of her momentary reverie. If anyone else had asked, she would have refused to dignify the question with an answer, but the Royal Stewardess held Maryn’s fate in her hands. “I—Yes, of course. But I don’t see what that has to do with my suitability to be the prince’s nurse.”
Coewyn frowned. “It has everything to do with your suitability. Don’t you know that the character of the nurse is transmitted to the child through her milk? I am charged to choose only someone of the highest moral fiber, the most impeccable reputation. So far nothing of what you have told me casts any doubt on your qualifications in that regard. Though if you are in the habit of indulging in such rude outbursts, I might have to reconsider that judgment. It will not do for the prince to acquire a defiant temperament.”
Maryn gulped. “I’m sorry, Madam Coewyn. I’ll tell you anything you want. I promise, I’m not rude or defiant. Of course you know best what to ask; I won’t question you again.”
Coewyn leaned back, satisfied. “Remember that. Now, tell me more about your relationship with your husband. How soon after you were wed did you conceive?”
Maryn was about to launch into a detailed account, desperate to give Coewyn whatever she might want, when the door opened. The page poked his head in. “Madam Coewyn, the Royal Sorcerer is here.”
“Ah, yes. Send him in.” She rose and beckoned for Maryn to do the same.
The Royal Sorcerer strode into the office. He was a tall man, and his rich burgundy robes swirled about him dramatically. He nodded graciously at the Stewardess. “What can I do for you, Coewyn?”
She returned his nod. “One more wet nurse candidate, Rogelan. I hope I haven’t put too much of a burden on you, with so many. But I do think this should be the last, as long as the scrying doesn’t show anything unexpected.”
Did that mean the Stewardess favored her? Hope caught at Maryn’s breath and set her heart racing. But there still remained whatever mysterious test the sorcerer was going to perform. Maryn eyed him warily. She knew she had nothing to hide, but magic was dangerous and unpredictable, and she had always viewed those who wielded it with awe and fear.
“Not at all. I’m always happy to assist you. May I use your desk again?”
“Certainly. Here’s the sample.” She indicated the mirror on her desk and came to stand by Maryn.
Rogelan settled into Coewyn’s seat. After fussing for a moment with the exact position of the chair and the mirror, he drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It was smaller than the common knives everyone carried to cut their food. The blade was polished to a brilliant shine, the hilt gold and set with precious gems. Rogelan laid it crossways on the desk, between him and the mirror that held Maryn’s milk.
The sorcerer set both his hands flat on the desk, to either side of the knife and mirror. He drew a deep breath. Taking up the knife in his right hand, he extended his left over the mirror, and began to chant in the ancient language of sorcery.
His rich bass voice intoned the invocation used at the beginning of every working. He pricked the ball of his left thumb with the point of the knife. A drop of blood welled out; he twitched his hand and it fell onto the surface of the mirror. The scarlet spread and mingled into the white puddle of Maryn’s milk.
The buzzing sensation of magic vibrated in Maryn’s bones. Setting the knife down, Rogelan picked up the mirror and swirled it, further mixing the blood and milk. He continued to chant; his incantation reached the end of the words Maryn knew and continued in unfamiliar cadences.
The liquid on the surface of the mirror began to steam, like water boiling in a kettle, though no bubbles disturbed it. More and more vapor poured from its surface and swirled into a dense cloud, shot through with a network of faint blue sparks. Rogelan set down the mirror and put out both hands. The cloud stayed confined
Coewyn frowned. “It has everything to do with your suitability. Don’t you know that the character of the nurse is transmitted to the child through her milk? I am charged to choose only someone of the highest moral fiber, the most impeccable reputation. So far nothing of what you have told me casts any doubt on your qualifications in that regard. Though if you are in the habit of indulging in such rude outbursts, I might have to reconsider that judgment. It will not do for the prince to acquire a defiant temperament.”
Maryn gulped. “I’m sorry, Madam Coewyn. I’ll tell you anything you want. I promise, I’m not rude or defiant. Of course you know best what to ask; I won’t question you again.”
Coewyn leaned back, satisfied. “Remember that. Now, tell me more about your relationship with your husband. How soon after you were wed did you conceive?”
Maryn was about to launch into a detailed account, desperate to give Coewyn whatever she might want, when the door opened. The page poked his head in. “Madam Coewyn, the Royal Sorcerer is here.”
“Ah, yes. Send him in.” She rose and beckoned for Maryn to do the same.
The Royal Sorcerer strode into the office. He was a tall man, and his rich burgundy robes swirled about him dramatically. He nodded graciously at the Stewardess. “What can I do for you, Coewyn?”
She returned his nod. “One more wet nurse candidate, Rogelan. I hope I haven’t put too much of a burden on you, with so many. But I do think this should be the last, as long as the scrying doesn’t show anything unexpected.”
Did that mean the Stewardess favored her? Hope caught at Maryn’s breath and set her heart racing. But there still remained whatever mysterious test the sorcerer was going to perform. Maryn eyed him warily. She knew she had nothing to hide, but magic was dangerous and unpredictable, and she had always viewed those who wielded it with awe and fear.
“Not at all. I’m always happy to assist you. May I use your desk again?”
“Certainly. Here’s the sample.” She indicated the mirror on her desk and came to stand by Maryn.
Rogelan settled into Coewyn’s seat. After fussing for a moment with the exact position of the chair and the mirror, he drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It was smaller than the common knives everyone carried to cut their food. The blade was polished to a brilliant shine, the hilt gold and set with precious gems. Rogelan laid it crossways on the desk, between him and the mirror that held Maryn’s milk.
The sorcerer set both his hands flat on the desk, to either side of the knife and mirror. He drew a deep breath. Taking up the knife in his right hand, he extended his left over the mirror, and began to chant in the ancient language of sorcery.
His rich bass voice intoned the invocation used at the beginning of every working. He pricked the ball of his left thumb with the point of the knife. A drop of blood welled out; he twitched his hand and it fell onto the surface of the mirror. The scarlet spread and mingled into the white puddle of Maryn’s milk.
The buzzing sensation of magic vibrated in Maryn’s bones. Setting the knife down, Rogelan picked up the mirror and swirled it, further mixing the blood and milk. He continued to chant; his incantation reached the end of the words Maryn knew and continued in unfamiliar cadences.
The liquid on the surface of the mirror began to steam, like water boiling in a kettle, though no bubbles disturbed it. More and more vapor poured from its surface and swirled into a dense cloud, shot through with a network of faint blue sparks. Rogelan set down the mirror and put out both hands. The cloud stayed confined
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