by Sharon Shinn
Jerril was smiling. “Where did you go? In your mind?”
“To a night and a place when I was traveling with Senneth and the others.”
“Well, you succeeded at shutting me out completely—me and the surrounding environment. Which was exactly what I wanted you to do, except perhaps not so completely.”
“I don’t see how I can shut it out and be aware of it.” Cammon knew that he sounded sulky, but that was how he felt. Everything Jerril asked him to do was always impossible; except it wasn’t impossible because Cammon always learned to do it. But the learning could be extraordinarily draining.
“No, it’s most contradictory,” Jerril agreed. “But you must find a way to not lose yourself so completely in your mind that it is hard to find your way back. You are very vulnerable if your mind is nowhere near your body—and you cannot call it back instantly.”
Cammon’s toes were starting to remember that they were tucked into a snowbank, and the rest of his body was beginning to shiver. He was suddenly ravenous and almost too weak to stand, as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
“I think I have to go in now,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep out here and then freeze to death.”
Jerril smiled again and stood up with easy grace. He was probably in his midforties, a good twenty-five years older than Cammon, but he had more energy than Cammon could claim on his best day, and Cammon was usually inexhaustible. “Yes, you’ll sleep well tonight, I think,” he said. “This was a very good day’s work, you know. It took me a year to master that particular trick. It took you a week.”
Jerril often praised Cammon, to encourage him to try harder, but that was a slip. The older mystic almost never let on how phenomenal he thought Cammon’s talents were. Such news always made Cammon uncomfortable and a little afraid, as if he was too strange to be with ordinary folks, too odd to have friends, set apart, lonely. He had been alone long enough, and terrifyingly enough, to never want to experience the state again.
“Maybe I have a better teacher,” Cammon said, making the words light.
Jerril touched him on the arm, guiding him toward the back door and the scent of Lynnette’s cooking. Jerril, of course, had instantly sensed Cammon’s moment of panic. He was a reader; everyone’s emotions were as plain to him as hair coloring and skin. “You have the best teacher,” he said loftily. “You should have learned it in three days.”
That made Cammon laugh as he stepped through the door. Lynnette smiled at the sound, looking up from the stove with her face all flushed with heat. She was plain-featured, good-natured, and nearly as patient as Jerril, though not nearly as powerful. “It went well, then?” she asked.
“Very well,” Jerril said. “So now he’s hungry and then he’ll fall asleep before we can even get him to bed.”
“I was going to ask him to fetch Areel. Dinner’s ready.”
In this household, you didn’t fetch someone to the supper table by running up to his room and knocking on the door. You sent a thought tendril in the other person’s direction—Dinner, you might be thinking, or Come here now—and he would start, and realize he was hungry, and lay down his pen or close his book and hurry to the kitchen. But Cammon didn’t have the energy for even such simple magic, not tonight. He could scarcely keep his eyes open.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jerril said, pushing Cammon to one of the chairs pulled up to the kitchen table. “I’ve summoned him. Cammon, you’d better eat while you still have the strength to lift a fork to your mouth.”
Cammon was halfway through his meal before Areel had even wandered downstairs. Areel was a strange old man, bent and thin and fierce-looking, with bushy white eyebrows, an unkempt white beard, and a mad look in his eyes. Tonight he carried a book with him to the dinner table and continued reading throughout the meal, not deigning to make any but the most cursory conversation. Cammon, of course, was so tired he could only offer monosyllabic comments, which left Jerril and Lynnette to carry on a discussion by themselves. They didn’t mind; they had been married twenty years and still managed to find plenty to talk about. Though Cammon paid little attention to what it was. He finished his meal, stumbled to his room, and fell asleep before he had even managed to get himself undressed.
IT went better the next day, if only a little. Cammon was able to build his mental retreat without totally losing track of where he was—to shut Jerril out without falling into some kind of waking dream. But that was when Jerril was just sitting there, gazing off into the distance. When Jerril began a determined assault on Cammon’s shielded mind, Jerril was able to stroll right into that firelit, snow-kissed temple.
“That’s amazing,” Jerril said, the first time it happened.
“What?” Cammon asked. He was feeling grumpy again. He had not realized Jerril was going to try so hard to break through his defenses. Jerril had taught Cammon virtually every trick Cammon knew. How could he keep the other man out?
“I could almost see it, for a moment—that place you’ve constructed in your mind. Your mental image is so vivid I can almost step inside.”
Projecting thoughts at Jerril had always been easier than protecting them from the older mystic. “Can you see the graphics on the wall?” Cammon said, imagining the lines and circles that were barely discernible in the crumbling paint and then imagining the memory inside Jerril’s head.
Jerril paused a moment, eyes only half focused, as if staring at an internal vision. “Very unusual,” he said at last. “Do you know what they are?”
Cammon shook his head and the vision faded. “Senneth thought they might be depictions of the sun goddess. The Bright Mother.”
“Ah. And this place is a temple?”
“Maybe. It was hard to tell. It was all falling down.”
“Call it up again, but this time try to keep me out.”
By day’s end, Jerril could still break through to the images in Cammon’s head, though each try took him longer. And it was becoming easier, if only slightly, for Cammon to keep his mind shut but his senses alert.
“Better,” Jerril said when lessons were over. “Time for dinner. How do you feel?”
“Just as hungry as yesterday, but not as tired.”
Jerril nodded his bald head. “That’s progress.”
Tonight, Areel had left his book behind and lectured instead on what he had been reading. Boring stuff, Cammon thought, scarcely paying attention. The first day he had arrived, Cammon had been able to tell that Areel was rife with magic, but it had been hard to define exactly what that magic was. Eventually he decided it had to do with things. Understanding them, finding them, fixing them, knowing how to put them to good use. If you lost your shoe or broke your spectacles, Areel was the man to see. If you wanted to buy a bolt of lace in a peculiar shade of pink, he could tell you exactly where such a thing might be found. He wasn’t especially good with people, except Jerril and Lynnette. Cammon liked him, but he wasn’t surprised when many others didn’t.
“The sword was broken then, and shipped back to Karyndein, both of the jewels still in the hilt,” Areel was saying, finishing up some tale about a king who’d lived two hundred years ago, as far as Cammon could tell. “Never to be seen in Gillengaria again!”
“Perhaps that’s just as well, all the trouble it’s caused,” Lynnette said. “Cam, would you like more potatoes? More meat?”
He never refused, no matter how often she offered. “Yes, please.”
“Lots of commotion today at the western gate of the city,” Jerril observed, handing Cammon the bread, too. “Did anyone get an idea of what was going on?”
None of them had left the house this day, but all of them had ways of sensing the world around them. “I didn’t catch much,” Lynnette said. “Lots of horses, but I couldn’t tell you about their riders. The guards at the gate seemed impressed—that much I could tell.”
“Five carriages,” said Areel. “And one of them had this glow to it—this weight—I think it was carrying some kind of tre
asure. Nothing I recognized, though.”
Jerril nodded. “Foreigners, I think. From over the ocean. Largely impervious to us.”
It was a regrettable fact that the magic of Gillengaria mystics only operated in Gillengaria. None of them could pick up much information about people or objects that were not native to the country.
“Well, there were thirty horses, so if twenty of them were pulling carriages, ten were probably carrying riders,” Cammon said. He was surprised when the others all looked at him. “What?”
“You sensed that much even while you were so busy fencing with me?” Jerril asked softly. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the energy.”
Cammon grinned. “Well, it was hard to miss. There was a lot of excitement.”
Areel returned to his food, but Jerril was still watching Cammon. “We might work on that next,” he said thoughtfully.
“Work on what?”
“Seeing if you can somehow begin to sense the presence and emotions of foreigners. That would be a valuable skill indeed.”
“Can you?”
“No. But I might be able to teach you how to figure it out.”
Cammon shook his head and helped himself to more vegetables. “I’ve always thought it was impossible. I saw Kirra try to change an object once—something that came from Sovenfeld. She couldn’t do it. And I bet Senneth can’t set something on fire if it comes from outside Gillengaria.”
Now Jerril was amused. “We’ll have to ask her that sometime.”
“Tomorrow, I suppose.” They all looked at him again. “What?”
“Senneth’s coming by tomorrow, is she?” Lynnette asked.
Cammon nodded. “Yes, but Tayse will stay behind.”
Areel was staring at him from under his wild white brows. “You can hear them having that conversation?” he demanded in his fierce voice. “Clear as if they’re standing here in the room? Or are you just—” He waved a crooked hand. “Prognosticating?”
“No…” How to explain it? Cammon glanced at Jerril, but even the other mystic looked baffled. “I can feel her intention. She thought of me. She was making plans.” He was a little nervous. Truly, this was a skill neither Jerril nor Lynnette possessed? “I can’t do that with everybody. Mostly Senneth. Sometimes Justin. It’s impossible to guess what Kirra will do next, because even if she’s thinking about one thing, she’s just as likely to do something else with no warning at all.”
“A most excellent ability to have,” Jerril said gravely, but Cammon had the feeling he was hiding laughter or astonishment or both. “Will she be here for dinner? We can have something special ready for the table.”
IN fact, the next night Senneth arrived a few minutes before the evening meal, complaining about the winter. “A fire mystic should not have to care about weather,” Jerril said, taking her in an embrace. She was as tall as he was and her white-blond hair rested for a moment against the smooth skin of his skull.
She laughed. “The cold doesn’t bother me, but the snow! The wet! The misery! My boots are covered with mud and my trousers are damp, and I feel most ill-tempered.”
“Areel and Jerril cooked for you all day, so that should cheer you up,” Lynnette said, offering her own hug. “Areel chased me out of the kitchen, in fact, so I don’t know what he’s fixing now.”
Senneth came close enough to cuff Cammon on the shoulder. “I suppose you’re the one who told them I was on the way,” she said. “Someday I’d like to take you by surprise. Is that ever going to happen?”
He grinned. “Somebody might surprise me someday, but I don’t think it will be you.”
“I’m coming back for lessons,” she said to Jerril. “You’ll have to teach me how to keep this boy out of my thoughts. I know you can do it.”
“I can keep him out of my thoughts, but I don’t know if you’re strong enough to shield from him,” Jerril said. “You have many gifts, of course, but I don’t believe you’re that good.”
Everybody laughed, because Senneth could do anything. “That’s why I need the lessons!”
Areel called them in for the meal and, after he kissed Senneth on the cheek, they all settled around the table. The food was good, the conversation was lively, and Cammon felt that particular glow of contentment he always felt when surrounded by people he liked. The more friends gathered in one room, the happier he was. It was as if his own well-being was magnified by everybody else’s, as if he added their joy to his own. Some of this, he knew, came from his magic; he absorbed emotions as others absorbed sunlight.
Some of it came from spending so much time divorced from anyone who loved him that he craved that time now like others craved air.
When the meal was finished, Lynnette was the first to stand up. “Senneth, you and Cammon go talk in Areel’s study,” she said. “The men and I will clean up, and we’ll have dessert when you’re done.”
Senneth was grinning. “And here I was thinking, ‘How shall I tell them I want a private audience with Cam?’ I suppose you never have to explain things to a reader.”
“Don’t touch either of the books open on my desk,” Areel ordered.
Senneth and Cammon headed for the door. “Now you’ll have to set them both on fire,” he said, and they laughed as they escaped up the stairs.
Areel’s study was a cramped, crowded, mysterious place. Small-scale models of houses, carriages, ships, contraptions, and impossible inventions littered the floor, hung from the ceiling, were sketched on diagrams pinned to the wall. Senneth and Cammon gingerly picked their way through the mess, found two chairs that could be cleared of debris relatively easily, and settled in. Senneth glanced at the bare grate and a fire sprang up, full of yellow, excitable flames. The room instantly warmed by ten degrees.
“So why have I come here tonight?” she asked, leaning back against the tattered fabric. “Since you seem to know everything.”
He grinned. “I don’t. Just that you were coming.” He thought a moment. “Because the king asked you to?”
“Why do I even bother?” she demanded. “Why don’t I just let you figure it all out for yourself?”
“It goes faster if you tell me,” he laughed. “But did King Baryn really ask about me?”
She relaxed more deeply into the chair. She seemed tired. “Not about you so much as…Here’s the story: He’s decided he should find a husband for Princess Amalie.”
Cammon spared a moment to think of that thin, calm, curious girl with the amazing red-gold hair. “Does Amalie want to be married?”
Senneth smiled. “I’m not sure that’s the point.”
“It might be to Amalie.”
“Hush. Listen. Amalie’s nineteen now, and all anyone in Gillengaria can think of is what kind of queen she will make and whether she will be fertile and bear heirs. So Baryn thinks that if he weds her off now, perhaps this will stop some of the plotting among the marlords of the Twelve Houses. Pick the right man, one who pleases all the marlords, have her produce a son or a daughter while Baryn is still alive—this might keep peace among the Houses.”
Cammon was still thinking of Amalie. “Yes, but if she doesn’t want to be married—”
“Princesses don’t marry for love,” Senneth said. “They marry for political alliances. They marry coastlines and trade routes and standing armies. Amalie knows this.”
“You got to marry for love,” he argued. “And serramarra are supposed to marry coastlines and all that, too. But you’re a serramarra and you married a King’s Rider—”
Senneth was laughing again. True, she was a serramarra—the daughter of a marlord—but she was hardly the most respectable example of the aristocracy. “Well, I’m different,” she said. “I’m a mystic, and the fate of Gillengaria does not depend upon my bloodlines. But Amalie will be queen—if we can keep her alive—and a great deal depends on her heirs. Therefore—”
“That’s who arrived yesterday, isn’t it?” Cammon said as the pieces suddenly came together. “Some prince from Sove
nfeld, I suppose. Is the king going to marry her off to a foreign lord?”
Now Senneth was watching him from her wide gray eyes, keeping her face neutral. It did her no good to try to mask her expression, of course; he could read the astonishment behind the impassive look. “How did you pick up on that, I wonder?” she said. “Or did you see them ride in?”
He shrugged impatiently. “We talked about it last night. All of us had sensed someone coming into the city, but we couldn’t get the details.”
“That was an envoy from Karyndein, not Sovenfeld,” she said. “And not the prince himself, but a representative of the prince. I don’t think Baryn is seriously considering a groom from outside Gillengaria, though. He believes that a judicious marriage between Amalie and a local noble might be more likely to restore peace to the realm. Myself, I’m not sure that’s it. Baryn has never been one to look too far beyond his own borders, and I don’t think he wants to bestow Amalie’s hand on anyone who seems so strange.”
“I think he should ask Amalie who she wants to marry.”
Senneth grinned briefly. “The problem is not so much who Amalie would like to marry as who would like to marry Amalie,” she said. “Who can be trusted? Which serramar from which House does not have a secret agenda? The thought was that you could help us decide who is sincere and who is scheming.”
“I can help you? How could I do that?”
“The king would like you to serve as an advisor to Amalie as she picks her husband.”
Cammon just stared at her mutely, and Senneth went off into peals of laughter.
“I’m sorry, but the look on your face—! I did manage to surprise you after all!”
“That’s not the kind of surprise I meant,” he defended himself. And then, “But what did you say? What do you mean?”
She sobered, mostly, but she was still smiling. “Your name came up as the king and I were discussing how best to conduct this—this—courtship of Amalie’s. And Baryn said, ‘How can we know which of these suitors can be trusted?’ And I thought of you. You will at least know who is lying and who is telling the truth when they kneel before her to offer their devotion.”
