Spellbound (17 page)
Authors: Blake Charlton
“Oh,” Francesca whispered to herself. “Beautiful.” She had known that the rainy season in Western Spires produced stunning cloudscapes. She had glimpsed a few from the infirmary's windows, but she had always been rushing between patients. She had never been as aware of the sky as she was now.
A sudden gust made their kite drop a few feet. With effort, Francesca kept herself from crying out in surprise. She looked at Cyrus, but he was staring down. “Look,” he said and pointed down to where one fallen tree had knocked over its neighbors.
At first she couldn't tell what he was talking about. Then ⦠“Holy blasted heaven aflame!” she swore. There were two of them: giant shadows bounding along the fallen redwood. Maybe six feet long, muscular, everywhere covered by black fur. In the next instant, they leapt into the forest and vanished.
“They're following us,” Cyrus explained. “Waiting to see if a pilot spills too much wind in this weather.”
“What are they?” Francesca asked.
Cyrus's turban and veil hid everything but his eyes, which were squinted as if in amusement. “Don't you know?”
She looked back down at the redwoods. Now she saw nothing beneath the trees but dark forest floor. “Yes,” she replied over the wind. “I suppose I do.”
Cyrus landed his rig in the South Market. Most days the square bustled with haggling vendors and city dwellers. Now, two hours before sunset and in the driving rain, it held only empty stalls and growing puddles.
Just before his boots touched stone, Cyrus moved a disassemble spell from his robes to the suspension lines and cast it up to the canopy. Instantly, the text altered language throughout the kite, causing some seams to tear and others to form. The canopy folded into a neat pile behind them.
Francesca failed to appreciate how gently he had set them down. Most hierophants would have collapsed their kites too soon. Indeed, as Cyrus turned he saw the first pilot was doing just that. He cringed as the rig carrying Vivian hit so fast that both the pilot and the old women sprawled into a puddle.
“Damnation!” Francesca swore and ran toward Vivian. Cyrus hurried after but watched the other pilot. Perhaps seeing her peer's hard landing, this pilot delayed her disassemble spell and touched down more gently.
Francesca was fussing over Vivian, but the older woman was laughing. “Nothing broken, nothing broken. Only thing hurting is my pride.”
Relaxing, Cyrus picked up his lofting kite and transferred its language into his robes until the garments blazed pale blue. Then he ordered the two young pilots to fly to the sanctuary and inform the on-duty wing commander that he, Cyrus, had returned to the city with pressing orders from the wind marshal. He would return to the sanctuary sometime the next day. Afterward, the young pilots could begin their leave.
Turning away, Cyrus found Francesca standing with the two wizards. She was pointing to the square's western edge.
The Merchant District was the most affluent of Avel's outer districts. As elsewhere, the major architectural materials were sandstone and redwood timber. But here, every building stood three stories tall and boasted ornate arcades. The windows were filled with stone screens. Geometric mosaics of green and white adorned the protected aspects of the buildings.
Francesca was pointing at the tallest building. “That's the colaboris station,” Cyrus said above the rain.
The wizardly academy was the only magical society powerful enough to maintain independence from any kingdom. The treasure and political influence that made this possible came from colaboris spells, which transferred information from one wizardly colaboris station to another almost instantly.
The academy of Starhavenâperched high in the Pinnacle Mountains and possessing the soaring Erasmine Spireâserved as the western hub of colaboris transmissions. The far shorter towers now standing before Cyrus would receive spells intended for Avel or relay them to Starhaven, from which they could be relayed anywhere on the continent.
The wizards were talking animatedly. He stepped closer, trying to hear their words above the rain, but they set off toward the station. Frowning, Cyrus followed after.
Once under the arcade, the wizards shook their robes and removed their headdresses. A few city dwellers stood, staring at the spellwrights. Cyrus didn't like the attention.
The party walked to the station's massive redwood door, and Lotannu worked its large brass knocker. Moments later, a boy in black robes opened a smaller door within the large one. He greeted Vivian and Lotannu by name.
The whole group walked into a courtyard filled with bright mosaics, hanging plants, and a square reflecting pool. The rain was beating a riot of circles into the pool's surface.
As they hurried through the courtyard, Cyrus noticed three ravens hiding under the stone tracery. The birds seemed to be eying the party.
At the courtyard's end stood a pair of doors flanked by two massive gargoyles. Each possessed a muscular humanoid body topped by a fierce lion's head complete with thick stone mane. Perched on each gargoyle's shoulder was a steel statue of a cat with eyes of bronze. One was missing its left eye.
Francesca frowned at the metal felines. “Who decorates a war-weight gargoyle?”
Cyrus eyed the massive gargoyles. He had heard about stone constructs climbing all over Starhaven, Astrophell, and Starfall Keep. These two gargoyles, however, seemed perfectly motionless.
He started to ask about this, but then the doors swung open and the party entered a hall lit by incandescent prose. Tapestries hung on the walls, and the marble floor shone as if recently polished. The warm air smelled of aromatic smoke, most likely because a brazier filled with clicking coals stood at the room's center. Three wizards had arranged themselves around the brazier. They bowed. Cyrus's party returned the bow.
Cyrus guessed that the black-robes before him were the Avel station team. At their center stood a shorter, older wizard with a light complexion, a thick white beard, a snowy wreath of hair around a shiny bald pate. Judging by the badges on his sleeve, he was the station's leader. Sure enough, the man introduced himself as Magister Robert DeGarn and rattled off a flouncy greeting with typical academic protocol. Then DeGarn ushered Vivian and Lotannu into a side room.
Shortly after that, an older male servant in a red Spirish longvest returned with a pot of mint tea on a silver tray. The servant was staring at the newcomers, most especially Francesca. Visitors to the station were rare, Cyrus supposed.
Once DeGarn filled two small metal cups with tea, he served them to Francesca and Cyrus before leaving the hall. Francesca and Cyrus stood together, holding the steaming drinks between thumb and pinky. “That was odd,” she whispered.
“What?”
“The tray the servant held, the metal where his fingers touched was dented.”
Cyrus frowned. He hadn't noticed. “A very old tray? Or maybe thin pewter? You think the station is low on funds?”
“Possibly, but it's hard to imagine.”
Just then Magister DeGarn reappeared. “Magistra, it's a pleasure to have you to our station. We of course knew of the wizardly cleric in the infirmary, but never knew if it would be correct to make overtures, what with your being within the clerical order.”
Cyrus frowned at the way DeGarn studied Francesca's face. The man's name and courtly manners identified him as Western Lornish.
Francesca smiled. “You are kind, Magister. You would be most welcome in the infirmary. But, sadly, a cleric's duties do not allow for social calls.”
Cyrus glanced at Francesca. He'd never known her to be so ⦠tactful.
DeGarn nodded. “If I might ask, Magistra, where did you earn your hood and staff?”
“In Astrophell. But if you're wondering about my antique accent, it comes from a childhood in the Burnt Hills.”
“Ahh,” the short man said with a smile. “How wonderful to train at Astrophell. I studied at Starfall Keep, which of course is only an insipid backwater when compared to the academic splendor of Astrophell, wouldn't you agree?”
“Not at all, Magister,” she said hurriedly. “Some of the finest spellwrights I've known have trained at Starfall, which is to say nothing of the excellent research conducted there.”
“But when compared to Astrophell, to the seat from which the Neosolar Empire was once ruled, surely it is nothing.”
“Not so, not so,” Francesca answered and then looked at her cup. “This is very fine tea, Magister. It's thoughtful of you to offer a hot drink on a cold and wet evening.”
Again DeGarn bowed his head. “Mint tea is one of the many things I've come to love about Spires. I brew it myself. It's one of the few times when I can get away from the station. Every morning, right at sunrise, I shop for mint and various other things in our market.” He nodded toward the door and the market square beyond. “It's a pleasant way to encounter illiterates.”
The conversation continued. Cyrus stood by, trying not to look bored. At last DeGarn excused himself with a bow. “What was all that about Starfall and Astrophell,” Cyrus asked when he was gone.
Francesca grimaced. “There's always been tension between the two, but when the counter-prophecy faction rose to power a few years ago, Starfall became the rallying point for the opposition. Now the animosity between the two is worse than ever.”
“I'm glad we're done with him.”
“Vivian and Lotannu are changing into their costumes as Verdantine merchants,” Francesca said between small sips of tea. “They're to lodge in the Holy District. I've told Vivian that I have patients to see and that you must tend to your command. Vivian's asked that we meet at her lodgings tonight to discuss an investigation into the aphasia curse.”
He looked up at her. “You've thrown our lot in with the wizards?”
“Don't be thick. We'll tell them what we want them to know. I have plans.”
“I'm not being thick,” he nearly growled. “You're being cryptic. I thought we were in this together now. Are you going to share your plans, or just pull on my heart strings?” He tapped his chest.
“I thought you objected to puns,” she said and smiled. It formed dimples in her pale cheeks.
Remembering how that dimpled smile had once entranced him, Cyrus scowled.
A door opened and Vivian and Lotannu returned, both now dressed in fine Verdantine dress. She wore a long crimson skirt, a loose white cotton shirt, and a thick black shawl. Around her neck and wrists shone an array of silver and turquoise jewelry. Lotannu was dressed more plainlyâwide black hat, black wool trousers, white cotton shirt without collar, and a heavy red coat.
“We are off to the canonist,” Vivian said as she laid a hand on Lotannu's shoulder. “You have my gratitude for helping us learn more about the aphasia curse.”
Both Cyrus and Francesca nodded.
“Well then,” the ancient woman said. “Francesca knows the location of our tavern. We shall see you tonight.”
An apprentice showed the party out of the station. They went through the courtyard, passed the lion-headed gargoyles with metallic cats perched on their shoulders, and stepped back out into the arcade. The rain was still coming down hard, and the storm clouds made the evening darker than Cyrus expected.
Francesca started off toward the north. Cyrus followed but glanced back to see the wizardly apprentice looking at two men standing just under the arcade's shelter. The men were dressed in unremarkable Spirish garb: loose tan pants and shirts, brown longvests. One man was looking back at the apprentice, the other staring at Francesca's back. He looked away when he noticed Cyrus's attention.
Francesca pulled on the headdress he had given her and led them onto a street that ran west through the Merchant District. Three ravens were flying above them, croaking and harassing each other.
Cyrus glanced backward and saw one of the men walking on the other side of the street. “Fran,” he said quietly, “I think we'reâ”
“Being followed?” she interrupted. “Did you think Vivian would let us wander around on our own?”
“No. I suppose they'd want us to have a chaperone.”
“Chaperone?”
“To stop you from trying to seduce me,” he said wryly.
“You poor, delusional man. So how are we going to shake off our tail?”
He thought for a moment. “Would running away or tossing a stunning spell in his face be a shade too blatant?”
She nodded. “Just a shade.”
“We could try a decoy. But I don't suppose paying a stranger to wear your stole would fool anyone unless we found another massively six-foot-tall woman.”
She sighed. “Let's not start with the height quips again. That wasn't cute even when we shared a bed.”
“I'm sorry. I'd forgotten.”
“You'll stop?”
“I'll stop.”
“Thank you, Cyrus. Awfully big of you.”
“You're welcome, your highness.”
“Oh, this is just as bad as old times,” she said, but he could see that she was smiling under her headdress. “Why don't you accompany me while I call on a patient? Then you can fly us out of a courtyard or something.”
“Could work,” he mused, “if I had enough text in these robes to write an airlift-the-world's-tallest-woman spell.”
She sniffed. “We need fly only at low altitude. Given how close you are to the ground, I figure you have plenty of experience at that.”
A city watchman, dressed in a green and white cloak, walked past them and nodded. Cyrus nodded back and then asked, “Did you learn about any disease that could cause a woman to become absurdly tall when you were training ⦠at ⦔ His voice died as an idea formed in his mind.
“Cyrus,” she said as they walked around two men heaving at a cart that was stuck in the mud, “if you don't finish this wreck of a joke I can't laugh at how miserably it turned out.”
He looked at her. The rain was letting up a bit. They passed an ornate building. A gray cat was stalking in the dry patch underneath its overhang. “Maybe we don't need to do anything elaborate to lose our tail. When was the last case of plague in Avel?”
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