Wren Journeymage

  “So the problem isn’t there?”

  Tyron sighed. “I wish I knew. Maybe it’s just—” He scratched his head again, almost defiantly. “Maybe it’s just left over from other worries.”

  “Master Halfrid?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess I’m not worried about Master Halfrid, though I admit I don’t like not hearing from him. But he can take care of himself far better than I can take care of myself. I guess I am worried about why he’s gone so long.”

  Tyron sighed, remembering Halfrid saying as he packed his books, One missing ally could be an accident, but two is suspicious, and three is a disaster. Tyron had asked, Why go? Why can’t the Council send someone else? And Master Halfrid replied, There is no one else, don’t you see? We are spread far too thin, thanks to the troubles down in the south. These mages were our allies in the war, and we did promise return aid if they had problems. Their kings have called us, and I have to go.

  But none of this matter could be spoken aloud, except to other masters. So Tyron said, “Halfrid is not my main concern. Just one of them.”

  Orin pursed her lips, then said in a soft voice, “The queen?”

  Tyron sighed. “She won’t talk to me. For the first time. We always used to talk. Yes, and we argued. Yelled, even. But we talked. Now she just gives me that court laugh and invites me, ever so politely, to every court function. Every one, but as a challenge, more than because she wants to see me.” He added in a rush, “You’re a female, and her age. You couldn’t talk to her, could you?”

  Orin looked down at her work-roughened hands. “I fear she doesn’t like me.”

  Tyron stared. “What?”

  “Maybe it’s my Lirwani village, our independent attitudes. We’re not like the Meldrithi. Or maybe it’s my lowly background—”

  “No, no. Never think that. Teressa has never cared about rank. She will be the first to tell you she spent a lot of her childhood in an orphanage, learning to sweep rooms and sew her own clothes. That’s where she and Wren first met, and Wren hasn’t any noble blood, it turns out, but that never made the least bit of difference to Teressa.”

  “Then maybe I remind her of someone else, but I really think the only person she would talk to would be Wren,” Orin said.

  Tyron picked up his pen then threw it down again. “Yes. You’re right. And Wren’s gone—and I sent her away. I wonder if that’s going to be yet another mistake of mine?”

  Orin said quickly, “You have not made mistakes.”

  “Oh, haven’t I? I sure did about this Hawk business. I am beginning to feel that I should have pressured Teressa to invite him, just so she’d turn me down!” Tyron picked up his pen and tossed it down again. “Never mind. I shouldn’t talk on like this, except you’ve been there. You’ve seen it all.”

  Orin bowed her head, hiding her expression. “The queen is very kind about inviting us students to the picnics and parties.” Then she looked up, her tone shifting to everyday practicality. “That reminds me. Master Kalig sent me up to tell you the second year students are ready to try their first shape-changes. Will you come, or should he postpone? It is quite late in the day, but he promised them.”

  Tyron swung around and peered through his window at the twilit garden. The trees hid the grassy circle where the mage students would be gathered, with plenty of space and air. Halfrid had been very definite about the fact that Tyron must attend those first attempts. Transformation magic of any kind was complicated and dangerous. Orin’s own background made shape-changing easier than usual, which was why she was assisting in that class, but she was not advanced enough to help oversee the students’ first spells.

  “I’ll come—”

  “Master Tyron!” A first year student flung himself inside the door, gasping, his eyes round. “Master Kial. Sent me. Special visitor in the parlor. Wants to see you at once. It’s a duke,” the boy added.

  Tyron sighed, glancing up at Orin, who gave him a slight smile. “I know. Postpone,” she said.

  “First thing in the morning. Promise. And a free evening from studies tonight,” Tyron said.

  Orin vanished in one direction, and Tyron followed the first year student back down the hall to the front of the school. The boy flung open the door to the parlor where they received the rare non-magical visitors that came to the School.

  There Kial stood uneasily, rolling his eyes in relief when Tyron stepped inside. “His grace insisted on an interview now,” Kial said, his voice carefully even.

  “Go ahead and return to your class, Kial,” Tyron said. “Thanks.”

  Kial signaled to the watching boy, who followed reluctantly, with many backward glances.

  As soon as they were gone Tyron shut the door. He set his back against it and turned to his visitor, who had taken the single good chair in the room.

  Garian Rhismordith had been Duke since the death of his father at the end of the war. He stood up, his long gold embroidered velvet court tunic glowing richly in the fading light from the window. He was taller than Tyron, thin but strong, his narrow features tight not with anger but some more complex expression.

  “I know it’s an interruption,” he said without any polite preamble. “But I’ve got to talk to one of you. Halfrid is away, so you’re it.”

  Once they’d been enemies, during childhood when they’d had the luxury of disliking people on their own side. Garian had been changed by his experiences in the war; Teressa relied on him now, having made him head of the Scarlet Guard in his father’s place. Not just because of his rank, but because he’d earned it.

  “Teressa,” Garian said, “has seen fit to propose a midnight picnic on the lake, next Two Moons Night.”

  “What?”

  “Boats. Music across the water. Mage fireworks—I’m sure you’ll hear about that part soon enough.”

  “And?” Tyron said.

  “And Hawk Rhiscarlan is her partner in her boat. Alone. Just the two of them. He tricked her into it. Wager. Said she was afraid. She rose to the bait like a flying fish.”

  Tyron sank down into the wooden chair with a sigh that was more like a groan.

  “That’s about how I feel.” Garian gave him a bleak smile. “She won’t listen to me, so I thought I’d better come to you.”

  Tyron grimaced.

  Garian’s thin cheeks reddened. “Look,” Garian protested. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past—”

  Tyron raised a hand. “Save it, Garian.” He spoke without thinking, and Garian, to his credit, did not bridle or even frown at the lack of courtesy title, as once he would have done. Tyron said, “Never mind the past. Here’s the truth—she won’t talk to me either. Not about him.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  Tyron pointed at the window, streaming with rain. “Not as far as I can spit into that wind,” he said, using one of Wren’s old orphanage phrases. How he wished she were here now!

  Garian crossed his arms. “Then we’ll have to prepare for trouble, is all.” He snorted. “Yes, you’re probably thinking of my disasters in the past, but I’ve learned a few things since then. And Hawk might not be aware of it. At least we’ve got plenty of time to get ready. I’ll place some of the best scouts in the Scarlet Guard around the lake, and have them patrol it beforehand so they really know the terrain. That night I’ll have a host in place. Horses, boats, swords, everything, so if he’s of a mind to make off with her he won’t get far.”

  Tyron said, “But he’s also a mage.”

  “That’s your end,” Garian said, rising.

  “True. We’ll use our free time between now and Two Moons Night to ward the lake, and maybe plant a few little surprises of our own.” Our free time. What free time? “Thanks for the warning, your grace.” This time he remembered the title.

  Garian raised a hand in the duelist’s acknowledgement of a hit. Tyron moved away from the door, and Garian laid his hand on the latch, then he paused and said over his shoulder, “If there’s anything you think I s
hould know, send a runner, either to my rooms in the palace or at the Scarlet Guard barracks. I promise they’ll have immediate access.”

  Tyron nodded. “Same with us here. I’ll be sure to tell Halfrid on his return.”

  Garian left, his long cloak billowing behind him.

  Eight

  So I’m on my own, then, Wren thought as she looked down at the strewn contents of her knapsack.

  At least her magic book hadn’t been stolen. Master Falstan had told the students her first year that traveling mages always disguised their magic books, and the most successful disguises were carefully constructed illusions of really boring subjects.

  Was Connor’s note still in it? Her heart thumped as she opened the book, and there was the note. Then she sat back on her heels in relief.

  She still felt a little silly bringing that old, much-unfolded-and-refolded note he’d written so long ago, the morning of her Basics test. There was Connor’s handwriting, slanty, hasty in lettering, just a funny poem about mages and turtles. But it had made her laugh then, and it made her smile now, as she brushed her fingers slowly over the letters his own hand had formed.

  Wren had three other treasures besides the note: an embroidered sash Queen Astren had given her during her first stay in Cantirmoor; a crumpled sketch Wren’s mother had made of Wren as a baby before she was killed as a caravan guard; a hair ornament from Tess. Teressa had given her lots of beautiful things since then, but that plain clip, with its straggling, inexpertly painted flowers, she’d made herself, not long after Wren and the boys had rescued Teressa from that horrible Andreus, then King of Senna Lirwan.

  She’d only brought Connor’s poem, which could be tucked into the book.

  She looked at the closely written pages, filled with abbreviations and symbols that only she understood. Some of the other magic students had scoffed at Master Falstan, saying that a single illusion over the cover should be enough, and anyone without the wit to talk themselves out of a bad situation deserved any trouble they met. But Wren had had enough adventures to know that you couldn’t always talk your way out of danger.

  And so she’d spent many tedious evenings casting a permanent illusion over each page, so that any hand that touched without her permission would spark the magic. What the nosey person would see would be pages and pages of notes and drawings about wild herbs and the properties of weeds. There really was such a botany book, written many years ago by a wanderer who had made books of lists of everything—trees, animals, rocks, weeds, even cloud formations. She’d used it as a model for her illusions.

  Smiling, she fitted Connor’s poem into the middle of the book, replaced it in her pack, tossed her pens, ink, and scraps of paper in on top of it, then folded in her extra clothes. Master Falstan had been right. Whoever had taken her scry stone had left the supposed weed book behind. She just hoped that the thief wasn’t able to break the surprise spell she’d cast over the scrying stone if anyone used it without her permission.

  Wren stowed her knapsack again, and leaned against the bulkhead while the water whooshed and thumped the wood on the other side. She comforted herself with the image of someone trying to use her stone to contact another thief, or villain, and getting nothing but images of pigwort, stinkweed, and pop-eyed toads for their pains.

  Thumps and creaks broke into her thoughts. Some day watch sailors entered, yawning and exchanging quick comments in Dock Talk. Wren picked out words here and there: mostly about sleep, work, and always the weather. One of the first things she learned was how everyone was always aware of the wind.

  She climbed into her hammock. So I can’t talk to Tyron. But I am a journeymage, and I can still figure out the right thing to do. First thing is, not tell them I’m a mage. I’m just going to have to find out some other way who wanted me grabbed, and why.

  Until then . . . how about a few tiny spells she could perform in the galley to make her job easier? Most of them were probably things that bigger, richer ships had as a matter of course. This captain was far too parsimonious.

  Wren fell asleep in the middle of concocting an unlikely string of spells that could cause the vegetables to peel themselves.

  o0o

  “Two weeks’ run then west to sun,” the sailors sang out in cadence as they hauled on their ropes.

  Wren and Patka, summoned on deck at midday for this change of all the sails, peeked at the captain, who stood by the wheel behind the second mast, narrowly watching the crew.

  “Two weeks east but ‘ware the beast!” The sailor in front of Wren had a loud, unmusical voice, but to make up for it she bellowed the word beast.

  Wren turned to Patka. “Beast?”

  “Djurans,” Patka said.

  Of course. Far to the east and somewhat to the south of Wren’s home continent lay the giant island empires of Sveran Djur and Shinja respectively. The Djuran emperor was known worldwide for his use of dangerous magic. Nobody sailed there if they could help it, though the west winds blew steadily in that direction. The Djurans had a terrible reputation, after centuries of attempts to conquer lands on the continents to either side, attempts that were not more frequent only because they were constantly at war with the Shinjans, who were just as ferocious.

  At least we’re now going more or less in the right direction, Wren thought as the captain called out more orders for the changing of sails from square to fore-and-aft in order to better catch the tricky wind.

  Wren knew she needed to go south and then west, far west, to get to the Summer Islands, which lay on the belt of the world. She’d worried the past few nights about just how far east this captain would travel. Wren had her magic, of course, but the only Destination she dared use from so very far away would be the one she knew so well at the Magic School. It was good to have that in case of dire emergency—but using it would also mean she’d been unsuccessful as a journeymage.

  “Brace up! Brace up!” the captain bawled.

  At last they were done changing the sails. Wren wiped her aching hands down her sides, and followed Patka to the hatchway. “What I can’t understand is, why go east at all, and risk running into Djuran slavers, if she wanted to go south all along?”

  Patka shrugged. “Wind and currents make it faster and easier,” she replied. “Just as the shortest distance on land might wind through a river valley because a straight line would make you go over high mountains, taking ten times longer.” Patka’s brow furrowed.

  Wren scrambled down the ladder after her, and dropped by her side. “Are you angry?” she asked. Has she guessed about my magic? “Something I said?”

  Patka sidles furtive looks in both directions. “Not at you. Her. The captain.” She jerked her thumb up toward the deck, then whispered against Wren’s ear, “Danal saw the real cargo.”

  Sailors tramped around them, lugging thick rolls of heavier sail. Wren waited until they were gone, then put her head close to Patka’s. “What? Not something dangerous, I hope.”

  “Not itself,” Patka whispered back. They stood just outside the galley; if anyone appeared they’d have to go right in to work. “Silk! Rainbow Lake silk,” she added meaningfully.

  Wren pursed her lips in a soundless whistle. The silk from the Brennic Marshes was supposed to be famous all over the world. Wren knew that it was extremely expensive, so expensive only the richest courtiers could afford it. No one knew what was special about the mulberry trees around Rainbow Lake, causing the worms to spin silk that shimmered with subtle rainbow colors, just like the air above the cataracts falling into the Lake.

  Wren looked at Patka. “That stuff is beautiful. Why is having it as cargo a bad thing?”

  Patka groaned. “Stolen!”

  The galley door opened, and Cook stood there scowling. “What took ye so long? Stop to buy a horse?”

  This was an example of Cook’s humor. Wren was not surprised that no one laughed at these ‘jokes’ except Cook.

  “Get busy!” Cook pointed a ladle at the dough board.

 
Wren moved to the flour bag to measure out what was needed for the supper biscuits. Patka poured the dried peas in a bucket to start soaking. Cook scowled at them both, then returned to his task of rolling layers of cooked meat, garlic-simmered pepper-beans, and cheese between thin strips of corn meal. The captain and the mates would get to eat that. Everyone else got pea-and-cabbage soup and biscuits with nothing to put on them, unless you had your own pot of jelly.

  Wren watched Cook out of the corners of her eyes as she pounded and kneaded the biscuit dough.

  Presently Cook was done with the pepper-rolls, and got out his clashing keys to unlock the tiny supply room next to the galley, where the captain’s food was kept. Wren and Patka exchanged glances, both knowing that the Cook would soon be making pastry for the captain. Ordinarily the smell of cinnamon and honey and other good spices that they wouldn’t get the tiniest taste of made their stomachs growl. Cook often chased them out, giving them vegetables to peel or beans to snap while squatting on the deck outside the galley so they wouldn’t pinch anything.

  When Cook ordered them out, Wren scarcely waited for the door to slam before she sat on a flour bag, beans in a bowl on her lap. She whispered, “How does he know it’s stolen? Are the guild seals missing?”

  “He said the seals are on the trunks. Danal thinks they’re fake.”

  “How’s he know?”

  Wood creaked nearby. Patka and Wren both looked around quickly, then realized it was the ship. The sound of the masts, the wind in the rigging, even the water on the hull had changed.

  “Danal always said he could ‘feel’ magic on things like cleaning buckets. Bridges. Fire Sticks.” Patka snorted as she expertly sent a long, spiraling peel flicking into the discard bowl, and picked up another yam. “Typical mage sort o’ snobbery. We never figured where Danal got such notions. Our big brother used to thump him good for making that up and bragging. But now, well, I dunno. Maybe there is something to it.”