Uncle Vedris would never allow them to waste time at work on this nonsense, Sandry thought, outraged, though she hid her true feelings to nod and smile at those who lined the road. He’d jump on you quick enough if he thought you were disrespectful, but he didn’t need all this, this stupid ceremony to prove it. I’m so glad he can’t see me now.
As they clattered through the inner gate, Sandry’s jaws began to hurt. She was actually grinding her teeth in frustration. With an effort she made herself relax, working her jaw to loosen the tight muscles. She glanced back at the others and saw something that made her grin. Little Chime sat on Tris’s saddle horn, wings unfurled, chin held high. The glass dragon obviously thought all of this celebration was for her.
And so it is, Sandry thought with a grin. It’s not for me—it’s for her.
With that idea in mind, she was able to smile more naturally at the men-at-arms who waited by the inner gate, and to nod at the groups of people who stood inside, in the court in front of the main castle. Her smile widened as four little girls, their ages ranging from five to twelve, broke free of the servants to race toward Ambros, shrieking, “Papa! Papa!”
He laughed and dismounted, kneeling in the mud so he could hug all four at once. “You’d think I’d been gone for years instead of a few days,” he chided, his eyes glowing with pleasure. “What is your cousin supposed to think of such hoydens?”
Sandry dismounted before someone could help her to do it. “She thinks they are delightful,” she said, walking over to stand beside Ambros. “She thinks their father is blessed to have such lovely girls.”
“Their father is,” said Ambros, getting to his feet. “Girls, this is your cousin, Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren.”
Reminded of their manners, the girls all curtsied to Sandry. The one who looked to be about ten thrust a bouquet of slightly wilted flowers at Sandry. “I picked them myself,” she said.
“And I thank you,” Sandry replied, accepting them. “I love to get flowers after a long ride.”
“Good, because doubtless they were picked in your own garden,” Ambros said, an arm around the oldest girl’s shoulders. “And chances are, they were picked when someone should have been at her lessons.”
“But Papa, I was finished,” protested the flower-bearer. “I was!”
Ambros had just finished introducing his daughters when a tall woman, her hair more silvery than blond at an early age, came forward, still wiping her hands on a small cloth. “And this is the most beautiful flower in the castle gardens,” said Ambros, his face alight. “Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren, may I present my lady wife, Saghada Ealaga fa Landreg.”
Sandry and Ealaga curtsied to each other gravely. Then the lady smiled at Sandry. “You and your companions must be dying for a hot bath,” Ealaga suggested. “A dreadful day to ride—you couldn’t have waited for better weather?” she asked her husband as hostlers rushed forward to help the riders dismount and to take the horses’ reins.
“I wished our cousin to have time to thoroughly review the state of things here before she must return for Midsummer,” Ambros explained. “The will of our empress is that Clehame Sandry bear her company for most of the season. As you can see, my dear, she sent four of her young courtiers to bear the clehame and her friends company until it was time to return.”
“Wonderful,” said Ealaga with a smile. “Rizu, you’re always welcome, and Ambros, you ought to remember Caidy is my mother’s own great-niece. And Jak and Fin I know quite well.” To Sandry, she explained, “He’s always positive we are spinning wildly out of control, when he is prepared for everything. Really, what can you do with such a man?”
Sandry laughed. “It seems as if you married him.” There was something about Ealaga that reminded her very much of Lark, one of the four’s foster-mothers. To Sandry, it was enough to make her relax.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” a thin, short woman informed Tris as the redhead was putting her book in a saddlebag. “Servants around to the side entrance, my lord should have told you. We need you to tell us which luggage belongs to the Clehame.”
Tris looked down her long nose at the speaker. “I’ve been demoted, seemingly,” she answered, her voice extra dry. “From traveling companion to maid. Do I look like a maid to you?”
The woman brushed her own russet brown dress and embroidered apron with one hand. Tris looked down and realized that a sensible navy riding tunic and breeches so wide they might be skirts could resemble a servant’s clothes.
“Ah. Well, I’m not,” she said. “Sandry doesn’t have a maid.”
The woman’s eyebrows went up; her jaw dropped. “No maid?” she asked, appalled. “But how does she dress?”
Tris bit her lip to stop herself from saying, “One piece of clothing at a time.” Instead, she rethought her answer, then said, “The clehame is accustomed to looking after herself.”
“But that’s indecent!” whispered the woman. “Who presses her gowns? Who stitches up any rents in her clothes?”
“She does it,” Tris replied, unbuckling her saddlebags with a glare for the hostler who had come to do the chore. Slinging the bags over her shoulder, Tris told the woman, “No one mentioned your clehame is a stitch witch? Trust me, if you handled her clothes, you’d only mess them up. They never wrinkle or tear.” Helpfully, enjoying the sheer bafflement on the proper servant’s face, Tris added, “She weaves her own cloth, you see.”
A blunt-fingered hand rested lightly on Tris’s sleeve. “Viymese Tris, I just wanted to thank you for keeping us dry in all the wet today,” Rizu said. Her large, dark eyes danced with amusement. “I’ve never known anyone, Viymese or Viynain, who could hold protection like that and still read.”
“Viymese!” exclaimed the servant woman. Her voice squeaked a little on the last syllable. “Forgive me, Viymese, I didn’t mean to, to intrude… I must assign a maid to the clehame, and to yourself, of course, and—”
“Viymese Daja and I don’t require maids,” Tris said, pointing to Daja, who was grinning at Rizu. “And I think you’ll find Clehame Sandry will only be grumpy if you give her one.” The woman must be a housekeeper. “Surely you have someone who would be happy to attend Saghada Rizuka fa Dalach and Saghada Caidlene fa Sarajane.”
The servant dipped a rushed curtsy and scuttled away. “You looked like you needed rescuing,” Rizu commented, smiling. “Servants get more wedded to the social order than nobles do, I think.”
“Licking the boot that rests on their necks,” grumbled Tris, her eyes still on the fleeing servant.
“Oh, no, we dare not rest it someplace that they might not like,” protested Rizu, mock-serious. “They retaliate so deviously. Before I learned better, I found all my hose tied in one big knot, and the maid who was assigned to me had gone home to care for a sick parent. I went six months with hose that fell down because they were stretched all out of shape. Mother said that truly noble people didn’t hit their maids with a brush, and made me wear the hose until they were worn out. I missed two birthday cakes that year because I was out tying up my hose, again.”
Tris smiled, but her eyes rested on Zhegorz. He started twitching again while we rode through the village, she thought. He’s hearing things still, even behind these walls. Castle gossip, I expect. Tris had gotten so good at ignoring voices on the wind that she had to concentrate to hear them clearly. She did so now, registering a bit of kitchen gossip, almost drowned out by the clang of pans and a shriek of dismay over burned oatcakes. Here someone scolded a dairy maid for dozing off over the churn; here hostlers commented to one another about the new horses they had to care for. It was all commonplace, but Zhegorz flinched as if each sentence were a dart sticking in his flesh.
Making up her mind, Tris excused herself to Rizu and went in search of the housekeeper. Daja caught up to Tris. “It’s my crazy man, isn’t it?” she demanded. “You’ve been watching him like a hawk all day, even when you pretend you’re reading. You’re certain he’s got what you have, ar
en’t you? Hearing things?”
A blast of wind threw an image over both outer walls into Tris’s eyes: A cow struggled in a bog. Three men tied ropes to her so they could haul the wallowing beast out of danger. Tris whipped her head around in time to see Zhegorz. He stood just downwind of her. “Maybe that, and maybe more,” she said. “Look, will you steer him over by the wall, out of any breezes? I’ll see about getting a room for him.”
“He stays with me.” The girls turned. Briar stood behind them, his hands in his pockets. “You looked at the insides of his wrists, either of you? He stays with someone, and unless you want people talking about your reputations from here to the north shore of the Syth, it’s got to be with me.”
“What’s wrong with his wrists?” Daja wanted to know.
Tris marched over to Zhegorz, who faced into the wind that blew from the cow, his pale eyes wide and fixed. Tris seized his wrists and turned them so she could see the insides. Broad stripes of scar tissue, some old and silverbeige, others recent and reddish-purple, streaked the flesh between his palms and the insides of his elbows.
Zhegorz blinked, trying to see past the vision on the air to the person who handled him so abruptly. Tris yanked him around, turning him until the breeze struck his back, not his eyes. “Briar’s right. You stay with him, Zhegorz. No more of this nonsense,” she said, stabbing a finger into one of the scars. Zhegorz flinched. “Listen to me.” She still didn’t want the others knowing of her latest skill, but she needed to reach this man, to convince him that his visions weren’t the product of madness.
Too bad he didn’t have Niko to tell him that madness is a lot more interesting than rescuing cows, she thought as she dragged Zhegorz into a corner of the yard, away from Briar and Daja. “I see things on the wind, understand?” she asked quietly. She stood with her back to her brother and sister to keep them from reading her lips. “Pictures from places the wind passed over. A moment ago we both saw a cow trapped in mud, and three men trying to free her.” Zhegorz gasped and tried to tug free. Tris hung on to his arm with both hands. “Stop it!” she ordered. “You’re not mad. You’re a seer, with sounds and with seeing, only nobody ever found you out because they were too busy thinking you were mad. Now you have to sort yourself out. You have to decide what part’s magic—are you listening?—what part’s understandable nerves from thinking you were out of your mind, and what part’s had so much healers’ magic applied that it’s muddled everything else about you. I know what you saw because I learned how to see like that. But you never learned it, did you? It was there, from the time you were just a bit younger than me, only the magic sniffers missed it, or your family never even gave you a chance to show you were in your right mind.” She talked fast, trying to get as much sense as she could fit into his ears, past his years of flight, hospitals, medicines, and terror. Slowly, bit by tiny bit, she felt the tight, wiry muscles under her hands loosen, until Zhegorz no longer fought her grip.
“Real?” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“As real as such things get,” Tris told him. “Keep the seeing things part between you and me for now. Briar and Daja already guessed that you can hear like I can, but they don’t know about me seeing things.”
“Why not?” Zhegorz asked simply. “They love you.”
Tris sighed, troubled. “Because the chances of someone learning to see on the winds are tiny. They’ll think I think I’m better than they are.” Seeing the man’s frown, Tris grimaced. “They gave me a hard time all the way here about going to university,” she explained. “And other mages—when they found out I could do it, when so many fail…they decided I was prideful, and conceited. I don’t want Briar and Daja and Sandry to be that way with me. And Briar already said having a credential from Winding Circle isn’t good enough for me. This would just make it worse. You know how family gets, once you turn different.”
Zhegorz nodded. “Maybe you’re too sensitive,” he suggested.
Tris stared at him, flabbergasted, then began to laugh. “Look who says so!”
Slowly, as if he weren’t quite sure of how to go about it, Zhegorz smiled.
Everyone felt better after hot baths and clean clothes. Best of all, Ealaga was too wise to subject them to a formal banquet after a day’s travel. Instead, they took their suppers in a small, informal dining room rather than in the great main hall with its dais, hangings, musicians’ gallery, and massive fireplace. That treat was reserved for the next night.
For that night’s meal the courtiers provided light talk, jokes, and news for the company. Rizu managed to coax a funny story about learning to skate in Kugisko from Daja, while Jak flirted and teased Sandry until she laughingly talked about Duke Vedris and some of the mishaps her student Pasco had gotten into. In the withdrawing room after supper the servants brought wine, tea, and fruit juice for them all, as well as cheeses and biscuits. Chime enchanted them with her flights in the air, candles and firelight throwing brightly colored flashes from her glassy body. When the travelers began to show weariness, Ealaga instructed the maids to show them to their rooms.
Sandry was asleep the moment she crawled under the blankets. She didn’t know how long she stayed that way before someone grabbed her hand. She sat bolt upright, ready to launch a fistful of power against her attacker’s clothes, and opened her eyes to darkness.
Dark! she thought, horrified. Someone’s grabbing me and it’s dark, where’s my light, my lamp!
Then she saw a nimbus of light around the darkness over her. The person who had woken her stood between her and the chunk of crystal that was her protection against ever being left to wake in the dark. Sandry pushed the person back a step, allowing more light to flow over the intruder’s shoulder. A woman of thirty or so stood beside Sandry. Her face ran with tears. She continued to hang on to one of Sandry’s hands as if her life depended on it.
“Clehame, I beg you, don’t call for the servants!” the woman begged softly. “Please, I mean you no harm, I swear it on my mother’s name!”
“You silly creature!” the girl snapped, trying to tug free. “I don’t have to call the servants—didn’t they tell you I’m a mage? I might have hurt you! Especially when you got between me and the light, for Mila’s sake.”
The woman refused to let go of her. “Please, Clehame, I don’t know if they said you were a mage, but it wouldn’t make any difference. I would be better off killed by magic than live on as I live now!”
Sandry pushed herself upright until she could lean over and grab the crystal with her free hand. Holding it, she brought the light closer to her captor’s features. The woman flinched back from it, but her grip on Sandry’s hand did not ease, and her haggard dark eyes never left Sandry’s face.
The stranger looked as if she’d been lovely as a girl, and had not yet lost all trace of her looks. Her hair was light brown and coarse, tumbling out of its pins. Her nose looked as if it had been broken once, and deep lines bracketed her nose and wide mouth. She wore a coarse white undergown and practical dark overgown, short-sleeved and calf-length to reveal the embroideries underneath. The clothing was good in its weave and stitching, the embroideries well-done. With her power Sandry could tell the cloth and embroideries were well-made. Her guest may have been a peasant, but she was not poor.
“How did you get in here?” Sandry demanded. “The castle gates are closed.”
“I came in this afternoon, with a shipment of flour,” her visitor replied. “I smuggled myself up here. I hid in one of the wardrobes so I would not be sent home before the gates closed for the night.”
“Then why not reveal yourself while I was awake?”
The woman hung her head. “I have slept badly all week, fretting over this,” she confessed. “It was warm in there, and there were folded comforters under me. I…fell asleep,” she confessed. “Truly, I did not mean to frighten you, but I had to speak to you before, before anyone comes to find me.” She was rumpled enough to have spent hours folded up in a wardrobe.
 
; “I don’t know what you think to accomplish by this invasion,” Sandry told her sternly. “I’m only here for a short time.”
“But you can help me!” the older woman whispered, her grip so tight that Sandry’s fingers began to ache. “You’re the only one who can. If you don’t, I will die by my own hand, I swear it!”
Sandry scowled. “I really don’t approve of drama, Ravvi—at least tell me your name.”
“Gudruny, Clehame,” the woman whispered, her head bowed. “I will not give you my married name, because I never wanted it and wish to be rid of it through your mercy.”
Sandry shook her head with a sigh. “I don’t see how I can help you there,” she told Gudruny. “But in any case, let me put on a robe and slippers, and let’s get some real light in here. You can tell me all about it. Now please let go, before my fingers break.”
If anything, Gudruny’s hold tightened. “Swear it on your ancient name,” she begged. “Swear to me by all the gods you will not call for the guards.”
“I swear. Though, really, my word as a noble should be enough!” From the way Gudruny’s eyes scuttled to the side, she didn’t share Sandry’s opinion of a noble’s word. Sandry shook her head, then asked, “May I now have my hand?”
Gudruny released it as if it had turned into a hot coal. Sandry massaged her aching fingers, then started to get up. Gudruny leaped to her feet and fetched Sandry’s robe, helping her into it while Sandry thrust her feet into her slippers. Before Sandry could move, Gudruny knelt before the fire, poking the embers into flame and adding fresh wood. Even though it was spring, the air was chilly.
Sandry lit a taper from the flames, and with it lit the wicks on a branch of candles. She had to be desperate, to do this, she thought, remembering the way her Namornese companions had spoken of dealing with the peasants who didn’t pay nobles the proper respect. I doubt they’d be very kind to someone who crept into a noble’s bedroom. The least I can do is hear her out, and make certain she comes to no harm. Once they had decent light, she nodded to one of the two chairs that framed the hearth. “Seat yourself. Should I ring for tea?” When Gudruny half-leaped to her feet from the chair, Sandry grimaced. “Very well, no tea. Please stop leaping about like that.” As Gudruny settled back, Sandry took the other seat. “Now,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Tell me what brings you up here. A direct tale, if you please. I’ve been riding all day, and I want some rest.”