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Fitch had to admit the idea of getting drunk sounded very good to him. The possibility of hearing about the Wizard’s Keep sounded intriguing, though.
“I think I’d best be getting back to the estate myself. If you wouldn’t mind having a Haken walk with you, I’d be well pleased to go along. Franca,” he added in afterthought.
She studied his face again in that way that made him fidget.
“I’m gifted, Fitch. That means I’m different than most people, and so most all people, Ander and Haken both, think of me the way most Ander people think of you because you’re Haken.”
“They do? But you’re Ander.”
“Being Ander is not enough to overcome the stigma of having magic. I know what it feels like to have people dislike you without them knowing anything about you.
“I’d be well pleased to have you walk along with me, Fitch.”
Fitch smiled, partly in the shock of realizing he was having a conversation with an Ander woman, a real conversation, and partly in shock that Anders would dislike her—another Ander—because she had magic.
“But don’t they respect you because you have magic?”
“They fear me. Fear can be good, and bad. Good, because then even though people don’t like you, they at least treat you well. Bad, because people often try to strike out at what they fear.”
“I never looked at it that way before.”
He thought about how good it had made him feel when Claudine Winthrop called him “sir.” She only did because she was afraid, he knew, but it still made him feel good. He didn’t understand the other part of what Franca said, though.
“You’re very wise. Does magic do that? Make a person wise?”
She let out the breathy laugh again, as if she found him as amusing as a fish with legs.
“If it did, then they would call it the Wise Man’s Keep, instead of the Wizard’s Keep. Some people would be wiser, perhaps, had they not been born with the buttress of magic.”
He’d never met anyone who’d been to Aydindril, much less the Wizard’s Keep. He could hardly believe a person with magic would talk to him. To an extent, he was worried because he didn’t know anything about magic and he figured that if she got angry she might do him harm.
He thought her fascinating, though, even if she was old.
They started out down the road toward the estate in silence. Sometimes silence made him nervous. He wondered if she could tell what he thought with her magic.
Fitch looked over at her. She didn’t look like she was paying any attention to his thoughts. He pointed at her throat.
“Mind if I ask what sort of thing that is, Franca? That band you wear at your throat? I’ve never seen anyone wear anything like it before. Is it something to do with magic?”
She laughed aloud. “Do you know, Fitch, that you are the first person in a great many years to ask me about this? Even if it is because you don’t know enough to fear asking a sorceress such a personal question.”
“Sorry, Franca. I didn’t mean to say nothing offensive.”
He began to worry he had stupidly said something to make her angry. He surely didn’t want an Ander woman, and one with magic besides, angry with him. She was silent for a time as they walked on down the road. Fitch stuck his sweating hands back in his pockets.
At last she spoke again. “It isn’t that, Fitch. Offensive, I mean. It just brings up bad memories.”
“I’m sorry, Franca. I shouldn’t have said it. Sometimes I say stupid things. I’m sorry.”
He was wishing he had gone to get drunk, instead.
After a few more strides, she stopped and turned to him. “No, Fitch, it wasn’t stupid. Here.”
She hooked the throat band and pulled it down for him to see. Even though it was dark, there was a moon and he could see a thick lumpy line, all white and waxy-looking, ringing her neck. It looked to him to be a nasty scar.
“Some people tried to kill me, once. Because I have magic.” Moonlight glistened in her moist eyes. “Serin Rajak and his followers.”
Fitch never heard the name. “Followers?”
She pulled the throat band back up. “Serin Rajak hates magic. He has followers who think the same as he. They get people all worked up against those with magic. Gets them in a state of wild hate and blood lust.
“There’s nothing uglier than a mob of men when they have it in their heads to hurt someone. What one alone wouldn’t have the nerve to do, together they can easily decide is right and then accomplish. A mob takes on a mind of its own—a life of its own. Just like a pack of dogs chasing down some lone animal.
“Rajak caught me and put a rope around my neck. They tied my hands behind my back. They found a tree, threw the other end of the rope over a limb, and hoisted me up by that rope around my neck.”
Fitch was horrified. “Dear spirits—that must have hurt something awful.”
She didn’t seem to hear him as she stared off.
“They were stacking kindling under me. Going to have a big fire. Before they could get the fire lit, I managed to get away.”
Fitch’s fingers went to his throat, rubbing his neck as he tried to imagine hanging on a rope around his neck.
“That man—Serin Rajak. Is he a Haken?”
She shook her head as they started out again. “You don’t have to be Haken to be bad, Fitch.”
They walked in silence for a time. Fitch got the feeling she was off somewhere in her memories of hanging by a rope around her throat. He wondered why she didn’t choke to death. Maybe the rope wasn’t tight, he decided—tied with a knot so it would hold its loop. He wondered how she got away. He knew, though, that he’d asked enough about it, and dared ask no more.
He listened to the stone chips crunching under their boots. He stole careful glances, now and again. She no longer looked happy, like she had at first. He wished he’d kept his question to himself.
Finally, he thought maybe he’d ask her about something that had made her smile before. Besides, it was why he had really wanted to walk along with her in the first place.
“Franca, what was the Wizard’s Keep like?”
He was right; she did smile. “Huge. You can’t even imagine it, and I couldn’t tell you how big it is. It stands up on a mountain overlooking Aydindril, beyond a stone bridge crossing a chasm thousands of feet deep. Part of the Keep is cut from the mountain itself. There are notched walls rising up like cliffs. Broad ramparts, wider than this road, go to various structures. Towers rise up above the Keep, here and there. It was magnificent.”
“Did you ever see a Seeker of Truth? Did you ever see the Sword of Truth, when you was there?”
She frowned over at him. “You know, as a matter of fact, I did. My mother was a sorceress. She went to Aydindril to see the First Wizard about something—what, I’ve no idea. We went across one of those ramparts to the First Wizard’s enclave in the Keep. He has a separate place where he had wonders of every sort. I remember that bright and shiny sword.”
She seemed well pleased with telling him about it, so he asked, “What was it like? The First Wizard’s enclave? And the Sword of Truth?”
“Well, let me see.…” She put a finger to her chin to think a moment before she began her story.
37
When Dalton Campbell reached to dip his pen, he saw the legs of a woman walking through the doorway into his office. By the thick ankles he knew before his gaze lifted that it was Hildemara Chanboor. If there was a woman with less appealing legs, he had yet to meet her.
He set down the pen and rose with a smile. “Lady Chanboor, please, come in.”
In the outer office, the morning sunlight revealed Rowley on duty, standing ready to summon the messengers should Dalton have call for them. He didn’t at the moment, but with Hildemara Chanboor paying a visit, that eventuality seemed more likely.
As she closed the door, Dalton went around his desk and pulled out a comfortable chair in invitation. She wore a wool dress the color of straw. The
color of the dress conveyed a sickly pallor to her flesh. The hem came to midcalf on her puffy, straight, pillar-like legs.
Hildemara glanced briefly at the chair, but remained standing.
“So good to see you, Lady Chanboor.”
She put on a smile. “Oh, Dalton, must you always be so proper? We’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Hildemara.” He opened his mouth to thank her, but she added, “When we’re alone.”
“Of course, Hildemara.”
Hildemara Chanboor never made visits to inquire after anything so mundane as matters of work. She only arrived like a chill wind before a storm. Dalton decided it best to let the foul weather build on its own, without his help, like some wizard summoning it forth. He also thought it better to keep the meeting on a more formal level, despite her indulgence with her name.
Her brow bunched, as if her attention were distracted. She reached out to fuss with a possibly loose thread on his shoulder. Sunlight streaming in the windows sparkled off the jewels on her fingers, and the bloodred ruby necklace hanging across the expanse of exposed skin on her upper chest. The dress wasn’t nearly as low-cut as those worn lately at feasts, yet he still found its cut less than refined.
With a woman’s tidy touch, Hildemara picked and then smoothed. Dalton glanced, but didn’t see anything. Seeming to have satisfied herself, her hand gently pressed out the fabric of his light coat against his shoulder.
“My, my, Dalton, but don’t you have fine shoulders. So muscular and firm.” She looked into his eyes. “Your wife is a lucky woman to have a man so well endowed.”
“Thank you, Hildemara.” His caution prevented him saying another word.
Her hand moved to his cheek, her bejeweled fingers gliding over the side of his face.
