Quatrain (39 page)

The cook beamed at Senneth as she brought over a plate mounded with eggs, potatoes, and some kind of fried meat. The cook was a sloppy middle-aged woman, beefy enough to slaughter livestock, but she had her own kind of magic when it came to food. “Lady Evelyn warned me we’d need to feed you the minute you came downstairs,” she said. “Just call out if you want more.”

“Let me finish this first,” Senneth said, digging in.

Evelyn poured herself a cup of tea and let Senneth take the edge off of her hunger before speaking again. “You’ll be happy to know all three of the cottages are nothing more than cinder and ashes this morning,” she said. “Cinder and ashes covered with snow. There wasn’t even enough heat left in the coals to melt the flakes.”

“I told you the fire was completely out before I walked away,” Senneth said.

“Yes, but I didn’t really believe you,” Evelyn replied. “I mean, how is that possible? They were absolute infernos! Those fires should have taken hours to die down. But you wave your hands at them and suddenly every spark is gone? Two of the boys stood watch all night, just to make sure nothing else caught fire.”

Senneth cut another slice of bread and buttered it lavishly. “Well, I’m sorry anyone had to lose a night’s sleep because you don’t trust magic,” she said cheerfully. “But I knew the flames were cold.”

“I didn’t realize how draining it would be for you, or I might never have asked for your help.”

Senneth shook her head. “It shouldn’t have been so difficult. Normally, I can set and contain three fires like that with practically no effort. An hour’s work or less.” She took a huge bite of the bread.
So
good. She spent so much time traveling that, nine days out of ten, she was eating dried rations or stale leftovers while crouched around a solitary campfire. A meal straight out of the oven was the height of luxury.

“Then why was yesterday so hard?”

“The rain,” Senneth said. “Everything was so wet. The wood, the walls, the roof thatching. It was difficult to make anything ignite, and once something
did
catch fire, I had to force it to keep burning. That took a lot more energy than I expected.”

Evelyn stirred more sugar into her tea and gave Senneth a shrewd look. “How often does playing with fire leave you so incapacitated?” she wanted to know. “That’s a powerful price to pay.”

Senneth shrugged. “It’s a powerful gift. Maybe if it came easily, I wouldn’t value it so much.” Although, considering how much she had given up for magic, she supposed nothing about it would qualify as
easy
.

“I don’t think that quite answered my question.”

“Actually, it’s rare,” Senneth said. “Mostly I don’t get a headache unless I’ve called up fire while I’m in a rage.”

Evelyn looked a little unnerved. “I’m not sure I like the idea of an angry mystic wreaking destruction on the world.”

Senneth laughed. “Well, there aren’t many who can call up as much power as I can. I’ve seen plenty of fire mystics who could light a candle with a touch or keep a kitchen fire burning all day without fuel, but I’m not sure any of them could have kept those cottages burning yesterday. And only some of them can put
out
a fire at will, like I can.”

Evelyn leaned back in her chair, looking a little quizzical. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said. “But I’m not surprised some people are afraid of mystics.”

Senneth nodded. “I don’t wonder at it at all.”

The untidy cook came back bearing another platter of toast. “Would you like some peach jam?” she offered. “I made it last summer.”

“I would love it,” Senneth said, and the cook hurried off to rummage through the pantry. “She seems to like me,” Senneth remarked. “Apparently
your
servants have enlightened views about mystics.”

“She wanted to see those houses burned,” Evelyn said. “Her grandmother died in one of them, trying to nurse a young woman through the fever. She’s one of the villagers who begged me to pull the cottages down.”

It had been simple luck that brought Senneth to this part of Kianlever when there was a hard chore that could be made simpler by her particular brand of magic. Evelyn’s modest property was just a half mile from a struggling village that was a good long detour off the major east-west road. An infectious fever had recently passed through the neighborhood, leaving eight dead and three small houses polluted with the detritus of death. The general consensus was that the fever still lingered inside the cottages and no one wanted to risk contagion by volunteering to pull the structures down. But they stood so close to neighboring houses that setting them on fire—the preferred solution—was likely to result in the whole town going up in flames.

Senneth had ridden up two days ago like an answer to a prayer.

She had not been entirely surprised. In her experience, anytime a mystic happened to be in the vicinity, there would develop a need for the very kind of magic that mystic possessed.

Of course, sometimes there would develop a vicious hatred for that kind of magic, too. Senneth had started to hear more and more stories about mystics stoned to death or burned to death or flung into deep water and drowned. She knew she should be afraid. She knew she should operate with more care when she
did
call on her magic. But instead, every time she heard one of those tales, she felt her eternally high internal temperature begin to rise as her anger started to build.

She would like to see someone try to burn
her
at the stake. She would like to have someone bind
her
hands and fling her into a lake. She would cause that lake to boil and evaporate; she would set that whole benighted town on fire.

And then, no doubt, she would suffer the headache of the damned.

The cook returned with a jar of a rich-looking jam, and Senneth complimented her extravagantly on each individual component of the meal. “I wish you would come travel with me and make splendid dishes every night that we camp out,” she said.

“I’m not the traveling sort,” the cook said. “It would be much better if you stayed here.”

She returned to her chores while Senneth polished off yet another piece of bread. All kinds of sorcery used up a mystic’s physical strength, but Senneth had to believe she burned through more energy than most other mystics did. She was using her own body as fuel, in a way; she had to replenish or waste away.

Evelyn was looking thoughtful. “Indeed, it
would
be better if you stayed awhile,” she said. “You don’t have any pressing reason to travel on in a day or so, do you?”

Senneth raised her eyebrows. “Not particularly, no, but I get irritable after I’ve been in any one place too long.”

“Well—how long? A week? A month? I would be so pleased if you would stay a few days. I get the feeling you do not often come to rest.”

Senneth grinned. “No mystic does. It’s hard for us to sit still.”

“But good for you, surely? You could take a little time to—” Evelyn waved a hand to comprehensively indicate Senneth’s face and figure. “Clean yourself up a little. Get some new clothes. Perhaps cut your hair.”

Senneth automatically put a hand to her head, where her flyaway white-blond hair was still a little gritty from yesterday’s ashes. “You cannot possibly turn me into a woman of style,” she said. “Don’t waste your time trying.”

“Do you even
own
a dress?”

“No. Impractical for the kind of travel I do.”

“But wouldn’t you like to look nice just for a few days?” Evelyn said in a wheedling tone. “I will invite some friends to visit and you will see how enjoyable it is to have urbane and witty conversation.”

Senneth burst out laughing. “Evelyn, you’re so kind, but I am the worst kind of party guest! I have not sat down at a noblewoman’s dinner table for a number of years. I’m strange. I’m antisocial. I have no conversation. Unless you want me to do parlor tricks like setting my tablemates on fire, there is really nothing I can add to any social gathering.”

Evelyn smiled. “I think you’re missing the point, my dear,” she said. “I am not so much trying to show you off as trying to civilize you. I get the feeling that you have not slept on a real bed or eaten off of real dishes in weeks. Months. Years.”

“It hasn’t been quite that long,” Senneth said. “I stop at an inn every now and then. Ariane Rappengrass and Malcolm Danalustrous are always happy to put me up for a few days. And you know I’m in and out of Ghosenhall all the time. The king keeps a room for me whenever I wish it. I have not gone completely feral.”

“If you’ll pardon me for saying so,” Evelyn responded dryly, “it is only a matter of time.”

Senneth couldn’t decide if she should be irritated or amused, so she shrugged. “I admit I am eccentric,” she said. “Hence the reason I make a poor dinner guest.”

“I will invite tolerant and genial friends,” Evelyn promised. “If only you will agree to stay.”

To keep refusing would make her seem wholly ungracious; Senneth saw no choice but to acquiesce. “Very well,” she said. “But if it turns out to be the most disastrous social event of your life, you must remember that I warned you.”

Three days later, Senneth was wishing she had cared less for Evelyn’s feelings and more for her own and had flatly turned down the invitation. It turned out there was a great deal of bustle involved in planning even a small social gathering, and Senneth had been required to participate in most of it. She didn’t mind offering her opinion on the menu choices, or even the decorations, but she greatly resented having to deck herself out in an actual gown and matching accessories. Evelyn was completely adamant that Senneth must change out of the men’s clothing that she favored—as well as her sturdy boots.

“Since you’re a petite childlike thing and I’m practically a giant, I don’t know how you think there will be a dress in your closet to fit me,” Senneth said when the topic of her wardrobe was brought up on the very day Evelyn proposed the party.

“You’re hardly a giant.”

“Taller than most men I know.”

“I suppose that’s why you never married.”

Senneth could not smother a crack of laughter. “That and so many other reasons.”

“There is a seamstress in the village and her own daughter is quite tall,” Evelyn said. “I am certain she will have patterns that will fit you and maybe even a dress or two that could be altered to suit. It would not be exceptionally fine, of course, but
anything
would be better than those trousers.”

Senneth was skeptical, but Evelyn was correct. The seamstress herself was big-boned and imposing, a calm, practical woman who seemed quite certain she could produce a suitable dress in the short time available. “Do you have a preference as to color?” the woman asked. She appraised Senneth’s fair complexion and gray eyes and added, “Something in lilac or lavender, perhaps?”

“Blue, to show off your Brassenthwaite heritage?” Evelyn suggested.

Her “Brassenthwaite heritage” was one thing Senneth never wanted to show off. She had not been back to that region of the country since her father disowned her. “Something in blue and green,” she said. “To celebrate my Kianlever roots.”

“I have just the material,” the seamstress said.

“Nothing too fancy,” Senneth said. “Don’t bother with lots of lace and ribbon. And please do not embarrass me with a low-cut neckline.”

“Although your figure is very good,” the seamstress said. “Not as delicate as the fashion is today, but it’s been my impression that men appreciate a more robust girl.”

Evelyn was snickering into her palm as Senneth stared at the woman, completely nonplussed. “Well—I don’t think I am attempting to attract a man at this event,” was all she could think to say. “So no need to show off my charms.”

“I will be back with a dress in two days, and we can do a final fitting,” the seamstress said.

That was bad enough, but then Evelyn insisted on trying several different styles on Senneth’s completely unmanageable hair, calling on the services of her own dresser. “Why do you keep it so
short
?” Evelyn lamented. “It’s such an unusual color. You could be so striking.”

“It gets in my way if it’s any longer,” Senneth said.

Evelyn tugged at a particularly ragged lock. “And who cut this for you? Did you do it yourself? It’s just a mess.”

Senneth grinned. “Hacked it off with a sharp knife. It was hanging in my eyes.”

Evelyn released the strands of hair, pulled up a chair, and took Senneth’s hands in both of her small ones. She held Senneth’s eyes with her own serious gaze. “Senneth,” she said. “You cannot keep living this way. Like—like—some kind of animal. Like some kind of mad-woman, wandering the landscape, shouting gibberish at the moon. You are—you are losing all the details that make you human. You could slip away from us entirely.”

The discreet dresser had busied herself with a jewelry case on the other side of the room, but Senneth was still embarrassed and oddly uncomfortable. Normally she didn’t care what people thought of her. So few people
did
think of her, after all.