Eternal Sky 01(41)

“You have some power,” he repeated, as if she had not spoken. “And Tsering has great craft and no power. She will continue to teach you. And you will stretch into your power better if you must use it for real.”

She turned. He was not looking at her.

“This is a test,” she said.

“Tests are games,” he answered dismissively. Crouching, he trailed the tips of his left fingers in the water. “Lives will depend on what you do next. This is no test, Samarkar-la. This is your first assignment as a wizard of Tsarepheth.”

* * *



Packing was both easier and more complicated than she had anticipated. She had always had servants to handle such things for her—even when she packed up the few rags of clothes she had considered appropriate for her new station in life. (It had turned out she was wrong; the Citadel provided clothes for its novices. Only an elevated wizard bought her own coats and trousers, but the Citadel also employed tailors and seamstresses who knew well the cut of the ritual garments.)

But now she faced a journey of a moon or more, with only a single companion, and she had no idea what to bring. It would have to be light, of course, and durable. She would need a bedroll, and blankets were heavy, but this time of year a chill could still easily turn to storm. She would need water and travel rations; she could ask in the kitchens for that last, and the stables would have water for women and animals both. She would need extracts and herbs for a medical kit. She would need …

“Oh,” she said tiredly, and sat on her bed, black clothing heaped on every side. Samarkar had long since stopped thinking of herself as a spoiled princess, but just this once, she had to admit that it would be easier if someone else would make the decisions. At least then, when inevitably something that later turned out to be critical was forgotten or dismissed, you had somebody other than yourself to blame.

She heaved a sigh and stood, trying to find the quiet within that had sustained her through the long cold vigil. But mostly now she was tired and ached in every bone from sitting so long in the cold. The wizardry could keep ill effects at bay while it held one’s total focus, but there was always the hangover to deal with. And Samarkar suspected with ironic mirth that the majority of those who sat in the cold, waiting for their power to come, were considerably younger than she.

She was weighing underthings in her hands, deciding how many she really needed, when a diffident knock shivered the door. “Come,” she called, turning to face the sound.

The door opened no more than a crack, and a nervous, splay-fingered novice stuck his head in. “Samarkar-la, there is someone here to see you.”

He took a breath, stepped all the way through the door, and bowed with stuck-out tongue. “It’s your brother the second prince, aphei.”

The young man trembled with excitement. His straight black hair was skinned back into a ponytail, and Samarkar could see the pale-brown tips of his ears flamed as red as if he’d been dipped in ink.

She took pity. “Thank you,” she said, glancing around at the chaos of her small chamber with a prickling of dismay. She could not meet Tsansong here. Not that Tsansong would care about her housekeeping skills, but he would care that she seemed to be kept mewed up in a room no bigger than a monk’s cell. And how could Samarkar admit to him that she found it cozy and admired the view? He would see only floors dished with many footsteps, velvet draperies that had been threadbare when the last occupant of this room died and that were probably already moldering a bit when she moved in, walls dark with centuries of fires.

“Which parlor would be best to receive him?”

The novice smiled. “Perhaps the Room of Butterflies?”

Samarkar nodded. “That would be perfect. And please bring him refreshment; I need to dress and clean myself up somewhat.”

The novice vanished; Samarkar made the best toilette she could with a damp cloth and a pitcher of water. Her wardrobe was still limited—she’d only had three outfits made before she went for her surgery, as it seemed foolish to lay out too much money on clothing she might not survive to wear—but she found a clean coat and trousers and pulled them on over her halter and loincloth. This coat was black silk, appliquéd with bright patterns in orange and turquoise, cut longer than the brocade one. She combed and dressed her hair—no time to wash it, but the coarseness of the strands would hide the oil and dirt as long as it was braided—and stomped into her boots.

Then she squared her shoulders and went downstairs to meet her brother.

Tsansong had taken his ease while awaiting her and sat cross-legged on—or rather, in—a large cushion, reading a small scroll in his lap. As Samarkar approached, he glanced at it to fix his place in his mind and slipped it into his sleeve, rustling only slightly. Then he rose, before Samarkar could gesture him back to his seat, and took her hand.