Wren Journeymage (11 page)

Wren looked at the boy at the helm, who stayed where he was, his mouth round with shock.

“I have to leave,” Wren said to Danal and Patka, in their home language. “Otherwise she’ll be trying to make me do bad magic, or whatever else she’s got planned.”

They just stood side by side, staring at her.

Wren tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. “I just don’t know what to do about you. If you don’t want to come with me, I don’t know how I can make sure she won’t do anything bad to you.”

Patka muttered, “You can make one of your spells to really turn her into a barnacle.”

Wren said, “Didn’t you listen? I can’t do that. It wastes magic, and it isn’t right.”

“Leaving a pirate is right?” Patka asked, crossing her arms.

“That’s for harbor masters to decide, or governors. It’s a matter of law, see? We don’t go around turning people into things.”

Danal gave her a wistful smile. “You could just pretend to. Tell her if she hurts us, she’ll turn into a barnacle overnight.”

Wren sighed. “You don’t want to come with me, do you.” It wasn’t quite a question.

“You could turn me into a princess,” Patka replied. “But you won’t.”

Wren’s eyes stung. “There’s so much wrong in that, I guess I could talk for a year but you’d never listen.”

But they
were
listening.
So stop feeling sorry for yourself, and talk.
“Magic doesn’t change the world. Not magic in balance. Magic only makes the world a little easier to live in, for all living things. Not just people. I can’t turn you into a princess. I can’t turn myself into a princess.” Wren thought of Teressa, and the responsibilities that had come too soon, too many, and far too hard. “Besides, being a princess isn’t as fun as you think.”

Patka said rudely, “You would know, of course.”

Wren shook her head, her throat tightening. She’d lost a friend over magic, of all things.

It was time to go.

She turned to Danal. “Will you help me boom down the gig? I think I can sail it myself.” Wren pointed at the cabin. “They’ll come out of that stone spell soon, and I want to be gone. She won’t threaten you anymore. I’m the target, now that they know what I am.”

Danal moved aft, to where the captain’s gig was suspended on davits over the stern. Two could control the ropes to lower the little boat to the water.

Patka suddenly joined them, and without a word the three worked, until the gig splashed safely in the water. Wren climbed down one of the ropes and dropped into the stern sheets next to the tiller, then peered back up at the two at the rail, sad, frustrated, and angry all at once.

“The real reason we never tell anyone we are mages,” she called, “is because the first thing people do is think of themselves. It’s their greed, not our power, that keeps us silent. Just think of that next time Cook raps your skull, Patka. Remember he rapped mine, too.”

Danal cut in, after one last anguished glance at his sister, “I’m coming with you. And I think we ought to let Thaddy have a choice. And Lambin, seeing he came on board with us.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Wren asked.

“Cook is holding him in the pantry,” Patka spoke, less angrily now. “Lamb is probably stuck at the back of the crowd below decks. I’m sure nobody would let him by.”

Danal peered over the stern rail at Wren. “How long are we safe?”

“Not much longer. That spell is very hard, even a partial one, and once it starts to fade off, it’ll fade fast. But tell the others if they touch you, they’ll turn into barnacles. It’s not true, but it might keep them off you for a little bit.”

Both heads vanished. Wren closed her eyes, pictured her knapsack, and transferred it, though the cost was a worsening of the headache throb. She had done far too much magic, after too long without practice. She needed rest, and soon. But if she remained alone, she would have to find the strength to step the mast on this gig, and then handle both sail and tiller.

A clatter at the stern rail above—one, two, three, then four heads popped over the rail above—the last one being red-haired Lambin.

“I ain’t stayin’ with no pirate.” Lambin slung his tiranthe over his back, next to his gear. “Even if she calls herself a free trader.”

The four scrambled down the ropes, each holding bundles and rolled items. Patka had hooked over her elbow one of the water-cleaning buckets from the galley. Thad struggled with an enormous basket that Wren recognized from having to carry special food to the captain’s cabin.

“They believed that bit about barnacles.” Danal flicked a grin Wren’s way. “So we got us some stores.” He pointed to the neatly packed trunk along the bottom of the gig.

“Good.” Wren sighed. “Listen, there’s something you should know before you go with me. You remember when we were first boomed, in Hroth Harbor?”

Four heads nodded.

“Well, when those people attacked, I heard one of them say something about my stripey hair.” Wren flicked one of her streaky braids. “It means they were looking for me. I, um, I do have enemies. Though I can’t imagine who knew about my trip, or would be after me. But I thought you should know.”

They looked at one another.

Lambin was the first to speak. “So some enemy paid to have you boomed. That’s no reason to stay with someone next thing to a pirate.”

Danal nodded violently, and Thad sighed with relief, then crouched down at the bottom of the gig to grip the mast stored next to the trunk. Patka just stood, scowling down at the water, arms crossed.

Wren said, “My last question is, will they chase us once we sail away?”

“Not with all that pirate damage still to be fixed,” Thad said, as he, Lambin, and Danal pulled up the mast, and worked to step it.

Patka opened the trunk and pulled out the two sails that were laid atop a rolled tent. Wren joined her, now so used to bending sail that she didn’t have to think about it. As they unfolded the main sail, Patka looked across at Wren, cheeks flushed. “Danal says I’m being a snob. Not about princesses and like that. About magic. That so?”

“Snobs are never willing to listen.” Wren smiled, not hiding her relief. “You were.”

Teressa paused on the landing above the ballroom and looked down.

Duchess Carlas Rhismordith stood fanning herself in the center of the vast marble-floored chamber as she scowled at the servants putting the finishing touches to the decorations, then at the door, where she was expecting her son Garian.

The hot, breathless air had felt thundery for the past three days. Clear, bright sky and hot winds were not the weather for a ball, yet the Duchess had insisted on holding one in honor of the birth of Queen Rhis’s first child, Mordith—the ancestor of the Rhismordith family. Teressa leaned on a cool marble balustrade, lifting her face to the weak breeze ruffling up the stairway. It was too hot for a ball, and everyone seemed out of sorts.

Teressa knew that she was. The others could blame their bad moods on the weather if they wanted, but she knew the real cause for her own: everyone was far too busy minding Teressa’s business, unasked, and she didn’t want to listen to any of them.

She glanced at herself in the long framed mirror in the wall. The mirror was an old one, its glass dark and blurry. Her features were just discernable above the severe gown of sheer pale blue layers trimmed only with silver leaves along the neck and sleeves; unexpectedly Teressa was reminded of her mother.

How that hurt!
Grief never seems to go away.
Teressa glowered at her own image in the mirror.
It just hides, and leaps out to claw at your heart when you least expect it.

But feeling sorry for herself would not bring her mother back. She forced herself away from the mirror, and down the last of the broad marble steps.

Duchess Carlas waited, her posture stiff. Her sharp nose, already elevated, now twitched. Teressa hated it when her aunt did that, as if she smelled something disgusting.

“Good evening, Aunt Carlas.”

The Duchess looked Teressa over from top to toe, then her thin lips creased in the condescending smile that Teressa also hated. “A fine gown. You can wear blue, unfashionable color though it is.”

Anger burned behind Teressa’s ribs. As always, she clenched her jaw against a retort, because her mother had always said,
Kindness never makes anything worse, and can often make things better.

Hawk’s mocking smile flashed in memory. He’d said about Garian,
Someone should tell him to avoid red. Unless he wants to look like a skinny-legged, poke-nosed rooster.

Teressa had quoted her mother’s line, to which Hawk retorted,
If that was true, where is your mother now?

That made Teressa angry—everything made her angry, including this impossible heat. She gave in to impulse, just once. “Then I’ll make it a fashion.”

The Duchess’s arched brows shot up toward her hairline, and her lips pressed into a line. Then she said in a measured voice, “I wish Mirlee could wear that color. Or that style. But she is formed like me. Delicate.”

Like a broomstick
. Teressa could hear it in Hawk’s sardonic tone, but she kept that thought to herself. She was not going to emulate Hawk’s irritating habit of sarcasm, and she would certainly admit to no one that she’d chosen this gown because Wren had admired it. How she missed Wren!

The Duchess snapped her fan open and fluttered it. “Well, never mind. Mirlee isn’t here. And isn’t likely to be, not until our Rhismordith land recovers. She’s as well where she is.” She glared as her son Garian hastened in, his crimson brocade over-robe floating out behind him.

Like a rooster tail
, Teressa thought. No, she wouldn’t say that, either.

“Sorry, mother.” Garian gave the Duchess a respectful nod and Teressa a proper bow. “Things to see to.”

“You ought to remember to be on time,” the Duchess scolded. “Your father always was. Always. He said it was part of a duke’s responsibility to set the standard, and others will follow.”

“M’father had about fifty more servants than I do,” Garian retorted, shrugging. “Some things this duke has to see to himself.”

His mother gave a delicate sniff. “Go on up to the gallery, and see that the musicians are ready. Teressa and I must stay here by the entry, as the guests are due any moment.”

As if waiting for her signal the steward entered, thumped his staff on the ground, and began announcing the arrivals.

A flurry of conversation and laughter preceded the first guests. The women dressed in filmy layers, some in many colors, some only one. The men wore long, loose embroidered robes over tunic-shirts made of silk, or lawn, or very fine linen—all except Hawk, who arrived alone, dressed as always in flawlessly fitted black and gold.

Duchess Carlas gasped. “I did not invite him,” she whispered. “I deliberately did not invite him. He’ll not rule here, and so I meant to show—”

Anger burned even hotter through Teressa. So
that
was why her aunt had insisted on having this stupid ball, and then pretended all that nonsense about Teressa sharing the hostess duties to show family unity.

Hawk strolled through the middle of the guests, apparently unaware of the whispers behind fluttering fans as they parted to let him pass.

He stopped before Teressa and the Duchess. After the faintest of smiles he executed a perfect bow, equal to equal. Then he held out his hand to the Duchess, as if daring her to put hers into his.

Every guest was watching.

The Duchess stiffened. But manners won; she laid her thin, wrinkled hand on his strong, callused palm.

He bent his glossy black head and kissed her hand.

Well, after that, it would have been too awkward to demand why he was there. He knew it, the Duchess knew it, and he knew they knew; Teressa was almost dizzy with bitter laughter.

He stepped back to make way for the guests standing behind him, cut a brief, sardonic smile in Teressa’s direction, then sauntered away to the cooled drinks.

All the ladies appeared to be watching him over fans, or cups, or in groups. Some of the lords as well, with various expressions of disgust. There was no doubt that Hawk stood out in a room. And further, he didn’t care. So far he had never flirted with any of them, he just danced with Teressa a few times, then left.

He’s here for me.
She felt that shivery lightning in her bones.

A step and a rustle close by broke her reverie. The newcomer was Garian’s old friend Perd, who had gotten quite tall and broad. Perd was escorting his cousin Merelda. Teressa forced herself to bow, smile, greet, murmur polite nothings, and turn to the next.

As soon as the last guest had arrived and the enormous carved doors were closed, Teressa walked away to get something cool to drink.

Hawk fell in step beside her. She was aware of him before she saw him—something about the leisurely ring of his heels on the floor, somehow an arrogant sound. Characteristic. She met his dark, appreciative gaze. Tingling flame sparked through her nerves. “Why did you come?” she asked abruptly. “It’s so hot, and everyone is cross.”

“I came because I wasn’t asked.” He grinned when she couldn’t prevent a tiny gasp. “Or did you expect me to say something gallant about not being able to keep away from you?” He laughed. “But you already know that, and I never repeat myself.”

She snapped her fan open. “You knew my aunt would never commit a breach of manners.”

He snorted. “Someone has to stand up to that old woman. It’s past time.” At her frown he said, “Don’t try to tell me you don’t hate her.”

“I never liked her when I was younger. But we get along all right now. And you would have looked pretty stupid if she’d summoned the guard to have you thrown out.”

“They would have looked stupid if they’d tried. And you would not have liked their blood spilled all over your nice marble floor.” Hawk gave a soft, derisive laugh. “You hated Carlas Rhismordith when you were younger, and you hate her now.”

“You do not know what I think.”

He shrugged. “If I’d given in to her little ploy and stayed away—so very polite—all the rest of these fools would have followed right behind her, having breakfasts and games and gambling parties and balls and masquerades—and not an invitation for the wicked Duke of Rhiscarlan. Don’t tell me it isn’t true.”