Page 18 of Strange Familiar (Warriors of Magic #2)

~18~

C illian’s carriage came to a halt at the Elal border. The journey through the Knifeblade Mountains had been riveting, their unusual spires twisting sharply against the sky, the road between them so narrow at times that the precipitous peaks seemed to lean overhead, crowding in and making jagged stripes of the light. He’d never before come this way and had brought several books along that described the history and unique geography of the region, but the scenery was so spectacular, he sometimes forgot to read, the books lying open on his lap while he gazed out the window, enraptured.

The distractions were just as well, as it definitely helped to have something to take him out of his head, pull him out of the endless cycle of worry, dread, excitement, anticipation, and back to worry. He couldn’t wait to see Alise again, to see her face light up as he told her of their discovery. But she also hadn’t responded to the message his grandmother finally allowed him to send. Lady Harahel had eventually relented in the face of his arguments, though it had taken hours of intense debate to wear her down. He considered it his first real victory where she was concerned.

In her capitulation, Lady Harahel, gave him one of the Harahel carriages, which—like everything in the house of his birth—was an antique. The leather on the seats had faded from a once rich crimson to a splotchy brown and odd pink, deep creases having cracked in places to reveal the cotton padding beneath. Rather than the stout and flexible specially made Byssan glass windows the Elal carriage had boasted, this one had thick curtains, the velvet threadbare in patches. Despite the cold, Cillian kept them tied back most of the time, in order to enjoy the view and because the carriage smelled strangely of old soup when closed up. He availed himself of lap blankets and the fire elemental in a floor-mounted brazier, which he tried coaxing to greater warmth using Alise’s wizardly tricks, with minimal success.

Now that he’d stopped at the notoriously well-guarded border, Cillian wondered what he’d do if they turned him away. His message had given the estimated day and time of his arrival, but with no reply he couldn’t be sure if he’d be admitted—he didn’t hope to be welcomed—or repelled, perhaps violently. And what he’d do in the latter case? He supposed he’d find out. With his newfound resolve—no more meekly going along for Cillian!—he found the prospect excited, rather than frightened him.

Stepping out of the carriage, he studied the invisible barrier with his wizard senses. Texts on Elal indicated the barrier had first been conceived and erected some several centuries ago, though around a much smaller territory comprising the river valley where House Elal itself was situated. Over time and with strategic land grabs, Elal had expanded to the size of a small kingdom and then to a large one. How the invisible barrier operated remained proprietary information. Given the Elal specialization in spirit magic, however, scholars speculated that it had been extruded from and remained fueled by spirit essences captured and harnessed to the task. So interesting. Maybe Alise would be able to tell him more.

A moment later, a wizard appeared from a cloud of fog—except that Cillian easily saw that the cloaked woman had used a spirit to create that appearance, much as Alise had done before. Alise had managed the trick far more neatly, though, rendering herself invisible rather than having to disguise the spirit as fog. Cillian felt a surge of pride in Alise, so much younger than this Elal wizard minion. Of course, being the equivalent of a doorkeeper at the Elal border wouldn’t be a plum job by any stretch.

“Wizard Harahel.” The wizard, sporting a gold pin on one shoulder, the House Elal crest of spirits intertwined in a braided circle, tipped back her hood, and scornfully raked Cillian with her wizard-black gaze. “I am Tyrna, wizard to House Elal. Welcome to Elal.”

“Am I?” Cillian inquired mildly. “I received no word on whether I was expected.”

“You are.” She smiled mirthlessly. “Though you are correct that you are not exactly welcome. Lord Elal, however, is interested to interview you, so you may proceed onto our lands. Do not stray from the main road. It will lead you directly to House Elal. You should have no reason to diverge from that path.”

“Shouldn’t I?” Cillian mirrored her smile, though with far more amusement. “Diverging from the direct route often leads to the most interesting discoveries.”

“Spoken like a Harahel,” she replied with contempt, black gaze sweeping over the antique carriage. “I recommend against making any discoveries, interesting or otherwise. Also, the roads in Elal are heated and dry. You’ll want to exchange those sled runners for wheels. If you have them.”

Cillian had been able to see for himself that the snow-packed road ended at the border wall and continued dry from there. “Not a problem, Wizard Tyrna,” he replied genially. He raised his brows when she didn’t move. “I’ll wait until I cross. Wouldn’t want to get mired in this snowpack.” Indeed, the snow on this side had melted somewhat from the radiant heat that clearly could cross the barrier screen, making it mushy and sloppy. He gave her a little bow that he hoped came across as ironic and just ever so slightly mocking. “Whenever you’re ready.”

With a hint of an annoyed scowl, Tyrna yanked off her glove and held out her hand in an impatient gesture. Her familiar stepped forward, placing his bare hand in hers. While every wizard needed to touch their familiar to access their magic—with the salient exception of Gabriel and Nic, who were exceptional in so many ways—it surprised Cillian that Tyrna needed her familiar for such a minor magic-working.

Harahel might eschew familiars on the grounds that library work rarely required massive or immediate amounts of magic, but the family also took pride in not relying on a familiar for wizardry. A wizard should be able to function independently, particularly performing magical duties that had become routine. Cillian allowed himself a bit of disdain for the dour Tyrna who’d tried to look down on him and who couldn’t perform this simple task without her familiar.

Tyrna made a complicated gesture with her free hand—another indicator of lazy wizardry, as she shouldn’t need physical movement to express her magic—and an opening in the curtain formed.

Cillian, without moving a muscle, directed the air elemental in the carriage to proceed across. “Thank you, Tyrna,” he said, then smiled at her familiar. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

The young man looked startled to be noticed, much less addressed, and smiled back shyly. “I’m Feny, Wizard Harahel.”

“Good to meet you both.” He tossed off a salute, enjoying Tyrna’s scowl as she slammed the barrier shut behind him and swallowed Feny and herself in the fog again. Cillian would bet that parlor trick consumed more magic than opening the barrier had. He took a few moments to trigger the mechanism to convert the runners to wheels—the carriage might be antique, but El-Adrel mechanisms worked like a charm for a long, long time—and then rode on into Elal.

In only a few hours, he would see Alise. Or, at least, he’d be in the same building with her. He could only hope he’d get to see her. And convince her.

Cillian had, of course, seen multiple illustrations of House Elal itself. He wouldn’t be him if he hadn’t done his research. Seeing the manse in real life, however, eclipsed all of his preconceptions.

In the first place, you could easily fit five of House Harahel inside the house at Elal. That became slowly more and more apparent as his carriage drew near. Situated as the manse was in the river valley, its size was initially deceptive, seen from above, but as he descended, the edifice seemed to grow, until it towered overhead. It wasn’t graceful and lovely like House Phel, or gothically old-fashioned like House Harahel, but it sprawled, wing upon wing and tower after tower, in a glamorous avalanche of architecture that transcended mere aesthetics.

The carriage trundled across the drawbridge spanning the moat. The fact that it was down and the portcullis—an actual portcullis, like out of fairy tales—up, seemed to be encouraging signs. At least he wasn’t physically locked out of House Elal. He patted his shirt pocket, reassuring himself that the favor from Alise remained accessible. He had a feeling he’d need it before this had played out.

As anticipated, more liveried servants silently escorted him not to see Alise, but into what was clearly an office belonging to Lord Elal, the sort where guests would be formally received, particularly of the unwelcome variety. The servants waited for him to choose a seat—he picked a chair where he could study the room—then set a tray of refreshments before him. Shutting the door, they left him alone.

Cillian poured himself tea, eschewing the wine, though it was no doubt an excellent Elal vintage, and nibbled on the cookies provided. They were too dry and a bit on the stale side. No wonder Alise rhapsodized over his baking if she’d been raised on this sort of thing. He did pause, giving thought to whether he should eat or drink, but Lady Harahel had endorsed his visit and Cillian doubted even mighty House Elal wanted to get into a feud with Harahel by poisoning their scion, even a humble one.

Lord Elal kept him waiting over an hour. By then Cillian had formed more of an opinion of Alise’s father from how he chose to furnish and decorate this receiving room. Most notably, there were no books. Cillian knew he was odd that way, as was House Harahel, in that he expected all unused wall space to be lined with bookshelves and stuffed with books. Not only that, however, and even more telling, none of the chairs had reading lights situated nearby. Arguably, a room like this wouldn’t be used for reading or study, but he found the lack unsettling. In fact, the room contained no reading material at all, or even any interesting art, almost as if it had been designed to torture visitors into boredom.

Fortunately, Cillian was never without. He dug through his book satchel, putting back the texts on the Knifeblade Mountains and Elal countryside, along with the booklet on the ballgowns of Lady Phel long past, which he’d brought to show Alise, after having it copied by an expensive House Xerograf gremlin. At least his conservative grandmother had relented enough on her technological isolation to have one of those creatures on hand. He settled in with a history of House Elal, partly because he hadn’t finished it, but also to tweak Piers Elal’s nose.

Sure enough, when Lord Elal strode into the room, his one wizard-black eye went immediately to the book Cillian set aside as he politely stood, the man’s lip curling in distaste before he studied Cillian, making no pretense of doing otherwise. “So you’re the archivist who thought to woo my daughter,” he declared without preamble, going to sit behind his desk and indicating the chair in front of it.

Cillian had no intention of sitting there to be interviewed like some supplicant. Instead, he remained standing, folding his hands nonchalantly behind his back as he returned the perusal with interest. Cillian had never had occasion to meet Lord Elal, but he’d been very interested to discover if the wizard’s magic would feel like Alise’s and Nic’s. It did and didn’t, the florid rose notes not nearly so predominant, the scent of wine much stronger. Nic and Alise both got their coloring from their mother, so Lord Elal’s blond good looks were nothing like his daughters’, but something in the haughty lift of the man’s chin, the strong cheekbones, reminded him very much of Alise.

“I served as Alise’s mentor and independent study project supervisor at Convocation Academy,” he said agreeably, as if that had been the question asked. “I understand Wizard Alise is in residence.” Or so he hoped. He didn’t know what he’d do if that turned out to be incorrect. “Lady Harahel messaged ahead, requesting an audience for me with Wizard Alise.” Much as she hadn’t wanted to. Another victory for him, convincing her that she had to give him the freedom to prove he’d changed.

“How is órlaith, that old battle axe?” Elal inquired. The metal patch over his missing eye seemed to be swirling. Some sort of wizardry, no doubt having to do with spirit magic.

“Lady Harahel is in excellent health,” Cillian answered politely. “Thank you for asking.”

That lip curl again. “órlaith always did have more balls than any man.”

No doubt that was true, but Cillian simply stood, attentively waiting.

Lord Elal huffed out an annoyed breath and stabbed a finger at the chair before his desk. “Sit, sit already.”

“I’m comfortable standing,” Cillian replied. “Is Wizard Alise on her way?”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

Cillian absorbed the stab of pain, acknowledging that it could be true but that Elal had more reasons to lie than not. “I’d rather hear that directly from her.”

“Oh, would you rather ?” Elal questioned, mimicking Cillian’s Harahel accent, exaggerating the roll of the R. “Well, I would r-r-rather you ceased wasting my time. If you don’t wish to sit and converse like civilized wizards then you can crawl back into whatever dusty tome you crept out of. My heir is a busy wizard and has no time to waste on the likes of you.”

Rather than being daunted, Cillian breathed in relief. Alise was here. “Naturally, I await her convenience. I don’t wish to impose on her no doubt demanding schedule. When would be a better time for me to meet with her?”

“In the dark arts of never !” Lord Elal practically roared. “I know your designs on my daughter, how you attempted to seduce her. You’ve displayed a surprising amount of ambition for a Harahel bookworm, but it will do you no good. Alise will be taking a familiar and training to become Lady Elal after me. She doesn’t wish to see you, ever again, and I support her in that decision.”

“I’d prefer to hear that from her own lips.”

“I don’t care what you prefer, boy. Perhaps you should have thought of that before you had your grandmother send my daughter packing rather than offer her the simplest hospitality at House Harahel. Turning her out without even a meal or a night’s sleep, simply because she doesn’t trust an Elal.” He barked out a bitter laugh. “Well, if órlaith thinks I’ll treat her scion better than she did mine, then she’s gone batty over the years. An Elal isn’t welcome at House Harahel? Fine then. No Harahel is welcome here. Begone.”

Feeling sick, the truth of what had happened while he was unconscious hit him, along with pure fury at his conniving grandmother. The pieces of the puzzle fell perfectly into place, fitting into a seamless whole. Alise hadn’t left him, not of her own will. That’s why it had never made any sense. His grandmother, Lady Harahel, had given Alise the imperious boot and Cillian hadn’t been awake to interfere. No wonder Alise hadn’t written him. No wonder she didn’t want to see him.

No wonder she’d agreed so readily to save her niece by returning to House Elal with her father. He knew Alise and it would have wounded her to be expelled from Harahel, and then to hear no word from him. Or perhaps he didn’t know Alise as well as he thought, as he hadn’t figured this out until now.

Piers Elal, following at least some level of Cillian’s sequence of realizations, nodded. “So, you see. You will leave and—”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Cillian interrupted with quiet dignity. It wasn’t really in him to stand up to others, especially someone who outstripped him in rank, wealth, and power as Lord Elal did. But this was important. Maybe the most important thing he’d ever do. No matter how it worked out between Alise and him, he had to clear up this terrible misunderstanding. He withdrew the paper from his pocket. Because he’d sealed it with his archivist’s magic, the simple note was as fresh and crisp as on the day Alise had grudgingly penned it, her contained fury showing in the bold strokes and slashes of her handwriting. She hadn’t meant to grant him the favor, a slip of the tongue in her determination to protect him and get rid of him.

Finally approaching Elal, presiding behind his desk like a king, Cillian came around the side, forcing Lord Elal to turn to face him. He would be no supplicant. Holding the note between his first and middle fingers, Cillian offered it. “Wizard Alise owes me a favor to be determined later. I’m calling in that favor by requesting a private audience with her.”

Piers Elal snatched up the note in clear outrage, his face crimson, his magic intensifying as if he’d love nothing more than to reduce Cillian to a steaming pile of goo on the spot. He glared at the note, fuming. “That fucking idiot,” he snarled. “Wait until I give her a piece of my mind about this.”

“Not until the favor is granted,” Cillian reminded him lightly. “I know you wouldn’t want your house to be foresworn.”

Elal’s one good eye glared daggers at him, the metal patch nearly glowing with a swirl of maddened spirits. Then his expression shifted craftily and he made to tear up the note. Nothing doing. In growing rage he summoned a fire elemental to burn the thing, with no greater effect. Cillian watched politely, in mild amusement.

“Archival quality preservation,” he finally said, all friendly helpfulness. “Librarians aren’t good for much, but we do know how to preserve documents from, ah, tampering.”

Elal tossed the note on his desk, lip in that contemptuous curl. “Only you and I know about this. I can have you eliminated.”

“And Alise,” Cillian corrected, gesturing to her handwriting. “She knows.”

“My daughter also knows when to keep her mouth shut.”

“Oh,” Cillian inserted as if he’d just remembered, “and my grandmother knows, as does all of House Harahel. Why do you think she granted me the introduction to come here? She wasn’t any more eager to send me than you are to have me.”

Piers Elal gripped the edge of his desk. “You think you’ve outmaneuvered me, but you are gravely mistaken, book boy. Alise doesn’t want you. She’ll simply tell you to leave and you will have wasted—wasted!—a favor from House Elal. And you’re supposed to be so smart.”

A fool for love , Cillian supposed, so he only smiled. “Nevertheless, this is the favor I ask of her.”

Lord Elal fumed, but finally threw up his hands. “Fine. You can stay for dinner and see her then.”

“I did specify a private audience.”

“Which you will have, afte r dinner.” Lord Elal smiled in malicious satisfaction. “If you still want to at that point. I advise you to consider otherwise. You might wish to cash in that favor for something better than a conversation that will only disappoint you. Wealth, a sinecure. I understand you were fired from Convocation Academy. Incompetence, was it?”

“I look forward to seeing Alise at dinner,” Cillian said, not allowing his resolve to waver. “Shall I remain here until then or…?” He allowed the question to trail off, highlighting Elal’s lack of hospitality, for all his blustering about it.

“I should make you wait in the carriage,” Lord Elal snarled. “But no, I shall offer what órlaith couldn’t be bothered to do. Likely House Harahel had no spare rooms nor enough food to go around to offer my daughter. I’ll do better. You can stay the night. Have dinner. Plead your pitiful case to Alise, then be sent packing in the morning. I’ll enjoy seeing you creep off after my daughter shows you the road.”

Cillian figured that was as likely an outcome of any.