“I hadn’t intended to torment you at all,” Hanner protested. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“After seventeen years? Hanner, I waited for two years, just in case you found a way to escape the Calling, or in case that refuge of yours did something, but I had to get on with my life. I met Terrin when he did some work on the house, and…and you were dead, we thought.”
“I understand,” Hanner said. “I’m not angry at all; seriously, I do understand. You had every right to remarry; in fact, I’m glad you weren’t alone all those years. But I’m back now.”
“But I’m married.”
“You’re married to both of us, Mavi.”
“I’m not interested in sharing, warlock,” Terrin growled.
Hanner stared at him. “It wouldn’t be my preference, either,” he said. “But here we are.”
“No, no,” Mavi said. She glanced at Rudhira. “No, I’m sorry, Hanner, but I can’t pretend the last seventeen years didn’t happen. Besides, even before you flew away, you were…we were.…” She swallowed, then continued, “You were distracted. I never saw you.”
“I was trying to resist the Calling,” Hanner said, trying to keep calm.
“You were pulling away from me,” Mavi said. “And I let you go. And…now I’m seventeen years older, and you aren’t. It’s…it’s not right, Hanner. You can’t just reappear and reclaim me. Our marriage ended seventeen years ago, and now Terrin is my husband.”
Hanner bit his lip, fighting back tears. “You don’t want me back?”
“No, I don’t.” There was an edge of hysteria to her voice that had a perversely calming effect on Hanner’s own raw nerves.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Hanner said, “What about the children?”
“They’re still your children,” Mavi said. “They’re grown now, of course.”
“What’s happened to them?”
Mavi and Terrin exchanged glances. “Faran owns an antiquities shop in the Old City,” Mavi said. “He and Sadra have four little girls. Arris has a bakery in Fishertown; she’s married to Thurin the Ferryman. They have a boy, Hanner Thurin’s son.”
“They named him for me?” Hanner said, absurdly surprised and pleased.
“Yes, they did. He’s nine.”
“What about Hala?”
Mavi managed an uncertain smile. “We apprenticed her to her Aunt Alris.”
“Alris?” Hanner blinked in surprise. “Isn’t Alris a little… No, I suppose she isn’t, anymore.” He had been going to suggest she was too young to be taking an apprentice, since the only reason for someone in her position to do so would be to train her own successor, but he had once again forgotten the difference those lost years would make.
“Who is Alris?” Rudhira asked.
“Lady Alris,” Mavi said. “Hanner’s sister. She’s the overlord’s Lady of the Household; she oversees the palace staff.”
“And Lady Hala is her assistant,” Terrin said proudly. “The palace servants are terrified of her.”
Hanner tried to take this in, but it was too much, too fast. His wife had rejected him, his children were grown, and he had half a dozen grandchildren he had never met. His daughter was working for his sister in the overlord’s palace? Last Hanner had seen of her she wasn’t yet big enough for long skirts, and spent half her time running shrieking through or around Warlock House, playing fanciful games with her friends and siblings.
And this stranger who had taken his wife — Hanner could hear the pride in his stepdaughter, in Hanner’s daughter, in his voice.
“Hanner?” Rudhira asked. “Are you all right?”
Hanner realized he had been standing motionless on the step, trembling silently, for several seconds.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I…I’ll be fine.”
I faced down a hundred-foot dragon a couple of days ago, Hanner told himself. I can face this.
“Yes, well,” Terrin said. “I think you should go now.”
“But…go where? I was hoping…” He stopped. He had hoped to stay with Mavi, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen; this was Terrin’s house, not his.
“Lady Alris could probably find you a room in the palace,” Terrin suggested.
“Or you could stay with Nerra,” Mavi said. “She and Emner have that big house, and Emner the Younger and Kelder have both moved out now.”
These were both reasonable suggestions on their face, but the idea of wading through palace bureaucracy at this hour, or walking all the way to his brother-in-law’s mansion on Extravagance Street in the New Merchants’ Quarter, was more than Hanner could cope with. The events of the last several days all seemed to be catching up with him at once, overwhelming and exhausting him.
“Or Warlock House,” Terrin said. “Even if you aren’t really a warlock anymore.”
“They still have some of your things in storage there,” Mavi added. “I’m sure they can find a bed for you and Rudhira.” She did not look at the redhead.
“Beds,” Rudhira corrected. “Not a bed; beds.”
Mavi gave Rudhira only the briefest glance. “That’s your business, not mine,” she said.
Hanner grimaced; that comment told him that Mavi was serious about not wanting him back. He started to turn away, then stopped. “I’ll want directions to our children’s homes,” he said. “When would be a good time to come by for that?”
Mavi glanced at Terrin. “Any time,” she said.
“Any time during the day,” Terrin corrected her.
Hanner nodded. “Thank you,” he said. Then he did turn away.
They had walked the two long blocks to the left onto North Street before Rudhira said, “I’m sorry, Hanner.”
“It’s been seventeen years,” he said.
They were crossing Moat Street when he said, “I should have waited until tomorrow. I should have just gone to Warlock House in the first place, and then gone to see her in the morning, when we weren’t so tired.”
“It might have been better,” Rudhira agreed.
“I’m not used to being tired!” Hanner said angrily. “I never was when I was a warlock.”
“I was only a warlock for a few days,” Rudhira said. “I didn’t have time to adjust.”
At that, Hanner lowered his head, ashamed of himself. Yes, he had been flung seventeen years into the future, he had lost his wife, he had missed seeing his children grow up and his grandchildren’s births, but he still had family, and probably friends, and if Mavi was right and he still had belongings stored at Warlock House, he wasn’t destitute. Whatever happened now, he had had seventeen years as a powerful magician.
Rudhira had nothing. She had never had anything, except for a sixnight or so when she was the most powerful warlock in the World. She had lost twice the time Hanner had, thirty-four years; most of the people she had known were probably dead.
They turned right onto Old Merchant Avenue and started up the hill toward High Street. The lamps were lit, but most of the shops were closed for the night, and the few pedestrians they saw were hurrying home.
Hanner hoped that they could find beds at Warlock House; he did not like the idea of looking for somewhere else. Lady Nerra and her husband lived not that far from here, really, but they might well be sound asleep by the time Hanner and Rudhira could get there. And while Lady Alris could undoubtedly find space for them somewhere in the palace eventually, getting past the guards to talk to her at this hour might be impossible.
If worse came to worst, there was always the Hundred-Foot Field, but Hanner really didn’t like that idea.
Old Merchant Avenue did eventually connect to High Street, but there was a shorter route, taking West Lower Street diagonally over to Merchant Street and then turning up Coronet Street. That brought them to the iron-fenced dooryard on High Street, and a few more steps carried them around the corner, across a brick pavement that had not been there when last Hanner saw the place, and through the wrought-iron gate to the front door of Wa
rlock House.
The gate was open, and the lanterns on either side of the front door were lit; that was a promising sign. Apparently Warlock House was still in use, even if there were no more warlocks. Hanner stepped up and knocked.
As he did, he glanced at the brass door-handle, and saw that it was scratched and gouged.
The last time he had been here, which seemed as if it was no more than a sixnight ago, he had used his magic to open the latch; that was the standard method. Since only warlocks and their guests were permitted inside, there had been no need for locks or keys that ordinary people could use.
But then warlockry had abruptly ceased to function. That must have been awkward for whoever was here at the time, but presumably someone had managed to get the door open somehow, damaging the handle in the process.
Hanner looked up at the lanterns on either side of the door, and saw that they held oil lamps. Sometimes those had been lit with magic — some bored warlock would keep them glowing — but now the light came from ordinary burning oil.
Then the door swung open, and Hanner found himself face to face with Zallin of the Mismatched Eyes.
The two men stared at each other for a moment as Hanner took in Zallin’s face. When last they met Zallin had been more youth than man, with pimples on his brow and an embarrassingly sparse attempt at a beard, but now, in his late thirties, his features had matured, his skin had cleared up, and his beard had filled in. But there could be no question of his identity; his eyes still did not match. The left was brown, and the right a blue so pale it was almost silver.
“Hai!” Zallin said. “Do I know you?”
“Hello, Zallin,” Hanner said. “It’s been several years, but you don’t recognize me?”
Zallin stared for a moment, then stepped back in surprise. “Chairman Hanner?”
“This is Rudhira of Camptown,” Hanner said, gesturing toward his companion. “I don’t believe you’ve met. Rudhira, this is Zallin of the Mismatched Eyes. I’m told he was my most recent successor as Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”
“You’ve come back?” Zallin asked. His tone mingled surprise and outrage.
Hanner frowned. “I would think that was obvious.”
“Ithinia said you would, but I didn’t really…well, not so soon.”
“Zallin, may we come in?” Hanner asked wearily. “We need somewhere to sleep tonight.”
Zallin hesitated, then sighed. “Of course,” he said, opening the door wide. “Come on in. Which room would you like?”
“Which are available?” Hanner asked, stepping into the entrance hall.
“All but mine,” Zallin said. “Everyone else left when their magic failed.” He hesitated again, then added, “I have the master bedroom. I suppose it was yours, originally.”
It had been Hanner’s for seventeen years, but for sixteen of those he had shared it with Mavi. Right now, he thought he would do just as well in one of the others, where he would not be quite so strongly reminded of her absence.
Hanner looked around at the entry. One of his successors had done some redecorating, he saw; Uncle Faran’s old-fashioned white-and-gold wallpaper had been replaced with an intricate pattern in black and gold on cream, and the gilt was gone from the white pilasters and the doors. The fine wood wainscoting was intact, though, and the dark wood of the stairs and balusters was freshly polished. The old red stair-carpet had been replaced with a red-and-gold one.
The parlor to the left was dark, but Hanner didn’t care. He was tired and ready for bed.
“Come on,” he told Rudhira, heading for the stairs.
“Hanner, we need to talk,” Zallin protested.
“In the morning,” Hanner said without stopping.
“But…”
“In the morning,” Hanner repeated.
It took a conscious effort at the head of the stairs to turn and head for the nearest of the ten guest rooms, rather than marching straight ahead into the master’s chamber, but Hanner managed it.
At the first door he paused. The door stood slightly ajar, and no light came from within. Lamps were burning in the entryway and stairwell, but not in the passage or chamber. He started to say something, then decided not to bother. He didn’t have the energy to make any more arguments or demands; he just pushed the door open.
Whoever last vacated this chamber had not bothered to make the bed. Except for cooks, Warlock House had not had ordinary servants in decades; warlocks had generally enjoyed using their magic to attend to all their needs. That meant there were no housemaids to attend to such details. Other than the rumpled sheets, though, the room was reasonably tidy.
“Rudhira,” Hanner said. “This one is yours.”
Rudhira seemed somewhat startled, but then she nodded. “All right,” she said.
“I’ll take the next one,” Hanner said.
“As you please, then,” Rudhira said.
Zallin had followed them up the stairs, and he stood and watched as Rudhira stepped into her room and closed the door behind her. She had not bothered to strike a light; apparently she had no problem maneuvering in the dark.
Hanner was not quite so agile, and managed to bump his shin on a night-stand before falling gratefully into the great soft featherbed in the next room. He pulled off his battered and muddy boots, but did not bother to undress; the room was warmer than the chilly outside air, but still somewhat cool.
He called a good night to Zallin and Rudhira, though he doubted they could hear him. Then he rolled over and was instantly asleep.
Chapter Eighteen
Sterren had fallen asleep hours ago; Vond might have a warlock’s supernatural endurance, but Sterren had carefully avoided ever acquiring any such talents. By the time they left the Southern Mountains behind, flying westward across the night-shrouded forests of Ansumor, he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open, and somewhere past a castle — Sterren had not been sure whether it was Yorbethon or Lumeth of the Forest — he had dozed off.
Now, though, he jerked awake at the sound of Vond’s voice, and found himself in mid-air above sandy beaches. To his left, sand and scrubby plant-life extended as far as he could see, with a few houses and shacks scattered across the dunes; to his right open sea glittered in the morning sun that was shining on his back.
Directly ahead was the city wall of Ethshar of the Spices. The wall extended a hundred yards out into the sea, and ended in the Seacorner Lighthouse; a watchtower stood on the beach, and he could see the top of another watchtower in the harbor beyond. Behind that farthest tower was a tangle of masts and spars — that, Sterren realized, would be the ships berthed at the wharves of Seacorner and Newmarket. A little farther inland the city wall was broken by the mismatched towers of Eastgate. He and Vond were going to pass over the wall between the gate and the beach.
“I’ve been gone for fifteen years,” Vond said. “You haven’t. Where would you suggest we find lodging?”
“A good morning to you, too,” Sterren said. “I haven’t been back to Ethshar since you were Called, either.”
“You must have heard some news, though.”
“Well, yes, but I generally didn’t concern myself with locating the best inns in Seacorner.”
“We don’t need to stay in Seacorner. I was thinking we might find a place in Warlock Street. I shared a shop there once.” With that, they veered southward, away from the water.
“I’m sure your shop is long gone,” Sterren said. “In fact, I suspect all of Warlock Street is in disarray right now.”
“Oh — yes, I suppose it would be,” Vond agreed, slowing.
“If you want to find more former warlocks, like the ones you left in Akalla, that would probably be the place to look.”
Vond shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want somewhere comfortable to stay, but someplace that will reflect my status as the only remaining warlock in the World.”
“The most powerful, anyway,” Sterren said, shaking his head to clear it. He was still only half
awake. Then he realized what he had said, and almost bit his tongue; he did not want to remind Vond that he, too, was a warlock, albeit an incredibly feeble one.
“Yes, the most powerful warlock in the World,” Vond said thoughtfully. “Which should make me Chairman of the Council, shouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Sterren said. “Is that how it worked?”
“I don’t really know, either,” Vond admitted. “But really, if I declare myself Chairman, who’s going to argue with me? Where are any other warlocks who might claim the title?”
“I don’t know,” Sterren said. “Where are they?”
“Warlock House,” Vond said. “At the corner of Coronet and High Street.”
“What?”
“I mentioned it before. I think I may claim it as my new home. That’s where the Chairman of the Council lives. It was Karannin of Zobaya when I left Ethshar, and before that it was Lord Hanner, who founded the Council.”
“I never heard of them,” Sterren admitted.
“You weren’t supposed to. The Council was warlock business, not intended for outsiders. Oh, the other magicians knew about it, and the city magistrates, but they didn’t exactly hang out a signboard.”
“I knew there was a council,” Sterren protested. “I just didn’t know who the chairman was.”
“You weren’t really a warlock.”
Sterren couldn’t argue with that, and in any case, he was distracted by the sight of the city wall passing beneath their feet. There was a guardsman on the ramparts, watching them; the fellow did not look particularly alarmed.
Sterren wondered whether everyone in Ethshar knew that warlockry had, except for Vond and himself, vanished from the World. If so, then that soldier probably assumed they were wizards, levitating themselves with one of the various spells that would allow a person to fly.
Except from what Sterren knew of wizardry, which was admittedly not much, there were no spells that provided the speed and control of a warlock’s flight — well, other than the spells that required a vehicle of some sort, such as a flying carpet. The levitation spells Sterren knew anything about were mostly slow and awkward, allowing the user to drift on the wind or walk on air, rather than soaring like a warlock.
The Unwelcome Warlock Page 18
