Mearsies Heili Bounces Back (21 page)

I gritted my teeth against a bellow of rage. This girl could
not be a villain. She didn’t act like one in the least. And I was thirsty, had
a headache, couldn’t think.

“Shall I let in some fresh air for you?” the girl asked. “There
is water here on the tray.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I struggled for politeness as dizziness
smeared the edge of my vision. I picked up the water the girl had poured. Good,
clear, tasty. It settled my stomach. I flopped back on the pillow.

“You look pale,” the girl said, her smooth brow slightly
puckered as she surveyed me. “I will see to a meal, if you will tell me what
you like?”

“Dunno—just some breakfast junk. Thanks.”

“‘Junk’?” She said the word in English—I remembered it
didn’t translate.

‘Um, food.”

“Thank you. Why do you not rest until then?”

“Okay.”

The girl repeated, “Oh—kay?”

“It means all right. Who are you?”

“Oh, you may call me Pralineh. You are in the house of
Raneseh Khavnan.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “I guess the next question is, why?”

Pralineh tipped her head slightly, as though that question
had either not occurred to her, or that the answer was too difficult for her to
frame. She said, “Please rest. We will see to a meal. Then you may speak to
Raneseh, who will explain better than I can.”

She walked out. Pralineh was not dressed like a servant—not
unless servants wore fine gowns with ribbon trim in elegant geometric patterns.

The door closed. I got up, experienced only a little
dizziness, and padded to the door. I eased the latch—and was surprised that it
worked. I was not locked in.

I turned to the glass doors, which Pralineh had pulled open
to let a breeze in. I eased forward, fingers out in case there might be a nasty
ward. No. Nothing. I peered out into a quiet garden overshadowed by flowering
trees.

If this is a klink, I thought, it’s the fanciest one I’ve
ever heard of. Colend, maybe? Despite the situation, I grinned. Did Colend even
have any jails? If they did, of course they would be more elegant than anyone
else’s palaces, surely. Imagine pretty prison clothes, and what kind of
restitution jobs would they do—embroidery? That just fit them, somehow.

But this girl had a Mearsiean name, even if she pronounced
it differently. At home she’d be ‘Praline’ that is “Pra-lin-eh’ with the final
‘eh’ no more than a breath. Like our Cherene, Faline, Irene. The LIN (or EN) is
what you emphasize. Here, the syllables got pretty even emphasis. And she spoke
Mearsiean, even if with an accent.

I scowled, turning around in a circle on the soft rug. The
room was square, smooth-walled, painted a pale gold. Opposite the bed stood a
wardrobe. I opened it. Half a dozen kid-size dresses hung neatly on pegs, with
a cleaning frame just inside the doors.

Somebody meant for me to stay, then.

I sighed. Refusing to dress wasn’t going to get me out any
faster—nor would floobing about in a grass-stained nightgown.

I jumped through the cleaning frame, felt the magic snap the
grime from me and the nightgown both. Then I inspected the dresses. They were
all one piece, no skirts and shirts like I preferred. At least they weren’t
frilly or flouncy—not that I mind that once in a while, but not on an
adventure. I’d learned that managing a big dress while climbing trees or
running from villains is a hassle. Not to mention trying to get in a good kick
past a couple billion yards of fluffy skirt.

I pulled out a gown of plain blue polished cotton, with a
sash of a darker blue. It was almost the right length, just a tad short, and I
wondered if it was one of Pralineh’s old ones. It wasn’t new, but it was
well-cared for.

I tied the sash round my middle, stuck my tongue out at the
shoes lined up on the floor of the wardrobe (there were three pairs of fine,
satin-covered walking slippers) and passed through the glass door into the
garden.

Beyond flowering shrubs was a stone bench, placed under a
vast tree that reminded me of pepper trees from my Earth days—lots of fine
leaves hanging in clumps. I plopped down onto the bench, feeling better just
sitting in that filtered green light. Feeling better despite my stomach
growling and my head panging.

Magic reaction. After all, I was recovering not just from
one spell, but two: the spell that had dropped me, and also a long distance
transfer. I was certain as I could be about anything that I was far away from
Mearsies Heili.

So my first job was to get back home. I couldn’t even think
about trying magic yet, not with that gigantic headache. But what about ...

I jerked up my hand, and stared at my empty fingers. Oh
yeah. My ring was still in Clair’s magic chamber. The spell to summon Clair in
an automatic transfer wasn’t so easy, and she hadn’t been sure it would work
even under the horrible wards of villains like the Chwahir.

So I had no way to get home. Or even to send a message.

I looked back inside, and grimaced. This was certainly not
my home, no matter what that girl said. Though it was pleasant enough that I
could pretend until I felt better, and so I stepped farther into the garden,
found a grassy spot beneath a tree, lay down and watched the sky through the
whispering, rustling green leaves.

I woke with a snort, and looked around wildly. Was that a
bad dream? Was I home? No. The greenery overhead looked and smelled different
from the forest at home.

I rubbed my ear, recalling noises. Footsteps! Passing by.
But there was only the silent garden around me, no humans.

I sat up. At least the headache had faded.

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply the way I’d learned when
gathering the inward energy for a big spell. I depicted the transfer
destination at home, and—

And—

And the words were still gone. This wasn’t just headache. My
magic was
gone
.

I keened softly, “
E-e-e-e-e-e!”
No, no, no—
not
my magic!

But it was warded. And by someone who had been able to take
the time to do it right. When I reached for even the simplest spell form, all I
sensed were was foggy ‘sounds’—bits of magic words—and vague memory images of
having
used
the spell, but no spell itself, or the feel of magic
gathering and the sounds that shaped it.

Quick, light, rustling steps brought me scrambling to my
feet, fists tightly clenched.

Pralineh approached, gracefully lifting her skirt to step
over the root of a huge climbing rose vine. “There you are,” she exclaimed. “The
sun is almost gone—it will be cold soon. Won’t you come inside?”

I fought the urge to snap a signed-and-sealed CJ zinger back
at her. Pralineh couldn’t be the mage who’d warded my magic. She was a girl my
age or a bit older, and she was trying to be nice. She didn’t deserve a CJ
temper tantrum.

I bet I know who does
, I muttered under my breath as
I followed Pralineh back through the glass doors into the guest room, which had
been lit by two candelabra set before pretty ovals against the walls on either
side of the bed.

“What shall I call you?’ Pralineh asked.

I shot out my breath in a snort. “Whatever that old geez
told you, I am Princess Cherene Jennet Sherwood of Mearsies Heili, hater of
evil, and foe to all villains, and wielder of the prune pie of justice.” As
always when upset I tried to turn my declaration into a joke, but my voice
wobbled at the end.

Pralineh studied me in perplexity, fingers twiddling
absently at the silken ribbon stripe down either side of the laces on the front
of her gown. She did not look angry, just puzzled, and a little wary as she
said slowly, “We were told you had broken the law. But because you are young—”

I cut in. “Are we in Tser Mearsies, like I think we are?”

Pralineh’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes—of course.”

I grimaced terribly. How could Kwenz possibly have any
connections with anyone in Tser Mearsies? Well, maybe there were villains here,
too, and there really was some sort of Villains’ Guild.
You stash this
prisoner somewhere, and I’ll trade you some evil spells
. I shook my head.
Didn’t matter right now. What did was getting home. “Listen, Pralineh,” I said
urgently. “That means you’re a Mearsiean same as me. Have you ever heard of the
Chwahir being friends to us? Ever?”

Pralineh pressed her hands together.

“I’m telling you Kwenz—if that geez you mentioned was Kwenz,
and what other geez would it be who’d take away my magic, and send me away, after
bucketing me in the middle of the night at home, unless it would be his
brother, who is ten times worse, but he wouldn’t put me in a nice place like
this—well, I just lost where I was. If that geez was Kwenz, he is an enemy.
They use dark magic, which means they spend it right out of the world, and for
spells that do nasty things. Not good things. Get it?”

For a moment she seemed convinced, then she shook her head. “I
really think you ought to be speaking about this matter to Raneseh. Here, I
came to bring to you some supper. Then afterward, if you like, you may help me
with my marriage linens.”

“Marriage linens?” I saw from Pralineh’s nervous manner that
I’d scared her. I made an effort to calm down.

Pralineh said in mild surprise, “Oh. I did not think. If you
are a princess you probably would not need to make your own. Come, let me show
you!”

She opened the door opposite the wardrobe, and I followed
her, more interested in the layout of this dwelling than in the prospect of
wedding-whatevers.

The house was one-story, built in such a way that most of
the rooms opened onto pocket gardens through glass doors. It meant wandering
along right-angled halls, but these were pretty, many with hand-painted
pictures along them, mostly flower motifs, all up high just below the ceiling.
The rooms were also built on slightly different levels, as if the house was cut
into the side of a slight hill; it seemed every time we turned a corner we also
stepped up a couple of broad, shallow tiled stairs.

Pralineh’s rooms were a very soft peachy pink, with a
pattern of climbing white roses painted below the ceiling on all the walls, the
dark green leaves and the white blossoms nicely contrasting with the pale,
warm-toned pink.

There was a sitting room with comfortable low chairs, all
satin-covered, and little tables. Beyond that a room I realized was a sort of
dressing room storage closet: a wall-sized wardrobe stood against one wall, and
along the other were trunks and shelves.

Pralineh rushed to one of the trunks, lifted it, and pulled
from it a long table runner embroidered with golden bell-shaped blossoms picked
out with light green leaves. “This is my own pattern.” She held it up proudly. “And
my grandmother’s is the rose pattern you see here.” She pointed at the walls. “When
I have my own house, everything will be colored to match my firebells. We
always begin with runners first, and trunk covers. Better linens later when our
stitchwork is good.” She lowered the runner into the trunk with careful hands. “You
say you are Mearsiean, yet you look as though you’ve never seen a table runner
before!”

“Sure I have.”
I just can’t imagine wasting my time
making them
. I grimaced. “I, um, am not so hot with a needle. But a couple
of my friends are,” I added, hoping at least that sounded friendly and
interested.

I was not about to give my opinion of weddings or any of
that nastarooni.

Pralineh led me back into her sitting room just as a woman
dressed in a plain gown of pale green pushed in a cart on which sat
silver-covered dishes.

“Ah, supper,” Pralineh exclaimed. “Come. Be seated anywhere.
And you must tell me more about your home. If you do not hold household or
stitch in prospect of heading your house one day, what do you do?”

I took a few bites of trout lightly poached in white wine
with herbs and onion. “I adventure,” I finally said. Then, fearing I sounded
like a show-offy gasbag, “And play. Well, and patrol, watching out for Chwahir.”

Then the taste hit me, and my appetite woke up. I applied
myself enthusiastically to the fish, to the fresh beans steamed with just a
hint of herb, and to rice cooked in
something
tasty, I had no idea what:
the girls and I tended to eat plain food at home, and mostly the same things
over and over, with occasional slight variations.

“Adventure?” Pralineh said after a delicate bite or two.

I stopped my enthusiastic gobbling, remembered that I did
know manners, and carefully laid my spoon down. “Yes—oh, I don’t want to sound
like a fat-head. But there are a lot of villains, and not just Chwahir, who
think because Clair—she’s the queen—is a girl—um, did I get that mixed up?
Well, anyway, they think they can take over. Or fool her into making stupid
decisions. Or other rottenness. But they can’t, because she’s smart. Smarter
than most grownups.”

Appetite forgotten, I leaped up and began to prowl around
the room as I described the Junky, the other girls, Clair, and Mearsies Heili.
I kept biting back the urge to brag about my adventures, and kept myself to
descriptions of home, but—looking back—I suspect my longing got into my tone if
not my words. Pralineh also forgot her food, and sat listening, hands folded in
her lap.

Finally I remembered the cooling food. “Um,” I said,
wondering if there was some kind of manners I’d managed to totally unnotice
that a hostess couldn’t eat unless her guest did. Seshe hadn’t mentioned that
during our Propah Dinner what seemed a thousand years ago—but this was a
different country. A different
continent
. “Well, so anyway. I tend to be
a blabber-mouth. You can always stop me before you snore—the girls sure do!”

“But it is all interesting.” Pralineh smiled. “So far
outside my experience.” Her voice was tentative, and I wondered if I hadn’t
done my home justice—that Pralineh was just as glad MH and the Junky and all
the rest of my life lay outside her experience.