Firekeeper blinked at the drawing, tilting her head slightly as if willing her mind to accept the representation. Then she smiled.
"Yes! That is more like, but this is—what?—maybe one half?"
"About a half," Edlin agreed. "I can't draw the entire spire in one drawing. It doesn't really have sides—not like a house does—but there's more to it than I can show. I could make a model…"
He selected a piece of paper and drew what to Derian's eyes seemed like a few random lines; then he rolled it into a cylinder and set it on one end. The lines marked where the windows were on the tower.
Firekeeper hit her thigh in a sharp clap of applause.
"I see!" she crowed.
"That's right," Edlin said approvingly, letting the cylinder fall flat again. "But for what we need, it's better to be less literal. It's hard to make notes on something standing up and harder still to read them, right?"
"Right," Firekeeper agreed firmly.
It was apparent to Derian that Edlin had just leapt again in her estimation—perhaps even higher than he had done after their skirmish with the bandits. After all, Edlin had been helpful, but she and Blind Seer were proven the more effective fighters. Human arts, especially when they were useful ones, impressed the wolf-woman more.
Feeling slightly unsettled, Derian wondered if Edlin might actually succeed in his irregular courtship of his peculiar adopted sister. Certainly, for all his foolish mannerisms, Edlin had noticed what Firekeeper liked and was playing to those likings.
Unbidden, Derian remembered how the wolf-woman's lips had brushed his cheek when she had departed for the western wilds. Derian fought down the memory, forcing himself to consider what Earl Kestrel would think if Edlin actually won Firekeeper's hand—for surely that reaction mattered more than what Derian himself might think or feel.
Seeking distraction from these uncomfortable thoughts, Derian glanced to where Blind Seer rested on the hearth rug, head on paws, blue eyes fixed unwinkingly on the young lord. Derian felt an uneasy surge of fear as he tried to decide what Blind Seer might feel about the idea of his pack mate joining with a human.
The giant wolf had become such a usual part of Derian's day that the young man no longer really saw him. He forced himself to do so now and felt his blood chill. Weeks of travel had honed away the fat the wolf had accumulated through easy living in the cities. Even through a thick winter coat, muscle was evident. As if sensing Derian's inspection, the wolf yawned in lazy arrogance, showing gleaming fangs set in jaws that could break a man's arm as a afterthought.
Derian felt visceral, atavistic fear flow through him. Looking upon Blind Seer, even though tie wolf was at rest, he knew who was the hunter, who was the prey.
It seemed to Derian, as he watched Blind Seer's gaze, never wavering from Edlin Norwood, that Blind Seer knew so, too.
The possible secrets of the comb were the matter under discussion that day, two days after Lady Melina and her associates had reported their success with the mirror.
On the day that had followed the initial report, the mirror, yielding to a complex series of rituals, had revealed itself as a device for scrying. Its range, however, appeared to be limited both by distance and by the scryer's own knowledge of the area being scried.
Despite this evident limitation, success—as heady as any drink distilled or brewed—kept the researchers working night and day. Some felt that the right combination of powders would increase the mirror's range, others felt certain that the mirror possessed other powers whose secrets they would learn in time.
Following the lead of those who had been working with the mirror, the team dedicated to the ring had begun mixing various powders and secreting them in a minute compartment that had been discovered when the moonstone was slid free from its setting in the beast's jaws.
Once or twice, the stone had glowed with a pale, eldritch light, thus encouraging the researchers in their belief that—as with the mirror—the proper powders combined with the right words or the correct manipulation of the ring itself would grant them success.
The comb, however, had stubbornly refused to yield anything to those who had set themselves to discover the manner of its workings. Pry as they might, they could find no compartment into which an energizing powder might be placed.
Stoneworkers from among the most skilled members of the Sodality of Lapidaries had been called in to offer their opinions as to what material the comb might have been crafted from.
After some study, these had insisted that the material was both stone and plant—simply put, a plant that had been transformed into stone. They even claimed that originally the wood had been some form of oak, thus gaining the ire of the botanically minded among the researchers, who resented their arrogant certainty.
Moreover, there were those who insisted that this muddled the entire question of which type of spells were applicable. The first Healed One had dictated great volumes on the ways and traditions of magic. He had even broken with the long-established traditions of the Founders and set down some spells in writing.
Usually, as was the nearly universal custom of the colonial powers, those colonists who had shown promise in the magical arts had been sent back to the Old Country to be taught. They were only permitted to return home once they were initiated and their tongues sealed so that they might not unwittingly reveal that which would be dangerous to the untutored.
However, all of the material set down by the Healed One was firmly based on a single foundation—that magical power was best understood when studied in discrete units. These units had become the basis for the thirteen sodalities. Unhappily for those who must work with the comb, the fact that it was made of both stone and yet somehow of wood meant that it crossed the boundaries of two sodalities—the Lapidaries and the Herbalists—and these were jealous of their secrets.
Had it been the Lapidaries and the Smiths who had been so challenged there probably would not have been as many difficulties. These sodalities considered themselves closely allied. Among those who worked with the earth and those who worked with that which grew from it, however, there was a long rivalry, its origins lost in the days of reestablishment following the Burning Death.
Impatient with delays, the Dragon Speaker had commanded that these differences be set aside. Acidly, Apheros had reminded them that the teams working on the mirror and ring had progress to show whereas those who had devoted themselves to the comb had nothing.
Lady Melina had insinuated herself into this meeting by offering her services as a mediator between factions. Even had she not ensorcelled many of those involved, Peace thought sourly, her offer would have been accepted. The truth was, it was a good offer—a wise offer—for she alone stood outside of these rivalries and could not be said to entertain favoritism even by extension or alliance.
Peace himself was present in his role as a member of the Dragon's Three. He noted with a certain degree of ironic detachment that Lady Melina had begun to treat him with a touch more interest and deference. One of her tools, he supposed, must have told her precisely who the Dragon's Three were and how influential they could be.
Grateful Peace forced himself to be courteous to Lady Melina even though in reality her very proximity made his blood crawl. Claiming a touch of snow-blindness, he had taken to wearing tinted glasses even when indoors. The sensation of dwelling in ever-present twilight was a fair price to pay for the assurance that Lady Melina would experience some difficulty if she tried locking her gaze with his.
Moreover, the glasses made it easier for Peace to do the watching which was his primary role in Apheros's power system. Behind the tinted glass, his gaze might be resting anywhere, creating the impression that he was always watching. Honestly, he was a bit sorry that he hadn't thought of the idea before.
"I recall a tale," said old Columi, the round-bodied, round-headed emeritus of the Sodality of Lapidaries, " 'twas but a child's tale, but it 'twas about a comb and may have some bearing on this matter."
Urged on by the other members of the team, Columi went on:
"It was about a princess," he said, "or some such royal lady. She was in flight from enemies. I don't recall quite how it came about, but she had been forced to flee with little but what she had on her person. One of these things was a comb."
"A magical comb?" asked one of the listeners eagerly.
"The story doesn't precisely say," Columi admitted, "but it must have been one, for when the princess's pursuers—I'm fairly sure it was a princess, but it might have been a queen—drew close, she took the comb from her pocket and flung it down behind her steed. From where the comb fell, a mighty forest all of oaks, each growing as close to the other as the teeth had been on the comb, sprang into existence."
Peace watched with a trace of amusement as a half-dozen sets of eyes—Lady Melina's included—looked with a certain degree of respect upon the comb that rested on the center of the council table.
"And?" prompted Nelm of the Herbalists. "And what happened next?"
Columi looked at him in astonishment.
"Why the queen—or princess—escaped, at least for a time. She had to work other tricks before she got completely clear of the bad lot who were after her."
"And the forest—the oak forest out of the comb," asked sweet-faced Kalvinia of the Sericulturalists, "did the forest remain thereafter?"
Columi frowned. "Don't recall. Don't think the tale says. Do you think it matters?"
"It might," Kalvinia replied, twirling around her fingers a braid of hair as light and as delicate as her own silk, "if the comb's powers can only work once. It would prove difficult if we suddenly had a forest burst into being in the middle of this tower room."
"Now, I don't precisely see…" Nelm was beginning, when there came a knock on the door.
They were holding their conference in a room on the second level of the Granite Tower. It was a large room, roughly half the breadth of the tower itself. Naturally it was rounded except for a single long, straight wall. The door to the central corridor was in this wall, and even as Nelm rose to answer the knock, the door was opened from without.
Young Kistlio, the former Illuminator and Peace's own sometime assistant, stood without. In the days that had passed since his own awareness of Lady Melina's powers had solidified, Peace had singled out Kistlio as one of those most completely under the foreign woman's power.
Where once he had been cool and aloof to her as was proper and correct, Kistlio now fawned. Peace did not know whether this meant that his nephew's mind or will or whatever it was that Lady Melina affected with her spells was weaker than the norm, or whether the woman had employed greater force in his enchantment.
A few others had commented on Kistlio's evident devotion to his new mistress. Many thought that this was precisely because she was the youth's mistress—in a far more carnal sense than was formally meant by the term.
Peace, however, had spent enough time spying on Lady Melina to feel fairly certain that whatever she did to assure Kistlio's excellent service, sexual favors were not included.
Indeed, she seemed as chaste as a winter snowbank—a thing that had disappointed the thaumaturge, for he had hoped to use her sexual activities to create resentment and anger between those she favored, and even between those she did not.
Kistlio burst into the room with a physical energy that reminded Grateful Peace just how young he was. The sleeves of his blue-black robe fluttered with the wind of his passage. His face, painted in a routine white on black geometric pattern assumed when on errands and the like, showed a slight smudging along one cheek, as if Kistlio had forgotten to school his hands.
This shocked Peace. Learning to never touch one's face in a fashion that might damage the paint was one of the earliest lessons any civilized person was taught. Even in rural areas where semipermanent stains were more common than the elaborate paints used by those who followed more intellectual pursuits, the mannerisms persisted and, indeed, were considered the first mark of good breeding.
Of course, he could have been jostled in a crowd, Peace thought, trying to comfort himself. He was fond of Kistlio. The boy had potential. That Lady Melina might ruin him…
Unbidden the image rose to mind of two small severed fingers, peach-colored crescents reduced to stinking ash.
"Lady Melina," cried Kistlio, all but flinging himself at her feet, "I bring you great news!"
Lady Melina, who had not spoken through all the long discussion except when a word was needed to turn away some bit of bickering, now turned to the boy.
"Stand straight," she said a trace severely, then softening added, "Now, what news is it you have for me?"
"Some of your countrymen have come to Dragon's Breath," Kistlio said proudly. "One at least is a sorcerer—though I am sure not of as great power as yourself. This one is a healer and all the city is singing his praises, for at a touch bones knit of themselves and wounds cease to bleed."
Lady Melina looked less than delighted at this news, but Kistlio did not seem to notice. Indeed, Peace noted that although there were several people of rank and merit in the chamber—himself included—Kistlio spoke as if no one were present except for Lady Melina.
"I heard of these strangers in the marketplace," the boy continued, "and went to look upon them. Other than the healer, there seems to be one other with power. She is a young woman, hardly more than a girl, and from what those living nearby told me she commands fearsome, beasts—even as legend says those with the power of beast lore once did."
Although Peace kept his head angled as if watching only the boy, his gaze was on Lady Melina's face. The red stain she wore after the custom of New Kelvin kept him from reading her complexion, but he could have sworn that she shook—though whether in fury or in fear he could not be sure.
"And why do you tell me this?" Lady Melina asked, her voice unnaturally calm. "Surely there have been those from my country come here before."
Kistlio faltered, as if for the first time realizing that his news might be less than welcome.
And so he might have had the sense to consider, Peace thought bitterly, had you not taken his will, Lady Melina. But when you steal will and mind, you steal sense as well. I "I thought," the boy floundered, then continued more steadily, "I thought that the great lady might have use for those who, like her, practice the ways of foreign magic. I thought she might harness their powers to hers and make them serve her for her greater glory and for the glory of our land."
Lady Melina regained her composure during this brave little speech. Reaching out, she patted Kistlio on one shoulder.
"You have confused mere talent with art," she said gently. "These who you have seen possess something that is not common in my land but is not unheard of either. These talents are born into a person as might be eye color or perfect pitch or some other natural thing. Although talents have the semblance of sorcery, they are no more sorcerous than is the perfectly repeated song of a nightingale.
"Have you forgotten," Lady Melina asked, her tone taking on just a hint of reprimand, "that the study of sorcery is forbidden in Hawk Haven? I myself have been the solitary scholar of what is seen there as a horrid and dreadful art. So, my boy, I thank you for these tidings, but I do not believe I can turn these visitors to our use."
Kistlio gave Lady Melina a deep bow, one that signified not only acknowledgment of her words but his heartfelt relief at being forgiven.
He began to back away, anticipating dismissal. Lady Melina signified that she would have him wait.
"Tell me," she said, her tones as soft yet as binding as a silken cord, "tell me, did you learn the names of these strangers? Since they are from Hawk Haven, they may be known to me."
"Sir Jared Surcliffe is the healer," Kistlio replied, a trace of his earlier pleasure in bearing her news making his lips stumble over the unfamiliar syllables. "The one with the gift for beast lore…"
"No lore," corrected Lady Melina gently, "merely an affinity. Indeed, if I know the one of whom you s
peak, she is nearly a beast herself, poor, mad child."
"This mad woman," Kistlio continued obediently, "is called the Firekeeper."
"So I guessed," Lady Melina hissed. "I have met her before. Do these two have comrades?"
"Several," Kistlio confirmed. He looked a trace unhappy. "Though I did not get their names, gracious lady."
"I may be able to guess," Lady Melina said, "but I would be pleased if you learn them for me. Do not say for whom you ask—simply ask."
"That should be easy, Lady Melina," the boy said. "All their neighbors delight in speaking of them. They say having foreigners on their street is the best amusement winter can offer. One never knows what strange thing they will do next."
Lady Melina frowned at this. Doubtless she could not forget that she, too, was a foreigner, for all her mimicking of civilized ways. Perhaps she wondered what entertainment she might provide for an idle moment's gossip.
"Learn the foreigners' names," she commanded. "Now leave us. Our small business has interrupted my distinguished hosts and colleagues long enough."
For the first time, Kistlio seemed to see those assembled—all of them of sufficient importance to merit his deepest respect at other times. He swept them collectively a deep bow, granted Lady Melina yet another obeisance, and left.
Although the door into the corridor was thick, Peace imagined he could hear the boy's booted feet running down the corridor. Doubtless he was heading outside once more, never mind the cold and the gathering dusk.
"I humbly apologize," Lady Melina said, displaying a convincing facsimile of just those emotions. "Shall we continue?"
As if they were puppets on a stage set, the team members picked up their discussion nearly where it had left off.
"As I was saying," Nelm said, "I don't precisely see how this tale Columi just told us relates to our specific problem. Does he wish us to throw down the comb? What words should we say? Must we be pursued by enemies to make the magic work? Would it only work for a woman?"
Kalvinia immediately began to reply but Peace did not bother to listen. He could not escape the feeling that something important had just passed.
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