Authors: Lindsey S. Johnson
A Ragged Magic (6 page)
Asa directs them and soon the tub is full, steaming in the spring air. Now that I’m not locked in a chest, the sweat drying on my body chills me a little, and I look forward to the warmth. I try to look like a lady, not fidget, and not hunch my shoulders. The sailors leave, and Asa closes the door after them.
“I brought some water to drink, as well,” she says, pointing to a pitcher she brought in, and a goblet. “And I can take your gown and air it and brush it out, at least. I have no proper smoothing-iron, but I can get the worst of your travels out of it.”
I nod, thinking that the dress has fewer travels to smooth out than I do. Asa stands, staring, and I realize she’s waiting for me to undress, so she may take the gown.
I start to undo the hooks at the neck, and suddenly remember my scars. I hesitate, and she steps forward to help me.
“No,” I flinch away from her, and she stands still as stone, her expression concerned. I smell the tangy fear-sweat break out on me. My insides tremble in renewed panic. I can’t let anyone see these scars, my disfigured body. I don’t want this beautiful woman to look on me in pity and horror and disgust. I can’t say anything, can’t move. I shudder twice and stare at the floor.
“My lady, I shall bring a screen, of course, and you can undress in private.” I can’t bear to look at her, but I catch a glimpse of her eyes in the mirror she placed on the bed, with a wooden comb and sweet soap. Her eyes seem worried, and I fear I have acted too strangely already.
I wait for her to leave before shuddering, look around, reach for calm. The cabin is small with a round window and room for a chest against the wall. The cots are narrow, but the blankets are of decent wool. A painting of a mermaid hangs on the wall. A cabin for a traveling merchant, or maybe a minor noble.
When she returns again, I stand anxious by the tub, but she merely smiles at me. The screen is a slightly tattered affair, dark wood frame in three sections with coarse linen hung in each panel. Asa sets it up in front of the tub, which leaves very little room in the cabin for much else.
I remove the musty gown while behind it, almost teetering into the water once or twice, unbalanced by the irregular rocking of a ship at dock. I reach my arm over to hand Asa the gown and hear a sharp gasp.
“Oh my dear! What happened to your arm?” Dropping the gown I snatch my scarred arm back to me, huddling naked behind the screen.
“Nothing! I mean, it,” I struggle for an answer. “The fire!” I burst out, remembering my new identity. “The fire did it, when we were trapped …” I leave it at that, hoping she’ll drop it.
“Of course, my lady. I am so sorry,” she says, her voice subdued. “I will leave you to your bath,” and she closes the cabin door quietly behind her.
I unclench my jaw painfully and cling to the side of the tub with relief. Picking up the soap and comb and cloth from the bed, I step shakily into the water.
The bath relaxes me enough to nearly doze. As the smell of my fear washes away I try to believe this may work. I can be a noblewoman, one who is poor and fallen on hard times. I can be a young cousin to a lord, and a handmaid to a princess. I just have to be strong for Linnet, and all will be well.
I take heart from the thought of little Linnet, alive and unharmed. I need to be strong so she can have a future.
Sighing, I start to unbind my hair from its braid, and remember — my hair is short now: short and brown. I run the comb through it, snarling it on the short curls. They’re so unruly now they’re cut. Da would throw a fit at a daughter of his with short hair, I think. I bite my cheek and focus on getting the snarls out.
Sitting with my knees drawn up, I sink until the water laps over my head. I stay submerged, letting the warmth tingle my scalp and listening to the strange language of the water as it burbles around me.
I soap myself vigorously and rinse, anticipating the return of Asa or Connor. Drying off quickly and wrapping the towel around me, I step around the screen for the shift that fell to the other side.
Connor enters as I’m leaning over the bunk. My hair drips in my face as I stand frozen, and our eyes meet. His mouth sticks on whatever he’d been about to say.
I whip back around the screen, mortified. As I huddle, miserable and now hot, now cold with embarrassment, I hear him take a breath to begin again.
“I brought your wardrobe, lady Rhia,” he says. His voice sounds only a little strained. “I think the gowns should fit, although the princess was right.” I jump a little as a dark gray gown of fine damask slumps over the screen.
“Right about what?” I choke out.
“You’ve gained weight in the last week. You no longer look as though you’ve had the Wasting.” Somehow this doesn’t make me feel any better.
I put on the gown, relieved Connor took the time to gather me a trousseau before we set off for the castle. Julianna had Connor arrange it last week, so I wouldn’t arrive with nothing.
The gown is finer than I am used to, although my mother often wore this style: a full skirt and high neck with lace at collar and cuffs. It fits well enough; Julianna’s measurements were thorough. Black bands of mourning adorn the sleeves, and a black shawl follows.
“I picked out boots and stockings as well, so you won’t have to appear barefoot. I’m sorry they weren’t ready earlier.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I say, as I shrug into the gown. My damp body makes the material stick to my arms.
“Just hurry, we haven’t much time. We need to get out of here soon, before most of the crew comes back from leave.”
“Just what does Mistress Asa — do the Indrani know about me?” I ask.
There’s a pause, and I pull up my stockings a little firmer before tying the ribbons on my garters.
“The Indrani believe you to be my cousin Rhia, family lost in a fire and on the run from an enemy. They’re helping me because the Indrani family who owns this ship is … a friend to the royal family. The Indrani sovereign is close to our King Peter, and when Hugh was caught in a difficult situation helping the Indrani with something … sensitive last year, Asa’s family made sure he got home safely.”
“Oh.” The boots fit a little snugly, and I’m dressed and dry but for my hair, but I don’t want to come from behind the screen just yet. “Were you working on that something sensitive as well?”
“Extremely unofficially.”
I stand still, collecting my courage in wisps.
Connor goes on, perhaps just to fill silence, although that’s not his usual habit. “Officially, I was sent away from court for awhile. In fact, I’m usually not in favor at court. They —” he hesitates.
“They what? Why not?” I realize I have broken in too soon, and his brusque manner returns.
“Just get dressed. We leave at the shift bell.”
When Asa returns to bid us farewell, she has some information for us. “Bhanu saw a man following your coach past the dock, who questioned your driver, and tried to question a crewmember of ours. None of our crew, of course, understand a word of Talarian,” she smiles slyly and shrugs her shoulders. “He seems to have drifted over to the fish market. Bhanu is keeping an eye on him for you.”
Connor presses his lips together as he peers out of the window. “It’s time for us to be going, Rhia. The spy will believe you docked here on the
Jihansa.
” He turns to Asa and bows. “Again I’ve trusted you with precious cargo, and again you’ve repaid my trust tenfold. I thank you and your family. The goods we discussed will reach you soon.”
She smiles. “Our honored guest continues his journey with us to Fanthas, then?”
“I would count it a great favor,” Connor says.
“We are happy to oblige, your Grace. I’m sure we will have goods for you when we dock again.” Asa curtseys deeply as we leave the cabin.
The ship is strangely quiet around us: the slap of water and cries from the fish market sound loud to my ears. The crew bustles around us without seeming to notice us. Connor hurries me to the carriage.
The gown rustles beneath my shaking hands. I step off the gangplank and the carriage driver bows as Connor helps me into his sleek black carriage. Soon the jolting progress of traffic at the docks becomes the rhythm of half-trot through the town of Haverston.
Staring out the window, I try to calm nerves suddenly screaming to run from here. The streets seem quieter than they should be for a market day, and more black slashes of charcoal, signs of pestilence, mark doorways than before. More priests move purposefully from business to home, as well.
I force myself not to flinch from view. I am supposed to be Rhia Wolff fitzWellan, and nobility does not shrink from windows of carriages. Nor do they carry scars of torture.
We pass the town square and I jerk back. The gallows are gone, but I still see them as they were. I ball my hands into fists in my lap and stare at nothing, fighting anguish. My mind whispers in my mother’s voice, a lady does not gape out windows or fidget, either. My stomach roils.
Connor lays his hand on mine. I look up into eyes dark as night, and he squeezes his hand lightly over my clenched ones.
“It starts. You will not fail the princess,” he says. His tone is kindly, and perhaps it is kindly meant, but I take no comfort.
Julianna saved my sister and myself. But only to this point, and from here I must fly or sink.
I fear greatly that I shall sink like stones.
Chapter Six
I
am presented to Julianna and her mother the duchess in Julianna’s solar. Duchess Marguerite is a smiling, rounded woman in late middle age, her hair gone to silver and her face softening into comfortable beauty. I have seen her from afar before, but she would not recognize me. She pats me kindly on the arm and welcomes me to Haverston, and her castle.
“Hugh’s castle now, surely, Mother,” Julianna says.
Duchess Marguerite smiles at her daughter, and I can’t help but smile with her. The duchess has been the duchess for some time, and Haverston is hers; Haverston is happy to be hers. If she had been home when — but I won’t think of that now.
“I’m pleased to have you here, young Rhia. Do make yourself at home. I hope you can recover here from your terrible ordeal.” She’s referring to Connor’s cousin’s fire.
I blink back tears and look at my feet.
Julianna shows me to a small closet room in between her bedchamber and the solar, which is to be my chamber. “Normally I’d set up a handmaid in one of the rooms down the hall, but I told mother you still had fears from the fire, and should stay in here. I think it’s better to keep close while Gantry’s in the castle.” Smiling, she pats my arm just as her mother did, tells me I’m doing fine, and sets me to work at once.
I must keep up Her Highness’ wardrobe, see to her breakfast, which I bring from the kitchen on a tray. I am to write her correspondence and supervise her personal servants, of which she has none here. I am to accompany the princess when she sits and embroiders with the duchess and the duchess’ guests, minor gentry staying here in the castle.
I am her chaperone and her companion on outings. These outings include visits to the hospice to Heal people, which many in Talaria consider shocking. Those visits also anger the priests, especially, by report, Bishop Gantry. He preaches the strict line about every Healer a kirche Healer, all magic belongs to the Star Lord.
But there aren’t enough Healing priests to help everyone who is ill in Haverston, and without the princess, more people would die. People look at Julianna with longing and fear in their eyes.
I do not blame them — I look at her that way myself.
Her Highness is like no one I’ve ever seen, although I have spent my life around some who think quite well of themselves. But she outshines and outmaneuvers everyone she comes into contact with. It’s like basking in sunlight when she smiles, which can stun the unwary. When she visits the hospice, the priests glower from corners.
I hide in opposite corners, holding poultices and simples, all but unnoticed in my mourning clothes. I look in no one’s face, and so far have seen no one I know. But the Wasting has mostly struck the poor, and usually merchants can call Healers to their own houses.
With the Wasting has come the rain, and the ground is too wet and cold to plant early crops. The farmers try anyway, only to watch the green shoots rot where they sprout. The market is a dismal affair, and everyone tightens their purse-strings. Duchess Marguerite talks of importing food from the southern counties, and Julianna visits further victims of the Wasting as more of the poor and middling-poor succumb to it.
I know the town far better now than I ever did when I lived at my father’s house. The poor quarters are more squalid than I believed, in my large merchant’s mansion, with its own large garden and servants to tend to most chores. The dirt floors and vermin-infested bedding of people who haven’t made it to the hospice make me nervous, while Julianna seems not to notice them at all.
She works tirelessly to Heal any who will accept her. I drop to exhausted sleep each night in my narrow bed, not even bothering to read the books on handmaid etiquette I’m supposed to study. My family moans from the dark corners of my mind, and the faces of the dying join them.
They all whisper of illness and death and witchcraft, and Bishop Gantry chants in my dreams. The demons chant with him, and I push his hand with its bloody knife back night after night. I sleep fitfully when at all.
～
Although I have been here almost two weeks now, I have not yet been to chapel for fear of seeing the bishop. Connor informed me this morning that I must go tomorrow morning or raise suspicion. Today has been going much too fast: it’s late afternoon, and I’m airing Her Highness’ gowns.
My hair springs out of its band in wisps — unruly curls that refuse to tame. The new short style doesn’t quite fit my small face, making me appear even younger than my eighteen years. My gray morning gown swishes as I wander from task to task. The day is cool and damp from the early afternoon rain, and dark with heavy clouds. I remember Julianna left her gloves in her solar.
The room glows with soft gray light, the large windows in the false turret and along the long diagonal wall letting in all the daylight this late spring day has to offer. The furniture sits gracefully in the long shadows thrown by the russet curtains, elegant and brocaded and smelling of Julianna’s perfume. Her embroidery sits in its basket by the fireplace, the rose chaise angled to catch the most heat.
As I spot the gloves, there is a knock on the door. My hands clench, and rehearsing the proper lines, I pull on the heavy latch.
I open the door to a face I have only seen inside my head before. I blink, my mouth open.
“Bishop Gantry presents his compliments to Her Royal Highness and would like, would like …” says the young man, trailing off. His brown eyes widen in his dark face, as he begins to recognize me.
I stare at Orrin in shock. He was in seminary with Keenan. I have never met him, but I look enough like Keenan. And he looks just like visions Keenan sent to me.
His mouth gapes open.
“Would like a moment of her time,” says the person behind him, and I jump at the nasal voice, feel my pulse shatter. Gantry is here as well. With Orrin, Keenan’s friend, who I’m sure has recognized me.
My tongue aches, bleeds a bit before I realize I have bitten it. “I — I — she —” I stammer, swallow, fight nausea. “H-her Highness is — isn’t, isn’t here. She, she is in Her Grace’s sitting room, my L-lord Bishop. She asked not to b-be disturbed until dinner.” I look at his boots, keep my eyes averted. Let him not look at my face. I sneak a look at Orrin.
He stares at me. The whites of his eyes stand out starkly against the dark brown of his irises, and his darker skin. He seems to be in shock.
Gantry, annoyed, glares at us both.
I rip my gaze from Orrin.
Gantry tries to push the door open. My body freezes and burns in terror of him, of his voice, and I start to shake, pushing back. “I will wait for her here,” he says, but I cannot move, and so the door stays where it is, glued to my shoulder and hands.
“I am sorry, my Lord Bishop,” I rasp, looking at the ground, trying to disappear.
“I must speak with her immediately. Go and fetch her, and I will wait here.”
I hold my breath to keep from panting. I am afraid to leave the safety of my lady’s rooms; he is too close, and my knees wobble, threaten to dump me on the floor.
I stammer and fumble a curtsey. “Please, my Lord Bishop, it would be improper,” I whisper. I feel his glare; it burns on my body in carved patterns under my shift.
He turns and wordlessly stalks down the hall. I know my face is bloodless as the corpse I should have been.
Orrin stares at me. Gantry, striding away, calls him sharply, and he winces. “The Star Chamber closest to the doors in the chapel,” Orrin whispers. “Directly after dinner.”
I shudder, nod. What can I do?
“Please don’t, don’t —” I choke out, and he touches my hand, draws away.
“I won’t,” he says, and leaves. What can I do? I choose to believe him. I watch the swirl of their robes from under lowered lashes. That flash of annoyance as Gantry looked past me into Julianna’s room — he knows where she is. I know suddenly that he wanted the room empty: he’s looking for something.
I shut the door and latch it, lean on it, trembling. Slowly I open my mind, reaching out to the corridor. My eyes close, and I sense the bishop’s thoughts as stray wisps. He wanted in this room — he wants to see her rooms, her things, he wants to try something. Anger and anticipation swirl around him as he moves further toward the stairs and then all I sense is the lingering smell of tansy and swampwort. My fear keeps me from sensing more from him, or his own magic does.
Orrin is a little easier, but mostly I get fear and sadness and a deep shock. Emotions I could read easily from his face, and no help from the Sight at all.
Shaking, I pull awareness back into myself. Julianna has been coaching me, but my power is so strange to me now. I tried to tell her that my Sight is a specious power at best — I can’t always tell what people are thinking. I can’t always See anything at all.
Or that’s how it used to be. I don’t know why the visions have been so strong since she Healed me. I try to control them, but they rush at me or rush away, and what I do See is a confusion of blurred images and feelings I sometimes have trouble making out. The visions feel like the enemy.
I’m afraid of where this new strength comes from. Why can I sometimes tell what people are thinking without trying, and sometimes not, and why does it always feel like power is running through me? But surely if it were demons, I’d know it. Wouldn’t I? My scars glow with a pale green light that only I seem to be able to see. I wish I knew what it meant. I wish I could talk to someone about it. I wish I hadn’t heard the bishop’s voice today, before I was ready for it.
That voice — I run for the garderrobe in the bathing room, barely make it, retching. That voice that rips through my body like claws through wool. I heave up my lunch, sit on the floor.
I know Julianna is disappointed in my progress: her sighs and moues of impatience when I can’t read Connor in the next room are hardly subtle. I know he is fighting my Sight now; he doesn’t want me to See his thoughts.
Other times when visions rush at me from others, it’s information that I don’t understand. My skin burns in rhythms to chants and demon hisses, and I can’t seem to tell her that, either. Mostly I wish I’d never had the Sight at all.
I stand slowly and smooth the soft gray fabric of my skirt, remembering that a princess’s handmaid does not sit idle. I wash my mouth out with the water in the pitcher in the corner, wipe my face.
I’ll tell Julianna about Gantry’s visit when she returns, but I’m keeping Orrin to myself just yet. I don’t know why I don’t want to tell anyone — what if he tells Gantry? I don’t know if I can trust him. But I will find out what he wants, first.
Meanwhile, Julianna’s gown must be pressed for dinner. My hands don’t seem mine as I open the wardrobe, select a wine-red satin, and heat the iron in the fire.
～
The chapel is chilly and dark but for a few lamps. The ceiling soars over the altar at the far end of the chapel, and I can hear the ocean clearly against the cliffs. This is the opposite end of the castle from the tower where I convalesced.
I make my way to the Star Chambers, heart hammering. Tapestries hang in the doorways decorated with the great star, and push aside to rooms little larger than tiny closets. There is a lamp burning in the closest one, shining green-yellow on the stonework.
I don’t know what Orrin wants. I hope he hasn’t told Bishop Gantry anything.
“Rhiannon,” I hear, and I gasp, spin. Orrin stands just inside the doorway. I walked right past him.
“That is your name, right? Rhiannon? Rhiannon Owen —”
“Rhiannon Owen is … dead,” I whisper.
He winces.
I study him as much as I can in the dim lamplight. He’s slender, only a little taller than I am. His face is smooth and dark, with high cheekbones and a hint of stubble on his chin. His close-cropped hair is wiry and much curlier than mine. He looks sad and worried.
Orrin opens his hands in a helpless way, and I try to smile.
“Rhia. Call me Rhia, here.”
“I — I was … close to Keenan.”
It is my turn to wince. I turn away.
“He was — he used to talk about you. You look a lot like him,” Orrin says. “I miss him very much.”
I blink back tears, staring at the wall. “I do, too,” I whisper, and I’ve admitted to treason. Or blasphemy. Maybe both. I am not supposed to be alive. And he’s working for the man who thinks he killed me. Connor is right: I am stupid.
I turn back to Orrin. “Please, please do not turn me into the bishop. I really don’t — I really don’t want to die. And I swear I’m not a witch. Not really.”
Orrin shakes his head. “I would not. I — I don’t think he should have accused you. Keenan told me — he told me of your Sight. It isn’t witchery, not how we were taught.”
My eyes sting a little. “I have found that it’s dangerous to say such things. You’ll have to be careful around Bishop Gantry. He is … not a tolerant man.”
Orrin shakes his head. “No, he isn’t. He is a very frightening man. I don’t trust him. I have written to the monastery in Corat for a transfer, but I don’t think I’ll get one. And now — now that I know you’re here …”
I stare at him, afraid to hope. “If he — you —” I fumble. “I hope you get your transfer. It would be safer for you to go.”
“I don’t know about safer. Safer for you — I promise I won’t give you away. But he makes me feel nervous. I’ve written to the archbishop. I think Bishop Gantry — I’m not sure he’s entirely sane.”
I reach out, almost grab Orrin’s arm. “Oh, not Archbishop Montmoore,” I say, and he nods cautiously at me. I shake my head at him. “You should write to Cardinal Robere. He will help you.”
He looks askance. “Why not the archbishop? He is the more direct superior.” I can only shake my head at him. “What happened, what did Gantry do to you?”
I open my mouth to tell him something, make up something, but no sound emerges. I feel a sharp tingle along the runes on my body, and I find I can only gasp for air. He takes my arm, helps me to collapse onto the stone bench, and sits beside me.
He sighs, wipes his eyes. “I don’t know you, really. Only what your brother said. But I loved your brother,” he says, and I feel his heart, See his love, and gasp. Loved my brother. As in, they were lovers. I try not to stare in shock. How did I not know?