"Like most spells of this sort, the aim here is to not kill the caster," she said, settling down cross-legged. "Since it's likely that my focus is a considerable distance away, we modified a standard location spell to give only the briefest and vaguest response. It's still a very tiring spell. Are you ready, Lieutenant?"
"As I'll ever be." Meniar began walking around Rennyn, pushing power into the sigils so that they glowed. Sigillic magic was totally different from the kind Kendall had been learning. There was no effort in controlling what was happening: you wrote down what you wanted, you put power into the words, and that was it.
Of course, if you'd worded the spell badly, or if you didn't have enough power, it could all turn out very nasty. People said Thought Magic was dangerous, but at least it didn't make your heart stop if you 'over-committed' yourself.
Kendall had seen Sebastian cast this spell before, so wasn't particularly surprised when the sigils on the western side flushed blue, just for a moment. That was the direction of Rennyn's focus, which is something she would really like to get back even if she wasn't looking for her monster uncle.
Most really good mages tried going into the Eferum—the place outside the world where magic and monsters came from—and using all their strength to make a thing called a focus, which was almost as much a part of you as a finger and made you a lot more powerful. You weren't supposed to try until you were at least nineteen, and a lot of mages never did at all. Rennyn's had been really special, and had been stolen by her horrid many-greats-uncle.
This wasn't a spell where Kendall could sort out what the magic was doing, unlike some that people cast where she could now tell what the spell was meant to do. It made it dull to watch, other than for the pasty grey shade Lieutenant Meniar turned.
"It's not even specific to variations like north-west or south-west," Sebastian said. "And until you get closer—in fact, until you're starting to return an indication of 'east' instead of 'west', I wouldn't risk altering to a more specific casting."
"We leave in three days," Captain Faille said. "Split in Port Enara and re-join in Koletor."
And then chase all over the western kingdoms for a monster who would probably like nothing more than to have Rennyn delivered to him. Sebastian wasn't the only one worried how things would turn out.
CHAPTER FIVE
"DeVries. Take that smug look off your face and sit down."
Fallon sat, wondering how his wary puzzlement translated to 'smug', then waited to find out why he was there. A summons to the House Master's office usually meant a lecture, and Fallon had already had two in the first part of the year, all about the need to balance study and practice with rest and resilience. Each time, they'd doubled his weekly exercise schedule.
That had helped, much to his surprise. For all he'd been taught that physical hardiness made casting safer, Fallon hadn't expected the ordeal of jogging around the palace's protective circle to reward him with less exhausted mornings. But he hadn't kept it up during the extended break following the attack on the Arkathan, and now didn't seem able to get ahead of his own weariness. Or perhaps simply the sense of defeat.
"I can see you already know why you're here," the House Master said. "I won't congratulate you, just offer a note of caution. The Teremic approach to casting became so prevalent because a good portion of those who didn't adopt it ended up dead. Not that this isn't an opportunity half the school would give their eye-teeth for, but, well, you surely know the consequences of getting ahead of yourself."
The faint discomfort told Fallon the House Master was referring to Auri's presumed death, but before Fallon could untangle the rest of the warning, the man added: "Your father is in the guest area. Be sure to hand in any school property before you go."
Cold shock kept Fallon's face frozen, and he wondered if he still looked smug as he carefully thanked the House Master, then made himself walk, not run, to the room tucked into the dormitories where guests were left to cool their heels. Father? Here? Father had barely left the house in years.
Had Fallon made some massive error in the household accounts? Was he being dropped from the Arkathan for lack of funds? But, no, the House Master had talked of opportunities. Could Fallon dare to hope that his approach to Duchess Surclere hadn't been such a complete disaster? That the combination of his idiot mouth and being Earl Harkness' nephew hadn't made his goal unachievable?
Only he could start out by alienating both the village girl and Duchess Surclere's brother. Auri had been livid when he'd explained that he'd heard so much about how the girl didn't know anything about casting, didn't even know the most basic sigils and standard forms, that when he finally stumbled across her he'd just asked if it was true.
But he'd thought of a way to counter that, had even managed to make use of it just as the Duchess was leaving the annunciation ceremony, and purely taken for itself that conversation had gone very well. He'd captured her attention, and held his own discussing the early development of casting. He might not be a daringly confident caster—the other students called him Slow-and-steady DeVries—but surely a solid base of theory was more interesting to a devising mage like Duchess Surclere?
Fallon had thought the Duchess had genuinely meant it when she said she'd think about his request, and had let himself hope. But then he'd learned that the talk of her illness wasn't exaggeration, and that she was on the verge of leaving the country, and knew it had all been for nothing. Yet here was the Duchess' husband, Lord Surclere, talking to—
"Father?"
If Vannan DeVries caught the note of incredulity, he did not show it as he turned and smiled. "My boy. The first time I have visited you here. Are you still having trouble sleeping?"
"Not too bad, Father," Fallon said, finding no answers in Lord Surclere's expression, and all too aware he was closely observed in return. "I didn't expect you."
"I did not expect myself," Fallon's father replied. He was in high good humour, eyes bright, which only confused Fallon more.
"I will leave you to your preparation," Lord Surclere said, his voice thin and unnatural. "Contact me if there are any issues."
"I will indeed, sir," Fallon's father said, and then disconcerted Fallon completely by clasping the Kellian man's hand in both of his and pumping it warmly. "And thank you again. I have enjoyed our discussion enormously."
"We will continue it in the spring," Lord Surclere said, glanced at Fallon, and departed.
"Why did you not tell me that you wanted to study with the Duchess of Surclere, lad?" Fallon's father asked. "You could not fear my disapproval, surely?"
"I didn't think she'd agree," Fallon said, sitting down to combat sudden dizziness. It had worked? There was a roaring in his ears, and he had to take deep breaths just to keep himself together. He'd done it.
"—remarkable man," his father was saying. "Did you know, he has travelled to see both the Casellian marbles and Ridena Tower? And he recognised that Tisian carving Geralt gave for a wedding gift—said it was most likely looted from one of their temples, that they're mounted in the windows as wards. That would be Geralt all over: too insensible to wonder where a piece might come from, what vandalism had been committed to obtain it."
"The—Lord Surclere was at the house?" Fallon felt sick.
"Yes, indeed. We had a long interview—perhaps longer than he intended, since it has been an age since I could chat with someone so knowledgeable. And then he brought me to meet the Duchess. Charming young woman, though sadly under the weather. You must be sure to support her as best you can."
Stomach twisting, Fallon gazed at his father helplessly. How to ask if he'd introduced Lord Surclere to a cold marble wife and daughter? Impossible to guess whether the Kellian man knew of his father's fixation, or what he might do about it.
And they were starting for Kole tomorrow.
"I'm not sure I can leave you," Fallon said, betrayed into a high, panicked note.
"My boy, what is this?"
"I—"
"If
you are concerned about the creature they are hunting, don't be. Lord Surclere, while he acknowledged that no travel is without its dangers, has assured me that there is no intention of exposing the Duchess or her students. The Sentene are experts in these matters, and, upon my word, if ever I met a person I'd trust you with, it's Lord Surclere."
Fallon was entirely unequal to telling his father that it was his safety that was the problem: that Fallon didn't dare to leave him unprotected. Vannon DeVries' overwhelming grief and withdrawal from society made him an object of pity. But if it were known that he held affectionate conversations with two lumps of stone, sympathy would turn to derision—and consequences. Madness in even a minor mage was not taken lightly.
"You'd best not let Uncle hear you say things like that," Fallon said weakly. "He's always insisting Kellian bewitch people."
"Geralt!" Fallon's father snorted. "Would he have me meet a man of singular knowledge and competence, and not acknowledge the privilege? His private misfortunes need not colour my opinions."
"What do you mean?"
"Ah, well—" Fallon's father glanced toward the door, then gave Fallon an embarrassed smile. "We can discuss that on the way home. Shall we collect your things? I will look out my old travelling trunk and we'll see if it can manage everything you need. And, ah, I must give you a list of places to see in Koletor."
Fallon's father talked happily of friezes and columns all through the afternoon. It was the most like his proper self Fallon had seen him since Auri's miscasting, and he had to wonder at the transformation. One thing everyone said of Kellian was they hardly spoke, and it was difficult to imagine the taciturn Lord Surclere in lively conversation about art. But probably Fallon's father had done most of the talking.
It wasn't possible. The plan had never included leaving the city. Certainly hadn't envisaged a teacher as burdened as he, the power of her focus lost, her casting limited by a physical fragility which surpassed Fallon's own. And no plan could ever involve leaving Father at risk of exposure.
After achieving what he'd thought impossible, Fallon would have to give it up.
CHAPTER SIX
Rennyn felt like a child sneaking a tart from the pantry, and realised that seeing The Black Queen was the first true indulgence she'd managed since being injured. Tomorrow they'd leave on the Uncle Hunt, but she felt she'd earned at least a night to pander to her curiosity.
It had gone very well so far. They had arrived nearly late, and walked unremarked through a rapidly emptying foyer. Rennyn was dressed in some of Seb's clothes, with her hair caught into a tail, and her brother had added the most minor of illusion spells to make her look more like a boy.
The door that belonged to Captain Medan's key was up only one flight of stairs, and the little cup-shaped balcony beyond was conveniently toward the back of the playhouse, away from the glow of the stage. Seated in the rear pair of the four chairs, they were in no danger of catching a casual eye and were comfortably out of the heaving press below.
The strange, tall room throbbed with excitement, rowdy but good-humoured, and Rennyn could not even regret that her first time at the theatre was to see a play that was sure to annoy. Her main concern was being able to hear anything, as a flushed man came onstage to welcome everyone only to be drowned out by jeers and cheers and the shout of someone objecting to a shower of peel tossed down from above. The man bowed and left to be replaced by the first two actors, and thankfully the hubbub dropped to a dull murmur when the pair began to speak.
Solace Montjuste-Surclere and her Eferum-born son Helecho, discussing their plans to escape the Eferum and claim Tyrland. Neither of the actors looked like their subjects and Rennyn was more interested when those two left and a bit of painted canvas moved aside to show a woman curtseying before another on a throne. Lady Weston bringing news of the Grand Summoning, and of a strange woman who had warned of an incursion in Asentyr. Rennyn thought it very clever that the canvas returned to hide the throne as the pretend Lady Weston crossed to the other side of the stage, moving to a different place and day. Someone behind the scenes was playing with mageglows, and everything became a lot darker as four more people stepped into the remaining pool of light.
The gold-worked insignia of a famous uniform blazed, the Montjuste phoenix appearing to move on its own, but then the four loosened their high, concealing collars and became Sentene preparing for battle. Two looked like they'd had a sack of flour dropped over them, which was a far from accurate way of illustrating the effect of light on Kellian, but Rennyn supposed it got the point across. One was meant to be Illidian, and the other Sarana Illuma, and it was disappointing that they hadn't even tried to reproduce the attenuated quality of a Kellian's voice, though the crisp discussion of preparations for an incursion of Eferum-Get inside the city's protective circle was very typical.
Beside her, Illidian straightened, and she looked up, trying to make out his expression in the gloom. Kellian were very difficult to see in dim light, but she could feel a tension in him.
"What's wrong?"
He didn't answer immediately, then sat back as all the people on stage ran off in response to a shout. "Parts of that were word-for-word," he replied, not sounding pleased. "From the meeting we had earlier that day."
"Oh." This could grow complicated. "One of the Sentene helped write this?"
"Or the Ferumguard." He let out his breath, and then curled his fingers over her nearest hand. "More a breach of courtesy than of the rules that govern our service. I could wish that whoever it was had taught them to hold their swords less haphazardly."
Rennyn had no idea of the proper way to hold a sword, and so was more than content to lean against Illidian's arm and watch the actors pretending to fight shadows as the room filled with the sounds of musket shot, clashing metal, and a monstrous howling.
The whole attack had been a disaster. No preparation could have anticipated the hundreds of creatures that had escaped into the city. Rennyn had heard it called the Black Night, or the Night of Claws, and she felt in the hush that fell over the room her own dismay at the deluge. There had been no containing so many, and there were sure to be more than a few here who had lost those they knew and loved, or been attacked themselves. The crowd grew stiller and ever more silent as desperation crept into the Sentene's hard-pressed battle to save the city.
The woman who stalked out onto stage spoke some of the words Rennyn had said, and pulled the Eferum-Get back to be killed as Rennyn had done. The dress she wore revealed a lusher figure than Rennyn possessed, and she did not look particularly like a Surclere, but if she was trying to live up to the Surclere reputation for arrogance she succeeded. She was rude to simply everyone, particularly the Kellian. Especially Captain Faille.
"There's not very much of Solace in this."
"Cause, not subject."
Very true. The Black Queen might lie behind events, but the play was about an accomplished soldier whose world was turned upside-down. First by a woman he did not want to admire, and then by the denial of his people's humanity, and a threat to their very selves. Rennyn had been worried that parts of the play might upset Illidian, since they were sure to at least touch upon the injuries the Black Queen had inflicted. She had not imagined that her husband would be publicly dissected.
The story of a hero: not wholly inaccurate, and far from uncomplimentary. The audience had been raptly attentive since the battle in Asentyr, and Rennyn could feel their response to each setback. Whoever was behind this had a very real understanding of the Kellian, but a sympathetic portrayal did not leave Illidian any less exposed. He was a hard man to upset, but the muscles in his arm had not relaxed since she'd commented on the play's name, and she thoroughly regretted her indulgence even before the woman pretending to be her struck a pose and asked the crowd: "How can I in conscience want such a man?"
Rennyn was so focused on Illidian's feelings that her own reaction blindsided her. They had reached that final day of the Grand Summoning, and her Wicked Uncle
had said: "Wake up, cousin" to bring her out of the sleep casting he'd used to subdue the city. Rennyn listened to the actor gloating, wondering if the audience would be confused by the way he called her cousin because it was easier than many-times great-niece. And then the woman who was not her was pretending to be bitten and suddenly Rennyn couldn't look, couldn't breathe. She turned her head and hid her eyes against Illidian's arm, blood pounding in her ears in response to remembered pain, the disgusting noise he had made as he drank, and a sense of being crushed, of being invaded by something trying to force her into a different shape, and then the wrench of power going awry, laying an extra level of sickness on top of hateful touch—
Shuddering, Rennyn realised she'd been moved, pulled into Illidian's lap so he could hold her to his chest and stroke her back. She could not catch her breath, could not hear over the roaring in her ears or even control her trembling, could only stare at the creature she'd become: so vulnerable and so weak.
It seemed a long time before she could hear, and then she listened to Illidian's heartbeat, ignoring the noises from the stage. When her shaking had gone as well, he stopped smoothing his hand down her back.
"Shall we leave now?"
"Yes." Her voice was very small, and she wondered if Illidian would ever tire of the work she involved.
Kellian strength made it easy for him to carry her to the landing outside, where she made an attempt at standing, and found that she could stay reasonably upright clinging to his arm. A muffled roar broke as they reached the entrance, and she realised it was applause. Then they were out on the street, with all the traffic of the Crossways to deal with, but Illidian signalled and the coach he'd arranged to collect them was fetched from around the corner.
The journey back to barracks escaped her entirely, but she opened her eyes again when Illidian put her down in his quarters. "Something warm to drink," he prescribed, and the idea was a reviving one. Feeling more like herself, she managed to get herself to the privy down the corridor, and even warmed a bowl of water so she could wash before dressing for bed. It was the only time she'd cast that day, and she thought about that until Illidian returned from the kitchens.
The Sleeping Life (Eferum Book 2) Page 6
