Aruendiel looked severe as he caught Nora’s strangled exclamation. “Have you not been able to remove the spell, Hiriz?”
“No, Mistress Nora can speak quite well again—or she could if I were not talking so much myself,” said Hirizjahkinis.
“I’m fine now,” Nora said. She stared at Aruendiel, looking hard for some sign that he had once been dead. His face and voice seemed tired, his body hunched beneath his long traveling cloak, but he was apparently quite alive.
“Are you sure? I can barely hear her,” he said crossly to Hirizjahkinis. “So how did you undo the spell? There are always at least two or three major, undefended flaws in every piece of Faitoren magic, no matter how strong it is.”
“If there were any in this spell, I did not find them!” Hirizjahkinis said. “I used an embodiment spell and then pulled it out of her throat. I have made quite a study of embodiment magic in recent years, you know. It’s very useful for exorcisms.”
Aruendiel gave her a look that registered both disbelief and disapproval. He pulled open Nora’s mouth, and surveyed her throat critically. She felt an irresistible tickle, so that when he let go of her jaw, she went into another coughing fit. At last she hacked up a translucent filament, recognizable as one of the legs from the millipede creature.
“Not up to your usual standard, Hirizjahkinis,” Aruendiel said.
“Who knew the thing would have so many legs!” Hirizjahkinis said.
He turned back to Nora. “The palace chamberlain, when I encountered him just now, went to some pains to tell me what a treasure you broke today. One of the few artifacts to escape the destruction of Old Semr.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Nora said. “I wasn’t even close to it when it broke. I’m not sure, but—well, it looked almost as though it jumped.”
“Unusual behavior for a clay figure,” Aruendiel said. He dropped his gaze downward. “Your fingernails are dirty.”
She noticed, to her chagrin, that he was right. “So what? I was working in your garden,” she said, curling her fingers to hide the dark crescents under her nails. “I didn’t have time to clean my hands before we left your castle.”
“Or any time since we arrived, apparently. You’re hardly in a state to be presented to the king. He has specifically commanded that you attend him tonight.”
“Do I have to?”
“Unfortunately, not only are you required to go, but Hirizjahkinis and I must go, too. But you are the main object of the king’s interest. He is eager to meet the woman who has been the center of so much controversy today, especially since he has learned that you come from another world. Let us make haste.”
“Don’t be absurd, Aruendiel,” Hirizjahkinis said sharply. “We certainly have time to make ourselves more presentable. I for one am feeling quite dingy after such a long day.” To Nora’s eye, she looked as fresh as she had that morning, every pleat of her linen robe still crisp. “And what of Ilissa? Where is she now?”
“I followed her to the place where I left Raclin turned to stone. When I left, she was engaged in the task of transporting him home so that she can undo my spell there.”
“Oh?” asked Hirizjahkinis with interest. “He must be very heavy.”
Aruendiel laughed aloud. “She is nothing if not resourceful. She is also determined to punish that unfortunate Faitoren who was posing as Bouragonr. Gaibon, his name is. I could overhear her abusing him savagely for being stupid enough to be unmasked.”
“So—”
“So she is forcing him to carry that massive piece of stone all the way back to the Faitoren lands. They’re stronger than humans, the Faitoren, but still, I could tell it was a strain. She kept telling him to go faster, too.”
Gaibon was the Faitoren who threw Moscelle over, Nora remembered. Odd that Ilissa hadn’t taken Vulpin along for such an important assignment; perhaps he was still out of favor for letting Nora escape.
She pictured Gaibon’s richly dressed figure staggering through the dark woods under the weight of a multi-ton gargoyle while Ilissa scolded him from behind. It was hard not to feel sorry for him—but equally hard not to laugh.
Nora coughed a little instead. Her throat still felt scratchy.
Chapter 17
Whatever the king had anticipated, Nora evidently did not live up to his expectations. His broad face wore a faint, dull frown of puzzlement as she answered his questions.
He showed a stirring of interest when she mentioned that her world had no magicians in it. “But how can that be?” he asked.
“Machinery,” said Nora in a clear, confident tone that, she hoped, implied that the exact functioning of such devices was self-evident. She was still mindful of having once tried and failed to explain electricity to Mrs. Toristel. “We have complex mechanisms that do the work that magicians do in this world. Machines that can fly or travel at great speeds—all kinds of things.”
The king seemed struck by this idea. “These mechanisms, can they make war?”
“No,” Nora lied firmly. It had taken him no time to make that particular connection. Rulers must be much the same in all worlds, she thought. She lost his attention for good when she mentioned that there were also very few kings in her world. He dismissed her with a nod.
Nora curtsied and backed away, glancing behind just in time to avoid falling off the dais. She descended to the main level of the banquet hall, into the throng of courtiers. In the press of silk, velvet, and brocade, she was uncomfortably aware of the plainness of her dress; Hirizjahkinis had pressed a palace maid into finding Nora something more suitable for court than Mrs. Toristel’s hand-me-down, but even Nora could tell that the severe blue-and-black gown she’d borrowed was unquestionably out of style. At least her fingernails were clean now.
This was different from Ilissa’s court, she thought, struggling through the crowd. The candles were smokier, dimmer, hotter, making the room unpleasantly warm. The people in it were lavishly dressed but not all of them were young, slender, and lovely. They moved less gracefully than the Faitoren did, with more vigor. They were at work, she thought as she watched one man waylay two more richly dressed courtiers, ignoring their attempt to ignore him. A young man addressed a middle-aged woman, his eyes sliding to the teenage girl behind her. There was more at stake here than at a Faitoren ball, Nora guessed: matches to be made, patrons to be flattered, alliances to be forged, enemies to be humiliated. Not that all those things didn’t happen among the Faitoren, too, but it was more of a game for them, to keep from dying of boredom in their tiny prison kingdom. Or maybe, she thought, the energy in this room had something to do with the fact that the people before her were human beings, not Faitoren, with only a human lifetime to accomplish all of the things that they wanted to do.
Of course, some people in the room had already had more than a human lifetime. Her eyes sought out Aruendiel, his dark head visible above the crowd. What was it like to die and return to life? No wonder there was something spooky about him. But he had saved her life today, she reminded herself. Again. Even if only to get back at Ilissa.
The music coming from the gallery suddenly grew louder. A bard was singing, and the crowd moved toward the walls, opening a space in the center of the room. Nora found a perch on steps leading to a side door. A pair of dwarfs cartwheeled through the crowd and began juggling glass balls. Then a third dwarf, a woman, joined them for an acrobatics exhibition that was bawdy, borderline sadistic, and extremely funny if you liked fart jokes. Most of the court apparently did. The dwarfs were followed by another bard, who sang for a long time in what sounded like a very old-fashioned form of Ors about a battle, a river, and a boat with black sails. As he sang, the room filled with the cheerful buzz of conversation again. The queen yawned.
When the bard finally finished, a new figure came forward, the young magician whom Hirizjahkinis had addressed as Dorneng. Bowing, he plucked a silver apple from the fruits embroidered on the draperies of the king’s throne, and cut slices for the king and queen. T
hen he dropped the apple core into a goblet and made it grow into a full-size tree. At his nod, it exploded into bloom.
Nora had seen something like this before, performed by the ordinary, sleight-of-hand magicians of her world. It was even more impressive when you knew actual magic was involved. If only Dorneng had kept it simple. Instead, the apple tree began to sing. A chorus of sugary voices rose from the blossoms, singing an anthem in honor of the king and queen. It was not as long as the bard’s song, but long enough.
Finally the song was over. The tree grew heavy with silver fruit. Ceremoniously, Dorneng picked an apple and placed it back on the drapery.
“I’ll take care of the tree, Dorneng.” Hirizjahkinis had joined him in front of the dais. Was every magician present expected to perform? Nora wondered. She glanced apprehensively at where Aruendiel stood.
Hirizjahkinis put one hand on her breast, touching the leopard skin she wore, and smiled at the crowd. Nora began to feel a throb of physical anxiety in her own body. Either part of her dinner disagreed with her, or there was strong magic going on nearby.
At first it was hard to say exactly how the room was different. But the candle flames in the silver chandeliers flickered. The same draft ruffled the leaves of the apple tree.
Nora turned and saw that the door and wall behind her had vanished, replaced by heavy, aromatic darkness. A pale green moth fluttered toward the candles. Looking up through leaves and branches, Nora could see the moon and a spill of stars. This night had a humid, tropical feel, alive with the trilling of insects.
She turned back to the assembly, still lit by chandeliers suspended from God knows what, since the ceiling was gone. The king’s and queen’s thrones looked faintly absurd, their carved legs sunk in green grass. The courtiers murmured uneasily.
The king cleared his throat. “Lady Hirizjahkinis, this is indeed a marvel. May we ask what you have done with our palace?”
“Your palace is perfectly fine, Your Majesty,” Hirizjahkinis said politely. “I have taken you and your court out of it for a few minutes, that is all. We are in the land of my birth, in the forest just outside the temple precincts of Gahz. It is only a short walk to the temple itself, a very beautiful sight by moonlight. The hunting here is also very good.” An animal’s scream cut through the darkness, not far away.
The king looked hard in the direction from which the scream had come. “Thank you,” he said. “Very interesting indeed. We prefer to return to Semr now.”
“Of course,” Hirizjahkinis said. The paneled walls of the banquet hall took shape, blocking out the night sky and the shadowy foliage. The smell of candle smoke, perfume, and overheated, overdressed bodies returned to Nora’s nostrils. Everyone seemed to start talking at once, their voices loud with relief. The apple tree was gone.
The door behind her opened, and someone slipped in beside her. “Have I missed dinner?” he asked.
Nora turned to look at him: A man about her own age, ginger-haired, with lively eyes and a face that comfortably occupied the middle ground between ordinary and good-looking. Wearing a blue tunic and a short gray cloak, he was more plainly dressed than most of the courtiers in attendance.
“I just rode in from Luerwisiac, and I’m completely famished. Is it too late for me to get a morsel of food?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “They finished dinner some time ago.”
“Ah, the only thing keeping me going those last dozen miles was the thought of a nice slab of roast beef.”
Nora smiled back at him. “It was roast goose, oysters, and venison tonight.”
“Please don’t make it harder for me. Where else can I find some food?”
“You can try the palace kitchen.”
“I’ll do that. And what is happening here? They don’t seem to have started the dancing.”
“No, some of the magicians have been performing magic.”
“Oh, Bouragonr?” the man asked carelessly. “Did he do the fire maiden again?”
“Not Bouragonr,” Nora said, emphatically enough that the ginger-haired man looked curious. Then she felt obliged to tell him of Bouragonr’s capture and rescue, although she left out her own part in the events because it seemed too complicated to explain. The man listened with deepening interest.
“Now I’m even sorrier that I was late. I’ve never seen a Faitoren. Is the Faitoren queen as beautiful as they say?”
“She’s all right,” Nora said. “Oh, I don’t mean to sound sour. If you like them beautiful and deadly, she’s the woman for you.”
After an instant, the man laughed. “Thank you for the warning. Well, she must be as old as a rock by now, if what I’ve heard about her is true. And you say it was the wizard Lord Aruendiel who freed Bouragonr?”
“Partly, yes.” She wished now that she had mentioned her own role. She would have liked to impress this young man a little.
“Is he here tonight?”
“Yes, right over there. The tall man with dark hair—the black woman is talking to him.” Hirizjahkinis was nodding for emphasis. Aruendiel’s crooked back looked especially stiff and unyielding, as though he were annoyed at what she was saying.
On the dais, the king turned his broad face toward the two magicians. “Lord Aruendiel,” he called out. “We have admired the wonders these other magic-workers have conjured. Now we would be pleased by a demonstration of your art, as well.”
Aruendiel hesitated, then stepped forward—propelled in part, Nora saw, by Hirizjahkinis’s hand on the back of his arm. As he made his way into the center of the gathering, the room grew quieter.
“Your Highness, I fear that I would make only a poor showing after the remarkable and intricate spells worked by my colleagues. They have done magic with an artistry few could match. I beg Your Majesty to be content with the magic that I have performed earlier today in your service, as well as the delightful enchantments that the magicians Hirizjahkinis and Dorneng have so brilliantly wrought.”
It was a surprisingly graceful speech for Aruendiel, Nora thought, but it lost some of its effectiveness by being delivered in a tone of rapid-fire contempt. The king leaned forward.
“Lord Aruendiel, you are too modest. We will judge for ourselves the artistry of your magic. Please commence.”
With a wooden bow, Aruendiel replied: “Then I will do my best to please. What sort of magic does Your Highness wish to see?”
The queen spoke up quickly. “Lord Aruendiel, I have a great curiosity to speak with the dead. I have always wondered what life is like for the dead.”
At the back of the room, someone tittered. Aruendiel’s face was immobile. “Many others have wondered the same thing,” he said simply.
“Then let us find out the answer!” There was a bright, challenging smile on the queen’s young face. “Bring back one of the dead, and let us ask what lies after death. Do the dead eat? Do they sleep? Do they marry? How do they amuse themselves?”
“Your Highness, each of us will find out the answers to these questions in good time.”
“I would like to know now,” said the queen. Aruendiel was shaking his head, but she went on: “I would like to speak with my aunt, the Lady Mirigian of Akl. We were always very close. I am sure she would be very happy to speak with me. I am also curious to hear how she came to fall down the staircase, because she was not a clumsy woman, and no one saw her fall, not even my uncle, who was in the next room. So I want you to summon her.
“Except—” The queen paused. “Well, if she is very frightful-looking now, perhaps her voice would be enough. It would be a great pleasure for me to hear even her voice again. You can do this, can you not?”
“Your Highness, I will not. I am sorry. I will not raise your aunt, nor any of the dead.”
“You are afraid to do this,” the queen said. “Or you cannot.” The king made a move as though to intervene, but Aruendiel spoke first.
“It is a perilous thing to raise the dead. They may not wish to be raised. But you have given me a
n idea. I will not revive the dead, but I will revive a sort of shadow of the dead.”
The queen looked suspicious and not at all pleased by this promise. Aruendiel walked a few paces, his gaze lifted. Nora realized that he was looking at the portraits that hung on the walls. He stopped near a full-length painting of a young woman in a blue dress more high-waisted and full-sleeved than the current fashion. She stood outdoors in a space framed by green leaves, one hand resting on a gate, the other holding a wide-brimmed straw hat.
“Queen Tulivie,” Aruendiel said. “She was your grandmother, I believe, Your Highness?”
He had addressed King Abele, who nodded. “Yes, my father’s mother. But I never knew her.” After a moment, the king added, “The same artist painted her in her coronation robes—that portrait hangs in the long gallery—but my father preferred this one.”
“It is a good likeness,” Aruendiel agreed. “It captures not just her beauty, but something of her gentleness.” The words hung in the air for a moment. “Well, she is dead and gone, and we will not disturb her. But this portrait can show us a little of what she was, on that summer day when it was painted.”
“Of course it can,” the queen broke in. “But that has nothing to do with magic.”
“Your Highness!” Aruendiel said, raising his voice. “Your Highness!” But he had turned away from the king and queen to face the painting.
The woman in the portrait moved her head, a movement so quick that Nora almost missed it. The painted eyes now gazed toward Aruendiel. A whisper went around the room.
“Your Highness!” Aruendiel called again.
This time there was no mistake. The figure in the painting leaned forward, lifting her hand to shade her eyes. “Who is calling me?” she asked.
“It is the magician Aruendiel, ma’am.”
“Oh, it’s you!” she said, smiling. “Can’t you see that I am having my portrait painted?”
“I apologize for disturbing you.”
“No matter, I am getting horribly stiff.” She gave a quick, unregal shrug of her shoulders. “But what are you doing here? I thought that you and my husband were closeted with the Orvetian ambassador. Is the king finally finished? I’ve barely seen him all day.”
The Thinking Woman's Guide to Real Magic Page 23
