Spellslinger (Spellslinger #1)(71)

She said nothing in reply, merely leaned back in her chair, looking placidly at the wall in front of her as if it were a peaceful vista. The spells lighting up her skin beneath the silken fabrics she wore shifted and shimmered, her features changing back and forth, sometimes young and beautiful, almost innocent. Other times she looked as old as every one of her three hundred years.

A sudden anger overtook me. Who would chain her like this? Who would have the strength? Mer’esan was vastly more powerful than Ra’meth or even my father. Maybe if the whole council of lords magi were working in concert, but the chances of that were slim. That left only … Oh … ‘Your husband. The clan prince did this to you, didn’t he?’

Again there was no reply, as if she hadn’t heard my question. The mind chain keeps her from saying or doing anything that would impede its control over her. Underneath the calm exterior, I saw a deep sense of sorrow in her eyes. Sorrow, and betrayal.

Reichis’s mother walked over and clambered up onto the old woman’s lap. It was an oddly intimate gesture. ‘Disgusting creature,’ the dowager magus said, but then proceeded to stroke her fur.

‘What if we took you out of here?’ I asked. ‘Would the chain still—’

‘I like this old place,’ Mer’esan said before I could finish. ‘I’m used to it. It’s like my own little …’ she seemed to struggle with the next word before finally saying, ‘oasis.’

This is her power source. This was why she never left the cottage: only here did she have the strength required to maintain the spells holding her body together. ‘All these years … keeping yourself alive …’ Had she been waiting so long for the clan prince to finally die and for his spell to fade?

‘The things we build in life often outlast us,’ she said absently.

I took this to mean that the mind chain was too powerful. Even with her husband in the ground, she was still bound by it.

So then what? She figures out she’ll never be able to break the spell, that she’s going to go on like this, never able to reveal the truth, until she dies. All that left was waiting for an opportunity – for someone who might ask the right questions to unlock the chain. ‘That’s why you summoned me that first day,’ I said, knowing she wouldn’t reply. ‘You didn’t care if I passed my trials; you were looking for someone who might figure out your secret. That’s why you were so interested in Ferius. You thought that maybe an Argosi like her might uncover it … perhaps she could help you reveal it.’ But then why not just have someone bring Ferius here? Because that would be too direct. The mind chain would never allow it.

Mer’esan, the most powerful living mage of my people, had been left only with the hope that, by some combination of outside events and subtle manipulations, her secret could be discerned by the very weakest mage in our clan: me.

Okay, then do it. Figure out the secret that’s binding her.

I tried to think of ways of getting round the chain – some roundabout way of asking the question that might enable her to answer. But a spell this strong, cast by the clan prince himself – probably when he was at the height of his power – wasn’t going to be broken by some clever turn of phrase. No query, no riddle, no guessing game would uncover what was locked inside her. So think of something else. Change the game somehow.

‘What’s the plan, kid?’ Reichis asked.

There was a small table in the corner of the room. I dragged it in front of Mer’esan and reached into the pocket of my trousers for the deck of cards Ferius had given me. I laid them out on the table, face up. Four suits, each one with its little symbols: white seven-pointed stars we call septagrams, to represent the suit of spells and the Jan’Tep people, golden shields for the Daroman empire, silver chalices for the Berabesq, and black leaves for the Mahdek.

‘I would think someone with all your troubles would have better uses for his time than to play cards with an old woman,’ Mer’esan commented.

‘Just one game.’ I ran my fingertips across the surface of the cards. Each suit had the same numbers, but the names at the bottom were different. The highest card of the Daroman suit was the king, but for the Berabesq it was called ‘Grand Vizier’, and for the Jan’Tep, of course, ‘Clan Prince’. The cards went on like this, down to the lowest numbers, each one depicting people in various settings, like actors waiting to deliver their performance.

‘And what game do you wish to play?’ Mer’esan asked.

I caught her stare and tried to see in her eyes whether she understood – whether my ruse would enable her to navigate around the mind chain. I picked up one of the cards, a seven of leaves, representing something called a Mahdek shaman. I tossed it on the table in front of her. ‘Let’s make our own game,’ I replied.

Her eyes narrowed, but she gave me a small smile. ‘Clever,’ she said, and then reached to pick up the rest of the deck. ‘What shall we call this game of ours?’

‘Let’s name it after the one foe that can’t be defeated by magic,’ I replied. ‘The truth.’





32


The Card Game


The game we played made no sense, its rules inconsistent and certainly unknowable. It didn’t matter. All that concerned me was the story that Mer’esan so desperately wanted to tell – the story that had been locked inside her for centuries.