It was a good ache, though. It made her smile at random moments, even when it made her feel like wincing a little. She kept both the smiles and the flinches to a minimum. Instead of chatting with her brother, or even instructing her apprentices, Rexei had found herself corralled within minutes of entering the Consulate for a long discussion with a wide selection of townsfolk on the nature of Guildra, Patron Goddess of Guilds.
The astonishing thing was how they came to her to actually learn, not to rail against or deny or demand a completely different Patron concept. The more she talked with the men and the women, the elderly and the teenagers who wanted to understand, the more Rexei realized she had picked the right Goddess for her people. The guilds were something they intimately understood.
The Guild System was a concept every ex-Mekhanan could grasp. A Goddess of Guilds, patient, educated, disciplined, encouraging . . . these were characteristics utterly unlike the last God. That was the reason why her fellow citizens came to her in the dead of winter; they wanted reassurance that Guildra was indeed real and that She was going to be their new Patron . . . exactly as they wanted Her to be.
This was a gratifying and very humbling realization, on Rexei’s part.
Her apprentices listened in, too, and spoke when she gestured for them to add to the conversation. Master Jorro, a fellow Gearman, was even able to speak for her when her voice started to grow rough around the edges from so much talking. When she realized he was indeed thinking along very similar lines, Rexei paused the conversation long enough to promote him to the rank of journeyman of the Holy Guild. She still didn’t have any guild medallions just yet, but she knew the Mintners Guild was working on it for her, since she didn’t have time to gather tools and start the work herself—there was so much to do, she just didn’t know when she would fit it all in.
One bite at a time, she thought as lunch drew near and her stomach nudged her sense of time in pre-hunger warning. Speaking of which . . .
“Okay, people,” she told the crowd of roughly two hundred gathered into the meeting hall, with herself and her apprentices occupying the center of the curved head table—which felt a bit weird with just the four of them up there. “As much as we could continue to expound and expand upon the nature of Guildra, it is almost time for luncheon . . . and every Guild charter I know of demands the right to a luncheon hour for its members. Mine shall be no exception.”
Her dry-voiced reminder provoked a ripple of laughter in the men and women seated in the pews, thanks to the truth in her words.
“I thank you for coming, and I shall send word for the Binders to post the time and day for the next open meeting to discuss the nature of our new Patron and new Holy Guild. Feel free to discuss what we have talked about today with others; though if any of you have questions, I strongly encourage each person to come to the Consulate hall and leave a written question for my fellow guildmembers and me to contemplate the answer. In the meantime . . . it is lunchtime. Have a good day.”
Grasping the wooden handle of the stone mallet, she cracked granite against polished granite, ending the meeting. A young apprentice wearing the familiar medallion of the Messengers Guild moved up to the head table, a folded paper outstretched in his hand. “Message for you, Guild Master Longshanks.”
Nodding, Rexei dug into her pouch. All messages were prepaid for delivery, but it was courtesy to tip the apprentices for a job well-done; once a guildmember became a journeyman or higher, their pay was good enough—and presumably the service as well—to not need tips for encouragement. She handed over three square coppers and accepted the note. It wasn’t sealed, just folded over, and was fairly simple.
Rex,
I twisted my ankle on the way out of the inn, and now cannot even hobble across the room, let alone halfway across town. I know you have meetings this morning, but if you could join me for the midday meal over here, I’ll buy. Send word if you can’t make it; send yourself if you can.
Lun
Rexei quirked her brows, looking up at the apprentice. “Why didn’t you deliver this earlier?”
“He said before noon was fine, no big rush,” the youth told her, shrugging. “I had a dozen others that were. Any return message?”
“No . . . I’ll go myself. Thank you.” Watching him walk off, she absently tucked her brother’s note into her pouch. Rexei looked around for some of the other mages but couldn’t see them. They were still nervously avoiding her. Her apprentices and journeyman had already vanished as well, taking off to find their own food sources, leaving her alone. Sighing, she acknowledged that she should leave a message for Alonnen, in case he was already on his way back from the Vortex to rejoin her here.
Using the pen and paper she had brought for this morning’s meetings, she dipped the pen in the ink jar and wrote out a quick note explaining she had gone to the Fallen Timbers Inn for lunch with her brother. Rexei folded it up, writing For Master Tall on the outside. With that task done, she dropped the letter off at the front desk of the Consulate, belted her winter coat over her clothes, and headed into the damp and windy but no longer drizzling winter day.
The gusts increased as she turned down one of the main streets, heading for the Fallen Timbers. Leaning into the wind, she timed the pace of her steps to the songs that always hummed in the back of her head, masking her magical signature, warding her from detection, from attack, from—magic sizzled over her skin, disrupting that song. Just for a fraction of a moment, but it was enough to make her foot fumble.
The misstep drove her to the ground. Heart pounding, knee bruised, she twisted as she struggled back to her feet, looking all around for the source of the attack. Three men—strangers, none of them from the Heiastowne temple—converged on her from three different directions. The one on the far right scowled at her and flicked his hands. Panicking, she tried to shove to her feet, humming harder. The spell slapped into her with a jolt of pain.
For a moment, unable to see or move, she lost the thread of her protective meditations. One of the two remaining men grabbed her right elbow, saying gruffly, “Easy lad, you look ill.”
The other grabbed her left arm and pressed something to her neck. It sealed to her skin with a sizzle of magic just as she got her humming back. The pain remained, blurring her vision . . . but . . . she could hum, and that meant she could think. It was hard; Rexei felt the energies in the spell trying to drown her thoughts. She fought it to the point of humming faintly under her breath, struggling to remember the melodies of her warding spells.
“Stand up, Longshanks,” the man on her right ordered tersely. “You will act like we are helping you. Now, walk with us.”
Physical pain and cognitive dullness warred with the need to struggle, to escape. Rexei found herself walking between the two men, who still had their arms tucked through her elbows.
“Looks like your left knee is twisted,” one of them said aloud. Immediately her knee throbbed and her leg started limping in response.
Don’t panic—don’t panic—don’t panic! That frightened thought chased itself in circles, ruining the rhythm of . . . It has a rhythm! Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic . . . The warding harmonies came back, albeit at a faster, higher, more frantic pitch than usual. The more she concentrated, the clearer her thoughts felt, but at the cost of giving up some of the fight to control her body. I can do this . . . I can do this. I just need to concentrate . . . stall for time . . . don’t panic, don’t panic, concentrate, stall for time . . .