Cold Magic

Behind me, someone tittered.



Anger creased her expression, and the sound cut off. An attendant offered me a bowl of water, but I was shaking so hard that drops slopped over the side. I barely managed to slurp down a mouthful and hand the bowl back before spilling the entire thing. Although no one spoke, I felt both curiosity and contempt like spoken words. Andevai did not look at me. I thought he was flushed, no doubt humiliated by my awkwardness.



She turned her back on us. Andevai rose. I rose, half tripping on the step. We walked at her heels into a wide entry hall, where Andevai took off his boots. I followed suit. We stepped up into a long room whose walls were painted with scenes of an unfamiliar landscape with a wide river, many exotic birds, and strange-looking trees. Benches lined the walls. A stool carved out of a single block of wood sat on a raised floor at the other end of the chamber. Servants took my cloak, coat, and gloves. She sat on the stool, facing us. Andevai sat on a quilted square of cloth, and I folded down gracelessly beside him on a separate square of cloth. He offered me no encouraging smiles, no glances of camaraderie. He kept his head bowed and his gaze fixed on folded hands. As soon as the chamber was empty and the doors closed, the woman spoke.



“I did not want her to feel shamed in front of strangers, so I said nothing. For her sake, if not your own pride, you might have prepared her better, Vai.”



“We faced unexpected trouble on the road,” he said to his hands, his expression quite rigid. “But that means nothing, Magister. You are correct. I did not think.”



“Now she must come before the mansa, likewise. So be it.”



“I saw how Suma and Cuirthi were hovering like wasps, waiting to sting me.”



“The poor manners of a hyena do not excuse the man.”



“You are right. Their behavior does not excuse mine.”



“Get through this day, and I will send some of my own women to serve and assist her.”



“For this I thank you, Magister.”



She grunted. “Do not forget, Vai, that you do not answer to me, but to the mansa. He expected you to return two days ago. We must talk no longer.” She clapped her hands.



The doors opened, and attendants entered carrying trays. One was a basin and pitcher for washing. The other held a tureen of white porridge streaked with honey and several small bowls and spoons. My mouth watered. I heard a murmur and turned; folk crowded in the door, peering in: A pair of fashionable young men nudged each other as if in expectation of a good laugh. A pretty young woman in exceptionally rich clothing stared at Andevai, but I couldn’t judge whether she admired him or despised him: Love’s gaze could look like the intensity of contempt, as the poets said. Anyhow, he did not once look toward her.



After we washed our hands, the woman spooned out porridge with her right hand and offered him a bowl; she then offered the second to me. Of course I reached with my sword hand. A man’s laugh rang out. Andevai’s lips thinned. Emotion sparked in the flare of his eyes. I pulled my left arm back as though I’d been slapped.



Lips thinned with annoyance, the woman nodded toward the doors. At once they were shut, leaving us again alone. With a speaking look, she offered me the bowl with her right hand, and this time I accepted it with my right hand, although I wondered if I dared eat under her scrutiny. Yet when she took a bowl for herself, I knew I dared not refuse to eat—not if she were eating, too.



The magister balanced the bowl on her right thigh and ate, as did Andevai. Naturally I wanted to eat with my left hand, but instead I set the bowl on the curve of my inside right knee and, praying to every god known in the ancient days of Kena’an, I scooped and ate with my right without the bowl falling off my leg. I was so relieved to be finished that I felt tears in my eyes and blinked to smother them.



When we had finished, her attendants cleared everything away. The doors were again opened to allow in what seemed a crowd of elaborately dressed men and women. The young men whispered to each other as they glanced at Andevai with smiles as sharp as cold steel.



“Now,” said the magister, “you must bathe more quickly than I would like for the proper doing of it.”



“No surprise there with Vai,” said one of the young men. “Him accustomed to the dirt as he is.” Others sniggered.



The magister raised her voice, declaiming, “The new year rides down upon us. We must make fast our shutters for the hallowing tide.” This comment quieted the sniggering.



As Andevai rose, I rose and was taken into hand by a pair of healthily robust women as alike as cousins. They led me down a bewildering maze of corridors—no straight lines in this house!—into a chamber half filled with a tiled pool steaming warmth. A curtain hung from the ceiling. The pool extended beneath it. I heard men talking on the other side.