Wren bit her lip, then knocked on the heavy wooden door.
“Enter.” That was Connor, and—relief!—he sounded himself again.
Shifting her bundle under her arm, Wren lifted the latch and pushed the door open. Inside the small, plain room, Connor sat at the window, staring down at the valley far below. Sunrise gleamed in his gray eyes and shone on a face healthy with color.
Remembering how gray he’d looked, and how blank his gaze had been, Wren suppressed a shudder. “Feel better?” she asked as she walked in.
His familiar, merry grin was weak, but it was there. “I ought to. I don’t think I’ve ever slept clear through one day and into the next. I take it we are in the Pelsir Fortress?”
“You don’t remember the ride?” Wren asked.
He shook his head. “Tell me everything.”
Wren dropped onto a small three-legged stool. “Here’s your other tunic. Clean. They have a hot spring running through here, lower down. I can show you anytime you like. You can get a great bathe.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking the roll of clothes.
Wren shrugged, wondering how to broach the subject foremost in her mind. She remembered one of her first lessons with Master Falstan. There are different ways to shape magic, he’d said. Those of us who aren’t born with the gift for gathering and using it have to learn the keys and controls. It’s a long process, but it’s the safest one.
The controls protect the magician and the magician’s environment. The inborn gifts, such as those inherited by descendants of the Iyon Daiyin, are in one sense easier, but they can be far more dangerous.
“Where do you want me to start?” Her gaze slid to the window. “A strange adventure,” she added. “I thought I was supposed to be the magician, and you were to handle any fighting.”
“I remember you being pretty nacky with your sash.”
“We did a lot of rock slinging when I was in the orphanage, during the times when the river was low. I was always a good aim. Still, it wasn’t enough to fight ‘em off, and was I glad to see the Pelsir Border Guards! Those villains scuttled away like so many rats in a drain, though I think the Browns might have caught one or two of them.” Wren hesitated, then blurted, “Was that Iyon Daiyin magic, there on the mountain?”
He gave his head a quick shake. “I don’t know. I’ve never done it before.” His voice was subdued. “And I don’t really recall what I did.”
Whether he was telling the truth or not, Wren could see in his downward gaze and his stiff shoulders that he didn’t want to talk about it.
Memory: Connor surrounded by light, his wide eyes reflecting the weird glow as they focused beyond the sky. He’d clapped his hands, the thunder and rain had struck, and then he’d toppled right onto his face in a dead faint.
Dangerous is right.
She said briskly, “Well, we’re safe enough while we’re here. But I don’t understand why you didn’t want them to know who you are. You don’t think these people are a threat?”
“Not at all,” Connor said. “But we’re in Siradayel now—my country. If they find out who I am they’ll start bowing and Your-Gracing, and they’d probably feel obliged to force me to go back to Paranir and my mother. For my safety. I’d rather be left to make my own choices, like any ordinary citizen.”
“That makes sense,” Wren said. “Anyway, I told them your name is Falstan and you’re a player’s journeyman. It was the fastest thing I could think of.”
“Thanks. “
Wren went on, “I guess there’s a strong chance that whoever sent those toe-molds after us will have some more waiting when we leave.”
“Unless we return to Cantirmoor by magic,” Connor said.
Wren looked at him in surprise. “You—”
Connor laughed. “Not me! I don’t think I’ll repeat whatever happened the other night—even if I could.” He shrugged. “I was thinking we could somehow send a message to Tyron and have him bring us back. Or my sister Leila, when they get the Designation fixed.”
Wren bit her lip. She didn’t even know yet whether her quest for information about her parents would produce any clues to follow. It could be they would have to return to Cantirmoor anyway, though the thought caused a sharp pang of disappointment. Don’t give up before you even try.
She said, “Well, we have a week to decide what to do. Turns out it costs something to dig in the records, and since I don’t want to unpocket my whole store of coins, I’ll have to work. They gave me a job in the stable, which frees one of them up for more important things.”
“I’ll help, if you like,” Connor offered.
“Only if you really want to,” Wren said. “I started yesterday, and it’s great fun. In fact, I have to go down there when the big bell rings, but I want to show you where the breakfast place is.”
Connor got promptly to his feet. “The best thing I’ve heard yet. I think I’ve forgotten what hot food tastes like.”
They walked out into a narrow hall, and Wren said, “Don’t forget where your room is. I’m next door. This is where the guests stay—but all the halls and doors look alike.”
She led them swiftly down a stone hallway, past whitewashed walls. Glow-globes cast light at intervals; at the stairway, which went down in a spiral, slanting rays bisected the stairs through window slits set in the thick stones.
“This is a real tower,” Wren said, her voice echoing. “Can you imagine the games we could have here? I spent most of the evening yesterday wandering around. If I don’t make magician, I could have lots of fun being one of these people.”
“Along with being a player, and a trader, and—”
“So I like a lot of things,” Wren said over her shoulder. “It’s lucky I’ll probably be a wandering magician, isn’t it? Here we are.”
They pushed through a door and walked onto a balcony that overlooked a vast courtyard. Towers stood high above the thick crenellated walls, gray against the distant dark mountain peaks.
Opening two massive doors, they entered a refectory noisy with people. They stood in line with several tall young men and women, all of whom wore sturdy brown tunics and thick trousers stuffed into the tops of high riding boots; battered swords and knives hung at their sides. Wren wondered if any of the Browns in the room had been on the rescue mission that had saved her ten years ago, on one of these very peaks. A few looked old enough. Thinking so gave her a peculiar feeling.
She’d just tucked into her breakfast when a great bell tolled four times. The sound seemed to come from every-where.
People jumped up and scurried in several directions.
Wren snatched an extra piece of hot cheese-topped bread from her plate and stuffed it into her mouth. Waving a hasty good-bye to Connor, she raced down to the stable, where she spent a happy morning pitching hay, currying the well-kept mountain ponies, and listening to the gossip of the prentice-aged Browns doing stable duty.
When she went back upstairs at the end of her shift, she found Connor in his room. He was sitting on the floor, his papers propped on the three-legged stool and spread around him on the floor. He was writing.
“Your play,” Wren exclaimed.
He blinked up at her, his thoughts obviously far away. “Your door was open. “ Wren pointed back over her shoulder. “What part are you at?”
Connor laid his pen down. “I looked it over. There is hardly any mention of weather. One thing I’ve learned on our trip is that weather is of primary importance. I’d forgotten that. So I’ve written in a couple of fierce storms.”
Wren laughed, her fingers weaving patterns in the air.
For a moment illusionary rain fell, blurring the walls. Then she waved and the illusion disappeared in a shower of stars. ‘‘That’ll be fun for the stage magician,” she said. “And have you added anything about brigands on the road?”
Connor shook his head as he swept his papers together. “No—though that’s certainly realistic,” he said thoughtfully.
“This journey might be the best thing for your play,” Wren responded. “As long as we live through it! Whatever happens to us probably happened to Tre Resdir and Morayen. Ready for dinner? I’m starving, and I wouldn’t mind company.”
Connor readily joined her, but afterward he was reluctant to wander around the fortress with her. Guessing he was afraid someone might recognize him, she left him to return to his play and continued her explorations on her own.
Late the next morning, Wren was pitching soiled hay out of a stall when one of the stable hands rapped her on the shoulder. She put down her pitchfork and looked up in question.
o0o
“Watch Commander wants you,” the girl said with a brief, curious glance. “I’ll take over here.” She reached for the pitchfork.
Wren raced upstairs to the wing she had learned was used exclusively by the Browns’ leaders and other toffs. On the way she met Connor, who was being led by a messenger. Connor’s face wore that expression of polite blankness she’d seen him use when she’d glimpsed him among his relations at court functions.
Wondering if they were in trouble, she fell in step beside him.
They were shown into a room high in the biggest tower. Its windows afforded a spectacular view of the entire valley. Before the windows stood a short, stocky man with a pointed gray beard. He was dressed exactly like the rest of the Browns, without any special insignia marking his rank.
As soon as the door closed, he said, “Sit down, you two.” They dropped onto two chairs waiting before a wide desk.
The Commander studied them from dark eyes under bushy brows. “Wren and . . . Falstan. Do I have that right?”
Connor said nothing, giving only the briefest of nods, so Wren spoke firmly, “You do.”
“We questioned one of the persons we apprehended at the time we found you, and he told us some strange stories. One of which is that the son of Duke Fortian of Meldrith sent them to arrest you.” The Commander smiled frostily. “Unfortunately, they were not able to exhibit for us the writ of criminal pursuit that we require of anyone conducting that sort of business in Siradayel. Do you know anything about this?”
“It’s true that some of Duke Fortian’s messengers have been chasing us,” Wren said, not hiding her indignation, “but we don’t know why. We’re not criminals. You can send a message to the Magic School in Cantirmoor about me—about both of us—and they’ll tell you that.”
“Unfortunately we do not have a magician among our ranks,” the Commander said.
“Well, I could try to scry them for you,” Wren offered. “Even though I’m not supposed to yet—”
He waved her to silence. “If you were the criminals your pursuers named you, you could easily set up someone to appear in your magic glass and claim to be the King of Meldrith, and we wouldn’t know if it was truth or illusion. You indicated your business with us was a search of the records?”
“It is,” Wren said. “That’s all, and why anyone wants to chase us—” She stopped, sliding a hasty look at Connor, who sat up straight, his expression troubled.
“Was this the information you sought?”
The Commander pulled a yellowed paper off his desk and held it out to Wren, who snatched at it eagerly, her eyes scanning the neatly written report. Words leapt out at her, their sense barely clear:
. . . caravan . . . dead . . . Alive were one boy and one girl. . . . The girl is aged between one and two, has brown hair, blue eyes, was wearing a green garment after the fashion of Allat Los’s valley cities. Word has been dispatched to Kiel. The child will be held one season pending message from any kin registered there.
Wren looked up. The Commander gazed back, his expression not unkind.
“This is it,” she said, feeling as if the ground were dissolving beneath her feet. Green garment . . . Allat Los . . . That’s really me. Her head buzzed.
“You may copy what you like from it at this desk here; we do not permit these records to go out of this area. Master Falstan, you may come with me,” the Commander said to Connor. Though distracted, Wren thought his tone was oddly formal for addressing a journeyman player. “I understand you were ill when you arrived. I will conduct you on a little tour of our fortress.” The Commander gestured toward the door.
Wren turned to the desk and dipped a pen.
o0o
At that moment, back in Cantirmoor’s royal palace, Teressa ran up the marble stairs in the royal wing, shaking raindrops from her hair.
It had almost been a relief when the sudden rain squall spoiled her first party. She had invited the daughter of the new ambassador from Eth Lamrec for a ride, along with several other girls from northern marches. To her surprise, all had accepted her invitation.
The idea had been to work on her Lamreci . . . Which seemed a good idea in the middle of the night, but wasn’t so great in practice, she thought ruefully. Remembering the stilted, painstaking conversation and her own frequent grammatical mistakes, she decided it was time to study her languages a little harder.
When she reached the hallway outside her parents’ suite, a short woman walked out of the sitting room and stopped when she saw Teressa.
“Aunt Leila!”
“I was just coming to look for you. How did your riding party go?” the magician asked as they went into the sitting room, where Queen Astren was waiting.
Teressa shook her head. “Not too well, I’m afraid.” She gave a brief explanation.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” her mother said, laying down her pen. “That was very well done. You don’t seem to realize how flattered the ambassador was when you singled out her daughter like that.”
“But the dull conversation—” Teressa protested.
“The thing was, you tried to speak her language, rather than make her speak yours. Her Siradi isn’t very good yet, either, you must have noticed,” Aunt Leila said.
Teressa laughed. “Somehow, when people are trying to speak my language, I think their mistakes are fun, and I don’t mind. But I was embarrassed at the way I mangled hers.”
“Did she seem angry?” the Queen asked.
Teressa shook her head.
“Then she probably feels the same way you do,” Aunt Leila said briskly, an impish smile on her usually severe face. “Now. We have a little intrigue for you.”
“My dear, your aunt Carlas wants to see you,” the Queen said. “Right now. In the Emerald Room.”
Teressa wrinkled her nose. “Aunt Carlas?”
Aunt Leila and the Queen exchanged looks, both of them on the verge of laughing. “Our good cousin Carlas has a late birthday present for you, something supposedly arranged by your father after your most strenuous request,” Leila said. “Your father graciously allowed her to assume the heavy cost of the gift, which is why she is giving it to you.”
“What?” Teressa asked, confused. “I never asked for anything. Oh! Is this some kind of hoax?”
“Yes, but one we arranged, most carefully. Our dear Duchess Carlas, being her usual sweet self, is now acting as if it were her own idea—which I’m telling you now so that you won’t refuse her gift,” Leila added.
“I’ll tell you more as we walk downstairs, my dear,” the Queen murmured. “And I regret the necessity of the hoax, but we must find out who is behind the vexing things happening in court.”
“And I’m to help?” Teressa asked.
Her mother and aunt both nodded. Teressa looked from one to the other, realizing that they were trusting her, that they were treating her like one of themselves.
“I must leave you now,” Leila put in, moving toward the door, “because I—as a mere magician—was not invited to attend Carlas’s presentation. You will be so surprised and delighted, I must warn you. Do you think you can manage that?”
“No matter what it is,” Teressa said with conviction, “if it means I’m fooling Aunt Carlas, I can be just as delighted as you like.”
They laughed, then Leila lowered her voice and began telling Teressa the plan.
o0o
Connor followed along, looking to the left or right at whatever the Commander indicated. The man kept up a commentary on the functions of the various parts of the fortress, scarcely pausing for Connor to reply. Not that Connor wanted to talk. He was afraid that the Commander had somehow found out who he really was.
When they reached the high northern wall the Commander stopped. A cold wind buffeted Connor’s face as he stared out at the mountains dropping away toward the plains of Siradayel, the country his mother ruled. He clasped his hands tightly behind him and said nothing.
For a time the Commander looked out over the land, then he turned to face Connor. “I would like a true answer to one question, and then you may answer subsequent questions as your conscience permits.”
Connor’s heart banged against his ribs. “Very well,” he said, glad his voice sounded even.
The Commander gave a short nod. “Did the two of you in fact depart from Cantirmoor with the permission of your guardians, or did you . . . choose to depart on your own?”
Connor could answer that one truthfully. Trying to hide his relief he said steadily, “The magicians permitted Wren to make this journey. They know all about her quest. And they asked me to accompany her.”
The Commander’s gaze was uncomfortably direct, but Connor met it squarely.
Another short nod, and the Commander said, “Then that’s that.” He turned to look out over the land again and added, “We don’t always hear much about other countries, isolated as we are, but word of troubles in Cantirmoor has reached even us. And we’ve seen evidence of troubles closer by.”
Anger flashed through Connor. “Brigands,” he said when the Commander looked at him questioningly. “Forest is full of them. And those fellows yesterday were not Blues. They were probably hired brigands.”
“Probably.” The Commander pursed his lips. “Our lordly neighbors seem to be busy elsewhere and don’t patrol their woodlands much. Travelers have been complaining to us of frequent robberies. You’d increase the patrols, then?”
Connor scowled at his empty palms, then burst out, “It’s a sign of bad provincial government. Not all those people could have chosen brigandage over any other way to make a living. Too many of them means—” Connor remembered that most ordinary boys knew nothing about governing provinces—and cared less.
The Commander appeared to notice nothing amiss. He continued Connor’s thought. “When the overlord is always absent, the local barons are left unsupervised. Some follow their lord to the capital, leaving the land effectively ungoverned, and some feel free to institute rules of their own. Heavier taxes, say. So that some folk who cannot pay are forced out of their homes, and those homes are filled with people willing to bear the burden of the new laws—usually by turning around and passing the costs down to those they govern, in raised rents.”
Connor’s hands gripped even more tightly behind him, but he said nothing. If he were King Verne, he would have called Fortian and his precious barons to account long ago.
But he wasn’t. He was Connor, Prince of Siradayel—landless and worthless in everyone’s eyes. Everyone’s except, perhaps, his few friends’.
The silence stretched as the Commander waited for him to return an answer. Then the man shrugged and turned his back on the view. “We learn by observation,” he said. “And it never hurts to observe, and learn, as much as we can, even when we cannot act directly. One never knows what the future might bring.” He started walking toward the stairs. “Do you think you and your companion will want to journey into Allat Los?”
Connor thought of Wren and the look on her face when she read the paper the Commander had given her. “If we can.”
The Commander’s weathered face creased with distinct humor. “She has worked hard down in our stable, and I think the week we’d assigned her as payment can be cut short. As it happens, we have a patrol going along the northern border tomorrow morning at dawn. They sometimes permit travelers to ride with them, if they can keep pace.”
“We won’t slow them,” Connor said. “Thank you.”
“Part of our duties,” the Commander said. “Thank the Queen—” He smiled wryly. ”—should you happen to meet her.”