Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Ghorn turned back to Chor’lhanhz and kicked the man’s sword from his feebly clutching hand. The Warden still lived, but would not do so for much longer. Ghorn knelt down and turned the Knight-Commander’s head so that he could look directly into the man’s eyes.

  “Who did you sell yourself to, Chor’lhanhz?” he demanded.

  The dying man’s mouth worked and then words escaped with the last of his breath. “. . . I serve the victor…the Phaelle’n will make me Prince. . .”

  Ghorn rose and turned from the corpse. “Come with me, Legate. We have to reach the Prince.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Lady Rhavaelei strode confidently down the Main Hall, her long legs striking her heels down on the patterned marble with determined sharpness. Some walked softly in this great hall, trying to mute the bounding echoes. She embraced them; she wanted people to know she was coming.

  She had taken an unaccustomedly abbreviated lunch, wanting to minimize her absence from the debate still simmering in the throne room. Her sense of the current demeanor of the Senate was that some of her esteemed colleagues might be tempted to promote a consensus without her aid. This was simply unacceptable. Despite being thwarted earlier by the insane antics of that imbecile Hhrahld, she felt confident that she controlled enough votes to get herself appointed to the committee that would negotiate the peace. Some accommodation would have to be made with the Brotherhood of Phaelle, perhaps even setting aside the ruling house and some of the more intransigent nobles, but she had no doubt that her family’s estates could be preserved. Indemnities might have to be paid and ships rebuilt, but trade would continue as it always had. Given enough time, she had no doubt that she could gain her rightful place in the new order.

  Her maid, Khea, and Drehvor, her scribe, followed, hurrying to keep up. Trailing at a discreet distance, Legate Gheo and Fugleman Szref, her bodyguards from the guard troop of her family’s House of Trajhen, watched with a cold intensity that they would have lacked only two days before.

  It was only luck that she had any attendants at all. Most of the senators were destitute, their houses and monies now under Phaelle’n control. Several were even camped in the streets like commoners!

  The day of the Phaelle’n attack – it seemed so strange to think that it was only yesterday – she had been lounging in her apartment on the upper Golden Way here in the Citadel, not three hundred steps from the Palace. She maintained the apartment for convenience’s sake when the Senate was in session. Of late, it had provided a base from which to launch her efforts to gain influence with the entrenched Palace staff. Her most recent sortie had involved attempts to negotiate a liaison -– financial or otherwise – with the High Warden. Not greatly to her surprise, Chor’lhanhz had unequivocally rebuffed her overtures.

  Perhaps it was finally time for her to submit to her family’s increasingly insistent demands that she negotiate a marriage with another powerful family? She was not vain enough to indulge in self-delusion. She was no longer young and she could seldom any longer snare a man’s eyes simply by drawing a breath. Though diligent in her eating habits and attire, within a few years the inescapable march of time would begin to diminish her marketability. At present, she knew of several potential matches that would give her control of considerable fortunes as well as significant social ties.

  Of course, that presupposed that this situation with the Phaelle’n could be resolved.

  When word of the attack came, she had been packing to move back to her more spacious quarters in the Trajhen villa in the Old Merchant Quarter. If she had finished only an hour sooner she would have been riding in her carriage through the city proper and been trapped in the midst of the fighting.

  “Drehvor.”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Note that I wish to mount a large diner tomorrow night. Have the steward investigate the availability of suitable –“

  Rhavaelei stopped so abruptly that Khea bumped into her. The young woman stepped back instantly, stammering apologies, then screamed.

  From the anteroom just fifty steps away, a dozen men, dressed in darkened chainmail and black battle leathers had appeared. These sighted Rhavaelei’s party instantly and broke into a run, swords drawn.

  Gheo and Szref snatched their own weapons from their belts and dashed in front of Rhavaelei.

  “Run, my lady!” the legate urged tightly. “They’re Phaelle’n!”

  Rhavaelei’s jaw dropped. It was true. All of the advancing armsmen wore the distinctive hood of the Brotherhood. Spinning in instant decision, she hiked her long skirts to her thighs and fled, dancing awkwardly in mid-step to fling away the heeled sandals that matched her gown. Swords clashed behind her.

  Knowing that her only chance of escape was to sacrifice her attendants to delay the Monks, she quickly outdistanced Khea and Drehvor, sprinting into the Great Hall and on into the Rotunda of the Rose. The armsmen of the Palace Guard normally to be found there were missing, and the unexpected vacancies almost gave her pause. Far behind, Khea screamed again and then her scream ended with frightening abruptness. Rhavaelei put on a burst of speed, her breath surging from her rasping throat, and leapt up the closest stairway, vaulting steps two at a time. By the time she reached the highest floor in the tower, she felt as if her legs would fold from exhaustion and her madly beating heart threatened to burst from her chest.

  She caught hold of a banister for support, sagging, and whipped her head about to look down the spiral stairwell. She could see only part way to the floor below, but did not detect any sounds of pursuit.

  Her only option was to hide. There was no exit from any of the towers – she thought she was in south tower, but was not certain – but through the Rotunda. If she could stay out of sight long enough and avoid capture, surely the forces of the city would overcome the Phaelle’n assassins. Unless the Citadel was already taken? How else could the Black Monks have reached the Palace?

  Mind racing, she turned about and advanced on unsteady legs across the final landing into the short cross-corridor beyond. She knew from her recent discussions with Chor’lhanhz that the south tower was unoccupied for the most part, especially the upper floors. To her left were three closed and most likely locked doors, but to her right, the door at the end stood slightly open.

  Keeping her steps light to avoid unnecessary noise, she hurried toward the door and slipped inside. One quick look informed her that the room was a rather meanly furnished bedchamber.

  A barrel-shaped armsman, more fat than muscle, rose from a table spread with a meal -- a mostly consumed butt of ham, a quarter round of cheese, some bread, a bowl of fruit, and a pitcher and glasses. He wore the livery and badges of Lord Ghorn’s House Guard. What little hair he had was white. He stuck out a meaty hand. “Here now, you can’t be coming in here, my lady. No entry by order of the Prince-Commander.”

  A tall girl, dressed in a modest white blouse and brown skirt hemmed in yellow, with long hair platted into a single practical braid, sat around from the armsman, eating. She set down her fork, and got to her feet, watching Rhavaelei with keen eyes.

  “Shut up you old fool!” Rhavaelei snapped. “The Black Monks are in the Palace!”

  “What?”

  Rhavaelei slammed the door behind her, throwing the latch. “The Phaelle’n have attacked,” she repeated, taking hold of a dresser and leaning her weight back to no avail. “Get here and help me! We have to block this door!”

  “But . . . but Erhble just went down to do his business – “ the old man protested.

  “He is not coming back,” Rhavaelei snarled. “What is your name?”

  “Uh, Whurd’l, my lady. But –“

  Rhavaelei summoned her most commanding tone. “This dresser, Whurd’l, now!”

  “Yes, my lady!” Once the armsman had added his efforts, the heavy oak furniture slid easily across the floor to block the lower half of the door.

  Rhavaelei shouldered Whurd’l aside and strode to the table, grabbing up the armsman’s
glass. Without bothering to wipe it clean, she greedily gulped the water within and then poured another full glass that she also drained.

  She slammed the glass back down and blatantly examined Whurd’l’s companion.

  The young woman was pretty in a plain way, neither rail thin nor pudgy, but obviously not schooled in the standards of beauty current in Mhajhkaei. Possibly a provincial, but what was she doing here? One of her spies, a maid, had mentioned that a young woman had been brought to the Palace under guard in company with the magician.

  Rhavaelei raised an eyebrow distastefully. “You are the Lord Magician’s concubine?”

  The young woman failed to react to Rhavaelei’s barb. Smiling sweetly, she returned the Senator’s stare calmly and corrected, “His wife.”

  Considering this new data shrewdly, Rhavaelei inclined her head, exuding charm with an impeccable sincerity. “My pardon, my lady. Welcome to Mhajhkaei! I am Senator Rhavaelei nhi’ Burgh of the House of Trajhen.”

  The young woman inclined her head in return, but there was no amiability in her tone as she responded, “Telriy, daughter of witches.”

  “My lady,” Whurd’l interrupted, “Are you certain you saw Monks? We’ve heard no commotion.” The old man took hold of his sword hilt determinedly. “Perhaps I should go look?”

  “Mind your place armsman and be silent while I am speaking!”

  Whurd’l bowed low, slightly red faced. “Beg pardon, my lady.”

  Rhavaelei, despite her shrewish remark, had welcomed the bumbling armsman’s interruption, as it gave her an opportunity to mask her own astonishment. The young woman had made her declaration proudly with no sign of fear. Though such barbarisms were not permitted in The Greatest City in All the World, such a public admission almost anywhere in the provinces, and perhaps even in some of the Sister Cities, would have resulted in a quick and fiery condemnation.

  Rhavaelei, herself, had not fully come to grips with this sudden onslaught of magic upon a previously utterly sensible world. Still, denying it was a fruitless endeavor. Though she had not seen it with her own eyes, the reports of the magician flying above the city were too numerous to be refuted.

  “Can you fly us from this tower to safety, Lady Witch?” she demanded.

  “Only Mar can do that,” Telriy said evenly, then with clear determination added, “As yet.”

  Interesting. There were hints of conflict there, Rhavaelei thought. Not a romantic union then, but one of another motivation. Matrimony was commonly used to cement political and merchant alliances, but she thought either of those unlikely in this case. A marriage of magic?

  “When he learns the Palace is under attack,” Rhavaelei pressed, “the Lord Magician will come for you?”

  “He will.”

  Rhavaelei detected no doubt in the young woman’s assertion. Again, interesting. “Will you be able to defend us until he arrives?”

  “If necessary.”

  “How?”

  “A glamour on the door. It will appear only as a blank wall to any but the three of us.”

  “Glamour? Is that a spell?” It was odd to use the word “spell” in a real sense, rather than the fictional. She still remembered the tales her aunts had frightened her with as a child and it was difficult to overcome the connotation of a "spell” as an act of unspeakable evil.

  “It’s a charm.”

  “Charm and spell are the same thing, are they not?”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “Regardless, perhaps you should proceed then, before the Phaelle’n come searching for me.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Whurd’l contributed somewhat worriedly. “That might be best.”

  Telriy frowned, but moved to the door, facing it, and made a complicated series of movements with her hand, most of them hidden by her torso.

  Rhavaelei looked closely, expecting a mystical aura or other visible sign of magic, but there was nothing.

  “It worked?” she questioned suspiciously.

  “Yes, it’s active,” Telriy assured, returning to the table and taking her chair.

  “Ah.” Rhavaelei concealed an inopportune flare of fear and doubt. She could flee no further in any case. Brazenly, she settled into Whurd’l’s still warm chair. After briefly inspecting the utensil for foreign matter, she picked up the armsman’s knife and sliced off a thin morsel of the mild white cheese. She sniffed the cheese and then nibbled it.

  “I met Lord Mar today,” she probed. “He did not mention you.”

  Telriy shrugged with unconcern.

  Rhavaelei did not let her frown reach her face. This girl seemed immune to the veiled insults that worked so well in the rarified society of the Mhajhkaeirii’n aristocracy. But then, Telriy was obviously no empty-headed merchant’s daughter. Perhaps a direct assault would shake her composure.

  “What made you chose the Lord Magician? Aside from his magic, he appears to have nothing of consequence to offer.”

  Telriy laughed softly. “Mar will give me with everything I desire.”

  “And that is?”

  “He will sire kings.”

  Rhavaelei spat out a spiteful laugh. “Ridiculous. There has not been a king for a more than a thousand years.”

  Telriy smiled. “The world has not seen true magic for five thousand years.”

  Rhavaelei stopped short.

  “Your magic will win you a kingdom?” Rhavaelei could not keep the wonder from her voice as the keen machinery of her mind began to grind out plans.

  Telriy just smiled.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thirteenthday, Waxing, Third, Wintermoon, 1643 After the Founding of the Empire

  The coaster rolled abruptly, throwing the suspended lamp into a lazy spin. Telriy held the book down on her lap with one hand and steadied the lamp with the other. The cove offered some protection against the heavy seas that had forced the captain to put to shore, but the ship still danced on the unsettled water. She cinched the belt of her coat tighter and rolled her stiff fingers in fists, trying to work blood back into the chilled digits. The cubbyhole she slept in was as cold and near as damp as the frothing waves beyond the hull behind her. She took up Gran’s book again and held it to the dim lamp.

  “Page 34: A woman that knows she’s a woman can always get a man’s attention. That’s the way men and women are made. Gettin’ him to do what she wants him to do takes a bit of effort, if you know what I mean.”

  “We have had some success curing the problem when a man’s soldier won’ stand at attention. Boil 5 parts fresh askai weed, 2 parts apple juice, and 6 and ½ parts ground willow oak bark in his tea three times a day. Works about ¾ of the time.”

  “Great grandmother’s book has all but worn out and I can’ read it any more. Good thing I put it all to memory.”

  “Page 35: My own grandmother had a great sense for magic, though she coudn’ cast scarcely a single charm. She would roam all about the countryside, digging’ and scratchin’; draggin’ back all sorts of odd things that she felt had once had magic in ‘em. Most of ‘em just gathered dust in the back of the woodshed, but she did find a bit of shinny brass one time that my aunts said was burning with magic. It’s since been lost ‘cause Mother wouldn’ hardly keep up with anythin’. It had these words written on it:

  Thirteen books lie waiting,

  Magic, once more, to awaken,

  One will be found by a thief,

  Another by mischief,

  To find the keys,

  Seek the Mother of the Seas.”

  “Page 36: My sisters and me buried Corhen today. Somebody in the village stove in his skull with a mattock. Nobody will admit seein’ it done. For a husband, he wasn’ great, but he did give me a daughter. He was the one I wanted and I’ll not have another.”

  There were no dates and Telriy knew that Gran had not written every day. If she thought something needed to be written, she wrote it. After Telriy’s mother and father had been killed, she had stopped writing altogether. Instead, she had simpl
y relayed the things thought important enough to save to her granddaughter.

  On the morning of the day that she had hacked out her last breath in a final paroxysm, Gran had said, “Don’ ever forget, girl. Love isn’ real. People have to make babies just like cows, chickens, and fish. Love is the lie we tell ourselves to make it special.”

  Telriy had read through the hundred odd pages that Gran had bound up with leather and cord more than a hundred times. Some passages offered only hints, as if Gran had only need a phrase or two to jog her memory, but others specified every detail. She flipped over to a vital section.

  “Page 89: I finished the spell today. I used to think I’d never figure it out, but today, I was sittin’ out on the rock where Corhen and I used to sit and the final sequence showed itself to me. I don’ know if it was the sun warming my old bones or just dumb luck, but there it was in my head as if it’d always been there. The staff is done but I daren’ test it. It’ll only work once. I can’ make another. It took me twenty years to find enough of the green stone for the one.”

  “Page 90: I gave off all the chickens and the goats to the family down the valley. No use askin’ for anythin’ for ‘em. They’re dirt poor and wouldn’ know money if it bit ‘em. I’m getting just too old to chase animals anymore. With Aunt Ghen gone last winter, there’s nothin’ holdin’ me in theses hills. I never was attached to this piece of dirt like the rest of the family. If there ever was magic here, it’s been gone for a very long time. I imagine I’m going to head down to the flats to live with Celiy. That husband of hers is a hard worker.”

  The coaster rolled again. Telriy yawned, felt her eyelids sag, and surrendered finally to her grinding fatigue. She folded the book and carefully stored it within her pouch. In any event, she needed to conserve the lamp oil; the reprobate who captained the coaster had made her pay a thay for a single cup. Only a fortnight more remained of the voyage to Mhajhkaei and she would certainly be grateful when the sea portion of this odyssey ended. She was more than weary of the cramped quarters, inedible food, and bad sanitation.