He had taken the time to do this, too. For a moment, Rexei smiled, touched by his helpfulness. Then she frowned in worry. Is he being nice because he actually is nice? Or is this Alonnen Tallnose trying to sweeten me for some purpose? I mean solely for some use he wants out of me. It’s obvious he wants something; he wants me to tell him everything I know of what happened in the Heiastowne temple. But is he also being nice because . . . he is nice?
. . . He doesn’t feel slimy to my inner instincts. Too many men and women had, in her past. More men than women, but enough of each to have made her leave twenty-five or so guilds. Like the women in the Actors Guild who had insisted that “the lad” that was Rexei was “horribly shy” and “just needed to be taken in hand.” In one case, literally; the woman had tried to shove her hand down Rexei’s pants in an effort to grope “his” groin. Everyone knew that women were preyed upon by the priesthood—and certain unscrupulous men in other professions—but it had been a shock to realize that some women were willing to force themselves onto men even in the face of the “young lad” protesting vigorously against the idea.
That had been one of a dozen cases where Rexei had been forced to sleep-spell her attacker. Most had been men. Most had a feel to them, what she had come to think of as an aura of intent, that was just wrong. It wasn’t always noticeable, particularly when the person was just . . . being a person . . . but when they started to plot, to indulge in evil thoughts . . . Reading another mortal’s thoughts was impossible, but these were feelings. Intentions, in the sense of the direction of one’s focus. The longer she stayed around certain people, the more she could sense it.
Bishop Hansu, oh yes. Bishop Koler, yes. Elcarei, the Archbishop of Heiastowne, yes as well. All in varying degrees from each other, and from the other bishops, priests, and novices of the temple. She had known and worked among them for two months. She wasn’t completely sure about that foreign mage, but his words, his suggestions had sounded flat-out wrong, in the sense that they felt wrong in his intentions, however truthful his words.
Alonnen Tallnose had none of that sense about him. In fact, he felt like . . . Rexei blushed. He feels like that bed behind me. Big and soft and warm, yet fully supportive. A refuge . . . if I can only bring myself to relax fully into it. She smiled wryly to herself and set her stack of loaned clothing on the small side table in the bathing room. Instead of staying up stiffly for half the night, reading until I was too tired to do anything but sleep.
She might not be able to bring herself to fully trust him just yet, but her instincts had kept her alive so far. With Mekha gone, it just might be time for her to start trusting someone, somewhere. Might as well be here, right? I guess. . . . I mean, if I can’t be safe in the midst of the Mages Guild, where can I be safe?
With a deep breath, she set her mind on the task of trying to trust the men and women around her. It felt weird and awkward. Too many years of being on my own. But they’re under the same threat. We all have a common cause . . . and Alonnen is right, she thought, blushing a little when her mind strayed in his direction. We need a place where we can accept who and what we are, a safe place to be ourselves.
To be myself.
A very odd thought, but not an unwelcome one.
• • •
If Alonnen had to keep expanding their available rooms like this, no one would be safe in the Mages Guild. The Vortex could only cover and cloak its existence so much. So wide, so high, so deep. Reports were coming in by talker-box from all over the kingdom of the disappearance of Mekha’s symbols, of some of the temples disgorging all their mages, of other temples trying to deny their captives’ existences . . . and of rioting in certain towns and cities.
Not in Heiastowne, thankfully. Captain Eron Torhammer and his second-in-command, Leftenant Rogen Tallnose, enforced the local laws ruthlessly, even when it meant going against the whims of the priesthood. But those other towns where the mages had been released, those in the know wanted to send them all to the Vortex, “just in case” this was a ruse by Mekha or by the priests. Even warned by Guardian Dominor that the incipient kingdom of Nightfall intended to try to resurrect the long-lost Convocation of Gods and Man, the actual Convocation had happened too quickly for Alonnen to prepare anyone outside the innermost circle of the Mages Guild . . . which included his brother, even though Rogen was no mage himself.
So Heiastowne was more or less prepared to quell rioting. The region was not, however, prepared to house thousands of spellshocked, traumatized mages, many of whom were terrified of being recaptured and drained by the priesthood. Many more were physically damaged, or worse, violated. Not just the women had been raped and bred with bastard children, but some of the men bore signs of being abused by the priests, too.
The Mages Guild didn’t have the rooms to house them, they didn’t have the food to feed them or the clothes to give them, and they definitely did not have the ability to counsel and help hundreds of mages rebuild their shattered, emptied lives.
When the coded messages came through that shipments of certain vintages of “wine and dried fruits” were being sent toward the Heias region, Alonnen gave up trying to reshape more of the bedrock under the hills flanking the reservoir. Heias cannot house, feed, clothe, and care for them all. I will not be responsible for something that would completely beggar our resources “just because” the Vortex has a tradition of trying to keep mages safe from the priesthood.
We literally cannot keep them fed, housed, and all the rest, and so I will not take the blame for it. Swimming out of the Vortex—an odd, dry sort of swimming—he breached the gel-like barrier keeping the water back from the living spaces, dropped lightly onto the balcony, and ducked into his office.
Gabria Springreaver was manning his desk, trying to coordinate in code the shipment of all those mages to the Heias Dam. In the depths of winter, no less. The ash-blonde woman gave him a grateful look when he finished sliding the huge glass pane back into place, sealing off the faint chill of the Vortex chamber from the warmth of his magestove-heated study.
“Please tell me you’ve made eight hundred rooms?” she begged.
Alonnen choked, checking his stride. “Eight hundred?”
“Well, at the moment, it’s only four hundred and . . . thirty-six more of . . . well, our kind,” she admitted, consulting her notes. The talker-box, a thing of brass and wood and steel mesh, squawked, but no one actually spoke through it. Someone had probably hit the receiver-cone that picked up sounds for transmission. Springreaver shrugged when it made no further demands on her. “There’s even that Healer-mage fellow from outkingdom staying in the outermost circle. He’s making himself very popular by tending to all the traumatized mages.”
“I’m glad he’s making himself useful,” Alonnen allowed.
“Yes, but it’s barely an hour past breakfast, and only a handful of cities have relayed their requests. There’s bound to be more. Many more, Master Tall. If we can cram four and five to a room, or even sleep them in shifts, eight hundred might be enough . . .”