sewers.
“Leave that be!” snapped Mistress Mirdley. “There’s other uses for an unbemoiling! Come inside out of the wet.”
In the stillroom, chairs were arranged and the material was draped over it. He was relieved to see that none of the colors had run, but when he saw that the little charm was missing, he finally broke the silence.
“Where’s that droplet thing of silver that was at the tip of that feather?”
“
That
I took care of last night, and melted in Blye’s kiln this morning before you were even awake.”
“You can’t mean—”
“I do mean. Methinks Blye sensed a bit of a something about it, but I had it in the fire before she could be sure. Silver? Huh! Naught but polished steel—and all the more powerful because of it.”
He knew about steel. His other grandfather, Lord Isshak Highcollar, had worn a steel ring on each thumb. They were not just tokens of his submission to the King or reminders of the King’s mercy in not lopping those thumbs off, as had been done to Sagemaster Emmot. Expertly bespelled, the steel rings—or, more accurately, the iron used to make them—prevented a Wizard from using his magic.
Settling herself on a wooden stool at the stillroom workbench, Mistress Mirdley dried her hands on her apron. “Now. Heed me smartly, Cayden. When first I saw those two, I gave them the benefit of kindness. It would be as if people judged you by your grandmother Lady Kiritin. And that wouldn’t be fair.”
He shrugged. The devastations caused by his grandmother’s idea about using withies as exploding spells that maimed or killed had resulted in laws forbidding glasscrafting to all Wizards. He’d broken those laws on several occasions.
“But to keep that name…” Mistress Mirdley shook her head. “Thought it would be taken for a married name, I suppose, come from the male line and not the female.”
Before he could ask why this made a difference, she opened a little jar of salve and began rubbing it into her hands as she talked.
“What it first meant was ‘slave.’ Generations ago, with the First Escaping—you’ll have heard of that in school, I hope?”
He nodded. Magical folk had at various times through the centuries departed the Continent, unwelcome at best and persecuted at worst. They had found refuge in Albeyn because the Royal Family had a few Wizardly bloodlines, and mayhap other things besides.
But what Mistress Mirdley told him that morning was something he’d never heard before. Not in littleschool, not at Sagemaster Emmot’s Academy, not in rumors or gossip or even a hint in a very old play. Wizards and Elves, Goblins andGnomes, and all other magical folk had been allowed to leave the Continent freely—though freed of most of their possessions. But the Caitiffs, Mistress Mirdley told him, had been sold. What they called themselves was unknown. They were given a name that meant “slave” and sent to the Durkah Isle. On maps it was indicated by a ragged outline, a name, and symbols that designated nothing but mountains of ice.
“Some tried to slip away, but almost all were caught. Or so it was said. All of them women, by the bye, for their magic doesn’t pass to their men.”
A test was performed on those suspected of being Caitiff. Taken to the nearest Trollbridge, the prisoner was stripped naked and inspected by the presiding Troll for certain signs. If these were present, the woman was cast into the water.
“The testing was always done the day after a good strong rain, so that the water was new. Pure water won’t tolerate a Caitiff.” She paused. “It’s said to be agony beyond any agony for them.”
Pure water; new water; rainwater—did young Mistress Windthistle and her mother ever go for walks in the rain? If caught outside in a sudden shower, did they bundle up in hooded cloaks and gloves, and hurry indoors as soon as may be? He pushed the thoughts away and asked, “Did you ever—? I mean—”
“I’m not
that
old, boy! My
“Leave that be!” snapped Mistress Mirdley. “There’s other uses for an unbemoiling! Come inside out of the wet.”
In the stillroom, chairs were arranged and the material was draped over it. He was relieved to see that none of the colors had run, but when he saw that the little charm was missing, he finally broke the silence.
“Where’s that droplet thing of silver that was at the tip of that feather?”
“
That
I took care of last night, and melted in Blye’s kiln this morning before you were even awake.”
“You can’t mean—”
“I do mean. Methinks Blye sensed a bit of a something about it, but I had it in the fire before she could be sure. Silver? Huh! Naught but polished steel—and all the more powerful because of it.”
He knew about steel. His other grandfather, Lord Isshak Highcollar, had worn a steel ring on each thumb. They were not just tokens of his submission to the King or reminders of the King’s mercy in not lopping those thumbs off, as had been done to Sagemaster Emmot. Expertly bespelled, the steel rings—or, more accurately, the iron used to make them—prevented a Wizard from using his magic.
Settling herself on a wooden stool at the stillroom workbench, Mistress Mirdley dried her hands on her apron. “Now. Heed me smartly, Cayden. When first I saw those two, I gave them the benefit of kindness. It would be as if people judged you by your grandmother Lady Kiritin. And that wouldn’t be fair.”
He shrugged. The devastations caused by his grandmother’s idea about using withies as exploding spells that maimed or killed had resulted in laws forbidding glasscrafting to all Wizards. He’d broken those laws on several occasions.
“But to keep that name…” Mistress Mirdley shook her head. “Thought it would be taken for a married name, I suppose, come from the male line and not the female.”
Before he could ask why this made a difference, she opened a little jar of salve and began rubbing it into her hands as she talked.
“What it first meant was ‘slave.’ Generations ago, with the First Escaping—you’ll have heard of that in school, I hope?”
He nodded. Magical folk had at various times through the centuries departed the Continent, unwelcome at best and persecuted at worst. They had found refuge in Albeyn because the Royal Family had a few Wizardly bloodlines, and mayhap other things besides.
But what Mistress Mirdley told him that morning was something he’d never heard before. Not in littleschool, not at Sagemaster Emmot’s Academy, not in rumors or gossip or even a hint in a very old play. Wizards and Elves, Goblins andGnomes, and all other magical folk had been allowed to leave the Continent freely—though freed of most of their possessions. But the Caitiffs, Mistress Mirdley told him, had been sold. What they called themselves was unknown. They were given a name that meant “slave” and sent to the Durkah Isle. On maps it was indicated by a ragged outline, a name, and symbols that designated nothing but mountains of ice.
“Some tried to slip away, but almost all were caught. Or so it was said. All of them women, by the bye, for their magic doesn’t pass to their men.”
A test was performed on those suspected of being Caitiff. Taken to the nearest Trollbridge, the prisoner was stripped naked and inspected by the presiding Troll for certain signs. If these were present, the woman was cast into the water.
“The testing was always done the day after a good strong rain, so that the water was new. Pure water won’t tolerate a Caitiff.” She paused. “It’s said to be agony beyond any agony for them.”
Pure water; new water; rainwater—did young Mistress Windthistle and her mother ever go for walks in the rain? If caught outside in a sudden shower, did they bundle up in hooded cloaks and gloves, and hurry indoors as soon as may be? He pushed the thoughts away and asked, “Did you ever—? I mean—”
“I’m not
that
old, boy! My
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