The Fire Mages (5 page)

“May I ask—? The scribe’s age? Usual state of wellbeing? Man or woman?”

Now there was definite approval in his eyes. “Woman, almost thirty, rather thin but generally healthy. Prone to winter chills.”

Such things were not, strictly speaking, part of the spell, but could be subtly used to increase its effectiveness by emphasising specific symbols more than others or making fine adjustments in the height of a letter or the pressure of the quill stroke. We had been taught about this in broad terms, but I had looked up references and practised how to apply the more usual effects.

I went to the shelves where the supplies were kept and selected a sheet of paper, a bottle of red ink and a fresh quill, which vibrated very gently in my hand. A few strokes with the knife shaped it to my liking. Then I sat down and began to write. The masters stood each side of me, watching every movement of the quill. All this scrutiny ought to have made me nervous, but the magic thrumming through my hands, from ink and quill to paper, infected me with confidence. I knew it would be all right.

When I finished they pored over the paper as if it held the secrets of the seven moons.

“Well done, Kyra,” the master in charge said, relief in her eyes, for my capability reflected well on her teaching. “Let us see if it works, shall we?”

We seldom saw a true spellpage burned in the spellarium, so all the scribes gathered round the crucible to watch. At the village, only three families could afford a crucible, and only the smallest type. This one was larger than any I’d seen elsewhere, an open metal bowl at least two handspans across, raised on a matching metal stand. The outside was engraved with spell symbols, while the inside was blackened with use.

The master placed the spellpage in the crucible, recited the words –
“By the sun, bring light and fire and colour; by the moon, enable the darkness”
– and lit it with a shard from the fire. At once it flared to a brilliant burst of searing colours, dazzling my eyes. By the time I had blinked it was gone, no more than smouldering ash.

~~~~~

Over evening board that night, Mani said, “I’m
so
glad it was you and not me.” He shone his generous smile at me. “The first of us to scribe a true spellpage! And everyone watching, too. I’d have been terrified. Yet you seemed so calm.”

“Isn’t she always calm?” Lora reached across to squeeze my hand. Her scarves were beaded in the Ardamurkan fashion, and the movement set them glittering. “I’ve never seen Kyra ruffled by anything.”

“That’s true. But this was beyond anything. You’d have been amazed, Lora. She just sat down and scribed without any hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“So it is. It’s what we’ve trained to do, after all. What’s so terrifying in that?”

“It’s one thing to practise, it’s something else to do it for real. You don’t know whether you can until you try.”

Yet somehow I knew that I could. Coming to the scribery felt like coming home, finding my place in the world, the one place I truly belonged. Everything I did there, the scribing, the books, the spells, the rules of business and the law, even mingling with the Kellon’s people – all of it felt natural and easy to me. I hadn’t been terrified because it hadn’t occurred to me that I could fail. Perhaps it was arrogance or hubris, but I truly felt I was born to be a scribe.

Before the first snows arrived, I had an unexpected visitor. After my shift at the mirror room one cold sun, I made my way back to my lodgings, well-wrapped against the bitter wind. Inside the entrance door was a large hall, with benches along either side. As soon as I walked through the door, bringing a whirl of frigid air with me, a figure bundled in a fashionable woollen coat, large hat and voluminous scarf jumped up from a bench and rushed over to me, arms out.

“Kyra? Surprise!” It was indeed, for I had no idea who it was. “I’ll bet you didn’t expect to see me here!”

“Erm...”

“Come now, sweet child, have you forgotten me already? I’m mortified.”

He unwound the scarf and swept the hat off his head with a dramatic flourish, revealing blond curls.

“Bonnor? Gracious Moon Gods, what are you doing here?”

He enveloped me in an enthusiastic, woolly hug, squashing my nose into his coat so that I could hardly breathe. “Benissar – Mistress Tallyan, that is – is here for some family affair, and she brought me along. Isn’t that delightful of her?” He gurgled with pleasure. “So I get new clothes, thanks to her generosity, and you get messages from everyone in your family. Look!”

He produced a big bundle of papers, all shapes and sizes, tied up with string.

“Wonderful,” I said sourly. “Naturally they’d never pay good coin to write to me.”

“It’s expensive to send by the official messengers, and the wagons are uncertain.” He touched my cheek with one gloved finger. “It doesn’t mean you’re forgotten, little one.”

Not forgotten, perhaps, but certainly I had slipped out of their minds since I left. But then they had slipped out of my mind, too. We had all moved on.

~~~~~

Mistress Tallyan generously treated me and both my friends to a meal at a very expensive board house. She teased us mercilessly – “Two girls and one boy, how interesting!” – and pumped us for information about the town nobility. She was from Ardamurkan originally but not very high status, so she was sure we would know more of the town’s scandals. Lora and Mani kept her supplied with a steady stream of trivial gossip throughout the meal, while I, who knew all the juiciest snippets from the mirrors, said nothing. It was a struggle not to smirk with glee at my superior knowledge.

At the end of the meal, Mistress Tallyan turned to me thoughtfully.

“So, Kyra, your sister is well settled with the Kellon, it seems. She turned her ten-sun into a long-term arrangement rather masterfully, I think. There will be another baby for the Kellon soon, I suppose?” She tipped her head on one side, lifting an eyebrow inquisitively.

“I have no information about that.” I could guess, though. The lack of news told its own story.

“What, nothing in that huge bundle of messages?”

“There was no mention of a baby. But I haven’t heard from Deyria herself. She’s at Hedmandra now.”

“Ah, true enough. He’s not allowed to settle her here, given the terms of the marriage contract. But still – she’ll be very well placed when...” She looked at me for a long moment, then turned back to her wine. “But I daresay no one talks of it.”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t talk about it either, but I knew what she meant. If the Asha-Kellon died, then the Kellon’s drusse, one he clearly held in affection, would be the obvious candidate as the next wife. I had heard the prospect openly discussed in tavern and board house. Yet Deyria was only a village girl, and I didn’t think it likely.

“I don’t know why he wants so many babies anyway,” Lora said, with a toss of her head that set her beads shivering. “He already has his heir and his second heir, and isn’t there a brother? And cousins, and such like. And some of his previous drusse have children. But everyone knows he won’t let his drusse take the herbs. It’s positively feudal.”

I laughed at her outrage, but Mistress Tallyan was rather shocked. “Oh, no, dear. Under
normal
circumstances, that might be sufficient, even for a Kellon, but here the situation is rather tricky. You see, the Lady Cerandina – his wife, you know – is related to the Drashon himself, so the marriage contract is very restrictive. Children of the marriage are given priority, but the eldest child, the Lady Bellastria – well, it was a difficult birth, the Lady Cerandina nearly died. The daughter herself was born deformed. She’s weak still, they say, although no one knows. She’s seldom seen in public. And then— Ooh, sweets! How delicious they look!”

The servers placed several dishes of iced and decorated confections on the table, and Mistress Tallyan had to sample them all. She was generously proportioned, and it wasn’t hard to see why.

“Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the Lady Bellastria. Well, while his wife recovered from the birth, the Kellon took a drusse and had a son, but, would you believe it,
he’s
not right, either. Very strange boy, Axandrei. A real fire-raiser for a while. He wanted to be a scribe at one time, I believe, until they talked him out of it. He’s settled a bit now – not so many scandals, but still... So you see, the Kellon needs a
normal
child as heir, but it has to be through a wife. Mark my words,” and she waggled sugary fingers at us, “as soon as poor Lady Cerandina is aflame, he’ll marry whichever of his drusse has the most likely child. So dear Deyria had better get on with it.”

There was a lot here to think about. I recalled hearing odd pieces of discussion at home about the Kellon’s family, Mother talking with a neighbour, or the servants gossiping. It had never seemed very interesting to me, so I hadn’t taken much notice. Even when Deyria had mentioned the Kellon, I hadn’t thought much of it. But finally I understood: she truly could be the next Asha-Kellon. I smiled at the thought of my wild little sister becoming a great lady.

~~~~~

After Mistress Tallyan opened my eyes to the possibilities for Deyria, I started to pay more attention to the mirror messages relating to the Kellon. Immediately it was obvious that the Asha-Kellon’s illness was now very grave. All through the snows, messages flew about her health. She had deteriorated; the worst was feared. She had rallied a little; everyone was more hopeful. A heartfelt plea from the Kellon for the Drashon’s most experienced mage. Two were sent from Kingswell at once. A sad report that they had been unable to help. And the repeated and increasingly frantic requests for a stronger medication, something – anything – to alleviate the terrible unremitting pain.

The Kellon came himself one sun. He strode into the mirror room, his minions straggling along behind him like so many chicks following a mother hen. He had an urgent message to send to the Drashon regarding a new kind of pain remedy he had heard about, some tropical juice from the northern coast. He thought that the herbalists at Kingswell might be able to find some. While that message was being sent, he stomped about, berating the master in charge for the inadequacies of the scribery.

“Do you not have spells for my good lady? What are you here for, if not to alleviate suffering?”

“We have tried everything – we continue to try, Lord, but...” the master said.

“Well, try harder. This pain – it is inhuman, no one should have to suffer so. Yet they tell me she could live on like this for years. If it were my horse, my stable master would put the poor creature down, but my wife, who has done nothing to deserve it, must endure this misery. And I must watch, helpless. I had rather she were
dead
than go through such agony sun after sun. You could do
that
, I suppose? A death spell?”

“Of course, but...”

“I know, I know, you cannot use them.”

The master’s face betrayed little emotion – perhaps he was used to such outbursts – but I was shocked at the talk of death spells. There were such things, of course, and very useful they were for summer infestations of snakes or horned beetles. But against people? Magic was so hedged about with constraints that harmful spells were difficult to accomplish and rarely successful. Even if the lady were to commission the spellpage and burn it herself, it would still be for the Moon Gods to decide the outcome. It was a sign of the Kellon’s desperation that he even thought of such a thing.

He sighed, and ran a hand through his greying hair. “There must be
something
you can do.”

It was heart-wrenching to listen to his pleading. He cared deeply for his wife, that much was clear. I was surprised by that, knowing of his liking for other women – my sister amongst them. I’d imagined that his wife was unimportant to him, just a familiar part of his life without much meaning. I was wrong.

People talked of it as a political marriage, undertaken to please the Drashon. There were rumours of disagreements, of factions at the hall. Some said that the Asha-Kellon thought herself too grand for Ardamurkan and kept her husband in submission, bound by her whims. Others said she was a gentle soul, with much to put up with from her husband. Sometimes, it was said, there would be arguments, shouting even, until one or the other stormed out.

It was hard to separate truth from exaggeration or outright fantasy. Perhaps these great people were always quarrelsome, or perhaps the little people liked to magnify every minor difference of opinion. Maybe what seemed like a tempestuous relationship was no more fractured than the candle maker and her husband at Durmaston, who regularly had the most dreadful fights but were unquestionably devoted to each other. I supposed after so many years together, the Kellon had grown fond of the Asha-Kellon and she of him, despite their differences.

Whatever the case, their situation now was appalling. I ached to help them, but what could I do? The best mages in the land, the most powerful spells, the strongest remedies had been tried and all found wanting. No magic was ever guaranteed to work, for there were always the final arbiters, the Moon Gods themselves. If they decreed a thing, the will of men could not counter it. Although why the Moon Gods would wish the Lady Cerandina to suffer so much was beyond my understanding.

What could I possibly hope to do? I looked through all the spell books I could find, searching for something different, something which perhaps had been overlooked and not previously tried. I was not alone in this. All the training scribes had been set this task, and everyone, masters and pupils alike, spent more time than usual in the library. But whenever we thought we’d found something, the masters would shake their heads. It was ineffective for some reason, was too dangerous or, more usually, it had already been attempted.

~~~~~

One evening I was reading a spell book in my room. The moon was at its brightest, so I needed no lamp or candle. It was a book of remedies for illnesses, starting with simple fevers and rashes, and continuing through more serious disorders, with a long section at the back on chronic diseases. I was looking for something akin to the Lady Cerandina’s case, but none seemed quite the same, with its relentless deep-seated pain. Then, on the very last page of the book, I found a spell entitled
“The Ultimate Remedy”
. A death spell, and one designed specifically for those at the end of a long illness. It invoked a deep, peaceful sleep and then a quiet death. A spell for those beyond hope, an easeful end when life was intolerable.

I stared at it for some time. It was an elegant spell, which is a hard thing to describe to anyone not a scribe. It was filled with gentle compassion, with flourishes that acknowledged a life well-lived yet now drawing to a close. The decorative swirls were lovingly drawn and every symbol perfect. It was beautiful. I ran my hands gently over the page, tracing the shapes with my fingers and shivering at the power in the spell.

I wanted to scribe it. We had not been taught any death spells, for they were fourth year work at least. I had never even seen one before, since as a rule they were kept locked away in the library. This one had slipped through as the rest of the book was all healing spells. But it was mesmerising, and I wanted to try it for myself, to see if I could copy those graceful pen strokes and unique flourishes.

I rushed across to my desk and pulled out paper and pen. True death spells would be scribed in black ink, but I had none, so I used red instead, the colour of health, illogical as that was. It didn’t matter, though, for none of my materials were magically empowered, so there could be no harmful effects.

I copied the spell neatly in my best script, and to be honest I was pleased with it. The letters danced and glimmered and shone for me, as always. As an afterthought, I put the Lady Cerandina’s name on it, for that was also good practice, and I’d rarely directed a spellpage at anyone of noble status before.

For a while I admired my handiwork, checking for flaws and finding none. Sadly, my beautiful death spell had to be destroyed. I couldn’t admit to scribing such a thing, so before I went to bed I laid it gently on the embers in the hearth. It flamed in a hundred vivid colours for an instant before turning to ash. Afterwards, with death on my mind, I dreamt of a great burning.

That night the Lady Cerandina fell into a deep untroubled sleep, and three suns later she died.