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Early spring appeared in the fields just visible from Willow’s window, in the form of a tentative green tinge. She shared in the awakening of the land, as if the winter had been a long dream.
By her reckoning, thirty days remained until equinox, thirty days before the agreement with Gauvain expired and she would be free to leave. She wondered if the trail through the hills was clear of snow this early.
Cross-legged on her bed, her voluminous lavender skirts bunched around her in a way Gauvain would be certain to disapprove of, she created half a dozen small light globes and began a game, seeing how many she could toss against the wall and catch on the rebound before they dropped to the floor. Bryar was a master at this, as at any kind of juggling. That she tried at all testified to her boredom.
Lately Gauvain’s lessons failed to engage her. What she didn’t already know she dismissed as either a game or a weave with no practical value. Still, she remained in the class, enjoying the energy of the teenagers, who in some ways reminded her of Romarin.
She gathered up the globes and dispersed them into the Aura, then turned to the piece of metal lying on the small, inlaid table by the window. The task, to change iron into gold. Even Gauvain’s magic failed to accomplish this; the assignment was merely to show the apprentices the types of challenges awaiting at the end of their training.
Not that Gauvain wouldn’t be willing to take advantage of any discovery they might make.
Items made of iron, and its more useful alloy, steel, were rare in the Midland, to the extent that communities held almost all metal objects in common. As a Weaver, she carried her own knife and needle, but most didn’t. The Motherhouse had received a gift of metal spoons many years ago, but in towns, even those as big as Stanstead, wooden spoons were the norm.
Willow saw no practical use for gold or for the proposed weave. Here in Borgonne its use was limited to ornaments such as those worn by Gauvain’s friends.
She allowed her mind to explore the inner organization of the strip of iron. Gauvain kept the gold used for teaching locked in his study when the apprentices weren’t experimenting with it, but she had memorized its structure.
The connection, the small similarity that would form the core template for changing one to the other, eluded her. And even should she uncover the secret, the energy required would leave an average Weaver depleted for days.
Quinn might like to try, though.
Quinn. Spring at the Motherhouse, the first fresh greens served in the dining hall...
Abandoning the iron, she returned her attention to the window. With approaching evening, the colors faded into gray with no hint of a sunset to warm them. Something smelled tantalizing from the kitchen; Leo had gone into Orlan that morning and came back with two packs full of foodstuffs.
Just to be sure – and despite having done the same thing numerous times during her months in the tower – she checked the wardrobe. Tunic and trousers, waterproof cape, sheepskin vest, pack and boots, all waited on the shelves. The fabric of the tunic felt well worn and soft under her fingers.
A gentle knock sounded from the door. She opened it to find Leo with oceans of fabric draped across his arm.
“I’ve cleaned and pressed your blue silk, Miss. Shall I lay it out for you to wear this evening?”
Willow groaned. On nights when Gauvain entertained, she was on stage as much as ever Bryar was, acting as his hostess and expected to produce a flawless performance.
“Thank you, yes. Whatever you’re cooking downstairs, it smells delicious.”
“The Master’s guests are important in the town.” Leo provided quick summary of the six men and women attending the dinner. “You’ll be fine, Miss.”
“They won’t like me. I’m too...” she frowned. “Basic, I guess. The social chatter fails to interest me, and I don’t understand Borgonnian politics.”
“But you listen, so the gossip will be that the Master’s hostess performs her duties impeccably. Would you like me to prepare a bath?”
“Thank you, but I’ll do it. You have enough to attend to downstairs.”
“So I do, Miss. I will see you later.” The old man backed out of the room, possibly bowing as he went. Willow couldn’t be certain, because Leo’s hunched frame had worsened during the winter.
Proving there is some good in Gauvain. Anyone else in this indifferent place would have tossed Leo out onto the street.
With a sigh, she turned her attention from the window, the iron, and the gorgeous blue outfit, a textured skirt with a multi-hued silk overtunic, and stepped into the bathing room to relax in hot water and herbs.
~~
THE EVENING PROGRESSED according to Leo’s prediction. Willow listened, said little, and nodded at appropriate times. The mildly scornful looks were no worse than usual, and the food considerably better. Nonetheless, she was exhausted when the last couple departed.
As he closed the door, Gauvain turned his sardonic gaze on her. “You did well.”
Courage defeated fatigue in the face of the unexpected compliment. “Truth to tell, I wonder why you bother. They are boring.”
“Local politics is necessary.”
A détente of sorts had emerged from the wreckage of her rejection of him soon after Solstice. Gauvain remained as formal as ever, but a tentative truce existed between them now. Enough so, at any rate, that he placed a hand on her elbow and led her into the reception room, a space marginally brighter and more cheerful than his study, workroom, or dining room. “Think of it as a competition. Practicality demands I participate, although it takes me away from less trivial pursuits.”
“Competition for... power?”
“Of course.” He removed his hand from her elbow. “Will you join me in a brandy?”
“No, thank you, I am too tired. Do you require anything else of me tonight?”
“I require nothing of you, and pray do not speak as if you were my servant.”
She smiled, rendering her words mild rather than aggressive. “Am I not? A servant or an experiment. There isn’t much difference.”
“There is every difference, and our experiment is at an end.”
“Truly?” Certain he knew more about the workings of her mind than he admitted, she plunged on. “What do you gain by my presence? Am I such an intriguing specimen?”
Annoyance flashed over his features, but he didn’t deny her allegation. “If you insist. Your connection to the Aura is only slightly above average, but you perform well above an average level, as if you amplify a template, forcing it to respond more strongly than it should. I have yet to penetrate your method.”
“I believe it to be nothing more than focus on my task.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Others have said similar things.”
“A focus to the detriment of all else. Come, Willow, don’t be stubborn. Have a brandy.”
She did like the stuff. “A small one, please.” She sat on a nearby chair, allowing her finger to trace the brocade on the arm.
He nodded. “You are much too slender. Perhaps you are right to be cautious.” He crossed the room to the table of bottles and glasses. As he poured he said, “A glass of wine, even of the quality I serve, might send you to bed with a headache.”
Remembering celebrations past, the quantities of beer she and her companions consumed, she managed a half smile. “I enjoy alcoholic beverages occasionally, but a clear mind is a necessity in my work. I have saved lives by not indulging.”
Gauvain handed her the small glass and claimed the chair next to hers. Glass, one of so many marvels common here, in the Midland were exotic.
“You found the company tedious,” he informed her. “I assure you, I also prefer to engage in other pursuits.”
“Magic,” she murmured.
“Your blasted Motherhouse again. Magic isn’t an evil.”
“But I am a Healer, not a Mage.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive. With your penchant for matters relating to earth, combining your talents and mine, I believe we may find the solution to the transformation of metals.”
So that was his plan, or a part of it. Her skills were useful to him. She sipped the brandy, letting its warmth work down until her toes tingled. “And you are almost entirely air, with a suppressed hint of fire. I’m sure you envision a weave to trap the iron in a gold state. But without my earth, you can’t stabilize it. It will not hold.”
“True,” he said.
For a brief time as they sat silently, Willow amused herself by watching the fire sputter in the grate; it would burn itself out soon. Her tiny sips of the brandy contributed to a sense of wellbeing she almost never experienced in the tower, or anywhere in Borgonne.
Borgonne. Inevitably perhaps, her spirits turned melancholic.
“Something is bothering you. Do you lack for anything?”
His question startled her. Was she so transparent?
“No, I thank you. Please don’t trouble yourself.” She hesitated. “Gauvain...”
“I’m listening.”
And judging, no doubt.
She grasped the opportunity to explain her rejection. “I am grateful. You restored me to life. It means everything to me.”
He made a dismissive move with his hand and a sound resembling a growl, low and quiet in his throat.
“That I was unable to share myself... I didn’t expect that. But I must be true to my own truth. I... I did want to.”
He stood, rigid. Insulted or embarrassed? She wondered. But at least she had given him her explanation, and her apology. He took the glass from her hand and returned it to the table beside the brandy bottle, then gave her a stiff bow and left the room. Almost immediately the light began to fade, so she cast a light globe, retrieved her half finished glass of brandy, and made her way up the stairs.
~~
WILLOW AWOKE TO AN overcast dawn, resolved. After her morning ritual, she went straight to the kitchen.
Leo looked up from his breakfast preparations. “Miss? Can I do anything for you?”
She smiled. Leo never, ever used her name. “Maybe. Do you know if it’s possible to cross the hills yet?”
He shook his head. “Nobody goes there. Unless the Master...?”
“I’ll ask him, but I don’t know how indignant he will be.”
Leo snorted. “His levels of indignation have decreased markedly since you arrived, Miss. You needn’t fear him.”
“As you told me, my first day here. Now, I want to go home.”
“I expected that, but I am sorry. The tower is a different place with your presence.”
Her answering smile was wistful. “Could you make porridge, please? Last night’s meal was magnificent, but so rich.”
“With pleasure, Miss.” Leo picked up a tray holding caff and mugs, and led the way to the dining room.
Gauvain stood when she entered, nodded, and reseated himself. His breakfast had yet to be served. Leo set the tray on the table and scurried away. Willow sat and waited until Gauvain had poured caff for them both before she said, “I long to return to the Midland.”
“In thirty-two days you may do so, although I recommend against it.” His voice conveyed no emotion.
His precise accounting of the days unnerved her, but she shook her head. “I am of no further use to you here. I am learning nothing that interests me, and my mind refuses to focus. Despite our agreement, I need to leave.”
“I choose not to release you.”
“I do not believe you can prevent me. But I would rather depart on good terms.”
His two hands smacked the table, a reflection of the cold anger in his voice. “You are a fool. Your training is incomplete. Given your earth connection and your supreme mental control, you have the potential to rank among the most powerful Mages of your generation. With so much still to learn, I refuse to allow you to reject the opportunities here.”
She drank down the mug of caff. “If the hills can be traversed, I must go.”
“Obdurate woman.”
“Tell me about the trail, Gauvain. Will I be able to pass?”
Leo entered again, carrying a large tray that undoubtedly pained his hunched back. He hustled around the table, serving Gauvain with bacon, pan cakes, and a dish of spiced, sautéed apples, placing the plain bowl of porridge in front of her, and a second pot of caff between them. After he scuttered away, Gauvain said, “Did you really believe the route to be impassable? Any half decent Mage could open it. The road leading to it presents a barrier, but not the hills themselves.” He scooped apples over his pan cakes, ignoring her.
As a treat, Willow added some of his apples to her porridge and followed suit. Not until she had emptied her bowl did she say, “I won’t beg permission. But I prefer that my departure be congenial, not hostile.”
“Understand this, Willow-who-is-not-Willow.” He had not used his old appellation for her in months. Today he spoke it with scorn. “Once you set foot on the path to the hills, you are no longer under my protection. You will receive nothing from me, no further training or favor. When you return to my door begging, you will not be welcome. You have experienced my power and my hospitality. I recommend you abuse neither.”
“I am not.” She rose from the table. “I regret this. But I am suffocating here.”
“Then go. It is no concern of mine.”
Did that count as Gauvain’s blessing? She supposed so.