The first was that it was only human magic that tended to turn to fire when loosed unshaped; by its very nature, green magic was already shaped before it was called. The second was that when she’d reached for control of the magic, it had responded to her. She didn’t waste time wondering why Elsic had called human magic with the flute. The smoke burning acridly in her lungs was reminder enough of the lack of time.
She sought control again. It was difficult to contain magic she hadn’t summoned—Elsic was not her bound apprentice—and this was more power than she’d ever used at one time. As she wrestled with it, she was peripherally aware that flames leapt from the bedclothes sparked by the magic escaping her hold.
It struck her that it might be easier to channel the magic into a spell, rather than try to contain it. Deciding a fire in the fireplace was as likely a candidate for dispersing it as any, she fed the magic into the logs that were prepared for lighting.
This time her effort was much more successful. The wood burst into flame and erupted into glorious fury, burning to ash in an instant. She used the last touch of magic to dispel the random fires and the smoke. In a moment it was quiet in the room—though a good deal warmer than it had been.
“What happened?” asked Elsic in a subdued voice.
Sham laughed a bit shakily. “That is a very good question. The flute is a device designed to allow a magician to gather magic easier and faster than he normally could. Apparently it works for green magic as well as human—but the magic it gathers is still the raw stuff human mages like me use. Human magic disperses itself in flame if the person who draws it can’t control it.”
“I suppose that means I shouldn’t play it.” The regret in his voice was reflected in his face.
“I suppose not,” she agreed firmly, tucking the flute back inside the trunk and keying the lock-spell into place. The next Spirit Tide she was going to put the stupid flute in the caves where it wouldn’t be a problem—she hoped.
Rubbing her eyes tiredly, Sham spelled the book closed. Talbot had collected Elsic and left several hours ago. Sometime after that Dickon had brought her dinner with a message from the Reeve. Kerim would stop by after he was through with his meetings, but it would be very late.
Sham was contemplating trying for some sleep when someone knocked gently on her door. It was the outer door so it probably wasn’t Kerim, and the knock was too soft for Dickon.
“Who is it?” she called, in the heavily accented Cybellian the Reeve’s mistress affected.
“A message for you, Lady,” replied an unfamiliar male voice.
She hesitated, then opened her trunk and set the book inside. With the trunk carefully relocked, she fluttered. “A moment ...”
Briefly, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Satisfied that she looked as she should. Sham opened the door.
The man who stood outside the door wore the colors of a Castle servant. In his gloved hands he held a small wooden box that he extended to her. A gift then, she thought, like the others left for her in attempts to curry favor.
She took the box and examined it, as any greedy woman would. The dark wood was covered with a multitude of carved birds, no two alike. She wondered briefly if this was the gift, but as she turned it something rattled in the box.
“You may go now,” she commanded haughtily, deciding she didn’t need an audience.
“I am sorry, Lady, but I was told to wait until you had opened the box.”
Shrugging, Sham worked the small catch. Nestled in black cloth was a polished star-ruby set in a gold ring. Her experienced eye calculated how much such a ring was worth: more than the small treasure of gold coins in her sea cave. The man who sent was either a fool or he had a specific favor in mind. There was no note in the box.
“Who sent this?” she asked.
“It was sent in confidence, Lady. I am to see that the gift fits before returning.”
Sham frowned at him, but it was one of Kerim’s mistress’s frowns: lightweight and frivolous. She didn’t really expect that it would affect a servant used to dealing with Lady Tirra. Deciding it was the easiest way to get rid of the man, she slipped the ring in place.
The sleep-spell took effect so fast she didn’t have time to berate herself for stupidity. Her frantic attempt to counter the spell ended stillborn.
Impassively the servant caught the woman before she fell and threw her over his shoulder. He stepped inside her room and shut the door, throwing the bolt. He set the Reeve’s mistress temporarily on her bed while he pulled off the servant’s tunic and trousers. Under these he wore a plain brown shirt and loose, dark pants.
Hefting the woman over his shoulder again, he worked the panel opening near the fireplace and stepped into the passage.
13
Fykall sighed with more weariness than the end of the day required. He was finding himself more and more discontent in his position as the High Priest’s assistant. Even the euphoria of outmaneuvering the Reeve at Lord Ven’s funeral had not lasted long.
As a boy he had heard the call of Altis, serving Him faithfully with all the strength in his wiry little peasant’s body. Through the years his devotion had paid off, and the little priest had risen quickly through the ranks of Altis’s servants. Once, and he remembered the occasion as the most inspiring of his life, he had been allowed to kiss the Voice of Altis’s hand. The prophet had smiled at him, spoke briefly of Fykall’s service, and sent him to Landsend.
The little man sighed again, Moving the temple cat that had made his rooms its personal domain from the prayer stool, Fykall knelt and bowed his head.
He had come to Landsend with such high hopes—not just because the Voice had sent him here personally. Back in Cybelle, the priests used to tell stories about the Leopard and the miracles he performed in the name of Altis. He’d been prepared to be awed by a legend and had met, instead, a man—one who displayed very little liking for the temple priests. Although, thought Fykall, dealing with Brath for a decade might give anyone a distaste for the priesthood. Even so, sometimes the little priest wondered if Kerim worshiped Altis at all.
If the Leopard was a disappointment, the High Priest was a tribulation of a different magnitude. How could a man of his position in the church lose the light of Altis’s guidance? The High Priest was greedy for wealth and glory—less concerned about the spirit of the temple than he was the gold in the door of his office.
Fykall closed his eyes, uttering a prayer that was so familiar to his tongue that he didn’t have to think about it. “Blessed One, grant me the understanding of thy wisdom and the patience to wait for the outcome of thy desire. I thank thee for thy understanding of my imperfections. Amen.”
A warm tingle swept through him, and he knew that if he opened his eyes he would see the glow of Altis’ marks upon his hands. But he waited, listening as he’d been taught. Only when the tingle of power had left completely did he open his eyes.
He rose to his feet with a sigh and straightened his white robes fussily until they hung in perfect folds to the midpoint of his calf. Tightening his green belt, he stepped away from the small altar, reaching for the glass of orange juice he habitually drank before sleeping.
Fykall, clean my house.
Shaken, the little priest fell to his knees, not noticing the pain of falling to the hard floor. He hadn’t heard Altis’ voice since his conversion as a boy, but the deep rumble was just as he remembered. It took a moment for the awe he felt to allow him the meaning of the words.
Clean house? How could this be? Certainly his current assignment seemed to point to Fykall’s loss of favor in the eyes of his god, but never would he have thought he would face such a rebuke. The temple servants did the cleaning, leaving the priests to more important labor.