Luck in the Shadows (35 page)

A bittersweet pang shot through Seregil. In the days of his apprenticeship, he’d sat in Thero’s place each morning, enjoying the early quiet while Nysander outlined the day’s tasks. It had been at such moments that he’d felt, for the first time in his life, like he belonged, that he was welcome and useful.

This memory brought with it a momentary stab of guilt at the thought of a certain scrap of parchment carefully concealed at the bottom of his pack. Seregil pushed the thought away.

“Good morning, you two! I hope you are hungry,” Nysander said, pushing the teapot their way. Thero acknowledged their arrival with a cool nod.

Nysander’s workroom breakfasts were legendary
at the Orëska House: fried ham, honey and cheese, hot oat cakes with butter, and good strong black tea. Anyone was welcome and if you wanted anything else you could bring it yourself.

“Valerius will be pleased with you, Alec,” said Nysander as they sat down. “Seregil is looking much more himself today.”

The boy shot Seregil a pointed glance. “It’s none of my doing. He’s done just as he pleased ever since Valerius left, but he healed up anyway.”

“I daresay you underestimate your influence over him, dear boy.” The wizard turned to Seregil with a rather searching look. “Well now, what are your plans?”

Seregil could feel his old mentor watching him as he spooned honey onto a piece of oat cake. Nysander was waiting for another argument over the scar and, under most circumstances, that’s exactly what he’d have gotten. But not this time.

Concentrating on his breakfast, Seregil replied, “It’s time we headed home. With a war brewing for the spring, there ought to be some jobs waiting for us.”

“True,” said Nysander. “In fact, I may have a bit of work for you myself.”

“About this new Leran upsurge?”

“Precisely. I hope to put what details I can before you within a few days.”

Seregil sat back, on safer ground now. “Do you think Vardarus was really mixed up in all that?”

“I must say, I would never have suspected the man. Yet he signed a full confession, and spoke not one word in his own defense. The evidence seemed incontrovertible.”

Seregil gave a skeptical shrug. “If he’d contested the conviction and lost, his heirs would lose all claim to his property. By admitting his treason, they were allowed to inherit.”

“But if he was innocent, then why wouldn’t he have said so?” asked Alec.

“As Nysander said, the evidence against him was irrefutable,” Thero answered. “Letters in Vardarus’ own hand were produced. He could have pleaded forgery, or that magic had been used to alter them, yet he refused to do so. The Queen had no choice but to pass sentence. With all respect, Nysander, it is possible that he was guilty.”

Seregil tugged absently at a strand of dark hair. “And if he
was innocent, what could have enforced such damning silence? He was attached to the Queen’s Treasury, wasn’t he? I’ll need a list of the nobles he associated with in that position, and some idea of his personal habits.”

“I shall see you have all you need,” said Nysander.

Alec found himself studying faces over breakfast. Seregil had been unusually pensive, although he seemed to brighten up once he’d gotten some food in him. Thero was as stiff as ever, and Nysander just as easygoing, yet there was something in the older wizard’s expression when he looked at Seregil, as if he were trying to figure him out.

As for himself, Alec realized that he was finally beginning to feel comfortable here. The sense of disorientation that had depressed him during Seregil’s recovery had lifted at last. Watching his companion trying to tease Thero into some pointless debate, he sensed that a certain important equilibrium had been reestablished.

“You are quieter than usual this morning,” Nysander observed, catching his eye.

Alec nodded toward Seregil. “This is more what he was like when we first met.”

“Annoying Thero has always been a favorite pastime of his,” the wizard sighed. “For goodness’ sake, Seregil, let him eat in peace. Not everyone shares your taste for banter first thing in the morning.”

“I doubt there are many tastes Thero and I
do
share,” Seregil conceded.

“A fact for which I am continually thankful,” Thero parried dryly.

Leaving the two of them to their private battle, Alec turned back to Nysander. “I’ve been wondering about something you mentioned when we talked that first night.”

“Yes?”

“You spoke of shape changing spells. Can a person really be changed into anything?”

“A brick, perhaps?” Thero interjected.

Seregil acknowledged the gibe with a gallant salute of the honey spoon.

“That is correct,” Nysander replied. “Transubstantiation—or metamorphosis, if you will—has always been a favorite subject
of mine. I made quite a study of it, years ago. Few of the spells are permanent and the risks are often high, but I do enjoy them.”

“He turned us into all sorts of things,” Seregil told him. “And it still comes in handy now and then.”

“There are several general kinds of changes,” Nysander went on, warming to his topic. “Transmogrifications change one thing completely into something else—a man into a tree, for instance. His thoughts would be those of a tree and he would exist as one without memory of his former nature until restored. A metastatic spell, however, would merely give a man the appearance of a tree. To alter the nature of a substance—iron into gold, for example—would require an alchemic transmutation.”

“And what about that intrinsic nature spell of yours?” Seregil inquired blandly, staring down into his mug.

“I might have known you’d bring it around to that,” Thero sniffed. “A trick to entertain children and country peasants!”

“There are those who believe it has some value,” Nysander said with a meaningful look in Thero’s direction. “Myself among them.”

Seregil leaned over to Alec as if to speak in confidence, though he didn’t bother to lower his voice. “Thero hates that spell because it won’t work on him. He has no intrinsic nature, you see.”

“It is true that this particular spell does not affect him,” Nysander admitted, “but I am certain that we shall discover the impediment eventually. However, I suspect that it was not Thero’s nature you had in mind?”

Seregil gave Alec a playful nudge in the ribs. “How about a bit of magic?”

Nysander laid his knife aside with a resigned sigh. “I see that I am not to enjoy this meal in peace. I suggest we retire to the garden in case Alec proves to be something especially large.”

“Me?” Alec choked down a bit of ham. He had no idea what an intrinsic nature spell could be, but it suddenly appeared that they meant to work one on him.

Seregil was halfway to the door already. “I just hope he doesn’t turn out to be a badger. I’ve never gotten on with badgers. Thero will probably turn out to be a badger if you ever get it to work.”

They followed Nysander down to the Orëska gardens and into a thick stand of birch surrounding a small pool.

“This will do nicely,” he said, stopping in the dappled shade near the water’s edge. “I will transform Seregil first, Alec, so that you may observe the process.”

Alec nodded nervously, watching as Seregil knelt on the grass in front of the wizard.

Resting his hands on his thighs, Seregil closed his eyes and all expression vanished from his face.

“He attains the suscipient state so readily,” Thero muttered with grudging admiration. “Still, you take a chance, trying to work anything on him.”

Nysander motioned for silence, then laid a hand on Seregil’s head. “Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa, let thy inner symbol be revealed.”

The change was instantaneous. One moment Seregil knelt before them. The next, something was squirming about in a tangle of empty clothing.

Nysander bent over the wiggling pile. “The change was successful, I gather?”

“Oh, yes,” replied a small, guttural voice, “but I’ve lost my way in here. Could you lend a hand?”

“Help your friend, Alec,” Nysander said, laughing.

Alec gingerly lifted the edge of the surcoat, then jumped back in surprise as the blunt head of an otter thrust out from under the loosened shirttail.

“That’s better,” it grunted. Waddling free of the clothing, the sleek creature sat up on its hindquarters with its tail stretched out behind. It looked exactly like any otter Alec had ever trapped, except that its small round eyes were the same grey as Seregil’s.

Seregil smoothed his drooping whiskers into place with a webbed paw. “I should’ve stripped down first, but the effect is more startling this way, don’t you think?”

“It’s really you!” Alec exclaimed in delight, running a hand over the otter’s gleaming back. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you—I think,” Seregil clucked. “In light of your former profession, I’m not certain if that was a compliment or an appraisal of the worth of my pelt. Watch this!”

Humping to the edge of the pool, he slid into the water and dove out of sight with sinuous ease. After a few moments he climbed out again to deposit a flopping carp at Thero’s feet.

“A cold fish for a cold fish!” he announced with otterish glee before dashing back into the water.

Scowling, Thero nudged the carp back into the pool with his foot. “He never can go anywhere without stealing something.”

Nysander turned to Alec. “Ready to give it a try?”

“What do I do?” Alec replied eagerly.

“Remove your clothes first, I think. As you saw, they can be a hindrance.”

Excitement overcame Alec’s modesty for once and he disrobed quickly. In the meantime, Nysander changed Seregil back: the restoration was as sudden as the initial change.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done that,” Seregil said, grinning happily as he pulled on his breeches. “I spent a week as an otter once. I’d like to do that again sometime.”

“There is no great trick to this,” Nysander assured Alec as he took his place in front of the wizard. “Simply clear your mind. Think of water, or a cloudless sky. Before we start, however, I must know your full name.”

“Alec of Kerry is all I’ve ever gone by.”

“He’s the son of a wandering hunter, not a lord,” Seregil reminded him. “That sort hasn’t the use for long names that we do.”

“I suppose not. Still, the lad ought to have a proper name if he is going to trail about with you. Alec, what were the names of your father, and his father, and his father before that?”

“My father’s name was Amasa. I never knew any of the others,” answered Alec.

“In the southern fashion, that would make you Alec í Amasa of Kerry,” said Nysander. “I suppose that will have to suffice.”

“He’s not likely to use his real name much at all if he runs with Seregil,” Thero observed impatiently.

“True.” Nysander placed his hand over Alec.

Alec thought of clear water as hard as he could and heard Nysander say, “Alec í Amasa Kerry, let thy inner symbol be revealed!”

Alec staggered, found his balance, braced for flight
.

Everything appeared in varying tones of grey, yet the slightest movement caught his eye. More overwhelming still were the scents. The pool gave off the sweet message of water and there were horses nearby, mares among them. The countless plants of the garden wove a green tapestry of aromas, some stinking of poison, others succulent and inviting
.

Most emphatic, however, was the warning stink of the men. Some new part of him signaled innate alarm. He couldn’t
understand their ridiculous noise or the strange grimacing that accompanied it
.

Then the smallest of the three moved closer, making new, calmer sounds. Watching the other man creatures with suspicion, he stood his ground, allowing this one to come close enough to stroke his neck
.

“Magnificent!” exclaimed Seregil, looking over the young stag Alec had transformed into. Its nostrils flared nervously, scenting the breeze as he touched its powerful neck. Tossing its antlered head, it looked at him with wide blue eyes.

“Remarkable,” Thero admitted, taking a step closer. “Bring him over to the pool so that he can see—”

“Thero, no! I think he’s—” Seregil hissed, too late.

At the young wizard’s sudden approach, the stag reared in panic. Seregil threw himself back out of reach of the flailing hooves.

Grasping at the back of Thero’s robe, Nysander managed to yank him to safety just as the startled animal leapt forward, lashing out with its antlers.

“Change him back!” yelled Seregil. “He’s lost in the shape. Change him back before he bolts!”

Nysander shouted the command, and the stag form shifted and dissolved, leaving Alec in a dazed heap on the grass.

“Easy now,” Seregil soothed, wrapping a cloak around the boy’s shoulders.

“Did it work?” Alec asked, feeling dizzy and odd. “Things went all funny for a minute.”

“Did it work?” Seregil rocked back on his heels, laughing. “Let’s see now. First you changed into as handsome a stag as I’ve ever seen, then you tried to gut and trample Thero. Nysander stopped you, of course, but otherwise I’d call it a grand success!”

“The transformation was rather too complete,” said Nysander, less satisfied. “How do you feel?”

“A little wobbly,” Alec admitted. “I’d like to try it again, though.”

“So you shall,” promised Nysander, “but first you must learn to govern your mind.”

Left to himself that afternoon, Alec wandered out into the gardens again. He had still not entirely thrown off the morning’s
disorientation; the world seemed rather muted after experiencing it through the senses of an animal.

As he neared the centaur’s grove he caught the sound of harp music and paused. Mastering his shyness, he entered the trees. Hwerlu and Feeya stood close together in the clearing, Feeya leaning languidly on her mate’s back as he played. There was an intimacy to the scene that made Alec halt, but before he could withdraw Feeya caught sight of him and broke into a broad, welcoming smile.

“Hello, little Alec,” Hwerlu called, lowering his harp. “You have the look of one in need of companionship. Come and sing with us.”

Alec accepted the invitation, surprised at how at ease he felt with the immense creatures. He and Hwerlu traded songs for a while, then Feeya attempted to teach him a few words of her flat, whistling language. With Hwerlu’s help he managed to learn “water,” “harp,” “song,” and “tree.” He was just attempting “friend” when the centaurs suddenly raised their heads, listening.