Martis frowned. “You aren’t talking the way you used to.”
Lyran chuckled. “It is said that even when at the point of death the Mage will observe and record—and question. Yes, I use familiar speech with you, my Mage-lady. The Healing for one not born to the Gift is not like yours—I sent my soul into your body to heal it; for a time we were one. That is why I am so wearied. You are part of myself as a consequence—and I now speak to you as one of my People.”
“Thank the gods. I was getting very tired of your everlasting ‘this one’s.’ ” They laughed weakly together, before Martis broke off with another fit of coughing.
“What happens to you when we get back to the Guild-hold?” Martis asked presently.
“My continued employment by the Guild was dependent on your satisfaction with my performance,” Lyran replied. “Since I assume that you are satisfied—”
“I’m alive, aren’t I? The mission succeeded. I’m a good bit more than merely ‘satisfied’ with the outcome.”
“Then I believe I am to become part of the regular staff, to be assigned to whatever mage happens to need a guard. And—I think here I have found what I sought; the place where my sword may serve peace, the place the Way has designed for me.” Despite his contented words, his eyes looked wistful.
Martis was feeling unwontedly sensitive to the nuances in his expression. There was something behind those words she had not expected—hope—longing? And—directed at her?
And—under the weariness, was there actually desire?
“Would that I could continue in your service, Mage—Martis. I think perhaps we deal well together.”
“Hmm,” Martis began tentatively, not sure she was reading him correctly; not daring to believe what she thought she saw. “I’m entitled to a permanent hireling as a Master, I just never exercised the privilege. Would you be interested?”
“As a hireling—alone? Or, could I hope you would have more of me than bought-service?”
Dear gods, was he asking what she thought he was asking? “Lyran, you surely can’t be seriously propositioning me?”
“We have been one,” he sighed, touching her cheek lightly. “As you have felt a tie to me, so have I felt drawn to you. There is that in each of us that satisfies a need in the other, I think. I—care for you. I would gladly be a friend; more than friend, if you choose.”
“But I’m old enough to be your mother!”
“Ah, lady,” he smiled, his eyes old in his young face, “What are years? Illusion. Do each of us not know the folly of illusion?” And he cupped one hand gently beneath her cheek to touch his lips to hers. As her mouth opened beneath his, she was amazed at the stirring of passion—it was impossible, but it was plainly there, despite years, wounds, and weariness. Maybe—maybe there was something to this after all.
“I—” she began, then chuckled.
“So?” he cocked his head to one side, and waited for enlightenment.
“Well—my friends will think I’m insane, but this certainly fits your Way of Balance—my grey hairs against your youth.”
“So—” the smile warmed his eyes in a way Martis found fascinating, and totally delightful, “—then we shall confound your friends, who lack your clear sight. We shall seek Balance together. Yes?”
She stretched out her hand a little to touch his, already feeling some of her years dissolving before that smile. “Oh, yes.”
Dragon’s Teeth
Trebenth, broad of shoulder and red of hair and beard, was Guard-serjant to the Mage Guild. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was Guard-serjant at High Ridings, the chief citadel of the Mage Guild, and site of the Academe Arcanum, the institution of Highest Magicks. As such, he was the warrior responsible for the safety and well-being of the Mages he served.
This was hardly the soft post that the uninformed thought it to be. Mages had many enemies—and were terribly vulnerable to physical attack. It only took one knife in the dark to kill a mage—Trebenth’s concern was to circumvent that vulnerability; by overseeing their collective safety in High Ridings, or their individual safety by means of the bodyguards he picked and trained to stand watchdog over them.
And there were times when his concern for their well-being slid over into areas that had nothing to do with arms and assassinations.
This was looking—to his worried eyes, at least—like one of those times.
He was standing on the cold granite of the landing at the top of a set of spiraling tower stairs, outside a particular tower apartment in the Guildmembers Hall, the highest apartment in a tower reserved for the Masterclass Mages. Sunlight poured through a skylight above him, reflecting off the pale wooden paneling of the wall he faced. There was no door at the head of this helical staircase; there had been one, but the occupant of the apartment had spelled it away, presumably so that her privacy could not be violated. But although Trebenth could not enter, he could hear something of what was going on beyond that featureless paneled wall.
Masterclass Sorceress Martis Orleva Kiriste of High Ridings, a chief instructress of the Academe, and a woman of an age at least equal to Trebenth’s middle years was—giggling. Giggling like a giddy adolescent.
Mart hasn’t been the same since she faced down Kelven, Ben gloomed, shifting his weight restlessly from his left foot to his right. I thought at first it was just because she hadn’t recovered yet from that stab-wound. Losing that much blood—gods, it would be enough to fuddle anyone’s mind for a while. Then I thought it was emotional backlash from having been forced to kill somebody that was almost a substitute child for her. But then—she started acting odder instead of saner. First she requisitioned that outlander as her own, and then installed him in her quarters—and is making no secret that she’s installed him in her bed as well. It’s like she’s lost whatever sense of proportion she had.
Behind the honey-colored paneling Trebenth heard another muffled giggle, and his spirits slipped another notch. I thought I’d finally found her the perfect bodyguard with that outlander Lyran; one that wouldn’t get in her way. He was so quiet, so—so humble. Was it all a trick to worm his way into some woman’s confidence? What the hell did I really bring in? What did I let latch onto her soul?
He shifted his weight again, sweating with indecision. Finally he couldn’t bear it any longer, and tapped with one knuckle, uncharacteristically hesitant, in the area where the door had been. “Go away,” Martis called, the acid tone of her low voice clearly evident even through the muffling of the wood. “I am not on call. Go pester Uthedre.”
“Mart?” Ben replied unhappily. “It’s Ben. It isn’t—” There was a shimmer of golden light, and the door popped into existence under his knuckles, in the fleeting instant between one tap and the next. Then it swung open so unexpectedly that he was left stupidly tapping empty air.
Beyond the door was Martis’ sitting room; a tiny room, mostly taken up by a huge brown couch with overstuffed cushions. Two people were curled close together there, half-disappearing into the soft pillows. One was a middle-aged, square-faced woman, greying blond hair twined into long braids that kept coming undone. Beside her was a slender young man, his shoulder-length hair nearly the color of dark amber, his obliquely slanted eyes black and unfathomable. He looked—to Trebenth’s mind—fully young enough to be Martis’ son. In point of fact, he was her hireling bodyguard—and her lover.