Page 4 of Strange Familiar (Warriors of Magic #2)

~4~

W ell, yes, Alise rather had thought she’d need to mention that—and the fact that Cillian’s grandmother had leapt to the wrong conclusion only proved it. At least she didn’t have to explain about the non-physical burden he carried. “He didn’t steal the archive.”

“Shall we debate the definition of ‘theft’?” the old wizard asked absently from his chair, the big tome he’d carried now spread open on his lap.

“In so far as it is the sacred duty of all Harahels to ensure that the Convocation Archives remain intact and inside the Convocation Archive walls, and considering that my grandson, with an employment contract to Convocation Academy, has indeed removed a sizable chunk from those archives, then I believe I’ll stick with how I described the situation.” She gave Alise an owlish look over her spectacles. “And I’m very interested in your explanation for why these are House Phel archives, given your earlier speech about affiliation with that house, which—if I’m not mistaken—is still on probationary status.”

“You’re not mistaken, órlaith,” the elderly wizard inserted. “In fact, the progress of House Phel toward regaining their high house status has hit so many setbacks that one must regard their movement as going backward.”

How could these reclusive sorts in the backwoods know so much? Most wizards actively involved in the Convocation didn’t know that much about the challenges facing House Phel. Alise wrestled with how to respond. This had been Cillian’s idea, to request aid from House Harahel on comparing the records on House Phel in the Convocation Archives with those maintained at House Harahel. It had become abundantly clear that House Hanneil—possibly conspiring with other high houses—had arranged for those records to be hidden away. The possibility remained that they’d also altered key information, probably to disguise the reasons and methodology in bringing about the fall of the high house generations ago. Alise knew that Cillian also worried about the potential involvement of a Harahel wizard in the conspiracy. Only sophisticated library magic could have hidden the archive to begin with.

All of this meant that Alise was out of her depth and really needed Cillian to handle this. But they needed to save him first. “Please tell the wizards helping Cillian that the folded archive is pass-coded to him. They won’t be able to unlock it without that.”

“They’ve already relieved him of the burden. He can unlock it later.”

Oh. Abruptly deflated, mostly relieved, Alise considered what to say next.

órlaith threw up her hands then pointed at a settee with a low table before it. “Oh, for dark arts’ sake, sit already. I’m not pleased to have an Elal on my doorstep, but I’m not going to eat you.”

Almost reflexively, Alise obeyed, the tone of command making the realization click in her tired brain at last. Something she should have realized much sooner. “ You are Lady Harahel,” she said in a tone of wonder.

órlaith snorted and the elderly wizard by the fire—possibly the retired Lord Harahel?—cackled. “Not as stupid as she looks, eh, órlaith?”

“Gee thanks,” Alise said sourly, not sure if she was more bothered that she’d been dense or by the implication that she looked that way. “I am not at my best.”

órlaith dropped onto the couch beside Alise with a sigh. “Well, my little attempt at subterfuge wasn’t going to last long. I apologize for the deception. I wanted to have a conversation with you as Cillian’s grandmother, not as Lady Harahel.”

That penetrated Alise’s fuzzy brain, too. “Cillian… is a scion of House Harahel—in line to be your heir?” she squeaked.

órlaith waved that off. “Technically, but the boy isn’t at all interested in heading a high house. No more than I am, truth be told, nor would I be Lady Harahel if some people hadn’t decided they’d rather spend their days reading.” She glared at the elderly wizard’s back and he hummed a jaunty tune, turning a page and otherwise ignoring her.

Alise was still coping with the news that Cillian had failed to reveal. In all their conversations about her feelings on being her father’s heir or not, and their few, minimalistic relationship discussions, Cillian had never seen fit to mention that his beloved grandmother was the head of his house. She should have kicked him when she had the opportunity. In fact, once he was recovered—and he’d better recover—she would kick him. “Wait, a moment,” she said, sitting up straighter. “Cillian said that you garden. And bake. And quilt. And send him dried herbs.”

“Does he use those then?” She looked pleased, then narrowed her wizard-black eyes, her formidable power mantling. Alise had underestimated this woman, not accustomed to sussing out the subtler, academic magics. But órlaith was no fool and she was definitely wizard enough to pose a threat. “What is your relationship with my boy, by the way?”

Oops. Definitely not a conversation she wanted to have without Cillian present. She had no idea if he’d want his family, his house—the head of his house!—to know about their affair. It was so new, too tender for public scrutiny. Besides, clearly órlaith already didn’t approve of Alise. “I’m a student at the academy,” she answered evenly, “and Cillian assisted me on an independent study project, assigned by Provost Uriel,” she added, thinking that bit of authority would lend credence to the perception that her relationship with Cillian was entirely professional.

órlaith wasn’t fooled, however. She regarded Alise cannily. “Tandiya Uriel is involved in this?” She considered, pursing her lips.

“Uriel hates Hanneil,” commented the wizard by the fire. Alise wondered why he even pretended to be reading when he clearly listened to every word of their conversation. It was no accident that these two had her cornered in this library, conducting what could only be called an interrogation.

Just then, the doors opened and two young servants wheeled in a cart. They bustled about, replacing the retired Lord Harahel’s teapot with a freshly steaming one, and setting a full tray on the table before Alise and órlaith. Once they left, closing the door behind them, Alise teetered on the edge of etiquette anxiety. As a guest, she could not reach for anything before her hostess did. Certainly she couldn’t serve herself before Lady Harahel did. But the servants had all left and the head of a high house wouldn’t—

órlaith Harahel reached for the teapot and poured for them both, bringing Alise’s thoughts to a stuttering halt for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last half an hour since they’d arrived. She knew exactly how long it had been, as they at least had an El-Adrel clock on the mantel, one she kept eyeing, wondering how long it would be until someone brought news of Cillian.

She accepted the cup on its pretty saucer, both antiques, but not matching each other or anything else. órlaith put a steaming cinnamon roll on a plate and set it before Alise. “Eat. Drink,” she instructed crisply. “It’s no fun to interrogate a waifish wizardling who looks about to pass out on my settee.”

Alise smiled at the cinnamon roll, which looked exactly like the sort Cillian baked for her, and unexpectedly had to choke back tears. órlaith patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. Cillian will be fine. Your compassionate interest in the health of your independent study advisor is quite moving. Convocation Academy must have changed since my day, cultivating such close relationships between staff and students.”

The wily old bitch. Alise took a hearty sip of the steaming tea, willing the burn to clear her head and wake her up. Eyes dry, she looked over to órlaith, who watched her knowingly. “It’s rather impolite to read my thoughts without permission,” she noted candidly.

órlaith smiled thinly. “House Harahel may not be one of the movers and shakers of the Convocation, not like—let’s say, House Elal—but neither are we doddering backwoods fools. I use the weapons available to me. Also, your mental shielding is appallingly bad.”

Alise knew for a fact that wasn’t true. She’d recently learned to barricade her mind following Gordon Hanneil’s attempt to mentally control her. Professor Seraphiel had declared her more than adequate. Nevertheless, Alise took a moment to strengthen that shielding, which she’d admittedly let sag a bit, thinking herself amongst harmless librarians, not politically savvy mind-readers.

“Better,” órlaith said with a nod, sipping her own tea. “I’m unusual in Harahel, to answer your unspoken question, in that my late mother was a Hanneil. Everyone seriously questioned my esteemed father’s choice in taking her as his familiar.”

For once, the elderly wizard did not comment.

“The skill comes in handy,” órlaith mused, seemingly unbothered by the silent implication that the old wizard was one of those who’d questioned the choice. “Also, there’s no reason I can’t enjoy hobbies like baking, gardening, and quilting and still run a high house. It’s remarkable how little time it really takes to do so when one isn’t constantly jockeying to add to already immense wealth or scheming to take over the Convocation.”

Alise lifted her cup in silent toast to the obvious jab at House Elal. She could hardly retort, even if she felt any inclination, as her father arguably did spend all of his time on those activities. Taking up her cinnamon roll, she briefly pondered how to eat it, recalling Cillian’s detailed observations on how each person’s method revealed essential character. From the way órlaith continued to study her, Alise was willing to bet Cillian had learned that personality litmus test at his grandmother’s knee, as he clearly had so much else. Deciding to throw off the predator currently cornering her, Alise deliberately ate differently, defiantly plucking out the soft center and eating that first.

órlaith threw back her head and laughed. “Well played, wizardling. You are more intimate with my grandson than you’d like us to know. He’s baked for you. Fascinating. The question is, will you be another Szarina?”

“No,” Alise answered firmly, perfectly willing to both firmly close off that avenue of speculation and reveal that she knew about that tawdry incident. “Though I must say that I’m surprised that you, Lady Harahel, allowed a Sammael scion to so badly use one of yours. You won’t convince me you didn’t know.”

órlaith lifted her cup in the same silent toast as Alise had given. “Foolish young people don’t grow into older and wiser ones if they’re protected from everything that might give them pain,” she observed. “Especially regarding one’s scions, as you like to remind me, a parent and head of a high house prefers them to be toughened by the non-lethal lessons life offers.”

“Non-lethal life lessons?” Alise echoed incredulously, abandoning her manners in her indignation. “Szarina badly hurt Cillian, wounded him as only a sensitive, caring person like him can be.”

“And are you aiming to pick up the pieces of his broken heart, young Elal?” Lady Harahel returned sharply. “As I might point out that you share a great deal more with Szarina Sammael than you don’t. You and I both know you’ll be wanting to acquire a familiar to fuel your wizardry at the level of power you’ll need and—let’s be frank—will crave, just like your father. There is no place in your future for a sweet and sensitive lover like Cillian.”

Alise was aware of this assumption about her—and not only because Cillian had said almost the exact same thing to her. She was growing exceedingly tired of literally everyone else telling her what she wanted from her life. However, she had no intention of confirming or denying órlaith’s probing insinuations. She and Cillian should have discussed how to represent their relationship, but they hadn’t and that was water under the bridge; she was on her own.

“Szarina manipulated Cillian into helping her cheat,” she said pointedly, “smearing his reputation at Convocation Academy and causing him to question his own integrity.”

“As well he should,” órlaith fired back, all stern high house lady as she hadn’t fully demonstrated before that moment. “Manipulated him, indeed.” She snorted in contempt. “My boy got his head turned, thinking with his little one, bamboozled by a pretty face and a sob story. Cillian has always seen himself as the savior of damsels in distress. It’s an unfortunate character flaw.”

Alise gaped at her. “Cillian’s caring nature is hardly a character flaw.”

“Isn’t it?” órlaith’s expression was as hard as glass. “There’s no place among Convocation wizards for tender hearts, squirreled away in the archives or not. The Convocation high houses are constantly at war, overtly or covertly, which you know Daughter of Elal. You judged me and found me wanting, assuming I have no security and no sense. Just a granny puttering in her garden, but I am the head of House Harahel, one of the first houses in the Convocation, and we have not survived by accident.”

To steady herself, Alise sipped her tea, then set it down, cursing herself for simply eating and drinking with blind trust.

“No, I didn’t poison or drug your food,” órlaith said in exasperation. “I just finished telling you I’m not a fool. I don’t want Piers Elal bringing down the fury of the entire spirit world upon my house. Nor do I have any wish to incite the vengeance of Lord Gabriel Phel, especially fueled by your powerful sister. Of course I know about that rogue upstart with his unusual—and obviously unconstrained—powers, and I can assess the likely fate of House Phel. Harahel survived where Phel did not, which I’d think would give you pause before casting your judgements.”

“I apologize,” Alise said, wishing viciously that she’d minded her thoughts—and checking her mental shielding again.

“No, I didn’t read your mind that time, child. Your thoughts were all too apparent in your actions. You are, however, competent at controlling your facial expressions. You’re quite like your father, you know.”

Alise was glad she’d set down her tea, as she would have choked on it, or bobbled her cup. “I am not like my father.” The words came out too harsh, too emotional, and Lady Harahel knew it, smiling thinly.

“I knew Piers Elal, at Convocation Academy,” she said in a conversational tone that didn’t fool Alise. Not anymore, anyway. “Same class, in fact. I had my children early; he had you all later. I wanted my child-bearing done with while my body was young and my powers still new. After all, a woman can continue to increase and enhance her wizardry all her life, but the ravages of pregnancy… best left to the vigor of youth. Something for you to keep in mind, perhaps.” Her gaze slid down Alise’s slim body in speculation and she resisted putting a hand on the belly she knew was flat.

Alise hadn’t had a Refoel healer unlock her fertility—for very good reasons—and in fact didn’t know if she ever would. She returned Lady Harahel’s inquiring gaze evenly, saying nothing, betraying nothing of her thoughts. Finally.

“Piers was very like you at this age,” órlaith continued as if the silent battle hadn’t occurred. “He was never a big man, short and slight, like you are. You know how short men can be, always overcompensating, and Piers was no exception. Worse, he craved power, determined to be the best at everything, to control everything.”

Alise couldn’t argue with this assessment of her father—it was all too true—but she took exception to the rest of órlaith’s implications. “That’s not who I am.”

“So you claim and so it remains to be seen. Forgive me if I’m not feeling generous enough to simply take you at your word, Alise Elal.” She smiled broadly, her wizard-black eyes ice cold. “I’m not actually interested in what your relationship has been with my grandson.”

“I’ve already tried to explain,” Alise replied stiffly, more than aggravated to be continually called out on this, like she was some kind of predatory female like… Well, like Szarina Sammael, looking to use and twist up Cillian. After all, Cillian had pursued her. Relentlessly, in his adorably velvet-clad hammer fashion. She’d been minding her own business, focused on her project, when Cillian had inserted himself into her life. And her body. Her first lover and he’d always be special for that reason. She cut off that thought before she blushed and gave herself away.

“Then by all means,” Lady Harahel said, smiling into her tea, “please do explain.”

“Cillian is my mentor. We sought the Phel archives and he found them, because he is a brilliant, clever wizard of library magic. They’d been deliberately concealed and we have very good reason to believe House Hanneil culpable. Cillian removed the Phel archives, lest they be lost again, or even destroyed. He believes there is critically important information in there, and that they were tampered with. He was determined to bring those archives here, to the house of his birth, to you, in order to run a side-by-side comparison with the House Harahel mirrored archives for House Phel. Provost Uriel is aware of this mission and endorses it.”

Alise left out the part where Provost Uriel had also fired Cillian. That should be his news to share, if at all. Besides, the way the provost had saved them at the last moment and destroyed Gordon Hanneil made Alise think she might relent. Cillian loved working in the Convocation archives; he belonged there. Surely Provost Uriel would know that.

“I see,” Lady Harahel said, nodding thoughtfully. “Thank you for that explanation.” She set down her teacup and saucer with a crisp clink. “I’ll see that supplies are packed for you. We removed the air elemental that you… modified from the carriage and substituted a standard, Elal-brand entity.”

“You can’t take my elemental.”

“Can and did, young Alise. I must say, I’m surprised you were so ambitious—and careless in your arrogance—as to create a monster like you did with the elemental you arrived with. It had to be contained.”

“I was in a hurry,” Alise said through gritted teeth, defensive and confused, a bad combination. How had the librarian wizards handled sophisticated spirit magic like that? “All I cared about was getting Cillian here before the burden of those archives killed him.”

“I’m not unappreciative of your motivation,” órlaith said, graciously, not unkindly, but with steel beneath. “Still, I urge you to bear firmly in mind what I told you about your father and his ambitious nature, which you clearly share. The greatest danger is when we are willing to discard ethics and rationality in the name of expedience. All villains believe they’re making choices for the right reasons, even with good intentions, but if they’ve abandoned their integrity, breaking the rules to achieve a goal… Well, that’s when you go bad.”

Alise, even more deeply offended, struggled to keep up. She’d never been in control of this conversation and now she found herself firmly on the losing end of it. It didn’t help that Lady Harahel had put her finger exactly on Alise’s greatest fear: that she was inherently a monster and would become like her father.

“My sympathies on the passing of your dear maman, by the way,” órlaith said with what looked like a genuine smile. “I always liked her and was sorry when she succumbed to the Fascination and bonded as Piers’s familiar. She was far too young to die.”

Pierced through the heart, Alise froze, unable to summon a reply. She had set her grief and guilt aside, knowing she’d caused Maman’s death, no matter that no one else blamed her for it. She had been arrogant, thinking herself so clever to discover and execute a method to sever the wizard-familiar bond. She’d thought to free her mother from her father’s tyranny and neglect, to save Maman’s life, but her mother had wasted away, passing without ever regaining consciousness. At least only a handful of people knew what had really happened.

Except… did Lady Harahel somehow know this, too? órlaith gazed at her steadily, her dark curls, so like Cillian’s except threaded here and there with silver, giving her a softer appearance than those hard, black eyes evinced.

“Thank you for your sympathies,” Alise replied through numb lips, the habitual reply seeing her through the roar in her mind.

“Of course.” órlaith patted her on the hand and stood. “Now, I’ll see to supplies for you so you can be on your way.”

“On my way?”

“Yes.” Lady Harahel gave her a sunny smile. “I want you gone. As soon as feasible.”