Aruendiel turned and looked piercingly at Nora. She cocked an eyebrow at him and waited.
“Those are excellent questions,” he said finally. His harsh voice was mellowed with amusement. “You have touched on one of the more important concerns for any magician working a transformation—how thorough the change should be. The simple answer is that it depends on the spell. But to answer your particular questions, a magician of any skill whatsoever transforms himself only at his own will, not because of any curse. Yes, he would know that he was really a man, but he would also be an owl for the length of the spell, so yes, he would be able to fly and he would find the owl’s diet and habits, ah, perfectly acceptable.”
“And why wouldn’t he mention this practice of his to other people?”
“I doubt he would go to great pains to keep it secret. But he might feel that it was his own business. And he might be aware that some people find such transformations frightening.”
“Well, disconcerting. All the more reason to give someone fair warning.”
Aruendiel inclined his head to suggest that she had a point. There was only the suggestion of a smile on his lips, but he had the air of enjoying himself. “And why this sudden interest in owls?”
“I should have figured it out sooner,” Nora said, with some frustration. “I couldn’t understand how you made it to the village ahead of me that time without leaving tracks in the snow. And I’ve heard owls outside at night I don’t know how often. And the little feather you gave me when I first met you. But I didn’t put it all together until I found an owl pellet inside the house. That’s a little disgusting, you know,” she added severely.
“Owls are messy birds. But I shall have to take more care in the future.”
“Do the Toristels know? The villagers? Am I the only one who didn’t know?”
“Mrs. Toristel no doubt drew her own conclusions long ago from the number of times she has found my bedroom window open. She is always careful not to close it. The villagers—they probably scare their children with some garbled tale.”
“Probably,” said Nora, remembering how Morinen had glanced around nervously in the twilight at the suggestion that the villagers might be angry at Aruendiel. “Why an owl, anyway? Is that the only thing that you can change yourself into?”
“Of course not,” he said quickly. “But I almost always change shape at night, so it is logical to take the form of an owl.”
“Why at night?” Nora asked doubtfully, reminded of Raclin.
“My back is often stiff and sore, it is hard to sleep.” He rubbed one crooked shoulder ruefully. “I find it a relief to slip into another body and use those muscles without pain.”
“Oh,” she said, slightly nonplussed. “I’m sorry. You never mention that.”
“It is also true that some shapes feel more natural than others. I have always had a fondness for birds of prey. When I was younger, I often chose the form of a hawk or perhaps a raven. Hirizjahkinis has a preference for songbirds. My friend Micher Samle usually turns himself into a mouse.”
Nora considered this information for a moment. “What if you forgot that you were really a man, or forgot the spell? Would you remain an owl forever?”
“Again, that depends on the spell, but that risk is one reason why transformation spells are a relatively advanced form of magic. Even some very good magicians have made serious mistakes in that area.”
“So when can I—”
“You are a long way from the point where you might attempt a simple transformation,” Aruendiel said, with a frown. “You had better work on your levitation spell first. You should be able to keep that feather in the air for longer than half a minute by now.”
Aruendiel seemed more at ease with her now, for some reason, Nora thought, watching the feather that lay before her. It moved upward in little jerks, then sidestepped her attention and floated gently down to the tabletop again. The change in his manner had something to do with their clash over the boots and how they had made peace. The understanding that they had reached then was more complicated than the one he had outlined to Mrs. Toristel, but she could not quite explain it even to herself. Some sort of treaty had been drawn up, establishing secure, well-defined borders and allowing safe commerce over them.
She picked up the feather and brushed it lightly against her nose, then set it carefully in the air. Two minutes, she estimated, when it finally drifted down, but Aruendiel had already left the room.
His lordship’s got a visitor,” said Morinen’s brother Resk with a faint air of importance, ducking through the door and coming into the hut.
Nora looked up from the floor, where Morinen had been showing her how to grind acorns for a Null Days pudding. “He’s not expecting anyone. But Mrs. Toristel’s daughter is coming from Barsy for the holiday.”
Resk shook his head, evidently enjoying the chance to display superior knowledge. “I know Lolo—this wasn’t her,” he said. “Besides, Lolo can’t fly.” He jerked his head upward. “This one was flapping on something like a big bird.”
Intrigued, Nora thought for a moment, trying to decide which of the few magicians whom Aruendiel considered his friends might pay a visit with no notice. “Was it a woman? With black skin?”
“A man, for sure. Coming from the northeast.”
“The northeast?” The Faitoren were somewhere to the northeast. Instantly Nora was on her feet, brushing crumbs of acorn meal off her skirt. “It wasn’t a
“Never saw the dragon—I was in Red Gate that day,” Resk said with some wistfulness. “No, this one looked like a big bird to me.”
“I think I’d better get back,” Nora said to Morinen. “Mrs. Toristel will be wondering where I am, anyway. I told her I’d be home right after market.”
Morinen rubbed her shoulder—she had been doing most of the grinding—and grinned at Nora. “Maybe it’s someone to see you,” she said.
“That would not necessarily be a good thing,” Nora said, thinking of the Faitoren.
She ran most of the way to the castle, the cold air raking her lungs, her mind busy with a convincing premonition of catastrophe. If the flying visitor was not an enemy—Resk might be wrong, the wings could belong to something like a dragon, to Raclin himself—then it was all too likely he was a friend with bad news. Had something happened to Hirizjahkinis again?
She pushed open the castle gate cautiously. In the muddy snow of the courtyard was an apparatus that she recognized: gigantic wings growing from a wooden stem. An Avaguri’s mount. So it wasn’t Raclin who had come, some comfort there. She raced into the house. The great hall was empty, but there were a few traces of snow on the floor, slowly melting. Without taking off her cloak, she ran into the tower. There were voices above, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying as she clattered up the steps.
When she reached the top of the stairs—breathing hard now—both Aruendiel and his visitor turned to stare at her. They were sitting near the fire, each with a goblet of ale. Aruendiel was leaning on his elbow on the table beside him; the other man had crossed his legs and was comfortably clasping one knee with his arms. Neither of their attitudes indicated great tension, but Nora took in the visitor’s fleshy features and knew she had seen him before.
“What’s wrong?” she blurted out.
“There is nothing wrong, Mistress Nora,” Aruendiel said sharply. The initial look of inquiry on his face was replaced with impatience. “For once, we have a visitor who brings us no ill news. This is the magician Dorneng Hul, whom you may remember from Semr.”
“I do.” Nora said something polite about meeting Dorneng again, too rattled to remember the correct Ors form, but it was close enough. “But you’ve been guarding the Faitoren, right? What are you doing here?”
A slightly anxious smile twitched Dorneng Hul’s thick lips. “Oh, I wouldn’t presume to ‘guard the Faitoren.’ That’s beyond the power of most magicians, present company excepted.” He gave a quick nod in Aruendiel’s direction. “But I do keep an eye on them in case they try to cause any trouble.”
“That’s what I meant,” Nora said. “So why are you here?”
