Wren Journeymage

  Captain Tebet called from the wheel, where she and two sailors held the helm, “What now, young mage?”

  I’m only a journeymage, and not a very good one, Wren thought, but didn’t say it. Instead, she looked around. The cloud layer was still low, and fitful lightning revealed plenty of rain still to come. Twinkling lights surged on the rough waters, indicating ships all around them.

  Wren lifted her voice. “We’ll start now.”

  “Launches,” Captain Tebet shouted.

  The crew leaped to action, everyone knowing just what to do.

  Wren moved to each launch, just as they had always practiced, and as the rain poured down on them, she bound each boat with an illusory spell. No mistakes. She had drilled too long and hard. Each spell snapped into place, the boats blurry and guided by feel; when the launches fell into the water, it was difficult to see them, as they reflected the water and air around them.

  Silently, the three-person crews dropped into each launch, carrying their supplies. One person would handle sail, the second went to the tiller, and the third would shoot. Each shooter carried a bag of Wren’s precious arrows, put there by her own hands. She had made fifty for each boat, knowing that a lot of them might fall into the sea.

  One by one the boats sailed away, the only visible mark their wakes, flat for a short time until the wind whipped the waves up to hide them.

  Captain Tebet sailed near pirate ship after pirate ship, all too busy repairing after the storm to pay any attention to her little ship.

  Connor and Longface, who had the best aim of the Piper’s crew, sat high on the main and foremasts, shooting one arrow apiece across to thunk high in the pirates’ masts. Those in the launches only had to hit the hulls, but it was important for all the arrows to go unnoticed, at least long enough for Wren’s spells to activate.

  Each arrow that hit was followed by three words, carefully taught to the person handling the tiller in each launch.

  On the Piper, Wren said the words for Longface and Connor—the latter because his own magic was so unreliable, it was impossible to guess what might happen if he tried a regular spell.

  Wren stood directly below Connor, and watched him pull the arrow back to his chin, take aim, and let fly.

  Z-z-z-ip! The arrow sped through the silvery rain, faintly highlighted in the bleak light that was just beginning to smear the eastern horizon. They did not hear the arrow thock into the mizzen mast of the pirate sailing just north of them, but Captain Tebet apparently saw it quivering there, for she nodded to Wren, who spoke the magical release words.

  Four launches, plus the Piper, sailed along the rough semi-circle into which Andreus’s fleet had been scattered by the storm. Wren peered into the grayish murk ahead, seeking the twinkling lamplight of another pirate ship. If we each get a dozen ships per watch, then within a day we can have two hundred done, or near it.

  All through the dawn and morning they sailed, past ship after ship. At noon the lookout cried, “Birds!”

  The sailors kept on with their tasks, but Connor slid down a backstay and joined Wren at the wheel, each scanning the sky.

  Wren spotted four birds flying in a carefully spaced line. These birds did not act like birds, but like creatures forced to a human’s will as they flew in that unnatural formation across the sky, their heads flicking back and forth as they watched below.

  “Spy birds.” Wren pointed skyward. “Everyone put down your bows!”

  “Get busy cleanin’ and repairin’,” Captain Tebet cried, and the crew leapt to obey. She hustled to Wren’s side, and said in a low voice, “You can’t put that cloaking spell on now?”

  “Not until we get the launches back—they would never see us,” Wren reminded the captain.

  Tebet snapped her fingers. “Right. Right. I was forgettin’. This magic stuff makes my hide itch. But even so, I’ll feel better when you get that spell on us.”

  The Piper passed one pirate ship completely while the birds were in sight, and had almost passed another before the creatures dwindled to distant specks in the sky. This pirate ship had been dismasted, and the crew was busy jury-rigging new spars.

  Captain Tebet gave quiet orders, the Piper veered closer, Longface shot an arrow into the stern, unnoticed by the struggling pirates, then they hauled wind and passed on.

  And when the sun at last began to sink toward the horizon, though there were no more ships in sight, Wren leaned on the taffrail and tried to imagine her magic working slowly and gently on all those ships, causing the wood to revert to its green state. The surprised pirates would have plenty of time to lower their launches and save themselves—but nobody could go conquering in little lifeboats.

  The storm had passed on, leaving a clean, cold eastern wind. As Little Moon rose into the sky, the Piper encountered their first lifeboats full of pirates. In the distance, logs sprouting twigs floated on the water—the remains of their ship. The pirates in the longboats were cursing and yelling, many of them drunk, the boats full of weapons and supplies.

  Some of them hailed the Piper, trying to threaten, cajole, scorn, or bribe the captain into rescuing them, but she sailed on past—only spilling wind when their own launches caught up.

  Wren watched the sky. She dreaded seeing more spy birds. They might have fooled the first set, but a second set would mean that Andreus had sent them back . . .

  “All right, the last launch is on board,” Captain Tebet yelled, and the bell ting-tinged. The captain turned to Wren. “Should you put that cloaking spell on?”

  “Right!” Tired as she was, Wren leaped away from the rail, relief giving her a little more energy.

  She took a deep, calming breath. Then she cast the cloaking spell, pulling on as much magical strength as she dared. Her head buzzed when she finished, but she knew the spell was strong, and probably good for several days. “There,” she said.

  “The evil Black Hood can’t find us now,” Captain Tebet pronounced with satisfaction.

  Wren hesitated, then grimaced.

  “What is it, Wren?” Connor murmured.

  “Oh, I’m just worried about those spy birds. I hope we looked like everybody else from above. If they saw something suspicious—if they found something aboard to fix as a Destination—”

  “Those birds flew over a long time ago,” the captain said. “Don’t worry about what we can’t help. Been a long day, mates. Let’s eat.”

  In her cabin, the Cook and Patka were just setting out a supper, which was a tasty tomato soup made with cream, leftover chicken, spiced with sweet-pepper, and had cheese melted on top.

  Wren realized she hadn’t eaten all day, and her stomach growled as she sat down.

  “Looks like our pirates are branching out,” the captain declared, giving a rasping laugh at her own wit.

  “First time pirates have ever been treed.” Connor reached for the fresh-baked bread.

  “That’s one way to root ‘em out,” Longface said in his deep voice, without any vestige of smile. But his eyes narrowed, giving him away.

  “Let’s leaf them alone,” Wren said. “They can bark . . . their bark . . . oh, I’m too tired to think. And too hungry. I never smelled anything as good.”

  Wren lifted her soup bowl. The melted cheese burned a little against her lip, but she didn’t care. She was not only hungry, but for the first time in weeks and weeks, the wind felt a little cold, and she drank down her soup, enjoying the taste, the peppery and cheesy smell, and the warmth.

  The others continued to make jokes about trees and pirates, but Wren just sat back, stuffing herself and gloating. It worked, it worked. No chickens.

  “Captain!”

  The shout brought them to their feet, Connor looking around for his staff that was probably below.

  Wren’s heart thumped as she grabbed up her bread, a hunk of cheese, and an apple and shoved them into her sleeve, hoping there was just some problem with the ropes, or sails, or masts, or maybe a signal from one of the returning launches. But no on
e would yell Captain! like that if a rope had come loose.

  She stepped on deck.

  And froze.

  A slim man with long blond hair stood alone on the forecastle, his long black cloak billowing and snapping in the cold wind.

  Andreus smiled.

  “Yes,” he drawled, that familiar, faintly metallic voice making her skin crawl along the backs of her arms. “I know you are warded against my touching you against your will. I know the ship is warded. I know your crew is warded. But the mages all along my wall are not. And until you consent to join me for a little conference, one at a time they will smash to the stone court as soon as I return, until you give it up—”

  “I’ll go.” Wren’s voice croaked worse than Captain Tebet. “Don’t hurt anybody.”

  “Wren!” Connor shouted, running forward.

  Andreus tossed something at Wren. As soon as the cold metal met her fingers, she felt the flash of transfer.

  Twenty-Five

  “Have you found Wren yet?”

  Tyron stared at Teressa in surprise. In spite of all the busy gossip about her being on the verge of announcing a wedding and coronation, she did not look happy.

  Halfrid said, “Please, my dear. Permit me to sit down. It has been a hot walk.”

  Teressa ran her fingers restlessly along one of the braids looped in her hair. She was dressed with more formality than Tyron remembered ever seeing her.

  She said, “I promised you once before. I’ll set you up with a carriage, if you like. Since you don’t want to do that magical transfer thing.”

  Halfrid smiled as he settled into his chair in Teressa’s private parlor. “Please recall that transfers are not easy, and we all avoid them when we can.” He glanced at Tyron with faintly lifted brows to remind Tyron of his duty. “As for your generous offer of a carriage, thank you, but no. Perhaps I’ll come to it one day, but for now, our meetings are about the only chance for a stroll that I get. Especially when there’s this much turmoil around us.”

  Teressa flushed, then she waved a hand, dismissing the matter. Gold-embroidered lace dropped back from her wrist, and an old and costly ring sparkled on one finger. Tyron frowned. It wasn’t that she didn’t look splendid, for she did. But in his experience, the more she dressed up, the more unsettled she seemed to be feeling. “Wren?” she asked again.

  Tyron moved quietly to the door and glanced out in both directions. A servant crossed the distant passage with folded linens, but there was no sign of Hawk. So he took up a station at the wall, where he could keep watch.

  Halfrid said, “It took me several days but I was finally able to break that ward over Wren. However, when I tried to scry her, I was unsuccessful. And the next attempt brought me against another ward, this one imposed from within, you might say.”

  Teressa frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Halfrid said, “I suspect it was Wren herself. The magic had her signature, so to speak.”

  “Signature?” Teressa repeated. “Is it Wren, or is it not?”

  Tyron would have commented on her imperious tone had they been alone—had they not lost their habit of private talks. But Halfrid only gave her a calm smile. “Magic seldom carries identifiers, unless they are put in. But when you have worked with mages long enough, or have taught them, you can recognize how they put their spells together. Think of it as handwriting. You would recognize a note in Wren’s hand, even if she did not sign it, would you not?”

  Teressa’s anxious look eased somewhat. “Yes, I would.”

  Halfrid sat back, hands on his knees. “Well, then. To repeat, I suspect Wren set that ward herself, probably assuming that my scry attempt might be whoever had put the first one on her. From this we may surmise: first, that she’s both alive and active, and second, that she’s being careful.”

  Teressa let out a long sigh. “Then you think she’s all right.”

  “Yes,” Halfrid said. “I think she’s all right. In fact, I am comfortable enough with that assumption that I am trying to deal with all the other matters arising in the kingdom, rather than dropping them in search of a journeymage who, so far, has proved that she can take care of herself.”

  Halfrid reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a paper. “Here is one of those matters I mentioned. It is crown business: Fliss’s report from Hroth Harbor. That is, the purely magical portion of her report has been removed, for you’ve no use for it. Instead, what you will find is a report of her investigations of what appears to be a thriving business, called ‘booming,’ which is the abduction of mostly young people and selling them to captains who have less than savory reputations and cannot seem to get sailors by legitimate hire. Fliss found evidence that Wren was boomed, along with some others, which is how Wren’s scry stone ended up in the curio shop.”

  “Is the Harbormaster involved, then?” Teressa asked, anger kindling.

  “Not that Fliss could discover. But one of his clerks definitely was, a fellow who is part of a well-organized network of thieves making plenty of money in the reselling of items taken from the victims they boom. That fellow was Sanga’s contact. It’s all there—names, statements, and the rest, for your perusal.”

  Teressa leaned forward. “Thank you. I will read it carefully before I talk to Fil Gaen’s ambassador, you can be sure. And if we do get our treaty with Senna Lirwan, we might actually be able to do something about these matters, through monetary pressure if nothing else.”

  Halfrid nodded in approval, as the midday bells echoed melodiously through the marble halls.

  Teressa jumped up. “I will be late for Aunt Carlas’s river barge party. And I really ought not to be.” She flushed, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  Halfrid rose. “Then I shall leave you to it and return to school business.”

  Tyron stepped aside for the Master Mage to leave first, and was about to follow when Teressa lifted a hand. “Wait. Please.”

  Halfrid kept going. Tyron knew what Halfrid would say: if the queen needs to talk, she might actually listen. That was Tyron’s first duty.

  Never mind how he felt about being alone with her again. It had always been that way. Maybe it would always be that way. But he’d learned to keep that half-pain, half-joy to himself.

  “You never come to see me anymore.” Teressa’s forehead puckered below that striking hair-style, with the looped braids threaded with pearls.

  “That’s because we just seemed to end up arguing. There are better things for both of us to be doing,” Tyron said.

  “I won’t argue—if you’re not going to harangue me about who I choose to kiss.”

  Tyron forced a smile. “Why would I?”

  “Will you walk with me to the river?” she asked abruptly.

  “Of course.”

  Tyron had gotten into the habit of wearing his white master’s robe whenever he walked into Cantirmoor instead of his comfortable old brown one. He was thus as properly dressed as anyone would expect him to be.

  She said, “Last night Garian did see fit to harangue me. What’s more, Aunt Carlas is apparently going to make some grand gesture at her stupid party today, and then formally withdraw from court, he warned me. Just because they don’t like Hawk.”

  “Are you sure it’s not because they don’t trust Hawk?” Tyron asked.

  Teressa sent him a sharp look. “You’re not going to start, are you?”

  “I asked a question. If questions have become harangues, let me know.”

  “Let me ask one of my own, then. Has Hawk given you any cause to distrust him?”

  “Yes,” Tyron said.

  They crossed the terrace before Teressa said, “Well?”

  “I answered the question,” Tyron said.

  Teressa sighed. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “He didn’t tell us about Falin. Oh, he gave us his sarcastic retort about us not believing him, but that seemed more of a convenience. He certainly isn’t hampered from expressing opinions when he wants to. Truth is, I t
hink he was entertained by the whole episode.”

  “Now you’re expressing opinions.”

  “Fair enough. Then let me say two things, and I’ll drop the subject.”

  “Go ahead.”

  They were on the tree-lined walkway leading down to the river. Light, shadow, light, shadow, passed before Tyron spoke again. “First, though he seems to care about you—very much, whatever anyone else might say, I think it’s true—he doesn’t give any evidence of caring about Meldrith.”

  “He set up my interview with Idres, and I don’t think that ever would have happened but for him.”

  “But that was for you. Think about it. Except for his poking around watching people, or sending his followers around to . . . observe, let us say, has there been any evidence whatsoever that he takes an interest in the kingdom’s well-being? Not for the sake of the power it’s regaining, which he might one day use, but for the sake of the people who live in it?”

  Teressa smoothed her hands down her green and gold gown with its tiny pearls embroidered in patterns. Against the backdrop of summer trees she looked more handsome than she ever had.

  She glanced sharply at Tyron. “Your second observation?”

  “Just that your own family library is full of personal memoirs by kings and queens who found themselves in situations like yours. I think it was Queen Rhis herself who said that the problem with attraction is that it is just attraction, no more and no less. And where people make mistakes is in trying to redefine attraction into honesty, into devotion, into a meaning outside of, well, the strong response one feels to a handsome pair of eyes.”

  Light, shadow, light, shadow, they paced through the rays slanting between the trees along the pathway. Most of the leaves were yellow. Some had already fallen. Their footsteps whispered through the leaves, sending leaves skittering over the old worn stones.

  Tyron lifted his head in time to spot one of Garian’s ceaseless roaming patrols vanish over a low, rounded hill on which the grass was already turning golden.

  Teressa said, “Are you done?”

  “I told you, two things. That makes two.”