Page 21 of Elemental Truth (Mysterious Fields #3)

21

JANUARY 7TH IN TRELLECH

T hessaly was a tad unsatisfied with the day, though at least the late afternoon promised improvement. She had returned to her apprenticeship this morning. Magistra North could not, actually, complain about properly observing mourning. Her apprentice mistress would go up in a puff of hypocrisy, given how long she’d lectured Thessaly over the apprenticeship about attention to details and societal expectations.

On the other hand, she’d made her displeasure at the disruption very obvious. Thessaly had not been available to take on any of the burden of holiday decorations. Nor had she helped with the myriad adjustments to children’s toys. Nor any of the other tasks that were beneath a full mistress of the illusion arts, but common fare for apprentices. It did make the dolls better, mind.

Thessaly could still remember when she’d got her first delicate doll. Clara had a porcelain head and shining hair. Aunt Metaia had changed the hair and eyes to match Thessaly’s perfectly. Then she’d added a little dragon embroidered on the hem of the cunning little coat, as an extra treat.

That doll had gone to Hermia, in due course, and now reigned over the nursery shelves. Thessaly hadn’t begrudged that. A doll should be played with. Aunt Metaia had made the changes, bar handing Thessaly the coat to keep. Though now Thessaly thought about it, there was a particular social marker there, wasn’t there? That Hermia didn’t get her own doll.

She wondered suddenly how delicate the family finances had been then, or were now, or whether Aunt Metaia had offered to buy Hermia her own and their parents had refused. Or, as a third option, whether her parents just hadn’t cared that much. She added it to the little notebook she kept for questions for Amadeo Scali. Though she did not know whether it was something he could find out or whether he’d tell her if he did.

At any rate, Magistra North had only been able to disapprove so far with where Thessaly’s learning was. Thessaly had spent the morning sharing her notes and projects while she’d been at home, and they had all received a passing approval. And Magistra North had admitted that Thessaly could likely develop the skills to take on some of the work Aunt Metaia had been doing. Useful work, that was the thing Thessaly kept coming back to.

But Magistra North had been, even during the moments of agreement, disapproving. Thessaly had obviously failed to thread the needle between obligation and apprenticeship and grief or whatever one called dealing with Childeric’s death. At least that was done with until tomorrow, and it was a short week to return, since there had been Twelfth Night celebrations on the sixth.

Now, however, Thessaly had something to look forward to. Cyrus had been kind enough to set up a duelling engagement - four or five people, including the two of them - at one of the private salles in Trellech. He’d promised at least one other woman. When Thessaly had inquired of Emeline, Emeline had declined joining in. She preferred to keep her skill more private. But she’d promised to talk through what Thessaly might want to work on, after playing chaperone.

The salle was not difficult to get to, tucked into the far corner of Club Row. Emeline went first, moving to one side as Thessaly entered. Cyrus was already there, chatting with a man Thessaly knew, and a woman Thessaly did not know by name, though she’d seen her here and there. Cyrus immediately turned. “There’s a changing room there, and your companion is welcome to sit in the viewing area. And to check the salle’s warding. This is Magister FitzAlan, one of my colleagues, and this is Mistress Helena Audley, who I suspect you’ve heard of.”

“Oh, my.” Thessaly was delighted. “I saw the duel you had, the demonstration one, of course, with all its limitations, what, four years ago now? A delight. Oh, I am looking forward to this.” Mistress Audley was a good eight or nine years older. She must have been at Schola around the same time as Laudine, and Thessaly had not had a close view of that bout.

“I was a tad enticed myself. Do, please, call me Helena.” There was a murmur of agreements on first names all round, which also boded well. Cyrus had hopes that if this went well, it might become a regular circle of duellists. Thessaly hadn’t expected FitzAlan— he’d mentioned just preferring the surname, no title. But it made sense that Cyrus might also use the occasion to deepen a tie with his new colleagues.

With that, Thessaly went off to change, with Emeline coming along to assist with getting her out of the corset and bustle. If she were going to be significantly active, Thessaly wanted full freedom of movement. She had a set of rationals made up in a deep grey, suitable for exertion and a nod to mourning dress. More practically, they wouldn’t show dirt as easily. The billowing bloomers fastened in cuffs at the ankles, just at her boots. Over it, there was a dress that came down to about knee level. Still rather a lot of fabric, but much lighter than her day dress had been.

She checked her laces were still suitably tight since she had made a point of wearing her duelling boots for the day. Not that anyone saw much of the detail under her skirts. But the soles, the charmwork, and the way the buttons ran on the outside of her ankles all made them more supportive and sturdy for duelling.

By the time she emerged, the other two expected were there. Albert Horning had been a few years ahead of Thessaly and Cyrus at Schola, and Ismene Warden had been a bit of a legend by the time they started school. Ismene and Albert went to change, while Emeline made a proper circuit of the salle, confirming that all the protections were in order before she took her seat.

Cyrus, who knew at this point that Emeline was bodyguard as well as companion, just smiled at it. Thessaly took the opportunity to stretch. When everyone was assembled, she cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I’m rather out of practice several ways round right now, but I appreciate Cyrus setting this up so I can remedy that.”

“It is rather difficult to keep up the skills when one can’t be out in society. Have you considered building a salle? Cyrus mentioned you’re living up in northern Wales now?” FitzAlan was stretching as well, taking his time with it.

“There’s land, and I am considering it, but it will be spring, at least, before we could begin. We weren’t able to sort out optimal site choices before the winter. And then, of course, there’s the challenge of getting people to come. Or getting the right people to come.” Thessaly shrugged a little. The thing of it was, having a salle for her own benefit was one thing, but it would be lonely if no one joined her.

That got a laugh out of everyone. “Oh, yes. Once you have your own salle, people flock. But it’s not as if taking the portal is a tremendous burden. I’d certainly consider it on a regular schedule.” Ismene said it smoothly, as if she were sure there’d be cause. The others echoed that, and of course Cyrus and FitzAlan were already likely to be somewhere with a portal and not a great deal of traffic waiting for it.

They started out with Cyrus and FitzAlan, partly to give the other four a chance to work out a rota of matches. Ismene offered to take on Thessaly first, with Albert to fight Helena. Then they’d see about another round of bouts. Everyone expected to get three or four, maybe five bouts in, which gave Thessaly a good idea about the level of skill, given they’d booked the salle for two hours. That meant things would go fast.

Watching Cyrus was interesting, actually. He was still not a naturally brilliant duellist, but since she’d last seen him, admittedly, several years ago now, he’d improved. He had a much more sure sense of where he was in the salle, and how to use all his resources. His charmwork had definitely improved, especially whenever he leaned into the more elemental forms. A gust of air almost knocked FitzAlan off his feet at one point. Then there was a rolling movement of the earth that turned into a boggy swamp under FitzAlan’s feet.

The older man— he was a little less than twenty years older, so secure in his position and skills— laughed, several times, apparently delighted by the challenge. They went back and forth, one gaining the upper hand than the other. All of a sudden, FitzAlan pulled out several unexpected twists in quick succession, bringing Cyrus down on his back in a cloud of dust. He reached down to help Cyrus up, and Cyrus was grinning.

“You’ve got better,” Thessaly called out, agreeably. “But there’s still room to grow.” That earned her a laugh, and she suddenly wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed like that. He’d said he was arranging this for her, but clearly he’d needed something like this himself, perhaps tremendously.

He and FitzAlan bowed Ismene and Thessaly into the salle, with FitzAlan lingering to oversee the match and get them started. Ismene declared, cheerfully, “I know you want to get a sense of how things are for you. I’ll match you for a little. Not forever, though.”

“I wouldn’t think of asking.” Thessaly took her position.

FitzAlan counted the opening, stepping back, and Thessaly threw herself into it. There was nothing in the world for her but the magic, her feet on the ground under her, and her own wits. The world had changed for her as well, if perhaps less dramatically than it had for Cyrus. Or at least less visibly. She was slower than she wanted to be. That was lack of practice. Despite all her efforts, she’d lost conditioning. Thessaly was in no shape for a lengthy bout right now. She’d have to work on that with Emeline. She managed to get Ismene off-balance once, then again, but then Ismene stepped up her protections and Thessaly had to work to find any opening.

What she managed was, naturally enough once she thought of it, illusion. Casting any complicated image on the fly was a tremendous challenge, of course. But she managed to call up two images of herself, then shift them around so it was near impossible to tell which was real and which were illusion. It gave her just enough of an edge that she got a touch on Ismene, a solid enough one that Ismene yielded the match.

“I’d say that’s cheating, but of course it’s not.” Ismene held out her hand.

“Use every skill you have,” Thessaly agreed. “At least that’s within bounds. But I know I’m weak a dozen places, including in the knees at the moment. And my footwork is horrendous.”

“I noticed you keep your left elbow raised a bit more than the usual. Any reason why?” That chatter occupied them amiably as Albert and Helena set up and went into their own dazzlingly rapid bout. They were going so fierce and so fast that it was difficult even for the skilled duellists watching to follow all of it. FitzAlan joined the rest of them in the viewing area, and all five of them, Emeline very much included, were passing comments back and forth. The match lasted, too, a good five minutes. Finally Helena managed an elegant combination of charms that shattered one of Albert’s protections and then made good on the thread of possibility. He went down, head over heels, before pushing himself upright and laughing.

From there, they explored the variations. FitzAlan was sturdy in a way that Thessaly found interesting to duel, and he seemed to have an endless library of charms and feints and strategies at his disposal. Cyrus, oh, she wanted to figure out a lot more about what he was doing, and she suspected he’d tell her at least some of it in due course. Albert had a sharp knack, the kind of tricksiness that made Thessaly think of Aunt Metaia. He went at problems from an angle, and rarely the one most logical to pick. He was tremendously successful with it.

And Helena had not flattered her, Thessaly did not want praise she had not earned. But she had agreed that with some regular time in the salle, Thessaly had an excellent chance of excelling. Certainly, Thessaly wanted to give Helena a challenge in due course, but Helena had won their bout handily ninety seconds in, purely on speed and dexterity.

It meant each of them had a chance against each of the others, too. By the time their slot was over, everyone had had a go, and they rapidly made plans for the next Tuesday. Helena promised to send along some recommendations for Thessaly, places to start with improving. But she hadn’t lost so much skill she’d embarrassed herself.

Thessaly changed again, a necessity given the distance to the portals, and Emeline was quiet until they’d gone through to Bryn Glas. “Not that I’m saying that you should do away with my services. But it was a pleasure to see your level of skill, tried by people who know what they’re about.”

Thessaly let out a long sigh. “It felt so good, too. I’d missed it. I think I hadn’t allowed myself to miss it. It hurt too much? Can we do some more footwork drills tomorrow evening? In the bottom of the carriage house, or clear out the entry hall or something?”

“I’ll talk it through with Collins.” Thessaly beamed, and went off to go and change into something comfortable and full of colour. Then she flung herself back on the pile of research that awaited her.