Wren Journeymage (22 page)

She still felt apprehensive about too much law-making. So far in her short reign, it was hard enough to see that her father’s laws were obeyed and not twisted to someone else’s convenience.

Questions about road tolls, the price of apples differing between this city and that one, a border dispute between two farmers after the spring rains caused a creek to jump its bed and carve a new way down the land, it was all tedious but she knew she had to get through it.

Still, when Tyron’s message arrived relief washed through her. “We shall have to postpone until tomorrow. Master Halfrid has returned and is on his way to wait upon me.”

Her relief was obviously shared. She saw it in the exchanged looks between some of the scribes, and the speed with which they packed up.

She ran up the steps to her parlor, the one room she knew had no secret chambers or spy-holes, and had been warded by Halfrid himself against magical spy spells.

She was stopped three times on her way up, once for a question about the lemon-cakes for the ball later that evening, once for a message from her seamstress about ribbons, and the third time a messenger in Croem livery. Lord Omric wouldn’t send her a private message unless it was a matter of import.

She skimmed past the opening honorifics. Omric, though barely older than she was, had always been a stickler for form, even when they were mud-covered companions marching through mud during the war.

. . .
report
from
home
that
a
young
woman
and
a
fellow
who
say
they
are
Rhiscarlan
rangers
have
been
seen
up
on
the
ridge
inspecting
our
dam
.
Thought
you
ought
to
know
. . .

Teressa sighed. More jabs at Hawk. Had to be. There were plenty of people who’d love to see her pick Omric as a suitable consort, as he was wealthy, steady, sober, of proper rank, and of blameless family history.

Hard working, earnest—and bossy, in the way of people who have that iron conviction that they are always right.

She stalked into her parlor, crumpled the paper, threw it into the fireplace, then realized that there was no fire. She was stooping to pick it up again when she heard steps behind her, and there was Halfrid’s short, stout form, his round face creased with merriment, his white hair wisping all around his head.

“My dear child.” He held out his hands. In front of everyone else he was scrupulous about titles, but in private he acted like a grandfather rather than a courtier, and she found that comforting. “Tell me your news.”

“None.” She sent a look past his shoulder at Tyron, wild-haired as ever. In fact, there was even a pen behind one ear, and ink streaks in his hair. Green ink. “Hawk Rhiscarlan is here, but if you didn’t already know that, I’ll eat this table.”

Halfrid patted the air in soothing motions. “Never mind that. Your political, and, ah, courtly motions, are of course not of our concern unless they impinge on magic.”

Teresa thought wryly,
We
both
know
that’s
untrue
,
but
what
you’re
saying
is
,
you
at
least
won’t
offer
me
unwanted
advice
and
warnings
.

She couldn’t resist sneaking another peek at Tyron, whose smile had tightened to irony at the corners.

Teressa said, “Have you found Wren?”

Halfrid said, “We did attempt to scry her, but with no success. Someone has placed an effective ward against her being scryed. And her stone was trace-warded as well.”

“Andreus!” Teressa clenched her hands together, the paper crushed between them.

Halfrid said, “We have no evidence of that. The last I heard was that he’d returned to the Emperor of Sveran Djur, who you know had trained him when he was young. We lost sight of him after that, but as Sveran Djur is very far south, I didn’t envision him interfering with events up here.”

“But Wren went south!”

“This business with her scry stone appears to have happened just before she left Hroth Harbor,” Halfrid said. “It’s especially troubling when we put her warding together with two very strange disappearances of northern mages, even though this happened some time ago. But they, too, were scry-warded. A pattern thus emerges.”

Teressa grimaced. “It is Andreus. Who else? I mean, the world has far too many evil mages, but none of them, outside of Andreus, know Wren.”

Halfrid turned to Tyron. “What did you say her last communication was?”

Tyron said, “I sent her directly to Falin. She spent the night there and set out the next day. Three or four days later—I don’t remember which—she scryed me to say she was right above Hroth Harbor. She was adding something about Falin when she ended the scrying. I never heard back, so I assumed she took ship and everything was fine. Falin certainly didn’t mention any problems then, nor has she since.”

“Wren said something about Falin,” Halfrid repeated. “Do you remember what?”

Tyron’s tense fingers raked through his hair, smearing the green ink a little more. “I don’t remember. Nothing of import.” Then he looked at his hands as if discovering them anew. “Ink. Yes! I made some silly joke or other about Falin. You know how we always used to tease her about all her paints and inks on her hands, clothes, even her chin when she used to rest it on her hands while reading. But Wren said something about unfairness, and that’s when the scrying ended.”

Halfrid lifted a hand as if to dismiss the subject, frowned, and reached into the cloth pouch he always carried at his side. Pulling out a scry stone, he said, “You two move back, so you do not touch my garment—” He hesitated. “Amend that. Tyron, you scry Falin, and I am going to observe.”

“Won’t she know if you’re listening?” Teressa asked.

“Not if we do not make physical contact.”

Tyron took Halfrid’s stone in both hands, and Teressa watched him do his spell. She’d listened to Wren utter such mutterings, without ever understanding it. Then Halfrid stepped back as Tyron frowned into his stone.

Teressa only saw a sickening flicker of faint colors in the stone. Her eyes tried to make sense of that flickering, but it only made her dizzy. She looked up at Tyron instead, noting how his profile seemed uncharacteristically severe as he stared down into that swirl of colors.

Tyron said, “Mistress Falin. I, ah, am doing my weekly check early, as I have a full schedule the day after tomorrow.”

Teressa heard and saw nothing, but the faces of the other two changed, Tyron’s taking on a neutral listening expression. Whatever it was that he heard was obviously as expected.

Halfrid, however, looked quite serious indeed.

The colors vanished from the stone, and Tyron handed it back. “I didn’t see anything wrong.”

“You don’t recognize an illusory scry spell? No. The last time we had one of those used against us was—”

“Was when he was my hound,” spoke a wry voice behind them.

Equally startled, they all turned, Tyron flushing red.

Teressa was so used to privacy that she’d left the door open. Hawk strolled a step or two inside and lounged against a chair back, looking elegant and somewhat sinister in his dark, severely-cut clothing.

When his dark eyes met Teressa’s, she felt the kindling deep inside, glowing up her bones. He said, “I sought you on the terrace, and as no one was around, and I heard voices, I came in here.” To Tyron, “Not to rake up old times, but I did use that same spell to ward against anyone scrying you. If you see what you expect to see, it works. Curiously enough it was your stripy-haired friend who broke that one.”

“And I’ve learned it since,” Halfrid said dryly. “That may have been set up by Falin, and for unremarkable, if not legal, reason—so she can paint instead of do mage work—but if so, she and I are going to have a talk.”

“I don’t think it’s Falin,” Hawk said, and Teressa saw her own shock mirrored in Tyron’s and Halfrid’s faces. “Mind, I don’t have proof, but I strongly suspect your Falin is a window ornament or potted plant, and what you’ve got there in Hroth Falls Market-town is a spy hired by Andreus, who goes by the name of Sanga. I threw her out of Rhiscarlan just last winter,” he added.

Tyron said, “How long have you known this Sanga was spying in Hroth Falls?” His voice was quiet, his face expressionless as a stone, but Teressa felt his anger. It was the same anger she felt.

Hawk raised a lazy hand. “I just told you that I don’t know for certain. But an illusion scry spell, and what was that about Wren being warded? Sounds like Sanga might have gotten in there.”

Halfrid said, “Thank you, young man. You’ve saved me from at least one trap, and many days of labor that I can ill afford. I know how to take care of this matter.”

“By surprise,” Hawk said, with his mocking smile.

“Indeed.” Halfrid pocketed his stone, shut his eyes, and whispered.

He vanished.

Leaving Teressa with the two young men she liked best in all the world. Who loathed one another.

Tyron looked across the room at Hawk, who was still lounging in the doorway. “You didn’t see a reason to tell us about this Sanga because . . . ?”

Hawk lifted one shoulder. “Thought you knew. You are in charge of the magic side of things here while the old man is away, right?”

“I would not be likely to know about one of Andreus’s spies being kicked out of Rhiscarlan.”

“You never asked for an exchange of information,” Hawk retorted. “Just surrounded me with guards.”

The tension in the room was so strong that Teressa’s insides cramped. “That’s enough,” she said, sharply enough to bring their attention her way, Tyron unsmiling and almost unfamiliar, Hawk lazy and mocking, except for those wary black eyes.

“I would like an alliance,” Teressa said. “Between Meldrith and its neighbors. Nothing more, right now, but nothing less. That is my wish.”

Hawk just smiled.

Tyron flicked an unreadable look from Teressa to Hawk, then back again as he bowed. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d bowed to her. If he ever had, except as a joke. But he did it now, not out of mockery. A formal bow, from the Queen’s Mage-to-be to the Queen, and he turned to the door—except Hawk was directly in his way.

Tyron stopped. Hawk stilled. Tyron did not attempt to push by. He just waited. Hawk straightened up, and with a courtly gesture in an ironic manner, he moved out of the way. Tyron walked out.

Teressa realized then why she was angry with Hawk. Yes, he’d given them information, but after listening at the door. Like he had a right to. Did a few kisses give him that right? None that she’d granted.

She could not imagine Tyron ever doing such a thing, because he wouldn’t ever listen at a door. If he happened on a private conversation he’d cough, or thump his feet, or drop something in order to call attention to his presence.

She said to Hawk, “You might have noticed that I don’t have any communication with your cousin Idres. No ambassador has come to me. No messengers, even.”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t communicate much with me either, but I do know the Senna Lirwan treasury is about as empty as you’d expect, after years of Andreus’s army building, magic experimentation, and the cataclysm your Prince Connor set off.”

“Then she could use the boost to her treasury that comes with trade, if she were to open Rock Harbor to our ships, and the River Lir to our northern provinces.” Teressa had clenched her fists, and the letter, momentarily forgotten, crinkled in her fingers. “By the way, why do you have people scouting out the Croem Dam?”

“To learn how it is constructed, of course,” Hawk said.

“Why couldn’t they request permission to be escorted, and to have their questions answered?”

“How much welcome and cooperation do you think anyone from Rhiscarlan gets?”

“They will get more by going through the forms everyone else does,” she said. “As for the court, if you want to win them over, do something to prove your good will. Bring me a harbor treaty.”

Hawk stood silently for a moment, eyes narrowed, his smile impossible to interpret.

Then he lifted his hand in the duelist’s salute, and left.

Teressa slammed the door.

Captain Tebet clapped Wren on the shoulder. Wren tried not to stagger, as exhaustion weighted her limbs. “Here, you young’uns. You come along o’me. This inn is only known to some of us. Cheap, good food, and no nosy questions.”

Somehow Wren found enough energy to trudge after Patka up a narrow alleyway. She was vaguely aware of weather-beaten houses with sharply slanting tile roofs that gleamed with reddish highlights in the lamp light.

She fell into bed without undressing, sleeping until a somber Patka shook her awake the next morning. “Wren, wake up! The Admiral wants to question us.”

Head throbbing, limbs heavy, she plodded after the others to the room where the Admiral and several high officials waited. She nodded through the others’ account of everything that had happened since the day they were boomed in Fil Gaen until they sat in the gig with empty bellies, running from pirates.

Lambin and Thad did most of the talking, and when the Admiral dismissed them, Wren had just enough energy to trudge back to the room she shared with Patka and fall back into bed.

The next couple of days were a haze of sleeping, waking up to the sounds of a harbor, and sometimes the rise and fall of sea-songs sung in a room somewhere below. Each morning, she found food waiting on a little table, ate, then lay back and slept some more.

The day came when she woke up feeling like herself again. Patka was already gone, her bunk neatly made. For a time, Wren lay gazing around a tiny chamber tucked under a slanting ceiling. Its window peeked over a jumble of orangy-yellow tiled roofs to the harbor and its forest of masts moving gently up and down on the swell.