The Smoke-Scented Girl

by Melissa McShane

  The entire spell froze, all movement ceasing in an instant. Evon’s mouth dropped open. “Good Gods,” Piercy said weakly, “did you break it?”

  “Should it not do that?” Miss Haylter asked.

  “Ah....” Evon looked down at Miss Haylter, half-expecting to see her go blue and begin choking due to lack of blood circulation. She seemed only curious and a little uncertain. “Do you feel any pain? Any discomfort or unusual sensations?”

  “I feel just the same,” she said, flexing her fingers. “A little cold, though I don’t think it’s a good idea to light a fire in here. That chimney is probably full of smuts and birds’ nests.”

  “What did you do, Evon?” Piercy asked. He came forward and leaned in so his nose was inches away from one of the unmoving spell-ribbons.

  “Lost my temper, just a little,” Evon said. “I think this spell is sentient.” He mirrored Piercy’s gesture until he was close enough to make out the tiny black runes. They quivered with energy, their edges blurred, but Evon could still make them out. His heart sank. “They don’t mean anything,” he said. “I recognize some of the runes, but they don’t trace out any spell I’m familiar with. They’re more like fragments of spells, but...I’m thinking about this the wrong way.” He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else, give his subconscious time to work out the solution. “How long since the first time you felt the pull, Miss Haylter?” he asked.

  “Almost a year ago,” she said, her voice once again expressionless. It was the sound, he was beginning to realize, her voice took on every time she spoke about the spell. “And I’ve felt compelled to...eleven times now.”

  “We established that there’s no pattern to the...incidents, they aren’t evenly spaced geographically or temporally.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does this have a point, Evon?” Piercy said.

  “I’m just lining up everything we’ve learned. I beg your pardon if this is painful, Miss Haylter.”

  “No more painful than being pulled apart and put back together again.”

  Evon’s eyes flew open. “Are you speaking literally?”

  She shrugged. “It’s how it feels to me. The fire destroys me the way it does my victim. And then I come back together.” Her tone was flatter than ever.

  Evon leaned over and traced the curve of one of the spell-ribbons. “They aren’t fragments,” he said, “they’re links in a chain. No, a chain mesh. Each link is broken and it makes a spell when it comes together with another link, or several links. They break and reform dozens of times a minute. This is extraordinary. Miss Haylter, the—” He saw her face. “I beg your pardon,” he said more quietly, “I’m being insensitive again.”

  “I’m starting to think you might be able to remove this thing from me,” she said with that tiny, fleeting smile. “Be as insensitive as you like.”

  Evon felt his cheeks redden. “Well, um, it’s just that the ribbons, Miss Haylter, they are how the spell...remembers you. It’s how it’s able to...reassemble you after...it destroys you. And the runes are...I’m not exactly sure yet, they seem to do so many things, but I imagine they decide where you should go and who you should find, and how to know when you’ve reached your destination to trigger the event. If I could read the runes more completely, I could be more specific. Whoever invented this spell created hundreds of new runes to do it, which is simply unheard of. Are you certain you can’t remember this being done to you? A loss of time, perhaps, or an unexpectedly long sleep, or an encounter with a stranger?”

  She shook her head. The smoky blue ribbons turned with her, their edges starting to quiver like the runes. “Nothing like that. I was just a barmaid in a small northern town, no one who would stand out at all.”

  Evon regarded that beautiful face, her graceful limbs, and thought her assessment was highly unlikely, but he said, “I think the chances of you simply waking up one morning with this spell fizzing through your veins are remote. And yet I can’t come up with any other explanation. You didn’t have any remarkable ancestors?”

  She shook her head again. “Perfectly ordinary.”

  “As far as you know,” Piercy pointed out. “How many of us can trace our ancestors back more than a handful of generations?”

  “You can,” Evon said.

  Piercy waved his hand dismissively. “My family is hardly representative. And some of our proudest connections may be spurious, which simply proves my point. You, Miss Haylter, may well be descended from some great magician of yore, but we have no way of proving it. Which makes it irrelevant, Evon.”

  “True.” Evon examined the quivering runes again. “How odd. They’re—” The spell jerked into motion, and Evon flinched, bracing himself for the furious spell to lash out at him, wrap its tendrils around his neck and choke the air from his body in retaliation. Instead, the spell-ribbons resumed their slow orbits as if they’d never stopped. Evon blinked in astonishment. “I’ve never seen anything break desini cucurri before. It’s as if the spell was straining against it until it gave. That speaks to a remarkable amount of power...well, of course, if it’s capable of burning someone to ash, it would have to have a lot of power.” He cast desini cucurri again, and stood staring at the unmoving spell. “I’m starting to wonder about the creator of the spell. This is quite intricate and yet quite specific. I know of no one who could have created it, and certainly no one who’d have created it and not taken credit.”

  “It does murder people, even if they happen to be deserving, Lore. That might put a damper on the fellow’s desire for the accolades of his peers.”

  “True. But I think you should suggest that your people start looking for the magician, now that we know it’s not Miss Haylter here.” He smiled at her, he hoped reassuringly, and she gazed back at him. Her eyes were once again emotionless, and his smile faded as his last exchange with Piercy replayed itself in his head. Do you need a dictionary so you’ll understand the concept of insensitivity when you see it next, Lorantis? “I’m sorry,” he began, then cleared his throat. “All right. I think I can try to remove it.”

  “With that cursory examination? Evon—” Piercy began.

  “It’s in two clear pieces. If I can...I think the best way to describe it is that I’ll remove its memory of you, Miss Haylter. The spell will still exist, but it won’t have any connection to you. And then I can figure out what to do with it once you’re free.”

  Her hazel eyes met his. “Do it,” she said.

  Evon sat cross-legged before her and held out his hands. She put her hands in his without further prompting. “This could hurt,” he warned her. “And at the risk of unnerving you, I’m not as certain about this as I sound.”

  “You have no idea what pain is,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  With another jerk, the spell-ribbons snapped back into motion. Evon withdrew his hands from Miss Haylter’s, thinking to cast desini cucurri again, but the writhing, looping movements made him hesitate. Leaving it free—and he was unnerved all over again at how easy it was to think of the spell as a living creature—might make it more difficult to focus his magic on the spell, but instinct told him that it needed to be in motion if this plan of his was to have any chance of working. He grasped Miss Haylter’s hands and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  The spell-ribbons continued to flow over Miss Haylter’s hands, looping through Evon’s rather than passing around them. He felt nothing, not cold or pain or even the brush of the flexible matter they appeared to be made of. Well, they were linked to Miss Haylter’s body; perhaps they would respond to a variant on a healing spell. He focused on one no thinner than a strand of yarn that darted up and down her index finger and blinked twice, slowly. “Vertiri.”

  Every ribbon stopped moving at once, but where desini cucurri had frozen them all in place, they now seemed alert, as if they were listening for what he might say next. Evon held his breath. He’d meant only to prepare that one piece of the spell to be altered, but somehow
he’d hit on something far more powerful. Might as well try it, he thought, and encompassed the entire spell in his gaze. Miss Haylter’s eyes were closed, her fingers gripping his loosely; she was far more composed than he. Evon took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “Frigo.”

  A faint taste of lemon passed over his tongue. The ribbons of blue light expanded, stretching width-wise like dough as they pulled away from their orbits. The blue light went from dull to sunlight-bright in an instant. And Miss Haylter crushed Evon’s hands in hers, her nails cutting into his palms, and screamed as if he’d knifed her through the heart.

  Chapter Seven

  “Desini! Desini desini!” Evon screamed, his voice cutting across Miss Haylter’s. Miss Haylter ripped her hands from his and scrambled backward until she hit the wall, kicking her feet as if trying to force her way through it, scrabbling at it with her nails. She’d stopped screaming and her voice now came in short, whimpering grunts. Her eyes were wide, the irises completely encircled by white, and Evon didn’t think she could see either him or Piercy. Evon hesitated, torn by the need to provide comfort and reassurance to someone in distress and the awareness that he’d been the one to cause that distress. “Piercy,” he whispered.

  “Don’t,” Piercy said, and crossed the room to crouch at the woman’s side. “Miss Haylter,” he said quietly, “can you hear me? Just try to breathe. This will pass. Just breathe.”

  To Evon’s surprise, Miss Haylter nodded. Her eyes were still fixed wide open, but her fingers stopped scratching at the wall and her breathing began to steady. Piercy continued to murmur to her as she began to relax, and Evon, cursing himself, turned and went into the kitchen. He’d been so stupidly confident, so eager to prove himself to this injured young woman, and he’d just made things worse. She would never trust him again—not that it mattered, since the spell was clearly beyond his abilities. He looked at his palms. They were marked with sore red crescents, blood seeping from one of them. Compared to what she’d felt, it was nothing. He rubbed his thumb across one row of them. A reminder that Evon Lorantis wasn’t nearly the magician he claimed to be.

  “Evon,” Piercy said from the other room, and Evon steeled himself for whatever look might be in Miss Haylter’s eyes now. Anger? Fear? Contempt? He went through the door and saw the two of them standing together in the center of the room next to the scuffed coppery circle.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Haylter, I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he began.

  “You didn’t hurt me, Mr. Lorantis,” she said. “I was terrified. I didn’t think I had it in me to feel anything, after all these months. I wish I could tell you what I was afraid of. Maybe...if it’s true that this spell is aware of us, maybe it was its fear I felt. I just want you to know I don’t blame you for anything. It was...kind of you to try.” She was more animated than he’d seen her before, which still meant her words came from a core of stillness so profound she made everyone around her look manic. She held out her hand to him, and, stunned, he extended his own, but she jerked away before he could clasp her hand. “Did I do that to you?” she asked.

  Evon turned his right hand palm-up to display the bloody crescents. In his surprise, he’d forgotten about them. “It’s nothing.”

  “I’m sorry.” They both stared at his hand for a moment, then Miss Haylter gathered her cloak around her and said, “I do appreciate your efforts,” and turned to leave the house. Evon and Piercy both jumped. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss Haylter,” Piercy said, putting his hand over hers where she grasped the door latch.

  “You can’t help me,” she said, a statement of fact rather than an accusation.

  “But Speculatus is still after you,” Evon said.

  “They can’t hurt me.”

  “I wish that were true,” Piercy said. “They will do whatever they can to learn the secrets of that spell, and they will certainly not care how you suffer in the process.”

  “And, forgive me for being callous, but Piercy and I are determined to understand the spell ourselves, and keeping it out of Speculatus’s grasp is just as important,” Evon said.

  “You think of me as a tool,” she said, regarding Evon with an expression verging on anger.

  “No, I think of you as a woman caught up in unfortunate circumstances. I admit there’s a great deal I don’t understand about that spell that has you tangled up inside it, but I’m positive it’s self-aware, which means that if anyone thinks of you as a tool, it’s the spell. Miss Haylter, I failed just now because I was too arrogant to give that spell the analysis needed. I won’t make that mistake again. The spell is separate from you and it can be removed. I just don’t know how yet.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You couldn’t kill me, remember? And what other options do you have? You could go on as you have been, dragged all over the Gods’ creation and forced to kill according to the spell’s whim. You could wait for Speculatus to grab you. Or you could give me another opportunity to figure this out.” Evon closed his aching fists. “I wish I could swear to you that I can free you. But all I can promise is that I’ll do my utmost, and this last failure aside, my utmost has always been excellent before.”

  Miss Haylter’s anger had been replaced by that same unreadable impassivity. “And what will you do if the urge comes on me before you’ve unraveled the spell?”

  “Follow you. Cast a better shield.” Evon smiled. “Bring you a spare dress?”

  The tiny smile touched her lips and was gone, but even that brief glimpse eased Evon’s heart. “If I say no, you’ll just follow me anyway,” she said.

  “How observant of you, Miss Haylter,” Piercy said. “Lore is the most stubborn and obsessive man I’ve ever known, and those are some of his best qualities.”

  “You told me I was merely very focused,” Evon objected.

  “I only said that to keep you from falling into despair.”

  “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you.”

  “You will give Miss Haylter an entirely wrong impression of yourself if you strike me.” Piercy straightened his overcoat and brushed his hair back from his head. “Why don’t we all go back to the capital and bring in a few more magicians on this problem? You might be the preeminent magician of your generation, Evon, but more minds ought to make light work, yes?”

  Evon exchanged glances with Miss Haylter. “If I’m trapped there when the urge strikes, the explosion will be worse. I’d just be a danger to all those people,” she said.

  “True. I’d forgotten,” Piercy said. “I wish we knew how Odelia found Miss Haylter back at the inn. I’m not certain whether we are safer finding secure lodgings or staying on the move. I take it you don’t feel the...urge...now, Miss Haylter? No?” He scuffed at the floorboards with the toe of his boot, now badly in need of a polish. “All things considered, I think we are better off in a city, at least for the moment. I can find us defensible lodgings and provide some security while you do whatever it is you do, Lore. Will Calian do? I believe it’s the next large city south of Inveros.”

  “Does south matter?” Miss Haylter asked.

  They both stared at her. “You’ve been moving steadily south this whole time. We assumed you had a reason,” Evon said.

  She shrugged. “There were other things on my mind.” Her voice had gone flat again, and Evon’s heart sank. He’d hoped having companions, having the possibility of being free from this life, might give her some hope. It was stupid of him to think that a year of guilt and agony could be so easily erased.

  “Well,” Piercy said, sounding as uncomfortable as Evon felt, “if we get on the road now, we can reach Calian just an hour after sunset. Is that acceptable to you, Miss Haylter?”

  Miss Haylter shrugged again. “Not to sound ungrateful, but as you pointed out, Mr. Lorantis, I don’t have any other options.” But she smiled as she said it.

  Snow was falling when they left the farmhouse, sleety wet drops that only barely qualified as snow by be
ing too thick for rain. They mounted up, Miss Haylter riding behind Evon this time, and retraced their steps past Inveros and on down the coast road. Miss Haylter rode with her arms clasped lightly around Evon’s waist, which made him self-conscious. He hadn’t been this close to a woman, even platonically, in years. He really had become isolated. Someday, when this was all over, he would ask Piercy to introduce him to one of his many young women. Lancie Bierter, possibly, or Shelena Gerantis—no, he’d heard she was engaged to Biffy Valatertis. How old Biffy had gotten someone that attractive to even look in his direction was a mystery. The horse jogged left to avoid a pothole, and Miss Haylter clutched at his waist more tightly for a moment, but said nothing. She was well-spoken for someone who’d been only a barmaid. He wondered if she’d left anyone behind, wherever it was she came from. Family, friends, a beau—given her appearance, that was probably beaux plural. How had she come under this spell, anyway? One more thing to investigate, though he thought it likely that unravelling the how would point directly at the who. And then he would track down the spell’s creator and shake that magician into teeth-rattling submission. The whole thing spoke to such incomprehensible arrogance that thinking about it infuriated him.

  It was full dark when they reached the city, worn out and soaked through, and even Piercy was happy to stop at the first inn they passed. Evon took one look at Miss Haylter’s face when he helped her down from the horse and all thoughts of research fled. “A room with a bath for my sister,” he told the man at the desk, “and another room for my friend and me.” He removed his hat and a thin trickle of water poured over the brim and onto the black and white diamonds tiling the entry hall, mingling with the brown sludgy water he’d tracked in from the yard. The desk clerk’s expression was clearly visible in the light from hundreds of walnut-sized orbs decorating the wrought-iron lamp that hung from the ceiling, two stories tall. Evon stiffened his spine and glared coldly back. As if the kind of patrons this man was accustomed to never were caught in the snow or had to trudge through the yard muck...all right, they probably had minions to do their trudging for them, but they were as human as anyone else, and Evon’s money was just as good. Well. Miss Elltis’s money was just as good.