C. Brittain: A Bad Spell in Yurt

I nodded ruefully. “The cycle of birth and death, sickness and health. We can lengthen life, but not indefinitely. We can’t cause someone to be born, and we can’t bring them back when they’re dead.”

He smiled for the third time that evening. “For twinkling lights and fairy gold, see a wizard. For a miracle, see a priest.” That must be something else they had taught them at seminary, a handy phrase to confound wizards.

“Would you like more wine?” I stood up this time to get his glass.

Bells were ringing out in the courtyard. Snuggled down in my pillows, I opened one eye. Early morning light was coming in the window, too early, I decided, to make it worth thinking about yet. I closed the eye again.

My door handle rattled, then the door swung open. I wished again for a good curse to use, this time against myself. I remembered now forgetting to lock the door when I let the chaplain out, well past midnight. I sat up straight, both eyes wide open.

I was, however, somewhat mollified when I saw it was the pretty servant girl who had given me a saucy look at dinner the night before, and that she was carrying a steaming tray. “Good morning, sir. Are you ready for your tea and crullers?”

I pulled on my robe and tried to push my hair into line with one hand.

She set the tray on my table. “The crullers are still warm; I just finished making them.”

I took a drink of scalding tea and a bite of cruller. They were just the way I liked them, with lots of cinnamon. “These are wonderful.”

“Thank you, sir. As well as bringing you your breakfast, the constable’s wife said I should explain to how to get to the chapel for service. You go back through the great hall-”

“Church service!” I cried. “That’s why they’re ringing the bells. I’m going to be late.”

“You have plenty of time. They always ring the bells half an hour early, to give slack-a-beds time to get up and dressed.”

“I forgot it was Sunday,” I said somewhat sheepishly.

“We have service in the chapel every morning,” she said primly. “Anyway, you go through the great hall, and at the far right-hand corner there’s a door into a stairway. Go up to the third landing, and there’s the chapel. You shouldn’t get lost; just about everyone else should be going there too.” But though she spoke formally and correctly, as a servant should address even someone who was fully dressed and combed, she gave me a wink as she left me to finish my breakfast and get dressed.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and reasonably tidy, though I was still licking crumbs from my lips, I walked through the great hall and joined a large group of people going upstairs. The stairs were dark and badly lit-no magic globes here-so it was with surprise and pleasure that I emerged into a very tall chapel, whose walls were made almost entirely of stained glass. The eastern light illuminated the Bible stories and the saints, and blue and green shadows were cast across us.

The chaplain was already at the front. The white and black linen of his vestments was immaculate. He looked sober and shaved, not at all like someone still feeling shaggy from being up half the night. And he had not even had the benefit of excellent fresh-made crullers; priests are not supposed to have breakfast before service.

The king was already seated in the first row, surrounded by his knights and ladies, but I sat down with the servants and attendants. They kindly passed me a copy of the hymnal and gave me no odd looks when I didn’t know the tune and discovered that my ability to sight-read music was even worse than I remembered. Everyone else’s singing, however, was lovely. As the service ended, I wondered why they had assumed that I would go, and if my predecessor had ever come to chapel.

The constable fell into step beside me as we filed out. He asked, “So how are you finding Yurt so far?”

“I like it very much. I’ll have to see how well I can do once I really take up my duties; so far I’ve been a guest on vacation.” This was to forestall any remarks about telephone systems.

We groped our way down the stairs, our eyes almost blind after the brilliance of the chapel’s colored light. He chuckled and said over his shoulder, “Maybe you could get some lights put in here. Your predecessor made our lights for the great hall, but he never wanted anything to do with the chapel. The roof here is too low to hang regular lamps, so we’ve always had to stumble as best we could.”

Magic lights were something I was fairly sure I could make, though it might be tricky making them bright enough while also making them small enough to fit in the restricted space. “I’ll try to manage something in the next few days,” I said cheerfully.

We emerged at the bottom of the stairs. “I must say,” said the constable in a low voice, “that I was delighted to see you inviting the chaplain to your chambers last night.” He glanced about quickly to make sure we were not overheard. “I hadn’t wanted to say anything at first, but there had been a certain- tension between him and your predecessor, and when we hired a new wizard one of the things I had been hoping was that that might be resolved. Your predecessor really was an excellent wizard, and I wouldn’t want to be thought to speak ill of him, but in a small kingdom one doesn’t need these petty enmities. That’s why I knew you wouldn’t mind being brought breakfast in plenty of time to get to service.”

“Of course not,” I said noncommittally. I really was going to have to meet the old wizard.

The constable started to turn away. “Oh, just one thing,” I said, and he turned back at once. “Where do you get the Sunday paper around here?”

He looked surprised. “We don’t get the Sunday paper. We don’t get papers at all in Yurt.”

“But your ad for a wizard was in the Sunday paper.”

“Yes, that. The queen had brought a copy back from her last trip to the City, so we had the address to which to write. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He walked briskly away. “Well,” I said determinedly to myself, “if I’m not going to waste half the morning reading the color supplements, maybe I can see if there’s anything in any of my books about telephones.”

With my casements wide open and red and white climbing roses peeking in, I settled myself in the most comfortable chair in my study and put my feet up. Thaumaturgy A to Z had nothing to offer, but the first volume of Ancient and Modern Necromancy, the volume I had never looked at it because most of it was just a history of wizards and wizardry, gave a brief description of the discovery of telephones. “The person’s voice actually enters the flow of magic. The spells attached to each telephone find the voice’s way through magic’s four dimensions, so that even a person without magic skills can operate it. All he has to do is to speak the name attached to the telephone instrument with which he wishes to communicate, and that instrument’s bell will ring, summoning someone to answer.”

Well, I had vaguely known that already. The part this historical snippet seemed to pass over was how one created spells and attached them to the telephone, to localize the instrument in both space and time, and then set up the permanent channels through the flow of magic for the voice to travel. I closed the book and would have frowned if the summer breeze hadn’t been so soft on my cheek.

Clearly I was going to have to try something different. The thought of going back to the City and stealing an instrument occurred to me briefly, but it would never work. The instrument would have to have all its spells redone or it wouldn’t function. The times I had seen a new telephone installed, it had always seemed to take several days and require several wizards-usually of the serious, pale-faced sort with whom I had not associated much at school. A kingdom didn’t hire a new Royal Wizard and then pay enormous sums to import other wizards who might know more than he did about telephones.