaly sat, again translating
Greek. “We shall soon part, then.”
Thessaly set the book aside, finger marking her place. “Aye, I’m to swelter in the marches, keeping the great cities safe from burning.”
“Until you learn that art to magnificence,” Loredan said smoothly, “and can burn exactly
what you choose.” He smiled at her, a more sincere smile this time, and Thessaly felt as if something might have softened in her middle. “And then I shall have the greatest armory a shipman could ask for, in my wife of fire and breath, blood and flesh.”
Thessaly shivered. Marriage had been implied, but never stated. The others in the room were still—listening, Thessaly knew.
And what a man Loredan was. To like her as she was. To want a powerful woman. To see in her an asset. What did she have to complain of, really? Nothing.
She looked at him a moment. His fine-boned face, strong shoulders, the clear gold of his eyes. The way his dark hair brushed his brow.
She was unutterably lucky. Indeed, she was. And a few years stuck doing what her father wanted, when she’d land with Loredan . . . . Did it really mean much at all to have to wait to come into her luck? “Aye,” she said finally. “You’re right in all that, following I can bridle these same forces.”
“You shall,” Loredan stated. He reached into the pocket of his doublet and held out to her a carved wooden box.
Again surprised, she took it, touching the carvings in the top—a likeness of a lord and lady, only dressed in long-ago fashion. The box was ebony, lacquered, and painted with scarlet and lapis, indigo and black varnishes, gilded over all. “It’s lovely,” she began.
“Open it,” he interrupted her. “As with many things I’ve become acquainted with lately, it has a lovely exterior, but the true treasure is inside.”
There was a strangled sort of squeak from Rosalie. Thessaly ignored it, allowing the lovely compliment to flow over her, bringing the pleasure with it. She traced the carvings for another moment, then slid open the box’s cover.
She breathed in sharply. Inside, nestled against deep-red velvet lining, was a stack of cards. They were gilded and painted in jewel-bright colors. She knew the figures on the cards well. She poured them out on the bed, forgetting Loredan for a moment.
She’d used the trionfi often enough. Umbra had trained her. It was a way to use the bound magicks for sight, though not sight as far-reaching or broad as loose magicks could give. It was a soothing rhythm, though, using the cards, playing fo
r fun, or playing for futures. “Oh my,” Thessaly managed. “Wherever did you acquire these? There aren’t many sets of them.”
“Your Aunt Umbra said you’d like them,” Loredan said. “She passed them to me the very evening we left, to give you as a gift. I am only the delivery boy.”
Thessaly reached over and clasped his hand. It was fine, lovely, the hand—warm, strong, smooth. Graceful muscles that shifted as he turned it, holding hers. “Thank you for the delivery. Umbra gave them to you, Loredan,” she looked at him, searching his face, “because she knew my father would never allow them to come into my possession if she gave them to him. Or tried to give them to me in his presence.”
“You are quite welcome,” Loredan replied, a smile in his eyes. The smile deepened to something warmer, more fervent. A question, a longing.
Thessaly tilted her head toward his, and as he brushed her lips with his own—soft, careful, but knowing—the tide of fire rose up in her, covering her a moment, covering them both. For a moment Loredan’s kiss quickened, strengthened, and then broke. He rose, bowed slightly.
“Sir,” he said to Cerdic. Though Cerdic was untitled, it was a courtesy Thessaly appreciated.
As he passed to the door, nodded at both Guzal and Rosalie, and then left, shutting it behind him, Thessaly couldn’t hold back a smile.
Rosalie groaned rapturously and set the book aside. She scrambled onto the bed next to Thessaly and examined the cards.
Everyone was gilded so it looked almost like it was made of lace, and the bright scarlets and indigos, golds and browns depicted the men and women of the Sforza court. The pip cards were decorated with swords, cups, staves and coins, and there were often represented members of the Sforza family. Recognizable ancestors graced all the trump cards.
Not this generation, Thessaly knew. It was fifty or a hundred years back the decks were commissioned. There were not many of them this fine. Thessaly used to have a ragged bunch on vellum, printed in black.
She took in a deep breath, feeling the burn of pleasure as she laid them out.
“Can you teach me a game?’ Rosalie asked.
“No,” Thessaly said. “But would you like me to see futures for you?”
Rosalie gaped at her. “You’re a seer as well as a hedgewytch?”
Thessaly laughed wryly. If only Rosalie knew all that Thessaly was. She wouldn’t be sitting so close to Thessaly on the bed, that was sure. “I can see at times. Let’s try it. It’s been a long while since I’ve used the trionfi.”
Guzal came to join them. “I once had my fortune told,” she said.
“I’ll tell you, too,” Thessaly offered.
“I’ll go last. Tell your own first,” Guzal suggested.
Thessaly was glad to. She’d often felt comforted by things shown in the trionfi when she’d used them. And it couldn’t be argued, she had questions. And no teacher.
My own mind is shut to me, she thought, but it could be I can draw out answers in this way. She stacked the deck, carefully shuffled them over and over until she felt an ease, a sense of things right.
Rosalie smoothed out the coverlet. “Lay them here.”
As she fingered the top card, Thessaly couldn’t deny she was feeling a little better. Loredan had again awakened the hot silver in her, and it ran smoothly, gracefully through her body. She felt passion, warmth, sensual things. She’d been so fettered, so . . . nothing. So much nothing, so afraid after she’d let loose fire.
She needed to try. Here, in port, it was safer. She could try to carefully use those bound floes.
She tapped the edge of the cards with a fingernail, thinking.
This question she wanted answered was complicated. She didn’t know exactly how to phrase it in words.
Finally, she closed her eyes and brought up images—the mass of bound magicks churning with loose, inside her. The feeling of leaping on that table, the great flames that had blown across the hall, singeing her filthy cousin. The cold, tired feeling she’d had, tying herself tight afterwards. The bleakness of her existence on ship as she kept herself fettered, as she kept her magicks small and tight inside her. Umbra and her instructed incantation—the word as it seared through her mind, leaving a foul trail behind—vinculum.
I’m caught between two terrible forces, she thought. Will I ever feel comfort and wholeness again? Will I end as my mother did, over a cliff? Where shall I go? Who shall I seek?
No . . . one question. It had to be one.
Finally, she selected the most important, and dwelt on it, repeated it, clarified it.
I need to learn, she thought. But I have no teacher. Where may I find the teaching I need? That felt satisfying. It was a start.
She shuffled the deck twice more, until she felt settled again. She touched the top card, and then drew it off.
The hanged man stared up at her from his upside-down position on the stylized cross.
Of course, Thessaly thought. Transition. Suspension and change. That was where she was. Stuck. Choices, but none made yet.
Rosalie gasped as she pulled out the next card with its grisly figure, a skull that had stabbed itself through with a dagger, and crossed it over the hanged man. “It doesn’t really mean death,” Thessaly reassured her. “Usually. It means . . . transformation. Clearing old to make way for new. A change of the old self.”
“Aye,” Guzal said fervently. “Indeed, we’re there.”
Thessaly smiled. She was feeling calmer now. She dealt the next one, and a pleasant frisson of warmth blew through her hand as she laid it down. “Crowning me,” she said, “is the ten of cups.”
“What does that mean?” Rosalie asked.
“The crowned position tells what the questioner desires.”
“And what does ten of cups mean?”
“Home, a hearth. Pleasure, peace, good family . . . a reputation and peace in life. Virtue.” Thessaly nodded to herself. Even in the pain, she’d been awed by the battled forces inside her. And even while she was repulsed by it, she was awed by the spell her aunt had given her to bind them. But when the holy water burned her . . .
Can you have both? She wondered.
No. Stay with the first question. Where may I be taught properly? Where may I find a teacher sufficient for my needs?
She put down next the two of coins. It was in the placement for past troubles, and two of coins meant sluggishness and shame.
Thessaly didn’t tell out the meaning for the rest of the cards to Rosalie and Guzal; she quickly laid them down now, intent strong. Six of staves in the fifth placement meant rosy expectations, desires, the hope she’d had in the past.
She held her breath as she laid down the sixth place, which would start telling her future, the road ahead. King of Staves. A person of a caretaking nature, influence. A kind person. A wise person. Someone with learning, education. Her godfather Henri? She hoped so, because that was where she was going.
In the seventh placement, which indicated her present predicament, was the Ace of swords, upside down. Her fingers were hot now, her blood rising to her face as well. Reversed swords’ ace was a disaster, destruction, an inner violence. Shame.
Indeed, yes. This was where she was.
In the eight placement went the seven of swords, also reversed, which meant babbling, foolishness. Arguments and bad counsel.
The ninth card also came up reversed. It was the moon, which in opposition meant temptation overcome, a mistake that could be righted.
Thessaly took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, and took the last card, turning it over.
It caught fire.
Just the edge, but Rosalie gasped and sat back. Before she thought of it, Thessaly flicked her hands as if to shed them of wet, and fire spread out, glowing, calm, dancing at the end of each finger. Thessaly gasped, choked. Shaking, she held her hands away from her body. The flames spread further.
“Bloody hell,” Rosalie shouted, scrambling backward off the bed. “Bloody,” she repeated, in an awed, softer ton
e, “hell.”
“Bring up the cold again.” Guzal’s voice was urgent. “Bring the cold, Thessaly. Thessaly—“ Her hands were on Thessaly’s back, cool, steadying. Thessaly closed her eyes tight, held her arms out straight so she wouldn’t touch anything, and reached into the cacophony of melded magicks inside of her for the loose, the sky and water. She molded it, grew it, brought a wave up, and her hands went cold.
She stood there for a moment, gasping.
“Vinculum.” She said the word twice, and all the feeling, warmth, passion, went out as the floes were again surrounded by slimy dark fetters. She put her arms over her chest, shivering.
Rosalie looked around wildly, found the wash-pitcher, and tossed it on the card, leaving a sodden, wet splash across the blanket, and leaving the card a soggy, smoking mess.
There were tears behind Thessaly’s eyes. But they didn’t come. They stayed, locked away like her floes.
Rosalie was gaping. “You are,” she whispered. “Thessaly, you . . . you have real power, don’t you?”
Thessaly slumped over. She was so tired, every muscle trembled. Why was she so tired?
Rosalie crept to the bed’s edge. “A wytch,” she said reverently. “More powerful than any my Papa has consulted.”
“Get away, girl,” Guzal said crossly. “Leave her be.”
Rosalie ignored her. “What is that last card?” She persisted. She leaned down and picked it up—it had fallen on the floor—and put it in Thessaly’s lap.
Pictured was a heavenly being, winged, arrayed in white, haloed in gold. He held two cups, and one poured into another, a stream of water flowing between them.
Temperance, Thessaly thought.
Of course. Control of self.
Mixing or bringing together of forces into a perfect union. Patience.
Patience. Bloody patience? That’s all the trionfi had to say?
“I am not patient,” She said aloud, fingers trembling, as she reached for the others, stacking them together. “And I know what I need to accomplish. Why don’t you tell me how, then, so I don’t burn this boat down? How do you calm a storm inside? Patience.” She slotted them back into the box. “Patience,” she muttered, sliding the lid on. “You tell that to St. Bartholomew as he had his skin peeled.”
