Of the dozen students gathered on the grassy forecourt of the University, Margit alone raised her hand. She knew the answer. She’d known the answer for weeks. Only if WithyReed offered her the opportunity to answer would she advance through the ranks to journeyman.
Until she passed all of the tests and endured the trial by Tambootie smoke, she was stuck here in the mountain fastness where the University hid from the prying eyes of the rest of Coronnan, and the spies of the Gnuls in particular. Since she had left Queen Rossemikka’s employ as a maid, she had no other place to go.
She wondered if WithyReed would pay more attention to her if she and Marcus had announced their betrothal before he disappeared into the wilds of the border country. No one had heard from him or from his partner Robb since . . . since before the dragons came back with Jack.
A stab of fear to the depths of her soul for the man she loved almost shook the answer to WithyReed’s question out of her mind. Marcus and Robb often went moons without contacting her. But they always stayed within reach of a summons spell with Senior Magician Jaylor. What kind of trouble had they gotten into this time? She couldn’t even hope to chase after them with half-formed plans of rescue until she became a journeyman—journeywoman—magician.
She couldn’t became a journeywoman unless she passed the tests set before her by the master magicians. WithyReed refused to so much as let her answer a question let alone take a test.
“Ferrdie?” Master Magician WithyReed called upon a young boy to Margit’s right. Ferrdie had been an apprentice for three years now and not passed a single test. But he, too, had nowhere else to go, having been banished from the family homestead by his father because he was left-handed and therefore must be a magician.
“Is . . . is the answer Fire?” Ferrdie stammered. Never once did he lift his eyes to the master.
Margit kept her hand up and tried to capture WithyReed’s gaze.
“Incorrect.” The master magician scanned the rest of the class. “Have any of you studied the treatise written by Master Scarface some three hundred years ago when dragon magic was first discovered and implemented to save Coronnan from three generations of civil war?”
Margit kept her hand up patiently. Learning to read had been difficult for her at the late age of seventeen. But she had mastered the arcane skill and studied all of her assignments thoroughly.
Again WithyReed’s challenging stare slid right past Margit and alighted on a moderately talented boy in the back of the group of students seated cross-legged on the grass. “Mikkail?”
“Air!” the boy replied with confidence.
“Such incompetence. I expected better of you. All of you.”
“I know the answer, Master WithyReed,” Margit said. She thrust out her chin, determined to make the man acknowledge her.
“Since none of you can give me the proper answer. I will give you a hint. Air and Fire are linked as elements. Since the dragons fly through the air and shoot flames to cook their meat and defend themselves—not that anything on Kardia Hodos remains that is big enough to be a danger to a dragon—when a magician gathers dragon magic, he throws spells most closely linked with those two elements.”
Margit stood up in the center of the gathering of two dozen students and faced the master. “I know the answer, sir, and the theory behind it.”
“When a magician is forced to draw magical energy from the Kardia, as we had to do until recently, then our spells must be rooted in the Kardia. Now what element is left that would be linked to the Kardia?” WithyReed continued to ignore Margit.
Anger boiled in Margit’s stomach and heated her face and hands. “Kardia and Water are linked and therefore an irrigation spell must be rooted in the Kardia to draw the water from its natural flow in the creek or river to the unnatural channel dug for irrigation.” She clenched her fists until her fingernails drew blood from her palms.
“Ferrdie, have you figured it out yet?” WithyReed acted as if Margit had not spoken at all.
“Why do you ignore me, sir?” she blurted out, thrusting herself directly in front of him. She topped him in height by at least two finger-lengths. He could not ignore her now.
“Sit down, girl. You are here to listen only. Females cannot gather dragon magic, so your presence in the University is temporary. Speak up, Ferrdie, I need you to answer the question.”
Margit gritted her teeth and clenched her hands. Oh! to slam one of her fists into the pompous little magician’s face. Before she could follow through with her desires, she whipped around and marched out of the forecourt, spine stiff, hands clenched and tears pricking her eyes.
I will not run. I will not give him the satisfaction of running from him.
She met no one between the forecourt and the girl’s dormitory on the north side of the quadrangle of timbered buildings. Girls represented over half the apprentices. Females young and old were the most common victims of Gnul persecution. In the last three years, Marcus and Robb had brought more girls here for refuge than boys. WithyReed and the other masters had no right to pretend female magicians would evaporate and never bother them again. She fully intended to achieve journeyman status. Only as a journeyman—or journeywoman—could she even hope to accompany Marcus on his treks from one end of the country to the other. Maybe even—she dared hope—they could travel to exotic locations on other continents.
She stepped into the room she shared with Annyia. The dark-haired child/woman had been savagely beaten and raped by her stepbrothers in an attempt to kill the magical talent they thought she possessed. They probably succeeded. The ignorant fools believed the myth that only virgins could work magic. WithyReed and his antique prejudice that demanded male magicians remain celibate until they became masters didn’t help the situation.
Jaylor had placed Margit in the same room with Annyia, hoping some of the older girl’s confidence and determination would help Annyia break away from her guilt and depression. Margit had little patience with her roommate’s tears and frantic starts at every sharp noise.
“WithyReed ignores me because I am female. But if I look like a boy . . . Maybe he’d forget his prejudices for a moment. Just one short moment until he realizes I know what I’m doing.”
She marched to the little chest at the foot of her cot where she kept her few personal possessions. The blue tunic and brown trews she had worn on the trek to the University from the capital were on the bottom, cleaned and mended. Beneath them she found her dagger, the one she had used to defend herself in the market square before Jaylor recruited her as his spy.
For a moment her memory put her back in the crowded market square on King Darville’s coronation day. She had been selling her mother’s baked goods to the hungry throngs waiting for the grand procession after the ceremony. When a foreign spy had threatened her because he did not like the spices in the sausage roll she sold him, Jack had come to her rescue. She’d been more than willing to defend herself with her knife, but Jack had diffused the anger of the crowd and discovered a dangerous plot against the king’s life at the same time.
Later that day, as she packed up the last of the unsold food—not much, for the capital citizens and visitors had all been hungry and jovial, quite willing to spend money on such an auspicious occasion— Jaylor had come to her, wrapped in an enveloping cloak of magic. She’d seen through his delusion and known him for the head of the now exiled Commune of Magicians. He’d asked her to spy for him and offered to begin training her as a magician in return.
Apparently Jack had noticed something important about her when she stood up to the foreign spy.
Margit appreciated the irony of the Council of Provinces trying to outlaw magic in Coronnan when their king’s best friend from childhood led the most powerful group of magicians in all of Kardia Hodos.
Margit’s mother had threatened to lock Margit in the pantry with a cat when she announced that she would give up selling meat rolls, pasties, and baked sweets in the market in favor of serving as the new queen’
s personal maid. Her mother didn’t know that Margit had learned to open every lock in the city years ago. She had only just learned that magic had enhanced her senses to allow her to do that.
Thank the Stargods her three years as Queen Rossemikka’s maid had ended. She couldn’t stand being cooped up in the palace any longer. She had trouble breathing indoors, especially in the queen’s apartments which always smelled of cat.
“Time to improvise.” With three swift slashes of the dagger, she cut her blonde locks level with her shoulders. Then she bound her hair back into a masculine queue with a bit of blue string. She couldn’t get her clumsy gown and shift off fast enough.
“Finding and rescuing Marcus will be much easier if I’m disguised as a boy. I certainly won’t remain here any longer than I have to. And I certainly won’t baby-sit any more apprentices.”
CHAPTER 3
A low rumbling ripple along the floor and walls shattered the veil of forgetfulness that encased the woman’s mind. She braced herself instinctively against the waving motion and counted to ten. At four, the quake drifted away to a memory. Her mind told her that this was not the first kardiaquake that had rocked Queen’s City. Nor would it be the last. Some instinct she did not have the strength to comprehend told her that the intensity had lessened. But she could not remember how or why she knew that.
How long had she been wandering the halls of this damaged palace without being aware of herself?
Her stomach growled. When had she eaten last?
She remembered nothing: not why she wandered these once-magnificent halls; nor why she haunted this huge building like a ghost, alone and lost to everything and everyone she held dear.
Somehow that aloneness seemed almost . . . not quite, but almost . . . right.
She imagined what the passageways must have been like when they were filled with courtiers and politicians, ladies and gentlemen who spent their days—and nights—pretending to agree with the king’s demands. Then she imagined herself, a wispy ghost, drifting behind them, eavesdropping, laughing at the truths they would never admit to themselves. The king listened to no one and those who agreed with him, more often than not, met with disfavor.
They were all small dogs chasing their own tails in a fruitless race. But she was not part of that and never would be.
How did she know that?
A brilliantly colored tapestry on the wall caught her attention. Women sitting at lace bolsters concentrated deeply on their bobbins and the yards and yards of floating threadwork. The scene seemed familiar. She reached out to caress the woven picture. Her broken fingernails snagged a thread. Immediately she halted her quest to touch some part of her past through the picture and worked the jagged edge of her nail free without pulling the entire thread loose.
Something was wrong. She stared at the dirt encrusted in the cuticle and beneath the nail. Never before had she allowed her hands to become so filthy. No lacemaker did.
Lace.
Her hands curved as if lifting two pairs of bobbins for an intricate stitch. The sensuous feel of carved bone and wood crawled through her. Deep satisfaction at the creation of delicate and airy fabric expanded in her lungs and gave her a sense of rightness.
Lace! Her world revolved around lace.
But not a scrap of it graced her night robe, shift, or the tops of her slippers. If she did not wear lace, she must be a worker rather than a noble designer or teacher. She reached up her hand to her silvery blonde hair. Her fingers drifted through the long tresses without resistance. She wore no cap, nor had she braided her hair properly.
“I must find the workroom,” she resolved. “After I find something to eat and wash. Then I must plait my hair.” Two gathered braids from temple to nape that broke free until they reached the center of her back then joined into a single thick rope. That was the proper number for a worker.
“Not two plaits. Three at least.” Three plaits belonged to the nobility, and four were reserved for the queen. So if she deserved three plaits, why did she not wear any of the precious lace fabric?
“Three plaits,” she repeated. That did not settle in her brain as correct, but better than two plaits or . . . shudder . . . must she revert to the single plait of a peasant or lace factory worker until she knew the truth of her identity?
“Three plaits,” she insisted. “But first I must wash and eat.”
Her feet automatically headed down three flights of stairs to the long, long dining hall. The central table stretched out with places for fifty people. Remnants of food lay scattered about the table and floor where rodents and other scavengers had left it.
Impatiently, she grabbed one of the discarded serviettes and brushed a place clear for herself. She sat down on the tapestried armchair at the head of the table. The large chair was too large. But she knew this to be her place. The view of the room was correct, but the chair did not fit her.
Why? Why didn’t it fit? And why had she presided at the head of the table in this magnificent—but crumbling—palace.
While she puzzled out the problem of where to sit, a series of small crashes brought her awareness back to the palace. Brickwork loosened by the kardiaquake fell throughout the building. Perhaps the impromptu remodeling would allow more light to penetrate the workrooms. She smiled again. An act of nature had defied the pompous king and given her the one thing she wanted most—light to work by.
Well, almost the thing she wanted most. Knowing who she was and why she wandered the palace alone might be useful. But knowledge would come, once she returned to her lace.
More richly colored tapestries hung on the high walls of the hall, from just below the narrow windows near the ceiling, to the top of the sideboards. The one depicting the signing of a long-ago wedding agreement sagged, along with the wall and ceiling. A long rent in the fabric separated the politicians from the bride and groom.
A second tear pushed the couples representing the parents even farther away from the two centers of action.
She almost giggled at the subtle irony created by the rips.
Her stomach growled again. She needed to eat. But . . . but the servants had fled the kardiaquakes. No one would bring her soup and bread. No one remained in the palace but herself. Why had she been left behind in the exodus?
Sitting here would not help. She had to find food. A niggle of pride followed her determination to do something for herself. She’d like to see the politicians in the tapestry fetching anything without help.
Servants always entered through that door to her left and food had always been hot. Therefore the kitchen must be nearby.
Cautiously, she traced the route. Footprints in the dust told her that someone else had passed this way, several times in recent days. She placed her right foot delicately into one of them. For a moment the frayed toes of her embroidered slipper fascinated her. She shook off the thrall of following the patterns of the stitches. Her foot fit perfectly into the indentation in the dust.
A quick scan of the array of prints indicated she had passed this way at least four times in recent days.
Scattered prints next to the wall looked tiny. The impression of heavy toes and light heels indicated someone moved furtively along. A small person. Perhaps a child.
She hastened her steps, suddenly afraid of what she might find.
The end of the passage—longer than she thought necessary to ensure hot food in the dining hall—opened into the cavernous kitchen. A hearth opened from each end of the room. Each fireplace could roast an entire beast. A tall man could stand within without getting soot in his hair.
But no fire burned there now, nor had for some time. Cold ashes, mixed with fallen plaster and bricks from the chimneys, littered the floor before both hearths. Scraps of bone and desiccated meat protruded from the layers of debris. A hole in the exterior wall let in a lot of light. Too much light. She examined the jagged hole, not big enough to crawl through and too many loose bricks to be safe. The kitchen had not fared as well as the rest of the pal
ace.
She seemed to remember a number of passages throughout the palace blocked by collapsed ceilings and bulging walls.
How long before the entire building fell on top of her?
“M’ma!” a tiny voice squealed as a grimy form flung itself at her from the depths of one of the hearths.
She looked carefully at the sobbing bundle of mismatched clothing, dirt, and cobwebs.
“M’ma, you found me. They said you died. They said I’d never see you again. They said . . .” the child sobbed into her skirts, clutching her knees so tightly she thought she’d tumble forward and crush her baby.
“M’ma? Am I truly your M’ma?” she asked in wonder. She wasn’t alone. Someone remembered her.
Then concern for her child overtook her joy. She stooped down to study her baby at eye level. Bright blue eyes looked back at her from a smudged face, still round with baby fat. Probably about three. That number felt right. Three years. Three plaits. Silvery-blonde hair scraggled out of three plaits that had started out gathered tightly against the child’s head. The end of one plait was still held almost in place by a frayed pink ribbon that clashed with her red hair. The second plait had come undone and hopelessly tangled. The center plait wobbled back and forth as if the little girl had tried to fix it herself and failed.
“Are you hurt, baby?” she asked, soothing tangles away from her child’s face. The name eluded her. But that didn’t matter. They were together.
“I’m hungry.” The little girl pouted.
“What have you eaten these past few days?”
“Some of the roast. I found a turnip!” The child’s face brightened as she held up half of a withered root vegetable. Tiny teeth marks showed around the edges. She didn’t lisp around missing teeth, so she must still be very young. The number three settled in the woman’s mind more firmly.
“What a clever girl you are. Where did you find the turnip?” Her own hunger began to plague her insistently.
The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) Page 3
