Читать книгу Mage Heart - Jane Routley - Страница 3

The first time I saw the demon was in a vision, a vision brought on by chewing the drug hazia.

But it was more than a vision.

I was walking along a beach in cold darkness. I knew, even then, that I was in some place I should not be, and I felt the nervous tenderness between the shoulder blades that comes with such knowledge.

It was easy to see. Cold brilliant stars spiraled slowly and hypnotically in the sky. Did they pulsate as well? Were they eyes? I don't remember now.

The beach was not sand, but millions of tiny, fragile bones that crunched and shattered under my feet. The sea heaved silently as if exhausted. It seemed dappled with starlight. Then I saw it was covered with thousands of little faces, mouths really, which opened and closed with the long, slow roll of the waves and shrieked like seabirds as they broke against the shore. I think I stood for some time looking out across the languid expanse. Suddenly my eye was caught by a different movement, a quick movement. What I had thought to be a rock just offshore stretched in the dark light and resettled its bat wings. Some kind of creature sat on that rock.

I suspected what it was. Desperately. I wanted desperately to see that creature closer. I paced up and down the shore in frustration.

There was a pounding.

The rock was so close; my desire was a torment. Recklessly I stepped into the sea and began to wade. It was not cold and wet as I'd expected, but warm and viscous, like jelly. It held me up, smoothly and firmly. The little gaping maws seemed to move aside for me. As I got deeper in, I noticed little pink tongues lashing out of them as I passed. It tickled deliciously where they touched the skin. There was a sickly scent, rotting and sweet, like nothing I had ever smelled. So strong that it was nauseating. Like roses-pustulant, rotting roses.

By the time I had waded in up to my waist, I knew that the being on the rock was, as I'd prayed, indeed a demon. It crouched there, betoothed and beclawed, its scaly wings spread out as if to dry, its face to the swirling stars.

A pounding on the door warned me to go no closer.

I had never seen a real demon before, but all my waking life I had been fascinated by the chaotic, winged denizens of nightmare. Now one of these awesome and dangerous beings was before me. I did not have the sense to feel more than the tiniest delicious tingle of fear. Instead, I devoured it with my eyes. It must have felt my gaze, for slowly, like a lizard, it turned its head and looked at me.

Someone was yelling and banging on the door.

Its red reptile eyes were heavy-lidded. It smiled charmingly, urbanely, and held out its spiky hand in greeting. I felt an intense desire to put my tiny, shatterable hand into that hand and feel the rough, horny skin. Then, suddenly, the compulsion was terrifying. I pulled back violently, lost my footing, and fell backwards into the firm and sucking sea.

And off the bed. I was encased in a white, sticky womb, struggling to be born, my arms pinned to my sides, my head just sticking out. There was a great crashing in my head. Or was it at the door? Suddenly the sheets ripped apart and I tumbled onto the cold floor and lay there panting and twitching, covered in blood and jelly like a newborn worm. I was on a plain covered with huge boulders as the world whirled around and was filled with the most terrible pounding. I covered my head. The pounding was like the blows of a hammer crushing down on a walnut; I had a sticky vision of my brain oozing out like grey stew.

The room turned another circle. The vision peeled away. I broke the surface, and suddenly I was in my own familiar ordinary room, and everything was unbelievably small, quiet, and colorless.

Someone was banging on the door.

"Dion!" yelled an irritable voice. "Oh! By the Seven! Dion, answer the door."

My mouth tasted of sour phlegm. My vision was blurry and seemed ready to whirl again at any moment. I opened the door slightly and saw a pimple-faced second year boy.

"Lord of all," he said. "What took you?"

I didn't feel up to standing on my dignity.

"What's going on?" I croaked.

"The Dean wants to see you."

Oh, God and Angels! No!

"I can't . . ."

"He says it's urgent."

He craned his skinny neck forward curiously and moved closer to the door. His spots were fiery red on his bluish morning skin. He smelled of body oil and grit. He suspected something. I could tell.

"Tell him I'm sick," I said. "I'll come as soon as I can."

I slammed the door shut. It was only then, as I stood behind it, that I realized I was covered in warm slime. Warm slime smelling of pus and roses. It had not been just a vision. Oh, God and Angels! My neck tingled as the hair on the back of it stood up. The room spun around dizzyingly, filling me with such vertigo that I sank to the floor, still clutching at the door handle.

How could I have entered the world of demons, a plane so remote, so unreachable from our own, that only the strongest mages and the strongest magics could touch it? Was that where the beach of bones had been? Had I actually journeyed there physically? It was as if I had just peered gingerly into a magnetic abyss. I had been to an unknowable world filled with the most malevolent and destructive beings imaginable. If it hadn't been for that revolting boy, I might have touched the demon.

That pulled me up. What the hell was I thinking of? How could I, a mere student mage, accidentally go to that impossibly dangerous place-a place which only the strongest touched, and nobody had ever entered? There had to be some other explanation for the rapidly cooling slime covering me, an explanation that I was too inexperienced to know.

And to reach out to touch a demon! The fact that I had come into contact with such a being should have filled me with horror, not fascination. How could I be fascinated by such an evil being? How could I have even thought of touching it? That was the way into necromancy, the obscene magic of death and destruction. Was I going to add that to my other sins?

"Demons are always watching, waiting to tempt unwary mages into necromancy."

This was the warning my foster father, Michael, had given me when I was about fourteen. His face had taken on the rather pompous look that always made me want to hit him on the head with a pillow and say something flippant. Though, of course, I had never actually dared to do it.

Not that there was anything wrong with his advice.

"No self-respecting mage even thinks about demons," he told me. "They are always out there waiting, ever hungry for life, drawn especially to those of us who touch the world of magic, ever ready to tempt the unwary into magical pacts that they might be allowed to feed their hunger on the life of our plane.

"Demons have amazing power. No one can withstand them in their own place, and, even from the misty distance of another plane, they are lethal. Irresistible. Throughout the ages evil men have sought pacts with them. Under such a pact a weak mage can bring demon power across heavy barriers, between their plane and ours, and become a mighty necromancer. But a terrible price is always exacted in return, for these demon familiars hunger always, and must be fed.

"The hand of every sane mage, nay every sane human being, must always be turned against necromancy, for necromancers are a bane upon the land. Mysterious disappearances plague any place in their vicinity, until great tracts of land are denuded of animal life to feed the immense appetites of the demon. They flourish only in borderlands and places torn by civil strife, for no ruler can suffer his people to be used up in such a way.

"For demon familiars, say rather demon masters. The pacts demons offer are never honorable. They seek always to enslave, to trick. They are inhuman, without conscience or compassion. They are pure evil, insatiable appetite incarnate, a sink which sucks in all life. Obscenely. Their greatest desire is to find a mage powerful enough to bring them through into our world and one whom, at the same time, they can trick into setting them free, so that they can satisfy their dreadful appetites at will. Thank God, that has only happened twice in our world. A demon let loose could lay waste to whole countries within days."

We both knew the truth of what he said. Almost a century before, our homeland of Moria had been the victim of one of these disasters. The demon Smazor had consumed the life out of thousands of miles of Moria and killed half its population in the few hours it took the United White College of Mages to cooperate in a dispelling ritual. Smazor was the reason Moria was now a poor, backward, sparsely populated country on the lunatic fringes of peninsula politics. Even though some of the land he laid waste had slowly recovered, there was still a great flattened wasteland called the Plain of Despair, a hundred miles deep in places, cutting off most of Moria from the sea to the east. Michael once showed it to me in a Bowl of Seeing. It was a terrible place, populated only by the white skeletons of trees and storms of grit and bone dust. Even caravans of merchants would not cross it. They said the air was thick with the spirits of the agonized dead, and that their cries would send a man mad.

"Smazor's Run" had been caused by the United White Colleges in the first place. Unaware of his existence, they had killed his master, the brutal necromancer Jubilato, leaving Smazor free to ravage at will.

I once asked Michael how on earth the United Colleges could have made such a mistake. It was the only question I ever dared ask him about demons.

"Such an oversight is easily made, child. We detect demon magic because of the human magic that must be used to get it. If a demon slave is on this plane, his master has no need to use further magic to force the demon to do his bidding. And the actions of demons themselves are completely undetectable to our magic. Aristo postulates that this is because demons are supernatural rather than magical. I hope," he continued sternly, "that you are not allowing yourself to become unwisely interested in this subject."

Like so many things Michael said, his lecture on demons had the opposite effect to what was intended. Necromancy held no appeal for me. I had no taste for violence. But demons ... that was different! That night I lay awake in the darkness, seduced by a longing to comprehend them. Their soaring power and guiltless freedom of action was intoxicating to one who had so little of either.

From then on I sought out every scrap of information I could about demons. I did not take Michael's warnings very seriously. You can't get into trouble just by reading books, and that was all I was doing. I wasn't stupid enough to try to communicate with demons; I was quite content to study them from afar. There was not much to know. Necromantic magics like demon summoning could no longer be performed on the Oesteradd Peninsula since the white mages formed the Anti-Necromantic Pact shortly after Smazor's attack.

But I had not just read books. I had also thought about demons a great deal. I had pondered at length over their nature, trying to imagine their lives on their own plane. Did they all live on different planes or on the same plane? And if on the same plane, how did they live with each other? As humans did? Or as predators and prey? What was the nature of the barrier between our worlds? How had it come into being? If demons could send their powers through it, why was it so hard for them to cross it? And so on and so forth. It had crossed my mind at the time that I might be being unwise, but I comforted myself with the thought that I was hardly important enough for them to bother with.

Now back in my little room at the college I wasn't so sure. As I stripped off and destroyed my slimy nightdress, scoured myself all over with icy water, and swore off hazia for life, I wondered if all those thoughts and researches back then had been as harmless as I'd thought. A sense of horror and a sheepish feeling of shame filled me. I had not thought much about demons since we'd left Moria, yet the fascination must have been lurking in my mind all the time, waiting to be set free... Had it taken me to the demon? Or had I got there by the demon's will? Had it been waiting all this time? God and Angels! I peered over my shoulder quickly, and the shadows behind the desk and under the bed seemed to take substance. A demon had seen me now. There was a link, and who could tell where that might lead.

If I wasn't careful. I pushed anxiety off resolutely. No matter how it had seemed in the hazia dream, it was in its world and I was safe in mine. Logically, what could it do to me? Necromancy held no attraction for me. I would put up the runes of distraction and protection and it would lose interest in me. It was not as if I were strong enough to bring it into this world. I was just finishing dressing when another knock came.

Just my luck, I thought as I went to the door. Usually no one visited me and now, just when I really didn't want it ...

It was the college healer, a neat, quiet woman dressed in brown.

"Hello," I said. I could not remember her name.

"The Dean sent me," she said, firmly pushing open the door and coming into the room. "I believe you are sick."

"I'm fine," I said. Now I was in trouble. The minute she examined me she'd recognize the symptoms of hazia use. "I had a headache, but it's gone. I was sleeping when the messenger came."

She stiffened. I followed her gaze. The rest of my lump of hazia sat, small but as obvious as a beacon, on the worktable. She stared hard at me. I could not meet her eyes. Then she reached out, picked up the hazia, and put it in her pocket.

I made a sound of protest.

"I think," she said deliberately, "I will tell the Dean that you have a headache and need to lie down for a few hours. I imagine you will be feeling more yourself by, shall we say, three o'clock. I will tell the Dean you will see him then."

She walked to the door.

"That's mine!" I said, forgetting I'd just sworn off.

"I'm surprised you admit to it. You might like to spend the time till three meditating on the unwisdom of indulging in forbidden substances, especially during the school day."

She closed the door with a snap.

Pompous bitch, I thought. Michael said it was typical of such women to take the opportunity to lord it over those of us with greater powers. He was usually right about such things.

Still, she had a point. I did need to lie down till the effects of the drug wore off. Though I'd come out of the vision, the world was still showing a distressing tendency to change color and whirl about. I seemed to have lost all concentration, too, for after I'd placed the runes of protection and distraction around the room, instead of continuing to worry about the demon, I did indeed spend the intervening time meditating on my unwisdom. If the Dean found out, I was in serious trouble. The use of hazia was banned in the college, and several students, including Mylon, the fellow who'd sold it to me, had recently been expelled for using it. They, at least, had somewhere else to go. If I was expelled, where could I go?

That morning, a few hours before dawn, unable to sleep, I had committed the indiscretion of taking some hazia, knowing full well I would have to spend the day hiding out in my room till the visions stopped. Boredom, however, is the worst part of insomnia. I'd assumed nobody would notice my absence. Looking back now, I couldn't believe how stupid I'd been.

I would never have dreamed of using hazia while Michael was alive. It was popular among students of magic, and even some communities of mages used its visions as an occult enhancer, but Michael had always said that if you had sufficient powers, you shouldn't need to use other things to enhance them.

Then he died. And I was alone, a Morian refugee in a strange land, the only woman in a college full of men. I quickly lost all interest in the studies and disciplines that had previously filled my day. If the truth be told, magic is basically a dull business-the endless grinding rote learning of true names and spells, the endless repetition of small rituals. I tried to continue Michael's research into the secret names of stones, but that failed to absorb me. I tried to keep up with my studies, but it was no use. I was so far ahead of the other students that there was no need for me to keep on with the boring grind. I was already qualified to become a mage. All I needed was the three years that would make me old enough.

Nothing it seemed could distract me from my despair at Michael's loss and my overwhelming sense of being all alone in the world. Until I discovered hazia.

I'd always avoided the other magic students. Michael had warned me against the friendly overtures of male students so often that I was cold and suspicious to them, and they left me completely alone. Nonetheless, during the desolate time after Michael's death, I did make a kind of friend. This was Mylon, whose room was near my own. He was two years younger than I and, moreover, such a vague and gentle soul that I found him completely unthreatening. It was he who told me of the wonderful dreams that were to be had from chewing the drug and who sold me my first lump of it. I had always loved to dream. I was too cautious to attend student hazia parties, but I experimented with the drug alone in my room.

Oh, the marvelous, sometimes terrifying, visions and dreams I had while chewing hazia. They blocked out loneliness and fear and took me to a world far outside the gritty rooms of the college. Once I'd discovered it, I spent many nights in the four months after Michael's death in a drug-induced haze or in related meditations. I'd even kept a detailed diary recording my experiences. It was the kind of thing I could get interested in. Michael would not have been surprised.

But I hadn't realized that those wonderful dreams existed anywhere outside myself. The possibility worried me now as I lay on my narrow, lumpy bed. I struggled not to think about it, but it ran round and round in my head till it felt as if it had carved out a dusty little path. Eventually I hypnotized myself into a mindless trance just to get some peace and quiet. At last, the college clock struck three and it was time to go and see the Dean.

It was the tired, grey end of winter. A searing cold wind whipped down the open cloisters and blew my woolen robe scratchily against my legs as I walked quickly to the Dean's office, head down, hands in sleeves, a demeanor which not only kept me warm but disguised any signs of hazia use as well. I felt better, more "normal" by then, although the students I passed on my way down the clammy corridors seemed to stare at me pointedly. Did they know? Was it obvious? Would the Dean notice? He was one of the few masters in the college who seemed to like me, and I hated the thought of disappointing him. I remembered having this nervous, suspicious feeling after other hazia episodes, but that didn't make it any better.

The Dean sat behind a desk that today seemed miles wide. Though his room was very grand, all dark wood paneling and carving as suited the head of such an important college, even in summer it was clammy cold and smelled of rot and damp. I always wondered how such an old man stood the chill, but then, most of the college rooms were like that. When I entered, the Student Supervisor, Master John, was leaning over the Dean, looking at some papers on the desk. Unfortunately. Master John was the most attractive of the academic staff, still quite young. He was tall, with dark hair and a serious demeanor, but I knew that, like most mages, he disapproved of women. This made me uncomfortable with him, made me worry about everything I said in front of him. Uselessly, because it always seemed to be the wrong thing no matter how much I tried. The fact that I'd sometimes daydreamed of turning the disapproval in his eyes into adoration didn't make the situation any more comfortable either.

The Dean rolled up the papers, and his mild elderly face creased in a reassuring smile. His face always took on a blind, questing look when he smiled. Such an old man must be quite shortsighted.

"I'm sorry I could not come earlier, sir. I was unwell."

"Yes, so Maya told me. I hope you are better now."

Maya. That was the healer's name. Had she told him about the hazia? I searched his face for signs of disapproval. But no, he seemed his usual calm and kind self.

He motioned me to sit down, so I took a seat on one of the hard chairs in front of the desk. To my secret dismay, Master John did not leave the room but stayed, leaning against the stone windowsill, his arms crossed. It was his right to stay, of course. As Student Supervisor, what concerned me, concerned him. But his sullenly attractive face seemed more than usually grim, his rather full lips clamped together in a hard line. It had not occurred to me before to wonder why the Dean had sent for me, but I now did so and found I was trembling with anxiety. It had to be something to do with hazia.

"Dion," said the Dean, "I have sent for you because I have decided that it is time to talk about your future. It was a question that worried your foster father deeply in his last days. He was sorely troubled by what would become of you after his death. He told me once that he feared he had done a terribly cruel thing to you by training you to be a mage and making you unfit for the only livelihoods open to a girl."

Michael had said this to me, too. He had always assumed that I would be able to take over his private practice. His clients knew me and had become used to being served by a woman, and I would have inherited his house and the small patch of land that came with it. With luck I could have made a living out of it. But that was before the Revolution of Souls forced us to flee Moria. After we came to Gallia, he worried a great deal about what would happen to me after he died. Positions open to students of the College of Magic, teaching positions or postings with the great families or city-states, had never been filled by women, and nobody would trust a female mage enough for her to set up a private practice. The only branch of magic normally open to women was healing, a task for which my years of training as a mage made me badly qualified and, moreover, one for which Michael felt I was temperamentally unsuited.

"Your foster father entrusted me with the task of finding you some livelihood, and since his death I have been casting around for openings. I have not liked to speak of it before now. I felt it was too soon. But circumstances have arisen which make it imperative.

"Oh God, I thought, I knew it. They've found out about the hazia. They're going to throw me out.

"You are well aware that because of your foster father's teaching, you are one of the most advanced pupils in this college. Everything but your age qualifies you to be a Magus. Now a position has come up for which you, as a girl, would be uniquely suited. In fact the Duke has asked for you."

Relief. Excitement. Amazement.

"The Duke?"

"Yes, Dion," said the Dean. He looked pointedly at Master John.

"What is this position, sir?"

"We'll come to that in a moment. In view of your foster father's advanced teaching, you are well able to handle the position magically even though you are still very young. But it is also a situation that requires tact and discretion. It is that which has made me hesitate in accepting on your behalf."

He sighed.

"But in view of your difficult situation, I feel it is too great a chance for you to miss. I think that if you are careful and restrained, you should be able to negotiate any political difficulties which must be inherent in working for a ruler."

How like Michael the Dean sounded. Spoiling everything with warnings. It always worked, too. I was beginning to dread hearing the position's name.

"As it is, you will not be leaving the college, and thus you will have my guidance every step of the way." His face as he said this was half-turned toward Master John, as if reassuring him rather than me. Master John's mouth became even grimmer, and he turned and faced the window. The Dean's face was more earnest than usual.

"So, despite reservations, I urge you to accept this position. It is an opportunity to gain the notice and the gratitude of the powerful, and as such it may be the answer to our prayers."

"What is the position, sir?" I asked again.

The Dean looked uncomfortable.

"Guardian-mage to Madame Avignon. The Duke believes her to be in some kind of magical danger."

I stared at him openmouthed. Kitten Avignon. The most notorious whore on the Peninsula and the Duke of Gallia's openly acknowledged mistress.

Even Michael and I, living quietly in the Morian countryside, had heard of this scandalous woman and her liaison with the Duke. Rulers had mistresses and Gallian rulers had always been more flagrant in this respect. Their mistresses usually had the bluest of bloods, however. Not so Kitten Avignon. She was an actress and a courtesan, a woman whose background was unknown, who was surely nothing more than a common prostitute. At home people had talked of such great courtesans with a kind of greedy pleasure-their faces mean with contempt, their mouths pursed, sucking on the delicious sweetmeat of Gallian decadence.

I had once seen Kitten Avignon. It was on the very day that Michael and I, covered with grit from our long walk east from Moria, had entered Gallia.

She was the most beautiful woman I had ever set eyes on. All around us enthusiastic people waved and cheered as she rode by on a huge white horse surrounded by darkly clad servants. She sat with straight-backed dignity, smiling and gently waving her fine-boned hand. She was dressed in deep red, and everything about her, from her pure white skin to the red rose in the hat that covered her fair hair, seemed to glow vividly. Even at that distance she looked soft and touchable.

We had walked a long way that day. My foster father swore and grumbled about parades. But I was fascinated by the beautiful lady, so fascinated that I asked the friendly-looking woman beside me if that was the Duchess.

She laughed. "Oh no, that's Kitten Avignon, the Duke's mistress. Our Lady of Roses they call her."

Michael smiled his cynical smile and said softly in my ear, "Welcome to Gallia, my dear! Where whores ride through the streets like queens. Look at all these poor people under her spell."

In my memory the woman's glowing beauty became spoiled and sinister.

It was as if the Dean, that fragile and avuncular old man, had made an obscene proposition. Maybe he had. Suddenly I felt terribly afraid. Maybe they were just trying to get rid of me. Was this the fate of useless women? Prostitution?

"No." I whispered. "No."

"Dion?"

"How can I? How can you ask me ... ? She's a whore ..."

"Dion! Hush! I know that as a Morian you might have some problem with this ..."

"Sir, you're asking me to associate with a woman who's ... Michael would have been horrified."

"Dion, please. Listen..."

"My lord," said Master John. "The child has said no. And who can blame her? Surely it is unfair to press her to take such an obviously distasteful position."

"Keep out of this, John." The Dean's vague, gentle face had suddenly become astonishingly hard and forceful. "Dion, you must see reason."

"My lord, she does see reason. It's you. Can't you see yourself...? Pushing an innocent child into the arms of such a creature."

"John!"

"How can you do this?" Master John was beginning to yell. "How can you even take it seriously? Magical danger! It's ridiculous! What mage on earth would bother with a common drab?"

"Master John!"

"And what college on earth would even dignify such a request from such a woman?"

"May I remind you that this is the Duke's request?" The Dean's voice was soft. But it cut.

"Oh yes! A man completely under her control. A man ruled by the honey sisterhood. Government by the worst in the land! Does this accord with the dignity due to this college?"

"And how does it accord with our dignity to have members of staff brawling in front of the students?"

Master John scowled.

The Dean stared at him. Gone was the kindly old man. Before me sat an austere man, harsh and dignified and bristling with power.

"You're being a fool, John. Disapproval of the Duke's intimates can only be interpreted as disapproval of the Duke. In different company you'd be thrown in the Fortress for what you've said."

He turned to me, and his face softened again.

"Now, Dion. Believe me, I understand how distasteful this is to you. I understand that a respectable young girl must be reluctant to associate with a courtesan. But you must remember this is not a request from this sad and abandoned creature, but from the Duke. From our ruler, and a man to whom, I might add, you and your foster father owe a great deal. He did not have to give you asylum in Gallia. You must realize it would be ungracious, not to mention unwise, to refuse this quite simple task out of disapproval Madame Avignon is the Duke's favorite, and because of this, it must be an honor for anyone to serve her. That is the way it works in Gallia. I would be surprised if it is different anywhere in the world."

Suddenly I was very frightened. I could not do this thing. How could I? I struggled to put my reasons into words.

"But, sir. Will it not ruin my reputation? How will I ever find a respectable position afterward? Who will have me then?"

"Yes, my lord," said Master John. "Have you thought of that? Have you considered how people might treat her once her association with this woman is known?" He struck the desk. "Have you considered that you might leave her with no prospects? Have you really considered her future, my lord Dean?"

The Dean closed his eyes with a pained expression. Master John fell silent.

"Finished, John?" His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Kindly allow me to point out to you both that Dion has no future. Honestly, John, have you not said this yourself? Who in the world would grant a position to a female mage? Dion is not trained for healing, and I doubt if anyone would consider a dowerless woman with magical powers a suitable wife. What is this future you are talking of? There is no one to provide for her unless we at this college do it. And this is what I am attempting to do. Here is a situation which makes her very disability an asset. Think how much more unsuitable it would be to bring a young man into contact with one of the honey sisterhood. The Duke must naturally prefer a woman for this kind of thing."

Everything he said was true. I already knew it to be so. But it was bitter to hear it said all the same. I bowed my head lest they see the tears in my eyes, but I could not miss the pitying look Master John gave me and the discouraged way his shoulders sank.

"I'm sorry, Dion," said the Dean. "It is a cruel thing to have said even if it is the truth. Believe me, I do understand that a besmirched reputation is a heavy burden for any woman to bear. But I have taken steps to protect you from your association with Madame Avignon. Protection is hardly a very intimate spell, so you are unlikely to meet with her more than twice at the most. The Duke tells me that only a few trusted advisers know of the situation. Very likely nobody much will ever know of your position. You will be staying safely at the college and will have us to guide and protect you. Above all, you must remember that this is an opportunity to win the favor of the Duke. That can only lead to good things."

I was not reassured, and yet I could think of no other objections in the face of the Dean's calm certainty. I just stared at him dismayed, frightened, thinking if I had not clouded my brain with hazia, the objections to undertaking this task would be clear to me and everyone else.

The Dean sighed. "Dion, if the worst comes to the worst ... I have planned for that, too. I have negotiated a life pension and a small farm for you on top of a very considerable money fee. You can always retire to the country till people forget. Don't you see that whatever the risks in this position, you can only gain from it? This may be the only position that will ever be offered to you. For no other reason than that, I would urge you to take it."

I could only think of the contemptuous faces of the villagers at home when they spoke of women like Madame Avignon and the sad stories our housekeeper had told of ruined girls and their fates. I was afraid.

"Dion, you will have myself and Master John beside you all the way, and we will do our very best to protect you. What will you have if you say no? You must consider your future."

I had considered it. Too often. It was one reason I'd started taking hazia.

I looked at Master John, but he'd gone back to staring out the window. I looked at the Dean. I could see him willing me to say yes.

I had every reason to trust his judgment. If he said it would be all right, then surely it must be. I would have money, a little farm, and a chance to get away from this hole of a college, where every night I sat alone in my room and listened to the students in the corridor outside, calling to each other in friendly voices.

"Very well," I said.

Looking back, I find it hard to believe the extent of my fear of Kitten A Avignon. But then, I was a young woman from a small village in a country famed throughout the Peninsula for its prudery. I had never actually met anyone who openly deviated from conventional morality. I only knew of such people from the all-too-believable talk of our housekeeper. Even Michael warned me about "fallen" women. He was well known in Moria, and sometimes city courtesans would send to him for salves or love potions. He would send the messengers to other, less discerning mages.

"Involving yourself with whores will only lead to trouble," he warned me. "They are vicious and bitter women, who, because they lack any control over their own lusts, have ruined their lives. They use men's weaknesses to achieve their own ends, which are always corrupt and self-seeking."

If everything they said about such women was true, Kitten Avignon would automatically hate me. What if she tried to make use of me or harm me? How was I to guard against that?

I did have another reason for fearing contact with Kitten Avignon. As Michael once reminded me when he'd caught me talking with a village boy, I had reason to be especially careful of my morals. My mother had been a serving woman at an inn, a woman with several children, who had never had a husband.

I approached Madame Avignon with the feeling you usually reserve for particularly contagious diseases.

The following evening, as the sun set over the towers of Gallia and the bells had begun ringing for evening mass, Master John and I walked obediently through the narrow streets to the Ducal Palace. The sky was golden with the setting sun, and crows that nested in the cathedral steeple were swirling around it in a raucous black cloud.

I had never seen the Ducal Palace so close before, and its grandeur did nothing to ease my nerves. It was nothing like the ancient stone castles I'd seen in Moria. Instead it was square, with a long facade of white marble columns and a huge gilded staircase leading up to vast iron doors.

"The Duke's father began it. It's built in the very latest style," said Master John, who was a proud native Gallian. He was being unusually chatty for Master John, pointing out all the finer features of the palace and telling me that the gilded staircase was a gift from the Ishtaki merchant-princes. I suspected he was trying to put me at ease. As we climbed the staircase between the lines of marble saints, I kept my hands firmly clasped behind my back so that Master John could not see how much they were shaking.

We were met inside the doors by a bowing majordomo, who directed us to follow him. Stalking stiff legged ahead of us, he led us through a dazzling series of rooms, each more hectically decorated than the next. In each, the walls were a blast of color and movement, writhing with figures-animals and angels all intertwined and twisting in huge draperies. The ceilings were great chunks of oak, carved with gilt banquets of fruits and flowers or orchestras of violins and pipes. Huge stone dragons swirled up the balustrades of a white marble staircase. Brilliantly shining confections of crystal and candles hung like fantastic clusters of grapes from each ceiling. We passed through one gallery whose walls were dangerous with the mounted antlers of deer and another lined with soft, golden brocades. It was gluttony for the eye and, thank God, completely distracting. Even Master John stared. I had never seen such richness, such grandeur before in my life. I wondered what it must be like to live in all this splendor and could not picture any actual living going on at all.

At last we passed into a huge, silvery chamber which seemed full of men in whispering robes of sumptuous velvet, moving, leaning, and nodding among themselves as if in some courtly dance. They all seemed to watch us, and yet I couldn't see them looking. At second glance I realized that the walls were covered in mirrors so that each figure in the room stretched away to a crowded infinity of space and that, in fact, there were only four or five people in the chamber. The throne at the end of the chamber was empty. Our guide did not hesitate, but led us across the room, pulled aside the soft velvet behind the throne, and motioned us within.

Lolling on a brocade chair in the middle of the shadowy anteroom beyond sat the pivot on which all this splendor turned; Duke Leon Sahr, a small, neat man with nondescript brown hair and a soft, pointed beard, eating cherries out of season and spitting the pits into his hands.

So this was the Duke-the man who had executed his own cousin at eighteen, the man who had won the battle of Lamia at twenty-one and, in winning it, had united the city-states of Ishtak and Gallia under his rule to form the most powerful state on the Peninsula. This was our ruler, who had power of life and death over us all.

Somehow I had expected someone bigger. Yet as I watched him making small talk with Master John, something in that soft face with its thin cynical smile inspired true fear. It was easy to believe that this slight man was capable of the things they said of him. He looked capable of any necessity.

His dress was no disappointment. His robes were sumptuous red silk worked with gold in the Sahr crest. The feather on his cap was pinned with a huge ducal brooch in ruby and gold and his thin fingers were positively weighted down with enormous gems.

"Well," said the Duke after a few moments. "So this is the student we spoke of. Come forward, student."

Master John nudged me. I managed to curtsy.

"Ah, yes. So this is Michael of Moria's little daughter. The prodigy." His eyes narrowed. "She is young."

"But I assure you quite capable of the task you have set for her," said Master John. "Michael trained her beyond her years. Only her age prevents her from being a fully qualified mage. She has passed all the exams very well. I assure Your Grace, you will not be disappointed ..."

There was an uncomfortable silence broken only by the dull chink of cherry pits as the Duke dropped them into the small golden bowl beside him. He picked up a linen napkin of such perfect whiteness that it seemed to shine in the shadowy room, shook it out delicately, and began to wipe each jewel-laden finger.

I stood, head bowed, feeling like a naughty child. In that long silence I stole a look at Master John and saw to my secret pleasure that he looked much the same as I felt.

"Yes," said the Duke in a quiet voice which somehow expressed disbelief. "I'm sure the college would never disappoint me."

He leaned back and elegantly crossed his legs.

"Come forward, child!"

I moved forward, stopped, and curtsied again for good measure.

"Your foster father was a great favorite of ours. We met him when we were in Mangalore visiting the late Duke. Such a sensible, plain-spoken man. A sad loss to Moria we would have said, though, for some reason, the Morians do not agree with us. We were sorry to hear of his death."

I bobbed my head and murmured my thanks. There was something in the way he spoke which made me feel it was a deep honor that such a great man should speak well of Michael.

"You were very lucky to have such a fine teacher. I would have every faith in any student of his. Do you think that I am right, child? Look at me. Do you feel able for the task before you?"

He peered with hard narrow eyes into my face. I felt as if I'd been blinded by the sun and dropped my eyes.

"Yes, my lord."

"Make sure you are right, Mademoiselle. I would not be pleased if you failed."

"Your Grace, we would not allow an unworthy mage to come before you," said Master John.

Silence.

Suddenly the Duke smiled. Then he laughed. He stood up and clapped Master John on the shoulder. At once the room seemed lighter, was lighter.

"Of course you would not. Worthy Master John. You must forgive your ruler a momentary uncertainty. The thought that this charming young girl could be versed in magic is hard to believe, that is all. It is so strange to see a woman mage. Though I believe it is common in the old empires of the West." He laughed. "A disturbing thought. Considering the bewitchments of which women are capable without magic, I wonder our poor Western brothers hold their own. Take my dear Madame Avignon for instance."

He turned his head, and suddenly I realized that there was a slim shadow standing in the darkness by the door. The Duke beckoned. "Kitten, stop lurking about in the darkness. Come and meet these people."

As she came forward, Master John and I both gasped. I would like to think that it was merely the fabulous peacock blue velvet gown she wore. But I know that it was her breasts that I was looking at. How could I help it? That dress was intended to draw all eyes to those firm, white globes, crammed so tightly into her bodice that it was a miracle they didn't fall out. Her fair hair was piled up on top of her head so that her long, white neck was bare, framed only with a ruff of dark feathers. The space between her face and her nipples seemed an endless expanse of nakedness; she was more naked than if she had worn nothing at all. She was so luminescent, so soft, so touchable that it made the hands itch to feel her skin. I blushed and dropped my eyes. The sight of her made me uncomfortably aware that all of us were naked under our clothes.

"Ah yes," purred the Duke. He was obviously delighted by the effect his mistress had had on us. "One could almost believe her to be an enchantress, could one not? Come, Kitten, my love, sit by me."

She curtsied to us (which made her cleavage even ruder if that was possible), smiling and murmuring a soft greeting. Then she moved gracefully past us, slowly and languidly, her hips swaying, the cloth of the dress whispering against the ground as she went.

The back of her gown was even worse, for there was, in fact, no back, just another expanse of bare flesh. Again I was transfixed, this time by the long, smooth line of her spine. Her skin shone like soft silk against the deep midnight blue and gold peacock feathers of the gown. It had to be the most indecent dress I had ever seen. She curtsied before the Duke, and he bade her sit on a brocade footstool beside the throne. She looked graceful even in this pose, the train of her gown trailing across the steps of the dais. In one hand she carried a huge fan of peacock feathers which she draped across her lap. I stared at the floor, determined not to stare at her yet constantly aware of her on the periphery of my vision.

"Mademoiselle Dion," said the Duke, "you must realize that the safety of our dear Madame Avignon is of paramount importance to us. I'm sure I do not need to impress upon you the significance of that. Or the extent of our displeasure should any magical harm befall her. It would be an irreparable loss to our court were such a precious jewel to be harmed."

He smiled at Madame Avignon and kissed her soft, white hand (her arms were bare, too; was there anything that dress covered?), and she smiled back at him, sensuously. Then he turned his hard, bright glance back at us.

"Of course, we expect total discretion. We do not wish it to be known that you are protecting Madame Avignon. For it to become generally known might involve you both in ... unpleasantness. If anyone asks, you must say that you are merely performing healing magic. That, perhaps, is the beauty of your being a woman."

I nodded and curtsied, not knowing quite what to say.

The Duke leaned forward and smiled. It was a smile to die for. The thought of disappointing him was too dreadful to contemplate.

"I'm sure you will not let us down. Is there anything else you need to undertake this spell of protection?"

"Master John must draw certain symbols on the ground. Madame ... the lady must stand inside them. Then I must look upon the lady for a few minutes in order to weave the protective magics around her."

"A pleasant task no doubt." He and Madame Avignon exchanged smiles again. "Do you two need to be alone for this?"

"No, my lord. It is not necessary."

Thank God, I thought.

There was no need to be flustered. Yet Madame Avignon and that damned dress made me so nervous. It was so hard not to stare at her cleavage and yet ... What normal woman stares at another woman's bosom? For God's sake, Dion. You are a mage. Be dignified.

"If the lady would just come forward."

"Of course," murmured Madame Avignon. Even her voice was seductive, low and soft, with a slight foreign accent.

She smiled at me. It was the first time I'd noticed her face. It was beautiful but ... knowing-eyes heavy with kohl, lips firm and an unnatural, brilliant red. The smile seemed wrong for it. It confused me. It was so warm and friendly, somehow comforting. I felt suspicious all of a sudden. What business had she being so warm to me? She didn't know me from the next man, and yet here she was smiling at me as if I were her favorite sister.

Master John crawled around her, a little awkward in his long robes, chalking symbols on the floor. It was an odd feeling. Usually it was someone like me who did such menial tasks. He expounded on protection spells to the interested Duke as he went, explaining how they were simple to maintain by renewing the ritual four times a day, how they wrapped a person in a kind of magical cocoon, making it impossible for any other mage to fix another spell on them and how I would be able to maintain it without ever having to trouble Madame Avignon again.

"Do I turn?" she asked me.

"I will tell you."

I needed to fix a picture of her in my mind, but it was hard to picture her. I didn't want that kind of intimacy with such a woman. At least my suspicion made it easier to concentrate on the task at hand and not on her disturbing cleavage.

Master John stood up and nodded at me.

I closed my eyes, found my own center, and began to recite the incantation under my breath. Concentrating, I opened my eyes and, for the first time, looked full at her.

Magic has a strange effect on the practitioner. It pulls you away from the everyday world, the world of people, of dust under the bed and the scent of sweat, and makes it all seem flat and unreal, as if it were a picture in a book. It is this that makes mages so cold. Feelings don't touch us while we perform magic. The only thing we ever feel is the logical realization that we would probably be distressed by what we saw if we weren't performing magic. What I mean is, that in that moment I could have watched Kitten Avignon and the Duke writhing on the floor in the act of love and have felt nothing except the dispassionate realization that I would be embarrassed remembering this. So it was now easy for me to look at Kitten Avignon and concentrate on winding the incantation round her like a ribbon. I think if it were possible, most mages would spend their lives in such a state. It brings such peace and freedom from pain. But, sadly, most magic is too exhausting to practice for more than a few hours a day.

I connected that ribbon of incantation to myself, weaving it firmly into my being so that I was the weakest point in the strand. I was tired when I finished, but the magic had brought, as it always did, a residual calm with it.

I stood quietly as the two men discussed fees and other practicalities. Madame Avignon, too, sat quietly on the footstool beside the throne, her eyes downcast, as if, like me, she was merely waiting for the men to finish their business.

Master John was silent during the walk back to the college. I had an overwhelming desire to ask him what he thought of it all, how he thought things had gone, what he had thought of her. I wished deeply for Michael in that moment, for I knew he would have told me what to think. All Master John said was, "The correct way to address a duke is Your Grace, Dion."

We reported to the Dean and I had been dismissed, but before the Dean's door had closed fully after me, I heard Master John say irritably, "As usual That Woman was prancing around half-naked and the Duke was bedding her with his eyes the whole time we were there. Honestly my lord I cannot like ..."

The door clicked shut.