The Keeper of the Mist

by Rachel Neumeier

  Keri turned her head back toward Brann, though she didn’t know what she meant to say or do. But she saw that whatever had happened since Brann had tried to kidnap her, it had left its mark on her confident, superior oldest half brother. She could see that he was actually trying to occupy as little space as he could. He might have chosen to come here, he might have deliberately come to Eschalion to find Magister Eroniel, but once he was here, she thought, he had become—what? A prisoner? A victim?

  Because he had not kidnapped her and handed her over to the sorcerer himself. Keri shook away the pity that had stirred in her heart and turned back to the sorcerer.

  Magister Eroniel was paying no attention to Brann at all. He was looking straight at Keri, and his smile was the smile of a deadly predator who knows his prey cannot get away. She discovered she was terrified of him. She had always been terrified of him, but she had not realized it until now.

  Keri took one step forward. It was as though she had to shove through thickening air just to move. She felt heavy and slow, but at the same time…thin, somehow, as though there were actually less of her than there had been. Tassel edged back, hiding from the sorcerer’s gaze, and Keri didn’t blame her. Lucas leaned on his staff, his player’s mask of insouciance recovered as though he had never lost it. Lord Osman didn’t have a staff, but he wasn’t trying to pretend insouciance: he was tight-mouthed and angry. In a moment, he was going to say something violent to the sorcerer and then Magister Eroniel would kill him. Or kill them all. Or do something else terrible.

  It would be her fault, because she was the one who had worked so hard to make Lord Osman help them. He had meant to do it, and now he was here with them, but not like she had intended. Everything had gone wrong, she had not even had a chance to try to make it go right, and everything was lost, and maybe there never had been anything she could do, but she might have told Lord Osman this morning to take his people and go away, and then at least they would be clear of…whatever would happen now.

  Then Lucas shifted his weight, and Keri realized that, worse than Lord Osman drawing the sorcerer’s attention, Lucas might at any moment say something outrageous. Then Magister Eroniel might kill him before Keri had even gotten used to having brothers at all.

  But what he said was, “It’s a bit hard to hold, isn’t it? Like trying to hold on to mist.”

  At once Keri realized what Lucas meant, and that he was right. Magister Eroniel was glowing, his silver pendant was glowing, all his crystal earrings were glowing, not because he had taken the magic of Nimmira for his own, but because he was trying to take it. It was not easy for him to hold; it was struggling to radiate away, into the air. It was struggling to go back where it belonged—to her or, more likely, to Nimmira. But he was holding it, somehow. Most of it, at least. Too much of it.

  Magister Eroniel turned, his expression cold, toward Lucas. To distract him, Keri said, not to the sorcerer but to Brann, “What did he promise you? That he would make you Lord? That he would put all the magic of Nimmira in you? And you believed him, and tried to deliver me to him, and when that didn’t work, you showed him the player’s gate so he could cross directly from this place to Glassforge, is that right? Really, Brann, how could you do it? Couldn’t you see he always meant to take everything for Eschalion? Look what he did to Yllien!”

  Brann, his face set, gave a tiny jerk of his head sideways, as though he wanted to shake his head but was afraid to move; as though he wanted to deny this but was afraid to say so. Not that he could deny it anyway. It was all too obviously true.

  It didn’t make a practical difference one way or the other, but it was all his fault, far more than hers, and she wasn’t going to forgive him just because he had found out much too late that he had made a very bad mistake. And she wanted the sorcerer focused on him and not on Lucas. Brann deserved whatever the sorcerer would do to him, but Lucas didn’t.

  “But your brother can indeed be Lord of your little land,” murmured Magister Eroniel. “Now that I have taken its magic, I care not what man claims what title. I will take everything that interests me, all that I desire, and I shall not let it go.” He stroked the silver pendant with a pleased air, regarding Keri with exactly the cool satisfaction of a man who has bargained to buy a horse or heifer and has come away with the better part of the deal. He went on, “Any man—or any girl—may claim whatever trivial title is desired in these little lands that pretend they may do as they please. And it matters not. Only titles granted from the amber throne of Eschalion are worthy of regard.”

  Keri lifted her chin. “Really? What title do you expect to be granted for claiming Nimmira for your King?”

  “Ah.” With the tip of a finger, Eroniel Kaskarian traced the line of five glittering earrings in his left ear. “I misspoke. The titles one claims for oneself are superior to all others. And why should I not claim what title pleases me? My mother was Liranarre Kaskarian, eldest daughter of Asteriarre Kaskarian, who was the eldest daughter of Liraniel Kaskarian. Kaskarian is the superior line. Mirtaelior has long withered as Aranaon Mirtaelior has turned inward toward his own dreams. Kaskarian will do far better for Eschalion….”

  Oh, this is wonderful, thought Keri. So Magister Eroniel wanted to throw down his own King and seize the throne of Eschalion: she didn’t know why she was surprised. She was surprised that he thought he could use the magic of Nimmira to do it…but not that surprised. After all, Nimmira had slipped Aranaon Mirtaelior’s notice for hundreds of years. The magic that could do that was nothing to despise.

  Probably the Wyvern King would notice them now, though. He must have noticed Nimmira already—unless he hadn’t. Keri didn’t understand all that about him turning inward toward his dreams. But he would certainly notice when Magister Eroniel moved to depose him. Probably the sorcerers of Eschalion would wind up battling over Nimmira until it was ground to barren dust. What would it matter to any of them, as long as they could take its magic for their own?

  No wonder Brann and the Wyvern sorcerer had worked together. They were much alike in at least this way: they both believed they had a right to whatever power they could seize and hold.

  Aloud, she interrupted coldly, “Well, I closed the gap. Even without Cort, at least I managed that. So you can’t reach through it again, either.” She had done that much, if nothing else. She had been stupid enough to let herself fall through the gap, surely the only Lady of Nimmira who had ever left her land by accident. Someone like Domeric would certainly have had the strength and sheer physical competence to close the player’s crack without falling through it, but at least she had gotten it closed. She was grimly glad of it. She declared, “You won’t be able to hold our magic. It’s not meant for you. It will leak away from you soon enough.” She wished she believed this, but she tried to sound confident anyway. “If you keep me prisoner here, then the magic will just go to Domeric, I expect. He’s still right there in Nimmira. Whatever you do, he’ll protect Nimmira and our people. He’ll never yield a yard of land or a tithe of grain or so much as a single calf or child, not to you or to your King. If anything happens to me, you still won’t have gained anything, because he’ll become Lord, and then the magic of Nimmira will go to him even faster.”

  She found that, despite everything and all her disagreements with her brother, she really did trust Domeric to resist Eroniel and the Wyvern King with all his strength. She honestly did trust that he would never give up. She didn’t know how he could possibly prepare for war with Eschalion, but she was glad he was in Nimmira, glad he was there to pick up the magic if it did come to him. Though she wished she could be sure the succession would indeed pass to him. It was so easy to imagine worse things happening, even if the sorcerer couldn’t hold the magic of Nimmira. Like the magic simply dispersing into the woodlands and farms and air of Eschalion, gone from her own land forever. Maybe she had lost it for good when she’d fallen through the gap into Eschalion. Maybe she’d lost everything right then, spilled all the magic of Nimmira out into
the air, irrecoverable.

  Even if the magic did go to Domeric and her brother gained that encompassing awareness of Nimmira, Keri had no idea what he could do about Eroniel Kaskarian. If she had known what to do about the Wyvern sorcerer, she would have done it herself, and then none of them would be standing here shivering in the cold air. But maybe Domeric would be cleverer than she had been. Or, more likely, Linnet. Linnet might be clever enough to think of something useful.

  But Keri thought the Wyvern sorcerer actually did seem faintly disconcerted by her defiance. Even so, he only said softly, “Yet the magic I took from your Doorkeeper, I still hold. Soon I will open any door I please into and within your little country. Now I hold yours. It is…unusual. Unruly. But I shall come to understand it, and then I will do as I please. But your remaining brother may claim what title and what little magic is left to him, if he wishes. It matters not.”

  “Where is Cort?” Keri demanded. “What have you done with him? Is he—” But she was afraid to ask, Is he still alive? She was afraid of what answer Magister Eroniel might give to that question.

  The sorcerer lifted one eyebrow. “The sons of farmers and peasants do not interest me.”

  But Brann said quickly, astonishing Keri, “He is alive. He—”

  Magister Eroniel glanced at him, and Brann was silent. But Keri clung to her brother’s words. He is alive. Cort must be a prisoner somewhere, but he was alive. She let her breath out, slowly, holding to that promise.

  Evidently losing interest in her, Magister Eroniel turned to Lord Osman. He looked him up and down, disdainfully, as a man might look at an animal he thought perhaps not worth buying. He murmured, “Osman Tor the Younger. You are far from your own place, young Bear. And in such low company. What would your father say? I wonder. What would he give me for you?” He paused before asking, more softly still, “Does he even know you entered the veiled country? Did you send him word of what you meant to do, young Bear? So tedious, to send messages to your father and wait for his word, which you must then either obey or evade. Yes? So much easier to do as you wish and send your father no report of it, until you are able to bring him word of some bright success….Is that how it was?”

  Osman said nothing. He stared back at the sorcerer, his black eyes brilliant with fury and calculation, but he made no answer at all. Keri would not have expected so much restraint from the young Bear Lord. She wondered how much of what the sorcerer had said was true.

  “And this earring you wear,” Magister Eroniel went on when it was plain Osman would not answer him. Coming close to the younger man, Eroniel lifted one hand in a motion so smooth that Keri did not realize what he was doing until he had jerked the earring free. Then she saw the garnet roll in the palm of his white hand, trailing its silver chain. It gathered light to itself until it, too, glowed.

  Osman might have guessed what the sorcerer would do, because he did not flinch, though, even filled with light, the garnet was not more red than the drop of blood that welled from his torn ear.

  “This has the flavor of Eschalion about it, I perceive,” Eroniel murmured, his eyebrows rising in a remarkably contemptuous expression. “Blood sorcery is hardly the proper purview of Tor Carron, which is why your little sorcerers must use garnets and such vulgar stones to shape your intention.” Then he turned a thoughtful look on Osman and added softly, “Yet I would not say this trinket is badly made, for what it is. A little persuasion, a little resistance to the persuasion of others…Where did you get it? Someone made it for you from a drop of your own blood, is that not so?”

  Lord Osman said nothing. But his mouth was tight and angry.

  “Some by-blow of the Wyvern’s house, I presume,” murmured Magister Eroniel. “Some child of Kaskarian or Mirtaelior or Taetamion who could not win a place here in her own right and so crept away to the country of the Bear, where even so small a trinket is valued.” He looked into Osman’s set face and smiled in amused disdain. “Can it have been your grandmother, little Bear?”

  This time, Osman flinched as though those words had been a blow. He snapped, “I am surprised you would deign to notice so small a bauble, or concern yourself with so insignificant a person as its maker.”

  “So it was your grandmother?” said Magister Eroniel. “Truly?” And, as Lord Osman flinched again and set his jaw, the sorcerer laughed. It was a light, amused, cruel laugh. He was enjoying himself very much, Keri realized: he might not believe any of them were truly people, but nevertheless he liked having them at his mercy. He enjoyed playing the cat when he thought he had trapped a handful of mice. He was that kind of man.

  She wanted to say something cutting, something that would make him treat Lord Osman and herself and all of them with more respect, but she was silent. Partly because she really did not know what she could say, and partly because she thought it might even prove useful for the sorcerer to take them all lightly. And partly because Tassel drew in a sharp breath and gripped Keri’s hand hard, and so Keri had to remember that if she made the sorcerer angry, she was not the only one who might pay for it. And partly because she could not help noticing how still Brann stood, and that made her yet more afraid for them all. And she had been frightened enough already.

  So she said nothing. Nor did Osman attempt another answer. Seeming satisfied with their cowed silence, Magister Eroniel swept up his hand, light trailing from his fingers, and the wind, following that gesture, rose up as well, glittering with ice or magic. At once the wind or some unseen magic lifted them dizzyingly up into the light, into the air, above or away from the familiar world. Keri clung to Tassel, terrified, unable to tell whether they were falling, and if so, whether they were falling up into the sky, or down into some unknown abyss, or sideways, out of the world entirely into some strange place without direction.

  Then they were somewhere else, somewhere dark and echoing and enclosed by high walls, but at least not so horrifyingly directionless. They fell into this place, except it was not like falling, exactly, although both Keri and Tassel staggered; it was almost like missing a step, but it was not like that, either. Keri lost her hold on her friend’s hand and would have fallen had Lucas not been beside her. She grabbed his arm, and as her brother still had his staff, they managed to stay on their feet.

  That was better than Tassel fared. Osman tried to catch her when she fell, but she was a tall girl and he was off balance himself. Even so he managed to break Tassel’s fall, winding up with her in his lap and his arm around her. He leered, though a bit absently, as though mostly from habit. Tassel actually laughed a little, shakily, and patted his hand, making no immediate move to climb back to her feet.

  No one caught or tried to catch Brann, who fell hard to his hands and knees. He would have bruises, Keri thought, and she didn’t mind a bit.

  It wasn’t really dark in this place where Eroniel Kaskarian had brought them, though it seemed so at first to eyes dazzled only a moment earlier by the brilliant noon light down by the foot of the mountain. Here in this strange hall, light came in through high, slitted windows, enough to see that the room was large. The light slanted oddly, and it did not seem to be any noon sunlight: more the light of dusk. Could they really have lost half a day in that one dizzying moment? Or was the light here in this place truly different from the light out in the world?

  As her vision adjusted, Keri saw that some of the deeper shadows were actually doorways, though all seemed to lead, most unpromisingly, into darker rooms than this.

  It was gray stone: featureless gray stone for the walls and the floor underfoot and, as nearly as she could see, the ceiling high overhead. All the stone was smooth and cold. Nothing else: only gray stone and that dusky light through windows too high for even a tall man to see out.

  This must be the citadel, of course. The Wyvern King’s citadel. No one had to say so. It was perfectly obvious. Though whether this room was meant to be a prison or a storeroom or something else entirely was not clear. It was starkly clean and utterly empty. It smelled of
ice and cold stone and, Keri guessed, the winter sea: something unfamiliar, briny, and wild. Now that she thought of it, she could hear, distantly, an odd rhythmic swooshing noise that might be waves washing against the cliffs.

  Magister Eroniel was not here. Keri was both relieved and disturbed by his absence; she wished she knew where he had gone, and what he was doing, but she was glad he was not doing anything to any of them. Yet.

  Everyone else was present: even Brann. Keri felt, perhaps uncharitably, that they could have done without Brann.

  Lucas offered Tassel his hand and lifted her to her feet. Then, after a second, he offered his other hand to Lord Osman. “So that is your distant cousin,” he remarked, a bit too cheerfully. “Your grandmother was a woman of taste and discernment, to trade that family for another.”

  “She still is a woman of taste and discernment,” Osman answered. Accepting Lucas’s hand, he got to his feet, rather slowly.

  “You feel heavy, too?” Keri asked him. “Or like the air is thick and you are a bit…thin?”

  “Oh,” said Tassel, and looked down at her hands, opening and closing them.

  Osman gave her a sharp look. “Is that how you feel?” He glanced at Keri. “Both of you?”

  “Not…exactly,” Tassel said. “Not yet. But I think…” She turned her hands over, studying the palms, then laced her fingers decisively together and turned to Keri in a way that made it clear she didn’t want to talk about how she felt. She said firmly, “You’ve lost all your magic already, Keri? I haven’t, not yet. Magister Eroniel was so interested in you, and a little bit in Osman, that I don’t think he even noticed me. So I’m still the Bookkeeper, I think. Hours or days, the Timekeeper said, before I lose my magic. I mean, he said that about Cort, but I suppose it will be that way for me, too. But you—”

  “It happened right away. The magic flowed out of me,” Keri said, a little apologetically. “I think I might have lost it immediately anyway, but I also think he deliberately took it from me. I couldn’t hold it. I should be rooted to Nimmira. Here, I’m uprooted and I can’t hold anything. Even if Eroniel loses Nimmira’s magic, I don’t know if I can take it back.” She thought of the silvery light that had surrounded the sorcerer, and shivered. She looked at Osman. “Your grandmother’s earring…Have you lost all your magic, too?”