starting a tingle racing in her veins.
Bossgond sat cross-legged beside her and placed a hand on her back, rubbed it. It felt nice, gentle, avuncular. She closed her eyes and let her mind sink into a quiet pool, only feeling—the warmth of the ground beneath her, the small breeze around her. And with three hummed notes, Bossgond sent her into a deep trance.
Distantly she heard his voice instructing her. Under his spell, she sang to the stone and it reverberated one note, two, three back to her, and she felt a small tether to Amee.
With a soothing chant, Bossgond lifted her from her trance, brought her into clear-headed wakefulness. Again she felt energized. She laughed in delight at the connection with a world-song again, though this particular planet-melody was heart-wrenchingly sad.
She stood and stretched, limbering up after her time lying so still on the ground.
Bossgond looked at her, then at the circle of grass and stones. Then he gazed out to the sea, his face impassive. “If we do well together and you do not want another island or a manor on the mainland, I will grant you the right to raise another tower on the island.” The corners of his lips curved slightly upward. He gestured. “You may choose where you please, as long as it is outside my protective ring around my tower.”
The forcefield they’d crossed. She nodded.
His expression turned grim and he raised a finger. “If we do well together.”
His tone was that of a man who’d been crotchety for decades.
When they returned to the Tower, Bossgond led her back upstairs for lunch. She sat at the table and he set a plate and silverware for them both. Then he put a few empty platters between them. He went to a cupboard and came back with a box.
Taking a crumb of bread, he put it on one platter, then added a bit of dried fruit, a few strings of jerky. As Marian stared, Bossgond passed his hands over the dishes and sang a long Songspell. The breadcrumb turned into a large loaf of bread dusted with flour, the jerky became four thick slices of roast beef, the fruit plumped into apples.
Under Marian’s fixed gaze, Bossgond cut a piece of each and put it back into the magical box, then returned the box to the cupboard.
When he returned, he sang a little blessing, then made a sandwich and dug into his reconstituted meal.
Hesitantly, Marian sliced a piece of bread—wishing there was some Dijon mustard—and put a slice of roast beef on it. She took a bite, chewed and swallowed.
The food was plentiful but tasteless. The victuals had to be nutritious because Bossgond was still alive and he’d probably been eating this way for years. No wonder he was so scrawny.
After finishing off an apple and half her sandwich, Marian said, “Don’t you cook?”
Sandwich at his open mouth, Bossgond’s eyes widened. He put down the bread and meat.
“Do you?” His voice was hoarse, his gaze gleamed with hope.
“Of course.”
He stood up so fast that his chair rocked. “Come with me!”
Nearly running to keep up with him, Marian followed him out the door, down the stairs past her own suite and to the level below her room.
Bossgond threw open the door. A gleaming kitchen took up most of the space, along with an empty pantry.
“Cooks were too much bother,” he muttered. “I can fish,” Bossgond said eagerly. “I can draw a deer to us and butcher it.”
Ick. Marian was a civilized supermarket predator; she couldn’t imagine such a thing. It was enough to make a person a vegetarian.
She crossed her arms. “I don’t intend to be here very long. My priority, and what I want to spend my time doing, is learning from you, not cooking.”
He looked torn, then tried a pitiful look, but he was too arrogant to do pitiful well.
“I would, however, supervise a cook.” She liked her food, too—all too much.
Bossgond’s lower lip stuck out.
“How long has it been since you had a cook?”
“Fifty years,” he muttered.
“You need a little pampering. You’re too thin, you need good food. You deserve it. I’m sure you could afford a cook.”
“They are impossible to work with, men or women. They pry. They talk too much. They don’t like living on the island.”
So he wanted an unambitious introvert who liked solitude. Marian wondered how to advertise the position. “Let me think about this.” She wouldn’t be able to eat Bossgond’s rations for long.
He nodded, but his expression eased. He climbed the stairs back to his chambers with a spring in his step.
Bossgond banished the food and dishes with a wave of his hand, then they both returned to the center of the room.
Scowling, he said, “You plan on leaving soon? We paid the Marshalls for your Summoning.”
Marian lifted her chin. “My brother is ill, he needs me. My ritual was to find answers to strange things happening in my life and how to help him. I’m hoping that Amee will have information about his disease and how to mitigate it. I intend to take that knowledge back to him. I’ll try to repay you.”
Bossgond snorted, then studied her with narrowed eyes. “We will speak of this later. First you must study.”
Within a few minutes, Marian had mastered the art of grounding herself, and the small, invisible thread spinning between her and the ancient keystone had thickened to a braided strand.
He taught her to light the fire with her mind, to levitate a book, to “call” her walking stick. Energy drained from her with each task, and a slight film of sweat dampened her skin. Her dress gave out the scent of herbs.
Then Bossgond rose and offered both his hands, beaming. “You have mastered the first level of Apprenticeship.” He bowed.
Already? She dropped a little curtsy and a bubble of triumph expanded in her chest.
“To celebrate we will have another cup of hareco.”
Oh boy, if coffee was so rare that she had to pass tests to get it, life was going to be tough.
He poured them each another cup of coffee and settled into the middle of the room with his mug. He gestured around them. “Survey the room, touch what you like to discover your particular vocation of study.”
Marian blinked at him. “How?”
One corner of the man’s mouth crinkled upward. “You will know. It will hum in your mind.”
Marian had always loved music as much as books, but this aural culture made her feel alien. Still, she smiled, drained the last, delicious sip of coffee and set her mug aside. She looked around.
Bossgond leaned back against the pillows and sipped, staring out the window. Without his penetrating gaze, Marian felt able to act more naturally and to concentrate on exploring the room full of fascinating objects. She looked at the huge binoculars, but didn’t cross over to them. When she moved away from the instrument, Bossgond grunted in approval, and she decided to save the binoculars for last if she didn’t find anything else that struck a chord.
She scanned the shelves. The books intimidated her a little since she couldn’t read the fancy cursive lettering. She leafed through one and jolted when a couple of the pictures became three-dimensional. Then she put it back with a sigh. She wouldn’t be in Lladrana long enough to learn how to read the language. A pity.
For an hour she indulged herself with the treasures crammed on the shelves—boxes and bottles, rugs, goblets and instruments, and art objects of all kinds. She found an elegant, gold-etched bottle that held all the scents of summer, a flying carpet for short trips around the