Mindscapes by LeahD

In the morning a servant brought Wythe a breakfast of toasted bread, porridge, and tea, and she dressed and made her own bed after eating. Then she sat at the table, looking out of the window, waiting.
As she now understood it, she had been taken into custody by order of the Alliance, on charges of the misuse of telekinesis, among others, and Renhold had done nothing to resist that order, though he had at least resisted the pressure to bring Vaaselian charges against her and have her imprisoned in the castle dungeon. The only thing he had said to Maga Katya in reference to her was to request the assignment of several clerks to prevent her communicating with anyone. The reinforced mind-barrier was more than adequate, and Wythe felt it interfering even with the entirely internal operations of her mind. Her dreams were hazy in her memory, and nearly inaccessible, and she knew it was because of the barrier.
Though she had access only to her own conscious thoughts, which, no matter how she examined them, came out to the same miserable conclusion, the view from the window at least was not without interest. She could see bits of the service school courtyards from her vantage point, and they were quite busy, at intervals, with the movements of students enrolled in the summer term. She could even see as far as the stables, and after a while she became aware of a party in their court preparing for a journey. They were three boys and a girl, and even at this distance Wythe could tell, by the breed of their horses, that they were Telmi – the telepaths most recently accepted for service training. They had a baggage pony in addition to their mounts – they were going home, not for the already-past Midsummer rituals, but in the midst of term. From their deportment Wythe knew they were not happy. She stood and leaned over the table, trying to see them more clearly and remember what clans they came from. She wondered if they could see her at all through the glass of the window, and when one of them looked up in her direction, then paused and nudged one of his companions, and pointed, she knew that they could. She lifted her hand in salute, and after a time all four returned the gesture, and bowed. She wished she could communicate with them. Before they could mount, a group of Vaaselian students ran into the courtyard, and there were embraces and handshakes. They had some friends at least, who regretted their leaving, and probably regretted the reason. Wythe backed away from the window.
When the guard knocked on the door to announce a visitor Wythe had a momentary hope that it was Renhold, but the door swung open to admit Rava. She had a small stack of books in her arms, and a leather case on a strap slung over her shoulder.
“I brought you some books, and a journal for you to record events and your thoughts,” Rava put the books down on the table and put the case on top of them, “and pens and ink – so you need not sit idle – I know how that rankles.”
“I’m surprised it’s permitted.”
“Mathis has communicated with Renhold, and he insisted.”
Wythe glanced through the books – Elian and Arn Maarinen’s old works on the Telmi, and a collection of modern Vaaselian poetry. She was feeling that even her present thoughts were a bit muddled, but when her hand touched the journal an idea came to her clearly.
“Rava, tell Mathis he must get my papers from the service archives in Barran. My work in telekinesis is documented there. Even though the Alliance is charging me in that connection I doubt they have any mages who truly understand it. Mathis needs to inform himself. And Faj should read them too – though I discussed it all with him long ago, he may need to refresh his memory.”
Rava smiled. “He did it already, before he left for the Spring Islands. You are in very good hands, Wythe.”
“Rava, I feel so helpless –”
Rava embraced her tightly. “I know you can hardly stand it – but with Mathis working so hard –”
Wythe nodded, sniffing a little. “I’m sure he’s doing all sorts of things I would never think of. But, Rava – I must speak to Renhold myself, before they send me to the tribunal.”
“Katya is working on him – I know he wants to see you.” Rava took Wythe’s hands in hers, and gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “You and Mathis will manage the Alliance mages – and then there will be a way to deal with Renhold.” She knew that Wythe would be unable to penetrate her consciousness, so she spoke more confidently than she felt she could really justify, and counted on her expression to convince her friend. “And now I must go – these matters have created a little extra work for the embassy, as you can imagine.”
It was after luncheon when the guard knocked again, and this time Wythe suppressed her hopes as much as she could, so it was a very real smile of relief and nearly pleasure that swept across her features when Renhold entered the room. He came to her at once, and interrupted her curtsey to take her hands and press them to his forehead.
“Wythe.”
“Renhold.” Then there was a silence, surprisingly lacking in awkwardness, though Renhold looked very sober, and Wythe’s smile faded. She led him to the settee.
“I would offer you tea – but I seem to have no authority,” she began as lightly as she could.
“None of this is according to my wishes, Wythe,” Renhold said, avoiding her eyes. “I am obliged to turn you over to Alliance authority. I don’t know what they’ll do with you, but whatever it is, it will be unlikely to help me.”
“I came south in order to help you.”
Renhold laughed bitterly. “You came south to try to talk me into supporting you.”
“I only want you to have the knowledge you need to keep from being misled – from doing something you will regret.”
“I think I will regret whatever course I take now. All Valmur’s old supporters are calling for me to crush the Telmi rebellion –” Renhold ignored Wythe’s snort of derision “– and many of the guilds are on their side, this time. Your only friends, Wythe, are Farin, Arn Maarinen and his parents, and some weaker scholarly houses.”
Wythe noticed that he omitted himself from this brief list of allies. “And your father and Elian?”
Renhold sighed, and kept his eyes averted. “Even Elian thinks you’ve gone too far this time.” He pulled himself up a little, to show his resolve. “Our kingdom includes the northern lands, all the way to the Uttermost Sea, you know that –”
“There are agreements,” Wythe interrupted.
“Yes, agreements that permit your people to live on the marshes and plains, without southern interference. But the agreements make no mention of who has rights to the land’s resources – you permit Toler trapping, for example, and logging –”
“Those agreements are with the Toler, and go many generations back beyond your dynasty. The present agreement with the crown is no interference.” It had not taken long for the conversation to deteriorate, Wythe noticed. Renhold must be under tremendous pressure. Well, so was she, and if he pressed her, she would press back.
“The Toler agreements establish precedent,” Renhold was saying.
“Renhold, I will not discuss the law with you – I am no legal scholar.”
“But the rule of law must apply – without it there will be warfare.”
Wythe stood and went to the table and put her hands on the undisturbed stack of books to lean toward the window. The courtyards of the school were empty.
“Do you know how long my people have inhabited their lands?” she began. “Certainly longer than your nobles have held theirs – and much, much longer than the crown of Vaaseli has presumed to hold authority over its territory.”
“Do you claim these lands as your property then?”
Wythe turned. Renhold sat with his back to her. “They are our home.”
Now he turned, and attempted to look her in the eye. “Oh yes, I know you don’t believe the land can have an owner, other than the Creator – but do you claim your elders have sovereign rights, for example?”
Wythe only held his gaze in reply. He was trying to lead her into a statement that could be defined in terms of law, and she would not do it, not without the advice of counsel.
Renhold sighed and looked away again. “If we cannot come to a peaceful resolution, there will be war – if I refuse to mount an armed assault on your barrier –”
“It would be useless.”
“There are many lords who command great forces who will not believe it without trying – and they’ll do it on their own if I refuse.”
“Then you must stop them. You had better prepare for that, your Highness – or leave them to the Telmi.” And to Farin, she thought to herself. He at least will honor the ancient agreements, and defend the northern lands against assault by rogue nobility.
“You think you’d enjoy a victory?” Renhold's voice was flat, betraying nothing of his own opinion of the Telmi's chances.
Again Wythe held Renhold in her silent regard. There really was no such thing in war as victory, and they both knew it.
After a tense silence, Renhold stood and joined Wythe at the window. Even through the fog of the barrier Wythe could feel his mind struggling with the conflicting demands of friendship, duty, and authority.
“Wythe, why are you doing this to me?” he cried at last in exasperation. “You are the one who put me on the throne, really – and now you’ll see me toppled.”
“You rose to your position yourself, Renhold, through following your own best inclinations. And that is how you’ll keep it.” Wythe felt real pity for the prince, and hoped he knew he hadn’t lost her friendship, but after a moment he clenched his fists, and turned on her and said, coldly, “There will be war, then – and the blood will be on your hands, Maga.” Then he brushed past her quickly, but not so quickly that she could fail to see the tears in his eyes that belied his grim expression. She didn’t turn to see him leave or the guard pull the door shut behind him.
Did he mean that he’d support the war-mongering nobles, or arm his own forces to oppose them? Either way, he blamed her – and so did the Alliance. She could only hope that Mathis understood all the particulars and could find a way to convince the tribunal mages, and that the Alliance could find a way to intervene before it did come to bloodshed. They could blame her and punish her if they liked, but they must do something to protect her people – and Renhold’s.

Renhold could remember a time when being sleepless on a short summer night was a pleasure: it usually meant that he was inspired about something, and working so hard that he simply failed to notice either sunset or sunrise. But in these weeks since Wythe had begun to worry him about Pieter Sevren, and Sevren himself had come to worry him, he found he could not work at all, and counted the hours of darkness desperately, dozing and waking, and wondering if he would ever have a good night’s rest again. His poor sleep was making Elian fractious, too, and she seemed to be even more annoyed with Wythe than he was. Tonight it didn’t help that he knew the maga should be arriving by midday, and he didn’t even bother to go to bed, but instead sat disconsolately all night in an armchair in his study, ignoring the open book in his lap and the cold teapot at his elbow.
The latest news from Lord Farin gave new cause to worry. Since Wythe had left them the shamans had expanded the barrier, till it encompassed all of the Telmi summer pasture, as well as the lands near the sea that they considered sacred. It was obvious that they could extend it as far as they wished, and maintain it without Wythe’s help. It would not be long before the Council of Lords got wind of this development, and he could imagine their outcry. So far the privy council seemed willing to stand by him, but he felt he was almost deceiving rather than leading them. His friends would support his position – but what was his position? He was complying with the Alliance request to take Wythe into custody, though he didn’t like it – and standing up to the nobles who wanted to charge her with treason. That was ridiculous – she was not even a subject. But he had to take some action, and there was none he was willing to take.
Why couldn’t these people be reasonable? What was the harm in scholars examining this phenomenon? He had asked Elian to explain it to him, but what she said just sounded like superstition, a load of old stories, fine to tell on a winter’s night to amuse the children – but not something to found belief on. Some of Telmi belief he felt he understood – it had parallels in what everyone knew of mind-work, even if the Telmi called it power and southerners labeled it magic. Magic only meant skill and wisdom after all. But this business about fire being a particular gift of the Creator to the Telmi – fire was nothing more than a physical phenomenon, whatever might fuel it.
Still, they had a right to their beliefs, and the peace and freedom to practice their religion – if only it needn’t exclude the scientific study of their sacred fire. There must be some way around this objection.
It was relief to Renhold to hear a knock on his study door. The windows of the room were brightening, he noticed, as he went to answer. Another troubled night passed, and another troubled day beginning. When Sev Paarin saw his prince’s bowed shoulders and heard his sigh he came into the room quickly, making only a slight bow, then took Renhold’s hand and pressed it reassuringly.
“We will have Maga Wythe here today, your Highness, and when you have a chance to speak to her –”
“I have no great hopes that it will do any good, Sev. I don’t understand her anymore, I’m afraid. From what Farin tells me, and what she has done already, there seems to be no hope of compromise. Telmi rights are all she can see. I don’t think she is even trying to understand my position.”
“Oh, no, sire – if that were so, she would not have come. She must be willing to consider your views.”
“I wish we had not had to arrest her, though. That will not soften her toward me.”
“But if we want the assistance of the Alliance –”
“I know – if Wythe will only understand that it was an Alliance order.” Renhold began to sigh again, but stopped himself and turned what seemed a gesture of weakness into a deep breath. “But I doubt that you came here so early just to comfort me. What is it?”
“Some of the lords had a meeting last night, and I have heard that they have heard of the expansion of the barrier – and they are taking a most exaggerated position.” Renhold said nothing, but his expression encouraged Lord Sev to continue. “They say they expect it to be expanded yet further, all the way to the Tolmyn, and that it is nothing less than an act of war and rebellion.”
Renhold breathed deeply again. “Summon the privy council for – nine o’clock – I believe we should call for a full Council meeting for both the Lords and the Guilds. We must do something to counter the rumors and accusations. And remind all our people of the authority of the Alliance in the matter of Maga Wythe.”

All of Renhold’s councilors were glad that he had decided to call full Council sessions, and they supported the statement that Lord Chancellor Sev would deliver. It was a firm declaration that any discussion of or preparation for war would be out of the question until there was some judgment in the Alliance case against Maga Wythe. Renhold still felt his actions would be inadequate, because he was acting in the dark, without plans, and depending on a handful of Alliance mages, and he knew that most of his councilors had the same doubts, though they were reluctant to voice them.
“Maga Katya tells me that Mathis Skipman will be acting as Maga Wythe’s counselor at the tribunal,” Renhold offered tentatively before dismissing his advisors. “I would like to communicate with him to share our concerns – he may be able to influence the Alliance to intervene –” As he had expected, this notion met with considerable grumbling, and one after another his councilors aired their objections.
“Already your opposition among the lords suspects foreign influence in your decisions – if you communicate with this Ravellan they will seize upon it as proof that you are selling out Vaaselian interests.”
“And it is hardly safe to share information with the maga’s legal counsel – if we are to settle this matter by law rather than warfare, but settle it satisfactorily to the crown, we cannot afford to give her party any information that they can use to their advantage.”
“Her party? Has she any supporters really?”
“Lord Farin, the Maarinen, some of the guild leaders, some lesser noble houses, like the Taarko of Essin. They may be few, but they are tenacious opponents. They will oppose all the others, right to the brink of civil war. We have seen it before, sire.”
“Best not to speak openly even to Maga Katya, I think.”
“Well, I have not really done so. I suppose you are right. But don’t you think that we should welcome an Alliance decision regarding the Telmi? It is Alliance business to prevent war, after all – and war is war, even if it is between internal factions rather than sovereign nations.”
“But the first move should come from the Alliance, not from the crown.”
“The maga and her counsel will be thinking along the same lines, your Highness,” Lord Sev reminded him. “Mathis Skipman is known to consider all the possibilities whenever he is presented with a problem. He will propose it, I am sure, and provide ample and convincing arguments, without your urging.”
Renhold was obliged to concede that Sev’s judgment of Mathis was entirely accurate. He had proven himself in the last crisis, when he was only a junior diplomat, and all reports of his Alliance legal career since then had only enhanced his reputation for both insight and thoroughness. It was a relief to know that Wythe’s defense was in good hands. If only she would believe that she still had the friendship of the crown, and his own personal affection, and that he needed hers, they might still be able to help each other through this crisis.
“Your highness?” At the sound of Sev’s voice Renhold became aware that the entire room was waiting for him to say something.
“Lord Sev, I should like you to ride out to meet Maga Wythe personally, and assure her that she is facing no Vaaselian charges, and will be inconvenienced as little as possible. And bring her to the castle by a discreet route. And try to discover from Maga Katya just what Alliance wishes are in her regard.” In fact, I wish to be relieved of all responsibility for Wythe as soon as possible, Renhold considered.
“Maga Katya has requested an audience, sire,” Sev replied.
“Then tell her I will see her at her convenience in our apartment. I believe that will be all gentlemen.” The councilors rose from the table one by one and bowed, and went out in silence, though Renhold knew quite well that as soon as the door closed they would begin to speculate about his intentions. And well they might – he was still speculating himself.

Around midday Lord Sev rode out to the foothills to watch for the approach of Maga Wythe and her escort. When he had taken his leave of Prince Renhold, after Maga Katya’s audience, the prince had at last been unable to keep from sleeping, and had already stretched out on the sofa in the sitting room. Princess Elian had stopped Sev in the corridor to ask how he found her husband.
“He is exhausted, and troubled, your Highness. I wish there was something we might do for him, but I can think of nothing beyond this cooperation with the Alliance.”
Elian shook her head and frowned. “I always knew no good would come of Wythe’s Telmi experiment. She is a good soul, and she has a brilliant mind, but she is much too impressionable – and far too romantic. She would rather push her abilities to the extreme than live a useful and happy life –” the princess seemed to be leaving her thought incomplete, and she gave herself a little shake before she gave Sev a crooked smile. “But the Alliance will surely be merciful with her, and she will recover from the disappointment I am sure she is feeling. Please assure her of my love, when you see her.” Sev had known himself dismissed with these words, and bowed, and went out to the castle stables to find a mount for his ride to meet the maga.
Now the hot sun of summer midday was beating down on the trail, and Sev was feeling more uncomfortable with each passing minute. He personally had nothing but admiration for the maga. He remembered her service to his country ten years ago, and considered her to be the bravest woman he had ever heard of – and for a time he had envied her her role in the destruction of Lord Valmur Karoli. He had led Prince Renhold’s armies against Valmur’s forces, and defeated them, and had expected to be the commander to retake Essin and capture the treasonous chancellor – but had found himself upstaged by diplomats and guildsmen, with the ultimate triumph going to a girl of seventeen and Lord Timu Maarinen. But when he had finally met the little Ravellan diplomat any jealousy was out of the question. She was entirely modest about her accomplishments, insisting on giving most of the credit to her companions, and to the loyalists in Essin, and especially to Renhold. In fact, she had become almost a recluse as soon as she returned to the capital, and in the last ten years had removed herself ever further from any involvement in politics, whether in the Ravellan League or in the structure of the Alliance. And now she was the center of another grave political crisis in Vaaseli. Sev couldn’t help feeling profoundly sorry for her. He knew that none of this was her will or intention.
And Sev found he was disturbed by Elian’s attitude. Disappointment? How could she have so little conception of the maga’s situation? Supposedly she knew more of the Telmi than any other southerner, yet she seemed to have no understanding of Maga Wythe’s commitment to the northern people, when even he, who was no more than a politicized warrior, could see that the maga had found something in their tribal culture that she valued above even her personal happiness.
He could not really understand it, but he must certainly admire it.

The little party came down from the north a little past midday, and Sev spurred his horse to meet them. The captain of the maga’s guard halted his soldiers and greeted the chancellor with a salute, and Sev rode up beside Wythe and bowed to her.
“Lord Sev,” she said impassively, as he reached for her hand to raise it to his forehead.
“Their Highnesses send you their cordial greeting, Maga,” he told her. “Princess Elian sends her love.”
Wythe sniffed at this, then closed her eyes for an instant, but when she opened them she looked Sev in the face and smiled. “I thank you for your courtesy, my lord.” The emphasis was on the word “your” Sev noticed.
“Prince Renhold particularly wishes you to realize that you are in Alliance custody, by Alliance order. There are no Vaaselian charges, and you will be detained in as much dignity and comfort as possible, until the Alliance makes its wishes known.” He signed to the captain for the party to continue south, and turned his mount so that he could ride beside Wythe.
“Was there some question of the crown bringing charges against me?” Wythe asked, looking straight ahead down the trail.
“Not as far as his Highness was concerned. Some of the nobles –”
“Well, at least Renhold stood up to them – in that regard.”
“He is attempting to stand up to them in everything, Maga. He only hopes that you will help him.”
“That is what I came south to do – willingly, at his request.”
“He knows it.”
After that there was silence until they were within sight of the castle, an awkward silence, which made Sev feel quite guilty. He felt he should say something supportive, at least, if he could not justify being encouraging. “If you had no friends, Maga,” he attempted at last, “you would have been consigned to the dungeon – but as soon as we knew that we must arrest you, Maga Katya insisted that you be quartered in the Service Hall.”
“Well, that is something – under guard, though, of course?”
Sev only nodded.
“And this mind barrier?”
“Again, Alliance orders.”
Wythe sighed. “And I see we are entering the castle through the palace stables. Will I be taken to Renhold first?”
“No – this is only to avoid unwanted regard.” And for your protection, Sev continued his thought privately, as they rode through the gate, but in spite of the mind-barrier, he felt that the maga knew it. As they dismounted in the stable yard he told her “and I will accompany you to your quarters.”
“Again, my lord, I thank you for your courtesy.”

With the establishment of the foreign embassies in Essin, the quarters in the Service Hall formerly reserved for foreign diplomats had been converted to the use of senior Vaaselian servants whose primary residences were outside the city, and there had been a corresponding shift in the resident population of the Hall, leaving the more modest rooms on the third floor unoccupied. Here Wythe would remain under guard, until the Alliance mages determined what they wished to do with her. Except for Wythe’s all the rooms in the corridor were empty.
It was a small chamber, but not uncomfortable, with its own bath, complete with the clever Essinian plumbing that the Ravellan League had not yet duplicated. The furnishings were plain, but adequate: a bed, a table with a lamp and chair, a wardrobe, and a settee covered with woolen fabric. The little hearth would go unused, unless Wythe were kept here till winter, but that would be unlikely. The windows looked west, across the roofs of the service school, past the stables, to the forested hills above the castle.
Once Sev Paarin had left her there was nothing for Wythe to do but wait and think. Her baggage, as slight as it was, had been confiscated, so she could not even bathe and change. She assumed that someone wanted her to suffer at least some of the indignities of a prisoner.
Wythe took off her boots and stockings and washed her hands and face in the basin in the bathroom, then sat on the edge of the tub and washed her feet. Then she returned to the main chamber and lay down on the bed and began a thought-cleansing exercise. As her mind ordered itself it became quiet, and at last, just as the sun was beginning to strike the shade on the window with its evening gold, she fell asleep.
It was completely dark when a loud rapping on the door awoke her, and Wythe sat up on the bed in a momentary state of confusion.
“Maga Wythe,” the guard said in clear, clipped tones, “there are visitors to see you. May I open now?”
Wythe ran her hands over her face and then through her hair, then got up from the bed. “Yes, you may open.”
The lamplight from the hall came in the door in advance of her visitors, and Wythe was blinking in it when Rava ran up to her and threw her arms around her.
“Ambassadress Smithwell and Maga Katya,” the guard announced unnecessarily.
Katya was carrying a rather large parcel, with a smaller one balanced on top of it, but as soon as she had placed these on the table she embraced Wythe too, and soon all three women were crying. The guard had very sensibly returned to the corridor.
“Guard,” Katya called to him, wiping her eyes, “can you not at least light the Maga’s lamp?”
Wythe and Rava sank down together on the settee, still embracing, but gradually leaving off crying, and once the guard had lighted the lamp and completely retired from the chamber, closing and locking the door behind him, Katya began opening the parcels.
“Plums and apricots and bread – they have not thought to feed you, have they?”
“I was asleep.”
“Even so.” Katya was obviously in a temper, and she took out her displeasure on the larger parcel, snapping the strings that held it together rather than untying them. “We brought you some clothes as well – this is really disgraceful.”
“Sev said I was lucky not to be put in the dungeon – he said it was thanks to you two –”
“Not luck then, was it? – but friendship. You have some friends still, even in Essin.”
“Thank you, Maga.” Wythe rose and went to Katya, taking her hands and pressing them to her bowed forehead; then Katya smiled and returned the gesture, and they embraced again.
“Someone will come with tea in a minute,” said Rava. “Come and eat, Wythe.”
While Wythe ate her friends unpacked the clothing they had acquired for her – two dark linen skirts, four white blouses, underclothes and stockings – and put them away in the wardrobe. Wythe was grateful for the sweet summer fruit from southern orchards and the soft bread of city bakers, and when a servant arrived with a tea tray she drank a cup quickly, without milk or honey. When Katya had poured her a second cup she sighed and sat back on the sofa, and smiled, for the first time since leaving Farin, she realized.
“And now you can tell us what’s happened,” said Rava, stirring her own tea. “Of course we know better than to trust the rumor mill of Essin.”
“You have spoken to Renhold, haven’t you?”
“No, he will not speak to us about you,” Katya replied. “His councilors advised him not to. I suppose they fear he will say something sympathetic that you or we will use against him later.”
Rava saw Wythe’s confusion, and took her hand. “You have few supporters among the nobles, Wythe. Even those whom you might count as friends have reason to dislike your recent actions, or so they believe.”
“But we do not even know exactly what those actions are – nor do they – that is what is so perturbing,” said Katya.
Wythe looked from one friend to the other. “Perhaps I should not speak either.”
Rava and Katya shared a worried look for a moment.
“We are your friends,” said Rava firmly.
“I think that what I need is legal counsel – an Alliance lawyer.”
“Mathis Skipman,” Rava said at once. “He has already communicated with me. He asked me to offer you his services. Speaking to me will be the same as speaking to Mathis, I swear it.”
“And I need to consult with Faj Bahran.”
“Mathis thought of that too. They are both already in the Spring Islands, awaiting your arrival.”
“Is that where they are going to take me?”
Rava and Katya both nodded. “To face an Alliance tribunal,” said the Maga. Wythe nodded, beginning to believe she saw the reasons.
“And I need to see Renhold.”
Both women sighed.
“He is prince regent,” Wythe said warmly. “He need not do only as the privy council tells him. He must wish to see me. I can’t believe I have lost even his friendship.”
“No,” Katya assured her. “He is still your friend. But he is being pressured by both his friends and his enemies.”
“I know – Farin told me. That is why I came south – to speak to him so that he will understand and have the means to stand up to the pressure.” Wythe stood and shook her head, then began pacing. “I never expected to be arrested and imprisoned. I came at Renhold’s request – I was coming willingly. There was no need for –” she wheeled around when she came to the locked door, flinging out her arms, then dropping them suddenly and hanging her head “—this.”
“Please, Wythe,” Rava tried again. “Tell us exactly what’s happened.”

It took a long time, with many pauses for clarification. Neither Rava nor Katya was particularly well-versed in Telmi studies, though Rava had learned the language cursorily many years before. But Wythe explained patiently and carefully, and she knew that Rava would use all her excellent powers of recall to transmit the information accurately to Mathis. And Mathis himself would understand it better: he had been with Wythe and Timu among the Telmi when her powers began to develop. He was skeptical of what she and the Telmi believed, but he understood it as well as any outsider could. And Faj in a way would have an even greater understanding than Mathis, because he was a man of faith.
“It is a bad situation,” said Katya at last. “I think you and Renhold each have some right on your side.” Wythe sniffed at this, and Katya laid a hand on her arm. “I mean legal right. The land where your fires burn is part of Vaaseli, and under Renhold’s sovereignty, but he has a moral obligation to your people.” The maga sighed heavily. “I will do everything I can to help him remember that, and I will try to persuade him to see you.”
“And now you should get some real rest, Wythe,” Rava said. “Tomorrow I will communicate with Mathis.” She kissed Wythe’s cheek and then stood. “Have a bath and put on your nightdress, and sleep a proper sleep. Things may look – different in the morning.” She picked up the tea tray, while Katya and Wythe exchanged kisses. As her friends left her Wythe could hear the distant sound of the castle watch calling the third hour of the short summer night.