Wren Journeymage

by Sherwood Smith

  “So let me ask you this. How much experience do you have, to lecture me about attraction?”

  Tyron looked at her in surprise. “Not much. So that makes my reading and thinking worthless?”

  Teressa bent her head so all he could see was that profusion of braids. He realized that they took the place of a crown.

  Then she mumbled something in which the name Orin could be made out.

  Tyron felt a jab of rueful laughter, but he hid it. What could he say? There has never been anyone but you, from the first moment I saw you when I was a scruffy brat playing tricks on my fellow students and you an awkward girl in an ugly dress just escaped from the orphanage.

  No. The day he could say that might come in five years, or ten, or never. He liked Orin. He respected her. It was possible one day he might feel more—if Teressa never returned his feelings.

  So he said, “I don’t mix with students, even attractive ones. It’s pretty much one of the rules, and a rule that’s existed for generations usually is in place for good reasons.”

  Teressa muttered something, then she looked up, and took him by surprise again. “I’m sorry. It was none of my business.”

  Tyron tried for that light tone. “It’s not like I have much time for flirting anyway. You have no idea how behind we’ve been with this year’s classes, and—oh, here we are at the river. I’d better turn back.”

  Teressa stopped, staring. Tyron took in the long river barge, decorated with garlands of aromatic leaves and flowers, the court in their fine clothes passing slowly over the ramp into the barge, their voices a little too sharp, laughter too much like the tinkle of broken glass.

  “Please come,” Teressa said. “You know Aunt Carlas wouldn’t mind.”

  Tyron hesitated, scanning the knots of people in tight conversation groups. Was anyone having a good time? Yes, young Robin, over there with two other girls beginning to flirt with Hawk, who until the three girls walked up had been sitting quite alone. “I think I will,” Tyron said. “Food ought to be better than the soup and leftover breakfast biscuits that I know are waiting for us back at the magic school.”

  Teressa smiled, her chin up, and descended the brick-lined path to the landing. Duchess Carlas, waiting at the top of the ramp to greet her guests, led the bows. When the duchess straightened up, she gave Tyron a welcoming nod that was far less cold than he was used to receiving.

  As soon as Teressa and Tyron stepped on board, the lines were cast off and the big, strong fellows dressed in Rhismordith livery plied their poles, sending the boat gently out into the middle of the wide, placid river.

  At the back end, musicians under their own canopy began playing softly on flutes, tiranthe, and hand drums. The melodies were all traditional ones, recognizable songs about summer and peace and plenty, as servants uncovered a long buffet filled with fresh fruits, cheeses, a selection of at least a dozen types of fancy bread, and fine pastries, each set on flower petals carefully arranged. At the front end was iced punch, and crystal glasses to drink out of.

  People crowded around, but it was soon apparent to Tyron that they did so to have something to do, rather than because they were hungry.

  Hawk was still seated at the far side, talking to the group of admiring young ladies led by little Robin in her bright crimson dress covered with knots of pink and white ribbon, with a white ribbon in her hair. The ladies still stood; he had not invited any of them to take a seat by him.

  As Teressa stepped onto the deck the courtiers all bowed—everyone except Hawk. Then they resumed their seats and their conversations as Teressa made her way to sit beside Hawk.

  Carlas said in a strident voice, “Today we’re having an old fashioned picnic, as I promised. The music, the food, are all the ones we older people loved when we were young.”

  Several barons and baronesses murmured in agreement.

  The Duchess smiled. “And so what we’ll do next is play a few of the old-fashioned games. We’ll begin with one we used to call Word Mask.”

  The old Baroness of Arakee laughed. “Oh, I remember!”

  “Then you shall give us the first word,” the duchess declared, moving to the side of the river barge opposite Hawk, forcing everyone to shift position. They stood in a rough ring, facing her.

  “Button,” the Baroness said.

  The Duchess gestured. “Button it is. Now I will quote a line from a famous old song, but I will put in place of the regular nouns the word ‘button’ and the one who guesses the correct line can say the next word, and pick the one who must provide a line.” She paused, as people whispered, then pronounced in a slow voice, “Long rode the button across the fiery button, button at his side and button in his hand!”

  A spatter of laughter and clapping, and then Perd said, “Easy! That’s from the song about the Wizard Morayen, Long rode the seeker—”

  People clapped, then the Duchess called, “You get the next word!”

  “Nutcake.” Perd raised the pastry in his hand.

  “Who shall say a line?”

  Perd looked around, then pointed at his old friend Marit, who shrugged. “Uh, let’s see. Old song, old song. How about My nutcake said to me, let us go together down to the nutcake and there we shall wed!”

  Laughter again, and this time, several people called out the correct line. For a little while the atmosphere was full of fun and laughter as especially silly words changed the meanings of famous old songs, but when the Duchess interrupted, saying, “It’s far too easy! You young folk are too clever by half! We shall change the game. The winner names the song as well as the word, and picks someone who has to know it, and if he or she doesn’t, there’s a forfeit!”

  “What’s the forfeit?”

  “They have to sing another song all the way through.”

  Laughter followed this, but Tyron paid little heed. The Duchess’s voice was too sharp, her venomous glances in the direction of Hawk, still sitting there next to Teressa, too pointed.

  Tyron warily took in the barge, and the way Garian lounged next to the punch with Marit and a couple others. Garian’s posture was negligent, but his hands betrayed tension, and his shoulders were stiff.

  Laughter rose as Robin triumphantly gave them a line from a ballad about Eren Beyond-Stars, but with the word ‘snowball’ in place of the nouns.

  “What’s going on?” Tyron said as soon as he reached Garian.

  The tall Rhismordith duke grimaced. “You smell a rat, too, eh? M’mother said she’s leaving tomorrow, but she had one gift left. I thought it was this party, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Look,” Tyron said.

  They turned their attention to the other end of the barge, to where Hawk sat at Teressa’s side. The queen, obviously unaware of anything amiss, was smiling as she toyed with a plate of grapes, but Hawk had gone as still as a scout dog, and Tyron braced himself, wondering what he could do as the Duchess turned and in too studied a voice, said, “Jarelda, will you give us the next song?”

  And her cousin from the Siradi border said in an equally loud, equally false, voice, “How about that wonderful old song ‘How Fast Flies the Blackbird?’”

  About half the company looked puzzled, but all the older ones reacted with either exchanged glances or wooden faces. And no wonder, Tyron thought, as beside him, Garian muttered, “Oh, Mother, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Tyron tried to recall the song. Oh yes. It was about a flock of blackbirds that had descended on a field, at first driving away the other three flocks, until the three flocks—peacocks, sparrows, and eagles—banded together to rid themselves of the blackbirds. It was a cruel song, made up after the black-haired Rhiscarlan family broke with the Rhisadels, Rhismordiths, and the now-forgotten Rhistaris, Tyron’s own family. How many here knew that?

  “And the word,” the Duchess said, sending a poisonous smile down the river barge at the black-haired Hawk, “is traitor.”

  No one but Tyron saw the brief movement of Hawk’s lips, the tightenin
g of his fist, but they all saw the Duchess lurch violently back—and before anyone could catch her, fall right over the rail, feet kicking, her skirts fluttering. She splashed into the river head first.

  The guests rushed to that side of the barge, causing the craft to tip alarmingly. As the guests looked around, startled, a few grasping at anything in order to get their balance, once again Hawk whispered and gestured.

  The next over the side was the Duchess’s old cousin, swiftly followed by a plump baron and two baronesses. The rest either screamed, shouted, or began exclaiming questions that no one listened to. The low side of the barge was awash with river water, dropped plates and cups floating about in the mess.

  Hawk just sat, white teeth gleaming in a slashing grin.

  “What do I do?” Garian whispered. “I don’t know whether to laugh, or call him out on a duel.”

  “Leave it to me.” Tyron murmured his own spell, flattened his hands in a subtle gesture, and the barge righted itself and settled.

  The pole-men eased the barge backward, straining at their poles against the slow but forceful current. Quietly, unnoticed, Tyron helped with a spell for that, too.

  As servants pulled the fallen people back up onto the barge—the water was only waist deep—everyone began exclaiming.

  The Duchess, first in and last to be rescued, stood there in the murky water, hands wringing, her skirt coated in thick river mud, slimy reeds wrapped around her arms and her neck. Something moved in her sodden hair, and she let out a shrieking wail. A tiny fish wriggled out, fell with a wet splat onto her bosom, and then plopped with a sploosh into the water.

  Hawk shook with silent laughter.

  Garian’s face went white, and he started toward Hawk, his hand closing around his sword, but Tyron caught his arm. “Don’t,” he whispered.

  “I won’t say she didn’t ask to be tipped into the river. But now he’s laughing at her,” Garian retorted in an under-voice. “I won’t let him get away with it.”

  Tyron muttered, “Look at Teressa.”

  Garian stopped, gazing open-mouthed at Teressa, who stared up at Hawk with a sick, betrayed expression.

  “Don’t force her to have to defend him,” Tyron muttered. “Not when she’s finally seeing the truth.”

  Garian stayed still for a long breath, then two, and three, as tears gathered in Teressa’s eyes and silently fell. When he moved again, it was to help his mother to get the servants and guests and food all sorted out.

  Twenty-Six

  Wren found herself in a dark room.

  Frightened, she moved slowly, hands outstretched until her fingers bumped against cold, mossy stone. Eugh! She moved slowly around the wall, feeling high and low, nasty as it was. The cell was completely bare. So she sat down cross-legged on the damp stone floor, and methodically tried spells. Nothing worked. The cell had been thoroughly warded, so heavily her magical sense seemed to lie under layers and layers of fog.

  Wren murmured the Crisis Rules, forcing herself to breathe evenly, until her heartbeat slowed down. She was still clutching the transfer token, which she dropped. In her sleeve she still had the bread, cheese, and apple she’d picked up before the lookout spoke. At least I kept that much wit about me. Not that she’d been witless. She’d known that the weakest part of the plan had been the time between sending the launches and getting them back. She’d offered to try to make a magical tracker so that the launches could find the Piper again, even if they couldn’t see it, but the crew didn’t trust magic enough to rely on it. Weren’t they using magic to fool their enemies? What if the enemies fooled them? They could be lost on the ocean, surrounded by pirates, and no Piper in sight.

  Wren couldn’t blame them, not after all those terrible days in the gig. Being stranded in the middle of the ocean would be horrid, if there was no one to see them . . .

  Like spy birds. What exactly did those spy birds see from above? Wren couldn’t imagine that birds, even ones with spells on them, could tell one ship from another. Was it possible that Andreus himself was able to see through the birds’ eyes? If so, that kind of magic was really, really nasty—invading and taking over another creature’s mind.

  She scowled into the darkness. Just because the idea was unbelievably horrible didn’t mean she shouldn’t have planned for it. Somehow.

  All right, so she’d made more mistakes. So the sensible thing to do was to accept that she’d fumbled again, and try to get out of the resulting mess.

  Beginning with getting out of this cell.

  Of course Andreus would keep her waiting, while he did whatever he was going to do about the disaster that had struck his fleet. Not that there was much he could do, she thought, with a brief surge of triumph. She’d been very careful about that. He would have to visit every single ship to reverse that spell, and most of them were logs spreading out over the ocean.

  There was no fleet launching out against three kingdoms today, nor even next month. A total and complete disaster for any conquering ex-kings.

  His temper, when he did come for her, was going to match the size of the disaster. Her insides chilled. If he hasn’t killed me outright, or turned me into a gargoyle, then that means he wants to talk. Even if it’s gloats and threats, that still gives me a chance to figure out an escape.

  Escape. So get busy and start planning.

  o0o

  As soon as Wren and Andreus vanished, Connor yelled, “Where’s the dinghy?” He glared around, desperate to act, sick with guilt because he’d been too late.

  A hand gripped his arm. He whipped around, staring down into Captain Tebet’s seamed face. “Think, young ‘un,” she commanded. “Don’t squawk.”

  Connor gripped his staff. “I’m going after her.”

  “Of course you are,” the Captain agreed. “But not in a dinghy that everyone can see. Remember, the Piper still has that spell on it. So he transferred in, focusing on something them spy birds showed him. One thing for sure, his lookouts won’t see us until our cloaking spell wears off.”

  Connor thumped the staff on the deck. “But I—”

  “But what?” The captain looked over her shoulder at the tall, gangling mate of the watch standing at the wheel. “Set course for Tomad Isle!”

  “Right you are, Cap’n!”

  “Now. Into the cabin,” Captain Tebet ordered.

  Longface followed the captain, Connor, and the first mate into the cabin, saying, “We all heard the layout of the castle from that boy.”

  “How much do you remember of it?” the captain asked.

  “Most.” Longface plunked down onto one of the benches at the captain’s table, and rubbed his bony knees. “I’m pretty good that way. Once I hear it, I got it in mind.”

  Captain Tebet pointed at the table. “Then take that pen and ink and sketch it out. We have the rest of the night’s cover to reach that island. We should be fast if the wind holds steady in the east.” She turned to Connor. “Now, what we have is us, with a spell that will wear off, and a few of Wren’s arrows—”

  “Thirteen,” Longface said. “Just counted.”

  “Thanks, young ‘un. What we face is a big castle on top of a mountain, some say an ancient volcano, which means steep. And we heard about the road up, and the traps Black Hood got lyin’ in wait.”

  “Mountain,” Connor murmured.

  The captain sent him a quick look.

  Connor was used to keeping his secrets, but now was not the time. Still, lifelong habit was hard to overcome. “Drop me to the south, since the castle faces north.” He tapped the rough sketch Longface had begun.

  “What?” Longface squinted at him. “What good’s that?”

  Captain Tebet rubbed her hand over her chin as she considered Connor. Then she gave a decisive nod. “Black Hood’s got no fleet, but he’s got magic, and probably guards all up and down that road. What we need to do is get in and out fast, and give him something to think about while Red here goes to the rescue.”

  Longface turned to
Connor. “All right, Red. Spit it out. What are you hiding from us?”

  Connor stared back at these friends who he had come to trust. He said, slowly, reluctantly, forcing the words past years of habit, “I seem to have access to some magic when I am up on mountain tops. I don’t know if it’s the mountain itself, or the height, or me, or some combination of all three. And I don’t know if I can make it work on Tomad. And if I do make it work, I don’t know if it’s going to help. But I am going to try.”

  Longface shrugged. “All right. So we’re the decoy, then?”

  The Captain grinned. “We have thirteen of Wren’s arrows left. And even though that castle is supposed to be stone, there’s got to be some wooden beams here and there. What do you think will happen if we place a few arrows in those? Creaky squeaky, that’s what!”

  The first mate guffawed. “Black Hood shakin’ like a jelly!”

  The Captain punched her fist in the air. “So! We got us a plan. Get some shut-eye, Red. From the look o’ the wind, and our position, we should be round the other side of the island just before dawn.”

  Connor felt he should go alone, that the danger the others were facing was somehow his responsibility. But the Captain glared back, her manner challenging, and the first mate was already out the door and barking orders. Longface waited, a quizzical expression on his otherwise bland face.

  They had made their choice. To question it was to repudiate their generosity. Connor felt an overwhelming tide of gratitude, but he said nothing, just retreated to his bunk. There he stared up at the swinging lamp as he tried not to think of Wren facing the evil Andreus all alone. “Angleworm Andreus,” he whispered, using Wren’s childhood name-game to cheer himself up.

  It didn’t work.

  o0o

  It took the whole afternoon before Teressa could get Hawk by himself.

  First there was her aunt and the other guests to console, listen to, see to their arrival on dry land, and escort to their various apartments or homes.

  But all the time she was talking, listening, smiling, and sympathizing, vivid mental images stubbornly persisted: Tyron covertly doing magic in order to avert more disaster, Garian marshalling the servants and pole-bearers to help sort people out, and Hawk lounging back on the seat, shaking with silent laughter.