He gave himself the shake, tucked himself back into his red trousers, and walked around the modesty wall, only to stop abruptly before the mirror. Reflected in it stood Teacher--sharp, visible, not the usual shadowy figure just beneath his own reflection, but Teacher standing in the Tower Library. Temmin could read the titles in reverse on the books stacked beneath Teacher's hand, until the hand emerged from the glass. Temmin took it and let himself be pulled through.
"I saw you," he began in a rush, "I saw you clear as anything, clear as through a window pane! What's happening? There's more, too, I saw marks on the twins! Hello, by the way! Are you all right? And before I forget--" he dumped his pocketful of candies on the table among the piles of books-- "can you get these to Elly? I'd have brought some for Sedra, but she doesn't like them."
"With luck, I will be released from the Library before they grow stale," said Teacher. "But do calm down. Start over."
Temmin explained the silver sigils on the twins' hips. "They glowed!"
"Have you seen them before?" said Teacher, an intent, almost frightening look on the pale face.
"No, just since last night, though truthfully I hadn't seen Allis naked before." Temmin blushed furiously. "Still, I have seen Issak naked, and there was no mark before, I swear. And then there's this mirror thing. It used to be that when you watched me, I saw you as if you were a shadow, just under my reflection."
"And now?"
"Now it's as if I'm looking into the next room. I don't see myself at all, only you and wherever you're at. You don't think," Temmin gasped, "you don't think I can use reflections now, do you?"
"Try."
Temmin squared his shoulders before the mirror. For a brief moment, he examined his face for signs; did he look different now? Older? More experienced? No, just his same old self, as he had been when he first arrived less than a spoke ago, the increased fur on his chin the only difference. "Show me...show me...what do you say exactly?"
"The general formula is 'If this or that is within sight of a reflection, show me,' but it doesn't really matter as long as you have the skill and can say something."
"All right, then, show me Allis!" The mirror remained resolutely still. "Perhaps she isn't before a reflection--I didn't pay attention to her room. Show me...let's see, where would I know there'd be a reflection...oh! Show me Papa's study!" Nary a ripple. "That answers that question," Temmin sighed. He turned away from the mirror, secretly glad to be free of magic; it seemed more a burden than a blessing.
"You are growing more magically sensitive, the first Tremont in 358 years to do so," said Teacher.
"What do the sigils mean? Are they the same as Emmae's? They don't look exactly like hers, but very like."
"Charms against the getting of children, yes. Maeve--the Traveler Queen--bestows them on the Lovers' Embodiments--permanent ones--and temporary ones on the Supplicants. The next time you see Anda Supplicant, pay closer attention. You will see one almost exactly like Emmae's. If the other clerics can afford one, and she likes them, Maeve gives them marks as well."
"What happens if she doesn't like them?"
"She takes their money, and in time perhaps a child will come."
"Oof," said Temmin, ruffling his hair. "I'll be getting a sigil, too, then?"
"You will not. You are in the direct succession. Neither you nor your father may ever carry one. It is Pagg's Law."
"Pagg's Law!" Temmin exclaimed. "Who has time to read that thing but the Fathers? It's as thick as my thigh. So what--what happens if I get someone with child?"
"Then congratulations would be in order."
Temmin gawped, then shut his mouth in consternation. Fathering children at the Temple had never once entered into his considerations. "But what happens? Do I acknowledge him--or the mother? How would I even know? Wait--you'd know!"
"I would know the moment you became king about any sons you might have, but no sooner, and I would never know your daughters. Do not waste too much time on this. You will be taught many ways to avoid getting children. Now, more importantly," said Teacher, an avid, almost greedy expression stealing over the usually placid face, "what did you learn last night?"
"Oh," said Temmin at this abrupt shift. "I can't talk about it. I tried."
"She showed you nothing?"
"She showed me many things. I don't know what they mean, but every time I try to talk about them, I can't." He wilted in the face of Teacher's obvious disappointment, and then remembered. "But She did say to tell you something."
"Tell me something?" said Teacher. An unaccustomed flush came to the pale cheeks. "Tell me what? Please, Temmin, tell me."
"She said to tell you it's time."
"That is all?"
"That's all."
"That...that is enough," said Teacher, sinking down onto the one stool in the Library.
Temmin realized he'd never seen Teacher sit on anything other than a table top. "What does it mean?" he said. "Time for what?"
"Time for something I have waited for, waited a very long time. I have been waiting for you--or the one who would be you. I hoped you were the one, but I was not sure. You still might not be the one, but if it is time..."
"You make no sense. The one for what?" he said impatiently. "Please stop speaking in riddles!"
"In this matter, riddles are all I have," answered Teacher. "Just as you cannot speak of certain things now, so I cannot speak of certain things." The pale silver eyes, cold and powerful, looked through him; Temmin shuddered. "I am made of secrets, Temmin. And now, so are you."
In the days after his investiture, Temmin fetched and carried for Allis and Issak. To Temmin's relief, the bloom was creeping back into Allis's face, and Issak no longer looked as if someone had crumpled him up and thrown him away--though Someone had, thought Temmin.
Even so, Temmin saw little of them. He lived the unglamorous life of a Postulant. He got lost a lot. He joined a class of newly minted Postulants studying anatomy: not the obvious kind, but the kind in which one learned the names of the bones of the hand. He kissed an extraordinary number of people. Senik hadn't been joking: in the Temple, a kiss meant "Hello," "Goodbye," "Thank you," "You're welcome," and occasionally, "What are you doing after anatomy class?" He learned to sleep through Anda snuffling her tuneful little snore in the bed opposite, and, rarely, in his bed beside him.
Temmin did not miss the Keep, at all, but he did miss his mother and sisters, and especially Jenks. Temmin sent several messages to them and had given up ever hearing back, when one day Senik called Temmin to a receiving room. "A representative from your father, I believe," he said.
It was Winmer.
Temmin advanced into the room, his hands in fists. "What do you want?"
"Your father bid me bring you a message, along with your post, Your Highness," said Winmer with a bow; he held out a neat packet of letters.
Temmin folded his arms across his chest, and made no move to take the packet. "What is the message?"
Winmer inclined his head and withdrew the packet. "He bids me tell you that your two friends at Whithorse are now your responsibility. They may not return to the Keep as servants. He also adds that what he did, he did out of sincere concern for both you and the Kingdom."
"Balls to that," snapped Temmin. "The King has a great deal of nerve sending you of all people here. I know you're behind the blackmail, Winmer. Only the most loathsome of men would use Arta Dannikson like that."
Winmer sighed, and spread his arms in conciliation. "Your Highness, I am the King's man. It doesn't matter what I think is right. When the King comes to me, it's not for advice. I do what the King commands me to do--I find ways to make what the King wants, happen. In the matter of your Supplicancy, he wanted to find ways to stop it, and so I did. I was unsuccessful, but that is less a criticism of my dedication than it is a tribute to yours. Well done, sir."
"So it's some sort of game? Is that what you're saying? It's all right to be contemptible, as long as it's your job--or--or if you
win?" said Temmin, unfolding his arms and taking a step forward.
Winmer stood his ground and smiled, the corners of his mouth curving up to touch the ends of his tidy mustache. "A King should always have clean hands, don't you think, sir? Perhaps also a Prince. Some day soon, you will have a man like me to keep yours clean as well." Winmer left the packet on the low table, bowed, and departed.
Temmin blinked after him. Never, never would he have a man like Winmer, he said to himself.
He plunked himself down on the wide, low couch and picked up the packet of mail. At the top of the stack, he found a small note addressed to him in Ellika's curlicued script and bearing her seal in bright blue wax. He broke the seal:
Dearest Temmy,
You are a sly boots indeed & I am very proud of you even though you have made Papa very angry & I miss you! Seddy & I will see you at the Temple on Nerr's Day to give you your brother-gifts--Papa can't stop us from doing that, at least!
Much, much love,
Your sister E
Temmin smiled. He took up the next letter; it bore the rearing stallion postmark of Whithorse Estate, and the pragmatic handwriting of his best friend.
He sat up straighter.
"Your Grace," it began:
I have done as you asked, but things are easier now that word has come to us about you and the Temple. I have to say I am surprised by that since I helped you skip lessons here. But I am sure things are different in the City.
Miss Dannikson is getting along. She seems to like learning her letters at the school, but she is uncomfortable learning to be a gentlewoman.
Here the words, "Are you sure that's what she wants?" had been smudged out, but were still legible enough if Temmin squinted.
My mother likes her, and so do most of the women here. She is very sweet and pretty and I see why you might like her.
Wallek is all right, I suppose. He is very keen on fighting. He is good. We have had a couple of bouts for fun. Then he challenged the Guards Captain, and at the end there was more red on him than his hair, I will just say that. Wallek got a lot more serious about training after. You are right, he does not know much about horses. He says he is the third son and never paid attention much since he would not get the blacksmith shop and did not want it anyway. But he is learning because I told him you want him to, and you told him to do what I said. I could wish he took that last a little more serious sometimes.
Everyone here is well. They are all very excited about you and the Temple, and keep talking about Nerr getting the Heir. Sometimes I think they are expecting gold to rain down from the sky now. People are stupid.
About Mattie, I am very surprised to hear about that. You may wish to know that she has left the Estate and no one seems to know where she has gotten to. She and her mother do not seem to be in Reggiston any more.
As for the other thing. Forget it. It does not matter.
Your obedient servant,
Nollson
Temmin rattled the letter absently, mulling it over and over. Alvy never used his titles, ever, unless he was angry or important people were watching. He signed himself "Nollson." And "Forget it?" How was Temmin supposed to forget it?
At least Fen and Arta were all right. Temmin would have to take them into his service, but he had no clear idea what he might do with them; Fen would definitely make a good sparring partner, but what would he do with Arta?
And Mattie had disappeared. Well, his father had said she might. He hoped that wherever she'd gone, she didn't hate him too much, and that she was happy.
Neya's Day flower buntings no longer arched above the streets of Arren, but a soft, flowery mood still hung over the town, weeks after the festival. The winter's coal smoke had finally blown away with the snow, leaving the air clear and the sky a fragile but unbroken blue. Mattie Dunley, now Mattie Ambleson, walked through the streets toward Arren's market square, and saw none of it.
Mattie hated market day in Arren, even with the newly mild weather. She missed Reggiston's clean, wide boulevards, the squares with their pots of colorful flowers. The outdoor cafes would be open now; girls in bright dresses would be drinking coffee and eating little cakes with their young men on their day off, and she would not be among them. (She wouldn't have been among them were she still there, but in her homesickness, she glossed over that unfortunate fact.) The ancient, gnarled apple trees lining the sloping road toward the Mother's Temple on its little rise were probably in bloom now, she thought with an inward sigh.
Arren was gray by comparison, the high brick and stone houses piled on either side of her throwing the narrow street into shade. Even the windows looked funny here: tall and thin, topped with arches that made her feel like startled eyes looked down on her. Without its Paggday basket, Mattie's arm felt bare; her bored but attentive footman held a much larger one instead. Mattie was used to being a servant, not having one trailing behind her, and the liveried young man's presence at her back set apprehensive prickles at her nape, as if she were being followed. She was being followed she told herself, but it was just Pawl.
Just then, her new and unfamiliar bootheel caught in a chink in the paving stones. She abruptly teetered and tried to catch herself, but gravity was against her.
Hands caught Mattie firmly round the waist and checked her fall; even so, the world spun and sparks flew all around her vision. "Are you all right?" a man's voice said. "Can you stand?"
She put her foot down, and pain flowered in her badly twisted ankle. "No, Pawl, I can't. Let me lean on you...oh!" she cried, the sparks increasing. "Perhaps you might hail a cab."
"Most certainly, and I shall escort you home as well, miss, yes?" said the man in a musical, cultured Corrish accent not at all like her footman's rough monotone.
Now that she no longer feared for her skull, she realized a stranger's hands held her up, not Pawl's. They belonged to a Corrishman whose dark eyes tilted down at their outside corners. They would have given him a mournful, almost sinister, air, but for the rest of his handsome face, kind and attentive. "Oh, thank you, sir," she said, coloring, "but Pawl can see to me."
"Nonsense, I won't hear of it," said the man. His smile warmed the gray street; it went straight into her heart, a small ray of unexpected spring. The painful sparks in her vision receded, and Mattie suddenly saw the gilt work on the lamp posts, and the cheerful, molded plaster swags of fruit and leaves festooning the elegant, narrow windows of the building opposite. The hair at Mattie's nape prickled again, this time with sudden, inexplicable elation.
A quick gesture from the man, and a hackney cab appeared as if it had been waiting. Between the Corrishman and Pawl, they gently packed Mattie into the hackney; the Corrishman sat down on the seat opposite, and said to Pawl, "Run to your mistress, and tell her to expect us." Pawl nodded unquestioningly and trotted double-time down the street toward the Ambleson townhouse; the Corrishman tapped on the roof twice, and the cab followed the footman more slowly through the Paggday traffic. How easy everyone found it to obey this stranger, she thought somewhat drowsily.
"I'm afraid these are hardly the usual circumstances. May I introduce myself, miss?" said the Corrishman. His voice fell in velvet folds around her, silken and rich, and she wondered how she'd ever thought the Corrish accent sounded funny; in his mouth, it sounded lyrical, almost exotic.
"Oh, please do!" she said.
"I am Adrik Adrikov, and it is my honor to assist you, Miss...?"
"Dun--Ambleson, sir, Miss Ambleson." She became acutely aware that she was alone in a cab with a strange man. "Oh, dear," she said faintly. "I'm afraid I've behaved very improperly."
"Never say so, Miss Ambleson, never! No one would speak ill of you--why, what were you to have done, lie there in the street? But never worry, here we are at your own front door." He climbed down from the hackney and turned back, holding out his arms. "I shall carry you up the stairs and make sure you're safe, yes?"
"Oh, Mr Adrikov, that's far, far too much trouble--oh!"
The
Corrishman scooped her up before she could object further or wonder how he knew her address, and she put her arms around his neck rather than be dumped into the street. As he carried her into the house she could smell his cologne, a golden, mossy scent that mixed with the fine wool of his suit, and something else far beneath, a lurking dark; it registered deep in her heart. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy his closeness, his strong arms holding her as if she were a little package. "I'm so lucky you were there today, Mr Adrikov," she murmured. She felt as if he were carrying her into a new life, into some unexpected, exciting future; Reggiston and its enticing beauties began to fade.
"Oh," the Corrishman smiled, "the luck was all on my side entirely, Miss Ambleson."
* * * * *
END OF BOOK ONE
Book two, Son in Sorrow, is available now at Smashwords and wherever fine ebooks are sold.
* * * * *
About the Author
MeiLin Miranda literally came back from the dead to write the fantasy novel series An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom, the free online serial Scryer's Gulch: Magic in the Wild, Wild West, and the Aria Afton Presents erotic novellas among other bits of nonsense. MeiLin lives in Portland, OR with her husband, two daughters, two cats, a floppy dog and far, far too much yarn.
Visit her website, where you can talk with her and fellow fans, get bonus stories, wallpapers, and peeks into future books in the series: http://www.MeiLinMiranda.com/
If you received this ebook for free (and I'm not going to ask how), it's not too late to contribute to the author. Paypal whatever you think it's worth to [email protected], or better yet, go to Smashwords and buy a copy of this book: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MeiLinMiranda
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