by S G Dunster
“I’ll wager there’s not much of note to see,” Guzal said. “Western lands are all tumbled rock, moor, forest. No great buildings, nothing even so grand as your godfather’s at Taunton.”
“I find forests and moors grand,” Rosalie said.
Guzal snorted. “You ever seen any?”
Rosalie tipped her head and shrugged. “They seem wonderful.”
“Great swaths of muddy grass?”
She pouted. “Why are you trying to put me off it? Thessaly will be there, won’t she? And a castle, and a manor, and a town. An abbey. And, maybe nice people.”
“Rich men, you mean.”
Thessaly frowned. “Guzal,” she said, “you seem in poor spirits.”
She sighed, brushed a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Every new place I go affords a chance at misery,” she said. “I confess I worry. It has been nice aboard the Espada, duties or no. Fewer . . . people to serve.”
Thessaly knew the word she had changed for Rosalie’s sake, before uttering it. Men. Fewer men to serve. She shivered and kept the burn of misery down inside her. She could do nothing for Guzal. Not yet.
But perhaps one day, she could. If she got her forces in order, there was little that could stop her.
Rosalie put an arm around Guzal. “We won’t fail you, Guzal. You’re our friend. We shall make sure the gentle folk at Minehead and Dunne’s Tor treat you well.”
Thessaly closed her eyes and slowly, slowly released the tethers on her floes. She let them wave through her, and then pushed them out of her, like they’d done during the storm. She ran both—bound and loose—into the water.
The tides and movement in the mass of water in the channel felt cool and soothing, surrounding the warm silver of her bound magicks. And it closed around the gold of the loose magicks, seeming to swallow them invisible. Thessaly felt like a piece of sea, drifting below the deck, far into the water. On the bottom she touched stone; she could sense it there, but muffled a bit, as if she touched it with gloved fingers. Cold, old, intractable. Mud, weeds.
Animals.
Her bound magicks shot directly for a group of swimming beings whose hearts were beating and whose minds were active with intent. She touched the periphery of one, carefully keeping herself from entering.
Margarida had said not to put floes into a creature without permission, and these cool but warm creatures, swimming so gracefully, hadn’t given her permission.
She could surround them though and infuse the water with a bit of fire, warmth. She could warm them from the outside. How would they respond?
The herd of them began to turn upward, moving for the water’s surface, in response to the warming currents.
Thessaly opened her eyes. “Dolphins,” she said. “There are dolphins in the water here.”
Rosalie looked at her, surprised, then squinted at the water and pointed as one flanked the ship, close enough that the sleek body was visible through the pour. “Ah,” she said, “so there are.”
Thessaly gave her a smile and backed into the corridor. “Vinculum.” she muttered the word twice, and the floes sprang back in, whiplashing painfully through her channels and systems as they did, coiling tightly into her core. Thessaly winced and went to lie down.
The ship docked. Thessaly wished she could see more. She shifted the fetters slightly. Could she grasp and use only a small piece of what was bound there, without taking off the bind entirely? She strived, but the floes did not emerge much beyond the fetters. They were wound and wound on themselves.
All right then, she thought. She closed her eyes and let loose the binding on the loose floes.
They came undone all at once, flooding her with an icy intensity. The bound floes pulsed in their cage, as if angry not to be let go as well.
She’d sent floes of her magicks into the water and felt the living things underneath. What if she sent a thread out, touching along the dark mass of land to their south? Would she feel anything at all if she used her loose magicks to see?
Trees, she thought, when the resinous scent of wood came into her head. Stone. People, perhaps, but it was hard to tell without sinking floes into them, and that was not something loose magicks did. Loose magicks fled from peripheries of objects and animals, scattering through the air and sea, where the environment was fluid.
She knew what was there. She could see it, but not feel it.
Sighing, she reeled herself in. As she wound herself tight, a floe brushed up against something that sent a shock through her system, like a tender tooth. She paused, and touched it again, wincing from the startle of the feeling there—how could she be feeling something with loose floes?
She touched on it again and again, and felt only pain, oddity.
She hesitated, touching on the mass of warm silver at her core, considering.
No. She was tired. And she did not want to delve further, not at that moment. It couldn’t be anything too strange. She could always look again later. She pulled the last of the loose floes back. Vinculum, she said quietly, barely a lip movement, and the magicks flowed instantly into a throbbing core like a gleaming sun at her center, wound around by the dark snakes of the curse.
They docked and the rain continued to drizzle. Thessaly’s father had canopies, held up by deck-boys, brought to keep them dry as they walked down the gangplank to the sodden shore. Thessaly and Rosalie struggled to negotiate their pattens down the slanted wood, and Loredan cheerfully assisted them both until they made level ground.
A carriage waited for them. Rosalie breathed a gusty sigh, seeing it. “Thank the heavens,” she said, and scurried to it, spattering herself with drops of rain as she came out from under the canopy in her haste to get inside.
A young man leapt out, gawky, with hose stained about the knees with brown mud. He assisted Rosalie in and reached out for Thessaly as she approached.
“Wait,” Antonio thundered. “Whose carriage be this?”
“Duke sent me,” The man called. “He said to bear ye to the abbey, then up to the Tor.”
Antonio nodded, a look of grave satisfaction on his face. He hastened and helped Thessaly in, ignoring the awkward outstretched hand.
“Get ye back on deck,” Antonio said, waving at the boys who held the canopy.
“Is Henri joining us?” Thessaly asked as they settled in.
“He has matters to attend to on ship, and then in town. He will join us later.”
The carriage smelled musty, and the cushions were a bit worn. But it was comfortable, well-sprung, and when the wheels got moving the ride was smooth.
Thessaly and Rosalie peered through the carriage’s open windows. Loredan looked out curiously as well, as they rode away from the docks. Through the pour, Thessaly picked out a street of laid cobbles, gleaming silver in the wet. Tiny buildings—Thessaly assumed shops—had lanterns hanging at their entrances, the yellow gleam through the rain beckoning and warm. There were boats out on the water, fishing boats, Thessaly thought, still and slow with their nets dragged behind, and lanterns hung from their prows.
The abbey was modest, square buildings of tan stone. Its grounds touched the shore and divided the town in halves. It was simple, with none of the grandness of the abbeys in London or Italy, but it was pleasant, Thessaly thought.
They rode through an archway and into an enclosure that smelled of wet earth and dripping stone. There were men working in the fields, wearing conical hats to keep off the wet.
Harrowing won’t pause for rain here, Thessaly thought watching them, soaked through and backs still bent. The fields all around, dark, broken earth, caused a twinge in Thessaly’s bound magicks. Thessaly felt thirsty for it, the soft loam. Rich, sweet with good things. Growing things.
Upslope there was a hedge field full of sheep, a white cloud clustered on the violent green fallow they grazed.
They came into an entry court and were handed down to a neat stone pavement. The abbey’s front door was simple iron-studded wood. It opened immediately when A
ntonio knocked.
A woman stood there. She wore dark robes. Her long, draped habit was unusual; it was crowned with a gold circlet of intersected gold bands, which met on the top of her head. Red stones gleamed at each intersection in the crown, winking with dull fire in the gloom.
“Welcome to the Abbey of Saint George,” she declared. Her voice was soft but distinct and, somehow, booming in spite of volume. She had sharp features—a large nose, jutting cheekbones. Her eyes were dark and fine, and her brows lovely—ink against the translucent paleness of her skin. “I am the Abbess. You may call me Sister Elisabet.”
Antonio bowed low, taking his hat in his hand. Sister Elisabet frowned, a puzzled expression flicking across her features, but gave him a quick bow herself, then held the door for them to enter.
They walked immediately into a main hall of whitewashed stone and a dirt floor strewn with straw and rushes. It was plain, but immaculate and sweet-smelling. There were many tables laid along it of rough-hewn wood, covered in white tablecloths—not the fine Alexandria cotton Thessaly was used to. It was linen, and finely crafted in patterns of different weaves. Homespun, Thessaly guessed. Many hours of work for the nuns, or whoever had gifted it to the abbey.
The room was empty.
“Where are the other sisters?” Loredan inquired, taking his hat in his hand. He strode around the room, lifting a corner of the tablecloth, giving it a raised brow of admiration.
“The sisters and priests are at noon mass,” Sister Elisabet declared, “but midday meal will soon be served. Will you join us?” She gave Loredan an appraising look, then turned back to Thessaly, Antonio, and Rosalie.
“Aye,” Antonio declared. Thessaly thought she saw Loredan wince.
She understood why. Abbey food was always plain. Game was not often served, nor meat aside from fish.
But Thessaly liked simple bread and butter. The prospect was refreshing after all the salted meat she’d consumed at sea and the rich foods of her godfather Henri’s table. She didn’t mind a porridge or bread soaked in wine.
“We have rooms ready in our guest quarters,” Sister Elisabet continued. “Come settle yourselves before the corridors fill when mass ends. I’d rather get all the other boarders settled at table before they meet the two of you.” Something about her face, a half-laugh, made Thessaly wonder at her remark. She stayed quiet, though, as they followed the Abbess through a corridor and up a set of stone stairs—rough, simple.
Rosalie’s eyes darted all around, her face glowing. “This is lovely,” she said.
Loredan, standing in the doorway, his shoulders nearly brushing the frame, laughed. “If we brought you to a hovel of mud and rushes, I declare you’d call it lovely.”
“It’s nice,” Thessaly said. “Very clean. Larger than my cabin on the Espada.”
It didn’t take long for the trunks to be unloaded—or rather, stacked tall in the only available corner by the bedstead. There was space, Thessaly noted, in front of the fireplace. And she could hang Nur’s perch from the wall above the bed, as she did on the Espada.
“There is a room for your lady’s maid as well,” the Abbess said, indicating Guzal with her sharp chin. “Come.”
They made for a landing, then a corridor. She opened a door, and they stepped into a room with a small stone fireplace, a small table with a clay pitcher and basin, a bed, and a straw mat.
It didn’t look at all comfortable to Thessaly. “We shall bring a down tick,” she said to Guzal. “Other than the bed, is this enough for you?”
Guzal nodded, eyeing the small fireplace and the stand with its washbasin. “It looks to be warm. I don’t have many things.” A flicker of emotion crossed her face. Thessaly wondered. Relief? Happiness?
She realized, suddenly, what being in an abbey surrounded by mostly women might mean to Guzal. What duties she’d not have to worry over.
Guzal was Thessaly’s seamstress, she served well as a lady’s maid, and during the times she‘d been with Thessaly, and not with the crew of the Espada, Thessaly was grateful. She did not have to confront such things as Guzal’s use to her father’s men.
Staying in the abbey was the right choice, she thought. Right for more reasons than just rhetoric and maths.
“I have only the one larger room,” the Abbess added. “It will have to be shared between the two girls.” She gestured toward Thessaly and Rosalie.
“That will be fine,” Antonio said. “I prefer that.”
Do you think we’ll get into less trouble together, Papa? Thessaly wondered wryly.
“We shall bring your down coverlets and pillows,” Rosalie murmured to Thessaly as they left Guzal alone in the small room to arrange her things. “That is a disgraceful way to sleep.”
Thessaly loved Rosalie in that moment for caring about Guzal’s comfort. Not many pampered girls would. Nobody in the Sforza court, or even on board the Espada, had seemed to take much care over the arrangements made for Guzal. She was a tool and a service, a thing to be kept in good condition, but not to worry over when it came to comfort. Even Antonio dispensed with Guzal as if she were a finished meal when she was done helping Thessaly.
Thessaly closed her eyes, bit her lip. Her feelings were stirring the gold floes so they pushed at their tethers again.
This would be a better life for both her and Guzal. And likely, a portal into a good life for Rosalie. It was a time for gladness, not anger.
They went back to their room and strode around its small space, planning. Antonio and the Abbess followed, looking on from the doorway. Rosalie sighed as they looked out the peaked window. “It looks right out on the town,” she said. “We shall be able to watch people pass in the streets below.”
“We require all guests to be inside after dark,” Sister Elisabet said, a warning in her tone.
“A good practice,” Antonio said gruffly. He turned to the Abbess. “I feel my daughter is in good hands here. Thank you for accommodating us. The rest of her things shall be brought up directly from the Espada. Some may need to be stored.”
“We have rooms underneath the abbey for that purpose,” the Abbess reassured him, “in exchange for a small fee.”
“Of course,” Antonio agreed, and bowed. “Let us make the arrangements for instruction, room and board, and the use of carriages and such, as they will need to be taken up to the Tor daily.”
The Abbess nodded. “Dinner will be served shortly in the refectory. There, you will meet the other boarders, the rest of the sisters, and the priests who preside over our masses. Please make yourselves neat and tidy.”
Thessaly felt the pinch of her words, the authority that was changing hands. Antonio simply nodded at Thessaly. “I shall fetch Loredan and Waintree, then. I believe they went into town together.” Antonio and the Abbess walked down the corridor together.
Soon, the trunks arrived, full of clothing and linens, plus the bedding and Thessaly’s books and curios. The belongings made an embarrassing press in the small abbey room. Loredan, Waintree, Antonio, and Henri came with the shipmen, lugging loads up and down the stairs. With trunks stacked against the walls clear to the ceiling, when Nur’s cage was brought up there was only one place for it, and that was the bed.
“We shall bring her perch and affix it to the ceiling here,” Loredan declared as they went down to the refectory, after loading every empty space with things. On the way down the stairs, he offered Thessaly his hand.
Thessaly took it, allowing the little thrill at his touch to shiver through her, lighting her up inside.
The tables in the square whitewashed refectory were crowded, but the room seemed uncommonly quiet for a meal. In fact, the quiet seemed a force to itself—like a curtain drawn down. As Thessaly entered the room, she fancied she felt it pass through her, stifling words, igniting a sort of comfortable reverence.
She didn’t mind.
Loredan squeezed her hand and dropped it as they passed through the hall toward the table they’d been directed to, at the back of the
room, looking out on an arched, roofed corridor. Through the arches, Thessaly saw grass and gardens.
It was small, but lovely and peaceful. Loredan pulled out her chair and she sat, letting go of a half-held breath and relaxing into it.
“The Brigittines board and teach as well,” Antonio said dryly. “Though they customarily educate young men.” He pointed to the table where the robed men sat. “Younger sons,” he said to Loredan.
“Like me, in need of a trade,” Loredan replied cheerfully. “I’m grateful indeed, de Vasco, to choose seafaring over priesthood.”
Thessaly stifled her snort of laughter as brown-robed boys came around with stale-bread trenchers, then a stew of lentils and garlic, and finally fresh baked bread and butter. Thessaly ate five slices of the bread, dipping them in the stew, savoring them. How long had it been since she’d had something newly baked?
“It’s good,” Rosalie agreed as Thessaly nudged her, pointing at the loaf in front of her.
Rosalie had hardly touched her food. Her eyes were on the young men. They wore dark, simple robes, like the priests, but they certainly weren’t common folk. They sat tall, talked in refined tones, and were delicate with knife and trencher, meticulous in washing between dishes. They noticed Rosalie’s attention and returned it, though more discreetly, glancing in her direction. One fair-haired man with a jutting chin gave them a quick grin, even. This inspired an explosive, silly giggle from Rosalie, and Thessaly felt embarrassed to be sitting next to her.
The sisters, two dozen or so, sat at the head table with the Abbess, along with the half-a-dozen men. They all wore dark, thick robes like the sisters did. They had bare heads tonsured bald in the center, and necklaces of dark beads with crosses dangling from them. Four were old men with white hair, and two were young.
One was beautiful. Startling, actually—the bones of his face could have been those of an altar painting; clean cut and fine, and his beard only emphasized the beauty of his chin and cheeks. Thessaly studied him for a moment as she would a particularly gripping piece of sculpture, and then flushed at the nudge she got in her side. “He’s pretty,” Loredan said, grinning. “Do I need to worry?”
