Rift in the Races (32 page)

The Hostile immediately began to reform itself into its regular orb shape. Altin was not intimidated. While it might look like a really big coconut, it could be split just like a small one, its glowing orange milk left to spill into the empty vacuum with whatever served it as a soul.

Altin looked around for another one that he could merge it with, intent on destroying two in a single cast, but there were no others. Fair enough. But this one still had to go. So, go it went. He spoke the long-familiar words and cast the teleporting spell that sent the Hostile away, back to the place in space where he’d first met Orli and the people of Earth, back to the place where the Hostiles had tasted defeat at the hands of Prosperion magic for the first time. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was a solution nonetheless. He wiped his hands together as if they’d been dirtied by some basic gardening task,
snip
,
snip
, and that weed was gone.

So much easier than an orc. Or even a mouse for that matter.

It then occurred to him that if the Hostiles had caught up to him while he was sleeping off the miscast spell, then they might have caught up to the fleet as well. He cursed himself for having been so lazy—he should have gone and done the research first before trying to scry his way onto the bridge of a decimated ship. That was just dumb, impatient casting.
Reckless
. He could hear Tytamon’s voice saying it. Hindsight was such a nag.

However, as with all mistakes, there was something to be learned from it—as long as one was not dead. So, he’d have to go do the library work after all. Which was just as well because, upon returning to the battlements, he also saw that his scrying basin was empty. He had a pitcher of water to drink, and there was water in the basin on his washstand, but not enough to refill the scrying basin adequately. And so, his return to Prosperion was unavoidable.

“Gryphon stool!” he swore, hating the delay. And then he teleported home.

The sound and the rush of wind created by the arrival of his tower made little impression on the massed troops now encamped around the walls of Calico Castle. These were two divisions of battle-trained soldiers, well used to the workings of magic, and well at work settling in for the long haul. Magicians came and went all the time, and the regular troops were quite comfortable with their place in the workings of war, and to be honest, they were quite comfortable in the veritable town they had made outside the keep. Seasoned soldiers knew how to make the best of whatever down time they might get, and the wind of Altin’s spell would not bother them unless it blew a winning hand of cards away.

Lugging the scrying basin with him, Altin made his way down the three floors of his tower and out into the courtyard, stopping long enough to dismiss the shield he had cast to protect the opening in the castle wall, a vulnerability that opened up whenever he teleported the tower away. He dispelled the illusionary tower and wall he’d cast as well. Doing so reminded him that he’d been considering having the curtain wall extended to accommodate the frequent departure of his tower. The keep’s residents would be safer if there was something more permanent—particularly in the event of an accident out in space, which he had proven was more than possible both recently and in the past. He hadn’t commissioned the work, however, and the rapid progress of
Citadel
, and likely those similar space fortresses to follow, made him think it might be a waste of time and money to extend the wall now. Soon he wouldn’t use his tower for traveling in space at all. He was better off traveling on
Citadel
or in a fortress like it, or even in one of the redoubts. That way, he could leave poor old Calico Castle’s already motley appearance alone in the advent of some future misfortune.

He dropped the basin off at the base of the well and got to work filling it up. When it was full, he teleported it back to its proper place on the battlements. He even took the extra precaution of going to the wine cellar and getting an empty keg. Returning to the well, he filled that up, sealed it, and sent it up to the tower too. Now he was prepared should he have some mishap with the scrying basin again—which he intended never to do.

“There,” he said when it was done, taking the time to wring water from the sleeves of his robes, which, while still somewhat damp from the blast of water he’d suffered the evening before, were now soaked thanks to his efforts at the well. With a quick glimpse around, once more making certain he’d not been seen, he headed back toward his tower, intent on getting right back to work finding a place to land on one of the ships from Earth.

He almost made it inside when Pernie appeared with such suddenness, he was sure she must have cast a spell.

“Hi, Master Altin. Where did you go? I was scared once I seen you left,” she said. “You never said you were leaving.”

“Pernie,” he said, recovering from the start of her having popped out of the shadows like some lurking assassin or, at very least, tiny thief. “You mustn’t do that. You can hurt someone or yourself.”

“Do what?”

“Jump about like that. With your magic. You need to train before you teleport, even short distances. Learn the words that will help you control the outcomes. You can’t just guess. It’s animal. It’s dangerous. You’ll end up in a wall. Besides, it’s not reliable. You won’t be able to do it for long. It grows out quickly.”

Her little features contorted in confusion, unsure what had prompted such a lecture, but the sparkle in her eyes showed she was happy to have this attention from him.

“Pernie, this is not the time for games. This is a dangerous time for you. You have to take this seriously.”

“I will, sir.”

He could tell from the blank look on her face that she had no idea what he was talking about but was agreeing because she knew it was the right thing to do.

“Pernie, right now, you just appeared. Like what happened to you the other day when the orcs were here. Do you remember that? Three times you did it.”

She nodded, her long blonde bangs swinging out and back with the motion like dirty golden draperies in a breeze.

“Did you do that again. Just now?”

“No.” She looked up at him with honesty ambient in every part of her.

“Interesting,” he said, almost to himself. “Has Tytamon or Kettle talked to you about what happened? About how you teleported?”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did.”

How could they not yet have spoken to the girl about something as important as that?

Her eyes glazed for a moment, absent, far away, as she sifted through memories of the fights again. Not the least reluctance troubled her countenance as she relived it, not the least tremor of remembered fear, but suddenly understanding dawned, made outwardly evident by the broad smile that came upon her face. “I’m like you,” she said. It was half question, half statement. “I’m a ‘porter?”

Impatiently, he agreed. “Yes. But Pernie, you can’t do it again. When you feel it coming, you have to stop yourself. Bad things can happen.” His memory flashed with the visions of what he’d done to his sister so many years ago, unknowingly teleporting her inside the solid trunk of a tree. An accident. It shouldn’t even have been possible, which was testament to the dangers of the young when they manifest magic, especially with the potency of a Z-class teleporter. Most magicians had hardly enough power to be a threat when young. Perhaps Pernie would prove to be the same. But the guilds didn’t take chances and laws had been made. Pernie had to be sent to school. Tytamon certainly wouldn’t have time to train her, not now, any more than Altin would. So it had to be a school. Leekant had an excellent private one, and Tytamon wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to pay the fees. But the child wouldn’t like it, not being two years away from home. Altin knew her well enough to know she was not the sort for books and long hours in a classroom studying magic theory and the nature of the eight magic schools.

He looked down into her little adoring eyes. He wanted to tell her what lay ahead for her, to encourage her and tell her how wonderful a teleporter she might one day be. He wanted to be the one to break the news, to put it to her gently and in a positive light, but he knew she wouldn’t like it if he did. Kettle should be the one.

He knew he was being a coward even as he decided to leave it alone. He couldn’t handle it when she cried, and Pernie was infamous for tantrums if she didn’t get her way. Neither was something Altin felt like dealing with just now.

“Pernie, promise me if you feel like you are going to do something like that again, you won’t. Okay? At least try to stop it if you can, all right?”

“All right,” she said. But he could tell that she would promise him anything. I promise to jump into a fire, she would say. I promise to stab an orc in the throat thirty times. I promise to turn into a pigeon and eat the castle after lunch.

What else could he do? At least that’s what he tried to tell himself.

But he knew what else.

“Come on,” he said. He held out his hand, which she took instantly, and led her to the kitchen.

Nearly dragging her in his impatience to get back to the fleet, he stormed through the kitchen, hollering for Kettle around every turn. Finally the old matron appeared, her arm now fully healed, looking none the worse for the fight a few days ago.

“There ya be, lad. We was a wonderin’ if’n ya’d run off fer another set a months in space. Pernie here nearly brained herself a runnin’ headlong inta that invisible wall ya cast. Ya made the tower image but not the shield. And Mercy’s sweet face if’n ya could be bothered ta tell a soul afore ya left again.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Listen Kettle, Pernie needs to go to a magic school.”

“She what?”

“She needs a school, and nobody’s done anything yet. Nobody remembered what she did.”

“Altin, I don’t know what yer sayin’.”

“Pernie is a teleporter, Kettle. You saw it. What she did when the orcs were storming the courtyard. How she appeared on that orc’s back.”

Kettle lifted a thick, round-fingered hand to scratch the side of her head, depositing a few motes of flour in the fine gray hairs at her temple as she did. He saw her start to recall. “She did rather do tha’ sudden like, di’na she?”

“She teleported.”

“I was a bit diverted, if’n ya take mah meanin’, dear.”

“I do. But I saw it twice more. She’s a teleporter. You told me yourself, in this very room, that you know exactly what can happen when teleporters discover the range of their abilities without supervision.” Of course, he was referring to Kettle’s tirade the day his thoughtlessness had left Pernie vulnerable to kidnapping by the orcs, the same day Altin learned he was the reason his whole family was dead. His magic. Kettle suddenly understood perfectly even before he repeated it. “You have to send her to school.”

Kettle’s eyes began to mist as she considered what it meant. “No,” she pined. “Na’ mah little Pernie girl. I don’t want ta let her go jus’ yet.” She hugged the child to her protectively.

“Well, too bad,” said Altin. “She needs to go. If you won’t take her, I will. And I won’t be nice about it. I’ll teleport her there right now and drop her off with a sack of gold to pay her dues. It’s what she needs. You know it as well as I do.”

“An’ she’ll hate ya ferever fer it too.”

“Only at first.”

“I’ll go,” came the meek little voice, mouse-like, barely a squeak, and yet with manifest bravery. Bravery and hope.

“Wha’?” cried Kettle. “Ya don’t even know what yer sayin’, girl.”

“I do.” She was so sober. Altin had never seen her like that.

“Pernie?” The plaintive sound in Kettle’s voice made Altin fear Pernie might change her mind. Kettle fell to her knees and pulled the girl into her ample bosom, throwing up a cloud of flour that nearly shrouded her from view. “Mah baby is a growin’ too fast. And these is no times fer her ta be away.”

“She’ll be fine, Kettle,” Altin tried to soothe. “Every wizard goes. She’ll come back very powerful.”

“She’s only a wee child.”

“She is a sorcerer,” Altin said, his hands on his hips in what had become a complete reversal of roles.

Kettle’s cries drowned out whatever Altin was going to say, the emotions of the last few days overcoming the woman entirely. Altin waited until it passed. He was not giving in on this. It mattered in too many important ways.

After a few moments, when Kettle had regained herself, Altin spoke again. The gravity of the question cut through what remained of the stout woman’s emotional response. “Will you take her, or shall I? I think it would be better for you both if it was you.”

She stood, straightened her apron, wiped some flour from Pernie’s face, which only smeared it more. She looked up at Altin and nodded. Her eyes sparkled with leftover tears. “I will do it. I’ll take her.”

“Do it tomorrow. Get her signed up for the next session.”

“Yes, sir.”

She’d never said that to him before in all his life. It struck him as if it were a physical blow. He had to draw two breaths before he could think again. He looked at her, saw that she meant it. He saw that Pernie meant it too. He tried to fashion a smile for them both, but only about half of it managed to make it to his face.