Page 7 of Strange Familiar

“I see,” Lady Harahel said, nodding thoughtfully. “Thank you for that explanation.” She set down her teacup and saucer with a crisp clink. “I’ll see that supplies are packed for you. We removed the air elemental that you… modified from the carriage and substituted a standard, Elal-brand entity.”

“You can’t take my elemental.”

“Can and did, young Alise. I must say, I’m surprised you were so ambitious—and careless in your arrogance—as to create a monster like you did with the elemental you arrived with. It had to be contained.”

“I was in a hurry,” Alise said through gritted teeth, defensive and confused, a bad combination. How had the librarian wizards handled sophisticated spirit magic like that? “All I cared about was getting Cillian here before the burden of those archives killed him.”

“I’m not unappreciative of your motivation,” Órlaith said, graciously, not unkindly, but with steel beneath. “Still, I urge you to bear firmly in mind what I told you about your father and his ambitious nature, which you clearly share. The greatest danger is when we are willing to discard ethics and rationality in the name of expedience. All villains believe they’re making choices for the right reasons, even with good intentions, but if they’ve abandoned their integrity, breaking the rules to achieve a goal… Well, that’s when you go bad.”

Alise, even more deeply offended, struggled to keep up. She’d never been in control of this conversation and now she found herself firmly on the losing end of it. It didn’t help that Lady Harahel had put her finger exactly on Alise’s greatest fear: that she was inherently a monster and would become like her father.

“My sympathies on the passing of your dear maman, by the way,” Órlaith said with what looked like a genuine smile. “I always liked her and was sorry when she succumbed to the Fascination and bonded as Piers’s familiar. She was far too young to die.”

Pierced through the heart, Alise froze, unable to summon a reply. She had set her grief and guilt aside, knowing she’d caused Maman’s death, no matter that no one else blamed her for it. She had been arrogant, thinking herself so clever to discover and execute a method to sever the wizard-familiar bond. She’d thought to free her mother from her father’s tyranny and neglect, to save Maman’s life, but her mother had wasted away, passing without ever regaining consciousness. At least only a handful of people knew what had really happened.

Except… did Lady Harahel somehow know this, too? Órlaith gazed at her steadily, her dark curls, so like Cillian’s except threaded here and there with silver, giving her a softer appearance than those hard, black eyes evinced.

“Thank you for your sympathies,” Alise replied through numb lips, the habitual reply seeing her through the roar in her mind.

“Of course.” Órlaith patted her on the hand and stood. “Now, I’ll see to supplies for you so you can be on your way.”

“On my way?”

“Yes.” Lady Harahel gave her a sunny smile. “I want you gone. As soon as feasible.”

~ 5 ~

Cillian awoke with a sense of refreshed wellbeing, aware first and foremost that he’d been relieved of the terrible, voracious burden of the stolen archive. Thank all the dark arts for that. Coming home had been the correct solution.

For home he was, lying in his bed in his old room at House Harahel. Though he came home less often these days, often preferring to spend academy breaks pursuing his own projects in the Convocation Archives to traveling, his room hadn’t changed much. Outside his mullion-paned windows, made of warped, human-made glass and lined with lead solder, not the perfectly clear glass made by Byssan wizards, a thick snow fell. Inside, it smelled of woodsmoke, old wood, and the distinctive scent of books. All sang quietly of his cozy childhood and the comforts of home, down to the warm quilt covering him, made by his grandmother.

He couldn’t wait to show Alise around and—he wasn’t embarrassed to admit to himself—show her off to his family. His mother and father would love her as he did. They’d admire her incisive intelligence and delicate beauty. Most of all, they’d see through her cool reserve that protected her huge heart. Alise had never had a loving family, the comforting tokens of a cherished and protected childhood as those that now surrounded him. He wanted to give her that. There weren’t that many things he could offer Alise that were his alone to give, but this was one.

Stirring, he sat up, finding the expected teapot under a cozy on his bedside table, his favorite tea within, and poured himself a cup. He told himself he wasn’t disappointed Alise wasn’t there, waiting for him to awaken. She wasn’t the sort to sit by the bedsides of invalids. Hopefully she slept, recovering from her own ordeal. The El-Adrel clock on his bedside table showed it was a little after six, but he couldn’t tell from the dim wintry light if it was morning or evening. He could have slept the clock around, as worn out as he’d been.

Drinking the tea down and pouring another cup, he willed his mind to clear. He didn’t remember much about the journey to House Harahel. Wanting to sleep and being unable to. His head aching as if boulders had been stuffed inside, cracking open his skull. Alise’s worry.

But it was all fine now. They’d made it to House Harahel safe and sound, with the precious House Phel archive intact. All was well.

Eager to find Alise—he was quite sure the light was growing, not dying—he flung off the enfolding quilts and hurried to the bathing chamber. A long time ago, when he’d only daydreamed about having Alise, never truly believing she’d return his feelings, even temporarily, he’d fantasized about showing her his home. They could go ice-skating, one of his few—all right, only—athletic skills. She would be so surprised by his prowess. Though he’d be rusty. His life at Convocation Academy left him little time for frivolities like ice-skating.

If Alise slept still, he’d go down to the pond and warm-up a bit. He should make sure it was swept free of snow anyway. Perhaps he could put a few surprises in place, like some hot chocolate and cookies. Happily anticipating Alise’s delight, he quickly bathed. No grooming imps or water elementals in House Harahel. The Harahels were prickly in their insularity, deeply distrustful of the rest of the Convocation, and abjured magical conveniences made by other houses, with very few exceptions.

With a sigh, he acknowledged to himself that they had good reason. Especially now, with the high houses taking sides in what seemed to be shaping up into an all-out war. But those were thoughts for another day. He wanted to enjoy being at home, to share all of his favorite parts with his beloved. They’d earned a moment or two of peace, a little time to simply enjoy each other.

Entering the breakfast room, he found his grandmother with her ubiquitous pot of tea, an empty breakfast plate pushed to the side to make room for several open books before her. He’d hoped to find her there, though he’d expected more of his family to be there also. As he entered, she glanced up and smiled, springing from her chair to embrace him.

“My boy,” she cried, holding him close. “It’s so good to have you home.” She pulled back scrutinizing him. “How do you feel?”

“Excellent,” he answered, meaning it. The vigor of extensive Refoel healing coursed through him, making him feel fresher and brighter than in ages. He mentally corrected himself that House Harahel didn’t eschew all wizardry from other houses. They did keep an in-house Refoel wizard—though it was always someone with a good portion of Harahel blood, and loyalty, along with it. “Where is everyone?”

“It’s early yet and, besides, I wanted to talk to you alone, so I sent the few early risers along when I sensed you awake. Sit. Have some breakfast. Tea?”

Cillian let her pour, happy enough to have her fuss over him. When he’d been a kid, he’d thought everyone’s grandmother knew exactly what they were up to. Only after he grew up some, and after hearing warnings from his siblings and cousins, did he discover his beloved gran was not only an accomplished mind-reader, but she also had no regard for privacy when it came to looking after her family and house. Oh, she didn’t pry deeply—so far as he knew—but she kept a mental finger on the pulse of surface thoughts at House Harahel. She considered it part of her sacred duty.

“Now,” his grandmother said, twinkling at him, clearly pleased to see him fill his plate, “tell me everything.”

He nodded, his mouth full of freshly baked and frosted cinnamon roll. No matter how he tried, he could never make his own taste like the ones at home. One of the pastry chefs at the academy had suggested that it could be the water at House Harahel that made the difference. Cillian had been tempted to carry some back with him, to test the theory, but had never gotten around to it. Maybe this was his opportunity. Alise could help him perform the taste-test.

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