The Exile and the Sorcerer (25 page)

The tall stone tower that dominated the site served no real purpose. She need not have bothered including it in the reconstruction, except that it completed the aesthetic feel of the castle and provided a wonderful lookout.

Jemeryl climbed the stairs to the drawbridge and entered under the old portcullis. The spiral staircase led up past the armoury and barrack room and onto the roof. She emerged under stars. Dawn’s freezing mists had coated the stonework in a sparkling rime that had not melted during the short winter’s day. It crunched under her hand as she leaned against the battlement and looked down.

The castle courtyard was laid out below, with its circle of buildings. Five beech trees grew in the enclosure. They did not belong in the reconstruction, having sprouted after the garrison left, but Jemeryl had let them stay for the squirrels. Ruff was padding around the trunks, sniffing at anything that caught his notice. The other bear, Tumble, came out of the kitchens, and while Jemeryl watched, the two began to play, skidding on the ice and sending up plumes of snow as they chased each other. Squirrels scattered before them, chattering in indignation—or maybe it was excitement. Even a sorcerer could be hard put to know exactly what a squirrel was feeling.

Jemeryl wandered to the other side of the tower and looked down on a winter landscape of bare fields. White snow, brilliant in the moonlight, was cut by inky shadows under the firs. Small silhouettes of cattle and sheep clustered near their barns. The houses of the village were grouped in picturesque disorder around the shearing shed. The wind had dropped, and the far side of the valley was lost in blue-grey mist through which twinkled the lights from distant farmsteads. It was starkly beautiful, but as Jemeryl looked out, troubling thoughts marred her appreciation of the scene. Klara landed on the parapet beside her.

From the village came the faint sound of music and voices, the noise carrying cleanly on the cold air. A party seemed to be underway, presumably to entertain the small group of travellers who had passed below the castle earlier that day, leading a train of mules. Visitors from the outside world were rare at any time of year. It was unsurprising if folk were making an event of their arrival. Jemeryl considered the high mountains above the valley. Even with her magic, she did not like the thought of crossing Whitfell Spur in midwinter. She wondered what desperate circumstances had prompted the travellers to risk the journey. Perhaps she should go and find out.

A sudden desire to meet people and talk struck Jemeryl. Her eyes fixed bleakly on the village hall as she imagined the reception she would get. Jemeryl could not remember the last cheerful face she had seen, but she certainly would not find any if she entered the village.

“They don’t like you, you know,” Klara volunteered.

“I know.” Jemeryl sighed deeply. “I just wish I knew why.”

As a child, in the village of her birth, Jemeryl had inspired fear and resentment. The other children would not have her as a playmate, although they soon learned it was unwise to throw stones at her. When she was four, her family had persuaded the local witch to adopt her, purely to rid their house of Jemeryl’s disturbing presence. She had felt no regret to go. It had been a home without love. At eleven, she had gone to study at Lyremouth, still holding a child’s contempt for the ungifted. Her education at the Coven had done much to increase her tolerance—for all the good it had done with the villagers.

True, she had not wanted to come to the valley, had not wanted to leave Lyremouth. She loved the esoteric study of magic and would happily devote her life to it. However, Coven rules insisted that new sorcerers spend time out in the world, to learn firsthand the needs of the ungifted. Her application for assignment to the valley had been a long shot; she was ridiculously overqualified. To her astonishment, the authorities had agreed.

At the time, Jemeryl had assumed that they saw things the same way she did; the rule was a waste of talent. All her responsibilities in the valley would take no more than a few days each month, leaving her free to concentrate on her studies. Jemeryl had a high opinion of her own talents and would not have been at all surprised to learn that many of her teachers secretly agreed with her.

Two years had passed since she had arrived in the valley. The research had gone well, but her relationship with the villagers had not proceeded totally to plan. Over the months, contact with them had dwindled to the point of non-existence. On the rare occasions when they crossed her path, many displayed blatant hostility or fear.

“I’ve tried to be nice,” she said defensively.

“That was a waste of effort.”

“I know. I just couldn’t seem to talk to them.”

Klara’s head swivelled towards her. “If you want my opinion, the lessons about getting on with the ungifted took the wrong approach. Instead of going on about citizenship and equality, they should have taught you a few amusing anecdotes about sheep. That would have helped you fit in. It’s all the locals ever talk about.”

“I think they now talk about me quite a lot.”

“In a year’s time, you can apply to return to Lyremouth; then they’ll have to go back to the sheep.”

The dream of returning to Lyremouth was what sustained Jemeryl through the hard work and isolation, but standing on the battlements, she was hit by unusual self-doubts. “Am I deluding myself, thinking my research is important? That they’ll want me back? Perhaps the Coven let me take this assignment because it’s all they think I’m fit for.”

“Nonsense. The office is trivial. It wouldn’t strain the powers of a third-rate witch.”

“Even so, I’m not fulfilling its requirements.”

“Only because the locals don’t want you to. It’s not your fault, Jem. You can’t force them to ask you for help.”

Jemeryl was not convinced. “It shouldn’t come down to what they will or won’t let me do. I’m supposed to be looking after them.”

“You’ve done your best. You’ve set up so many charms to keep out enemies and illness, a belligerent hamster couldn’t enter the valley, especially if it were feeling a bit poorly.”

“I’m not sure. I might have gone too far.”

“In what way?”

“Overprotecting people is bad for them. It has side effects. They can lose all common sense and start acting like children.”

“In which case it might be nasty. Some of them didn’t have far to go to start with.”

“Perhaps I should go and talk to Sergo.”

“You
are
in a dismal mood. Look, if I say I’m sorry your sphere blew up, will it make you happy? You can invoke another one tomorrow.” Klara hopped onto Jemeryl’s hand.

“There’s a strange emanation in the air tonight.”

“A premonition, or are we downwind of the village dung heap?”

“Probably just me worrying.” Jemeryl studied the distant houses before asking softly, “If something was seriously wrong, they’d come to me, wouldn’t they?”

“Of course they would. They’d race up here like scared rabbits.”

Jemeryl stroked the magpie’s head and dismissed all thought of going to the village. If she admitted the truth, she was nervous of the villagers and unwilling to face their hostility. It brought back painful childhood memories.

She forced a smile to her lips. “Perhaps things aren’t so bad. I’ve got time to study, and if the villagers aren’t happy and healthy, they’ve only got themselves to blame. Still, I wouldn’t object to someone to talk to.”

“Don’t I count?” Klara sounded indignant.

“You know you don’t.”

Music from the village drifted on the wind. Jemeryl turned her back on the sound and retraced her steps down through the courtyard, in search of supper and then bed. She waited at the kitchen door, holding it open until the bears galloped in; then she pushed it shut, leaving the courtyard once more deserted under the stars.

*

Two mornings later, Jemeryl sat in her study. A large book lay open before her, but her concentration kept drifting. Something was pricking the edges of her mind, all the more irritating since she did not have a clue what that something was. For the third time, she started reading at the beginning of a long paragraph. Before she got halfway through, her attention slipped, and she lost the thread of the argument.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

“You mean in addition to what’s wrong with you generally?” Klara asked.

The gibe from her familiar softened Jemeryl’s frown. With a yawn, the sorcerer flipped the covers shut and stretched back. The book could wait.

“Maybe I’ve been overdoing things. A break might help. I could take the bears for a walk.”

The suggestion found favour with Tumble, who had been sitting in a corner. The bear lumbered to her feet and trotted over to the desk, stubby tail wagging. The big, hopeful eyes made Jemeryl’s smile broaden. She scratched Tumble’s head, causing the bear to growl with pleasure. However, now that she had abandoned all attempt to read, Jemeryl’s sense of foreboding shuffled to the front of her mind. Something was about to go very seriously wrong.

Jemeryl left her chair and went to a window. Everything appeared normal in the valley below. Snow lay on the ground, though less thick than of late. Sheep dawdled across the fields, tended by shepherds wrapped in layers of clothes. Smoke rose from distant chimneys. Jemeryl leaned her head against the glass and tried to call on all her training and talents to identify the threat.

“What do you think it is, Jem?” For once, Klara was devoid of sarcasm.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to see Sergo?”

“She might know nothing. Perhaps an oracle would...” Jemeryl shook her head indecisively.

“You hate oracles.”

“True.”

Jemeryl stood, biting her lip and trying to pinpoint the core of her anxiety. The harder she concentrated, the less substantial her fears seemed, until there was nothing but a vague feeling of unease. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. I might just be picking up leakage from one of the crystal reservoirs in the hall.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Jemeryl took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I’m going to visit Sergo. Even if I’m imagining things, it’s about time I had a word with her.”

Jemeryl hoped that making the decision would ease her tension, but, if anything, her agitation intensified as she left her study and stepped onto the high platform at the top of the stairs in the great hall.

The small tower had been the captain’s quarters in the days when soldiers were stationed at the castle. The top floor was now divided between Jemeryl’s study and her bedroom. The floor below held a larger room that had been the captain’s audience chamber. Jemeryl had intended to use it for the same purpose. However, since nobody ever came to see her, it had become her private parlour and was now cluttered with personal belongings, including the outdoor clothes she would need for the ride.

Jemeryl descended the stairs in the great hall. She had reached the lower landing and was about to open the parlour door when a noise made her jump. Echoing around the great hall was the sound of a gong, beating softly—a summons, and one Jemeryl recognised instantly. It set her leaping down the remaining steps and skidding to a stop in the centre of the hall. An image was intensifying before her, accompanied by hissing and rumbling. The figure was just identifiable as Iralin, Jemeryl’s mentor in Lyremouth.

Klara landed on Jemeryl’s shoulder. “It’s a sending from the Coven.”

Jemeryl nodded anxiously. It meant trouble. A full sending of sound and vision over the many miles between them was an enormous undertaking, undoubtedly requiring the energies of several sorcerers. In practice, it would require less effort for Iralin to walk from Lyremouth on foot. It implied a desperate urgency that confirmed her sense of grim foreboding.

Iralin’s image was becoming firmer by the second. She was sitting in familiar surroundings, her study in the Coven, with Lyremouth harbour visible through the window behind. The charts lining the walls were unchanged since Jemeryl had last seen them, two years before.

Apparently, Iralin’s view of Jemeryl was also improving. The senior sorcerer glared sternly. “What have you been doing?”

The last thing Jemeryl expected was for the conversation to start with her own activities. The angry tone also threw her. “Ma’am?”

“I said, what have you been doing?”

“With regard to anything in particular?”

“Don’t be flippant. We’ve had reports about you, passed on by sorcerer Chenoweth in Rizen. They haven’t been amusing.”

Jemeryl was bewildered. “Are you sure there hasn’t been some mistake, ma’am?”

“What have the villagers said to you recently?”

“I, um...haven’t spoken to any of them for months.”

“Why not?”

Jemeryl could think of no suitable words to say aloud, although dozens of unsuitable ones came to mind. She cursed herself for not paying more attention to the locals. Somewhere, something had got completely out of hand.

“You’re supposed to be looking after the inhabitants. How do you do that without talking to them?” Iralin persisted.

“I assumed they’d come to me if they had any problems.”

“You don’t consider it your job to go to them?”