Masala
Baldebert set the heavy kettle in Avani’s hands before she could refuse. She could feel the gentle slosh of water in the vessel’s belly. She thought of Mal and how his body had burned fever hot in the depths of madness, of the sparks shed from his fingers as he tossed and groaned and raved. She’d been afraid he would set his bedding alight; she’d stamped out the embers of his wild magic even as she’d fought to bring his fever down.
Russel shifted uneasily. Baldebert quirked a brow in the soldier’s direction.
“Apologies,” he said, yellow eyes bright. “If I’m mistaken. But I was led to understand you and Malachi had certain rare qualities in common. In fact, I’m told you filled the space he left behind, and very competently.”
“You want a demonstration.” In spite of everything, Avani was amused. “To see if I’m worth stealing back across the water. That’s why you asked me to tea.”
Baldebert’s grin vanished. “Not if Roue depended on it – again. No,” he said, flat, “I’m not so foolish as to test fate once more on that account. Deep water breaks a magus. I didn’t believe it until I saw it, and then it was too late. We barely made it across the sea intact. I dreaded the return trip, believe you me, even with all the protection we could muster.” He brushed knuckles across the manacles on his belt.
“But you brought him back anyway.”
“I’ve reputation as an honorable man,” the admiral agreed. “I’d given my word. It wouldn’t do to break it, no matter the risk.” He added, “And there was also the matter of proposed matrimony. The horizon grows dark again to Roue’s east, just as it does to your north. A storm gathers. The desert is vast, the desert lordlings fractious, but if they can be goaded into cooperation – well. I know the way of the desert and water both intimately, and I fear the sand as I never have the sea.”
Beneath the unruly flop of blonde curls Baldebert’s expression was grave. Years spent on deck had given him lines at the corners of his eyes and at the edges of his mouth. Lines graven by worry, and joy, love and loss, and wisdom and regret. For a moment she could read his history on his face. Then he caught her looking and smoothed the lines, but not before she’d decided to believe him.
“Ai, it’s not a difficult trick,” she said, tilting her chin, drawing his attention back to the kettle in his hands. “A simple cant, not so different from one used to kindle flames on the hearth or cook fire. The theists have a sigil for heat, but a magus needs only flex a thought and murmur a word.”
In truth, it had taken her hours of practice to bring flame to her hearth, but with the Red Worm running rampant tinder within the city had been scarce, spring nights chill, and Avani had been determined. She’d celebrated when the cant had at last gone right, glad of one more skill learned even as she promised herself she’d use the spell only when needs must.
She knew that same lick of triumph now as she uncurled a focused tendril of power and warmed the kettle with a word – warmth spread from her palms and up through water and silver. She could feel the lift of magic from the tips of her fingers. More delicate work than sending a blast of intention at the hearth, and as carefully crafted as the silver.
Within two heartbeats the water bubbled and boiled. Avani’s palms buzzed but felt no hotter than the sultry summer air. She beamed.
“Amazing,” Baldebert breathed, leaning close. His lips parted in quiet delight.
“Cups,” Avani suggested, and the admiral hastened to obey.
They poured out in companionable silence, adding milk to the mixture of masala and tea, content to let thoughts rest as they waited for the liquid to cool enough to drink. Avani heard bees bumbling through the tall grass. Russel’s breathing was a soft meditation of inhales and exhales. Past the glass panes she could see figures moving in the orangerie. The heat made time seem slow time to a lazy trickle.
Baldebert sipped from his cup. He sighed in appreciation. Avani drank. The tea ran over her tongue and down her throat. It tasted of childhood and broken promises. She bowed her head over her lap and wept.
“My father,” the admiral said after a moment, “was a decidedly cruel man. When the refugees on our shore at last stirred themselves to beg Roue for surcease – food, water, even medicine – Khorit Dard took those he believed sound enough to work his poppy fields. The rest he ordered killed for fear they’d drain our resources. The old, the very young, the infirm. His soldiers cut them down on the beach. They had nowhere to go but back into the water, nowhere to run but into the waves. Entire families, lost. There was so much blood, more blood than a little boy knew existed in all the world.
And that’s why I invited you to share tea, Avani. As I asked Deval, though he refused, and I cannot blame him for it. Because I’m sorry, so deeply sorry.”
– excerpt from The Bone Cave (M&A Volume 3)
Comments (0)