Quatrain (48 page)

But she had chosen to stay. She was intrigued by the mystery—and she felt a sense of obligation. To Albert and Betony, perhaps even to intense, bewildered Degarde. She had been welcomed here and treated warmly. She could not allow her new friends to be destroyed by magic that no one else would have a chance of containing once Senneth had left town.

She was not sure how she would uncover the truth. And she was pretty sure she had only three days to find out.

T
he afternoon passed slowly. Since Senneth had discovered she could still call fire, she didn’t even have fear to keep her occupied, and so she was heartily bored. The rope wasn’t long enough to allow her full use of the room, but she could make it to a few choice spots, including the chamber pot, the window, and the old woman’s dresser.

The chamber pot, of course, was welcome. The window showed very little of interest—a brown patch of worked ground that was probably a garden in the kinder months, a stretch of lawn, and then the edge of the forest that sloped down the hill toward town.

The dresser contained no reading material, which was what Senneth had been hoping for, but a number of small, loose moonstones lay scattered across the top. Senneth picked one up and cupped it in her right hand. At first it brightened with a malevolent white glow, burning like a live coal against her skin. And then its fever subsided to a sullen, sluggish heat.

“It is like it possesses some kind of magic that comes to life when I touch it with
my
magic,” Senneth murmured. “That’s why it burns my skin. But my power is stronger than the power in the jewel. Or the fire in my blood is hotter.” She didn’t know. She didn’t really care. But she was fiercely glad to learn that she never again had to fear the touch of a moonstone.

The rest of the dresser—the small boxes on its lace-covered top, the six drawers that Senneth opened one by one—yielded nothing of interest. A few baubles, some underclothes, sachet bags so old that no hint of scent remained. Senneth sighed and retreated to the bed again to sit and wait until something might happen.

She had been Degarde’s prisoner for perhaps three hours when there was a substantial commotion belowstairs. She jumped up and drew as close to the door as her rope would allow, trying to identify speakers. That one might be Betony—that one most certainly was Albert—and that was probably Baxter, shouting at the top of his lungs. A number of other voices rose and fell. Senneth had the impression two factions had formed in Benneld, one of them strongly opposed to condemning a mystic to death.

That would have been good news if she really had been worried about her safety.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, so she quickly retreated to the foot of the bed again and took up a demure pose. The lock was thrown, and five people pushed through the door in rapid succession. Senneth barely had time to identify them—Betony, Albert, Baxter, Degarde, and one of the townsmen who had been in favor of stoning—before Betony flew across the room to embrace her.

“Senneth, Senneth, I am so sorry—I am horrified—Evelyn will never, never forgive me if something happens to you—”

“I don’t expect anything to happen,” Senneth said, patting Betony on the back. It was a little ironic, she thought, that the prisoner would be the one to reassure the visitor.

“It certainly won’t,” Albert said grimly. “I’ve already sent Seever with a message to the king. I imagine his majesty will have plenty to say about how badly you’ve been treated.”

There was no chance that Seever could get to the royal city and back in under six days, so there was no hope of rescue from that quarter; but it might give these vigilantes pause to think that a murder would be quickly avenged by the king himself.

“I am not afraid,” Senneth said quietly. “Not for myself. I worry for Benneld itself. I believe there is a mystic operating here, who might not know his own power, and who offers far more of a threat than I do.”

Betony flung herself away from Senneth to confront Degarde. “And you have tied her up like some kind of common criminal!” she cried. “Have you
fed
her? Have you provided her water and the barest necessities? Shame on you for allowing such a thing to happen! And for treating her so badly!”

Degarde looked even more unhappy. “My sister is bringing her food even now,” he said stiffly. “I do not—we have not treated her badly—but she is—there is no way to be sure—I believe there is some possibility that she is the one who has put us all at risk.”

“Enough whining and bickering!” Baxter exclaimed. “She is in a safe place, with a fine bed, and no one plans to starve her. But you must see that she is a danger to everyone in this town. She must be restrained until we discover the truth.”

Albert gave Senneth a serious look. “I’ve sent for Curtis and my brother,” he said. “The three of us will share the watches here. They will not dare to do anything to you as long as one of us is on the premises.”

“I appreciate that,” she said. “But Baxter is right, you know. You don’t know me very well. You do not truly have a reason to trust me.”

Now his expression was set. “I trust you,” he said with finality.

“And I swear to you that your faith is not misplaced,” she replied.

Betony brushed by the men still gathered at the door. “I’m going to fetch you some food,” she said.

“You’re not staying here in the room with her!” Baxter shouted after her. “I’m not going to risk having you cut her bonds and set her free!”

If Betony bothered to answer that, Senneth couldn’t catch the words.

It was another hour before Senneth was left alone again. She devoured the meal that Betony brought up—she had missed lunch, she realized, and it was now nearly dinnertime—and took no part in the ongoing arguments between Albert and the irate townsmen. Eventually, Baxter insisted they all leave the room to carry on the argument downstairs. Senneth’s guess was that she made him uncomfortable, with her unflinching gaze and the somewhat mocking expression she allowed her face to show.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Betony promised, clinging to Senneth’s hands.

“Perhaps you could bring me something to read,” Senneth said. “Or a project to work on. Something to distract me.”

“Do you like to sew?” Betony asked, then took in a quick, dismayed sip of air. Senneth could easily follow her line of thinking:
I’ll bring Senneth her dress to finish. The dress she was to wear to the dinner tomorrow night! There will be no dinner! What a terrible day!

“It’s all right,” Senneth said gently, disengaging her hands. “I told you I wasn’t very good at dinner parties.”

Truth to tell, except for the boredom, she was just as glad when they all finally cleared the room. It was too exhausting to feel such strong dislike for Baxter, such pity for Betony and Albert—and a growing disdain for Degarde. He could not seem to settle on a conviction, whether for her or against her, and she actually thought the uncertainty was making his situation even worse than her own. Whenever he was in the room, he stared at her hopelessly, joining almost no conversation, but if she turned her sharp gaze his way, he instantly looked away.

Not man enough to defend her, not fanatic enough to condemn her. She wished she was out of his house and never had to see him again.

Night ambled out of the mountains and settled around the house like a well-fed cat. Senneth moved to the window again just for the exercise of crossing the room. Faint rectangular patches of light outlined the foundation of the house, thrown from the bottom-story windows. Occasionally shadows crossed the squares of light—servants, Senneth supposed, or any of the dozen or so townspeople who appeared to be sleeping there for the night. Now and then she could catch snatches of conversation, mostly from male speakers, and she knew there must be a sizable contingent still on hand to make sure she didn’t cause any trouble in the night.

It was almost enough to make her want to try a little mischief.

But this was not the time, or the situation, to give in to childish impulses.

She had been gazing out the window for perhaps a half hour when a flicker of movement caught her attention. An undulation of yellow, as if a bright scarf had been left on the grass and just now had been caught up by a random breeze. It disappeared almost immediately. Senneth narrowed her eyes and studied the terrain more closely.

There. At the edge of the dead garden. Another saffron wave, instantly vanishing. And there. A brilliant orange snake coiled through the grass and then burrowed beneath the soil. A red flower bloomed a handspan from the house, then wilted into darkness.

Small fires. Flaring to life, then puffing out. No objects, no piles of rubble or handy little shrubs were actually being set on fire this time. No, the mystic was simply calling flames out of nothing for the joy of seeing the air itself burn.

Whoever this hidden mystic was, he was among the people guarding Senneth at the house.

During the next ten minutes, more bursts of fire flared up and died down, each one a little bigger than the last, lingering a little longer. Senneth stood immobile at the window, torn by indecision. Should she call for Degarde or Baxter and gesture toward the yard?
You see? Fire leaps up even when I am wrapped in moonstones. I am not the cause of your misfortunes.
Should she say nothing, and let the flames grow stronger, until they caught on some highly flammable fuel and turned into a true conflagration? It went against her nature to allow this house to burn merely out of spite, but should she allow the situation to grow dire enough that her jailors were forced to turn to her for aid?

No—it just felt wrong—besides, she wasn’t sure they would believe she was innocent even so. They might conclude that fires set in such proximity to her prison cell must have been set by Senneth herself. They would be wrong in fact, but right in theory, since she was fairly sure she
could
have set such fires if she’d wanted to.

Could she put them out, even operating under the handicap of her moonstone accoutrements?

She flattened her fingers against the cool glass of the window and pressed her face so close to the pane that it slowly fogged over. She imagined her hands growing enormous, monstrous, calloused with ice, and then she imagined herself laying each broad palm over a half acre of the land below. She could almost feel the stiff blades of dead grass tickling against her skin, the lumps of dirt, the occasional pebble in the soil. Fire suffocated beneath her touch, and tendrils of smoke trickled between her closed fingers.

She shut her eyes and called up a memory of the whole perimeter of Degarde’s house. She pictured herself lumbering slowly around it, a giantess bent half over so that she could touch each separate square foot of lawn with her immense fingers, squelching any remaining flames. Her imaginary hands were cool and damp, even as the palms she rested against the glass grew hot with absorbed energy. She leaned her forehead against the window and envisioned the entire small valley where Degarde’s house was nestled, the scattered gardens and the short expanse of lawn that gave way so quickly to forest. She imagined herself, the giant-woman, dropping to her knees and then settling her whole body on the ground, wrapping herself protectively around the honey-white house. Where she lay, pressed against the soil, no flame could ignite. While she guarded this place, no calamitous fire could have its way.

The morning brought Betony, carrying food she had made for Senneth in her own kitchens, as well as a stack of novels and a sewing basket. “There’s a pillowcase in there, and thread, if you wanted to embroider,” Betony said. “I’m embarrassed to even offer you such a pastime! But sometimes sewing keeps my mind off of troubles—just to have my hands occupied—”

“I appreciate it greatly. I appreciate even more the kindness behind the thought,” Senneth said.

“I brought my own projects,” Betony said defiantly. “And I am going to stay here all day and keep you company, no matter what Baxter says.”

Even though they didn’t talk much during that long, dull day, Senneth found Betony’s presence a comfort—not least because it kept Degarde from coming to the room every half hour, showing his anxious face. Baxter wasn’t much deterred, though. He arrived around noon, planted his feet squarely in the middle of the room, and sneered at Senneth where she sat on the bed, dutifully setting stitches into the fabric.

“So,” he said. “We haven’t had a single fire since you have been locked in this room, bound with moonstones.”

“Not even a candle or a cookfire?” she asked in mild amazement. “How inconvenient for the entire town!”

He jutted his face forward. “I mean, a wayward fire, set to cause destruction.”

“Then you’ve been most fortunate.”

“We’ve been smart,” he said. “We’ve locked up the mystic.”

“Well, you’ve locked up
one
of them,” Senneth said. “Not the one who means you harm.”