A Ragged Magic (8 page)

Chapter Eight

I
head to the Star Chambers after dinner. The chapel is back to shadowed and echoing now that dark has fallen, and I hope that Orrin will look for me soon. It’s nerve-wracking in here, with Gantry somewhere nearby. I pray to Dorei and the Star Lord, hoping for grace. Or invisibility: either would help.

Orrin enters with a scrape of the tapestry, and I jump, try not to gasp. “Sorry. The bishop was … displeased with me. I wasn’t sure he would let me come to pray privately,” Orrin whispers.

I feel my stomach sinking. “Oh, no. Is it because of this morning? It’s my fault.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry. I — I was nervous and shaky anyway. He has a disconcerting way about him, and I try to avoid his eyes when I can.”

I shiver and nod. He notices the shiver. “Is he, did he beat you? I mean, before the — when you were —” he flounders to a halt.

I can’t open my mouth to say anything, to tell him even a lie. My breathing falters, my heart races, and I am in that room again, with that voice chanting.

I shake myself out of it; Orrin is trying to soothe me, pat my arm. I turn to him and hug him fiercely, and I hear him cry out, flinch away.

“Oh, no,” I say, drawing away to look into his wincing eyes. “I’m so sorry,” I manage through my wheezing. I touch his shoulder and he flinches further, looks away from me. I notice finally that his movements are stiff, and he holds himself as though injured. “He — he hurt you, didn’t he?”

Orrin says nothing. I take his hand. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m hardly the first acolyte to be disciplined,” he says. “No one can do anything. But I swear, it was more than just discipline to him. It was — rage. He wanted what I couldn’t give him, and he was enraged. I thought for a minute — well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“What did he want?” I ask.

“Information. He wanted,” he stops, looks away again. My blood freezes, my whole body aches in panic.

“Information?” I whisper.

“Not about you, or not about the real you. He wants — he’s looking for information about the princess. And he thinks I can get it for him.”

“Why would he think that?”

“He thinks I should be able to use my Sight to spy on her.” He laughs a little. “He’s angry because I told him that’s not how it works.”

Shaking, I ask, “You have the Sight?”

“Not much of it. I don’t See much. It’s not a very useful magic in me,” he says, rueful. “I’m sure Keenan told you about it.”

I just shake my head.

“The chicken prophesies?” he says, and surprises a laugh out of me.

“Oh, the chicken prophecies! That was you?” I can’t stop a helpless chuckle.

“Even the Reverend Superior made fun of me for that. It’s the clearest set of visions I ever had.”

“Well, it might have been useful to the cook to know how many eggs were going to be laid each day,” I say, relieved. If his Sight is weak, then Gantry can’t use him to spy, not really.

Orrin’s smile is wan.

“Have you ever had a vision about the princess?” I ask.

He shakes his head, sighs. “Only once, and it was nothing. She was Healing a woman covered in bandages. I couldn’t even really see who — I only knew it was a woman because that’s the feeling I got.”

I can’t feel my face; I have no idea what expression is on it. “Did you tell him of that vision?”

“Not all of it — just that she was Healing someone. That threw him into enough of a fit. He wanted to know what, who, where, and I just — I said I couldn’t tell anything else. I didn’t even say it was a woman …” His voice trails off, his face shocked in the flickering light. “Oh, Lord of Stars, it was you, wasn’t it? Oh, I don’t — what did he do to you?”

I can’t breathe, I can’t think — if Gantry figures out who I am, we are all lost, and Orrin is in so much danger, and I can’t speak, I can’t speak …

“I’m sorry, Rhiannon. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me anything. I’m so sorry,” he’s saying, sobbing, holding and rocking me, and I find my breath finally.

“Rhia,” I whisper. “You have to remember.”

He breathes a sigh, another. “Rhia,” he says, pulling back. “I will remember. I won’t even speak it at all, if that will help.”

“It might.” I wipe at my face — it’s wet and sloppy.

Orrin smiles and hands me another handkerchief.

“Oh, dear,” I say, and he laughs.

A thump sounds on the wall and we jump to standing, me muffling a cry.

“This is a place of worship, not a trysting house!” a voice shouts from the next chamber. I bite my lips, but Orrin squares his shoulders.

“I am counseling a worshiper. Pray do not interrupt,” he says in a voice that is a perfect match for Gantry. I blink, raise my eyebrows. He smirks a little.

“Beg pardon! Beg pardon, Lord Bishop! Beg pardon!” The voice fades as the speaker hurries out of the chamber, out of the chapel.

I start to shake, relieved laughter making me sag onto the bench.

Orrin’s smirk turns to a sheepish grin. “Among my many talents,” he says. He joins in my shaky laughter.

I can tell both of us feel sick and frightened and want to ignore it. I clutch his handkerchief, wipe my face. “My lord the Earl of Dorward wants to speak with you,” I say, finally calm enough. “He is, well, he’s —”

“The princess’ spy,” Orrin finishes.

“Cousin,” I say firmly. “But he is … concerned.”

Orrin nods. “And rightly so. Where shall I call upon him?”

“Oh, I think he’ll call upon you. Probably tomorrow. I’ll try to be there, too, but he’s …”

“A spy,” Orrin finishes.

I cluck my tongue. “A very concerned cousin. Who is an Earl.” I correct.

He snorts.

“He’s, well, he’s intimidating, but he means well,” I add.

“I will keep my eye out for his approach, then.”

“Don’t take his ferocity to heart. He won’t hurt you.”

Orrin raises his eyebrows at me. “Thanks for the warning.”

I shake my head at him. “He is gruff. And very rude. But he has her — he has everyone’s best interests at heart.” I stand. “I should go. I’ll look for you tomorrow. I, we’re not supposed to meet too often.”

“No. We should not.” He stands and pats my arm. “Let me go out first. Get some sleep.” He smiles at me, worry and pain in his eyes. I know mine look the same as I smile back.

～

Connor finds me the next day on my way to Duchess Marguerite’s solar with my embroidery. He gestures impatiently for me to follow him, and I am just as glad to go despite his peremptory behavior. My embroidery skills are weak at best. I was always better with the loom. Not much, but better.

I follow him down the corridor, staring at his brown velvet back. He leads me to the north tower, but down, where the steps are smooth as ice they’re so old, and smell of damp. Slowly a steady surge sounds, an undertone of wild rushing.

As my legs begin to ache, Connor grabs a lamp from a wall sconce that I didn’t see in the growing dark. He lights it, and we descend further, spiraling into the heavy weight of earth.

The stairs stop suddenly at a heavy wood and stone door. I bump into Connor’s back and he grunts, squeaking hinges sound, and we walk out into the misty daylight.

The sea bashes the cliff we stand on; a short wall at the edge of the path is wet from the spray reaching high and wetting my hem and hands.

When I step through, Orrin is seated on a stone bench against the wall, the spring sunshine breaking through wispy clouds and painting the dark contours of his face with copper.

I look up, away from the surf, and see the north tower’s tip and outer wall stretching high above.

“When you speak to one another, it might be better to meet here. Or just inside, when the weather is bad,” Connor says.

I turn and look at him. I suppose this is his way of approving of our friendship. I stare at him for a moment, raising my eyebrows. Julianna does this to him and it seems to work.

Connor shrugs and points to where the wall ends in more rock and a crude door. “It’s an old tunnel, to what used to be the Lord’s hall. Now it’s the Inquisitor’s building.” I shudder, looking away. How they got me out, I realize.

“Why not keep meeting in the Star Chambers?” Orrin asks.

“A pattern will be noticed. Meet here,” he says, and closes the door behind him, leaving me with Orrin. I blink a couple of times, turn to regard my friend. Yes, my friend.

“Is he always like that?” Orrin asks.

I breathe a laugh, shrug. “Worse, mostly. I hope he wasn’t too … too Connor.”

Orrin looks at me at little sideways, starts to smile. “So you call him by his given name? Ah, but he is your cousin and guardian now, isn’t he?”

I nod, a little confused.

“And anything else?” he asks archly.

“What do you m — no! No, nothing else. Good grief, Orrin,” I say, trying to be repressive, but he grins and I can’t help a rueful smile back. “He’s just my — he’s just my —”

“Connor,” Orrin supplies.

“Exactly,” I reply, and he laughs.

“Oh, exactly.”

“Shut up.” I sigh and he laughs some more.  I take his hand, and we sit in the sunshine, enjoying the wind and the sound of the waves. I lean on him for a minute, then remember the ladies, and the solar, and the dratted embroidery. “I have to go. But do you want to meet here? I mean, soon?”

He stands and offers me a hand up. “I’ll try and come day after tomorrow, after dinner. I’ll let you go up first now. We should probably leave separately.”

I hadn’t thought of that. That he did — and I have a vision of Keenan so sharp, so sweet, that I have to sit down again.

“Oh,” I say, just that, and he looks stricken.

“You felt that,” he says, and I bite my lips, nod. “Your Sight is stronger than mine.”

“You and Keenan — you hid your relationship?”

Orrin looks away. His hands clench on his thighs, and I feel a wave of sadness that isn’t mine. “It was an open secret. Everyone knew. But our Reverend Superior believes strongly in celibacy for students and acolytes, and didn’t approve. Since there aren’t any official rules about acolytes forming attachments to each other, we just kept everything quiet, and he never told us to stop.”

He looks back at me, blinking back tears. “After the … arrest, everything changed. Keenan was so loved, and then suddenly he was —” he stops, closes his eyes.

I See angry faces, raised fists, feel the ghost of old pain. “I think that’s why the Reverend Superior sent me here, when an acolyte with the Sight was requested. No one else wanted to go.”

The phrase jerks me back to myself. Something about Gantry wanting the Sight specifically crawls through my skin, along runes cut by a knife and demon spells.

“Bishop Gantry requested an acolyte with the Sight?” I try to keep my voice calm, but I can hear it going high and quavery.

“That’s what he said. I told him it wasn’t much, but he didn’t seem concerned.”

“Oh, no,” I whisper. Magic trickles through me, and I See a knife, Orrin’s eyes wide and terrified. I shake myself free of it to tell him — but I can’t.

“What? What is it you are so worried about? What did he do to you?” Orrin asks, frustrated.

I feel my lungs constrict, hear the demon voices from my memory, and I cannot speak, cannot breathe again. It is this, it is this question — I can’t speak if someone asks me about the scars, about the demons, about what Gantry did to me.

I can hear Orrin calling my name, the ocean surf, and my own gasping. I think carefully only about Orrin, that I am concerned for Orrin, and not why. I pull pieces of myself from the air around me and weave them together with promises that I am not thinking about anything.

“Rhiannon! What is it?”

Gasping, I manage to say, “Do not ask me that question,” although I can’t be sure he understands me. But he has his own Sight, and I try to send him something, anything.

He stops talking, just holds my arms as I manage my breathing.

“I think,” I say when I can, “I think you are in danger. Do not ask me why. I can’t breathe when you ask me questions. I can’t tell you. But please, please be careful. Be careful with the bishop. I think he wants to use you.” And I can’t say any more, but at least I can breathe.

“How can I help you?” he asks, his eyes worried.

“You can be … my friend,” I say. “Stay well.” I look into his dark eyes, the sun warming them to a deep umber.

He sighs, nods. “I am your friend. And I will be careful. As long as you are, too.”

I smile at him, take his hand. I don’t think I know how to be careful anymore. We sit for awhile longer, looking at the sea.