Angel Isle (48 page)

Benayu was looking a bit uncomfortable. He was usually a bit cocky about his abilities, but he wasn’t used to this kind of praise from this kind of person.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Benayu isn’t my real name either. That’s what I’m usually called. I’m fourteen.”

“Well, I hope you will not try anything of the kind again until you are at least five years older. I had a young cousin, not a magician, who…no, some other time. And here are Sponge and the horses. I am sorry to see them without their wings, but I suppose it was sensible. I will see that the horses are well stabled. There are hitching rings beside the stair. I do not normally allow dogs in my house, but I will make an exception for Sponge.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” said Benayu. “Stay with the horses, boy. I won’t be long.”

“Follow me, please,” said Lady Kzuva, and rapped on the door with her cane. Both leaves opened instantly. The four footmen bowed as she passed between them. Inside was a formal entrance hall with a grand flight of stairs. Lady Kzuva settled herself into a throne-like chair with carrying poles either side. The footmen stood by the poles, ready to lift, but she raised her hand and turned to a worried-looking elderly man, wearing a rather grander version of the household livery, who had been hovering near by.

“Rooms for my guests, Micha,” she told him. “They may be staying several days and will need their own quarters. Show them for the time being into the little library and bring them light refreshments. There are three horses to be well stabled and a dog who will remain with the horses. We will have supper in the Orchard Room. Make my excuses to the company in the dinner hall.

“Now, my friends, I have business to complete. Beyond that I will clear my diary as far as I am able. And you must tell me your tale this evening. All I know is that I lay here in a coma for two nights and a day, and woke on the morning of the second day from the strangest, strongest dream I have ever known. And now you have brought this brooch to my door to tell me that it was no dream, but true.”

It was well toward midnight before they finished. Lady Kzuva asked a hundred questions along the way and remained alert to the end. When it was over she sat silent for a while, then smiled and shook her head.

“To my mind,” she said, “the strangest part of it all is this. Here we were, all the so-called grand and powerful of this great empire, living in constant dread under the rule of the Watchers but not daring to band together to do anything about it, while you five, a simple miller, a farmer’s daughter, a shepherd boy, a—shall we say wandering scholar?—and a child, accomplished the thing without any help from any of us. And then, almost as an afterthought, except that it was no afterthought but supremely important, though it was not in any way your responsibility, you brought about the possibility of peace with a powerful nation whose ships have harried our shores for centuries.”

They stayed five days at the House of Kzuva. Lady Kzuva spared them what time she could, canceling any business that wasn’t pressing. She spent one whole morning visiting some of her mills with Ribek and Maja, and talked earnestly with Striclan about the condition of the Empire and the mind-set and culture of the Pirates. At one point she asked Maja to be with her as she sat in judgment on two disputes between her people, both involving accusations of witchcraft.

“My magician Stindul is good enough for most things, but at heart he is a scholar,” she said. “He doesn’t understand the peasant mind.”

One case was simple enough. The plaintiff was accusing his neighbor of causing his peach crop to fail.

“The trees belong to me,” explained Lady Kzuva, “but I take only a third of the fruit. Still he needs to account for the failure to me, so he is trying to blame it on his neighbor rather than his own laziness in failing to keep the trees well watered. I would simply like to be sure before I pass judgment.”

Maja closed her other senses as far as she could and concentrated. No, there was no made magic there, only an ancient and obvious human magic.

“They just hate each other. That’s all,” she said.

The other case was more interesting. A man’s legs were infested with a horrible maggot which was eating him away from the inside. His wife was accusing another man of causing the affliction, because she had rejected his advances, saying that she would remain faithful to her husband. The husband had been carried into court so that Lady Kzuva could see for herself. The accused man said it had been the other way round, and the wife was taking advantage of the illness in vengeance for his having rejected her.

There was no spell, Maja could tell at once, and the accused man had no magical powers. But…but…

“Can we look at the husband close to?” she whispered.

She followed Lady Kzuva down to where the man was lying on his litter, sockless and shoeless, with his baggy trousers pulled above the knees to show the disgusting state of his legs. The woman knelt beside him.

“It’s his left shoulder,” Maja whispered.

“And his upper body is unaffected?” said Lady Kzuva.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” said the wife.

“I would like to be able to compare clean flesh with the diseased part,” said Lady Kzuva.

“But it’s his legs!” exclaimed the wife. “There’s nothing wrong—”

“Nevertheless, I wish to see for myself. Please do as I say.”

“But—”

“Justicer, will you remove the man’s jacket and shirt, please.”

The wife rose and watched pale-faced while a court official knelt and bared the man’s torso. As the wife had said, there seemed to be nothing wrong with it.

“On his back,” whispered Maja.

“Roll him over,” said Lady Kzuva.

“No!” screamed the wife.

High on the shoulder blade was a small crude tattoo—a snake, perhaps, but looking at it carefully Maja saw it was meant to be some kind of worm. Whatever it was, it was nasty.

“That’s what’s doing it,” she muttered.

“A sigil of some kind,” said Lady Kzuva.

“That’s right,” said the man. “I’d a bit of an ache there, and Carna got this fellow…Carna…? What…?”

“You will need to explain yourself,” Lady Kzuva told the woman calmly.

The woman started screaming. The two justicers hurried her away. Servants carried the sick man off to the household magician to see what he could do for him.

When Lady Kzuva was busy, she arranged amusements for her visitors, riding or learning the elements of hawking in the woods, boating on the river, and so on. Saranja and Striclan usually absented themselves for at least part of the day. Ribek decided that when he was home he would have a hawk of his own, so he spent any time he could in the mews, watching the falconers train their young birds. It became obvious to Maja that she’d have to have one too when they were married, and then she got hooked herself.

Benayu spent most of his day in the library, working through shelf after shelf of old magical volumes, accumulated by generations of household magicians, and talking them over with Stindul. Strangely, the long hours of concentrated study of his craft seemed to have an almost medicinal effect on him, both body and spirit. They saw this clearly on the fourth evening.

Lady Kzuva was listening to Saranja talking about her time among the warlords, and at the same time, as she often did, casually fingering the brooch on her head-scarf. She must have noticed Maja watching her, because she smiled and said, “I think I shall wear it for the rest of my days.”

“I’m afraid it was much prettier with the horses,” said Maja.

“Yes, but that makes very little difference to me. It is not why I wear it. I can always put them there in my mind.”

“Do you want me to do something about that?” said Benayu.

They stared at him. Not once on the journey north from Larg had he shown the slightest interest in practicing his art, either for pleasure or purpose. He grinned.

“Got to start somewhere,” he said. “Touch it again, my lady. Now do what you said—put them there in your mind. Ready, Maja?”

One brief, easily endurable pulse, a twitch of Lady Kzuva’s arm, and the silver horses were back in their place beside the tree.

Benayu looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded as if confirming a decision, then yawned and stretched, as if waking from a long, soul-restoring sleep.

“Next stop, the mountains,” he said.

It was their last evening in the House of Kzuva. They had decided so after breakfast that morning. As far as Maja was concerned, she didn’t mind how long she stayed. She was already fond of Lady Kzuva. She felt a bond with her, like the family bonds she should have had, but never did. But Ribek had to get back to Northbeck. Though it would be a month or more before the time came to sing to the snows and close the passes, what harvest there was after the ravages of the horse people would be in by now and it was high time that the mill became busy again.

So far, Maja had assumed that she would go back with him, but after that the next few years, until she could marry him, were something of a blank for her. All her imaginings and longings had been focused on what came beyond that, and even the thought of that long wait, so close to him all the time, was beginning to make her vaguely uncomfortable. She would have put it off if she could.

But Saranja too wanted to get back to the Valley. She wanted to get the whole business of Woodbourne over and done with, so that she and Striclan could settle into their life together. And Benayu needed to get home in time for the great autumn sheep markets. So the time had come to move on.

Lady Kzuva had given them no hint of her own feelings, no sign either that she was wearying of their presence or that she wanted them to stay longer. Only, when they told her about their decision later that morning she sighed and said, “Well, I suppose you are right. And I too have business to catch up with. We will talk about it at supper this evening.”

The Orchard Room was Maja’s favorite among all the wonderful rooms in the house. It was medium-sized, pretty rather than grand, with carved panels on three walls. The fourth consisted entirely of windows that could be folded all the way back, opening onto a pillared verandah and beyond that the so-called orchard, which was really a flower garden with lawns running along the river. There were just enough fruit trees to justify the name. That evening the servants had hung hundreds of little lanterns among their branches.

“I cannot give you oyster-and-bacon pie so far from the sea,” said Lady Kzuva. “But my cooks have done the best they can. Nothing too rich, I told them, just before a journey. This wine, on the other hand, is the oldest I have. The grapes were harvested in the year I was born. I must warn you that it is very strong, which is why it has kept so well, so drink it sparingly, and take plenty of water.”

Maja had never tasted wine before the journey began, and then hadn’t cared for it much apart from the wine that Chanad had given them that evening on Angel Isle. They drank this one out of little silver goblets, only half filled. It was a deep greenish yellow. Intense odors fumed off it. She had no need to taste it before its inward magic exploded in her mind, so vividly that she seemed to be somewhere else, a landscape that she could feel almost as if she could see it, a steep, scree-strewn slope so barren-seeming that she would not have thought that anything could grow there. But there were the rows of vines, only shoulder-high to her, but heavy with fruit. The harvesters were working among them, singing. The river glistened below, with a little town on its further bank…

“Maja, come back,” said Ribek’s voice. “You haven’t even tasted it yet. It’s astonishing.”

Maja blinked and returned to the Orchard Room.

“I was there. Where the grapes were grown,” she said, and described the scene.

“Yes, you were there,” said Lady Kzuva. “What is more, you were there then, in the year of my birth. Next year those vines were stricken with a disease and had to be grubbed up and burnt before they infected the rest of the vineyards. They were very old, and all attempts to grow them elsewhere had failed. This wine will never be made again.”

Their chairs (which Lady Kzuva preferred because the piles of cushions that were the custom in most of the Empire were too low for her comfort) were arranged along one side of the table so that they could all see out. They ate and drank for the most part in silence, watching the stars come out and the lamps mimicking them more and more strongly below as dusk deepened into night.
It isn’t only the wine,
thought Maja.
There will never be another evening like this.
She sighed.

“You echo my thought,” said Lady Kzuva. “I rue your going, but I understand you must go. Before that, as I said, I have a proposal to put to you. Tell me, each of you, how you see your own immediate futures. Let us start with Saranja and Striclan—forgive me for assuming from what I have seen of you that you propose to share whatever future that is.”

Maja couldn’t see them from where she sat, but there was a pause—while they looked at each other, she guessed. Striclan must have nodded or something, because it was Saranja who answered.

“I don’t know. It depends what’s happened at Woodbourne. Presumably everybody thinks I’m dead. My brothers can’t inherit it, if either of them’s still alive, because it descends in the female line, so it would go to the nearest female cousin who can hear the cedars. I suppose one of my brothers might marry her. I just don’t feel I can leave it all up in the air. Anyway, I know I don’t want to live there, or like that. Striclan can do anything, so I suppose he could be a farmer, but I couldn’t. I don’t have the patience. That’s one of the reasons why my father was always so angry, besides the farm not actually belonging to him. He made himself a good farmer because he hated to see anything done badly, but it wasn’t what he wanted to be. I’m his daughter. I could easily go the same way. We’ve talked about it a lot, Striclan and I, but we haven’t got anywhere, except that if we can find someone to take over Woodbourne we’ll probably come back to the Empire. I don’t know what we’ll do.”