Quiet Magic (5 page)

This was what she had come for! Petrie
leapt up from behind her bush and ran after the Master. She caught
him at the bottom step, and it was only when he turned and smiled
that she saw she shared his welcome with another.

But the Master did not allow time for
more than that first quick realization. With sure magician's
timing, he bestowed his wonderful smile upon them both, murmured,
"Welcome," turned and led them up the stairs into the
wagon.

Petrie followed, keeping her eyes
resolutely on the sweeping black cloak before her, refusing to
acknowledge the other climbing beside her.

The Master motioned them toward his
couch-bed as he moved to the kitchen end of the small space,
gathering food and utensils. Unwillingly, Petrie turned at last to
her fellow petitioner.

He was older than she, tall and much
too slender, the whiteness of his skin telling of illness; his lank
black hair already threaded with white. His eyes were black and
fierce, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Petrie forced
herself to meet his glare steadily, though something within her
cringed from that contact.

Here you are then," the Master's voice
pulled them 'round to watch as he put down a plate filled with
cheeses and bread, a pitcher of milk and three yellow glasses.
Relieved of these burdens, he reached slender hands to his throat,
undid the fastening of his cloak, swirled it off his shoulders to a
hook on the wall by the bed. He gestured to them again, indicating
that they should sit on the blue-and-white coverlet.

After a moment, Petrie did. The boy
remained standing for a heartbeat longer, then he sat as well, as
far away from Petrie as he could. The Master sat on the floor by
the laden table, his long legs crossed before him.

Smiling, he pushed the plate of cheese
and bread forward. "Eat." He poured milk into glasses, one for
each; and kept his glass in hand, sipping from it from time to
time.

Petrie, reminded that her last meal
had been the scant orphanage luncheon some hours gone by and that
her next mealtime was by no means certain, helped herself to a
slice of dark bread and a slab of butter-yellow cheese. She bit
into it with satisfaction and a sigh.

The boy was staring at the plate as if
he'd seen no such thing before--as well he might not, Petrie
thought, suddenly noticing the fineness of his trousers, the
softness of his shirt. Hesitantly, he put out one hand and selected
a slice of bread. Copying Petrie imperfectly, he laid a piece of
cheese carefully on the bread and bit into it. He chewed slowly,
neither sighing nor seeming especially satisfied.

Petrie took a swallow of milk. Though
she tried not to bolt her food, she found it too soon finished.
Regretfully, she drank the last of her milk and put the empty glass
on the table. Much comforted, she leaned into the corner of the
couch, drawing her legs into a curl beneath her.

The Master moved, as he had not done
all the time Petrie had been eating, setting his glass down on the
table with a small click "Well, now. Would you like to tell me why
you're here?"

Petrie blinked and looked thoughtfully
at the Master. His taffy eyes were warm and guileless. She felt a
slow rise of the fine hairs on her nape. Didn't he know?

But the boy was leaning forward, his
thin, nob-knuckled hands clenching his nearly full glass in a grip
that surely should have shattered it. "I'm here to learn the--the
Power. I came because I could feel it... Because I want it. To
learn how to use it..."

"Ah." The Master nodded, polite, then
flicked his glance to Petrie. "And you, child?"

Petrie licked her lips. Words were
never easy for her; she preferred always to rely upon the messages
found in eyes, face, gesture... "I came because I--needed--to come.
I..." She closed her eyes, as if visualizing the words would make
the speaking easier. "All my life I've loved the winds. I--I used
to go outside in windstorms, just to stand and feel them rushing
past, to smell the different wind-smells." She opened her eyes and
looked into the Master's warm brown gaze. "They lock me in now,
when the wind starts to blow."

"Oh, child..." Petrie felt his sorrow
for her as clearly as if he'd reached out and touched her
hair.

Blinking back unexpected tears, she
finished, lamely, it seemed to herself, "And I wanted to see the
puppybreeze again, if I could, sir. Perhaps touch it..."

Next to her, the dark, sickly boy
snorted. "The puppybreeze," he mimicked, some of the fierceness of
his eyes flickering in his voice. "That's the kind of Power a girl
would see! Why, that wind has to be the very least of those the
Master commands!" He turned his black eyes to the quiet Master,
seeking confirmation. "Isn't that so, sir? That that wind is the
least?"

The Master knit his brows and bent his
head. His long fingers were laced together across his legs and it
seemed to Petrie that he studied the worn silver band on his left
hand for a long time before he raised his head to answer the boy's
question.

"It is not for me to know what is
least and what is greatest. I have my skills and my secrets and
those that do my bidding. But I am only Kitemaster, my son; I must
judge worthiness as you do, in measures of loyalty, long service
and...affection." He paused a moment and Petrie saw that his hands
were no longer clasped and that one finger was rubbing the face of
the silver band.

"There are those that serve me because
they must. And when the day comes when I am too old, when my will
is no longer the stronger--those will turn on me, and perhaps rend
me, because I had dared enslave them in my youth and my pride." He
looked hard at the boy.

"It never does to gain power by force,
my son, though all who are powerful sooner or later must do so. It
is better by far to command through love. A hate-filled servant is
an unsheathed sword." He tipped his head to one side. "Do you
understand what I have said to you?"

The boy nodded, placing his full glass
of milk on the table with a stuttering thunk. "That the more
powerful you are, the better you are able to hold strong
servants."

"Ah, did I say so?" murmured the
Master, one eyebrow sliding upward toward his greying curls. A
rueful smile touched a corner of his mouth. "Well, perhaps I did,
at that."

He looked at Petrie, his smile
broadening, becoming less bitter. "So then, it is my understanding
that the two of you would learn the ways and the whys of the winds,
is that so?"

Petrie, unable to say anything over
the thudding of her heart, nodded. Of course that was what she
wanted, had wanted, for all her life long. She knew it now, the
truth of it glowed golden in the depth of her mind.

"Yes!" The intensity of that one
syllable was enough to cause Petrie to flinch back into the safety
of her corner.

The Master nodded. "Very well, then.
Class begins tomorrow evening. I will see you here. When the sun
goes down." His eyes touched them both, "Eh?"

"Yes," the boy repeated, with much
less intensity, and jumped up like an ineptly-managed marionette.
He avoided Petrie's eyes altogether, executed a frail bow to the
Master and was out the wagon's door in two strides of his long
legs.

Slowly, Petrie uncurled from the
safety of the couch corner, all the concerns of her real--her
windless--life crowding back. How will I get back into St.
Dudley's? She wondered. Mother Superior'll kill --

"Petrie."

Startled, she looked at the Master.
Seated as he still was on the floor, his eyes were level with hers.
For the second time in an hour, Petrie the Silent, Petrie the
Wooden, blinked back tears.

"Sir?"

"You hand wants attention, child. I
should have seen to it before now, but -- " He gestured toward the
door and Petrie nodded understanding. Best, somehow, not to display
a wound when that one was about.

The Master uncoiled himself and
reached a hand down to her. Unhesitating, she slipped her own into
his, slid from the bed to her feet and allowed herself to be guided
to the kitchen. Seated on a high stool, she patiently waited as the
torn palm was washed, dried leaves sprinkled around the wound and
the whole bandaged with a clean white cloth.

"Thank you." She slid off the stool,
not daring to look up at him, for fear the tears would show for yet
a third time. To have a hurt looked after with such care -- ! She
took a step toward the door.

"Petrie." Again, her name, though she
had not told it to him.

She turned. "Yes?"

"Where will you go? The orphanage is
closed to you now, is that so?" He stood where she had left him,
making no move toward her. The expression of concern on his
young-old face wrung her heart.

"I don't know. I--if I go back to St.
Dudley's they won't let me come here again..."

"You must come back, Petrie. You must
learn all you can learn of the ways of the winds. You
must."

She took a step back toward him,
puzzled. "I must? But--there is the boy..."

The Master smiled his bitter smile and
shook his head til the reddish curls danced. "Authberk walks the
left-hand pathway, Petrie. You and I walk the right. He has the
Sight and he has the Talent, and so has the right to demand my
teaching. And I cannot withhold it from him. But I have never
trained such a one, and it is not he I would have chosen for my
successor."

"Your--but sir!" Petrie took a step
and another, without realizing that she moved, laid one hand on a
blue-and-white sleeve. "You're not going to--die?"

This time he laughed and covered her
hand with his. "Die? Not for some time, I think. But this is a
difficult trade. Many who have the Talent, who have even the Will,
fall short of completing the study. There will be much time for
learning what I have learned, before the day that those I took in
pride have the strength of will over me."

Petrie frowned. "But what
about--Authberk? If he has the right to demand your
teaching..."

"I must test both of you. If both
pass, I have the right to choose between you and direct Authberk to
a Master who walks his own road. If either fails, I must perforce
take the other to train, for it is time and past time for me to
have taken an apprentice."

"Why did you wait so long, then?" The
words escaped her before she knew she would speak them, but the
Master seemed to take no insult.

Instead, he shook his head again and
smiled his warm smile. "I could not find any with the Sight, let
alone the Talent. The Will." He laughed and began to chant, softly,
"I looked for thee in far Cathay, I looked for thee in Rome. I
searched for thee upon the Moon--and found thee at thy home." He
smiled again. "I had forgotten that if one is searching for
greatness, one needs look in small, unlikely places."

Suddenly, he moved, putting aside the
towel with which he had dried his hands. "You cannot return to St.
Dudley's. You have no other place to go. Therefore, you shall stay
here."

Petrie blinked at him, feeling worthy
of the stupidity the nuns claimed for her. "Here?"

"Here," he affirmed, moving to the
couch-bed, laying back covers, plumping pillows. He gestured, light
gleaming off the dull silver of his ring. "You will sleep here.
So." He gave one final thump to a pillow. "I," he gestured again,
indicating the floor before the wagon's door, "shall sleep
there."

Petrie opened her mouth to protest.
She to sleep in a bed so luxurious while the Master slept on the
floor? He cut off her protest with a wave of one graceful hand.
"Enough. For tonight and tomorrow, you are my honored guest. We
will make more permanent arrangements later, should you prove to be
acceptable as an apprentice." He bent by the couch-bed, pulled
pillow, blanket and comforter from a secret drawer, and nodded at
the bed. "Sleep well, child."

Petrie moved obediently, kicked off
her shoes and lay down, pulling the clean sheets over her. She
heard the Master rustling linens out of her line of sight, over by
the door. She was asleep by the time he had put his bed to rights
and moved over to the corner to extinguish the lamp. She did not
feel him lay his hand upon her head or stroke her short golden
hair.

* * *

PETRIE WOKE to early sunshine,
threading through the door curtains, touching her face. She lay
quiet for a moment, as memory caught her, then she turned
cautiously from her back to her side to her stomach, peering around
the edge of the pillow toward the door.

The Master was not on the rumpled pile
of blankets on the floor. Instead, curled along a particularly soft
mound of cloth was--a creature rather like a dog, if dogs were made
of white feathers and ice. Petrie caught her breath and slid from
the bed to the floor, never taking her eyes from the reclining
puppybreeze. Carefully, she edged to the tumbled covers and sat on
a corner of the blanket.

The puppybreeze observed all of this
with interest and made no move to leave. Or to attack. When Petrie
was at last still, the feathery tail thumped once,
insubstantially.

As if it were, indeed, an earthly dog,
Petrie held out her right hand, palm up, fingers slightly spread;
and the breeze thrust its cold pointed nose into the center of her
palm. In the depths of her mind, Petrie heard a deep, doggy sigh of
satisfaction. Greatly daring, she moved her hand and rubbed the
breeze behind one icicle ear.