I wrapped shadows around myself and padded under chill daggers of sleet to the basement steps. The hiss of sleet and the whine of the wind drowned all other sounds. I pressed numb fingers against the door. I drove my awareness down the fraying threads of magic that had once protected the house from intruders. A foot scuffed faintly on damp leaves over by the cistern. An exhalation stirred in the passage beyond the door.

There were other people here. I just could not see them, for the courtyard looked exactly as it ought under the cloudy afternoon light.

A slap of wind huffed down over the courtyard with a spray of ice so strong that it hammered me to my knees. As I twisted the hilt to draw cold steel, the basement door was flung open. The wind and ice ceased, to reveal the courtyard walls lined by turbaned mage House soldiers, their crossbows fixed on the carriage house doors. Not yet drawn out of its sheath, my sword withered back into a cane as the cold magic that had been holding the illusion in place vanished and a man spoke.

“Bring them inside.”

16

An old man in one of the voluminous robes called a boubou appeared at the open door. The gold earrings he wore marked him as a djeli, a poet who spoke the tales of history and also a person who could handle and chain the energies we called magic. In his right hand he held a mirror, angling it to catch my image. Within the mirror he could see the threads of magic, so he could see me.

“There you are, Catherine Barahal,” he said.

I spun, ready to bolt, only to see Bee being marched through the back gate from the alley. Soldiers emerged from the carriage house carrying the three packs and the chest.

“We met before, as you may recall,” continued the djeli, in kindly tones.

“Bring them inside, Bakary,” repeated the other man, the one I still did not see.

As they brought Bee up, I let the threads of shadow drop. The soldiers exclaimed, swinging their crossbows around. I was relieved when the djeli led us into the house.

The mansa of Four Moons House sat in a chair in the kitchen. The wide sleeves of his indigo robe swept over the arms of his chair. He had concealed himself within a perfect illusion of an empty kitchen. I had thought Vai a master of weaving cold magic into illusions, but obviously I had not properly understood why the mansa ruled the mage House.

He was a physically imposing man of middle age, old enough to be my father but not old. He had the girth of a person who eats well and remains active. His Mande heritage showed in his black complexion, while his tightly curled dark red hair spoke of his Celtic ancestors. His presence made the kitchen seem shabby. We stood before him like supplicants. He examined us, then glanced at our gear, which his soldiers had set on the floor by the unlit stove. Finally he gestured to the djeli.

“Where is Andevai?” asked the djeli.

“He is not in Adurnam, Mansa,” I replied, for the djeli was speaking for the mansa, not on his own behalf.

“Yet here are three packs, for three people to carry,” said the djeli.

“He is not in Europa, Mansa. You yourself sent him to the Antilles to spy for you.”

With the tip of his ebony cane, the mansa fished one of the dash jackets out of the chest. The intricately tailored garment was sewn out of a bold blue-red-and-gold fabric printed with an elaboration of Celtic knots so complex it hurt my eyes. His gaze on me fell as cold as the sleet he had called down. He spoke with his own mouth instead of through the djeli’s words.

“Do you think I do not recognize these clothes? Andevai’s penchant for fashion started as mockery, so we observed in the House. He wore more and more outrageous clothes to belittle the other young men and their pretentious styles. But of course he always looked good in them.”

“We came to enjoy the anticipation of what he would appear in next,” added Bakary, amusement making his tone light.

The mansa tossed the expensive dash jacket carelessly over a chair, where it rested in folds and wrinkles. His resonant voice deepened, steeped in disgust. “Do not lie to me regarding his whereabouts. You belong to me because of the marriage chained between you and Andevai. By law, I have power over your life and your death.”

“Cat is many things,” interposed Bee in a tart voice, “but one thing she is not is a liar. If you wish to know where your spy is, then you must answer to yourself.”

“I am puzzled by your impertinence. You are but two girls from an impoverished family of mercenaries. One of you is a bastard. Both of you serve your clan’s business by acting as spies for the Iberian Monster. Those cursed Hassi Barahals cheated us twice over. Not only did they give us the wrong girl, but they had already placed her in the service of the general so she could spy on us once she was inside the house. A cunning and unscrupulous plan.”

pped shadows around myself and padded under chill daggers of sleet to the basement steps. The hiss of sleet and the whine of the wind drowned all other sounds. I pressed numb fingers against the door. I drove my awareness down the fraying threads of magic that had once protected the house from intruders. A foot scuffed faintly on damp leaves over by the cistern. An exhalation stirred in the passage beyond the door.

There were other people here. I just could not see them, for the courtyard looked exactly as it ought under the cloudy afternoon light.

A slap of wind huffed down over the courtyard with a spray of ice so strong that it hammered me to my knees. As I twisted the hilt to draw cold steel, the basement door was flung open. The wind and ice ceased, to reveal the courtyard walls lined by turbaned mage House soldiers, their crossbows fixed on the carriage house doors. Not yet drawn out of its sheath, my sword withered back into a cane as the cold magic that had been holding the illusion in place vanished and a man spoke.

“Bring them inside.”

16

An old man in one of the voluminous robes called a boubou appeared at the open door. The gold earrings he wore marked him as a djeli, a poet who spoke the tales of history and also a person who could handle and chain the energies we called magic. In his right hand he held a mirror, angling it to catch my image. Within the mirror he could see the threads of magic, so he could see me.

“There you are, Catherine Barahal,” he said.

Tags: Kate Elliott Spiritwalker Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net