The End of Magic - Chapter 7
Jul. 6th, 2019 07:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desastristaThe End of Magic is an original multichaptered fantasy work that I am currently publishing on both AO3 and Dreamwidth. You can find the master post of all chapters here or just click the "end of magic" tag. (AO3 link here)
That night, Nadide waited until Ozal had retired into his quarters before she snuffed out all the candles in her room except the one she carried with her to visit the foreign magician’s room.
Ahmad sat cross-legged on the floor and when she entered he bid her to sit across from him.
“I told you I have never taught magic and no one ever taught me," he started. There was a hesitancy in his voice, as if he half-expected Nadide to call off the arrangement right then and there. As if Nadide had a choice of tutors available to her.
When she nodded, Ahmad continued, “You did magic before. How did it feel?"
Nadide should have expected the question, but still her mouth went dry. "It was when my brother was ill," she started. No, that wasn't right. "When he was cursed." Even the memory of those days could make her stomach twist into knots. Maybe Ahmad knew; there was an infuriating patience in the way he looked at her. She could not meet his gaze, and dropped her gaze to the floor instead. "The minute they brought him home, I felt something -- wrong, somehow, in his chest. None of the physicians, whether they were from the Stand or elsewhere, could find anything amiss. And when I asked Kadim, my uncle, or our guests if they felt anything amiss, all I got were strange looks."
She'd learned to stop asking, lest they think her a lunatic and call a physician for her too. Even hearing herself speak now, the words sounded like madness.
But Ahmad only asked, "What did you do after that?"
"I had this idea -- strange, I don’t know where it came from -- that whatever it was inside of him, it wanted to expand. And I didn't want it to. So every time I saw him, I concentrated on it. And when I did -- it seemed to shrink back."
So many people had called on her during those months. So many people had inquired about her brother's health, and even a few asked after her own. She had never breathed a word of this story to any of them. Why would she, when she knew what they would say? What a pity. A fragile woman, grief has robbed her of her senses.
Ahmad did not have anything to say to that. So she continued, “It never went away entirely. And every night, it was just as strong as it had been the day before. So every morning, I would visit my brother's side -- and concentrate.”
It had seemed useless. More than useless. But while Ozal had lingered in that accursed state,
Nadide had not dared to stop. It was only when Ahmad had come to Kadehir that she had found relief.
"You did the right thing. It kept him alive." Nadide had been expecting disbelief at her story, but Ahmad just looked contemplative. The fact made her smile, just a little. “Now that your brother is well, how to do it again...hmm. I learned magic doing small things. Perhaps you should start like that.”
He stood up to grab something lying not too far away -- it appeared to be a small candlestick -- and set it down halfway between them.
“Try to knock that down with magic.”
Her smile faltered. She gave it a long stare.
Such a small thing, compared to curing a magical ailment, directing the tides, or commanding the weather. And yet the candlestick still seemed distressingly solid and immovable when she looked at it.
“Is this how you started, knocking candlesticks over at night?” she asked softly.
“Not candlesticks, my family did not have that much money,” Ahmad scoffed, as if he found the very idea absurd. “But other things, yes.” Remembering something fondly, he smiled. “Everything else. My father's first wife thought we were haunted because all the time things fell and moved when no one touched them. She called three exorcisms.”
Nadide looked again at the candlestick. She had grown up hearing stories about young boys causing mischief for their parents before they were finally old enough to be taught by the Stand. Even a continent away and knowing nothing of these stories, evidently Ahmad had been the same. Nadide had been raised to be proper and polite, and had never seen reason to give her mother alarm. Did that make her less of a magician?
And there was another objection on her tongue. “I do not have a Mucevhed,” she said, after some hesitation.
Ahmad frowned. “You know you do not need a Mucevhed to do magic. You did magic before. I did magic before I met Mahir.”
But now that you have met him, how much time have you spent apart? She wondered, but kept her lips tightly sealed around the question. She knew how magicians were about their Mucevheden; she had grown up with Ozal always sighing over Kadim’s curls. Nothing Nadide could say would change her situation. Instead, she asked, “Whose magic did you use, then?”
“Before Mahir? Everyone.” Ahmad shrugged. “Anything alive can have magic. Usually small. But if you can see it, you can use it. The only magic I cannot use is my own. Even the goats I tended had magic. Very, very small -- it takes a whole herd to nudge a kid. But still. It can happen.” He frowned as a thought appeared to occur to him. “Actually, it should be easy for you to see magic. There is so much here. Even the ground itself has magic. Very different from home.”
“I’ve never been outside the city, so I don’t know how it is elsewhere. Everyone talks about how much magic there is in Kadehir, though.” She smiled faintly at the thought. “It has roots here, and they run deep.”
“Yes,” Ahmad answered, clearly sharing none of Nadide fondness for that fact. “Well, practice. Then you might see. Until then, focus on something easier. Mahir has a lot of magic, try to see it on him.”
His Mucevhed had been sitting patiently on his right hand side. He drew himself up a little taller at the mention of his name.
“Close your eyes, concentrate.”
Reluctantly, Nadide followed Ahmad’s instructions. With her eyes closed, her hearing seemed sharper than it had been. She could make out footsteps in the distance and her back stiffened suddenly. What if her brother had decided he wanted to speak with Ahmad? What if he sent Kadim to check on his guest? If he were to discover his unmarried sister alone with a strange man at night --
“You are not concentrating,” Ahmad reproached.
The footsteps stopped. Nadide took one long breath and then another.
“Think about how you felt, when you looked at your brother.”
She did not want to remember those feelings. The disgust. The despair. That was not magic. It could not be. Magic was supposed to be a wonderous thing. If Nadide had not felt that at the time, perhaps there was some defect in her.
“Probably the hair on your neck stood up,” Ahmad continued, oblivious to her doubts. There was a fondness in his voice that had not been there before. He might not love Kadehir, but he did love magic.
Nadide tried harder to remember. Perhaps they had, perhaps they had not. More than likely she had never even noticed in the first place -- after all, when she had not known if her brother would live or die, why should she spare a thought for the hairs on the back of her neck?
Fear had eaten her from the inside out those months. Even now that her brother was recovered, it had still not completely left her. Nadide took another, steadying breath. That did not make the fear useful now, though. She needed to cast it aside. She needed to remember.
There had been -- another feeling. Different than that dread thing living in her brother’s chest. A chill against her skin. A wet touch that left no trace of itself. It had reminded Nadide of when her mother was alive, and the two of them would walk by the shore just after the sun rose and the early fog rolled in from the sea. That was why it had been so easy to forget; she had thought it was just a memory, made vivid by grief and loss.
Remembering it now, she wasn’t so sure.
The more she thought about the feeling, the more sure she was that it was in this room now. She closed her eyes, concentrated, really concentrated this time. It was here. A kind of fog, hanging in the air. And Ahmad was right; it clung heaviest to Mahir.
The fog was such a pleasant thing. Nadide wanted to touch it. She imagined herself reaching out, trying to grasp it for herself.
But the fog shrank inwards. It inched out of her grasp, moved closer towards Mahir. Closer towards Ahmad.
Nadide opened her eyes. Her chest felt very tight, and she did not trust herself to talk. Ahmad was still sitting, gazing at her with that patient expression as if any moment Nadide might surprise him. But her gaze slid to his right. She looked at Mahir instead. He was staring into the distance, but not at her. His expression was carefully, studiedly neutral.
A well-trained Mucevhed. And whatever Ahmad might say, like a well-trained Mucevhed, Mahir reserved his magic for his master.
Nadide stood up all at once. Disappointed weighted heavily on her shoulders.
“You are going?” Ahmad called out in surprise. “We will try again tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” Nadide echoed bitterly. Tomorrow, as if it were only more time she needed. Will your Mucevhed have changed by tomorrow? she wanted to ask. But that would only draw Ahmad’s ire. And if he decided he did not want to teach Nadide, there was no one else from whom she could learn.
So Nadide swallowed her temper and forced her expression into something more pleasant. “Yes,” she nodded. “Tomorrow, we will practice again.”
It felt impossible that their next session should go any differently, but Nadide had too few options to worry about impossible.
The next morning, Ozal drafted a letter to Demir requesting a visit. He filled it with the usual pleasantries and said nothing about the only subject that mattered, the election of Tolga bajedi. When he finished, Kadim -- perhaps now resigned to his new role as the first Stand-born errand boy -- picked up the letter and made to leave.
“Find someone to deliver this,” Ozal instructed. “I want you here this morning.”
They had not shared much time together in private since Ozal’s recovery, and Ozal was sure that in the time they had had, he had not been pleasant company. So he wasn’t surprised at either the hope or the hunger in Kadim’s eyes at his words. All the more pity to see it morph into something else entirely when he said, “I need to practice magic.”
“I know you are worried,” Kadim started, obviously biting down harsher words. “But you are pushing yourself too hard. If you take more time to rest --”
“I have rested enough for a lifetime,” Ozal responded.
The fact was that he had yet to do even a simple spell since he had woken. Perhaps Kadim thought if only he laid about more, that would change; Ozal knew only practice could make him better.
The morning brought only disappointment to them both. It did not matter how hard Ozal concentrated or how much Kadim fretted over him: he could not call on his Mucevhed’s magic. His mouth tasted of ash every time he tried. Even pooling magic at his fingertips -- something he had learned in his first year at the Stand! -- caused no flash of white light, but did have sweat beading on his forehead. The push and pull of magic, once as familiar a rhythm to him as his own breathing, was not there. He’d had more control and power when he had been a child than he did now.
Eventually, as morning slipped away and there was no sign of him downstairs, Nadide came to check on him. “Is everything alright?” she asked as soon as Kadim had let her inside.
Ozal debated his answer for a minute. His sister looked tired, and worry deepened the lines of her face. It would just be cruel to tell her the truth. “I am fine,” he said. “I just needed a bit of time to write.”
He sat down, trying not to let his labored breathing make his lie too obvious.
“You should be resting,” Nadide said. “I know you sent for someone else today. All these letters, all these guests. It is too much, too soon.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” Ozal muttered, with a sideways glance at Kadim.
“Then you should try listening,” she scolded.
“Someone murdered Eryadin bajedi; they tried to murder me. They should be hanged, but they walk free. And in the face of that, you and Kadim want me to -- what, loiter in my own house? I need answers, Nadide. When the Empire’s justice comes for the man who did this to me, then I will rest.”
“If you push yourself too hard, you will do your enemy’s work for him,” Nadide countered.
The words echoed in Ozal’s head after Nadide left; they continued to echo even when Demir finally came to call. Ozal would never have told his sister, but he did feel weak. Still, he forced himself to stand to greet the man, and tried to hide the relief he felt when both of them finally sat.
The man who had collected the votes for the Stand’s nomination was tall and had a proud bearing, but he could not hide his youth or inexperience. His Mucevhed bowed more often than the situation demanded, and the white turban seemed to fit uneasily on his master’s head. But even more than that, Ozal thought bitterly, a less green member of the Stand wouldn’t have gawked so openly when he set his cane in front of him on the floor.
“I am glad to see you recovered,” Demir started. “I called on your sister once or twice while you were ill. I doubt she remembers me, though. All of the Stand probably came to call during that terrible time.”
These last remarks seemed to be directed towards Nadide, who had brought out a kettle to serve the two of them. A good Kadehirden woman, she was willing to play maidservant rather than let their guest go thirsty.
Ozal would have chosen the latter for Demir.
“Do you remember Demir, Nadide?” he asked.
She only glanced up at those last words. Evidently her mind was elsewhere. He did not blame her. “Mm?” she said. “Oh, yes. He was kind to call.”
It seemed a rote answer to Ozal, but he saw how Demir’s cheeks reddened. No sooner had Nadide taken her exit than Demir leaned closer to ask. “Bajedi. Your sister. How old is your lovely sister?”
“Twenty five.”
Demir frowned, clearly unhappy with the answer. “She is rather old to have never married.”
“And you are rather junior to inquire about her,” Ozal said, with a slight rise of his eyebrows.
“Apologies, bajedi,” Demir had only gone redder. “Of course, you are right. No doubt you would like to see her married to a man of rank. A kivshah, probably, based on the way things are going.”
Ozal was careful to not show his disdain for that particular option. “My father had wanted her to marry a minister, but he unfortunately passed away before he could find a suitable match. Now the task falls to me.”
“Yes, of course.” Demir cleared his throat. “Forgive me, I knew she was unmarried, and when you wrote --”
“The next time you have courtship in mind, send your mother or a sister first instead. A woman should speak with another woman first about marriage. No, I wanted to ask you about Tolga bajedi.”
“Tol -- you mean the Imperial Magician, bajedi?”’
Demir’s face had gone just slightly paler. Ozal took a long sip of his tea before responding. All the better to let the other man sweat in the impropriety of what he had just said. “Of course. Old habits. He did not have that title before I --” He knew he should end that sentence with a pleasant lie, but he could not force one from his mouth.
Before someone at the Stand tried to murder me.
He had to know why. And he suspected Demir might know more than he realized.
The man nodded, his expression one of deepest sympathy. “The Emperor’s selection took place a week or so later. Everyone was still talking about what had happened to you and Eryadin then.”
“Were they talking about it during the nomination?”
“Ah. I see now why you wanted to talk with me. I did take the votes. It was an honor, of course. I was only made a full magician recently --”
That was obvious, but Ozal bit down on that particular observation. “I am curious to hear your thoughts on how it went,” he said instead.
“In these troubled times, the nomination of the Imperial Magician is a very serious duty for a member of the Stand. The Emperor is all that stands between us and aggression from our borders and strife from within.”
Ozal would need more specific information than that. “Since I have recovered, I have been hearing so much about the Vaspahanians --”
“The shadow take them!” Demir said at once. “Excuse my language, bajedi, but they threaten us in our own waters and yet still we do nothing -- you should have heard what people said about them during the nomination.”
“What kind of things did they say?”
All at once, Demir realized the path his mouth had led him down. “The votes are supposed to be private,” he demurred.
“I am not interested in knowing who backed who,” Ozal said. “Those divisions don’t matter anymore. But I am curious, what people said in general. I was discussing the nomination with Eryadin bajedi at the time, and had things gone differently, you would have called upon me here to record my thoughts.”
“Yes, that is true,” Demir nodded. He paused. Ozal waited. Finally, he added, “And I suppose it could be said that actually you have a special right to know, considering how often your name was mentioned. Along with Eryadin bajedi, of course.”
This whole farce might have prove useful after all. Ozal raised a curious eyebrow, feigning surprise. “People said this during their votes?”
“You might be surprised how much people talk when it comes time to record their vote.” Ozal knew this fact well; he wouldn’t have asked after Demir if he didn’t. “More than a few said that what happened to you and the ambassador swayed their vote.”
“But the nomination could not have happened so long afterwards. Did anyone know --”
“It was only a rumor at the time, of course, but everyone thought it was like the Vaspahanians.”
It was still only a rumor now, Ozal wanted to point out. A rumor whose source he knew, thanks to the physician. And now whose purpose he knew as well.
“For the men who mentioned it, Tolga bajedi must have been the most obvious choice,” he said mildly, albeit with some effort. “He was known to want to deal harshly with them.”
He should have known. An unlikely candidate, made suddenly palatable by a shocking attack on two magicians of the Stand. Ozal remembered Alev janum and the white cloth of her veil. He had wanted to think of her as an aberration, the exception. A woman gone mad with grief.
But while he had languished away, the whole Stand had shared in her madness.
Including, apparently, Demir, who nodded with enthusiasm. “Surely you must agree?” he asked. “Ozal bajedi, you have lost so much. Your mentor is dead. You are in the prime of your life and yet must walk with a cane. And if something had happened to you, your poor unmarried sister and Mucevhed --”
“Yes, thank you, you've made your point,” Ozal cut in sharply.
Demir did not seem particularly dissuaded. Perhaps he thought he had been doing Ozal a favor by explaining his own life circumstances to him. “I just thought -- well, I thought that in all the Stand, surely there was no one who would support our Imperial Magician as much as you.”
“All members of the Stand must support the Imperial Magician,” Ozal replied stiffly. Demir waited, as if expecting more. Perhaps a declaration that he would pray tonight for the Shadow to fall on Vaspahan, or go tomorrow to kneel in front of the god-trees and swear an oath of allegiance to Tolga.
Ozal stayed quiet.
“Have you had a chance to speak with the Imperial Magician in private, at least?” Demir finally asked. “Surely he has called on you since you have recovered. He must be very interested to see what you have to say.”
Privately, Ozal wondered what Tolga would think of the accusations he could lay at his feet. Out loud, he objected, “He is such a busy man. The Empire looks to him for so much. It must take weeks to get an audience.”
“Your circumstances are quite extraordinary,” Demir responded at once. “I am sure if you say that you desire an audience, he will do everything in his power to see you.”
Ozal had told his sister he would rest when he found answers.
Perhaps an audience with the Imperial Magician would help him honor that promise.
The corner of Ozal’s mouths lifted in a hungry approximation of a smile. “I will make sure to send him a message. Thank you, Demir, for the encouragement.”
Kadim left in the afternoon, and returned not too long after accompanied by a man in a well-tailored robe. Ahmad watched them from the top of the staircase.
“Is that the Imperial Magician?” he asked Mahir under his breath.
“No, he's too important to come himself,” Mahir whispered back. “But the man he is sent is of high rank. Whatever response he is giving our host, it is clearly sent with respect.”
Ahmad turned to give him a curious look. “What do you think of the Imperial Magician?”
Mahir’s ears reddened at the question. Ahmad likely was not aware, but it was a dangerous question. Switching to Wakamiri and lowering his voice even further, he answered, “He is a very important man that Ozal bajedi appears not to trust at all.”
Ahmad shook his head, as if Mahir had misheard. “No, what do you think? Do you know the man?”
“I --” Mahir stumbled. He hadn't been expecting that question. “I know him.” His former master had always been adamant that Mahir remember details about his guest and, at least before the selection, Tolga bajedi had been a close friend of Savaner. Mahir had gotten too many bruises on account of his failure to remember these little details not to remember, say, that Tolga preferred green olives to black and disliked music being played while he talked with Savaner. But that was hardly the same as having an opinion. Savaner had never asked him to do that.
Ahmad, perhaps sensing Mahir’s confusion, asked a simpler question. “Is he a good magician?”
“I suppose so.” His former master would not have bothered spending time with a magician whose talents he did not respect.
“He seems important. So that should mean he is very talented, right?”
“That isn’t quite how the Stand’s nomination process works --” Mahir started. Ahmad’s brows were furrowed in concentration, and he seemed to be listening very intensely. A thought occurred to Mahir. “It is not like you, to care about the politics of the Stand like this.”
“I don’t. I just want to know if this man has the same kind of magic I felt earlier.”
The rotten magic. Privately, Mahir had his doubts. Tolga bajedi was a talented enough magician, but the magic that Ahmad had described was something more than that. It required a kind of talent that the Stand had not seen in generations. But he knew that it would be pointless to tell Ahmad this. Instead, Mahir said, “Ahmad, please, be careful.”
Ahmad raised an eyebrow at that, but any question he might have asked was cut off by Ozal calling his name. Without either of them noticing, their host had made his way to the bottom of the stairs. The messenger appeared to have left. Ahmad walked down the stairs quickly, while Mahir followed at a dutiful distance.
“There you are,” Ozal said. “I wanted to let you know that I have an audience with the Imperial Magician tomorrow. It is something of a miracle that he was able to meet me so quickly, usually it can take weeks, if not months --”
“I want to come too,” Ahmad said at once.
Ozal frowned. With a sigh halfway between resignation and pity, he explained, “I understand that you might want to petition the Stand to reconsider the results of your admission. But Tolga bajedi is not the right man to ask. He is concerned with matters of empire. Since the education of young magicians is the Stand’s responsibility, the question falls to the Sheikh of the Magicians. As our current sheikh has seen many years, he does not respond to many petitions these days.”
Ahmad blinked and then shook his head. “What? No. I don’t care about that. I saw something strange at the Stand, and visiting the Imperial Magician maybe will help.”
It was a treacherous thought and he would never have breathed a word of it to Ahmad, but Mahir half-hoped that Ozal would refuse his request. Ozal and the Imperial Magician both had heads for politics and schemes; Ahmad did not. He was walking into a delicate situation about which he knew or cared little. But Ozal only shrugged. “I suppose there is no harm in it.”
And then the matter was settled.
When they had retired to their room, Ahmad wrapped an arm around Mahir to draw him closer. “You worry about me too much,” he said, his breath warm and soft against Mahir’s cheek.
“You don’t worry enough,” he sighed. Ahmad hummed in quiet skepticism of that remarked. Mahir leaned back into his touch, tried to calm his racing thoughts. It was easy with Ahmad to believe even impossible things. But Kadehir had its own dangers, and Mahir had to stay ready for them. After a minute, he said, “You asked me earlier what I thought of Tolga bajedi.”
“What do you think?”
Mahir swallowed heavily. “He was an ambitious man when my former master knew him. And now it seems he has gotten everything he wanted. He might be dangerous if he feels that his position is threatened. You should be careful what you say around him.”
“I will,” Ahmad said, very seriously, and Mahir could only hope he remembered that promise tomorrow.
That night, Nadide waited until Ozal had retired into his quarters before she snuffed out all the candles in her room except the one she carried with her to visit the foreign magician’s room.
Ahmad sat cross-legged on the floor and when she entered he bid her to sit across from him.
“I told you I have never taught magic and no one ever taught me," he started. There was a hesitancy in his voice, as if he half-expected Nadide to call off the arrangement right then and there. As if Nadide had a choice of tutors available to her.
When she nodded, Ahmad continued, “You did magic before. How did it feel?"
Nadide should have expected the question, but still her mouth went dry. "It was when my brother was ill," she started. No, that wasn't right. "When he was cursed." Even the memory of those days could make her stomach twist into knots. Maybe Ahmad knew; there was an infuriating patience in the way he looked at her. She could not meet his gaze, and dropped her gaze to the floor instead. "The minute they brought him home, I felt something -- wrong, somehow, in his chest. None of the physicians, whether they were from the Stand or elsewhere, could find anything amiss. And when I asked Kadim, my uncle, or our guests if they felt anything amiss, all I got were strange looks."
She'd learned to stop asking, lest they think her a lunatic and call a physician for her too. Even hearing herself speak now, the words sounded like madness.
But Ahmad only asked, "What did you do after that?"
"I had this idea -- strange, I don’t know where it came from -- that whatever it was inside of him, it wanted to expand. And I didn't want it to. So every time I saw him, I concentrated on it. And when I did -- it seemed to shrink back."
So many people had called on her during those months. So many people had inquired about her brother's health, and even a few asked after her own. She had never breathed a word of this story to any of them. Why would she, when she knew what they would say? What a pity. A fragile woman, grief has robbed her of her senses.
Ahmad did not have anything to say to that. So she continued, “It never went away entirely. And every night, it was just as strong as it had been the day before. So every morning, I would visit my brother's side -- and concentrate.”
It had seemed useless. More than useless. But while Ozal had lingered in that accursed state,
Nadide had not dared to stop. It was only when Ahmad had come to Kadehir that she had found relief.
"You did the right thing. It kept him alive." Nadide had been expecting disbelief at her story, but Ahmad just looked contemplative. The fact made her smile, just a little. “Now that your brother is well, how to do it again...hmm. I learned magic doing small things. Perhaps you should start like that.”
He stood up to grab something lying not too far away -- it appeared to be a small candlestick -- and set it down halfway between them.
“Try to knock that down with magic.”
Her smile faltered. She gave it a long stare.
Such a small thing, compared to curing a magical ailment, directing the tides, or commanding the weather. And yet the candlestick still seemed distressingly solid and immovable when she looked at it.
“Is this how you started, knocking candlesticks over at night?” she asked softly.
“Not candlesticks, my family did not have that much money,” Ahmad scoffed, as if he found the very idea absurd. “But other things, yes.” Remembering something fondly, he smiled. “Everything else. My father's first wife thought we were haunted because all the time things fell and moved when no one touched them. She called three exorcisms.”
Nadide looked again at the candlestick. She had grown up hearing stories about young boys causing mischief for their parents before they were finally old enough to be taught by the Stand. Even a continent away and knowing nothing of these stories, evidently Ahmad had been the same. Nadide had been raised to be proper and polite, and had never seen reason to give her mother alarm. Did that make her less of a magician?
And there was another objection on her tongue. “I do not have a Mucevhed,” she said, after some hesitation.
Ahmad frowned. “You know you do not need a Mucevhed to do magic. You did magic before. I did magic before I met Mahir.”
But now that you have met him, how much time have you spent apart? She wondered, but kept her lips tightly sealed around the question. She knew how magicians were about their Mucevheden; she had grown up with Ozal always sighing over Kadim’s curls. Nothing Nadide could say would change her situation. Instead, she asked, “Whose magic did you use, then?”
“Before Mahir? Everyone.” Ahmad shrugged. “Anything alive can have magic. Usually small. But if you can see it, you can use it. The only magic I cannot use is my own. Even the goats I tended had magic. Very, very small -- it takes a whole herd to nudge a kid. But still. It can happen.” He frowned as a thought appeared to occur to him. “Actually, it should be easy for you to see magic. There is so much here. Even the ground itself has magic. Very different from home.”
“I’ve never been outside the city, so I don’t know how it is elsewhere. Everyone talks about how much magic there is in Kadehir, though.” She smiled faintly at the thought. “It has roots here, and they run deep.”
“Yes,” Ahmad answered, clearly sharing none of Nadide fondness for that fact. “Well, practice. Then you might see. Until then, focus on something easier. Mahir has a lot of magic, try to see it on him.”
His Mucevhed had been sitting patiently on his right hand side. He drew himself up a little taller at the mention of his name.
“Close your eyes, concentrate.”
Reluctantly, Nadide followed Ahmad’s instructions. With her eyes closed, her hearing seemed sharper than it had been. She could make out footsteps in the distance and her back stiffened suddenly. What if her brother had decided he wanted to speak with Ahmad? What if he sent Kadim to check on his guest? If he were to discover his unmarried sister alone with a strange man at night --
“You are not concentrating,” Ahmad reproached.
The footsteps stopped. Nadide took one long breath and then another.
“Think about how you felt, when you looked at your brother.”
She did not want to remember those feelings. The disgust. The despair. That was not magic. It could not be. Magic was supposed to be a wonderous thing. If Nadide had not felt that at the time, perhaps there was some defect in her.
“Probably the hair on your neck stood up,” Ahmad continued, oblivious to her doubts. There was a fondness in his voice that had not been there before. He might not love Kadehir, but he did love magic.
Nadide tried harder to remember. Perhaps they had, perhaps they had not. More than likely she had never even noticed in the first place -- after all, when she had not known if her brother would live or die, why should she spare a thought for the hairs on the back of her neck?
Fear had eaten her from the inside out those months. Even now that her brother was recovered, it had still not completely left her. Nadide took another, steadying breath. That did not make the fear useful now, though. She needed to cast it aside. She needed to remember.
There had been -- another feeling. Different than that dread thing living in her brother’s chest. A chill against her skin. A wet touch that left no trace of itself. It had reminded Nadide of when her mother was alive, and the two of them would walk by the shore just after the sun rose and the early fog rolled in from the sea. That was why it had been so easy to forget; she had thought it was just a memory, made vivid by grief and loss.
Remembering it now, she wasn’t so sure.
The more she thought about the feeling, the more sure she was that it was in this room now. She closed her eyes, concentrated, really concentrated this time. It was here. A kind of fog, hanging in the air. And Ahmad was right; it clung heaviest to Mahir.
The fog was such a pleasant thing. Nadide wanted to touch it. She imagined herself reaching out, trying to grasp it for herself.
But the fog shrank inwards. It inched out of her grasp, moved closer towards Mahir. Closer towards Ahmad.
Nadide opened her eyes. Her chest felt very tight, and she did not trust herself to talk. Ahmad was still sitting, gazing at her with that patient expression as if any moment Nadide might surprise him. But her gaze slid to his right. She looked at Mahir instead. He was staring into the distance, but not at her. His expression was carefully, studiedly neutral.
A well-trained Mucevhed. And whatever Ahmad might say, like a well-trained Mucevhed, Mahir reserved his magic for his master.
Nadide stood up all at once. Disappointed weighted heavily on her shoulders.
“You are going?” Ahmad called out in surprise. “We will try again tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” Nadide echoed bitterly. Tomorrow, as if it were only more time she needed. Will your Mucevhed have changed by tomorrow? she wanted to ask. But that would only draw Ahmad’s ire. And if he decided he did not want to teach Nadide, there was no one else from whom she could learn.
So Nadide swallowed her temper and forced her expression into something more pleasant. “Yes,” she nodded. “Tomorrow, we will practice again.”
It felt impossible that their next session should go any differently, but Nadide had too few options to worry about impossible.
The next morning, Ozal drafted a letter to Demir requesting a visit. He filled it with the usual pleasantries and said nothing about the only subject that mattered, the election of Tolga bajedi. When he finished, Kadim -- perhaps now resigned to his new role as the first Stand-born errand boy -- picked up the letter and made to leave.
“Find someone to deliver this,” Ozal instructed. “I want you here this morning.”
They had not shared much time together in private since Ozal’s recovery, and Ozal was sure that in the time they had had, he had not been pleasant company. So he wasn’t surprised at either the hope or the hunger in Kadim’s eyes at his words. All the more pity to see it morph into something else entirely when he said, “I need to practice magic.”
“I know you are worried,” Kadim started, obviously biting down harsher words. “But you are pushing yourself too hard. If you take more time to rest --”
“I have rested enough for a lifetime,” Ozal responded.
The fact was that he had yet to do even a simple spell since he had woken. Perhaps Kadim thought if only he laid about more, that would change; Ozal knew only practice could make him better.
The morning brought only disappointment to them both. It did not matter how hard Ozal concentrated or how much Kadim fretted over him: he could not call on his Mucevhed’s magic. His mouth tasted of ash every time he tried. Even pooling magic at his fingertips -- something he had learned in his first year at the Stand! -- caused no flash of white light, but did have sweat beading on his forehead. The push and pull of magic, once as familiar a rhythm to him as his own breathing, was not there. He’d had more control and power when he had been a child than he did now.
Eventually, as morning slipped away and there was no sign of him downstairs, Nadide came to check on him. “Is everything alright?” she asked as soon as Kadim had let her inside.
Ozal debated his answer for a minute. His sister looked tired, and worry deepened the lines of her face. It would just be cruel to tell her the truth. “I am fine,” he said. “I just needed a bit of time to write.”
He sat down, trying not to let his labored breathing make his lie too obvious.
“You should be resting,” Nadide said. “I know you sent for someone else today. All these letters, all these guests. It is too much, too soon.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” Ozal muttered, with a sideways glance at Kadim.
“Then you should try listening,” she scolded.
“Someone murdered Eryadin bajedi; they tried to murder me. They should be hanged, but they walk free. And in the face of that, you and Kadim want me to -- what, loiter in my own house? I need answers, Nadide. When the Empire’s justice comes for the man who did this to me, then I will rest.”
“If you push yourself too hard, you will do your enemy’s work for him,” Nadide countered.
The words echoed in Ozal’s head after Nadide left; they continued to echo even when Demir finally came to call. Ozal would never have told his sister, but he did feel weak. Still, he forced himself to stand to greet the man, and tried to hide the relief he felt when both of them finally sat.
The man who had collected the votes for the Stand’s nomination was tall and had a proud bearing, but he could not hide his youth or inexperience. His Mucevhed bowed more often than the situation demanded, and the white turban seemed to fit uneasily on his master’s head. But even more than that, Ozal thought bitterly, a less green member of the Stand wouldn’t have gawked so openly when he set his cane in front of him on the floor.
“I am glad to see you recovered,” Demir started. “I called on your sister once or twice while you were ill. I doubt she remembers me, though. All of the Stand probably came to call during that terrible time.”
These last remarks seemed to be directed towards Nadide, who had brought out a kettle to serve the two of them. A good Kadehirden woman, she was willing to play maidservant rather than let their guest go thirsty.
Ozal would have chosen the latter for Demir.
“Do you remember Demir, Nadide?” he asked.
She only glanced up at those last words. Evidently her mind was elsewhere. He did not blame her. “Mm?” she said. “Oh, yes. He was kind to call.”
It seemed a rote answer to Ozal, but he saw how Demir’s cheeks reddened. No sooner had Nadide taken her exit than Demir leaned closer to ask. “Bajedi. Your sister. How old is your lovely sister?”
“Twenty five.”
Demir frowned, clearly unhappy with the answer. “She is rather old to have never married.”
“And you are rather junior to inquire about her,” Ozal said, with a slight rise of his eyebrows.
“Apologies, bajedi,” Demir had only gone redder. “Of course, you are right. No doubt you would like to see her married to a man of rank. A kivshah, probably, based on the way things are going.”
Ozal was careful to not show his disdain for that particular option. “My father had wanted her to marry a minister, but he unfortunately passed away before he could find a suitable match. Now the task falls to me.”
“Yes, of course.” Demir cleared his throat. “Forgive me, I knew she was unmarried, and when you wrote --”
“The next time you have courtship in mind, send your mother or a sister first instead. A woman should speak with another woman first about marriage. No, I wanted to ask you about Tolga bajedi.”
“Tol -- you mean the Imperial Magician, bajedi?”’
Demir’s face had gone just slightly paler. Ozal took a long sip of his tea before responding. All the better to let the other man sweat in the impropriety of what he had just said. “Of course. Old habits. He did not have that title before I --” He knew he should end that sentence with a pleasant lie, but he could not force one from his mouth.
Before someone at the Stand tried to murder me.
He had to know why. And he suspected Demir might know more than he realized.
The man nodded, his expression one of deepest sympathy. “The Emperor’s selection took place a week or so later. Everyone was still talking about what had happened to you and Eryadin then.”
“Were they talking about it during the nomination?”
“Ah. I see now why you wanted to talk with me. I did take the votes. It was an honor, of course. I was only made a full magician recently --”
That was obvious, but Ozal bit down on that particular observation. “I am curious to hear your thoughts on how it went,” he said instead.
“In these troubled times, the nomination of the Imperial Magician is a very serious duty for a member of the Stand. The Emperor is all that stands between us and aggression from our borders and strife from within.”
Ozal would need more specific information than that. “Since I have recovered, I have been hearing so much about the Vaspahanians --”
“The shadow take them!” Demir said at once. “Excuse my language, bajedi, but they threaten us in our own waters and yet still we do nothing -- you should have heard what people said about them during the nomination.”
“What kind of things did they say?”
All at once, Demir realized the path his mouth had led him down. “The votes are supposed to be private,” he demurred.
“I am not interested in knowing who backed who,” Ozal said. “Those divisions don’t matter anymore. But I am curious, what people said in general. I was discussing the nomination with Eryadin bajedi at the time, and had things gone differently, you would have called upon me here to record my thoughts.”
“Yes, that is true,” Demir nodded. He paused. Ozal waited. Finally, he added, “And I suppose it could be said that actually you have a special right to know, considering how often your name was mentioned. Along with Eryadin bajedi, of course.”
This whole farce might have prove useful after all. Ozal raised a curious eyebrow, feigning surprise. “People said this during their votes?”
“You might be surprised how much people talk when it comes time to record their vote.” Ozal knew this fact well; he wouldn’t have asked after Demir if he didn’t. “More than a few said that what happened to you and the ambassador swayed their vote.”
“But the nomination could not have happened so long afterwards. Did anyone know --”
“It was only a rumor at the time, of course, but everyone thought it was like the Vaspahanians.”
It was still only a rumor now, Ozal wanted to point out. A rumor whose source he knew, thanks to the physician. And now whose purpose he knew as well.
“For the men who mentioned it, Tolga bajedi must have been the most obvious choice,” he said mildly, albeit with some effort. “He was known to want to deal harshly with them.”
He should have known. An unlikely candidate, made suddenly palatable by a shocking attack on two magicians of the Stand. Ozal remembered Alev janum and the white cloth of her veil. He had wanted to think of her as an aberration, the exception. A woman gone mad with grief.
But while he had languished away, the whole Stand had shared in her madness.
Including, apparently, Demir, who nodded with enthusiasm. “Surely you must agree?” he asked. “Ozal bajedi, you have lost so much. Your mentor is dead. You are in the prime of your life and yet must walk with a cane. And if something had happened to you, your poor unmarried sister and Mucevhed --”
“Yes, thank you, you've made your point,” Ozal cut in sharply.
Demir did not seem particularly dissuaded. Perhaps he thought he had been doing Ozal a favor by explaining his own life circumstances to him. “I just thought -- well, I thought that in all the Stand, surely there was no one who would support our Imperial Magician as much as you.”
“All members of the Stand must support the Imperial Magician,” Ozal replied stiffly. Demir waited, as if expecting more. Perhaps a declaration that he would pray tonight for the Shadow to fall on Vaspahan, or go tomorrow to kneel in front of the god-trees and swear an oath of allegiance to Tolga.
Ozal stayed quiet.
“Have you had a chance to speak with the Imperial Magician in private, at least?” Demir finally asked. “Surely he has called on you since you have recovered. He must be very interested to see what you have to say.”
Privately, Ozal wondered what Tolga would think of the accusations he could lay at his feet. Out loud, he objected, “He is such a busy man. The Empire looks to him for so much. It must take weeks to get an audience.”
“Your circumstances are quite extraordinary,” Demir responded at once. “I am sure if you say that you desire an audience, he will do everything in his power to see you.”
Ozal had told his sister he would rest when he found answers.
Perhaps an audience with the Imperial Magician would help him honor that promise.
The corner of Ozal’s mouths lifted in a hungry approximation of a smile. “I will make sure to send him a message. Thank you, Demir, for the encouragement.”
Kadim left in the afternoon, and returned not too long after accompanied by a man in a well-tailored robe. Ahmad watched them from the top of the staircase.
“Is that the Imperial Magician?” he asked Mahir under his breath.
“No, he's too important to come himself,” Mahir whispered back. “But the man he is sent is of high rank. Whatever response he is giving our host, it is clearly sent with respect.”
Ahmad turned to give him a curious look. “What do you think of the Imperial Magician?”
Mahir’s ears reddened at the question. Ahmad likely was not aware, but it was a dangerous question. Switching to Wakamiri and lowering his voice even further, he answered, “He is a very important man that Ozal bajedi appears not to trust at all.”
Ahmad shook his head, as if Mahir had misheard. “No, what do you think? Do you know the man?”
“I --” Mahir stumbled. He hadn't been expecting that question. “I know him.” His former master had always been adamant that Mahir remember details about his guest and, at least before the selection, Tolga bajedi had been a close friend of Savaner. Mahir had gotten too many bruises on account of his failure to remember these little details not to remember, say, that Tolga preferred green olives to black and disliked music being played while he talked with Savaner. But that was hardly the same as having an opinion. Savaner had never asked him to do that.
Ahmad, perhaps sensing Mahir’s confusion, asked a simpler question. “Is he a good magician?”
“I suppose so.” His former master would not have bothered spending time with a magician whose talents he did not respect.
“He seems important. So that should mean he is very talented, right?”
“That isn’t quite how the Stand’s nomination process works --” Mahir started. Ahmad’s brows were furrowed in concentration, and he seemed to be listening very intensely. A thought occurred to Mahir. “It is not like you, to care about the politics of the Stand like this.”
“I don’t. I just want to know if this man has the same kind of magic I felt earlier.”
The rotten magic. Privately, Mahir had his doubts. Tolga bajedi was a talented enough magician, but the magic that Ahmad had described was something more than that. It required a kind of talent that the Stand had not seen in generations. But he knew that it would be pointless to tell Ahmad this. Instead, Mahir said, “Ahmad, please, be careful.”
Ahmad raised an eyebrow at that, but any question he might have asked was cut off by Ozal calling his name. Without either of them noticing, their host had made his way to the bottom of the stairs. The messenger appeared to have left. Ahmad walked down the stairs quickly, while Mahir followed at a dutiful distance.
“There you are,” Ozal said. “I wanted to let you know that I have an audience with the Imperial Magician tomorrow. It is something of a miracle that he was able to meet me so quickly, usually it can take weeks, if not months --”
“I want to come too,” Ahmad said at once.
Ozal frowned. With a sigh halfway between resignation and pity, he explained, “I understand that you might want to petition the Stand to reconsider the results of your admission. But Tolga bajedi is not the right man to ask. He is concerned with matters of empire. Since the education of young magicians is the Stand’s responsibility, the question falls to the Sheikh of the Magicians. As our current sheikh has seen many years, he does not respond to many petitions these days.”
Ahmad blinked and then shook his head. “What? No. I don’t care about that. I saw something strange at the Stand, and visiting the Imperial Magician maybe will help.”
It was a treacherous thought and he would never have breathed a word of it to Ahmad, but Mahir half-hoped that Ozal would refuse his request. Ozal and the Imperial Magician both had heads for politics and schemes; Ahmad did not. He was walking into a delicate situation about which he knew or cared little. But Ozal only shrugged. “I suppose there is no harm in it.”
And then the matter was settled.
When they had retired to their room, Ahmad wrapped an arm around Mahir to draw him closer. “You worry about me too much,” he said, his breath warm and soft against Mahir’s cheek.
“You don’t worry enough,” he sighed. Ahmad hummed in quiet skepticism of that remarked. Mahir leaned back into his touch, tried to calm his racing thoughts. It was easy with Ahmad to believe even impossible things. But Kadehir had its own dangers, and Mahir had to stay ready for them. After a minute, he said, “You asked me earlier what I thought of Tolga bajedi.”
“What do you think?”
Mahir swallowed heavily. “He was an ambitious man when my former master knew him. And now it seems he has gotten everything he wanted. He might be dangerous if he feels that his position is threatened. You should be careful what you say around him.”
“I will,” Ahmad said, very seriously, and Mahir could only hope he remembered that promise tomorrow.
