A College of Magics (44 page)

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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A College of Magics
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Out of the north she saw skein after skein of the great birds coming. Their call stirred her heart. As she watched, the first flakes of snow began to fall. She welcomed the sting of them on her face. It was just a little pain, but it was something. A token to go with her into the rift.
And still she did not recognize the rush of wind and
clouds. Still she failed to perceive the nature of the sudden storm that came out of the north to drive the geese before it. Only when she caught the scent of dry leaves and damp earth on the razor's edge of the wind, did she finally understand.
Last of all the things she had surrendered to the rift, she had called Galazon. Galazon had come.
 
T
he blizzard fell like the lid of a white box. Half blind at the heart of the wind-lashed snow, Faris scrambled to her feet.
All around her the shifting patterns of the rift had stopped. She welcomed the sorrow, the pain, the cold that struck clean through her. As the cold struck her, so the cold struck the rift. As it chilled her, so it chilled the rift. The wind buffeted her until she nearly lost her bearings. Was she in the rift? Or was the rift in her?
As the storm reached its height, she set her last anchor far overhead. As sure of her own strength as she was of the north wind's, she sent herself into the heart of the rift. In the heart of the rift, she found the heart of balance, the heart of rest. For a blazing, endless moment, as all pain eased, the world held still around her.
In that instant of equilibrium, she felt Hilarion's presence and, more faintly, two others with him. To Faris, with all her senses occupied, Hilarion's companions seemed to brush past in haste. She glimpsed them only, yet recognized in them great wisdom and great age. Then they were gone.
Hilarion lingered. As if admiring the color and composition of a painting, he hesitated. With the delicacy of an
artist wielding his favorite brush, he made a swift adjustment, paused, and made another. Sense of balance satisfied, he withdrew, as if to step back and judge his canvas. Greatly pleased, and mildly mischievous, he regarded his work a moment longer. And then departed.
Faris felt him go: great wisdom, great age, and amusement greater still. Her first thought was puzzlement at Hilarion's reaction. Her next thought was that now she was utterly alone.
The equilibrium held an instant longer. Then Faris felt, as though she felt the deep vibrations of a distant bell tolling, the new wardens of east and south and west, as they took their places in the world. In the heartbeat after the last wardency was restored, the balance altered. Rift healed at last, the world took up its ancient dance once more.
Cold again, half blind again, Faris braced herself against the storm. Slowly the wind began to slacken. The storm eased.
Faint and far off, Faris heard the wild geese, like a high wild song, like hounds hunting. The song stirred her, made her long for high meadows and deep forests. Even if there had been no clouds, she would not have seen the wild geese pass, for she hid her face in her hands. Only her heart could see them go.
“I dislike loud noises, particularly in the morning.”
T
he wind died. The snow, which had drifted knee-deep in places, began to melt and trickle away, a small sound but steady, more musical than rainfall. The broken surface of the old throne room floor was revealed again, littered with stones, dark with damp. Overhead, the sky was still evenly overcast. But all around the horizon, a ring of clear sky began to show, like a wide blue rim on a gray bowl.
Slowly Faris took off the black robe Graelent had given her. In her ruined silk gown, she felt cold no more. She was numb, but for the dull certainty that she would do the next thing required of her, and the next after that, and so on, until all her duty was done. At the moment, it seemed plain it was her duty to see to Tyrian.
Dead, Tyrian's bruised face held a curious expression. It might have been fear and surprise mingled. Faris tried to remember if she had ever seen either expression in Tyrian's face while he lived. She did not think so, but she could not be sure. The dislocation of grief made it hard to remember. She wasn't certain if her time with Tyrian had gone into the rift or not.
Faris opened his left hand, searching for Hilarion's key. To her consternation, the key she found was whole, not broken. Nor was it smoky green glass the color of sea water. This key was cut of sharp-edged crystal, loop and stem and pin and bit, flawless, and as clear as spring water. The faceted glass gave back the morning light brilliantly. The chain, long and fine as a strand of hair, was unchanged. Faris put it around her neck but let the key hang, unconcealed.
The black robe was large enough to cover Tyrian completely. With great care, she arranged it to shroud everything.
When she rose stiffly to her feet, Faris realized that the lions had returned while she was intent upon Tyrian. She drew herself up warily, lest they try to come near Tyrian, but they merely lay in graceful repose all around her. From time to time, one would gaze with mild interest toward the palace door. None of them seemed inclined to trouble either Faris or the robe.
 
B
rinker ventured slowly out of the palace door. His eyes were grave as he studied Faris.
She was not ready to speak to anyone yet, least of all Brinker. But she could not bring herself to leave Tyrian.
“Is any of that blood yours?”
“Blood?” Faris looked down at herself. “Oh. No.” She discovered her throat was raw.
“Are you all right?”
Faris just stared at him.
“Apparently not. I'll take you back to the Metropol.”
Faris flinched at his touch. “You wanted me to marry the king.”
“I did. I still do. Pity the king detests you. It would be much the best solution. I am sorry he wouldn't listen to me. Unfortunate about your servant. A waste. Still, you're not hurt. That's the important thing.”
“You ordered the guard to hold their fire. I won't forget that.”
“You noticed my poor effort, did you? You seemed past noticing anything.”
“I noticed. Thank you.”
Faris's gratitude seemed to pain Brinker. “I dislike loud noises, particularly in the morning. Perhaps we should leave now. You'll probably be quite safe from the guards while you are with me. We can make a discreet departure.”
Faris couldn't simply leave Tyrian there. While she struggled to find words her uncle would understand, Agnes emerged from the palace door. She halted a few steps from Faris as one of the lionesses approached her.
“What have you done to my father?” she demanded. “Where's my sister? There's witchcraft at work here.”
“There's nothing at work here,” Faris replied. “It's over. The rift is closed.”
“Ah.” Brinker looked warily around. “Where
is
Menary?”
“She's gone.” Faris met Agnes's eyes squarely. “I killed her.”
Agnes staggered. Startled, the lioness withdrew to a safe distance. As he steadied Agnes, Brinker looked bemused. “Still a natural diplomat, I see,” he said to Faris.
“I had no choice. I had to close the rift.”
Brinker looked intrigued.
“You killed my sister? You
killed
her?” Agnes fell into a storm of weeping. Brinker attempted to comfort her but she shook him off and retreated into the palace, crying, “I must tell Father!”
“So Menary is dead.” Brinker sighed. “Well, I'm sure you had your reasons. Now. This rift. Tell me what you know about it.”
“It's—it's difficult to explain. Try to imagine a flaw, a tear in the pattern of the world.”
“Oh. Magic, is it?” Brinker looked glum. “I'm afraid I had to promise the king that you're perfectly incapable of performing magic of any kind. He wouldn't agree to the match without my assurance. Something to do with Menary, I take it. After Jane did whatever it was you persuaded her to do, he decided you and Menary were both abusing your powers. He seemed to think Menary wanted to let something out. Something that would make her more powerful than he is. Is that what you were up to?”
Faris shook her head. “I had to close the rift. Prosperian caused it. It was my responsibility.” She despaired of putting it into terms her uncle might comprehend.
He was already looking sardonic. “I don't see how that follows. Can't Prosperian put out her own fires? In a manner of speaking, of course.”
Through the palace door cautiously came a pair of trumpeters. Without taking their eyes from the watchful lions, they played a desultory fanfare. After them, the guards returned,
bringing the king, with Agnes hanging on his sleeve.
The king's wrath had given way to shocked silence. He simply stared at Faris and the huddled shape beneath the black robe.
Agnes looked puzzled by his lack of response. She tugged at his sleeve, prompting him. “Arrest her, Father. You must give the order for her arrest.”
The king's voice was a husk of itself. “No.”
“Certainly not,” Brinker said sharply. “We have had enough misunderstandings here today. It's pure chance we've avoided a most unfortunate incident. No one is going to arrest the duchess of Galazon for anything.”
Agnes was taken aback by Brinker's bluntness. “You too?” She turned to the king. “Say something, Father.” At his silence, she recoiled. “Everyone's bewitched!” She pointed an accusing finger at Faris. “It's your doing. This is all your fault.” With a hiss, she sprang at Faris.
Before the lions could pull her down, two guards intervened. Agnes struggled between them until the king realized they were looking to him for direction. At his vague nod, they escorted Agnes away with what dignity they could muster.
Scarcely had they withdrawn than the palace prefect appeared in the doorway, half out of breath, bald head aglisten. “Your Majesty, here is her excellency, Dame Edith Parry, the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of Great Britain.”
Almost on his heels the British ambassador arrived,
dressed with splendid propriety for a morning call at the palace, in dove gray. The trumpeters bleated dutifully and subsided. The palace perfect withdrew. The ambassador regarded the assembly in silence. Her keen gaze did not fail to note Faris and the figure beneath the black robe.
After the British ambassador came Jane Brailsford, neatly brushed and scrubbed, but still in her red evening gown. Reed, in his somewhat crumpled costume, was beside her.
“You did it! I felt you do it. You've mended the rift.” At her first look at Faris, Jane stopped abruptly. “What happened? You look ghastly. Where's Tyrian?” She glanced about at the lions, then saw the stillness concealed by the robe. She paled and looked back at Faris, horrified.
Reed frowned, baffled. “Where? What?” He followed Jane's gaze. “He can't be.”
At her friends' expressions of stunned grief, Faris felt her own face twist. Her sore throat tightened.
“With your permission, your majesty,” Brinker addressed the king, who was staring numbly at nothing, “perhaps your guards might detail enough men to remove the body.” He motioned to the robe. Before Faris could protest, he added, “For honorable burial.” To the ambassador, he said, “The king will doubtless make clear how deeply he regrets this accident.”
Hesitantly, the king nodded. As the guards responded to his order, Jane murmured to Reed. Reed accompanied them.
Faris watched until the men had borne Tyrian away.
There was silence on the windy heights. The lioness sank gracefully down at Faris's feet and began to clean a paw. Faris closed her eyes.
Jane's crisp voice rang out. “Catch her. She's going to faint.”
As Brinker reached for her, Faris collected herself. “I will not faint.” She swallowed painfully. “I may be sick.”
Brinker looked mildly scandalized. “In front of the British ambassador? I think not.”
Ignoring the lions, who kept a respectful distance from her, the British ambassador had stepped forward. “Do I address the warden of the north?” Without appearing to notice Faris's distress and dishevelment, she gave her a formidably correct greeting.
Faris braced herself and returned it. “I have that honor.” She glanced down at the lioness. “Although I have not had it long. You find me—and my affairs—in disarray. I will be glad to speak with you another time.”
The ambassador gave Faris a look of piercing appraisal. “I understand. You have more important matters to address. But I should like to be able to assure King Edward's government that his embassage here enjoys the good will and protection of the warden of the north.”
“You may assure your government that you and your embassage have my entire good will.” Faris sighed. “You do understand that I play no part in the government of Aravill?”
“Certainly.” The ambassador glanced back at the king, who stood surrounded by the remaining guards. “I am sure
the government of Aravill regrets this entire misunderstanding. No doubt all charges against the warden and her friends will be withdrawn. Perhaps the government of Aravill wishes to make a statement to that effect?”
The king seemed to search for words. “I—I deeply regret …”
The ambassador looked pained by the king's obvious confusion but said only, “So I shall report.” She eyed the lioness, who had moved on to another paw. “With the warden's permission, may I remain? I wish to observe—in the interest of rendering a full and accurate report.”
Brinker raised one eyebrow. “There is very little more to observe. Unless you wish to observe us leaving.”
Unruffled, the ambassador looked past Brinker. “Yet here is another party who plainly craves an audience with the warden.”
Istvan Graelent came forward, brushing a trace of ash from his white shirt cuff. His watchful henchmen lingered at the head of the pepper-pot stair, where they had taken shelter from the blizzard.
“Your majesty—” Graelent intercepted Faris. With finesse, he backed her a step or two away from Brinker and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “A word in your ear, your majesty.”
“Don't call me that.”
Brinker folded his arms and waited, one eye on the lioness. Jane joined him, head cocked at an angle that made it obvious that she was there to eavesdrop.
Graelent took Faris's hand. “Your grace—”
Faris pulled away.
“I must warn you—” Graelent paused and took a portentous look around. “You have enemies everywhere.”
Everyone was regarding them with bright-eyed interest, even the lions. Everyone but the king, who had gone so waxen pale that Faris wondered if he would be the one to be sick in front of the British ambassador.
Earnestly, Graelent continued. “Trust no one, your majesty. Yet fear no one. You know who you are to us.”
“Why does he seem to have such difficulty with her title?” Brinker asked Jane.
“I offer you my protection.” Graelent's gesture took in the pepper-pot tower, the warden's stair. “Come away with me. Accept your place in the world.”
“I begin to see why they call him Tom o'Bedlam,” Brinker said.
“Quite daft,” Jane agreed.
Graelent ignored them. “If you go with them, you go as a pawn. Your time with me under the city makes you mine, Faris, not theirs.”
Faris knew there must be a sensible reply to make, there had to be. Something that would end this foolishness. And end it before Graelent told the world, inadvertently or not, that she had been his prisoner.
“Let them reckon us by our deeds. Faris? Your grace?” Graelent seemed puzzled by Faris's silence.
“More trouble with the title,” Brinker observed.

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