| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Jenny Schwartz / Artwork by Lee Kurugnati |
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| The Librarian's Housekeeper |
The blade was as long as Joan's hand, the
handle beautifully balanced, the whole knife
slick with blood. Someone had plunged it
into her uncle's heart, pulled it out and
dropped it carelessly, insultingly, on his
chest.
The Chief Groom had died far from his
sphere of influence. Tamlin's library was
night dark, shadows deepened by the
moonlight that shone through the high
narrow windows with their pointed arches.
Outside the owls were announcing their
hunt, although the full moon might yet save
the mice and voles; all except the old and
lame.
Joan shifted her leg, adjusting without
thinking, to ease the cramp that still seized
her, years after the accident, if she stood
too long.
How long had she stood here, holding the
knife and staring at her uncle?
His eyes were open in the shock of death,
his blood a darkness on the uniform he'd
worn with arrogance. Chief Groom, a man
of power in the underworld of the stables
and gaming pens. If he had died in a knife
fight down there, falling to a soldier's anger
at a rigged cockfight, Joan would have
understood. But the library?
The Chief Groom had never come to the
library; and so, it had become Joan's refuge.
But with her uncle's corpse cooling in it, people would want to know why she was there in the dark hours.
Joan shuddered and the knife slipped out of her hands. It dropped to her uncle's chest and slid to the floor.
"Blood on your hands." The voice came from the shadows.
Joan turned her head swiftly. "Rocher." The identification was instant. "I didn't..."
"I know." Tamlin's son strolled forward. "I did."
"You?" Joan backed away, her bloodstained hands rising between them. She knew Rocher's reputation, even if he seldom
visited the Castle and his father. But to kill a man in Tamlin's library? "Why?"
"Aelric was your uncle, wasn't he?"
"My mother's brother." He hadn't wanted to take in his sister's bastard child. Joan never knew what argument her mother
had used to force his hand. She had been dying by then, but she had found Joan a lodging and lived long enough that
Joan's presence became an accepted part of Castle life. When she died, Joan continued as her uncle's housekeeper; too
many people would have known if he'd cast her out, especially after the accident.
"Will you avenge his death?"
"I couldn't." Joan lowered her hands, but kept them away from her skirt. Some bloodstains never came out. "I'm a cripple,
a woman, and you're you." Rocher, wizard and fighter.
"Would you, if you could?"
"No." Never would Joan tie herself to a blood feud, but the decision was more than adherence to principle. In honesty,
Joan added. "I'll not even mourn him."
"Ah." Rocher still stood in the shadows, but Joan saw his figure relax. "Come with me." He didn't wait for Joan's assent,
but started silently down the library to the circular staircase that led upwards to Tamlin's private rooms.
No matter how carefully she walked after him, Joan heard the drag of her right foot with every second step. Fear had
cramped her muscles and agony darted through them. Joan gritted her teeth; she would neither slow her pace nor allow
the pain to force a sound from her. Nonetheless, Rocher had vanished up the staircase before she reached it. He was back
with a wet cloth before she set her foot on it.
"Here, wipe your hands."
"Oh." Pain had wiped commonsense from Joan's mind. She had been about to set her hand to the banister to haul herself
upward. She would have left bloody hand marks; as well to have shouted her presence here from the town crier. Joan
wiped her hands thoroughly. "Thank you."
Rocher ignored Joan's offer to return the cloth. Instead he scooped her up.
It was disconcerting to be so close to him and Joan was grateful for the darkness which hid them from each other. She
held herself stiffly, afraid of relaxing into the warmth and strength of him, of being fooled by this unexpected illusion of
comfort.
Rocher climbed the stairs with the sureness of familiarity. At the top, he continued along the passage to a far room where
he stood Joan on her feet with a surprising gentleness. A small lamp lit the room; a heavy curtain keeping that knowledge
from outsiders. Rocher took the wet cloth from Joan and dropped it on a table. She wiped her damp hands in a nervous
action along her skirts. Rocher watched her with a frown.
"Very soon you must return to Aelric's house and I must deal with his body. First, I must know why you are here tonight."
In the lamp light, Rocher looked older than Joan remembered. Tiredness emphasised the lines from nose to mouth and
hooded his eyes. The reckless young man who had chafed against the rules and rigidities of castle life had grown beyond
rebellion. He was deadly serious.
Joan limped to the nearest chair and sat down. The time for subterfuge had gone. Joan didn't know why her uncle was
dead nor how his death would affect her, but Rocher knew some of those answers. Perhaps if he had the truth as fully as
she knew it, then he might find a path through the maze. Joan bent and rubbed at the cramp which was knotting her right
calf muscle.
"It was the dream," she said flatly. "I work as your father's housekeeper, cleaning and cooking as I do for my uncle,
except Tamlin, unlike my uncle, pays me. So I'm here every afternoon." Joan straightened and gripped her hands together.
She forced herself to look at Rocher and come to the point. "Tamlin's getting older. He sleeps at his desk. Today, he
dreamed."
Joan gripped her hands tighter.
"I heard Tamlin shout out. He said, 'In the library. The dragon.' Then, 'Aelric, no!' as I hurried into the room. When I
called his name, trying to wake him, Tamlin was muttering, 'I can't. Not tonight, not tonight. I can't.'" Joan paused. "The
only Aelric I've heard of is my uncle."
"Yes," said Rocher. It wasn't a reassuring response.
Joan's hands twisted. There was very little more to her story, and she hurried through it. "Tamlin woke up. He didn't seem
to remember his dream; just rubbed at his chest like he had indigestion and said 'No more cheese pie.' He asked me if I'd
come into the room to dust." A wry smile lifted the corners of Joan's mouth. "I didn't know what to do. Tamlin is old and
there are no dragons this far south, and Aelric was my uncle. I decided to come to the library, tonight, after the streets
were quiet."
"So no one knows you're here." It was a simple statement of fact, not a question.
But Joan had other problems. "Where is Tamlin?"
"Asleep," said Rocher. "Don't worry. Aelric didn't disturb him. As far as I know, Father has no idea of Aelric's activities.
Father's been drifting out of life for years now. He won't even use his old talents. To call dream seeing indigestion."
Rocher sounded bitter.
Joan felt only relief. Tamlin was one of her few friends; his gentleness a welcome refuge in Joan's life. She was glad he
was safely asleep.
"That's all I know," Joan placed her hands on the chair's arms, bracing herself to stand. "I won't mention tonight to
anyone."
Rocher nodded. "Aelric may have hidden something in his house."
Joan froze. "What was he involved in?"
"Treason."
"Dear God," the prayer escaped on a breath. Joan stared at Rocher. "Why?"
"Gambling debts, ego issues, power?" Rocher shrugged. "Aelric isn't important, but what he stole is."
Joan wet her dry lips. "What did he steal? I can look for it. If he hid it at home ...."
Rocher hesitated. "I remember your accident."
"So?" but Joan shrank in her seat.
"Aelric stole a seal ring with the Empress's mark. It had been in Prince Edmund's possession."
Unsteady Eddy who had lamed her in a carriage accident, crashing into a crowd after insisting on driving his older
brother's coach and four. The Chief Groom's post had been open at the time. Although Aelric hadn't been the best
contender, he'd received it, and nothing more was said of Joan's "accident".
"Prince Edmund was meant to hand the ring to his brother for the Imperial Court session later this month," said Rocher.
"He was acting as courier from the Palace."
"They shouldn't have trusted him," said Joan.
"I wanted it," said Rocher. "It's time you returned to your uncle's house. Remember to be surprised when you learn of
your uncle's death."
"I'm only surprised he didn't die sooner. A thief and a traitor." Joan dragged herself out of the chair. "If I find the ring, I
will bring it to the library tomorrow afternoon."
"Thank you."
#
The news of her uncle's death came as Joan was making breakfast for two; porridge for herself and bacon and fried bread
for her uncle. The Head of Horses knocked at the kitchen door.
"It's about your uncle, Joan."
Joan turned the bacon spitting in the frying pan. "Uncle's not down yet. I'm just cooking his breakfast. If you'd like
some..."
But Tom Patten interrupted. "Your uncle's dead."
Joan turned to look at Tom. The fat dripping from a rasher of skewered bacon was a nice sign of distraction.
"Sorry, Joan. Someone knifed Aelric last night. A boy found him in an empty stall this morning. The men are bringing his
body here."
The blood left Joan's face. She dropped the fork and sank onto a chair.
"Great clumping gooby." That was Mistress Barnes from next door.
She pushed past Tom and hurried forward. "Don't fret, Joan. Mistress Harrow will lay him out. Not a sight for you."
"Uh, no." Tom took a step back. Clearly he hadn't anticipated this feminine sensitivity. He stepped out of the kitchen, and
Joan could hear him telling the men to carry their burden to the front door, rather than through the kitchen.
"Men," Mistress Barnes said with a sniff. "Never any thought." She was a gossipy woman who never forgot Joan's
bastard status.
Joan scraped the burnt bacon into the fire and watched the flames flare greedily. "Do they know who killed Uncle?" she
asked.
The clump of boots ascended the stairs and then sounded over head, in Aelric's bedroom.
Mistress Barnes tsked, and poured tea for them both. She added sugar to Joan's mug and pushed it towards her. "It could
have been anyone," Mistress Barnes said. "You know what your uncle was."
Joan masked her expression with a sip of tea.
"A deal gone wrong. A rigged game." Mistress Brown stood and scraped the cooling porridge into the pig swill bucket.
Mistress Barnes knew Aelric well enough not to expect grief from Joan. "The killing can't be mended, but you must think
of what you'll do."
Joan had thought of that through the remainder of her sleepless night.
"This house goes with the position of Chief Groom," continued Mistress Barnes.
"Yes," was all Joan said. She wrapped her cold hands around the mug.
The men had deposited their burden and were trooping down the stairs and out the front door. It slammed, and Tom
reappeared in the kitchen.
"You'll have a cup of tea?" Mistress Barnes offered.
Tom shook his head. He looked at Joan. "I'll have Mistress Harrow call."
"Thank you, Tom."
He nodded, and ducked out of the house.
"You'll have a few days grace," said Mistress Barnes. "While they get him buried."
Joan set down her mug. "I have a bit of a job keeping house for Tamlin the wizard. If I can find a cheap place to board, I
should be all right."
"Ha. I'd forgotten that job," Mistress Barnes looked relieved. She didn't want a bastard and a cripple in her house, or on her
conscience. "There are a good number of people looking for boarders."
A small room in an over crowded and probably none too clean house. Joan controlled a shudder. She stood. "I had better
get this place clean to hand over."
"Might as well," Mistress Barnes shrugged. "Not that there'll be much work. You're a good housekeeper, I'll give you that."
Mistress Barnes heaved her bulk up and waddled to the door. "I'll let you get on with it."
Joan sighed with relief at being alone. Mistress Barnes would sit all morning with her cronies discussing Aelric's death.
Joan put water on to heat, and began cleaning the kitchen.
Mistress Harrow arrived, and Joan showed her up to her uncle's room. By daylight, Aelric's corpse looked smaller. Joan
averted her gaze and went back down stairs for the water and cloths Mistress Harrow requested.
#
At the library, Tamlin hadn't heard of Aelric's death. He puttered among his books. It was such an ordinary, everyday sight
that Joan felt insensibly reassured. That was, until she climbed the stairs to Tamlin's private apartment and found Rocher
in the kitchen. He was eating bread, cheese and pickle, and clearly waiting for her.
"Sit down. Eat." It was a rough invitation elicited by Joan's strained expression.
Joan dropped the seal ring on the table. It rolled in its circle, then stilled.
"Coffee," said Rocher, and poured a cup for Joan. "Sit and drink."
When Joan accepted the cup of coffee, Rocher picked up the ring. "Where was it?"
"Under a floorboard in Uncle's room. He has hidden things there for years."
The coffee was hot and reviving. Rocher withdrew into his own thoughts, and Joan let the weight of responsibility ease
off her shoulders. Whatever her uncle had done, it was no longer her business. She neither wanted nor needed to be
involved in anything involving Prince Edmund. Joan cut a slice of bread and layered slivers of cheese on it.
"Will you stay at the Castle, now Aelric is dead?"
Rocher's question caught Joan mid chew. She swallowed carefully to keep from choking. "I thought I'd continue here,
cleaning and cooking for Tamlin?" Despite herself, Joan turned the statement into a question with an intonation of pleading.
The library was her safe place.
"Father will be happy. He doesn't like change." But Rocher didn't look happy. "There is plenty of room here. At Father's
age, no one will think it unseemly if you stay here. It'll save you the price of board."
Joan hesitated. The offer was heaven, but it should have come from Tamlin.
"I'll clear it with Father," said Rocher. "And I won't be staying here. I leave tomorrow." He frowned again. "Pack your
belongings and move today. No one will question that you don't want to be alone in that house with Aelric's corpse."
Joan studied Rocher. This concern for her wellbeing had to be more than it appeared. "What do you fear?"
"The person who employed Aelric won't know if the man who killed him found the ring or not. They will have to search
Aelric's belongings."
"His house," said Joan, understanding dawning.
Rocher nodded. "No one but Father and you know that I'm here. I will watch Aelric's house. I need to know who
employed him."
"I'll go home and pack my belongings."
"Only a small bag," said Rocher. "Make it clear that you'll go through Aelric's effects later." Rocher paused. "His money
will be yours. Don't question where it came from."
Joan hated the thought, but she was in no position to repudiate money. "There was only the ring hidden. I didn't touch
Uncle's strongbox."
"Leave it and lock the house," said Rocher. "Tomorrow it'll be safe to collect it, but do so with witnesses."
"I'll have Tom open it for me," said Joan. A flicker of amusement showed in her eyes. "Mistress Barnes will be sure to
watch."
"Good," said Rocher. "Collect your belongings, and I'll tell Father." He walked with Joan down the stairs, letting her
precede him. Joan held tight to the banister, her skin prickling with awareness of Rocher's large forceful presence. So
much power, leashed though it was, felt like a threat.
#
Joan lay in a bed more comfortable that any she had slept in and stared wakefully at the ceiling. The high cornices were
cobwebbed with shadows. Moonlight streamed through the windows. Joan had tied back the curtains, needing the
reassurance of light. Everything looked grey.
Joan heard the soft chimes of the mantle clock sounding two o'clock, and then a slither of sound that grew into footsteps.
Someone fumbled with a door.
"Rocher?" Tamlin sounded alarmed, and his alarm was punctuated by the heavy fall of a body.
Joan wrapped a shawl around her and hurried out.
Rocher lay in the doorway to Tamlin's room. Moonlight and witchlight showed his crumpled body.
"Rocher, what have you done?" whispered Tamlin.
The question shook Joan into sensible behaviour. She stopped staring and hurried to the kitchen where she found and lit a
lamp, and hurried back.
Tamlin let the witchlight die. With more strength then Joan would have credited to him, Tamlin dragged his son to the bed,
paused a moment and then heaved him onto it.
Joan set the lamp on a table and braced herself for the sight of blood. But Rocher was unmarked.
Disbelieving, Joan took a taper and lit Tamlin's bedroom lamp.
"Draw the curtains," he snapped.
Joan obeyed, and for the second night, heavy fabric hid all signs of activity in Tamlin's home.
When Joan turned back to the bed, Tamlin was muttering over his son. The atmosphere in the room felt like a storm front.
Tamlin straightened, and Joan was shocked to see the harsh line of his mouth. The kindly man she knew had vanished.
"He swallowed the spell. Why? Why?"
The words made no sense to Joan. She looked at Rocher. His shirt was ripped, and under his skin his muscles knotted and
bunched. He twisted in silent agony. Joan knew that sort of pain. "How did he walk here like that?"
"Stubborn," said Tamlin, but his voice cracked.
"Can I help?" asked Joan impulsively.
She felt the full force of Tamlin's focus then, and realised with shock that Tamlin was even stronger than his son. Behind
age and disengagement hid a powerful enchanter.
"Joan," Tamlin sounded regretful. "Rocher's my only son."
"I know."
A groan worse than any scream came from Rocher. Joan flinched.
Tamlin shuddered. "I will accept your help, Joan. Put your hand here," and Tamlin placed Joan's hand over Rocher's heart.
His skin was cold.
"He's dying," Tamlin answered Joan's startled look.
Joan pressed her hand more firmly against Rocher's chest in instinctive denial.
Tamlin moved to stand at the foot of the bed. "I'm sorry, Joan." The words came softly, and then the spell started.
Fire raced from Rocher's body through Joan's hand. She tried to draw back, but couldn't. She could feel the demand of
his heart, its desperate seeking. Joan's breathing quickened into gasps. Flames filled her vision, elongating Tamlin to
extraordinary height, and vanished. Joan fell into the raw power of Rocher's magic talent. The hunger of it was terrifying,
and worse, Joan could feel it twisted against itself. It was raging, but unfocused.
Joan screamed as it found her.
"Joan. Joan." The whisper was in her veins.
Joan tried to hide, pressing her face against Rocher's chest. Fire consumed her. It burnt away everything, leaving only the
core of her: The will to live.
"Joan." A hard masculine hand cupped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and lifted her up. The kiss
branded her with a final flaring of fire, then it gentled. Joan felt Rocher kiss away the tears on her face. "Thank you."
Rocher's heart beat beneath her hand. The pulse of blood through his body had the rhythm of deep sea waves. Pain
vanished. Joan felt herself drifting, cast free of her body.
"I would like an explanation of why this was necessary," said Tamlin sternly from the foot of the bed.
Joan jerked. She had forgotten the old enchanter. The room tilted crazily as Joan broke contact with Rocher. He reached
for her hand, but Joan stepped back, almost falling as her lame leg took her weight, but needing to find stability for herself.
Rocher rubbed his face. "I need a drink, and then I'll tell my story."
"Very well," Tamlin still looked stern, but he offered his son a supporting arm for the short walk to his study. Joan walked
slowly behind them, carrying the lamp.
"Don't bother," Rocher's voice stopped Joan's instinctive move to draw the curtains and hide the knowledge of activity in
the house. "They know who I am."
"Who are they?" Tamlin saw Rocher seated in a wing chair, then gestured for Joan to take the matching chair. He waited
for Rocher's answer.
"The Empress's hire."
Tamlin's mouth twisted as if he had expected the answer and it gave him no pleasure.
"You warned me," said Rocher.
It had the feel of an old dispute between father and son, but Tamlin didn't pick up Rocher's comment. Instead, he poured
brandy into three glasses and said quietly to Joan. "Sit back, child. You must be tired. Sip your brandy and listen to
Rocher's story. You have paid the price of his stubbornness."
"Hell." Rocher drank off his brandy like medicine and set the glass down with a thump on a small side table. "I'm sorry,
Joan. And I thought you'd be safe here..." Rocher's hands moved in an uncharacteristically clumsy gesture. "Joan, I'm
sorry that you endured such pain for me. Thank you."
"It's worse than that," said Tamlin, and his son's gaze flew to his face. The old man raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you feel it?
The re-shaping of your power worked because Joan had latent talent. It's why she felt the peace of my library when
non-magic users are uncomfortable in it. You have a great deal of power, Rocher. With anyone else as the key, they might
not have withstood the surge of it. Joan did, but it's woken her talent. Between us, we have altered the course of her life."
The grave regret in Tamlin's dark eyes worried Joan. He addressed her directly. "We are in your debt. You may ask
anything of us."
Joan shook her head blindly.
"Talent?" asked Rocher.
"Southern magic," said Tamlin. "The soft magic of the sea."
"The sea," Rocher repeated. "And my talent is fire."
A glimmer of humour lightened Tamlin's gravity. "I foresee a great deal of steam." Joan and Rocher stared at him. "There
is a binding between you. I can't see its shape. Fight it, ignore it, use it. Your choice."
Joan burrowed back in her chair. Between her hands, the untouched glass of brandy heated.
"Nothing else will be done against your will, child," said Tamlin. "You have my word on it." With far less gentleness, he
turned to his son. "Rocher, your story."
"Huh?"
Joan felt the shudder as his attention lifted from her.
"I got caught in Palace intrigue," said Rocher. "Chamberlain Veron told me of whispers of a treasonous plot against the
Empress. I started hunting. I looked for weak links that an enemy could exploit."
"And found Prince Edmund," said Joan. The words escaped without thought.
Rocher nodded. "Him and two others. I organised it that Eddy be entrusted with something that could be used by plotters.
King Henry would need the Empress's seal for the Imperial Court session here this year; what more natural choice than to
send it via his brother?"
"You came down to watch who took it from him," said Joan. The brandy fumes were making her dizzy, and she set the
glass down on the floor.
"Yes. I saw Aelric steal the ring from Eddy, and the next night I followed him here."
"Here?" asked Tamlin.
"To the library," said Rocher. He looked uncomfortably at his father. "You had a dream that afternoon and Joan overheard
your shouts. You mentioned Aelric and a dragon in the library. Joan returned late that night to the library to keep watch.
She found Aelric's body. I had killed him."
"Rocher." Horror and condemnation in two syllables. Tamlin straightened alarmingly.
"He had to," said Joan. Both men swung to stare at her. "The dragon owned him." And she fainted.
#
"Aelric was overshadowed."
Joan drifted back to consciousness to find herself lying on the leather lounge which stood under the study's windows. A
blanket covered her and Rocher held her hands. The sofa was wide and he was sitting beside her, his hip nudging hers.
"Under normal circumstances, he'd never have fought me. Someone used Aelric to block my pursuit of them."
"Why did you kill him?" asked Tamlin quietly.
Rocher's hands tightened. "Because he started the words for summoning a demon, and he smiled. I sent his soul to feed
them. And Joan, you can stop pretending to be asleep, and tell me you forgive me."
Joan opened her eyes. Rocher's face was half shadowed, half lit by the lamp. "Demons are called by death, aren't they?"
"Human sacrifice," Rocher confirmed.
"My uncle would have killed you to call one?"
"The person using him would have, but by the time I was calm enough to make that distinction, I'd killed Aelric. I don't
regret his death."
"No," agreed Joan. Aelric was a traitor, and worse. Unthinkingly Joan lifted Rocher's hands to her face and kissed them.
Forgiveness. Blessing. And in return, Joan received a wave of wanting from Rocher that shocked her in its intensity. He
was lonely, too. Joan stared at him, and he gently disengaged his hands from her hold, returning to his story.
"Aelric didn't have the seal ring on him, so whoever fled from the meeting would have to search Aelric's house for it -- or
give up the plot. I wagered that they would take the risk, and I made my own preparations. Joan found the ring and
brought it to me."
Rocher's chest heaved. He looked at Tamlin. "I miscalculated. I thought the person would run from me again. It wasn't me
they were afraid of, it was you."
"Who was it?" said Tamlin into the heavy silence.
"Princess Ilya."
After a moment's thought, Tamlin nodded as if it all made sense. None of it meant anything to Joan. "Princess Ilya of
Zussia? the Empress's granddaughter?"
Joan had a normal person's patchy knowledge of politics. She knew Zussia was the second largest of the empire's five
kingdoms; just as King Henry's Ule was the smallest and most distant, stretching into the south. Perhaps it was that
southerness that made the empire such a distant notion for Joan and other Uliots. King Henry, the Castle and his rulings
were the immediate authority. Only people like Rocher cared about the empire; although there were smoky rumours that
the empire was fracturing under the Empress's ageing, autocratic rule.
"The Empress is an old devil," said Tamlin. The anger roughening his voice surprised Joan as much as his disrespectful
words. "We grew up together, and even then she was setting one fish to catch another. She doesn't trust anyone."
Rocher nodded. "She must have suspected her granddaughter's involvement, that's why she sent me. My vow of loyalty to
her and her family wouldn't let me attack Princess Ilya. If I'd guessed who was behind it, I'd have used a holding spell. I
wouldn't have had to swallow that."
Joan pushed herself up to a sitting position and Rocher tucked a cushion behind her back. Joan's mouth fell open at the
natural, unthinking action. It had been years since anyone had cared for her comfort. Tamlin's frown relaxed as he saw
Joan's expression. Unexpectedly, he laughed.
"This time, Truda will burn her fingers."
Joan looked around for lightning to scorch Tamlin for this casual reference to the Empress Gertrud. Nothing happened;
only Rocher looked wary. He said wryly. "That's why Princess Ilya ran from me in the library. I mightn't be able to use a
violent spell against her, but Father would have."
"So why did she risk it?" asked Joan. "Why did Princess Ilya come to the library?"
"Ha!" snorted Tamlin.
"I can guess," said Rocher. He slid down the sofa, lifting Joan's feet out of the way so that he could sit back. "Warm
enough?" he tucked the blanket around her feet.
"Yes, thank you." Joan turned shy.
Tamlin beamed.
"Princess Ilya was after Father's heart," snapped Rocher, reverting to business, and unamused by his father's amusement.
"Your heart?" Joan looked worriedly at Tamlin.
"Not my physical heart. A diamond I used in an enchantment years ago. It was my final enchantment for the empire
before I retired here to the south. Princess Ilya's mistaken if she thinks it would help her."
"It would be only a legend to her. Princess Ilya's only early twenties." Rocher frowned. He and Tamlin exchanged looks of
comprehension. Rocher continued slowly. "Controlling Aelric was magic beyond the princess's abilities."
"So, who is using her?" finished Tamlin. "Fascinating. And probably what Truda wants discovered."
Rocher's frown deepened to a scowl."By setting me up, she knew she'd get you involved. Blast the old hag."
"We'll have to find who is behind Ilya," said Tamlin. "Me, because I don't want the peace of my library invaded, and you,
because you've vowed loyalty."
"When this task is over," growled Rocher. "Be sure I'm finishing with the Palace."
"Don't be too hasty," said Tamlin.
Rocher stared at him. "You told me not to vow to the empire. You damn near forbade it."
"Situations change," Tamlin glanced at Joan. "The empire's northern heavy. The Palace has never encountered serious
southern magic."
"Fa-ther," Rocher loaded the one word with warning.
Tamlin smiled. "Joan will have her choice." He clapped his hands together. "Enough of this. You two need your rest. I will
see to the wardings tonight, and tomorrow, we'll make our plans."
#
Joan woke early, but Tamlin was before her. There was bread warm from the bakery on the kitchen table and he was
frying bacon and eggs in a pan. Never had Joan suspected Tamlin could be so domesticated.
"Coffee's on the stove," said Tamlin, and as Rocher walked in. "Better pour some for the boy, too."
Joan's hand stayed steady, but she hadn't needed Tamlin's warning of Rocher's presence. She'd felt it.
"Good morning." She handed him a cup of coffee.
"Thanks. Good morning." Rocher hadn't shaved, and dark stubble gave him a piratical air.
Tamlin slid the bacon and eggs onto three plates. "No one tested the wardings last night."
Rocher grunted.
"We don't want to waste any time on this," Tamlin just avoided speaking with his mouth full. "Whoever sent Princess Ilya
into my library needs a return visit." The prospect of a fight made him look years younger and emphasised the
resemblance between father and son.
"Fist we have to find him. A name would be a starting point," said Rocher morosely.
"Aelric's body." Tamlin was full of plans. "Did you check what type of magic overshadowed him?"
"No."
"Then that's the first step," said Tamlin.
"They'll bury Uncle, today," Joan interjected.
"Rocher will have to hurry, then."
"Me?"
"You can escort Joan back to Aelric's house to pick up her belongings," said Tamlin. "It's not like your presence here is a
secret to those who matter." Joan stared at her plate, and Tamlin caught himself. "Ah, propriety. Will I be sufficient
chaperone if Rocher is also in the house?"
Joan shrugged slightly. "It doesn't matter. I'm not respectable. Illegitimacy isn't. Besides, I'm the housekeeper."
"You are respectable and worthy of respect," growled Rocher. He poured more coffee. "Hades, I hate mornings. I'll fix
your respectability after we've dealt with this bastard."
Joan shook her head and repeated. "It doesn't matter." But Rocher's mood continued dark as he escorted her to Aelric's
house.
Mistress Barnes bobbed a startled curtsey at the sight of him.
"We'll get a boy to carry your gear. Father should have sent one, not me," said Rocher at his most disagreeable. He pointed
at Mistress Barnes. "If you have a son, go get him."
She stared in hypnotised terror at his finger, then scuttled off.
"That should give me a couple of minutes to deal with Aelric. Can you keep them busy when they get back?"
Joan nodded. "I'll tell Mistress Barnes she can have the contents of the kitchen cupboards, but must clear them this
morning."
"Good," Rocher approved. "Self interest might outweigh interest in me." He took the stairs two at a time up to Aelric's
room.
Joan heard the returning sound of Mistress Barnes scolding her youngest son, and braced herself. There was a startled
squawk. "Oh, my lord!"
Prince Edmund entered the narrow hallway without knocking. "Where's Aelric's room? He stole something from me, and I
want it back."
"He's dead, my lord," Mistress Barnes answered.
"I know that, woman," said Prince Edmund. He spaced his words. "Where is his room?"
Invading. Taking. Careless. Arrogant. Rage swirled through and around Joan. "How dare you come so to a house of
mourning."
Prince Edmund looked as surprised as if a mouse had bitten him. Mistress Barnes and her son gaped.
Power raced as a wind through the house. "You..."
"Lost something, Eddy?" Rocher descended the stairs in a leisurely fashion, but Joan felt the violence with which he'd
reached out and checked her power. Caught in her anger, she fought him silently, but her new talent couldn't match his
skill.
"Rocher." Prince Edmund sounded horrified. "What are you doing here?"
"Collecting a few things," said Rocher blandly. Prince Edmund looked sick. "Does King Henry know you've lost it, Eddy?"
The prince's nerve broke. He pushed roughly past Mistress Barnes and ran out of the house.
"Mistress Barnes," Rocher recalled her wandering attention. "Pack up the house. Everything that is Aelric or Joan's, have
sent to my father's library. I've better things to do than waste my time here. Joan, unless you wish to bid your loving uncle
a final good-bye, come. I'd hate for my dinner to be late." And on this exhibition of high handedness and the dropping of a
couple of silver coins, Rocher and Joan departed.
Joan was trembling.
"It would really cause talk if I carried you," said Rocher.
"Yes-s."
"You have to let go of your anger," said Rocher. "Your magic got caught in it." And as Joan looked furiously at him. "I
know it's not easy, but it'll only destroy you. Eddy isn't worth this rage, but I wonder who sent him?"
As soon as the library door closed behind them, Rocher seized Joan and held her tight. "Now fight me. Throw all your
rage at me. It won't hurt me, and you'll be free of it."
"Not you," panted Joan. "Prince Edmund."
"You can't touch him. He's such a miserable worm, he's a non-combatant. Tell you what, he's a dandy. Say we make his
hair fall out? He'd hate being bald."
Joan choked on involuntary laughter and rage, and started to cry.
"I'm sorry," she said finally.
Rocher gave her a handkerchief. "Emotions are natural. Learning to control your magic is stressful. No apologies." His
mouth twisted. "Except from me. As father said, all these changes are my fault."
Joan shook her head. "You were in agony. I had to help."
Rocher's hands were hard on Joan's arms. "No one ever helped you."
"Maybe that's why it's important to me," Joan smiled shakily and pushed the used handkerchief into a pocket. "Did you
find out who used Princess Ilya and my uncle?"
"I found out who the man is, but not his name," said Rocher. "The style of magic was a giveaway: A dragonlord."
"Tamlin's dragon in the library," said Joan.
"Yes." Rocher ran his hands up and down Joan's arms, and then released her. "Father will find him."
#
"He's down at Portfea. He didn't dare come upriver to the Castle with me in residence," said Tamlin. "Will you go to him,
Rocher?"
Rocher stared at his boots, his long legs sprawled before him, his right hand beating a tattoo on the arm of the chair. "I
have to. A dragonlord with political ambitions is too unsettling. I'll have to bind his powers, or destroy him."
"Can you?" asked Joan. Southern bred, dragons and their rare dragonlords were mythical creatures.
It was Tamlin who answered. "Rocher's fire talent shares something of dragon magic, but he's the stronger of the two
wizards. If this dragonlord had real power, he wouldn't be skulking behind Princess Ilya, or using her to stir Prince
Edmund into recovering Truda's seal ring. Still ...".
"I will cope, Father."
"Tamlin?" Joan wanted to hear the doubts Rocher had cut off.
Tamlin held his son's angry glare. "Joan, your sea magic will be more damping than Rocher's magic; not a firefight, but a
squib."
"Her talent's too new," said Rocher.
"But you have the skill to help Joan shape it, and to guide her in its use," said Tamlin calmly.
Joan looked from Rocher to Tamlin. "Will Rocher be safer if I go with him?"
"Yes," said Tamlin.
Joan clenched her hands, then consciously relaxed their tension. "There's nothing to hold me here. Rocher, when you start
for Portfea, I'll go with you."
"I could leave without you."
Joan held Rocher's angry gaze. "I'm between two worlds, two lives now. Maybe this is my path forward?"
"There's a boat sailing at evening," said Tamlin. "Rocher, there are a couple of spells you might want to learn before you
go. Joan and I will have a little talk about sea magic."
#
Joan sat on deck, out of the way of the crew, watching the dark huddle of Portfea grow closer. She could smell salt on
the wind, and the brackishness of a harbour town. When she closed her eyes, she could hear Tamlin's voice.
"Sea magic is unhurried, relentless; passion bound to life. You'll learn what that means. It's a more feminine magic than
our northern fire. It can nurture. A lot of the time it is used for healing." Tamlin's voice had grown even kinder. "One day
you'll heal your lameness."
The wonder of that thought opened Joan's eyes. The stars were blocked from her view by Rocher's substantial body.
"We're nearly at Portfea. I'll find us rooms at one of the inns. To be safe, I'll ward them; so don't step out until I call you
in the morning." He put his hand down to Joan and pulled her to her feet, steadying her against his body. "The wind is
cool." His warm breath stirred the hair at Joan's temples. "You should have stayed with Tamlin."
Joan smiled, and for a moment her fingers rested over Rocher's heart. "No."
His pulse raced. "After the dragonlord, you and I will talk."
#
Years of housekeeping for her uncle had accustomed Joan to early rising even after nights of pain from her lame leg.
Anticipation and the strangeness of sleeping in an inn hadn't kept Joan from catching sufficient sleep to be cautiously ready
for the day when Rocher knocked. Joan felt the warding fall, and opened the door.
"Breakfast," said Rocher. "And then..."
Joan nodded. A famous poet had said it once. If it twere done, twere best done quickly. Before courage failed.
Joan and Rocher breakfasted at a small table set back from the inn's other residents, merchants and ships' officers.
Beyond the warmth and low voiced noise of the parlour, a sea mist touched the windows, ghosting their view with white.
"The sun will burn it away," said Rocher. "But until then," he lifted the cloak folded over the back of Joan's chair, and held
it our for her. "Ready?" His hands rested briefly on Joan's shoulders, and she felt both his strength and his reluctance.
"I'll be with you," said Joan. She trusted Rocher would keep her safe.
His sigh was silent but heartfelt. "I've always worked alone. Less responsibility."
Joan hesitated. Was she being silly, even selfish, asking to go along?
Rocher swivelled her towards the door. "Today, will be a new experience for both of us."
Portfea's houses were built of the local limestone; subdued by the sea mist, the stone had a sad grey colour. In sunshine,
Joan suspected the dazzle of white would be blinding. Tubs of bright flowers stood around, adding colour, and rimmed at
the moment by the collecting mist. Overhead a seagull cried mournfully.
"Here we are," said Rocher. They stood in the shadows opposite a narrow building. Its shutters were closed, either in
sleep or against the mist. "Shall we?"
Magic flared as the wardings on the house shivered and broke. There was a shout from inside, but the front door was
already open and Rocher was pulling Joan inside and slamming the door behind them.
They met the dragonlord in the kitchen. He was about Rocher's age, slightly shorter but just as dark. In shirt sleeves and
bootless, he looked unimpressive, but Joan felt the slam of his magic. The stone house shook as Rocher caught the magic
and earthed it. Unlike the dragonlord, Rocher was conscious of danger to bystanders.
The nearest bystander was Princess Ilya whose famous night-black hair was a sleep tangled cloud around the aristocratic
beauty of her face. The princess's eyes narrowed, then she positioned herself so that Rocher's magic would have to go
through her to attack the dragonlord.
Joan thought of Rocher's agony, and hers, after Rocher had swallowed his magic last time, bound by his vow --
something Princess Ilya had used ruthlessly against him.
"No you don't, my lady," muttered Joan. She didn't bother with unfamiliar magic, but slapped Princess Ilya with all the
strength of her work hardened muscles.
Princess Ilya staggered backward, then launched forward in a rage. "Peasant scum."
Unfortunately for her, Joan had a greater familiarity with kitchens. The pigswill bucket was temptingly close and
unquestionably full. Joan hefted it, and swung. Then she muffled the princess's shrieks by fitting the wooden bucket over
her head. In hysterics, Princess Ilya fell to the floor and drummed her heels. Her white fists pounded the flagstones. A
smile twitched the corners of Joan's mouth before she turned her attention to the two men, and horror flooded through her.
The dragonlord's power wasn't the clean fire magic of Rocher. It had echoes of blood and a ferocity without pity. The
hatefulness of it was sapping Rocher's energy, and Joan sensed that he was spreading himself thin trying to protect her
and the people of Portfea from the dragonlord's devastating magic.
"He could ask me for help," thought Joan. "He knows I don't know how to use my talent."
The dragonlord stepped forward, and Rocher dropped to one knee. "Get behind me," he said to Joan, each word gritted
out.
Joan did, but she did more. Tamlin had said that her sea magic could dampen what Rocher couldn't control, and having
felt the horror of the dragonlord's magic, Joan knew he had to be controlled.
Deliberately, Joan placed her hand on Rocher's shoulder. Fire flared along her arm, then flashed out. For the first time,
Joan experienced the weight of the dragonlord's attention.
"Give me," he said, and his greedy power reached for hers.
"Yes," said Joan.
Rocher cried out, but he couldn't stop Joan. Here, beside the sea, Joan's power flowed clean and strong. She didn't try to
shape it, just let the pull of it engulf the dragonlord.
He screamed and tried to reject what he had demanded. It was too late; Joan knew the value of cleanliness. The
dragonlord had invited her power, and it scoured him clean. The bloody power he had ruthlessly collected fled before the
relentless wash of the sea.
Princess Ilya wrenched the bucket from her head. Being ignored had soon cured her hysterics. "Why you --" she began.
Then she saw the dragonlord. Without the covering of power, he was facing his actions. Prince Ilya whimpered as his
inhuman gaze swept her. She cried out as the power he'd given her was wrenched away.
Rocher caught the dragonlord's final flare of defiance and twisted it into a brand that marked his wrist like a manacle.
"Never again," said Rocher hoarsely, and Joan winced at the thought of the horrors he had seen behind the dragonlord's
magic.
Rocher came to his feet and locked hands with Joan. She realised vaguely that she was shaking in the afterwash of power.
Sea magic still hummed through her veins.
"Princess Ilya," Rocher was curt. "You will return to the Empress and you will confess to her the plot your lover used you
in. Tell her, too, that my service to her is ended and with it, my vow."
Outside, the sea mist had burned away and the warm sunshine welcomed Joan and Rocher. Rocher slid his hands under
Joan's cloak and drew her close.
"Sorceress," he murmured.
Joan pressed closer. It was like coming home. It was comfort. It was caring. Joan wanted more. She stretched up and
kissed Rocher clumsily but passionately on the mouth. He opened to her, stealing her breath from her body. When he
released her, Joan leant against him. Rocher's voice rumbled.
"Whatever you ask from me, I will give."
Joan shivered, believing all the emotion, all the promise, behind the simple words. Rocher's passion didn't scare her, not
now that she knew her passion matched his.
"Marry me," said Joan, ignoring the gathering crowd.
"Today," vowed Rocher. He lifted his head, searching the crowd. "Where's a priest?"
Catcalls and advice answered him, but he found his priest.
handle beautifully balanced, the whole knife
slick with blood. Someone had plunged it
into her uncle's heart, pulled it out and
dropped it carelessly, insultingly, on his
chest.
The Chief Groom had died far from his
sphere of influence. Tamlin's library was
night dark, shadows deepened by the
moonlight that shone through the high
narrow windows with their pointed arches.
Outside the owls were announcing their
hunt, although the full moon might yet save
the mice and voles; all except the old and
lame.
Joan shifted her leg, adjusting without
thinking, to ease the cramp that still seized
her, years after the accident, if she stood
too long.
How long had she stood here, holding the
knife and staring at her uncle?
His eyes were open in the shock of death,
his blood a darkness on the uniform he'd
worn with arrogance. Chief Groom, a man
of power in the underworld of the stables
and gaming pens. If he had died in a knife
fight down there, falling to a soldier's anger
at a rigged cockfight, Joan would have
understood. But the library?
The Chief Groom had never come to the
library; and so, it had become Joan's refuge.
But with her uncle's corpse cooling in it, people would want to know why she was there in the dark hours.
Joan shuddered and the knife slipped out of her hands. It dropped to her uncle's chest and slid to the floor.
"Blood on your hands." The voice came from the shadows.
Joan turned her head swiftly. "Rocher." The identification was instant. "I didn't..."
"I know." Tamlin's son strolled forward. "I did."
"You?" Joan backed away, her bloodstained hands rising between them. She knew Rocher's reputation, even if he seldom
visited the Castle and his father. But to kill a man in Tamlin's library? "Why?"
"Aelric was your uncle, wasn't he?"
"My mother's brother." He hadn't wanted to take in his sister's bastard child. Joan never knew what argument her mother
had used to force his hand. She had been dying by then, but she had found Joan a lodging and lived long enough that
Joan's presence became an accepted part of Castle life. When she died, Joan continued as her uncle's housekeeper; too
many people would have known if he'd cast her out, especially after the accident.
"Will you avenge his death?"
"I couldn't." Joan lowered her hands, but kept them away from her skirt. Some bloodstains never came out. "I'm a cripple,
a woman, and you're you." Rocher, wizard and fighter.
"Would you, if you could?"
"No." Never would Joan tie herself to a blood feud, but the decision was more than adherence to principle. In honesty,
Joan added. "I'll not even mourn him."
"Ah." Rocher still stood in the shadows, but Joan saw his figure relax. "Come with me." He didn't wait for Joan's assent,
but started silently down the library to the circular staircase that led upwards to Tamlin's private rooms.
No matter how carefully she walked after him, Joan heard the drag of her right foot with every second step. Fear had
cramped her muscles and agony darted through them. Joan gritted her teeth; she would neither slow her pace nor allow
the pain to force a sound from her. Nonetheless, Rocher had vanished up the staircase before she reached it. He was back
with a wet cloth before she set her foot on it.
"Here, wipe your hands."
"Oh." Pain had wiped commonsense from Joan's mind. She had been about to set her hand to the banister to haul herself
upward. She would have left bloody hand marks; as well to have shouted her presence here from the town crier. Joan
wiped her hands thoroughly. "Thank you."
Rocher ignored Joan's offer to return the cloth. Instead he scooped her up.
It was disconcerting to be so close to him and Joan was grateful for the darkness which hid them from each other. She
held herself stiffly, afraid of relaxing into the warmth and strength of him, of being fooled by this unexpected illusion of
comfort.
Rocher climbed the stairs with the sureness of familiarity. At the top, he continued along the passage to a far room where
he stood Joan on her feet with a surprising gentleness. A small lamp lit the room; a heavy curtain keeping that knowledge
from outsiders. Rocher took the wet cloth from Joan and dropped it on a table. She wiped her damp hands in a nervous
action along her skirts. Rocher watched her with a frown.
"Very soon you must return to Aelric's house and I must deal with his body. First, I must know why you are here tonight."
In the lamp light, Rocher looked older than Joan remembered. Tiredness emphasised the lines from nose to mouth and
hooded his eyes. The reckless young man who had chafed against the rules and rigidities of castle life had grown beyond
rebellion. He was deadly serious.
Joan limped to the nearest chair and sat down. The time for subterfuge had gone. Joan didn't know why her uncle was
dead nor how his death would affect her, but Rocher knew some of those answers. Perhaps if he had the truth as fully as
she knew it, then he might find a path through the maze. Joan bent and rubbed at the cramp which was knotting her right
calf muscle.
"It was the dream," she said flatly. "I work as your father's housekeeper, cleaning and cooking as I do for my uncle,
except Tamlin, unlike my uncle, pays me. So I'm here every afternoon." Joan straightened and gripped her hands together.
She forced herself to look at Rocher and come to the point. "Tamlin's getting older. He sleeps at his desk. Today, he
dreamed."
Joan gripped her hands tighter.
"I heard Tamlin shout out. He said, 'In the library. The dragon.' Then, 'Aelric, no!' as I hurried into the room. When I
called his name, trying to wake him, Tamlin was muttering, 'I can't. Not tonight, not tonight. I can't.'" Joan paused. "The
only Aelric I've heard of is my uncle."
"Yes," said Rocher. It wasn't a reassuring response.
Joan's hands twisted. There was very little more to her story, and she hurried through it. "Tamlin woke up. He didn't seem
to remember his dream; just rubbed at his chest like he had indigestion and said 'No more cheese pie.' He asked me if I'd
come into the room to dust." A wry smile lifted the corners of Joan's mouth. "I didn't know what to do. Tamlin is old and
there are no dragons this far south, and Aelric was my uncle. I decided to come to the library, tonight, after the streets
were quiet."
"So no one knows you're here." It was a simple statement of fact, not a question.
But Joan had other problems. "Where is Tamlin?"
"Asleep," said Rocher. "Don't worry. Aelric didn't disturb him. As far as I know, Father has no idea of Aelric's activities.
Father's been drifting out of life for years now. He won't even use his old talents. To call dream seeing indigestion."
Rocher sounded bitter.
Joan felt only relief. Tamlin was one of her few friends; his gentleness a welcome refuge in Joan's life. She was glad he
was safely asleep.
"That's all I know," Joan placed her hands on the chair's arms, bracing herself to stand. "I won't mention tonight to
anyone."
Rocher nodded. "Aelric may have hidden something in his house."
Joan froze. "What was he involved in?"
"Treason."
"Dear God," the prayer escaped on a breath. Joan stared at Rocher. "Why?"
"Gambling debts, ego issues, power?" Rocher shrugged. "Aelric isn't important, but what he stole is."
Joan wet her dry lips. "What did he steal? I can look for it. If he hid it at home ...."
Rocher hesitated. "I remember your accident."
"So?" but Joan shrank in her seat.
"Aelric stole a seal ring with the Empress's mark. It had been in Prince Edmund's possession."
Unsteady Eddy who had lamed her in a carriage accident, crashing into a crowd after insisting on driving his older
brother's coach and four. The Chief Groom's post had been open at the time. Although Aelric hadn't been the best
contender, he'd received it, and nothing more was said of Joan's "accident".
"Prince Edmund was meant to hand the ring to his brother for the Imperial Court session later this month," said Rocher.
"He was acting as courier from the Palace."
"They shouldn't have trusted him," said Joan.
"I wanted it," said Rocher. "It's time you returned to your uncle's house. Remember to be surprised when you learn of
your uncle's death."
"I'm only surprised he didn't die sooner. A thief and a traitor." Joan dragged herself out of the chair. "If I find the ring, I
will bring it to the library tomorrow afternoon."
"Thank you."
#
The news of her uncle's death came as Joan was making breakfast for two; porridge for herself and bacon and fried bread
for her uncle. The Head of Horses knocked at the kitchen door.
"It's about your uncle, Joan."
Joan turned the bacon spitting in the frying pan. "Uncle's not down yet. I'm just cooking his breakfast. If you'd like
some..."
But Tom Patten interrupted. "Your uncle's dead."
Joan turned to look at Tom. The fat dripping from a rasher of skewered bacon was a nice sign of distraction.
"Sorry, Joan. Someone knifed Aelric last night. A boy found him in an empty stall this morning. The men are bringing his
body here."
The blood left Joan's face. She dropped the fork and sank onto a chair.
"Great clumping gooby." That was Mistress Barnes from next door.
She pushed past Tom and hurried forward. "Don't fret, Joan. Mistress Harrow will lay him out. Not a sight for you."
"Uh, no." Tom took a step back. Clearly he hadn't anticipated this feminine sensitivity. He stepped out of the kitchen, and
Joan could hear him telling the men to carry their burden to the front door, rather than through the kitchen.
"Men," Mistress Barnes said with a sniff. "Never any thought." She was a gossipy woman who never forgot Joan's
bastard status.
Joan scraped the burnt bacon into the fire and watched the flames flare greedily. "Do they know who killed Uncle?" she
asked.
The clump of boots ascended the stairs and then sounded over head, in Aelric's bedroom.
Mistress Barnes tsked, and poured tea for them both. She added sugar to Joan's mug and pushed it towards her. "It could
have been anyone," Mistress Barnes said. "You know what your uncle was."
Joan masked her expression with a sip of tea.
"A deal gone wrong. A rigged game." Mistress Brown stood and scraped the cooling porridge into the pig swill bucket.
Mistress Barnes knew Aelric well enough not to expect grief from Joan. "The killing can't be mended, but you must think
of what you'll do."
Joan had thought of that through the remainder of her sleepless night.
"This house goes with the position of Chief Groom," continued Mistress Barnes.
"Yes," was all Joan said. She wrapped her cold hands around the mug.
The men had deposited their burden and were trooping down the stairs and out the front door. It slammed, and Tom
reappeared in the kitchen.
"You'll have a cup of tea?" Mistress Barnes offered.
Tom shook his head. He looked at Joan. "I'll have Mistress Harrow call."
"Thank you, Tom."
He nodded, and ducked out of the house.
"You'll have a few days grace," said Mistress Barnes. "While they get him buried."
Joan set down her mug. "I have a bit of a job keeping house for Tamlin the wizard. If I can find a cheap place to board, I
should be all right."
"Ha. I'd forgotten that job," Mistress Barnes looked relieved. She didn't want a bastard and a cripple in her house, or on her
conscience. "There are a good number of people looking for boarders."
A small room in an over crowded and probably none too clean house. Joan controlled a shudder. She stood. "I had better
get this place clean to hand over."
"Might as well," Mistress Barnes shrugged. "Not that there'll be much work. You're a good housekeeper, I'll give you that."
Mistress Barnes heaved her bulk up and waddled to the door. "I'll let you get on with it."
Joan sighed with relief at being alone. Mistress Barnes would sit all morning with her cronies discussing Aelric's death.
Joan put water on to heat, and began cleaning the kitchen.
Mistress Harrow arrived, and Joan showed her up to her uncle's room. By daylight, Aelric's corpse looked smaller. Joan
averted her gaze and went back down stairs for the water and cloths Mistress Harrow requested.
#
At the library, Tamlin hadn't heard of Aelric's death. He puttered among his books. It was such an ordinary, everyday sight
that Joan felt insensibly reassured. That was, until she climbed the stairs to Tamlin's private apartment and found Rocher
in the kitchen. He was eating bread, cheese and pickle, and clearly waiting for her.
"Sit down. Eat." It was a rough invitation elicited by Joan's strained expression.
Joan dropped the seal ring on the table. It rolled in its circle, then stilled.
"Coffee," said Rocher, and poured a cup for Joan. "Sit and drink."
When Joan accepted the cup of coffee, Rocher picked up the ring. "Where was it?"
"Under a floorboard in Uncle's room. He has hidden things there for years."
The coffee was hot and reviving. Rocher withdrew into his own thoughts, and Joan let the weight of responsibility ease
off her shoulders. Whatever her uncle had done, it was no longer her business. She neither wanted nor needed to be
involved in anything involving Prince Edmund. Joan cut a slice of bread and layered slivers of cheese on it.
"Will you stay at the Castle, now Aelric is dead?"
Rocher's question caught Joan mid chew. She swallowed carefully to keep from choking. "I thought I'd continue here,
cleaning and cooking for Tamlin?" Despite herself, Joan turned the statement into a question with an intonation of pleading.
The library was her safe place.
"Father will be happy. He doesn't like change." But Rocher didn't look happy. "There is plenty of room here. At Father's
age, no one will think it unseemly if you stay here. It'll save you the price of board."
Joan hesitated. The offer was heaven, but it should have come from Tamlin.
"I'll clear it with Father," said Rocher. "And I won't be staying here. I leave tomorrow." He frowned again. "Pack your
belongings and move today. No one will question that you don't want to be alone in that house with Aelric's corpse."
Joan studied Rocher. This concern for her wellbeing had to be more than it appeared. "What do you fear?"
"The person who employed Aelric won't know if the man who killed him found the ring or not. They will have to search
Aelric's belongings."
"His house," said Joan, understanding dawning.
Rocher nodded. "No one but Father and you know that I'm here. I will watch Aelric's house. I need to know who
employed him."
"I'll go home and pack my belongings."
"Only a small bag," said Rocher. "Make it clear that you'll go through Aelric's effects later." Rocher paused. "His money
will be yours. Don't question where it came from."
Joan hated the thought, but she was in no position to repudiate money. "There was only the ring hidden. I didn't touch
Uncle's strongbox."
"Leave it and lock the house," said Rocher. "Tomorrow it'll be safe to collect it, but do so with witnesses."
"I'll have Tom open it for me," said Joan. A flicker of amusement showed in her eyes. "Mistress Barnes will be sure to
watch."
"Good," said Rocher. "Collect your belongings, and I'll tell Father." He walked with Joan down the stairs, letting her
precede him. Joan held tight to the banister, her skin prickling with awareness of Rocher's large forceful presence. So
much power, leashed though it was, felt like a threat.
#
Joan lay in a bed more comfortable that any she had slept in and stared wakefully at the ceiling. The high cornices were
cobwebbed with shadows. Moonlight streamed through the windows. Joan had tied back the curtains, needing the
reassurance of light. Everything looked grey.
Joan heard the soft chimes of the mantle clock sounding two o'clock, and then a slither of sound that grew into footsteps.
Someone fumbled with a door.
"Rocher?" Tamlin sounded alarmed, and his alarm was punctuated by the heavy fall of a body.
Joan wrapped a shawl around her and hurried out.
Rocher lay in the doorway to Tamlin's room. Moonlight and witchlight showed his crumpled body.
"Rocher, what have you done?" whispered Tamlin.
The question shook Joan into sensible behaviour. She stopped staring and hurried to the kitchen where she found and lit a
lamp, and hurried back.
Tamlin let the witchlight die. With more strength then Joan would have credited to him, Tamlin dragged his son to the bed,
paused a moment and then heaved him onto it.
Joan set the lamp on a table and braced herself for the sight of blood. But Rocher was unmarked.
Disbelieving, Joan took a taper and lit Tamlin's bedroom lamp.
"Draw the curtains," he snapped.
Joan obeyed, and for the second night, heavy fabric hid all signs of activity in Tamlin's home.
When Joan turned back to the bed, Tamlin was muttering over his son. The atmosphere in the room felt like a storm front.
Tamlin straightened, and Joan was shocked to see the harsh line of his mouth. The kindly man she knew had vanished.
"He swallowed the spell. Why? Why?"
The words made no sense to Joan. She looked at Rocher. His shirt was ripped, and under his skin his muscles knotted and
bunched. He twisted in silent agony. Joan knew that sort of pain. "How did he walk here like that?"
"Stubborn," said Tamlin, but his voice cracked.
"Can I help?" asked Joan impulsively.
She felt the full force of Tamlin's focus then, and realised with shock that Tamlin was even stronger than his son. Behind
age and disengagement hid a powerful enchanter.
"Joan," Tamlin sounded regretful. "Rocher's my only son."
"I know."
A groan worse than any scream came from Rocher. Joan flinched.
Tamlin shuddered. "I will accept your help, Joan. Put your hand here," and Tamlin placed Joan's hand over Rocher's heart.
His skin was cold.
"He's dying," Tamlin answered Joan's startled look.
Joan pressed her hand more firmly against Rocher's chest in instinctive denial.
Tamlin moved to stand at the foot of the bed. "I'm sorry, Joan." The words came softly, and then the spell started.
Fire raced from Rocher's body through Joan's hand. She tried to draw back, but couldn't. She could feel the demand of
his heart, its desperate seeking. Joan's breathing quickened into gasps. Flames filled her vision, elongating Tamlin to
extraordinary height, and vanished. Joan fell into the raw power of Rocher's magic talent. The hunger of it was terrifying,
and worse, Joan could feel it twisted against itself. It was raging, but unfocused.
Joan screamed as it found her.
"Joan. Joan." The whisper was in her veins.
Joan tried to hide, pressing her face against Rocher's chest. Fire consumed her. It burnt away everything, leaving only the
core of her: The will to live.
"Joan." A hard masculine hand cupped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and lifted her up. The kiss
branded her with a final flaring of fire, then it gentled. Joan felt Rocher kiss away the tears on her face. "Thank you."
Rocher's heart beat beneath her hand. The pulse of blood through his body had the rhythm of deep sea waves. Pain
vanished. Joan felt herself drifting, cast free of her body.
"I would like an explanation of why this was necessary," said Tamlin sternly from the foot of the bed.
Joan jerked. She had forgotten the old enchanter. The room tilted crazily as Joan broke contact with Rocher. He reached
for her hand, but Joan stepped back, almost falling as her lame leg took her weight, but needing to find stability for herself.
Rocher rubbed his face. "I need a drink, and then I'll tell my story."
"Very well," Tamlin still looked stern, but he offered his son a supporting arm for the short walk to his study. Joan walked
slowly behind them, carrying the lamp.
"Don't bother," Rocher's voice stopped Joan's instinctive move to draw the curtains and hide the knowledge of activity in
the house. "They know who I am."
"Who are they?" Tamlin saw Rocher seated in a wing chair, then gestured for Joan to take the matching chair. He waited
for Rocher's answer.
"The Empress's hire."
Tamlin's mouth twisted as if he had expected the answer and it gave him no pleasure.
"You warned me," said Rocher.
It had the feel of an old dispute between father and son, but Tamlin didn't pick up Rocher's comment. Instead, he poured
brandy into three glasses and said quietly to Joan. "Sit back, child. You must be tired. Sip your brandy and listen to
Rocher's story. You have paid the price of his stubbornness."
"Hell." Rocher drank off his brandy like medicine and set the glass down with a thump on a small side table. "I'm sorry,
Joan. And I thought you'd be safe here..." Rocher's hands moved in an uncharacteristically clumsy gesture. "Joan, I'm
sorry that you endured such pain for me. Thank you."
"It's worse than that," said Tamlin, and his son's gaze flew to his face. The old man raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you feel it?
The re-shaping of your power worked because Joan had latent talent. It's why she felt the peace of my library when
non-magic users are uncomfortable in it. You have a great deal of power, Rocher. With anyone else as the key, they might
not have withstood the surge of it. Joan did, but it's woken her talent. Between us, we have altered the course of her life."
The grave regret in Tamlin's dark eyes worried Joan. He addressed her directly. "We are in your debt. You may ask
anything of us."
Joan shook her head blindly.
"Talent?" asked Rocher.
"Southern magic," said Tamlin. "The soft magic of the sea."
"The sea," Rocher repeated. "And my talent is fire."
A glimmer of humour lightened Tamlin's gravity. "I foresee a great deal of steam." Joan and Rocher stared at him. "There
is a binding between you. I can't see its shape. Fight it, ignore it, use it. Your choice."
Joan burrowed back in her chair. Between her hands, the untouched glass of brandy heated.
"Nothing else will be done against your will, child," said Tamlin. "You have my word on it." With far less gentleness, he
turned to his son. "Rocher, your story."
"Huh?"
Joan felt the shudder as his attention lifted from her.
"I got caught in Palace intrigue," said Rocher. "Chamberlain Veron told me of whispers of a treasonous plot against the
Empress. I started hunting. I looked for weak links that an enemy could exploit."
"And found Prince Edmund," said Joan. The words escaped without thought.
Rocher nodded. "Him and two others. I organised it that Eddy be entrusted with something that could be used by plotters.
King Henry would need the Empress's seal for the Imperial Court session here this year; what more natural choice than to
send it via his brother?"
"You came down to watch who took it from him," said Joan. The brandy fumes were making her dizzy, and she set the
glass down on the floor.
"Yes. I saw Aelric steal the ring from Eddy, and the next night I followed him here."
"Here?" asked Tamlin.
"To the library," said Rocher. He looked uncomfortably at his father. "You had a dream that afternoon and Joan overheard
your shouts. You mentioned Aelric and a dragon in the library. Joan returned late that night to the library to keep watch.
She found Aelric's body. I had killed him."
"Rocher." Horror and condemnation in two syllables. Tamlin straightened alarmingly.
"He had to," said Joan. Both men swung to stare at her. "The dragon owned him." And she fainted.
#
"Aelric was overshadowed."
Joan drifted back to consciousness to find herself lying on the leather lounge which stood under the study's windows. A
blanket covered her and Rocher held her hands. The sofa was wide and he was sitting beside her, his hip nudging hers.
"Under normal circumstances, he'd never have fought me. Someone used Aelric to block my pursuit of them."
"Why did you kill him?" asked Tamlin quietly.
Rocher's hands tightened. "Because he started the words for summoning a demon, and he smiled. I sent his soul to feed
them. And Joan, you can stop pretending to be asleep, and tell me you forgive me."
Joan opened her eyes. Rocher's face was half shadowed, half lit by the lamp. "Demons are called by death, aren't they?"
"Human sacrifice," Rocher confirmed.
"My uncle would have killed you to call one?"
"The person using him would have, but by the time I was calm enough to make that distinction, I'd killed Aelric. I don't
regret his death."
"No," agreed Joan. Aelric was a traitor, and worse. Unthinkingly Joan lifted Rocher's hands to her face and kissed them.
Forgiveness. Blessing. And in return, Joan received a wave of wanting from Rocher that shocked her in its intensity. He
was lonely, too. Joan stared at him, and he gently disengaged his hands from her hold, returning to his story.
"Aelric didn't have the seal ring on him, so whoever fled from the meeting would have to search Aelric's house for it -- or
give up the plot. I wagered that they would take the risk, and I made my own preparations. Joan found the ring and
brought it to me."
Rocher's chest heaved. He looked at Tamlin. "I miscalculated. I thought the person would run from me again. It wasn't me
they were afraid of, it was you."
"Who was it?" said Tamlin into the heavy silence.
"Princess Ilya."
After a moment's thought, Tamlin nodded as if it all made sense. None of it meant anything to Joan. "Princess Ilya of
Zussia? the Empress's granddaughter?"
Joan had a normal person's patchy knowledge of politics. She knew Zussia was the second largest of the empire's five
kingdoms; just as King Henry's Ule was the smallest and most distant, stretching into the south. Perhaps it was that
southerness that made the empire such a distant notion for Joan and other Uliots. King Henry, the Castle and his rulings
were the immediate authority. Only people like Rocher cared about the empire; although there were smoky rumours that
the empire was fracturing under the Empress's ageing, autocratic rule.
"The Empress is an old devil," said Tamlin. The anger roughening his voice surprised Joan as much as his disrespectful
words. "We grew up together, and even then she was setting one fish to catch another. She doesn't trust anyone."
Rocher nodded. "She must have suspected her granddaughter's involvement, that's why she sent me. My vow of loyalty to
her and her family wouldn't let me attack Princess Ilya. If I'd guessed who was behind it, I'd have used a holding spell. I
wouldn't have had to swallow that."
Joan pushed herself up to a sitting position and Rocher tucked a cushion behind her back. Joan's mouth fell open at the
natural, unthinking action. It had been years since anyone had cared for her comfort. Tamlin's frown relaxed as he saw
Joan's expression. Unexpectedly, he laughed.
"This time, Truda will burn her fingers."
Joan looked around for lightning to scorch Tamlin for this casual reference to the Empress Gertrud. Nothing happened;
only Rocher looked wary. He said wryly. "That's why Princess Ilya ran from me in the library. I mightn't be able to use a
violent spell against her, but Father would have."
"So why did she risk it?" asked Joan. "Why did Princess Ilya come to the library?"
"Ha!" snorted Tamlin.
"I can guess," said Rocher. He slid down the sofa, lifting Joan's feet out of the way so that he could sit back. "Warm
enough?" he tucked the blanket around her feet.
"Yes, thank you." Joan turned shy.
Tamlin beamed.
"Princess Ilya was after Father's heart," snapped Rocher, reverting to business, and unamused by his father's amusement.
"Your heart?" Joan looked worriedly at Tamlin.
"Not my physical heart. A diamond I used in an enchantment years ago. It was my final enchantment for the empire
before I retired here to the south. Princess Ilya's mistaken if she thinks it would help her."
"It would be only a legend to her. Princess Ilya's only early twenties." Rocher frowned. He and Tamlin exchanged looks of
comprehension. Rocher continued slowly. "Controlling Aelric was magic beyond the princess's abilities."
"So, who is using her?" finished Tamlin. "Fascinating. And probably what Truda wants discovered."
Rocher's frown deepened to a scowl."By setting me up, she knew she'd get you involved. Blast the old hag."
"We'll have to find who is behind Ilya," said Tamlin. "Me, because I don't want the peace of my library invaded, and you,
because you've vowed loyalty."
"When this task is over," growled Rocher. "Be sure I'm finishing with the Palace."
"Don't be too hasty," said Tamlin.
Rocher stared at him. "You told me not to vow to the empire. You damn near forbade it."
"Situations change," Tamlin glanced at Joan. "The empire's northern heavy. The Palace has never encountered serious
southern magic."
"Fa-ther," Rocher loaded the one word with warning.
Tamlin smiled. "Joan will have her choice." He clapped his hands together. "Enough of this. You two need your rest. I will
see to the wardings tonight, and tomorrow, we'll make our plans."
#
Joan woke early, but Tamlin was before her. There was bread warm from the bakery on the kitchen table and he was
frying bacon and eggs in a pan. Never had Joan suspected Tamlin could be so domesticated.
"Coffee's on the stove," said Tamlin, and as Rocher walked in. "Better pour some for the boy, too."
Joan's hand stayed steady, but she hadn't needed Tamlin's warning of Rocher's presence. She'd felt it.
"Good morning." She handed him a cup of coffee.
"Thanks. Good morning." Rocher hadn't shaved, and dark stubble gave him a piratical air.
Tamlin slid the bacon and eggs onto three plates. "No one tested the wardings last night."
Rocher grunted.
"We don't want to waste any time on this," Tamlin just avoided speaking with his mouth full. "Whoever sent Princess Ilya
into my library needs a return visit." The prospect of a fight made him look years younger and emphasised the
resemblance between father and son.
"Fist we have to find him. A name would be a starting point," said Rocher morosely.
"Aelric's body." Tamlin was full of plans. "Did you check what type of magic overshadowed him?"
"No."
"Then that's the first step," said Tamlin.
"They'll bury Uncle, today," Joan interjected.
"Rocher will have to hurry, then."
"Me?"
"You can escort Joan back to Aelric's house to pick up her belongings," said Tamlin. "It's not like your presence here is a
secret to those who matter." Joan stared at her plate, and Tamlin caught himself. "Ah, propriety. Will I be sufficient
chaperone if Rocher is also in the house?"
Joan shrugged slightly. "It doesn't matter. I'm not respectable. Illegitimacy isn't. Besides, I'm the housekeeper."
"You are respectable and worthy of respect," growled Rocher. He poured more coffee. "Hades, I hate mornings. I'll fix
your respectability after we've dealt with this bastard."
Joan shook her head and repeated. "It doesn't matter." But Rocher's mood continued dark as he escorted her to Aelric's
house.
Mistress Barnes bobbed a startled curtsey at the sight of him.
"We'll get a boy to carry your gear. Father should have sent one, not me," said Rocher at his most disagreeable. He pointed
at Mistress Barnes. "If you have a son, go get him."
She stared in hypnotised terror at his finger, then scuttled off.
"That should give me a couple of minutes to deal with Aelric. Can you keep them busy when they get back?"
Joan nodded. "I'll tell Mistress Barnes she can have the contents of the kitchen cupboards, but must clear them this
morning."
"Good," Rocher approved. "Self interest might outweigh interest in me." He took the stairs two at a time up to Aelric's
room.
Joan heard the returning sound of Mistress Barnes scolding her youngest son, and braced herself. There was a startled
squawk. "Oh, my lord!"
Prince Edmund entered the narrow hallway without knocking. "Where's Aelric's room? He stole something from me, and I
want it back."
"He's dead, my lord," Mistress Barnes answered.
"I know that, woman," said Prince Edmund. He spaced his words. "Where is his room?"
Invading. Taking. Careless. Arrogant. Rage swirled through and around Joan. "How dare you come so to a house of
mourning."
Prince Edmund looked as surprised as if a mouse had bitten him. Mistress Barnes and her son gaped.
Power raced as a wind through the house. "You..."
"Lost something, Eddy?" Rocher descended the stairs in a leisurely fashion, but Joan felt the violence with which he'd
reached out and checked her power. Caught in her anger, she fought him silently, but her new talent couldn't match his
skill.
"Rocher." Prince Edmund sounded horrified. "What are you doing here?"
"Collecting a few things," said Rocher blandly. Prince Edmund looked sick. "Does King Henry know you've lost it, Eddy?"
The prince's nerve broke. He pushed roughly past Mistress Barnes and ran out of the house.
"Mistress Barnes," Rocher recalled her wandering attention. "Pack up the house. Everything that is Aelric or Joan's, have
sent to my father's library. I've better things to do than waste my time here. Joan, unless you wish to bid your loving uncle
a final good-bye, come. I'd hate for my dinner to be late." And on this exhibition of high handedness and the dropping of a
couple of silver coins, Rocher and Joan departed.
Joan was trembling.
"It would really cause talk if I carried you," said Rocher.
"Yes-s."
"You have to let go of your anger," said Rocher. "Your magic got caught in it." And as Joan looked furiously at him. "I
know it's not easy, but it'll only destroy you. Eddy isn't worth this rage, but I wonder who sent him?"
As soon as the library door closed behind them, Rocher seized Joan and held her tight. "Now fight me. Throw all your
rage at me. It won't hurt me, and you'll be free of it."
"Not you," panted Joan. "Prince Edmund."
"You can't touch him. He's such a miserable worm, he's a non-combatant. Tell you what, he's a dandy. Say we make his
hair fall out? He'd hate being bald."
Joan choked on involuntary laughter and rage, and started to cry.
"I'm sorry," she said finally.
Rocher gave her a handkerchief. "Emotions are natural. Learning to control your magic is stressful. No apologies." His
mouth twisted. "Except from me. As father said, all these changes are my fault."
Joan shook her head. "You were in agony. I had to help."
Rocher's hands were hard on Joan's arms. "No one ever helped you."
"Maybe that's why it's important to me," Joan smiled shakily and pushed the used handkerchief into a pocket. "Did you
find out who used Princess Ilya and my uncle?"
"I found out who the man is, but not his name," said Rocher. "The style of magic was a giveaway: A dragonlord."
"Tamlin's dragon in the library," said Joan.
"Yes." Rocher ran his hands up and down Joan's arms, and then released her. "Father will find him."
#
"He's down at Portfea. He didn't dare come upriver to the Castle with me in residence," said Tamlin. "Will you go to him,
Rocher?"
Rocher stared at his boots, his long legs sprawled before him, his right hand beating a tattoo on the arm of the chair. "I
have to. A dragonlord with political ambitions is too unsettling. I'll have to bind his powers, or destroy him."
"Can you?" asked Joan. Southern bred, dragons and their rare dragonlords were mythical creatures.
It was Tamlin who answered. "Rocher's fire talent shares something of dragon magic, but he's the stronger of the two
wizards. If this dragonlord had real power, he wouldn't be skulking behind Princess Ilya, or using her to stir Prince
Edmund into recovering Truda's seal ring. Still ...".
"I will cope, Father."
"Tamlin?" Joan wanted to hear the doubts Rocher had cut off.
Tamlin held his son's angry glare. "Joan, your sea magic will be more damping than Rocher's magic; not a firefight, but a
squib."
"Her talent's too new," said Rocher.
"But you have the skill to help Joan shape it, and to guide her in its use," said Tamlin calmly.
Joan looked from Rocher to Tamlin. "Will Rocher be safer if I go with him?"
"Yes," said Tamlin.
Joan clenched her hands, then consciously relaxed their tension. "There's nothing to hold me here. Rocher, when you start
for Portfea, I'll go with you."
"I could leave without you."
Joan held Rocher's angry gaze. "I'm between two worlds, two lives now. Maybe this is my path forward?"
"There's a boat sailing at evening," said Tamlin. "Rocher, there are a couple of spells you might want to learn before you
go. Joan and I will have a little talk about sea magic."
#
Joan sat on deck, out of the way of the crew, watching the dark huddle of Portfea grow closer. She could smell salt on
the wind, and the brackishness of a harbour town. When she closed her eyes, she could hear Tamlin's voice.
"Sea magic is unhurried, relentless; passion bound to life. You'll learn what that means. It's a more feminine magic than
our northern fire. It can nurture. A lot of the time it is used for healing." Tamlin's voice had grown even kinder. "One day
you'll heal your lameness."
The wonder of that thought opened Joan's eyes. The stars were blocked from her view by Rocher's substantial body.
"We're nearly at Portfea. I'll find us rooms at one of the inns. To be safe, I'll ward them; so don't step out until I call you
in the morning." He put his hand down to Joan and pulled her to her feet, steadying her against his body. "The wind is
cool." His warm breath stirred the hair at Joan's temples. "You should have stayed with Tamlin."
Joan smiled, and for a moment her fingers rested over Rocher's heart. "No."
His pulse raced. "After the dragonlord, you and I will talk."
#
Years of housekeeping for her uncle had accustomed Joan to early rising even after nights of pain from her lame leg.
Anticipation and the strangeness of sleeping in an inn hadn't kept Joan from catching sufficient sleep to be cautiously ready
for the day when Rocher knocked. Joan felt the warding fall, and opened the door.
"Breakfast," said Rocher. "And then..."
Joan nodded. A famous poet had said it once. If it twere done, twere best done quickly. Before courage failed.
Joan and Rocher breakfasted at a small table set back from the inn's other residents, merchants and ships' officers.
Beyond the warmth and low voiced noise of the parlour, a sea mist touched the windows, ghosting their view with white.
"The sun will burn it away," said Rocher. "But until then," he lifted the cloak folded over the back of Joan's chair, and held
it our for her. "Ready?" His hands rested briefly on Joan's shoulders, and she felt both his strength and his reluctance.
"I'll be with you," said Joan. She trusted Rocher would keep her safe.
His sigh was silent but heartfelt. "I've always worked alone. Less responsibility."
Joan hesitated. Was she being silly, even selfish, asking to go along?
Rocher swivelled her towards the door. "Today, will be a new experience for both of us."
Portfea's houses were built of the local limestone; subdued by the sea mist, the stone had a sad grey colour. In sunshine,
Joan suspected the dazzle of white would be blinding. Tubs of bright flowers stood around, adding colour, and rimmed at
the moment by the collecting mist. Overhead a seagull cried mournfully.
"Here we are," said Rocher. They stood in the shadows opposite a narrow building. Its shutters were closed, either in
sleep or against the mist. "Shall we?"
Magic flared as the wardings on the house shivered and broke. There was a shout from inside, but the front door was
already open and Rocher was pulling Joan inside and slamming the door behind them.
They met the dragonlord in the kitchen. He was about Rocher's age, slightly shorter but just as dark. In shirt sleeves and
bootless, he looked unimpressive, but Joan felt the slam of his magic. The stone house shook as Rocher caught the magic
and earthed it. Unlike the dragonlord, Rocher was conscious of danger to bystanders.
The nearest bystander was Princess Ilya whose famous night-black hair was a sleep tangled cloud around the aristocratic
beauty of her face. The princess's eyes narrowed, then she positioned herself so that Rocher's magic would have to go
through her to attack the dragonlord.
Joan thought of Rocher's agony, and hers, after Rocher had swallowed his magic last time, bound by his vow --
something Princess Ilya had used ruthlessly against him.
"No you don't, my lady," muttered Joan. She didn't bother with unfamiliar magic, but slapped Princess Ilya with all the
strength of her work hardened muscles.
Princess Ilya staggered backward, then launched forward in a rage. "Peasant scum."
Unfortunately for her, Joan had a greater familiarity with kitchens. The pigswill bucket was temptingly close and
unquestionably full. Joan hefted it, and swung. Then she muffled the princess's shrieks by fitting the wooden bucket over
her head. In hysterics, Princess Ilya fell to the floor and drummed her heels. Her white fists pounded the flagstones. A
smile twitched the corners of Joan's mouth before she turned her attention to the two men, and horror flooded through her.
The dragonlord's power wasn't the clean fire magic of Rocher. It had echoes of blood and a ferocity without pity. The
hatefulness of it was sapping Rocher's energy, and Joan sensed that he was spreading himself thin trying to protect her
and the people of Portfea from the dragonlord's devastating magic.
"He could ask me for help," thought Joan. "He knows I don't know how to use my talent."
The dragonlord stepped forward, and Rocher dropped to one knee. "Get behind me," he said to Joan, each word gritted
out.
Joan did, but she did more. Tamlin had said that her sea magic could dampen what Rocher couldn't control, and having
felt the horror of the dragonlord's magic, Joan knew he had to be controlled.
Deliberately, Joan placed her hand on Rocher's shoulder. Fire flared along her arm, then flashed out. For the first time,
Joan experienced the weight of the dragonlord's attention.
"Give me," he said, and his greedy power reached for hers.
"Yes," said Joan.
Rocher cried out, but he couldn't stop Joan. Here, beside the sea, Joan's power flowed clean and strong. She didn't try to
shape it, just let the pull of it engulf the dragonlord.
He screamed and tried to reject what he had demanded. It was too late; Joan knew the value of cleanliness. The
dragonlord had invited her power, and it scoured him clean. The bloody power he had ruthlessly collected fled before the
relentless wash of the sea.
Princess Ilya wrenched the bucket from her head. Being ignored had soon cured her hysterics. "Why you --" she began.
Then she saw the dragonlord. Without the covering of power, he was facing his actions. Prince Ilya whimpered as his
inhuman gaze swept her. She cried out as the power he'd given her was wrenched away.
Rocher caught the dragonlord's final flare of defiance and twisted it into a brand that marked his wrist like a manacle.
"Never again," said Rocher hoarsely, and Joan winced at the thought of the horrors he had seen behind the dragonlord's
magic.
Rocher came to his feet and locked hands with Joan. She realised vaguely that she was shaking in the afterwash of power.
Sea magic still hummed through her veins.
"Princess Ilya," Rocher was curt. "You will return to the Empress and you will confess to her the plot your lover used you
in. Tell her, too, that my service to her is ended and with it, my vow."
Outside, the sea mist had burned away and the warm sunshine welcomed Joan and Rocher. Rocher slid his hands under
Joan's cloak and drew her close.
"Sorceress," he murmured.
Joan pressed closer. It was like coming home. It was comfort. It was caring. Joan wanted more. She stretched up and
kissed Rocher clumsily but passionately on the mouth. He opened to her, stealing her breath from her body. When he
released her, Joan leant against him. Rocher's voice rumbled.
"Whatever you ask from me, I will give."
Joan shivered, believing all the emotion, all the promise, behind the simple words. Rocher's passion didn't scare her, not
now that she knew her passion matched his.
"Marry me," said Joan, ignoring the gathering crowd.
"Today," vowed Rocher. He lifted his head, searching the crowd. "Where's a priest?"
Catcalls and advice answered him, but he found his priest.
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