Chapter Seven: Hide the Charm

Authors Notes: The end of an era is nigh, my friends! *Player's bow* This little circus act of mine is drawing to a close. Expect the epilogue to be up next week. Thank you all so much for your support and feedback over the nearly four years it's taken me to draw this to a close. Individual thanks are at the end.

Slàinte!

K. Ryan, 2003.

The explosion, for the most part, had gone unnoticed. In a palace so overrun with mages as Corus was, big, loud, magical noises were just taken as a matter of course. A lot was, in that city. However, Mistress Doris Crockford, Stewardess and Head Housekeeper ("by Royal Appointment, no less!") was not going to stand by and take molten iron burning through her floors as a matter of any course she could think of. No, sir! The woman, staring up at the southwest corridor ceiling, over which Master Salmalìn's rooms lay, was indignant. There were cracks, where filthy metal was solidifying. There were scorch-marks. Indignantly, the tall, spare woman adjusted her royal-blue household skirts, and headed for the stairs, muttering to herself.

"Irresponsible, high minded…mages!" She was formidable; she was tall, she was caustic and proud.

"Ooh. Beg's pardon, ma-am!"

She tripped. "Get out of the way, Kerry. You filthy little urchin!

"Sorry, Ma-am."

"And so you should be! What are you doing on the main corridor? You know--"

"I en't errand'ing, Ma-am, 'onest!" Kerry tried his hardest to look like a charming, well brought up little boy.

"Master Timon is going to hear about this, mark my words."

Oh, Trickster! Timon's going to grill me twice over… Kerry thought, panicking. "But--"

"Quiet now, and go away. I've things to see to."

"About the Mad Mage?" Kerry couldn't help himself. The yesterday had been very interesting, and full of the 'Mad Mage'. He wanted today to be like that, too. He looked up at the ceiling, and whistled. "Bet 'e did that!"

"Who, you revolting little gossip?"

"Master Sal'mlìn, o'course!"

"Of course. Now, clear off to the back corridors, where you belong!"

"Yes, Ma-'am," the boy said, doing nothing of the kind. Hard, almost fleshless fingers enclosed his ear. "Owwww…"

"When I say 'jump' Kerry Livensson, you say 'how high, Mistress Crockford?' the woman's voice was low and sweet in his ear. Her nails bit, hard. "So, when I say 'scat', you say--"

"Where to, Mistress Crockford?"

Doris smiled. "That's better," she said. "And the answer is: Master Timon's rooms, at the double! I hear he's been trying to catch up with you since yesterday. Something about…what was it? Loitering in the Noble's Quarters?"

"Nothin' of the sort, ma-am," Kerry muttered, thinking, with a small dash of satisfaction, Old Timon's so slow he might as well be heading backwards.

"I don't believe you," Doris replied, loftily, letting go of his ear.

Kerry fled. He was very good at that. Sometimes, it seemed fleeing was all he ever managed to do.

Mistress Crockford watched him go, shaking her head, and then clasped her left hand hard around the banister, determined to have no more distractions. She was a woman on a mission.

Some time later, Duke Baird came into the Healer's Wing. He looked haggard. This was not an uncommon expression for healers, but (as some of the more weary members of the night shift observed, rather tartly) it should not have been part of a countenance who had left work early and alive the day before. The duke, oblivious, yawned--discreetly, and behind a handkerchief.

"Late night, Your Grace?" Yelena Fletcher, having just completed twelve hours of work and in no mood for discretion, smirked.

"Yes," the older man's answer was short, and to the point. "Go off and go to sleep while you can, girl. You're not getting paid for working over."

Yelena nodded, ran a hand through her short black hair, and turned towards the door. "Three coppers on a domestic between Baird and young master Nealan," she whispered to a friend, also on the way out.

"I never bet against a winner, girlie."

"Well, that makes a change!"

Giggling, the two young healers left the Wing.

Baird sighed. He'd heard enough of that exchange to reconfirm his suspicions. His son's defection from scholarship to swordsman-ship was becoming public. Lovely. He passed a hand over his eyes, trying to ward off a headache. It had been a long night. Why, he thought, helplessly, everyone is so argumentative these days, I just don't know. He looked around--the shift had changed over peacefully enough, and not even the fever patients were stirring. At least things are quiet, Mithros Bless.

"Oh, Your Grace?

Doris Crockford's shadow had joined its fellows as she stood in the doorway. It lengthened, and lurked in the corners of the room. Baird, resigned, turned around. He noticed her usually ruddy face was pale.

"Yes, Doris?"

"Your Grace, I think you'll need to send up a few big, strong lads up to Master Salmalìn's rooms. I've no way of telling what he's been doing up there, you understand, but…oh, dear…he's just lying there, and everything's in a terrible mess."

Horrible images crept into the Duke's mind as she spoke. He knew 'Master Salmalìn' well. The only thing that could send him sprawling was something of his own creation. Baird also knew that it would take more than a few big, strong lads to get Numair down here. He was stubborn, even when unconscious.

"Oi! Ink-sniffer!"

Perin groaned. Had the Lord Provost spent so much time amongst common criminals that he had lost the concept of class? It was bad enough that he, Clerk Redfeather, of a respectable family, had been dumped in this grimy holding cell--without so much as a by your leave--for doing what any red-blooded male worth his salt would have done when presented with the Sarrasri girl in a soft blouse. But, having to suffer the indignity of sharing quarters, however temporarily, with Iorek 'Hammer Hand' Dayvadson was just too much.

A finger that was about as thick around as a good-sized sausage poked him in the back. Hammer Hand deserved his honorific. "Oi," he said again, quite unnecessarily. "I was talkin' to yez, Ink-sniffer."

"Oh, really? I would never have guessed."

"Ye're in no position to be snippy, palace-boy." Iorek's voice was a low rumble in the stone room. Despite the reeking, smoky oil-lamp in the corner, the damp dripping slowly in through chips in the mortar, his current life prospects and his cell companion, the big man sounded oddly content. "Not when yez are sittin' w'the likes of me, fer touchin' a young lady. Ye're no better then me, an' worse than some yez see down here." The man chuckled gently as the clerk bristled. "I'm not judgin' yez, mind. Just remindin' yez. You know anythin' 'bout magic, palace-boy?"

Perin rolled his eyes. "I know more about the intricacies and nuances of the arcane than you could ever possibly imagine. That is, if you could imagine."

Iorek grinned. "Yez waste those big words on Hammer Hand Dayvadson, boy. I canna see head to tail of what yez mean by 'em. I just mentioned it 'cause I heard that there's a mage who's been workin' on sommat awful serious in the Noble's Quarters. Knocked himself out, he did, usin' blood an' metal and those big words mage's seem so fond of. A right powerful spell."

Oh, please. "And your point is?"

"Oh, no point, save that I'm right afeared for the poor blighter that spell is meant for. The mage was…it was…Salml…Numair somebody, with one of them gaudy mage names. Yez should ken the type, bein' a palace-boy. Anyway, some fool upset his student, and this Master Numair Sal-somethin' got upset 'cause she's been upset, an' made a spell so powerful that it's knocked him right out." Iorek made a great show of wincing. "Mithros, I pity the idiot when the mage wakes up," he said, loudly. "I may just be a thick, granite-headed piece o'work that got hisself caught, but I ain't that stupid."

Perin said nothing, but was starting to look decidedly green around the edges. He flinched as Iorek started to laugh.

"What's the matter, palace-boy? Yez look like a man meant for Traitors Hill." Clapping Perin on the shoulder, Iorek tried to smile reassuringly. The expression was marred considerably by several broken and blackened teeth. "Yez never get a ropin' fer a first offence, less it's murder, and word has it yez never even managed to get under the girl's skirt." While he said this, Iorek squeezed his shoulder, in bone-popping sympathy. "Or canna yez stomach my Lord Provost's breakfast menu, bein' so used to palace fare?"

Ever so slightly, Perin Redfeather started to rock.

Alanna and Onua stood in the middle of Numair's room, loudly incredulous.

"What was he doing in here?"

"'It', apparently." The Lioness bent down to touch one of the hardened globs of iron embedded into the floor.

"'It?'" Onua looked bemused. "What's 'it' when it's at home?"

"That's what I said. Whatever 'it' was, though, it's certainly scared a lot of people. Thayet may have to think about changing housekeepers, with Crockford the way she is. I don't think she's ever seen a prone man in a nightshirt before."

Onua nodded. "At least, not a scorched nightshirt."

Grinning evilly, Alanna turned to leave the room, almost stepping on a heavy gold locket, with its chain pooled around it on the floorboards. "Hello," she muttered, bending down again. "What's this?" As she straightened, Alanna flipped the catch--and stared."

"What is it?"

"'It'. I think"

Baird looked at the two patients in front of him, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Teacher and student, dead the world, lay next to each other on identical white beds. They were both on their sides, one leaning towards the other. Daine scarred and flushed, Numair grey-faced and drained. Certainly, the two of them were quite a sight--and apparently oblivious to all the havoc they'd caused over the past few days--calmly sleeping with their ludicrous eyelashes against their cheeks. Foolish children…

Alanna walked in, eyes a little worried, crows-feet and laugh-lines a little more visible then she would have liked. "How are they?"

"They're fine, Alanna. Daine's healing up marvellously, and Numair should be up and about in a week, once his gift's rested."

"Oh…good," said Alanna, a little distractedly.

The Duke looked at her, shrewdly. "What's the matter?"

Alanna shrugged. "Nothing, really. Just returning something of Numair's I found." She leaned over the bed and carefully slipped the gold locket around his wrist. "I just hope," she muttered, "that he knows not to do anything stupid with it."

She left after that, leaving Baird, shaking his head with bemusement, to continue his rounds.

After a week had passed, Onua--filthy up to her elbows from mucking out--decided they was going to give her Assistant Horse Mistress a raise. Anything to stop her from vanishing to lands unknown on mysterious quests, or getting involved with beige-tinted idiots with no sense of place or timing. Daine seemed no closer to waking up, and Onua missed her. Alanna had returned home to her family, Sarge had finally drilled the Rider trainees hard enough so that they manage to clean tack even to her exacting standard, and life was boring. The K'mir wanted her friend back--both her friends. Gloomily, Onua continued forking hay until a blue roan leaned over the gate to his stall and butted her hard on the shoulder. She didn't need Daine to translate: the expression in his eyes, and the sulkiness of his whole demeanour clearly said: "We miss her, too, but you don't see us whining about it. Hurry up and get the job done--and I want my ears scratched!"

Laughing softly, the Horse Hearted did as she was told. Once her charges were satisfied, and her arms clean, Onua put away her pitchfork and headed towards the Healer's Wing."

Bright light. Dull, throbbing pains across her belly and arms. Whispering voices. Pretty eyes. Grey, green eyes--familiar eyes.

…"Onua?" The voice that came out of her mouth was faint and dry and unfamiliar. The girl swallowed, blinked painfully, and tried again. "Why…why am I in bed? In the Healers--"

"--Hush, child. Didn't you're Ma tell you not to talk when you're sick?" Onua's voice, to her ears, was rather cracked, too.

*Ma…" a frown appeared between Daine's eyebrows. "Ma didn't come at all, so I mustn't have been real sick. Did the unicorns get me?"

"I won't pretend to know what you're talking about, but yes, the unicorns did get you. Alanna blew them up."

"Oh." Daine smiled, tiredly. "I'm glad I didn't see that." Blinking sleepily, she turned her head to the side, and gave a start. "What's Numair doing here?"

"He…er…" Onua fumbled. Even she wasn't sure what his motives were, in making that thing. "He overworked himself."

With a sigh, the younger girl stretched an arm out and over to the next bed, and squeezed his fingers. "And he thinks I do stupid things!"

Onua stayed with Daine until she fell asleep again, and for a good time after. When she did eventually get up to leave, she took in the picture of the girl, who was sleeping peacefully, one hand still stretched out and entwined with Numair's. Absently, she wondered what Numair would think, when he realized she had woken up before he did.

As Onua closed the door to the ward behind her, sunlight streamed in though a window: sparking on an innocent looking locket that fitted snugly around Numair Salmalìn's other wrist.

Fin

Dedications and Grazis:

Special thanks have to go to Ali Young, Sarah Parker, Heather Montgomery and Lea Roded, who have been here since the beginning. Also, hugs to Bridget Cooper and Rachel Knight, who have probably forgotten their part in the creation of this story, even if I haven't. Anita Law, Jessica Lay, Ellen Robertson and Mary Trinh deserve medals, for listening to my near constant whingeing about my lack of writing ability during lunch-hours. Ellen also needs to be thanked for refraining from murdering Volney Rain, whose eccentricities are not for everyone

Thanks are also due to those who, despite having apparently vanished off the face of the earth, were great comforts in a time of trial several years ago. Laurie Makensri, Carney2k and Star-Eyed Kal'endral: you will always be remembered.

In more recent times, Caitie and everyone at The Dancing Dove have been an absolute blessing. Without you, and your inspiration, I doubt that I could have finished this. Starchild524, for her blistering, insightful critiques and extravagant praise, deserves a special mention. And a plug. Read Ravenspeak, everybody, if you're sick of the smaltz here! Candice (Girl, Called) gets a cookie and free use of Volney Rain for lending me Jaden.

And, to everyone who reviewed the last chapter:

Mirren and Amanda: Thanks ever so for your praise. Yes, I did have fun writing this. It was bittersweet.

Squirrel Maiden of the Green: *blushes* You flatter me! I'm so glad I've managed to please a non D/N fan. That means I must be doing something right.

DevilsQt: This update soon enough for you? You're right about three years not being much in a lifetime, but in an eight chapter fic…*ashamed* I'm so happy you liked it.

HuntressDiana: Humorous? Me? Are you sure you're not the one telling a joke? *grins* Thanks for the review! Volney had the painting because he'd been asked to do it ages ago, and it had been long finished. I'm sure I mentioned that…

Elvencherry07: I liked the reference to Neal, too. *smiles* I'm so happy you think I've got everyone in-character.

CrazyHorseGirl88: always a pleasure to please!

Heather Montgomery: Hez, you flatterer! I'm not brilliant, and you know it. I'm simply obsessed. *snickers*

Daine: I really hope this chapter satisfies you. Thanks for reviewing!

Girl, Called Candice: I'd pinch you, for not reviewing chapter three of HC; MS, but you're too nice, for reviewing this. Your support is appreciated immensely.

Juniper Holly: Thanks for the review, and the critique! I doubt turning into a bird would have helped much, as the kitten would probably be terrified out of it's stupor and jump at the sight of it, but I see what you mean about Daine being able to compel it. *hits head with hand* Silly me!

Caitie: My dear, you are far too good for my ego. You do me no favours by improving my self-esteem in leaps and bounds and making my head swell up! *hugs* Thank you!

AB-Scribere: Two reviews, Jen? Goodness, you made my day. As for making a mountain over a literary molehill, well…it's fin. You should try it sometime. This expansion on a one-line mention has made over 15, 000 words!

Shadowcat15: You didn't want to wait another three years? Well, your wish is my command! *smiles*