The End of Magic - Chapter 11
Jun. 20th, 2020 08:54 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)
The Great Library was one of the largest rooms anywhere in the Stand, and it was crammed with shelves packed full of books and desks where Mucevheden and magicians alike sat reading and copying various passages. Despite -- or maybe because of -- the number of people present, it was also one of the quietest places in the Stand, with only the occasional whispered mutter and the ever present scratch of reed against parchment in the background.
When Ahmad stepped inside, he swore. Mahir was thankful he did so under his breath.
“There are this many books in the world?” Ahmad turned to Mahir to ask.
“The Stand has the largest collection of books of magic anywhere in the world,” Mahir answered, lowering his voice and hoping Ahmad did the same. “It is said that if there is a magical subject matter not contained within these shelves, it does not exist.”
Ahmad turned towards the shelves with a look of appreciation. Mahir was glad; he had always liked the library. The smell of ink and scrolls. The way the silence allowed one to be perfectly alone in a room full of strangers. He tried to remember that feeling, even as he felt his chest tighten. Too many bad memories of Savaner kishah directing him to find this treatise or another and Mahir scurrying to and fro, desperate to not once again disappoint his master.
“Is there a book that will teach me to read Kadehirden?” Ahmad’s question forced Mahir back to the present.
He frowned. “I do not think so. Most of the children at the Stand learn to read at home.”
Ahmad’s nostrils flared in frustration. “Then it does not seem to be a very useful library to me,” he muttered. “Well, you know this place. Where we start?”
The force of memory was so strong that Mahir still half expected Ahmad to order him to fetch him a particular book -- fetch it quickly now -- even though obviously Ahmad could not name a single title on these shelves. Mahir blinked, trying to reorient himself.
“Ozal said look for books of time, yes?” Ahmad mused to himself. “How to find one…”
“Normally, I would find you a book, you would read it at your leisure, and then instruct me to copy whatever parts of it you would like to keep for your own records," Mahir supplied.
Ahmad stared at Mahir as if he had just suffered some kind of blow to the head. "So, you find the spell and I go look for the rotten magic?" he translated hopefully.
Of course. That was how it was going to have to be. Mahir forced himself to nod. His throat was closed too tight to speak. He looked again at the shelves, this time with some additional trepidation.
He'd walked among these books a thousand times. But he'd never had to find his own way before. And here Ahmad was, trusting him blindly. After Ozal bajedi and Nadide had trusted Ahmad completely. That was a lot for Mahir to shoulder.
Too much, he found himself thinking. It wasn't right. Someone else should decide what was important, and then tell Mahir what it was that was expected of him. That was familiar, comforting territory.
It took a minute longer for Mahir to remind himself that that was how it had been with Savaner kishah, and there was nothing comforting about that man.
That minute gave Ahmad enough time to fix Mahir with that same worried stare that Mahir knew well by now. He reached out a hand, no doubt meaning it to be reassuring. But the setting was all wrong. Mahir drew his hand away and took a half-step back, so quickly he might as well have been recoiling from a blow. Confusion seeped into Ahmad’s features. “Not now,” Mahir whispered back in Wakamiri, his own face starting to flush. “Not here.” One or two Mucevheden sat not too far from them, ostensibly copying notes, but Mahir thought he had seen them turn towards this strange foreigner. Who knew what gossip they might bring back to their masters?
Ahmad hesitated, but at last he nodded. “If you are sure,” he answered back. “You seemed upset.”
Perhaps he was. Mahir wasn’t sure what name he would give that dreadful weight on his chest and shoulders. But whatever name it went by, it mattered little. There was something that Ahmad needed him to do, and so Mahir would see it done. He forced a smile. “You worry too much about me. I will be fine. You can go search the Stand."
Ahmad did not look convinced, but Mahir kept his expression pleasant and Ahmad at last turned towards the door. Mahir waited until he was sure his master had truly left before he let his shoulders slump and sighed deeply enough to rattle his ribs.
After a few hours, Mahir had found a few books that could be of interest. That was to say he had located all the texts concerned with the theory and practice of time-binding that Ozal had described -- and also those nearby that seemed like they might have something of relevance too. He had also looked for those magical treatises that he remembered Savaner kishah recommending to his friends, even in passing. The result was a rather large pile and, now that it had come time to actually read its contents, Mahir found his eyes glazing over and his head swimming.
Mahir had spent the vast majority of his life not being asked to decide much of anything for himself. He had never given that fact much thought one way or the other. But now, faced with the alternative, he found it had a certain appeal.
It was an almost visceral relief when Ahmad returned and sat down beside him. But Ahmad said little, and certainly gave nothing in the way of guidance. Instead, he only surveyed Mahir’s collection with a gaze that held more caution than curiosity. “You’ve been busy,” he noted.
“I am not quite sure how the magicians of the Stand do it," Mahir confessed. Ahmad nodded deeply at that. “Did you find anything?” Mahir asked.
“Nothing,” Ahmad’s lips pursed. “I thought maybe if I walked around, I maybe see -- but there was nothing. Even at the Nursery. That man from before has to still be there, right?"
“I do not know,” Mahir answered honestly. “I saw the Master of the Nursery very rarely when I lived there. But he was too important a man for me to know much about how he passed his days.”
Ahmad made a contemplative noise. Mahir watched him. There was a tension in the way he moved, a harsh set of his jaw. Whether he would say it or not, something was bothering him.
“And did you have a chance to learn anything about the collars?” Mahir asked, anxious to see if a change in the subject could improve his master’s mood. Old habits.
"A little," Ahmad answered with a shrug. "I asked some magicians here about them."
Mahir drew in a sharp breath. His imagination did not hesitate to supply ways in which such conversations could have gone poorly. But Ahmad's nostrils only flared in amusement, and Mahir wondered if it was at his reaction or at the expense of the magicians he had met.
"I said I am a leather-maker and they showed me a collar. The spell was woven into the leather very delicate. I was impressed. It seemed very difficult to do. But the spell itself --," he shrugged, as if that particular kind of craftsmanship did not warrant further discussion.
Mahir had only ever heard the vaguest description of the spellwork woven into the collar he had worn for years of his life. He could not stop himself from asking, “Do you think you could make something like that?”
“I would not,” Ahmad answered, with a finality that Mahir recognized meant he had squandered his chance to learn more. Perhaps some other time, when Ahmad's mood improved again. Mahir fell silent, and Ahmad waited a minute before he asked, "And you? Did you find anything?"
Mahir rustled for the parchment he had been using earlier. “I cannot say anything about its quality or its usefulness, but there was something that seemed to be of possible interest -- the author of the spell described how one could conjure 'a window into the past.'"
“That seems useful to me,” Ahmad nodded without even a glance at the parchment. His gaze was trained on Mahir. "But still, you are worried. Why?"
Mahir looked at the mess of books laid out before him. “There is so much here. There must be so much that I have missed --”
Ahmad shrugged again. “We can always come back.” He made it sound so simple.
“It’s only just --” Mahir started, and then realized he was not sure what he could possibly say. Could he say that he doubted he would ever be able to find anything of use? That he had scrambled to even fetch the right book for his past master, and now he was supposed to play the part of scholar himself? Neither seemed proper to say out loud. "Never mind," he muttered instead.
Ahmad continued to stare. Waiting, perhaps, for him to clear the muddle of his thoughts into something worth saying.
Things were easier before.
That was what he wanted to say. But before what? It could not be that he meant before, when he belonged to Savaner kishah. Even stepping inside the library -- a place he had loved -- had been hard because of the memories he had of his former master.
But if that was not what he meant, then why had the thought come so easily to him?
"Mahir --" Ahmad started.
No doubt he was going to ask more of Mahir. "We really should go back," Mahir said, stealing the opportunity away from him. "It's like you said -- we can always come back later."
Ahmad nodded, but Mahir could tell that his gaze remained troubled.
Nadide crossed her arms to stop them from strangling the girl in front of her.
“That is not where we keep the plates,” she said, annoyance growing in her voice.
The girl, Esma, dropped her arms down to the correct cabinet. Nadide tried to remember this wasn't the girl's fault. She had only started yesterday, the first maidservant that Ozal could find. He said he was eager to bring back some semblance of normalcy to the household.
As if any of them could make things normal again.
“I think I've got everything, janum,” the girl said with forced cheer, her southern accent biting into every word. Still, her accent was not so bad -- not nearly as strong as Ahmad's. There was no reason for Nadide to think cruelly of her, except for what her presence in the house had stolen from Nadide. But of course Nadide could not breathe a word of that to the girl.
“Yes, you do,” Nadide sighed. “I shall just -- find something else that has to be done."
“You should keep your hands idle.”
Nadide had started to turn towards the door, but she stopped. “What did you say?”
“I said you should keep your hands idle, janum," the girl hesitated for only a moment, and then continued quickly, "I know a lot has fallen on you these past months. But now that Ozal bajedi has recovered, he can support you until he finds a husband for you. And then your husband will provide, and a man of your station will expect his wife to have soft hands." She sighed wistfully. Nadide gave her an appraising look. Esma wore her hair down -- like Nadide, she was unmarried, except unlike Nadide she was probably still young enough that it did not draw quite the same attention. A girl of Esma's station would no doubt have to work outside the home her whole life unless she married well. No wonder she sighed wistfully about the prospect.
Nadide could not see herself finding any relief in marriage. But it mattered little.
"I suppose I will have to wait for more suitors first," she laughed with a bitterness that made Esma flinch. No snooping mothers, grandmothers or aunts had darkened the family’s threshold of late and no men had called on her brother in the past week since he had returned to the Palace. Savaner kishah was true to his word: he had been the last of Nadide's suitors. How many men of the Stand were talking about her now in hushed tones, Ozal bajedi's poor sister gone mad with grief?
Nadide pushed the thought away forcefully. "I will wait in my chambers," she muttered, half to herself, even as she could see Esma nod with enthusiasm at finally being let alone.
Nadide walked slowly up the stairs. The house was empty. Ahmad had gone again to the library with his Mucevhed. Each time the pair returned looking more discouraged. Today did not seem likely to be any different. Nadide walked into the center of her room and then closed her eyes. Behind her, the door shut gently, as of its own accord.
Every day it was getting easier to call on Kadehir's magic.
Of course her nightly sessions with Ahmad had come to an end. With a servant around to whisper in her brother's ear, Nadide could not risk the discovery. She had to practice on her own. A few nights huddled next to a candlestick had helped her learn how to move it without feeling like her head was going to split open. That was progress, at least. But Nadide knew there was so much more to magic.
She just didn't know how to learn any more of it.
Each night Nadide tried to remember when her brother had been much younger, when he had just begun as a new student at the Stand. The house had been so much fuller then. Their parents and even two of their grandparents had still been alive, and two aunts had not yet married and moved away. Ozal had always been a quick and eager learner, and he had practiced spells up and down the hallways, a timid Kadim padding softly behind him.
That Nadide remembered easily enough. But what had Ozal actually done during those years? There was one time he tore up half the floorboards in the first floor of the house. It had given their mother quite the fright to see the wood ripped everywhere. Their father had fixed it, laughing good-naturedly and praising Ozal's natural talent. Now, Nadide thought she might have enough strength now to pull out a board or two, but probably still lacked the control to fix it herself. (Not that that had stopped Ozal at the time.) But more to the point, it wasn't something she could do without exposing herself and her abilities, so what was the point in wasting time contemplating it?
No, she had to think of something else. What else had Ozal done? As he'd grown older, he became less rambunctious and more scholarly. That was when he started to collect books for his own library. This was another option that wasn't really an option at all for Nadide, not unless she wanted to read her brother's books with an ear to the ground, listening for footsteps like a common thief. And besides, from what she had seen of them, they were so obtuse it would probably take her a week to read more than a sentence or two. No, there must be another way.
Nadide had spent a lot of time contemplating the problem over the last few days, and she saw few good solutions. Perhaps it was time to ask for help. She stepped towards the small altar that she kept in her room. Seven candles were spread out on the cedar table, each resting in a gilt holder shaped to look like its respective God-tree. Taking a moment to light the candle for the Sage, Nadide knelt on the floor and prayed for guidance.
With her eyes closed, it was easier than ever to feel surrounded by the very magic of Kadehir. Ozal had always talked about magic in terms of pushes and pulls, force and resistance. But for Nadide, magic was taste and texture and color. No doubt this was a mistake based on a lack of education; perhaps if the Stand would teach her or if she could read her brother’s books, she would understand. But until such a time, it was not an unpleasant error.
She felt the magic drifting faintly over her skin and she leaned forward for more. The room was empty of anything of magical interest at the moment. If she focused, Nadide could make out the faintest outline of Esma walking around in the distance. Like Ahmad, she was faint and hard to see, but Nadide had an easier time these days seeing from a distance. She just wished she could see more. But there was no else around.
Nadide could not let that stop her. She had to find a way. She concentrated -- really concentrated, enough that even her skull could feel the strain -- and for the first time she could make out faint wisps further away. Perhaps someone was walking outside the house; after all, what did magic know of walls? Desperate for more, to push herself further, to learn something that she could actually use, Nadide tried to push harder. Her head was pounding now, she could barely hear herself think, but she couldn’t stop, she would never get anywhere if she stopped now --
All of a sudden, Nadide felt her insides twist as if she had fallen. Her eyes snapped open and she found herself looking at -- herself.
She saw herself as a stranger might, a woman with her hair loose down her back, kneeling in prayer with her eyes closed. All around there was a fog, everywhere. Heavy, white tendrils curling lazily in the air. And when Nadide tried to look down, to see her own hands and feet, she saw only faint wisps of white trying to form themselves into the familiar shape of a girl.
It should have been terrifying. Someone with more intelligence or sense than her might have tried to scream or tried to make the world normal again. But Nadide -- or whoever Nadide was, in this form -- stayed quiet and still.
She knew what this was. It just seemed so unlikely.
Everyone knew that the first magicians of Kadehir could leave their bodies and walk openly in the realm of magic. Or, at least, everyone knew that that was the story you told children and impressionable Mucevheden. Nadide had never thought much of the magic-walkers; she preferred the stories where the settlers could use magic to change their form at will. But that was all they were: stories. She had heard her father explain to Ozal at the dinner table that the very idea of magic-walking was simply a metaphor for the magical enlightenment and was not to be taken literally.
Briefly, Nadide wondered what her father would think if she told him that she had gone magic-walking.
He probably would not believe her.
She was not quite sure she believed it herself. It just did not seem right. Nadide was a young woman with only the most rudimentary of magical training and, whatever it was that she had done, she had done so only by accident. The thought alone made her want to retreat back to her body and never speak of this to anyone.
But, she reasoned, she had prayed to the Sage for guidance. Perhaps this was some kind of divine guidance. And the feel of magic against her was lovely. What could be the harm in staying longer? The fog smelled strongly of the sea.
It took her a moment longer to realize that it moved like the sea, too. The pattern was faint. Nadide was sure she had never noticed it before; indeed, even in this realm of magic, she still might have missed it. But it seemed to be moving north.
Without really thinking about what she was doing, Nadide started to follow the current. As she walked, she started to see shadows. Their form was familiar -- the outlines of buildings and roads that she had grown up with. But they were images from another place, and she could pass through them easily. She also noticed tiny pinpricks of white dotting the landscape around her, some dull and some much brighter and bigger. She continued walking, and the lights increased in number.
It occurred to her suddenly that she was looking at people.
They each had their own patterns, and faintly Nadide could see the auras of different colors around the white center that made a person. This must be what she saw, when she saw the magic around Esma or Mahir or Ahmad. Nadide gaped, but no matter how close or far she got to any of the lights, not a one seemed to take any notice of her.
It could have been a lonely landscape, with nothing but fog and shadow and bursts of light. But Nadide stopped walking when, in the distance, she noticed some familiar forms. Seven of them, to be exact.
A trip that would by foot have taken thirty minutes or longer had taken only an instant. This was clearly the Stand; she saw a great concentration of some of the brightest bursts of magic, no doubt Mucevheden trailing their masters. And if she concentrated, she could force the shadows to take on the shape of the stonework that she had grown up knowing.
But it took no concentration to make the God-trees clear. They stood tall in this strange realm in the same shape and pattern that she knew well. The current of magic seemed to swirl down and around the Seven; it felt fitting, somehow, that this would be its destination. Nadide walked a familiar circle around the God-trees, giving a silent prayer to each. She could not help but stare. It was not just that they were the same form. They seemed clearer, somehow, sharper now. Perhaps here they were more truly themselves.
And here it was impossible to ignore that they were dying.
Nadide could not believe it. The God-trees were the very heart and soul of Kadehir. All the magic of Kadehir seemed to flow to them. Nadide could not know, but she would not be surprised if all the magic in the world flowed to them, if the God-trees were the very center of the world.
But they were still weakened. Only the tallest, the unwelcome guest, the Shadow, appeared undiminished.
Nadide stood looking at the seven God-trees with a mute horror. How could such a thing have happened? How could it have been allowed to happen?
What could have done such a thing?
Who could have done such a thing?
Nadide felt a strange premonition. She turned around, only to see the same unyielding fog and shadow and wandering stars she already knew. She was completely alone.
And yet she had been so sure that there had been someone watching her.
It could not be, Nadide wanted to think. It was impossible. But she did not put much stock in impossibilities these days.
A slow dread was building in her. She no longer felt safe here. She had to get back to her body. But how?
“Nadide janum,” a voice called out. It seemed to come from the fog itself, from everyone at once. Nadide tried to ignore it. She had to think. How could she get back? Where was it she had come from?
“Nadide janum,” the voice repeated with greater insistence.
The world itself seemed to tilt. Nadide closed her eyes and opened them to the anxious face of Esma. “Nadide janum,” Esma repeated. “Are you alright?”
Nadide blinked twice. She felt very cold. Her knees ached. And her mouth had gone completely dry. Somehow, it seemed, she had come back to where she started. She stared just past Esma to stare at the shrine in her room. The candle she had lit for the Sage had burnt more than halfway through.
“You do not seem well,” Esma said. “Perhaps I should send word to Ozal bajedi.”
“That will not be necessary,” Nadide said at once. Her mouth still felt like a foreign thing, but she found her tongue quick enough. “There is nothing wrong with me. I was merely -- praying.”
“Praying,” Esma echoed, clearly unconvinced.
Nadide gestured towards the shrine. Settling back into herself, she continued, “You must have a matter of particular interest if you thought it worth interrupting my prayers.”
Esma took a hesitant half-step backwards. “There was something in the kitchen I couldn’t find -- I thought you might know. I knocked, but I couldn’t get any response. And then I found you here and you were not responding at all. I was afraid that whatever it was that had afflicted your brother had come for you --”
Nadide forced herself to stand. Her knees complained and her legs threatened to wobble, but she forced them into obedience.
“Whatever came for my brother has not come to this household again, thank the Gods.” Her head felt like it was on fire. All she wanted to do right now was to lie down, preferably somewhere dark and where she was not liable to be interrupted again. But what would worried whispers would Esma carry back to her brother if Nadide was to do such a thing? She forced herself to walk. “If there is something you can’t find, I will help you look.”
Esma nodded. She did not seem quite convinced, but then again Nadide did not need her to be. All she needed was to not be worried enough to tell anyone about what it was that happened. “I understand your worry,” Nadide said again, her voice steadier. “But next time, please do not interrupt me unless it is truly urgent. These prayers are important to me.”
“Of course, janum.”
Nadide turned her attention to the hallway. Now all she had to do was convince herself that she could actually do that again.
The Great Library was one of the largest rooms anywhere in the Stand, and it was crammed with shelves packed full of books and desks where Mucevheden and magicians alike sat reading and copying various passages. Despite -- or maybe because of -- the number of people present, it was also one of the quietest places in the Stand, with only the occasional whispered mutter and the ever present scratch of reed against parchment in the background.
When Ahmad stepped inside, he swore. Mahir was thankful he did so under his breath.
“There are this many books in the world?” Ahmad turned to Mahir to ask.
“The Stand has the largest collection of books of magic anywhere in the world,” Mahir answered, lowering his voice and hoping Ahmad did the same. “It is said that if there is a magical subject matter not contained within these shelves, it does not exist.”
Ahmad turned towards the shelves with a look of appreciation. Mahir was glad; he had always liked the library. The smell of ink and scrolls. The way the silence allowed one to be perfectly alone in a room full of strangers. He tried to remember that feeling, even as he felt his chest tighten. Too many bad memories of Savaner kishah directing him to find this treatise or another and Mahir scurrying to and fro, desperate to not once again disappoint his master.
“Is there a book that will teach me to read Kadehirden?” Ahmad’s question forced Mahir back to the present.
He frowned. “I do not think so. Most of the children at the Stand learn to read at home.”
Ahmad’s nostrils flared in frustration. “Then it does not seem to be a very useful library to me,” he muttered. “Well, you know this place. Where we start?”
The force of memory was so strong that Mahir still half expected Ahmad to order him to fetch him a particular book -- fetch it quickly now -- even though obviously Ahmad could not name a single title on these shelves. Mahir blinked, trying to reorient himself.
“Ozal said look for books of time, yes?” Ahmad mused to himself. “How to find one…”
“Normally, I would find you a book, you would read it at your leisure, and then instruct me to copy whatever parts of it you would like to keep for your own records," Mahir supplied.
Ahmad stared at Mahir as if he had just suffered some kind of blow to the head. "So, you find the spell and I go look for the rotten magic?" he translated hopefully.
Of course. That was how it was going to have to be. Mahir forced himself to nod. His throat was closed too tight to speak. He looked again at the shelves, this time with some additional trepidation.
He'd walked among these books a thousand times. But he'd never had to find his own way before. And here Ahmad was, trusting him blindly. After Ozal bajedi and Nadide had trusted Ahmad completely. That was a lot for Mahir to shoulder.
Too much, he found himself thinking. It wasn't right. Someone else should decide what was important, and then tell Mahir what it was that was expected of him. That was familiar, comforting territory.
It took a minute longer for Mahir to remind himself that that was how it had been with Savaner kishah, and there was nothing comforting about that man.
That minute gave Ahmad enough time to fix Mahir with that same worried stare that Mahir knew well by now. He reached out a hand, no doubt meaning it to be reassuring. But the setting was all wrong. Mahir drew his hand away and took a half-step back, so quickly he might as well have been recoiling from a blow. Confusion seeped into Ahmad’s features. “Not now,” Mahir whispered back in Wakamiri, his own face starting to flush. “Not here.” One or two Mucevheden sat not too far from them, ostensibly copying notes, but Mahir thought he had seen them turn towards this strange foreigner. Who knew what gossip they might bring back to their masters?
Ahmad hesitated, but at last he nodded. “If you are sure,” he answered back. “You seemed upset.”
Perhaps he was. Mahir wasn’t sure what name he would give that dreadful weight on his chest and shoulders. But whatever name it went by, it mattered little. There was something that Ahmad needed him to do, and so Mahir would see it done. He forced a smile. “You worry too much about me. I will be fine. You can go search the Stand."
Ahmad did not look convinced, but Mahir kept his expression pleasant and Ahmad at last turned towards the door. Mahir waited until he was sure his master had truly left before he let his shoulders slump and sighed deeply enough to rattle his ribs.
After a few hours, Mahir had found a few books that could be of interest. That was to say he had located all the texts concerned with the theory and practice of time-binding that Ozal had described -- and also those nearby that seemed like they might have something of relevance too. He had also looked for those magical treatises that he remembered Savaner kishah recommending to his friends, even in passing. The result was a rather large pile and, now that it had come time to actually read its contents, Mahir found his eyes glazing over and his head swimming.
Mahir had spent the vast majority of his life not being asked to decide much of anything for himself. He had never given that fact much thought one way or the other. But now, faced with the alternative, he found it had a certain appeal.
It was an almost visceral relief when Ahmad returned and sat down beside him. But Ahmad said little, and certainly gave nothing in the way of guidance. Instead, he only surveyed Mahir’s collection with a gaze that held more caution than curiosity. “You’ve been busy,” he noted.
“I am not quite sure how the magicians of the Stand do it," Mahir confessed. Ahmad nodded deeply at that. “Did you find anything?” Mahir asked.
“Nothing,” Ahmad’s lips pursed. “I thought maybe if I walked around, I maybe see -- but there was nothing. Even at the Nursery. That man from before has to still be there, right?"
“I do not know,” Mahir answered honestly. “I saw the Master of the Nursery very rarely when I lived there. But he was too important a man for me to know much about how he passed his days.”
Ahmad made a contemplative noise. Mahir watched him. There was a tension in the way he moved, a harsh set of his jaw. Whether he would say it or not, something was bothering him.
“And did you have a chance to learn anything about the collars?” Mahir asked, anxious to see if a change in the subject could improve his master’s mood. Old habits.
"A little," Ahmad answered with a shrug. "I asked some magicians here about them."
Mahir drew in a sharp breath. His imagination did not hesitate to supply ways in which such conversations could have gone poorly. But Ahmad's nostrils only flared in amusement, and Mahir wondered if it was at his reaction or at the expense of the magicians he had met.
"I said I am a leather-maker and they showed me a collar. The spell was woven into the leather very delicate. I was impressed. It seemed very difficult to do. But the spell itself --," he shrugged, as if that particular kind of craftsmanship did not warrant further discussion.
Mahir had only ever heard the vaguest description of the spellwork woven into the collar he had worn for years of his life. He could not stop himself from asking, “Do you think you could make something like that?”
“I would not,” Ahmad answered, with a finality that Mahir recognized meant he had squandered his chance to learn more. Perhaps some other time, when Ahmad's mood improved again. Mahir fell silent, and Ahmad waited a minute before he asked, "And you? Did you find anything?"
Mahir rustled for the parchment he had been using earlier. “I cannot say anything about its quality or its usefulness, but there was something that seemed to be of possible interest -- the author of the spell described how one could conjure 'a window into the past.'"
“That seems useful to me,” Ahmad nodded without even a glance at the parchment. His gaze was trained on Mahir. "But still, you are worried. Why?"
Mahir looked at the mess of books laid out before him. “There is so much here. There must be so much that I have missed --”
Ahmad shrugged again. “We can always come back.” He made it sound so simple.
“It’s only just --” Mahir started, and then realized he was not sure what he could possibly say. Could he say that he doubted he would ever be able to find anything of use? That he had scrambled to even fetch the right book for his past master, and now he was supposed to play the part of scholar himself? Neither seemed proper to say out loud. "Never mind," he muttered instead.
Ahmad continued to stare. Waiting, perhaps, for him to clear the muddle of his thoughts into something worth saying.
Things were easier before.
That was what he wanted to say. But before what? It could not be that he meant before, when he belonged to Savaner kishah. Even stepping inside the library -- a place he had loved -- had been hard because of the memories he had of his former master.
But if that was not what he meant, then why had the thought come so easily to him?
"Mahir --" Ahmad started.
No doubt he was going to ask more of Mahir. "We really should go back," Mahir said, stealing the opportunity away from him. "It's like you said -- we can always come back later."
Ahmad nodded, but Mahir could tell that his gaze remained troubled.
Nadide crossed her arms to stop them from strangling the girl in front of her.
“That is not where we keep the plates,” she said, annoyance growing in her voice.
The girl, Esma, dropped her arms down to the correct cabinet. Nadide tried to remember this wasn't the girl's fault. She had only started yesterday, the first maidservant that Ozal could find. He said he was eager to bring back some semblance of normalcy to the household.
As if any of them could make things normal again.
“I think I've got everything, janum,” the girl said with forced cheer, her southern accent biting into every word. Still, her accent was not so bad -- not nearly as strong as Ahmad's. There was no reason for Nadide to think cruelly of her, except for what her presence in the house had stolen from Nadide. But of course Nadide could not breathe a word of that to the girl.
“Yes, you do,” Nadide sighed. “I shall just -- find something else that has to be done."
“You should keep your hands idle.”
Nadide had started to turn towards the door, but she stopped. “What did you say?”
“I said you should keep your hands idle, janum," the girl hesitated for only a moment, and then continued quickly, "I know a lot has fallen on you these past months. But now that Ozal bajedi has recovered, he can support you until he finds a husband for you. And then your husband will provide, and a man of your station will expect his wife to have soft hands." She sighed wistfully. Nadide gave her an appraising look. Esma wore her hair down -- like Nadide, she was unmarried, except unlike Nadide she was probably still young enough that it did not draw quite the same attention. A girl of Esma's station would no doubt have to work outside the home her whole life unless she married well. No wonder she sighed wistfully about the prospect.
Nadide could not see herself finding any relief in marriage. But it mattered little.
"I suppose I will have to wait for more suitors first," she laughed with a bitterness that made Esma flinch. No snooping mothers, grandmothers or aunts had darkened the family’s threshold of late and no men had called on her brother in the past week since he had returned to the Palace. Savaner kishah was true to his word: he had been the last of Nadide's suitors. How many men of the Stand were talking about her now in hushed tones, Ozal bajedi's poor sister gone mad with grief?
Nadide pushed the thought away forcefully. "I will wait in my chambers," she muttered, half to herself, even as she could see Esma nod with enthusiasm at finally being let alone.
Nadide walked slowly up the stairs. The house was empty. Ahmad had gone again to the library with his Mucevhed. Each time the pair returned looking more discouraged. Today did not seem likely to be any different. Nadide walked into the center of her room and then closed her eyes. Behind her, the door shut gently, as of its own accord.
Every day it was getting easier to call on Kadehir's magic.
Of course her nightly sessions with Ahmad had come to an end. With a servant around to whisper in her brother's ear, Nadide could not risk the discovery. She had to practice on her own. A few nights huddled next to a candlestick had helped her learn how to move it without feeling like her head was going to split open. That was progress, at least. But Nadide knew there was so much more to magic.
She just didn't know how to learn any more of it.
Each night Nadide tried to remember when her brother had been much younger, when he had just begun as a new student at the Stand. The house had been so much fuller then. Their parents and even two of their grandparents had still been alive, and two aunts had not yet married and moved away. Ozal had always been a quick and eager learner, and he had practiced spells up and down the hallways, a timid Kadim padding softly behind him.
That Nadide remembered easily enough. But what had Ozal actually done during those years? There was one time he tore up half the floorboards in the first floor of the house. It had given their mother quite the fright to see the wood ripped everywhere. Their father had fixed it, laughing good-naturedly and praising Ozal's natural talent. Now, Nadide thought she might have enough strength now to pull out a board or two, but probably still lacked the control to fix it herself. (Not that that had stopped Ozal at the time.) But more to the point, it wasn't something she could do without exposing herself and her abilities, so what was the point in wasting time contemplating it?
No, she had to think of something else. What else had Ozal done? As he'd grown older, he became less rambunctious and more scholarly. That was when he started to collect books for his own library. This was another option that wasn't really an option at all for Nadide, not unless she wanted to read her brother's books with an ear to the ground, listening for footsteps like a common thief. And besides, from what she had seen of them, they were so obtuse it would probably take her a week to read more than a sentence or two. No, there must be another way.
Nadide had spent a lot of time contemplating the problem over the last few days, and she saw few good solutions. Perhaps it was time to ask for help. She stepped towards the small altar that she kept in her room. Seven candles were spread out on the cedar table, each resting in a gilt holder shaped to look like its respective God-tree. Taking a moment to light the candle for the Sage, Nadide knelt on the floor and prayed for guidance.
With her eyes closed, it was easier than ever to feel surrounded by the very magic of Kadehir. Ozal had always talked about magic in terms of pushes and pulls, force and resistance. But for Nadide, magic was taste and texture and color. No doubt this was a mistake based on a lack of education; perhaps if the Stand would teach her or if she could read her brother’s books, she would understand. But until such a time, it was not an unpleasant error.
She felt the magic drifting faintly over her skin and she leaned forward for more. The room was empty of anything of magical interest at the moment. If she focused, Nadide could make out the faintest outline of Esma walking around in the distance. Like Ahmad, she was faint and hard to see, but Nadide had an easier time these days seeing from a distance. She just wished she could see more. But there was no else around.
Nadide could not let that stop her. She had to find a way. She concentrated -- really concentrated, enough that even her skull could feel the strain -- and for the first time she could make out faint wisps further away. Perhaps someone was walking outside the house; after all, what did magic know of walls? Desperate for more, to push herself further, to learn something that she could actually use, Nadide tried to push harder. Her head was pounding now, she could barely hear herself think, but she couldn’t stop, she would never get anywhere if she stopped now --
All of a sudden, Nadide felt her insides twist as if she had fallen. Her eyes snapped open and she found herself looking at -- herself.
She saw herself as a stranger might, a woman with her hair loose down her back, kneeling in prayer with her eyes closed. All around there was a fog, everywhere. Heavy, white tendrils curling lazily in the air. And when Nadide tried to look down, to see her own hands and feet, she saw only faint wisps of white trying to form themselves into the familiar shape of a girl.
It should have been terrifying. Someone with more intelligence or sense than her might have tried to scream or tried to make the world normal again. But Nadide -- or whoever Nadide was, in this form -- stayed quiet and still.
She knew what this was. It just seemed so unlikely.
Everyone knew that the first magicians of Kadehir could leave their bodies and walk openly in the realm of magic. Or, at least, everyone knew that that was the story you told children and impressionable Mucevheden. Nadide had never thought much of the magic-walkers; she preferred the stories where the settlers could use magic to change their form at will. But that was all they were: stories. She had heard her father explain to Ozal at the dinner table that the very idea of magic-walking was simply a metaphor for the magical enlightenment and was not to be taken literally.
Briefly, Nadide wondered what her father would think if she told him that she had gone magic-walking.
He probably would not believe her.
She was not quite sure she believed it herself. It just did not seem right. Nadide was a young woman with only the most rudimentary of magical training and, whatever it was that she had done, she had done so only by accident. The thought alone made her want to retreat back to her body and never speak of this to anyone.
But, she reasoned, she had prayed to the Sage for guidance. Perhaps this was some kind of divine guidance. And the feel of magic against her was lovely. What could be the harm in staying longer? The fog smelled strongly of the sea.
It took her a moment longer to realize that it moved like the sea, too. The pattern was faint. Nadide was sure she had never noticed it before; indeed, even in this realm of magic, she still might have missed it. But it seemed to be moving north.
Without really thinking about what she was doing, Nadide started to follow the current. As she walked, she started to see shadows. Their form was familiar -- the outlines of buildings and roads that she had grown up with. But they were images from another place, and she could pass through them easily. She also noticed tiny pinpricks of white dotting the landscape around her, some dull and some much brighter and bigger. She continued walking, and the lights increased in number.
It occurred to her suddenly that she was looking at people.
They each had their own patterns, and faintly Nadide could see the auras of different colors around the white center that made a person. This must be what she saw, when she saw the magic around Esma or Mahir or Ahmad. Nadide gaped, but no matter how close or far she got to any of the lights, not a one seemed to take any notice of her.
It could have been a lonely landscape, with nothing but fog and shadow and bursts of light. But Nadide stopped walking when, in the distance, she noticed some familiar forms. Seven of them, to be exact.
A trip that would by foot have taken thirty minutes or longer had taken only an instant. This was clearly the Stand; she saw a great concentration of some of the brightest bursts of magic, no doubt Mucevheden trailing their masters. And if she concentrated, she could force the shadows to take on the shape of the stonework that she had grown up knowing.
But it took no concentration to make the God-trees clear. They stood tall in this strange realm in the same shape and pattern that she knew well. The current of magic seemed to swirl down and around the Seven; it felt fitting, somehow, that this would be its destination. Nadide walked a familiar circle around the God-trees, giving a silent prayer to each. She could not help but stare. It was not just that they were the same form. They seemed clearer, somehow, sharper now. Perhaps here they were more truly themselves.
And here it was impossible to ignore that they were dying.
Nadide could not believe it. The God-trees were the very heart and soul of Kadehir. All the magic of Kadehir seemed to flow to them. Nadide could not know, but she would not be surprised if all the magic in the world flowed to them, if the God-trees were the very center of the world.
But they were still weakened. Only the tallest, the unwelcome guest, the Shadow, appeared undiminished.
Nadide stood looking at the seven God-trees with a mute horror. How could such a thing have happened? How could it have been allowed to happen?
What could have done such a thing?
Who could have done such a thing?
Nadide felt a strange premonition. She turned around, only to see the same unyielding fog and shadow and wandering stars she already knew. She was completely alone.
And yet she had been so sure that there had been someone watching her.
It could not be, Nadide wanted to think. It was impossible. But she did not put much stock in impossibilities these days.
A slow dread was building in her. She no longer felt safe here. She had to get back to her body. But how?
“Nadide janum,” a voice called out. It seemed to come from the fog itself, from everyone at once. Nadide tried to ignore it. She had to think. How could she get back? Where was it she had come from?
“Nadide janum,” the voice repeated with greater insistence.
The world itself seemed to tilt. Nadide closed her eyes and opened them to the anxious face of Esma. “Nadide janum,” Esma repeated. “Are you alright?”
Nadide blinked twice. She felt very cold. Her knees ached. And her mouth had gone completely dry. Somehow, it seemed, she had come back to where she started. She stared just past Esma to stare at the shrine in her room. The candle she had lit for the Sage had burnt more than halfway through.
“You do not seem well,” Esma said. “Perhaps I should send word to Ozal bajedi.”
“That will not be necessary,” Nadide said at once. Her mouth still felt like a foreign thing, but she found her tongue quick enough. “There is nothing wrong with me. I was merely -- praying.”
“Praying,” Esma echoed, clearly unconvinced.
Nadide gestured towards the shrine. Settling back into herself, she continued, “You must have a matter of particular interest if you thought it worth interrupting my prayers.”
Esma took a hesitant half-step backwards. “There was something in the kitchen I couldn’t find -- I thought you might know. I knocked, but I couldn’t get any response. And then I found you here and you were not responding at all. I was afraid that whatever it was that had afflicted your brother had come for you --”
Nadide forced herself to stand. Her knees complained and her legs threatened to wobble, but she forced them into obedience.
“Whatever came for my brother has not come to this household again, thank the Gods.” Her head felt like it was on fire. All she wanted to do right now was to lie down, preferably somewhere dark and where she was not liable to be interrupted again. But what would worried whispers would Esma carry back to her brother if Nadide was to do such a thing? She forced herself to walk. “If there is something you can’t find, I will help you look.”
Esma nodded. She did not seem quite convinced, but then again Nadide did not need her to be. All she needed was to not be worried enough to tell anyone about what it was that happened. “I understand your worry,” Nadide said again, her voice steadier. “But next time, please do not interrupt me unless it is truly urgent. These prayers are important to me.”
“Of course, janum.”
Nadide turned her attention to the hallway. Now all she had to do was convince herself that she could actually do that again.
