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He nodded, and I helped him stand on his uncertain legs. I led him by the hand along the path that the children took to feed the geese. We shivered in the dim autumn sunlight. It was colder without feathers.
HOUSE OF WIZARDS
This is another story about domestic skills being more important than magic. I have no talent for organizing a household. None. Over the years I’ve come to realize that being able to cook, clean, and make order from chaos is a skill of the highest order. It is a different way of looking at the world, almost a polar opposite to the absent-minded artist thing I’ve got going. I wouldn’t trade who and what I am, but sometimes I get glimpses into that other way of thinking, of being, and I think, wouldn’t it be nice. But I am definitely one of the wizards making a mess, and more work for Rudelle.
RUDELLE was a practical woman. The fact that she had married a wizard did not change that, though marrying Trevelyn Herb-mage was the most impractical thing she had ever done.
Her husband was tall, as were most Astranthians. His eyes were the color of a Red-Breast’s eggs. His hair was the yellow of early summer corn silk.
Rudelle knew she herself was not a great beauty. Her hair fell thick and wavy to her waist, was only the color of autumn-browned leaves. She wore it in a long braid, piled like a crown atop her head. Her eyes were plain brown, like polished oak. She was not tall, though she did possess ample curves, of which many men were fond. She was a good cook and tidy, laughed often and well, but had a sharp tongue. Her brothers learned early that she was not to be trifled with.
She had no idea why the tall, blond stranger had asked for her hand. And she found it a sense of wonder that his eyes shone with love when he looked upon her.
She knew she would be the only non-magic in the house full of wizards. Trevelyn was the eldest and would inherit the family estate. He tended the family magic shop already, freeing his parents so they could further their magical research.
So Rudelle and her husband would live with his parents, two sisters, and a brother. All were spell casters.
Rudelle would cook and clean and help tend the shop. She would raise fat children and fend for herself in a house of magic.
Her brothers had thought her mad to travel across the sea to Astrantha. Calthu was a land where magic was rare and often persecuted. What did she, a Calthuian farmer’s daughter, know about Astrantha—land of a thousand magics? Nothing.
But from the moment their boat docked Rudelle had loved the city of Almirth, capital city of Astrantha. It was noise, the frantic calls of multicolored parrots being unloaded from a boat, the high neighing of unicorn-horses with their spiraling horns, the soft mumblings of spells as sorcerers lifted cargo boxes with word and gesture, and the hum of any busy port.
Trevelyn said, “Look up, there.”
She followed where he pointed but at first saw nothing against the summer blue sky. Then something, something silver, flashed in the sun. The silver point whirled and raced itself and was joined by a flashing bit of gold. A third point of light, like a ruby winking in the sun, joined the mad flight.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Dragons,” he replied, “playing tag.”
Rudelle stood and stared until the point of light became a rainbow of scattered stars, a dozen colored fireflies, high in the vault of the day.
Trevelyn touched her shoulder gently. She turned, startled, and winced. Her neck was stiff from looking up.
“My family is expecting us.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He hugged her. “Don’t be sorry. I love the way you enjoy such ordinary things.”
She blushed. “I am a country bumpkin.”
“No, never. Most of these people would be lost without their magic. They couldn’t cook, or do business, or even marry without magic. They would be just as amazed at ordinary things in your world.”
Rudelle shook her head. “If you say so, husband.”
He kissed her forehead. “I say so.”
As they walked arm in arm through the bustling crowd, he warned her of his parents. “They liked the idea of having children, but raising us didn’t interest them much. Their primary interest is the study of magic, not family.”
She frowned.
He squeezed her hand and smiled. “That is one reason I did not wish to marry another wizard. I wanted a wife, and I wanted to be a real father.”
She smiled, then, and felt warm and whole in the shadow of his eyes.
The house was on a quiet street with large, fenced yards and tall, stately houses. There was a woman walking very fast from the house. Her shoes clump-clumped on the stone walkway. She nearly ran into them in her haste to get through the gate. She gasped, made a vague curtsey, and said, “I resign my position. You can’t cook in a kitchen that explodes,” and she was gone, half-running down the quiet street.
Rudelle looked at her husband.
“That was the maid,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Rudelle was about to ask for a more detailed explanation when the world swam for a dizzying moment and they were no longer in the yard.
Rudelle grasped his arm in a panicked grasp. “Trevelyn, what’s happening?”
“It’s all right, Rudelle. Mother teleported us to her study. No harm done.”
Rudelle wasn’t sure she agreed. Her stomach was twisting, and she was forced to breathe deeply of the stale unpleasant air. Rudelle hoped she would not embarrass herself by throwing up all over her new mother-in-law.
A tall, blond woman stood in a room. She could have been Trevelyn’s younger sister, but Rudelle had been warned that sorcerers lived a very long time and aged accordingly. She was still grateful that Trevelyn was a mere herb-witch and herb-healer, and thus would age normally.
The woman was beautiful, like a princess. But her yellow-gold hair was straggling from a loose braid, and her blue gown, which matched her eyes perfectly, was stained with ink in a large smear from bodice to mid-knee.
The woman smiled; it was Trevelyn’s smile. “Welcome, wife of my eldest son.” She closed her eyes a moment and yelled, “Gaynor, your son is home! Where is that man?”
Her voice seemed to echo in an unnatural way. Rudelle glanced at Trevelyn.
He said, “The only way to communicate from Mother’s study is by magic.”
Rudelle turned in a circle, searching for the door. There were only rough-hewn stone walls. “There’s no door.”
“No. In case one of Mother’s spells goes awry, the house above us is protected.”
Rudelle stood in the middle of the room, trying to keep her face blank. A thick, gray coating of dust touched everything. Spider webs stretched across the room like garlands strung for a party. Broken bits of crockery lay on the floor. Ancient bits of food had dried to their surface.
His mother vanished to find his father. Trevelyn whispered to her, “Mother never allows a maid to touch this room.”
“Why not?”
“It is her work room.”
“She works in this?”
He grinned. “She never allows anyone to clean this room.”
“We shall have to see about that. It’s filthy.”
His mother reappeared accompanied by a slightly older replica of Trevelyn.
Trevelyn said, “May I introduce my mother, Breandan Spellweaver, and my father, Gaynor the Researcher. And to you, my parents, may I introduce my wife, Rudelle the Quick-fingered.”
Breandan asked, “May one ask how you came to have such a name?”
“I am quick with needle and thread.”
“Oh, I suppose if you have no sorcery that sewing is a useful talent.”
His father interrupted, “You are not a sorcerer, for you do not shine.” He squinted at her. “She does not shine at all, Breandan.”
“She is a healer, Gaynor. Healers do not shine until they perform their magic.”
He nodded. “Yes, a healer. We’ve never had one of those in the family.”
Trevelyn stopped them. “Rudelle is not a healer.”
“Then what is she?” his mother asked.
“A woman and my wife.”
Neither parent understood, then his mother said, over slowly, “You…mean…she…has…no…magic?”
“Correct.”
She flopped down into a dust-covered chair. “You married a non-magic, a non-person? She can’t even vote.”
“She can vote because she is married to me.”
