The Spirit Gate (17 page)

Surely
, she thought,
surely he must feel this.

She moved back a step, stretching the invisible veil, and
loosed his hands to raise her own between them. He breathed deeply, but Kassia
could tell he struggled. “Watch,” she murmured. “Listen.
Feel. Isak Itugen. Isak Rez.” She breathed into her palm. “Ah
ni
.”

The flame blossomed—a
flow of light and heat. She looked up at Zakarij. Tears stood in the smoke-dark
eyes, lips and hands quivered. And Kassia felt, through the barriers he held so
tightly in place, a great silent longing for the flame. Before that desire
could be lost, she let the flame go, pulled his hands down between them and
formed his fingers into a bowl.

“The
words,” she prompted.

He blinked and breathed. “Isak Itugen. Isak Rez.” He breathed into his hands.

“See
the flame,” she ordered.

His eyes closed, brow furrowed. “Ah
ni
.”

Nothing happened except that his hands trembled harder.

“Ah-
ni
.” She murmured, stressing the tonality of the catalytic word. “Again. Breathe.”

He did. “Isak
Itugen. Isak Rez.” Breathe. “Ah
ni
!”

It was small and ruddy and flickering, but it was fire. Zak’s eyes opened to it—in his hands! He might
be the only man in a generation to hold Itugen’s flame. His breath rode out on a moan. “Did you . . .
do this?” His eyes were steady on the flame.

“No,
Zakarij. You did. You evoked the fires of Itugen. Your words, your will.” She pulled her hands away from his. The flame, as if to prove the truth
of her words, shimmered just as brightly.

“Ah,” he whispered. A moment later, “How
do I put it out?”

She grinned at him. “Should
I tell you?”

“Kassia . . .”

“Water
or air. Your choice. I subtract air. You could add water.”

He frowned, invoked water. The flame dissolved with a hiss.
He wiped his hand on his tunic, smudging it, and shook his head. “Thank you, Kassia. I’ve never . . .
I’ve never felt
magic before.”

“Never
felt it? Then how-?”

“It
always came from here.” He tapped his head. “Never . . .” His hand brushed down the length of his body. “Before, I constructed spells the way a man would
build a house. My magic has always come from me. This was . . .” His dark eyes caught hers, seeking a connection. “This was
of
me. Is that what you feel
when you raise the flame?”

Kassia nodded. “Would
you like to try again?”

He smiled fleetingly. “Ah, no. I think once is enough today. We’ve other work to do.”

oOo

By the time Master Lukasha returned from his Circle
meeting, Kassia had writer’s
cramp and was glad of the interruption when he called her up to his studio to
go over the pages of annotation she had completed.

“This
is excellent!” He smiled at her over the crisply cut edges of the notes. “Your time at Lorant
has already born fruit. I notice that one of these spells is a Battle—opposing elements in
combination. Could you perform such a spell? Could you create fire within
water?”

“Yes,
Master. I believe I could.”

He set the folio of notes down upon his window seat and
crossed the room to open the unlocked cabinet that contained all but his most
sacred implements. When he turned back to her, he held a glass ball in his
hands. He took the ball to the water pitcher that sat upon the work table
between the western and southern windows and immersed it. When he raised the
ball again it had filled with water though a hole in the curving surface. He
brought it to her.

“I
would like you to perform a Battle for me, Kassia. Please take the dais and
attempt it.”

She took the water-filled globe and moved to do his bidding.
On the dais, in the locus at its center, she turned to face him. “Master, before I
begin, there’s
something I must tell you. This morning while you were away . . .
Zakarij and I . . . That is, Zakarij asked me to teach him how
to control fire.”

The Mateu’s
brows rose to accent his obvious surprise. “And did you?”

“I
did. I wondered if it was the right thing to do.”

A parade of emotions crossed Lukasha’s face. Kassia watched carefully to see if
disapproval was among them. There, that slight frown, that minute pursing of
the lips—was that
it? But in the end he smiled and said, “Why
ever should it not be right? Zak is an Aspirant; you are both my Apprentices.
You taught him something that has made him unique. You have likely assured his
place among the Mateu, and perhaps your own, as well. I am pleased, Kassia—with Zakarij for
learning such a thing and with you for teaching him. Now, show me this Battle
so that I too, may learn.”

It was more difficult than controlling fire alone, but after
several moments of careful meditation and even more careful incantation, Kassia
brought the right balance to bear and saw a flame rise up in the heart of the
water, shielded from it in a tiny envelope of air.

Lukasha questioned her then: How had she done this? What
spirits had she invoked? Why in this combination? How had the flame not been
extinguished by the water? Which name precisely was the catalyst? Was it the
best catalyst? The strongest? How long could the fire burn? Could she perform
this same feat before others?

The last question stopped Kassia in her tracks. “Before others, Master?
What others?”

“The
Sacred Circle would be interested in seeing what my newest Apprentice can do.”

Senses extended, Kassia caught an undercurrent that told her
this was more important than Lukasha’s
mild words implied. “Must
I appear before the Circle, Master?”

“Yes,
I think you must.” His eyes were kind, but commanding. “On Celek after Matyash.”

“Is
it because I haven’t
been formally confirmed?”

Lukasha came near and put his hands about hers, about the
little globe of water where her flame still burned bright and warm. “It is because there
are jealous souls even among those who would become servants of Mat. Two
Initiates, who believe you took an Apprenticeship one of them might have had,
have made a complaint to the Circle. As their families are rather important in
Dalibor, and one has a father attached to the Zelimirid Court, the Circle feels
impelled to hear the complaint.

“Gavmat
and Matim.”

“Indeed.
Gavmat and Matim. The Circle will seek to know if their claim of usurpation is
warranted.”

“Have
I usurped their place?”

Lukasha snorted. “Neither
of those boys would be an Apprentice of mine. One of the other Mateu might have
taken them; as you know I have higher standards.”

Kassia smiled at the compliment. “What must I do?”

“Merely
repeat what you have already done. That is your best testimony. That and
Zakarij and myself. Have no fear, Kassia. If you but glance ahead, you’ll see all will be
well. I see you victorious.”

Kassia had no such vision, for her sense of future seemed
fogged when she gazed after her own fate. Time flowed ahead of her, over,
around or against perceived obstacles. What she did see was one such obstacle
and beyond it . . .

She glanced up at Lukasha, puzzled. “I can’t
see it. Or feel it. Why?”

“One’s own future is never
as clear as another’s.
Have you never noticed that?”

“The
vision I had that brought me here seemed so crystalline, so clear—like a moment frozen
in time.”

“Perhaps
that’s because
coming here was a major crux in your life, while appearing before the Sacred
Circle, as intimidating as that might seem now, is not.”

She appreciated his attempt to allay her fears, and
realized, as he took her through a series of exercises with spell balls and elements,
that she did feel more at ease. The spell balls were interesting to work with
and very versatile, but as the week progressed, Kassia found herself thinking
more and more about the cabinet full of secrets. It distracted her at times,
but when, in impatience, she asked Lukasha when she would be allowed to work
with the old texts, he replied that she was not yet ready. She fretted a bit
over the approaching appearance before the Circle, but Lukasha told her that
she must only answer every question put to her as honestly as she could and to
obey the instructions given her.

Celek arrived and Kassia dressed in her Apprentice’s garb and took Beyla
to the Matyash ceremony in the cesia at Lorant. As it was the first worship day
of a new month, she brought with her a small offering of homemade incense. The
finely appointed college cesia was very different than the one she had grown up
with at the top of the Little Holy Hill. Different, too, was the nature of the
offerings brought by the worshipers. A basket sat upon the altar into which the
suppliant placed small valuables—jewelry,
tiny bottles of essence, even money. But most prevalent were small figurines,
much like Shagtai’s
onghot, fashioned from precious metals, stone and wood, which the giver placed,
not in the basket, but on the altar beside it. By the end of the ceremony, the
altar was literally covered with them. As she approached with her own poor
offering, Kassia saw that they took every conceivable shape—fish, fowl, eggs,
sheaves of wheat, ears of corn, even effigies she assumed were supposed to be
Mat and Itugen.

She allowed the icons to distract her as she sent Beyla off
to be with Shagtai and prepared herself for her appearance before the Sacred
Circle. She asked Zakarij about them. “What
are they? Where do they come from?”

The look he gave her was one of pure puzzlement. “They’re gifts to Mat and
Itugen. Surely you’ve
seen them in the shops of New Dalibor.”

“I’ve only been to New
Dalibor once in my life and it wasn’t
to buy but to sell. In Old Dalibor, we give of the fruit of our calling. We
give what we have created or grown.”

“What
shall a man give whose calling is to serve his king? Or what of the woman who
sells what others make? What do they give? Is it wrong for them to spend of
their earnings to give a pleasing gift to the God and Goddess? Believe me, the
metal in those images is of much more use to the Mateu than a plough or a
horseshoe.”

“Yes,
but what about the charity allotment? A plough is of more use by a destitute
farmer than a golden icon.”

“True,
if there’s a
farmer among those who need charity. In the past, there were many farmers among
the destitute. Not so, now. If there is no farmer to receive the plough, these
icons, as you call them, being made of precious materials, can buy what is
needed.”

Zakarij’s
reasonable words made her regret her pious debate; his mildly reproachful tone
made her long to continue it. The call to attend the Sacred Circle saved her
from having to make a decision. Master Lukasha appeared and bid them follow him
into the cesia. Then he reached up and plucked Kassia’s soft azure hat from her head, and loosed her
braid from its bindings.

“Show
them what you are,” he told her, and led them into the place of worship.

They took seats upon the low stone bench to the right side
of the altar. Looking up, Kassia saw that Gavmat, Matim and two men she took to
be their fathers had entered from the left side to take seats there. On the
benches opposite them, arrayed in casual order, were the members of the Circle.
Kassia knew only two of them at all well—Masters Radman and Yesugai. They were introduced,
along with the others by a stiffly solemn Damek.

Kassia memorized names and faces: stern Master Ojetei;
white-haired Aniol; the sweet-looking Gavril, whose lips seemed perpetually to
smile; the youngest Circle member, vibrant, red-haired Ziven. Brought in to
serve as Neutral, since Master Lukasha had declared himself biased, was young
Master Tamukin. Kassia prayed he would be fair.

Damek oversaw the proceedings according to the protocols and
ritual of which he was so enamored. Standing at the northern access to the
cesia, he called out in a stentorian voice, “Isak Mat! Isak Itugen! Hear us, we pray thee and
attend these deliberations. The Circle is incomplete. Does the Circle accept
the inclusion of Master Tamukin, a son of Dalibor, to complete its sacred
number?”

“Aye,” said the members, in ragged unison.

“The
Circle is complete, and being complete, will hear the plea of the Initiates
Gavmat Melci and Matim Pranute. The protest is one of usurpation. The plea will
be rebuked by Initiate Kassia Telek.”

“Apprentice,” corrected Lukasha mildly. “Kassia
is my Apprentice. Were she not, there would be no protest.”

Damek nodded curtly. “The record will be so amended.” He nodded at the priest who sat inconspicuously before the southern
access, serving as scribe.

“Let
the plea be heard,” Damek said and seated himself.

Gavmat and Matim rose then, and came to the altar. Each
genuflected the prescribed nine times, then took up a white taper and lit one
of the small group of votive candles there, which signified the witnesses’ intention to shed the light of truth. Having completed the ritual, the
two young men faced the Circle and, speaking in turns, laid out their protest
against Kassia Telek. Kassia was not a proper candidate for initiation, they
insisted. She was too old, she had a child, she was shai. Nonetheless, she had
insinuated herself into Master Lukasha’s
gentle graces—no
doubt presuming on his well-known tenderness of heart—and had been accepted and inducted without proper
initiation and confirmation. She had then improperly inserted herself into an
advanced Mysteries class, obviously by misrepresenting her abilities. She had
then somehow convinced Master Lukasha that she deserved to be his Apprentice
and he had promoted her to that station.

Kassia’s
anger swelled with every word that issued from their mouths. By the time their
spate of accusations had ended, she was furious. They had made her out as a
cynical opportunist and Lukasha as an unsuspecting and easily manipulated fool.
She glanced at her Master to gauge his reaction and was amazed to see a smile
playing about his lips.