The Summoned Mage (Convergence Book 1) Page 2
At first I thought it would work. There were more people in the hallway, but everyone was so agitated, they weren’t really looking at one another, and I wasn’t challenged or even looked at properly. I kept a concerned look on my face and moved quickly, and after only a minute or so I emerged from the hallway and found myself back in the chamber I’d arrived in.
I wish I’d had time to thoroughly examine it, because it’s about three hundred feet across and maybe a hundred feet tall, and there are three levels to it, with ramps between the levels. The two higher levels have rails surrounding these ledges that go all the way around the cavern (I have to call it a cavern now, it’s clear that’s what it is) and there are lighted openings that lead off those ledges. But that was all I had time to observe.
I swerved left and followed the curve of the cavern, looking for a door. By now there were a lot of people running around, stopping to talk to each other in excited voices, so I kept my head down and kept moving. I saw many, many wooden workbenches and stools, most of them with those thin wooden boards lying on them as if their owners had abandoned them in a hurry, which was probably true.
The walls of the cavern were rough all the way to the ceiling, but they had been perfectly smoothed from the floor to a height of about seven feet, and there were words (I guess words) and little pictures drawn all over them in chalk. Some had been rubbed out and written over. It reminded me of Kerrek Hetessar’s house, the room where his children were educated. Lucky children. I learned to read from smutty pamphlets and to write with a stick in the sand. Not that I’m bitter about that. At least I can read, which is more than most of the poor of Thalessa can say.
Anyway. I circled the room until I reached another corridor. My instinct is that it was the other end of the corridor I’d come from, and if that turns out to be wrong, I’m going to feel very stupid. But I passed the corridor, still trying to look as if I belonged, when I heard someone saying—well, I don’t know what the words were, obviously, but they were clearly a command. And then someone grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm up behind my back. I fought for a bit, but the man had a grip like a clocker crab and twisted harder until I yelped and gave up.
Several other people ran up to us, and the man started talking in a more normal voice, but he sounded so…sarcastic, I suppose, and I didn’t need to understand his words to know that. I suppose sarcasm sounds the same in every language. He pushed me toward two men, and I managed to get half a step away before they grabbed me, but it was enough that I could turn and look at the bastard who’d caught me.
He’s got the sort of face it’s easy to hate, that smooth, arrogant look that says he knows he’s better than you, and I probably should have burned that look off his face, but I still can’t bring myself to burn actual flesh, no matter how I’m threatened. His hair is almost black, and although he wore it pulled back like everyone else, there were strands of it falling over one shoulder, like he’d been running. That made me feel better, knowing he wasn’t as unruffled as he seemed.
He kept talking in that sarcastic voice, and I could tell by the way their hands trembled that the men who were holding me, at least, were cringing under his sarcasm. Then he switched his attention to me. His eyes startled me, because they’re the same strange green-gray color as mine, and I’ve seen that only rarely in my travels. They were also perfectly indifferent to me, enough that I felt like cringing myself. Instead I stood up straight and glared at him, and said, “I’m going to escape this place, and if I can make you look like a fool when I do it, I’ll celebrate.”
He kept looking at me, and then he raised one eyebrow—how do people do that?—and said something to me that of course I didn’t understand, then made a dismissive gesture, and the men holding me marched me away. I didn’t fight back—I had a feeling it would make me look weak in front of the smug git. And now I’m back in my not-really-a-cell again. I’m starting to feel hungry, which is making it harder for me to maintain my calm. I don’t know what they want from me, but it can’t be anything good.
Chapter Two
15 Senessay (I think)
I’m calling it tomorrow because the light went out at some point, and I finally fell asleep on the horrible gritty mat, and when I woke I felt better. Rested, at least. Two of them came in before that and grabbed my arms, and marched me down the hall to one of the interminable doors, which turned out to be some kind of commode. There was a porcelain basin like the ones I’ve seen in some of the big manors, only this one didn’t have water sitting in the bowl, it had water flowing through it so it was constantly cleaning itself. I was glad to see it, because I had a pressing need to piss and there wasn’t anywhere in my cell I could relieve myself. So someone is thinking of my needs, at least on that level.
They brought me food before I slept, and also took away the gray robe, though it’s not like I could make that deception work twice. The food was a couple of slices of a dark bread I’d never tasted before and a bowl of thick, spicy red soup with beans and some grain that looked like wild rice, only white and bland. It was filling and strange, and if I didn’t know I was in some other country before, I’d be sure of it now. Food is one of the things that varies most between places. I’m trying not to be worried that I don’t recognize it, because that means I am definitely far from home, and I don’t know how I’ll get back.
Though—I wrote that, and then I wondered why it would matter. It’s not as if I have ties to any of the places I’ve visited since I left Thalessa ten years ago. Not that I’d want to stay here, prisoner or no, but who knows what kind of pouvrin I might find in this far-off place? And that’s really all I care about, giving this magic inside me space to grow. Who knows? If When I get out of here, I might find a country in this area where magic isn’t illegal. That would be a place I could settle in.
I may have done something stupid, though. After I woke this morning, I decided to make another try to escape—not really escape so much as to see what kind of weaknesses I could exploit. So I used the mind-moving pouvra to unlock the door, and pushed it open a crack—and there were two women standing right outside the door, like guards. They looked surprised to see me poking my head out, and one of them started talking at me, very agitated. I shut the door as quickly as possible. About two seconds later I heard the door lock again, and more talking, muffled by the door. They were definitely having an argument. Then I heard some bumping, and a scrape, and I’m pretty sure at least one of them is leaning against the door right now. So they know I have a way to open locks. They’re almost certainly going to keep a closer eye on me now. Damn it.
I wonder what they make of me. I wonder why they brought me here. It feels as if I took them by surprise, which is strange considering they must have put some effort into summoning me, or whatever it was they did. Maybe it was an experiment they didn’t expect to succeed. Or maybe they were expecting something or someone else. But if that’s so, why didn’t they just send me back? Because they’re certainly doing their best to keep me from leaving.
I don’t
That was close. I was in the middle of writing that sentence when the door started to open, and I barely got this book tucked away in my trousers’ deep pocket when one of the gray-robes came in, cautiously, like he was afraid I might set him on fire. Which is a reasonable fear. I was sitting on the floor—those cushioned cylinders aren’t very comfortable—and he looked down at me and didn’t say anything. He was several inches taller than me and had a pleasant face, round blue eyes, and brown hair in a tail that fell to his waist, and despite his caution, he didn’t seem afraid of me, just a little worried.
He said something and held out his hand to me. I could see his sleeves were as smudged as the ones on the robe I’d stolen, but I don’t know what that means yet; it’s just strange that they’d wear such a light color if whatever they do all day makes them so dirty. I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him, and he let his arm drop and said something else. Then he came all the way into the room and
shut the door behind him, which I thought was brave of him, and that made me less angry. I’m not sure why.
He said something that sounded like a question, and made a motion like “get up” with his hands, then repeated it. It was such a polite gesture I stood and brushed off my ass from where the floor grit had clung to me. I probably look awful. Not that I care what these people think of me.
He smiled when I stood, which made him look almost handsome—I think “pleasant” is the best he can hope for—pointed at his chest, and said a word. It took me a second to realize he was telling me his name. (I hope that’s what he was telling me. It might have been a title, or their word for “chest,” but it makes more sense that it was his name.) So I repeated it back to him, “Terrael” (I don’t know how to spell it, so I’m going to write it the way it sounds in my language) and he smiled really big and nodded vigorously and said it back to me.
Then he pointed at me, so I said “Thalessi Scales” and pointed at myself, even though I think he gave me his praenoma rather than a surname or placename. I’ve adapted to many foreign customs over the years, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to share my praenoma as casually as most people in other countries do. So I wasn’t about to tell him my name is Sesskia.
Then he started babbling. I’d thought he was pretty smart until then. I don’t know why he believed our knowing each other’s names would make me spontaneously able to speak his language. I listened for a few seconds, then said, slowly and clearly, “I have no idea what you’re saying.” Not that I believed speaking slowly would make him understand me, but I hoped he’d take the message from my tone that his cunning plan wasn’t working.
He cut off mid-sentence and looked sheepish. Then he chewed his lower lip in a thinking kind of way, and made a “stay put” gesture accompanied by some words I guessed meant the same thing, and left the room. No one locked it after he left, which I thought was odd, but I suppose if those women are still standing outside the door, I can’t go anywhere. So I’m writing all this down quickly, in case he comes back soon. Or at all.
Later, same day
I’m in a different room now, one of the bedrooms lining the inner curve of the corridor. I learned in following Terrael—but I’m getting ahead of myself. Terrael did come back, after maybe half an hour, and gestured for me to follow him. The women didn’t stop me from leaving, though I saw one of them look at the other with this expression that said she thought it was a bad idea to let the strange woman wander around with no one but Terrael to supervise. Terrael didn’t seem worried I might run off.
I don’t know what to make of him. He’s young enough, I’d guess eighteen or nineteen, that he might not be sufficiently cynical yet, but…I don’t know. He has this air of eager confidence about him I don’t understand. But he’s polite, and he’s trying to communicate with me, and in general I’d feel bad about knocking him down and running away. So I followed him.
We walked down the corridor a little ways and everyone we passed stared at me. My clothes no doubt look strange to them, my wide-necked shirt with long, shapeless sleeves and the trousers with the big pockets that can hold books larger than this one. Though I left my stinking jacket in the other room. I hate giving up anything that might be an advantage, but I couldn’t have cleaned it even if I created water, which would only have made a big wet mess. Terrael didn’t pay any attention to the gawkers, and they didn’t acknowledge him. He took me to another door on the same side of the hallway and indicated I should go in.
It was another sitting room, though a much nicer one; I think they crammed me into the first room because it was unused and they needed someplace to put me while they could think about what to do next. There were a couple of tall stools, still without backs, and a table with a tray holding a steaming pot of something that smelled nasty and some smaller jars, and a pair of porcelain cups with no handles.
Terrael pointed at one of the stools and sat in the other, so I sat down and watched him pour a bitter-smelling translucent green liquid into the cups. Then he waited. I watched his face, wondering what he expected me to do. After a few seconds, he nudged one of the jars in my direction. I took the lid off and found it contained a paste that smelled like roses. I dipped my finger in it, and Terrael made a grunting sound that sounded like suppressed laughter. I shoved the pot back at him and glared, and wiped my finger on my trousers. So this was a test, to see if I understood the custom. I stopped liking Terrael in that moment.
Except he immediately lost the smile, turned red, and started babbling again and making this motion with his fist closed over his throat and bowing in my direction, over and over. Then he picked up the jar and a tiny spoon with a bowl the size of my thumbnail, scooped out some of the paste, and tapped it into his cup with three little tinks on the edge of the porcelain. Then he offered the jar and spoon to me. I was still angry with him, but I repeated his gestures, and he smiled and nodded like I’d performed an exceptionally complicated trick.
Then he took another little jar, this one full of red crystals like dyed salt, picked up another tiny spoon and put two scoops into his cup, then took a different, larger spoon and stirred the liquid. So I imitated him, reasoning that keeping him happy might mean greater freedom for me, then raised the cup to my lips when he did the same. And it was good! Tangy and a little sweet, and somehow the combination of liquid and rose paste and red salt made it smell like oranges, which I love. Terrael could see I liked it and his smiling and nodding nearly took his head right off, and I had to smile at his enthusiasm, which made me decide to like him again.
I don’t know what the point of the drink was, but I’m guessing it was some kind of hospitality custom. All I can say is they have a damn funny way of showing hospitality, locking me up in a bare room that, yes, might as well have been a cell. We drank for a while, and I stared at Terrael, and he stared at me, but he didn’t try to speak again. There’s supposed to be a pouvra that lets you hear what other people are thinking, and I wished I had it right then. Though if he was thinking in his own language, it wouldn’t have done me any good. I’ve never heard even a rumor of a pouvra that can translate words from one language to another. Pity.
When the drinks were gone (Terrael poured me a second cup when I finished the first) Terrael got up and moved the tray to a different table, then sat down again and said something that ended in a question. I shrugged. Shrugging is another universal gesture, by his response. Then he said something else, and I could tell right away it was not in the same language he’d spoken at first. I shook my head, but I felt excited. I speak four other languages besides my own, though two of them I’m not exactly fluent in, and it was possible we might find one in common.
He spoke again, in a third language, and I shook my head and responded in Enthendil—no reaction. I’ll skip to the end and say it was a failed experiment. Neither of us spoke a single language the other understood. I was so disappointed, and Terrael looked like I’d kicked his favorite puppy. I almost felt worse on his account than on my own, he’d looked so hopeful.
After all that, Terrael stood and made a shooing motion toward the door. Again, I don’t know if he’s stupid or just supremely self-confident, but it didn’t seem to occur to him I might try to run if I left the room first. And I admit, at this point I was curious. Sticking close to Terrael might get me closer to freedom than sneaking about would.
So I went back into the hallway ahead of him, then let him lead me further along the corridor. Eventually we came to the cavern, and now I had time to examine it more fully. It’s well-lit despite being made of such dark rock, mostly with those basket lights again, but also with tangles of glowing rope near the ceiling and around the walls below the ledges. One of the basket lights wasn’t glowing, and I got a better look at the design on it. It looks like it’s painted on, and it’s not symmetrical at all. It looks almost like writing. I still don’t know where the lights come from, but it has to be a pouvra of some kind, and I hope I can learn that one bec
ause wouldn’t that be useful!
The tables were mostly occupied by gray-robes, showing each other their wooden tablets and talking very fast. Other gray-robes stood along the stone walls, writing in chalk or drawing pictures. And I discovered their sleeves are smudged because they use them to erase the chalk markings. I guess that’s convenient, but it seems odd that they’d dirty their own clothes rather than use a sponge or a rag. Or maybe it’s so everyone can see immediately what they are, whatever that is. I don’t know.
I didn’t understand what was happening at the center of the room. There were a dozen free-standing bookshelves, crammed with ancient books my fingers itched to touch, even though I was certain I couldn’t read them. They were arranged radiating out from a circle on the ground about twenty feet across, an inch-wide gold strip set into the black stone floor. It took me a few seconds to realize it was the spot I’d “arrived” in. I left Terrael’s side and ran toward it.
An unfortunately familiar hand grabbed my shoulder and brought me to a halt. Smug Git said something in that sarcastic tone of voice that made Terrael drop his gaze to the floor, silent for once. I wrenched away and said, “If I’m such a burden to you, send me back already, but leave Terrael alone. And don’t bother locking me up again, I’ll just keep escaping, if only to make your life hell.”
Those eerie eyes narrowed, and he spoke rapidly this time, the sarcasm gone. Terrael responded, and the two of them had an increasingly rapid conversation in which Terrael ended up gesturing and tapping his forehead, and Smug Git kept shaking his head no, which I hope is another universal gesture, because imagine if ‘no’ meant ‘yes’ and how much more confused I’d be.