“But it would make me feel better about all this,” she said softly.
It was quite illogical, but many people believed such things and paid pieces to have someone write out a spell when they couldn’t afford the silver for a true spellpage. It would do no harm, I reasoned, and perhaps it would bring her some comfort, even if it couldn’t possibly prevent her getting pregnant. It was clear that she was as good as committed to the Kellon already – she even called him by his given name, Lethon.
So, despite my misgivings, I wrote out the spell on Mother’s regular paper, and watched the letters jump and shimmer as they settled onto the page. Then I gave it to Deyria, and her face lit up with pleasure. She hugged me and thanked me over and over.
“We’ll go to Ginzia’s house tonight. She won’t mind us using her crucible.”
“Not me, no. I’m a scribe, Deyria, I don’t like to watch ordinary pages burned in the crucible. It seems wrong somehow. The crucible is only for true spellpages.”
So she went alone and came back smiling. But that night, I dreamt of flames and ash.
4: The Mirror Room
I’d expected my second year at the scribery to be much the same as the first, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. For one thing, I found myself with friends for the first time since leaving the village. Hestanora and I acquired a new room-mate, Lora, the daughter of a lamp maker in town. She was starting her first year, and was as serious about her scribing as I was, but everything else was a source of endless entertainment for her. She dragged me away from my constant studying and took me exploring around the town, into shops, taverns and board houses, to meet her vast array of friends and relations, and convincing me there were points of interest even outside the scribery.
My other friend was Manistairn, or Mani, as he liked to be called. He was the son of a servant at the Kellon’s hall – something quite high powered, I was given to understand. His first year friends had left, so he attached himself to me instead. He was open about his reasons. “You’re the best in our year, so you can help me, can’t you?” I didn’t mind. It was rather nice to be deferred to and asked for advice.
The two of them became my constant companions. Lora was pretty and bubbly, and Mani had a self-confident charm, so they floated through the town in a haze of good humour, surrounded by smiling faces. I envied them their easy ways, but I was usually the silent member of the party. Growing up in a village, what could I possibly have to say that would interest anyone?
Hestanora had lost the two friends she’d made the previous year, and I think she was a little lonely without them. She wandered about by herself, head down, lost in thought. Not lonely enough to socialise with the likes of me, though.
I no longer had to work in the laundry for my keep. My chore this year was in the mirror room, buried deep under the Scribes’ Tower in a windowless basement room, with armed guards at all times. They weren’t lounging against the door posts, either, or constantly chatting together, like those at the entrance gates. Guarding the mirror room was a serious business, and they kept records of everyone who went in and out. When I first went there, I had to be introduced to them by the master scribe in charge, and an impression was made of my hand pressed into wet plaster. Every time I went there after that, I had to rest my hand in the solidified impression.
The mirror room was where messages were sent and received from the scriberies in the other towns, including the capital, Kingswell, through a spell-enhanced system of writing mirrors. On one side of the room, a line of mirrors hung on the wall, one for each location, with a few spares, each with a table set in front. When a message arrived, the letters would appear on the mirror as they were scribed at the other end, and my job was to copy them down before they faded away. On the other side of the room were mirrors laid almost flat, so scribes could write outgoing messages on them.
I loved the mirror room. All the mirrors pulsed with spell energy, almost humming with it, and I could feel the magic cocooning me, wrapping me in a warm, energising embrace. Even the air crackled with power. I never tired of it. It operated for two or three hours each sun, but it was never long enough for me.
One of the mirrors was malfunctioning, so messages to Callamorn had to be sent through Kingswell. When I was near it, I could feel its energy spluttering, fizzing like the others one moment, then fading to quietness. When I touched it, I could hear it better, and almost feel it trying to work, but the master scribe in charge got nervous if I went too near.
To be honest, they were nervous about me being there at all.
“You must understand that nothing you see or hear is to be repeated,” the master scribe told me. She had a brusque voice at the best of times, but now she was almost shouting. “Nothing at all! It is imperative – everything that passes through the mirror room is confidential.”
“Of course.” My surprise at her vehemence must have been written all over my face.
She softened slightly. “Well, I’m sure you will be discreet.” She scratched her nose thoughtfully. “Some scribes will comment on your appointment, of course. It’s not usual for a common scribe, not at all usual. But take no notice. You are an excellent copyist, quite the best of your year, very accurate, and you’re that little bit older – more mature, shall we say. And – well, it’s not as if you know any of these people, is it?” She tittered, embarrassed.
I had no idea what she meant, but I soon found out. Most of the messages were very dull, the business of the realm broken down into tediously small pieces. Grain stored or distributed, taxes collected, cattle slaughtered, businesses bought and sold, licences issued, justice imparted. Weather reports, floods, snows, droughts, irrigation channels cleared. Births, deaths, marriages, drusse contracts, outbreaks of fever. Bridges collapsed, sewers blocked, wagons broken, roads to be mended, fallen trees shifted. All of it passed through my ink-stained fingers, as I feverishly transcribed before the original words vanished.
But some messages were more personal, almost intimate. The secrets of the rulers were also written in the mirrors, all their little family worries, triumphs and disasters. A Kellon’s child had fallen from a tree. A cousin of the Drashon drowned when his ship sank. A new wing on a Kellona’s hall to accommodate her growing family. And our own Kellon’s younger brother was in trouble. Several messages flew back and forth, and even the Drashon sent his opinion.
“Can you not persuade Neesion to keep his trousers on, Lethon? It is not as if he has no other outlet. You would think a wife and three drusse would be ample for his needs, and if even that should prove insufficient to satisfy him, I am sure Ardamurkan can supply an acceptable array of companions. A lot cheaper than paying for another drusse, too. I suppose we shall have to do it, assuming we can prevail on Council to agree. I really shall send him to a border post on the eastern plains if he cannot behave better in future.”
My sister was mentioned too. Not by name, but there were references to the “next drusse”, sometimes mixed in with discussion of the heir question, although I didn’t understand much of that. The Kellonor, the Kellon’s designated heir, was his daughter, and all I knew of her was that she was sickly like her mother. Then the Bai-Kellonor, the second heir, was the son of a drusse from long ago. There was also the younger brother, with his trouser difficulties. I knew the Kellon had three children from his various gathering drusse, all from the same village, but they were never mentioned. In one message, the Kellon seemed to be proposing to take a more permanent drusse, so perhaps he still hoped for more children. Would that be Deyria? It was hard to grasp the subtleties of the conversation when the messages flew in and out so fast.
There were other distractions in the mirror room, too, for various members of the Kellon’s retinue came and went, bringing messages to be sent, or waiting for replies. Sometimes there was no one there but scribes, while at other times there was a noisy cluster of retainers hanging about, disturbingly loud, quite unconcerned with the disruption they might be causing us as we struggled
to capture each message before it vanished.
One afternoon, I had just finished transcribing three messages in succession from Shandyria, and my fingers were beginning to cramp. I was grateful when another scribe waved me aside and took my place in front of the mirror for the next message. I was walking around and stretching my aching hands when I looked across the room and there was the strange boy with dark hair I’d seen at the inn. He was staring at me, that odd smile on his face.
I jumped, hand to throat, frozen. I may have made a little sound, a gasp. It was stupid, of course, because I knew he was part of the Kellon’s retinue, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise to see him there. It was perfectly natural. Even though I hadn’t seen him since that time at the village so long ago, I’d always known I might bump into him again at Ardamurkan. After a moment, I recovered my composure and turned away.
He followed me, crossing the room to talk to me. He leaned close, half whispering, as if sharing a secret.
“Hello, Kyra. So how are you enjoying the scribery?”
He remembered my name. After almost four years, he recalled that fleeting exchange in the back room at the inn. My mouth flapped open, too astonished to speak.
He laughed, not at all discomfited. “You’re doing well, I hear. I thought you would, with your talents.”
My head whirled. How could he know what talent I might have for scribing? And what had he heard of me? It was impossible to make any sense of his words.
Before I could get my thoughts in order, a man called from beside the Kingswell mirror. “It’s finished, Drei!” He waved a paper aloft. “Come on, let’s get it back to the Kellon.”
Drei. Had I heard the name before? It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think straight. He nodded to his friend, grinned at me, and was gone.
I was unsettled by him, even though he appeared to be open and friendly towards me. There was something out of kilter about him, like a patterned rug with a single thread in the wrong colour, superficially perfect but disturbing to the eye in some unfathomable way. Yet I was drawn to him in some way, too, and that was even harder to understand.
~~~~~
I tried to put him out of my mind. I had much to enjoy, with my new friends and the excursions they planned. I loved seeing the town and finding parts of it I never knew existed, like the tiny streets filled with craft houses. The artisans made and sold their goods on the ground floor, and the family lived on the floors above. We wandered from one to another, admiring the fine work and chatting to the workers, although we couldn’t afford to buy anything. There were cake houses, too, where we could sit over a pot of a hot fruity drink and make a single sweet pastry last for hours. There were squares and walkways away from the traffic where, on fine suns, people sat outside playing complicated games with carved wooden pieces. With so much to absorb me, I rarely thought about the dark haired boy.
At the scribery, I finally began to create spellpages. We were given the proper paper and ink, and taught to make and use the special quills. I loved the way the paper glowed, and the quills thrummed with power and infected me with their energy. I almost shook with excitement whenever I touched one. Yet the letters and symbols flowed smoothly as I wrote, a calm stream despite my shivers.
After each page was completed, the master on duty would tear it into pieces and then burn it in the spellarium hearth, releasing the magic harmlessly. Sometimes they blackened and curled like any other paper, but some pages flared into brilliance momentarily before dying to ash. Even though they could never take effect, we only practised benevolent general spells, for good weather or freedom from fever, and we never added the name of a recipient.
We were allowed to practise as much as we liked with ordinary paper, without any restrictions, so I amused myself with scribing magnanimous spells for Durmaston and all my friends and kin. If they had been real, everyone in the village would have been happy and healthy, with perfect weather and productive crops and beasts. It was a shame to toss them onto the hearth afterwards. If only it were possible to use magic in that free way, without the need to charge silver for it. But that was the law; there wasn’t enough magic in the world for everyone to have whatever they wanted, so it had to be restricted.
One sun, two of the masters were whispering together while we worked. Some of the other scribes stopped work to watch what was going on, speculating behind their hands, heads leaning together. I was absorbed by a complicated spell to improve eyesight, far more interesting, so I took little notice. After a while, they snaked their way through the desks until they were beside me.
“Kyra,” the master in charge said.
I lifted my head. “Yes, Master?”
“Kyra, would you like to attempt a true spellpage? One to be burned in the crucible?”
“I’d like that.”
“You think you can manage it?”
“I believe so, Master.”
A glimmer of approval in her eyes. A little louder, so the rest of my year could hear, she said, “You will all try this over the coming suns, as the need arises. Come, Kyra, leave what you are doing. This must be done at the proper desk.”
A few desks were set apart where true spellpages were scribed, beside the spellarium crucible. I should have been nervous as I walked across the room with everyone’s eyes on me, but I wasn’t. Excited, perhaps. At last, my first true spellpage.
At the desk, I stopped. There was no paper, ink or quill laid out, and I had no idea which spell I was to scribe. The other master looked at me under bristling eyebrows. Was that scepticism in his eyes? He had never taught me, so he had no reason to trust my competence.
“One of the Kellon’s personal scribes has a virulent rash, with a fever. What would you scribe to help?” His voice was gravelly and deep.
“A general spell for good health, with a variance for fever reduction and a secondary variance for deep sleep, directed by name, Master.”
His brows rose a fraction. “Sleep, eh? You would not scribe anything for the rash?”
I looked him in the eye, sure of my answer. “According to Mornisson’s Theory, sleep is more beneficial in such cases. Variances for clear skin tend not to be fully effective. Also, we have not been taught the procedures for tertiary variances yet.”
He grunted and handed me a paper. “Very well. This is the scribe’s name. You may proceed.”
“May I ask—? The scribe’s age? Usual state of wellbeing? Man or woman?”
Now there was definite approval in his eyes. “Woman, almost thirty, rather thin but generally healthy. Prone to winter chills.”
Such things were not, strictly speaking, part of the spell, but could be subtly used to increase its effectiveness by emphasising specific symbols more than others or making fine adjustments in the height of a letter or the pressure of the quill stroke. We had been taught about this in broad terms, but I had looked up references and practised how to apply the more usual effects.
I went to the shelves where the supplies were kept and selected a sheet of paper, a bottle of red ink and a fresh quill, which vibrated very gently in my hand. A few strokes with the knife shaped it to my liking. Then I sat down and began to write. The masters stood each side of me, watching every movement of the quill. All this scrutiny ought to have made me nervous, but the magic thrumming through my hands, from ink and quill to paper, infected me with confidence. I knew it would be all right.
When I finished they pored over the paper as if it held the secrets of the seven moons.
“Well done, Kyra,” the master in charge said, relief in her eyes, for my capability reflected well on her teaching. “Let us see if it works, shall we?”
We seldom saw a true spellpage burned in the spellarium, so all the scribes gathered round the crucible to watch. At the village, only three families could afford a crucible, and only the smallest type. This one was larger than any I’d seen elsewhere, an open metal bowl at least two handspans across, raised on a matching metal stand. The outside was engraved w
ith spell symbols, while the inside was blackened with use.
The master placed the spellpage in the crucible, recited the words – “By the sun, bring light and fire and colour; by the moon, enable the darkness” – and lit it with a shard from the fire. At once it flared to a brilliant burst of searing colours, dazzling my eyes. By the time I had blinked it was gone, no more than smouldering ash.
~~~~~
Over evening board that night, Mani said, “I’m so glad it was you and not me.” He shone his generous smile at me. “The first of us to scribe a true spellpage! And everyone watching, too. I’d have been terrified. Yet you seemed so calm.”
“Isn’t she always calm?” Lora reached across to squeeze my hand. Her scarves were beaded in the Ardamurkan fashion, and the movement set them glittering. “I’ve never seen Kyra ruffled by anything.”
“That’s true. But this was beyond anything. You’d have been amazed, Lora. She just sat down and scribed without any hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.”
The Fire Mages Page 4
