“You forgot letting visitors look in the mirror,” said Erzefezonim.
“I didn’t forget,” said the Wizard. “I just hadn’t got to that part yet. We may also allow guests to gaze into the reflecting pool, the Magic Mirror, and see what transpires far afield. Or not, depending.”
“Depending?” asked Anya.
“Depending on whether it works or not,” said the Wizard. “Very tricky things, reflecting pools. Got to balance the light just right, the fall of shadow. Highly technical business. I’m still getting the hang of it.”
“I would very much like your advice,” said Anya politely.
“Certainly,” replied the Wizard. “Ask aw—”
She was interrupted by the sudden harsh alarm of a rapidly struck bell, followed by a single rather muffled bark from Ardent, whose stomach was so full it was squishing his bark-making innards.
“Front door,” said Tinya.
“Without an appointment,” said the Wizard, her eyes narrowing.
“Very rude,” rumbled Sygror, pushing back his chair.
Suddenly all the dwarves were getting up … and they had much bigger and sharper knives in their hands than anything that had been laid on the table.
The Wizard had her head tilted to one side, in the characteristic pose that Anya recognized as her listening to one of her invisible apprentices. She raised a hand and gestured to the dwarves.
“It’s only a Gerald the Herald,” she said. The knives disappeared and the dwarves sat back down. Anya detected a general air of disappointment, as if they’d actually looked forward to some greater trouble.
“Bring him in,” said the Wizard to the empty air. She turned to Anya. “Go on.”
“I’ll wait,” said Anya. “I don’t want a Gerald the Herald to know what I’m asking.”
“Sensible,” said the Wizard. “More wine?”
“I don’t drink wine,” said Anya. “I’m too young.”
“You are wise. Ever thought of becoming a wizard?”
“Not before now,” said Anya. “I’ve always wanted to be a sorcerer … ”
Her voice trailed off as the Good Wizard raised her eyebrows.
“But not so much anymore,” continued Anya.
This was true. She’d always loved reading about sorcery, and learning the small spells she had mastered so far. The sneezing and the twitches and the occasional rash that came with the sorcery had seemed a small price to pay, and she had never really looked ahead to what would come of wielding greater sorcery, denying the connection between herself and Duke Rikard. He must have started in just the same small way, many years ago.
Now she had finally realized that the path she had put her feet on would inexorably lead either to becoming something essentially inhuman like the Duke, or to being someone like Gotfried. Much as she loved her friend, she had to admit he had been badly damaged by sorcery, and not just because he kept turning into an owl. The librarian was both deathly afraid of sorcery and fascinated by it, which was not a good combination.
Anya was still very much interested in magic, and wanted to learn more about it and the different kinds that were practiced in Yarrow. But she had lost much of her interest in sorcery. Or so she told herself, denying that small part of her that insisted on whispering deep in her mind that it could all be worth it. Just think of the power, said the voice. Think of the amazing spells you could do—
“I might be interested in becoming a wizard,” acknowledged Anya, banishing that niggling voice from going on about sorcery being so much superior to all other forms of magic.
“Frogkisser to Become Wizard!” bellowed a voice from near the door. “Princess-Wizard-Frogkisser Triple Threat!”
A Gerald the Herald in wet motley stood dripping in his guest slippers by the door. He was holding a raven under his arm, the large black bird surprisingly quiescent.
“Stop that!” called out the Wizard. “I understand you have a message for me?”
“Raven express,” said Gerald. He held up the raven. “Private, not one of our messengers. Only it couldn’t ring the bell, so I … ah … volunteered to help.”
“What were you doing within the bounds of my demesne in the first place?” asked the Wizard.
“Wanted to ask for an appointment, Your Wiseness,” said the herald, wiping his nose. “Following up the Frogkisser story. Want to make a statement?”
“No,” said the Wizard. “Hand over the messenger.”
“What about you, Princess?” asked Gerald. He was a different one from the herald in the forest, Anya noticed. He was taller and his hair and moustache looked real. On the other hand, his nose had been artificially lengthened by a wax extension that was coming adrift after getting too wet in the rain.
“I think you need better glue to hold your nose on,” Anya advised. “You can quote me on that. Otherwise I have nothing to say.”
Gerald pinched his nose to keep it together, and released the raven, which flew to the Wizard.
“Wery vell,” he said, with some dignity. “As you vish. I vill vrite the story vrom over thources.”
“He means he’s going to repeat whatever Duke Rikard tells him,” said the Wizard, who was reading the small scroll that had been tied to the raven’s leg. The raven, meanwhile, was eating a long piece of pork crackling. “So off you go, Gerald. You can take this raven with you. I don’t care for eavesdroppers, human or avian.”
“It’s raining again,” said the herald rather pathetically. “And cold.”
“Give him an umbrella and some food,” said the Wizard to the air. She looked at the raven. “And you can take that strip of fat, Master Corvus.”
The raven ruffled his neck feathers, tapped his beak on the table without letting go of the piece of crackling, and flew to the herald, who was being turned around by invisible hands.
“Wizard’s Invisible Brutes Torment Truth Seeker!” shouted the herald as he was bustled out. The raven stood on Gerald’s head, still eating the fat.
“Who is the message from?” asked Anya.