Forgotten - Kingdom Gone Book 3, page 7
“Why?” Her ploy failed this time. Mastral stared slitted suspicion at her, storm gray. “How do you know a User?”
“I don’t.” She answered too fast and earned a deeper scowl for it. In truth, the Mage had no authority over her, nor could he demand any sort of answer, but he did have her father’s ear. No doubt, the man would tattle on her if he discovered she’d evaded the Rosy Glass…or consorted with strange Users. “Hadja asked me to find him.”
“I see.” Mastral unwound like a spring loosening. His eyes blued and looked past her to the stairs that led down the tower. “Well, it’s a fair bet he’s here. The king hasn’t exactly been selective.”
His sniff said how little he thought of the Users. It also signaled his desire to be elsewhere. Mastral had lost any trace of concern about her at the revelation that it was Hadja’s errand. Hadja, it seemed, could consort with whomever she liked. Farine’s initial surge of guilt over using Hadj as an excuse wafted away. How was it that the maid had more liberty than her princess? The maid’s actions would not suffer the regulation, or the scrutiny, that hers did.
Hadja was free.
The Rosy Glass had cracked. Now Farine could see her own prison, and suddenly its walls felt thick again, stouter than mountains and closing in fast. She heard the First Mage’s steps clip away. She saw the billow of his loose clothing as he twitched aside, and she saw the User appear in the gap, climbing toward her with his two-colored eyes and his knowing too much about everything. Farine leaned against the stones and felt them push back against her.
“Princess.” The User’s greeting came with a stern look and a once over that deepened the lines crossing his forehead. “Are you well?”
Behind him, Weredewell paused, almost looked over his shoulder.
“I’m fine.” She straightened her body and waited for the elf to disappear around the curving wall. “Just a little dizzy at the moment.”
“I can imagine.”
“Can you?”
His eyes drifted to the stairs and then back to pin her in their oddly-colored scrutiny. Before she could protest, his arm came round her lower back, one of his hands cupped her elbow and he leaned into her and lifted until her weight fell on him instead of the inner wall. “I think we should talk in private. Don’t you?”
“Y-yes.”
“Your father has been kind enough to offer me my choice of workrooms.” He stepped up, easing her along with him. “Perhaps you can assist me in selecting one.”
“Of course.” She allowed him to maneuver her up the stairway even though, once he’d steadied her, the walls had ceased to threaten. His support allowed her to collect her thoughts. He’d waited for Weredewell to be out of earshot, and so, she could assume he understood her dilemma. She could also assume she’d been correct, that the First Mage and her father would not take the news of her liberty happily. What she couldn’t figure was why this stranger had freed her, why he helped her now aside from a desire to keep his own neck clean. “I think I can…if you’d just...”
They’d reached the apex of the stairs and now the long hallway stretched away from the landing. Many doors marked its inner wall though only a few windows broke the outer one. The User released her at her words, took a shy step away and waited for Farine to properly compose herself.
“That door.” She pointed to the first in the line, the largest and the one marked with an elvin shield, a crescent shape with vines looping around it. “That workroom belongs to the First Mage.”
“I see.” He squinted at the door and then let his gaze shift down the hallway. “Perhaps I should look a little farther on, in that case.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t believe the First Mage would enjoy my proximity.” The User winked at her and then continued so abruptly down the passage that Farine was left behind and had to stutter forward in his wake.
“I don’t think Mastral Weredewell enjoys anyone’s proximity.” She couldn’t have said where the idea came from, but the look he cast over his shoulder said she’d hit the mark.
“Hmm. A little farther, perhaps.” They’d nearly halved the hallway, treading over the slanting flashes of sunlight that angled through the openings in the outer wall. They made a pattern of lit squares along the hall, light on dark, and the User traipsed between them, dodging around each stone that the sun illuminated in a dance of black robes. “Maybe the end? The last there looks promising.”
“It looks the same as the rest.”
“So it does.” He’d stopped at the final door and opened it without any hesitation. Now he peered into the dusty interior, squinting, frowning again. “It should do a great deal better than the dungeon, I suspect.”
“The dungeon?”
“The king is converting more workrooms down below.” He pointed directly to the stone floor, but his eyes widened and he made a crinkled-up face, as if he could smell the dungeons from here. “For the unlucky souls who arrive late to the party.”
“Which party?”
The User entered the workroom, stirring the dust with each movement so that a swirling tornado formed in his wake. Farine paused at the doorway, coughed and peered through the haze. The room had narrow slits above that let in a trace whisper of light, but all she could make out from the entrance was the moving filth and dark shadows.
“Aren’t you coming along?” The dare tipped his words again, the same tone he’d used at the faire.
“What party?” Farine strode into the workroom, stiff and steady but with a head full of questions. The User, a stranger she reminded herself, had stopped behind the long workbench opposite the door. He’d swiped the dust away with one sleeve, if the pale smear on his robes could be believed, and was presently making himself at home, unpacking the contents of his belt pouch and pockets onto the wooden surface. “What are you doing here?”
“Sigil magic. Close the door?”
It sounded more like an order than a request, and Farine might have disobeyed had he not been busily retrieving fascinating pouches, packets and bundles to lay upon the table. Magic. She’d never been allowed to watch Mastral work, and all Hadja did was kneel and mumble. She pressed the door shut behind her and then tip-toed to the workbench, certain at any moment that he would order her back out of the room.
“Who knows that you’ve broken your enchantment?” The User bent over his work and his long hair fell from its containing band to block his face. “Does anyone know?”
“Hadja.”
He looked up, sharp angles and frown lines.
“My maid.”
“Do you trust her?” His eyes narrowed as if to see her answer better.
“I do, did.” She sucked in her bottom lip and bit down.
“Before you knew what she’d done?”
Farine nodded. The User went back to work. He loosened the drawstrings on a worn leather pouch and upended it over the spot he’d cleared. A fine, dusky powder fell from the leather ruffle, coating the wood anew. She leaned forward, couldn’t help herself. “What is that?”
“Ash. The life energy of various plants and herbs. Give me your hand?” Again, he put a question on the order that didn’t begin to disguise it. And again, Farine obeyed, placing her hand in his and allowing him to guide it through the air above the ash. “Life is power, you see. An expelled life leaves a trace of energy in its remains, and that trace can add a little spark to the working. Not that I’d stoop to anything larger than some tree bark and twigs. What did you see in the unicorn’s eye?”
He sprang the question on her, tacked it onto his rambling. Farine pictured it immediately, obeyed his order and looked again, deeply into that wild and angry eye. Her breath rushed away and the hand holding hers, the User’s hand, warmed and pushed at something inside her memory.
“There it is. Yes.” He soothed now, the tone like honey. “That’s perfect.”
The unicorn faded away and Farine looked down to their hands. His warm and pressing on top, and hers glowing like a sun. Perhaps, it should have frightened her, but she couldn’t bring herself to fear anything so beautiful. The golden aura around her skin only awoke a new curiosity, only bid her examine it more closely. The color echoed from the ash on the table, and she looked down there as well, to a bright sigil newly burning in the dusty life force.
“What is that?”
“Freedom.” The User let go her hand and lifted a miniature book from among his things. He flipped it open and, snatching up a charcoal stick, began to sketch out the design still burning on the table top. “The sigil for Freedom if I’m not mistaken and your fair payment for lifting your enchantment.”
“Payment. This is why you helped me? To get this mark?”
“Well, not just that.” He laid the book down on the worktable and squinted at his marks, comparing them to the sigil that even then began to fade back into ordinary ash. “I never could stand to see a wild thing caged.”
His eyes drifted from the drawing, pinning her and waiting for her response. He’d used her—had no hesitation about that. He’d freed her from the Rosy Glass to obtain this symbol. She didn’t have a clue why he wanted it or what he might do with it, but it had been intentional. She knew that much. She could see it as plain as the sigil. Now he waited to see what she planned to do about it.
Farine stared back into the two-toned gaze. She looked down, to the last wisps of the sigil, Freedom, and then she looked at his drawing, his crude charcoal-smudged lines, and smiled. He had broken her enchantment. He’d set her free and, she supposed, deserved whatever payment he desired for it. She let their eyes meet again and nodded. A fair trade, she agreed, and the User relaxed. His grin widened and his eyes drifted away.
He checked his book, then snapped it closed and began scooping up the remaining ash, the life essence he’d used to wrest the sigil from her memory. Farine watched him hoard it jealously away, observed quietly as he stashed the book in his belt. He’d gotten a line wrong. One of the curves near the bottom had gone the opposite way than his sketch, and though it was clear as daylight in her mind’s eye, she kept that secret for herself…for now.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He looked at her again, frowned as if he’d forgotten.
“About the party.”
“Oh that.” He brushed at the table absently. Not a speck of his powder remained there. “Sharp. Hmm. Yes that. Well, the king is amassing Users. He’s put the word out, and I suspect he intends to hire any and all comers. That is, if my interview was any indication.”
“Why?” She didn’t want to know suddenly. A cold ball of fear settled in her midsection and she wished she could not ask, that she could just leave and close the door and never know his answer. “What does my father need of them? He has Mastral…”
The User covered his snort by feigning a cough. He brushed that aside just as he had the ash, however, and gave her a straight eyed answer. “He intends for us to assist in the war efforts to the north, to conjure aide and if necessary use our skills for protection.”
“Protection. You mean he believes the war will come this far. You mean protection for us here.”
The User stared back at her. His eyes agreed with her assessment, but the line between them said he hadn’t meant to let it slip. Either way, they both knew now and he did her another service by not bothering to deny it. He only stared with his weird eyes and muttered, “Very sharp.”
Chapter Nine
“Are you ready, child?” The father’s voice shook like the leaves on the scrubby bushes. He’d asked Payne the same question three times and, though she nodded again, he still didn’t look remotely ready to proceed.
“I’m ready. Are you?” Payne sat on the chapel steps. The woman, Sariah, guarded her with arms crossed over her tiny chest and more attitude than anyone her size should have. Her partner stayed by the fire, cowardly, willing to set things in motion but not to participate. Or perhaps he really suspected she might lurch out and touch him for his crimes. Either way, Malcolm watched from the safety of the flames while the father sputtered and fiddled with his tiny bottles.
“This one.”
The tinkle of glass echoed against the big hillside. He’d brought out a tray of them, small vials full of a clear fluid. So far he’d circled the tray twice, moved the bottles around more times than she could count and dropped at least one to the dirt. As someone who spoke loudly against any magic, the father danced around his own as if it would turn against him at any second.
“Yes. This is the one.” He selected one from the lot and held it to the firelight. “I believe this blessing was particularly potent.”
“What is it?” Sariah sniffed the air, forever cementing her likeness to a hound in Payne’s mind. A hungry hound, slinking around in shadows and very quick to bite.
“Holy water.”
“Water?” The dog spoke what she was thinking too. It was water after all, and Payne’s curse was in no danger of breaking tonight.
“Ho-Lee water. Very potent. You’ll see.” He straightened, as if her doubt renewed his own faith, and thrust out the bottle. “Go ahead.”
Sariah took the thing with even less reverence than she’d shown Payne. She tossed it once, and the father let out a soft noise, half sigh and half squeak, like a dying fire’s hiss.
“J-just sprinkle it over the band,” he said. “And I’ll recite the blessing.”
The girl moved toward Payne. The glass glinted and the water inside sloshed silently.
“Wait.” Payne scooted along the step, toward the flames and Malcolm’s safe haven. She speared the small vial with a suspicious glance. “What will it do?”
“It will remove your curse, child.” He turned to Sariah. “Just sprinkle it over the band.”
“I’m not your child.” Payne held still, but her body wanted to lean away, to keep as much distance between her curse and his special water. “This is silly. It won’t work.”
Sariah snorted at the last, but her fingers unstoppered the bottle just the same. Without asking, she lifted the vial and sniffed it. Stupid. She knew nothing of magic, to be so careless. The father’s holy water, however, did nothing. The hound-girl crinkled her nose and then held out the vial and splattered its contents down Payne’s arm.
“Sprinkle!”
The water pooled around the silver, dribbled over the band and ran in crooked rivulets along Payne’s arm. The father’s forehead showed similar beading. His ashy-blond hair slicked and darkened around his wide forehead. He wiped the back of his sleeve across it and blinked round, pale eyes, too fast, too nervous. His water would never work.
Still, Payne felt the shiver of his excitement, the hiss of hope in his whisper and couldn’t help consider success. Without the band she could…what? Return to the temple? Why was that her first thought? She could run in the other direction, free to live however she desired. Yet how could she know what she desired if her memory remained clouded? She’d have to return. She’d have to find the one living soul who knew anything at all about her.
“Did it work?” Malcolm broke the moment, and the father’s nerves shattered. He stumbled forward and only missed bumping into Payne by the grace of Sariah’s quickly outthrust arm.
“Careful.” Malcolm’s pet warned. “Do not touch her.”
“But did it work?” Malcolm again, creeping forward, rounding the flames to stand nearer to the action now that it might be time for victory.
“Of course it didn’t.” Payne couldn’t take them any longer, standing and peering at her like she might explode at any second. The water still drizzled over her skin, and if it felt like anything at all, it was water. Chilly, ordinary water. “What did you expect, Malcolm?”
“Be gone dark magics!” The father shouted so loudly and suddenly that Sariah stumbled back. “Release this child.” His head fell back and his hair riffled in the night breeze. His hands lifted toward his steeple and his lips continued to move after his admonishment silenced.
“What’s he doing?” Malcolm moved again, but slowly, far too slowly for what Payne knew was coming.
She sensed it in the prickling of her skin, and yet her body froze and refused to avoid it. The clouds parted. Stars blinked and Sariah shook herself like the dog she was. Malcolm whispered something, took another small step, and the father jerked forward and laid his sweaty palms on Payne’s shoulders.
Time froze too, mocking her and letting the horror burn into her memory so that she might see it forever. The hands were rigid and heavy only long enough for the father’s breath to squeal out between his parted, blackening lips. Then, like the rest of him, they crusted over, thinned and crumbled into dust.
He didn’t have time to scream.
His mouth remained open, even when the lips had blown away. The crust that now held the man together slowly eroded. His fingers grayed, and then his arms and face followed. Tiny cracks outlined the empty holes where his eyes had been. They widened and branched, and Payne stared, captured as the father powdered and disintegrated. Payne could not move or even breathe until his robes fell to puddle against the hard earth. Then, the spell released her, time snapped back into place and the wind swirled little clouds of the man she’d killed up to join the stars.
A pile remained inside the robes. A tiny hill beside the tray of worthless glass vials.
“Well, shit on that idea.” Sariah’s voice held less bravado than her words suggested. At least she could speak. Malcolm only stood beside his fire, frozen as Payne had been and not daring another inch in her direction. He’d know where the blame lay, but just in case, Payne felt compelled to remind him.
“This one is yours, Malcolm.” He jumped at the sound of her voice, and they locked gazes only long enough for him to flush and look away. “Remember that. You own this death.”
“Shut up.” His hound defended him. Even standing beside the proof of his idiocy, the girl turned to her partner for direction. “What do we do now?”
Malcolm shook, a lightning twitch, and then he was himself again. It must be nice, to swipe off guilt so easily, to pass as he no doubt did, all responsibility for the horror onto her. “We move on, and quickly. I’ll search inside for any supplies we can use. Our good father no longer has need of them. If we go tonight, we can make Westwood in two, maybe three days time.”
