The next installment for Weave a Wizardry Web  ~ Chapters 12 and 13.

The story arc of our two main characters, Alstera and her aunt Camisse, begin to track on different trajectories.

We have a saying, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Alstera’s intention is to find a greater source of power for the Enclave, a source that will generate overwhelming power that will defeat the sorcerers and their allies.

Camisse obediently followed what her mother and family told her about her power. Pearroc Seale convinces her to try a different pathway.

Chapter 12

Gage slept deeply, as Alstera had intended.

She sat up carefully, trying not to disturb him. She needed no light for what she intended, yet she drew an orb with the palest blue glow. In that faint light she studied this man who thought he loved her.

Relaxed in sleep, he didn’t look the warrior who’d risen to a captaincy. He wasn’t a man who easily gave his trust, but he had trusted Alstera from the beginning, even when she warned him not to. He’d had relationships with other wielders; that had been one reason she agreed to their first dinner. They’d become intimate on the first night, and he’d ensured her pleasure first, one reason she let the intimacy turn into a relationship. At some point, he’d toppled into love. She didn’t understand that. He withstood her selfishness and her distance and he brusqueness. Had he mistaken sex for love? Did he play word games with her? Did he try to tempt her into a greater bond? Did he expect—as others had—to profit from his relationship with the ArchClan’s granddaughter?

She shrugged away the questions. Gage was Gage. He’d swore she could practice spells on him. Wizards were to serve, but she bent Gage to her purpose, breaking the Tenet of Service.

His approval meant little since he did not know what she intended with her spells.

He would return to his post in the morning. No wizard would sniff any residue of power lingering from her spell.

She hovered her hand over his face, brow to chin. Gage had a little power, but tonight she had no intention of linking with him to snatch it up for her use. No, tonight she wanted to plant a little seed, a little order that he would be impelled to follow. He’d said he wouldn’t come for a week. Her spell would bring him back to her on the eighth night, Lady Moon. With extra patrols planned for that night, he wouldn’t want to follow the order. His will could overpower a suggestion but not a command. She would know her spell’s success as soon as she saw him.

She worked the spell in the air, a cobwebby design limned with Earthy ocher. As she drew the spell’s shape and added runes of command, the light increased. She glanced at the door, reminded of how light streamed under it to guide her along the corridor. Yet the corridor remained silent, everyone asleep. For later spells, she must remember to barricade the door.

Alstera touched the lines of the spell, tugging each strand. I am breaking one of the five wizard tenets. I am venturing into taboo power. Like Nevil, and like her friend she could find herself imprisoned beneath the Moot Hall. If all worked as the dusty tome in the archive had said, the spell would remain undetectable until the moon-turn triggered it. It would unravel as he obeyed, the command gradually dissipating once he reached her.

She worked no repercussions into the command spell, although the book had mentioned several. When
she’d seen the five blood punishments that could be tied to the spell, her fingers had snatched off the old parchment as if scalded. Blood spells would taint her chamber and seep into the corridor. She hadn’t wanted any taint to follow to her room, so she read and memorized. For a book lodged in the Enclave archives, she had wondered how close the earliest wizards had been to the sorcerers they had defeated. To use wizardry with blood spells, to punish the one forced to obey rather than the wielder who built the failed spell—that sounded like sorcery.

The tangled strands were strong, power shimmering over each one. Alstera spun the spell into a tight cocoon then guided it to Gage’s temple. On a stream of power it tunneled into his brain. And he didn’t even stir.

She watched for ill effects for a half-hour then swept away all residue from the command spell. She pillowed her head on his shoulder, counted several deep breaths, and sank back into sleep.

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

Gage vomited when he awoke.

Alstera held a cool cloth to his forehead. “Are you sick?”

“I feel fine.”

“You feel fine and vomited breakfast? That doesn’t happen, Gage.”

“I’m fine.” He stood, swayed a little, but steadied even as she reached to help. “I’ve got duties, Alstera.”

“I can send a message to the barracks.”

“No need. Look, I’m already better. Must have been that soured wine I had with my mates when we were let off duty.”

“Which you still drunk?”

“The colonel served it.”

She scanned his eyes then felt his forehead. Did the command spell cause this? How will I know? Nothing in the tome had mentioned after-effects. “Nothing spicy or greasy today,” she warned. “Good wine, no ale. No whiskey.”

“No aqua vitae?”

“Certainly not.”

He scooped an arm around her waist and drew her close. ‘I like knowing you care.”

“I want you hale and whole when I see you in a seven-night. No, don’t kiss me with that mouth. Go rinse, then I’ll think about it.”

He dropped his arm and reached for a clean shirt. “We start kissing, and I’ll be late for First Call.”

“No headache? No dizziness?”

“Nothing. I’m fine now.”

While she rubbed her temples, worried that the spell had twisted, he dressed, stomped into his boots, and buckled on his sword-belt. She couldn’t remove the spell. Gage would know what she had done. He had consented last night, but she didn’t want him curious about the spell she’d worked. Wouldn’t his knowledge of the spell nullify the effects of the command?

His stride was long and steady down the corridor, his bootsteps quick and even on the stair. Then he was gone, no calling him back. Alstera shut the door and hurriedly dressed, wanting to see Letheina before she returned to the Archives.

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

 Camisse bowed, and the two Enclave guards bowed in return. Former border guards, returned a year ago. She had hoped they would be challenging competition. She had yawned halfway through the first bout.

“A good practice, commander.”

“Yes,” she lied. Even with both men coming at her—when she had finally convinced them to attack her—they had not stretched her limits.

“Not fast enough for wyre,” Jonas judged.

“Fast enough for today,” Camisse allowed. “I heard you hiss when you extended your lunge. Is the old wound troubling you?”

He grimaced. “I grow old. I’ve lost my reach.”

“Show me the scar.” She tugged at his linen shirt, sweat-stuck to his torso.

“My lady!”

“I am commander of Chanerro Pass, Jonas, not my lady. Show me.”

Reluctantly, he unfastened peeled up his tunic to reveal three long scars across his gut, a wyre’s single-handed swipe that had nearly eviscerated him.

Camisse poked the edges. The tissue had thickened. “You need to stretch daily. Master Herve told you that, but I suppose it’s easier to swill ale than do your stretches.”

Jonas dropped his shirt and his eyes.

“Was there an ointment?”

He grumbled. She picked up “foul liniment”.

“If it keeps the tissue from binding, what do you care if it’s foul? Off with you. Clean up before you go, and see another healer. You let this continue, and she will think you deserve a foul ointment.”

They trudged away. Camisse followed, more slowly.

The shade cooled after the hot sand. The stone colonnade between the rings was cooler. A drifting breeze chilled her sweat. Shivering, she found her pack and rummaged for a cloth to wipe her blade before sheathing it.

“Lady Camisse?”

Eyes still a little blind in the shadowing colonnade, she peered at the dark shadow. Camisse hesitated only long enough to pin the voice. “I believe I asked you not to call me ‘lady’, Pearroc Seale.”

“A good trick, to recognize me by voice alone. We have met only twice.” He emerged from the shadows by the interior wall. “I am greatly amazed.”

Her mouth quirked. “Then I would like to see your reaction to a great feat, for recognizing your voice is nothing. You are the only new person I’ve met since my return. On the border, we learn to be quick.” She guided her sword into the scabbard. “Quickness is needed to dodge all those snowflakes.”

He laughed, and that pleased her. Few people understood her jokes. ‘You don’t like the winter, La—Camisse?”

Her smile was a little overbroad, but he had laughed at her little joke and he had tried to drop the title she had never liked. “At Chanerro Pass, we have an overabundance of winter. After the first five or fifty blizzards, it gets inconvenient.”

He laughed again as he stepped closer. Once he stepped out of the shadows, she saw the broken nose, the scarred lip, the scruffy beard. His mossy eyes gleamed, as lucent as Alstera’s. His head tilted sharply, and now—as at their first meeting—she thought yellow edged his irises, then he blinked, and the phantom color vanished. The brightness edged back. A trick of the light must have lightened his eyes, for now they appeared more brown than green.

“Have you a little time this morning?”

Bent over to latch her pack, she glanced up. Hands loose beside him, wearing a simple jerkin over a linen shirt, he looked at his ease. The wind venturing into the colonnade ruffled his dark hair. “I do have some little things planned.”

Yet as she hefted her pack, he reached over and lifted it out of her hands. He slung a strap over one shoulder, shield side. “Shall we talk as we walk?”

Together, they walked through the tunnel then out the gates. He took the path to the public gardens. Camisse hesitated, but the public gardens were on the way to Clan Letheina, so she fell into step beside him.

His first question seemed innocuous. “When are you to return to the Border?”

“I think when the month is up. No longer, I hope.”

“You are here for several more weeks then. I must have a name to call you.” When she gaped at him, he added, “‘Commander’ sounds too formal, and you have denied me ‘Lady’.”

“My name is available. I thought we had agreed to it.” They reached the walk through the public gardens. Sweet-scented woodbine called. Vibrant roses beckoned ahead.

He let the gate clang shut. “In my country it is not fitting to call someone newly met by the given name. You named me Pearroc Seale. How shall I name you?”

That strange question earned him a narrow-eyed look, but he was an outlander. She didn’t know anyone else from Petrosse. Perhaps they were more formal there. Yet after weeks and weeks in the Enclave, he should be able to skirt the formalities among the clans. “Seale is your family name?”

“One of them.” He didn’t elaborate. “Does the Enclave not use family names? Everyone seems to be Lord Denis or Lady Perdita.”

“If that’s Perdita of Clan Drakon, you had better name her ‘lady’. She can scalp you with a single spell. Pearroc, didn’t the Drakon explain this? He is your mentor to the Enclave.”

“He explained. He gave no reasons or examples. Should I call you ‘Camisse Letheina’?”

It sounded so wrong that she shuddered. “No.”

“Or your father’s name?”

“No.” Camisse closed that option even more quickly. Guilliame had ignored her or berated her, and Raigeis had told her that she was not Guilliame’s child. In her childhood, she had looked to her grandfather for a guiding paternal hand. “My grandfather was the ArchClan Saigeis. You may use his name with mine, if you must. Are we seriously having a discussion about names?” She grinned to remove any snip from the complaint.

Pearroc grinned back. “The ArchClan Saigeis. Son of Morted and Ruissa. See what I have learned of clan lineages.”

“Son-in-law. He was illegitimate; they fostered him. Ad he married their daughter Jantheina, my mother’s mother.”

“Did you know your grandmother?”

“Unfortunately, no. She died in childbirth.” Once more she tried to deflect him. “Has the Drakon been teaching you the family lines?”

“I did concentrate on those lessons. Family is important in my land.”

“Then in our country it is fitting that you learn the families of the Enclave.” His eyes gleamed at her repetition of his earlier phrasing. “Be warned, however,” she said with her own glint. “I am away a decade and more. I will make mistakes. The families are aligned and disaligned in strange ways.”

“I have discovered this. The vows of power do not follow the blood lines. Siblings can be in different clans. A child can ally away from the parent. This intrigues me.”

She raised her eyebrows. It didn’t sound interesting to her. “Truly? To me, it sounds like a conversation of several hours and wadded-up paper littering the floor as you try to draw the lineages and clan connections.” She picked up her pack. “The Drakon knows it well, especially the estrangements and disalignments.”

“Here is another curiosity. You say ‘the Drakon’, but other clan leaders are merely their name: Rochein, Metallin, Perrault. Why is he ‘the Drakon’?” He drastically deepened his voice to deep bass.

Her laugh rewarded his whimsy. “That’s an impossible question. I suppose, well, perhaps we distinguish him. He is the greatest of them all.”

“Greater than the ArchClan your mother?”

“Of course. I know my mother very well.” Her arid tone dried her mouth. “Is it not said that we appreciate strangers more than family?”

“Because we see ourselves in our family?”

“Ouch.” Camisse pretended to flinch. She put a hand up to shade her eyes. “Pearroc Seale, you are too serious for me and for this bright morning. Certain truths need a little shading.”

“Forgive me.” He bowed slightly. “You are right: I am too serious for this morning. Perhaps the cause is the approaching Wizard Trials.”

“The Drakon has your training. You do not need to worry about the Trials.”

“But will you talk with me a little, as we enjoy a few minutes of this bright morning?” He gestured to a bench in the shade. “I do confess to some anxiety, even though you may think it foolish.”

“I didn’t say foolish—.”

“I am an outlander. And while Drakon tells me what to expect, he is many many years from experiencing it as a novice rather than a judge. Will you speak of your experiences there?”

Camisse balked at sitting down. She searched his eyes, looking for that golden gleam in the mossy brown. Something in his eyes seemed a little off. Not quite right, as if—no, it couldn’t be—as if the color were wrong. Yet he met her gaze unwaveringly. “I will tell you what I can—if you think you must learn from a woman who fumbled through the Trials and came out more than a little scorched.”

“You are a wizard. You fight sorcerers and wyre.”

“I fight alongside the Fae against the wyre. I do not call up spells when I do not know if they will materialize or warp before I cast them.”

“I sense great puissance in you.”

The word reminded her of Sanglier and his failed attempt last night. She didn’t share last night’s meeting. “I may have a deep well, but it remains untapped. I cannot draw up the spells.”

He steered her onto the bench as he murmured, “Spells of Air and Water.”

She sank down onto the cool stone almost without realizing it. “Those are the powers that run in my clan.”

“Have you tried Earth or Fire?”

“Why would I? I have little spells enough, not great ones, but my stamina runs longer than greater wizards. The Fae accept me in their ranks when I fight. I can channel power to my sword; Bregan Ciele taught me that, in my first month on the border. That trick has saved me numerous, numerous times. Usually I am above the fray, watching, alert for traps, sending out reinforcements.”

“You were never taught spells for all the elements?” Her scowl alerted him, for he added, “I persist—and my apologies—but I received training in all the elements, even after my connection to Fire was revealed as strongest. Did you not have similar training?”

Camisse thought back to those rushed days, trying to fulfill multiple demands on her attention. The only dropped responsibility for which her mother and her older brother didn’t berate her was missed lessons. “I was often distracted. I was primarily caring for my niece and nephew.”

“The niece I met last night. Alstera?”

“Yes, and her brother Romert. He is with the palace legation.”

“And why was their care on you?”

Here was the long story that she’d wanted to avoid. With a terseness that bordered on rudeness, she explained, “They were orphaned. My sister Marpheina and her husband, they were killed in battle at Iscleft.” Tears burned her eyes. She blinked them away. Why am I tearful? They died years and years ago.

“My apologies. I did not intend to stir up old grief.”

“And mine.” She took a surreptitious swipe at her eyes. “I should not have snapped at you. I am surprised sometimes by how much I miss Marpheina. She was older and mothered me much as I tried to mother her children. I had only recently sparked power. I think my family expected me to be a Naught. That year, well—I know my tutor was displeased with me, from the moment he began my training. He concentrated on the clan powers.”

“You said that you sparked power? Why did you say ‘sparked’?” 

“I—don’t know.”

“Could you have sparked Fire?”

“Fire? No.”

“Think back, Camisse.”

She stared at him. The command seemed foolish. Yet he looked direct and sure. She closed her eyes to block him out, to block out the voices farther way, to block out the distant hammering, a dog barking. She recalled the event; she didn’t really remember it. Raigeis had shouted at her. She remembered that. He’d been so angry. She remembered water dripping down her face to puddle on the floor. Why was she wet? Had she called up water? No. Raigeis had stood before her with an empty vase in his hands. Red roses were strewn at his feet. He must have jerked the flowers from the vase before he doused her. Why did he douse her?

And then she remembered, not much, just a flash, bright and golden and hot.

 

Fire.

 

Chapter 13

 “You’ve remembered,” Pearroc whispered. “You sparked Fire.”

She opened her eyes. She didn’t realize that tears dripped down her cheeks. “Raigeis threw water on me to put out the flames.”

He touched her damp cheek, then her chin, then her hands clenched together in her lap. “The first power that blasts out is usually the heart element. And they gave you no training in Fire.”

“Only the minimum. To control it. I have never heard that, Pearroc: the heart element.”

“Did you spark Fire again?”

“I th-think so. I remember being reprimanded and punished several times that first year. I forgot that,” she said wonderingly. “My tutors said that I was failing, that I must learn to wield Water and Air and nothing else.”

“And with flames arcing from your hands, you never questioned your tutors?”

She laughed. “Why would I? We are water and air.”

“Yet you sparked Fire. And you are crippled in Water and Air.”

He dropped her pack onto the ground and delved inside his leather vest. He produced a handkerchief. She took it and mopped her eyes and cheeks then returned it to him. He looked at it wryly, offered her a crooked smile, then unlatched her pack and dropped it inside. She watched him without even considering his invasion of her pack. Her mind was filled with his question, the question that a little girl had shied from because it led to punishments, the question that now seemed like a seed over-buried from the light. Her tutors and her brother Raigeis and her uncle Rombrey and her mother had claimed that she was little more than a Naught. Passing the Wizard Trials had shocked them.

Until this moment, knowing they had deliberately trained her away from the element she had sparked—and she, poor fool, had blindly followed them—until this moment Camisse had not realized how deep their shock was when the Aged Sages declared her a wizard. They had expected her to fail. As she had failed all her lessons.

Within a week she had ridden out with a troop bound for Chanerro Pass.

“My mother’s first comeis said that to me, that I was crippled in power. I did not fully understand what he meant.”

“Who was this? When did he say it?”

“Draiven Bourne de Fanault. After my Trials. The day the king appointed me commander. I thought my appointment was a reward.”

“A curious coincidence.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You infer too much.”

Pearroc opened his eyes wider. “I say nothing.”

“You are thinking too loudly then. I can hear your thoughts.”

“Because they are your own in the lonely vigils of the night?”

She bit back the truth: her family had crippled her. Why? To say it was to admit it.

He would not leave it alone. “You need to practice, Camisse, to see if you can wield Fire with ease.”

That golden gleam in his eyes drew her back to the now. “How did we get from your request that I tell you about the Wizard Trials to your prodding me to practice Fire spells?”

“You should, and you know it.”

“With whom?” she retorted. “No one in my family. Should I hire a tutor? That would sit well with my mother and my brother.”

“I would teach you.” When her jaw dropped, he changed it. “I will teach you. Drakon tells me to practice with fundamental spells in the heart element. Those are the first tests.”

“They are first, but they cover all elements. Those first tests may be the only reason I passed.”

“Imagine your spells with Fire, Camisse. With that deep puissance, you would not fumble. You could draw it up easily.”

She shook a finger. “Don’t tempt me.”

He snared her finger and then her hand. “Afraid?”

“Afraid?” She rolled her eyes. “I fight wyre with only a magic-edged sword.”

“Have you learned nothing of power from the Fae? Fighting side by side with them against the sorcerers and the wyre, your own powers should have sharpened and flexed. Have you not found it so?” He opened her hand and turned it palm up. The tiniest flame grew. She tried to snatch her hand away, but he kept a tight hold. “What would a Fae do with flame?”

“Pearroc.”

“The spells they cast, the way they fight, the way they move, their very words—how many years are you on the border with them? Have you learned nothing?”

“Let me go,” she demanded, soft, dangerous.

“You should know more of them and from them than anyone living outside Faeron.”

“I thank you,” she said dryly. “You credit me with more perspicacity than I possess.”

“How many years are you on the Border?”

“Fifteen.”

“And now you are returned.”

“I will resume command when I return.”

“But in your absence, the sons of Raigeis will entangle all your work.”

She scowled at his statement of her own worry. Again she tugged her hand; again he didn’t release it. The flame did wink out. “The ArchClan will send a veteran captain back and recall them. He leaves today.”

“Did he leave this morning?”

She went cold. Raigeis had not refused the order, but he could delay it. “I will ensure the captain has left. If he hasn’t, I will send him myself. I will not have my command disrupted.”

“The only disruption would be to oppose the Fae’s assistance against Frost Clime. The ArchClan and her magister are prejudiced against the Fae. His sons will be as well.”

“I know this, Pearroc.” Suddenly aware of the public gardens, of people walking closer, of the sun’s climb to the sky’s zenith, Camisse tugged her hand again and again failed to retrieve it. “We have strayed into topics we should not talk about. Not here.”

“They are impolitic?” He caught her glance along the pathway. “Ah, we are in a public area. But, look, they turn down another path, away from us. Do you fear their gossip? Is this the reason you refuse to play with Fire?”

She rolled her eyes at his double entendre. “That’s as good a reason as any.”

“You expect to fail? I believe you will not. Drakon believes you will not.”

“The Drakon believes I—? Why would he think—?”

“He sat on Council for your tests.”

“And he suggested you teach me?”

“This disturbs you.” Pearroc didn’t shrug. He tilted his head and examined her eyes, her mouth. “His suggestion offends you?”

“No. I’m not offended. I just don’t like people talking about—. No.” And she compressed her lips on any explanation.

He smiled, as if he already knew what she would say. The gleam in his eyes richened, appearing gold. How did he do that? “You are not offended, not truly. Perplexed, I think?”

She stood, awkward when he still held her hand and remained on the bench. He even leaned back and spread an arm along the slatted back. “Pearroc,” she tried, “I would rather not talk about this here.”

“But here we are.” He tugged. Feeling foolish, she sat down again, and he turned a little, blocking her by crossing one leg over the other and swinging his foot before her knees. He leaned a little closer, and she became very aware of his arm behind her shoulders. “Here we can talk of other things. Better, we can return to Chappelle’s ring and spar with blades rather than words. I would like the opportunity to cross swords with a wizard who edges her blade with magic, just as a Fae does.”

“I may edge my sword, but I do not fight like a Fae.”

“Will you cross swords with me, Commander Camisse? I think you did not receive the practice you wanted from those two guards.”

“You watched?”

He grinned. “I watched.”

“And?” she prompted, distracted from everything before. She hoped he would not belittle her skills. Crippled in her power, ridden over by her mother and her brother, she wanted praise in one thing.

“I have practiced here myself.”

“And?” This time her prompt had an edge as sharp as her sword.

“Can these practice blades hone the skills you need for the border? They seem too slow, especially the older guard.”

“Jonas? He’s recovering from a wound. They are slow. What do you suggest?” And she waited for his answer with keen anticipation.

“Try me, Lady Camisse.”

Soft words that seemed to offer more than a practice bout. “I fight with Fae,” she started, then she remembered his claim that he’d trained with a Fae swordsman. His lean lithe build promised the speed she needed when she fought the wyre and deflected sorcerer-thrown spells. In this, as in nothing else in her life, she was expert. Excitement sheened through her, more than at the promise of a challenging opponent. Pearroc Seale was an attractive man, and a bout with him would reveal more of his personality than a dozen conversations would.

“I will try you, Pearroc Seale.”

When he pulled her up, she checked his expression, his golden-rimmed eyes. He didn’t look concerned. He looked eager. Surely he knew what to expect. He had seen her bout yesterday with a comeis.

Was it only yesterday morning that they had met?

He quickly walked her back to the arena’s gate. They had not advanced very far into the gardens. Once past the gate, they quickly gained the tunnel through the circuit of practice rings.

The practice master raised his eyebrows at her return, but he agreed to allow them a private space, not the public ring. Unless the master or his assistants or the errand-boys gossiped, no one would know of their bout. And the master paid well enough that only foolish employees gossiped about people who came to his practice arena.

Word would get back to her clan; it always did. How would her mother react to her daughter crossing edged blades with the Drakon’s protégé? Troubles yawned before her.

The master did offer them wooden canes to spar with.

“We should be wise and use them,” Camisse said, a last warning to Pearroc.

That grin on his battered face never faltered. “But we will not.”

And she followed him into the sun-brightened gallery on the second floor.

Pearroc shed his leather jerkin, leaving only his loose shirt and his leather breeches and boots. To keep things equal, Camisse shed her leather vest.

No mail. No plated jacket. Not even a padded doublet. Nothing between sharp metal and skin but their linen.

He took a testing swipe with his sword. Then he saw her paralysis. “Second thoughts?”

“And thirds. And fourths.”

The sun gleamed in his eyes. “I started this. Yours the first move, Camisse.” And he set himself to guard.

As if it were a formal match, Camisse took the first stance, her blade blanking her right eye, then moved into second. She sighted the sword with a steady arm and lifted her balance hand above her shoulder.

Pearroc grinned and matched her stance. He brought his blade to hers, touched it, angled his to create the formal cross. “Ladies first.”

She held the stance a heartbeat longer, then tapped his sword aside and lunged in, a fool’s move that was trained out of her recruits. He hadn’t expected it. Speed saved him as he dodged back. Camisse gave him the grace of a step then regretted it when his sword slashed up, whistling past as she whirled away. And then they engaged in earnest.

She forgot the slanting sunshine, the conversation in the garden, the knowledge that her family had crippled her power. Her focus narrowed to her sword and his, the sand gritting the wooden planks, motes drifting in the air, the sweat rolling to her eyes. He watched her, his gold-rimmed mossy eyes revealing nothing of his next move.

He pressed her. She stumbled over nothing. He drew back. “You are better than that. Again. Match me.”

She grinned at that challenge. He let her begin. She re-doubled her efforts. He increased his speed in response. She matched it, matched his skills as well. And she had worried that he wouldn’t match her. She laughed with sheer joy.

Just as she started to be proud, his blade swooped around and hit hers when her arm was at a weak angle. The sword flew from her hand. He broke mid-stroke, the magic-limned blade gleaming like his eyes.

“I’ll wait.”

She wiped the sweat from her face, wiped it off her sweaty palm, wiped off the swordhilt. He was sweating as well, his shirt as plastered as hers, his hair as slick.

She took stance again, shunning the formal pattern for the two-handed grip that gave her the extra strength she needed against a man.

Her change brought out his own laugh. “Now we get serious.”

“Give me a match, Pearroc Seale. Eleven days off the border, and I get lazy. Give me a match.”

“I am stronger than you.”

“I have more tricks.”

His eyes measured the angle she held her blade, designed not to meet his flatly but screech along the edge. His grin increased. “Match me,” he warned and drove in.

Camisse gave way, not trying to counter his strength, waiting her opportunity. The bout no longer followed the rules of a drill or a formal fence. Different. Better.

Her focus narrowed to Pearroc only, blade countering blade. Their bodies reached, turned, shifted over the sanded floor. Motes of dust danced around them, like sprites glittering in the sunlight, like the fiery glimmer in his eyes.

He pushed her limits. She used every technique she had learned to best a stronger blade. He struck harder than any soldier she’d ever faced. The Border had taught her tricksy ways to deflect his sword, using the angled edge or a yielding tip, catching his sword near the hilt where she could add her body weight to her strength, channeling the power riming her blade to force his up and off into the air while she ducked under it or around him.

Her wrists ached. Her arms ached. Her shoulders ached. Camisse shifted past his attack and rolled along his arm to give herself a few seconds’ grace before he rounded on her.

Pearroc changed his attack, foregoing the expected upper or lower blows to strike at her torso. She had to use her weight to stave off his press. She dug in, refusing to back off, still looking for her opening.

He bore in two-handed. Camisse braced for the greater strength, met the blow, stood against it—then her blade snapped at the hilt. It flicked back and clipped her cheek in its arc away.

She staggered toward his blade.

Pearroc caught her shoulder and steadied her. His sword dropped with a clatter. He snatched her useless hilt and threw it viciously. Then he touched her cheek. His fingers gently tapped the wound. “You’re bleeding.”

The cut began to sting. She jerked, but his grip was a vise.

“Be still. It’s deep.”

“You’re hurting.”

“Do you want everyone to say you cried over a little cut?”

“You said it was de—oh. Is healing part of your powers?”

“Does it feel like a healing?”

The stinging burned deeper. She flinched but couldn’t retreat. At some point his vise-like grip had shifted to the back of her head.

“It hurts.”

He stopped probing. “How will you replace your sword?”

“I’ll ask Ruidri Talenn for one.”

“Fae blade.”

“I was using a Fae blade. A friend at Chanerro gave it to me.”

He glanced at the blade. “Then it shouldn’t have broken.”

“They do break, Pearroc. Over time, sorcery weakens the join of blade to hilt.” His hand dropped. Camisse wanted to touch the cut, but she knew better than to interfere with his healing. “Is it still bleeding?”

“No. And no one will know you’ve been cut unless they look closely.” He picked up the blade, walked over to the hilt that had clanged against the wall and recovered it. “Will Talenn de Ysagrael have you a new blade in three days?”

“Three days?” Then she realized what he was asking. “We don’t need to finish our bout. On your head is the laurel crown, O victor.” She tried to infuse humor, but Pearroc remained somber.

“Your equipment failed, not you. I can supply you a sword if Talenn de Ysagrael cannot in that amount of time.”

“I do have a spare blade with me.”

“Human forged.”

“Well, yes.”

He dropped the pieces of sword on the table beside the door and came back, drawing his blade and handing it to her hilt first. “Take mine with you, until the comeis provides a replacement.”

“I won’t take your sword.”

“My replacement is Fae-forged. Take it, Camisse. I would not have you un-armed in this city, not when your blade is a better defense than your power.”

A shadow hid the gold in his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I am not saying or suggesting anything. You said sorcery had weakened the join. That’s where the sword broke. I do not want you to go un-armed in the streets of Tres Lucerna. Not with the deaths that have recently occurred.”

She saw the sense of that. She cautiously wrapped her fingers around the hilt. He released the blade, letting her have the full weight of the sword. It was heavier than hers, a few inches longer, inches that he used in his favor. The balance also felt wrong. But she had fought with swords not weighted or balanced for her before and knew how to adjust. She would need to practice with it.

He brought over his scabbard. When she would have exchanged blade for scabbard, he shook his head and stepped close to wrap the belt around her hips. They were close enough to embrace. She liked the smell of him, woodsy, balsamy, like deep forest. He knotted the extra length of the belt behind her right hip.

“I thank you, Pearroc. I have my dagger—.”

“Not enough in a concentrated attack.” He walked to the table to take back up the pieces of her sword. “You are certain Talenn de Ysagrael will give you a Fae-forged sword?”

She tilted her head. He had asked that question several times. “Yes, of course.”

Pearroc remained at the table. He picked up the hilt, examined the separation, then dropped it and picked up the blade. It looked dull in his hands, especially when power gleamed goldly around his fingertips. Without looking up, he asked, “Talenn is another friend, even though you’ve not seen him in fifteen years?”

“All Fae are my allies.” Then she winced, for he was examining her little smear of blood on the blade. He ran a gleaming finger along the edge. The blood burned away.

“That gladdens me.” He grinned, his gravity lifted, and the difference in his mossy eyes amazed her. He tossed her the hilt. “We’ll share the spoils. And we will cross better steel on Moones Day. At Sunring.”

“You are an early riser.”

“Ottende then or Tiende, but before Middag.”

“Until then, Pearroc Seale.” She held the hilt in a formal salute and grinned at him. “I look forward to our next bout. I will have to practice before we meet again.”

“Same bout, as yet undecided. And I will see you before Moones Day, Camisse.”

They parted at the Colonnade. She took the path through the public garden.

Camisse stopped in the garden. With the fountain sparkling behind her, she examined the broken join. She peered at the steel, but nothing stained the metal. She sniffed it, but smelled no foul aura. A whiff of power didn’t detect sorcery. Nothing seemed to have caused the sword’s failure.

Pearroc Seale had suspected a cause, though. He hadn’t accepted her explanation.

She wasn’t certain she accepted her explanation. She had heard it enough, but never from the Fae.

But who would tamper with her sword?

Had he kept the blade purposely? Was the blade weak? He hadn’t let her look at it.

And he had burned her blood off the steel.

The weight of his sword felt heavier the more she walked. By the time she reached Letheina House, it felt ten times its weight.

Her maid carried in a sheaf of flowers as Camisse wrapped herself in a bathing linen and stepped from the hipbath.

“Look, my lady. A boy just brought these.” She placed the wrapped flowers on the table at the window and undid the string

Camisse padded on bare feet so she could touch the pink petals and long slender leaves. “What are they?” No one had ever sent her flowers. Not even Reteif in the height of his professed love. At the border, she usually received a bottle of wine as a gift. She hadn’t had a paramour since Reteif. For a moment, she felt a brief pang, then it passed.

“Peonies, my lady.”

“We’ll need a vase. I think—yes—down the hall, Briella may have a spare vase.” She had found the card, but she didn’t read it, not with Hravda watching. The woman would report to Raigeis. She missed Perda, long gone into her next service. Perda’s loyalty had always been to Camisse. “Go now, Hravda.”

“Yes, my lady.” The maid went, but she looked at the card as she left, revealing her orders.

When the door closed, Camisse broke the seal.

An apology for my awkward healing and a wish to see you sooner than Moones. Luftein, 15^th Bell, Verron’s Maison on Glass Street.

Only a “P” signed it.

Signatures revealed a lot. She could only examine his handwriting, choppy and slashed, the capitals stronger. The single letter had no swirls or curlicues to ornament it, much as the man needed no ornamentation.

She didn’t know Verron’s Maison, but Glass Street was near the Palace Wall. A high-end establishment, then. Camisse considered her wardrobe and wondered if Faone would let her borrow that leafy green. Or the cherry pink she had never had a chance to try on.

Faone would also know about Verron’s Maison.

The maid returned. Camisse lit the card, let it burn close to her fingertips, then dropped it onto a salver to let it ash. Raigeis would not hear of her evening with Pearroc Seale until she left tomorrow evening.

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Continuing the free chapters, 2 per month, as part of my year+ publishing celebration! My writing has changed quite a bit in the past near-decade.

Enjoy this installment with the two protagonists of Weave a Wizardry Web, the strong wizard Alstera and her aunt Camisse, a commander on the border who is labeled little more than an adept in the Wizard Enclave.

VI

Camisse crossed the thick carpet, hoping her boots left no sandy trail. The woven carpet was a gift from the king himself, she remembered.

She bent and pressed dry lips to her mother’s papery thin cheek. As she straightened, she saw in Letheina a fragility she had not expected. Her mother looked shrunken. Her flesh looked peeled from beneath her skin. The ArchClan’s eyes, though, retained their steely cut.

“Sit, my daughter.”

“Ma mère,” she warned and indicated her dusty breeches.

“If you ruin the upholstery, it can be replaced.”

Camisse sat. She saw her mother’s hands shake. How old was Letheina? Eight and seventy? As a child of her mother’s later child-bearing years, Camisse had always viewed her as old. Now she looked truly aged.

Raigeis sat to the right, the place that he’d taken while still in his teens. Camisse had welcomed her appointment to the border—terrified of change, awkward with command, but glad to escaped her brother’s tyranny.

Letheina rested her arms on the damask-covered arms of her high-backed chair and clutched the wood that formed the downward curve to the seat. “You do not look as if you spent the morning sparring. Or that you rode six days from the border to here. Or that you were engaged in a battle against sorcerers and wyre when Raigeis’ sons arrived with my message.”

My secret stash of energy, she wanted to retort, but whimsy had little place in her clan. “I’ve rested two days, ma mère. I am resilient. How long before I return to Chanerro?”

“So eager to return?” Raigeis selected a pastry from the nearly empty platter. “Have you not missed our entertainments? Theatre? Concerts? Dances? You once claimed them important.” His bite into the pastry left a smear of cream on his lip. He wiped it with his thumb.

The more unsettled she became, the easier it was to avoid whimsy. “The importance that I claimed was only in looking after my niece and my nephew, both of whom I have yet to see since my return. You assured me they would be well cared for.”

“Do you suggest that we neglected them?”

“No.” She twisted a little then settled, not wanting to give Raigeis more ammunition. “I would like to see them, but I am told—several times—that they have duties they must perform. No one, however, will tell me what these duties are. I ask a few minutes only, but they are busy. At Chanerro, we do not have soirées and multi-course dinners with dancing and iced pastries with our tea. Are these entertainments their duties?”

“Of course not.” Letheina scowled. “Romert has duties at the palace. I am surprised you did not see him yesterday. Alstera works on a project for my brother. They both will attend tonight’s reception. If that is an acceptable time for you.”

“When Allard and Ferrant arrived at Chanerro, they said my return was a necessity. This is my third day back. Am I to hear the reason for my recall? We were considering an attack on Verrein Snows, the tower we lost a half-century ago. The Drakon’s eldest brother died there. He would be pleased to see the keep returned to us.”

Letheina’s nails dug into the blue damask. “Why do you speak of the Drakon?”

In the past she had never managed to keep private any of her activities and meetings with people outside the clan. She did not try now. “He was at the practice ring this morning.”

“You met him there?”

Her mother’s intensity warned Camisse to have care with her words. “I encountered him there, along with his outlander protégé Pearroc Seale. Ruidri Talenn introduced me to the Drakon’s comeis, who is his brother. I did hope to mention Verrein Snows to him; I saw it not a month ago. It is still a mighty citadel. We did not speak long enough to bring it up, however.” Had she eased their suspicions?

The ArchClan’s nails no longer scratched the wood. “I am pleased you remembered Verrein Snows’ connection to the Enclave. It should be returned to our control. When you take it, will you move the bulk of the border guards to that fortress?”

Raigeis’ twin sons had hinted that she would not return to Chanerro. Letheina’s question sounded as if she would. Camisse shared her plan and hoped she would be allowed to fulfill it. “Only if we can also take the Verrein Dale. Although the citadel looks strong, it can be cut off in winter. Verrein Dale would give us two outposts, each supporting the other. And then we will have moved the border back to the line we once held for two hundred years.”

“That would please the king.” She shifted as if the next words were difficult. “The reports we receive greatly please the king, especially with the failures at Iscleft in recent weeks. You have led our forces well.”

Praise surprised her. She couldn’t completely control her pleasure. She knew the tribute hadn’t come from her mother. Letheina had always been chary with any praise. Camisse had spent her childhood and youth striving to win her mother’s approval. Command had taught her to look for inner rewards. When she learned that trick, when she learned how to convince the Fae to trust wizards, the first successes followed. They had setbacks, but rising morale won as many battles as good strategy and steady supplies did.

“I am pleased to serve,” she said then added the question she had vowed not to speak. “If you are satisfied with my leadership, why did you send Allard and Ferrant to replace me?”

Letheina’s chin jerked, as if she blocked a look at her son. “You are not replaced. The twins merely stand in your stead until your return.”

“That is not what Allard implied.” She looked squarely at Raigeis, father of the twins. “Allard gave me the impression that I would not return.”

“Of course you will return,” her mother repeated, “likely by the end of this month.”

Yet Raigeis shielded his eyes and reached for another cream pastry.

“It is difficult to balance wizard, Fae, and military,” Camisse pointed out. “This recall, at this time, it cam disrupt that fragile web. Chanerro is successful because we work together. Iscleft is not successful. The commander there lets the wizards run the strategy. If the balance we worked so hard to build is broken, the web will fall apart. We will lose all we have regained. I would return sooner than the end of the month.”

“You will return when the ArchClan no longer needs you,” her brother snapped, asserting his magister authority.

“If I do not return,” she carefully kept a neutral tone,” my captains may revolt. Allard offended the Fae captain within the first hour, and the wizard captain by nightfall. They may have orders to replace me, but I left Captain Symonys of Bronchet Clan in charge. He has battle experience. Forgive me, brother, but your sons do not, and they speak incautiously.”

“You had no right—.”

“She has every right,” Letheina snapped. “She commands the post. We have gained much in the years I have required her to command Chanerro. She will return to that command. Allard wanted a posting, and you sent him with his brother to learn. He understood that the posting was temporary. In hindsight, perhaps we should have sent a veteran captain.”

Watching Raigeis swallow an argument against his mother, Camisse asked, “Or was Allard assured that his appointment would become permanent?”

Her brother reared back. He glared at her, and she gave a little nod. Yes, she understood him very well, too well.

“The ArchClan must approve any permanent posting.” He sounded hidebound.

“Oh, be quiet, Raigeis.” Their mother’s patience had thinned. “You tried to manipulate the situation, and you have been found out. Go. Scry a message to your sons. And then check on the preparations for this evening’s reception.”

“All is going as planned.”

“Go, Raigeis.”

He stared at his mother then stood, giving Camisse another glare. He didn’t stomp from the room, but his stiff walk exhibited anger. He shut the door carefully behind him.

Letheina looked at Camisse. “Would that there were spyholes in this room. He would stand there until you leave.”

“I will not say anything to you that I will not say to his face.”

“Nevertheless, shield our conversation. I wish to speak of things that I do not want him to hear.”

If Raigeis had done the shielding, it would have collapsed when he left. Camisse obeyed. Her magic ran easily for these shallow spells; it was the deeper spells that she struggled with. Aware of her mother’s critical gaze, she built the wards quickly, having had much practice in the last decade and a half. Plans for battle never succeeded if stray ears could hear.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Alstera flexed her fingers then sent a sliver of power to the Shield as the spell took shape, link into link into link. Camisse built it like a ward, a curious design for a spell merely intended to deaden sound. Wards barricaded. This linked spell veered away from anyone intending no harm while it barricaded against those with hostile intent.

Her aunt completed a circuit of the room. Alstera’s ears needed to pop. She backed away, and the internal pressure eased.

She should leave. She had already used up too much of today’s free time. She should have left when Raigeis stomped from the room. Alstera peered one last time into her grandmother’s study. She heard no words. Camisse hadn’t fumbled this spell.

Not that Letheina would commend her youngest daughter’s successful performance of a spell that other wizards mastered in their teens. Alstera had yet to hear her grandmother utter a word of praise to anyone who met her expectations. Her bloodline had to be perfect. She scowled at failures. She refused to acknowledge those who did not achieve more than requested. Alstera had not experienced a frown in years. She still cringed at her last failure. She still worked for that one nod of approval.

Letheina’s nods were much fewer than frowns.

I will win one. And it will come soon. When Alstera found the way to increase a spell’s energy not just for wizards but also adepts, then surely Letheina would compliment her success.

A thin sliver of light revealed the narrow door that fitted into the wall’s framing and opened into a side hall. She pressed the interior latch and peered out with magic. No one would see her emerge.

By the time she reached the hall proper, more magic dispensed with cobwebs and dirt stains. She added a bit of sparkle to her gown to hide the cleansing spell. And then she went in search of her uncle Raigeis.

He was not hard to find. He paced outside the study, up and down the long hall, occasionally glowering at the closed door as if wondering how mother and daughter could find so much to discuss. The house guard ignored the magister, keeping his eyes on the opposite wall. As Alstera approached her uncle, Comeis Ruidri Talenn came into the hall with his long stride. Alstera envied that panther’s glide over the marble floors. Only a Fae moved with such smoothness.

The house guard folded his arms across his chest. “The ArchClan is in private conference with her daughter Camisse,” he droned.

The Fae inclined his head. “I will wait.”

Raigeis glared at Alstera. “You have sparkled your gown?”

She flicked the shimmer of a bowtie on her bodice. “A little trick.”

“A profligate waste of power. Do you wish to see the ArchClan?”

“I was actually seeking you, Uncle. May we speak privately?”

“About what?”

She sighed at his curtness. “When people suggest a private conference, Uncle Raigeis, that usually means they do not want to announce the reason to the world.”

“You lecture me?”

“I would not dare. May we speak privately?”

“I have no time for petty concerns.”

Her turn to scowl, and she did. “I would not call our conversation last week about methods to increase puissance a petty concern. Nor the conversation the week before about determining the true motives for people’s crimes.”

“We do not need motives to convict them.”

“But what drove them to break the five tenets of wizardry? Should we not try to understand that?”

“We had this conversation. It did not need privacy. I have work to do.”

“I have questions about Nevil, Uncle.”

He stopped. Over his shoulder, he said, “Not now, Alstera.”

“Then when?”

“Ask me tomorrow. Or the next day.”

“I shall. Nevil is my friend. I think you make a mistake.”

Raigeis turned halfway. “No mistake. Do not be a fool by supporting him. He is lost.”

“Not if we understand the motives for an action you call a crime.”

“The whole Enclave calls it a crime. It has called the linking of minds a crime for centuries, since Saldoran.”

Oh. Saldoran and the Nexus. A true crime, then.

One hundred and forty years ago, the Enclave had banished the wizard Saldoran for stealing power from adepts through a linkage he called a Nexus. Before Saldoran, the Nexus was not forbidden. His multiple crimes caused the Council of Five to name it so.

A master wizard, Saldoran could deepen and prolong any linkage; he did not even have to be in physical contact with his victim. He had had many victims. He stole their power to increase his own, sending them out as spies, using them to work against the Enclave that had sheltered him. From the date of his banishment, any similar linkage became a crime, whether in a circle or a true web of connections. No wielder of power was to be involved in any linkage. No spell was to invade another’s mind. The Enclave’s only greater taboo was blood magic.

Had Nevil risked the Nexus? Cautiously, Alstera prodded her uncle with the theory that she and her friends had debated for the last three years. “Linked adepts could elevate one of their own to a wizard’s puissance. We would have more wielders to throw against Frost Clime. We need more, Uncle Raigeis.”

“It is forbidden.” A stone wall could not have been sturdier.

Ruidri Talenn glanced from Raigeis to her and back but kept his opinion to himself.

“You should not persist in this inquiry. Or have you helped Nevil?”

“We do not work together. I am under Rombrey’s tutelage for the higher spells.”

Raigeis snorted, evidence of how little he believed her. “You’re scraping up foul sorcery if you’re dabbling in the Nexus, little girl.”

 “I am not a little girl, Uncle. I know it is forbidden. I understand the reason. But we must have a way to increase our numbers against the Frost Clime.”

“No. Argue it with the ArchClan. Better yet, argue it before the Aged Sages. They will determine Nevil’s fate. Broach it before he goes before them, though, or they will consider you tainted with the same evil.”

“I’m not proposing Saldoran’s Nexus. I only want to help the Enclave.”

“It does you no good to argue with me, girl. Now, I have real problems to deal with,” and he started away, his boot heels clicking on the marble.

“That was not the reason I asked for a private conversation.”

He drew up. Again he gave her only his profile. “What? You will have to reveal it. We can trust the comeis not to spread it, and the guard—,” he gazed at the man, who froze, not seeming to breathe, “the guard won’t dare speak of it. Well? If it is important, speak up.”

He irritated her when he treated her like a fumbling adept. Alstera had passed the Trials sixteen years ago. At age fifteen, she was one of the youngest to do so and three years before her older brother. Raigeis had never congratulated her for that feat; he only praised one of his brood.

“I understand another attack occurred last night.”

“Rumor.”

“A Fae. He survived. Not cut-throats, Uncle, but unshifted wyre.”

Ruidri Talenn became stiller, not even breathing.

Raigeis glared. He eyed the comeis as if he were to blame. “We’ve not been told this.”

The Fae didn’t flinch. “I only heard it myself when I returned from the practice ring.”

Her uncle turned completely to face them. “Who told you?”

After a brief moment, when the Fae clearly did not intend to respond, Alstera answered. “Bourne de Chardyss, a relative of Sullin Bourne, comeis to Pater Perrault.”

“Ah. I will send for him this afternoon and question him myself.”

Ruidri Talenn bowed. “The comeis Sullin Bourne comes to me this afternoon, Magister, to discuss this event. Fae questioning Fae will create no hostility. Wizard questioning Fae—I do not advise it.”

Raigeis’ glare didn’t lessen, but he nodded. “That is best. Did this Bourne de Chardyss survive?”

“Forgive, Magister, but Bourne de Chardyss merely brought the news of the attack; he was not the one attacked.”

“Did the Fae survive?”

“Yes, Lady Alstera. He is wounded; our healer is with him. He was fortunate the wyre did not shift. I do not know the reason; he may. I had hoped to ask the commander Camisse to accompany me, Magister.”

“That will be her decision, Comeis.”

Again the tall Fae inclined his head. “Just so, Magister Raigeis. The commander is a power in this house, equal to the mater herself.”

“My mother is ArchClan, not just mater,” he snapped. “I thought the Fae were more careful with their words.”

Alstera snorted. “He reminds you, Uncle Raigeis, that Camisse may owe a blood loyalty and a kin loyalty to Letheina, but the commander of a military post has a voice in the Enclave equal to a clan leader.” She hugged that knowledge. Snubs littered Camisse’s past. But military rank didn’t depend on power. Camisse’s single vote would pique more than a few.

Raigeis understood all that Alstera had left unspoken. “The ArchClan is a powerful voice in her own right,” he defended.

“Of course. I do not disparage my grandmother and clan mater. Will you speak with me about the wyre attacks?”

 He scowled. She wondered how soon before his face fixed into such a fierce lines. “You would learn more from the comeis than from me,” he grudged. Then he strode away.

Alstera looked from her uncle’s back to Comeis Ruidri Talenn. He was looking at the guard.

“You have heard much in a little span of time that would be best forgotten. Can you do so? Or will it spill out with each tankard of ale?”

The guard’s eyes widened. “I should not have heard these things, comeis.”

“They are not dangers to know, yet caution is needed. It is an honor to guard the ArchClan’s person. You were selected out of many.”

“Comeis, it is wisest that I forget them. Your favor, comeis.”

“In this house, that favor should be asked of a wizard. Standing before you is the greatest of the Enclave wizards.”

The guard looked at Alstera then knelt. “My lady, these things I should not have heard.”

“You cannot un-hear them, guard.”

“With your favor, my lady, I could.”

With shock, she realized he asked her to reach into his mind and wipe the memory. The Fae asked her to do this. She stared at Ruidri Talenn. Has he heard about the spells I’ve been investigating? Can he sense a taint like the Nexus? Surely the Fae knew nothing about her recent inquiries. Faeron had no similar taboos. Ruidri Talenn knew this. Is he testing me?

She gestured for the guard to rise. When he once again loomed over her, she hissed, “What you ask is forbidden. We are not to tamper with the minds of others. We may only heal those who live in nightmares. Keep your mouth shut on the last half-hour. You do not need a spell to discipline yourself. Or do you?”

“My lady, your favor, please.”

“No. Raigeis will know that you should know. Three days hence he will ask you. He will know the difference between a mind refusing to answer and a mind wiped clear. And if you can hold your tongue for three days, by then the news will be all over the Enclave.”

“Many secrets swirl around the ArchClan. The magister will think I have told these.”

“Then I will ensure that he knows I was the one who spread the news. Keep your tongue in your head, guard.”

Still shaken, Alstera walked away.

Ruidri Talenn fell into step beside her. “I thought you waited for the commander.”

“I can wait at her chambers.”

“I did not expect you to refuse the memory wipe. He asked for it.”

“You put the idea in his head,” she retorted. “Would you tamper with his memory?”

“It is never wise. The pathway would cross many others. Myself, you, the magister, his duty to the ArchClan, and then we add in all we talked of: the wyre, the Fae, the other attacks, and more. In changing one memory we risk changing others in unpredictable ways. I would not have worked the spell.”

“Have you ever? Such spells are not part of my training. I ask for knowledge only.”

“As I said, the spell is unpredictable and therefore dangerous. What if we somehow cross a vital memory like breathing?”

He had avoided her question. Was it a warning? “Someone forgets how to breathe?”

“Little ones lose their breath. Have you not seen their fear when they cannot breathe?”

“But a simple jostle—.”

“Not so simple when the guard is a fathom-high and in light armor twice your weight.”

“Would you have done it?”

“As you said, the magister will know whether or not he lies about his memory of a half-hour.” He paused. “I go another way. Do you attend tonight’s reception, Lady Alstera? Then I shall see you there.” He bowed then backed a few steps before he turned.

She watched him until he took a side passage off the main hall. It was too late to return to Letheina’s study and hope to speak with her aunt. She should return to Great-Uncle Rombrey. Her nose twitched on the thought of Nevil imprisoned at the Moot Hall. Raigeis would have no patience with her for the next few days, not after her hidden insults registered.

She could not remember the name of the witness against Nevil. His wife Zenobia might have let him bespell her once, but not twice and certainly not to lose her power to him. And Zenobia would be biased. No, Alstera needed someone else. In Nevil’s clan Teobolt was closer to his age, but she thought she would get more answers from a young adept in Charanaise House. Ysador had his studies. Lisandra could be counted on for early tea at the Willow Gardens.

Lisandra it was then.

VII

Camisse returned to her seat. Her mother seemed burrowed into her chair. What necessity had compelled Letheina to call her back from Chanerro Pass? What necessity required secrets to be kept from Raigeis, her magister and oldest living son?

“Shield in place,” she said to prompt this private conversation forward.

Letheina did not keep her in suspense. “An Enclave vote is approaching. I want your clan proxy.”

The implications ricocheted. As barely a wizard, Camisse’s only vote would be for clan leader—the replacement for one who had died. Unless—. “Or you stepping down as clan mater? To devote yourself solely to being ArchClan?”

“Don’t be foolish. The Enclave has no precedent for that. And don’t look shocked. Foolish girl. I am old. I can tell my time is nearing. Not tomorrow or next week or even next month, but I will certainly not survive the coming winter.”

Camisse found her voice. “Who told you this? Gerhardent? Arendt?”

“Both our healers are useless for anything more than tonics and tinctures. Do you think I don’t understand my own body? Do you think a clutch of cackling diviners can tell me anything?” Her pale blue eyes flared, bluish-grey lightened toward silver. “They flutter on about Chaos and thresholds and the elements all mixed. They are useless.”

Camisse knew better than to answer. Letheina must have consulted the oracles and received no practical answer.

Letheina, her mother, dead. And I feel—what? Not grief. Not fear. Nothing. The ArchClan’s death would affect every person in the Enclave, wizard and adept and Naught. Every Fae. Every mundane. Repercussions would ripple into the other two cities of Lucerna. A new ArchClan meant a new liaison for the king. Every contract with merchants and dealers and artisans and craftsmen and caravanmasters—her mind boggled at the far-reaching changes. Anything Letheina had signed in the Enclave’s name must be re-negotiated. Only contracts stamped with the seal of the Council of Five would hold through the new regime.

Letheina had served as ArchClan for ten years. For all the disagreements and disappointments between daughter and mother, wielder and clan leader, Enclave member and ArchClan, Camisse knew her mother had served the Enclave as best she could. She had steered a middle path between Fae-backed hawks and isolationist doves.

She had lobbied her predecessor to send Camisse to Chanerro. Camisse’s successes there had influenced Letheina’s election to ArchClan. She set her favored son as magister. Her favored grandson became liaison to the king. Who else had she steered into position?

And she wanted Camisse’s voting proxy? Why? Letheina could not control the Enclave after her death. “You will have no use for my vote when you are dead, ma mère.”

“Foolish girl.” The old woman did not temper the verbal slap. She never had. Death glaring at her, she still would not. Whatever awaited in Neothera, Letheina would not change now. “Had I not birthed you, I would doubt your parentage. Your proxy will be given to Raigeis.”

“No.” She did not need to consider.

“I demand it.”

“You cannot demand it. You will be dead.”

“The contract is drawn up already. Raigeis will have your proxy vote for the next clan leader and the next ArchClan. You see, I anticipated your refusal. I anticipated that you still do not trust your brother.”

“With good reason. He tries to replace me with his sons.”

“He will not.”

“Not now, not since I called him on it. He intended to. Just as he would find a way around the terms of any contract. No, ma mère, he will not get my proxy.”

“You will have returned to Chanerro. The vote will happen without you.”

“I can scry my vote. You cannot demand my proxy.”

“I do demand it. Give it to me, or I will have the king remove you as commander.”

Her eyes flared at the threat. “Don’t be foolish, ma mère,” she retorted, repeating her mother’s earlier words. “You would lose the commander’s vote entirely. You do not know whom the king will approve as my replacement. My success is not easily duplicated, or Iscleft would be winning as well. Allard and Ferrant were foolish choices. They have little battle experience. Neither are suited to command wizards, let alone Fae and Rhoghieri. Who decided that? Raigeis? Appointing his family over better choices? Tomorrow a veteran needs to be sent to replace the twins. You see, ma mère, I grow in wisdom. I am commander of a border post. My proxy vote will serve our clan and the Enclave, not my brother’s ambitions.”

“How can your vote serve the Enclave?”

“I command Chanerro Pass. I command wizards, Fae, and the king’s soldiers. When the Enclave accepted the Fae binding, Faeron demanded that the border commanders receive votes for anything that affected the whole Enclave. The Fae at the Pass told me of this. They will have also told Ferro at Iscleft. The command gives me the same rights as a clan leader.”

Letheina’s head rested against the high back of her chair. “I had forgotten that.”

“That will crawl up Raigeis’ spine.” Camisse could not quite hide the relish she felt at one-upping her oldest brother. “He cannot vote, yet I can.”

“He can vote if he is the next Clan Pater.”

“And thus the reason I will not give him my proxy.”

“Even though I am your mother and wish it?”

Guilt washed over Camisse. Then she saw how the old woman’s eyes glittered, and she remembered all the manipulative ways that Letheina controlled people.

“Even with scrying you may not learn of the vote in time. You will miss the discussion, the consensus-building.”

“Then have Huron Talenn come to me on your death. Bonded to you, he must obey a command, even if it carries past your death. The Fae can walk within this world in the twinkling of an eye. It takes great power, but he can bring word within hours of your death. And I can return with him by the underpath.”

“You are willing to travel through the veil?”

She grinned at her mother. The underpaths frightened her, but Letheina did not need to know that. “I trust the Fae,” she countered. “They keep their word, even unto death. And if their death leaves an oath not completed, their sept will ensure its fulfillment. Have you forgotten that?”

“My mind is as sharp as ever.”

“Perhaps you choose to forget their powers, like wizardry yet completely different. You have never accepted their presence in the Enclave. You are bound to a Talenn de Ysagrael, whose Maorn is first brother to the Maorketh. He is a Blade, one of their best warriors. He will fight for you to his death. Fae cannot lie. They hold the five tenets sacred while we see the tenets as guides. Why do you mistrust them so? No, it is not mistrust. It is hate. Why do you hate them so? They did not lure my oldest brother into Faeron. It was his choice to disappear.”

“You understand so much but not that? Foolish girl. Will you give Raigeis your proxy?”

“No. You should have anticipated that I would not.”

“I hoped—since I was the one to ask, as your mother—.”

“You, ma mère, taught me to avoid sentiment when making decisions,” she scoffed. And this shaky logic and emotional loyalties were far distant from the mother Camisse knew. She had changed greatly. “Raigeis is too arrogant and blind with it. He offends wizards and Fae. He’s not even obeying you. He overstepped your request by replacing me with his sons. What else has he done?”

“He serves me faithfully. He is my oldest living son.”

“Clan leadership is not primogeniture. You taught me that lesson, ma mère. Someone better suited than Raigeis should be found. Your support for that person should be announced. If Raigeis is the only candidate for pater, the clan will split.” But she had pressed too far. Letheina’s wily instincts awoke.

“How do you know this? You’ve only returned five times in fifteen years. No one is better suited than Raigeis. He is oldest. He has the most experience.”

“And he lords it over the others like a tyrant. I have not missed that while I’ve been away.”

“Who is a better leader? Give me a name, Camisse. Tournous? He is not our blood. My nephew Gerhardent? He is blind to his brother’s faults. Shonine will not leave her ties to Clan Bronchet. Aloise? She can scarce wield Water. My brother Rombrey? He has the age and the experience, but he will not come out of his tower. And he will not live many years past my own death.”

“You do not name Romert. He is the Enclave’s liaison to the king.”

“Too young.”

“Is he? He is admired and respected by people in and out of our clan. He is a wizard of Water and Air and an adept with Earth. His wife is a full wizard of dual powers. Their children show potential. Name him.”

“How do you know he is respected?”

“Along with your orders I receive letters from friends across the Enclave.”

“You gossip about me?”

“Not you specifically, ma mère, only the news that anyone would hear. Why do you not consider Romert? Because he is not Raigeis? Ma mère, do not tell me that your heart rules your head.”

“He is too young,” she repeated.

“Yet he acquits himself well in court and in Enclave politics, is that not so? Better than Raigeis, who thinks hectoring is persuasion. And the Fae bond will temper his mortality and human emotions with Fae longevity and reason. He is a much better choice than my oldest brother.”

“His weakness is his sister Alstera.”

“How is Alstera a weakness? She is the most powerful wizard in the Enclave.”

“She dabbles where she should not. She is impatient with Enclave restrictions. She rebels when she needs to show restraint. And she is his downfall, for he sees no errors in his sister. Raigeis is the only choice.”

Camisse shifted in her seat. “How long am I to stay?”

“What is this question? I ask for your proxy.”

“Do I return as soon as I give up my two proxy votes? Is that the plan you hatched with Raigeis?”

“You make it sound as if we colluded.”

Camisse rolled her eyes and stood. “By that, I think, I have my answer. Here is my plan, ma mère. You say I am fifteen years from being with my clan. While I stay here, I will take the tenor of the clan. I will question. I will observe. In and out of the clan. And then I will decide if I am wrong—or if you and Raigeis are wrong.”

“I am your ArchClan and your clan mater. You dare call me wrong?”

“You tell me you are dying. The dying are often blinded by sentiment. The Letheina who is my mater and ArchClan is not blinded by sentiment. Give me time to learn if Raigeis has changed. If he has not, I will look for the best candidate for clan leader.”

“We counted on your proxy to swing many votes to Raigeis.”

“All the more reason that I should decide carefully. You should see that.”

“I see it. I do not like it.”

“There speaks sentiment, ma mère. Careful. You do not sound like yourself.”

She huffed. “Do you have to be right?”

“Celebrate it, ma mère. Fifteen years ago I was never right. Raigeis told me that.”

Letheina arched a brow. “Did he so? I did not know that.”

“You do not know all Raigeis did then or does now. Are you agreeable to my plan?”

“Have I a choice? Yes, yes, I agree. Go from me. I must rest this afternoon. This evening’s reception will go far into the night, and I must keep my wits for it all.”

“The ArchClan can retire early.”

“Not when she is hosting the event.”

“Raigeis should have hosted it. Shall I ring for your secretary or your maid?”

“Drviss has orders to come to me soon. She will escort me to my suite. Go. Start your questions. The sooner you’re done—.”

She kissed her mother’s papery thin cheek then strode out.

Drviss waited, talking quietly to the guard. A Naught in common dun, she’d been with Letheina even longer than Raigeis had been Magister. She curtsied. “Commander.”

“She is expecting you, Drviss.”

“Very good, Commander. It is a pleasure to see you returned, even though temporarily. Perhaps in your brief time here you can have the same influence in the clan that you have at Chanerro Pass.”

“Thank you, Drviss.” Did she hear implications, or did she want to hear them? “My mother says you are to escort her to her chambers. She will be grumpy. I did not obey her request.”

“Better a little pique now than great dissatisfaction later, Commander.”

More implications? She shot her a quizzical look, but the maid opened the door to the study. She glanced at the guard, but he had re-focused on the opposite wall.

With an inner shrug, she headed for her rooms.

Drviss’ voice kept swirling. As a Naught, she had no vote in clan business. Naughts were powerless family or retainers or employees. Drviss was a retainer, a cousin too distant to be counted family. Her father had served ArchClan Saigeis, Letheina’s father, then Letheina when she became matriarch. Drviss stepped in when her father became too enfeebled. Naughts might have no vote, but they were not blind. Long-serving Naughts saw better than most.

Tonight’s reception would give Camisse the opportunity to re-connect with her clan. She drew up short. And any gown in her wardrobe would be fifteen years out of fashion.

“Camisse! Cousin!”

She turned. A young lady was gliding to her. Tall and slender as a willow, so pale blond her hair looked like flax in the sun’s radiance, she had a pretty smile that heightened the perfect symmetry of her features. But it was her lake-blue eyes that helped Camisse realize who she was. “Faone? Is it Faone who used to tag behind me while her sister studied?”

She giggled. “I did not expect you to place me. I have changed.”

“You are quite altered, but only you and your sister Fleur have such pale hair and water-blue eyes. And I have returned a few times, to see you grow from a toddler to a young lady. What are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Seventeen. Oh, I have wanted to speak with you, ever since I heard you had returned. Where are you heading?”

“My rooms. For a long soak and then a search for a gown for tonight’s reception.”

That beautiful face crumpled in disgust. “I’m not going to the reception.”

“I wish I were not, but Letheina requires it.”

Her long-suffering tone brought back Faone’s smile. “Where you will be presented as if you are a debutante, and everyone will want a dance with you, or five minutes alone for a little word.”

Camisse shuddered. “Can you help me escape? I would rather face wyre in battle.”

“You truly fight the wyre?”

“The shifters are allied with the sorcerers of Frost Clime.”

“Yes, I know.” She studied her left hand. No, a bandaged finger.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

Faone looked up then dropped her hand. Her face pinked. Briefly, she touched her bodice above her heart. “A scratch, no more. After the morning meal. It has stopped bleeding now, I think. You said you needed to search for a gown?”

“My things are cobwebbed with age.”

“I can help you. You can wear one of my gowns. We are much of a size and the hem can be quickly let down. If you wear slippers rather than the new heels—.”

“Slippers, please. I will fall off any heeled shoes.”

Faone giggled again. “You are not clumsy!”

“Only when my feet are well planted. And I am not as willowy as you, Faone.”

She eyed Camisse’s form critically. “It will depend on the lacing, I think. Go on to your bath. I’ll bring three or four gowns that will work.”

“I don’t think—.”

“Hush. It will be a privilege to gown the commander of Chanerro Pass.”

“This commander wishes she was back at Chanerro Pass.”

Young lady though she was, Faone tilted her head with understanding on those aquamarine eyes. “I remember. You were a wallflower. Next to a Naught and ignored. Trust this Naught, cousin: you will not be ignored tonight.”

“Wallflower is easier.”

“And no fun. The men you encounter tonight may look forward to speaking with the commander, but they will linger for the lady.”

“That’s not reassurance,” she laughed.

“The gown will give you confidence. Trust me.”

“If it’s like the one you’re wearing—.” The silver and grey day dress looked elegant in its simplicity.

“No, this is too plain. You need something to shock them all.”

“Not shock them, Faone.”

“Yes. They need to see you with new eyes. Trust me. I know. I am a Naught, but that is no longer the first thought anyone has of me. Nothing too daring, I promise. Go on. I’ll be there in a half-hour.” Her mouth twisted. “Maybe a little more. I promised to help Fleur.”

“How is your twin?”

“She will pass her Wizard Trials without difficulty, but she stammers whenever she tries to flirt.” Faone rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t take to my lessons very well. She has a tendre for a young wizard in duCian. He likes her, too; I can tell. But she is convinced he likes that flame-haired girl in Drakon clan. Fleur thinks she is too plain.”

“Surely she sees how elegant you look?”

“She likes laces and ruffles, lots of them; the more, the better. And she has no eye for colors. But I promise to be with you in an hour. Or two.”

Camisse laughed. “No hurry. The long afternoon stretches before me.”

Only the afternoon vanished. She was hailed every time she turned onto a new hall. Two hours had passed before Camisse reached her room … where her niece waited for her.

Alstera sat at a table, frowning over the letter before her.

Camisse shut the door. “I return, all rainy and dusty, and my favorite niece is engrossed in her own writing.”

She sprang up. “Tante Camisse!” The letter was flung aside, and she hurried to give her a hug. “You cannot be rainy and dusty. Besides, the sky is clear. And I have been waiting an hour. I wish I had known yesterday that you had returned.”

“Yesterday your brother Romert brother imprisoned me at the palace, explaining to the generals and then the king’s advisers and then the king himself about our recent advances at the border. We were there until the 19^th Bell. I’m surprised Romert didn’t mention it to you.”

“I don’t usually see him except on the Holy Day. Oh, it is good to see you.” She gave her another squeezing hug then stepped back.

“Even when I am still in my dirt? Can you wait until I bathe? And Faone is coming. She promised me a gown for tonight’s reception. Will you attend?”

“Raigeis has ordered me to be there. What delayed you this afternoon?”

“A conversation with Letheina, and then I must have spoken with a member of every family in the Clan. Uncle Rombrey demanded I take tea with him.” She opened the door to her private chamber, and Alstera followed her in.

“He is bossy like that. He grows bossier every month.”

“Don’t say that,” for to do so would mean that Letheina’s brother began to show his age as she did—and he had no Fae binding to counter the effects. “Hravda? Are you here?” She crossed the bedchamber to the dressing room.

“Here, Lady Camisse.”

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but I am here now.”

“And the bath is hot, my lady. I was just heating it with a little spell. The food, however, wouldn’t hold. Shall I fetch another tray?”

“Uncle Rombrey gave me a substantial tea. I will want a little more before the reception, I think. Unless there’s to be a dinner. My mother didn’t mention dinner.”

“Only hors d’oeuvres and such,” Alstera said from behind her. “Let me finish my letter, and then we can talk through the doorway, like we used to.”

 

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