But it was Malcolm’s face—the recognition in his expression—that made Renee take one of Kelly’s hands and draw her towards the log home. Renee smiled at Britt, who was shaking her head in quiet amusement, and they all began to head into the house. Britt kissed her cheek, clearly thinking Renee wouldn’t be Renee if she didn’t open her home to someone who needed it.
Renee noticed how Malcolm fell into step with Kelly, and that Kelly slid her arm around Malcolm’s waist, giving him reassurance.
Renee thought that this could work.
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Calling the Dragons Home
Aurelia T. Evans
Excerpt
Chapter One
The Councilmen, the nobles, and their wives spun around in lazy circles to the music, staring with lids half-mast into the bleary, dull eyes of their dance partners across the space between them. The vielles and flutes whined restlessly through another of Pavrol’s State-approved tunes. Had the stone walls not been dressed with rich but simple floral tapestries, the sound might have been something quite interesting, bouncing about in echoing chaos. However, it was instead much like Pavrol’s other compositions, recycling whole bars where the Council likely found the progressions too…progressive.
Syra did not dance with anyone. She sat with her back straight and her feet flat on the floor, her arms lined up with the slightly cushioned arms of the golden throne. Her gown was fashionably cream-coloured, as were many of the gowns in the throne room, to contrast with the brown of the men’s tunics. She was permitted one item of jewellery, according to the State’s laws, and, given her position as Queen of the State, she wore her crown instead of a necklace or ring or girdle like many of the wives. It was heavy and ugly, with gaudy rubies and emeralds inset among square carvings. She would not be able to dance in it, even if she wanted to dance to this dreadfully soporific tune. Instead, it took all of her concentration to sit upright while wearing it.
The musicians paused, then started again with a new, indistinguishable tune. Syra suppressed a yawn. Her father would have words with her if she showed her displeasure with her position. There were any number of other expressions that would lead to words—and perhaps more—should she be careless enough to show them…a furrowed brow, a frown, a clenched jaw…even a smile, lest some Councilman or member of the nobility interpret it as approval or invitation. Her purpose was to survey the festivities in a dignified manner. She was Queen—her unsunned skin was to remain pale and unblemished, unlined, unmarred by things of human concern.
One more tune, then the musicians set down their instruments and sat against the wall. The women delicately blotted their faces and the men swiped the beads of perspiration from their brows. The smell of their feast was still thick in the close air, and the weight of the boiled stew no doubt sloshed in their bellies. They seemed happy to have the servants bring them their seats for further entertainment. Once their task was complete, the servants disappeared back to the edges of the tapestries, awaiting the will of the Council.
Syra blinked at the people who blinked back at her, considering her like a State-approved statue. She herself was not overheated. She was not permitted to sweat. The shutters were closed over the windows against the extravagance of the impudent sunset, but they would be opened again once the colours had faded. She could feel the air’s moisture upon her skin, but two servants fanned her constantly so that she stayed dry and smooth.
Laurs, the Head of the Council and her father, stood, his slightly reddened face severe and carved, each line seeming deliberate. “We thank you, my lords and ladies, for joining us on this festive feast day. And our gratitude goes out to the musicians and our composer for serenading us so moderately.”
Subdued applause spread around the room, accompanied by tight, pleasant smiles on everyone’s faces. Syra herself did not clap. She remained still—dignity demanded that she appear lifelike, not lively.
Laurs then waved his arm, gesturing to one of the few men in the room who had dared to wear colour, although he did not wear it boldly. Unlike his fellow men, the one who joined Laurs wore a black tunic to the floor, but his leather belt was dyed dark blue. Also, unlike his compatriots, with their shoulder-length hair, he was completely bald but for the dark arches of his eyebrows. He was not out of the realm of State-approved appearance, but he was decidedly odd indeed for choosing to stand out.
Then again, magicians were known to be an odd sort, but they were very useful to have around, even in an orderly State such as this one. Fools were no longer permitted—magicians had taken their place, although they were required to follow a stringent set of bylaws in order to keep that place. It was not a place of honour, but it was better than exile into the disorderly States to the north, past the tangled, wild forests of Mane. Why, one would face any number of terrible, dangerous, unpredictable things—bandits, sorcerers, witches, centaurs, unicorns, dragons…all the things that the State had done away with over the last hundred years. The only trace of the unpredictable that remained was the magicians, and they were suitably quelled by the scepticism and dismissal of the people. Magicians were not sorcerers—the strength of their magic depended on the belief of their audience.
“Gilian, come. Entertain us, friend, with your enchantments.”
Gilian bowed. The firelight from the torches seemed to flicker on the broad, bright expanse of skin of his delicate skull.
“Thank you, Councilman,” he said. His voice was deeper than one might have expected from someone with the lean angles of his cheekbones—rich and full without effort. He kept it carefully modulated, of course, as it would not do to speak too loudly. However, with only a few words he captured the attention of the entire room, in spite of their usual affectation of disinterest.
He stepped forward to stand near the Queen’s dais. He could not raise himself to her level by joining her on the dais itself, but it was still the room’s stage. Syra peered at his back. The tunic was hooded like a monk’s robe, and it fell back over his shoulder blades to reveal a few inches of his spine. Syra was hypnotised by that usually hidden part of a man’s form. It was too easy to imagine what might be just lower, and just lower than that, and just lower than that. She could not imagine very far, since she had never seen the body of a man without his State-approved clothing. She had never even seen a naked infant, and since she never dressed or bathed herself, she could not say when the last time was that she had properly seen her own body. At the rise of heat against her pale cheeks, Syra’s eyes widened in horror, and she hoped the fans would cool her fast enough that her father would not notice it.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Council and Court.” Gilian raised his hand over his head, holding a simple wooden ball. She had not seen from where he had retrieved it. It had simply appeared between his long, thin fingers. “My sleeves are close to my arms and my hands are otherwise empty. I cannot be hiding the objects anywhere on my person. But observe, from one, many.”
He tossed the wooden ball into the air. Then, while everyone’s eyes were distracted by the tossed ball, he threw another to follow it, then another, so that he was then juggling three wooden balls that had appeared from nowhere. The audience clapped lightly in their delight. He caught each deftly in one hand, closed his palm so that none remained, and he displayed his now empty hands to the audience. Another round of subdued applause.
“Now, if I may ask for assistance from her venerable Majesty?” He turned and held out his hand, palm down. “A kiss, Your Majesty, to make the magic real.” His expression was closed, but those eyes—those odd, hazel eyes so framed by his distinguished brows—seemed to hold something of a dark mirth. Syra looked at that hand, then to her father, who firmly shook his head once.
She blinked, looked back to the magician, then lifted her hand from the arm of the chair to take his and bring it to her lips. Nothing but a brush, but she knew she was going to be corrected harshly for her impropriety. That heat was back in bloom in he
r cheeks, and she knew she could not hide it with everyone’s eyes on her. Gilian bowed to her and turned back to the audience with his saluted hand held in a fist. He displayed that clenched fist to the entirety of the crowd, then opened it. Out fell another wooden ball, but right before it hit the ground, it swept up in a graceful arc. Then another wooden ball followed it, and another. Soon a dozen circled before Gilian without him touching a single one. The members of the audience were spellbound, as they only allowed themselves when in the presence of a magician.
Gilian smiled tightly, then summoned the wooden balls back to the kissed hand, closing his fist again. With a flourish, he twisted his arm around and presented Syra with a bouquet of a dozen white roses. The air of the room grew thinner as every person recognised his error. Not in presenting the Queen with flowers, although it was certainly indecorous. No, it was the transformation from lifeless to living that was strictly forbidden.
Syra froze against her chair, her eyes wide as they met with the challenge in the eyes of the magician. She was confused by that challenge, confused by the magician’s actions when they would buy him a whole day in the pillory outside the State church. Syra heard her father’s harsh whisper to a servant to find an Enforcer. The rigid disapproval of his audience now would render any of Gilian’s magic ineffective—no Enforcer would fear his magic.
One of Syra’s servants dropped her fan and took the flowers just as three Enforcers came through the door of the throne room, holding maces and stepping in time. Gilian did not resist, simply accepted his fate as they lifted him off his feet and carried him out of the room.
As Gilian was removed, Syra saw her father glaring at her as though carved from stone. She stared serenely back from her own marble-carved visage, but she could not stop the flutter of fear in her belly. There was another flutter, though, of an emotion to which Syra was unaccustomed. The last time she remembered having a feeling like that, she might have been toddling and still the apple of her father’s eye, when the lines at the corners of his eyes had still been able to deepen from an indulgent smile. She had been swung through the air with her gown flapping in the breeze made by her father’s strong arms holding her—round and round he had swung her, so that she had felt as if she were flying.
She did not know the emotion by name, but she knew it by its association—excitement.
* * * *
Her servants removed her gown and almost seamlessly replaced it with her night linen, wrapping the sash in an intricate bow around her waist, a bow that perhaps only the servants were versed in removing. When she walked out from behind her dressing screen, her father waited for her in front of the hearth. The windows were open to the monochrome of night, and she could feel a cool breeze slip under the voluminous fabric of the sleeves. Her dark brown hair curled with unusual softness down to the small of her back, and her servant Moira attended to it as Syra’s father beckoned her closer. The fire accentuated the harsh, craggy shadows on the planes of his face. His mouth was a crevasse.
By his side, her father’s manservant held a wide belt, curled in his hand like a sleeping serpent. He would use the leather instead of the buckle because it would bruise her through her linen rather than tear the expensive cloth and her priceless, flawless skin. And she would accept her punishment with nary a whimper. Tears were permitted as long as they were not accompanied by sobs—no expressions of passion, good or bad, were appropriate for a Queen of the State, even when she was alone with her father. There were eyes and ears everywhere, and the reward for reporting immoderation was still as lucrative as it had been at the beginning of the Great Renovation, three generations ago.
“You shame me, Syra,” Laurs said quietly. In all her years with him, she had only heard him raise his voice three times. He had been appointed Head of the Council precisely for his restrained and careful manner. His record was nearly impeccable—no one’s was perfect, of course, for the Edicts of Detan were stringent and meant to challenge the very nature of human beings—and his family had a reputation for mild personalities, which was why Syra had been chosen to become the Queen when the last one had died. She had only been four years old when the crown had first rested upon her head.
“I am sorry, Father,” Syra said, lowering her eyes.
“Encouraging the magician, moving from your position…blushing. My dear daughter, you overstep your place.”
“You know I try to stop myself, Father. It will not happen again.”
Laurs sniffed, paced before the fire, but not in agitation. Each step was carefully considered. “I know that Gilian is impetuous, as all magicians are, but I did not think that he would be so foolish as to flout our laws in front of every Councilman. As though it were his wish to hang from the pillory. You did not ask for an untoward display, did you, Syra?”
Syra looked up, startled by the accusation. She would never… “Of course not, Father. I know I am not permitted to speak to the men of the State without your permission, and certainly not a man of a magician’s station.”
“Yes,” Laurs said, stopping to stand before her. If she were allowed to look in his eyes, she would have to crane her neck. But with her eyes downcast, she could only see his hands tightening on his belt. “Very good. But I am afraid that it is time for your correction. Prepare yourself, my daughter.”
“Yes, Father.”
She had never been a particularly difficult child, as some could be, even with the threats of the stocks and the service and the danger of exile. But she could never seem to be good enough as Queen. If she showed even so much as an ounce of humanity, Laurs made to correct it.
Syra often believed that she could carve a replacement Queen from white stone, and it would finally be the perfection the State—and her Father—wanted.
* * * *
She rested on her stomach in her bed. Her buttocks and thighs were too sore for her to lie on her back. Tears had dried salt onto her cheeks and temples. Now all she could do was try to feel tired enough to sleep, hoping her deep-seated exhaustion would overcome her restlessness. She did not know the origin of that restlessness, but it felt forbidden.
“I regret that my actions caused you pain,” Gilian said.
Syra started and turned her head to see him crouched on her windowsill.
“It will fade,” Syra replied. Even as she spoke, she knew she should call for the servants, who would notify the Enforcers again. Not only was she addressing someone to whom she was not allowed to speak, but he was in her bedroom, and no man but her father could enter the Queen’s bedroom. It was improper, indecent, indecorous, even dangerous. But somehow, all she could do was rest her head on her arms and meet his gaze, aware of several things at once—the gentle wave of her body from her neck, down her back and over her legs, the burn of pain against the cool cloth of her night linens, and the return of the heat in her face. But she could also sense a queer heat in her gaze as well, matched by the quiet, deliberate stillness of the man across the room.
“May I enter?” he asked.
“What could a body do to stop you, magician?” she said.
He unfurled, standing, a giant shadow that found its solidness as it came into the light. He stopped just short of her bed, and she simply watched him. His expression was inscrutable—she did not recognise it.
“You are supposed to be pilloried,” Syra said.
“I slipped free to see if you fared the night well after the events of the evening.” Gilian looked to the night table, where the roses he had given her were resting in a vase. Her father had noted them, but now that they existed—no matter the circumstances of their creation—he had left them where her servant had arranged them.
“How did you manage to slip free, so close to the church?” she asked. The State church had little use for magic and condemned it as the work of the Adversary, like all passions. That was why magicians who overstepped their bounds were always brought to the pillory outside the church, the centre of the State. It was farthest from the untamed forests, and
closest to condemnation of magic. That condemnation should have been enough to dampen his magic for a week. The church pillory rarely saw a magician in this day and age.
“Escape was simple. They will never know I left to walk the night, for I will return in the morning to keep up appearances. Do you wish me to return so that you can sleep?”
He turned towards the window, but he kept his gaze on her.
“I will not cast you out,” Syra said quietly. “I am not overtired.”
“Did your father tell you stories when you were a little child?” Gilian asked. Slowly, as though gauging her permission, he sat down on the side of her bed. She shifted to lie on her hip, which made the mattress press against some of her bruises, but any pain was suddenly very far away. Syra felt his eyes settle on new softness displayed. Her father had always told her to stay away from men, but had never told her why, since explaining the why was as immoderate as doing the why—life was one mystery after another, mysteries that so many in the State seemed to accept without question.
“My father told me why things are the way they are, and why they are better than they once were—at least, what he could tell a little girl,” Syra replied.
“Would you like to hear more?” he whispered, leaning in. His countenance, always dramatic, looked deadly serious, but for a slight quirk to the side of his mouth.
Syra rested her head on the inside of her arm and curled her fingers like a closing flower. “Tell me.”
“Very well,” he said. “There was a time when our State was very much like the others surrounding us. Like Textiltalian, Bianima, Protectaria, Memoratemplet. Our State, now nameless, once had a beating heart of magic, like all states—a heart that has since been replaced with a stone replica of a church. Oh, it is not the church that has destroyed our magic or is even its replacement. In other states, the priests play discs with the soothsayers, and sisters welcome a salamander in their hearth fire. Prayers in the cathedrals and the peel of church bells mingle with the coloured chimney smoke of healing and protection rites. They were once not so separate.
Winter Howl (Sanctuary) Page 30
