A College of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

  The crowd closed around Faris again and she turned to find herself face to face with Brinker. She sprang at him and caught his left vambrace. “You!”

  Brinker flinched, twisted his arm free, and turned to flee.

  Before Faris could follow, someone behind her gripped her elbow. Tyrian’s breath was warm on her cheek. “This way.” He pulled her back into the crowd.

  Regretfully, Faris let Brinker escape. It took all her agility to keep close to Tyrian as he worked his way through the surge of frightened guests. Tyrian reached the nearest service stair and held the door for her. As she darted past him and down the steps, Faris felt a curious lightness of heart steal over her.

  Despite her failure to find a way to come near the rift, despite her uncle’s betrayal, and the plight of her friends, Faris was glad to be done with her masquerade. Guilt and anger and fear faded before her delight in freedom. Skirts lifted high, all decorum forgotten, Faris followed Tyrian as he made his way along a corridor to the next of his fourteen unnamed staircases.

  They came to a locked door. Tyrian produced a lock pick and employed it with the ease of long practice.

  “How did you persuade the lions to come to the rescue?”

  Tyrian glanced up from the lock. “All I did was squash crab puffs on the floor at every turning on the way—and leave the door open.” The lock clicked sweetly and he opened the door. “Thus.” He smiled.

  Faris smiled back. A small bubble of hilarity had lodged at the base of her throat. It made it hard for her to breathe evenly. “Impressive.”

  Tyrian looked extremely pleased with her, with himself, with the world in general. His eyes held hers with a steadiness that made her bold.

  “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “You’re welcome. May I claim a reward?”

  Faris felt unaccountably breathless. “Certainly.”

  Tyrian leaned close and murmured, “Tell me where we’re going.”

  Faris blinked. “Out.”

  “Yes, but then?”

  Faris felt the bubble of hilarity grow until she could hardly keep her voice steady. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  Tyrian laughed. “That’s lucky. As long as we don’t look ahead, we should be all right.” He held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

  “Of course.” Faris put her hand into his. “But I think it had better be a galop.”

  It rained the rest of the night. Faris and Tyrian had scarcely set foot outdoors when the downpour began.

  In moments, the embroidered silk of Faris’s gown was plastered to her skin, just as becoming as and rather less comfortable than a burlap bag. Her hair, still pinned in a braided coronet, developed wet tendrils that managed to drip in her eyes and down her neck at the same time. When she could spare a moment to consider her knees and elbows, Faris felt the bruises blooming there, like dark roses. She owed that discomfort to the fall she’d been given by the blast from Jane’s hat.

  She suspected Tyrian was in no better case. His sodden evening clothes, like his soaked shoes, made squelching sounds as he moved. It was not a pleasant night to be outdoors, wet to the skin or not.

  In the first hour after their escape from the castle, she and Tyrian tried to reach the British embassy. It made sense to them to seek Jane and Reed there, and safety as well. But the search parties were out too promptly. Faris and Tyrian found the streets around the embassy too full of the king’s guardsmen to risk. In retreat, Tyrian led Faris into the poorest quarter of the city, where the streets were steep and narrow, sometimes connected by passages no wider than a flight of stairs.

  There, where the Twelfth Night bonfires were long since burned out, the gutters long since washed clean of the ashes, she followed Tyrian. Despite their damp and disheveled finery, few denizens of the maze seemed to notice them as they passed. None challenged them.

  Despite her discomfort, Faris was still possessed of that curious lightness of heart that had come to her at the start of her escape. She was free. There was joy in that. She was not alone. There was comfort in that. Beside her, Tyrian negotiated the labyrinth of the streets with utter confidence. He was following some internal compass, as sure of himself as a cat.

  The rain stopped. Faris followed Tyrian, pouncing when he pounced, pausing when he paused. Even in the tangled quarter below the Esplanade, night was giving way to rising daylight. Already windows were open, already laundry was out, stirring gently on lines stretched far above the slick paving stones. There was not much traffic yet. The city was never quiet, but the early morning brought Aravis as close to silence as it ever came.

  Faris felt nearly safe, until the sound of marching feet came from beyond the corner ahead. Without slackening stride, Tyrian glanced back. There was enough light to show Faris his grim expression. They both knew their pursuers could not be far behind them now. They had blundered between two search parties.

  Faris searched the empty street as she ran headlong after Tyrian. Doors, gates, windows—all barred—nothing of use to them.

  Then she saw the locked iron gate at the entrance to one of the narrow passages that connected street to street. It was a very simple lock. Tyrian saw it at the same moment she did. Without a word exchanged, they crossed to it together.

  While she waited for him to pick the lock, she noticed the street sign set into the wall next to the gate. World’s End Close.

  Faris touched Tyrian’s sleeve. “You told me once that you would follow me to the world’s end,” she murmured. “Here’s your chance.”

  Tyrian read the sign and smiled angelically. “Come. I’ve often wondered what it looks like.”

  After the half-light of early morning, World’s End Close was dark. It smelled wet and old and dirty. It was just as cold as the streets outside, but seemed warmer, since it was out of the wind. Underfoot, the worn stone passage was treacherous, running first shallowly up, then steeply down, deep into the hill.

  As the descent continued, the passage grew steeper yet, then gave way to crooked steps. Faris kept her hand on Tyrian’s sleeve. He led her down the steps unerringly. Once she stumbled and he put his arm around her waist. She caught her breath and her balance at the same time.

  Tyrian released her and went on. Faris put her hand firmly back on his sleeve and felt her face and throat grow hot. She was thankful for the darkness.

  They stopped to listen, to strain their eyes after a hint of light that would tell them they were moving anywhere but into the heart of the earth. Faris found herself thinking of Hilarion, alone in the darkness beneath his house. “I hope it doesn’t go down too much farther,” she whispered. “We must be nearly to the three-headed hound by now.”

  “Listen.”

  In the distance Faris caught a sound that made her think of the summer wind in the treetops at Galazon Chase: the sound of rushing water. “A waterfall?”

  “Not that. Footsteps. Someone is following us.”

  “Yes, an army of the king’s guard.” Faris listened intently. He was right. One set of footsteps was coming slowly after them, not far off.

  When the steps were only ten feet away, they stopped. A man asked, “Are you two going to stop there?”

  Faris wished devoutly for a light. As if in answer to her thought, the newcomer flicked open the shield on a dark lantern. The light it cast showed her the man who carried it. He was small and balding, neither bearded nor clean-shaven, but something untidy in between. He had dark, close-set eyes, bright with interest. His clothes were worn but fairly clean. He carried a pistol pointed at the floor. He studied Faris and Tyrian as closely as they regarded him. If he noticed the pistol in Tyrian’s hand, he gave no sign.

  After a long moment of silent scrutiny, the man spoke again. “Are you deaf?”

  Faris looked at Tyrian. Expressionless, he watched the man with the lantern and the gun. “We’re wet,” he said finally. “Why aren’t you?”

  “I’m the Doorman, that’s why not. And who might you be, pushing past me to
come in here and drip all over the floor, asking me questions?”

  “We didn’t mean to be impolite. I didn’t see you when we came in. Where were you?”

  “No, but I saw you, young lady. And I saw your way with a lock, young sir. You opened the door so quick I thought you had a key. But if you had a key, and knew your way, why show no light? Why tiptoe along whispering? And here am I, still wondering.” He leveled his pistol at Faris. “You should explain yourselves. And you, young sir, should not point that gun of yours at me.”

  “It’s not polite to point,” Faris said gently to Tyrian. He lowered his weapon but made no move to put it away. Faris smiled at the Doorman. “I’m sorry if we startled you. We’ve lost our way. Can you tell us where we are?”

  “You read the sign. I heard you.” The Doorman smiled faintly back at her as he lowered his pistol. “It must have been a bonny mad party.”

  “It was,” Faris murmured ruefully. “In its own way, it was.”

  “Speak up. Tell me who you are or I’ll send you back to it. Ah. I thought you wouldn’t like that idea.”

  Tyrian shrugged. “The lady is incognita, and I am unimportant.”

  The Doorman’s smile broadened. Very softly, he began to hum, then half sang, half chanted, “With a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney—”

  Faris, on an impulse she did not pause to examine, joined in. “—Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end; methinks it is no journey.”

  The Doorman beamed. “I like your manners, young lady. I’ll let you choose. That’s something I seldom do. Will you turn back? Or will you visit us instead?”

  “How can I choose where I want to go when I don’t know where I am?”

  “Why, you seemed such a clever young lady, I thought you must have guessed. You’re ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end.” By the light of his shaded lantern, the Doorman started down the passage. “Come along. You’ll be safe with us.”

  For an instant, Faris hesitated. Beside her, Tyrian was motionless, almost rigid with suspicion. “Do you think they’ve stopped searching for us yet?”

  Tyrian let out a long breath. “No.”

  “Do you think we should go back?”

  After a long pause, Tyrian said reluctantly, “No.”

  “Do you think we can stay here?”

  Tyrian sighed. “Is this what they taught you at that college of yours?”

  Faris kept her hand on his sleeve as they set off after the Doorman’s bobbing lantern. “More or less.”

  The Doorman led them through branching passages. Faris hoped they didn’t have ten more leagues ahead of them. She and Tyrian were hungry and footsore. Her wet skirts were heavy, and she couldn’t seem to stop shivering.

  As they walked, the sound of falling water grew louder and louder, until their passage met another at right angles. There the Doorman stood for a long moment, watching the water rushing past, not down a waterfall, but down a flight of steps. Faris glimpsed a handrail on the far side of the torrent. Though stained and discolored, it seemed to her very like the carved balustrade of the castle’s white icing staircase.

  The Doorman noticed her interest with approval. He raised his voice to carry over the noise of the racing water. “It’s the overflow. Too much rain these past weeks. They’ve had to open the gates of one of the cisterns above us.” Holding his lantern high, he waded out into the torrent. “Watch your step.”

  Faris watched him, aghast. Beside her, Tyrian walked into the water and reached back to offer her his hand. “There’s one consolation. We can’t get any wetter.”

  Stepping carefully after him into the racing water, Faris gasped and winced at the chill. “Colder. We can always get colder.”

  Already far ahead, the Doorman paused to urge them on. He waved his lantern and called but the rushing water drowned his words.

  The steps were steep and very slippery. The icy water shoved at Faris’s legs. She set her jaw and shoved back. Her feet began to grow numb. She knew Tyrian was still leading her but she could no longer feel his hand grasping hers. She wished she could reach the stone balustrade. It would be nice to be able to brace herself against it.

  The next step was chipped away. Her foot came down on nothing and she lost her balance. Her wet silk skirts hobbled her and she fell, pulling Tyrian with her.

  Her last coherent thought, as the current took her completely, was of Hilarion.

  15

  A Host of Furious Fancies

  Faris woke aching. She was lying on something hard and flat and cold. With an effort, she put her hand to her breast. The glass key was still there. She was barefoot, her hair unpinned, her gloves gone, her Smoke gown dried into a stiffened ruin.

  It took her some time to understand that the light in the room came from silver candelabra. There were two, set at her head and feet. She pushed herself up to look around. The hard surface was the sleek mahogany of a dining room table, long and broad and gleaming with care. The low barrier all around her was chairs pushed in beneath the table. The chairs were polished as carefully as the candelabra and the table top.

  The ceiling overhead was too high to give back any candlelight. The walls were as windowless and drab as the walls of a tunnel. The door was unremarkable. The rest of the room was empty. The floor was covered with mud, long dried, cracked, and curled with age. Only the path to the door showed any sign of disturbance. In the rest of the room, mud might have been put there as pavement when Noah’s flood receded.

  Faris slid down from the table. For a moment the room darkened, and she felt her knees catch and jerk treacherously. She clutched the edge of the table. After a moment, her vision cleared. She hated the crackle of dried mud under her bare feet as she crossed gingerly to try the door.

  Locked. Reluctantly, she picked her way back to the table. The chairs looked uncomfortable and she disliked the idea of disturbing more dried mud by moving them. She sat cross-legged on the table top, bare feet tucked carefully under the hem of her battered skirts to warm them.

  Faris touched the bodice of her gown again and felt the glass key safe there. Somewhat comforted, she settled down to consider the candelabra.

  Suppose the candles had been new when the candelabra were set down beside her. Then she had been there for hours. Yet there was nothing to prove they had been new, nor that they had been there as long as she had. Could she be certain someone would come for her before the light failed? To be prudent, Faris put out all the candles but one, and resolved to light them each in turn for as long as they lasted. It meant she must not sleep for fear the candle might gutter and go out, but sleep had never seemed farther from her.

  Faris felt dreadful. She was thirsty and hungry and her head ached. Her scalp burned. The meal she’d had before dressing for the ball seemed a hundred years away. Her elbows and knees were bruised from her night’s adventures and she felt stiff in every limb, worse even than sleeping on mahogany could account for.

  Her hair had been unpinned and combed, she realized. She examined the surface of the table. Its sheen was unmarred. Her hair and clothes had dried—but not there. That single fact made her feel worse than all the rest together.

  She considered shouting. If Tyrian were close enough to hear her shout through a locked door, he was probably close enough to be curious about a locked door without a shout. And anyone else, anyone who might be concerned enough about her waking to leave two full candelabra burning, might be close enough to hear a shout too. She was reluctant to attract that kind of attention.

  Faris watched the wax melt down the candle and thought of the books she had read at Greenlaw, tales of the Great Shout, which could open every lock in a kingdom. Jane had tried it with no success one summer afternoon, and had bullied Faris into trying, too. Faris had no more aptitude for the Great Shout than for any other kind of intentional magic. She seemed capable only of accidental magic, the kind that changed matters for the worse.

  Perception, Hilarion had told her, and will
. Faris stared pensively at the door latch. She perceived the door was locked. Unlock, she thought. Open. Let me OUT. I don’t like this place. UNLOCK!

  The latch moved. Faris felt her heart jerk against her ribs. The door swung slowly inward. Then Faris saw the hand on the other side of the latch and looked up to see a slim young man watching her.

  “Oh, excellent. You’re awake.” Istvan Graelent stepped into the room so gracefully that his boots did not make a sound on the cracked mud. He had changed out of his evening attire into plain clothing, cheaply made, save for his spotless white linen shirt and his boots, which had been good once, though much mended now. “I hope you slept well.”

  Faris stared at him as she considered asking questions: Where is Tyrian? Where am I? Why MUD?

  Instead she said, warily, “Good morning. I assume it is still morning?”

  Graelent smiled at her and set about relighting all the candles. “Morning again, I’m afraid. It is seven o’clock. Unfashionably early, but I thought you might like breakfast.” He held out his hand to Faris. “Would you?”

  Faris hesitated, then put her hand in his and slid down from the table. “If you let your guests sleep in your banquet chamber, I suppose you must serve breakfast in the dormitory.”

  He handed one candelabrum to her and took the other himself. “In fact, I do. You grasped our mad methods with ease; I commend you. You’ll do well here.”

  “Here,” repeated Faris. She did not follow his step toward the door, but he did not release her hand. Instead, as he turned back, she met his look of inquiry with one of her own. “Where is that?”

  “Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end, your grace. Methinks it is no journey.”

  “Thank you for troubling to get my title right this time.”

  His smile was piratical, entirely charming. “When I called you your majesty, it was by design, not by mistake. And we Monarchists intend to call you so again.”