Chapter Sixteen
The courtier greeted Forterran in the palace courtyard as the Mage Guildmaster struggled to heave his bulk out of his litter. He was not yet in his dotage, but he was no longer young, and he was prepared to use his age to his every advantage.
He’d managed to delay this meeting for weeks but it was clear that the King and Queen were losing patience.
“Guildmaster Forterran, be welcome.” The courtier bowed low. “I am instructed to bring you into the presence of their Majesties for a private audience.”
Private audience? That did not bode well. Forterran took a moment to take a breath and adjust his robes and chains. He knew full well that the royal summons had to be about Ritathan’s contract. And whatever else the rascal had done to irritate their recent majesties.
His gouty big toe throbbed with his heartbeat, purple and engorged. There was even a hint of black around the nail. He’d worn simple sandals, for ease, yet even the hem of his robes brushing his foot was enough to cause pain. The courtier glanced down and grimaced, hopefully in sympathy.
“My thanks,” Forterran nodded to the lad, gripping his cane tight. “Let us proceed, with as much haste as I can manage.”
The courtier bowed again. “Make way,” he called out, heading through the doors of the castle. “Make way for Guildmaster Forterran, Guildmaster of the Mages Guild.”
Forterran fixed his face into a pleasant, neutral expression. Having a caller was not an honor normally afforded him. Someone wanted the entire court to know of his presence. As if that was necessary. The gossips would have it about far faster than the crier. Still, he wouldn’t need to worry about anyone treading on his foot, since the lad was clearing a path through the crowd.
There was quite the crowd, which shouldn’t have surprised him. Regardless of the power, there were always those who sought favor. Yet as he walked, he sensed that the flavor of the corridors had changed. The bright white and blue of the airions was gone, replaced by red, gold, and black. Tapestries had been torn down and carvings obliterated.
There was no music, no dancing. No idle card games or quiet flirtations. Forterran didn’t need magic to sense the fear and uncertainty in the very air. He kept his expression neutral and nodded to those he knew as he followed his guide.
There was always a need to be wary; it had been so even in Kara and Xywellan’s time. Forterran had warned Ritathan about taking a royal contract. But Ritathan was never one to listen or turn from a challenge. The Guildmaster stifled a groan that had nothing to do with his big toe.
Under Forterran’s mastery, his Guild had remained neutral, and he hoped to keep it that way. But the path he walked was a wary one, like a steep track that dropped off on both sides. One misstep, one wrong word, and an ally became an enemy.
“Guildmaster,” the courtier broke through his thoughts. “Up here.”
“Stairs,” Forterran grumbled before he caught himself. He gave the lad a weak smile. “Lead on.”
As Guildmaster, his chains bound him to the Guild as a whole, which both restrained him and freed him in some senses. It was a simple matter to cast behind the courtier’s back and boost himself up the stairs, light as a feather. Simple too, to breathe and groan at the effort, enough to make the courtier glance back in alarm.
At the top, Forterran paused. “Let me catch my breath, lad.”
The corridor here was narrower, with no supplicants hanging about. Guards, of course, uniformed in gold and black. Loyal too, from the suspicious looks Forterran was getting. He made a show of adjusting his chains before nodding the courtier on. Chains offered reassurance and promised safety. Little did they know…and better they didn’t.
They stopped outside a door deep within the private chambers. The courtier knocked. A woman answered and the courtier called, “Guildmaster Forterran, for their Majesties.”
The door was opened. The courtier bowed and gestured Forterren forward. The Guildmaster stepped within the chamber; as he crossed the threshold, he felt the first pulse of magic. His mage sense opened immediately, sensing the change.
A magical cord of glittering gold with sparks of red surrounded the woman who held the door open. The cord spiraled around her, like a tangle of wool from a child’s knitting. Below that level of binding, a web of golden netting sank into her skin, deep and confining. The end of the bond cord trailed behind her, leading directly to the woman on the throne.
Forterran’s gorge rose but he managed to keep his face still and his reactions to himself. The room seemed to dim around him until all he could see were the cords, tainted and sealed with the blood of an innocent life.
The other three women who stood behind Satia’s throne were similarly wrapped in the same golden and blood red net.
He almost couldn’t think, overwhelmed by the hate and loathing he felt. But he could not afford outrage here.
A corner of his mind noted that Satia was supposed to have five attendants. Where was the fifth?
“Ah, Guildmaster,” the King’s voice cut through his thoughts.
Forterran could not let himself be distracted during this audience, even by this horror. Clearly, the bonds had been set long ago, maybe even at birth. None in the Guild would use such blood magic, and not on new-born babes. Which meant that Satia’s family had had those resources some twenty-odd years ago.
Something he refused to acknowledge as fear stirred within him.
One of the women shifted position slightly, revealing the fifth cord, stretched out behind the Queen. So there was another.
Forterran dimmed his mage sight and walked forward as slowly as he could. The room was close, with the smell of ginger in the air…and sickness. Queen Satia lay side-ways on a lounge, looking pasty and bloated and very pregnant. King Xyrath was pacing, as he was wont to do. Another man stood at Satia’s feet. Forterran took a moment to place him. Lord Marshal Tarwain, if memory served. Looking decidedly put out.
Xyrath was the picture of royalty, his golden head of hair gleaming under his crown. He probably wore it to bed, Forterran thought sourly, but in truth, he knew he was envious of that head of hair. Unlike his own wisps.
Pity they couldn’t get that spell to work.
Forterran reached the appropriate distance from the throne and bowed as low as he could manage, leaning on his cane. His chains sagged forward, swinging freely. That he also managed to display his gouty foot was rather well done, to his way of thinking.
“Your majesties,” he said, keeping his head down.
“Rise, Guildmaster,” Xyrath commanded.
“You finally come, in answer to our summons,” Queen Satia snapped, her voice as peevish as her face.
“Forgive my infirmities, Your Majesty,” Forterran rose slowly and sighed regretfully over his physical failings.
King Xyrath winced at the sight of his foot. One of the Bondmaidens whispered in the Queen’s ear as she offered a cup of tea. Forterran thought he heard the word ‘chair’. But from the Queen’s lovely scowl, that was not to be.
Instead, she waved the girl away and fixed her beady eye on Forterran’s person. “So, where in this Guild contract does it state that a Chained Mage can claim an apprentice against her father’s will?”
Ah. Forterran plastered a puzzled look on his face, strengthened the spell on his person, and resigned himself to an unpleasant afternoon.
The only warning Halithe had was when Ritathan suddenly lifted his head, with an odd, sardonic smile.
She turned in her chair, the bowl of water sloshing in her hands, as the door opened. A large, thick-waisted, older man walked in, candlelight bouncing off his bald head with its wisps of white hair. “Had to have a tower room, didn’t you?” he wheezed as he closed the door.
“Apprentice Halithe, may I introduce my old friend, Guildmaster Forterran?” Ritathan said.
Halithe caught her breath at that, and swiftly rose to her feet, keeping the bowl steady.
“Don’t ‘old friend’ me,” Forterran growled as he settled his girth in the other chair. He eased a disgusting-looking foot out sideways, avoiding the desk. Halithe wrinkled her nose; it looked painful.
“Apprentice?” Forterran continued. “By what right? By written agreement? By consent of her family? By consent of the Guild?”
Ritathan gestured toward the scorch marks on his desk.
Forterran hummed, then looked at Halithe. “Your work, chit?”
Her anger rose and the water in the bowl sloshed a bit. But she controlled herself and set her face. “Yes, Guildmaster.”
An eyebrow raised, and she could have sworn she saw a glimmer of approval. “Well, I can see why you have her working with water.”
“And why I have accepted her as my apprentice,” Ritathan said. “Subject to your approval, Guildmaster. Of course.”
“Of course,” Forterran repeated, his voice laced with sarcasm “Since I just spent a very long session discussing that very fact with an angry father, a peevish Queen, and a bored King.”
Halithe’s heart started to pound.
“And?” Ritathan asked. His voice sounded silkily dangerous.
“And I did what I always do when I’ve no forewarning. I stalled. I explained the long process of accepting an apprentice into a guild and the difference between one who shows promise and one who can achieve mastery. How rare it is to find one with the gift these days.” Forterran leaned back. Halithe opened her mouth to argue but the glare he shot her had her closing it with a snap.
“And we left it there. The Queen has reasons of her own to be in the Guild’s good graces. So, the girl-child, one Halithe, should be left to continue with her lessons. But as Guildmaster I will make the final determination as to whether to advance her.”
Halithe caught her breath, her heart rising at his words, beating as if to escape from her chest.
“Have you bound her?” Forterran demanded.
Ritathan nodded. “Immediately after that,” he gestured to the charred mark.
Halithe didn’t wait for her master to instruct her. She thrust forward her left hand, where Ritathan had placed the apprentice bond bracelet. “I am forbidden from using magic except in the presence of my master,” she blurted out.
Forterran huffed at her. “In the meantime, you will also continue with your duties as a lady-in-waiting upon the Queen.” He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of which…”
Halithe placed the bowl on the desk and rose. “My thanks, Guildmaster,” she curtseyed deeply to him. “My thanks, Master.” She repeated the curtsey to Ritathan, then grinned at him before she darted to the door, fleeing before her joy could spill out. Then she was flying down the stairs, laughing.
Free, free, free! She’d found an escape from the prison of marriage and a life she’d dreaded and feared for so long—
She raced down, her feet almost dancing as she grabbed at her skirts. At the bottom, she turned, and twirled, and ran smack into Caris.
“Caris,” Halithe breathed, grabbing her hands. “Caris, something wonderful—”
Caris’s face was stark white, pale as a wisp of cloud. “Halithe,” she whispered and Halithe’s heart leapt. The sound of her name, from Caris’s lips; it sounded so different. Powerful. Beautiful. For a moment Halithe was overwhelmed.
Which let Caris push her into a curtained alcove, glancing around to see if anyone was about. Halithe found herself in shadows, the light faint through dirt-encrusted windows.
“Caris, I’m free,” Halithe stumbled over her words as they rushed out in time with her racing heartbeat. “I’m going to be trained, going to be—”
Shaking her head, Caris set put two fingers over Halithe’s mouth. “No, no, I’ve come to warn you.” Caris put her head close, her lips to Halithe’s ear. “You must have a care. Your father, the Queen,” Caris shuddered. “Her rages are terrible, cold and focused, when her plans are thwarted. I fear—”
Halithe evaded Caris’s fingers, darted forward, and kissed her.
Soft. Her lips were so soft.
Halithe felt Caris inhale sharply, and then oh glorious wonder, her lips moved as well, opening, welcoming, and only the need for breath broke them apart. Halithe had both of Caris’s hands and grasped them between hers. “I swear,” she murmured. “I swear, I will become powerful and dreadful and I will break these chains.” She pressed her lips to Caris’s marked wrist. “I will free you and claim you and…” Halithe stopped.
Caris was silently weeping.
“Don’t cry,” Halithe whispered.
“Don’t think it,” Caris whispered back. “Don’t breathe it, don’t dare to hope. This bond is deep and dark and I am powerless.”
“Think it,” Halithe pulled Caris’s hands to her breast. “Breathe it, dare to hope. It will be so.”
“I must go,” Caris said, in an oddly wooden tone. “They will be wanting me, and I must be where I am supposed to be. Do what they say I must. I only came to warn you.”
“Go,” Halithe claimed another kiss, then released her. “I will take heed.” She reached out to stroke away the tears. “You have a care, yourself.”
Caris didn’t meet her eyes, just nodded and slipped away through the curtains.
Halithe closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of endless possibilities. Then she drew a deep breath, reminding herself that there was work to be done before she would be truly free.
When she opened her eyes, she spotted a long hair clinging to her sleeve. A long, auburn hair. She pulled the strand off and coiled it carefully. She tucked the hair into a handkerchief and tucked that into her breastband.
Another breath before she slipped out through the curtains, a new determination firming her spine.
Even if she had to sew a thousand nappies.
“My thanks,” Ritathan watched as Halithe left, amused at her happiness. “She does have potential, Forterran.”
Forterran stared at the scorch mark, an odd look on his face. “Rage?” He asked.
Ritathan nodded. “Her response to a veiled threat from Xyrath.”
“I remember when my mother came into her full powers, triggered by rage.” Forterran chuckled, then remembered himself and gave Ritathan a glare.
Ritathan raised an eyebrow. “I did warn you,” he said mildly.
“Hmmph.” Forterran made a gesture and the pressure on Ritathan’s ears changed. Indistinct, vague voices began to mutter near the door; they would be unintelligible to anyone outside.
“If there were listeners, I would know,” Ritathan said.
“Never hurts to be cautious. You might have mentioned the extent of the corruption.” Blood magic is pure evil and that bond seethes with it.”
Ritathan opened his mouth but Forterran cut him off. “Yes, yes, don’t think to give me a history lesson. In certain faiths, in certain cultures, self-sacrifice is a special form of blood magic. Don’t try to tell me those women consented.”
“I don’t think even Satia consented,” Ritathan mused. “I doubt she was old enough to know what was happening.”
“Please don’t expect me to be sympathetic. That young woman could seek to break the bonds.”
“Could it be done?” Ritathan mused. “The bindings have been there so long they are woven into the women’s very breath.”
“I don’t have the answer to that,” Forterran rumbled, “and no time to speculate. Your apprentice wasn’t the only thing they wanted to discuss.”
“How much beer did you have to drink to get your gout to flare up?” Ritathan rose and took Halithe’s chair.
“Not as much as I would have liked,” Forterran groaned. “It will take a week of weak herbal teas and water to flush it out. I hope you appreciate my sacrifice.”
“I would,” Ritathan said with a straight face. “But I know how much you love beer.” That drew a rueful chuckle from his friend. Ritathan leaned forward. “What did they want?”
“Your head on a pike was my impression.” Forterran rolled his eyes, amusement gone. “But we danced around the issue, discussing the terms of the mage contract. They spoke of the cost and asked not so subtle questions about what happens if you die. I pointed out the relevant provisions.” Forterran heaved a sigh. “Where is your key?”
“I do not know,” Ritathan sat back in his chair and heaved his own sigh. “Kara had it when she left for the field, that is all I know.”
“Queen Satia is a very unhappy woman.” Forterran mused. “She does not wish to pay the fees, yet she does not wish to release you, for you would then be free to take a new contract.”
“A pity, that she suffers so,” Ritathan curled his lip.
Forterran shook his head. “Why not hit that hornet’s nest a few more times?”
Ritathan gave his friend a helpless shrug.
“Oh, please.” Forterran grimaced. “Our new Queen has strange ideas,” he said slowly. “She pressed me to make sure that all suspected blood mages are presented to the King and Queen before they are executed. Some nonsense about a fair hearing before their majesties to assure them justice.” Forterran snorted. “Can you imagine, hauling a struggling blood mage into the court for a hearing?”
“That does not bode well. That one schemes well into the future.” Ritathan said. “Did you promise to do so?”
“Of course.” Forterran gave him a look. “But any blood-mage I find will die in the struggle. I will apologize later.”
Ritathan smiled. “If their Majesties even hear of it.”
“There is that,” Forterran said as he eased his foot out in front of him. “I know your loyalty to Kara, but you risk much, staying here. We could do an early termination of the agreement with a clause that indicates you will serve only the Guild.”
Ritathan opened his mouth but Forterran raised his hand. “Take shelter in the Guild Hall. Claim the girl as apprentice formally and spend the next few years teaching her.” Forterran looked pensive. “You could even train to replace me as Guildmaster.”
“Please,” Ritathan smiled, echoing his friend. “Can you imagine? We’d end up with mage wars within the halls, smoke and fire from every window.”
“Very well.” Forterran sighed in resignation and then frowned. “Their majesties also wanted to know the cost of a portal, since you cannot cast for them.”
“A portal?” Ritathan puzzled over that. “Where to?”
“The Black Hills,” Forterran said.
“Why?” Ritathan rubbed his chin. “There’s naught out there but bandits calling themselves rebels.”
“Probably to seek marble for Xyrath’s newest obsession. He wants a life-sized statue of himself as the conquering warrior. Naked of course.” Forterran’s grin was malicious. “Can you imagine? The entire court ogling his bits?” He chuckled. “At least, that’s got his mind off atira blades. Man bounces from one obsession to another.”
“You are the worst gossip I know,” Ritathan said.
“I don’t gossip.” Forterran raised his eyebrows in all innocence. “I listen. And I made no comment as to their reasons, just made sure their majesties knew the cost of a portal was high. I thought of a price and then trebled it. It would not serve for them to think it cheap or easy, or that the Guild is at their beck and call.”
“Dangerous,” Ritathan said. “Should they learn of your secret taunts.”
“Dangerous?” Forterran shook his head. “So is your path, staying here, pissing them off. Know that as Guildmaster, I do not approve.”
“So noted,” Ritathan nodded. “If something happens to me—”
“When.” Forterran said pointedly.
“When,” Ritathan accepted the correction. “See to her, would you?”
“Better if you survive,” Forterran said.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Ritathan smiled. “Shall I send for beer before you go? They stock fine ones here.”
Forterran groaned.