Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart

by Jane Lindskold

  The others were more inured to miracles.

  Derian started tightening girths, slapping the horse's bellies when they tried to hold their breaths. The sound punctuated his words.

  "I've been studying the maps and had a few words with the stablekeeper here. This road goes slightly north around the local fields, then doglegs northeast. Even with the best possible roads, we have at least four days' travel in front of us—probably more."

  Firekeeper gave an impatient leap into the air.

  "Then we go," she said, running a few steps down the indicated road. "We go now."

  Lest their guest think herself too important, Apheros told Grateful Peace to have her wait a full day before he would see her.

  "Let her recall that she is separated from family and friends, that none may recall her to them unless we so will it," the Dragon Speaker said. "Then she will be eager to work with us with the proper humility an apprentice should show a master."

  Privately, Peace didn't think such a small thing could humble Lady Melina. However, in keeping with the spirit of Apheros's command, he himself did not bring Lady Melina the message. Instead he trusted it to Kistlio, an apprentice Illuminator who had reached the top of his form without rising to mastery. Still ambitious, Kistlio now sought advancement by working as a clerk in the Speaker's offices.

  As Kistlio was Peace's own nephew, he encouraged the lad and gave him advantages whenever possible—nobly refusing to hold his sister's childhood tormenting against her son.

  Trusting Kistlio to do his duty, Peace walked the carpeted pathways behind the stone walls of the residence in which Lady Melina had been given a suite. There were peepholes here, perfectly concealed within the shadows of a wall carving, through which he could observe the encounter.

  Lady Melina was alone when the door chime rang, her head bent over a book. She did not move to answer it at once, perhaps accustomed to servants who performed this service. The Dragon Speaker had ruled, however, that she was not to have servants for now—another of his lessons in humility.

  When the chime sounded a second time, Lady Melina sighed, closed the tome, and, tucking it under her arm, crossed to the doorway.

  "Who's there?" she called.

  "A messenger from the most powerful and influential thaumaturge, Grateful Peace," came Kistlio's reply, slightly muted by the weight of the wooden door.

  "Just a moment."

  Lady Melina set the book down and went to work on the door latch. Despite himself, Peace was impressed that she did not—as would be the way with most women and many men-check her appearance. Either she was supremely confident or didn't care what kind of impression she made. Neither boded well for Apheros's intention to humble his guest.

  Kistlio entered promptly when the door was opened. He was a slim youth of thirteen or so, wide-eyed and full-lipped, new enough to shaving his face and foremost head that the ritual remained a delight rather than a trial. He wore the blue-black silk robe of a clerk with poise, shaking the sleeves from his hands with the ease that transforms a routine action into grace.

  He ducked his head in the slight bow that youth always grants to age, but otherwise offered no courtesy.

  "I am here," he announced, the basso flatness that had disqualified him for song making even the most routine words sound portentous, "to inform you on behalf of the thaumaturge Grateful Peace that the Dragon Speaker will be unable to grace you with his presence today. He will see you tomorrow, if possible, the day after perhaps."

  Lady Melina's back was to the peephole, but a provident designer had placed a long mirror near the door so that Peace was able to see in its reflections the slight look of annoyance that touched her features before she could school them into implacability.

  "And what am I to do in the meantime?" she asked a trace sharply.

  "Wait and prepare yourself for the great event," Kistlio suggested pedantically.

  "May I leave this room?"

  "I have no orders on that point, but I will remind you that the snows outside of the building are heavy."

  "I see." Lady Melina turned now and paced toward the window, her steps quick and light. "Then you are suggesting I remain in these rooms."

  "I make no suggestions. I only comment on the weather."

  Peace smiled to himself. Kistlio could go far in the government—even though his lack of rank within a sodality barred him from a seat among the voting representatives.

  "I see," Lady Melina said again. "Very well. I will wait here. My breakfast was brought to me. May I expect other meals as well?"

  "I have no reason to believe not," Kistlio said.

  "However, I lack basic comforts—servants, entertainment, books other than those I brought with me. May I ask you to tell the thaumaturge Grateful Peace that I would like these comforts provided?"

  "You may," Kistlio agreed.

  Peace grinned. Kistlio had only agreed that she might ask—he had not consented to relay the message. He wondered if Lady Melina realized the messenger's game.

  "Thank you," she said after a long pause.

  "I seek only to serve my masters," Kistlio replied.

  Then, after performing another perfectly insulting bow, he withdrew.

  Peace continued to watch, but Lady Melina proved to be supremely boring. After pouring herself the last dregs of what must be cold tea, she reopened her book. As best as Peace could tell, she was reciting lists of verbs in New Kelvinese.

  Lady Melina haunted his thoughts throughout the morning. In the late afternoon, he decided that he would not be violating either the letter or the spirit of the Dragon Speaker's commands if he called on the lady. Indeed, he might learn something of her state of mind.

  Her face when she opened the door ran through a gamut of emotions: pleasure, irritation, and finally mere politeness.

  We wear our face paint for many reasons, Grateful Peace thought, not in the least in that it provides us with a constant mask.

  "Good afternoon, thaumaturge," she said.

  Her New Kelvinese was good but accented, making him unsure if he had imagined a slight stress on the word "afternoon."

  "Good afternoon," he replied. "I have come to see if you are comfortable."

  He did not apologize for his absence to this point. He owed her nothing. Nor did he step around her and into the room. If she wished to scorn him, he would leave and suggest to the Dragon Speaker that her interview be moved to some later date.

  Lady Melina hesitated before replying. Finally, she said:

  "I have had food brought to me, but I am rather lonely. Will you come in and speak with me? I very much enjoyed our long talks on the road from Stone Giant Inn to the capital."

  Grateful Peace smiled. "I have some time before my next duty."

  She ushered him to the grouping of chairs where he had seen her reading. He took a high-backed chair upholstered in red brocade, resting his hands over the carved claws on the armrests. Lady Melina returned to the small couch a short distance away where she had been seated before.

  Peace expected her to begin listing complaints, but she surprised him.

  "On our last day on the road," she said, "you were telling me the theories why magic does not function easily even in New Kelvin, about seals, and about the hopes you entertain for the objects I have brought with me. The artifacts are safe, aren't they?"

  "Very," Peace said. "The Dragon Speaker is having their case examined for traps. At least one has been found and deactivated."

  That last was a lie. The boxes were securely locked and sealed, but there was no evidence of any traps. Still, it didn't hurt for the lady to think there had been.

  "I'm glad to hear they are safe." She leaned forward slightly. "Have you unsealed the individual boxes?"

  "No. We are still examining them."

  Lady Melina's expression became so neutral that Peace imagined her features were merely painted lines; then she animated into polite sociability once more.

  "Tell me," she said, fastening her
pale blue gaze on him, looking deeply into his eyes, "about your hopes for those artifacts. Doubtless I share them as well."

  Peace blinked, feeling a touch light-headed. Then he tugged on his long braid—a gesture that dated back to his earliest days with pen and ink, when a more vigorous shrug might have smeared his work.

  "Very well," he said. "Where did I leave off?"

  "You had told me how your government was structured," she said, "about the Healed One who is your king, about the sodalities who send representatives to counsel him, and about the Dragon Speaker who is the first among these counselors. You also mentioned the theory that the Founders of New Kelvin might have placed a seal against magic over the land in an effort to halt the spread of the plague—what you called the Burning Death."

  "All that," Grateful Peace said with an amused chuckle. "Well, then let me tell you a bit more. I told you that few of our magical artifacts work."

  "That's right," she prompted, "because of this seal."

  Something in her inflection conveyed her doubt. Momentarily angered, Peace snapped:

  "You may doubt me, but let me tell you this. In all… most," he hastily corrected, "cases magic has failed to function within the boundaries of New Kelvin. Even those gifts your people term 'talents' are so rare as to be unknown among us. Where they do occur, the possessors tend to live near the borders of New Kelvin—near the edges of this seal."

  "I am convinced," Lady Melina replied mildly. "Pray, continue."

  Still somewhat angered, the thaumaturge did so.

  "Some of us hold the theory that awakening the magic in those enchanted artifacts which the Founders left behind when they returned to the homeland would be very difficult unless one first found a way to deactivate the seal."

  Lady Melina frowned slightly, but did not interrupt.

  "However," Peace continued, "magical artifacts from another land—such as the three you have brought here—would not have been sealed in the same fashion."

  (Unless, a defeatist voice from deep inside him whispered, the sealing was placed upon the entire region the Founders held, rather than upon specific items. If that is the case, the seal will have barred magic from the land as effectively as rubbing wax into fabric causes it to repel water.)

  He shook his head as if to physically displace the doubts.

  "Quite certainly not," Lady Melina agreed, "unless, of course, they were constructed in New Kelvin. Many of the texts I have consulted say that even before the plague, New Kelvin was known for her deep and abiding interest in sorcery."

  Grateful Peace hid his reaction to this disquieting notion beneath an urbane smile.

  "We cannot know," he said, "until we make the attempt—an attempt I feel certain was made by King Gustin the First or one of his successors. However, their failure need not be ours. Only in New Kelvin were the libraries not burnt; only here was the old knowledge preserved."

  As he prepared to relate his most secret hope, Grateful Peace's heart began beating rapidly, as if he had been running up one of the tightly coiling spiral stairs that led to the Scriptorium.

  "Now," he said, pleased that his tone remained calm and academic, "if we awakened the power of the foreign artifacts might not the force of foreign magic be used to reignite the magic in our native relics?"

  "I begin to understand the magnitude of your hopes," Lady Melina said softly. "You hope for not only the awakening of the magic within these three artifacts, but through them the breaking of the seal placed upon New Kelvin by your Founders."

  Peace nodded eagerly, all his composure lost in contemplation of that wondrous event.

  "I imagine," he said confidingly, staring deeply into those understanding blue eyes, "that the effect would be like lighting a fire from an ember. An ember in itself is not very impressive—hardly more than a grayish lump covered with ash. However, when the ember is touched to tinder its hidden heat is released and the tinder bursts into brilliant flames. These flames leap from point to point, igniting every receptive element that they touch."

  Lady Melina reached forth impulsively and grasped his hand.

  "And you believe I have brought the ember, while New Kelvin is filled with tinder for the fire!"

  Grateful Peace beamed at her, pleased to have discovered such a kindred spirit.

  Peace knew that the Dragon Speaker was an advocate of the ember/tinder theory. Many members of the rising generation, however, scoffed at it. These belonged to what Grateful Peace termed the Defeatist Party—though they viewed themselves as progressives. At first they had been little more than a nuisance, but now with Hawk Haven and Bright Bay vowing to reunite and become a power to rival any in the area, the Defeatists were winning influence.

  The Defeatists had many theories to explain the lack of magic among their people—the Founders' seal was irrevocable; the Founders had drained all the magic from the land in order to fuel their escape from the Burning Death; the former enchantments left by the Founders would work only for their creators.

  They held that the New Kelvinese should forget the past and work on making fresh enchantments—rather than seeking to preserve and awaken the old. Some radical elements said the New Kelvinese should forget magic entirely, and concentrate on mundane technologies. Only this split over which tactic to pursue had kept them from becoming a power to rival the current Dragon Speaker.

  "What you have told me," Lady Melina said, breaking into Peace's thoughts, "makes me eager to begin. Why does the Dragon Speaker delay?"

  So intimate had been their discourse that Peace almost blurted out the truth. Only years of ingrained caution prevented him from doing so.

  "Apheros is a busy man," he said a trace weakly. "Not knowing the precise date of your arrival, he could not schedule an opening. I am certain he will see you tomorrow."

  Lady Melina smiled and pressed Peace's hand—which only then did he realize that she still held within her own. He smoothly extracted it and rose, wanting nothing more than to escape before she could ease the truth from him.

  "I, too, have duties," he said with what he hoped was a courtly—rather than chill—smile. Best to keep her happy.

  "Thank you for taking the time to call on me," Lady Melina replied, rising smoothly from her seat and moving with stately grace toward the door. "So that I might better serve the purposes of the Dragon Speaker, might you arrange for me to have some more books? I have exhausted those I brought with me."

  "They will be in our language," he cautioned.

  "I have been studying most dutifully," she said, "and have a copy of the dictionary the Merchant's Guild supplies to those who wish to trade in New Kelvin."

  He felt warmed by her almost childlike eagerness.

  "I will do what I can," he promised and, indeed, after making his excuses and returning to his office his first task was arranging to have a few basic works on sorcerous theory delivered to her room along with a more comprehensive dictionary. He even arranged for a servant to attend her, at least in limited matters of attire and grooming.

  After all, he justified to himself with a trace of uneasiness, we brought her here to serve our purposes. What good do we do by keeping from her the tools she will need?

  The reasoning was quite sound. Peace wondered why he remained so uncomfortable.

  Chapter XXIII

  The condition of the palms of his hands and the fabric of his breeches, rather than any clear memory, testified to Waln as to the nature of his escape from New Kelvin.

  Dirt had been so thoroughly ground into both—and into his knees where the breeches had become unbuckled, leaving the fabric to ride up. One stocking remained gartered.

  The other drooped around his boot top. The seat of his trousers was stiff with grime. The nature of the dirt fascinated him. Sandy grit had left its mark beneath his skin, tiny black dots like amateur tattooing. There were smears of clay interspersed with sour fecal-smelling material, even small bits of chaff. From these—and smatterings of memory—he deduced that he had hidden
in many an unsavory hole while making his way back to the White Water River.

  Once there he had stowed away in the covered cargo section on one of the ferryboats—he remembered that in detail, including the way his stomach had growled and surged bile up his throat when he dared not pry open one of the crates holding cheeses a few inches from his nose.

  He had dropped overboard when the ferryboat had been dragged onto rollers on the gravel strand at Plum Orchard—no one wanted to unload cargo in the mixture of sleet and rain that began when the ferry was halfway across, but they hadn't trusted the vessel to the unpredictable waters.

  Doubtless the ugly weather had been the best friend Waln could have asked for, but at the time he had cursed the icy water that soaked him seemingly to the very core of his soul. He'd broken into a warehouse near the edge of town. It was mostly empty, thus unguarded.

  Amid the relics stored within he had found a partial case of water-spoiled dried meat, a wedge of elderly cheese, and a partial barrel of sour wine. With rainwater gathered in an old bottle and the bottom of a metal box for a cook pot, he made himself a banquet. There was wood enough to burn from old packing cases and crates. At least the foul weather without meant that he did not need to worry about anyone spotting what smoke eddied out through the warehouse roof.

  Though he ached for respite, Waln left before dawn the next morning. His fever had burned from him, but he could feel it lurking, waiting for an excuse to return. He hiked overland, clinging to the banks of the White Water for guidance and because something deep within him took comfort from the presence of living water.

  Sometimes his fever must have returned because for long stretches he was accompanied by phantoms. Once his mother came and walked with him, mincing her way over the sand and gravel in too-tight shoes. Waln asked her who his father was. She only laughed and vanished.

  From a shack along the riverbanks Waln stole a heavy old coat and an oilcloth hat with a floppy brim. From the line outside a farmhouse he stole a pair of long workman's trousers and a smock. He regartered his stocking with a bit of string and carried those provisions he scrounged in a square of fabric bundled on the end of a stick.