Finding Destiny (24 page)

The buzzing of her mad, mad invention filled the quiet of the night. A click of the button spun the crank handle wildly around for a few moments, whizzing and rattling, then it slowed and stopped, silencing the infernal machine. Dropping it on the nightstand, Marta curled upright long enough to drag the blankets up over their bodies, then flopped down beside him and snuggled up to his side.

Thought came back, as the fire burned low and the oil lamps glowed. “Please ...” he murmured, licking dry lips. “Please,
tell
me you don’t use that as a torture device?”

She cracked up laughing, snorting and chuckling into his shoulder. He chuckled as well, though his question had been somewhat serious at its core. Humming happily, Marta snuggled closer, hooking one of her legs between his own. “Maybe. If you’re really,
really
good.”

Laughing, he dredged up enough energy to hug her and kiss her on the top of her still-damp head. He hadn’t expected to find love in this foreign land, but it was a good land, better than expected, with a wonderful, inventive, brilliant woman nestled in his arms. “Mmm. I’ll try to be.”

Once again, he made her laugh. She sighed happily, squeezed him, and chuckled herself to sleep. Zeilas smiled and let himself drift off as well, glad that he could make her laugh.

AURUL

ONE

G
abria watched the last of her trunks floating out the door of her bedroom. Her suite in the palace wasn’t much, just a bedroom, a combined bathing and refreshing room, and a small parlor that also served as her office, but it had been an improvement on her previous tenement. A vast improvement on her previous life, prior to the False God’s destruction. It felt odd to be leaving Guildara, but not as unsettling as she’d feared.

This alliance is worth the relocation,
she reassured herself. The Aurulans were a civilized people, their kingdom long established and quite prosperous. Envoy Pells had sent back reports on the ornate architecture, rich fabrics, and abundance of jewels, fruits, and spices that formed much of the kingdom’s wealth, and the wonderful ambassadorial suite he had been assigned.
They won’t stick me in a hovel. Not if they clearly want me among them so badly.

I just wish I knew more spells,
she worried, entering her parlor.
If they expect me to be a ... well, I’ll be a sorry one for a long while. Maybe I can arrange for lessons? It’s not as if I could take Sir Catrine with me. And more lessons in Aurulan,
she added, listening to two of the Royal Guards, the mage-warriors who had turned the tide just days ago in their brief but bitter war with a would-be warrior-king to the north. She could only pick out a couple of words, they spoke so quickly and used vocabulary she hadn’t learned yet.
Or I’ll be lost, trying to negotiate any treaties ... unless they
want
me to be lost?

“Are you ready to go, Your Highness?”

Gabria startled, for two reasons. One, she hadn’t noticed Mage-Captain Ellett enter the room, and two, his form of address confused her. Glancing around, she didn’t see her best friend Marta, the Consul-in-Chief of Guildara, in the chamber. “Uh ... I beg your pardon? Did you just call me ...?”

“Your Highness?” he repeated, clasping his hands behind his purple-and-gold-clad body. “I am informed that is your title.”

That bemused her. Mindful of the need to be tactful, Gabria shook her head. “My correct title is sub-Consul, or perhaps advisor. We don’t have royalty in Guildara, and that’s a royal form of address.”

“I was not referring to Guildaran conventions.” The tall, ash brown-haired man smiled slightly as her confusion deepened further. “Until His Majesty directs me otherwise, I am instructed to address you as such.”

“But ... why?” Gabria asked, still lost.

“... I think that is something best left to His Majesty to explain. Now, if you are ready to go, Your Highness, Sir Catrine had kindly offered to assist us in tandem mirror-Gating to the border. From there, it is just three more mirror-Gates to the winter palace on the Jenodan Sea.” He gestured at the open door, where her trunks had vanished. “Everything has been set up in the parlor at the end of this hall.”

The two Aurulan Guardswomen on the settee broke off their conversation and rose. Everywhere she had gone for the last three days, these two women had accompanied Gabria. It had felt almost like being treated as a prisoner, except they never stopped her from going anywhere; they just silently invited themselves along. Even into her bedchamber, though after a quick perusal each night, both women had respectfully retreated.

I wonder what they would’ve done, had I gone to the motorbarn and taken a motorhorse out for a ride?
The idle speculation amused her. Her humor faded.
Not that there was time for such things. I was too busy—with their help, admittedly—trying to clear the wreckage from the battlefield.

That, and attending the private oath-swearing of her friend’s marriage. Marta and Sir Zeilas were happily wed in the eyes of the Gods and the law, though the actual celebration had been deferred a couple of months, so that those who had fought would have time to let their wounds and their memories heal before enjoying any festivities associated with their leader’s marriage. Gabria didn’t know yet if she’d be coming back for that particular party, though she hoped she could.

I just wish I knew why they wanted
me
in the Seer King’s court.

Entering the second-floor parlor—the same one where she had interrupted Marta and the Arbran Knight in the middle of a very friendly-looking, private picnic, with the news that the Aurulans wanted
her
to head east and join them—Gabria eyed the mirror. It was a big, tall, cheval-stand looking glass, of the sort rarely seen outside of the ransacked ex-priest quarters, since unwarded mirrors were too dangerous to allow out into the general populace. At least, back when this land had been a part of an aggressive, enemy-rich and magic-poor Mekhana.

Instead of reflecting the room, the mirror looked into a large hall lined with banners and old weapons fixed to its high-windowed walls. There were benches along the edges of the chamber, plus the purple-and-gold-clad figures of yet more Royal Guards, and a stack of her belongings, each bundle, chest, and trunk awaiting their turn to be floated through what looked like another reflection-less mirror a few yards away.

“It’s quite safe,” Ellett reassured her. “Just don’t touch the frame and you’ll be fine. You might also feel a bit disoriented as you land on the far side, particularly as a mage. I find it helpful to tighten my personal shields just as I pass through, and keep them tight and close for a moment or two on the other side.”

Nodding, Gabria waited for the last of her trunks to be levitated through the mirror that wasn’t acting like a mirror. Having already said her good-byes to friends and family earlier that morning, she gathered her courage and her magic, took a deep breath, and carefully stepped through the mirror.

Disoriented was definitely the word for it. Her awareness of her surroundings slid, scraped, and clashed. Feeling more than a touch of vertigo, she hastily cleared her other leg through the frame, focusing her gaze firmly on one of the benches across the way. It only took a few moments for her to stop feeling like the floor was trying to heave like a boat under her feet. By that point, both her shadow-guards and their commander had passed through.

They were in what looked like the Aurulan version of a Guildaran Precinct, the military guildhall for a particular region. Probably the headquarters of a border fortress. She didn’t have time to ask any questions, though. Ahead of her, the last few bundles were being floated through the next mirror. Ellett touched her shoulder briefly, offering silent support—or maybe sympathy—then gestured at the frame as soon as the last bundle cleared. Gritting her teeth, Gabria strode up to the mirror, took another deep breath, and stepped through.

Ugh ... Gods, it’s slightly better than the first time, but not really. I hope it gets bearable, if this is how these people move around.
Yet another Precinct-style hall, with yet another mirror waiting for her and her goods, and the Royal Guards accompanying her.
What did he say, three more after the first one? So I just have two more to endure?

Hoping he was right—surely he was right—she stepped through, steadied herself, and then stepped through again.

The last one didn’t open onto the equivalent of a Precinct guildhall. The previous chambers had been no-nonsense in their function, and militaristic in their decoration. This was an ornate reception parlor. Very ornate. She had thought the careful joinery and parquetry of the Woodwright’s Guild had made the Guildaran palace a sight to behold, with wood from a hundred species of trees forming beautiful, mathematical, geometrical patterns. But this place, this was stunning.

White marble columns, fluted arches, and pierced screens defined the edges and openings of the chamber, with practically every inch covered in carvings of animals and plants. The walls in between had been cunningly painted with images of garden scenes, clearly meant to look as realistic as pigments could possibly get. In fact, she had to blink twice to realize they
were
flat, painted images, the shadings and tones were so close to the real thing. Deceptively delicate furniture had been crafted from intricately wrought, white-painted iron—with a skill that came close, she noted, to the abilities of her own people—and padded with brightly hued, tassel-edged cushions.

There were people in the room, more than just the purple-and-gold-clad members of the Royal Guard. Several men and women, apparently servants from their uniform of cream edged with lilac trim, were busy carrying her belongings by hand out of the chamber. Others, clad in more colorful brocaded fabrics, were chatting with each other or with the Royal Guards who had preceded Gabria and her baggage. Behind her, one of the mage-warriors shouted something in tones that made her ears hurt, casting some sort of powder at the surface of the mirror. It restored the normal reflectivity of the glass, letting her know the mirror-Gate was firmly closed.

A hand touched her shoulder. Turning to face its owner, she found the Mage-Captain giving her a reassuring look. Ellett cleared his throat, and the men and women in shades of pink, green, blue, gold, and several other hues turned to face him. “Miladies, milords, this is Her Highness, Gabria Springreaver.”

She felt like a drab sparrow suddenly thrust into the midst of a bunch of exotic Natallian jungle birds. A roasting drab sparrow, too, for the air was warm and humid, pressing in on her as she stood there in her gray knit tunic and matching leather pants. Practical garb for a former hydraulics engineer living in the chilly early spring weather found in the higher elevations of Guildara. Not so practical for the subtropical lowlands of the southern edge of Aurul. She knew just enough of the geography and climate of this kingdom to know that the Jenodan Sea kept most of Aurul warm even in winter, if considerably wetter than its hot, dry summers.

Still, some of the flush that heated her face was from the dubious, disdainful looks on the faces of the half dozen men and women eyeing her from felt-capped head to leather-booted toe.

One of the men asked something. His tone suggested it was something along the lines of a highly skeptical, “
This
is the woman we’re looking for?” only he said it too quickly for Gabria to translate with the little Aurulan she had learned so far. He wore a gold-sprigged blue coat, like a floor-length, leather riding jacket, but stitched from silk and bearing dangling square sleeves instead of practical, close-fitting ones. Those sleeves held things, too, she realized, as he reached into one through the large wrist-hole at the front.

Pulling a double-lensed viewing loupe on a long, gilded stick from one of his bag-like sleeves, he eyed her through the crystals for a moment, then lowered it just enough to tap the frame against his chin. A humming sigh escaped him, and he muttered something equally rapid, flicking out the double-loupe-on-a-stick, indicating points along her body. He then said something else which sounded like an order, and flicked the loupe-on-a-stick off in the direction her belongings had vanished. When she just blinked at him, he repeated more or less the same words with a stronger emphasis. Then again, less patiently.

Lost, Gabria looked back at the Mage-Captain. “I’m sorry ... but I don’t understand more than two or three words of what he just said. I haven’t had enough time to learn much Aurulan. Sorry.”

“... Of course. I apologize for my thoughtlessness,” Ellett replied, bowing slightly to her.

“Your thoughtlessness?” Gabria repeated, mystified.

“I have had the privilege of drinking Ultra Tongue, a very rare and wondrous potion that enspells the speaker to hear and be heard in a thousand different tongues,” he explained. “The magics woven into the liquid spell allow me to speak in my native tongue, but if my intent is for you to understand, the spell projects my meaning into your ears as if you were hearing it in your own. I in turn hear your words in my ears as if they were in Aurulan, if with a Guildaran ‘accent. ’ And if I wish to speak specifically in just one language, I need merely concentrate on my intent and speak with that ‘accent.’ Naturally, having benefited from it for several years, I forgot not everyone has this advantage. Allow me to make reparations ...”