Mage's Blood (7 page)

All the while though she was conscious of Rutt Sordell’s sour features as he lounged against the wall, and dark-visaged Samir Taguine, drinking heavily with a scowl on his face.
I’m with you, Olfuss. I can’t wait to see the back of that pair either
.

She walked the children and their nursemaid Borsa back to their floor of the keep. The old woman was well gone with Rimoni wine, but her feet were unerring. Solinde looked like she could have danced all night, but Timori was nearly asleep in Elena’s arms and Cera was blinking heavily.

‘I’m glad I’m staying,’ said Solinde. ‘I’d hate to miss Eyeed. And the ball tomorrow is going to be the best ever.’

Cera shrugged. ‘At least one of us should go with Mother to see Tante Homeirah before she dies,’ she said sanctimoniously.

Elena was reminded of her own sister. Tesla had been vivacious like Solinde, while Elena herself was quiet, like Cera. Perhaps it was
why Cera was like the daughter she’d never had, though instead of the woodlands and hills she’d explored as a child, Cera explored books and ideas.

‘Of course I wish I could come too,’ said Solinde quickly, not wanting to appear heartless, ‘but, you know …’

Cera pulled a face. ‘Yes, I know: Fernando Tolidi this, Fernando Tolidi that—’

‘That’s not fair! I danced with
everyone
.’

‘Yes you did,’ Elena interjected, ‘but now it is time to sleep. Into bed, now!’

She carried Timori to his own room whilst Borsa chased the two girls to theirs. Timori was nearly asleep, so she left him still clothed, pulled the coverlet over and kissed him goodnight. The little prince of Javon looked tiny in the huge bed, but his face was peaceful. Thick maroon candles perfumed the rooms with rose and cinnamon and the flames set the figures in the tapestries to flickering motion.

In the girls’ room, Cera hugged her tightly, rolled over and seemed to fall instantly asleep, though the corner of a book could be seen peeking from beneath the bedclothes. Elena left it there. Solinde just waved her away, her mind still on the knights that had crowded about her like moths.

Borsa was waiting in the lobby. She watched as always while Elena walked to the middle of the lobby and commenced resetting her gnostic protections. She lifted her hands in gentle gestures and a web of pale white lines appeared, woven into the walls, the ceiling, the floors, thickest about the door and windows. These were the wards she had created here, and once activated, only she and those people she had authorised could freely come and go. Others would be resisted; they could only enter if they were able to overcome the physical and mental stresses that the wards would bring to bear. It was not an impenetrable defence, but when allied with stone, locks and bars, it was effective against all but an attacker who was both very skilled and very determined.

When she was done, Elena let her Inner Eye close and her powers diffuse. Borsa was looking at her calmly, used to these wonders by
now. ‘The girls are happy tonight,’ the old nurse commented. ‘Solinde is growing up so fast.’

‘Too fast, maybe?’

‘Oh, not in a bad way. It is good that she is eager to marry, and she is a good girl. Cera could take her lead and be a little more open. She will have to marry first, but she hardly notices the young men.’ The old servant frowned. ‘You feed her too many books, Ella. She thinks too much and feels too little.’

Elena raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a little cruel, isn’t? She is a princess, and one day she will share the rule of one of the duchies, maybe even the whole kingdom. Far better if she knows how to think and how to reason.’

‘Her first duty will be to have children,’ Borsa replied, ‘and she must also be prepared for the life she
will
lead, not the one she’d
like
to lead.’

Elena exhaled heavily. She’d heard this so many times herself when she was growing up. ‘Cera is intelligent, dutiful and courageous. She has a very gentle and caring side, you know that.’

‘Si, si, I know.’ Borsa pursed her lips. ‘I just find her a little cold, sometimes.’

‘I’ve never found her that way.’

‘But then, many here would say you are cold also,’ Borsa replied. ‘You Rondians come from cold places; you carry that in your hearts.’

Elena opened her mouth crossly, then forced herself to close it again. Borsa had been here so long that she had licence to say what she liked, even to Rondian magi. ‘At home in Noros I’m considered the merriest soul at any party,’ she said lightly.

‘Really?’ Borsa asked.

‘No.’ She yawned ostentatiously. ‘I’m for bed.’

‘Anything to escape a nagging old woman, eh?’ Borsa remarked wryly and hugged her. Then she left and Elena was free to go to her own small room.

A turmoil of thought tumbled about her head.
Wear your gems
.

But I’m not ready to leave, Gurvon. I think this is where I belong
.

She thought about poor Tesla, half-mad, wasting away alone. She
thought about Tesla’s husband, Vann Mercer, who she had wanted to hate, but liked instead. A courageous, considerate man, soldier-turned- trader, struggling to stay afloat in tough times. He was hoping his son Alaron, a quarter-blood mage, could rebuild the family fortunes. Elena recalled a thin boy with lank reddish hair and an argumentative nature. He would be graduating soon. She recalled her own graduation like yesterday: the handshake from the governor, and the grudging smile of Luc Batto as she took the girl’s weaponry prize. It had been an ending and a beginning for her.

Good luck, Alaron. It is all before you
.

Shaitan, what hast thou wrought? Thou hast blighted the earth and sky with djinn and afreet, made demons crawl beneath our feet. Thou hast blasted the soil and poisoned the wells. And worst, thy evil hath been made flesh, in thy spawn the Rondian Magi
.

Y
AMEED
U
MAFI
, C
ONVOCATION
G
ODSPEAKER
, 926

Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros
Octen 927
9 months until the Moontide

Norostein, the capital of Noros, lay on a high mountain plateau north of the Alps, set beside a cold clear lake that covered half the old city, consigned to the depths when the municipal authority dammed the river to improve the water-supply. Some said there were ghosts below, in the flooded graveyards, old revenants that would drag the unwary down to their watery graves. On days when the lake levels were low and no rains had muddied it, you could see the old buildings in the deeps. But it was no such day today: rain had teemed in to spoil the Darklight celebrations, the religious festival that the Kore had put in place of the old Sollan holy day of Samhain. Torrential downpours flooded the plazas and
extinguished many of the bonfires. Pitch-smeared torches sizzled sullenly.

The bedraggled populace gathered before the cathedral, damply sweaty and red-eyed, awaiting the midday service. The mage-born would be allowed inside, but the commoners had to keep vigil in the square, praying as much that the rain would hold off as for divine favour. Pickpockets worked the crowds and drunks still reeling from the previous night’s celebrations pissed where they stood, usually about the heels of the person in front of them. Young men strutted about, eyeing the girls pretending not to be eyeing them. The crowd was a sea of pale flesh and greasy brown hair, white bonnets and green felt hats. Spontaneous choruses of traditional songs echoed about the plaza, songs of the Revolt, songs of the mountain kingdoms, old folk songs. Some harmless fights kept the Watchmen occupied. The air was laced with perspiration and beer, the smoke of the foodstalls blended with the drizzle, but the throng was in good humour.

Inside the courtyard of the Town Hall, the gentry waited. In a few minutes, the governor would lead them in procession through the crowd to the cathedral. Awaiting him in the courtyard were the landowners, the richest of the merchants, and, first and foremost, the magi families of Norostein, not that there were many; Noros had never attracted many of the descendants of the Blessed, and the Revolt had taken a heavy toll. Now there were just some seventy adult magi gathered under awnings. A few of the young men were showing off, using gnosis-shields to keep off the rain, and one young woman was amusing her friends by conjuring watery creature-forms out of the drizzle. There was laughter in the air, but tension too: young magi were always seeking opportunities to dominate weaker rivals.

A small bony youth with an olive complexion wormed his way through the courtyard, flicking wet black hair from his face. His colouring marked him as an outsider. The babble of voices and the heat of the packed bodies hit him like a wave, but he worked his way past the most boisterous of the young men without attracting
undue attention. He peered into the darkest recesses of the courtyard to where the lightweights among the magi-children skulked and spotted the person he was looking for. He slid in beside a gangling figure with a drip of water or snot hanging from a long thin nose. Lank red-brown hair was plastered to a pale, morose face.

‘Alaron,’ the swarthy newcomer greeted his fellow, dangling a small wicker basket full of steaming sweet dumplings under his friend’s dripping nose. They both wore the robes of Turm Zauberin, the all-male gnostic college of Norostein. ‘Three fennik it cost me!
Rukka Hel
– festival day prices!’ He took a dumpling and swallowed it whole, then thrust the basket at his friend. ‘Bloody merchants, eh?’ he added slyly.

‘Thanks, Ramon.’ Alaron Mercer grinned despite himself. His father Vann was a merchant himself; he could see him just a few yards away, chatting to Jostyn Weber. Alaron wolfed down a dumpling and looked around. ‘What a waste of time. The service will be at least three hours long, you realise.’

‘At least we’re inside,’ Ramon observed. ‘The commoners get stuck out here in the rain all afternoon – they can’t even sit down.’ He glanced around, looking like a ferret peering out from its burrow. Ramon Sensini was a secretive young man, the son of a Rondian mage (whose identity he’d never shared) and a Silacian tavern-girl. The Turm Zauberin gatekeepers had initially refused him entry, even though he’d funds enough to enrol, but he had shown the Principal a letter and that had got him in.

As usual, Alaron had a bee in his bonnet over the festival. ‘Did you know that every Sollan festival has had some stupid Kore ritual put in its place? I mean, could they be more brazen? There isn’t even any evidence that the gnosis has anything to do with the Kore! And Johan Corin was actually born a Sollan worshipper! Why does no one remember that? I read in a book that—’

‘Alaron, shush! I agree, but it’s blasphemy.’ Ramon put a finger to his lips, then pointed at a girl not far away. ‘Hey, look, there’s Gina Weber. Aren’t you and she going to be betrothed?’

‘No!’ said Alaron sourly, ‘not if I have any say in it, anyway.’

‘Which you won’t,’ put in Ramon unsympathetically.

Alaron peered at the fleshy blonde girl clinging to Jostyn Weber’s arm. His father Vann was trying to gesture him over. ‘I’m not talking to that boneheaded milkmaid,’ he grumbled, pretending not to notice. He looked down at Ramon. ‘I can’t believe you only got four dumplings for three fennik– that’s more than three times the normal price. I thought Silacians knew how to bargain?’

Ramon smirked sourly. ‘Of course I bargained! No one else was getting more than one per fennik, so count yourself lucky.’

A blast of trumpetry made further conversation impossible. Governor Belonius Vult appeared at the doors to the town hall, walking down the stairs to the sound of a low, half-hearted cheer. Some twenty more magi, Rondians attached to the occupying army, followed him. Alaron could remember previous years when Governor Vult had been loudly jeered, but dissident voices were rare now the governor had settled into his powerful role. Not that everyone now approved of him, but these days it was neither profitable nor safe to show it.

‘Look, it’s Lord Craven of Lukhazan,’ muttered Alaron to Ramon for old times’ sake.

Vult mounted a horse and led the Town Council out of the courtyard. The noise outside in the plaza rose momentarily, then fell as the rain intensified, sending a collective shiver up thirty thousand spines.

Alaron wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’

After the town leaders, came the magi, the Kore-blessed wielders of the gnosis. Seats were reserved at the front of the cathedral for them, and that included around a hundred students, mostly Noromen, but also from Verelon, Schlessen and, unusually, one Silacian: Ramon. They ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, with just nine or ten students in each year – Turm Zauberin was, after all, both expensive and exclusively male. The magi-girls of the region went to an Arcanum Convent outside of town, and all of them were here today, well-chaperoned, but eyeing the boys with interest – Turm
Zauberin boys were a good catch, more so than those from the poorer provincial Arcanums.

Alaron’s year was smaller than usual, a legacy of the Revolt. As well as him and Ramon, there were only five others: Seth Korion, Francis Dorobon, Malevorn Andevarion, Boron Funt and Gron Koll. Only Funt and Koll were actually Noromen, the other three present because their guardians were involved in the Rondian occupying forces. All but Koll were pure-bloods – they referred to themselves as ‘The Pure’ and treated Alaron and Ramon like dirt.

Malevorn, the most gifted of them, lifted a haughty eyebrow as they approached the procession. ‘Look what’s crawled from under the flagstones. Where have you been, Mercer, selling oatcakes outside?’

Francis Dorobon grinned and sniggered. ‘Yeah, piss off, Mercer. Your place is at the back.’ Dorobon was supposedly the rightful king of some place in Antiopia.