"The River Mists Of Talry" - A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series)
Author: Mancour, Terry
Date: 2013-06-21

The River Mists of Talry

A Spellmonger Short Story

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © Terry Mancour 2013

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” the girl asked, her eyes narrowing and her freckled nose wrinkling.

Tyndal clutched the ancient pitchfork more tightly in his hands and nodded, mumbling an assent without looking up.

“I thought so,” the girl – about his own age, he couldn’t help but notice – said with an air of satisfaction, as if she had just figured out who killed Duke Sorotor.  “I’ve never seen you here before.”

Tyndal hoped she would go away, but when she didn’t, he finally looked up, brushing the shaggy mop of hair the color of the stray he was pitching out of his eyes to see her clearly.  You didn’t need clear vision to muck out stables.  It was actually a handicap.

“I –” he said, and stopped.

She was beautiful.

Not beautiful in the manner of a high-born lady, like Lady Pentandra or the other noblewomen he’d seen from afar.  This girl was beautiful after the fashion of the peasantry, with a broad face split by a wide smile, and about a thousand freckles fighting for dominance on her pert little nose.  Her hair was dark, the color of the chestnut mare in the third stall, and cascaded over her ear and down her shoulders in a luxurious sprawl.

She was dressed for town, so she wasn’t a peasant girl, he realized.  Her dress was a well-made, sturdy russet work dress, and she wore boots, not slippers or shoes.  It was two or three grades above what even the prosperous peasants around here wore unless they were on their way to temple or court.  It lacked an apron, so she wasn’t a cook or someone’s wife, he guessed, but the generous way it bulged suggested she wouldn’t be alone long.  It took a great deal of focus for Tyndal to tear his eyes away from her bust, but when he finally made it to her eyes, the trip was well worth the trouble.

The girl’s eyes gleamed bright green, like two fascinating emeralds, and they sparked with intelligence.  A lot of intelligence, he realized, with a start.  Perhaps too much.

“You . . . what?” she finally prompted.

“I’m just here for now, temporarily,” he mumbled, hiding his eyes again.  “My mistress hired me out to Master Gonus to tend the stable while his regular boy heals up,” he explained.

“Yeah, I heard Pug fell off that scrawny mare of his,” she snorted, as she wandered into the stall.  “Serves him right, thinking he can ride.”  She eyed him carefully, appraisingly, and it made Tyndal feel uncomfortable.  “I am Ansily.  My father runs the Four Stags inn, down the east road in Hoxly Crossing.”  When Tyndal didn’t reply, but kept combing through the straw, she prompted him.  “So what is your name?”

“Tyndal,” he said, exhaling.  He and his mistress had considered giving him a false name, but in the end decided that would merely complicate things.  “Tyndal of Boval Vale.  I’m a stableboy,” he said, even though it should be obvious to anyone with the slightest wit.  “And look to my mistress.”

“And just who is your mistress, Tyndal of Boval Vale?” she asked, making his name into a grandiose title.  Tyndal found it endearing and irritating at the same time.  He stopped, and studied her, brushing his hair out of his eyes once again.

“She is Alya of Boval Vale,” he said, evenly.  “She tarries in Talry to visit her kin, on her way up river.”

“She has kin in Talry?  Who are they?  Perhaps I know them?” she said, inquisitively.  “We innkeepers know just about everyone in a place.”

That was what Tyndal was afraid of.  “She is a distant – and I mean very distant – cousin of the Master Baker, Rinden.  I’m not certain of the relation, in honesty, but her father insisted she look them up.”

“I see,” she nodded, gravely.  “So, where in nine hells is Boval Vale?” she asked, pertly.  “Wherever it is, you are a long way from home.”  She started to move around the gray to follow him, but Tyndal stopped her suddenly with a hand on her shoulder.

“Careful,” he warned.  “That gray is jumpy.  If he thinks you’re lingering, he’ll kick you clear across the stable.  Boval Vale?  It’s hundreds and hundreds of leagues west, in the Mindens,” he said, with a sigh.  “But it’s not important.  I doubt I’ll be returning,” he said, sadly.

“Your mistress’ business will keep you away?” she asked.  Tyndal felt himself feeling compelled to converse with her, for some reason.  Perhaps it was that he had been in Talry for nine days, now, and he rarely spoke to anyone.   Nor had anyone, save Alya, spoken to him at length.

“You could say that,” he agreed, leaning on the pitchfork with practiced ease.  “Why are you so curious?”

“An innkeeper has to keep his ear open,” she shrugged.  “Father and I are in Talry on business, purchasing supplies from the port.  Only the barge we’re supposed to meet is late.  We’ll stay overnight at the Eel’s Elbow tonight, until it arrives.  My cousin Gastine owns it,” she said, proudly, her lips pouting a bit.

“It sounds as if you have innkeeping in your blood,” he said.  He had a hard time speaking to her, or at least of thinking of anything interesting to say, but she was just . . . so . . . pretty . . .

“For seven generations,” she said, proudly.  “My grandsires built the first great inn in the Riverlands, the Oak and Axe, down in Helanica.  That’s in Frista,” she explained.  Tyndal nodded.  He had never heard of either place, or the inn she was so proud of.  “My father built the Four Stags.  Some day I’ll inherit it.  Me and . . . my husband,” she said, swallowing hard and looking away.

“You’re getting married?” he asked, torn between disappointment and relief.

“Not right now,” she admitted.  “But Father feels like it could happen any time . . . should I meet a lad I fancy.”

“May Briga light your journey,” he said, automatically, and returned to his work.

“I mean, the Four Stags is a beautiful inn,” she said, taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor.  “It would make a princely inheritance for any young man.”

“You sound like it’s for sale,” he grunted.

“No, silly, it’s not.  I’m just saying that the man who marries me, he will get the inn when Father dies, may the gods spare him,” she explained.

“So . . . you’re selling . . . yourself?” he asked raising an eyebrow.    Ansily blushed and looked away.

“I was just making conversation!” she said, irritated.  “I just thought you might like to know who you were talking to.”

“Ansily of Hoxly, innkeeper’s daughter, on the hunt for a husband,” he recited, as if reading it on a sign over her head.  “Yes, I got that.”

“I am NOT on the hunt for a husband!” she insisted, indignantly.  “I just thought it would be polite to tell a cute boy about myself while my father talks with his vendors.”

“I’m just a stableboy,” he said, again, gesturing toward her with the pitchfork to demonstrate.  “I doubt your father wants a son-in-law with horse shit on his shoes.”

“My father will be happy with any man I choose,” she said, haughtily.  “Even if it was Tyndal of Boval,” she repeated, her eyes flashing.  Tyndal could feel the challenge pouring off of her.  “Even if he was simply covered in straw . . . from rolling around in it . . .”

Tyndal swallowed.  Was she . . .?  Really?  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I’m just a stableboy,” he repeated, lamely, caressing the handle of his pitchfork.  “I’m nobody.  And I’m not even that cute,” he said.

“Hmmph,” she grunted, smiling at him.  “Then you are no judge of humanity, Tyndal of Bov—”

“Just ‘Tyndal’,” he interrupted.  “Don’t mention Boval.  No one around here knows where it is, anyway.”

“Anyway,” she said, ignoring him, “you are, indeed, cute.”

Tyndal didn’t know what to say to that.  He’d never been called ‘cute’ before.

“All right, I’m cute.  But I’m still just a stableboy,” he said, smiling despite himself.

“So you keep insisting,” she said, even more irritated.  “But tell me, Tyndal the Stableboy, have you never aspired to any higher station?”

“I like horses,” he grunted.  “They’re simple.  Beautiful.  And . . .” he said, trailing off, thinking better of what he was going to say.

“And . . . ?”  she asked, insistently.  “ ‘And’, what?”

He looked directly into those beautiful green eyes and said the last thing he wanted to say to her.  “And they don’t talk,” he said.

“They don’t . . . Oh!” she squealed.  “So I talk too much for you, do I?”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he assured her.  “I think you’re kinda . . . cute.  But the horses might mind.”

She was about to give a retort when he heard someone, probably her father, calling her name.  Instead she turned back to him, after glancing nervously over her shoulder.  “Well, Tyndal the Stableboy, I’ll be at the Eel’s Elbow tonight.  Only, since we’re in town, I’ll probably be visiting Ishi’s shrine at midnight to pray for a husband.  Perhaps someone . . . cute, who feels the same of me.  Of course, such prayers should be conducted in private, so I shall probably go late in the evening.”

“Tell Her I said ‘hello’,” Tyndal said, dismissing her.

“Be sure I will,” Ansily said, her jaw jutting out.  She turned on her heel and strode out of the stable defiantly.

Tyndal watched her walk away, all the way down the cobblestone street, her skirt swishing appealingly after her.  Indeed, he did not take his eyes off of her until she turned the corner, and was out of sight.

“What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing?” he asked himself, when she was gone.  “You idiot!  You’re supposed to be hiding!  Not telling your life story to passing girls!”  He continued berating himself until Master Gonus came along, inspected his work, and told him to go home with the agreed-upon five coppers a day he’d earned.

Tyndal liked the old man, well in his forties, and didn’t even mind the strange accent.  He thanked his employer and set off down the street toward the great bakery where he was sleeping.  As it was only thirty paces away, he was ‘home’ before his feet were tired.

When Tyndal and Alya had made their way upriver to his master’s father’s home in Talry, it had been easy enough to stay in disguise.  They looked like hundreds of other travelers on the river, and no one had asked them about anything out of the ordinary along the way.

But they had been moving, then, and a quick lie and a hasty retreat was usually enough to escape attention on a barge.  Now that they were in Talry for the foreseeable future, Tyndal had to find some way of blending in and escaping notice of the Witchfinders of the Censorate until his master sent for him.  And protect his intended bride, who was pregnant with his child, while he did it.

They had at first thought he could be of use in the bakery, but two days of frustrating labor soon convinced them otherwise.  Tyndal had no talent nor love of baking, and while he could carry wood and flour and such as easy as anyone, he kept getting in the way.  It didn’t help that Master Minalan’s father, Master Rinden, had four apprentices and three journeymen already underfoot – Tyndal’s services just weren’t needed, and the younger apprentices didn’t waste any time resenting him.

When Master Rinden pulled Tyndal aside to discuss it, he admitted that he was miserable in the hot, stuffy bakery.  When he further admitted that he preferred horse manure to flour, Master Rinden was skeptical, but arranged for the lad to work at Goodman Gonus’ livery stable across the road on the High Street.   Tyndal was a bit nervous around the strangers, but he did know horses.  Once he’d met the liveryman and answered a few basic questions about horseflesh, the pudgy goodman agreed to take him on.

It wasn’t glamorous work, but he understood it.  The pitchfork had a wooden handle on one end, two iron tines on the other, and even an idiot could use it.  Compared to kneading bread, it was heaven . . . and it had other advantages.  From the stable Tyndal could watch the door of the bakery, which was the other reason he was eager for the change.   He could pay attention to every man who approached the door from the yard of the stable, hard to do when you’re back in the ovens.  From the moment he’d picked up the well-worn iron pitchfork, he had made it his duty to keep a sharp eye out for anyone searching for his master.

As well as he understood it, he was just as happy to put it away and head back to the bakery, where he knew a meal beyond his imagination would be waiting . . . Minalan’s mother was an adept cook with a full house to feed, and Mistress Sarali prided herself on her extravagant table.  Tyndal walked through the door in anticipation of the accustomed evening feast.

To his dismay, he walked into a full-fledged battle.

Minalan’s mother, Mistress Sarali, a tall, gray-haired woman who seemed to constantly squint, was arguing lustfully:

“ . . . don’t see the reason my son should settle with any woman, my dear, it’s not you,” she was saying.  Tyndal didn’t know much about women, but she knew sincerity when he heard it – and he didn’t hear it.  “I was just suggesting that you take some time, get to know each other—”

“Two months in a siege was enough intimacy, thank you,” his mistress said sharply.  “Min and I went through hell in Boval Castle, and he’s not about to dump me off at the nearest convenient village while he finds a better offer!”

“I never said he should do that!” Mistress Sarali said, her hands on her hips, her lips jutting out.  “Ishi’s bosom, you are a stubborn girl!”

“I’m a stubborn girl?” Alya shot back in disbelief.

“She’s a stubborn girl?” one of Minalan’s sisters – Urah?  Dara?  He couldn’t keep them all straight – said at the same time.    The mother looked at her daughter like she had stabbed her.

“I am just trying to look out for the best interests of my family!” she declared, looking heavenward.  “Why is that so difficult for you girls to see?”

“I was under the impression I was going to become part of your family!” Alya said with a huff.

“Grandmother, you mustn’t question Uncle Minalan’s decisions!” Frentine, Minalan’s oldest niece, said in a louder-than-necessary voice.  He was very loud, very emotional, and she idolized her uncle the magi.  “You know he has given his love to this woman, and asked you to protect her and her unborn child.  The least you can do—”

“I will NOT be lectured in my own house about my responsibilities!” shrieked Sarali, angrily.  “Especially not by a stripling who has only seen three bloodmoons!”

Tyndal stood there, unable to move, lest he attract the attention of any of them.  He felt like he was on patrol again, hiding until a goblin picket passed.  Make one sound, one wrong move, and they would be upon you.  For one crazy moment he considered using the unnoticiability spell his master had taught him, but he stopped.  No magic. Not if he didn’t have to – it could attract attention.

“Lad!” he heard a harsh whisper from the door on the other side of the room.  “Tyndal!”  He looked up and saw Hirth,  Master Rinden’s senior apprentice, motioning to him frantically.  Taking a deep breath, he crossed the room with quick, quiet, determined strides . . . and to his amazement he managed to do so without getting caught up in the ongoing argument.   Hirth pulled him to safety while Borsa, Minalan’s second-oldest sister, came valiantly to Alya’s defense.

“I thought you might not want to participate in that bloodbath,” the dark-haired apprentice said, grinning.

“I’d rather face a goblin,” he agreed.

“So would the rest of us.  Master Rinden has convened a meeting in the woodshed.  You are cordially invited.”

“A meeting?” he asked, surprised.  “A meeting about what?”

“A meeting about not getting involved in that,” he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.  “He’s forbidden any of us from getting involved.  It’s the women’s problem to solve, he said.”

“He . . . he wouldn’t turn Alya out, would he?”

“Master Rinden?” scoffed Hirth, “Of course not!  He’s got a big ol’ creampuff in place of his heart, and he loves no one more than his son, excepting maybe the Mistress.   If his son asked for him to protect the girl, he will to his dying breath.  Against anyone except the Mistress,” he added.

Tyndal could see that.  Mistress Sarali was forceful, and she ran the household with an iron hand.  Tyndal couldn’t imagine anyone defying her . . . which made it even more horrible when her daughters, grown women themselves, did it so vocally, so viciously, and without the slightest regard for tender male ears.  Gratefully he followed Hirth, the volume in the kitchen behind him keeping up with his steps.

The woodshed was a separate building from the oven rooms, a huge, ramshackle affair that had been added to and repaired so many times over the years that Tyndal wondered how it stayed upright at all.  As its only purpose was to keep the rain off of the huge amount of wood the bakery required, it did not need to be pretty, he reasoned as he followed.

Master Rinden himself was holding forth deep in the bowels of the shed, in his private office.  His three journeymen-sons-in-law were also there, and they each had a mug of something in their hands.  While Hirth was the only apprentice invited – he was only two years older than Tyndal – he apparently had been here before.  He greeted his master, poured two mugs of beer from the big bottle on the workbench, and handed one to Tyndal.

“So, what are we doing?” he asked, after he took a hesitant sip.  It was rich and bitter, and took some getting used to.  His people preferred cider to beer, usually.

“We’re waiting for the storm to stop,” said Askon, the second journeyman.  He was the one married to Dara, the willowy daughter, Tyndal remembered.  “When they get like this, that’s all you can do.”

“They’ve been going at it for hours,” grumbled Rask, the eldest journeyman.  Ladra was his wife, and Frentine the eldest of his daughters.  Tyndal had been struggling with just how everyone was related, and how that affected what they did at the bakery, but he was still wrong half of the time.   He had thought Frentine was Rask’s daughter, at first, because they acted so similarly sometimes.    He’d always been nervous around big families, particularly ones with as many fathers running around as this one had.   Rask continued, “I don’t even know what they’re arguing about!”

“The question is a social one,” Master Rinden explained in his deep voice.  “My wife, Ishi love her and keep her safe, has run our house for more than thirty years, and she has had the reins firmly in hand.  When Tyndal found his Talent was the first time she couldn’t control what happened to her family.  Then there was that business with Ladra and that Farag boy, but she soon had her hand back on the tiller.  Since then, everything has gone well.  Her daughters have all married, her son is a success with great prospects for the future . . . and then a pregnant woman shows up at her door and says that she’s to be her son’s wife.

“Now, Tyndal, I know you are as loyal to your Master’s lady as a man could ask, and I mean no disrespect to you, she, or my son.  But from Sarali’s perspective, a stranger is in her house asking for all of the benefits of kinship.  While she knows that Alya and you are telling the truth – Minalan never would have told her . . . certain family secrets if she wasn’t – her heart hasn’t told her that, yet.  Women are prone to treat a new woman with suspicion, at first.  Nothing wrong with that . . . but while her heart is coming around to what her eyes can clearly see,  and she is . . . it won’t let her mouth say it yet.”

“Master, with all respect, I didn’t hear any of that,” Askon said.  “I heard an argument about where your son will live.  Nothing about heart, eyes, or mouths.”

“She can’t say that,” he explained.  “She can’t take this poor girl who her son has sent to her and turn her out.  She cannot even judge her before her boy makes his decision to wed, the way she did with all of you,” he said, indicating his sons-in-law.

From the wry expressions on their faces, Tyndal could imagine just how harshly each of them had been judged by the strong-willed Sarali.  He didn’t envy them, despite the satisfaction each of the men seemed to have in their marriage.

“Minalan has already plighted his troth with Alya with his loins, and loves her besides, if what Tyndal says about him is true.  So she can’t take issue with her, personally.  That loaf is burnt already,” he said, shaking his head.  “So what’s the next thing she can fuss about?  Not the wedding – it shall be here, if the gods see fit to carry my son back to me.  And Alya has no proper kin, it seems, at least no proper home anymore, so there aren’t even any in-laws to sharpen her claws on.

“So what is the next thing she can control?  Where her son decides to settle.  And she wants him here, of course, under her thumb.”

“And what a loving, warm-hearted, and thoughtfully oppressive thumb it is,” Hirth said, earning a chorus of chuckles.  As the junior apprentice, he was allowed a certain latitude with his humor, which suited his character.  While Master Rinden’s shop was all-business, it wasn’t the sort of place where the Master thundered at everyone for being incompetent or stupid, the way some craftsmen did.  After dark, and especially out here in the woodshed, the unofficial rule was casual leniency, though disrespect wasn’t tolerated even then.

“Does the village need another spellmonger?” asked Askon, shrugging.  “There are two, now, and the way they go on there isn’t enough business for even one of them.”  As curious as he was about other magi, Tyndal had resisted the urge to visit them, lest they suspect something was not quite right.  He’d heard enough about them both by now that he was confident that even he – with the use of irionite – would have bested both of them put together.

“That southern fellow is still pissed that I let Minalan did the spells on my house and ovens,” chuckled Master Rinden.  “But no, this village couldn’t hold a third spellmonger.  Nor is Baron Lithar unhappy with his court mage.  But that’s beside the point: the point is, Minalan is his own man, he’s going to choose where he lives.  About that Alya might have some say, and his mother none at all.”

“So why does she argue if she knows that?” asked Rickin, the intelligent-looking husband of Urah, the youngest of Master Rinden’s daughters.

“Because she can, boy!” laughed Rinden.  “Or at least she can ‘offer her matronly advice’.  And Alya might even listen to it, but she knows it will be up to Minalan.  She was polite enough about it . . . before my girls got involved.   Now their feminine sensibilities are invested in the argument, even though it will be for naught.  But it isn’t . . . because it really has nothing to do with that at all.  It has to do with my wife’s fear of losing control, and my daughters’ desire to gain control from their mother.  Minalan, Alya, the new baby, where they live, you, me, the gods and the spirits of our ancestors have no bearing on the matter in the slightest.”

“So . . . they’re arguing over something completely different than what they’re actually saying,” reasoned Askon.

“Oh, it’s worse than that,” corrected Master Rinden, taking a healthy pull from his glass and wiping the excess away with the back of his hand.  “Ladra and Borsa are seeing an opportunity to get over on their mother, and by arguing for Minden living afar they wound her for past slights and challenge her for control.  They’ll lose, of course – Sarali won’t stand for that sort of thing from her girls for long.  But knowing her boy is in danger, hunted by those . . .”

“Censors,” supplied Tyndal, automatically.  “They hunt . . . errant magi.”  He swallowed, hard.  Master Rinden and his family did not know exactly why the institutional warmagi were after Minalan, because the less they knew, the less danger they would be in.  They had accepted the story of an administrative misunderstanding without looking closely at its teeth.

Trying to explain that their son had unwittingly stumbled into a trove of illegal magic that meant the executioner’s blade under the Bans, even though he was fighting a desperate battle to survive, might involve explaining a whole lot of things that Tyndal didn’t want to try explaining to the simple bakers.  He barely understood it himself, half the time.

“They could come through at any time,” he continued, quietly.  “It’s not us that they want, exactly,” he said, his heart heavy.  “It’s Master Minalan.  But he warned us that they might try to use us as leverage to summon them.    As . . . hostages.”

“So what will these Censors do if they catch you?” asked Goron, quietly.  He was concerned for his family, of course.  Tyndal didn’t blame them.

“Probably clap us in irons and take us to one of their castles.  They have a few, and a big one up in Wenshar.  I . . . I don’t really know, after that.”

“I’m not having my grandchild born in a dungeon,” Master Rinden vowed, picking out each face around him until they met his gaze.  “Minalan asked for our help, we shall give it to him.  And so far the only hazard has been Sarali and the girls.  If these magi appear at the door, Alya is a cousin.  You all know the story,” he reminded them.

It was clear from his voice he would feel betrayed if any other story was ever offered.  “But with that hanging over our heads, it makes all of the women nervous.  And when women get nervous, they get excitable.  And loud.”

“So what are men to do?” asked Hirth.

“Be strong,” said Goron, before his father-in-law could answer.  “And silent.  And . . . hide.   It won’t help anything for us to get involved.  Even in support of our wives.”  Master Rinden nodded gravely.

“That’s right, we all keep our heads down, our mouths shut, and act like everything is normal . . . because it is.  Our wives argue like mothers and daughters always do.  ‘When dragons argue, the grass suffers but the rock endures’.  When it’s about something like this?  Every word you speak on the subject is another log on that fire, and it will burn itself out properly in good time.  If the Censors come along asking questions, they’ll see a family arguing about petty, unimportant family matters, not a family hiding fugitives.

“So we menfolk will just keep out of the dragons’ way, and emulate the rock more than the grass.  And I’ll warn you, that’s going to cause problems for your own marriage beds.  Endure them.  This will pass soon enough if you do.  Trying to curry favor with your wife by taking her side against her mother is never a smart thing to do.  It might be a moment of pleasure, but its salt water on a toothache,” he said, with a trace of bitterness in his voice.  Another chorus of assent bore out that piece of wisdom, too.

“Now, are there any questions?” he asked, pouring another round for everyone.  Tyndal realized that he’d barely touched his glass, and with a shrug he finished it in one pull before holding it out for more.

“Yes, Master Rinden,” he asked, as respectfully as he could.  “What time do you think it might be . . . and where might I fine Ishi’s shrine?”

Before he left, he checked on Alya, who had been given a small room of her own in the sprawling home.  Tyndal found her weeping, which sent him into a mad rush of emotion.  At once he wanted to protect her and soothe her, but this wasn’t a bandit, goblin, or over-friendly bargeman.   The cause of her sorrow was his master’s own family, and there was nothing he could do about that – as much as he desperately wanted to.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, Tyndal,” she assured him, wiping her tears.  “Just a little weepy.  It’s not their fault, I know that . . . I’m trying to be a good daughter-in-law, but . . .”

“They just don’t know you well yet,” Tyndal offered, sounding far more confident than he felt.

“They’re just being a good family.  I’m an outsider.  I talk funny, to them.  They know nothing about me or my people.  Yet we’re to be bonded by blood.  That has to be difficult for them.  I just wish Minalan was here, instead of . . . he would know what to tell them to calm the waters.”

Tyndal very much doubted his master’s capability in that direction – from what he had seen, one of the most powerful magi in memory was not particularly adept with treating with the feminine mind – and the legion of women in Minalan’s house were no weaklings.   If Minalan was here, there was little he could likely say, in Tyndal’s estimation . . . but it did suggest how he might help his mistress.

“Alya, there is a way,” he said, hesitantly, “a way to get a message through to Minalan.  I can do it.  Magically.  But . . . I’m not supposed to do that sort of thing.  It might attract . . . attention.”

“Oh, could you?” Alya asked, her teary  eyes wide with hope.  “Tyndal, I don’t want to distract him or, or get us taken by the witchhunters, but . . . if I only knew what to do!”

Tyndal swallowed, making the decision . . . and knowing it was the wrong one.  “I will,” he assured her.  “I’ll have to retrieve my witchstone, but I can send him a message, mind-to-mind, if it is a short one.”

“I would be forever in your debt,” she said, taking his hand between hers.  “I’m so sorry to ask, but I need him, Tyndal.  Even if it’s to know he’s still alive.”

The apprentice nodded.  “I’ll fetch it at once.  And then . . . well, if it works, I think I’ll go burn a candle at Ishi’s shrine in gratitude!”

*                            *                            *

The tiny shrine on the northern edge of the village was half the size of a peasant’s hut, yet far more grand, even through the thick mist that had rolled in from the river.  Tyndal approached in reverence – due to a historical peculiarity, his native land had no temples or shrines, and one of the things he’d been most impressed with since he left Boval Vale were the number, variety, and beauty of religious buildings.  The homes of the gods were sometimes humble, sometimes grand, but always interesting.

Talry’s shrine to the mother goddess was a circular building made of mortared cobbles, rounded in the river.  There were round windows on three sides, aglow with the candles lit within, the product of other pilgrims’ prayers.  The doorway had the circular sigil that Ishi’s priestesses used to bless her holy grounds.  The air smelled of the sweet  incense the Great Mother preferred in offering.  The roof was a high-peaked cone, resembling a breast, a dome of glass at its summit.

At this late hour it was unusual for the tiny shrine to be visited by anyone in the village, but as he drew closer Tyndal saw a figure in a blue mantle, head bowed before the gilded statue of Ishi.  Even through the cloak he knew it was Ansily.

He suddenly stopped.  What do I do now? He asked himself.  Why was he here?  Was he paying court to the innkeeper’s daughter, the way the ranchers of Boval did to each other’s daughters?  The inn she described did sound like a worthy livelihood, and the life couldn’t be as hard as that as a stableboy.   If he could learn to be a mage, he could learn to keep an inn.

But he was a mage.  He had obligations, and responsibilities.  His conversation with his master through the new spell Lady Pentandra had contrived had reminded him of that – pointedly.  Far from chewing him out over connecting magically, Master Minalan had given him some excellent advice about how to deal with the situation in the baker’s home . . . and a powerful new reason to fear the agents of the Censorate.

So what was he doing . . . here?  This had nothing to do with either Alya’s domestic troubles or hiding from the Censorate.  Meeting Ansily here in the middle of the night served no useful purpose, and (his usually-quiet conscience was screaming at him) even increased the risk that he and his mistress would be discovered.   He couldn’t be an innkeeper – he was going to be a spellmonger.  Or a warmage.  Or something, but with a shard of irionite and half an idea of how to use it, Tyndal didn’t see a lot of innkeeping in his future.

He was about to turn on his heel and head back to the bakery when the figure in the temple turned, peering anxiously out into the darkness and biting her lip.  The flash of her eyes in the candlelight and the curve of her neck were all he really saw through the mists, but suddenly his conscience was mute and his feet were propelling him into the shrine.

“I was wondering if you were going to come,” she said, quietly, not breaking her reverent pose.

“I . . . felt in need of prayer,” he said, uncomfortably.  She giggled.  He relaxed.  A little.

“I often do, at this time of night,” she said, turning to greet him.  “You know, there is a legend that Ishi’s daughter, Delanora, was placed in charge of the river, for a time.  She wasn’t particularly good at being a river goddess, due to her restless nature, but she did her best.  One night a priestess called for her aid, to help carry a young couple to safety, as she was a noble and he but common,” she explained.

“Why didn’t she just—”

“Shh! My legend!” Ansily insisted sharply.  “Anyway, this priestess was trying to get the goddess to bear their boat upstream, away from their pursuers . . . but Delanora wasn’t listening.  Instead, they were forced downstream and made landfall at Talry.”

“That was convenient,” observed Tyndal, his eyes jumping from freckle to freckle.

“Wasn’t it?  Too late Delanora came to the priestesses’ aid.  But she was so contrite that she contrived a thick river mist to cloak the young lovers until their pursuers had passed.  So powerful was the mist that it concealed them from even the other gods, and they were able to escape downriver and live happily ever after in another land.”

“That seems—”

“I’m not done.  Because the spell was so powerful, it is said that ‘what happens within the river mists of Talry will not be seen by the gods themselves.’”

“But I came through the mists and I saw just fine,” objected the apprentice.

“You . . . have no appreciation of culture,” Ansily said, her lips cocked to one side of her face.  “Or subtlety.  Ishi’s idol is right there . . . does a girl have to rip open her dress and push her twins in your face before you can take a hint?”

Tyndal was struck dumb.  Was she . . . ?

“Well?” Ansily demanded.

“If I say ‘yes’, will you?”

The innkeeper’s daughter rolled her eyes expressively.  “Tyndal, you are impossible!  I’m going to scream if—” she began, her voice rising . . . so Tyndal kissed her.

He had no idea what possessed him to do so.  Her lips were just so close to his in the tight quarters of the shrine, and his anxiety that they would be discovered made him want to keep their voices low, so . . . it seemed the quickest way to shut her up.  And it seemed to be what she wanted.   The way she kissed him back, he soon had no doubt.  After that things started to go blurry.

He didn’t know how long they kissed in the shrine, and he found her hands wandering all over his arms and back as they did, and he wondered if he was too slobbery and whether or not she could taste the beer he’d had earlier and then his hands began to wander and most of his coherent thought stopped about then.  His mind went into a dumb state, preoccupied only with the moment, only on Ansily.  He even felt the brush of someone attempting to speak mind-to-mind with him, but they stopped before he could give it his full attention.

When the last candle lit by Ishi’s faithful sputtered out, Ansily finally broke their embrace.   She looked at him, her eyes magnificently large in the gloom, her face solemn but excited.

“And that’s where we should stop,” she announced, placing a hand on his chest.  “It is late, Tyndal of . . . Somewhere.  And while it’s true many a maid has sought Ishi’s counsel in prayer until deep in the evening, my father isn’t that stupid.  Besides . . .” she added, biting her lip.

“Besides . . . ?” Tyndal asked, confused, deprived of oxygen, his blood pounding in his ears so hard he could barely hear her words.

“Besides . . . while I’m not adverse to allowing a customer to sample a barrel before he buys it . . . one must be certain he has the coin to pay, and we have but short acquaintance.”  She said it as if he would naturally understand, which he naturally did not.  Then he thought he did, and almost said something, but then he didn’t and wisely shut up.  If Ansily wanted to end their courting for the evening, Tyndal was satisfied . . . if also painfully frustrated.

“Then . . . may I escort you back to your inn?” he asked.  He doubted she needed an escort – Talry was hardly awash in footpads.  But he also didn’t want to leave her sweet-smelling company.

“That would be lovely,” she agreed.  “Would you like to share my cloak?  The mist is quite chilly.”

The next morning found the lad short of sleep, but strangely contented.   Only Hirth, the senior apprentice he shared a room with, noticed anything amiss.

“So, you were prayin’ at Ishi’s shrine?” he muttered, quietly, as the family began to wake and prepare the day’s chores.  “Who was she?”

“What?  What do you mean?”

“Well, unless Ishi smells of lilacs and seaflowers instead of horseshit, and uses rouge that stays on your face, I’d say that you slipped and fell into something delicious along the way.”

“I did not,” Tyndal protested, madly dabbing at his face.  The apprentice sighed and helped him out.

“Sure, Shitfoot, but don’t let Frentine see,” he muttered.  “She’s got an eye for you.”

“Wha—?”

Tyndal tried to forget the conversation as he mucked out the stalls at the stable for the day, but his lethargy was apparent.  Master Gonus found him listlessly heaving hay into mangers with the pitchfork and stopped him.

“Take a break, lad, it looks like your arms are made of cotton today.  Besides, I need you to take the wheelbarrow down to the dock.  Barge in this morning, already heard the bell.  Upriver.  Got a load of iron on it that needs fetching.  The farrier’s due on market day, and he charges double if he supplies the iron.”

Tyndal groaned at the prospect of heavy lifting but dutifully hung the pitchfork up and took up the battered old wheelbarrow.  The docks were only a quarter mile away, and downhill at that . . . but that easy decline would turn into a hellish ascent, once the pig iron was loaded.  Still, Tyndal tried to enjoy the trip down to the docks – it was a beautiful day, once the sun had burned the fog away.

The barge was better than some Tyndal had been on, and it carried not just cargo but paying passengers – high born, too, from the look of the luggage piled on the dock when he arrived.  He knew enough about river traffic now to know that the passengers would depart first before the cargo was unloaded . . . and iron would be the last thing unloaded.  He parked the wheelbarrow between two crates large enough to shield him from the morning sun, and settled behind it for a nap.

He was thinking fondly of the spot on Ansily’s neck where it was trying to make up its mind whether or not to be shoulder or neck or some mysteriously intriguing combination of the two when he imagined her so vividly, he smelled her.  Then a shadow covered his face.  When he opened his eyes, an amused Ansily looked down on him, shaking her head.

“If your master knew what you were doing . . .” she began.

“They always unload the iron last, and the passengers first.  I’ve got time.  And if I linger too near the barge, they’ll make me unload it.  I’ve seen it happen.  Besides,” he smirked, “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

She grinned back.  Dimples.  Damn her.    “Me, either.  Spiritual crisis.”

“But what are you doing here?  I thought – oh.”

“Right,” she reminded him.  “I’m here to meet a barge.  This is the barge I’m meeting.  So just how long does it take for these passengers to depart, and the cargo unloaded?” she asked, mischievously.

“Let me check,” he said, peering through the crack between the crates.

That’s when he saw it, between the cracks.  A black and white checkered mantle.  His breath stopped.

Then he saw a second, and his blood froze in his veins.

Witchhunters.  The Censorate.  Here.  In Talry.  And there was only one reason why they’d be here.

He knew better than to attempt to cast a spell, this far away from his witchstone and this close to professional magi – professional warmagi, he corrected himself as he saw a mageblade peeking over the shoulder of the larger of the two Censors.  But there was magic and there was magic – any spell that affected the Censors might be detected.  But the subtle spells he could cast on himself would not be, except under close examination.

At least that’s what he hoped he remembered from his unorthodox training.  Six months learning basic spellcraft, then a crash-course in warmagic wasn’t much to go on, but he knew a few common cantrips – such as the one called the Wandering Ear.

Cantrips were the building-blocks of magic, the very first ways a new mage learned to channel and command his Talent.  He’d spent hours practicing them, those wonderful first few months as Master Minalan’s apprentice, before the goblin troubles arose.  He’d loved the physical demonstrations of his power.  There were a few hundred he’d mastered – simple things, like encouraging and energizing the air on your fingertip to emit a flame or a spark, to make a bubble of magical force and then reduce its size until it ‘popped’, to coax a drop of water up a straw or to make a trail of sand follow your finger across a table.

The more cantrips you knew, the more you knew how to put them together to make simple spells.  Like the letters of the alphabet combining to form words, as Minalan had taught him both disciplines at once, in Boval, and words form sentences, so did cantrips form spells.  The more you knew about them, the more you knew how to fit them together, the more magical energy you had to put into the casting, the more profound and dramatic effect.

This particular spell was extremely useful, and had led to his first lecture on professional ethics from his master.  The Wandering Ear allowed you to listen to whispered conversations a bowshot away, if you did it right.  He assembled the symbols in his head, put them in the proper order, visualized them in the proper color . . . and gave them just enough power from his own source, not his shard’s, to energize it.  Then he softly whispered the command word just as the girl stepped perfectly into place.

“So?” demanded Ansily.  “Do we have—hey!” she squeaked, as Tyndal pulled her down on top of him.

He hadn’t done it to be romantic – although he wasn’t averse to the idea, after the previous night’s excitement.  He’d done it – once again – to keep her quiet, and give him something to do while he eavesdropped on his enemies.

Ansily struggled a bit at first, but quickly melted on top of him, her soft lips tracing his as the tips of her hair tickled his face.  He devoted as much attention as possible to the matter, but part of him was invoking the command words on the Wandering Ears . . . and then the words of them men fifty feet away were as clear as if they were standing over him.

“. . . this shithole domain when there are more junior officers capable of this kind of work.  Honestly, Wantran, if it’s just an investigation, surely we have less important folk for that!”

“Are you taking issue with the commander’s orders, Lespin? “ asked the older man with the deeper voice.  “I’m certain he’d be happy to entertain your suggestions.  You know how forgiving he is.”

“The Commander does what the Commander sees fit – I am merely a tool in his hand,” the younger Censor recited disdainfully.  “But with renegades popping up all over the West, we should be riding that way, not searching through every third-rate barony in the Riverlands.”

“It’s because of the renegades that we’re here,” reminded Wantran.  Tyndal tried to picture the man’s face, even as Ansily’s kisses became more urgent.  “The intelligence says that the renegade leader’s family is here – he’s commonborn, a baker’s son.”

“And he has a witchstone?” scoffed Lespin.  “That’s unseemly!”

“Exactly what the Commander thought,” replied Wantran, dryly.  “Only it had less to do with his class and more to do with his flagarent violation of the Bans.  And he’s handing them out to every hedgemage and footwizard he can find.  If we want him to stop, we need leverage . . . and sources say his bride may be staying with his kin, here in Talry.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“Then we spend a few days looking around, do some scrying to be sure, and then we move upriver.  I don’t see what you’re complaining about, Lespin, this is as easy a duty as you could ask for.”

“I don’t want easy duty, I want interesting duty.  Chasing down a renegade’s whore isn’t my idea of a challenge.”

“Well, maybe I can find a way to make it more interesting,” suggested Wantran, his patience beginning to slip.  “The bakery is right there – see the red ovens over the fence?  It will take us an afternoon to inquire, a day or two to be certain, and then we’re off.”

“Fine, fine,” grumbled the younger man.  “Do a quick scry while I get the baggage, see if you spot anything.  If we’re lucky, the renegade himself showed up and is hiding in his mother’s chamberpot.”

“Funny.  I haven’t been feeling so lucky lately,” observed Wantran.  “Particularly since my last partnering assignment.  Before we go interrogate this baker, let’s find an inn for luncheon.  Those biscuits they served us this morning would have been sent away from a prison cell.”

The two Censors continued to banter good-naturedly, the type of running argument any two men of a profession might have, while Tyndal’s mind raced and his mouth was preoccupied.  He found his hand stealing to her back, and then her hip, and then to points south seemingly of its own accord.  His terror at being discovered was – for the briefest of instants – replaced by a primal appreciation of Ansily’s curvy body.

Tyndal continued kissing her until he heard the two men stomp up the stairs from the river dock and begin the climb up the slope to the bakery.  He didn’t break the embrace until he was certain that the two were out of sight.

“Whew!” Ansily said, breathlessly, as she broke.  “You know, you aren’t a bad kisser?”

“That’s what the horses keep saying,” he teased.  He was trying to stay relaxed – he did have an amorous girl laying on him, which wasn’t helping, except that in a way it was.  She stared at him a moment, her eyes dancing as they took in his face, and she offered the slightest grimace.

“Those men were who you’re hiding from, aren’t they?” she whispered into his ear.  He was shocked – but he nodded.  “I thought so.  I was kind of hoping that was all about me, but I noticed how tense you got when they passed by.  Who are they?” she asked.

Tyndal struggled with what to tell her, and how much.  Admitting he was actually a fugitive from one of the highest authorities in the Five Duchies would be problematic.  He wasn’t sure that there was an official reward out for his capture, but he had to imagine that the Censorate would look favorably on anyone who informed them of his whereabouts.  Ansily was not poor, but the Censorate was rich, and compensating an innkeeper’s daughter with riches beyond her dreams would be simple for the institution.

Could he depend on Ansily?  More important, could he trust her?  With the truth?

What would Master Minalan do?

Tyndal sighed.  “They are the Royal Censors.  They enforce the Bans on Magic.”

Ansily’s eyes went wide.  “So you’re not a stableboy . . . you’re a hedgemage?”

“Apprentice spellmonger, actually,” he admitted.  “And yes, I’m far better at being a stableboy.  But then I’ve just begun the trade.”

“So what did you do to get them on your trail?” she asked tossing her head toward the stairs the Censor’s had climbed.  “Kill your master?  Use magic to steal?”  Ansily asked, biting her lip with excitement – then studied him even more carefully through slitted eyes.  “Seduce his daughter?”

“No, no, and oh dear gods, no.  Master . . . well, my master is only ten years older than I, for one, so he has no daughter yet.  He’s very much alive, but he’s working for the Duke right now to stop an invasion of goblins in Alshar.”

“Yes, I can see why that would get the Magic Police on to you,” she agreed, with feigned sagacity.  “Really, Tyndal – or whatever your name is – why are they chasing you?”

“Because my master is using forbidden magic against the goblins,” he explained.  It was the simplest explanation that didn’t require a history lesson to put into context.  “And even though he’s trying to save the Duchies, he didn’t fill out the right paperwork or something.  I don’t know.  All I know is that the Censors will be happy to use Alya – that’s his intended, and she’s pregnant – or myself as hostages to persuade him to surrender.”

She considered.  “Would he?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Tyndal.  “My master is as loyal as any sworn knight, but . . . well, there are larger concerns at issue.”  He didn’t feel like explaining more about the invasion – or the undead goblin shaman with unfathomable magical power bent on a genocidal war against all of humanity – to a pretty girl on a warm spring morning, so he hoped she’d not pry too much.  “If he thought that the Duchies would be better served with me in a cell and him running free, then . . .” he said, swallowing uneasily.

“I see . . . it really is complicated.  All right, Tyndal of Somewhere, I’m going to take your word that you aren’t a murderer, an arsonist or rapist,” she said, enunciating the last crime with deliberation.  “And you really are just adorable, and you’re a really good kisser.  So . . . what can I do to help?”

His mind raced like a thoroughbred.  “You said the Eel’s Elbow is the nearest inn to the docks?  Then that’s where they’ll sup.  That gives me very, very little time.  So . . .” he said, shifting Ansily’s weight over to the left – inadvertently pressing her right breast into his left cheek – so that he could dig for the soft leather pouch he kept inside his trousers, instead of the large cloth pouch he jingled a few iron bits in.  He withdrew two of the silver coins he had left and pressed them into the girl’s hand.  “Take this, and use it against my mistress staying at the Four Stags.  Do not use her real name – call her . . . Delanora,” he decided.

Ansily grinned.  “So I shall.  And Tyndal?  You can trust me,” she urged.

“Because we’re . . . we’re . . . lovers?” he whispered.  Well, almost.

She grinned again.  “No, silly, although that’s not a bad reason.  You’ve given me coin for a lodging.  That invokes the innkeeper’s sacred oath to protect their guests against all harm.  If your mistress hasn’t been convicted of a crime or is under warrant, she gets the protection of the House as long as she stays and she pays.”

“And you won’t reveal it to the Censors?  Even if they pay you?”

“The innkeeper’s trust is sacred,” she said, shaking her head.  “Once coin has changed hands, it can’t be revoked unless the guest is unruly.”

“Somehow I don’t think you’ll have trouble with Alya.  Unless you get between her and her plate. If it comes to it, I’ll saddle up the gray mare, she’ll be nice and gentle, and send her on her way as soon as I can.”

“Well, if you help me bring my order up the hill with that handy wheelbarrow, I’ll collect my horse from the stable and escort her there.  She can be my . . . older sister.”

It was Tyndal’s turn to study her.  “Are you sure?  Are you serious?  This is my mistress, and—”

“Oh, relax!” Ansily insisted, rolling her eyes.  “Who’s going to see anything amiss with a couple of women on the road between villages?  That’s hardly proof of a renegade wizard.”

“Let’s hope so,” he said, giving her one final kiss before he pushed her off of his chest.  “I don’t know a lot about the Censors, but I do know that the toughest warmagi in the Duchies fear them.  They have spells of detection and discovery that no one else knows.  Or knows how to counter.  If they catch on that I’m here . . .”

“I could never let a decent kisser like you get captured,” she promised.  “Ishi would never forgive me.”

Tyndal raced to the bakery as soon as he was sure the Censors had rounded the corner of the High Street and were headed to the Eel’s Elbow.  It took him only moments to whisper the news to Dara, who was on duty at the counter.  Wide-eyed she nodded and calmly took the next customer in line.  Tyndal wanted to scream at her to hurry, but that would have been counter to the plan – the point was to avoid attention, not attract it.  He couldn’t even wait around to see if Dara would do what she was supposed to, he had to trust that she would activate the contingency they’d prepared.

He knew what he had to do, at least.  He dashed into the kitchen, used his magesight, and tried his best to see if there were any tell-tale traces of recent activity in the house.  Satisfied that there wasn’t, but painfully aware that he had not the skill or learning to devote to it properly, he went back to work.  He grabbed a loaf for lunch and ran back to the docks, just in time to get his iron stock loaded form the barge.  Much of the next hour was spent pushing the much-heavier wheelbarrow up the slope to the stable.  By the time he arrived, he was pouring with sweat and his lack of sleep was showing visibly on his face.

Two hours after noon, as he was sorting out the rental harnesses for repair, his heart caught again when he saw the flash of black-and-white checkered mantles in the street.  The two Censors had finished their lunch and were back to business.  They entered with the calm arrogance of those used to getting their way, and for the next two hours he fretted while he waited, ready to go to the rescue of the bakers at the first sign of trouble.

Not that he had the faintest idea of how to do that.  But he was willing to die trying.  He owed Master Minalan that much.

The Censors were in the bakery for two hours, as paying customers were turned away at the door.  Tyndal did his best to keep himself occupied with work, but the pitchfork seemed foreign in his hands for the first time in days.  He wanted a wand.  He wanted to get his mageblade.  He wanted his witchstone.  He felt powerless, a mere stableboy, not an apprentice mage, and a survivor of Boval Vale.

Finally, as the sun was beginning its descent, the Censors emerged – alone – looking bored and frustrated.  Tyndal felt a huge wave of relief that they hadn’t discovered anything, and his sphincter – finally – unclenched.  He busied himself with stacking the iron he’d fetched until they passed.

Only they didn’t pass.  To Tyndal’s horror, they were walking right toward him.

He froze, at first, then dove into the harness room at the rear of the stable.  His heart racing, he looked around for something – anything – he could use as a weapon.  Nothing save the battered old pitchfork suggested itself.  The hiding place did, at least, afford him a concealed view of the stables, so he saw the two men enter . . . and heard what they were saying.

“. . . and I say I felt something!” the younger of the two was saying, heatedly.  “That place was filled with spellwork—”

“Most of it years old,” observed the senior of the two – Wantran, he remembered.  “Nicely done, too.  Whomever this spellmonger is, he knows his craft.”

“But what about the other traces?” demanded Lespin, the shorter, younger man.  Tyndal could see that he had a wide face and very broad shoulders, giving him the appearance of being overweight.  The way he moved, however, told a different story.  “Some of those were fresh!”

“And far, far less well-cast than the others, Brother,” chided Wantran.  “The work of an apprentice, at best.  A poorly trained apprentice.  This village has two spellmongers, and the baronial court mage lives in the castle.  There could be anywhere from two to nine apprentices wandering around here.  Boy!” Wantran called out.

Tyndal froze.  He wanted to panic, but he couldn’t think of anything good to panic with.  Lespin continued, unconvinced.

“I think that he’s been there recently – or one of his minions.  Probably to check on his family.  For all we know, they’re still around.”

“Were the signs that fresh?” Wantran asked, bored.

“Within the moon,” nodded Lespin.

“Interesting,” admitted Wantran.  “The family seemed . . . sincere enough, although I know at least a few of them are lying.”

“They know nothing,” dismissed Lespin.  “You can’t trust a peasant to tell you if it’s the moon or sun in the sky.  That mention of a stranger in town?  Utter fabrication.  I’m certain of it.”

“Yes, well, they’re peasants and they were nervous.  You can’t trust a damn thing a peasant says, anyway.  Still, we need to investigate this ‘well-dressed stranger’ who passed through . . . if we can ever manage to hire horses BOY!” he bellowed.  Tyndal jumped despite himself, and then stumbled over himself as he hurried to greet the customers.

Best to play it dumb, he decided.  They won’t expect much from a stableboy, he hoped.

“Yes, my lords?” he asked, opening his eyes wide at the sight of their armor.  It was good armor, serviceable and sturdy, not gilded or ornate in any way.  The checkered motif ran throughout.  The mageblades they bore were likewise plain, standard-issue, he guessed, to all new Censors.

“Two horses, boy,” Wantran said, bored.  “Tack, harness, saddle.  And be quick, or I’ll tell your master how you were sleeping when we came in.”

“How long, milords?” he asked, smiling far more broadly than he felt like.

“Two, three days,” Wantran said.  “That grey gelding and that brown mare will do, if they’re for hire.”

“Rosebud and Butterbell?  Yes, Lord!  Seven copper each per day, plus three for saddle . . . plus a deposit of five silver, in case you don’t come back,” he recited.  Master Gonus only requested three silver as a deposit, unless he knew a customer.  A good horse cost over forty silver, but neither Rosebud or Butterbell were particularly good, in his professional opinion.  In fact, Butterbell was starting to limp on her hind left foot.

“Saddle them,” ordered Wantran.  “And boy . . . have you seen any strangers come through town of late?”

Tyndal opened his eyes even wider, and did his best to appear perplexed.  Then he snapped, exaggeratedly.  “Why, yes, Milord!  Eight, no nine days back!”

“That would fit with the signature of the new spells,” murmured Lespin.  “The earliest one wasn’t a half-moon old.”

“Boy, describe this stranger, please,” said Wantran warmly.  Tyndal could tell the look was highly affected – the warmage was handsome, after a fashion, but his deep baritone voice was seductive, and he knew how to use it.  The kindly tone was purely to elicit information.

“He was his height, milord,” Tyndal said, nodding frantically.  “Well-dressed, like a lord.  Green mantle, doublet, fine hose . . .”

“Did he have a beard?”

Tyndal considered.  “I do think he did, milord,” he said, nodding sagely.  “And a saddlebag stuffed and locked,” he added.

“Locked?  Unusual for a saddlebag,” murmured Wantran.  “Did the man carry a sword?  Like this one?”

“A sword?  Aye, he carried one,” he drawled.  “Went off south, he did, milords.  Is he a bandit?  He had that look.  My ma says—”

“Boy,” Wantran continued, insistently compelling Tyndal’s attention.  “Was there anyone with him?”

“Nay, milord, but he did look powerful dangerous,” he said, nodding some more.  “Powerful dangerous,” he repeated.  “He stopped by the bakery, too.”

Wantran looked at his partner.  “So does he seem sincere enough for you?  Would you like to perform a test?”

Lespin sighed, but took a small metal object out of his pouch and put it up to his eye.  “Repeat what you said, Boy,” he ordered.  Tyndal did, as best as he could remember.

“He’s telling the truth,” sighed Lespin again.  “So once more we go chasing shadows.”

“If he’s telling the truth, likely this shadow is a renegade warmage,” pointed out Wantran.  “Besides, you’ve been complaining about river travel for two weeks, now.  You could stand a few days on land, on horse.”

“If this boy ever gets them saddled!” Lespin exploded.  Tyndal hurried to get the necessary equipment, relieved at being released from the unexpected interrogation.  His mind raced as he strapped the saddles and blankets on, wondering just what he could do to mitigate this near disaster.  If they had detected recent magical activity, it could only be Tyndal’s work.  It would only be a matter of time before they tracked him down again.

It sure would be useful if I could do that to them, first, he though savagely to himself as he searched for Butterbell’s harness.  Then he had an idea about how he could do just that.  Despite the Censors being less than twenty feet away, Tyndal did a very, very small cantrip on the bridle before he put it on the horse.  His heart beat like thunder as he arranged the three small symbols in his mind, gave it the tiniest bit of energy, and transferred the hook of the enchantment to the bridle.  He waited for either of the Censors to notice – he had already thought about what he would say if it was discovered: that it was placed there by a spellmonger to keep up with errant equipment.  Plenty of prosperous merchants used such spells.  Perfectly reasonable explanation.  Unless they looked too closely at it, in which case this spell might just buy him some time.  The risk was worth it, he reasoned.  This cantrip wouldn’t just track the harness, but the bearing and distance of the hands holding it.

More hopeful than satisfied, Tyndal triumphantly produced the harness and put it on Butterbell before leading the two steeds to the Censors.  He flirted with the idea of leaving the saddle strap loose, to encourage a bad spill, but that would have been unprofessional, he decided at last.  It could also get them coming back to him a lot sooner than he’d planned.  He resisted the temptation – the tracking spell would be enough.

“For your trouble,” Wantran said, flipping a full silver coin to him.  Tyndal caught it expertly out of the air, the way every stableboy everywhere learns to do.  He was impressed, too – the coin was thick and heavy and crisp, not at all like the few thin silver pieces he’d seen.  Just to be sure, he bit it before putting it in his pocket with a nod of thanks.  Tyndal directed them to the south road’s gate.  As soon as he could, he closed the stable door and ran back across the street.

The bakery was empty – and for one horrifying moment he imagine all of Master Minalan’s large family slaughtered in the back and stuffed into their own ovens.  Urah’s presence in the kitchen allayed that fear, though, and Tyndal forced himself to act calmly as he informed her that the day he had feared had arrived.  It took Urah a moment to realize what he was saying, but once she did she nodded and flew away.  The contingency for Alya was set – but Tyndal himself didn’t know where she would be going.  What he didn’t know couldn’t be revealed, no matter how much they tortured him.

He didn’t find that a very comforting thought, no matter how useful it was.

“Daddy says come see him,” Urah said, when she returned a moment later.  She looked troubled, Tyndal thought, but then she had just been interrogated by a Censor.  That had to be troubling.

Master Rinden was seated on his accustomed stool, his account book open and a dazed expression on his face.  He glanced up at Tyndal and sighed.

“So those are the Censors,” he remarked.  “Nice fellows.”

“Really?”

“Right up until they started threatening my family,” nodded the baker.  “Then I decided I didn’t care what happened to them.  If that is the quality of enemy my son has attracted, I suppose I should be proud.”

“They didn’t hurt anyone, did they?” Tyndal asked, anxiously.

“No, they just asked questions,” nodded Rinden, pouring two small glasses of liquor out of a nondescript earthenware jug.  “And Alya was out the back gate and . . . well, to safety, long before they were offered tea.”  He handed one to Tyndal, who took it automatically.  “Briga’s blessing,” he invoked, and tossed it down.  Tyndal nodded and did the same.

It burned like fire.  Not that Tyndal had never tasted distilled spirits before, but the liquor was spicy and hot and burned a trail down to his stomach.  It also made him relax the smallest amount, for which he was grateful.

“Thanks, Master,” Tyndal said, formally, as he returned the cup.  “I . . . I’m working on the Censors.  I’m hoping they don’t return, but if they do, I should get word.  In that case, send Alya to the Four Stags inn at Roxly Crossing, under the name Delanora.  I’ve already paid for it,” he added.

The baker nodded, looking impressed at the lad’s foresight.  “Very well.  Nice place, that, too.  But . . . if they do come back, what should we do?”

“Whatever it is you would normally do,” Tyndal said, after thinking about it.  “If things get bad, I’m right across the street.  I’ll . . . I’ll provide a distraction.”  He didn’t go into detail about just what kind of distraction, because he didn’t rightly know.  But he knew he could not let the people who had been so hospitable to him suffer if he could help it.  And he couldn’t let Master Minalan down.  If that meant he had to throw himself at the Censors while Alya got away, then Tyndal could think of less noble ways to start his journey to the underworld.

“Now, lad,” Master Rinden sighed, “don’t go pulling the weight of the heavens on your shoulders.  We’ve done nothing wrong.  Nor will we be bullied by soldiers like that, magi or no.  We’ve paid our taxes, and our baron won’t let us be taken without his leave.”

Tyndal thought better about contradicting the man if he took comfort in that thought, even if he knew better.  “I have a duty, Master.  I’ll not throw my life away lightly, but . . .” he looked around, and decided that it was time.  “I suppose I should be ready if they do come back, then.  Did they even come in here?”

“Nay,” Rinden said.  “Never left the shop after the first ten minutes.  Minalan could have been hiding out there and they never would have known.”

“Then they never even came close to finding it,” he sighed.  Closing his eyes, he extended his magical attention upward from his body until it met a tiny pouch hanging from a tiny splinter far overhead where he had left it.  With just the slightest of magical tugs, the bag came loose and plummeted.  Barely looking for it, Tyndal caught it lightly in his hand.  He could no more miss catching his witchstone than he could have misplaced his tongue.  The moment it was in his hand, he felt better.  He felt like a mage again, not a stableboy pretending to be one.  He felt . . . dangerous.  Grinning, he nearly allowed himself to launch one of the few showy cantrips he knew to celebrate . . . but he doubted Master Rinden would approve.

He settled for hanging the pouch around his neck and tucking it away under his tunic.  “Now if they come back, I’ll be ready for them.  They won’t expect a fight from me.”

“I daresay you are correct,” Master Rinden agreed.  “But . . . lad, really, unless you have to, don’t do anything foolish.  More than likely this will pass soon enough.  Such things often do.  Just keep low to the ground and watchful, and things should be fine.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he nodded as he prepared to leave.  “But if they aren’t . . . well, I’ll be ready.”

The look on Master Rinden’s face told him he doubted it, but was too polite to argue the matter.  “Just be careful,” the baker said quietly.  “I have enough excitement in this house with all the weddings.  We’re good at weddings.  Funerals are a pain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Master,” Tyndal said, grinning despite himself.

*                            *                            *

Tyndal busied himself around the stable as much as he could until nightfall, trying to work off the worry he felt.  He knew Alya was safely stashed somewhere, and that he was actually the biggest danger to his master in Talry now.  He felt a strange combination of satisfaction at protecting her and dread at being alone to face the Censors, should they return.

He felt so bothered by that, in fact, that he broke his orders and tried to contact his master, mind-to-mind, to no avail.  Whatever Minalan was doing, he was too busy to answer his apprentice.  While that disturbed Tyndal, he also knew his master was working in the service of the duchies and was very, very busy.  Reluctantly he stopped the spell when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer.

Tyndal didn’t know who else to try, until he remembered Lady Pentandra.  She had been in the southern part of the Duchy, near to the Bovali refugee’s camp, on some errand for his master, he remembered.  He hesitated calling to her, but he tried to figure out what Minalan would have him do, and he felt compelled to make contact.

Who is this? Her mind asked, all-business, when she accepted the contact.

L-lady Pentandra, he said to her mind, it’s me, Tyndal!

He could have sworn he felt her smile through the magical connection.

Tyndal, what do you need? She asked.

I’m in Talry, milady, he explained hurriedly.  I don’t know if you can help or not, but there were two Censors here today, asking after Master Minalan!

You didn’t do anything rash, did you?

No, milady, we just hid Alya until they were gone.  But they might come back.

They might, she agreed.  And . . . ?

Well, I just thought . . . maybe someone . . . Tyndal really didn’t know what he wanted to ask her, or what he wanted her to tell him, he just knew that he was on a horse much too big for his arse and he wanted help.  The depressing tone of Lady Pentandra’s voice made him feel foolish the moment he heard it.

Tyndal, I hate to dampen your spirits, but there is a war going on right now.  I’ve been gathering warmagi and other forces for it for weeks, now, and I’m headed to the battle or the front or whatever it is you men call it, as soon as I am able.  Minalan has given me a hundred different duties, and only one half-trained apprentice to help me.  Everyone else is likewise deployed.  Unfortunately that means we don’t have many resources we can use to rescue you.

Tyndal felt his hopes subside.  So you can’t send anyone to . . .

No, I’m afraid not.  I’m not that far from you myself – I’ve been checking on the Bovali refugees, as a favor to your master, and I’m on a barge going upriver now, but we’re still hundreds of miles away.   I know he places a high value on that peasant . . . lass of his, and he has a great affection for you. . . but there are larger considerations to be seen, Tyndal, I hope you understand.  You’ll have to work it out on your own.  That’s not how I want things to be, but that’s how things are.

His heart fell, but he felt the space that remained fill unexpectedly with steely resolve.  All right, my lady, I will deal with the Censors.  Perhaps if you had any advice . . . ?

There was a pause.  Do everything in your power to keep from being taken captive, Tyndal.  If they find you are Minalan’s apprentice, you’re never going to see daylight again.  If they catch you with your witchstone . . .  she didn’t finish the sentence, but the way she said it, she didn’t have to.  Tyndal knew very little about the Censors, and was terrified.  Lady Pentandra knew far, far more about them . . . and was far, far more terrified.

I understand.  Well, I may have bought a few days, he said, glumly, and then described the conversation he’d overheard between the two Censorate warmagi.  He also admitted to enchanting Butterbell’s bridle so he could keep tabs on them.

That earned him a mental chuckle from Pentandra.  Well played.  It’s unlikely that they will even detect the spell, actually, since they carry so many enchantments on them.  It’s not like having irionite – their sensitivity to magic isn’t as high as ours.  But if they do discover it, then you’d best run.  They’ll be able to tell how fresh it is, and they won’t mistake where it came from once they figure it out.

Run?  That’s your advice?

It’s good advice.  You can fight, she reasoned, but they are both Imperially trained warmagi with years of experience and you . . .

. . . are not, Tyndal finished, keeping Pentandra from struggling to find a diplomatic way to tell him he was virtually useless in battle.  I have a warwand, for emergencies, but it wouldn’t do much.  I . . . I understand.  All right.  Well, if things go horribly wrong, please explain to Master Minalan that I did my best . . . and that he shouldn’t do anything foolish in exchange for me.  You . . . you know how he is.

Stupidly noble, for a commoner?  Yes, I’ve observed.  Don’t worry, that’s why I’m around, to save him from his own stupidity.  But you just worry about you and Alya, let me worry about him.   I saw you work at Boval Castle.  You’ve got good instincts, Tyndal, and you think fast on your feet, just like your master.  And you do have irionite, and they do not.  You’ve got something else they haven’t.

Good gods, what?

Imagination, she explained.  You aren’t jaded or hidebound, trapped by your own knowledge.  They have had spell after spell ground into their heads until they can only think in . . . certain ways.  You don’t have that handicap.

Inexperience and desperation are my advantage? he asked, incredulously.

I have every confidence in your ability to dodge a couple of Censors for a few days.

Tyndal couldn’t very well disagree with her without sounding like a coward, so he didn’t.  He bade her farewell and ended the connection.

As he fell asleep that night, nervously checking the proximity of the bridle-borne charm every few minutes to assure himself that it was still, indeed, over fifteen miles away, he tried to think of every possible plan, every remote contingency that he could imagine and figure out what to do ahead of time.  “Always have a plan,” his master was fond of saying.  “It doesn’t have to be a good one.”  Most of the possibilities he considered ran to conclusions that featured him dying heroically to save Alya, or captured by the Censorate and subjected to an increasingly gruesome number of tortures, but he tried to do the best he could to be realistic.

It didn’t help that he continued to be distracted by the thought of Ansily, who kept appearing in his plans in unusual – and often unlikely – ways.  Ways which usually led to even more unlikely (but infinitely more pleasurable) conclusions than death or imprisonment.  They often feature he and Ansily hiding out somewhere while the Censors stalked them, the fear they felt compelling them into passionate and imaginative acts of desperation.

Then he’d remember he had a duty to perform, and sternly forced himself to focus on the very real danger, and not how Ansily might look when she bathed.  He fell asleep long past midnight.

The next day was uneventful, though the bakery was tense and nervous after the previous day’s interrogation.  Alya was safely hidden for a day, which made him feel easier.  And Alya’s absence made things a little easier for the family to bear, they had been shaken by the Censors, and even the children had become nervous after the dour men in the checkered cloaks had made their appearance.

Tyndal felt guilty about bringing such dread to such good people, but he tried to make up for it by vigilantly ensuring that the men were at a safe distance.  What little he knew of the theory behind the spell suggested that his scrying would not be detectable, and not a quarter hour passed that he did not close his eyes whisper the command, and discover just how distant the Censors were.  And with every receding mile, his heart grew a little lighter.

That night when he finally fell asleep they were over twenty miles distant, and remained there the next morning.  Tyndal begged to see a map of the area – Master Rinden kept a passable one in his office to help with planning and deliveries – and decided that the Censors were likely in a village listed on the map as Lickhaven, east and south, just over the frontier with the next barony on the river.  It was a crossroads village that led to two other riverports, where Tyndal could only hope the warmagi were headed.

It was a testament to how confident he felt that the next afternoon he felt complacent enough to daydream about Ansily more than worry about capture by the Censors.  Again when he caught himself he vowed to focus on his duty, and busied himself with more productive things . . . but his thoughts inevitably returned to her, and the way she smelled and looked and tasted on his lips.

He was doing just that when he heard a familiar voice behind him, most unexpectedly.

“Boy!” the gruff demand came from the doorway, a rough, deep voice laden with derision and disgust.  “What in the name of Ishi’s rotting twat are you trying to do?”

Tyndal froze, and a thousand thoughts went through his head as he dropped the pitchfork in surprise.  He turned around to face a very irate Censorate warmage.  Wantran, if he recalled correctly.

“My lord?” he asked, automatically.  He tried to stay calm, and not let his face betray him.  He was only partially successful.

“You, boy!  You’re the one!” he snarled.  He wasn’t reaching for his blade, so Tyndal didn’t try to escape.  Perhaps if he played dumb again . . .

“I . . . my lord?” he asked in confusion.  “I’m the one?  The one . . . what, my lord?”

“Oh, I think you know,” he said, sneering as he entered the stable, his checkered mantle fluttering behind him.  There was anger in his eyes.  “Yes, I think you know very well.” He took a step forward menacingly.

“My Lord?” he squawked again, taking a step back.

“Hire us a horse ripe to throw a shoe?” he said, disgusted.  “We didn’t get to Harline before we were walking.  I demand our money back!”

All thoughts of escape vanished as Tyndal’s professional pride – as a stableboy – was hurt.

“My lord, I assure you the farrier was here just a week ago, and assured us—”

“I don’t care if Huin himself assured you that it could crap golden muffins, Boy, you hired us a lame horse!  Do you have any idea how much time you cost us?  Your information has already caused us to inconvenience one very irate Ducal tax collector.  Had we decent horses, perhaps we could have caught up with our prey, but we had to trade those nags and lost half a day doing it!”

“My lord, I am sorry that you ran into misfortune, but Mast—”

“You have a hundred heartbeats to put coin in my hand, boy,” the warmage said, darkly, “or I shall have you taken into custody.”

Tyndal glared back defiantly, but went to the jar where Master Gorus kept the coin for the stable and slowly – very slowly – counted out half of the fee before handing it to the Censor.  “That’s half.  We’ll send the other half when we get the horses back.  And the tack,” he added, warningly.  He reasoned a real stableboy would have done the same, even at the risk of alienating a customer.  Customers came and went, but you had to live with your master every day.

“Very well, then,” Watran said, reluctantly accepting the money.  “When we have concluded our business at the bakery, then I shall speak to your master about them.”

“The bakery, my lord?” he blurted out automatically.  He tried to cover himself quickly.  “I eat lunch there every day.  Everyone does!  Is the baker—”

“It’s nothing to concern you, boy,” Wantran dismissed, pulling his cloak of office back over his shoulder.  “An evil sorcerer broke the law, and he happens to be the son of the baker.  We think he knows where he is, is all, and we need to get that information.”

“But the baker will be okay?” he asked, worriedly.

Wantran studied him carefully.  “Perhaps you should consider someplace else to get your lunch tomorrow,” he said with a dark chuckle, and left the stable.

The moment he left, Tyndal sprang into action.  He wasn’t absolutely sure of what he was doing, but he knew he needed to do something.  The thought of Master Rinden being lead-away in chains – or worse – terrified him.  The old baker was a strong man, but he could not resist the spells of compulsion the Censors would employ.  Or less-mystical but more painful methods.  In mere hours they would know about him . . . and where Alya was hiding.

Tyndal couldn’t abide that.  He retrieved his witchstone from the shelf he’d hidden it upon, and then went all the way to the back of the tack and harness room, where he had hidden a bundle the second day he’d worked here.  Carefully he unrolled the oiled leather he’d wrapped around his mageblade and the only wand he’d brought with him.  It wasn’t worth much – it didn’t have more than two charges – and any decent mage could defend against it, at need.  But Tyndal wasn’t planning on giving them a chance to do so.

He drew the blade six inches to examine the steel before he snapped it back.  He barely knew how to use it.  Master Minalan had tutored him, and he’d practiced with it faithfully  in the village the Bovali refugees had been sent to, but any first-year guardsman was better with a blade.  That didn’t deter him in the slightest.

He strapped the mageblade across his back, tucked the witchstone under his shirt, and slid the warwand into his belt, behind his back.  Then he took a deep breath, turned around—and walked smack into Ansily, knocking them both to the floor.

“OhmygoddessTYNDAL!” she said, ashen-faced as she helped him to his feet.  “Those men, those Censors!  They were at the Four Stags this morning, and I overheard them, and I came as fast as—”

“It’s all right, Ansily,” he said, as gently as he could manage with his heart pounding in his chest.  “I saw them.  They haven’t discovered me, but they are going after Master Rinden.  I can’t let that happen,” he said, defiantly.

“But they’re soldiers!” she said, her eyes as wide as wagon wheels.  “They’ll kill you!”

“Probably,” he conceded, as casually as he could manage, “but I’m not going to make it easy on them, and I’m not going to let them take away my master’s father.  Or his bride.”  He started to walk past her, but she grabbed on to him instead.  He hadn’t expected that, though he found he enjoyed it.

“Tyndal, no!” she pleaded.  “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but—”

“I’m in all sorts of trouble, and I can’t wait any more,” he insisted, shaking off her grip.  “They are over at the bakery right now!” he said, pleadingly.

“All right, but . . . can’t we summon the guard?”

“They’re Royal Censors, Ansily,” he tried to explain.  “The Duke couldn’t even tell them what to do.”

“But if you go to fight them then won’t that be treason or something?”

“It’s probably just really stupid, and honestly I’m not that worried about that right now.”  He stared at her curiously.  Why would anyone worry about that sort of thing when someone’s life was on the line?  Sometimes he wondered if women were all crazy.  “Stay here. Stay hidden.  They won’t bother you, I’ll wager, especially if you just look like a frightened girl hiding— ”

“I’m sure I’ll manage!” she said, sarcastically.

“If I pull this off, I’ll come back for you.  If I don’t, you should be safe over here.  And if you get the chance . . . run.”

She looked at him with tears in her eyes, and before he could say another word she was kissing him, passionately.  “If you pull this off, Tyndal of Somewhere, then you had better come back here.  You and I have some unfinished business,” she said, her eyes telling him just what kind of business she had in mind.  Tyndal spent a few seconds locked in utter confusion before he shook it off and pulled himself away. “So what are you going to do?” she asked, a little more confidently.

“I have no idea,” he confessed.  “But I’m down to desperation and imagination, so it’s not going to be subtle.”

The sounds of sobbing and screaming could be heard over the tall wooden fence that surrounded the bakery compound, which was already starting to attract attention.  They weren’t cries of pain—yet, he noted as he sprinted across the road, they were cries of outrage.  They hadn’t begun to hurt them yet.  They were just bullying and threatening and scaring them, not actually harming them.  That was something, at least.  He crept up to the wall and scaled it effortlessly – he’d always been partial to climbing trees, and the wall was hardly a barrier.  The compound was deserted; the shadows spawning in the twilight were darkening as the harsh noise was coming from inside the sprawling house.

Tyndal quietly crossed the courtyard past the giant red ovens and came to one of the windows that led to the residence.  He didn’t need the hearing spell to hear what was happening inside.  The voices were loud, angry, and severe.

“—tell us where your son is hiding!” Wantran’s voice demanded.  “We know he was here, we detected the tracking spell he planted on us!  Which of you knows?”

“We haven’t seen Minalan in over a year!  Leave him alone!” Mistress Sarali insisted, pleading for her husband.  It tore Tyndal’s soul to hear that riven tone in the good woman’s voice.

“She speaks the truth,” Lespin’s voice called out, casually.  He must be using a spell.

“He sent someone, then,” Wantran insisted.  “Do not lie to us!”

“The spell on our saddle was fresh,” Censor Lespin pointed out.  “Are any of you magi?  No, you stink of flour and sweat and ignorance.  Then the mage your son sent to protect you . . . where is he?”

Tyndal suppressed the desire to jump through the window and announce himself.  As dramatic as the gesture would have been, he realized it would have been just as final.  He could not take the risk that the warmagi would not only capture or kill him, but kill everyone else in the house as well.  He had to find another way.

His first task, as he saw it, was to get the Censors out of the bakery.

That part he hoped would be simple.  He stole back over to the fence, and using it and a stick of firewood as a ladder he quickly lifted his stringy body up to the low roof of the building.

Imagination and desperation.  There had to be something.

He scanned the street from his vantage point, details already beginning to fade in the gloom of twilight.  He noted the mist forming along the riverfront at this hour, and the number of lights on in the village, and he heard the bell of a barge coming up the river.  It seemed so peaceful and serene that it was hard to imagine the scene that was unfolding under his feet.  He spared just a moment to consider hiding up here until the Censors had left, but he knew that wasn’t really something he could do.  He might be common born but he knew what honor was.

What he could do, he decided, was give his master’s family the best chance at fleeing he could.  He needed divine intervention, like the fog that the goddess Delanora had used to hide the lovers in Ansily’s tale.   Where the hell is she? he wondered, bitterly.  Then as he stared at the creeping mist, Despite his desperate situation, he thought he had the beginnings of a plan which might do the trick . . . and probably get him killed in the process.

It was the mist.  He could use the mist.  It was just water, in the air, and he knew a thing or two to do with it.

Tyndal took one last look around the roof, glanced longingly across the road to the stable where Ansily waited for him,  and then around at the darkening village that had been, however temporarily, his home, and he sighed.  Then he got to work.

The explosion that erupted in front of the bakery had been only mildly impressive, and had exhausted Tyndal’s knowledge of magical pyrotechnics, but it had done the job.  It had produced (along with a loud bang and eight-foot tall pillar of fire) an unmistakable wave of magical energy that any mage would have felt.  The Censors certainly did – in moments both men were rushing out to the street, swords and warwands in hand, looking around intently for the source of the spell.

Tyndal had wisely moved the moment after he’d cast the thing, so when the magi began tracing the spell’s origin he was in a different place entirely.  Lespin savagely attacked a shrub that screened the steps of the shop across the street, and then signaled to his partner that the offending mage he suspected had been hiding there was gone.

“That’s not very sporting of you!” Wantran called out into the night.  “Why don’t you come out and we can talk like gentlemen?”

Tyndal’s heart raced as he triggered the next part of his plan.  A weak flare – no more than a cantrip – sputtered up the hill, away from the river.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Wantran called, shaking his head.  “Master Mage, surely you can offer us something more tempting as a lure?”

Tyndal paused, mid-crouch, as he skimmed the rooftop of the little shop next door to the bakery.  He debated with himself, and then shrugged.  He wasn’t going to be lingering here long, anyway.  He drew his warwand from his belt and carefully aimed.  Lespin was instantly knocked off of his feet, which Tyndal found very gratifying.  Unfortunately, the Censor got to his feet very quickly . . . and very angrily.  He scanned the area, and cursed when his magesight revealed . . . nothing.

The mist had thickened, encouraged by a few small spells here and there, and then just before he had engaged his first distraction he’d energized the entire cloud.  Not to do anything in particular . . . just hold the power.  It wasn’t perfect, but it made magesight useless for tracking him now.

Tyndal was already moving, scaling the rear wall of the building and scooting around the corner, where he could peer out into the thickening mist and see his foes as they searched for him.  He grinned despite himself as he released another cantrip, another tiny ‘pop’, near the Censors.  Both men whirled and threatened the empty gloom.

Satisfied that they were preoccupied with the mysterious hidden mage, he slunk across the top of the fence to the rear of the compound and scaled the gate.

He unexpectedly saw Hirth, the junior apprentice, who was clutching a bloody rag to the side of his head with one hand and holding a bare dagger in the other.  He startled when he heard Tyndal’s footsteps, then sighed as he recognized him in the deepening gloom.  Hirth’s face was as white as if he’d been moving bags of flour.  Except for the dark red parts.

“Thought you’d be over the horizon by now,” he whispered, harshly.  He sounded pleased that Tyndal wasn’t.

“I’m not that smart,” Tyndal pointed out.  “What happened?” he asked, indicating the bandage with a nod of his head.

The dark-haired apprentice shrugged.  “This?  Oh, just being my usual charming self.  I didn’t like how they were treating Mistress Sarali, and said so.  But Master Rinden didn’t say anything, Tyn, I promise—“

“I’m not worried about that – I’ve lured them away for a bit.  Can you manage to get everyone out of the house and down to the back gate?  I think I can keep them chasing shadows awhile yet.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult.  They had everyone crammed into the kitchen.  They started getting really nasty, Tyn,” he added, worriedly.

“I know,” he sighed.  “That’s why I’m here.  I’ll take care of this, I promise.  You just get everyone out of the house and . . .”

“Down to the charcoal burners,” Hirth suggested.  “They owe Master Rinden their livelihoods, and most of them are part-time thieves on the best of days.  Good lads.  They sure know their way around a dice cup,” he added, ruefully.

“Perfect,” agreed Tyndal.  “I’m going to keep sniping at them until you get away.  If I don’t see you again, tell Alya to tell my Master I tried my best.  Just get everyone out, for now.”

“I’ll do it,” he agreed.  “You really think a scrawny guy like you can contend with a couple of ugly fellas like that?”

“I know a couple of tricks,” Tyndal said, defensively.  “And I’ve got this,” he said, showing off his nearly-spent warwand.  “And this,” he added, nodding to the mageblade over his shoulder.  “It should work as well on Censors as it does on goblins.”

Hirth looked impressed and scared at the same time – he’d never been in more than a fist fight.  “Good luck,” he said, respectfully.

“Thanks,” Tyndal said as the other apprentice hurried away.  “Back to work,” he added to himself . . . and began climbing back up the fence to the roof.  He found a good place from which to scry, behind the warm kitchen chimney.

His magesight was just as blinded by his spell as the Censors’ – but he had thought of that.  He cast a slightly more powerful spell, the Earfire evocation, that revealed to him sound as if it were flame.  Only he could see it, and he’d rarely thought of it as useful in any way, but now it was ideal.  It had seemed only logical, considering the limited spells he knew from memory, and it worked.

It quickly revealed the location of the Censors in the gloom, as well as a host of distracting flame: the creak of the barges on the river were purple spikes high above the light blue flare of the sound of the river itself.   A pair of bats became an entwined ball of bright orange and yellow fire, and the rustle of livestock in the stables and barns flashing green curls of flame from the doorway.  He kept as quiet as possible while he scryed, in case the warmagi had thought of the same trick.

First he noted Wantran by his size of the flame and the bluish color of his voice.  The warmage was enveloped in several spells, Tyndal could feel, though he only had the vaguest idea what they were.  Lespin was nowhere to be seen, but Tyndal suspected from a reddish flame that he was searching the far end of the street, down the slope toward the docks.

He had anticipated that.  He’d left a few blatant spells simmering in that direction as a ruse.  Nothing dangerous –  glyphs and basic enchantments.  One glyph made a embarrassingly loud fart noise in the night, the sudden flare of bright yellow fire telling Tyndal just how far down the slope Lespin had gone.  They weren’t elaborate, but they were freshly hung, something that would take even a professional spellmonger hours to accomplish without a witchstone.  He hoped it was enough to convince the Censors that a real mage was baiting them.

Wantran was looking increasingly frustrated, turning slowly in a circle as he tried to see through the mist.  Tyndal decided to add to his frustration with more distraction.  He searched the clay tile roof as quietly as he could until he found a windblown twig.  It wasn’t ideal, but it was substantial enough to hold the spell.  He’d learned it in Boval Vale, when Master Minalan had taken him out to harass the goblins.  Whenever the raiders wanted to distract a patrol, they’d used a variation of the spell.

With a witchstone, it was childishly simple.  Summoning a tendril of power from his precious shard of irionite, he shaped it into the symbols in his mind while his hands twirled the twig between them.

When he was satisfied, he tossed it into the air and whispered the mnemonic trigger.  The twig obligingly flew into the air and across the road, until it was over the warehouse next to the stable.  There it flared brightly but briefly, and emitted a loud series of pops.  A Dandyjig charm.  It impressed young girls, he’d discovered – and irritated Censors.

“Damn you!” he heard Wantran’s baritone curse.  “Stop this childish nonsense!  Come out and fight like a man, you bastard footwizard!”

“Not bloody likely,” Tyndal whispered under his breath as he quickly descended the wall.  The Censor outweighed him by a good three ingots, maybe as much as five, and wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.  Instead he turned his attention to the gloom behind him, where a trail of multicolored flame convinced him that his risk had purpose, at least.  He was gratified in seeing the firey traces of footsteps and whispers fade away as the last of the baker’s large clan disappearing into the night.

Last to go was Master Rinden, who was nursing a black eye he didn’t seem to notice.  He didn’t see the boy in the shadows above as he passed through the charcoal gate.  He looked scared, Tyndal decided at first, scared but determined.  No, he looked angry.  And defiant.  He was fleeing, but he was protecting his family, and there was honor in that, Tyndal realized.

The apprentice crept back to the front of the compound before he descended back over the fence.  Wantran was still searching in vain near the warehouse, flashes of light illuminating the shadows briefly but brightly enough to banish them for a moment as he employed magelights and other spells in search of his prey.  If only I was a shadowmage and could sneak up behind him, Tyndal mused to himself, then maybe I could put a sword in his back.  Unsubtle, but . . .

Then he stopped himself.  Why couldn’t I?

The idea formed quickly into a plan.  It was haphazard and stupid – likely terminally so – but it also amused Tyndal.  That, as much as the possibility he’d succeed, was enough to convince him to do it.  He slipped the mageblade off of his back and waited for Wantran to turn away before he dropped it just outside of the fence.  It tumbled quietly behind the discouraged-looking little knee-high bush that had grown there, flashing some green fire as it landed.  He might need it later.

He had to wait until Wantran was turned around again before he could continue, tucking his wand behind his back.  When his boots hit the hard-packed dirt of the road he sprinted across it to the other side, just as the big Censor turned around.

“Hey!” Tyndal yelled.  “My lord!”

The Censor nearly took his head off with his sword, but Tyndal resolutely jutted out his jaw as he skidded to a halt on the cobbles.

“I just spoke with my master,” he said, ignoring the mageblade as he strode forward.  “He says that I was in error in refunding your money.  I’m to ask for it back, if you please, and—”

“Boy, do you have any idea how dangerous it is out here?” the mage demanded angrily.  “There’s a sorcerer about, and he’s already tried to kill us once tonight!”

“That’s not my concern,” Tyndal continued, indignantly.  “MY master says I need to collect that coin, and I do what MY master tells me too!”  He was mere feet from the man, now.  He kept his face a mask of idiocy.  He could not falter.

“Tell your master to ride Huin’s lumpy log to his sister’s brothel—just get off the street, you idiot!” he said, his cheeks puffing under his cloth coif.  Wantran looked around frantically while he spoke, wand in one hand, blade in the other, searching for the elusive mage.

“You’ve got a lot of gall, my lord, telling me – hey, who’s that?” he asked, doing his best to pitch his voice toward curiosity, not panic.

Wantran whirled, his warwand extended . . . and several spells on his person began to respond to his commands.  Tyndal tried not to even think about what he was doing.  He knew his moment had come.  He had to act, and not worry about the consequences.

He slid the slender warwand from behind his back, stuck it a handsbreadth away from Wantran’s back, and he whispered the command.  The wand delivered its blast with an angry report, shattering into splinters in his hand in the process.  It had the desired effect, flinging the Censor backward.  He tumbled ten paces afar, arse over elbows, his checkered cloak fluttering crazily over his head.  There was a big smudge in it now, Tyndal realized in a daze.

Wantran’s head turned in the dust, peering over at him unsteadily, and from a sharp angle.  The concussion hadn’t been enough to knock him out, Tyndal realized in despair, just knock him down.  The Censor’s eyes swam, and then focused all too quickly.  Warmagic.

“You!” he spat harshly.  “You’re the spark!”

“Yep.  Catch!” he said, tossing a pebble from his hand.

It had taken two hours the first time Master Minalan had shown him this spell, one of the very first.  It was only two years ago when he was just a stableboy learning about his Talent.  Two hours of intense concentration and raising power and manifesting energy into basic symbols in that one little spell.  Another mere essay – display magic, impressive but not particularly useful.  But now when he had put it between his fingers and drew power from his witchstone, Tyndal’s spell was ready in two heartbeats.

The pebble flew in a lazy arc, bounced once off of Wantran’s breastplate . . . and flashed with the light of a hundred candles for an instant.  It did no harm, but it did make seeing anything difficult for a few moments, and damn difficult to concentrate or visualize anything.  The way the river mists were thickening, when Wantran arose he wouldn’t have any idea where he’d gone.  With Lespin down by the river, the logical place to flee was higher up the High Street, into the heart of the village where he could slink away in any of a dozen directions.

Instead he dove into the familiar shelter of the stable, using the flashes of flame from the sounds of the horses to guide him.  He dove into an empty stall – ironically enough, Butterbell’s – and crouched, doing his best to keep his breathing soft.  The Earfire spell was fading, but Tyndal wasn’t concerned about that.  He was concerned because he suddenly remembered his only weapon, his mageblade, was under a bush across the street, an unfortunate tactical decision.

Wantran was certain to track him down eventually, and he really had no place to run from here.  He had fled here on instinct, more than purpose, seeking the familiar.  Never attack a wizard in his keep, was a famous old Imperial saying.  Tyndal didn’t have a keep, a house, or so much as a tent, but he knew the stables.  The smells and sounds seemed to protect and embolden him.  This was his keep.

He was considering the wisdom of sprinting back across the road in an effort to get to his sword when Wantran’s shadow, even more hunched over in pain, filled the doorway.

“You’re clever, lad,” he wheezed.  “You had us goin’ . . . but the game is over, now.  You are hereby taken to arrest . . . in the name . . . of the King . . .” he said as he moved slowly but steadily into the stable.  There wasn’t any fog here.  Magesight would work fine, Tyndal realized, and hiding wouldn’t be useful anymore.

He rolled to the edge of the stall and peered out at the man plodding his way down the rows, head turning and searching.  Those Censors were tough, Tyndal had to admit.  That admiration faded quickly as the seriousness of his situation prevailed.

But then he spotted an ally.  In three more steps, Wantran would be behind Midnight, the gelding whose skittishness and fondness for kicking had made the boy respectful of him his first day here.  Two more steps, and the Censor would be in position.  He readied another cantrip, a “pinching” spell, first year apprentice level sorcery, as mighty as the fart sound glyph.

“Last opportunity to do this the easy way, Master Mage,” Wantran said.  He limped, but he held that mageblade steady, a faint glow appearing around its tip as some unknown enchantment activated.  That couldn’t be good for him.

But one more step . . .

“We have nicer quarters in Wenshar, and we have less-nice.  Your actions now will determine the nature of your lodging, master Mage,” he said, taking that faithful step.  Tyndal snapped.  The spell activated.  Midnight kicked Wantran in the side and shoulder, both hooves flying.  The Censor once again sprawled off his feet, though he had the benefit of an empty stall to land in this time.  Tyndal shook his head as he ran to snatch up the other man’s sword on his way out.  Noblemen never thought about horses, unless they were astride them, for all their glorious talk.  He deftly lifted the Censor’s heavier blade by the hilt as he vaulted over the man’s boots . . .

. . . and went sprawling himself as the sword’s hilt sent a blast of red lightning into his hand, arm, and shoulder.  He dropped the blade as he rolled across the cobbles, tripping over his own pitchfork in the process.

He should have thought of that: he’d heard of magical blades who would bite the hand of any but their owner who dared to wield them.  He vowed to remember the trick, as he lay panting for air, should he actually survive this duel.  He clutched at his hand and wrist, trying desperately to move his fingers and regain his feet.  He had done neither when next he heard Wantran’s dark baritone.

“Stop, mageling!” he commanded, hoarsely.  Tyndal couldn’t bear the thought of picking up the Censor’s blade again, but his left hand found the rough hickory handle of the pitchfork.  He grasped it wildly, tucked it under his arm and struggled to his feet.

“I said stop . . . or—“ he didn’t have to finish the threat.  Tyndal could see, to his dismay, that Wantran had discovered Ansily . . . whom Tyndal had forgotten was in the stable.

He didn’t have a weapon at her throat, but he did have his gauntlet grasping the back of her neck harshly, holding on to her like she was the crutch that kept him from falling.  “Stop this.  Now.  Or she dies.”

Tyndal straightened, the smallest bit of feeling returning to his fingers on his right hand, his left clutched around the haft of the pitchfork.  “Let her go!” he demanded, shaking the implement defiantly.  “She’s got nothing to do with this!”

“You have a choice – she dies, and then you die.  Or you lay on the ground with your hand’s spread over your head, face in the stone, and your tart can go home to her mother,” he offered.

“I’m no tart—!” Ansily squawked as the big man’s grip tightened.  “We’re just friends—”

“Pick up your blade, then!” insisted Tyndal.  “If you’re going to kill me any way, fight me like a man!”

“I’ll beat you like a dog,” muttered the man as he pushed Ansily forward.  He stooped and grabbed the hilt of his sword, ignoring the wavering pitchfork that menaced him.  Again the man was in the right position . . . and again Tyndal attacked him unexpectedly.  He reversed the pitchfork with a twist of the wrist and wedged the tines under his arm, the worn handled pointed toward the top of the Censor’s head.

“Shayantha!” he whispered – the mnemonic was a Crinroc swear-word he doubted anyone south of the Penumbra would know . . . and once again Wantran was thrown back unexpectedly.  Only this time he didn’t get back up, and from the way he landed there was some doubt as to whether he’d ever move under his own power again.  The rugged hickory handle of the pitchfork was singed, but it hadn’t splintered the way his warwand had.  He spared just a moment to stare at it in gratitude.  A stableboy can always trust a pitchfork.

Tyndal had fretted for an entire day over the possible return of the Censors.  He’d had his witchstone at hand, and he knew all too well how strong the hickory handle was.  Once you learned the basics of magic it was nearly impossible not to become arcanely familiar with objects you used, even if you didn’t intend on imbuing them with magical purpose.  Enchanting the implement into a kind of wand seemed prudent, even against staying hidden.  Like horses, noblemen rarely thought about pitchforks.  And Censors likely wouldn’t be searching for an enchanted, dangerously magical pitchfork when they were looking for an experienced mage.

Ansily had been pulled partially out of the way when his wand activated, and the moment she stirred Tyndal dropped the tool and ran to her side.  She was rubbing her neck where the Censor had grasped it, and Tyndal put his hand over hers as he searched her for injury.

“Are you well?” he asked, concerned.  She nodded dumbly, her eyes wide.

“You . . . you . . .”

“Not now,” he cautioned, his heart pounding and his eyes stealing to the still body of the Censor.  “We have to move – there’s still one of them out there!”

“I know!” she squeaked, getting to her feet as quickly as he could . . . and showing off far more leg under her skirt than she perhaps intended.  Tyndal cursed himself for thinking of pleasures at a time like this, but the kiss Ansily gave him when she did make it to her feet told him he wasn’t the only one so stirred by the excitement.  “Where to?” she asked him, her pretty eyes alight.

“Just follow me . . . and try to keep up,” he said, taking her by the hand and pulling, hard.  She followed without resistance.  He stopped just long enough to retrieve his mageblade, grateful to have at least some sort of weapon again.  The pitchfork had been a handy trick, but it was the last in his bag.

But once he was properly armed, his confidence returned.  He was no warmage, but he knew how to stab someone in the darkness.  Lespin was somewhere down by the docks but his sound-to-flame spell was dissipating.  But so was the spell using the fog to conceal from magesight.  Tyndal allowed the last of the power to both to fail, and looked down the slope with the wizard’s perspective . . . and saw no one.

“Remember that story you told me?” he asked.  She nodded.  “We’re going to go to the docks and get to a boat.   Then I’m going to put you ashore and Lespin can chase me from here to the Mindens, and leave poor Talry behind.”

“Tyndal!  Don’t be stupid!” Ansily hissed.  “That was just a stupid story!  If we can get back to the Four Stags . . .”

“On foot?  He’d be on us by midnight.  And I’m not eager to go back into that stable for a while.  The river is the best way to put miles between us and trouble . . . and trouble and Talry.  The Censors won’t bother the bakers if they’re chasing me, a known threat and fugitive . . .”

“Then let’s go!” Ansily said, pulling the hood of her mantle over her head.  Tyndal was startled.  He honestly expected more of an argument.  He nodded in return, then took her hand with his left while his right brandished his un-named blade.  Bravely, foolishly, but decisively he began the descent of the slope through the thick river mists of Talry.

Even with magesight the footing could be treacherous, and try as he might the sound of their footsteps seemed to echo like thunder.  Yet no one challenged them.  Closer and closer they came, skirting the south side of the road, moving from building to tree to rock, ever watchful for the Censor.  By the time Tyndal and Ansily made it to the top stone step of the quay, the apprentice felt jubilant.  He spied the two crates they had hidden behind just a few days before, and motioned toward them.  Ansily nodded, and they padded as quietly as they could down to the dock, the mist so thick they could barely see even the outline of the crates.

“We can catch our breath and start looking for a boat from here,” Tyndal whispered, as they crammed themselves between the boxes.  He began peering from between the cracks to see which fisherman or bargeman had left a boat tied, rather than carried to the docks.  He suddenly felt very soft hands on his face.

“Tyndal,” Ansily said, in the quietest of whispers, “you saved my life!”

“You tried to save min—” he began, when his lips became involved in other pursuits.  Why did women think about things like this when they could be dead at any second? he asked himself, vainly, as he felt his mouth respond to her ardent, desperate kiss.  Her hands seemed to roam all over him, which made keeping a good lookout difficult . . . much less anything else requiring the slightest concentration.

“Ansily . . .”

“I want to, Tyndal!” she mewed insistently in his ear.

“Ansily, we’ve got to get out of here, Lispen—”

“Is right here,” boomed the Censor’s voice.  Tyndal froze.  Ansily yelped.  Tyndal sprang from the makeshift alcove, his mageblade in both hands, throwing the girl protectively behind him.  Yet he didn’t see anyone.  Even with magesight, there was no one in sight.

Until there was.  The sinister checkered cloak seemed to slide out of the fog where it clearly hadn’t been, and the smaller of the two Censors appeared, one hand clutching a pendant around his neck, the other holding a warwand.

“Shadowmagic,” he explained, and Tydal’s heart fell.  “I trained for six months with the Censor’s shadowmagic Master before I was chosen for this post.  Using the river mist to encloud my scrying was clever, lad, but that just suggested where your thoughts were lying.  You couldn’t escape overland quickly enough, even with a horse – one who wasn’t going to throw a shoe, that is.  That left the river.  I knew that if Wantran did not capture you, then you would make your way here . . . just as you did.”

Tyndal aimed his mageblade squarely at the Censor’s heart.  “I’ve dealt with your partner, Lespin.  Don’t make me kill you, too.”

Lespin laughed mockingly through his teeth.  “Old Wantran has seen more wiley witches than you, lad, and lived to tell about it.  And I can see that toy you hold is barely more than simple steel – I won’t even dignify it by answering it with my own.  Lay it down, step away from it, and submit.  For if I have to take you by force, I won’t be gentle about it.  Our orders are to take you alive.  They do not specify that you should be . . . intact.”

The threat was chilling, no less for the matter-of-fact nature of its delivery.  Tyndal didn’t waver.  “If you are so certain that you can take me, then I suppose we’ll just have to see.  You’re a warmage . . . I have irionite,” he said, causing a flare of sparks to sputter from his blade to emphasize the point.  “It took more than one warmage to defeat the Mad Mage of Farise,” he reminded the Censor.

“And he was an adept, not an untrained mageling,” Lespin said, just as matter-of-factly – but the mention of irionite had made him wary.  Tyndal cursed himself mentally for mentioning it.  Rarely was telling your foe about your biggest advantage a factor in heroic epics.  That was the sort of thing the villain did.  “Lay down the blade.  This is your last warning,” he said, moving toward the end of the dock, his wand soon joined by a second.

Tyndal swallowed, stepped sideways two steps to move away from Ansily, and nervously began to draw power from his stone.  He didn’t rightly know what he planned to do with it, but having the power there at his call was really the only leverage he had in this duel.

“Just leave the girl alone,” he said, hoarsely.  “She blundered into this by accident, and she doesn’t know anything.”

“She’s neither of our concern – unless you make her so,” Lespin said.  “Tell me, why do it this way, when you could have avoided all of the pain and agony you’ll face now?  For I won’t kill you, lad.  You’ll go back to Wenshar in chains, tied like cargo.  And there you will have the misfortune to face the ire of Censor General Hartarian . . . and you will learn the meaning of suffering.”

“Because I didn’t stand on a wall and look down at thousands of goblins and piss myself, I’m not going to do it for one lousy little Censor,” he said, boldly.

Unexpectedly, the man chuckled.  “So the tale of invasion is true?”

“I was there.  It was my home,” he said, defiantly.  “Now it’s overrun, as is everything in the Wilderlands.  All the way to Tudry,” he said, miserably.  “Even now my master fights them while you fight him!”

“Then you will be fortunate enough to avoid that fight,” Lespin said.  “Goblins are not the Censorate’s concern.  Renegade magi are.  Ready, b—ahhhhh!” Lespin’s sentence died in his throat as his eyes opened wide in surprise . . . moments before he was blown unexpectedly off the dock, dozens of feet into the air, and splashed far downstream into the river.

“Tyndal?” squeaked Ansily.

“I didn’t do that!” he insisted, looking around wide-eyed for the source of the attack.  It didn’t take long. Just as the Censor had emerged from the shadows, a magelight suddenly appeared over the river, twenty paces from the dock.

Under the pale glow of the arcane illumination Tyndal could barely make out two figures in the thick river mist; but where he expected to hear the slap of water against the boat they would have had to be standing on, there was nothing . . . and as the glow came closer and the figures more distinct, the apprentice could tell that there was, indeed, no boat.

“I hope you weren’t looking forward to handling him yourself, Tyndal,” the warm, yet stern voice of Lady Pentandra said.  “We don’t have time for a glorious duel.”

“L-lady Pentandra?” he asked, mystified, as the famous thaumaturge – and beloved colleague of his Master – stepped lightly and gracefully onto the dock, her slippers not even wet.  A thick woolen cloak of pale blue surrounded her, making her seem semi-divine in the glow of her light . . . and a slender wand was in her own hand.

Next to her was the shorter, clumsier form of his fellow-apprentice, Rondal – a left-over Master Minalan had inherited from an errant competitor, back in Boval.  Rondal had been tasked to stay with the rest of the refugees, just as Tyndal had been tasked with protecting Alya, so his presence meant something important was afoot.

“I told you I was on the way,” she said, a little irritated.  “My barge is still a mile downriver, but when I felt someone clearly using a lot of magic all at once, I felt compelled to hurry.  I built a . . . bubble chariot,” she explained,  clearly simplifying a complicated spell into an inadequate description.  “We were able to glide along much faster that way.  And it looks as if I made it in the nick of time . . . although I’m sure you could have handled it,” she added, when she saw Ansily’s frightened form behind Tyndal.  “And who is this?” she asked, curiously.

“Ansily of Roxly,” Tyndal explained, pausing only to sheath his mageblade.  “She’s an innkeeper who . . . she’s been helping me protect Alya.  She’s safe,” he added, hurriedly.

“Ah.  Yes.  I see,” Pentandra said, a twinkle in her eye.  “Well, she will have to stay with Minalan’s family awhile longer without you, I’m afraid.  Things in the Wilderlands are moving, and your Master has called all his allies to him, you included.  Your Duchy needs you, Tyndal of Boval,” she said, formally.

Tyndal blushed, and was thankful it was dark and misty, and he could hear Ansily gasp behind him.  He took her hand and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he said, reluctantly.  “Please tell Alya, and Master Rinden and Mistress Sarali and the bakers, will you?  And then get back to Roxly where it’s safe for you.”

“You have to . . . to go?  But you saved my life!” she said, staring at him intently.

“He has other lives to save,” Pentandra insisted.  A bell rang downriver as her barge finally rounded the bend.  “And we cannot tarry.  That Censor will wash ashore eventually, and we need to be leagues away when he does.”  Rondal looked disgusted as Ansily nearly crushed him with the force of her embrace.

“I’ll come back,” he promised, lamely, after she kissed him.  “I’m sure it won’t be long . . .”

There were a few tears and a lot more kisses before the barge thudded against the wadded rag ball that protected the hull from the stone quay.  “Now, Tyndal!” Pentandra insisted, as Rondal stepped into the barge.  One last kiss, one last tear, and one last squeeze of Ansily’s hand, and before he knew it the dock and the tiny village of Talry disappeared into the fog behind them.

“You did well there,” Pentandra soothed him when he let out one last ragged sigh.  “Truthfully, you held off two trained Censors.  And protected that . . . protected your master’s bride,” she said, softly.  “That was nobly done.”

“It was desperation,” Rondal said, sourly.  “Did you see how much he was shaking when we showed up?”

“That was valor,” corrected Lady Pentandra with a tight smile.  “And the chill of the mist.”  Tyndal looked at the master mage gratefully.  “In fact, let’s get you below to my cabin and find something a little warmer for you to wrap up in.  I daresay you left your mantle and cloak back at the bakery?”

He nodded, then dutifully followed her down the steps to the tiny cabin, after listening to her instruct Rondal in keeping the water elemental that was speeding the barge upriver operating properly.  Finally, she cast a magelight and lit up the curtained alcove that concealed the lady’s quarters.

“Go ahead and get out of those clothes, they’re filthy,” she said as she began looking through her baggage.  “I had a few things made for Rondal, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing . . .”  Tyndal blushed, but peeled his sweat-soaked tunic off his body.  He was reluctant to part with his breaches at the moment, and it took Pentandra only a moment to realize why.

“Oh, blessed Trygg’s bounty, you were . . . she was . . . oh, dear,” she said, shaking her head.  “You saved her life, and she was going to give you a hero’s reward . . . until I came along.”

“I’m not complaining, milady,” Tyndal said, hurriedly.  “I was just—”

“Shhhh!” the beautiful mage said, shaking her head and smiling.  “Sometimes the gods are cruel to us, Tyndal, putting what we desire so close to us as to appear in reach . . . only to have it torn away again.  That’s especially true for we magi, when so much has fallen so suddenly on our shoulders.  Sometimes the gods are cruel to us . . .” she said, waving her hand to cast a spell, “and then sometimes they can be just as kind.”

She removed the light blue mantle from her shoulders, allowing it to fall to her tidily-made bed.  Her gown, a traveling garment made of finer cloth than he’d ever seen, was held in place by three buttons, which she quickly unfastened.  “You’re going to war, whether you know it or not, lad.  You may not return to fulfill your promise to that girl, no matter what gods you swore to do so by.  Sometimes,” she continued, stepping naked out of her dress, “the gods can give consolation . . . and if they can’t or won’t, then a mage has to step in to fill the need.”

Tyndal’s head spun as the warm, soft flesh of the older woman pressed against his bare chest.  She smelled so different than Ansily, more floral, less . . . innocent.  “I cast a spell of silence,” she whispered into his ear unnecessarily.  “Until it’s dispelled, you can make as much noise as you want, and no one will be the wiser.”

Tyndal relented, despite himself.  Pentandra was not the prize he had fought for . . . but she was a kingly consolation for his efforts.  She was mature and skillful, wise and beautiful, enchantingly adept and winsomely compelling.  His youth, his desire, his fervent need swept away the guilt he felt for letting his body take him to where his heart had not led him . . . but his body didn’t seem to care.

And when he finally arose to the dawn and stumbled out on the deck bare-chested to witness a sunset over a strange and new shore, no one was the wiser . . . save Tyndal.