The Queen of Mages

by Benjamin Clayborne

Lady Amira Estaile’s hand drifted from one dress to the next. “Hm, this one could do. In green, perhaps, dark green. And lower the bodice a bit.”

  “Then the shoulders should be wider too, m’lady,” the dressmaker offered.

  Amira smiled. “Yes, that would be fine. And no lace here.” She traced a finger along the décolletage.

  “If m’lady desires so,” the little dressmaker said dubiously.

  Katin Berisha, Amira’s vala, rolled her eyes. “I think m’lady will be distracting enough without excess cleavage on display.”

  “Oh, hush. It will give them all something else to gossip about.” Which would be a nice change. Her common birth, recent ennobling, and dead husband had been tittered about quite enough in the noble parlors of Callaston. Amira could understand their fascination, but it grew tiresome. She rubbed at her aching temple absently.

  Katin sighed and turned to the little old dressmaker. “When can it be done?”

  “Oh, well, I am quite busy with my other orders for the summer ball,” she fretted. “So many ladies are ordering new dresses… My seamstresses are already quite overwhelmed.”

  All part of the game, Amira thought. “Katin?”

  Amira’s vala drew a small velvet purse from the folds of her dress. “An extra silver should be enough motivation for your girls,” she said dryly, holding up a coin.

  The dressmaker cleared her throat. “Countess Besiana next door thought it wise to motivate each of the three seamstresses assigned to her dress.”

  Amira snorted. “Shameless! I believe we can afford to match the countess’s generosity,” she said to Katin with a wink, although the pain in her head was making it harder for her to keep smiling.

  Katin sighed and pulled two more silvers from the pouch. “I trust that my lady’s dress will be ready the same day as the countess’s.”

  “A countess must come first, of course,” the dressmaker said, pocketing the coins, “but I assure you, Lady Amira’s dress will be ready in plenty of time for the ball.” She simpered at them and toddled out the door on her stumpy legs. Her assistants gathered up the sample dresses and scurried after her as a housemaid showed them out.

  It had thrilled Amira to be able to summon one of Callaston’s preeminent dressmakers to her manse, but her pounding head had drained all the fun from it. She held her smile rigid as she swept out of the sitting room and led Katin up the stairs.

  When Amira reached her bedroom, she could not hide it any longer, and collapsed against the bed, moaning and clutching her head with both hands. The headache came in slow, pounding waves that took forever to crest and break.

  Katin clucked her tongue and shut the door quickly. “You need a surgeon.”

  “No! They’ll just put leeches on me, or do something equally useless.” Amira lifted her head up and tried to smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If your head doesn’t crack open from the pain. I saw you grinding your jaw.” Katin went over to the window and flung it open. “At least get some air.”

  “Yes, yes.” Amira pushed to her feet. “Help me get this blasted corset off.”

  The headaches had been getting worse, coming almost daily now. Amira had come to dread the first sign of it, a tension behind her eyes. The pain built slowly, then erupted into pulses of agony that shattered her concentration. She’d barely been able to make it up the stairs this time.

  Katin made quick work of the buttons on her dress and unlaced the corset, and shortly Amira rested in a chair by the window, clad only in her underdress. The high-walled garden behind her manse would thwart any prying eyes.

  Amira inhaled deeply, nose tingling at the mixed smells of Callaston. The city had covered sewers, but it still reeked of smoke and effluent anyway. At least the roses in her garden added a pleasant, masking sweetness.

  “Perhaps we should get out of the city,” she said. “The invitations have thinned now that everyone’s preparing for the summer ball. Plenty of time for a trip to the country.” Her headache had mostly subsided now, but she felt unnaturally warm. “Nobles go out to the country all the time. Or even to the sea.”

  “It would take weeks just to get to the sea,” Katin stated flatly.

  “Yes, dear, I wasn’t actually suggesting—ugh. As your mistress, I command you, prepare us for a journey into the country, et cetera and so on.”

  “What—just the pair of us?”

  “Are you concerned about the other servants?” Amira chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to have a few days to themselves.”

  “You still haven’t hired a house major. They’ll likely let the place rot if I’m not here to shout at them. But that’s not what I’m worried about,” Katin said darkly. “Two women alone on the road…”

  “Pish,” Amira said. “We’ll have the driver with us, and we’re hardly going into uncharted wilderness. The land is thoroughly settled for leagues in every direction.”

  “Yes, well…” Katin sighed. “Where in particular are we going?”

  “I don’t know. Wherever is pleasant. Surprise me.” The headache had all but vanished; Amira very nearly felt like herself again. The promise of the summer ball came back to her, and she was thrilled all over again.

  ———

  It took the rest of the afternoon for Katin to pack Amira’s bags, or rather to direct Amira’s other servants to pack them. A vala was supposed to anticipate her lady’s needs and ensure that all her affairs ran smoothly. Katin accomplished this by snapping incessantly at the other maids. Sara, the youngest, squeaked and scurried whenever Katin said her name. Sometimes Amira wondered if Katin deliberately tried to terrify the girl. It would be easy sport, but Amira felt sorry for the poor thing.

  Katin was right about hiring a house major, though. Every noble residence of any size needed a major to run the place properly. A vala was a personal servant whose attentions should be directed toward her mistress. Amira knew Katin didn’t exactly mind ordering the other servants around, but she still complained about having to do two jobs.

  Amira could barely sleep that night, alone in her vast canopied bed. The headache had returned, slightly weaker than before, but it was the impending journey that kept her awake. Amira had wanted to see all the wonders of the realm since she was a little girl: the towering Black Mountains; the southern highlands with their dramatic canyons; Angaril Saeth, the Skysilver Spire, a mysterious monolith far to the northwest; the famed clifftop city of Seawatch.

  Upon her marriage to Valmir a year ago, she had thought her dreams would come true. His wealth had brought her a certain kind of freedom, but it had also constrained her. Valmir’s business dealings had kept him tethered to the city, and Amira had been swallowed whole by the maw of noble society. There were endless dinner parties, masques, dances. She enjoyed them, but she wanted to see more of what the world had to offer.

  Then winter had come, and a spate of galloping cough had run through the city. Everyone shut their homes tight, but somehow Valmir had caught it, and he was one of the unlucky few not to survive. There had never been deep love between them, only a sort of friendly acquaintance, but Amira found herself missing him anyway. She thanked the Aspects she’d never been consumed by the fantasy of a marriage wrought from true love. Their union had been convenient for them both, and she had certainly gotten the better end of the deal, what with not being dead.

  She felt a vague twinge of guilt that she’d returned to Callaston society so soon after Valmir’s death, but he’d been a practical man. He wouldn’t have minded. The mourning month had barely ended when the invitations started pouring in. Luncheons, dinners, garden parties, all of them an excuse for Callaston’s noble matrons to inflict their bachelor sons upon her. Not that Amira didn’t enjoy the company of handsome men, but she needed a palate cleanser before the summer ball. She could not go as far as the Black Mountains, so a trip to the countryside would have to suffice.

  She supposed she would eventually marry again, but thanks to the resources she inherite
d from Valmir, she need not rush. The redoubtable Mister Hendricks oversaw the day-to-day management of her assets; he would let her know if her financial situation ever threatened to become dire.

  After a long while lying in the dark she went to wake Katin, in her little cell adjacent to Amira’s bedchamber. Katin sat up, cursing, and made some tea. Amira only wanted to talk, and Katin was content to listen drowsily. Night always made Amira feel lonely and isolated, as if all the life and charm had gone out of the world. Even when Valmir had slept next to her, she could not shake the feeling. Having someone to chat with, even if it was only idle gossip, drove away some of that terror.

  She jerked awake some time later, realizing she’d drifted off in her chair. Katin was gone, probably back to her cell, so Amira climbed into bed and dozed a while longer. The curtains were drawn, and dawn crept in slowly.

  Katin had said that the coach would arrive early. Amira rose once the sun peeked through the window. She fetched the garments they’d set out the night before. A travelling corset, not so tight as the dreadful thing she’d worn yesterday, and a clean underdress to go beneath it. A simple blue linen dress, to ward off the heat, with little white flowers embroidered on the sleeves. A wide-brimmed hat, for the sun, and tan leather gloves.

  Amira washed from her basin and brushed out her honey-blonde locks, then tied them back with a cord. Katin could do something with her hair later. She started to dress, but couldn’t tighten the corset properly on her own. Finally she gave up and called for Katin, who woke and helped her, cursing some more. Katin helped powder Amira’s face and apply a little color to her eyes, but as always refused Amira’s offer to do the same for her. It was as if the girl wanted to look plain.

  Her clothes and accoutrements required two entire trunks, for no vala would dare risk letting her lady be unprepared for any circumstance the countryside might offer. One never knew when a masque would leap from behind a hedge and demand one’s attendance. The maids wrestled the trunks down the stairs to the foyer.

  The morning had dawned cool, and light breezes ruffled the trees outside. The hedge maples on Willbury Street were old and grand, their branches nearly making a natural arbor across the road. Amira had worked herself up into great excitement over this jaunt, and she waited impatiently in her sitting room, watching the morning traffic through the window: servants going to the grocer, milkmaids and butchers making their deliveries, merchants heading off to conduct business.

  Soon the coach arrived. Katin had managed to find a coachman who was willing to take them for an unknown number of days toward an unpredictable destination. His name was Huffman, and he was a gray-haired stork of a man so tall that his breeches barely reached his boot-tops. He never seemed to smile, but Katin had said his price was fair. Amira found him delightfully solemn.

  The coach itself was crafted in elegant simplicity, its dark wood shiny with countless layers of polished lacquer, but otherwise devoid of ornamentation. A cunning little step folded out from the undercarriage, springing forth with a click when Huffman tugged on it.

  Amira’s chef, a heavyset, mustachioed Parilian named Fortino, came wheezing out of the manse bearing a pair of baskets stuffed full of cheese, bread, apples, grapes, figs, and smoked oysters imported at great expense from the coast. Amira thanked him for his foresight, while Katin clucked at the excess. “A basket for each of us? Is there a famine coming?” she muttered when Fortino had his back turned.

  Huffman and Fortino, being the only men present, heaved the two enormous trunks onto the coach, lashing them to the luggage rack. Huffman bowed to Amira and held out his hand to help her up.

  As she settled onto the cushions, a squeaking noise drew her attention. She looked out the open door of the coach and saw a rotund woman, dress askew, striding toward her and calling out Amira’s name. A gaggle of maids trailed behind, making futile attempts to finish dressing her. The Lady Besiana Tarian, Countess of Hedenham, and Amira’s neighbor, ground to a halt at the coach door, blocking Katin from climbing aboard. The vala glared at the countess’s expansive back.

  “Amira, dear! Surely you are not going on a journey, today of all days?” The countess eyed the trunk perched above her as if it might somehow be to blame.

  Amira bowed her head, a necessary token of respect. Amira was no countess, not even a baroness, just an unlanded lady, the lowest rank of the nobility, but it annoyed her to have to bow to this nag of a noblewoman. “Ah, yes, I’m afraid I am, my lady,” she said, pursing her lips. “I just need some time to clear my head before the summer ball. I’ve been having the most awful headaches, you see.”

  “How dreadful,” Besiana said, slapping away the hand of a maid who tried to straighten her sleeve. “Dreadfully unfortunate, that is. You see, my son has sent word—he is arriving in the city this very day!”

  The countess had been plotting for months to introduce Amira to her son. Apparently he preferred to stay in Hedenham with his father, and only came to Callaston rarely, on business of their house. Amira’s social calendar had, by some unfathomable coincidence, been completely full during his last several visits.

  “Oh, my, that is unfortunate,” Amira said, knitting her brow in feigned distress. “But I simply cannot wait if I’m to feel well for the ball.”

  “Oh, of course,” Besiana said, chuckling lightly. “Ah, the ball! He’ll stay for the ball, I’m sure of it. I’ll see to it! You two should attend together. You’d make the most elegant couple.”

  Amira gave a bright smile. “It would not be an impossible thing!”

  While the countess worked out the meaning of that, Katin impatiently slipped past her and up into the coach, clutching the snack baskets in either hand. “Pardon me, m’lady, we must be going.” She pulled the door shut and pounded on the roof. Huffman snapped the reins briskly, apparently as eager to escape the countess’s grasp as Amira was.

  “Do let me know when you return, dear!” the countess shouted after them as the coach pulled away. “I shall tell my son that…” Her voice faded as the coach picked up speed.

  Katin frowned out the window. “I’m going to find out which of our servants gossiped to her servants about this trip, and have them flogged.”

  “Oh, hush,” Amira said. “Servants gossip.”

  “I don’t,” Katin grumped, plucking a grape from one of the baskets and gnashing at it.

  ———

  Willbury Street curved so that its ends both met the same road, a wide avenue named the Grainway, populated by shops and businesses with apartments stacked atop them. The coach joined the traffic on that road, passing by the little grocer where Fortino went twice a week to purchase fruits and vegetables, and other local shops that Amira had come to know.

  Barely a block later, Amira realized they’d pass right by the local temple. “I want to stop there,” she told Katin.

  “What? Why?”

  “For a blessing.”

  Katin rolled her eyes. “I suppose we left early enough. Please be quick.” She hammered on the roof and shouted to Huffman. “Stop at the temple!”

  He complied, bringing the coach to a halt squarely before the temple’s door. Three stone steps led up to it, and Amira knocked on the doorframe three times in rapid ritual before entering. Katin stayed in the coach, which suited Amira fine. Katin never wanted to pray, or receive blessings, or even set foot in a temple if she could avoid it.

  One could find temples of the Niderium in every city, town, and village in Garova. There were dozens in Callaston alone. Amira sought them out often; she liked praying to the Caretaker and the Aspects. It made her feel safe and calm. The Elibanders, who had come to this land centuries ago, had brought their religion with them. They worshipped a god called the Guardian, who rewarded control, conquest, and strength. But the native Caelanders’ spirit-worship had been too hard to wrest away, too ingrained in the rituals and patterns of their daily lives.

  Some dusty old scholar had claimed a vision of the true god, whom he called the Care
taker, and founded a religious order that merged the Elibanders’ monotheism with the spirit-worship of the Caelander natives. The Devoshim Niderium, as he’d named it, had expanded over the centuries to nearly blanket the realm in temples, administered from its headquarters compound in Callaston. Virtually all Garovans worshipped the Caretaker, although Amira had heard tales of backwaters where people still prayed to spirits in the water, air, and earth.

  Like most Niderine temples, this one was long and narrow, with a high, arched ceiling. A clear glass window at the far end admitted some light, but mostly the temple was lit by candles in wall sconces. Amira strode past the eight altars where a few folk prayed, and found the temple’s steward reading something atop his lectern. He looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Lady Amira,” he said quietly, closing a large, leather-bound book of real paper. It must have cost a fortune; parchment was cheaper, but the Niderium could afford the finer things.

  “Good morning, Stew—er, Sendraj Alfin.” Amira grimaced, hoping no one else had noticed her flub. Proper nobles used the Elibander title, not the commoner’s “Steward.” “If it please you, I’d like a blessing. I’m starting a journey today and I wish it to be safe and enjoyable.”

  “Indeed, m’lady? That sounds most pleasant. Although I notice you say ‘I’ as opposed to ‘we.’ I assume your vala will be attending you on your journey, as is proper, so that is a curious turn of phrase.” He peered over her shoulder. “M’lady really ought to encourage her vala to visit the temple. We can hardly see to her spiritual welfare if—”

  “Yes, Sendraj,” Amira blurted, not feeling at all bad about cutting him off. Stewards would ramble at the slightest provocation. She wondered if they learned it at Ulisharran, or if the Niderium simply sought out men who loved the sound of their own voice. Besides, there was no way to get Katin into a temple short of dragging her. “But I am in rather a rush, so if you would…?”

  “Ah. Of course. Please step into the Eye.”

  Alfin’s little wooden lectern sat at the edge of the Eye of Sanctuary, a circle set down into the floor by three shallow steps. Amira descended to its center and stood with her hands clasped as Alfin straightened up and hefted his shepherd’s crook.

  “By the Caretaker and his thousand names,” the steward began, addressing no one in particular. “I call for a blessing on this lady, as she begins a journey. Her path is known and unknown. I invoke the Aspect of Courage, to help her take the next step. Her benefit is known and unknown. I invoke the Aspect of Joy, to help her prosper in its light. Her destiny is known and unknown. I invoke the Aspect of Chaos, to help her face the mystery to come.” He reached out with the crook and lightly tapped Amira on the top of her head.

  Amira smiled. Stewards might ramble in conversation, but the rituals of the Niderium were tidily efficient. She dropped a silver into the donation urn, whispered her thanks, and departed.

  Katin tapped her foot impatiently as Huffman helped Amira climb back into the coach. “Properly consecrated?”

  “I made him put a curse on you,” Amira teased. Katin rolled her eyes and thumped on the roof.

  They followed the Grainway for half a mile, then turned north along the Way of Trade, two broad avenues that flanked a grass parkway that was used for the annual Wintergift feast. Soon they reached the Great Square. Hundreds of vendors, shoppers, beggars, and supplicants crowded the square, and it took several minutes for Huffman to thread his way through, shouting and cursing at the pedestrians obstructing their way. Amira glimpsed the high stone walls of the great castle Elibarran, seat of the crown of Garova. From what she’d heard, it was more palace now than fortification, though the walls looked impressive enough. She was of too low station to have been invited in by the royal family or others at court, but when the royal summer ball came, all the nobles in the city would be allowed to enter. She tingled with excitement at the prospect.

  They escaped the Great Square and soon passed through the city’s western gate, called the Trade Gate in the typically practical fashion of Garovan commoners. It had a fancy official name she’d forgotten, some confusing phrase from the old Elibander tongue.

  “So, where are we bound?” Amira asked as the road turned from stone to dirt beneath them. Callaston had not been attacked by any army in decades, and it had long since overflowed its walls. Cottages, shops, fields, and farms dotted the landscape around them.

  “West.” Katin smirked at her. “Surprise!”

  Amira pursed her lips. “I find myself less exhilarated than I had hoped.”

  “You wanted to get out of the city. Well, here we are. What were you expecting on a half day’s notice? It took all the time I had just to get packed and arrange the coach.” Katin sniffed. “There are a few noble estates we could call at. Countess Isilian, for instance—”

  “No, no. We’ll stay at wayfarers’ inns. I may as well have stayed cooped up at home if we’re simply going to camp out at some lady’s estate. I want to visit the country.”

  ———

  The plains west of Callaston soon gave way to low hills threaded with gentle streams. Occasionally Amira could glimpse the silver ribbon of the River Brinemoor running parallel to the road a mile or so to the south. As the sun slipped behind the western hills, Huffman called out from atop the coach. “Inn ahead, m’lady, and it’s getting on toward dark. Should we stop for the night?”

  Amira’s headache had returned with reinforcements, and the jostling of the coach had not helped one bit. She stopped rubbing at her temple long enough to push the curtain aside and spy a cozy inn beside the road. She nudged Katin, who had drifted off, slumped over one of the baskets. The vala twitched and woke, smoothing her dull brown hair back and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Katin called out for Huffman to stop once Amira pointed out the inn to her. Amira would gladly have done the shouting herself, but she was a proper lady now, and ladies were supposed to refrain from raising their voices.

  Huffman helped her down from the coach. When her foot struck the ground, a cascade of agony erupted in her head. She turned away from Huffman for a moment, gritting her teeth against the pain, and forced out a “Thank you, sir,” before he could think her unbearably rude. A gawky young boy came hopping out of the inn to help with the trunks.

  The Inn of the Western Well followed the same plan as most Garovan inns: a common room taking up most of the ground floor, with the kitchen behind it, and a winding stairwell leading up to the bedrooms. Through the arch to her right Amira saw a handful of guests at dinner. Food was the furthest thing from her mind as she tried to ignore the growing pain. She felt as if a white-hot dagger was being slowly and inexorably driven through the top of her skull.

  The innkeeper, a fat old man who smiled at everything, bowed and gave them the guest register to sign. Amira scratched in Lady Amira Estaile, a lone Elibander-style name beneath a sea of common Caelan names. There were no other nobles staying here at the moment, it seemed. Her vala put in her own name beneath it, Katin Berisha.

  The innkeeper led them to their room at the end of the upstairs corridor. Katin slipped the man a few coppers and he bowed and smiled his way out, shutting the door. Amira felt hot. She threw open the windows, which looked out behind the inn onto a grassy yard where a few guests strolled.

  The cool evening air didn’t help. What she needed was privacy. And to get the damned corset off. “Help me undress, would you,” she said as evenly as she could. Katin did, while Amira took deep breaths, trying to steady herself. “I’m famished,” she lied. “I don’t suppose you’d see if the kitchen can spare a plate or two for us.” She smiled tightly at her vala, trying not to wince.

  Katin eyed her for a moment, but nodded and went out. When the door snicked shut, Amira collapsed onto the bed, buried her face in the coverlet, and released a keening wail. The pain was worse than ever, as if a blazing ember scorched her from within. She couldn’t picture anything else in her mind’s eye, no matter how hard she willed it. All she saw was a scorching, blistering
sun, filling every corner of her being.

  She slid down to the floor, her shift crumpling up against the bed. The pain ebbed for a moment, and it was then that Amira realized she could actually see the ember. It was a steady orange glow, easily visible when she shut her eyes. Which she did, allowing the ember to occupy all her attention.

  It felt odd, as if it had some physical presence within her head. Not just where the pain lay, but beyond it. Go away, you wretched thing, she thought at it bitterly.

  It moved.

  Amira gasped, flinching as if she could escape from her own thoughts. When she settled a bit, she looked at the ember again. It was still there, but… off to one side, somehow, no matter how she turned her head. Move, she thought again, and it jumped a little more, this time to the other side of her vision.

  What is this? The little ember fascinated her. Sparks and lines flitted around it, as if she’d rubbed her eyes. The sun had set; colors washed out of the world, leaving everything in twilight. Amira spent a minute or two pushing the ember around some more, until thumping steps echoed in the hall outside. Instinctively Amira shoved the ember away hard, trying to hide it—

  The room brightened suddenly, and she turned to see a small, flickering flame burning on the wall. Astonished and entranced, Amira gaped at it, until the door swept open. Katin stood there in silhouette, a tray in her hands. “Why is it—a fire!” She darted over and balanced on one leg, stamping the flame out with her boot. “Amira, what happened? Why is it so dark in here?”

  “I… I was trying…” She gulped, her throat dry. Suddenly she felt absolutely starved. “I was trying to light the lamp…”

  Katin deposited the tray atop the dresser, and looked around. She picked up the tinderbox. “This was on the other side of the room.”

  Panic rose in Amira, and she burst into tears. “I’m sorry… I don’t know…” She clenched her eyes against the anguish and confusion. Aspect of Chaos, help me!

  Katin knelt down and wrapped her arms around Amira. “Hush, it’ll be all right, it was nothing. You’ll be all right.”

  Amira sniffled, holding back sobs. “The… the food…”

  Katin nodded briskly. Her tone was just as clipped. “Right. Here you go.” She handed one of the plates down to Amira.

  The food was good, still faintly warm, a slice of fatty roast pork and spicy mashed potatoes and peas, and even a biscuit with butter and honey. Amira wolfed it down, sitting on the floor as Katin watched, ignoring her own food. She had to stop herself from licking the plate clean. “More?” Amira asked, but Katin felt her forehead.

  “You’re burning up. You need to lie down. You infuriating girl, why didn’t you tell me your headache was back?” She took Amira firmly by the arm, guided her into the bed like a child, and covered her halfway with the sheet. “Go to sleep,” she said, but Amira already had.

  CHAPTER 2

  DARDAN