Barbara Hambly - Stranger at the Wedding

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Stranger at the Wedding

Barbara Hambly

SLEEPSPELL

There, in the blackness of her mother's little rose garden, Kyra wrought her

spells. She called up the Circles of Light, and Earth, and Air. Then she built

the house within her mind. Room by room she touched it, every surface,

every angle and smell, down to the pattern of her mother's comforter and the

jumble of her father's shaving things.

Sleep, she thought.

Sleep fill this house.

Sleep fill this house…

Then, finally, she settled back on her heels. To her inner perception of magic,

her spell felt hard and smooth, like blown glass cooled perfectly to its final

shape. She listened to the sounds of deep breathing and of slumber.

It was, she realized, the first great magic she had ever done.

Completely illegal, of course…

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contents

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

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Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

A Del Rey Book

Published by Ballantine Books

States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in

Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-90862

ISBN 0-345-38097-5

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: April 1994

For George Alec Effinger

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Special thanks goes to Janus Daniels for his workshop on

neurolinguistic programming, "Thinking Like a Writer," for the

inception of the seed of this idea, and to Kathleen Woodbury

and her Salt Lake City Writer's Workshop.

Although this story takes place in the Empire of Ferryth,

neither Antryg Windrose nor Joanna Sheraton is part of it

Prologue

^ »

"It turned to blood. The water turned to blood."

Kyra the Red's fingers shook as she picked up the bronze candlestick she had

knocked over and summoned fire back to the burnt stump of the wick.

Wavery light broadened in the darkness of the Summer Hall, picking out the

twisted shadows of the monsters, flowers, and birds carved on the ceiling

beams. The maple tree growing up through the floor—and out again through

the thatch of the roof—had put out clusters of new leaves that the candle's

glow turned into tiny, trembling hands.

Kyra's mentor and teacher, the Lady Rosamund Kentacre, leaned forward,

frowning not in disbelief but in puzzlement. Her fingers brushed the

translucent porcelain bowl on the table's marble top. The water within was as

clear as it had been fifteen minutes previously, when, with proper

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incantations, Kyra had dipped it from the fountain in the court outside.

"Water sometimes turns colors during a scrying or a divination," the Lady

said, angling the bowl a little so that the small, clear reflection of the candle

flame danced on the surface, and secondary glints flickered in her jade-green

eyes.

At forty-one, after twelve years of teaching novices here in the Citadel of

Wizards, Rosamund still retained the breathtaking beauty for which she was

famous, though her coal-black hair had begun, last spring, to gray. "In some

ways water is the easiest medium in which to see things far away, certainly

the easiest to see across time. But water is frequently a liar. What were you

seeking to see?"

"It was just practice," Kyra insisted, and leaned her bony elbows on the table.

Her voice was steady and matter-of-fact; it was a curious voice, husky, like

cinders and honey, like an old woman's, though she was only twenty-four.

Amber splinters of candlelight threaded her coarse hair with copper as she

moved her head; her level, dark brows flexed with distress. "I'd heard there

was to be a dancing over in the town of Lastower, with the fur traders coming

in. I thought I'd practice on that; I have exams next month. And then…"

The helpless gesture of her hands nearly overset the candle again.

"Seeing the color blue in the water during divination can mean that another

wizard is seeking you," the Lady said thoughtfully. "Sometimes when one

sees a green aura, it means—"

"This wasn't the color red, Rosamund." The mended old chair creaked as

Kyra leaned forward, her strong fingers catching the older woman's slender

wrist, willing her to believe. "This was blood. It looked like it, it… it smelled."

Despite her outer calm, Kyra's mind flinched from the shock of the memory,

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the sudden flooding of ruby-dark viscosity that had wiped away the drenched

indigo darkness, the gay torchlight and bright skirts she'd seen in the scrying-

bowl, the horrible sweetish stench that had stabbed her nostrils. Just for an

instant she had the hideous sense that if she'd put her finger into the bowl,

the liquid would have been warm.

She could barely bring herself to look at the fragile old vessel, its cracked

green glaze the color of cabbage against the pitted white of the table's

surface. But water was clearly all it now contained.

Rosamund leaned down to sniff it, then dipped her fingers and tasted.

"Curious," she said. "Most odd."

"Damn it, it's the fourth time!" Kyra paused in her pacing, turning helplessly

to face the assembled master-wizards in the Senior Parlor. Along the room's

north wall diamond-paned windows looked out over the Citadel battlements

to the endless flat wastes of spruce forest and snow-fringed bog: the Sykerst,

swallowed in cold spring darkness, utterly without sight of any dwelling's

lights as far as human eye could see.

In this, one of the older sections of the Citadel, tiled fireplaces had not been

replaced by more efficient stoves. The cheery flicker of burning pine boughs

vied with the softer, brighter light of half a dozen glowing balls of witchlight

that floated like errant bubbles among the rafters. On the opposite side of the

wide hearth from Lady Rosamund, the mage called Daurannon the

Handsome stared contemplatively into the blaze; on the floor beside him,

gray-haired Issay Bel-Caire, known as the Silent, sat trailing twigs for the

edification of three Citadel cats.

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From where he stood with his shoulder against the rough brick chimney

breast, Nandiharrow the Nine-Fingered said, "That spread you saw in the

cards yesterday could have meant anything, Kyra. Cards are even more

unreliable than water-scrying."

"The Death card turning up in ten out of twelve practice spreads?" Kyra's

eyebrows levitated, and she shook back the auburn masses of her hair. "And

always in the same position? No matter what question I asked? That sounds

reliable to me."

"The Death card doesn't necessarily mean death." Issay would occasionally

go for a year or two, or five, without speaking, with no explanation—but the

period since March had been relatively talkative.

"Well…" Bentick, the Steward of the Citadel, looked up from his cribbage

game and waved one immaculate hand dismissively. "Cards …"

"It still doesn't explain the Summonings." Daurannon's hazel eyes went from

Rosamund to the others and then returned to the gray-robed, gawky junior

on the intricate red and blue rug. He explained, "She's been working on

Summonings all week. You know she had trouble with it on the last exam.

Two days ago we were out on the hills, summoning clouds. But instead we

got winds from all corners under heaven, winds so violent for a few moments

that they forced the birds down out of the sky. I was with her. I know she had

the words, the runes, the Limitations, absolutely correct."

Rosamund stirred uneasily in her chair. The Summoning of clouds—in fact

all weather working—was such a basic form of magic that there was no

possibility of Daurannon mistaking what Kyra had done.

"Last night I was in the gardens, summoning moths," Kyra added slowly. "I

just need practice in the basic Circles and Limitations for my exam. And

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again, though no one was with me, I'm certain I performed the spells right. I

don't make mistakes like that." She looked from one to the other of her

teachers. "You know I don't. I haven't since I was a novice."

Nobody said anything. In the silence, threads of music could be heard from

the Junior Parlor a floor below, where Zake Brighthand was playing the lyre.

The sound of Bentick's coffee cup against his green porcelain saucer was like

a sword blade falling on a stone floor.

"What came were flies," said Kyra. "Flies, at night."

She looked nervously down at her hands, her stomach curling a little in on

itself with the memory of the disproportionate horror she had felt at the

whining drone of the insects' wings. It seemed to her that they had come

from everywhere, crawling on her face, blundering into her ears and hair—it

seemed to her, just for an instant, that she had felt hot within her robe and

that her nostrils had been filled with the stench of garbage and human sweat.

But of that she could not even speak.

All the mages were silent. The True Name of moths, by which such creatures

could be summoned, was phasle; for flies, dzim. There was little room there

for a mistake.

"It may be that you're simply tired," Nandiharrow said at length. "It happens,

you know. Your examinations are coming up, and I know how hard you've

been working. The concentration… warps."

"I am not tired!" Kyra began indignantly.

"Or it may be," Issay said in a voice like wind in weeds, "that there is some

other… influence… skewing your magic. Something over which you have no

control—something about which you may never learn. The conjunction of

stars under which you were born—some power of your own that is affected

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by the migration of certain birds. Such things are not unknown, and in time—

and usually not very much time—the effects simply pass off."

Kyra flung up her hands. "Well, that's gratifying to hear," she sighed. "I'm

supposed to test for the next level in three weeks. Now you're telling me my

only recourse is herb tea and bed rest."

"Well." Daurannon looked like a rueful cherub when he smiled. "I would

have said 'patience,' but I suppose that comes to the same thing."

Someone scratched at the door. Bentick glanced at the gold watch around his

neck and said, "Come," and one of the sasenna—the soldier-servants of the

Citadel—entered, carrying the day's mail, a sheaf of letters, two or three

western scientific journals, a newspaper from Angelshand for Otaro the

Singer, and a small package that he handed to Phormion Starmistress, who

was quietly sorting through her cribbage hand during the discussion. As the

others took various missives—wizards as a rule corresponded widely—her

ladyship rose from her chair and walked over to Kyra, who, in stepping

politely out of the group, had managed to snag her sleeve on a small

armillary sphere on the table beside her and barely managed to rescue it

from falling.

"The examination can be put off, you know, if there are still… strange

effects… connected with your working of certain magics."

"I appreciate that—and thank you very much." Kyra set the spiky network of

concentric rings back on the table and tried to conceal her dissatisfaction

with this solution to the problem. "But I'd feel a great deal better if I knew

why this was happening so I can take it into account if I need to work a spell

or something in an emergency. It's bad enough having to alter spell-weaving

in time to the phases of the moon."

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"Yes," Rosamund sighed ruefully. "If it's any comfort to you, I am not looking

forward to relearning half my own magic in ten years when my own moon

cycles cease…"

"Kyra Peldyrin?"

The guard was standing at her elbow, a last letter in his hand. "I looked for

you down in the Junior Parlor. Cylin said you might be up here."

Kyra noted automatically that the letter was written on rose-pink paper,

folded in thirds, and sealed. It took her a moment to recognize the

handwriting. Graceful as a garland of flowers, it was very similar to her own.

The last time she'd seen it, it had not been nearly so well formed.

Excusing herself, she retreated to one of the tall-backed, old-fashioned chairs

that surrounded the long parlor table and broke the seal.

Angelshand, March 1

Dearest Kyra,

This is to let you know that Father has finally arranged a marriage

for me, a truly splendid match. I am to wed Blore Spenson, the new

President of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers and one of the

wealthiest men in Angelshand.

We're to be married on the first of May, in the strict form and with

great ceremony. I'm writing because I want your good wishes to be

with me, and I'm not even sure Father will send you an

announcement. You know how he is.

Still, I wanted you to know. On the first of May, look in your magic

mirror and you'll be able to see me standing up before the Bishop of

Angelshand in all the splendor Father can possibly buy. Please wish

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