Authors: Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
The Window spell posed no problem for him, but the frenzied
trip through the liquid crystal corridor of the Traveling spell filled him with
dread. Though the speed was so great as to be incomprehensible, still he was
aware of things moving about him—above
and below, left and right. Awful things, terrible things . . .
or so he reckoned them to be. The longer the journey, the longer he must spend
in that place full of alien spirits, strange shapes, frenetic movement and
eerie whispers.
He asked Kassia about it once. Yes, she too had noticed the
flickering of light, color and motion behind the translucent walls of the
spirit corridor, but she seemed to find the strangeness more curious than
threatening. Her calm both annoyed and relieved him; if his Apprentice could
tolerate the disorientation, surely he could. Still, when he felt he had
delayed long enough in using his new knowledge to communicate with Master
Antal, he chose the Window spell instead of its more powerful relative to make
the connection.
Antal was beyond surprise to see his Daliboran friend
apparently confronting him from his mirror one morning. He stammered and gaped
and even started to genuflect once. Lukasha, laughing, stopped him from going
that far and let him in on Kassia’s
progress with the ancient spells. Antal was dumbfounded.
“I
didn’t even
suspect,” he murmured, when at last he believed his eyes, “that such things existed. This is a miracle,
Lukasha. A miracle that couldn’t
have come at a better time.”
His words made Lukasha immediately wary. “What do you mean,
Antal? What’s
happened?”
“Just
after you left, our king sent away all but one of his concubines. The woman he
kept is most striking. She is from the north, and her hair is so fair as to be
nearly white.”
Lukasha felt a thrill of triumph at that. “You imply she reminds
him of Kassia. I see no problem there, unless it is that he is in Tabor and
Kassia is here.”
“There
is more. The field of bridal candidates has narrowed to three women. The
Orsini, the Turkish woman, Amadiyeh bint Tash—who is the great-niece of the Sultan—and a woman of
Bytomierz darugha, Zofia Varyusha. Michal seemed very much to like this Zofia.
She is bright as well as beautiful, well-versed in the arts and sciences, and
has been disposed to accompany him to the cesia in the mornings as your Kassia
did. Moreover, she speaks fluent German, Italian and Frankish to the bargain.” He smiled almost fondly. “She
has a temper.”
Lukasha was uncertain whether to be pleased or disappointed.
He realized he had actually hoped Zelimir would offer Kassia marriage, but in
view of the disparity in their stations, he now knew concubinage was the most
he might have hoped for. Still might hope for, though it seemed to hold no
favor in Kassia’s
eyes.
“I
have yet to understand your concern, Antal,” Lukasha acknowledged. “Surely, that our king
marry a native daughter is a thing to celebrate.”
“On
the surface, yes. Such a marriage would find favor in Polian eyes, but neither
the Franks nor the Turks may be disposed to ally themselves with us against the
Mongols should they have no real stake in the matter.”
“No
stake? When their own borders would then be laid open?”
“Polia
would be a battleground in that case, Lukasha, not a protectorate. If Zelimir
does not take the Lombard, the Turk would be the better choice. The Sultan’s forces are fierce
and legion.” He shook his head. “It
may all be irrelevant; for no apparent reason, Zofia has fallen from favor and
Zelimir has begun to display a distinct preference for the company of the
Duchess Orsini. She, of course, will not visit the cesia in his company, so he
attends to his devotions alone these mornings, then escorts the duchess to
mass.”
Lukasha’s
heart chilled. “The
Orsini possesses so little charm.”
“Charm
is in the eye of the beholder. What I first took for a solemn wisdom I’m now convinced is a
clever cloak for ignorance, but His Majesty is increasingly drawn to her. I don’t think it has much to
do with what she possesses, Lukasha, but with what possesses him. There is
magic of a sort at work here, I’m
certain of it.”
“Benedict.
Kassia warned me that he has some arcane skills. She once before caught him
trying to manipulate Zelimir, but was able to block him.”
Antal’s
face showed hope and concern at once. “If
she can do that, you must return her to Tabor.”
“Alas,
she was not happy there. Our king has already asked her to stay. She refused
him. I had hoped that with time and distance, her feelings would draw her to
Zelimir. This has not been the case.” Lukasha grimaced. “Yet,
given the strides her powers have made these last weeks, I can hardly say her
presence here has been a disappointment.”
“Lukasha,
I cannot block what I can’t
sense. If Benedict has some sort of magic at his disposal, it’s not something that’s evident to me and
mine. If Kassia can sense this alien sorcery, and can block it, then Zelimir
needs her. You’re
her Master—order
her to return to Tabor.”
“I
am loathe to ‘order’ her, my friend. Kassia is her own woman—a woman with immense potential. I hesitate to ask
her to bind that potential to Michal Zelimir—and by such an ephemeral bond as bodily desire.
Still, there is a great deal more hanging in the balance than one young woman’s particular
aspirations.” He grimaced. “Or
one old Mateu’s.
If it becomes necessary, I may have to compel her. Never fear, Antal, I shall
speak to Kassia. I suppose I shall have to return her to Tabor . . .
by whatever means prove necessary.”
oOo
”Twilight,” Kassia murmured.
Ari looked up from her equations, a tendril of curly hair
floated across her face by the balmy breeze. “Twilight?”
“In
Marija’s
translation of Pater Honorius’ notes he links the catalyzing names for a Squared spell to day, night
and twilight. Day would seem to indicate the celestial names, and night the
earthly ones, but I don’t
understand the reference to twilight.”
“Twilight
is the confluence of day and night, the gray area between light and darkness.
Could it be a combination of the two?”
“I
had the same thought. So I tried using the most neutral earth names I could
think of; that didn’t
work. Then I tried mixing earth and sky elements in the spell.”
“That
didn’t work
either,” guessed Ari. “I
wish I could help, but I’m
still struggling with this new Triad Master Radman wants me to master.”
Kassia smiled then, looking up over Ari’s head, noticed that
Shagtai had ceased his work over Beyla’s
newest kite and was listening to their conversation.
Catching Kassia’s
eye, he asked, “What
does this Honorius have to say about twilight?”
Humoring him, Kassia recited, “‘Let him who has ears hear—these four catalysts may represent the kingdom of
Day or of Night or of Twilight, and these four may allow the user to see or to
be or to control. These are the faces of increasing levels power, of which
there are three’.”
Shagtai nodded, his eyes saying nothing which, as Kassia now
knew, often meant much. “Tell
me about this Honorius. He was a shaman or a mage?”
Kassia rose from her roof-edge seat and moved to where
Shagtai and Beyla worked in the golden light of the long summer evening,
stretching brilliant azure fabric over a kite frame. “He was a monk. What they call a theurgist. He
worked his magic in the name of God.”
“As
is proper. This spell you seek to know came from him?”
“No.
It’s much older
than even Honorius. I think he got it from the local shamans, and I’ve no idea where they
might have got it.”
“You
are sure of this, that it was from the ancients?”
“Well,
Pater Honorius treats it as if it were something outside himself, something . . .
alien. He uses the spell, but it’s
clear he doesn’t
trust it.” She looked at Shagtai with sudden interest. “Your father was a shaman, wasn’t he?”
Shagtai turned his attention back to the kite frame Beyla
was holding with patient hands. “He
was. And his father before him, and his before him, and so on. So far back no
one recalls if there was ever a man of the clan Bhatan who ever did other than
that, though I know we were sometimes farmers and huntsmen as well out of
necessity. My father was such a one—a
farmer-shaman and my mother was a medicine woman.”
“But
you’re not a
shaman,” said Kassia. “Why?”
Beyla looked up sharply from his kite. “He is too a shaman,
mama. Why do you say he’s
not?”
Kassia’s
attention was fully on Shagtai. “Do
you know something about this spell?”
“I
know something about Twilight.” He gestured at the mellowly lit sky. “It is a place between. A time that is neither day
nor night. A time when the souls of things are tethered loosely and a gate is
open between heaven and hell. At this time, as at no other, evil may enter our
world.”
“Then
you believe hell is a place?” asked Kassia. “A
place Mat and Itugen created?”
Shagtai’s
head shook in a quick negative. “Not
a place. And not created by Mat and Itugen, who give birth to no evil.
We
have given birth to hell. It is a realm of our devising. A doorway through
which the shaman may reach through to the raw forces of the world’s beginnings and bend
them. The forces know neither day nor night nor twilight. We assign them
celestial names or hellish ones. But at twilight, they may be more easily
reached. At twilight all barriers may be breached.”
“The
writings of the Mateu say nothing about twilight or hell.”
“I
speak of ancient beliefs. There were no Mateu when the first Bhatan shaman
worked his magic and the first shai wove her spells. These things are passed
down in the memories of the generations. They are not written; they are merely
understood.”
“There
were shai in your clan?”
“In
every generation.” He hesitated momentarily, then said, “My mother was shai. I have a certain understanding
of the old beliefs and of Twilight. It is not a safe time.” He gave her a look as sharp as a shard of glass and turned his attention
back to the kite.
Exhilarated as she was by Shagtai’s intimations that a sorcerer might harness
primordial power, Kassia yet felt a certain disquiet in his vague warnings. If
the intent of the Traveling spell—or
its more powerful triplet—was
to harness the powers of creation, then the missing names must be from an order
of catalyst that Kassia had never heard of, let alone used. She wondered where
she might find such names, then wondered if she even wanted to find them. She
had already tapped the power to travel to Tabor and back in a matter of
seconds. What more was there? What benefit could control of the ‘raw elements of
creation’ give?
Curiosity tugging at her, Kassia spent the entire evening
buried in a pile of books and tablets, taking time out only to read Beyla a
story and tuck him in. She slept fitfully and briefly, finding that even her
dreams were preoccupied with finding some clue to the Twilight catalysts. Awake
long before dawn, Kassia turned once again to Marija’s journal, poring over the pages nearest the
missing sections in the hope of making some serendipitous find. She made only a
slender connection. Marija, she realized, seemed to spend much time in the
library archives, studying the most ancient manuscripts she could find. “Aged odds and ends,” she called them. It made sense to Kassia that perhaps her predecessor
had found something there—possibly
even a key to the strange script on some of the pages.
With that in mind, she dressed and journeyed to the heart of
the college. The library was empty and Kassia went immediately to the archival
section where there were kept folios and even boxes filled with records going
back . . . well, further than she could imagine. She peeked and
poked and riffled, only to find that the records seemed to pertain to the
college itself—to
its instructors and students. She found the old registries, smiling fondly as
she found, in one, the page on which Marija of Ohdan’s name first appeared as an applicant for the
Initiate.
As interesting as this was, it was clearly not what she was
looking for. The records she sought were from a time before, a time when Lorant
was a monastery called Jasna Gora, and when the library she now knelt in was a
Christian house of worship. Rising from the floor amid the archival stacks,
Kassia closed her eyes and emptied her mind, counseling it to quiet. She called
upon Itugen and Mat and the spirit of Marija Boh-itu in turn and asked them—begged them—to aid her in her
search. Then she began to move among the shelves, not knowing what she was
looking for, hoping she would know it if she found it.
She ended her journey in a dimly lit, little-used end of the
general library, where an odd little pillar of pink marble supported a dusty
hand-enameled bowl. The little obelisk looked strangely out of place here, in a
structure of native granite. Kassia’s
eyes were drawn to the floor. Here too, a sheath of the pink stone covered the
gray and white, creating a raised area roughly the size of Kassia’s dais. Or, she
thought, the size of an altar. And she had seen something like this in Pater
Julian’s domain.
There, a large golden bowl had held what appeared to be water. What was its
purpose?
On a whim she removed the bowl from the top of the short
pillar and knelt beside it, running her fingers over its worn surface. Yes,
there were joints in the stone—places
where two planes met, leaving a space in which a fingernail might be inserted,
if not much else. Kassia pressed, pushed, prodded and pried, all to no avail.
At last, tired and feeling a little silly, she hauled herself back to her bed.
On the morrow, she decided, she would ask Master Lukasha if there were some
place a record of the monks’ occupation of Lorant might be found.