The Magic of the Rose

"Imagine," said an impatient voice. Upon hearing the word, Root choked.  Without a move, it was as if his master had placed a hand about the young mage’s throat. "Imagine my discomfort," Palgrave continued, "at being presented this piece of evidence.  His Majesty has sent inquiries.  Representatives have called.  It could mean your head!” The voice came hard, a worn thing set as deeply as the stones in the hall.  At the power of its sound, Root bowed low, an action his crippled frame could easily accommodate.

Fross comforts Root (disguised as a warrior in training).  Artwork Copyright © 2007 by Frank Schurter (Click art to view larger image)

The pressure about his throat eased, and he blinked, keeping the rheumy gaze of his better eye upon the chair Palgrave inhabited and the parchment the mage held between aged fingers.

"You have no right," Root said.  His cheeks flushed as he recognized the missive.  Caught off guard at first, his stubbornness quickly arose.  He opened a clawed hand.  The wrist turned back upon itself, as bent as the rest of Root's young body.  With a thought he caused a wind, and with the wind he drew the parchment to him.  "The letter is mine!”

"Not this day!"  Palgrave's hand rose.  It shook, frightening the wind to stillness.  “You will find me free of indulgence.  Answer to me or to the Crown!”

Once again, Root bowed his head.  He reached within, bringing a spark of magic to flame, but concealing it from his master.

"Allow me to continue," Palgrave said.  He recited from memory: "To the Lady Fross.  As if it makes no sense, or pales when next to reason, you call me mad for loving you.  Is it reasonable at all to fall in love, with one who gives hope, and whose hope has eyes to see, and whose eyes . . ."

Anger rose within Root that he could not control.

"Those words are priv…privileged!"  The faltering words inflamed him further.  Root moved, the stumps of his legs lifting magically from the floor.  Bringing his palms together, he filled the hall with a clap like the meeting of cymbals.  Waves of blue light rippled from the hands of the defiant boy.

Palgrave reeled at the first touch of Root's magic, tumbling from his seat.  Another bolt tore up stones from the floor.  The sound was that of a dragon tearing headlong through a house on fire, but Palgrave was nowhere to be seen.

"Foolish," Palgrave said darkly from a refuge unseen.  Though Root turned slowly, watching the corners, his hands ready to spout fire, when his master reappeared it was as a great bird, a vision of wings assembling itself from the flickers of torchlight and the burning remnants of Palgrave’s seat.  Broad feathered shadows filled the room, and centered in the darkness, the eyes of a hawk peered down mercilessly upon him.  Here was power beyond Root's summoning.

"Now, child, the game is done!"

Incensed, Root leveled blow after blow against his master, each more desperate than the last.  They fell harmlessly against the shadowed wings, and yet still Root looked within for more.  After a moment’s hesitation, he unbent the fingers of his right hand.  From inside that unclenched fist floated a pearl.

"Answer me,” Palgrave's voice boomed in the hall.  “Did you kiss her, a sister of the Rose?"

The pearl began to grow.

As it floated into the winged darkness, the milky orb drew out Palgrave's magic, imprisoning his power.  The pearl expanded.  The pulse within its lustrous surface became brilliant, drawing on the old mage’s power to engorge the growing orb with explosive energies.  With each heartbeat, the pearl redoubled in size.

The hawk eyes flickered.  The shadows began to disperse.

Root turned, recognizing his chance for escape and knowing he must put as much stonework as possible between himself and the fulminating orb.  He lurched along the stones, frightened by the result of his own anger.

Root was not prepared for Palgrave’s counterstroke.  After such exertion, he was powerless to stop it.  The magic moved like fire, setting itself upon him, as might the burning claws of a gryphon, holding him fast.

Before him, falling across the shadow of his own cloak, Root saw the pearl tumble to the stones.  It was no longer engorged with stolen power but much reduced.  His master's boot came forward to crush the milky pellet.

"A sweet trick," Palgrave said harshly, close to Root's ear.  "I had but to cease my struggles for a moment.  Without the focus of my ambition, the pearl became nothing.  Answer now.  You kissed a sister of the Rose?"

Root settled.  It had never been his intention to injure Palgrave, for the struggle, no matter its means, had been temper and no more.  Like the parent of a wild child, the old mage had regained control, and under the pressure of Palgrave’s magic, Root choked out the answer, though still unwillingly.
“I kissed her once… not since… and not willingly by her."

"Against her will, then?  Was there more?"

"No, Master, not as you think."  Tears coursed down Root's cheeks.  He sobbed.  This surprised him as much as the sudden change in Palgrave's tone, for the next words came more softly.

"She is in danger, Root, as are all those at the abbey."

"Is it because of what I've done?" Root asked.  At last he felt ashamed.  “Tell me!”

"Then listen.  Find the patience to hear.”

As Palgrave spoke, Root felt the old mage’s voice well up with a soothing magic.  The gesture was not altogether unwelcome.

“For three centuries, the abbey has given Aranwae its finest men-at-arms.  For a price, skills are honed and weapons blessed.  By this result, no enemy has overcome the land.”

"There are rumors of war," Root talked out of turn.  "I have heard of it.  The seers of the King dream of it.  But,” he fought to still his tongue, “tell me…"

"More than dreams.  Battles have been lost.  There are raiders on the coast.  Thieves in the high mesa.  We are losing ground.  Because of it, ill feelings grow between the King and the Abbess."

"But I--"

"You must understand," Palgrave interrupted sternly.  "Accusations have been made.  Some implied.  Others couched in twisted phrases.  It is said the abbey has lost its hallowed place, that its magic falters.   The abbey in its turn accuses the King.  They say a monarch who scorns the blessings of the Rose has opened the land to evil."

"But what have I done?" Root insisted.  “I saw her once, went to her—“

"No one may touch a sister of the Rose!  By doing so, and by writing this impassioned nonsense, you have made of yourself a suspect."

"Suspected of what, Master?"

"Of murder!"

---

Fross had stood in the presence of the Abbess once before, to learn that her work had fallen below the standards of the Rose.  Of that encounter Fross remembered most the fear that had gripped her.  The Abbess’s pale blue eyes seemed filled with many things, but understanding was not among them.  Fross had tried to improve her work, but the runic symbols she used were unpopular, and the painful dreams from which they came drew suspicion rather than sympathy.

This time, there could be but one reason for the interest of the Abbess in one so lowly, so often forgotten and ill regarded.  Fross's hands trembled.

"Come closer,” the Abbess demanded.  “You don’t expect an old woman to hear you mumble from half a league away.  Closer!”  When Fross complied, the Abbess stood, rising from a seat of royal appointment and dimension to further close the distance between them.  In her right hand the Abbess held a curled staff, but she did not rest her weight upon it, and though more than one of the Abbess’s footfalls seemed unsteady, Fross felt only the approach of weighted authority. 

“How is it the boy saw you?" asked the Abbess Delafael.   "The first time… how came he into your chambers?" 

Unable to look into the eyes of the Abbess, Fross focused on a trinket about the old woman’s neck, an amulet.  Though crude in workmanship, it was rumored to be a focus of power, a gift given long ago by a young mage.  Engraved about a circle of bronze, the iconography of the amulet revealed a book being opened in stages.  At first the book lay closed within its binding straps.  Next the straps appeared loosed, and in the icons to follow the book opened, stage-by-stage, until its knowledge lay full exposed.  More than a symbol, the amulet bore testimony to the handiwork of a mage who had created in this one periapt a focus to redouble the powers of the Rose.

"Are you attending to what we say?" asked another voice.  It startled Fross and she looked up involuntarily.  "You heard the Abbess.  Answer quickly."           

Until that voice, she had not recognized the one standing in shadow behind the throne.  To face the Abbess held terrors enough, to face Lady Beddoes as well brought words tumbling from her lips.           

"It was innocent," Fross assured them, "and not in my quarters."  She stuttered, knowing how damning her faltering voice must seem, the first pleading step on the road to an acknowledgment of sin.           

"The day, the hour!" said Beddoes.  She was a lieutenant to the Abbess, having risen to Administrator after the murders began.        

"The festival in the spring," said Fross.  "He came to my tent….

"On the grounds of the Palace!" Lady Beddoes shouted.  Her face was flushed with blood.  Turning to the Abbess, she said, “I cannot keep them safe if this fool opens her tent to the devil!”           

"How did he pass the guards?" asked the Abbess more calmly.  Her voice was closer and coarser than Beddoes’.  It needed neither anger nor impatience to threaten.

"Continue, young sister!" Beddoes demanded.  “I am charged to make the abbey secure, and I shall not fail because of you.”           

Fross hesitated.  She knew that to be a mistake. But how does one describe innocence?            

"I know not what he expected," Fross said, "but I seemed to startle him.  His actions were…  I mean, as suddenly as he entered he fell to his knees, and for long moments thereafter would not look up."  She could picture the moment as clearly as if it were happening before her now.           

"As he knelt there," Fross continued, "something in his manner calmed me.  I saw no need to cry out.”           

"Was it then he assaulted you?" asked the Abbess Delafael.           

Fross cringed at the word "assaulted."  Why could they not believe her?  She fought to calm her spirit, and by that means show the truth of her words.    

"Is he not a deformed beast?" hissed Lady Beddoes.           

Ignoring the comment, Fross went on.           

"In time," she said, "I too knelt.  Mother Abbess, he was unlike any man for whom I have worked a blessing.  His attention, even his eyes, downcast as they were, focused upon me, and upon me alone."  Once again she hesitated, but this time it was not out of fear.  She was trying to remember precisely.           

"When he looked up, he kissed me.  It was barely a touch.  Quick and foolish.  But in it lay something more.  I could feel it.  A commitment.  It held there in the air between us and concerns me still."

"Now he pens impassioned words," said the Abbess, "and sends them winging to you by some vile magic."

And takes back my answers through the same arcane abilities, Fross thought.  With eyes closed but for a moment, she recalled the winged flurry of a parchment opening upon her bed, saw in her memory how it folded in upon itself once more, bearing her few appended words, only to vanish as it flew toward the window of her cell.  By her few penned notes she had replied, "you are a mad and foolish man," but with what gentle diplomacy her skills with language could allow.

"He is no threat," Fross assured them.

"And are you so assured of that?" Lady Beddoes scolded.

"How could he be?" Fross asked.  Then, as the thought occurred to her, when she felt it reinforced by the silence of those before her, her heart all but stopped.  When her mind touched upon the recent events, she said, "You cannot think he is the one!"

"Our rules are strict, and for reasons beyond mere chastity," said the Abbess.  "This boy who gained a foothold in your heart has won by that sorcery a foothold in my abbey.  He uses it to stalk our corridors and--"         

"No!" interrupted Fross.  "You are wrong."

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