“No, not really. Usually the sorcerer will pass out before that. Perhaps suffer the usual aftereffects of a bad fever. But it is certainly possible in theory.”
Pen wished she didn’t sound so enthusiastic about the idea. Revolted but not deterred, he returned to the book.
A long while later, he frowned and thumbed back to the title page. “Where is volume two? What is volume two? Should I have it? Is there a copy in that cabinet?”
“There is, but it is beyond you for the moment. It is mostly about the application of sorcery to medicine.”
He wrinkled his nose, staring at the page. “Did Learned Helvia and Learned Amberein help Ruchia with that part?”
“Oh, yes. Ruchia also consulted with another physician or two from the Mother’s Order, on the more obscure points.”
He considered the timing. It didn’t add up. “Wait. Were Helvia and Amberein still alive at the writing?”
“Not exactly. Maybe in the sense that their knowledge survived the way Ruchia’s voice has survived on those pages. Ruchia still credited them anyway, by way of a memorial. She spent the most time on the second volume, by way of restitution, she said, for the unplanned loss of us from the Mother’s hand.”
Pen wondered if there was a very disappointed young physician somewhere, missing, due to Pen’s roadside accident, the Temple demon she or he had been promised. “Can I learn all of that?”
“Perhaps. In due course. You would do well to spend some time studying with the Mother’s people first before trying much. But how much of your life do you really wish to devote to treating people’s worms?”
“Leaving aside the views of the worms, healing seems a safer sort of magic than some of these other things.”
“Oh, no. It is by far the most dangerous. And the most subtle. Most dangerous because most subtle, we suppose.”
“I suppose . . . if anything went wrong . . . is it possible to kill a person by magic?”
“No,” said Desdemona firmly, but then, after a long pause, “Yes. But only once.”
“Why only once?”
“Death opens a door to the gods, through which they can, for a moment, reach into the world directly. The demon would be naked and helpless before our Master, and be plucked out like an eyeball before the sorcerer could take a breath. And be delivered to the Bastard’s hell, and its utter destruction.”
“Even if it were not murder, but, say, a medical accident while trying to treat a person? The intent not harm, but good?”
“That is part of what makes the practice so challenging. And not for the novice.”
Pen curled up atop his blankets and hugged his knees. “Desdemona—what happened to Tigney’s demon? Do you know?”
A sense of deep discomfort. “Yes, for Ruchia supervised it.”
“What, then?”
“The theory is covered four chapters on.”
The last chapter in the book, Pen realized. “Yes, but I want the story. The short tale, at least.”
A long silence. Surly? Uncertain? Untrusting . . . ?
Pen drew breath and said more firmly, “Desdemona, tell me.”
Compelled—so, he could compel—she reluctantly replied, “Even at the beginning, he was overmatched with a demon too strong for him. For a few years, all seemed well, and he reveled in his new powers. But then his demon ascended, and made off with his body. He fled to Orbas. It took the Temple a year to find him, subdue him, and bring him back.”
“And?” he prodded, when she did not at once go on.
“And they brought him before the Saint of Idau.”
“The town of Idau possesses a saint? I had not heard of such.”
“A very specialized saint, dedicated wholly to the Bastard. Through him, the god eats demons, and so draws them back out of the world.”
“What happens to the sorcerer?”
“Nothing, save whatever grief he may suffer at the loss of such powers. However balanced by relief at the return of his own control. Tigney,” she said bitterly, “recovered entirely.”
Pen’s face scrunched. “Desdemona—did you witness this event? This . . . eating?”
“Oh, aye.”
“What was it like?”
“Have you ever witnessed an execution?”
“Once, at Greenwell. There was a man hanged for robbing and murdering on the road. Learned Lurenz took us, he said, so that we might learn the true wages of crime. Just the boys, though.”
“And did you?”
“Well . . . highwaymen did not seem so thrilling to me after that.”
“Just like that, then, I expect. If you were a demon.”
“Ah.” It was Pen’s turn to fall silent.
He was several pages farther on when Desdemona said, “But if you ever try to take us to Idau, we will try to fight you. With all our powers.”
Pen swallowed. “Noted.”
Pen was closing on the end of the same chapter, a little stiff from sitting, when the door rattled. Swiftly, he thrust the book under his pillow and took up the bit of half-done mending he had ready for such an occasion, but it was only Clee.
“Ah, there you are,” said Clee. “I was looking for you.”
“Does Learned Tigney want something of me?” Finally?
“Not at all. But my brother Rusi has invited the both of us to dine with him at Castle Martenden this evening.”
Pen’s interest was caught, despite his frustration at being interrupted in the middle of a difficult passage. Castle Martenden, it was said, had never been taken by force of arms, although that might partly be because no great wars had yet come to it, merely local squabbles. Which could be as fatal as any wider struggle to those involved, no doubt.
“I should like that. But, tonight? It’s a long walk.”
Clee smiled. “Rusi is a better host than that. There are horses waiting for us outside the gate.”
“Are we to stay the night?”
“There’ll be a good moon later, so if the weather holds fine, we need not. But Rusi will provide all that we need if we decide to delay till morning.”
Gratified both with the prospect of escaping this narrow house for an evening, and an opportunity to see so fascinating a fortress, Pen hurried to don what of his new clothes were now usable. Clee gave him no opening to better hide Ruchia’s book, unfortunately, as he waited politely for Pen to ready himself, and then ushered him out the door before him.
“I should ask leave of Learned Tigney,” Pen remembered as they started down the stairs.
“No need,” said Clee. “I already have. You aren’t a prisoner here, you know.”
And yet not quite free, if Clee was detailed to be his duenna. The scribe was by way of being Tigney’s private secretary, trusted with his correspondence; also with his captive, it seemed. Pen wondered if Clee also worked with the ciphers, and if it would be wrong to ask him about them. “Good.” Giving Learned Cautious no chance to reverse his ruling, Pen followed Clee directly out to the street.
A brisk walk brought them to the old stone bridge; upstream and down, several millwheels turned and creaked in the steady outflow. They passed over the arch and through the lesser half of Martensbridge. This part of town was devoted to serving the caravans that came down from the north passes, and boasted warehouses, tanners, saddlers, smiths, and lodgings for travelers who wished to stay close to their goods. Beyond the gate that served the road flanking the lake, they found a small livery. Two horses waited, bespoke and already saddled. They seemed better mannered than the usual rental remounts.
Watching Clee swing up readily to his saddle, Pen asked, “Are these your brother’s beasts?”