And in one night the Lirwanis had smashed everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.
“No, I guess sometimes that’s not enough,” Wren said reluctantly. Then she scowled. “But that’s no excuse to open the doors to a slithering serpent like Hawk Rhiscarlan and expect him to act like . . . like . . . a petunia!”
Tyron spluttered a laugh. He suspected that Wren and Teressa had either argued, or come very close. Tyron could sympathize with how Wren was feeling now; he and Teressa argued often. His future job as Queen’s Magician was more than just mastering magic and protecting the kingdom from inimical sorcery. He also had to become what Halfrid had warned him would be, in essence, the royal conscience.
“Look, Wren, Teressa is a young queen, and that means she’s going to be courted by every power-seeker of whatever degree on this side of the continent. She might as well test her abilities against someone she knows a little.”
Wren’s angry frown turned perplexed. “But—all that talk about looks—what happens if—” Wren stopped, her hands waving in a circle, her nose wrinkling. “Ugh. The thought of them dancing together, flirting, it’s just disgusting.” She looked down at her hands. Her lower lip trembled as she added with an attempt at lightness, “And Teressa knows how I feel, and so she never told me he was coming. We talked about her cousins, and we wondered where Connor is and what he’s doing, and if he’s learning magic—if he’s happy. We gossiped about her crabby Aunt Carlas, and about the new garden and about all the new plays as well as the old plays, but she never mentioned Hawk.”
Tyron tried to think of something comforting to say, and failed.
Wren sighed. “Maybe it’s time for me to just stay away from court parties. I never liked them anyway.” She didn’t say she’d stay away from the palace, but Tyron wondered if that was what Wren was thinking.
And Tyron reached a decision. “Tell you what. Those glyphs have sat underground for a thousand years. They can wait a year or two longer. How about this. You said you were going to follow Connor to the Summer Islands after your journeymage project, and have some adventures. Test your skills. Well, why not go adventuring now? Maybe you’ll find a journeymage project on your travels. Or even meet up with your father. You know you always wanted to search for him.”
Wren looked up. She’d spent her early life thinking she was an orphan, until she and Connor had traced her family. She had an aunt, uncle, and cousin, and had found out that her father was an illusions-mage for traveling players. Tyron suspected her father still did not even know his daughter was alive; Wren had wanted to try to find him, but the war had smashed her plans.
He urged, “Go look for your father. Or for Connor. Or both. And if no suitable journeymage project happens along the way, the glyphs will still be here waiting when you get back.”
Wren’s eyes widened with longing. Tyron knew how much she missed Connor. He missed Connor as well, the only person besides Halfrid he could talk to about everything.
But Connor was on a quest to discover something about his ancestry, and thus make his place in the world. It was a journeymage quest that would not be judged by any Mage Council. It was Connor’s personal quest.
Wren smiled at Connor’s name. But the smile faded. “No, I’m being selfish. I mean, what about the illusions class, and all the things that need doing here?”
“They’re being done, and the illusions class can double up with the second year’s. It’ll be good for both classes, one to teach, the other to learn. Fliss is going to bring back two new mages who want to see if they like it here enough to stay and teach. The Magic School will be all right, and as for Teressa, one thing you know that crabby Aunt Carlas can be trusted for is to give Hawk—or any suitors not up to her standards—the Rhismordith fish-eye. And just in case, I’m here too,” he added, buffing his nails on his tunic.
“Shouldn’t we wait until either Master Halfrid or Mistress Leila return? I don’t want to bother Mistress Leila with anything less than an emergency, at least not until we know that Queen Nerith will live.”
“Quite right,” Tyron said, shaking his head. His own private opinion was that Queen Nerith Shaltar of Siradayel should not have been racing sleds down frozen river ice at night, especially after she’d been drinking far too much mulled wine. Having overturned her sled and broken several bones, she’d not only endangered herself, she’d brought Siradayel’s affairs to a standstill.
But she was mother to both Mistress Leila and Prince Connor, and was Teressa’s grandmother and ally. She was also in considerable pain even after four months. Healers could bind wounds—with painstaking effort—but the body had to heal itself; Mistress Leila had gone home for the first time since she gave up her title and was supervising both the mage-Healers and the court magicians, until her mother could recover.
“As for Master Halfrid, should I not speak with him first?” Wren asked, looking doubtful. “I mean, since I might be changing my journeymage project.”
“I think I can safely authorize it,” Tyron said.
He and the senior mages were the only ones who knew that Master Halfrid was not just visiting in the north, he was so deeply disguised no one was to contact him except in dire emergency—and that via Summons Ring, which couldn’t be traced.
“You’re already an experienced traveler, and I’ll tell you what. You can practice your transfer magic and cut some of your journey short by shifting down to Falin—Mistress Falin, now—at Hroth Falls. From there it’s just a few days’ travel to the harbor.”
Wren nodded slowly. Tyron was glad to see the unhappy pucker in her forehead starting to smooth out.
“You’ll really like Falin,” he added. “I don’t think you met her. She went away to do her journeymage project when you first came as a student, and as soon as she returned last winter, Halfrid sent her to be the new mage at Hroth Falls.”
Wren shook her head. “We never met.” Tyron could see Wren hesitating. “So Mistress Falin is really young, then?”
“About my age,” Tyron said. “In the old days before the war, she would have had to wait at least ten years, probably longer, for such an important job, but you know how shorthanded we are for mages.”
Wren looked determined. “And so I really ought to get busy myself.”
“Well, I wasn’t trying to drop any hints, but why not? You want to anyway, and you’ll have fun with Falin. She’s a bit odd-looking, but good company, and she’ll send you off in royal style.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Wren said at last. “I’ll go get ready.” Her forehead puckered again. She said in a low voice, “But first I guess I’d better write a note to Tess.”
Teressa looked from the paper in her hand to Tyron’s face. Despite their having been friends for several years, his foxy features had gotten harder to read.
“Why didn’t Wren come say her farewells in person?” Teressa asked at last. She never would have asked anyone else, even Halfrid, but she’d gotten so used to discussing everything with Tyron that it just came out.
“I sent her off while the good weather holds,” Tyron replied with the ease of the previously thought-out answer. It might even be true.
Teressa glanced down at the letter again, as if new words would appear there, giving insight into Wren’s real state of mind.
But the letter remained the same.
Teressa folded the note slowly, and slipped it into a hidden pocket in the fine velvet gown she wore, all embroidered with tiny pearls and tiny golden leaves.
At
least
she
called
me
Tess
, the young queen thought.
Tyron said, in that same easy tone—as if he’d prepared a speech beforehand—”She had to pack her travel gear, speak to all the students she’d been working with, and she sent a message to her aunt up in Allat Los to let them know she was going. Then I had her transfer straight down to Hroth Falls before the day got too old. Mages don’t consider it polite to do night transfers unless it’s an emergency.”
Teressa fingered the pearls embroidered on her pocket. It was useless to say that she knew she was being humored, that if Wren had really wanted to see Teressa she would have found the time despite all those busy chores, but the truth was, Wren hadn’t come because her feelings had been hurt. And Teressa knew why. It wasn’t jealousy, as some might assume. Wren had never been jealous in her life.
I always told Wren to ignore the differences in rank, to be honest, to say what she thought. That was fine when we both thought alike. But the very first time our opinions were not the same, I acted like a sniff-nosed queen. Not like a friend.
A gentle tap at the door interrupted this unpleasant thought.
“Court’s waiting for me,” she said. She thought,
Hawk waits below.
The thought was partly frightening—and a little thrilling. Like a challenge. A duel, but with wits instead of swords. “It’s time for the reception. Do you wish to attend?”
Tyron shook his head. “I really should be at the School. There might be a message from Master Halfrid. And as for Hawk, you already know what I think: I said it all last winter.”
Yes, he’d said pretty much what Wren had said, only more diplomatically.
Teressa stiffened her spine and led the way out. Tyron slipped down the servants’ stairs, leaving Teressa to walk alone down the broad sweep of the grand stairway leading to the biggest, most formal of the court reception chambers.
There, lit by the last golden slants of the fading sunlight, she found a diminished number of courtiers, as few nobles had arrived yet for the season. Curious eyes in polite faces gathered round the perimeter of the room, everybody in strict order of precedence, dressed in embroidered silks and rich velvets. All except Hawk, who stood out, tall and powerful, dressed entirely in black.
She walked down the carpet in the center of the room. Her court bowed and curtseyed. Hawk bowed as well, making a flourish with his right hand that just escaped being mocking.
The Herald struck his staff on the polished marble floor and announced, in slow, sonorous tones that the Duke of Rhiscarlan requested the honor to present himself to Queen Teressa of Meldrith, blah, blah, blah.
Teressa ignored from the force of habit all the titles and honorifics that trailed after, and instead wished she hadn’t chosen to make a grand gesture, in effect opening the court season with this reception. It would have been just as easy to have done the formal welcome in her private audience chamber, but she’d told herself that receiving a Rhiscarlan was a first, and it did honor to both families to make welcome him before court.
In other words, to make a grand gesture. And impress Hawk.
She should have known he wouldn’t be impressed, and as for grand gestures—
She forced herself to meet Hawk’s dark gaze, to surprise a narrow-eyed appraisal. Did she look as unhappy as she felt? She made a determined effort to smooth her face, and as the echoes of the Herald’s voice died away, she spoke the formal words of welcome, suitable for a visiting duke who had not sworn allegiance to either Meldrith or Senna Lirwan—who ruled his land as a king in all but name.
Hawk, at least, had good company manners when he chose to assume them. He bowed, this time with perfect correctness, and then stepped forward and took Teressa’s hand. And before she could respond, he kissed it.
“I thank your majesty for the welcome,” he said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard. But his smile was oddly intimate as he added, “And I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”
She disengaged her fingers lest he try to kiss them again. Her skin felt the imprint of that first kiss, and her face heated up.
He murmured, again in that soft voice, “Where’s your fierce defender? I don’t see her among your guests. But neither do I see your former hound—nor Master Halfrid. Do you not invite your mages?”
He dared to refer to that horrible time, when he’d forced Tyron into the form of a dog! Teressa’s cheeks burned, though she hated showing any reaction. “Tyron and Wren are always invited,” she uttered in so sharp an undertone her voice trembled. She drew in a breath and continued more evenly, “But Tyron is busy while Master Halfrid is away, and Wren is on the road to Hroth Harbor.”
Hawk’s brows rose. “Ah! I wish her good adventures—far from here. I have to confess I felt extreme trepidation at the prospect of treading your ballroom floor under her ferocious eye.”
“Tread without fear,” Teressa said rather tartly.
Hawk laughed. “So where is the formidable Master Halfrid?”
“Ask Tyron about magic business.” And before he could ask more questions, she lifted her voice. “I invite you all to a masquerade ball, to be held in the duke’s honor, four days hence.”
As whispers ran through the younger courtiers—for there had been no elaborate balls the year before—Hawk smiled down into her eyes. “A masquerade, eh?”
She immediately recalled a masquerade ball what seemed a thousand years ago, when he’d been plotting with her own relatives. Judging by that sardonic smile, he was remembering it as well.
“Shall I take that as a challenge?” he added. He had long dimples in his lean cheeks when he smiled that way. “What, dare I ask, ought I to mask myself as?”
“What else?” she retorted, lightly. Ever so lightly, and with the same smile: feint, disengage, lunge. “As a hound.”
The sunset bells were just ringing when Wren transferred to Hroth Falls. The Destination tiles at her feet shimmered unpleasantly as she fought against the dizziness that transfers always caused.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply—
And was startled by a sharp female voice, “Who are you?”
“Mistress Falin?” Wren opened her eyes, rubbing them even though she knew it wouldn’t clear the haze any faster. “Tyron sent me. I know I’m not dressed in my student tunic, but I can explain. My name is Wren.”