by Dawn Cook
“What is it?” Strell asked gently.
“Nothing,” she mumbled, hiding behind her cup. She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t bear it if he should love her, and he still had to leave.
“Come on,” he cajoled. “You know you’ll tell me sooner or later.”
“It—it’s my staff,” she blurted. “It’s far too long.” Alissa snatched the offending piece of wood from the floor as if that would make her story less of a lie than it was. With a saucy flip of her tail, Talon abandoned Alissa for the rafters.
Strell leaned forward, sending the scent of the desert to fill her senses. “So cut it.”
“You’re right.” She jumped up, trying to distance herself from him.
“What! You’re going to do it now?” came Strell’s cry.
Avoiding his eyes, she nodded. “If I wait, I might lose my nerve. Mind if I use one of your saws?”
“Go ahead,” he said with a puff.
Alissa slowly moved to the end of the long worktable loosely designated as Strell’s. Wrapping her staff in a fold of cloth, she placed it in a vise and spun it tight. Secured as it was, she half expected Lodesh to appear and demand to know what she was doing. Talon forgave her for her falsehood and fluttered down. Hopping to the clamp, the small bird tugged on the fabric.
“It is mine,” Alissa said, feeling as if it wasn’t right to cut the valuable wood.
His back to her, Strell snorted and slurped from his cup.
“Which one?” she mused, looking over the myriad tools neatly laid out. There were quite a few to choose from. Strell liked tools, and he used them all, even if another would do. He kept his treasures well oiled and sharp, looking better now than when he had found them. Alissa’s hand went to a fine-toothed saw with a bright red handle.
“Try the red one,” advised Strell, not bothering to get up.
Shooting him a look he couldn’t possibly see, Alissa grasped it and positioned herself. She gently pulled back to start the cut, wincing as she did. It didn’t seem proper to mar the smooth finish. The saw slipped smoothly over the wood to leave barely a mark. Dense wood, indeed. Frowning, she tried again using more force but getting the same result. She stared at the wood, then the saw. Maybe she should use a different one.
“Are you sure you have it right side up?” Strell called from his chair.
“I know how to use a saw, Strell.” With a faint feeling of exasperation, she looked to see if he was watching, then checked to see if it was tooth-side down. Once more she drew a line across the staff. Absolutely nothing. Burn him to ash, she thought, Lodesh must have warded it.
Strell chuckled, and Alissa’s eyes narrowed. She looked up at Talon, who promptly closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. “Would you like to try?” Alissa asked him sweetly.
“No. It’s your stick.” But he got up and sauntered over to watch. Apparently he found something amusing in her struggles, and he peered over her shoulder at her lack of progress. Her lips pursed, she tried again. Still nothing, and she blew her hair out of her eyes, jumping when Strell tucked it behind her ear. “Here, let me,” he said, unable to resist anymore.
“No,” she said, her pulse quickening from his touch. “Like you said, it’s my stick,” and she set the blade to try again. Strell was reaching out as she spoke, and so they pulled back on the saw together, his hand atop hers.
With a loud chirrch, the saw bit deep. Startled, she dropped her hands and stepped back into Strell. He gripped her shoulders tightly in order to keep them both from falling.
The scent of open skies and hot sands enveloped her, and her breath caught. Wide-eyed, she stared up at him, fighting her emotions of desperation and desire. He couldn’t stay. She couldn’t go. There was nothing she could say, frozen by her indecision.
“Are you all right?” Strell said, his brown eyes seeming to hold a twin emotion.
“Yes.” She hesitated, not moving from his impromptu embrace. “Yes. I am.”
Strell took a breath as if to say something, then slowly let it out, his gaze falling from hers. Saying nothing, he stood her upright, not releasing his strong grip on her shoulders until he was sure she had her footing.
The unmistakable scent of pine and apples had grown strong, and Alissa glanced at the black archway for Lodesh. But the aroma was solely from the wood itself. Strell shifted awkwardly from her, bending to examine the new cut. Talon hopped close, and they eyed the scoring together. “See,” he said, sounding unsure. “All it took was a little muscle.”
“Please,” she gestured, “you do it.” Miserable, Alissa stepped aside, so torn she didn’t care if he could cut it or not.
Repositioning himself, Strell took the saw and drew on it. Chirrch, and he was halfway through with no effort at all. Chirrch, nearly there, and chirrch, he was done. The waste piece fell partway to the floor and stopped, caught by Alissa’s field.
Strell eyed the length of wood hanging in midair. “Sweet as potatoes,” he said warily. “That was easy.”
No it wasn’t, Alissa thought in dismay. It was exceedingly unfair and probably Lodesh’s idea of a jest. Giving her a staff that was too long that only Strell could cut wasn’t very nice. Thinking of a few choice words she would put in the Warden’s ear the next time he dared show his face, Alissa loosened the clamp and removed her staff. She stood it upright, deciding it came to a reasonable height. Not that she was going anywhere anytime soon to use it.
“Uh . . . Alissa?” Strell broke into her thoughts, and she turned. “Do you want the leftover?” Pointing to the length of wood still hanging above the floor, he shrugged.
“No, you can have it.”
“Thanks.” He reached out, and as his fingers encircled it, she dropped her field. “I’ll try one more time,” he said, sighting down the length of wood. “Such a pipe this will make,” he breathed, striding over to his tools.
“Right now?” Alissa complained. How much worse could the evening get?
“Why not?” he said over his shoulder.
Depressed, Alissa returned to sit in her chair before the fire. She had stockings to mend and a hem that needed putting in on her latest skirt, but nothing seemed worth doing. Eyes closed, she concentrated on the flickering warmth of the flames, trying to imagine spending her evenings without Strell. She didn’t know what she would do.
Strell worked for a time in silence. It was dark in the far corner, and Alissa set up a soft sphere of light over him. It was risky, as Bailic hadn’t yet shown Strell this ward. But Talon warned them whenever Bailic came down. With a twinge of guilt, Alissa belatedly ran a mental search for Bailic as she had promised Useless she would, finding him safe in his room.
This ward was tricky, for light was only a breath away from her source’s energy in the raw, so to speak. It was nearly the same thing she had done when she burned her tracings last fall, but now the reaction was firmly encased in a strong field and controlled by a ward. When done, or in the unlikely event her field broke, the energy would flow harmlessly back to her source through the proper channels, hardly a drop of it depleted. Never again would she make the mistake of harnessing such a huge amount of energy without a place to put it when done. Oblivious to her contribution, Strell puttered contentedly.
“Strell?” she said into the companionable silence.
“Hm-m-m?”
Alissa glanced out at the garden through a gap in the curtains. The snow had a thick, treacherous crust from the repeated thawing and freezing of the last few days. Though the accumulation had been steadily decreasing, it was apparently still too deep for Useless. “Tell me about the sea?” she mused aloud.
“The sea?” Strell stuck a stylus behind an ear.
She stretched for her cup and took a sip. “Yes. I’ve been dreaming about it.”
Strell stopped working, set down his tools, and turned. Just noticing her light, he blinked in surprise. “Are your dreams frightening?” he asked, his expression blank. “Do they wake you?”
“Hounds, no!�
� she exclaimed, laughing.
“Oh.” With a grunt, Strell returned to his work. “The sea is flat at times, and at others it’s full of motion. It can be blue, or green, or even a dirty white, depending on the sky.”
“Is it warm?” Alissa asked, her eyes shutting in her effort to picture it.
“No.” Strell pulled his stylus from behind his ear and scratched a mark. “I’ve heard if you go far enough south, the sea warms, but the coastal people seldom go there.”
Alissa shivered for some reason. “The sand is warm then.”
“Sand?” he exclaimed softly. “No, it’s rocky beach.”
“All of it?”
He squinted, holding his progress up to her light. “Most.”
“Well, the gulls fly above it, don’t they?” she said dryly, determined at least part of her dreamscape was correct.
“Course,” he mumbled absently.
“And the breeze is fresh and tangy, smelling of salt and purple sea plants.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her eyes had shut in her effort to visualize it, and she smiled faintly. There was a small scrape of noise as he abandoned the table and brought his work to the fire. “And,” she continued more confidently, “when the sun rises, it flashes green through the water.”
“Uh . . . no.” Strell sat down, his chair creaking softly.
“But it’s said if you go out far enough, weeks and weeks, occasionally you will see such a flash when it sets.”
“Never when it rises?”
“No.”
“Why would anyone go out that far?” she asked.
“Very big fish full of oil and fat.”
“M-m-m.” Alissa thought that over as Strell worked quietly in his chair. Curious as to what he was doing, she opened her eyes. “Oh!” she blurted upon seeing he was polishing his old pipe. She thought he had been fiddling with his new piece of mirth wood. Evidently, he was done for the night, and Alissa dropped the ward glowing over the worktable.
His fingers slow and methodical, Strell ran through his warm-up piece, “Taykell’s Adventure.” She couldn’t help but smile as she recalled the first time she had heard him play it when she had been stuck at the bottom of a ravine, and she sang the words of one of her favorite verses:
“The blushingly fair maiden,
She had some brothers four.
And scowling quite nastily,
They met him at the door.
For though her mother liked him,
He found he couldn’t stay.
He had to charm, so to disarm,
Or soon be on his way.”
Strell gave her a quick grin and switched to a quick, sharp-noted dance tune. The fingering was too complicated, and she winced as he ceased playing it at his first mistake. Slightly red-faced, he took up a sad lament, gently filling the room with its ethereal beauty. The tune never came close to using the last note. It was mournful, speaking of loss and regret. Alissa had never heard it before, and it washed over her in a sudden tide of emotion.
“That sounds like my sea,” she said with a sigh when he finished.
Strell blinked in astonishment. “It’s a coastal tune telling of a young woman’s regrets at having fallen in love with a seafarer.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“The sea,” he explained, his eyes wide and serious, “is a jealous and spiteful mistress. Those souls who hear her seductive whisper the clearest and respond to her call are often consumed by her passion, never to return to their true loves who wait for them on the shore.”
Thinking she might understand, Alissa dropped her eyes from Strell’s intent gaze. “Oh.”
“Here, let me play another song of the open waves,” Strell suggested. “I should practice them more, and you might get a better idea of the perilous beauty that makes up such a wild and tempestuous mistress. She can be so many things, one would think she would have uncountable names, not just the simple one men call her by.” He lost his gaze in the fire and began to play.
Alissa sat up straighter, determined to catch every nuance of it. He had been to the coast; she hadn’t. His songs were the closest she would probably ever get to it, and she was intensely curious about it these days. But Strell’s playing had its usual relaxing effect, and after three or four songs, she found herself slouching. “Are there no happy songs of the sea?” she complained as he stopped to wet his throat.
“Many,” he admitted, and he launched into another melancholy tune. It was simply the most sorrowful rendition of emotion she had ever heard from him, bringing tears to her eyes and stirring her with a rush of unfulfillment. She felt an aching need to go and see for herself the rolling mass of wind and waves, to taste the salt in the air, and to know that tomorrow would be nothing like today, the horizon never changing, but never really the same. She couldn’t let Strell leave her! she thought suddenly. She had to go with him.
With a sharp intake of breath, Alissa realized Strell had done this on purpose. He had chosen each song, each melody, to provoke the restlessness she was now feeling. She should be angry, but she wasn’t. She would have done the same had she possessed the skill. “Strell,” she said softly, her vision swimming and a catch in her throat. “I can’t go.”
His music abruptly ceased, his deception having been realized. “I know,” he said, his voice level and centered, his eyes riveted upon the fire. “I can’t stay. As soon as this game between Talo-Toecan and Bailic is over, I’ll be gone.”
Although his words were spoken gently, they hit Alissa hard, and she struggled to keep her breathing even. To hear it, admit it openly, made it terribly real. It was no longer possible to pretend their friendship hadn’t grown into something stronger. And they would soon part ways.
Numb and empty, Alissa listened to Strell’s music rise into the silence. But then his melody broke harshly, and he played nor spoke no more the rest of the night.
24
There was a gentle pull on Bailic’s thoughts as the window wards went down. He was expecting it, but still it caught him unawares, and he started. No longer would the Hold see that all remained warm inside, at least not until next season’s first hard freeze. The piper, he thought snidely, would have a cold night, seeing as he hadn’t taught the man how to ward windows.
Setting his quill down by the remains of his supper, Bailic looked out into the dark. The soft hiss of the rain came slowly to fill his room, bringing with it the biting smell of wet stone and yellowing vegetation too long without the sun. He closed the book he was studying from, rising to stand at what was left of his balcony. Mist, damp and cold, drifted in to caress the tight scar across his neck in a soothing balm. Later he would put up a ward to keep the rain out, but now he stood with his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation on his sensitive skin. The moon would be full tomorrow. Tonight its near perfection was hidden behind the rain. He could see little of the night. He wished he could. It smelled glorious. Come morning, even the last drifts of snow taking refuge in the shadowed places would be gone, and his prison would become less secure.
Bailic brushed the beads of condensation from his long Master’s vest to leave a dark stain. He wasn’t worried about the piper leaving. The man’s tie to the book wouldn’t allow it. Bailic had watched him still its aggressive protection ward with a simple touch. It was obvious the First Truth had a claim upon him. Still, with the lower passes open, the temptation to take the book and run would be strong. It was definitely time to remind the piper of his tenuous position.
Bailic had finished most of the basic wards, and still the book remained closed. The piper’s skills had grown surprisingly fast, leaping ahead to eight- and ten-year tasks just this week. It only proved Bailic’s belief that the Masters dragged their students’ lessons out to prolong their slavery. He would begin some of the more complex wards tomorrow. It wouldn’t be long before the book was open, but encouraging his student to work all the harder would be both productive and a pleasure. Harassing the girl would do nicely.
Pleased with the idea of inflicting some harmless torment, Bailic sent out a thought to find them. “The scullery,” he muttered. “Precisely where they belong.” He spun about and reached for his tray. Taking it down would be a convenient excuse to visit the kitchen. He had never returned his trays before, but he felt the need for a reason to enter their domain.
Bailic froze, his hand outstretched. Burn him to ash! What, by the Wolves, did he need an excuse for? The Hold wasn’t theirs. Fighting to keep his anger in check, Bailic stormed out and down the stairs. A frown twisted his lips as he reached the open walkway above the great hall. It was cold without the window wards, but that wasn’t what bothered him. It was the thin, white ribbon stretching in graceful curves from one end of the great hall to the other along the outside of the railing on the fourth-floor walkway.
“I should have taken out the rings,” Bailic said, fingering the loops of metal hammered into the stone that the ribbon was draped through. Divesting the fortress of its belongings had given him a sense of control over the ancient stones. The Hold’s seasonal banners had gone into storage the morning after he imprisoned Talo-Toecan. Seeing them up again made him feel as if something had shifted without his knowing. Even the color was right, white for the melting snow.
Brown for furrows churned, Bailic thought, slipping into the simple rhyme he had learned as a student. Green for solstice turned. Red for the first frost / White for winter’s loss. Gold for dreams realized / Blue for my true love’s eyes. Bailic frowned. Or green, or brown. Occasionally gold if a Master sang it. It was never pink.
“Talo-Toecan must still be having tea with the little wench,” he growled. How else would they know white was the proper color—and had been for the better part of four hundred years? Even the timing of its appearance was right. Only a Master could have guessed the window wards would fall tonight. The ribbon hadn’t been there yesterday. To have hung it earlier would have been bad luck.
