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“A few times. Nothing much.”
“Are you thinking of turning mage?”
The older woman’s tone was dry. Ilse could not tell exactly what Hedda thought of the matter. Oh, yes, she had agreed to teach Ilse, but only after a few crisp exchanges with Lord Kosenmark, which Raul had reported to Ilse, laughing as though he found her arguments amusing. Ilse herself wasn’t sure what to make of these lessons. Try them, Raul had insisted. Think of them as one more weapon at your command.
Except that magic isn’t a weapon, Ilse thought. It is only mankind that changes its nature.
But Raul Kosenmark had read her wishes very well. She did want to learn. She wanted to know what the old mages of Erythandra knew, when they first summoned the magic current. To ride upon the song and storm, to other worlds and other planes, as Tanja Duhr had written.
“It’s too soon for me to know,” she said. “I only know that I would like to learn more.”
Hedda shrugged. “We start with the same lesson, no matter what. Make yourself comfortable first. Now I want you to look at the candle. Don’t let your gaze wander. Just look at the candle and nothing else. Concentrate on the color, how it smells, the shape of the flame. Good. Now draw the circle tighter. Shut out everything but the wick and the flame. See the flame’s heart. Look for how it changes color. You can, you know. With magic, you can see the specks of time as it passes through the air.”
Her voice dropped into a singsong. Ilse barely heard it as she tried to concentrate on the flame and nothing but the flame. Breathe, she heard, half aloud, half in memory. Watch. Touch with your mind. Hold fast and let go. Remember and forget.
She heard laughter, felt the shift of balance. For a moment, she remained poised on the brink. She thought of the scholar painting her veins with fire. She thought of Raul Kosenmark. Then her balance tipped toward magic and she forgot all about the world.
A clawed hand touched her cheek. Ilse my love, my love, my love. She turned toward the voice but saw only the surrounding darkness. A rank scent brushed against her senses. Stiff feathers, like countless minute spines, tickled her bar
e skin. Ilse, Ilse, Ilse.
Words melted from one language into the next, from Veraenen into Károví into Immatris into ones she had never heard before except in dreams. The air stank with smoke though no fires broke the darkness. Her awareness was but another stream of her magical reverie, upon which she floated as though a bird upon the wind while darkness cradled her and the clawed hand teased and stroked her, calling up desire.
It might have been an hour, or a century later when she woke to a gray twilight, and the sight of Mistress Hedda’s square dark face opposite her. The candle, now a misshapen heap of wax, had burned out. The air felt warm and close, in spite of the open windows. From the nearby tower, the bells were just striking late afternoon.
Ilse blinked. Her head felt light, as though she were not quite entirely connected to her body. “What happened?”
“You summoned the current,” Hedda said. Her face was still, her eyes watchful.
“Was that wrong?”
“No, just … unexpected.” Hedda glanced toward the door. “The guards came up last hour. I sent them away. You didn’t hear?”
“No.” She wet her lips and felt tiny cracks. “I was looking at the flame.”
“What else?”
A claw tracing patterns on her bare skin. A voice saying, Ilse my love, my love, my love.
“What is it?” Hedda demanded. “What are you remembering?”
“A voice,” Ilse said weakly. “A voice that knew me from before. I can’t remember all the words, but I remember a hand touching me. Not a human hand. It said I’ve been to Vnejšek—to Anderswar, I mean.”
Without a word, Mistress Hedda rose and busied herself by the fireplace. Moments later she returned with a cup of tea, which Ilse gratefully accepted.
“You went beyond what I intended today,” Hedda said, her voice thoughtful. “It means you have a talent, and memory of past talent in magic.”
“Is that good?”
Hedda smiled faintly. “Yes and no. The memories will help in studying magic, but all magic is dangerous. That much your people had right.”
“They are not my people,” Ilse said softly. “And even though my father and grandparents came from Duszranjo, they didn’t believe those old laws.”
“Not in this life, perhaps,” Hedda said, undaunted.
She came with Ilse down the stairs where the guards waited. “Go home and rest,” she said. “Think if you want to go on. If you do, send me word. We can work out a schedule with Lord Kosenmark.”
A message waited for her in her rooms when she returned.
