Fiona was trying. She just lacked the tools necessary to do it. Any titleholder would. Even in the times when titleholders more regularly attacked each other, I would wager casts had played no part in it.
“She can’t fight against this. Not alone. You know that.”
Mitloehner didn’t respond. He just looked grim and annoyed. The others were content to be spectators. Some were watching Browne with smiles, or frowns, or furrowed brows of thought. Others were looking down at their feet, prepared to let someone else make the decision and thereby avoid all responsibility for it.
I was uncomfortable. This was not what I’d had in mind when I started dabbling with spells. The thought of learning spells designed to hurt people appalled me.
I didn’t know why, though. I’d killed a man with my Shields. I’d killed a man with a knife. Why did the idea of doing something similar with a spell feel so much worse? It didn’t make sense.
I didn’t want to do this.
The idea that anyone who could cast could then use those spells to kill was appalling. No real training. No authority making sure the skills weren’t being abused. If such spells were being used in Flown Raven, they would be developed elsewhere. If not right then, soon.
People didn’t kill each other a lot. Not like they had in earlier times. The deaths I’d been around had been weirdly high in number, because my life was just that special. But for the ordinary person, mortal violence was a thing of the past. The Imperial Guard didn’t really fight so much as police, protect the royals, and collect taxes. But all that might change if people thought they could kill, unseen, from the kinds of distance spells could apparently allow.
No. This wasn’t what was going to happen. It was too melodramatic.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Browne. “We need to create a form of alarm. Then we need something to protect everyone. If we can accomplish those, well, we’ll talk about other possibilities.”
Aye, delay the decision. Procrastination wasn’t helpful, but it made me feel better.
“What matters most is that we are on the alert when something happens,” Browne continued. “Not that we’re wearing ourselves out patrolling. As it is, we’re sprinkled out throughout the estate. We have farmers and fishers and Shield Mallorough lives in the manor.”
“So we are including Shield Mallorough in our plans,” said Mitloehner.
“Of course.”
Hm. No one had asked me.
“Then she must be properly inducted into the circle.”
“I am not being inducted into anything,” I objected.
“Then you can’t be a part of this.”
“Fine.” I would find some other way to help Fiona. I was able to handle things on my own, sometimes.
“You don’t mean that,” Browne said to me.
I just looked at her for a moment. I knew my mind. It was irritating when people presumed to think they knew better than I. “I’ll just go, now.”
“You would desert the Duchess?”
“Of course not, but I won’t be swearing any oaths.”
“Then you can’t work with us,” said Mitloehner.
“Fine.” Aye, we were going in circles.
“Stop,” Browne snapped. “You’re being stubborn for the sake of it,” she said to Mitloehner.
He drew himself up to his full insignificant height. “I am in charge here.”
That shocked everyone. Apparently they were prepared to give Mitloehner precedence as long as he didn’t ask for it. Or, more accurately, demand it.
“According to who?” Thatcher demanded.
“I am the oldest,” he said.
“So? Nab’s the most talented.”
“According to who?” Mitloehner echoed snidely.
“According to anyone with eyes.”
And just like that, everyone was talking, mostly about different things, whether Mitloehner was in charge, whether Browne was the most talented, whether I should have to swear an oath, but also about four other topics I couldn’t quite determine because everyone was talking over each other.
Except for Browne. She was watching silently. “I’m causing discord,” I said into her ear.
“We’ve never had to deal with anything this serious before,” she answered. “Not really. This is as good a time as any to hammer out these things.”
It seemed to me that the only things likely to get hammered were skulls. No one was really listening to anyone else despite the fact that the volume was increasing from one moment to the next. When they were facing a threat was not the time to determine the rules. The rules should have been drafted when they formed the group, when everyone was calm and they had the time to discuss things thoroughly.
Nothing was getting accomplished. Talking was turning into shouting, and people were getting angry. It was ludicrous. If they were prepared to argue over such trivial matters, I could hardly trust them to devise a workable plan for protecting the estate.
Could I come up with one of my own? I wouldn’t know where to start, but at least I wasn’t scrambling for authority or trying to prove anything to anyone. That had to be a sturdier foundation on which to build than all this disarray.
Browne left the room briefly and returned with a small gong, which she rang and kept ringing until everyone shut up. “One thing at a time,” she said firmly. Then she looked at me. “Please understand, Shield Mallorough, the casters from Kent refused to take the oath. They feared it would conflict with their oaths to their lord. Or so they said. And now look where we stand.”
If that were true, and I had no reason to think that it wasn’t, I could understand why they were concerned. That didn’t change my position. “There is no benefit for me to belong to your group.”
Their bewilderment amused me. Despite my earlier protestations, they really thought I should be honored to be invited to join their group. And maybe I should be. I just wasn’t.
“I’ve seen you cast,” said Browne.
“For me, it is just a curiosity. It’s not necessary.”
“I’ve seen you use it when it appeared very necessary.”
Ah. Right. She had seen me cast when Taro and I had channeled. Damn it. But I said nothing.
“Do you find it impossible to imagine that there might be other situations in which the ability to cast might be necessary?”
“I think I understand your concerns, truly, but I am a member of the Triple S. I cannot swear an oath to anyone or anything else.”
“Your Source did,” said Browne. “To the Emperor. That’s not normal, is it?”
I glared at her. “You know too much.”
She smirked.
Taro had had to swear an oath he didn’t mean to the Emperor. And the damned Emperor hadn’t even promised anything in return, as he had to all the others swearing oaths. I had known a solicitor for a brief while, and he had told me more about laws than I cared to know or could possibly remember, but I did recall him saying that a one-sided contract wasn’t a contract at all, and wasn’t binding. I didn’t know if oaths of fealty could be called contracts, and the fact that all of the oaths given that day had been made while the Emperor had clearly been casting some kind of spell probably threw all the legal implications out the window.
I’d never really talked to Taro about it. I hoped he didn’t feel bound by it. He shouldn’t, as he had been forced into it, he’d gotten nothing in exchange, and to be asked to swear at all had been inappropriate, but sometimes he had a rather ridiculous sense of honor.
“I’m not going to explain the reasons behind that event,” I said. “And it doesn’t change the fact that you can’t induce me to swear an oath to you.”
“You’re learning from books,” said Mitloehner.
“Aye.”
“Not all of us have lived here all our lives. We have had the opportunity to learn casts used in other areas, casts that might not be in your books.”
“Or in any books,” Browne added.
“I am not going to condone any experimentation,” Mitloehner insisted.
“I’m not talking about experimentation,” Browne said. “Or not just experimentation. Spells have been passed down that have not been put in any books. At least, no books I’ve ever seen. And these are things we can teach her.”
And one thing I had learned since leaving the Academy and entering the real world, there was a hell of a lot that books couldn’t teach. The idea of having this stuff explained to me instead of stumbling along on my own was appealing. That wasn’t enough to make me forget my responsibilities. “I will not take any oath that is intended to supersede my obligations to Source Karish or the Triple S. I will not move from that position.”
“That’s not unreasonable,” Thatcher suggested to the others. “I must admit I prefer to rely on a Shield who isn’t easily swayed by non-Triple S interests.”
“Perhaps we could devise an oath that wouldn’t conflict with her other obligations,” said Browne.
“Why should she be treated any differently than the rest of us?” Berlusconi objected.
“Because she is different,” said Browne. “She’s a Shield. None of us can really understand what that means. Though, you know”—she looked at me—“we’d all be delighted if you chose to share with us about that.”
And say what, exactly? I was born a Shield. I spent years in the Shield Academy learning how to read and write and figure and dance the benches and endure music and protect Sources. Since I’d left the Academy, my first and only real responsibility had been to Shield Taro. Mere words could not properly relay all that meant.
People were looking at me, apparently waiting for me to say something. I looked back silently.
“We can offer you assistance, instruction, and confidentiality,” said Browne. “We will never speak to anyone of your membership in the group, any spell that you cast, or that you can cast at all.”
“Everyone knows you can cast,” I reminded Browne. No one could help knowing. She’d almost been flogged, publicly, for that very reason. “And I hate to tell you, but I’m pretty sure everyone in Flown Raven knows who you all are and what you can do. Any kind of secrecy is a fiction.”
No one was surprised. I could see it in their faces. They did look annoyed, and I wondered if I had violated some secret pact. Maybe the casters pretended they weren’t casting and everyone else pretended not to know about them, and mentioning the reality of the situation was considered to be in bad taste.
“We can ensure that no one knows you’re a part of it.”
“How can you promise that when you can’t keep your own participation a secret?”
“From what we understand of you and your status, you aren’t expected to be in any one place at any particular time. If anyone asks you where you were, you can tell them your activities involved Triple S business and they’ll cease their questions.”
It was irksome that a regular was aware of that handy ploy.
“I’ve seen the results of your casting a spell improperly,” Browne whispered.
I glared at her. She knew I’d accidentally colored my hair green using a spell that was meant to color it black. “That was my first spell.”
“The fact is that you really don’t know what you’re doing and that’s likely to blow up in your face, causing you damage and perhaps damage to others around you. Are you prepared to risk that so you can stagger about in a dangerous discipline with no supervision?”
She had a point. I hated that. “Fine. I’ll agree to be guided by you. Barring emergencies.”
I noticed Chan was writing on a slate.
“What do you consider an emergency?”
“I or someone else is going to die.”
“All right.”
“You must agree that if this group, as a whole, decides on a course of action, you will comply.”
“Only if that course of action pertains to casting.”
“Of course.”
“And it doesn’t interfere with my duty to Karish, the Triple S, or the Duchess.” Technically, I didn’t owe any duty to the Duchess, but I wanted to be free to assist her, if she needed it and I could do it.
“Yes.”
“Then, all right.” I felt really uncomfortable with this, but I did not like the idea of this group coming up with spells that could hurt people without my being involved. I would be walking around getting paranoid about what they were doing.
“Good.”
“What happens, though, when Taro and I are transferred?”
“What do you mean?”
Browne knew so much. About everything, it seemed. How could she not know this? “Our assignments are not permanent. They are meant to last only a few years.”
“What is the sense of that?” Berlusconi demanded.
“To avoid the Pair forming inappropriate attachments to local people or groups.”
“Sort of like what you’re doing right now,” Browne stated dryly.
“Precisely.”
“My dear, you’re such a rebel.”
Snarky woman.
“We’re going to have to come up with some kind of severing ceremony,” said Browne. “I believe it would be safe to assume that we will want you to maintain confidentiality, but remove all other obligations. Does that sound good?”
“No,” said Mitloehner, but everyone else seemed to ignore him. A few made sounds of agreement, while most of the others said nothing. No one else opposed the idea, though, not vocally.
“Tell us what you’ve got, Ivor,” Browne asked Chan, and he rattled off all the elements of the agreement that we had come to, only in prettier language.
“Does that appear accurate to you?” Browne asked me, and I nodded. “Good. How shall we do this?”
“The usual,” Davos shrugged. “Except you use these words instead. And I think you should be the one to speak them.”
Mitloehner actually growled. Browne smiled, triumphant. I realized I had just witnessed some kind of power struggle, and Browne had won.
Everyone withdrew to stand against the wall, creating a cramped misshapen circle. Browne broke out a box of short candles—always with the candles—and gave one to everyone in the room. Then Browne put an equal number of candles on the floor around the table in a drunken oval. Finally, she took out a candle that she set on the center of the table.