The Exile and the Sorcerer (42 page)

“So what’s wrong?” Jemeryl stood in front of Tevi’s chair, glaring down.

“I’d forgotten how ordinary citizens jump when a sorcerer talks to them.”

“Is that my fault?”

“You were playing it as hard as you could.”

“Why are you bothered? I wasn’t trying to pull rank on you.”

“The effect rubs off. If it keeps up, I’m going to start calling you ‘ma’am.’”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Is that an order?”

Jemeryl bit back whatever she was about to say and strode to the bay window, although it was too dark to see out. Raindrops were running down the glass, glittering in the reflected light from the fire. Tevi watched her lover’s back, too overwhelmed by her own clashing emotions to speak.

At last, Jemeryl turned away from the window and walked back to Tevi’s side. “Look, I know the bowing and scraping can be irritating. Sorcerers make people nervous. It’s not that I want it.” Her voice was deliberately gentle, as if she was working on sounding reasonable.

“You looked like you were enjoying the whole thing.”

Jemeryl drew a sharp breath. She held it for a second and then let it out in a sigh. “Yes, you’re right. I was.”

“Why? You’re not you when you act like that.” Tevi could hear the pain in her own voice. It clearly got through to Jemeryl as well.

She knelt and took Tevi’s face in her hands. “I’m sorry. Lording it over people is a bad habit that sorcerers get into. It’s a silly game, and I didn’t intend to upset you.”

“You don’t care about anyone else?”

“It’s hard to,” Jemeryl said, honestly. “There’s a barrier between Coven members and ordinary folk. And it’s not one-sided. Most citizens want to keep their distance. It would probably have worried the innkeeper more if I’d acted all chummy.”

Tevi was silent for a while. “I don’t feel like that.”

“No. And I’m very pleased you don’t. You’re different.”

“It made me understand the villagers’ view of you...a little.”

Jemeryl pulled a wry grimace. “Only a little? Well, take comfort that I’m not normally so bad. I had an unpleasant time with Chenoweth, and I’ve been taking it out on everyone else. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me.” A corner of her mouth twitched. “Mind you, I think your guild master was asking for it.”

For the space of a dozen heartbeats Tevi stared into Jemeryl’s eyes, and then she glanced down, a faint smile catching her own lips. “Maybe just a little.”

Before anything else could be said, there was a knock. Jemeryl stood and called, “Come in.”

Four of the inn staff entered, carrying a large brass bath and copious amounts of hot water, which were taken to an adjoining room.

“Will you require assistance with your bath, ma’am?” The eldest servant politely addressed her question to a point several inches above Jemeryl’s head.

“We can cope,” Tevi answered quickly. However, the servant waited for Jemeryl’s agreement before leaving.

By the time both women were clean and dressed in fresh clothes, a table had been set for them in their room. The glasses were cut crystal; the cutlery was solid silver. The dinner was an elaborate creation from the chef, complemented by vintage wine, but Tevi did not enjoy the meal. She felt awkward to be the centre of so much attention.

The waiters fussed about them to the point of irritation. Jemeryl was clearly making an effort to be friendly, but as she had predicted, the inn staff did not know how to respond and retreated into vacuous servility. Yet once or twice, Tevi caught unguarded expressions of resentment directed at Jemeryl and something closer to contempt aimed at herself. It was impossible to concentrate on Jemeryl and the food. She found herself straining to catch the whispered comments the waiters exchanged among themselves.

She did not relax until the door closed behind the last waiter taking away the empty plates. Her relief was short-lived.

“Let’s go down to the taproom for a drink,” Jemeryl suggested.

“Why?”

“Why not? We spent last night camping out and we’ll probably spend the next few nights in the same way. We might as well enjoy things while we have the chance. There’s a harper with a very good reputation who plays here.”

“You could go on your own.”

“Don’t be silly. I want your company. I promise I’ll be nice to people.”

“If you really want to.” Tevi’s voice made her unhappiness plain.

Jemeryl grasped Tevi’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Have I done something else?”

“Oh, no, it’s not you.” Tevi’s head dropped. “I think Rizen has just been too much for me. If we go down to the tavern, everyone will be watching us. I don’t think I can stand it. The waiters during dinner—they were acting polite, but you could tell they didn’t like us. It brought back bad memories. On the islands, I was heir to the throne. Every move I made was watched, and I knew I never measured up. When everyone is looking at you with contempt, it...” Tevi’s voice failed.

“The memory hurts that much?”

“I hated it...being seen as a joke when I failed. The one thing I liked about exile was being ignored.”

Jemeryl placed her hand under Tevi’s chin and turned her face so their eyes met. Her expression was caught between sadness and affection. “It’s all right. I think I understand. I’ve got my own ghosts that haunt me from time to time. We can stay up here.”

“No, I’m being oversensitive,” Tevi berated herself. “We should go down to the tavern. I’ll cope.”

“We’ll stay here.”

“I don’t want to spoil your evening. You want to hear the harper.”

There was a glint in Jemeryl’s eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you can think of a way to compensate for missing the music.” With a smile, she lowered her hand and began to unbutton Tevi’s shirt.

The two women reached the brow of the last hill. Behind them were freshly ploughed fields of dark soil and hedgerows adorned with spring flowers. Ahead of them was Lyremouth. The sprawling mass of buildings and streets hugged the harbour under a pale blue sky. On the side nearest, close by the city, yet unmistakably distinct from it, were the buildings that housed the Coven.

The road was busy. The press of carts, riders, and pack animals made for slow progress, but at last Tevi and Jemeryl reached the point where the road split. The wider, busier fork headed into the city. The other branch, lined with oak trees, led across parkland to the Coven. They reined their ponies to one side, although it was impossible not to be in someone’s way.

“Are you sure you don’t want me with you, to confirm that the villagers were a bunch of childish gossips?” Tevi said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure.” Tevi dismounted and handed the reins to Jemeryl. The pony would only be a handicap on the crowded city streets. “I’ll go to the guild and tell them what’s happening. Hopefully they’ll be more reasonable than the crew at Rizen.”

“You should be all right. The people here have far more experience of sorcerers. But I’ll collect you from the guildhall and rescue you again, if need be.”

“Right. See you later.” Tevi disappeared into the mass of people.

Jemeryl’s face was pensive as she rode the last short distance alone. Persuading Tevi to separate for the meetings with their superiors had not been easy, especially since Jemeryl had not given all her reasons. The conversation ahead was likely to be unpleasant, and not merely because Iralin might want to re-launch her previous verbal assault.

Relationships with the ungifted were strongly disapproved of, although not completely forbidden. When strong emotions were involved, losing self-control was all too easy. The ungifted ex-lovers of sorcerers had a tendency to end up rather unpleasantly dead—or worse. This did nothing to improve the popularity of the Coven with the general population, and the authorities were keenly aware of the potential for trouble. Adding to this was the sentiment expressed by many sorcerers that it somehow demeaned their status if one of their number was willing to enter an equal relationship with a common citizen. Jemeryl knew there was a very real risk that somebody would make the attempt to separate her from Tevi.

Yet, despite her worries, Jemeryl gazed around fondly at the familiar surroundings. Only a few weeks ago, she would have said, without reservation, that the happiest period of her life had been spent there as an apprentice. Tevi had changed that. A confused frown crossed Jemeryl’s face as she remembered her plans of returning to claim a place as a senior sorcerer. She was no longer quite so sure of what she wanted.

The stable block was unchanged since she had left, barring a new coat of paint. Even before she dismounted, the leading stable hand had come over, brushing loose straw from his clothes. The Coven would not be the Coven without Pym.

“Madam Jemeryl. It’s good to see you back. Have you been recalled for more important work?” A smile of recognition lit Pym’s weathered face.

“In a way.”

“Something more exciting than rotting in a backwater?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“But the best of the action is here,” Pym said pointedly.

“And what is the latest action?”

“Official or unofficial?”

Jemeryl’s look answered the question. Pym laughed and proceeded to gossip amiably, listing a string of minor scandals involving Coven members.

“Nothing much has changed, then,” Jemeryl said when the recounting was over.

“It never does, just the faces.”

“I’m sure.”

“Are you off to see Iralin?” Pym asked.

“Yes. And if you ever hear any rumours about her...”

“I’ll keep them to myself. I’m not a fool.”

They both laughed again, in recognition of Iralin’s reputation for being someone it was very unwise to get on the wrong side of. As she left the stable, Jemeryl’s smile faded—it was the unfortunate position that she now found herself in. She approached the door to Iralin’s study with sinking spirits. Although Pym was renowned as the best source of gossip in the Coven, chatting with him had partly been a delaying tactic, but there was no sensible way to put off the confrontation any longer. Summoning her courage, Jemeryl knocked, half-hoping there would be no reply.

“Enter.” Iralin’s voice answered immediately. She was always there when you did not want her to be.

The senior sorcerer looked up from her desk. Her face hardened as she recognised her visitor. “Jemeryl. I hadn’t expected to see you here. Where is the warrior you’re supposed to be assisting?”

“We thought it best if we talked to our superiors separately.”

“You have bad news?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. But Tevi hadn’t told her guild masters she was quest-bound. While she’s doing that, I can give you an update on what has happened.”

“Tevi is the warrior’s name?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And what do you have to report?”

“I’ve made a start, but I need more facts. We’ve come to Lyremouth to consult the Coven library and to get more information from you.”

Iralin shuffled papers on her desk for a few seconds before replying. “Precisely what sort of information were you anticipating?”

So far, the interview was going easier than expected. Iralin seemed more concerned with the state of the quest than anything else. It was too soon to relax, but Jemeryl was feeling happier.

“In order to find the memory chalice, I need to narrow down the list of people who might have taken it. It would help if I knew more about the previous owner.”

Iralin’s face showed no emotion and not much comprehension. The idea occurred to Jemeryl that her mentor had known little about the quest, and exposing Iralin’s ignorance would not be tactful. Pretending to be better informed than they really were was a common failing among sorcerers—one frequently denounced by Iralin herself.

“Would it help if I gave a full report on everything that has happened, in chronological order?” Jemeryl suggested diplomatically.

Iralin nodded shrewdly—always a good cover. “Yes. It might be. You can take a seat while you do it.”

Once settled, Jemeryl launched into an account of the events since Tevi had arrived at the castle. Iralin listened intently, giving Jemeryl the feeling that the older sorcerer was waiting for subtle clues that might mean more than was apparent. The story got as far as the saga of Abrak before Iralin interrupted.

“Like most folk tales, that’s nine-tenths fantasy.”

“I also thought so at first.”

“Nobody has ever created a viable strength potion, as you should know. Are you suggesting that a lone shipwreck survivor could knock one out to order?”

“I’ve discovered the name of one sorcerer who could have done it, and the dates and other facts tie in. But I could find very little information about her. That’s why I’ve come to Lyremouth. I think Abrak was actually a sorcerer named Lorimal.”

The sudden absence of movement on the other side of the desk was what alerted Jemeryl to the name’s impact. Iralin was frozen in something that looked like speechless horror.

“You know about her.” It was a statement, not a question.