Chapter 1

T

ime was, in the kingdom of Berengeny, that no one picked their spouses. No one courted—not officially, at any rate—and no one married in a moment’s foolish passion. It was the charge of the town Wise Woman, who would fill her spell bowl with clear, pure water; a little salt; and the essence of roses, and rosemary, and sage. Next, she would prick the finger of the new-born child and let his or her blood drip into the potion. If a face showed in the waters, then it was known that the best possible mate (they never said true love, for that was the stuff of foolish fancy) had been born, and the Wise Woman could then tell where the future spouse lived, and arrangements were made.

For the parents of William of the House of Almsley, this process would turn out to be less than pleasant.

The first year that the baby William’s finger was pricked and nothing showed, the Wise Woman said, “Fear not, a wife is often younger than the husband.”

The second, third, and even fifth year she said much the same.

But you see, since the spell was meant to choose the best match—not the true love—of the heart the blood in the bowl belonged to, this did not mean, as years passed, that the boy was special. It meant that he would be impossible to live with.

On his seventh birthday, it seemed everyone had quite forgot all about visiting the Wise Woman until William, who knew this of long habit to be a major part of his day, along with cake, a new toy, and a new set of clothes, tugged on his mother’s skirt and asked when they were going. She stared at him a long moment, tea cup in hand, before sighing and calling for the carriage. She didn’t even bother to change into formal clothes this time, and the Wise Woman seemed surprised to see them at all. “Well, we might as well try while you’re here,” she said, her voice obviously doubtful.

William obediently held out the ring finger on his left hand and watched as the blood dripped into the bowl. “She has dark brown eyes,” William observed, “and some hair already.” He shrugged, and looked at the two women. “I suppose she’ll do. I’m just glad ‘tis over, and that I can go on with my life.”

“For you, perhaps,” his mother said, thinking of what she would now have to accomplish.

“Do not fret, mother, I shall write a letter to the little girl. Not that she can read it, anyway.” He petted his mother’s arm. He was a sweet boy, but he was always charging forward, never worrying about feelings.

The Wise Woman rolled out an elegantly painted silk map of the kingdom and all its regions, his mother smoothed the fabric across the table, and then the Wise Woman dipped a brass weight into the bowl. Henriette, William’s mother, placed her hands on William’s shoulders as the Wise Woman held the weight, suspended, over the map.

Henriette held her breath, waiting to see where it would land. Andrew, her younger son, had his intended living just down the street, which was quite convenient. At least they knew what they were getting into immediately.

The plumb-bob made huge circles around the map, spinning and spinning as the Wise Woman recited the words over and over. It stopped, stiffly pointing toward the North.

“Tarnia? Not possible, nor even probable. You must try again!”

For once, William’s mother wasn’t being stubbornly demanding. Tarnia, a place of cruel and wild magic, was the last place from whence one would wish a bride. They did not have Wise Women there, for anyone could perform spells. The Hags of the North ate their dead and sent the harsh winter wind to ravage the crops of the people of the South. Five hundred years ago, the North and the South had fought a bitter war over a cause no one could quite remember, only that it had been a brutal thing, and that many had died, and it led to the South losing most of its magic. Though the war was long over and the two supposedly united again, memory lingered.

“I have cast it twice.” The Wise Woman chewed her lower lip, but there was naught else she could do.

“Not Tarnia, please?” Henriette, usually a rather fierce and cold woman, begged.

“I am afraid so.” The Wise Woman began cleaning up; her shoulders set a little lower. “I am sorry.”

William, staring out the window at the children playing outside, couldn’t care less. What did it matter where anyone was from? She was a baby, and babies didn’t cause that much trouble.

“Only you, William,” his mother said, shaking her head. “Why can you not do anything normal?”

This was to be the tenor of most of their conversations throughout their lives.

Chapter 2

The Thirteenth day of Jarien, Sapphire Moon Quarter 1775

Miss Tasmin,

Since we are eventually to be married, and now that I have set forth on my own in order to secure our future, I suppose that it is my duty, as well, to get to know my intended a little more than I do now. So I have taken it into my head to write to you, and it is my hope that you will reply to my missives as best you may; the letters, and my receiving of yours, may be a bit sporadic since I will be at sea a great deal of the time, but it is better than nothing at all.

Now, if memory serves me, it is near the day of your birth, and since, again, if memory serves, you are soon to begin your seventh year, I have enclosed a doll. My sister-in-law-to-be favors this type a great deal, and so I believe that you might, as well.

Yours,

William

I

t was not, in fact, the first letter she had ever received from him, though it was far more eloquent than those that had come before. She kept the first missive with the others, but she never mentioned it for fear of embarrassing him, for it went, rather simply,

Hello. My name is William Almsley. I am seven years old today and I found out that we are getting married. I hope you are well, though being a baby I suppose you don’t really know. I like animals and the color blue. You shall have to tell me what you like when we see each other. Until then I hope you are happy.

William

While it was the one she read the least of all his letters, she still liked it, because as far as she could tell from its predecessors, he’d never really changed.

The fact was, Tasmin Bey did not mind her husband-to-be at all. She knew she was luckier than most, for few received anything at all from the one with whom they would spend their lives, as if they were all trying to forget the inevitable. William’s missives came four times a year, like clockwork. The ones that were meant to come around the Light Day celebrations and around her birth day brought with them a present wrapped in good cloth, though the other two often held some trinket, such as an unusual plant or flower pressed in between thin slabs of preserving wax, a stone, a feather, whatever William thought she might find interesting. One had held a ring of coral that she wore still, on her smallest finger.

And she liked his letters. They were straight to the point, just like the very first, practical. He never wrote anything flowery or romanticized their match, but she thought he was kindly disposed towards her, and so she was happy enough.

She would have been quite content, if it wasn’t for the fact that everyone around her was quite determined to hate him.

“He’s from the Azin shore! Do you know what kind of people live at the Azin shore?” her Uncle asked, accusing her as if she’d had a say in it.

“They used to eat their dead, according to Apercus’s Dictionary of the Peoples,” her father said. “Can you imagine such barbarity? And we’re sending our little girl into that that world? It’s disgraceful!”

“I suppose at the time there was a practical reason for them eating their dead,” Tasmin observed. “If William is any example of his people, practicality is quite his main motive of being.”

This, she found, was not a popular argument, and they finished their meal—an unfortunate choice of roast, considering the topic of conversation—in complete and disapproving silence. That was not the first word on the matter, nor would it be the last.

“You are determined,” her mother said, scrubbing bleaching oils (meant to counteract the effects of Tasmin spending hours in the sun) into her skin with a slightly less than careful vigor, “to give your father a heart attack. And me! What about me?”

“Mamma,” she said, “what exactly am I to do about this? He is my chosen, and I think it is good that we get to like each other before… ” she changed “before we start making children” to “…we begin living together.”

“I know.” Her mother sighed. “But they are such awful people. Nothing like us. During the war… ”

“Five hundred years ago,” Tasmin interjected.

“They took any prisoners they found with the gift and murdered them outright. It didn’t matter if they were Finders or Healers or Beast-Charmers or those with real power, they were all slain before you could pray for their souls. And you know what happened to them after that.”

“Aye, the Lord in His wisdom made it so that any born in the South lost most, if not all, of their Talents. You’d be hard pressed to find a Fire-Starter among the lot.” She took the cloth off her mother and started rinsing off the bleach. “I wonder if William has any talents? He never told me if he was tested. I think all of their Wise Women come from Tericia, from the East.”

Her mother sighed a great martyr’s sigh, and helped Tasmin rinse her skin. “If you put in for the Circle, you will be exempt from having to wed. Alcide herself says that you are gifted with herbs. Think of the life you could have at the university, teaching the craft until finally Alcide passes on and her seat is left open. She will certainly request that you fill it.”

The words were filled with their own sort of magic. The University Circle ruled the town, and all the Circles in Tarnia ruled together. Their town was small, and her type of talent would mean that she wouldn’t have a part in any major governmental decisions, but she would be part of the body that created hospices and researched new ways of using magic to improve lives, and then implemented the changes. The King of Berengeny, who ruled all the quarters of the continent, was said to listen very closely to the councils. It was his ancestor who, three hundred years ago, had approved the Mating Spell, which (though most had forgotten, whether by choice or because of propaganda) had been first discovered by a council in the North. In any case, it was a life of comfortable beds and exotic meals, velvet and silk, and more parchments and books than Tasmin would be able to read in three lifetimes, plus access to the best quality herbs, stones, and working materials.

“I will think about it,” she said, to her mother as they washed her hair.

“That is what you always say.”

“But I will. I am nothing if not obedient.” Then their conversation ended because her mother had dumped the rinse water over her head.

When her mother was gone, after pinning Tasmin’s hair up to keep it out of the water, Tasmin leaned back against the edge of the bath and thought of William. She had calculated his course, using his last letter to find out heading and rough position, and thought that it was likely that he was in the Sea of Disea by now. She wished she could picture him, but it was impossible. If the persons lived in different locations, it was decreed that they should never see each other before the bride was sent for, to prevent expectations from forming. Her mother had seen him during the spell and was not very tactful about his looks: “A sturdy, round-faced boy. Doubtless a chubby man.” Tasmin did not mind; she was not, herself, much to gaze upon and it would be better if her husband was not desirable. Well, too desirable, at any rate.

She thought his life quite exciting. He was most fortunate, for he was able to travel the world, going from port to port, trading for goods to be shipped back to his family’s warehouses, where merchants looked over the shipments and bought what they liked best. They were a merchanting family, had been for years, transporting and trading all over the world. William had told her once that he had lists of what people wanted, and he went and found the best places to fulfill them. He told her that he was doing as much of the shipping work now as possible, so that when they were married, if it seemed right, he could spend more time on land. Her letter back had approved greatly of this plan, for she had not wished for herself a life of widow’s walks and worry.

Maybe he likes me, then, she thought, looking at her toes, which were propped on the edge of the small tub.

She hoped so.

Chapter 3

Julait Twenty-Third,

Gold Moon Quarter 1786

Dear William,

Allow me to congratulate you on becoming the Captain of your own ship. Your father must have much faith in you to allow you such responsibility, and I am very pleased for you. From your description she sounds quite well armed. Is it habit for a merchant vessel to have so very many guns? I quite wonder where you intend to store your provisions and goods!

Today my mother is quite displeased with me, for I have brought home a gaggle of homeless Wind Sprites. I was wandering near an old castle that is being torn down and heard them, or, rather, felt them, weeping most piteously. How could I leave such frightened creatures alone? I unbound them from the spell that kept them there, and they latched on to me. I will see if I can find a new, safe home for them.

Finally, I must beg a favor. Soon, I will gradate from my training and gain the title of Herb Mistress. At the ceremony, we are presented with our athames, knives that we use in spell casting and naught else. Anyone who is my family, or considered to be family, is asked to give something of brass or gold (for the athame is made of those materials) to be melted down and used to create the knife. My people believe that we are essentially creatures of energy and on everything we touch we leave an imprint of that energy, so something that was worn often has a great deal of its owner’s energy in it. The benevolent energy of those who (I hope) care for me will protect me when I cast or create spells. In this vein, I beg that you will give me but one of your brass coat buttons.

Yours, eventually,

Tasmin

H

is parents sat stiflly upright across the table from him, their tea untouched, as they tried to absorb what their normally obedient and practical son had just said.

William waited, knowing that eventually someone would break the silence, and that it would be better if it weren’t he.

“Are you out of your mind?” His father, Justin, was quite red-cheeked, displeased beyond reason, but, so far at least, trying to keep his head.

“I have served the family concerns for seventeen years now,” William said kindly. “I think that it is time I turn my life to the future—my wife-to-be, my own little business.”

“Turn your life to the future?” The servants would not have to listen at the door if his father kept to that volume, for they would be able to quite easily listen while working by the kitchen fire. “This is your future, you damned ungrateful boy!”

“And chocolate?” his mother said, as if it were a filthy word. “Who in his right mind would give up a place as part of a successful family business in order to open an establishment that sells nothing but chocolate? I have never heard of such an ill conceived notion in all my years. I do hope this is your idea of a joke.”

“I’ve never liked anything half so well as I like chocolate. Besides, Andrew will be fine by himself. If he needs help it’s not like I’ll be on the other side of the world any longer.”

“I cannot believe my ears.” She grabbed her husband’s arm. “If this was Andrew I would understand, but this is William. He’s the sensible one. The one you could always depend on to make the right choice!”

“The boring one,” William added with a smile, even though he’d never found Andrew to be exactly the pinnacle of excitement.

“Son? This fool in front of me is not my son!” William hoped his father would start breathing soon, for he looked ready to explode.

“You do realize that, since you are being forced to marry a hag from Tarnia…”

“Herb Mistress. Hags are different; they focus on different rites or some such. Anyway, ‘tis not generally considered a very kind thing to say, so I hope that when I send for her you shan’t use it in her hearing.”

His father slammed both hands on the table. “Do you really think that people will want to buy food from one of them? A woman from the North?”

“It’s chocolate,” he said firmly. “I think it will do very well.”

He left only when he was certain that his parents would be alive the next time he saw them. He did not always particularly like his parents, especially his father, with whom he had slammed heads too many times over the years to ever truly feel comfortable, but he did not—despite his mother’s assertions—wish to be the death of him.

The Almsley property held two houses: a master house, where the head of the business lived and ruled the shipping company with an iron hand; and a smaller house, where the heir to the fortunes and his wife lived. He went past the smaller cottage, all stone and gingerbread, and wondered what Tasmin would make of his choice.

Ah, well, he thought, avoiding contemplating that subject too deeply, the die is cast.

He avoided his brother by the simple expedient of seeing before being seen, turning off into an alley to take the short way to the shop as the younger man came rushing up the street with his limping gait. Of course Andrew must have been summoned, doubtless to be told all about the stupidity of his older sibling and the new things his future held. It would be good for Andrew, William thought, for it was a far better life than hunching over account books and comparing manifests.

William’s shop was part of a neat row of stores on the main market street. Old sailcloth had been hung inside the large display windows that flanked the main door to keep prying eyes from peering in before the he was ready to declare the place open. The iron arm that would hold the shop sign hung bare, which it would until he finally announced the name of it to the world. For now, he called it a chocolatier if he needed anything descriptive beyond shop.

Inside, it was filthy. Once upon a time it had been a bakery, until the local butcher found his wife and the baker (here William paused to think of several suitable and quite scandalous puns involving mating and baking) in an improper circumstance, and murdered them both. He confessed to the crime immediately, and how could he not, covered as he was by blood, and sugar, and flour? No one wanted to take the place over for some time, and then it was bought a few years ago, but never used. Since he’d never met the previous owner, he didn’t know why it was bought; only that it was abandoned until another man—this time William himself—was foolish enough to lay money down for it.

The afternoon sun pushed its way through the sailcloth and painted everything a grey-toned gold, outlining dust-limned counters and display racks in muddy shadows. It was severely depressing, and any thought of begging Tasmin to come and help him right the place was banished. Remember, ‘twas cheap, especially for the district—a steal—and you were lucky to get it. Part of him did not wish to dismay her further than she would be when she heard the news; part of him liked the idea of carrying her across the threshold of the shop on the day of their wedding, presenting the future he was providing for them like a polished jewel.

The door opened, and he turned. Cecelia stepped into the shop, her pretty face falling slack with horror.

“You should not be here, my dear. The neighbors will not be very charitable.” Indeed, the fact he had hired the pretty young widow of one of his former crew members had caused a bit of a stir, and while he didn’t care what they thought, he was afraid Tasmin would, and that was something he did care about.

“That poor, poor woman. She will take one look at this and run for her life and I will be helping her. Iyei! God in his heaven! What have you done?”

He ignored her, thinking about the many things that must be accomplished. He wanted to open his shop in six months. “You know what this place needs?”

“A huge fire, after which you can begin all over again?”

“Sailors.” He smiled as if he’d finally found the cure for all of his troubles. “No one knows how to clean like a sailor. We shall have the tile up and replaced with a nice, rich wood deck, the counters repaired and repainted. Yes. ‘Tis the best answer.”

Chapter 4

Setemerio 23^rd,

Scarlet Moon Qtr. 1786

Dear Tasmin,

I am very pleased that you have asked this of me; please find enclosed all of the buttons from my jacket. If it would protect you, I would send you my shoe buckles and even my sword as well, for the hilt is partly of brass.

You are quite right, that it seems as if my ship is too well armed for its duty, but pirates infest the waters worse than ever, and a ship must be able to defend its men and cargo from the ruffians.

In fact, the growth of piracy has deprived me of a great deal of good men, not by the sword, but either by impressment to a Royal Navy vessel or by the scallywags being drawn off by promises of rich prize money. I lost five men just this morning to Commodore Lavoussier. You’ve doubtless heard of him, the terror of the seas, a darling of the people if not so much the Admiralty. Watching him pick over my sailors as if he were at market has not made me care for him much, especially since there is naught I can do about the situation. I do not wish to see the inside of a prison.

Forgive me for wasting your time with such nonsense. I shall close now, and hope I am in a better frame of mind on the morrow when we reach T’lecka port. In any case I wish to say that I am very proud of your accomplishments. I have asked about the traditions of your people and gather that you have done extremely well indeed, and know you will continue to do so.

Yours,

William

T

he young woman stood gracefully when called and named all herbs and flowers associated with memory. She said them in a sweet, clear voice, and then stared at her teacher, waiting.

The teacher tapped a stylus to the table and arched an eyebrow, clearly stating that she was not impressed.

The young woman swallowed. “Did I miss one?”

Tasmin Bey placed her stylus aside, folded her hands, and looked at the young woman very firmly. “I think that you will find, if you turn to page 325 in your book on magical herbs and flowers, that you have recited the wrong list. In the future, Miss Hollins, I believe you should consider pouring more of your efforts into your studies, rather than in love potions.” This was greeted by laughter, and she glared at them all. “None of you are perfect, so I will thank you to stop laughing. Miss Elsbin, I would like you to list the herbs that are said to prove against sea sickness, if you please.”

She listened as the next girl rose and recited the list. As one of the youngest members of the university, her task was to teach students basic herbal lore, stone lore, and craft. The meanings of flowers and of stones were her particular specialty, and every morning she taught four groups of students at varying degrees of difficulty. Some of the students were wonderful. They didn’t just memorize; they understood. Most were merely adequate; they only learned what they could apply. Some of them used what she taught them as a sort of sneaky shorthand language—which annoyed her further because surely they understood the correlation between the fact that she taught them what it meant and the fact that she knew what it meant.

“Mister Hibbs, since you seem determined to talk during class, perhaps you will be so kind as to recite those herbs that cause silence?” No wonder I have such a headache. How ever am I to work on my own studies when this lot wears me down so?

But still, when she had sent the last group off to lunch, after which they would have laboratory sessions and study time, she went directly to her own study in the library. She kept a cache of fruit and nuts there, so that she would not have to socialize with other faculty during lunch. It was not that she did not enjoy talking to others, she rather liked many people, but she wanted to concentrate on her work. She drank water with a little wintergreen in it for her head, and then picked up a light stone to augment the muddy daylight. She knocked the light stone on the desk to get it to work, placed it in its bracket, and began to take notes. She was doing work on protection amulets. Sometimes amulets could grow unstable, even do the opposite of what they were supposed to, and she was trying to find quick and efficient ways of breaking them, so that even those without the right talent could disable them.

Her headache did not go away, and so she eventually threw her notes into her satchel and trudged home in the late afternoon light, thinking only of soup and a good night’s sleep. As she walked she hummed a summons, letting the wind sprites know she was heading home.

At the house she walked up steps held together with twisted vine. In the spring the leaves would come back, and the vines that held the treads and the handrail would blossom. The door was quite plain next to that, but as she opened it she felt a small lift. Coming home always felt so good.

“This is wonderful news! I could not possibly be more pleased. Alica, please break out the marzipan; we must celebrate.” Tasmin heard her mother’s voice, upraised in happiness. She put her things down and peeked into the parlor, curious. Later, she would wish she’d slipped on up to her room.

“Tasmin, sweetheart!” Her mother waved a letter at her. “Come in! We have news!” Tasmin smiled at the gathering and walked into the parlor. Her uncle and her father had been drinking port, their faces glowing for joy and drink. Her mother needed no drink, her excitement far outstripped theirs.

“What is it? Don’t keep me in suspense.” Pity that it could not be the letter she’d been hoping for since she’d turned eighteen, of William sending for her at last, for doubtless everyone would be decked out in funeral garb and singing dirges.

Her mother handed her the letter. Tasmin skimmed—it looked to be written by the Azin Shore Wise Woman—until she got to the important part.

We now come to the reason for this letter. It brings me great sorrow to inform you that William of the House of Almsley, intended to your daughter, has been arrested and charged with the murder of Bishop Kingsley. They suspect that he sent the man poisoned chocolates, and my understanding is that the evidence is quite indisputable. As a woman of honor, your daughter is permitted to be spared the infamy of further acquaintance with William Almsley, and is freed of her obligation. If indeed he is proved innocent of the accusation, he and his family may speak to you about renewing the agreement, but as the aggrieved party you no longer need allow Tasmin to wed him.

“Arrested for murder!” her uncle burst out. “I told you they were all barbarians.”

Tasmin waved the letter at them. “And how is this good news?”

“Why, my dear,” her father broke in, “You can stay on as a teacher until such a time as Mistress Alcide decides to step down from the inner circle. Your future is secured.”

“You are exempt from marriage! You cannot possibly marry a murderer!” Her mother was positively bursting to leap up and dance.

Tasmin licked her lips, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “Well.” She swallowed, her hands knotting together as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I need to go upstairs for a moment. Pray, excuse me.”

Her room was mostly decorated by William’s travels. She had a quilt on her bed that was made from the cloth he had used to wrap her presents. The first present, a doll, her face cracked from an accident involving falling books, sat on top of pillows that had come from the lavender fields of Elia. There were tomb rubbings, tapestries, little decorated boxes and bottles, preserved samples of flora, carved bits of stone and wood and ivory. She let out a pent-up sigh. Oh, William.

She stumbled over to the rocking chair by the window, barely remembering to let the wind sprites in. They tumbled through the open window, spinning around her, but she did not note their capering, even when they slammed the window shut. They sensed her feelings and retreated, reacting to her moods as they always did, this time by settling into silence. She sat quite still and thought. The sun went down, people knocked quietly at her door and went away unanswered; the street lights and house lights went out one by one. Still, she sat, unseeing, unmoving.

Murder. Funny, how the idea of one’s future husband killing someone made headaches go away. It was not that she could not conceive that he was a killer; anyone who read the shipping information at the back of the newspaper, listing, among other things, the manifests of pirate ships that had been taken and destroyed, would know William was quite capable of killing. But, she reasoned, that was hot blooded killing, it was not murder. Poisoning someone with chocolate required coldness and cunning. She moved at last, only enough to take her hair down. She stared at the pins in her hands. No. She could not believe that William was capable of cunning. He was smart, aye. But practical smart. Not without imagination, of course, you could not accuse a man who wanted to make chocolates of a lack of imagination, but he was also not the sort of man to go around blithely killing people with the very product he hoped to sell. She could not believe it.

After a while, the surprise wearing off, she tried to imagine the two paths her life might take. She thought of being at the university. She had trained there, and so she had friends as well as colleagues among the staff. Eventually she would have the seniority to teach only the advanced students, perhaps even ascend to the Circle, as her mother hoped. A life of teaching and learning how to use herbs, divining the secret meanings hidden in the wind, the rain, and the veins of leaves was hers. She was no master wizard, but she was very, very good, and she knew her life was mapped out for her here, a scholarly life of respect and decent wages and wanting for nothing. It was, clearly, a good life, which was why her family wanted it for her.

Then there was William. She tried to imagine him, blurry in her mind, by her side. A life of children, shop-keeping. It did not seem as glamorous or interesting, though she trusted she would be able to continue her studies and believed that William would provide for her, but her fame would be as his wife alone. No one would remember her save their children. Still, it was not without its appeal, the idea of having someone who was all yours, someone to curl up against in the winter. It was harder to imagine the future, here, for she knew so little in comparison. The unknown could hold pain as well as joy.

She sighed, and went to bed, in a restless attempt at sleep for what remained of the night.

When she came down the next day she had two cases in her hands, and she was wearing her best traveling clothes. Her family looked up at her from their breakfast, as she put the heavier of the two down, her hands switching the other bag back and forth, nervous and moist on the hard wood handle. “You see,” she said by way of good morning and here’s my explanation, “the problem is that I rather like him.”

Chapter 5

Marco First,

Pale Moon Quarter 1787

Dear William,

As for my own family, there is not much that I can tell. There are my parents, my father is a baker and my mother is a midwife. I suppose that is why I’ve always been so interested in herbs and food-magic, because they have been so central to my life.

My uncle on my father’s side owns half the bakery. He creates the pretty things, and has a delicate hand with the marzipans and the roses. My aunt, on my mother’s side, is a traveling elementalist. I shall be apprenticed to her this spring, and you may not hear from me for a few months, so if my replies are late, I beg your indulgence in the matter. She wishes to see if I have any of the other talents that run in our blood, I suppose, so it will be a good experience for me. You should not be the only one who gets to travel…

Yours, eventually,

Tasmin

“S

o, it couldn’t have been anything you accidentally spilled into the pot?” Andrew hazarded, pulling over an empty keg on which to sit. There were no chairs; people who visited murderers were not encouraged to be comfortable. William gritted his teeth and reminded himself that Andrew was trying very hard to play the role that William had given him, that of the responsible brother and future head of the family.

“No, as I told you, I saw the poisoned chocolates, and they are like nothing I would ever sell and expect to keep my business.”

“Are you sure?” Andrew asked, chewing the quill he had brought to take notes with.

“For God’s sake, I’ve only been open for a week, ‘tis not like it’s hard to remember.”

His brother winced and pretended to write something in the old log book he was using for notes.

“Forgive me, pray,” William said quietly. “I am merely overwhelmed by my circumstances. My business is going to be a shambles by the time I get back to it. I don’t know how I shall ever recover.”

“Oh!” Andrew perked up a little. “Do not worry about that another moment. Father and I have decided that you shall go out to sea again. You were awfully good at finding things and bargaining for them,” he added, a bit wistfully. “I could never do half so well as you. There was nothing you could not find, no wish you could not fulfill. That takes talent. And by the time you come home again, this will all be forgotten.” He paused, sighed. “That is, if we can get you out of jail at all.”

William felt annoyed, perhaps irrationally, with his family, but managed to hide it. “I am grateful to you and father, but I have no wish to return to the sea. I have my own life.” He came back over to the bars. “And you will do fine, if you have just a little more confidence in yourself. No one knows numbers half so well as you do, and that’s all bargaining is, knowing the numbers.” Well, and understanding people, but he thought that his brother would learn that in time.

Andrew shrugged doubtfully, and William realized he wasn’t thinking about it because he didn’t think he would ever have to face it. William sighed, and said, “When do you think I shall be freed?”

“Another week.” His words were careful, almost shy. “Esquire Morris is lobbying to have you freed, but Lavoussier is determined to make you suffer as much as humanly possible.”

“A week! But ‘tis purely circumstance that ties me to Bishop Kingsley’s death!”

“There’s some kind of complication. Esquire Morris says that they are still taking dispositions of the witnesses and gathering evidence, so they wish to keep holding you so you won’t be able to taint the testimonies.” He tried to put a good face on it. “At least, if someone else dies, they’ll know it’s not you.”

When his brother finally left, William found himself pacing the cell. His neighbor was singing a song about drowning puppies and stew to which he tried to pay no attention. The cell had one window, higher than most people could comfortably look out. If he wanted to see the ocean below, he had to grasp the ledge and pull himself up a little, but considering his dreams of the previous night he chose not to. I thought I left horror and despair behind me when I stopped sailing. He longed to be back in his kitchen, conducting the simple alchemy of turning raw ingredients into delicacies, surrounded by sweet smells and warmth. I only wanted peace. Was that really too much to ask? A wife and a hearth and a pleasant occupation. He could not understand why he was being plagued so; he certainly would never have harmed the Bishop.

He wished he was free from this place so he would not be stuck here, bored and worried at the same time The work also tired him out so that he no longer dreamed, and that had been a great comfort. Now that he no longer had that, he was once again haunted by dreams, dreams where he was deep inside the belly of the sea again, his lungs filling with water, and a soft voice sighing his name.

They were not mere dreams, of course, but memories, the fears of his own mind plaguing him even when he would rest, but such daylight rationality did not comfort him, and he wished that he could forget what it was like to fall into darkness, unable to do a blessed thing. It wore on him, made his imprisonment even more unbearable.

His neighbor started to slam his head against the prison bars. He was filthy and unkempt and smelled like a Voren delicacy that was made from fish left stewing in oil in the relentless sun, sour and disgusting.

“Hush, hush. Sir, you do yourself no good,” William said. He knew the guards would not come, even should the man draw blood, so William reached through the bars, wincing not a little, and patted the greasy head firmly. He sang an old sea shanty; one that was slow and gentle despite being about ladies of dubious virtue, for it was also about the wives they had left behind.

Chapter 6

Desero eleventh,

Sapph. Mn. Qtr 1788

Tasmin,

We ran into some rough seas, and have put into port in Galubrey, near the mountains they call the Stairs of Alessyn. It is a strange but very interesting place. The natives mark themselves with blue and green ink in odd, spiral patterns and dance along the sea edge at the beginning of every week, in devotion to God. It is so hot that I can hardly bear it, for the Stairs of Alessyn are part of what I have been assured is a dead volcano, and the island is in the hottest clime on the planet. The heat has created many strange birds and beasts and plants, so I have sent you some volcanic stone and soil, some feathers and some plants for your perusal.

They think it odd that we wed by the choice of a spell, but after hearing their romantic tales, I am far more pleased with our way. The unknowing, the trying to find a life mate who truly suits, it all seems impossible. They are fond of stories, and the tales they tell me are filled with pain and betrayal. Why would I wish that for myself?

Yours,

William

T

hey would say, even years afterward, that the Tarnia Hag arrived in a whirlwind.

They would be right, in a way. The old carriage had been bought cheaply, for it was missing two of its wheels and one door and was far too small to contain more than one seat. A waste, indeed, and fit only for the wood pile. An extra coin coaxed the lads to strip it of the cracked and broken trim that was once supposed to have been flowers and a crest.

Tasmin did not question the wind sprites. Secretly she thought the load far too heavy for her beloved clan to push, but she secured her cases, two for clothes (her mother insisted she pack more before heading off like a barbarian) and one for her work box, using the leather straps opposite the passenger bench. Her mother handed her a basket filled with provisions, and she strapped that down, too.

“Sweetheart, are you most certain you would not rather ride in the family coach? Your uncle said he would lend you his four horses. Magnificent beasts—you’ll be there in three weeks, if not less!”

She gave her mother a look much like she gave her pupils when they spouted silliness.

“Well, ‘tis a little less dangerous than careening through the mountains of Deschta in a wheelbarrow pushed by you know what!”

Everything was ready, there was no more putting it off. She sat down inside and tied a rope across the one open door. “Wish me luck, mamma. Please. I know William wouldn’t harm a soul.”

Her mother gave her a sad smile, and then kissed her cheek.

Tasmin leaned back, and dug her fingers into the leather handle that hung from the wall. She sang the calling song under her breath, telling them she was ready.

All she heard was laughter as the wind picked up along the dusty highway. It blew around the carriage, but did not allow any dirt to go inside. She felt the floorboards under her feet lift, and then the carriage dashed forward, out of the village, through the orchard paths where it picked up the last of the fallen leaves, through fields put to sleep for the winter, and down the steep mountain paths. She was grateful she could not see, for she was able to keep the fear from her mind and heart and therefore able to keep the wind sprites happy and calm. In fact, they were thrilled, and gigged madly. In their happiness, the sprites generated a slight warmth. It was not much, but it kept her comfortable. After a time she got used to the feeling of the carriage, which was more like falling forever than riding along a road. The ride was smooth, but fast.

Finally, darkness fell and everything slowed to a gentle stop in the brush next to a pond. Tasmin took care of her needs, and then drew a spell circle around her transport, one that would not make it invisible, just not seen. She buried herself in her cloak and slept. It was not uncomfortable travel, but neither was it pleasant, and she was glad they only had two more days of it.

It was just afternoon when they approached the town that would soon be her home. She could see glimpses that the sprites sent back to her, and she could smell the sea. They slowed down just a little, so that she could see what they were passing more easily. “Please don’t damage anything!” she cried as the carriage careened far too closely to an approaching cart. “I have to live with these people.” Soon they were barreling into the town square, where the debris that had been swept along in her journey seemed to make the day dark as night. The cart shook to a stop, and the rope that was supposed to give her a little security snapped under the strain. She stepped down from the carriage and found her things being stacked neatly beside her just before the carriage whipped away.

The dirt settled down, the dark strands of her hair came to rest on her shoulders, and it seemed as if she’d appeared out of nowhere. Everyone stared at her as she went to the fountain to quench her thirst and wash her face and hands. She could feel their gaze like insects crawling over her skin, and so she concentrated on being as normal as possible, trying to make some of the mystique go away. She realized the susurrus of sound that seemed to trail after her was not the wind, but whispers, and she sighed and winced again. Ah well. At least she wasn’t accused of murder, so William couldn’t really say anything.