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Bossgond touched her shoulder. “Marian,” he said. Tapping his chest, he said, “Bossgond.”
He was encouraging her, emphasizing how much she’d already learned. That she was learning with every breath, with every glance.
He took her hand and linked their fingers. She sensed great age. Vitality, isolation.
Looking down at their hands, she saw a white aura, heard chords forming into a song. He smiled, and she found herself smiling back. Bossgond patted her hand and rose.
He went to the pentagram and fished out the large crystal ball from his bag, then returned. With a little tune, mist swirled inside the sphere, then solidified into the image of the handsome magician who’d first entered the pentacle with her.
“Jaquar Dumont,” Bossgond said.
Marian remembered the older woman who’d spoken for the Marshalls calling him that, in flat tones. Jaquar.
“Chalmon Pace,” Bossgond said, and the other mage’s face replaced Jaquar’s.
He looked like a pompous associate professor, ever conscious of his status and sure of his worth. Still, there was something in his eyes that made Marian think he could be a good friend. His image faded.
The female magician appeared in the sphere. “Venetria Fourney,” said Bossgond.
The strikingly beautiful woman was easy to recall. They’d both received shocks when the woman touched her. Marian rubbed her fingers and grimaced at the memory. She’d liked the look of Venetria, but since they’d shocked each other and Bossgond and she meshed, if the conflicting energy was any indication, they wouldn’t work well together.
Marian caught her breath as she reran the thought. Wasn’t she being cool and analytical about all these strange and wondrous things? Perhaps it was a dream. When she went to bed and woke up, maybe everything would be fine. Tuck would wake her up in the middle of the night by running on his wheel or rattling in his cage, rearranging his hoard….
Right now, all she knew was here. She licked her lips. Marian wondered about Alexa. She’d liked the look of her better than the rest. Marian tapped the ball with a fingernail.
“Alexa?”
The woman’s image formed. To her surprise, Marian saw the small figure dressed in jeans and a down parka with knit hat, scarf and mittens, trudging through snow in the mountains. She recognized the parka as one she’d admired in a local boutique. Colorado? Was Alexa from Colorado, too? Excitement flooded Marian and she nearly missed seeing Alexa enter a silver arch.
Several seconds later, the woman appeared in the same pentacle as Marian had, except that the energy lines of this one glowed green.
Her parka was ripped, her hat gone, and her hair was brown. Not silver, as Marian had seen. Something had turned Alexa’s hair silver since she arrived. Some experience here in Lladrana.
Jaquar wanted to leave the Temple, fast. Since the Marshalls were dismissing the pentacle, none of the Circlets would be able to leave that way.
His mind raced, considering plans to retrieve the new Exotique. He ignored Chalmon’s and Venetria’s recriminations. Unlike them, he had friends in the Castle.
He also ignored most of the Marshalls. Jaquar immediately went to Bastien Vauxveau, who was talking to his wife, the Exotique Alexa. Jaquar tapped Bastien on the shoulder. “Come along, I have some propositions. One for you and one for Alyeka.”
Bastien turned to Jaquar with gleaming eyes. “We’ll be glad to negotiate.” He sent a glance to the other Marshalls. “They don’t need us.”
Alexa sighed and spoke in heavily accented Lladranan. “I got here too late.”
“You weren’t supposed to interfere at all,” Bastien scolded. “I don’t mind flouting the Marshalls, but the Singer knows what she’s doing and she said not to take part in the Summoning.”
“Huh,” Alexa said, glancing around as if she was afraid the Singer was watching. “We weren’t part of the ritual, but I did want to help her understand. It was miserable for me.” She set her mouth and swept out of the Temple.
For a small woman, she moved fast. Jaquar thought her locomotion might be aided by her great Power. Alexa wanted to hurry, thus the Song swept her along.
When Jaquar exited, he stopped under the Temple’s portico to let his eyes adjust to the moonlight. It was a beautiful spring night and the Marshalls’ Castle looked magnificent, as always. But Jaquar sensed a distinct change in the atmosphere since he’d last been here. At that time, under all their trappings of Power, the Marshalls had been fearful. The magical boundaries of Lladrana were falling and the Exotique they’d Summoned to reverse this had just left. They’d discovered the sangvile in their walls.
Just that easily, remembering the sangvile dimmed the evening for Jaquar. Alexa, who’d been waiting for Bastien and him, put a hand on Jaquar’s arm.
“I heard about your parents.” She pronounced every word carefully, clearly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Jaquar grunted.
Bastien threw an arm around Jaquar’s shoulder, squeezed and let go. “You have propositions for us?”
If he wanted vengeance—justice, he’d need help from these two. He twisted his mouth into the semblance of a smile. He must not have done too well, because Alexa took a step back and her hand fell to the Marshall’s baton she wore on her left hip.
Jaquar switched his gaze to Bastien, who was shorter than he and more solidly made. “You have the best stable of flying horses. I want a volaran, preferably one you raised from a foal.” It seemed he’d be doing a lot of traveling and volaranback would be the easiest, least energy-consuming way.
Now Bastien clapped a hand on Jaquar’s shoulder. “We’ll deal.”
“And I want to talk to Alyeka about the new Exotique….” Jaquar noted Alexa’s scowl at the word and corrected himself. “Marian. I want to consult Alyeka about Marian.”
Alexa sent him an approving look. “Let’s discuss this in our suite,” she said. With a whirl of blue-green robes she took off down the cloister walk.
Renewed hope filled Jaquar. He wasn’t finished yet. Somehow he’d get the woman back.
5
Marian awoke to the sound of waves pounding against rock, different from her white-noise machine. Opening sleepy eyes, she stared at a rounded stone wall—not white plaster. She shot up in bed and memory rushed back. She was not home in her apartment, not in Boulder, not in Colorado, not in the United States of America. She wasn’t even on Earth—she reached for that basic connection…and felt nothing.
She’d had no nightmares, but shivered as she recalled the ones she’d had in the past month. The druids could have been the Marshalls. Other parts of those dreams could happen here on Lladrana. Could they possibly have been more than dreams—like a foretelling of the future? Fingers clutching her blankets, she stared around her.
A beautiful, stained-glass partition showing flowers in a meadow stood a few feet from the end of the bed. To her right and left, the stone wall curved out of sight. She was in a tower room of the Sorcerer Bossgond.
“Lladrana,” she whispered, and the word seemed to sink down, down, echoing through the floor, through the two stories beneath her, into the ground—and sent a resonance back. The faint, broken notes of a beautiful, sad melody rose to strum in her mind like a sobbing violin. She shook her head, but the song remained, hovering in the back of her brain.
Inhaling deeply, she tasted the faint tang of salt, and noted the waves again. She was on an island. Beyond the glass partition she saw bright sunlight from the windows on the far tower wall. She’d traveled through a wind-whistling space, but not outer space—another dimension?
Her stomach rumbled, and she focused on her hunger…and finding a bathroom. Last night she’d merely stumbled into the room, found the bed behind the glass partition. Letting the cloak drop where she stood, she had crawled under the covers. She’d shivered, then visualized heat surrounding her body and it had happened. Magic? Maybe.
She hopped from the bed and her feet sank into a luxurious rug of jewel-toned colors. The long gray cape she’d borrowed from one of the Marshalls who’d summoned her lay like a dark cloud against the carpet. She frowned as she picked it up. Though it had braided frog-fastenings all the way down the front, she didn’t consider it viable clothing, but since it was all she had, she swirled it around her, pushed her arms through the slits and looped the frogs. Feeling a little better—and warmer—she noticed shelves on the far side of the bed where a stack of clothes were folded. She’d investigate later.
Though the glass partition didn’t rise as far as the stone ceiling, it ran along this portion of the tower ending at the wall to her right. To her left, there was space enough for a doorway. When she walked around the partition, she saw that the bedroom was approximately a third of the whole room. The other two-thirds looked like a study, except for a small, carved wooden closet protruding halfway down the round wall in front of her. The closet door faced her. She hurried to it, opened the door and sighed in relief at the sight of an old-fashioned toilet with the tank near the ceiling.
When she was done, she left the closet in search of a sink and found multiple ones behind the closet. On the far side of the sinks was a counter that held glassware, like an old alchemist’s setup.
Then came the door to the stairway and, after the door, a huge desk. Shelves lined the room, except for the three large window embrasures and a fireplace. A small grouping of two chairs and a love seat sat in front of the fireplace close to the stained glass.
It was charming, but not home. How long would she be here? She only wanted help for Andrew, then she’d leave.
A horn blew and Marian jumped. Bossgond’s voice came to her. Breakfast and lessons in fifteen minutes. None of the words were hard, so she grasped the meaning and hurried back to the clothes shelves in the bedroom.
She touched the yoke of a royal-blue velvet garment, then lifted it and found herself holding a long gown with embroidered yellow birds. It seemed to be her size.
Additionally, she had a green dress, a maroon one and a black gown—all with little yellow birds and narrow three-quarter-length sleeves.
Though the blue robe had looked and felt heavy when she held it, the minute she put it on it seemed like gossamer. It molded around her breasts and lifted them, and Marian squeaked in surprise. Built-in magical bra! This would take some getting used to. The gown sent warmth to her skin—reflecting her own heat?
Marian looked dubiously at the one pair of footwear on the floor, tucked under the lowest shelf. They appeared more like pouches to put over her feet than actual shoes. Picking them up, she found they had soft leather uppers and springy insoles. When she turned them over she saw a material that looked like fine scales. Snake? Dragon?
Anyway, they looked far too big for her, and the uppers stuck up in folds. She couldn’t see any laces.
Bracing a hand against the wall—it was warm to her touch—she slipped on one of the shoes. It felt lined with fur and she hummed with pleasure at the soft silkiness. Then the pouch tightened, molding to foot and ankle. She tottered, stumbled, took a few steps to regain her balance and fell onto the bed. She stared at her foot. Not only had the slipper conformed to her body, but it had turned the same color as her gown and now had little yellow birds all over it. She wiggled her feet—one shod, one bare. The one with the shoe felt better. Magical shoes.
Her heart jumped. What if she couldn’t take it off? “Off!” she ordered.
Nothing happened.
She hooked her thumbs inside the shoe and pushed down. The shoe slid off her foot, tickling her sole, and plopped to the floor.
All right; one of them could come off. But if she put on both, would she dance to her death? There were plenty of folklore stories about shoes and mutilation, like Cinderella.
For a moment she just stared at the shoes, realizing that she was in a place far, far different from home. That it seemed somewhat like Earth accentuated her shock—she judged this place by Earth experiences, concepts, standards, and they might not apply. Any move she made, thinking she knew the outcome, could be wrong and lead her to her doom.
She fell back on the bed, hands over pounding heart, touching the cloth that seemed like velvet but could be anything—fur, skin, plastic wrap for all she knew. Even her senses could be lying to her. Perhaps nothing here was real.
And if she continued to think that way, to challenge everything—her senses, her mind, her experiences—she’d go mad. To her horror, tears dribbled from her eyes.
This should be such an incredible, fascinating experience for a true scholar! A whole new world to learn, a new aspect of her own self—and magic!—to explore and master. She should be thrilled.
Instead, she wanted to curl up into a fetal position and pull the covers over her head.
Bossgond was waiting for her. With breakfast. Even the thought of food couldn’t move her.
She was flipping out over a pair of shoes.
They were magic shoes.
Now her nose was clogged. She’d need to go to the toilet closet and get some tissue-stuff she’d found there. It was in a roll and had felt like regular toilet paper. She’d just used it, not scrutinized it. Who knew what it was?
Was she going to let panic over the thought of a new world, a magical world, paralyze her?
Wrong question.
The right question was, How long was she going to let panic paralyze her?
Marian had always thought of herself as willing to learn new things, explore new ideas—perhaps she’d even been snobbish about that quality. In fact, she was a coward.
But her full-moon ritual had been about discovering why she’d experienced odd sounds and nightmares. Now she knew. Golden Raven had said she’d meet a teacher. She had. Now she had to figure out how all this could help Andrew.
“Marian.” The rich, deep voice of Bossgond seemed to echo around the room. It certainly reverberated inside her mind. She turned her head to see a tube running down the wall next to her bed, with a flared opening like a trumpet.
“Marian, the oeuf is cooling.”
She struggled to one elbow, then the second. “I’m coming,” she replied in French—the language she’d been speaking for hours now—except for that tiny exchange with Alexa.
Alexa! While wallowing in her own fear she’d forgotten Alexa—someone who’d already come from Colorado, had experiences she could share with Marian. She was pitifully grateful that she didn’t have to take everything on faith, walking into a fog without a clue as to the landscape around her. Alexa would help her. Marian was not alone.
Just the thought of the other woman energized her.
“I’ll be right there,” she called out to Bossgond, a Sorcerer who would teach her magic.
She stretched, feeling her muscles pull, feeling something inside her that had been squashed and cramped, unfurl—a butterfly-breaking-open-her-cocoon feeling.
She would practice wonder, learn all she could of magic, in relation to herself and to Andrew. He’d expect her to live life in the moment, wring everything she could out of each experience, good or bad, not worry about being in control or making mistakes.
So she put on the shoes and forced herself to admire the feel and look of them. Then she marched to the toilet closet and took some tissue and blew her nose, washed her face with water from a tap.
Then she went out her door to find out if “oeuf” meant egg.
She ascended the stairs to Bossgond’s quarters one floor above her own. When she reached the door there was something like a harp hanging on it. She pondered for a moment and decided it must be a doorbell or a knocker. Running her thumbnail over the strings released a ripple of sound that echoed through the tower and plucked a couple of strings inside her, too—excitement and anticipation.
Bossgond opened the door, wearing a short tunic that showed his bony knees, a large yellow bird embroidered on the front. The garment was cut so full that it hung on his slight frame. He stood aside and Marian entered.
His space looked much like hers—windows letting in spring sunlight, shelves all around the room, a desk, bathroom closet and a partition hiding the bedroom. But it was as warm as a summer’s day—and the warmth felt more natural than the central heating she was used to at home. Perhaps it was the humidity, or the scents the air carried—fading spring blossoms and the start of summer.
The word oeuf meant omelette—a mild cheese omelette along with croissants and hot chocolate with whipped cream. They ate at a table near his fireplace. The fire flickered rainbow flames and Bossgond let her watch them, examine the room and eat in peace.
When they finished, with a wave of his hand the dirty dishes disappeared. If she were on Earth she could have marketed that for a fortune—but where did the dishes go, and would they return? If they returned, would they be the same dishes, but clean? How clean would they be? Would bacteria still live—
Bossgond chuckled. “I see many questions in your eyes,” he said, enunciating each word.
Marian nodded and he nodded back. Apparently that was the same, too, nodding as agreement.
He rose slowly and his joints popped. She frowned. He could make the dishes disappear but had trouble rising? With motions and two or three attempts at rephrasing the question, she made herself clear.
“I have great Power,” he said, rubbing his fingers together in a gesture like the one that meant “money” back home. “And my will and the Power make magical tasks easy, but my body is old and physical tasks are not easy.”
Marian wanted to know how old he was, but it was rude in her culture to ask and she didn’t know the rules of this society. She just looked concerned and nodded again.
He pointed to the center of the room where three thick oriental-looking rugs were layered. Huge pillows lay atop them along with several small tables that held objects: odd bottles—and were those wands?—and a couple of knives.
Marian hoped the knives were used ritually and practically, like in Wicca, and not for bloodletting and sacrifice. From the corner of her eye she studied Bossgond. She could take him in a physical fight, but if he used magic she was sure she could be bound and gutted in the blink of an eye. She shuddered.
The old man chuckled again and went to lower himself to the rugs. He sat cross-legged, palms up on his knees and sent her a quizzical glance.
She squared her shoulders. There was nothing she could do this minute except scream and fight for her life if he meant her harm. So she sank down across from him. To her amazement, her gown needed no adjusting: it flowed out of her way when she sat.
“First we’ll determine how strong your Power is and whether you will be a good apprentice for me,” he said, lifting his arms shoulder height, hands angled up as if pressing against an invisible wall. “Do as I do.”
Marian mimicked him, putting her hands up. There was enough space between them that they had a few inches between their hands and didn’t touch.
Bossgond hummed, and invisible pressure against her palms snapped Marian’s hands back to her shoulders. He smiled, but kept the pressure steady.
