Andrea Höst: The Sleeping Life

"Is it true you can’t cast the simplest Sigillic?" he asked, with a glance down at the glittery mess Kendall had spread about.

Kendall sat back on her heels. If there was one thing she was sick to death of, it was rich noble brats. The Arkathan was full of them, and when Kendall had been stuck there they’d only stopped ignoring her when they were trying to squeeze gossip out of her, or making it real clear she didn’t belong.

"I don’t see that’s any business of yours."

"Is it a secret? I was told you’re from one of the villages destroyed by the Grand Summoning, that you don’t have any connection to the Claires. No background in magery, haven’t even passed the first rank of the Sigillic comprehension tests. Can you read?"

It would be interesting to see how much of a necklace would fit up this snot’s nose. It could count as unpacking—or she could say he’d distracted her and it was an accident. Better to ignore him, though she didn’t want to keep practicing while he was there. And it was annoying as spit that he was right, that she couldn’t cast a single Sigillic, that Rennyn wouldn’t let her try.

Lacking a response, the boy went on: "It would be tremendously ironic if an unlettered—"

"Unmannered?"

Sebastian Claire stood in the shadow of the nearest archway. He had the same colouring as his sister, but was nearly ten years younger, having turned sixteen just before the beginning of the Black Queen’s return. The thing to remember about Sebastian was that he lived and breathed magic, and thought everyone else should do the same. For all that, Kendall had seen him be sharp enough about the real world whenever he bothered to pull his head out of the Eferum.

"You must be Sebastian Claire," said the boy, sounding pleased. "I—"

"No, really, you’d do better to shut up," Sebastian said. "I’ve no time for people who are rude to my friends."

The boy looked startled, then flushed and glanced down at Kendall. "I suppose I was. My mouth ran on." He bowed, quick and deep from the waist. "Your pardon. I just wanted to know. Another time, Lord Sebastian." He nodded, bit his lip and left, sand crunching beneath his shoes.

Sebastian plopped down to one side of the chest and looked over Kendall’s piles. "Garish stuff," he said. "I don’t suppose Solace wore much of this, either. A couple of centuries of Surclere heirlooms."

"Did you know him?" Kendall asked, not willing to be so easily distracted.

"No. Probably another one wanting to be Ren’s student. All week I’ve had people making bright suggestions, some more subtle than others, about putting in a good word for this or that promising mage."

"Has she said she wants more?" Kendall asked, warily.

"Everyone wants her to want more. They’d have her instructing classes at the Arkathan if they thought she’d agree. Ren hates the idea of people killing themselves trying to cast like she does, but she knows she can’t personally tutor every would-be Thought Mage in Tyrland."

"It would be good for Tyrland though, right? Teaching as many mages as possible to cast like you and Rennyn?"

"You can’t just teach people to cast like us. You can show them the path, but it’s not like maths, where you add one and one and end up with two. We’re not rote mages." He glanced down at the nearly empty chest. "How were you emptying these bags, for instance?

Kendall, with pleasing surety, reached with her thoughts and tugged open the top of one bag, lifted it and tipped it until a bunch of rings fell out into the sand.

"Like an extra pair of hands, right?" Sebastian’s eyes narrowed and the last of the bags hefted itself. But instead of upending, it writhed briefly, and a dull gold bracelet slid out.

"How do you move the bracelet without seeing it?" Kendall asked, impressed.

"With fingers you have a sense of touch. You can tell weight, texture, temperature—all sorts of things. And Thought Magic is even more than fingers. There’s a big leap beyond making things move, and I doubt many could even learn to do that reliably. Some just can’t attain that sort of mental discipline—they stopped teaching it not simply because it’s dangerous, but because it’s hard."

"I just don’t see how to move something I can’t see."

"It’s a leap," Sebastian said, agreeably. "But keep at it. Thought Magic isn’t as dangerous as they make out—at least not during the extra-pair-of-hands stage—and you’ve more than enough sense to not do anything outside your exercises. It’s the weak-minded and the impatient who kill themselves."

"Do they try and get you to take students too?"

"Not yet—they know I’m far behind Ren."

"The way people act about Rennyn’s way of casting, I don’t know if they’d give up just because she said no to more students."

He laughed, and pulled out a kerchief to pile all the smaller jewellery in. "Good luck getting Ren to do anything she doesn’t want to, now that Solace is gone."

Two months ago Kendall would have agreed wholeheartedly. But the Rennyn who had lost all her massive magical strength, and who got too tired to stand up, was a different prospect. Especially now it was so important to her to protect the Kellian. The Rennyn Claire who pranced around doing whatever she wanted was a thing of the past.

"Lady Rennyn."

Rennyn blinked, and realised she’d been asleep. This happened too frequently for her to be surprised, but it annoyed her to be caught unaware. Wondering how long the Queen had been in the room, she gathered herself to stand and curtsey, since it wouldn’t do to start out being offensive.

"No, don’t rise," said the Queen, holding out a belaying hand as she sat opposite. This was to be a private audience, ostensibly to discuss the Surclere Duchy, and while the Queen seemed withdrawn she at least wasn’t going to stand on ceremony. Astranelle Montjuste was a blond woman of nearly seventy years, though of course she was able to afford an attendant mage to lengthen her life and preserve an appearance of youth. She looked delicate and sweet, and it was difficult to match her to her reputation of cold competence until you heard her unexpectedly resonant and commanding voice. "The healers have informed me that you have not recovered as you should."

"No," Rennyn agreed, with a wry thought for the visit she’d made to the Sentene’s Senior Healer yesterday. Of course she would report to the Queen. "Your Majesty knows that my—Prince Helecho—attempted a Symbolic casting on me. It would have made me a slave of sorts, but he used the removal of my focus as a symbol of that casting, and because he had not at that time discovered my true focus, the spell went awry."

Queen Astranelle nodded. She had witnessed the Eferum-Get prince, Rennyn’s very distant relative, attempting the casting, and would have felt the power warping away from the original intent. "So it slows, but does not prevent your recovery?"

"Yes and no. The focus was a symbol of my strength, and instead of subsuming my will, the miscasting sapped my physical resilience. Bones that should have been whole by now are only partially knit." And still made their presence felt when she coughed or laughed or lay on her side. "They will heal eventually, just as the bruises went, and the wound. But…the spell is still there, and like most Symbolic castings, is not going to be easy to shift. So I have little endurance, I’m at great risk of disease, and the toll casting places on me…" Rennyn shrugged. "There is a measure of physical exertion in casting, and it exhausts me quickly."

The Queen considered this while a swarm of servants swept in to lay out spiced tea and a collection of intriguing little cakes. Rennyn liked trying new sweets, and wondered if she could take one of each without looking more interested in eating than talking. Having staved off a private audience this long, it would probably set the wrong tone.