Page 5 of Strange Familiar

Alise opened her mouth to protest, taken aback at the casual dismissal of the head of House Harahel. Not something that would occur in House Elal, where her father had spirit spies everywhere and knew all that was spoken about him. At the woman’s stern look, however, Alise closed her mouth again. Cillian had spoken fondly of his grandmother.

“I greet you, Wizard Órlaith Harahel,” Alise said, remembering her manners. “I realize that it’s very early and our arrival strange and alarming, but I really must insist on explaining—”

Alise broke off as a servant entered the room and the older woman turned away. Alise shook her head to herself. Manual messages, a real fire in the fireplace. These people lived as if magical conveniences didn’t exist.

“What?” Órlaith turned back from giving instructions to the servant. “You think you need to explain that my grandson nearly killed himself to carry a massive folded archive to us that he stole from Convocation Center?”

~ 4 ~

Well, yes, Alise rather had thought she’d need to mention that—and the fact that Cillian’s grandmother had leapt to the wrong conclusion only proved it. At least she didn’t have to explain about the non-physical burden he carried. “He didn’t steal the archive.”

“Shall we debate the definition of ‘theft’?” the old wizard asked absently from his chair, the big tome he’d carried now spread open on his lap.

“In so far as it is the sacred duty of all Harahels to ensure that the Convocation Archives remain intact and inside the Convocation Archive walls, and considering that my grandson, with an employment contract to Convocation Academy, has indeed removed a sizable chunk from those archives, then I believe I’ll stick with how I described the situation.” She gave Alise an owlish look over her spectacles. “And I’m very interested in your explanation for why these are House Phel archives, given your earlier speech about affiliation with that house, which—if I’m not mistaken—is still on probationary status.”

“You’re not mistaken, Órlaith,” the elderly wizard inserted. “In fact, the progress of House Phel toward regaining their high house status has hit so many setbacks that one must regard their movement as going backward.”

How could these reclusive sorts in the backwoods know so much? Most wizards actively involved in the Convocation didn’t know that much about the challenges facing House Phel. Alise wrestled with how to respond. This had been Cillian’s idea, to request aid from House Harahel on comparing the records on House Phel in the Convocation Archives with those maintained at House Harahel. It had become abundantly clear that House Hanneil—possibly conspiring with other high houses—had arranged for those records to be hidden away. The possibility remained that they’d also altered key information, probably to disguise the reasons and methodology in bringing about the fall of the high house generations ago. Alise knew that Cillian also worried about the potential involvement of a Harahel wizard in the conspiracy. Only sophisticated library magic could have hidden the archive to begin with.

All of this meant that Alise was out of her depth and really needed Cillian to handle this. But they needed to save him first. “Please tell the wizards helping Cillian that the folded archive is pass-coded to him. They won’t be able to unlock it without that.”

“They’ve already relieved him of the burden. He can unlock it later.”

Oh. Abruptly deflated, mostly relieved, Alise considered what to say next.

Órlaith threw up her hands then pointed at a settee with a low table before it. “Oh, for dark arts’ sake, sit already. I’m not pleased to have an Elal on my doorstep, but I’m not going to eat you.”

Almost reflexively, Alise obeyed, the tone of command making the realization click in her tired brain at last. Something she should have realized much sooner. “You are Lady Harahel,” she said in a tone of wonder.

Órlaith snorted and the elderly wizard by the fire—possibly the retired Lord Harahel?—cackled. “Not as stupid as she looks, eh, Órlaith?”

“Gee thanks,” Alise said sourly, not sure if she was more bothered that she’d been dense or by the implication that she looked that way. “I am not at my best.”

Órlaith dropped onto the couch beside Alise with a sigh. “Well, my little attempt at subterfuge wasn’t going to last long. I apologize for the deception. I wanted to have a conversation with you as Cillian’s grandmother, not as Lady Harahel.”

That penetrated Alise’s fuzzy brain, too. “Cillian… is a scion of House Harahel—in line to be your heir?” she squeaked.

Órlaith waved that off. “Technically, but the boy isn’t at all interested in heading a high house. No more than I am, truth be told, nor would I be Lady Harahel if some people hadn’t decided they’d rather spend their days reading.” She glared at the elderly wizard’s back and he hummed a jaunty tune, turning a page and otherwise ignoring her.

Alise was still coping with the news that Cillian had failed to reveal. In all their conversations about her feelings on being her father’s heir or not, and their few, minimalistic relationship discussions, Cillian had never seen fit to mention that his beloved grandmother was the head of his house. She should have kicked him when she had the opportunity. In fact, once he was recovered—and he’d better recover—she would kick him. “Wait, a moment,” she said, sitting up straighter. “Cillian said that you garden. And bake. And quilt. And send him dried herbs.”

“Does he use those then?” She looked pleased, then narrowed her wizard-black eyes, her formidable power mantling. Alise had underestimated this woman, not accustomed to sussing out the subtler, academic magics. But Órlaith was no fool and she was definitely wizard enough to pose a threat. “What is your relationship with my boy, by the way?”

Oops. Definitely not a conversation she wanted to have without Cillian present. She had no idea if he’d want his family, his house—the head of his house!—to know about their affair. It was so new, too tender for public scrutiny. Besides, clearly Órlaith already didn’t approve of Alise. “I’m a student at the academy,” she answered evenly, “and Cillian assisted me on an independent study project, assigned by Provost Uriel,” she added, thinking that bit of authority would lend credence to the perception that her relationship with Cillian was entirely professional.

Órlaith wasn’t fooled, however. She regarded Alise cannily. “Tandiya Uriel is involved in this?” She considered, pursing her lips.

“Uriel hates Hanneil,” commented the wizard by the fire. Alise wondered why he even pretended to be reading when he clearly listened to every word of their conversation. It was no accident that these two had her cornered in this library, conducting what could only be called an interrogation.

Just then, the doors opened and two young servants wheeled in a cart. They bustled about, replacing the retired Lord Harahel’s teapot with a freshly steaming one, and setting a full tray on the table before Alise and Órlaith. Once they left, closing the door behind them, Alise teetered on the edge of etiquette anxiety. As a guest, she could not reach for anything before her hostess did. Certainly she couldn’t serve herself before Lady Harahel did. But the servants had all left and the head of a high house wouldn’t—

Órlaith Harahel reached for the teapot and poured for them both, bringing Alise’s thoughts to a stuttering halt for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last half an hour since they’d arrived. She knew exactly how long it had been, as they at least had an El-Adrel clock on the mantel, one she kept eyeing, wondering how long it would be until someone brought news of Cillian.

She accepted the cup on its pretty saucer, both antiques, but not matching each other or anything else. Órlaith put a steaming cinnamon roll on a plate and set it before Alise. “Eat. Drink,” she instructed crisply. “It’s no fun to interrogate a waifish wizardling who looks about to pass out on my settee.”

Alise smiled at the cinnamon roll, which looked exactly like the sort Cillian baked for her, and unexpectedly had to choke back tears. Órlaith patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. Cillian will be fine. Your compassionate interest in the health of your independent study advisor is quite moving. Convocation Academy must have changed since my day, cultivating such close relationships between staff and students.”

The wily old bitch. Alise took a hearty sip of the steaming tea, willing the burn to clear her head and wake her up. Eyes dry, she looked over to Órlaith, who watched her knowingly. “It’s rather impolite to read my thoughts without permission,” she noted candidly.

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