Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to Tamora Pierce.
Chapter One - Unwelcome News & Unwelcome Visitors
The pale, slender girl stood upright, drawing herself up as tall as she possibly could despite her small height, proud chin apparent even in the dim light of the misty morning. Her skin appeared ghostly in the fogged light, ice cold to the touch, and the brightness of her dress seemed to wither in the unrelieved gray of the merciless walls. She seemed like some sort of ethereal fairy, come to frolic in those dreary stone hallways. Perhaps what gave her away as a mere mortal was the slight tremor of her hands, or perhaps it was the scorching pride in the fathomless depths of her violet eyes.
She, bracing herself with a deep breath and a noticeable mental shake, laid one hand upon the brass doorknob of the intimidating mahogany door. Turning the knob, she strode confidently into the room, stopping to curtsy, an affair only of her ankles and the billowing skirts which covered her bare feet, for her eyes were not cast down as she looked straight up into the eyes of the rigid lady seated behind the desk.
"Welcome, Alanna. How nice of you to join me" spoke the thin disapproving lips.
Like some automaton of sorts, the girl opened her mouth mechanically, and spoke the required words of apology with a heavy dose of sarcasm after kissing the hand held out in front of her. "I apologize for my tardiness, First Daughter. Please forgive me for the nuisance I have caused." "And indeed you have caused quite a bit of nuisance" said the voice. "As punishment, you shall have an extra hour of etiquette today. However, there is something that must be discussed with you."
"Yes, My Lady." The hard blue eyes flicked over the girl. "I shall attend etiquette and suffer in silence though my head shall ache."
"Don't be pert!" snapped the lady behind the desk. Smoothing one hand over the tight bun at the nape of her neck, she waited for the apology. When it did not come, the creases in her forehead deepened. She continued, her harsh voice cutting through the silence. "This is for you. Read it here."
Lady Alanna of Trebond glanced down, scathingly; at the letter the First Daughter was extending towards her. She picked it up gingerly; glancing down for a second at the hem of the red skirts that hid the toes she sunk into the carpet from view. The headmistress would have had fits and ordered her out of the school if she had seen the girl's bare feet. Opening the letter, she scanned its contents quickly, her calm façade not quite succeeding in hiding her dismay.
"Ladies married as young as thirteen when I was growing up" said the older woman, with a terrible, heavy kindness, after waiting for the barely sixteen-year old girl who stood almost frozen to break the silence. Alanna quickly looked at her, surprised, but her fists clenched, the long fingernails digging into her palms, as if irritated that her six-year adversary could be sympathetic.
"I don't care…I don't care for your pity nor your kindness! Stop looking at me like that, as if you are trying to understand me- you hate me and you know that I know you hate me. I shan't follow orders like some meek lamb just because I'm a girl. I'll…I'll…run away and never come back to this horrible place!" shrieked the red-haired figure, color standing out in her cheeks, even as her breath grew ragged.
"Alanna…" said the Duchess reprovingly. "There is no need to get emotional."
"Don't tell me whether I should be emotional or not!! I shall be emotional if I want to be!" she cried, pulling up her skirts and running, leaving the Duchess's crisp words trailing after her.
It wasn't until she had exhausted herself that she stopped. Out of breath from running blindly, she collapsed, to look around and see where she was. Looking around, no signs of recognition flicked into her violet eyes, and she sighed and slumped down, her head upon her knees. Her anger had worn itself out and replaced itself with weariness. She merely wished to return to her bedchamber and sink into oblivion for a few hours at least, although it was at most midmorning. She drew herself up dejectedly and noticed the nearest door, a plain simple wooden one.
~&~
A man with a shock of blond hair worn swept back strode quickly through the halls which were darkened with the coming of the dusk. Ruffling through the papers in his hand hurriedly, he stopped abruptly when he noticed that in front of his chambers lay a young girl and on the door were two scorch marks. Dropping the papers and pulling a crystal out of a pocket of his robes, he muttered a few words and the crystal shone a steady white, illuminating the area.
Forgetting the girl lying comatose, the man examined the marks on the door. It looked as if a person who was consumed with flame had laid two fingers upon the wood, burning the indentations and fingerprints into it, but not set the door on fire. He stared it at it for some time, eyebrows drawn together, as if wondering what could have caused it. A small sigh escaped from below, and with a start, he looked at the girl.
Abundant red hair lay across her shoulders and arms, which were clothed in rich velvet brocade. She was very small, barely tall enough to come up to his chin, but it was apparent that she was a noble attending the convent. Under his breath, he muttered some profanities; annoyed he would have to cater to this wealthy brat. What was she doing in front of his door anyway?
Casually, as if he didn't believe it could be true, the young man lifted up the lady's hands. He looked at them and then at his door, noting the smeared ash. With a sharp intake of breath, he lifted the girl in his arms. She wasn't very heavy at all, but after all, he was unused to physical labor.
He dropped her clumsily on a black couch in his outer chambers, hoping that the jolt would wake her, but she did not stir. He mulled over his options. If he took her to the infirmary, people would be wondering what she was doing alone, unchaperoned in a man's company and it would sully both of their reputations, not to mention a confrontation with the First Daughter. If he took her back to her rooms, he would be spotted in that area and the same would result. However, if he revived her, she could walk back unnoticed.
Decidedly, he went to the door, muttered a spell, and closed the door even as his dropped papers rose neatly into his hands. Then he walked into a whitewashed room, which was lined with shelves and shelves groaning under the weight of his spell books and concoctions and ingredients and herbs. Picking up a vial of wakeflower, he uncorked it and impatiently put it under the noble's nose. She did not wake.
Surprised, he felt her pulse, relieved to notice that it was still faint, but steady. Had she not just fainted? Was it merely a coincidence that she had ash smeared all over her fingers and his door had been burned? Perhaps, her unconsciousness was purely magical, and not all caused by weariness or shock, as he had first thought. This would take some study, but if she had spent herself magically, he did not know how long it would take for her to recover.
If that was the problem, he should be very worried. It wasn't just a matter of his honor or her reputation or petty things like that. There was no reason that a lady could have spent herself magically, most especially a lady that he did not teach. Jared Graystrip taught all the Gifted ladies at the Convent. He had to teach the ladies to keep the magic in control, although all they wished to do with their Gifts was light candles or decorate things and do tricks. He had never attempted to hide his dislike for his job, but where else could he get such a cushy post?
Paling, he wondered if he had somehow missed her magic when he had tested them all. An untamed Gift could be extremely dangerous. He had better wait until she waked up now, or at least see if he could rush the healing process. He didn't care if he spent energy anymore, because he needed to find out if she had magic, and if she did, which he was uneasily beginning to think was more and more the case, what she had spent it on.
Spreading a little oil on his hands, he placed them on the girl's stomach; he searched her body for the cause of her oblivion. First he pushed his gray magic through her head, searching her brain for that sick feeling of a concussion, but felt nothing. Her heart was beating steadily and healthy, the kidneys and liver were functioning properly. It was when he had thought he would find nothing, that the girl had just up and fainted for no reason at all, that he felt it.
It was just a sense of wrongness, not in her physical body per say, but in her magical aura, that he hit. He gasped, feeling the extent of the damage. That she had not used her Gift for a long while was apparent, and she had obviously just used it on some powerful spell, for her reserves should have been very large. However, there was no real magic left there, merely residue of sorts.
Jared could quicken the girl's healing, with some effects to him, himself. He could supply her Gift with his until she could be revived with wakeflower and they would both be weak but conscious. He reviewed what he knew so far, and decided to do so. He gathered the gray stuff in a small ball inside of him and reached in there and fashioned into a sort of wall. He pushed the wall at the emptiness of the girl, pushing as hard as he could and then lent some bricks of it to the remaining violet streaks.
The violet fed off the gray magic, drawing it in to heal itself. The mage could feel it suctioning off his very life force, so he quickly cut the ties between his magic and the violet magic, and pulled it all back into himself. He then sat for perhaps ten minutes, eyes glazed over from sheer exhaustion, but still functioning then slowly limped over to where he had left the vial of wakeflower and waved it under the red-haired girl's nose.
Her arm moved slowly, and she sat up, opening eyes. He glanced at them, uninterested, then suddenly realizing that her eyes were purple. Unnaturally purple eyes; they were the mark of a sorceress.
"What am I doing here?" she asked roughly, voice rasping because of her dry throat.
"Gently, lady" murmured the half-asleep man, his body losing the fight to weariness and slumping down in slumber.
