The Cup and the Crown (19 page)

“Does the Council agree that all was done in accordance with ancient law and that I remain Great Seer?”

Solemnly, the Magi nodded assent.

“Sigrid, this has to be unanimous—or would you like to do that again?”

“I admit defeat,” she said. “Your powers are greater than mine.”

“So they are.”

“But I am still a member of the Council,” she said. Her voice was so weak the birds could hardly catch the words. “So I hereby propose that the warrants illegally issued yesterday be declared null and void, that the barrister be released, and that the prisoners in the village stand under no threat of execution. They should be closely watched but given their freedom. I believe, in this case, unanimity is not required.”

“I so move,” said Oskar.

“All in favor—”

26
Hard Things

THE GREAT HALL OF MAGNUS
was transformed by night. The green glow of light-stones—in silver stands on every table and along the back wall in little niches—pierced the darkness like a hundred brilliant stars. Heavy damask linen was draped over the tables, and the Magi were dressed in their robes of occasion: garnet silk embroidered with gold. Above the hum of quiet voices, Molly heard the plaintive sound of a lute.

It was early yet. They all stood around talking in little groups, waiting for the others to arrive. Molly went straight to find Mikel.

“It’s been arranged,” he said. “We’ll go down right after dinner.”

“Good,” she said. “Thanks.”

“There won’t be time to see everything, but I’ve drawn up a list of the finest pieces in the collection. And I’ve asked a few Magi—experts on those particular items—to come with us and say a few words. It should be very nice.”

“Have you heard anything about the Council meeting?”

“Yes.” He lowered his voice now, so she had to lean in to hear. “You have nothing to worry about. There will be no executions, and Pieter is a free man.”

“But what does that mean? That my vision was wrong, and Soren—”

“Shhh.”

She dropped to a whisper. “—and Soren never signed those warrants? Or was everything I saw really true, but he later changed his mind?”

“I don’t know. It was worded exactly as I told you: there will be no executions, and the barrister is free.”

“What about my friends in the village? And what about Tobias? Are
they
free?”

“Who is Tobias?”

“My friend, part of our group. He came into the city with me. Soren said, in my vision, that Tobias was to be watched until I was brought ‘safely into the fold,’ then treated like the others.”

Mikel gave a little shudder of disgust. “Well, there won’t be any executions; that much is clear.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Soren enter the room. He moved with swanlike grace, his head held high, his face radiant.

“Mikel, can’t I eat at your table?”

“No,” he said. “You’ll just make things worse.”

“I’ll go upstairs then, pretend I’m sick.”

“Molly, look at me! This morning you publicly charged that man with grievous crimes. The
Great Seer
, in front of all the Council! Now, until you know for certain that he did any of those things, you’d best keep your tongue and be gracious. He’ll do the same, I imagine. Soren’s not a man to hold childish grudges.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. There are times in life when we have to do hard things. This is one of them. So be pleasant—and if you can’t manage that, keep quiet.” Mikel leaned in so close now, she could feel his breath on her cheek. “You
don’t
want Soren for an enemy. Do you understand?”

Molly slipped into her place at the end of the bench, keeping her eyes down, feeling the heat in her cheeks.

“Well, look at you!” Molly recognized the youthful voice of Liv, the Magi with the large, handsome eyes. “Your first night to wear the robe of a Magus Mästare! It suits you perfectly, like you were born to wear it. But then I guess you were.”

“Congratulations,” said the man with the heavy eyebrows whose name she couldn’t remember. “The first time is always a great occasion. You should be very proud.”

Molly nodded, not yet able to speak.

“I understand you worked with Master Mikel today.” Molly felt a jolt go through her. It was Soren’s voice. “Were you pleased?”

“I liked him very much,” she said, meeting Soren’s eyes, surprised to find no anger there.

“We thought it would be a good fit.”

“He’s very patient and kind.”

“So he is. Did you make progress?”

Waiters were bringing in the food now, reaching in to set platters on the table, pouring the wine.

“I did.” Then, with a sheepish smile, “I can write my name now. I couldn’t before.”

She wondered if they would laugh at her or cast little glances of amusement at one another, but they didn’t. They seemed genuinely pleased, even Soren.

“Two milestones in a single day,” he said. “You’ve become a Magus and a writer both.”

Platters were passed, conversation flowed, and Molly thought with amazement how masterfully it had all been done. No going straight at it with blunt words, her accustomed way. No awkward silence or piercing stares. Just courtesy, warmth, and reassurance, then, “Won’t you pass the carrots?”

Was it real, she wondered—or just manners?

27
The Hall of Treasures

THEY PROCEEDED DOWN
the long, silent corridor like priests in procession. Molly was in the middle—Magi ahead of her, Magi behind—like an effigy of the Virgin being carried through the streets on Lady Day. Each of them held a light-stone in a small silver cup, casting eerie shadows against the floors and walls.

They went first to the gallery of pictures and stopped before a scroll, perhaps ten feet long, which was laid out on a table. It had already been prepared for viewing, a string of light-stones glowing behind it in wrought-iron stands.

The scroll was one single, continuous drawing of a river and the road that ran beside it. There were many small figures traveling from one village to the next with their oxcarts and horses, their children and dogs. Boats floated on the water; fishermen stood on the shore. And in the trees perched tiny birds.

The Magi stepped back to give Molly space to admire the scroll—all except Sigrid, who came forward to address the group.

“This scroll comes to us from the land of Chin,” she began. “It was painted with colored inks on silk—”

Molly leaned down, her nose nearly touching the paper, and studied the pictures, a tapestry of scenes from the everyday life of those long-ago people. There was a man whipping a boy, a woman shopping at an outdoor market, an overturned cart, a young couple kissing, an old man peeing into the river.

“—in the court style, which is marked by a meticulous technique and is noticeably less spontaneous than—”

Molly suddenly wondered whether she was supposed to be looking at the scroll or paying attention to the lecture. Her first instinct, to look at the pictures, had probably been wrong since she was habitually rude. So she stood back up, clasped her hands in front of her, and pretended to be interested as Sigrid continued to speak, woodenly, using lots of big words.

“Please observe the difference between this scroll and the picture that hangs above it.”

There followed a weighty pause till Molly noticed that everyone was looking at her. Had that been a question? Was she supposed to say something? Should she be
looking
at the painting that hung above the scroll?

Probably yes to all.

“Um,” she said, giving it a quick glance. “The one up there looks more, um, real.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what the artist was striving to achieve, in accordance with what his culture considered to be the highest purpose of art: to capture reality in the form of ideal beauty.

“But the people of Chin have an altogether different tradition, a concept of art that is based on spontaneous lines, drawn with a brush. They learn it from childhood, since they write their characters, not with a pen as we do, but with brush and ink. They regard beautiful writing to be high art in itself—”

Then it slammed into Molly like a punch in the gut: Sigrid wasn’t there to talk about the
kite
! She’d been invited to do what she was doing now: give a boring lecture about a stupid scroll!

Molly hadn’t
asked
to see the kite, not specifically. She’d already shown too much interest in the prince of Chin and his escape from the tower. She didn’t want to raise any suspicions that she was planning to follow his example. She’d just assumed that since Sigrid was on the list, the kite would be, too.

“—so that every stroke is clearly seen, nothing is hidden, and the artist is revealed. They would never pile one brushstroke on top of another till they all blended together, as this painter has done. It’s not in keeping with their sense of beauty.”

Molly had stopped listening; she just gazed at the floor, desperate for the lecture to be over. She didn’t care about the bloody Chin and their bloody brushes. All she’d ever wanted was—

It was quiet again. She looked up and saw that Sigrid was waiting, with that same flat expression, for Molly to answer—what? Another question?

“That’s very interesting,” she said, at a total loss.

God’s bones, what a tragic waste of the Gift! The girl has the brains of a goat.

Molly gasped, and, without intending to, covered her mouth with her hand. In the brief moment that followed—while she was wondering if anyone had noticed, and hoping they hadn’t—she saw that Sigrid’s half-closed eyes, which made her look so condescending, had widened, and her mouth was open.

Sigrid knew about “the bloody Chin and their bloody brushes,” just as Molly knew that Sigrid thought she had “the brains of a goat.”

They were reading each other’s thoughts!

“Yes,” Sigrid said. “That is extremely interesting.” And Molly knew she wasn’t referring to the Chin and their sense of beauty.

They were connected somehow, Molly and this dreadful woman—not as friends or kindred spirits, but as the owl and the field mouse are. So what did the mouse do when the owl’s great shadow passed across the moonlit meadow? It darted into its hole, that’s what.

Where was hers?

The group was moving now, on to the next item on the tour, oblivious of the remarkable exchange that had just taken place.

They stopped before a stone carving of a foreign god. He had the plump cheeks of a baby and too many arms, which made him look like a fat, jolly spider. It was Oskar’s turn to stand up front and explain things, none of which Molly heard. She was still puzzling over Sigrid, whose mind had gone silent. Did she have a mousehole too? Seeing the danger that Molly posed to her
,
had she hidden somewhere safe?

Well, if she could do that, so could Molly—as soon as she figured out how.

The carving was followed by a handsome apparatus made of gleaming brass that had something to do with ships at sea—but Molly still wasn’t paying attention. She was deep inside her mind, hauling imaginary blocks of ice, piling one atop the other. Even if her wall was a failure and offered no protection, her thoughts (
Lift, stack; lift, stack; lift, stack
) would be as interesting as watching mold grow on cheese.

She kept it up for the rest of the tour, learning nothing whatsoever about the tapestry, the saltcellar, or the thumb harp shaped like a tortoise. Only when it was over and they were turning to go back did Molly realize that in building her imaginary wall of ice she’d forgotten about the kite.

“Wait!” Sigrid said. Everyone turned to stare. “I believe we’ve left something out. Mikel, weren’t you telling young Marguerite about kites this afternoon?”

“I . . . yes.”

“Well, apparently you piqued her curiosity. She mentioned it to me earlier—that she couldn’t so much as imagine a kite and would very much like to see one. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

Speechless, Molly nodded.

“It’s just around the corner. What do you say? I’d hate for her to miss it.”

This was so unlike the Sigrid they thought they knew, she of the closed expression and the acid tongue, that for a moment everyone was stupefied. But they quickly recovered themselves and agreed that certainly they could go see the kite.

Sigrid charged ahead and the others followed till they finally came to the famous kite from the land of Chin. As it had not been prepared for viewing, they set their small light-stones around it.

Molly didn’t move. She just stared in disbelief. Why, it was just a toy, hardly bigger than a serving platter! True, it was shaped like a butterfly, and prettily painted; but beyond that it was nothing but sticks and paper. What a crushing disappointment!

“But—” She gasped. “That little thing couldn’t carry a cat
,
much less a man!”

“It wasn’t designed to carry a cat. Or a man.”

Mikel cleared his throat. “I told her a story this afternoon, the one about the prince of Chin. . . .”

Sigrid nodded. “I know the one. An unusual choice, I’d think, under the circumstances.”

“Yes,” Mikel said. “A very poor choice indeed. But after I told her the story she asked me what a kite was, and I mentioned that we had one in our collection. She assumed it was the same one from the story.”

“I can see how that would have happened,” Sigrid said. “Well, Marguerite, that kite would have been much larger, with a sturdier frame, and made of stronger material. Silk, I’m guessing—something else that came to us from the land of Chin.

“Now notice that the kite has a tail. And while it’s certainly charming, with all the little bows, it’s not there for decoration. Its weight keeps the kite upright and balanced as it flies. Notice also that a string is attached, here at the front; that’s how the flier controls the kite. By keeping the string taut, the flat surface is held against the wind, which then carries the kite up into the sky.”