The day was utterly calm, and the shutters on both sides of the garret stood open to a mild blue sky. Beneath the pleasant warmth, a tang of autumn’s chill sharpened the air as Meg sewed, and enticing aromas rose from the bakery below. In Elsen, bread was leavened with yeast and it smelled, and tasted, like food for the Gods.
Meg liked this airy attic. Kyaju had blessed them here. But, so had they put down roots in Silvermeadow and Grassy Bluff. There was no telling when they’d be forced from this snug home, only that they would be. And, though the village of Wildbrook was quiet enough, its people tended to be royalists, supporters of Artem, whom they called the High King of Shangril. Their friendliness barely veiled a suspicion of anyone from “away” and Meg knew their flight would come immediately if a careless word were dropped in the wrong conversation. Some villagers crossed the street to avoid their erratic complexions, and Meg did not go out unhooded. She hoped they could last the winter.
Janat put the broom in its place and slid onto the chair across the table from her. “Read to me?” She held their book up invitingly.
“Who’ll finish this chemise for the glass blower’s daughter?”
“I will.” Janat held her hand out.
Meg let out a breath of mock exasperation and gave her the sewing. “Very well. But I’ve read the first chapter so many times, I can recite it.” The only other book they owned was one they’d made themselves, writing out the more complex spells they’d learned.
“The part when the One God blesses the first king, then.” Janat said, looking out the open window to the street below.
Meg observed that her sister looked more and more frequently for his return. She scanned the pages.
“Wait—no! Before that. When the One God meets his second mortal mistress.” She smiled at the thought as she poked her needle into the chemise. “Rennika always liked that story.”
Gods. It had been high summer when they’d last seen her. Meg wondered what Rennika’s home was like, how she was doing. Fall came earlier to Gramarye than it did here in the valley.
Janat reached a hand across the table and took hers. “Meg, I miss her.”
Meg missed her, too. For a moment, there was no sound but the chatter of the women at the well, down the road, and in the distance, the clop of hooves.
Meg released Janat’s hands and found the place in the book. “The One God came upon a maiden at the well,” she began. “The worldling’s name was Kyaju, and she—”
“Meg.” Janat sprang up on her chair, leaning out the window, eyes bright with delight. “Sulwyn!” She leaned further out. “Yes! Sulwyn’s here!”
Sulwyn—
“Look at this place!” Janat cried. “Meg, the sewing! I’ll—” She cast around, scooping a scatter of blankets onto the pallets.
Meg shoved the book into the trunk and gathered the fabric and thread.
“Cut the rind from the cheese and slice it onto a plate. He’ll be hungry.” Janat patted her hair into place and went to the window, again, her cheeks pink. Her face fell. “Oh.”
Meg peered over her shoulder. Below, by the curve in the road, Sulwyn hobbled up the street, deep in conversation with three men. One was Colm, Sulwyn’s cousin, another she recognized as the smith they’d met so long ago in Spruce Falls, and the third one Meg didn’t know, but he was an odd-looking man. Fat around the middle, with a pudgy face. Meg wouldn’t have been able to avert her eyes from staring at the stranger, if Sulwyn hadn’t been in the group.
Janat’s eyes brightened, the way a jay’s eyes did, brisk and brittle. “He’s brought company. We’ll cut some sausage. I’ll have to find a chetram to take to the baker.” She bustled to the sideboard. “I wonder if they’ll stay over.” She laughed nervously. “Of course they’ll stay over.”
A wave of anger unexpectedly washed through Meg at Janat’s nervousness, and all at once she wanted to be anywhere but this small attic when Sulwyn came through the door. “Give me your chetram,” she said to Janat as evenly as she could. “I’ll go to the baker’s.”
The sausage turned out to be unnecessary, as one of the men carried a joint of salt pork, which set Meg’s mouth watering. One of the others brought a small keg of beer. When the men, laughing and joking, climbed the stairs to the garret, Meg looked away as Sulwyn gave Janat a big grin and an even bigger kiss. Janat seemed at once pleased and embarrassed, and pulled away, scolding him for the traveler’s stains on his clothes. Appropriating the pork, she sent the men to put their feet up and stay out of her way as she rummaged for carrots and butter and crocks of pickled beets.
Meg went to the baker’s, then flitted about the table, laying forks and filling the men’s mugs with beer. Then she filled her own mug with beer and, scurrying out to the woodpile, brought in a stump to sit at the edge of the men’s conversation. Finn brought out a bottle of thick clear liquid, the licorice liqueur that Meg and Janat had once tasted in Midell, saying it was time for the evening to start. Meg preferred the beer, but Janat took a small quantity, sitting by Sulwyn’s side among the men. The men made faces when they tried it, but by the end of the evening, the bottle was empty.
Dinner was hearty—richer and more generous than many Meg could remember—and the drink and conversation lasted well into the night. Mostly it was the men who talked, their voices growing louder as the evening wore on. Some petition with a royal clerk had been surprisingly successful, Meg gathered, and the men replayed each part many times, with great animation, changing the particulars as they reminded one another of the details.
Meg joined in the debate, asking about King Artem’s siege at Archwood and whether this realm or that one sided with Artem or with the uprisers. She argued, establishing and defending her position. Sometimes the men—usually Sulwyn—conceded a point, but more often they argued back or pointed out a complexity or contradiction that Meg had missed. Usually, they laughed or dismissed her, but Meg only argued harder.
And Meg noticed that as Sulwyn leaned forward, Janat sat back, watching and listening, silent, rising to refill portions on the large central platter or refill her glass of beer. Her sister’s eyes grew blacker as the evening wore on, but Sulwyn did not notice, or take her part, as he did Meg’s. But that was none of Meg’s business. Sulwyn laughed and argued with her and the men as though Janat was not at the table. As though she was the servant she pretended to be.
“And, we finally have support from Storm River,” Sulwyn repeated, pushing his fork back. He hunkered down into his chair, his lame leg extended, a mug of beer in his lap. “They’ll uphold a cessation of violence if we call one.”
“That sounds like good news,” Janat put in uncertainly.
“Why?” Meg asked, and Janat shot her a look of contempt. “Why call a truce?”
“And Zellora and Ubica,” Finn said loudly, the beer getting the better of him. “Dwyn convinced the petty lords and guildsmen of both towns to throw in with us.”
“We’ve been petitioning King Artem.” Sulwyn turned to Meg. “Beorn and a dozen others met with his chancellor, and they’ve negotiated an audience between Dwyn and Artem. If we can vouch for all the uprising factions.”
“On neutral ground,” Colm added.
“And can you?” she asked. “Vouch for all of them?”
“If the high king meets our six stipulations.” Finn grinned, his face flushed. “We’ll work like dogs getting a letter from every militia and activist this war has spawned.” He raised his glass and with a ring of cheers, the men toasted.
Janat cleared the platter from the table. “What’s to stop Artem’s men from dishonoring the rules of parley?”
Like the trap Janat had walked into in Spruce Falls.
“We’ll have men there.” Finn walked a trifle unsteadily to the cask and refilled his tankard. “We have weapons. Our troops have been training.”
Janat eyed him and returned to the sideboard with the forks and napery.
“‘The spirit does not die with the man,’” Meg quoted.
Colm shot her a look of respect. “Eric Stewart,” he murmured, taking the last morsel of bread. “I didn’t know you read banned works of political philosophy.”
Sulwyn gave her a lopsided smile and she warmed. “A book Sulwyn lent me.”
Janat stoked the fire. “But ‘the man’ is still dead.”
“Also, now that Colm is with us, Orville and I want to show you something.” Finn gestured broadly to the quiet, odd-looking man. “Orville?”
Orville, the round fellow with small, twinkling eyes, gave a short nod. He beckoned Meg. “Bring water. Hot.” His words sounded strange, like the first time she’d heard the low speech, but different.
Curious, she brought him a dipperful of water from the cauldron and found he’d placed a tiny machine on the table between the pickles and the butter where all the men could see. He filled the machine’s copper vessel with the water, and brought glowing coals from the fire to burn in a box at the bottom.
At first, nothing happened. The copper vessel began to hum and shiver, and steam rose from its spout, nothing Meg hadn’t seen daily in the kettle. Then, a delicate upper structure began to turn. A tiny hammer struck little bells, chiming a short, exotic tune.
The machine was a wonder. A miracle.
“This is what he paid the pulley man. One like it,” Finn said, swigging his beer, “for bringing him up the cliffs from Aadi.”
Colm whistled. “Pulley man probably sold it for a small fortune.”
“It’s a marvel,” Sulwyn said, lowering his mug, “but it’s not a weapon.”
“Not this one.” Finn pushed his empty plate aside. “But Orville has the plans. And, we’ve made a test explosive. It works.”
The fat man nodded. “You see, now? Is easier to show than to tell. But principle is same.” He struggled for a moment with words. “People of Aadi trade fruit, music, spice, silk,” Sieur Haye said. “Never secret.” He nodded at the toy. “Steam. Has power.”
With such machines, would people still need magic?
The stream of vapor slowed and the music stopped. The stranger then pointed to various parts of the machine, explaining what each part did. Meg—and, she suspected, the others—didn’t follow most of what he said.
“Do it again,” Meg said.
“This weapon you’ve built...” Colm put his beer mug down. “How powerful is it?”
“Put it in the middle of an army on a battlefield. It could wound a third of them,” Finn boasted.
Sulwyn whistled.
“Wound?” Colm asked.
“Meets two objectives.” Finn said sloppily. “We have no desire—no desire—to kill our countrymen. Not even Artem’s soldiers. Most are conscripts. And, wounded men need support.” He looked around the table, hands spread to show off his reasoning. “Ties up men Artem could use.”
Sulwyn looked the men around the table in the eye. “No one must tell anyone about this.” He turned to Janat and Meg.
Janat gave him a quizzical look.
He held out his mug and Colm lifted his to touch it. Finn and the foreigner joined their tankards to the group.
“Promise.”
“I promise,” Meg said, adding her cup to the cluster.
“I promise,” Janat repeated, joining.
Meg woke much later in need of the chamber pot and a drink of water. The rumble of men’s voices had been replaced by snores and the rustle of leaves beyond the windows. The sinking star of Sashcarnala shone through the open shutters, and yellow candlelight flickered from somewhere in the room. She lazed in her blankets, drowsy and unwilling to venture into the chill of the night.
“But why so soon?” Janat’s voice, hushed, floated from the far side of the room. The sound of bowls and wash water accompanied it. She must be tidying up. “Wait, Sulwyn. Stay here with me. Please. Until we can follow Mama’s bidding—”
“King Artem will never give up that siege until Archwood falls and everyone in it is dead.” The whisper, fierce and suppressed, was Sulwyn’s, clumsy with drink. “Not unless we give him a reason. A peace he can live with. And a peace the people can live with.”
“You know what King Artem wants? You read his mind?”
Meg peered across the room at them. Janat stood by the side board, washing dishes, sleeves rolled, hair in faint disarray.
“And what do you think you’re going to find at that tarn? Hmm?” Sulwyn leaned in, close to Janat, his hair wild, his linen shirt open at the neck, a ruddy flush in his cheeks. “The Amber? A prince? Nothing short of both is going to change anything.”
Janat glared at him. “You talk as though what we see and hear in this world is real,” she said in a low voice. “It’s not. Only the Heavens are real. Faith is believing, even when there’s no evidence we can touch. You know that. One day we’ll be returned to our rightful place.”
“You fill your head with dreams.” Sulwyn pushed frustrated hands through his hair. “What service do you do yourself when those dreams of turning back time to some...romantic...era have no hope of fulfillment?”
“No hope? Of course there’s hope! More than hope,” Janat whispered. “It will happen, Sulwyn.”
“Your mother may have set some events in motion, but she can’t know how they’ll play out.”
“Stop. Wait.” Janat put down her dish towel. “You tell me, now. What would you do with us, you and that band of ruffians you travel with, stirring up trouble wherever you go?” Janat leaned back against the sideboard and tossed back the dregs of her beer. “Use us? Magiels of the House of the Amber. Your political pawns? Is that your interest in us? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.”
“What? Janat!” But the color of his already flushed cheeks deepened.
Help the rebels. Meg almost sat up.
Janat set the mug on the sideboard, and lifting her wash basin, tossed the gray water out the window. “You think you’re going to talk the king into giving up power?” She put the wash basin back. “Into sharing his Gods-given right to rule, with a bunch of...of commoners?” She said the word with disgust.
Of course not. Without Meg or Janat—or Rennika, whom Dwyn had hidden away—and the Amber, the uprisers would never coerce Artem into sharing power.
“Common. That’s what you think of me, isn’t it?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Unless the foreigner’s steam machine was more powerful than magic.
“We’re not talking about making things the way they were.” Sulwyn’s voice lowered, tight and slow, as if he explained something to a child. “A different system of governing. Different. One that’s never been done before.”
Even without the Amber, magiel magic had been helping upriser plans. But if they had a magiel whose direct lineage could be traced to the One God...
“I think beer fills your head with dreams,” Janat countered. “Revolution. Maybe war. Killing.” She wiped the sideboard. “Dying.”
“It’s better than a privileged few living off the work of the poor.”
Janat whirled. She launched herself at him, fingers clawed.
“Hey!” He grasped her forearms before she could harm him, and they tussled silently. “I meant nothing!”
“You’re as bad as the others!”
“Janat—”
“Big upriser leader! You think only of your own glory—”
Privileged few. That had been Meg. And Mama, and Janat, and King Ean...
“Hush, Janat. Hush.” He engulfed her in his arms, and Meg wondered if he was going to cry. “I think of your welfare. I do.”
Janat tried to pull away, searing him with a look.
But Sulwyn was right.
And the Gods were not coming to their aid.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he said. Janat’s arms wilted and he gathered her, unwillingly, to him. “It’s me, Janat,” he said softly. “You know I care for you. I don’t want to see you or your sisters hurt.”
But over her shoulder, he grimaced. A lie. He’d just...
What? Betrayed?
Who? Himself? The uprisers?
Gods. She saw it, now. They’d wanted him to give them a magiel. And he hadn’t.
Then Janat collapsed, weeping, into his embrace.
A magiel, working with the uprisers. In the service of a new...world.
Sulwyn wrapped his arms around Janat, shushed soothingly into her hair, and rocked her until her sobs faded. He quenched the candle and led her to the nest of pallets.
Meg closed her eyes, but she did not sleep for a long time.