Archmage-Diviner Warin sighed, the barren stone walls of the empty chamber echoing his breath faintly. “At times, a different perspective is useful. Let us consider the lesson one part at a time. What happens when you try to scry upon the resting place of King Arthur?”
“I see nothing. It fails.” Fiona looked down at the book, her elfblood eyes straining against the dimness. The faint scent of burning incense from the seven braziers anchoring the corners of the heptagonal table filled her nostrils. “And that means… I do not know the subject well enough, the subject is protected by a greater power, or the subject does not exist.”
“Geoffrey of Monmouth says his divinations pointed unequivocally to Glastonbury Tor as Arthur’s final resting place.” Archmage Warin steepled his fingers. “So, what is the problem?”
“Geoffrey was not likely a properly educated wizard,” Fiona said. “That was in the dark ages between Ivar’s death at the hands of the three half knight brothers and his resurrection. But I’m only a journeyman, and I dare say I do not know as much about Arthur. So perhaps I simply do not know enough about the subject, or Geoffrey was a prodigious natural talent.”
“I experience the same result,” Warin said. “And I have read every line Geoffrey ever wrote.”
“Then surely Arthur has no resting place,” Fiona said, looking up at the archmage. “Geoffrey told a myth.”
“I am not so proud as to pretend I have no equal in divination, even if I have not yet met him.” Warin shook his head, then extended his hand out over a smoothly polished crystal ball. “Where Aurelius Ambrosius waits,” he intoned out loud. Then he draped a cloth over the dim magelight on the table, leaving only a small hole pointed toward the crystal ball.
Fiona blinked, her eyes adjusting. Projected against the stone was the image of an aerial view of a long asymmetric hill, with a gently curled ridgeline falling slowly away from the top in one direction and a steep slope down otherwise. The sides of the hill showed seven terraces separating the hill from the ground, though the long side of the ridgeline descended smoothly over the terraces as if draped on top of them. At the end of the long ridgeline, a small cluster of dots of varying sizes waited, perhaps people or animals.
“So. Ambrosius, the golden one by name, elder brother of Uther Pendragon, waits there. It is not his grave or his funeral pyre. He is intact and whole, and not shielded by a greater power than that which I wield. All these I have been able to divine. And yet…” Warin shook his head, placing his hand directly on the crystal ball.
Fiona ducked under the table. Grasping a ball directly was, according to all she had been taught, unsafe, a recipe for getting one’s hand cut by fragments of crystal if one’s target was warded against scrying.
“Show me more precisely where Ambrosius waits,” Warin commanded.
Heat flared in the room as smoldering incense flared, leaving behind ashes. The table rocked, the image of the hill briefly blurring, and then it came to rest. The whole of the hill still filled the view.
“Perhaps it is the limit of the angular precision of the ball?” Fiona flipped through the pages of the book in her hands, biting her lip.
Warin gestured negligently, and the view moved slowly to follow his gesture, half of the hill sliding out of view as the perspective of the crystal ball shifted; then he pulled his hand up, and the dots at the base of the hill rapidly expanded into view in one brief blurry moment.
Fiona could see a small person sitting next to a large dog, talking to someone out of sight near the foot of the hill.
“Baron James,” Warin said, frowning as he recognized the duke’s cousin. “As you see, the crystal ball is precisely formed enough for a greater level of precision at that distance. I am not blocked, yet as far as any of my divinations are concerned, the place where Ambrosius waits spans nearly the whole of the hill, from the peak down.”
The halfling’s hand stopped stroking the wolfhound suddenly, and he looked around.
“Baron James is sensitive to being watched,” Warin said, wiggling his fingers. The image faded, and then the archmage slid the covering cloth off the magelight, brightening the whole room. “That is not the first time I have seen him, though this time I was not looking for him in particular. He seems not to have any means of magically protecting himself, but certainly has some kind of uncanny sense for when someone is paying him mind.”
Fiona frowned, remembering the uncanny way the duke spoke silently to her mind without casting a spell. “Does it run in the family?”
Warin shook his head. “Not as far as I know, though your husband-to-be is uncanny enough in plenty of ways. His family is large, old, and complex. Speaking of him, however, we should revisit your ball gown.”
Fiona shrank inside her comfortable, albeit ugly, journeyman’s robes. “Must we?”
“You will wear it for the wedding, will you not?” The archmage crossed his arms, giving his adoptive daughter a measuring look. “It suits you well enough, and I wager the duke holds a good opinion of your appearance in it—the duke danced with you twice when you wore it, and no other woman at the whole ball.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“Very well,” Fiona said. She reached into her sleeve, pulling out sea-green silk. A shake in her hands and the shape of the gown became clear, with its circular neckline and long, draping sleeves.
Warin stared at the silk and clucked his tongue.
“Yes, I know it’s wrinkled,” Fiona said. “I can unwrinkle it in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“That wasn’t what concerned me, though that is also worth a reprimand,” Warin said. “Wrinkled journeyman’s robes can be taken as a sign of humility, rather than incompetence; a wrinkled gown, on the other hand, will always reflect poorly on a noble. But I was more concerned with this.”
There was a flash of steel from one of Warin’s voluminous sleeves; a jeweled dagger sank to the hilt in the sea-green silk of the gown, the tip striking sparks as it bounced off of Fiona’s brown robe on the other side of the now-damaged garment held in her hands.
“If you are to be a duchess, fine gowns will be part of your regular life,” Warin said. “Which means that temporary enchantment is inadequate.”
Fiona shook the gown out with a frown, the dagger clattering on the floor. “Yes, Master,” she said heavily, poking her finger through the hole.
“As a wizard, my apprentice can wear her comfortable robes as much as she likes. My daughter, however, decided to marry a duke, and duchesses do not have all of the same liberties.” Warin held up his finger, then pointed at a book with a battered red leather cover resting on the table next to a spool of silk thread and a small golden needle, the eye of the needle filled with a bead of glass. “I believe you will need Anselm’s second volume once you have mended and unwrinkled your wedding dress. Unless you wished to purchase another dress for the occasion?”
“You could help, Father,” Fiona said, a note of hope entering her voice.
“I would rather find out if I have taught you well enough,” Warin said. Diffidently, he stood, taking three steps toward the door, turning twice in place, and then walking the rest of the way to the door. “Besides, I have a concert to attend.” He leaned, placing his forehead on the door, and closed his eyes.
----------------------------------------
Sabine ignored the gentle tugging as one of her maidservants braided her hair, focusing intently on the open notebook laid across the harpsichord. Her soft fingers marched across the pale, polished keys determinedly, showing not a single moment of hesitation or uncertainty as a shaggy gray head poked into view, propelled by silent paws.
She continued playing the sedate bassa dance as the wolfhound sat and turned to look at her, its chin resting on top of the case of the harpsichord. Her eyes stayed trained on the page, flickering to the delicately inked notes of the coda upon the printed staff on the second page. After letting the final notes of the tune fade, she licked her finger, reaching for the corner of the page, then paused mid-reach.
“Does anyone know who let the beast in?” Sabine stared at her fingers, carefully refraining from making eye contact with either the subject or object of her inquiry.
The hands tugging her hair froze. There was a long pause. “I’s not seen him come in, milady,” a voice shyly said.
A second voice chimed in. “Milady, he’s not here when I left, but was already when I came back in. Betsy is the one what let him in, I did not.”
“Did not! Mayhap he let himself in!” The first maidservant sounded offended.
“I do not like to listen to petty arguing,” Sabine said. She frowned and turned the page.
“Begging your pardon, mistress, but I’s a written message for you.” The second maidservant’s voice was quiet. “Had it from a stableboy. Marked with Duke Robert’s mark. Did not want to interrupt the song.”
Sabine glared. Not irate enough to acknowledge the maidservant’s presence more directly, she chose to glare at the wolfhound instead. “The message may be set next to the music,” she said, turning the page to the next song and sliding her music four inches to the right. The edge of her notebook blocked her sight of the wolfhound’s watchful eyes for a moment; then the wolfhound adjusted its position, putting its chin back on top of the harpsichord next to the edge of her notebook.
Sabine’s eyes flickered to the left, pausing on her family coat of arms momentarily. She started to play, her eyes flickering back and forth between the scrap of paper and the music. For a while, she played perfectly and the wolfhound’s eyes slowly closed.
Then she missed a note. The maidservant braiding her hair continued unaware, but the wolfhound’s eyes popped open, and then Sabine hesitated, the whole piece stopped unfinished. She turned, looking directly at the maidservant perched on the couch. “You will do your best to forget you ever brought me any missive. Indeed, you brought with you a scrap of paper for re-lighting the hearth.”
The maidservant swallowed, nervous and confused. “Milady?”
Sabine growled under her breath, then gestured sharply. With a puff of smoke, the fireplace suddenly went dark. “I said, you brought with you a scrap of paper for relighting the hearth.”
The maidservant hesitantly walked forward, taking hold of the message in one hand. “Will milady need the purple bag with the special candles?”
“No.” Sabine looked back at the music.
“The boy said it was sent with an urgent desire for a swift reply, and I thought…”
Sabine fixed her maidservant with a look. “You brought with you a scrap of paper for relighting the hearth. No more, no less, as you are loyal to me, and I am loyal to my husband-to-be. And there is no reason why relighting the hearth should entail any interruption of my practice. Though I might add that one might roust the beast before it drools overmuch on my instrument.”
Sabine closed her eyes for a long minute, listening as several tea biscuits were devoured by an uncouth canine mouth and the hasty excited panting was cut off by the sound of a door closing. She breathed in and out, counting to ten, then opened her eyes, slid her notebook four inches to the right, and resumed practicing. This time, she chose a slightly faster tempo, a sense of urgency propelling her through the lively volta. One maidservant resumed braiding her hair; the other gently wiped the top of the harpsichord, cleaning away drool.
Sabine was only halfway through the tune when the wolfhound’s head poked back into view. When she finished, she eyed the dumb beast resting its chin on the harpsichord, then flipped the page to yet another song, this one another stately bassa dance. As her fingers danced once more across the pale, polished keys, the dog yawned widely, its eyes closing.