Wren Journeymage

  With another swoosh both birds wheeled, and then dove at him, so swift and so hard for a moment all he was aware of was black feathers and wind and squawking. Connor staggered back, lost his balance—

  —and fell off the cliff.

  o0o

  Wren raised her hands, one holding the end of the long thread she’d worked out of her tunic. She brought them up, started the spell to turn the thread into a rope—

  And a hard hand gripped her wrist, whirling her around and bending her arm behind her.

  Andreus wasn’t much taller than Wren; his breath was hot on the top of her head when he exclaimed, “You were going to kill yourself. Doing what? What is that?”

  His other hand pried at her fingers, digging into her flesh until she released the thread.

  “What was it, meant to lengthen to a rope? And bind me, is that it?”

  “If I went over the edge you would have gone, too,” she mumbled. All right, it hadn’t worked. But she wasn’t dead yet.

  “Oh, so now we see the vaunted moral balance of your so-called Magic Council.” Andreus laughed. “Much more fun than I expected. So the fine, high-minded mage’s last act would be revenge!” He laughed again. “Vengeance, the first human need besides survival.”

  “It was not,” Wren protested, stung.

  She swayed, then caught herself dizzily against something could and rough, made of stone. It was a huge gargoyle.

  No, it was once a living being.

  She pulled away her hand. “It wasn’t revenge at all!”

  “What would you call it?”

  “I call it saving innocent lives from your selfish, rotten plans.”

  He grabbed her arm and gave her a shake, hard enough to make her head rock on her shoulders. “You don’t know anything about my motives. Anything.”

  “But I know what your actions have been. You didn’t care for the lives of your own people in Senna Lirwan. You certainly didn’t care about the lives you destroyed in Meldrith. Or here in your stupid pirate kingdom.”

  Andreus snorted a laugh. “You speak with such conviction, as if there were actually such a thing as moral balance.” And he snorted again, a bitter, derisive sound. “I never thought this would be half so entertaining—”

  He paused when a deep rumble sounded behind them. They both glanced back at the castle. Andreus frowned. “If I had proof that you had anything to do with whatever it is causing that, you would die right now.”

  Wren thought, Whoever you are, you bought me a little time. “Isn’t this island an old volcano? It’s probably just a quake.”

  o0o

  As the daws screamed in triumph, magic glowed around Connor and through him, a hot and cold dazzling fire.

  Instinct snapped his arms out and away from his sides, and magic burned along them, flaming out into wings. His flesh tingled, his clothing blurred, resolving into a covering of feathers, and his eyes turned from side to side, until he saw the two tiny figures on the wall, far below. His legs had become sharp talons. His staff had begun to fall from the fingers now turned into great pin-feathers, but he caught it with his taloned feet, and gripped it tight.

  On either side of him the daws screamed.

  He flapped upward once, twice, to gain more height, then folded his wings to his side, and dove.

  o0o

  “There is moral balance,” Wren said, fighting for time. “Master Halfrid taught us that even if we can’t get our minds around the idea of moral justice outside of the world, we can at least see that everyone choosing the moral action makes it happen right here.”

  “Moral justice,” Andreus scoffed. “There was no evidence of moral justice when the Emperor of Sveran Djur threw my father off a cliff, then took me inside and said I’d learn under his tutelage, or die.”

  “I think moral balance will come even to that emperor, though we can’t know when, where, or how.” She couldn’t help adding, even though her arm hurt and she was hungry, thirsty, and scared, “I’m sorry about your father.”

  Andreus laughed again, a harsh laugh. “Why? One was as bad as the other. He never told me how he got rid of my mother, who reputedly was trying to defend me against his beatings. But I don’t even remember her, defender or not.”

  “I don’t remember mine either,” Wren said numbly. “Either of my parents.”

  Andreus’s laugh seemed harder and sharper, making her head pang. “You don’t know your father?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, that’s a disappointment. Then you wouldn’t even recognize the fool in my row of idiots here, and I was so looking forward to your surprise when we came to him.”

  Wren tightened her lips against a shocked reply. He’s lying, he has to be lying.

  “As for moral justice and the emperor, it will come to him just as soon as you bring down his castle with him in it,” Andreus went on. “Now, are we going to make our plans, or must we go through this charade first?” He swung her about, so she could see the row of gargoyles, each twisted into some monstrous form, all of them balanced on the very edge of the wall. Cold air whooshed up from the stones far below, bringing the scent of dust and brine from the harbor not so far away.

  “I won’t,” she squeaked, as Andreus tightened his grip on her wrist, which was still wrenched up between her shoulder-blades.

  “Then we may as well begin with your father. The happy reunion won’t last long. Certainly not long enough for you to discover what a fool he is.”

  “My father?”

  “Of course. After you brought down my mountains, I had to know where that much power came from in so young a brat. What a waste of half a year! I finally ran him down on his way to Meldrith. That idiot can scarcely call a flame to a candle. He’s been sitting there, watching my fleet grow, ever since.”

  And with a cruel wrench, he yanked her down the wall past two gargoyles to a short, squat one, half frog and half man, the froggy fingers twisted together under the wide, gaping mouth. Wren stared down at those froggy pop-eyes, seeing an expression of terror in the stone forms, and then shut her own eyes.

  “All right, then. Either you are my new assistant, or he’s the first to go.”

  Knowing she would refuse until the end, Wren turned her face skyward, but instead of the warmth of the sun, she felt cool. Shadow.

  She opened her eyes.

  And a huge bird fell out of the sky, legs outstretched, and between them a staff!

  Andreus looked up, eyes wide in surprise. Then they narrowed, and he began muttering spells. Greenish light glowed around his fingers.

  Wren cut a fast glance from bird to sorcerer. The bird wasn’t going to make it to scoop Andreus up before he finished his spell—

  He’s not paying any attention to me!

  “Neither!” she yelled, and jabbed her free elbow into Andreus’s stomach.

  His breath whooshed as he swung a fist at her, the magic of his broken spell rapidly dissipating in the air. She ducked down, and threw her shoulder against his knee. He wobbled, looked up, twisted to avoid the bird that was reaching to catch the staff under his stomach and lift him up. Andreas threw himself sideways to avoid the staff—wobbled, hands clutching at air—

  And fell. Wren tumbled to the edge of the wall, sobbing for breath. She forced herself to look over as Andreus hit the ground hard.

  He twitched, half lifted a hand, then went limp.

  Wren pressed her forehead to her arm, sobbing hard, as her free arm curled protectively against the froggy gargoyle at her side.

  The giant bird wheeled out and around, then settled onto the wall, the staff clattering to the stones. The bird’s edges shimmered until Connor stood before her, arms out.

  Behind him two blackbirds settled, and their forms also shimmered until they reformed into a pair of familiar old people, one man, and one woman.

  The two most famous members of the Mage Council, the blue sky, the endless sea, spells, pain, hunger, questions all vanished like smoke as Connor’s s
trong arms closed around Wren, and she felt so strange, so light, so very much like at last she had come home.

  Twenty-Eight

  After two days of constant activity, at last Teressa had nothing scheduled. She hoped no one would find out that she had nothing scheduled.

  She didn’t want to think about court rumors, treaty negotiations, or the scanty funds in the treasury due to all the extra patrols Garian had added.

  She retreated to the library, and stood there, enjoying the cool air ruffling in through the door. The first rain of autumn had begun in earnest, a cold, clean rain, driving out the last of the stuffy, hot summer air from the palace. She had put on one of her warm soft wool gowns.

  She crossed the library to the special glass case, feeling the faint tingle of magic when she opened it. The magic protected the contents against heat, dryness, mold, and dust. Inside were Meldrith’s most ancient records.

  She took out the small, thick book bound in red that lay at the top, and touched the gilt rose on the cover.

  An image flickered in the air: Queen Rhis herself, captured in illusion by an unknown mage. Teressa studied her ancestor’s familiar face as if she’d never seen it before, seeing not just the double chin, and the hair slicked back into its ridiculous headdress.

  Teressa turned her attention to her ancestor’s features, finding no resemblance to her or her father in them. She looked at Rhis’s eyes, observing the quiet humor in the way they narrowed, and their watchful, intelligent gaze, though whatever those eyes had stared at was dead and gone hundreds of years ago.

  A noise at the door made her look up.

  Tyron stood there, tall and rangy, and comfortingly familiar. “May I come in?”

  Relief bloomed through Teressa as she replaced the book. “Of course! It’s been so long—” She stopped. And shrugged.

  “No use in pretending nothing’s different, when on my way here three different people all saw fit to report they’d seen Hawk and his band thundering across the landscape yesterday afternoon, heading for the South Road.”

  Teressa eyed him, but there was no sign of triumph in his face or his manner. If anything, he seemed . . . pensive.

  So she sighed, letting out the last of her anger. “Come in. You don’t have to stand in the doorway.” And after he’d taken a few steps into the room, she was aware that the atmosphere had altered subtly. So she started talking, as if the words had dammed up behind a wall all these weeks. “Garian’s gone back home, now that the Council is quiet. Aunt Carlas has taken to her bed up in the royal suite. Claiming she’s ill. While all the older court members have been streaming in to gloat with her over her triumph at driving Hawk away. While her servants labor to unpack everything again.”

  “Did she drive him away?” Tyron asked, brows aslant.

  He was familiar, and as dear as silvery moonslight. It was strange, to discover that. Only it wasn’t a new feeling, it had been there all along. But she hadn’t been able to see it until Hawk and his burning sun had gone beyond the horizon.

  “No,” Teressa said, pressing her hands over her eyes. She was becoming distracted—she needed to concentrate. “You’ve got news?”

  “We’ve found Wren,” Tyron said simply, and there was his old foxy grin, familiar from childhood. Her heart squeezed with a peculiar anguish that was not all pain.

  “Wren?You found her?”

  “Strictly speaking, she found us.” Tyron laughed as he ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up worse than ever. “I still don’t quite believe it, but they should be here by tonight. Why does it seem ten years since she left, instead of a season? Halfrid transferred down south to some island the moment she scryed him.”

  “They?” Teressa repeated, taking a step toward him.

  He didn’t back away, but his shoulders tightened, as did his hands, and he looked away as he said, “She’s got Connor with her. And apparently they were tangling with none other than old Angleworm Andreus.”

  “Andreus!” Shock rocked Teressa back, and old pain rolled through her. Her hand dropped to her skirt, where underneath her gown she wore a knife strapped to her leg.

  Tyron was looking at her now, his eyes wide. Discerning as always, yet she hadn’t seen it. She had always taken him for granted.

  His lips parted, probably to explain, but she didn’t give him the chance. She acted on impulse—who was to deny her?—and took hold of the smooth fabric of his tunic, and pulled him close.

  Then she kissed him.

  He twitched, as if to pull away, then a little breath escaped him, warming her face. He smelled of spiced apple, and herb-scented soap.

  He kissed her back.

  It wasn’t like the lightning-strike of Hawk’s kisses . . . it was warm and nice and . . . and Tyron.

  He pulled back first, breathing faster, and frowned as if perplexed.

  “Should I not have done that?” she asked.

  He ran his hands through his hair, making it more unruly than ever. His voice was husky, and a little unsteady. “What did that decide?”

  She thought of all the things she could say—that she’d wanted to test the idea—that she was comparing him to Hawk—then Teressa thought about it from his perspective, for the first time.

  Tyron had kissed her back. That meant . . . he had feelings. For her.

  She looked into his eyes, wishing she could see into the mind behind them. He regarded her back, his gaze steady, his mouth tender, his brow puckered faintly with confusion. No hint of the tumbling thunderclouds of emotion that Hawk held in leash—which she could sense, and which excited her.

  She said slowly, “It didn’t decide anything. It was just a kiss. I think I’ve learned that kisses don’t decide anything, except whether or not one wants more kisses.” She stopped, and when he didn’t say anything, she gathered her courage. “Did it decide anything for you?”

  He looked down at his hands. “No. As you say, it was just . . . a kiss.”

  “But you wanted one,” she ventured.

  He looked away, and then out came a low stream of words. “I think I’ve had feelings for you ever since I first saw you. I know I have. Before I knew what feelings were.”

  “A false attraction? For a me that doesn’t exist—like Connor had?”

  “Not like Connor, who . . . is shaped so much like the heroic ideal that he . . . sees the world that way,” Tyron said slowly. “But of late, I . . . realized it had become a habit. That there are other possible roads.”

  “Like Orin,” Teressa said, jealousy constricting her heart. But then she made an effort and banished those invisible, clutching talons.

  “Like Orin,” he said. Then he turned away, walked a step, then turned back, to put space between them. “Is that all right? Should I not have told you that?”

  “I’m glad you told me,” she stated, and she knew that if she stated it enough, it would be true. “Here’s what’s important: that we are talking again. I don’t ever want to lose that. I’ve missed it too much. I shut you and Wren both out. The . . . matter of kisses can wait.”

  Tyron ducked his head in a nod. “Hawk might come back. In fact, he probably will.”

  “He’ll have to come back a better man than he was when he left. But I think . . . I think he wants to be. He just never had anyone in his life to show him how.”

  Tyron opened his hands. “I missed our talks, too.”

  “So tell me about Andreus. What happened?”

  “He seems to have been collecting mages for some nasty plot, and he really was after Wren, because he thought she was the one responsible for bringing down the mountains bounding Senna Lirwan. You remember, at the very end of the war.”

  “I remember,” she said, her throat dry. “That’s what ended the war. How could I forget that, or the two weeks solid of earthquakes afterward? So that horrible Sanga was telling the truth, and Andreus really did try to get Wren.” And Hawk knew all along. If he does come back, he will have a lot to explain. And to redeem.
/>
  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you and Halfrid sent Sanga to the Council. I’m afraid I’d want to lock her away in prison.”

  “Her sister really seems to have been turned into a gargoyle, and guess what? Wren’s father is there as well.”

  “Wren’s father? How did he get mixed up with Andreus? I thought he was some wandering play-mage, not even good enough for city players?”

  “Oh, that’s just the beginning of the questions. But we’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen Halfrid move that fast in ages!”

  “Bring them here,” Teressa announced. “I will cancel the card party—I don’t want to see anyone at court anyway. I’ll use the rain as an excuse. As soon as they arrive, bring them here.”

  “Here? Not the Magic School? There’s something Halfrid wants to do,” Tyron warned, but he was smiling.

  Teressa clapped her hands in anticipation. “Tell me. If I can help, you know nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  o0o

  Wren and Connor descended to the wardroom. There in the first hammock, they found Wren’s father lying quietly, smiling at the little patch of twilit sky visible through the open scuttle. He was a short man, obviously intended to be round, but he was terribly emaciated, as were all the mages who had been forced into gargoyle form. He peered up at them from under a fringe of frizzy silver hair, his eyes as brown as his skin.

  His smile was exactly like Wren’s. “Little daughter,” he whispered.

  “Papa!” She savored the word. “You’re awake.”

  Arbran gave a soundless laugh. “I am. Feel good. No strength yet. It will come.”

  “I’m here to ask if you’d like to go with us to Cantirmoor, or instead, with the other mages to the Summer Isles.”

  “With you.” He laughed softly again. “Was on the way to find you. Aunt told me. Magic School. Cantirmoor. Meldrith. But that fellow found me first. I still don’t know what he meant. About bringing down mountains.” His brows quirked. “I can’t do that. Can you?”