"Very well," I said.
Looking back, I find it hard to believe the extent of my fear of Kitten A Avignon. But then, I was a young woman from a small village in a country famed throughout the Peninsula for its prudery. I had never actually met anyone who openly deviated from conventional morality. I only knew of such people from the all-too-believable talk of our housekeeper. Even Michael warned me about "fallen" women. He was well known in Moria, and sometimes city courtesans would send to him for salves or love potions. He would send the messengers to other, less discerning mages.
"Involving yourself with whores will only lead to trouble," he warned me. "They are vicious and bitter women, who, because they lack any control over their own lusts, have ruined their lives. They use men's weaknesses to achieve their own ends, which are always corrupt and self-seeking."
If everything they said about such women was true, Kitten Avignon would automatically hate me. What if she tried to make use of me or harm me? How was I to guard against that?
I did have another reason for fearing contact with Kitten Avignon. As Michael once reminded me when he'd caught me talking with a village boy, I had reason to be especially careful of my morals. My mother had been a serving woman at an inn, a woman with several children, who had never had a husband.
I approached Madame Avignon with the feeling you usually reserve for particularly contagious diseases.
The following evening, as the sun set over the towers of Gallia and the bells had begun ringing for evening mass, Master John and I walked obediently through the narrow streets to the Ducal Palace. The sky was golden with the setting sun, and crows that nested in the cathedral steeple were swirling around it in a raucous black cloud.
I had never seen the Ducal Palace so close before, and its grandeur did nothing to ease my nerves. It was nothing like the ancient stone castles I'd seen in Moria. Instead it was square, with a long facade of white marble columns and a huge gilded staircase leading up to vast iron doors.
"The Duke's father began it. It's built in the very latest style," said Master John, who was a proud native Gallian. He was being unusually chatty for Master John, pointing out all the finer features of the palace and telling me that the gilded staircase was a gift from the Ishtaki merchant-princes. I suspected he was trying to put me at ease. As we climbed the staircase between the lines of marble saints, I kept my hands firmly clasped behind my back so that Master John could not see how much they were shaking.
We were met inside the doors by a bowing majordomo, who directed us to follow him. Stalking stiff legged ahead of us, he led us through a dazzling series of rooms, each more hectically decorated than the next. In each, the walls were a blast of color and movement, writhing with figures-animals and angels all intertwined and twisting in huge draperies. The ceilings were great chunks of oak, carved with gilt banquets of fruits and flowers or orchestras of violins and pipes. Huge stone dragons swirled up the balustrades of a white marble staircase. Brilliantly shining confections of crystal and candles hung like fantastic clusters of grapes from each ceiling. We passed through one gallery whose walls were dangerous with the mounted antlers of deer and another lined with soft, golden brocades. It was gluttony for the eye and, thank God, completely distracting. Even Master John stared. I had never seen such richness, such grandeur before in my life. I wondered what it must be like to live in all this splendor and could not picture any actual living going on at all.
At last we passed into a huge, silvery chamber which seemed full of men in whispering robes of sumptuous velvet, moving, leaning, and nodding among themselves as if in some courtly dance. They all seemed to watch us, and yet I couldn't see them looking. At second glance I realized that the walls were covered in mirrors so that each figure in the room stretched away to a crowded infinity of space and that, in fact, there were only four or five people in the chamber. The throne at the end of the chamber was empty. Our guide did not hesitate, but led us across the room, pulled aside the soft velvet behind the throne, and motioned us within.
Lolling on a brocade chair in the middle of the shadowy anteroom beyond sat the pivot on which all this splendor turned; Duke Leon Sahr, a small, neat man with nondescript brown hair and a soft, pointed beard, eating cherries out of season and spitting the pits into his hands.
So this was the Duke-the man who had executed his own cousin at eighteen, the man who had won the battle of Lamia at twenty-one and, in winning it, had united the city-states of Ishtak and Gallia under his rule to form the most powerful state on the Peninsula. This was our ruler, who had power of life and death over us all.
Somehow I had expected someone bigger. Yet as I watched him making small talk with Master John, something in that soft face with its thin cynical smile inspired true fear. It was easy to believe that this slight man was capable of the things they said of him. He looked capable of any necessity.
His dress was no disappointment. His robes were sumptuous red silk worked with gold in the Sahr crest. The feather on his cap was pinned with a huge ducal brooch in ruby and gold and his thin fingers were positively weighted down with enormous gems.
"Well," said the Duke after a few moments. "So this is the student we spoke of. Come forward, student."
Master John nudged me. I managed to curtsy.
"Ah, yes. So this is Michael of Moria's little daughter. The prodigy." His eyes narrowed. "She is young."
"But I assure you quite capable of the task you have set for her," said Master John. "Michael trained her beyond her years. Only her age prevents her from being a fully qualified mage. She has passed all the exams very well. I assure Your Grace, you will not be disappointed ..."
There was an uncomfortable silence broken only by the dull chink of cherry pits as the Duke dropped them into the small golden bowl beside him. He picked up a linen napkin of such perfect whiteness that it seemed to shine in the shadowy room, shook it out delicately, and began to wipe each jewel-laden finger.
I stood, head bowed, feeling like a naughty child. In that long silence I stole a look at Master John and saw to my secret pleasure that he looked much the same as I felt.
"Yes," said the Duke in a quiet voice which somehow expressed disbelief. "I'm sure the college would never disappoint me."
He leaned back and elegantly crossed his legs.
"Come forward, child!"
I moved forward, stopped, and curtsied again for good measure.
"Your foster father was a great favorite of ours. We met him when we were in Mangalore visiting the late Duke. Such a sensible, plain-spoken man. A sad loss to Moria we would have said, though, for some reason, the Morians do not agree with us. We were sorry to hear of his death."
I bobbed my head and murmured my thanks. There was something in the way he spoke which made me feel it was a deep honor that such a great man should speak well of Michael.
"You were very lucky to have such a fine teacher. I would have every faith in any student of his. Do you think that I am right, child? Look at me. Do you feel able for the task before you?"
He peered with hard narrow eyes into my face. I felt as if I'd been blinded by the sun and dropped my eyes.
"Yes, my lord."
"Make sure you are right, Mademoiselle. I would not be pleased if you failed."
"Your Grace, we would not allow an unworthy mage to come before you," said Master John.
Silence.
Suddenly the Duke smiled. Then he laughed. He stood up and clapped Master John on the shoulder. At once the room seemed lighter, was lighter.
"Of course you would not. Worthy Master John. You must forgive your ruler a momentary uncertainty. The thought that this charming young girl could be versed in magic is hard to believe, that is all. It is