“Welcome again, Sa-Mica,” he said. “I see I will be having a late night, tonight.”
“Only a little later than usual, Sa-Jeim. This is Sa-Gest, who will be taking a position on the mountain. He will share the watch with me.”
Sa-Jeim nodded to the young priest. It might have been an illusion cast by the thin light of dusk, but there was something about the calculating way he looked at Sa-Gest that sent a chill down her spine. She could not decide if she’d read dislike or envy, or both.
“Then we’d best get you all settled,” he said, drawing a cluster of keys out of his robes and gesturing to the cell.
Rielle shrugged off her pack and handed it to Sa-Mica. The village priest opened the gate and she obediently stepped inside. Leaving Sa-Gest to guard her, the other priests headed into the house.
It was dark inside the cell, but the walls radiated warmth absorbed during the day. The only feature was a bench built into the back wall, of the same bricks that formed the walls. The floor was of stone covered in sand that had blown in through the gate. It smelled of stale urine and since she could not see well enough to be sure if the bench was clean, she took handfuls of sand and tossed it onto the bench hoping that it would absorb any lingering residue.
Sa-Gest waited beside the gate, his pack at his feet. It was not long before Sa-Mica emerged, bringing food and drink for them both. Her meal was stewed grains and a cup of water. She endeavoured not to look at Sa-Gest’s, but it smelled of meat and agil, the herbed and spiced liquor priests produced for their own consumption and that was said to have healing qualities. Though her meal was flavourless it was, at least, not the hard and dry fare they’d been eating for many quarterdays.
Soon Sa-Mica returned carrying a bucket, a sleeping mat and a chair. After opening the gate briefly to give her the first two, he sent Sa-Gest to the house to sleep. He turned away while she relieved herself, then settled onto the chair and brought out his little book. It was fully night now, so he lit his reading lamp and held it over the pages.
Spreading the sleeping mat over the bench, Rielle sat and listened to his deep voice.
“Over a hundred years ago there lived a wealthy widow named Deraia who had five children. Though she could afford to hire servants to do all the domestic duties, she loved to cook and was famous for it.
“One day there came to her land a terrible plague. When the first of Deraia’s children fell ill she turned to the healing lore passed down from mother to daughter in her family, but it proved ineffective and the child died.
“When the second child fell ill she turned to the physicians of the city, famous for their knowledge and skill from centuries of study, but they had not encountered this sickness before and the child died.
“When the third child fell ill she turned to the priests, but by then the temple was filled with victims of the plague and, with too few priests to treat them and not wanting to favour rich or poor, they selected who to cure by ballot. Her child was not selected and died.
“When the fourth child fell ill she prayed to the Angels for three days and nights and made offerings and performed all the rituals, but despite her piety the child died.
“When her last living child fell ill she turned to the oldest of the books passed down to her. There she found knowledge of magic long hidden, taught herself to use it, and the child lived.
“Afterwards she was seized by such guilt that her daughter should live while other children died. She knew her soul was already lost, so what did she have to lose by saving more? So she treated those of relatives and friends, hiding her method and persuading them to keep secret the fact she had done so.
“Yet the more children she saved, the greater and stronger her guilt became. Why should the less fortunate suffer and her wealthy friends not? So she ventured into the poorer areas of the city alone and soon the city was full of stories of the lady who cured with a touch, though none would say how.
“But when the priests heard of this they guessed the truth and set a trap to catch her. Once found she admitted her crime and submitted willingly to their judgement. She had done so much good, however, that instead of gathering to drive her out of the city, people came to protest and bar the way.
“Fearing rebellion against the Angels’ wisdom, the priests sought advice from the ten most respected priests of the world. These men gathered and weighed the good the widow had done against the theft of magic. They knew that she must remain well guarded, lest she continue using magic. They knew she must be punished or others might seek to emulate her. They knew her punishment must be one the people would accept.
“They decided that she, and her daughter after her, must replace the magic she had stolen. When she was told this, and asked in which way she wished to work, she thought long and carefully. She had no skill but healing and cooking. If she could not help people with one, then she would do so with the other.
“So for the rest of her life Deraia and her daughter prepared meals for the poor and raised money for the temple. It was said these meals were astonishing, for to generate magic one must do more than simply combine ingredients by rote. People came from afar to experience them.
“And those who watched over her believed that she and her daughter had more than repaid their debt to the Angels before their deaths, and expected to see them in the spiritual realm.”
Sa-Mica closed the book and, as always, closed his eyes for a little while. Rielle remained quiet, but her mind churned with questions.
What is he up to? While not all of the stories he’d told had been about people using magic and being forgiven, most were. Was he trying to tell her that she could redeem herself? If he was, and she did, what happened then? Would she be freed when her debt was paid?
Yet whenever she asked him about the prison he would not give her details. It had occurred to her a few nights ago that he might be unable to speak of it around Sa-Gest, though she couldn’t guess why.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked.
“None you have not already refused to answer,” she said, failing to keep the hope from her voice.
“Then may the Angels watch over you this night,” he said, and stood up.
She sighed and shook her head. Why did he ask, when he was not going to answer? Perhaps because I’m not asking the right questions. He chuckled. It was a comforting sound, but an odd expression of warmth given their respective roles and situations. “A few more days, Rielle.” He blew out the lamp. “Go to sleep.”
Despite the hard bed beneath it, she comprehended nothing after her head met the sleeping mat until sound and light roused her.
Her body ached. How can it be morning when I’m still so tired? Opening her eyes, she frowned as she saw the cell was still dark. Yet she could see her shadow outlined on the wall above the bench, cast by a faint light outside the cell. It was moving, but she wasn’t. So the source of light must be moving.
Then she heard the breathing. Rapid, slightly hoarse, coming from the gate. She turned her head, then instantly regretted it.
Sa-Gest was pressed up against the bars. His stare was intense, but as she saw him his teeth flashed, illuminated by a spark of light floating between them. One of his hands held something small and square. His other arm was moving in short compulsive jerks. Looking down, she saw a tangle of fingers and what they were holding and froze in shock. He laughed quietly.
“Come over and assist me,” he invited. “And when we get there I’ll make sure you’re treated … well … better…” He caught his breath. “Ah … too late.”
Already tensing to stand, she managed to duck out of the way. He’d aimed for her face. If he’d aimed further down her body she might not have been able to dodge in time. Even so, his seed spattered over the sleeping mat.
She gasped in disgust, then wished she hadn’t. It told him he’d succeeded in revolting her. Swallowing bile, she pushed the mat over and onto the floor, hoping the dry sand would draw out the moisture.
Vile, dis
gusting man.
“Never mind,” he said. She kept her gaze averted as he fiddled with his robes. Tucking himself away. “I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities. It won’t hurt you to get some skill in it before we get there. They’ll be expecting that and much more on the mountain.”
Her head snapped up and her eyes met his before she could stop them. He smiled and nodded. “That’s right. I’m trying to do you a favour. You don’t want to arrive there unprepared. And friendless.” He snorted. “And don’t think Sa-Mica will help. He’ll be heading off to collect other tainted.”
Ignore him, she told herself. He’s trying to frighten you. Yet what if … No. It can’t be true. He was still holding the square object, she noted. Seeing her attention shift to it, he grinned and turned it out to face her. The magical light reflected off a surface coated with some kind of shiny paste. As the object turned further and she saw the colours and shapes painted upon it she froze in horror.
It was the nude painting Izare had started. The one she had finished. The one that had vanished after Sa-Gest and Sa-Elem had inspected Izare’s house. Smudged at the edges where he must have held onto it, still wet when he’d taken it. Anger filled her and she tried to snatch it from him, but he pulled away too quickly and laughed.
“No, you can’t have it. I still need it. It’s kept me company for many a night,” he told her. “Not as pretty as the one of your face, of course, but that was too big to fit in my pack.”
Rielle’s breath caught in her throat. The portrait! She had not seen it since the day she’d run from her family. Had Sa-Gest taken it when the priests had sought her at Izare’s house? He must have. I never saw it after that. Why didn’t Izare tell me? She clenched her fists. If I had to kill him to escape, I wouldn’t regret it, she told herself.
A shiver went through her. Suddenly escape was no longer a fantasy but something she craved. Everything that had been done and taken from her had been justified, but if she had to spend the rest of her life in the control of this man … she did not deserve that. Nobody did.
Then why not now? Why not take magic and try to break free? Sa-Mica was in the house. Fighting one priest was better than two …
“What is going on?”
Sa-Gest jumped away from the gate and the cell was suddenly dark. Lit from behind by the house light, a figure strode towards them. Though his face was in shadow she instantly recognised Sa-Mica by his walk. Sa-Gest turned and shrugged.
“Nothing.”
“What have you got there?” Sa-Mica demanded. “No, I saw what you were holding and that is not it. Give it to me.”
Something passed between the two priests. A new spark appeared and Rielle glimpsed the painting in Sa-Mica’s hands before the light vanished again. Then flames replaced it, and the burning square fell from his hands to the ground. She stared at it. The only painting she and Izare had worked on together was gone, yet all she felt was relief.
“Fool,” Sa-Mica said. “Tell me why I shouldn’t send you back to Fyre?”
“I didn’t touch her,” Sa-Gest protested. “I was just … talking to her.”
“Blackmail or taunting?”
“Neither! I just—”
“Go to bed. Wake Sa-Jeim and tell him we need him to start his watch early. Tomorrow you’ll carry her pack as well as yours.”
Sa-Gest hunched and walked away. A short time later the local priest emerged, yawning. Sa-Mica moved away a little and lowered his voice as they began talking. Rielle strained to catch the words.
“Sorry … this,” Sa-Mica said.
“Is she…?”
“No. I think he knows. I don’t know how.” The scarred priest’s voice quietened.
Sa-Jeim shook his head and murmured something. Rielle edged closer to the gate, closing her eyes and listening.
“… do you do this?”
“Because I must.” Sa-Mica’s voice had grown forceful. He stilled and glanced her way.
“It gives me hope that you, born and raised in that terrible place, came out a better man than most,” Sa-Jeim said firmly, then asked a question she could not make out. Sa-Mica shook his head. Sa-Jeim sighed then started towards the cell.
“I will get the truth from you eventually, Sa-Mica,” he called over his shoulder, the warning softened by the affection in his voice. When the old priest neared the cell she was able to make out his expression in the starlight, and she shivered at what she read in his face.
Pity.
PART NINE
TYEN
CHAPTER 22
Tyen rubbed his face, yawned and leaned back against the struts of the aircart. It had been a gusty night and, with the wind making the capsule bob and jerk against the tether, he’d not slept well.
Looking down, he watched children flying around the spire and recalled what Ysser had told him about them. The first flyer had come to Tyeszal a few hundred years before. A child of acrobats who travelled the land performing for money, when the king of the time had seen her fly he had given the family a room in the tower and paid them to stay and teach other children. Soon their usefulness as messengers was noticed and, in the way of so many small tasks undertaken for royalty, laws and traditions were created to restrict the selection of trainees, the method of training and the length of service.
Equally fascinating to watch was the Soot that formed in the flyers’ wake. Every time they zipped past he marvelled at how quickly magic seeped in to fill the void.
This must be what it is like in other worlds, he thought for the hundredth time. Which always led to wishing he could ask Vella if that were true, and wondering if she was lost to him for ever. At least Kilraker and Gowel don’t have her, he told himself. He looked down at the two aircarts safely bound to either side of the platform, thought about the confrontation in the Sselt king’s audience chamber and wondered again if he could have done anything differently.
Kilraker, Gowel and two other Leratians had moved to encircle Tyen when he’d entered the room, but their plan to surround him was thwarted. Ysser had stepped between them and ushered Tyen away, leading him over to the king. The ruler sat on a wide, deep couch that could have seated four or five people – a kind of throne that favoured visitors could be invited to sit upon as well. Tyen had extended his palms, but the king had not returned the gesture.
“These men you know?” Ysser had asked.
Tyen nodded.
“Your name is Tyen Ironsmelter? Not Aren Coble?”
“Yes.”
“They say you steal a thing. Is it true?”
“No,” Tyen had replied, then, “Yes.” At Ysser’s confused look, he had gone on to explain. “Professor Kilraker stole something from the Academy,” he said, turning to nod at his former teacher. “He made it look as if I had taken it. I took it from him, but I could not return it to the Academy. It was too valuable and they wanted to destroy it.” He began to add that he’d stolen the aircart – two aircarts – but Ysser interrupted.
“Destroy?”
“Break. Kill.”
Ysser nodded. He turned and translated for the king, who frowned and looked from Tyen to the professors and back, then spoke.
“What is this thing?” the sorcerer translated.
Kilraker scowled. “Tyen—”
“They didn’t tell you?” Tyen asked Ysser.
“No.”
No doubt Kilraker had hoped to avoid revealing what Vella was, in case the Sselts decided to examine her and discovered the secrets she contained. Tyen had been very conscious of the satchel hanging at his side as he’d weighed up his chances of keeping hold of Vella. He’d guessed that all four Leratians were sorcerers. Kilraker and Gowel would not have weighed down their aircarts with anyone who wasn’t. If it came to a confrontation, Tyen doubted he would win. But they hadn’t attacked him. He guessed doing so without the king’s approval risked spoiling trade between the Empire and the Sselts in the future.
“The king wants you treated rightly,” Ysser had told h
im. “But he will not defy the laws of another land if he not know good reason for it. These men’s claim must be shown to be right. Before then we will keep the thing you stole safe.”
So he had given Vella to Ysser and told him what she was: a book that collected and stored knowledge from those who touched her.
Kilraker and Gowel hadn’t been very happy about that.
Ysser had wrapped the book in a cloth before taking it from Tyen and giving it to the king. From a pocket of his coat the king had produced a drawstring bag made of a translucent material. He held it open so that Ysser could drop Vella inside then pulled the string tight. Then he had hung it on the back of the throne.
“It will stay there until we decide what is to be done,” Ysser had translated.
He had then outlined how the trial to decide whether Tyen and the book would be handed over to the professors would proceed. Kilraker had warned the king that Tyen was powerful and it would be difficult to prevent him escaping, and offered their help in restraining him. The king did not accept. The discussion that followed led to Ysser declaring that Tyen would remain in his aircart with the propellers and rudder removed, tethered to the spire.
It was a strange form of captivity, but it was effective. Tyen could sever the rope and go wherever the wind blew him, but Kilraker would soon follow and retrieve him. Guards watching Tyen’s every move ensured he could make no attempt to steal Vella back. Ysser had probably guessed that Tyen would not leave if a chance remained of reclaiming Vella, too. As the sorcerer had led Tyen out to the aircart he’d given Tyen a sidelong look.
“Why do you call it ‘her’?” he’d asked.
“She was once a woman, changed against her will. Part of her remains in that book. I have promised to find a way to give her human form again.”
“That is a … I think you call it a noble task.”
Tyen had nodded. “Do you know how it might be done?”
“I am sad to say I do not.”
Thief's Magic Page 43
