“They’ve been going at it for hours,” grumbled Rask, the eldest journeyman. Ladra was his wife, and Frentine the eldest of his daughters. Tyndal had been struggling with just how everyone was related, and how that affected what they did at the bakery, but he was still wrong half of the time. He had thought Frentine was Rask’s daughter, at first, because they acted so similarly sometimes. He’d always been nervous around big families, particularly ones with as many fathers running around as this one had. Rask continued, “I don’t even know what they’re arguing about!”
“The question is a social one,” Master Rinden explained in his deep voice. “My wife, Ishi love her and keep her safe, has run our house for more than thirty years, and she has had the reins firmly in hand. When Tyndal found his Talent was the first time she couldn’t control what happened to her family. Then there was that business with Ladra and that Farag boy, but she soon had her hand back on the tiller. Since then, everything has gone well. Her daughters have all married, her son is a success with great prospects for the future . . . and then a pregnant woman shows up at her door and says that she’s to be her son’s wife.
“Now, Tyndal, I know you are as loyal to your Master’s lady as a man could ask, and I mean no disrespect to you, she, or my son. But from Sarali’s perspective, a stranger is in her house asking for all of the benefits of kinship. While she knows that Alya and you are telling the truth – Minalan never would have told her . . . certain family secrets if she wasn’t – her heart hasn’t told her that, yet. Women are prone to treat a new woman with suspicion, at first. Nothing wrong with that . . . but while her heart is coming around to what her eyes can clearly see, and she is . . . it won’t let her mouth say it yet.”
“Master, with all respect, I didn’t hear any of that,” Askon said. “I heard an argument about where your son will live. Nothing about heart, eyes, or mouths.”
“She can’t say that,” he explained. “She can’t take this poor girl who her son has sent to her and turn her out. She cannot even judge her before her boy makes his decision to wed, the way she did with all of you,” he said, indicating his sons-in-law.
From the wry expressions on their faces, Tyndal could imagine just how harshly each of them had been judged by the strong-willed Sarali. He didn’t envy them, despite the satisfaction each of the men seemed to have in their marriage.
“Minalan has already plighted his troth with Alya with his loins, and loves her besides, if what Tyndal says about him is true. So she can’t take issue with her, personally. That loaf is burnt already,” he said, shaking his head. “So what’s the next thing she can fuss about? Not the wedding – it shall be here, if the gods see fit to carry my son back to me. And Alya has no proper kin, it seems, at least no proper home anymore, so there aren’t even any in-laws to sharpen her claws on.
“So what is the next thing she can control? Where her son decides to settle. And she wants him here, of course, under her thumb.”
“And what a loving, warm-hearted, and thoughtfully oppressive thumb it is,” Hirth said, earning a chorus of chuckles. As the junior apprentice, he was allowed a certain latitude with his humor, which suited his character. While Master Rinden’s shop was all-business, it wasn’t the sort of place where the Master thundered at everyone for being incompetent or stupid, the way some craftsmen did. After dark, and especially out here in the woodshed, the unofficial rule was casual leniency, though disrespect wasn’t tolerated even then.
“Does the village need another spellmonger?” asked Askon, shrugging. “There are two, now, and the way they go on there isn’t enough business for even one of them.” As curious as he was about other magi, Tyndal had resisted the urge to visit them, lest they suspect something was not quite right. He’d heard enough about them both by now that he was confident that even he – with the use of irionite – would have bested both of them put together.
“That southern fellow is still pissed that I let Minalan did the spells on my house and ovens,” chuckled Master Rinden. “But no, this village couldn’t hold a third spellmonger. Nor is Baron Lithar unhappy with his court mage. But that’s beside the point: the point is, Minalan is his own man, he’s going to choose where he lives. About that Alya might have some say, and his mother none at all.”
“So why does she argue if she knows that?” asked Rickin, the intelligent-looking husband of Urah, the youngest of Master Rinden’s daughters.
“Because she can, boy!” laughed Rinden. “Or at least she can ‘offer her matronly advice’. And Alya might even listen to it, but she knows it will be up to Minalan. She was polite enough about it . . . before my girls got involved. Now their feminine sensibilities are invested in the argument, even though it will be for naught. But it isn’t . . . because it really has nothing to do with that at all. It has to do with my wife’s fear of losing control, and my daughters’ desire to gain control from their mother. Minalan, Alya, the new baby, where they live, you, me, the gods and the spirits of our ancestors have no bearing on the matter in the slightest.”
“So . . . they’re arguing over something completely different than what they’re actually saying,” reasoned Askon.
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” corrected Master Rinden, taking a healthy pull from his glass and wiping the excess away with the back of his hand. “Ladra and Borsa are seeing an opportunity to get over on their mother, and by arguing for Minden living afar they wound her for past slights and challenge her for control. They’ll lose, of course – Sarali won’t stand for that sort of thing from her girls for long. But knowing her boy is in danger, hunted by those . . .”
“Censors,” supplied Tyndal, automatically. “They hunt . . . errant magi.” He swallowed, hard. Master Rinden and his family did not know exactly why the institutional warmagi were after Minalan, because the less they knew, the less danger they would be in. They had accepted the story of an administrative misunderstanding without looking closely at its teeth.
Trying to explain that their son had unwittingly stumbled into a trove of illegal magic that meant the executioner’s blade under the Bans, even though he was fighting a desperate battle to survive, might involve explaining a whole lot of things that Tyndal didn’t want to try explaining to the simple bakers. He barely understood it himself, half the time.
“They could come through at any time,” he continued, quietly. “It’s not us that they want, exactly,” he said, his heart heavy. “It’s Master Minalan. But he warned us that they might try to use us as leverage to summon them. As . . . hostages.”
“So what will these Censors do if they catch you?” asked Goron, quietly. He was concerned for his family, of course. Tyndal didn’t blame them.
“Probably clap us in irons and take us to one of their castles. They have a few, and a big one up in Wenshar. I . . . I don’t really know, after that.”
“I’m not having my grandchild born in a dungeon,” Master Rinden vowed, picking out each face around him until they met his gaze. “Minalan asked for our help, we shall give it to him. And so far the only hazard has been Sarali and the girls. If these magi appear at the door, Alya is a cousin. You all know the story,” he reminded them.
It was clear from his voice he would feel betrayed if any other story was ever offered. “But with that hanging over our heads, it makes all of the women nervous. And when women get nervous, they get excitable. And loud.”
“So what are men to do?” asked Hirth.
“Be strong,” said Goron, before his father-in-law could answer. “And silent. And . . . hide. It won’t help anything for us to get involved. Even in support of our wives.” Master Rinden nodded gravely.
“That’s right, we all keep our heads down, our mouths shut, and act like everything is normal . . . because it is. Our wives argue like mothers and daughters always do. ‘When dragons argue, the grass suffers but the rock endures’. When it’s about something like this? Every word you speak on the subject is another log on that fire, and it will burn itself out properly
in good time. If the Censors come along asking questions, they’ll see a family arguing about petty, unimportant family matters, not a family hiding fugitives.
“So we menfolk will just keep out of the dragons’ way, and emulate the rock more than the grass. And I’ll warn you, that’s going to cause problems for your own marriage beds. Endure them. This will pass soon enough if you do. Trying to curry favor with your wife by taking her side against her mother is never a smart thing to do. It might be a moment of pleasure, but its salt water on a toothache,” he said, with a trace of bitterness in his voice. Another chorus of assent bore out that piece of wisdom, too.
“Now, are there any questions?” he asked, pouring another round for everyone. Tyndal realized that he’d barely touched his glass, and with a shrug he finished it in one pull before holding it out for more.
“Yes, Master Rinden,” he asked, as respectfully as he could. “What time do you think it might be . . . and where might I fine Ishi’s shrine?”
Before he left, he checked on Alya, who had been given a small room of her own in the sprawling home. Tyndal found her weeping, which sent him into a mad rush of emotion. At once he wanted to protect her and soothe her, but this wasn’t a bandit, goblin, or over-friendly bargeman. The cause of her sorrow was his master’s own family, and there was nothing he could do about that – as much as he desperately wanted to.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, Tyndal,” she assured him, wiping her tears. “Just a little weepy. It’s not their fault, I know that . . . I’m trying to be a good daughter-in-law, but . . .”
“They just don’t know you well yet,” Tyndal offered, sounding far more confident than he felt.
“They’re just being a good family. I’m an outsider. I talk funny, to them. They know nothing about me or my people. Yet we’re to be bonded by blood. That has to be difficult for them. I just wish Minalan was here, instead of . . . he would know what to tell them to calm the waters.”
Tyndal very much doubted his master’s capability in that direction – from what he had seen, one of the most powerful magi in memory was not particularly adept with treating with the feminine mind – and the legion of women in Minalan’s house were no weaklings. If Minalan was here, there was little he could likely say, in Tyndal’s estimation . . . but it did suggest how he might help his mistress.
“Alya, there is a way,” he said, hesitantly, “a way to get a message through to Minalan. I can do it. Magically. But . . . I’m not supposed to do that sort of thing. It might attract . . . attention.”
“Oh, could you?” Alya asked, her teary eyes wide with hope. “Tyndal, I don’t want to distract him or, or get us taken by the witchhunters, but . . . if I only knew what to do!”
Tyndal swallowed, making the decision . . . and knowing it was the wrong one. “I will,” he assured her. “I’ll have to retrieve my witchstone, but I can send him a message, mind-to-mind, if it is a short one.”
“I would be forever in your debt,” she said, taking his hand between hers. “I’m so sorry to ask, but I need him, Tyndal. Even if it’s to know he’s still alive.”
The apprentice nodded. “I’ll fetch it at once. And then . . . well, if it works, I think I’ll go burn a candle at Ishi’s shrine in gratitude!”
* * *
The tiny shrine on the northern edge of the village was half the size of a peasant’s hut, yet far more grand, even through the thick mist that had rolled in from the river. Tyndal approached in reverence – due to a historical peculiarity, his native land had no temples or shrines, and one of the things he’d been most impressed with since he left Boval Vale were the number, variety, and beauty of religious buildings. The homes of the gods were sometimes humble, sometimes grand, but always interesting.
Talry’s shrine to the mother goddess was a circular building made of mortared cobbles, rounded in the river. There were round windows on three sides, aglow with the candles lit within, the product of other pilgrims’ prayers. The doorway had the circular sigil that Ishi’s priestesses used to bless her holy grounds. The air smelled of the sweet incense the Great Mother preferred in offering. The roof was a high-peaked cone, resembling a breast, a dome of glass at its summit.
At this late hour it was unusual for the tiny shrine to be visited by anyone in the village, but as he drew closer Tyndal saw a figure in a blue mantle, head bowed before the gilded statue of Ishi. Even through the cloak he knew it was Ansily.
He suddenly stopped. What do I do now? He asked himself. Why was he here? Was he paying court to the innkeeper’s daughter, the way the ranchers of Boval did to each other’s daughters? The inn she described did sound like a worthy livelihood, and the life couldn’t be as hard as that as a stableboy. If he could learn to be a mage, he could learn to keep an inn.
But he was a mage. He had obligations, and responsibilities. His conversation with his master through the new spell Lady Pentandra had contrived had reminded him of that – pointedly. Far from chewing him out over connecting magically, Master Minalan had given him some excellent advice about how to deal with the situation in the baker’s home . . . and a powerful new reason to fear the agents of the Censorate.
So what was he doing . . . here? This had nothing to do with either Alya’s domestic troubles or hiding from the Censorate. Meeting Ansily here in the middle of the night served no useful purpose, and (his usually-quiet conscience was screaming at him) even increased the risk that he and his mistress would be discovered. He couldn’t be an innkeeper – he was going to be a spellmonger. Or a warmage. Or something, but with a shard of irionite and half an idea of how to use it, Tyndal didn’t see a lot of innkeeping in his future.
He was about to turn on his heel and head back to the bakery when the figure in the temple turned, peering anxiously out into the darkness and biting her lip. The flash of her eyes in the candlelight and the curve of her neck were all he really saw through the mists, but suddenly his conscience was mute and his feet were propelling him into the shrine.
“I was wondering if you were going to come,” she said, quietly, not breaking her reverent pose.
“I . . . felt in need of prayer,” he said, uncomfortably. She giggled. He relaxed. A little.
“I often do, at this time of night,” she said, turning to greet him. “You know, there is a legend that Ishi’s daughter, Delanora, was placed in charge of the river, for a time. She wasn’t particularly good at being a river goddess, due to her restless nature, but she did her best. One night a priestess called for her aid, to help carry a young couple to safety, as she was a noble and he but common,” she explained.
“Why didn’t she just—”
“Shh! My legend!” Ansily insisted sharply. “Anyway, this priestess was trying to get the goddess to bear their boat upstream, away from their pursuers . . . but Delanora wasn’t listening. Instead, they were forced downstream and made landfall at Talry.”
“That was convenient,” observed Tyndal, his eyes jumping from freckle to freckle.
“Wasn’t it? Too late Delanora came to the priestesses’ aid. But she was so contrite that she contrived a thick river mist to cloak the young lovers until their pursuers had passed. So powerful was the mist that it concealed them from even the other gods, and they were able to escape downriver and live happily ever after in another land.”
“That seems—”
“I’m not done. Because the spell was so powerful, it is said that ‘what happens within the river mists of Talry will not be seen by the gods themselves.’”
“But I came through the mists and I saw just fine,” objected the apprentice.
“You . . . have no appreciation of culture,” Ansily said, her lips cocked to one side of her face. “Or subtlety. Ishi’s idol is right there . . . does a girl have to rip open her dress and push her twins in your face before you can take a hint?”
Tyndal was struck dumb. Was she . . . ?
“Well?” Ansily demanded.
“If I say ‘yes’, will you?”
The innkeeper’s daughter rolled her eyes expressively. “Tyndal, you are impossible! I’m going to scream if—” she began, her voice rising . . . so Tyndal kissed her.
He had no idea what possessed him to do so. Her lips were just so close to his in the tight quarters of the shrine, and his anxiety that they would be discovered made him want to keep their voices low, so . . . it seemed the quickest way to shut her up. And it seemed to be what she wanted. The way she kissed him back, he soon had no doubt. After that things started to go blurry.
He didn’t know how long they kissed in the shrine, and he found her hands wandering all over his arms and back as they did, and he wondered if he was too slobbery and whether or not she could taste the beer he’d had earlier and then his hands began to wander and most of his coherent thought stopped about then. His mind went into a dumb state, preoccupied only with the moment, only on Ansily. He even felt the brush of someone attempting to speak mind-to-mind with him, but they stopped before he could give it his full attention.
When the last candle lit by Ishi’s faithful sputtered out, Ansily finally broke their embrace. She looked at him, her eyes magnificently large in the gloom, her face solemn but excited.
“And that’s where we should stop,” she announced, placing a hand on his chest. “It is late, Tyndal of . . . Somewhere. And while it’s true many a maid has sought Ishi’s counsel in prayer until deep in the evening, my father isn’t that stupid. Besides . . .” she added, biting her lip.
“Besides . . . ?” Tyndal asked, confused, deprived of oxygen, his blood pounding in his ears so hard he could barely hear her words.
“Besides . . . while I’m not adverse to allowing a customer to sample a barrel before he buys it . . . one must be certain he has the coin to pay, and we have but short acquaintance.” She said it as if he would naturally understand, which he naturally did not. Then he thought he did, and almost said something, but then he didn’t and wisely shut up. If Ansily wanted to end their courting for the evening, Tyndal was satisfied . . . if also painfully frustrated.
The River Mists Of Talry - A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series) Page 2
