by Trish Telep
By the time I went up to my room after supper that eve, impatience bubbled in my blood. I could have spent the next half hour preparing in other ways, but instead I donned my prettiest blue gown and dressed my hair in matching ribbons. Silly and vain, as I would always be pale and plain with an unfortunate nose, but I could not resist the impulse. Finally, I locked my bedroom door.
At last I felt ready to face my would-be teacher, so I stopped before his portrait and murmured, "Come to me, Pick."
Light. No matter how many times I saw the doorway open, it would never grow less than marvelous. But on this occasion, I stood back so he could cross, my heart pounding in my chest like a mad thing. His appearance in my bedchamber offered a splendid spectacle--deliciously forbidden.
Tonight, he wore again his black trousers, white shirt, and black vest as he had when I met him in the market. Unlike that day, he also radiated focus, no teasing in his moonlit eyes. A tremor of disappointment curled through me, but I crushed it. The dress had been a ridiculous impulse; his flirtation had doubtless been calculated to win my cooperation, and once he had it, he needed waste no more time on any aspect of me but my magic. I tried not to let that hurt.
"Are you ready to begin?" he asked.
For the next seven nights, Pick was all business in my room, even when his beauty distracted me--the slope of his nose and the dagger-sharp line of his cheekbones, to say nothing of his mouth. For all my wistful stares, he did nothing but instruct me, and so I gleaned our mission must be of the utmost import. The rest of my life seemed a dream, though I ate my dinners with prospective young men under my father's watchful eye. I lived for those stolen hours with Pick, fey lightning streaming from my fingertips.
To my sorrow, he treated me only as a promising pupil. I stopped wearing my prettiest dresses and tying garlands in my hair.
We drilled on the spells I would need to pass the traps safeguarding the Atreides archive, and within two weeks, I mastered glamours he could cast only in theory, though he had some power of his own. Yet he didn't waste our limited time with displays of his showmanship, however great my curiosity.
On our twenty-second night of training, I felt I'd achieved enough to ask, "What is your sphere of influence?"
Mine was, unquestionably, air. Lightning came to my fingertips, and I could stir the winds with a whisper. With each subsequent session, my precision improved. With this mastery came greater confidence. What did it matter that I wasn't pretty if I possessed such power? In any dynastic alliance my father arranged for me, the advantage would always be mine.
Pick curled long fingers around a tumbler on the desk. He exhaled in a soft white cloud, so that ice crackled atop the surface of the water, frosting the glass outside as well.
"Water," I guessed. "That must have many applications."
He took my measure with a long, considering look, before saying softly, "The body needs it to survive, precious Pearl."
A chill took me. "Does that mean you can kill with your magic?"
I wish he'd denied it. Instead he replied, "As can you."
"But I wouldn't."
"Not even to save your own life?"
I didn't want to think about that question tonight. "Are we finished then?"
"Nearly. We need one final glamour to attempt the labyrinth."
"We? You're coming with me, then?"
"I'd hardly ask you to do brave the dangers alone."
I tilted my head. "Wouldn't you?"
Pick put his hand atop mine, and his touch carried such a sweet shock that I lost my breath. "Never. You are important."
"Because of my magic and my bloodline."
"That's not the only reason."
"Isn't it?" I drew my hand from beneath his.
Don't touch me. Don't give me expectations. I understand the arrangement.
"What's the matter?"
"Let's return to the subject at hand. How long will it take to learn this final glamour?" I wasn't sure whether I could continue lessons indefinitely without my parents noticing. Then again, so long as I did as they asked without argument, they paid little enough attention to me. The social requirements of a ruling house scion were steep indeed.
He pulled away, somewhat reluctantly, I thought. "Another week, perhaps. You're a good student."
"I should be," I said with a trace of bitterness. "I have no other occupation at the moment."
Apart from those occasional dinners at home, I'd begged off the entertainments where I once accompanied my parents. In truth, my mother wasn't sorry to lose my company. She didn't like others being reminded she had a daughter my age. It interfered with maintaining the illusion of eternal youth, like those of the most powerful Ferisher blood.
For the first time since I'd known him, his brows drew together in a display of tangible dismay. "And you miss the soulless entertainments, I take it? The endless parties where you're paraded like a pedigreed pony."
"That's my life you're disparaging."
"It's not the one you should have."
"And who decides that?"
"It's not my place. I understand."
"Your place?"
"Do you think it's easy for me to sit in your bedchamber, surrounded by your fine things, and know that you'd never have spoken to me of your own free will?"
I stared at him, nonplussed. It came to me then--Pick felt as if I were superior for being born a Magnus. For the first time, I put myself in his shoes--hiding in my room, teaching me forbidden glamours. If anyone found him here, he would be put to death. No questions. No trial. Perhaps, then, his lack of interest had nothing to do with my prettiness or any lack thereof. Instead, he was acutely conscious of the social chasm between us. But to me, he was fascinating and beautiful, no matter where he'd been born.
"Is that why you stopped--" I broke off the question because it was embarrassing and presumptuous.
"Flirting," he finished. "Yes. I can't show interest here of all places. We're not equals, precious Pearl, however much I wish we were."
"We are, you know. Equals."
"In your eyes?" he asked.
Somehow, I knew the answer mattered. It might well change everything. "It doesn't matter to me where you were born or to whom. You're my friend."
Not wholly a lie, that. But I wanted so much more. I wasn't learning these glamours for the adventure anymore; I wanted to please him and make him proud.
He softened, then. His smile lost its diamond edge, and his eyes went luminous. "I think that's the kindest thing anyone's ever said to me."
What had his life been like--that my regard could mean so much? My heart ached. I laced my hands together to hide their sudden unsteadiness and summoned a challenging smile. "But if you're to be punished regardless if we're caught, wouldn't it be better to have done something worth the price?"
His breath caught, his starlit gaze fixed on my mouth. "What would you suggest?"
Could I truly be this bold? It seemed so. "A month ago you mentioned a kiss."
Pick rose then and took my hands in his, drawing me to my feet. I became aware of the disparity in our heights, and despite his affinity for water, he radiated heat until I felt the space around us ought to swirl with steam. And then--it did. I glanced down at my fingers, entwined with his, and saw the crystalline sparks flashing--unearthly beauty, wherever our skin touched.
He leaned down, a lock of raven hair spilling over his face, and his lips brushed mine--once, twice, just the barest caress, and our magic swelled, the sparks and steam becoming radiant. Though he barely touched me, I was breathless when he drew back. But as if he was reluctant to let me go entirely, he traced my cheek. Then he lifted the necklace I'd admired over his head and dropped it around my throat.
"For you. So you don't forget about me."
I stretched up on tiptoe, kissing him again. "I could never."
"I'd better go."
"Why?"
"I can't keep my mind on business now," he said gently. "Good night."
> FOUR
The next night, I made my usual excuses to avoid being dragged to a party, but this time, my mother refused to accept that I had too many lessons to complete and couldn't attend a formal dinner at House Thorgrim. It seemed she'd taken the time to talk with my tutor, and his story didn't align with mine. Since I'd been using him as a pretext, discovery was inevitable, and the only reason it had taken this long was my mother's preference for traveling unencumbered.
"Really, Pearl. Next, you'll be following in your brother's footsteps. I couldn't stand the shame."
With a sigh, I donned my evening clothes. The hours dragged with excruciating tedium, as my parents attempted, none too subtly, to match me with a sullen, spotty-faced younger son. While I made polite conversation, I thought of Pick waiting for the door to open on his side--and he might imagine the kiss had something to do with my absence. I fingered the necklace beneath my gown and willed time to flow faster.
It was after midnight by the time I got back in my room and later still when I banished my maid and bolted the door behind her. There was no point in saying his name; he wouldn't be there. Yet I'd already made up my mind; if he wasn't, then I'd go looking for him. I fetched the blue token that would permit me to return. With the glamours he'd taught me, I could handle myself in the Wild court.
Squaring my shoulders, I whispered his name and waited for the portal to unfold. For a moment I imagined someone passing my room at this precise moment and wondered what they would make of the lights glimmering from beneath my door. As I'd expected, Pick didn't step in, so I did. Unlike the last time, I heard no enchanting music, nor smelled any sweet wine. Under the Hill was quiet and dark tonight, eerie with long, spindly shadows.
I followed the corridor down to the big room where the others had been dancing, but it too was empty. This room felt vast, many hallways leading off into pitch-black uncertainty. Turning slowly, I considered each passage. He would surely sense the magic of my crossing and come in search of me ere long.
When I spun back toward the center, a creature appeared--huge, bulbous eyes and green-brown skin, covered in warts, with spines bristling from its neck. Legends had spoken of them, of course, but it had been ages since anyone believed they were real, more than the stories in a child's primer. Spriggan. They must shadow walk because I didn't hear it approaching.
It bared its teeth at me in what definitely was not a smile. And then it sang, "Come! Fresh meat, fresh meat, and oh so sweet."
From deeper in the darkness, something stirred. Four more appeared, melting from the darkness in swirls of knobby flesh. They carried the stench of carrion. My heart thudded in my ears, but instead of letting fear overwhelm me as I would have not long before, I called Ferisher fire to my hand.
"I'm looking for Pick. You'd be wise not to detain me."
I'd never cast an offensive glamour but I could. So I didn't back up. They need you. They won't hurt you, I told myself. They just want to frighten you. Sadly, it was working. As they advanced, I slammed the ground before me in an explosion of magic that made them growl and fall aside. Since I didn't know what the punishment might be for hurting them, I directed the flames around me in a ring. To get to me, they had to cross through it, and it was too bright for a shadow walk. Of course, it also meant I was trapped until Pick noticed the commotion. The stalemate didn't trouble me over much. With more courage than I felt, I crossed my arms and stared at them over the blue flicker. They hissed and circled several times, but as I'd suspected, they weren't willing to burn to cinders to use me as the night's entertainment.
Fortunately, their noisy complaints drew more of the Wild court. Soon, I had a veritable party of interested onlookers. It shouldn't be long before Pick arrived to sort this all out. They'd listened to him before, after all. With some effort, I squared my shoulders and tried to look as though I was accustomed to such attention.
I'd never been gladder to see him than when he pushed through the milling crowd in his black and gray patchwork jacket. He wore braids in his hair tonight, twined with white ribbons, and he looked both beautiful and fearsome, though why that word should come to mind--well, it could only be his expression rather than his long raven hair. I'd beheld thunderclouds with more brightness.
"Begone," he growled at the others.
"Have you forgotten at whose orders you serve?" a spriggan growled. "You smell of her, her perfume on your skin. Perhaps we'll eat you as well."
Pick turned, his fingers smoky with frost. "Do you wish to test me? I still hold the authority here."
The spriggan snarled, showing jagged teeth. "We shall let you pass. But do not imagine we shall forget."
They melted into the side corridors with angry mutters; the spriggans were the last to depart. It gave me a little chill to think of them watching us from the shadows, but he cast some minor glamour that sparked one who tried to linger. When he signaled it was safe, I let the flames die away. Just in time, too. My head felt queer and painful, as I'd held the power much longer than I ever had before. I took a step toward him and my knees went soft.
He caught me before I hit the ground; his arms were as gentle as his face was furious. "What're you doing here?"
"Looking for you," I said muzzily.
"And quite a job you made of it, didn't you? That was as fine a spectacle as any I've seen outside the theatre."
I smiled up into his face, wondering why he was so blurry. "I'm pretty proud of it. Better than being eaten by spriggans."
He sighed. "I suppose it was. But don't you understand how dangerous the Wild court can be? Why in the world did you risk this?"
"Didn't want you to think I'd forgotten you."
At those ill-conceived words, his whole aspect lit from silver-edged darkness to the live light of stars raining down on a face upturned for a kiss. "I knew you didn't, my precious Pearl. I gathered something came up."
"But I had no way to cancel our plans properly. It wasn't polite."
A startled laugh escaped him, and I realized he was trembling. A fine, low trembling, to be sure, but he'd been frightened. That set heat blazing in my belly.
"Polite," he repeated. "Only you would worry about hurting my feelings. Nobody else imagines I have any. I sometimes forget what a princess you are, all the way down to your pretty feet."
"I'm not." I pushed at his shoulder, wishing to recover some of my dignity, but he didn't let me go.
Instead, he strode with me down the long corridor. He paused while I retrieved the token from my beaded purse. After the doorway opened, Pick carried me into my room and deposited me on my bed. Yet he did not let me go, his brow against mine.
"Oh, Pearl," he whispered, his thin face tight with torment. "How will I do what must be done?"
My head still felt thick and dizzy. "I'm doing it, am I not? You're only going to watch out for me."
"Yes." He combed his fingers through my loose hair, so gentle that I rested my cheek on his chest, though I'd no intention of doing any such thing. "Of course."
"Thank you for finding me," I said softly.
Eventually, he let go and pushed to his feet, pacing with agitation. "Promise me you won't do that again. I won't see you harmed by any of the Wild." But his expression reflected such conflict; it bewildered me.
"Why would they harm me? Don't they need me? I thought we were allies."
"Some cannot help it," he said softly. "In the Wild court, there are those born of darkness, just as there are the beautiful and bright. And the ones who challenged you bear the shadow in their souls. They must act as their natures drive."
"Then perhaps I should not acquire tomes and scrolls that will make them more powerful." It was a valid statement, I thought.
He ran a hand through his hair. "We're not all like the spriggans. If you knew where I lived, how I fought for every scrap of food as a child, you wouldn't question why I want more power."
It hurt me imagining him starving and cold, huddling for warmth as I'd seen street children do. There
was only one possible response. "When will we go after the Atreides archives?"
"Two nights hence. You need a night to rest after this evening, but if standing down half the Wild court doesn't prove you're ready, I don't know what does."
"So I won't see you tomorrow?" How I hated the wistful trail of that question.
"I'm sorry. I must get ready." Yet he sensed my forlorn air, or he saw it in my eyes. He sat beside me on the bed again and tipped my chin up. "Perhaps I shouldn't admit it, but ... it means a great deal that you came looking for me."
This is why I came, I thought. Not because it wasn't polite.
I wanted his kiss more than my next breath, and this time, it wasn't sweet or gentle, as if he thought I might break into shards in his fingers. His mouth felt hot and hungry; he ran his hands down my back, and I wished I wasn't wearing this cursed corset so I might feel his fingers at my waist. He kissed my throat and my jaw, that fine trembling still in him like an earthquake of the spirit. Pick traced the curve of my ear with his mouth and I shivered, sinking my fingers into his silky dark hair. I toyed with the ribbons and the plaits, his beauty every bit as mesmerizing as it had been when I bought his portrait.
Curling into his arms, I kissed him, feeling as though I'd die if we stopped. My frustrating feminine armor prevented us from sharing greater intimacies and yet he danced about the edges of my corset, his fingers first on my ankles, and then gliding up toward my knee. My breath caught as our gazes locked. His eyes gleamed molten silver in his thin face.
"Stop me," he whispered against the curve of my throat.
I wasn't ready to let him unlace my bindings and remove my gown. But someday I would be--and it was to him I would give myself when the time came, not some boy of my father's choosing. Making that resolution, I sat back.
"You were that frightened for me?" I asked. This was the first time he'd lost his composure when he touched me, the first time he'd shown more intensity than he intended.
