The Floating Islands (18 page)

Trei didn’t say anything. He could see that all of those reasons might be true at once, but any of them might be enough alone. If some Tolounnese general or provincar thought he had a way to successfully invade the Islands, it wouldn’t be hard to get public opinion in Tolounn to favor the attempt. The Islands were so small: it wouldn’t be a very expensive war. The Little Emperor would probably view an invasion almost as a game if he saw a way to invade at all: he would think the effort would be useful and valuable if it succeeded and might be entertaining even if it failed. And all of Tolounn would agree with him. Only the Islands would care passionately about the outcome, because only they had anything important to lose.

It had never occurred to Trei to wonder how, say, Toipakom had felt about being conquered and made a part of the Tolounnese Empire. It was just the natural order of the world for small countries to fall before Tolounn’s strength. But even after so short a time in the Islands, he knew the Islanders didn’t feel that way at all.

Ceirfei tapped his fingers impatiently on the worn stone of the steps and added, “If they have some way to get
at
us, well … we don’t really have any soldiers. Not real soldiers, not the kind that might stand against Tolounnese troops. And now, after that illness—”

Trei interrupted him, “Do
you
think Yngul deliberately set the illness loose in the Islands? Rekei said no, but I—” He wanted it to be true, he discovered, because he wanted someone
else
to blame for the tension between Tolounn and the Islands. Someone he could loathe with a purity he couldn’t direct against Tolounn.

“Some people think maybe
Tolounn
did, in such a way as to lay the blame on Yngul—”

“Oh, no!” Trei was horrified. “No one in Tolounn would do anything so dishonorable—and that’s dishonorable
twice,
setting the illness and then blaming somebody else! Anyway, no one from Tolounn would think they had to! Why should any Tolounnese general or provincar care whether there’s been illness in Canpra? Your people couldn’t possibly fight Tolounnese soldiers—if the soldiers got up here at all.” He realized after the words were out that he’d said “your people,” and stopped, awkward and confused.

“Besides,” Trei added after a moment, feeling, despite his confusion, obscurely responsible for defending Tolounn’s honor in the face of this unexpected slur, “besides, Ceirfei, if somebody did, and it got out, well, nobody would risk
that,
do you see? Think of what the public opprobrium would do to his reputation! That’s why I said maybe Yngul: the Yngulin Emperor might do something like that. Only I don’t know
why
he would.…”

“Maybe it really was an accident. But, Trei, whatever happens, if it comes to war, the Islands will have to depend on the kajuraihi to throw more than rocks. But there aren’t many kajuraihi. A few hundred, not the thousands we might have mustered in my grandfather’s day.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that, but why?”

“We don’t know. There might be fewer dragons, so then we’d have less dragon magic available to borrow. But then why would there be fewer dragons? Have they found a different island chain elsewhere to their liking, so that their strongest winds no longer surround
our
Islands? Or maybe the dragons still ride the winds around and above our Islands, but they’ve simply become less willing to share their magic with men. We don’t really
know
why they ever chose to allow us to borrow their magic and ride their winds; if they ever choose otherwise, we might not understand that, either. But,” he added encouragingly, “they still do make some of us into kajuraihi.”

Trei nodded. “The dragons themselves—they don’t actually fight, is that right?”

“Never,” Ceirfei agreed. “They never fight men, they never have, not in all our common history. Maybe they can’t, maybe their nature isn’t suited to it; maybe they won’t lower themselves to do battle. Maybe they just don’t notice the quarrels of men. No one knows. But they keep the Islands high above the sea, and when
we
have to fight to defend the Islands, we do it from the heights. So we borrow their magic to defend the Islands for both ourselves and for them.” Ceirfei got slowly to his feet and offered Trei a hand up. “We should get back to the novitiate.”

“Gods. Master Anerii—”

“Taimenai will surely pin
his
wings back.” Ceirfei sounded uncharacteristically fierce, so that Trei stared at him in surprise.

“Really, Trei. The
master of novices,
speaking out in open suspicion
right in front
of the very novices with whom he’s charged? Incredible. He should be removed from his position. If
I
were the wingmaster—well. Well. Can you stand?”

Trei let Ceirfei pull him to his feet. The sick feeling was passing off at last, but he found himself suddenly, violently angry. With Lord Manasi, with himself, with the whole Tolounnese Empire? He hardly knew. He said, “Ceirfei, I
am
kajurai now.” But then he wasn’t sure.
Divided in blood and heart and loyalty,
Novice-master Anerii had said, and angry and uncomfortable as he was, Trei was aware that, despite Ceirfei’s quick defense of him, the novice-master might even be right. He shook his head, trying to dismiss both the anger and the crowding doubts. Said at last, “Anyway, Tolounn hasn’t any business invading the Islands. The Empire won’t even care whether it wins or loses—not much. But it
matters
to the Islands. If there is war, I’ll—I
am
kajurai—”

Ceirfei didn’t seem to hear his hesitation. “I know you are. It’s all right.” He offered a reassuring little nod.

Ceirfei’s confidence was heartening, and though he couldn’t actually share it, Trei found his confusion and anger easing.

8

A
raenè slept through the night with the egg tucked up against her chest, a strange cool-hot presence in the bed; she’d been fearful of breaking it, but unable to rest without it next to her. She’d been afraid that, her first night in the hidden school, she would dream of … things, of her mother standing helplessly in the hall while Araenè stormed away to her room, of her father during that last horrible night before he died.

Instead she dreamed all night of fire that rode through the sky on the back of the wind and crawled, molten, through the earth, locked under stone. She dreamed of blocky iron walls that loomed above her: black, but glowing red with contained fire. When she pressed her hands to an iron wall, the heat should have charred through her palms and burned her bones to ash. She felt the heat, yet she did not burn.

These weren’t
her
dreams, she knew. They pressed against her mind from the dragonet right through shell and cool shield alike. She was grateful for those dreams, though, because they blocked her own nightmares. She was grateful even when she woke hot-eyed and headachy and wondering just how far from hatching the egg really was.
Quicken my child.
Yes, and Araenè thought that if she cast it into a hot enough fire, it was ready to quicken
now.
But she did not know where she could find any fire hot
enough.…
She had no idea how to find those great iron furnaces.…

She found herself reluctant to let the egg out of her sight. But since she could hardly carry it around in her pocket, she hid it at the back of the deepest drawer in her room. Then she slipped into the kitchens, still very early, to help make the day’s bread and eat her breakfast with the kitchen staff: warm bread with sheep’s milk butter and figs. She almost forgot about the fire dragon’s egg hidden in her room until she found her way to Master Tnegun’s work-room. Then she suddenly found herself able to think of nothing else.

But Master Tnegun did not seem to see the reflection of fire in her eyes. Or the reflection of the ten thousand rules she’d broken.

His workroom was the big one in which Araenè had first met him, with its enormous, cluttered table and strangely dim light. Three granite spheres lay on the table near the master’s hand, and a thin copper plate held upright in a clamp, and a scattering of ravens’ feathers. The scent and flavor of cumin filled the room, but there was also something else.… Araenè tried to decipher the thin, bitter taste, which was a little like turmeric. She didn’t exactly like it, but it seemed … powerful. Not just powerful. Secretive, somehow. Or not exactly secretive, but … guarded, maybe.

Araenè stood as Master Tnegun directed, by the table where she could look directly into the dim reflection cast back by the copper plate. The reflection looked alarmingly girlish. Her throat looked too long and smooth, her cheekbones too delicate; her eyes, wide now with nerves, did not look like the eyes of a boy.

But Master Tnegun did not seem to notice anything amiss with Araenè’s reflection. “You have settled in well enough? Your apartment pleases you?” he asked. His deep voice seemed to come out of the far reaches of the room rather than from the place near at hand where he stood.

Araenè nodded mutely.

“Good.” The master gestured sternly toward a chair near the table. “Sit. We will see what sort of magery your mind and blood contain, young Arei, and discover how and in what form it is emerging. You may find the process disconcerting. Sit down.”

Araenè supposed it was too late to declare that she really just wanted to be a chef. But she was frightened, and her fear made her angry. She straightened her shoulders and glared at the master. “What if I don’t want to?”

Master Tnegun regarded her in silence for a moment. Long enough that Araenè began to be ashamed of her angry question, though she was still angry. Or frightened; it was hard to tell which.

But he only said at last, with no trace of annoyance, “You will find it impossible to reach the heart of magic unless you permit a master to guide your journey. I am aware that I am asking you to take a long step into trust. I give you my word that I will not harm you, Arei. When you are ready, I must still ask you to sit.”

Araenè sat slowly down in the chair Master Tnegun had indicated.

“Good.” The master changed the angle of the copper plate by a degree or so and picked up a long black feather. He brushed the feather across the surface of the plate, and the complicated scents in the room were abruptly joined by something almost like crushed coriander, but sweeter. Master Tnegun touched the copper plate with the tips of two fingers, looked up to meet Araenè’s eyes, and sent his mind probing suddenly behind her eyes, into her mind and her heart.

Araenè
did something.
She did not make or summon the mint-and-lemon shield that had protected her in the dragon’s furnace. This was something else, but … it was a little bit the same. It tasted of anise and lemon and pepper, and it stopped Master Tnegun instantly.

The Yngulin master paused, thin eyebrows rising. Yet he looked thoughtful rather than displeased. “Has someone shown you how to do this? No, of course not. Hmm.” He sent his mind toward hers again, but his probing thought skidded once more away from her protected heart and mind, and he ceased, frowning.

“I’m not doing it deliberately,” Araenè protested.

“Certainly you are, child. If I were to teach you how to yield your mind to mine, would you do so? If I were to break your hard-held protection by force, would you be pleased?”

It seemed impudent to say no, but Araenè certainly could not say yes.

“Of course you would not.” The master sat down in an ornate high-backed chair that Araenè was almost certain hadn’t been there a moment ago, steepled his hands, and regarded her over his fingertips for a long moment. “Unfortunately, a good deal of magery may only be taught directly. Whatever secret you so urgently conceal, young Arei, I assure you, you may trust it to me.”

Araenè didn’t answer.

Master Tnegun sighed. “So. We will begin with something less demanding.” Reaching out, he collected the smallest of the granite spheres. He tossed this to Araenè, who caught it and stared at him.

“What is that?”

Araenè felt herself growing angry again. “How could I possibly know?”

“You might ask it what it is,” Master Tnegun suggested.

Araenè blinked, puzzled. Bending her head, she gazed at the sphere. It was granite, heavy and rough-textured. It tasted of … something dark and heavy … molasses. Yes, black molasses. And ginger. And something else, something that balanced oddly against the ginger … pepper, but not exactly. The heat was sweeter on the tongue than pepper, but in a completely different way than cloves.

“What might it do?”

Though the master spoke softly, his question startled Araenè. She jerked her head up and blinked at him. “Um …” Molasses, bright ginger, and that strange hot sweetness. But she had no idea what it
did.
Maybe if she … She cautiously tried to bring out the unfamiliar hot flavor. The sphere trembled in her hands, sweet warmth rushed up from her toes right up to the roots of her hair, and she exclaimed wordlessly.

“Well?” asked Master Tnegun.

“I … Is it for holding light?” Araenè turned the sphere over in her hands. “But how do you get the light out?”

“You almost released the light yourself just then. Releasing the light is not difficult. If you wish to learn how to hide light away in stone, however, that will require you to allow me to show you directly.” Master Tnegun made this last statement in a tone of pointed irony.

Araenè clenched her teeth, refusing to be drawn.

“Well. Granite, born in fire, is well suited to spellwork involving heat and light. You will learn this. Name me other stones born in fire, young Arei.”

Araenè had absolutely no idea how granite or any other kind of stone could be “born in fire,” far less which stones those might be. She shook her head.

Master Tnegun sighed. “What
do
they teach in those libraries? Anything at all other than parochial Island law and limited classics? Well, Kanii will no doubt be able to direct you to appropriate references. Now, the other aspects of this sphere?”

The dark molasses proved to reflect a powerful kind of magic of making and unmaking, far in advance, Master Tnegun assured Araenè, of anything she should expect to manage. “Unmaking is not as difficult as making, but has costs of its own that are not immediately apparent to the untutored mind,” he told her. “When you are ready to truly commence the study of magic, we shall concentrate on making. And the final use to which this stone has been put?”

Araenè bent her head over the sphere, coaxing the molasses to recede into the background so that the ginger could dominate. Ginger turned out to be associated with spells of vision and foretelling. Master Tnegun explained that every kind of stone influenced the sort of visibility and divination to which it was suited, adding offhandedly that three hundred forty-three kinds of stone could be considered relevant to the study of magic.

“Three hundred forty-three?” Araenè repeated, appalled.

Master Tnegun was amused. “Indeed. A most useful and appropriate number, as it divides by seven three times over. But that is not so many. You will learn all those very soon. More complicated is the study of how different forms of spellwork interact when introduced into stone. There are nine hundred eighty-four spheres in the hall of spheres and mirrors. To commence your studies, you may categorize them all for me. As it is impossible to begin your instruction in the heart of magic, you may as well begin that task today.”

“Nine hun—what does
that
divide by?” Araenè demanded.

“One might have hoped you had learned mathematics if not geology, young Arei. It divides by two, three, four, six, and eight. A very useful, powerful number.” The master lifted an amused, scornful eyebrow. “So many of you young ones don’t believe mathematics can possibly be useful because you see no immediate use for it. Mathematical theory, fortunately, is also something you may study at once, so we may rectify any shortcomings you may have in this area.” He paused. “Of course, if you find the study tedious, you may admit my mind to yours, and we will proceed with a more applied course of study.”

Araenè glared, then jumped to her feet and stalked toward the door. Reaching it, she said over her shoulder, “Nine hundred eighty-four. Very well!” She stepped through the door, closed it hard behind her, and then paused, realizing too late that she had no idea at all where the hall of spheres and mirrors lay. First she found this infuriating—then funny. She choked back giggles. But then, with no transition, as though any random emotion might become a gateway for grief, she found herself abruptly fighting back tears.

Horrified at the idea that anyone might find her in tears in the hall, Araenè fled to her apartment. She did not even realize at once how easily she had
found
her apartment, only flung herself through its door, ran straight across to the window, jumped down into the tangled garden without pausing, tucked herself down among the vines and flowers, and let herself cry in the safe privacy the wild growth afforded her.

The tears, once allowed to storm through her, did not last long; in some strange way, Araenè felt she owned that fierce burst of grief no more than the earlier fit of giggles. As seemed so common since … since … The strange abrupt storms that shook her did not really feel like her
own
emotions. Araenè rubbed her face on her sleeve, leaned back against the garden wall, and tilted her face up to the sky.

The morning sun, already powerful, somehow made Araenè feel more real, more anchored to the moment and to herself; the fragrance of the flowers rose dizzyingly into the hot air around her. Birds were quiet at this time of the day, but a small troop of mustached brown marmosets bobbed their heads at her and chattered. Calming at last, Araenè lifted her face to the sun and thought hard about safe things: about wheat dough and how differently rice dough behaved, about the different qualities of palm sugar and cane sugar. She knew she ought to be thinking about spheres—nine hundred eighty-four spheres! And how was one supposed to know that nine hundred eighty-four was divisible by three or eight without actually dividing it? And why did it matter?

She knew she ought to go find a book on mathematical theory, or on kinds of stone. Maybe Kanii would be able to explain things to her? More likely he would be shocked at how little she knew: he would probably guess she’d never been schooled at a library. He might even—probably not, but he
might
even guess why.

How long would it take to learn three hundred and whatever kinds of stone? Not long, Master Tnegun said. How long was “not long,” and how disgusted would he be when she didn’t learn them that fast? And nine hundred eighty-four spheres. And he clearly intended to try to let sheer tedium drive her into letting him into her mind. What would he do when she wouldn’t? Or couldn’t? Eventually he would send her away, Araenè supposed. Did she care? Her earlier moment of panic at the thought had been … exaggerated, maybe. She had money.… Well, Trei had money, but she could get all she needed. She could take a room at the University.… She could cook at Cesera’s and take the next apprentice position a master chef offered.…

She was uneasily aware that she could have done that from the beginning, never mentioning the hidden school to Trei. Instead she had come here. Nor did she want to leave now. She didn’t even know exactly
why
she wanted to stay at this school and learn the attributes of nine hundred eighty-four spheres, even if she couldn’t let Master Tnegun show her the true heart of magic.… In fact, probably she
didn’t
really want to stay, she just told herself she
ought
to want that, though, Gods knew, the only thing she
should
want was a suitable marriage and a wealthy household to manage.

Everything was confusing, and thinking about it made her want to cry again, though she didn’t know why. Both the threatening tears and the confusion made her angry. Scowling, Araenè rubbed her face again, got to her feet, hesitated for a moment, and then deliberately stalked across the garden and put her hand on the gate.