The Floating Islands (23 page)

“Yes,” agreed Master Tnegun.

Master Kopapei sighed. “I’ll do what I can. You will, I hope, protect—” He gestured, his wave taking in the balcony and, by implication, all the apprentices and the entire school.

Master Tnegun inclined his head. “I shall watch and wait,” he said. “I shall supervise the apprentices, and conserve my strength, and the strength of what adjuvants you will spare to wait with me.” If he was afraid now, Araenè could not see it. His gaze met Kopapei’s with calm reserve.

“Just so.” Master Kopapei looked around at the remaining adjuvants. “I believe I shall ask … Koranai and Meitai to support me.” His voice gentled. “And Sayai.”

“Me?” Sayai said. He sounded both nervous and uncertain, as though he guessed why Master Kopapei might have singled him out but hoped he was wrong.

“If you will,” the master said, still very gently. “I’m sorry, Sayai. You will never be a mage. But you might become a strong adjuvant—if you would. I hope you will. I shall need your strength now.”

His face rigid with the effort to hold back anger or disappointment, Sayai moved slowly to stand in front of Master Kopapei, who put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and said to Master Tnegun, “Tnegun, my friend. Take care, and don’t act too hastily—but I hope that if you see something useful to do, you aren’t too slow to act, either.” He vanished, taking Sayai and two of the adjuvants with him.

Little Cesei took a distracted step toward the balcony’s edge, where his master had stood.

Master Tnegun dropped a hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder. “No.”

Cesei’s mouth set stubbornly.

Kanii came over and put an arm around the little boy’s shoulders. They and all the rest remaining on the balcony stared at Master Tnegun: three adjuvants, and all the apprentices except poor Sayai. And Araenè, a little apart from the others. She wondered why it was
her
master who was left to “supervise the apprentices” and “protect the school.” She wanted to ask, but did not dare. She began to ask instead what they would do, and stopped as a sort of huge, echoing, silent crash seemed suddenly to ring noiselessly out across the Island.

“What was that?” Cesei asked, his voice shrill.

Master Tnegun sighed. “That was a backlash. Someone has overextended his strength and lost control of his spellwork, and the sphere he was using has been allowed to crack. What you felt just then was the magic it contained being released in one dangerous burst of undirected power.” He turned his head to meet Tichorei’s eyes. “I think that was Master Yamatei. Do you agree?”

Tichorei nodded decisively, though with seeming reluctance.

Master Tnegun barely smiled. “You have an affinity for knowing and naming,” he observed. “Camatii has trained you to handle backlash and overextension? Yes, good. And you still have considerable strength. Very good. All your skills will be useful now. I will ask you to go to the hall of spheres and mirrors and watch for overextension. It may yet be possible to catch Yamatei and protect him from the full consequences of the backlash.”

Tichorei cleared his throat. “Yes, I’ll try. Except you—”

“I have no affinity for healing,” Master Tnegun said gently. “And far less strength than you. I will stay here and wait for the odd chance. Go. Take the youngest apprentices with you. They will be far safer in the hall of spheres. Arei, Cesei, go with Tichorei.”

“Maybe we could help you here—” Araenè began.

Master Tnegun cut her off with a lifted hand. “Even less than Cesei do you have the skills I will need,” he told her, not unkindly, but with a flat decisiveness that was very lowering.

Even less than Cesei
—yes, and that was her fault, even though Master Tnegun wasn’t saying so. Araenè wanted very badly to object, but she knew her master was right. She slunk after Tichorei, who was hauling the protesting Cesei by one wrist.

“We should go back,” Cesei protested, pulling to a halt almost before they were back inside the hidden school. “Tichorei, we should go back! Arei was right, we might be able to help—” There were tears of frustration and fear in his eyes. He looked far too young to be facing—whatever they were all facing.

“And do what?” snapped Tichorei, hauling the little boy along by plain force. “You’re not a baby, Cesei; do as you’re told! If the backlash is bad enough, I might need you myself! Or do you think it’s beneath you to work on backlash and overextension?”

Araenè had thought Tichorei had simply been detailed to watch them as though they
were
babies. She knew she, at least, was about as helpless as an infant. Trying to steady her racing thoughts, she asked, “
Can
you, we, um, can we … handle the backlash, then?”

“I’m Master Camatii’s apprentice,” Tichorei said grimly. “And Master Camatii is the best there is at bringing an overextended mage back from the edge. I’m not—” He stopped.

Not him, not as good?
Araenè could imagine where that comment had been heading. And then,
But I’m the best we may have.
That’s what Tichorei meant.

“Why not Master Camatii, then?” Cesei began.

Tichorei gave the boy a little shake, too worried to be patient. “Because they need him where they’re fighting, of course. They’ll
need
a healing mage.
He’ll
overextend himself—of course he will—Arei!” He wheeled suddenly to face Araenè.

Araenè jerked to a halt, startled and alarmed. “Yes?”

“Can you recognize overextension when you see it?”

She couldn’t recognize or understand or do
anything.
She shook her head mutely.

Tichorei started down a hall with low arched ceilings, windowless, lit by spell light. He said over his shoulder, “A mage who overextends goes all still and cold—he might look dead, only you can see he isn’t, if you look properly. He’s extended too far, his mind isn’t aware of his body. If he stays like that, he
will
die. What
you
can do—”

“Is bring him back?” Araenè asked cautiously. She doubted very much she could do any such thing. Did Tichorei think
she
—was she
supposed
to be able to—

“No—that’s me,” the young man said grimly. “What you can do is keep
me
from overextending while I do it! Cesei!”

“What?” Tichorei had released Cesei’s wrist at last, and the boy rubbed it, looking at once sullen and scared.

Tichorei stood in the middle of the hallway, his hands on his hips, glowering at the younger apprentice. “Have you ever seen your master overextend?”

Cesei hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“Then you haven’t! Kopapei’s probably not the sort to let it happen, but I expect it will tonight. Cesei, you can’t do anything to help your master if you can’t calm down and let me show you how! Right?”

Cesei glowered and muttered that Tichorei should
do
something, then.

“I am!” snapped Tichorei. He caught the younger boy’s wrist again, shoved open a door Araenè hadn’t even realized was there, and hauled him into the hall of spheres and mirrors.

Araenè stared after them for an instant. Then she ran after Tichorei …

 … and found herself blundering through a place she had heard of repeatedly but had never visited: the balcony where the black gulls nested. The sharp, acrid smell of guano mingled with the salt smell of the sea. “Weeping
Gods
!” Araenè said, with a good deal more force than was seemly for any girl, and stood still, trying not to crush gull eggs under her feet.

It seemed to her that hundreds of gulls wheeled and cried over the sea, the black ones mingling with the ordinary gray and white gulls, but only the black ones came in over this balcony. And what had everyone said about black gulls hatching out basilisks …? Araenè swallowed and shut her eyes. Narrow black wings beat through the air all around her.…

Then everything else was suddenly overwhelmed by a terrible smashing, grating noise, a sound so loud that Araenè felt it echo in all her bones. She reeled sideways and back, not even sure whether the vast noise alone had made her stagger or whether some huge blow had actually struck the balcony. All the gulls were in the air, a wild confusion of beating wings. Araenè cried out and covered her face with her arms. A large hand caught her arm and steadied her when she might otherwise have fallen, and the wild torrent of gulls subsided as the birds fled for the open air over the sea.

The sudden quiet after the overwhelming noise was almost like a blow itself, and Araenè flinched from it—but the grip on her arm did not slacken and after a moment she found herself able to straighten and look, dazedly, for the person who held her.

“Well, now,” said the man, blinking down at Araenè. “You need to watch your step here. That’s a basilisk egg you just now came near sitting on. Fretful creatures, basilisks; you wouldn’t want to hatch one out by falling on top of it.”

Araenè stared at the man. Then she looked down—or started to look down: the man caught her chin, tilting her face firmly upward, and she blushed hotly—of course she shouldn’t look, she knew very well she shouldn’t look at a basilisk; she’d never heard that looking at just the egg was dangerous, but what if it hatched while she stared at it?

“Better,” agreed her unexpected protector. He was a large, untidy man with a tangled mass of hair spilling around his round, forgettable face. He let go of Araenè’s arm, patting her on the shoulder as a man might pat a nervous dog, still peering down at her. A twist of some green vine was caught in his hair. A bitter green scent clung to him, distinguishable even through the smells of the gulls’ nests and the sea.

“What
was
that … noise?” Araenè asked him.

“Well, let’s go look,” suggested the man. He turned, clumsy with his bulk, and picked his way among the gulls’ nests to lean over the balcony railing. For all his awkwardness, Araenè noticed, he did not disturb a single nest.

In the west, a great red sun was sinking into the sea. The sky was streaked with crimson; the red light turned the still water to a sheet of blood, sheathed the Tolounnese ships with blood, set their limp white sails on fire. Long metal ladders stretched up and out from five of the ships, their upper edges buried in broken rubble where they had shattered the Island towers built into the stone: the closest was so near Araenè could almost have reached out and touched it. Broken shards of stone and brick were still falling from the cliffs where it had struck, but men were starting to climb it. A lot of men.

Araenè turned to stare at the big man. “Are you … going to stop them?”

“Well, more or less. I might stop that lot, I suppose,” said the man. He leaned his elbows on the railing without regard for the guano that speckled it, peering down toward the ships. “The question is, what’s going to stop the ones after that? Determined, those Tolounnese. Once they begin marching, they don’t like to turn around. They’re carrying a lot of power in their pockets just at the moment. A great lot more than we can raise up, you know.”

“But—” Araenè protested, but then didn’t know what to say, or ask. She stopped in confusion.

The man squinted down at her. His eyes were a muddy gray-brown-green color. Given their vague expression, Araenè wasn’t even certain he saw her. He said absently, “If everyone works at it, the Tolounnese might be held for a day or so, I suppose. Sometimes a day makes a great deal of difference. I’m sure you’ve found that in your own life. Or you will.”

Araenè found herself growing angry as well as uncertain and frightened. “Can you be plain?” she demanded. “Where should I go? What should I do? I don’t know how to do anything, you know! What can
I
do?”

“You might try trusting Tnegun,” the man suggested, not really as though he was paying much attention.

“I—
what?
”

“You seem to have decided you can’t trust him. That does seem a hard judgment on the poor man, as you haven’t yet tried.”

Araenè stared at him, utterly speechless.

There was no sign that the man noticed anything of her astonishment or anger or terror. He only looked down at the advancing Tolounnese soldiers, then peered around absently. “Let me see. Mm.” He wandered away across the balcony, stooping to pick up a black egg here and there. One he squinted at and put back. Then he glanced at Araenè, smiled, and commented, “We mustn’t distract the Tolounnese mages, but a basilisk or two in the right place can do wonders to divert even the most dedicated soldiers, don’t you find? You might try that door over there.” He waved across the balcony. “That might take you somewhere useful.” He held another of the eggs up to the red light of the sun and peered at it thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

Araenè stared at the man—the mage—could this be Cassameirin?—for a long moment. Then she looked warily at the door he’d pointed out. It was the only door she could see anywhere. Three times her height, the door was still so narrow she would have to turn sideways to step through it.

Turning back toward the big man, Araenè began to ask where this door would lead—though she already knew whatever answer he gave would probably be unhelpful—but it didn’t matter what he might have said, because he was gone. Black gulls flew in and out where he had been standing. Araenè stared out at the red sea and the red sky for a long moment. The shouts of men still echoed out there: shouts and then, abruptly, screams that made her wonder if a basilisk had suddenly hatched out at the feet of the advancing soldiers. And if she could do anything more useless than stand here and wait for a basilisk to hatch at her own feet, Araenè could not imagine what that might be.

She wanted to curse. But even disguised as a boy, Araenè could not quite bring herself to swear. Not, at least, as violently as she wanted to.

But she slammed the narrow door behind her, after making sure it led only to the great twelve-walled hall of spheres and mirrors.

“Gods weeping!” Tichorei looked up, startled, from a row of spheres he’d lined up on the floor in front of a long, low mirror. “Do you have to crash things around? Where have you been? At least, I can see from your boots where you’ve been; why did you visit the gulls?” Then he waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind, just look here. Cesei, what do you think, this little glass one next, or this big basalt?”