“‘My Lord,’ is it? Don’t talk back to your master,” he snapped. “I know perfectly well what we agreed to at the time, but if I weren’t an honorable man, I’d demand more.”
They reached the wide sitting area near the window of the fourth floor’s gallery. Evening had almost fallen, and the curtains to the window had been drawn. Lamps, with a nimbus of light that seemed a little too strong be natural, gave the paintings and sculptures of the gallery of the Magi a preternatural glow; it was almost as if, at any moment, any one of the images, invoked, would come to life. Meralonne walked past them briskly, taking the time to reknot his bathrobe’s belt as he did. Evayne glanced from side to side, wondering if anything the gallery contained was new to her. And the girl trotted—there really seemed no other way to describe her motion—from picture to sculpture to picture again, her eyes wide with wonder or curiosity.
But at last they passed the gallery completely, and entered into the chambers of Meralonne. As one of the governing council, he was permitted to keep a residence within the Order itself, and if it was small and suited only for living in and not for entertaining, no mage yet had been heard to complain.
“You realize,” he said over his shoulder, “that I’m liable to be called upon to explain this public disruption?”
“Yes, Meralonne.”
The door swung open into a chaotic jumble of papers, books, slates, and the occasional scrap of clothing.
“When you were a young girl,” the mage said, “you knew how to be properly respectful. Of all the traits to grow out of, Evayne, that one is least pleasing. Well, don’t just stand there gawking. I was in the middle of something important when you barged in.”
“Yes, Meralonne.” Evayne walked into the room, very carefully pulling the hem of her robes well above her feet in order to make sure she didn’t step on anything vital. The girl followed with considerably less restraint, something that was not lost on the mage. He did not seem nearly as annoyed at the girl as he did at his student.
“Don’t be condescending. It doesn’t suit you.” Meralonne found a chair beneath a small pile of clothing. He took it. “Now, what it is this time?”
“The girl,” Evayne replied. But as her master sharpened the steel-gray focus of his eyes, she found herself watching him. It was hard, with Meralonne, to tell what age he was, he aged so well. His hair was perhaps a touch whiter, and his eyes slightly more creased than the last time she’d seen him; he was clean-shaven and ill-dressed as always.
And yet. And yet. At sixteen, she had found his curmudgeonly ways almost a comfort; at twenty-eight, she was not always certain how much was affectation, and how much genuine. There were times when she could catch a glimpse of something darker, something far more somber, in his words. Then, the lines of his body would alter subtly.
Only once had she seem him called to the private duties that were his, by right, to take on. He set aside his poor clothing for dress that could only be described as magical, pulled back his hair in a long braid, and girded himself as if for battle. She had asked him, then, where he was going, and the expression, distant and cool, frightened her more than his temper, his growling, or his pointed unkindnesses. He hadn’t answered. She never asked again.
Meralonne was the teacher that the otherwhen had taken her to when she had started walking the path twelve years ago. For the first eight years, it had brought her to him every other day. He was the only living person that she had seen so regularly, so . . . normally. He aged as she did, and he remembered her almost as she remembered herself.
Not, Evayne mused, as every other person that she met did. They might be old yesterday, and a child tomorrow; they might remember meeting her ten years ago, when she would not meet them again for decades; they might be dead or dying, but live on in the otherwhen, compromised by the vividness of their end in her memory. They might have information for her that she could not use in any future she could see, but that she could not afford, ever, to forget. Evayne did not forget.
And they might gaze at her with awe and fear, and no understanding whatsoever.
“Evayne,” Meralonne said, catching her attention with the flat of his hand against the crowded top of his desk. “I’m speaking to you!”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
Meralonne snorted. “And you do it rarely enough I shouldn’t complain. But you can think on your own time. Give me explanations instead. What is this girl, and why did you bring her here?” He reached into his desk and pulled out a leather pouch so worn that it shone from years of accumulated oil and sweat. Evayne grimaced as he pulled a pipe dish from it. Of all his habits, this was the one that she found most odious. And, of course, the one he would take no criticism of.
She lifted her shoulders delicately and let them fall in a graceful shrug. “I don’t know who she is. But as to why I brought her—let me show you.” She let her hands tumble in the air in slow free fall, and as she did, she spoke.
The words had all of the rhythm of language, but none of the sense; their cadence deliberate, evocative, and elusive. No man or woman, be they mage or merely mortal, could repeat what she said, even if they heard it all, and listened with a mind devoted to that purpose. She knew that if she were a better mage, she wouldn’t need the words or the gestures to find her focus.
Meralonne knew it as well, but he nodded gruffly as the spell progressed, because it was a difficult spell—a subtle one, and not a spell for the warrior-mage.
Any idiot, he was prone to say, can learn how to throw fire and lightning around. Look at nature—how much thought and purpose does nature show? But I’m not about to train just any sentient mammal. You’ll learn magery, not some trumped-up sword-substitute.
Yes, Meralonne.
And she learned as if her life, or more, depended upon it. Because, of course, it did.
As the last of the spell-words echoed against the sturdy stone walls of his chamber, Evayne lifted her hands as if to embrace the empty air. Light the color of her irises showered in sparks from her fingers, dancing across the air and leaving multiple trails. She looked directly ahead, her focus short, her violet eyes wide. Slowly, as she concentrated, an image began to form between her outstretched arms.
He uttered an oath under his breath, in a language that Evayne did not understand. “You’re losing your focus, girl. Concentrate. Have you learned nothing?” But his heart wasn’t in the complaint, and the words had no sting, no real energy.
He stood, lifting his pipe arm, and walked over to Evayne’s illusion. Smoke wreathed his face, his hair. Carefully, he began to examine the details. “It ran like this?” He asked in a tone of voice that was almost subdued.
Evayne nodded.
“I see.” He turned to look at the girl, who remained silent. “Well, little one, it seems you’ve attracted the wrong person’s attention.” He studied her more intently, steel-gray eyes meeting near-black ones. “Evayne, how did you see that creature and still escape with your life?” His voice was soft now, even quiet. There was no inflection to the words.
“High Summer rites,” she said. It was hard to speak, think, and hold the image static.
“High Summer rites.” The words were stilted.
“I—I walked the hidden roads.”
“You did. And who taught you this skill?”
“You did! We studied them in the—”
“We studied their theory, Evayne. Trust the master to know when the pupil has been properly tested.”
She swallowed. It was true.
“Still, if you managed to use the theory to escape such a creature, I will do my best to be grateful at a quickness of thought that you rarely reveal.” He lifted his finger, and the room flared with an angry orange light. The image of the demon was torn into beads of spell-light that faded before Evayne could piece them together. “Very well. You’ve shown me what you had to show me. You will
not image that in my presence again. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “You were the best student I ever had the hardship of teaching. You know what this will mean. Demonology is being practiced again; keep it quiet until we find the source, or we’ll have widespread panic.” His gaze narrowed. “Where were you?”
“Breodanir. In the King’s hunting preserve.”
“You think that the Breodani—”
“Absolutely not.”
Meralonne raised a pale brow. “You aren’t usually this defensive, Evayne. Are you reacting instinctively or because of experience?”
She said nothing, but blushed; both were as he expected.
“Still, Breodanir. There’s something about it that seems vaguely familiar. There’s certainly an Order there, if small. Let me see.” He walked over to his desk, and began to search—sift, really—methodically through the papers and journals there. It was quite clear that the chaos represented some form of order to the mage, but what exactly it was, Evayne couldn’t say. When she had studied more intensively under his tutelage, her desk had always been meticulously tidy and well-organized. “Ah, here it is.”
Evayne held out one hand, and Meralonne gave her a piece of paper. It was a letter from Zoraban ATelvise. Something about the name was familiar; it nagged at her thoughts, holding knowledge just out of range of her immediate memory. “Who is he?”
“Zoraban? The head of the Order in Breodanir.”
“The head of the—” She went pale. “I remember now.”
“Remember what?” It was a sharp question, sharply worded. Meralonne’s steel-gray eyes were narrowed to a dangerous edge; they glinted like blades. It was clear, from the color of Evayne’s face and the momentary twist of her features, that the memories were not pleasant ones.
She fell silent; it was her only defense against the mistake she would otherwise make. The otherwhen held its secrets, and her life was hostage to them. She remembered, as she always did at times like this, the first step that she had taken on the path. She stood beside a figure whose features shifted so regularly and so completely she could not describe him at all. He spoke with a voice that was a multitude of voices, and gestured with an arm that was an infant’s, an old man’s, a brash youth’s. For the sake of the world, he said, I will let you walk my path at your father’s behest. But it is my path, and I share it with only you, child. You will share it with no other. Remember this: that what is, is; what will be, will be. You are your own time, and you must live as if your time is all there is. You will never be able to change your actions, once taken. What you choose to do now, at forty you must abide by, as any other mortal; you cannot reverse it by use of the otherwhen, no matter how hard you try. And if you try . . . He lifted a hand, and the path became molten, bubbling and hissing inches away from her toes. There will be no path, and no future for you. After all, time will still exist, no matter who wins the war.
And will I control this path?
He laughed. She could still hear it, a mixture of anger and sorrow. Who claims control of his own destiny? Not I, not you. The path will take you where you need to go, little sister.
Meralonne hated her silence. It was these impenetrable spaces that had driven distance between them and kept it there over the years. He watched her still face, her opaque eyes, the way she bit her lower lip. He saw the struggle in her rigid stance.
Perhaps, had he not given his word at the outset of his tutelage, he would have forced the issue; he did not. But he returned silence with silence, and the distance between them grew a little larger still.
At last, she started, and turned to face him.
“What would you have of me, Evayne?”
“If you would, I would have you watch the girl. She is safer here than anywhere in Essalieyan, and until we understand what the demon-kin want with her—until we know which mage summoned it—I think she must be kept safe.”
“Agreed.” A thin stream of smoke trailed out of the corner of his mouth. For a moment, he resembled a dragon in the center of his messy hoard. “And you?”
“I don’t know.” She turned to face the blank wall of the mage’s study; it was the only clear space in the room. “This has something to do with the Breodanir God. The Hunting God.”
“Evayne, it hasn’t been proved to the Order’s satisfaction that such a god even exists.”
“If he doesn’t,” she said, her voice sharp with sudden pain, “his avatar most certainly does.” She bit her lip as the words left her in a rush. She wasn’t thinking clearly, but she never did where Stephen of Elseth was concerned.
“I see.” Meralonne raised both pipe and brow in unconscious unison. “Very well. I will see to the girl’s safety. But you, student, you look peaked. I recommend something foreign to your nature: sleep.”
She smiled bitterly and nodded. “I’ll take my old room, if you don’t mind.”
“Evayne?” She turned back, framed by the door. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue that was not feigned. “One day, I demand an explanation.”
“One day,” she said, as she always did, “I will give you everything you demand.” It was as much an apology or explanation as either was willing to give.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter Six
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, when Evayne returned to her master’s study, she was forty years old.
It was not immediately obvious, for she wore the same robes that she always did, and the hood was pulled high and hung just over her forehead. But her stance had altered, and her gait had a surety that at twenty-eight she had not possessed. Her voice was a touch lower, her words, when she spoke at all, direct.
She did not speak now. The familiarity of the study returned to her slowly, as if from a great distance. Her hands shook as she touched the outer frame of the door through which she had passed, day after day, in her youth. The otherwhen had been kinder then, although she had not appreciated it.
She had seen—
Closing her eyes, she drew breath, finding the familiar question. When am I? But the answer was slow to come; the past that was, for her, hours old, held fast and would not easily be dislodged. Soul-crystal warmed her hands; familiar shadows, scattered with silver light, began to roll. Peace. Time.
Now?
402 AA. Espere.
She slipped the ball back into the safety of her robes. The otherwhen did not take her into horror without reason. Somehow, the wild girl, whose name she now knew was Espere, and yesterday’s vision were linked, although any who lived at the time of the coliseum were less than dust.
The rings.
She had not been to Meralonne’s study for well over ten years. She remembered their final argument clearly; the heat of their discussion still had the ability to burn old scars. But I should have known better, she thought sadly. To come to a member of the Order and expect him to put aside all curiosity without an adequate explanation was a child’s dream. When she had stopped being a child, she didn’t know, didn’t remember. But she wasn’t one now.
She knew where she was in the otherwhen, and knew that the argument had not yet taken place. But she also knew, now, why he had started to increase his pressure and his curiosity; knew what had spurred him and piqued him too greatly.
She had.
She had never expected to be here; not like this. She put her hands in her pockets and felt the curve of the seer’s ball as it pulsed against her palm. It was time. With an outward calm that she didn’t feel, Evayne a’Nolan pressed her fingers against Meralonne’s outer doors and whispered three distinct words. They crept open.
It was not her way to try to sneak, and indeed she knew that she would have no success—what had happened had happened—but she tried anyway. She always tried. Time—how could it be immutable, and she a
ble to walk between the here and now of so many different lives?
But it was. And as she crossed the threshold, she saw the orange-white glimmer of Meralonne’s spell as it flared to life along the seams of stone blocks and oak planks, seeking her identity, her mission, her reason for intrusion.
“Evayne,” she said, giving it what it sought. “I have come for the girl that I left here last eve. We have far to travel.” She saw the spell shiver as her words hit it, and she smiled in spite of herself. The years had given her knowledge and experience. She had learned to hone her sight so that it might be used without spell and focus. Meralonne had always said he was a mage of no small power.
At sixteen, she thought he was the most powerful wizard in Averalaan. At thirty, she believed him one of the more mediocre. At forty, she knew better than to guess—but she was aware that the spell of protection woven here had very few equals.
She took a chair—the old, orange leather that had seen the use of three previous members of the Order—and wedged her elbows and forearms along the winged rests. Her breath, she stilled. The otherwhen had never before taken her to him out of time; he was the one presence that had been steady—until their break.
He had nothing left to teach me, she thought bitterly, hating the path, hating Time, and hating her father. She waited, counting seconds. Stared at the room, eyes lingering longest over the scattered mess of books and papers nestled in with the dirty clothing. Meralonne, although he would never admit it, must have come from a family of means to treat so much of value with such casual familiarity. At least, so she had always thought.
Did you have to bring me here today? Wasn’t yesterday punishment enough? But the path had no voice and no sentience that she could discern. It had never answered her, and she had raged, cried, and pleaded with it in her time. Evayne. You are not a child. If you are here, it is for a reason; even a good one. She reached into her robes and touched the seer’s ball, pulled it, luminescent in the shadow-darkness, from her sleeves. She gazed into the silvered mists that she knew so well, and in but a few seconds, coaxed a distinct image.
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