Rathna woke late with the sun pouring in on her face. The Paris portal had vanished from the world sometime around one the previous afternoon. They’d been down to panicked groups when it happened. Then they’d managed to make and hold a connection to Rennes well past dawn, when the Dax portal had finally spluttered out.
She had been exhausted, on the edge of backlash herself. She didn’t remember any part of them bundling her into a cart and back to the enclave or pouring her into bed. Her eyes felt filled with sand, and her mouth was dry as cotton wool. They’d been working near enough flat out since the ninth, near a week of eating, sleeping, and going to the portal, leaving just enough time for the portal to recharge a bit. She’d downed more stamina potions than ever before in her life, and she’d drawn vitality from dozens of people.
She sprawled back on the bed for a moment before she sat up, entirely too fast as it turned out, which made the room swim for a moment. Before she could get a grip again, there was a voice. “Water, first.” Grietje was right there, holding out a mug of it. It was clear and cool and the best thing Rathna had ever tasted.
She had enough sense not to down the mug all at once. She drank half of it. “Ferdinand?”
“Stirring, not awake yet. Your journal chimed.” Grietje nodded at the trunk at the end of the bed. She’d written to Gabe, what? Two days ago? Three days for anything meaningful, though she’d written a quick note to the children and to Gabe yesterday morning before they began again. It felt like months ago.
Rathna handed the mug back. “Food in a little?”
“Lunch at one. There’s some bread and cheese for you if you want it before then. They’re—” Grietje’s voice shifted, and Rathna peered, blinking to find the other woman looking amused.
“What happened?”
“I got a rather thorough interrogation by one of them about what foods you preferred. One of the grandmothers, I think she caught that you’d been making do a bit, and she is having none of it. I explained, she’s familiar enough with kosher cooking. I didn’t ask why. Cassoulet for us, something else for you and anyone else who doesn’t eat pork, apparently.”
Rathna shook her head. “I manage. And - this is not the point for a Talmudic discussion about the priority on saving lives, anyway. Besides, I’m not remotely qualified for that debate. I manage.”
“You need to build your strength. You were—” Grietje hesitated. “We were worried last night.”
Rathna opened her mouth, wanting to dismiss it. She took a careful inventory of her body, her head, and her magic. “Thank you. It’s going to take me a bit to sort things out.”
“The portal?” Grietje jerked her chin. “Or is it done for good?”
“Let me tell everyone at once. We might manage, but you should investigate the mountain routes. Continue to, I mean. Either way, we’re going to need to decide soon. A week or three, at most.” No one, not in all her education, had ever adequately explained the timing of an invasion to her. Or, more to the point, how to make decisions when she didn’t know how fast she’d have to move.
Grietje nodded. “Paris is an open city, they’re calling it. No resistance. The rest of France, that is still a question.” She let out a long breath. “Do you want to wash up before you eat? I can get the bath going.”
That idea sounded fabulous. It would be putting people out, but not too much. They’d set up a copper tub in the next room over, which drained behind the barn, and the water came from a well. “Please. I need - well. A number of things.” The loo, first, and then her journal. “Give me a hand up, make sure I don’t fall on my face?”
Five minutes later, she was back on the end of her bed, pulling her journal open. She had several messages from Gabe and from Alysoun, but all Gabe had said was to write when she had a few minutes. From the way both he and his mother worded those brief requests, she was sure something had happened, but there were none of the code words that meant it was the immediate family at risk.
She took a deep breath and wrote back. The reply was almost instantaneous, as if Gabe had had his book open, waiting for any sound from her. He began with a single sentence, that all in the family were well, not to worry there, and then there was a flood of words. He’d written it up, clearly, and copied it into his journal in a single swath of information.
He’d organised it, at least, laying out in bare sparse words that Livia Fortier was dead, that she’d died after calling down a potent magical strike in the Grand Salle des Portes in Paris. Which explained quite a lot on Rathna’s end, and she was suddenly shivering. It could have been so much worse if they’d had a portal open at the time. For anyone who did. She didn’t even know how to ask anyone elsewhere in France. She pulled a plain notebook over and made a list of things she’d have to figure out how to convey to the guild and to whoever should know in France.
Then she went back to Gabe’s words. She saw Alysoun’s hand in how he’d laid it out, but she wasn’t sure if he’d directly consulted his mother or just used her reports as a model. It was hard to tell at the best of times. She added half a dozen other things to the list as she read, including the fact the conversation with her Guild was about to get more delicate.
She agreed with Gabe’s recommendation for Fortnum. However poorly he’d handled Ferdinand’s training, he knew his own work, and he was one of the most experienced with the Trellech portals. And he was as familiar with the Council portal as anyone. He’d be difficult about Gabe having done what he did, but that couldn’t be helped. They hadn’t exactly had time to send for anyone else, and it wasn’t as if the portal had been working until Gabe had thrown himself into it.
She went back up to the top and read through again, looking for all the little tells that Gabe and Alysoun had taught her to look for. And several of their other circle, too. The way he was choosing words, that was telling. It had shaken him more than he was admitting to himself. She noticed several particular verbal tics that came up in the aftermath of him following his impulses.
Rathna considered and began with three declarative sentences. “Alexander and Smythe-Clive were glad of your work. Praised it. You know Alexander wouldn’t, if you’d overstepped.” She went on from there, working her way through each point as deliberately as she did calculations and measurements for a portal. It took her two pages. She was just finishing up when there was a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
Grietje peered around. “Bath water’s hot.”
Rathna wanted to focus on the words again, but she needed a bath. Her skin was itchy and increasingly unpleasant, and she’d think better when she was clean. She wrote a note to that effect, then a quick one to each of her children, that she was well, she’d write more later.
The bath was not as restorative as she’d hoped, but it was something. By the time she’d charm-dried her hair, they’d sorted out more hot water for Ferdinand, and she passed him in the narrow hallway as someone was refilling the tub. He nodded once, and she immediately said, “Debrief after dejeuner.” He looked relieved.
The next hour and a half was filled with people wanting to thank her. It was yet another thing no one had trained her for. Rathna was used to doing her work and having it be ignored. No one noticed when a portal worked properly. They only noticed when it didn’t.
She had the respect of her colleagues, because her work was reliable and she was not tedious to collaborate with. Her family valued what she did, even the children. Maybe especially the children, who had somehow kept a childlike wonder at the idea of what a portal was, stepping from one place to another as easily as going down a flight of stairs.
But here, once she came down to the main courtyard, there was an endless row of people. There were grandmothers and grandfathers, young women and men, children clinging to their skirts or trousers. All of them thanking her, and one of the women translating when the accent got too thick for Rathna to make sense of. Then she was firmly escorted to a seat at the head table, with the local elders proudly presented with a large bowl of fragrant soup. Fish-based, she could tell that, and there was a spark of something peppery that delighted her.
“What is this?” she asked, carefully. “I do not know the name for it?”
“Tioro.” That was what it sounded like, but a moment later, one of the little girls spelled it out, ttoro. An older woman, definitely one of the grandmothers, bobbed, and explained in careful French what was in it. Five kinds of fish, she couldn’t quite work out which ones, but not shellfish, she knew the words for that. And there were herbs, white wine, onions, tomato, and pepper, both sweet and the Espelette peppers that had turned up once or twice in previous meals.
Rathna smiled and nodded and then took a sip when it was clear everyone was waiting for that. She let the taste roll around in her mouth. Not nearly so biting a pepper as some of the dishes she’d had with her family in Calcutta, but kin. She beamed and said, “My mother’s family has something a little like this. It is very good. Thank you. I am so glad to have a chance to eat it.”
It was, in fact, fabulous. Whoever had made it had a deft hand with the layering of flavours, the way herbs came through, then onion, then the different tastes of each fish, the textures. Nothing was over-cooked, nothing was chewy. It was, in a word, restorative, in a way Rathna hadn’t known she needed. She ate, periodically smiling at the people around her, and accepted a second serving gratefully when it was clear there was plenty left. Along with it, they offered plenty of fresh bread and butter, and, of course, wine.
As she finished, there was a slight rustle, and then a small child - perhaps a year younger than Avigail - appeared at her side. She had Avigail’s dark hair, too, but much lighter skin, and Rathna was caught for the moment by the comparison.
She turned a little, glancing at the people seated near her, but no one stopped her, no one pulled the child away. There was a rapid flurry of French, and Rathna couldn’t make out more than a few words - ‘merci’, and ‘papa’ and a few others that anyone might spot.
Behind her, Grietje’s voice cut clearly across the rest of the chat. “She is thanking you for making sure her papa could get home.”
Rathna nodded once. “I am glad I could help. I have a little girl, perhaps a little older than you? She just turned eight.”
Again, a flurry, shorter, and Grietje’s translation. “She wonders why you are here and not with her.”
“I live in Albion, but her father is with her and his parents. I am here so I could help. I wanted to help keep people safer.” Her ability to put things simply fled. There was a moment’s hesitation, as Grietje translated back into French, and then the little girl was hugging her tightly, without any further pause or distance. Rathna hugged her back instinctively. “Your name?”
“Katherine.” She gave it the French emphasis, and Rathna repeated it, before the girl darted off again. The conversation picked up around them as the meal took its own time. She appreciated that, here, that no matter how dire the situation, while they could take a proper pause for lunch, they did.
Eventually, everyone filtered off to their afternoon work. But a number of the mothers and grandmothers had paused to speak to her, whether or not she understood them. One of them had asked her to hold a baby for a moment while she rearranged what she was carrying. Something had shifted, definitively and absolutely. Whatever else she was now, she was trusted that far.
Their small group found a space in the grass to one side of the main house, with Lucas spreading out a blanket to sit on. Rathna lowered herself, then took in Ferdinand’s posture and expression. “How are you?”
“Exhausted, Mistress, but recovering. I need a day or two before we try anything again that’s effort.”
“Me as well.” Rathna let out a long breath. “All right. I don’t know if we can get this portal working again. I won’t be able to try until tomorrow or maybe the day after. It depends how I sleep.” She considered. “This isn’t public yet. It will be in a day or two, perhaps. The Grand Salle des Portes is, if not destroyed, seriously damaged.”
“You’re sure?” That was Lucas, quick as he could be.
“Quite.” She let the one sharp syllable fall. “A massive magical battle, I gather. News via Gabe.” And Gabe had a wide variety of sources, no need to mention how direct this one had been in practice. “So we need to figure out where to go from here. One option is over the mountains. If we can get the portal working, where do we go with it?”
There was silence. They knew the map as well as she did at this point. “We’d need a contact in Spain, to go there. Not impossible, but it will take time. And we don’t have it.” Beth laid it out, little flicks of her fingers gesturing at the geography.
“Is there any place in Albion that might open to us?” That was Grietje. “Even briefly?”
Rathna let out a long breath. “Ferdinand asked the same question, not long after we got here. It would need to be an ancient portal, and one not locked against France. One no one’s had access to for years, centuries, most likely. The Tintagel portal’s behind a cave-in. Windsor Castle, obviously not available.” That one was not locked against France, in specific, but it was behind layer and layer of other warding and illusion work. “And the Tower of London, but I haven’t heard of that one being used since England lost Aquitaine in the 1450s, before the Pact. Not that I have all the records here.”
“Can you - is there even anyone to ask?” Grietje spread her hands.
“When we’re done here, I’ll write to people who can find out. We should at least make informed decisions, if we can, about what our options actually are.” There was a round of tired, amused sounds. It was true enough. “And if we need to go across the mountains?”
“The mountains are - there are Fatae in the mountains.” Grietje was suddenly hesitant.
“Do you know how to get their attention, politely? Does someone around here? I need to do that, no matter what we decide. To explain about Paris, what I know about it. More than will be public.” Rathna didn’t know what that would shake loose. But somewhere between Gabe’s note and the bath, she’d come to the decision that it needed to happen, apparently. The intuitive tug. She couldn’t ignore that.
Grietje grimaced. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” But they both knew that in not too long, if no invasion swept this way first, they’d be doing what they could about that.