Cold Magic

The carriage stopped. Andevai drew in a breath. The door was opened, the stair lowered. He got out.



As I made ready to follow him, he gestured like an ax striking. “It’s forbidden to bring cold steel into the gatehouse. Leave it in the carriage.”



The sword already felt like a part of me. I hated to leave it, and yet when he frowned, I knew I had no choice. Swordless, I followed him onto a wide fan of raked gravel fronting a massive white stone gate with four arches. Each archway was fitted with massive iron-clad wood gates, and above each arch was carved one phase of the moon. Walls stretched out to either side as far as I could see, high enough that I could discern nothing on the other side except the crowns of trees. To our right, built out from the wall, stood a spacious lodge, the gatehouse. Its walls were decorated with bright geometric lines and patterns. It was set off from the road by a low garden wall, behind which lay a desiccated garden, oval in shape and notable for pruned evergreen hedges, a single unremarkable stone pillar as tall as a man, and an elaborate tiered fountain. Water ran down this excrescence of stone to splash into twin basins formed like the halves of melons. On the rim of the fountain rested several bowls.



Andevai halted at the gate with hands extended, palms up. I copied the gesture, so afraid I would do something wrong that tears blurred my vision.



A pair of men in servants’ livery came running from the lane beside the house to take up stations within the garden. The door of the lodge was opened. Four women, wearing indoor slippers, hurried down the steps to stand on either side of a brick path that led by a circuitous route, not a straight line, to the square vestibule. Two young men dressed in fashionable clothing came out, smirking and nudging each other. I could not see Andevai’s face, but his posture became more rigid and he seemed to be breathing faster. As people took up positions on either side of the steps, they started calling to one another in a rhythmic way. Others took up this chant and began to clap and sing. My ears burned.



As if summoned by the song, a woman emerged from the interior and stood on the threshold. She was tall and robust, older than my aunt but not elderly, and dressed in a long robe made of a black cloth marked with white patterns. Her complexion was lighter than Andevai’s, her brown skin dusted with freckles, and her hair was tied up in a scarf that had pulled back just enough to reveal tightly kinked dark red hair. She raised both hands, as if giving permission.



I followed him meekly through the gate. We halted at the fountain, where he picked up a bowl, dipped it in the water, and advanced to a stunted leafless tree festooned with amulets, ribbons, and charms. He poured the water at the base of the trunk. I groped for a bowl, and someone laughed. He turned, saw me, and his eyes widened as he made a sudden panicked gesture with one hand. I stared stupidly at him as a whisper passed through the gathering, causing the song’s cadences to falter. He pointed.



Oh! With a foot, I indicated the other basin to see if I was meant to use it instead, and several voices choked down gasps. Andevai changed color. Clearly I had committed some horrible, inadvertent offense. I shut my eyes, wishing I could vanish just like the heroes and heroines in the tales.



But couldn’t I? Not vanish precisely, but hide myself, even in the sight of cold mages? The realization hit me so hard that my mouth opened and I sucked in courage enough to open my eyes and demand with my gaze that he find some way to let me know what to do. With his chin, he indicated the other basin, so I knelt at its rim, all the while watching him and his efforts to direct my ignorance without speaking and without gesturing in a way that would make him look as ridiculous as he must by now feel. Everyone was staring, but I knew better than to look at them. By sheer will, I took up a bowl from the other basin, filled it, and with an iron resolve paced to the tree and emptied the bowl rather more clumsily than I had hoped over the earth. Atop the cold dirt, water stiffened into a lacework of frost.



He gestured that I should follow as he walked to the lodge’s entrance. He knelt on the lowest of the stone steps. The song ceased. Folk watched with the patience of vultures. There were more of them now, having come in from the fields or the house or the servants’ wing.



“Magister,” Andevai said. “I return to you.”



“Be greeted on your return to your home.” The woman with red hair gestured, and an attendant offered him a bowl of water. He drank and handed back the bowl.



Awkwardly, I knelt beside him. When I opened my mouth to speak the greeting, nothing came out, not even a croak. She examined me without moving or speaking, her gaze as unfathomable as ice. My hands went cold and my face flamed hot. Let this agony pass quickly!