Changespell 01 Dunn Lady's Jess

by Doranna Durgin

  Willand conferred briefly with her companions while Jaime tried for a nonchalant attitude, then dismounted to leave her horse with the men and take Jaime's arm in a peremptory grip, steering her toward a dark spot at the base of the hill that turned out to be a cavelike doorway. Once they entered, Jaime managed to shake her off, and Willand accepted the change by not acknowledging it. The rough walls of the entrance corridor soon turned smooth, and coolness enclosed them along with heavy stone. Willand led her briskly up a brief, single flight of steps, then down a hallway, and then up a series of short flights that wound around themselves, with hallways branching off at each turn.

  At the top of the steps was an unshuttered window, and Jaime got a glimpse of the gardens as they hurried by. This hall was short and ended in a guarded door. Willand took her to the only other room off that hall, striding through the doorway with only the barest of pauses to knock.

  "Ah, you've returned. What have you discovered?" The question came from a woman who was not facing them and did not bother to turn around. She was of unimposing stature, a reed-thin woman whose robe fell unimpeded by curves of any sort. Her dark hair, thick and curly to the point of frizziness, was tied back at the base of her neck with a thong that looked like it was losing its battle. Jaime was singularly unimpressed and had to remind herself that this was a woman who had the whole of Camolen swaying with the breeze of her whims.

  "Nothing on the spell," Willand admitted without hesitation. "A few scribbled pages that looked like checkspell material, but I'm not sure it's worth much. I did bring back something else you might find useful."

  At that Calandre turned, still holding the small book she'd been consulting, revealing herself to be a woman of about Jaime's age, and someone whose carriage was totally at odds with the cheerfully asymmetrical room. Her eyebrows, fine and set above angular features, rose at the sight of Jaime, and she said, "Yes?"

  "One of Arlen's couriers. She was on a run to Theo's, stumbled right into us. When we saw she was on one of Carey's duns, I thought she might be of some use in persuading Arlen."

  "It looks like someone has already done some persuading," Calandre said dryly, eyeing Jaime's face.

  "She tried to run," Willand said simply.

  Calandre set the book down and carefully marked her place before closing it. Jaime eyed her warily as the woman approached in a stalk that was all the more intimidating because it was obviously uncalculated. "What's your name?" she asked abruptly.

  "Jaime," Jaime said in her best I'm-not-impressed voice, still trying to figure out the best strategy for staying alive.

  "Well, Jaime, did you learn anything?"

  "Only that I should have kicked Whiskers' balls up to his throat before I ran," Jaime said perversely, knowing better. But Calandre seemed amused rather than annoyed, and Jaime gathered that she simply wasn't worth the effort of anger.

  "So," she said. "You were one of the ones who got away. And now you're back again, finally to be of some use to us."

  Jaime suddenly realized that Arlen certainly wouldn't have been the only person caught in Calandre's attack. "What happened to the others?" she asked warily.

  "You mean the ones who had the courage to stay and fight? They died, of course. Very unfortunate; we really could have used the leverage you're going to give us before this—in fact, we've been looking for someone like you."

  "I wasn't here when you attacked," Jaime said in a low voice, stinging over the implications in Calandre's comment, as false as they were.

  "Whatever," Calandre replied, obviously not believing her and not caring, either. "Let's not waste any more time."

  "Do you want her cleaned up before Arlen sees her?" Willand asked.

  Calandre eyed Jaime's face and shook her head decisively. "A little dried blood will make our threat more immediate."

  Jaime scowled; she'd tried to wash her face off in a stream the day before—though she had the feeling several of the cuts had opened again, and it was true she'd had another nosebleed.

  "Try to maintain that expression, if you can," Calandre said lightly. "It will certainly have a good effect on Arlen." Her face, all angles and hollow cheeks, held amusement, and Jaime closed her eyes and took a deep breath, reminding herself that this was unlike any situation she'd ever been in, and that it was as real and as serious as anything she'd ever done. It was real, and she was no longer Jaime Cabot, accomplished equestrian with her own sort of following, but Jaime Cabot, prisoner of some crazed wizard woman. A powerful crazed wizard woman.

  "Come along," Willand said in irritation, and Jaime opened her eyes to discover that Calandre had already gone out into the hall. She gave Willand a haughty look—she dared that much—and preceded her out of the room.

  She'd wondered if there would be another disorienting trek through the innards of the stone structure, but Calandre was merely waiting for them at the guarded door. The guard stared curiously at Jaime, but looked quickly away when Calandre glanced at him. She pushed open the door and swept into the room, calling Arlen's name with the air of a long-awaited guest.

  The room within was considerably more homey than the workroom, well-lit by the afternoon sun streaming in the window. Although the furnishings were simple and well-used, they had the look of comfortable things that had been cherished. There were faded but still thick rugs on the floor, books scattered about with bookmarks trailing out of them, and one chair that seemed entirely devoted to working embroidery, the accoutrements of which were spread out on the arms of the chair and the worn leather stool in front of it. A flash of movement caught her eye, and Jaime caught the tip of a cat's white tail as it disappeared under the embroidery chair.

  "Still hiding from us?" Calandre asked, and Jaime thought she was talking to the cat until she saw that the woman was looking into a second room, her arms folded in front of her in a mannerism that only pressed the dark material against the boniness of her hips and collarbones. "Well, no matter. I've brought a visitor I think will interest you. You might even feel like talking."

  "I doubt that." Arlen's voice was low and without strength, but still managed a matter-of-fact defiance. Calandre beckoned to Jaime, and she reluctantly moved up to stand in the doorway.

  Arlen looked at her without recognition, and with the beginnings of a frown. Desperation led Jaime to offer, "I'm riding for Sherra now. Carey brought me there, and loaned me Lady."

  Arlen's expression shifted rapidly through a maze of emotions and slid into deadpan even as Calandre lashed out and slapped Jaime resoundingly across the cheek. Jaime gasped as the blow rekindled all the sharp pains in her nose, and couldn't help the few tears that followed, fatigue and pain and fright bundled up into two trails of salt water.

  Calandre said coldly, "When I want to hear from you, it'll be screams of pain to make this annoying old wizard talk. Until then, keep your helpful little comments to yourself."

  Willand offered tentatively, "At least we've confirmed it, Carey is back. So they really do have something to build the checkspell on."

  Calandre seemed to relax out of her anger. "True enough, little Willand. It seems you brought me back more than you thought. I'll have to remember to question her before she's beyond speech. Unless, of course," she added, turning to Arlen with brows upraised, "you want to skip the torture and give me the spell now?"

  Jaime stared at the man, knowing her life hinged on what he might say next, this man who had never met her and could not possibly care about her. He stared back, appraising her, warm brown eyes beneath disheveled long hair and gaunt, unshaven cheeks that were at obvious odds with the mustache that had been cultivated above a slight overbite. Despite Calandre's words, he was certainly not old, or even past his mid-forties. She wondered if she really saw the tiny nod or only imagined it, and if that was really recognition of a sort in his gaze.

  "Come now, Arlen," Calandre said with a definite trace of irritation. "You're already losing, bit by bit—you've even lost the outer room, and you're stuck in your own
bathroom." For the first time, Jaime realized it was a wooden toilet that Arlen perched on with such aplomb, and that there was a washbasin next to him, and that the brown thing peeking out into her field of view was a fancy wooden tub. "What next, you'll be stuck only on the toilet? Or perhaps you'll try to convert the spell to a personal shield. Very risky in your condition. And of course by then, your courier will be . . ." she glanced at Jaime, "a very unhappy woman."

  "I can see that," Arlen replied acerbically. "You've obviously started in on her already."

  Calandre laughed. "Oh, no. I assure you, when my people use someone as leverage, there is no mistaking the results. This is just the side effect of her capture—I told you our little skirmish is spreading out beyond this ugly little stone den of yours."

  "You're a disturbed woman, Calandre, you know that?" Arlen said in a curiously detached voice.

  "I like this place," Jaime dared to mutter.

  "Yes, dear, you're very loyal," Calandre said, infuriatingly patronizing. She was holding her elbows again, regarding Arlen with complete composure. "I might even give you the night to yourself; you can spend the hours looking forward to tomorrow."

  Bitch. Jaime gave her an even stare, a complete bluff.

  "You might not need it," Arlen said. "Give me a few minutes with her. Give me time to see what's been happening. I may decide there's no point in keeping the spell from you anymore."

  "Very good. You said that with a straight face."

  Arlen shrugged. "What can you lose, Calandre? If you're in luck she'll spend the time pleading with me to help her—as you can see, she's certainly not going to do that while you're here."

  "Not today, anyway. However . . ." She glanced first at Willand and then over her shoulder at the guard. "You searched her for weapons or spellstones?"

  Willand nodded with satisfaction. "She had a protection stone, that's all. And a small knife, of course, but Gerrant has that now."

  "Well, then." Calandre gave Jaime another hard look. "Beg well, Jaime. Your future depends on it." She turned her back on them and marched out of the room, followed by Willand, who could not help a few doubting, backward glances.

  Jaime couldn't believe it. "Just like that?" she asked incredulously.

  "Nothing is ever 'just like that,' " Arlen said. "Now, tell me the things you think I most need to know."

  Jaime hesitated. "What if she listens?"

  "She can't, not in these rooms. Quickly now, don't waste what little time we may have!" His tired voice slid into the command mode she was sure he was used to assuming and, though it made her prickle a little, she balked no longer.

  "I met Carey on a different world, my world. It's—well, it's too complicated to go into, but we ended up back here—Eric dead, the three of us, and Carey and Jess. Carey gave Sherra the spell, and she's got everyone working on a check for it. I've been riding with her couriers to coordinate the whole thing, and I was on a run when Willand and her pals got me." She thought a moment and added reluctantly, "Carey wanted to come get you—he said something about a special recall—but Sherra wouldn't let him. She didn't want to set Calandre off. It looks like Calandre's out causing trouble anyway, now."

  "Jess?" Arlen murmured, taking her news about the lack of forthcoming rescue with a thoughtful nod.

  "Lady. The magic turned her into a woman on my world. She's a horse again, though—that's who I was riding. I sent her back to Sherra's, so they should be able to figure out I didn't just lose my way. Not that they'll do anything about it."

  "Sent her back to Sherra's, hmm. I suppose that's how you got those battle scars. Willand and her errand boys wouldn't have liked that."

  Jaime scowled, even though it hurt. "Willand. That woman belongs in a bad beach movie, damn perky little nose of hers. I wish it could feel like mine does right now."

  "Yes, well . . . I'm afraid, my dear, that your nose may be the least of it before this is over."

  "Is this where I'm supposed to beg?" Jaime asked, suddenly realizing how sick her stomach felt. "I've never done that before, but I think I could get real good at it."

  Slowly, reluctantly, he shook his head. "I can be of no help to you. This is more important than either of us, although it must seem particularly unfair to you. At least I got myself into this mess. And you must know by now that there is very little chance of rescue from Sherra—not that I blame her. It's the right decision."

  Right. "What . . . what do you think they'll do to me?" Jaime asked in a low voice. Something graphic, no doubt, something that looked bad for Arlen to see. Her imagination took over and ran, presenting her with scenes of torture that came straight from the Inquisition.

  "Jaime, don't," Arlen said. "Listen to me. This won't go on for long—it may not happen at all. I haven't eaten in . . . well, a couple of days now. I moved preserved rations up here the same day I sent Carey out, but I didn't plan on being closed in this long. I don't get much sleep because the guards all have orders to rouse me regularly. Calandre is right when she says I won't be able to keep this up much longer."

  "At least you chose the right room to close yourself into," Jaime commented, trying very hard for a lighter atmosphere.

  Arlen smiled, a weary looking expression almost hidden in his scruffy beard. "When it first became obvious that no one was going to be able to help me—for Sherra did try at first, and Calandre was delighted to tell me Sherra couldn't get through the shields she'd set up—I tied a second spell in with my shield spell. When the shield finally fails, I will die."

  "But—" Jaime said, startled; then her protest died unvoiced, as she realized his genuine acceptance of the idea. "I keep hearing about Ninth Level this and Ninth Level that, but no one's said anything about God. Do you have a god to pray to, Arlen?"

  Arlen shook his head, brow creased, and Jaime suddenly realized that the word god had come out in English. "How can you have heaven without—"

  "You didn't change his mind, did you?" Calandre said from just inside the big room. "I didn't think you would—but I can be as indulgent as the next person, when I feel like it."

  Jaime gave Arlen a searching look, trying to find that which had sustained him through his harrowing imprisonment—something that she could use for herself. He gave her a sad smile, and she said, "I don't think I'll be very good at this, Arlen. Don't hold it against me if I do try to change your mind, later."

  "No," he said simply. "I won't."

  * * *

  The sudden three-tiered call of a morning owl brought Carey out of his thoughts and he glanced back through the deep grey light of dawn to the indistinct figures who followed him through the lightly wooded area. They were breathing hard after the ascent up the steep shale hill that loomed over the dry riverbed, but no one's saddle was sneaking backwards, and the horses still looked good.

  At first he'd chafed at the way Mark and Dayna slowed him, resenting every extra moment between this one and the one in which he planned to trigger the special recall, but as the miles passed and neither of his neophyte riders ventured a complaint, the uncharitable thoughts faded. They were doing their best, and he'd be foolish to push them so hard that they had nothing left when he needed backup in the little hollow he'd chosen for their camp.

  Their departure had been straightforward, if not as simple as Carey had hoped. With most of the cabin hold's folk in the village, and many of the volunteer and regular foot soldiers out escorting slow-moving wizards around, the barn had been quiet in the late evening hours during which, casually and without ceremony, he had simply walked through the threshold spell that was supposed to keep him in the room. The three conspirators had armed themselves with food pilfered from the kitchen and walked quietly to the barn. The horses were snorting and curious about the late night activity, but it wasn't unusual enough to start a fuss; they'd left the barn with nary a wayward whinny, and with three of Sherra's precious horses and Lady.

  It was the gate that had almost tripped them up. The guard had turned out to be a man new e
nough to the post that he was still looking for excuses to use his authority, such as it was, and he seemed almost eager for them to create a disturbance.

  Katrie had appeared to ease the way for them. Katrie, whom Jaime had first fought, and then gained as a friend—and who knew who Carey was, and where he should have been. Out and about on her own business, she was drawn to the commotion in front of the closed gate. In a brightly stitched, suspiciously rumpled tunic, still hand in hand with a man who was obviously smitten by her, she told the troublesome guard that Carey, his two friends, and his extra horse were known to her and were classed as good folk, not to be harassed. She held Carey's eye while the disgruntled man went to open the heavy gate, and said evenly, "Just bring her back."

  For her role in the evening's activities, Carey had no doubt there would be some kind of price, and that she would face it head on. It was a gift he accepted without guilt or hesitation, and now he wondered if he should have asked her to join them, despite the delay it would have caused. Instead, he had two earnest but outclassed and tired friends from another world.

  A chorus of trilling birds had joined the morning owl, and Carey gave another look over his shoulder. This was their second dawn of summer-heat travel and about time to call it quits for a few hours, so they would be well rested—or as close to it as they could get—for the final approach to the hollow. Dayna was right behind him on the little smooth-gaited bay Mark had quickly labeled Fahrvegnügen, a name that seemed to amuse Mark and made Dayna give him one of her grow up looks. Mark was on a rangy, cold-backed grey who would cheerfully ignore the banging his rider might inflict upon him, while just as cheerfully barging through, past and over any obstacles in his path. Carey rode the big black horse he'd come to know fairly well and, following him on a loose lead line was Dun Lady's Jess, the mare who'd already taken the stairway in the hold. He was counting on her to lead the double-loaded gelding past the sensible fear that would stop him at the head of those stairs.