Glimpses (5 page)

Seregil ignored Nysander until the wizard sat
down beside him and said in Aurënfaie, “Hello again, young
Seregil.”

“Who—” Seregil turned to look at him with
what appeared to be annoyance, but his expression changed to one of
respect when he realized to whom he was speaking. His face was
thinner than Nysander remembered and his mantle was soaked through.
Nysander couldn’t tell if it was rain on his cheeks, or tears.
“Hello, Lord Nysander.”

Nysander was impressed. He’d seen Seregil at
banquets, and now and then with Prince Korathan, but they’d spoken
only once and briefly.

He cast a shelter spell to keep off the rain.
“This is not a very pleasant place you’ve chosen. But perhaps it
suits your mood?”

“I suppose it does, my lord.”

“I take it you are not very happy here in
Rhíminee.”

Seregil shrugged.

“You are wasted here at the palace, you know.
What post do you hold now?”

“None, thanks to that bitch Phoria!” Seregil
replied bitterly.

“That’s no way to refer to the Princess
Royal, especially here,” Nysander cautioned. This one had spirit,
at least.

“What will they do? Cut off my head? Lock me
in their Red Tower? That’s fine with me. Anything would be better
than staying another day in this miserable place!”

Nysander suppressed a smile at the childish
outburst. “I see. Well, then perhaps you would like to come have
tea with me at the Orëska House. Look, you can just see the towers
from here, above those roofs. The one on the right is mine. Really
now, I think you are in need of some dry clothes, too. In fact,
given how you are shivering, I think we should get you inside at
once.”

Seregil let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t
have a horse.”

“You do not need one, dear boy. I am a
wizard, after all.”

He made a cage with his fingers and summoned
the translocation spell. It began with a tiny speck of darkness,
but as he opened his hands and spread his arms, it expanded to a
black, spinning disk large enough for a man to step through, which
was its purpose.

“What is that?” Seregil exclaimed, leaning
closer to see.

“A quicker way back to my rooms.” Nysander
held out his hand. “You should hang onto me this first time.”

He was surprised at how readily Seregil did
so. The magic clearly interested him. The lack of fear was also
encouraging.

“Stand close to me and step in. It is just
like going through a doorway.”

Holding onto Nysander’s sleeve, Seregil
stepped into the darkness with him.

It truly was like simply walking into another
room—Nysander’s casting room in this case—but as he emerged he
found Seregil on his hands and knees, vomiting violently on the
polished stone floor. Nysander was glad he hadn’t taken them to his
sitting room; he’d have ruined the carpet.

“What—what did—do to—me?” Seregil demanded
between heaves. Nothing was coming up now, but he was still
retching.

“Nothing, I assure you!” Nysander said,
cleaning up the mess with a spell. He’d never seen anyone react
this way before.

Seregil got to his feet with Nysander’s help
and staggered out into the main work room. Once there he stopped
and gazed around with his mouth open, taking in the towering stacks
of manuscripts around the room, and the crucibles, books, and
general clutter covering the work benches. The polished brass
astrolabe on the mezzanine above glinted dully in the grey light
coming down through the round glass dome that capped the tower.
“You live here?”

“I work here. I live downstairs. Come
along.”

Holding Seregil by the elbow, Nysander got
him downstairs to Alia’s old room. He found a blue-and-white
apprentice robe in one of the clothes chests and gave it to him.
Seregil took it with shaking hands and looked down at it as if he
couldn’t fathom what it was. It appeared he was still a little
dazed.

“Put it on, dear boy. Leave your clothing
here for the servant and come to the room across the hall when you
are ready.”

Nysander went out and closed the door to give
him privacy, then walked across the corridor to the sitting room.
The servant had stacked wood and kindling in the fireplace. He
tossed in a fire chip and flames quickly licked up.

Seregil came in a few minutes latter, dressed
in the robe, his wet hair looking as if he’d tried to comb it into
some order with his fingers. The soft robe had been Saren’s and was
too big on him, but at least it was dry and warm. Seregil was still
shivering, so Nysander guided him to one of the armchairs in front
of the fire and spread a lap robe over Seregil’s knees.

“Better now?” he asked, swinging the kettle
on its iron hook over the flames to heat.

“Yes, thank you.” Seregil pulled his knees up
against his chest, and wrapped his arms around them, looking very
much younger in his oversized robe, bare toes just visible below
its hem, curled over the edge of the armchair. “So, you use magic
to stop the rain, go from here to there, and clean up your floor,
but you make the tea yourself?”

“Yes. It comes out much better that way.”
Nysander settled in the chair across the hearth. “Magic has its
place, but not for everything. Besides, I enjoy it.”

“Oh.”

They sat there in awkward silence for a few
moments, but soon Seregil was looking around the room with apparent
interest. That was odd.

“What do you think of my mural?” the wizard
asked.

Seregil glanced at the thin band of paintings
that ringed the room. It possessed more than a minor magic; it was
the room’s chief defense. Seregil should have been mesmerized by it
by now.

“It’s pretty,” Seregil replied. “Whoever
painted those dragons must have seen a real one. They’re better
than anything I saw at the palace.”

Nothing. No effect at all. Nysander had never
seen this before. That, and the way the translocation had sickened
Seregil were most interesting.

“Tell me, Seregil, have you had any training
in magic?”

“Me?” Seregil gave another of those humorless
laughs. “I’m no wizard.”

“That is very odd, my young friend, because
you do have some ability. I saw it in you the first time we
met.”

“With all respect, my lord, you’re
wrong.”

Nysander let that go for now. “Do you know
any wizards in your land?”

“A few.” The mention of his homeland drove
the smile from his face, which only increased Nysander’s curiosity.
Someone must know his background.

“When you feel better, I will show you the
museum. I think you will find it of interest.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

The kettle was hissing. Nysander took the
brown teapot down from its shelf and added some Zengati leaf and
hot water.

“That’s good quality,” Seregil noted.

“And how do you know that?”

That won him the hint of a smile. “Fine tea
smells good.”

“I suppose so. Seregil, I would like to try
something. A test of sorts. Would you please say the words altra
amal?”

“Altra amal.”

For just an instant every lamp in the room
and the fire flared purple.

Seregil’s eyes widened. “I did that?”

“You did,” Nysander assured him, leaving out
that the spell should have put the fire out, and not affected the
lamps. Nonetheless, a genuine look of wonder had come over Seregil,
and it transformed him, just as his smile had, the day Nysander met
him. This young man intrigued him more and more.

“Can I try something else?” Seregil
asked.

“Tea first.”

He filled two earthenware cups and gave one
to Seregil, who held it to his nose first and inhaled softly with
eyes closed before taking his first sip. “It’s excellent. Is it
from the Koromba Mountains?”

“It is,” Nysander told him, impressed. “Are
you a connoisseur of tea?”

“No, it’s one of the ones my sister always—”
He broke off, and kept his attention on his cup.

So, you do have some family. Nysander
wondered if this was how he’d get any information from the young
‘faie, bit by tiny bit.

He let Seregil finish his tea, then took him
back to the workshop. Once again Seregil looked around with keen
interest, and began asking questions. A lot of questions.

“May I ask your clan?” said Nysander asked as
he showed him how the astrolabe worked.

Seregil looked out through the glass dome.
There was little to see at the moment. The pouring rain cloaked the
city in a veil of grey. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Running away again, Nysander thought. One
moment he was as eager as a child, the next he was that sad,
tightlipped young man again, full of secrets and pain.

“Very well. Would you like to try another
spell?”

“Yes, please.”

Nysander carried an unlit candle in a holder
into the casting room and set it on the polished stone table at the
center. “I want you to light this. Just say or think the word
‘magistal’ and snap your fingers while concentrating on the
wick.”

With a look of eager anticipation, Seregil
snapped his fingers. Instead of lighting, however, the candle flew
across the room and stuck to the wall in a melted mass. “I must
have thought it wrong.”

“Perhaps.” Nysander placed another candle in
the holder. “Try again and say it aloud.”

“Magistal.” Seregil snapped his fingers. This
time the candle softened and drooped like a wilted flower. “I guess
I was right. I don’t have any magic in me.”

“If you didn’t, then none of the spells you
have cast would have had any effect at all,” Nysander explained.
“So you do, but there is something odd about it. Those were
beginner’s spells. Are you still feeling sick from the
translocation?”

“A little.”