The Changespell Saga

by Doranna Durgin

  But Jess wasn’t sure that friends made decisions for each other. She wouldn’t have done the same to him, but she never knew if her innate reactions were the correct human ones.

  So she said carefully, “This will not happen again. No one rides me as Lady who has not spoken to me as Jess.”

  Ander shrugged again. “All right,” he said. He gave her a sidelong look and said, “But didn’t it feel good when you dumped him?”

  Jess snorted, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Yes,” she said. “It did.” She finger-combed her long dun hair and searched her pocket for the tie-back.

  “Let me,” Ander said, when she’d found it. She turned her back on him and held out the tie, accepting the grooming as she’d always accepted such things from those who had also handled Lady. He gently pulled her hair back, untangled the snarl he ran into, gathered up the spellstones, and tied it all away from her face.

  Jess paid little attention. She was thinking back to the moments in the riding ring. Lady might be unable to think with all of a human’s facilities, but Jess was perfectly able to search her excellent memory, no matter her form when the memories were made. And now she thought of the changespell yet again.

  “If I’d been able to change,” she murmured, not finishing the thought. It was clear enough to her.

  And to Ander. “As if you haven’t tried to do it before, and failed—over and over,” he said. “Jess, I know it’s important to you—but I hate to see you tear yourself up over it when it’s not going to happen.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around, but Jess had had enough of handling for the day.

  “It might happen,” she said, stepping out of reach, nostrils flared. Ander knew her well enough not to push. “I do not like having to depend on you or Koje to spell me back.”

  Carey could do it, if he were here, and Arlen, his friend—and the wizard who had created the world-travel spell—could do it without the spellstones. Lady, though...

  It had been a year, and Lady had never shown any signs of success.

  But she hadn’t tried of late. “Things change,” she told Ander.

  “True enough,” Ander said. He didn’t say anything else, merely regarding her for a moment, biting the corner of his lip. Horses rustled in their stalls, calling impatiently for their dinner.

  Jess’s stomach rumbled at the smell of grain; she ignored it. “What?” she said, watching Ander’s handsome features, at the light blue eyes that crinkled at the corners from his frequent smiles, and wondered again why they did not please her as much as Carey’s.

  “Got a rider in from Anfeald today,” he said.

  “Carey? Is Carey here?” Jess straightened, perking phantom ears.

  Ander quickly shook his head. “No, no—one of his riders, though.” Arlen’s Anfeald stable was a much smaller operation than Kymmet’s, but carried a busy load of critical and confidential dispatches. “It’s a message for you from Arlen, Jess.”

  “What does it say?”

  Ander gave another shake of his head, and a wry little smile. “It’s just for you; I haven’t seen it. But the courier said a thing or two he shouldn’t have, so I’ve got an idea—no,” he said, cutting her off before she could ask. “You should read the letter first.”

  A letter important enough to have warranted a physical delivery instead of the more efficient wizard dispatch—specialist wizards, just like the healers who had tended Carey—and the wizards who specialized in manufacturing long-lasting clothes, and those who made sure the traffic in Kymmet’s crowded streets moved smoothly.

  And then there were scholars like Arlen, powerful magic-users who researched new spells, and who occasionally taught others to do the same.

  Arlen could send a dispatch message that practically no one else could decipher or intercept. But he had sent a letter to Jess instead, relying on the security of a courier who was probably mounted on one of Jess’s half-siblings.

  “Where is it?”

  “With the courier,” Ander said. “He’s probably eating dinner. Let’s go find him.”

  Kymmet had on-premise housing for its trainers and couriers, even those with families; the stable was famous for delivering messages no matter what time of day or night, or how busy the season. Jess was not fond of the dining area—it was noisy, and filled with overwhelming smells, often of meat. She usually managed to slide in at the very beginning or end of a meal period, and the staff had quickly learned her greens-laden diet.

  She reluctantly accompanied Ander to the dining area now, at its peak period; only the lure of Arlen’s letter kept her from stopping at the threshold of the solid little structure. At least it was cool inside, and the thick flagstone floor felt good against her bare feet.

  Ander stopped just inside the doorway, scanning the tightly spaced tables for Arlen’s courier. Jess had him spotted first—someone she’d never seen before. He was a dark, wiry little man, with skin the color of the eastern lands people—making it almost the same toasty shade as her own. But his black hair was half the length of hers, and drawn back into a short, dirty tail at the back of his neck. She decided quickly enough that she didn’t really want to get any closer to him.

  But he must be all right. He was Carey’s man, and had ridden one of Carey’s horses. With Ander a startled step behind her, Jess headed for the courier’s table.

  Up close, he was no more palatable—but after a hot day like this, it was no surprise that he should still bear the sweat of his ride. He looked up as Jess stopped on the other side of the table, and after a moment the question on his face smoothed.

  “You’re Jess,” he said, and his voice was pleasant enough.

  She nodded. “I have come for my letter.”

  His black-brown gaze flickered to the fine, supple leather of a courier’s pouches—the scaled-down saddlebags that fit right over top of full-sized saddlebags—and then settled on her again, a moment longer than made her comfortable.

  “Jess,” he said. He put down his split-ended spoon and drew the pouches into his lap. “How about you show me your brand? So I know it’s you?”

  Jess’s eyes widened; her head raised, and Ander put a hasty hand on her arm. “That was uncalled for.”

  The man shrugged, undisturbed; he took a healthy gulp of his ale, dragging his wrist across his mouth. He did, at least, muffle his belch. “Interesting things happening,” he said. “You can’t be too sure about getting that sort of news to the right person.”

  “What does it matter, if you talk about it all along your route?” Ander said, his brow notched in a frown. “I don’t expect either Carey or Arlen would be too happy about that.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” the man said, and his casual attitude made it clear that was true. “I’m filling in for them. More a favor than a job.”

  No doubt they needed him; Carey still worked to restore his modest crew after the rogue wizard Calandre had killed most of them the year before.

  Jess sighed in an abrupt whuff of air, recognizing the mutual posturing for what it was—a human male thing.

  “I want to read the letter,” she said, and thought she sounded reasonable enough. She’d seen this before—that slightly narrow-eyed interest that meant this man was trying to find the horse in her.

  She didn’t like it.

  He hesitated, not eager to give her the letter so she could walk away. Ander’s normally amiable features arranged in a scowl as he opened his mouth, and Jess casually, deliberately, stepped on his foot and then shifted all her weight there.

  It worked better when she had hooves, but it surprised Ander enough to keep him quiet. Jess held out her hand for the letter.

  The man gave a sudden little grin and shrugged, reaching into his courier pouch. “Here,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you around Anfeald, ey?”

  “Thank you,” Jess said, closing her hand around the thick, tough paper Arlen used, doubting very much this man would see her in Anfeald—or anywhere, if she saw him f
irst. She left the table, and then the dining room—and almost left Ander behind, as well. He caught up to her quick, long strides as she crossed the short grassy lawn to the dark brick building that held her small room.

  She took the winding steps to the third floor two at a time and pushed through the door, feeling the tingle of magic as it unlocked at her presence.

  The room was purely Jess in nature, a combination of no-nonsense function and the unusual items that meant something to her alone. She had a pair of saddlebags flung permanently over the plain headboard on the narrow bed; she’d been carrying them when she first crossed worlds to arrive in Ohio—and, separated from Carey, the form to which she’d been born, and everything she’d ever known, she’d clung to the worn leather. Now they were a reminder of the struggle she’d won in that bewildering world, and bolstered her onward when she struggled in this one.

  Besides, they were Carey’s.

  Jess tossed her sunglasses on the small dresser beside the bed; a small row of ribbons were tacked to the wall, all second and third—and one first—placings in Ohio dressage shows where Carey or Jaime had ridden Dun Lady’s Jess. Next to them hung photographs of a sort unknown to Camolen—snapshots of Jaime on her Grand Prix horse, Sabre, and of her brother, Mark, in front of the Ohio farmhouse that Jess called home when she visited that other world. Photos of Eric, with his ever-distracted, gentle expression—bittersweet photos, for Eric had been killed in the effort to keep Arlen’s world-travel spell out of the wrong hands.

  And there were photos of Jess—a newly human Jess, with an open, honest expression on her exotic features, but with worried eyes that managed to convey the inner confusion of a mare who suddenly finds herself human and doesn’t know the Rules.

  She looked at that one a moment, and snorted. She still didn’t know the Rules. Being a horse was certainly much less complex.

  Ander cleared his throat from her doorway.

  “Yes,” she said simply, and he came in to take the one chair in the room, a straight-backed wooden chair without padding.

  “Nice fellow,” Ander said, meaning the courier, and meaning he wasn’t.

  Jess shrugged. “I have the letter,” she said. She touched the hard seal, and it softened beneath her fingers. She peeled it off and eyed it —Arlen’s name, one of the few Camolen words she could read.

  “Jess,” Ander said impatiently, “don’t you want to know what it says?”

  Jess hesitated. “Change,” she said finally. “It means change, whatever it is.”

  He looked at her in surprise, running a finger along his dark blond mustache—it was thick, like his hair, but not the sun-bleached gold of his hair. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

  Jess shrugged, unconvinced, and unfolded the thick paper. The letter was short and penned in Arlen’s beautiful hand—slanted lines and precise curves that were easy to read even if Jess wasn’t used to cursive. We have found a man we think was a horse, he said. Will you come tell us for certain?

  She looked at Ander. “It’s not good.”

  “What is it?”

  Jess set the letter aside and went to the dresser to look at the picture of herself with Jaime and Mark. Her long legs made Mark’s old cut-offs looked short, and her sun-tanned skin was not tanned at all, but its natural color. The photo was a year old, taken early in her journey from Lady to Jess, and she looked at those worried brown eyes with their overlarge irises—and at the way she stood, poised to move at the slightest noise.

  She’d changed since then. She’d changed a lot.

  Because she’d made it. She’d found her way from Lady to Jess—and only later realized it was only because she had Carey to focus on, with her complex and thorough training as a jumping-off point.

  But few horses had the nature and background to make the journey as she had.

  “No,” she said. “This is not good.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter Three

  Ander patted his young mount and looked over at Jess; she was as endearing as ever, with those sunglasses and what she called a baseball cap, a battered thing through which she’d pulled her long hair to keep the mingled dun and black strands off her neck.

  Another hot, sunny day for the heart of Camolen, and they were losing the cool nature of Kymmet’s thick, rocky woods as they moved into the more arable precinct of Anfeald. Jess caught him looking and gave him a little smile; it included that puzzled little overtone that meant she didn’t really understand something human—probably, why he was watching her.

  There was a lot she didn’t understand.

  She didn’t, he knew, truly understand why he insisted on coming with her to Anfeald—although she’d acquiesced without much fuss, if only because she obviously didn’t think it was worth fussing over at all.

  As if there was any way he’d have let her go alone, after hearing of the rogue magic.

  Not that she’d meant to pass on Mia’s confidential news—she’d made a puzzled inquiry about confidentiality, and how could something be secret if everyone who heard it told just one friend? He didn’t have an answer for her, of course.

  He seldom did. Watching Jess wrestle with human nature was just a reminder of how many odd and inexplicable things truly came along with being part of society.

  But Jess, for all her unique complexities, was as straightforward as they came, and that had spoken to a very deep part of him.

  “What?” Jess said.

  Ander blinked out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

  “You were smiling,” Jess told him.

  “Just thinking, Jess,” Ander said, and smiled again. “That happens, you know.”

  “Yes,” she said seriously, and his smile broadened. She frowned, then clearly decided not to worry about whatever she didn’t understand this time.

  The road remained clear, offering a lull in the market traffic between the small town they’d just passed and the small town for which they headed—and Jess moved her mount into a reaching trot, posting to it with the same unself-conscious supple athleticism that permeated her every move.

  Ander let his gelding fall behind a short distance just to remind the horse that gaits were his choice, and then trotted out after her. His bow and quiver bounced against his back, a gentle reminder that something was not quite right in Camolen. He often brought the bow when he was out and about—he enjoyed Kymmet city-credit for the game he brought the stables—but on a long trip like this, he would have otherwise kept it strapped behind the saddle.

  Jess abruptly stopped, waiting for Ander to catch up. When he did, she didn’t waste any words. “I have my courier spellstones,” she reminded him. “I ride alone all the time. I can take care of myself—”

  “Then why am I here?” Ander said. “Besides the fact that this gelding needs the experience?”

  “Yes.”

  Somehow Ander knew those large dark eyes of hers were trained directly on his behind the sunglasses. When she gave him that particular look, there was no use for anything but the truth. “No good reason, Jess. Because I’d worry... because I know what you’re going to face at Arlen’s. Call it a favor—to make me feel better more than to make sure you’re all right.”

  And to meet Carey, he added silently.

  Telling the truth didn’t always mean telling the whole truth.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter Four

  Carey had been Arlen’s head courier for years.

  He had survived transport to another world, he had survived the small, staggeringly unprepared rescue to free Arlen from the wizard Calandre—and he had survived the deadly spell she’d then thrown at him.

  But he knew when he was outmatched.

  He had no intention of getting any closer to this angry, barely human man sequestered in Arlen’s hold. The one that that he, along with Jess—and her friend Ander—were here to see.

  He stood with them at the doorway to the small room, regarding its occupant with s
ome trepidation.

  “Burn off!” the man said thickly, his slurred words coming from a tongue that was not used to talking.

  “He seems to know that one pretty well,” Carey said dryly.

  A tiny frown drew Jess’s brow together, her expression that of utter concentration. He wished again that he’d been able to talk her into waiting before this visit.

  After all, she and Ander had only just arrived from Kymmet. They were tired after days on the road, hot and dirty and smelling of horse. He’d wanted nothing more than to sit her down in a dark, cool corner of Arlen’s carved-rock hold, give her something cold to drink, and spend a few quiet moments with her.

  But then, he hadn’t been expecting Ander. So he’d given way when Jess asked to come straight to this small room in the stable section of Arlen’s stone hold.

  Jess bumped his shoulder with hers. “Like me,” she said. “But...”

  “That’s what I thought,” Carey said. “I wasn’t there when you first became Jess, but there are things about him that make me think of you—and things that don’t. In any case, Arlen’s spell to change you to Lady doesn’t work for him, not even with fine-tuning for his sex.”

  “Did I hear you say he’d been...” Ander started, trailing off with a grimace with which Carey could empathize. It’d taken him some time to get used to the idea as well.

  “Yes,” he said. “He’s been castrated.”

  “Burn off!” the man said. He snorted, stamped his foot, and turned his back on them; he’d already learned that the doorway had been spelled to erect an invisible barrier against him.

  His clothes were little more than rags, though a small pile of clean replacements sat untouched at the foot of his bed. His hair was unkempt—what there was of it—and it was short and spiky in such an uneven fashion that it had to be natural, holding no gray despite the man’s mature years.

  Jess bumped Carey’s shoulder again, but didn’t say anything. He rested his hand at the back of her neck, quietly stroking the fall of hair out the back of the black cap she wore. In the corner of his eye, Ander shifted; Carey ignored him. “What do you think, Jess?”