The moment came that he had been waiting for all night. The village matrons returned from their cottages, bowing deeply every few steps. Nemeth eyed them warily. Did they have his breakfast? Yes! What a relief that they had never ceased to marvel at the wonder of the glowing sign on the tree. Now came the inevitable speculation on the meaning of the sign. If there had been a competent schoolmaster in their midst he would have pointed out that all it said was
walnut tree,
the eponymous sponsor of this blighted spot, not a message from Mother Nature and Father Time. Nemeth quelled his feelings of hunger and waited for them to go away. He had gone through the book for the correct signs to help make the coming day warm and clement so they would leave him alone. They must see that there was not a moment to waste in a potentially productive day. These farmers and artisans worked from the moment they rose until sunset, and if resources afforded it, celebrated in the evenings until their tallow dip candles or stinking oil lamps burned out. A fine day was a gift.
See that sunshine?
he thought at them.
The tree gives you a gift, its last gift. Go away. Don’t make me make you go.
Indeed, he did not want to hurt anyone.
These people were not the objects of his coming vengeance. He was sorry, sorry, sorry about what had happened to the man near that little inn. Nemeth looked upon his imprisonment in this tree as a punishment for killing, but the brigand had sought to steal his beloved book. That must never happen. It was joined to him now and forevermore. He was a part of it. He liked to see the page on which his own rune appeared joined with the book, seeing his own place in the great scope of creation.
He was sorrier still about the cows.
It had been months ago, and he was still haunted by his clumsiness.
He had only been trying to help. The book’s awesome power led him to believe that he could do anything. One cow had been on the ground, straining to give birth. The tendons in its neck were distended. The calf had breached, and both it and its mother were growing weak. He had stared at the rune, seen what he believed to be the block preventing the calf from emerging, and reached into his power to rewrite it. As soon as he had, his alterations had affected the entire herd. The animals seemed to come apart horribly before his eyes. He scrambled through the pages to find similar cow runes to use as guides. He had put the bodies back together as best he could. He was no herdsman or healer, with detailed knowledge of the species. He could not remember how they were, so he could not change them back. Thanks to the book, the poor creatures were still alive, but horrific to behold. He was so ashamed and horrified that he ran away. After that Nemeth realized the import of keeping the original rune memorized in case he failed at his design.
The book forgave him. With a guilty conscience, Nemeth turned to the page with the herd’s runes. There they were, the poor beasts, changed but still alive. There was so much to remember! But the power was delicious and divine. He would never give it up, never. Once he had succeeded in his vengeance, he would find a place where he could study it all to his heart’s content.
He was not sorry at all about the thraiks he had destroyed. He hated them intensely and always had. When walking the endless miles palled, Nemeth had tried to fly. The thraik appeared out of nowhere. They wanted the book. They could sense it. They would not have it, not now or ever. He cut them into pieces, destroying all of them. More would surely follow. Nemeth had returned to the ground, unwilling to make himself vulnerable, though he regretted losing the ease of flight. He created a shield to hide himself from anything that might spy on him from above. From the anger in the voices, it blocked their oversight of him as well. He felt smugness at their frustration.
The sounds died away. The clearing was his own, at last. Nemeth crept out, ate as much as he could of the food, and stowed away the rest in the leather pouch. He gathered up the book and prepared to bid the tree a relieved farewell, when voices, live voices, burst out, not twenty yards away. Hastily, he hurried back inside the trunk. Out of his peephole he saw to his dismay two old men tottering into the common. They sat down on a bench in the doorway of one of the houses and began to chat. Nemeth was desperate to leave. He could not remain one more
day and keep his sanity. When their attention was distracted, he opened the book to the tree’s rune, and urged it to move.
There may have been a mild protest from the tree’s soul, but it had no choice but to obey. The earth swirled around the roots like swamp water, and the walnut tree shifted slowly and smoothly to the north, away from the spot it had been planted more than three hundred years before. Nemeth rode in his capsule of rotted wood as comfortably as if he was sailing on smooth water. The tree came to a halt about a foot from where it had begun. The rune displayed a kind of shrinkage about it, as if it had exhausted its energy in taking such an unnatural action. Nemeth let it rest. With luck, he could get it past the old men and close enough to the nearest house so that he could break out of his prison and flee into the woods before they had noticed.
Nemeth had not reckoned with a countryman’s eye. One of the granddads looked up from his conversation, and his rheumy eyes went wide.
“Well, damn, loo’ a tree!” He drew his companion’s attention to the newest wonder. With more speed than Nemeth thought they were capable of, the elder hobbled to the edge of the village, and the younger came over to see the miracle up close.
In minutes, the entire population had returned.
Nemeth’s heart sank. Making the tree walk had rendered it even more sacred in the minds of the villagers, seeing it as a combined miracle of Nature
and
Time. The vigil started all over again, more sacrifices were rendered, and the singing resumed. Quaking with anger, Nemeth cursed himself for his foolishness. He must take the risk and get out of the tree the moment that the common was empty, no matter what hour it was.
At last, that moment came. Long past midnight, the excited villagers had not ceased discussing the renewed marvel, but they were falling asleep where they stood, and the thin, new moon had already sunk into the west. A few at a time, they left the common, always looking back to see if anything new was going to happen. Nemeth held himself dead still, determined that he would give them no reason to return.
He opened the crack in the bark, paying close attention to any small noise it would make. Stepping out backwards, he drew his pouch and the precious book out afterward. As an act of will, the fissure snapped back to its original shape. The night was black. He would have to rely upon the runes to tell him where his escape route lay.
As he came around the tree, a couple of drunken men staggered out of the rough-hewn house that served the village as town hall and inn. One carried a candle, which cast the heavy bones of his face into relief. Oh, why, why couldn’t they sleep after sunset like decent folks?
“Who be tha’?” the other asked.
“Dunno,” said the one with the light. “Who be yer?”
Nemeth didn’t reply. Keeping an eye on them over his shoulder, he made for the trees.
“Heya, he be stealin’ our mir’cle!”
The rune! Nemeth glanced back at the walnut tree. The sigil had faded already to half the glow lent it by the book. He had no time to worry about it. The men were behind him, chasing the brilliance of the runes that surrounded him.
Unfortunately, they knew the land intimately, and though he had been there a month, he knew only the inner dimensions of the tree. Nemeth felt for steady footing in the deep blackness, scrabbling at walls and tree trunks with his one free hand. Clumsily the men pursued him, the one carefully cherishing his candle.
Nemeth saw a narrow path marked by the runes of two holly bushes. He made for it. Something rustled in the undergrowth, then fastened onto his ankles. He fell with a crash.
“I go’ im!” called the second man. In the pitch darkness Nemeth could see nothing of the man but his rune, now glowing like the sun, as he sat down on Nemeth’s chest. He reached for the cloth-wrapped book in his arms. “Why yer go stealin’ our mir’cle, eh? Aaaah!”
The book took its revenge, burning the peasant’s hands in an instant. Desperately, Nemeth kicked him off, and rolled over to stand up. The man wasn’t giving up. In spite of his pain, he tackled Nemeth again.
“No, yer don’!”
By now the man with the candle had joined the fray. The tiny taper was snuffed out immediately, but the glowing runes of men, trees, and book lent enough light for Nemeth to see his attackers.
“Where yer come fro’?” the man hissed, his wounded arms folded across his chest. “Why yer steal our only treasure?”
“It’s mine,” Nemeth stated, his voice rising in alarm. “Let me go.”
“No, it goes back!” said the first man. They dove at Nemeth. He struck back at them.
They screamed like dying sheep as the full force of the book exploded on them.
“No!” he shouted.
The noises had woken up the other villagers. Sleepy voices demanded to know what all the yelling was about. Lanterns and candles flared into light behind him. Nemeth got the merest glimpse of what remained of the men. He had only tried to throw them away from him. The book had … the book had killed them. He could see their runes shriveling as their bodies cooled. Nemeth started running, feeling blindly ahead of him with one hand.
“Why did you strike so hard?” he pleaded with the book, but it did not reply. It only seemed to nestle close to him like a child going back to sleep in the shelter of a loving arm. He was not used to handling such power. It frightened him. He knew he must get used to it, or it would master him. He was afraid, afraid of himself, afraid of the world around him, and afraid of the book. He loved it as he did his own heart, but it knew neither right nor wrong, only what it had within it, and was protective of itself. Mother Nature alone only knew what it would do to him if he attempted to harm it. He loved it, but it would drive him mad. He must accomplish his ends before it did.
“This way!” the headman’s voice boomed. Snapped twigs broke behind him. Nemeth had no choice. He could not keep away from them for long if he stayed upon the ground. He used the book to harden the air, and ran upward into the cold sky. He didn’t stop running until dawn began to stain the eastern horizon with red.
H
uddled in a corner between two panels of a carved wooden screen beside a rack of towels and a framed portrait of a narrow-faced matron in a black dress, Tildi waited her turn in the bathing chamber on the first floor of the Stirrup Cup Inn.
Tildi missed life in Olen’s household. At home, and she was surprised to find herself thinking of Silvertree as home, she would have been able to take her hot, sticky body to her own bathroom, and not listen to the crowd of human patrons bickering about who left the floor awash or the low quality of the towels, nor be loomed over and threatened by tired men on behalf of their equally exhausted wives who were yearning, as she was, to take a few minutes’ quiet soak in hot water to wash away the dust and aches of summer travel. If she was overwhelmed at home, she
could retreat to the comfortable safety of the servants’ quarters, to the uncomplicated friendliness of Samek, Liana, and the others.
As it was she could have used a nice hidey-hole to which she could retreat for a long think. She was surprised, and not a little shocked at herself, to realize how far life with her brothers had receded in her memory. She missed them dearly, but she had adapted to the loss and her new life. And there it went, changing again. If it wasn’t for the cheerful presence on this journey of Lakanta, Tildi would have felt rather lonely.
Edynn awed her.
It was very kind of the senior wizardess to claim that she and Tildi were on equal footing, as students of the magical arts, but it was a polite fiction, and Tildi would have been foolish to take it seriously. She appreciated being included, all the more because Serafina clearly disliked her or her presence, or both. Rin was friendly, but seemed amused by everything Tildi did or said, not an attitude conducive to putting Tildi at ease. The guards did not speak to her at all unless addressed. They were following their absent lord’s order. The merchant had declared she was on this journey to look after Tildi, and she was doing just that.
The stout little woman eyed the marked candle perched on a high sconce and rapped briskly on the door. “Time’s up! Others are waiting out here!”
A grumble echoed from the bathing room. Lakanta waited until she had counted five, then flung open the portal. A potbellied man with white hair stood on a thick, braided mat, clutching a heap of clothes to his chest. Pointedly ignoring the chuckles and gibes from the rest of the patrons on the landing, he marched with dignity, still dripping, toward the room at the end of the corridor and slammed the door behind him. Lakanta ushered Tildi inside and dropped the latch. There were three tubs in the whitewashed room, plus a round bath Tildi’s size.
“I thought that’d do for you,” the merchant said, draping a thick white towel over Tildi’s shoulder. “Let’s get downstairs swiftly, if we can. I saw a joint of beef on the spit, and no one’s asked for the spiced end yet.”
This was a much different experience of inns than Tildi had had before. Lakanta had marched in and made all the arrangements for the party. The Stirrup Cup hosted all races, so Rin had a stall-like chamber outside the main building, sharing with one other female centaur who was staying at the inn. The finest chamber had been secured for the two
wizards, but Lakanta had gone to the most trouble for Tildi. Upon learning that there was a bedroom built to house smallfolk, Lakanta had spoken for it at once.
“We’ll share it,” she said cheerfully. “We might as well take advantage of comfort while we can. I predict we’ll have many nights in the open before we’re through.” The innkeeper had reminded her that there were only three smallfolk beds in it, but Lakanta had waved aside that inconvenience, saying she would push two of them together for herself.
The guards had insisted on sleeping on the main room floor with the humbler guests, all the better to keep an eye on the stairs. Tildi felt sorry for them, but Teryn had clicked her tongue.
“Do not trouble for us, honorable,” she had said, using the title with no trace of irony. That was the end of the matter, and Tildi had known better than to broach it further.
She could see the two guards standing against the wall in the bar as they came downstairs, refreshed and clean. Rin waved to them. The centaur stood at the end of a table where the two wizards already occupied part of one long bench. Though the room was crowded, the guards refused to let anyone get too near the temptingly half-empty table. Lakanta winked at the man they had hurried out of the bathroom. He dropped his eyes to his beer as his wife gave him a suspicious look.
Edynn smiled at them. “I’ve ordered a pitcher of watered wine. You may share it if you choose.”
“I like beer, but I’ll enjoy your wine,” the merchant said cheerily. She helped Tildi climb up onto the bench opposite Edynn, then rolled her hips onto it.
“We requested the small parlor for privacy,” Serafina told them. “They’re taking a very long time about preparing it. I hope it’s suitable.” She shivered delicately, giving a look of disapproval to the hearty travelers and customers quaffing down ale and eating the evening pie with their hands. Tildi thought the pub was a decently kept place, but didn’t say anything.
At that moment, the tall, bony figure of the innkeeper came bustling over to them, wiping her red hands on her apron. “All ready, all ready,” she said. “Please, honorables, won’t you come this way?”
Teryn and Morag flanked the small group as they filed after the tall woman. They could not help but attract stares, Tildi thought, half embarrassed and half amused. Tildi was last in line. She glanced up at the
soldier behind her and gave him a shy smile. His sad eyes met hers for a moment, then snapped up as if ashamed to take the liberty.
Through the remainder of their ride to the inn, Tildi had occasionally felt Morag’s sad eyes on her, turning to see him hastily glancing away. Once she had gotten over her shock at his appearance, she was no longer revulsed, but curious and sympathetic.
“Have you had something to eat yet?” she asked him. He appeared to suffer her attempts at conversation like a horse did the approach of the veterinarian, with rolling eyes but hope that he could trust her.
“No’m, duty yet.”
Tildi nodded, pleased that she understood him so well. “How long have you been in King Halcot’s service?”
“Morag!” Teryn’s voice cracked like a whip over their heads. Guilty, Tildi turned her attention to the narrow door where the captain stood at attention, hand on the hilt of her sword. Morag swung his heavy chin up and marched crisply toward her.
The innkeeper curtsied as Edynn passed through the door and handed aside a curtain that hung over the entrance to the private parlor. The folds of cloth dropped down. Serafina broke out of her dignified walk and dashed to part the curtains with her staff. Her mother turned to give her a mild look as she plunged into the room behind her.
“What’s she so panicked about?” Lakanta asked, as the curtains swung closed again.
“Wizards’ ways,” Rin snorted. The centaur had to duck her head to fit under the lintel. Tildi and the merchant followed. Morag put his hand over their heads to hold the drape aside for them.
“Thank you,” Tildi said, smiling up at him. His twisted lips seemed to form into the semblance of a smile, but it was a terrible sight, blocked almost at once by the curtain falling back. Tildi heard the heavy door close behind them.
“I asked him a sight of questions about his fate in the war while we were riding up,” Lakanta said. “Captain Teryn there won’t talk about what happened. Morag didn’t answer me, but I think he might talk to you, if you asked him.”
“Why?” Tildi asked.
“I think he thinks you might be able to help him, you being an apprentice wizard,” Lakanta said. “Ah, this is nice!” Lakanta guided Tildi to a comfortable-looking chair covered with a cloth embroidered with enormous flowers.
“Me? I’m just an apprentice,” Tildi whispered, as Lakanta hoisted herself into an upholstered chair high enough that her legs couldn’t touch the floor.
“Well,” Lakanta whispered back, though her voice would have carried right back into the main bar, as she stuffed cushions behind her hips, “Edynn and Serafina are too grand for him, though Edynn does see that the rest of us share the earth with her. You’d be about his last hope.”
Tildi caught the others looking at them. She blushed. At that moment, the innkeeper shouldered her way into the room with her tray, and set down the pitcher of wine. To Tildi’s surprise, it was accompanied by five very fine glasses, of a quality that wouldn’t have been out of place on Olen’s table.
“Mistress Golt,” Edynn asked, “have there been any unusual guests in the last several weeks? Anyone stopping here that people remarked upon especially?”
“With respect, honorable,” the innkeeper said, a humorous glint showing in her flat, dark eyes, “you all together are the oddest thing to walk in in a year. Can you tell me more of what this person might have looked like?”
Edynn leaned delicately forward, her hands tented. “Someone behaving in a secretive manner?”
“Ah, that’d be about half of ’em.”
“Someone not in control of his magic,” Serafina said, a trifle impatiently.
The bony woman sucked in her lower lip to think. “Ah, a wizarding type. Not anyone I saw, but a few of the boys claim there was odd going-son here about a month ago. ’Round about when someone stole a prize ham out of my smokehouse. They said that magic was loose all over the place. I never saw a thing myself. I’m too busy.”
A shout from the main room brought her head up sharply. “Oh, whatever now?” Mistress Golt nodded to her guests. “Do you require anything else, ladies? Accommodations all right? I’ll send my boy in with your dinner right soon.”
Edynn inclined her head gracefully. “We are comfortable, thank you.”
With another nod, Mistress Golt retreated. Tildi heard more shouting, rising until Mistress Golt’s voice rose above them all, then the noise in the bar fell to a more usual hum.
“He was here,” Serafina said with some satisfaction.
“I think not,” Rin replied. “Unless Tildi’s page has failed, the traces do not come this far. I think perhaps the thief we found attempted three
crimes, not two. I wonder if any other guests were missing goods, such as the owner of the silver chain.”
“Yes, he was unlucky if he tried to steal the—”the merchant said.
“Shhh!” Serafina hissed. “We do not want to be overheard.”
“What? This is a private room with two armed soldiers at the door!”
“There are other means of listening,” the young wizardess said.
“Peace, daughter.” Edynn poured some wine for them all. “Here, take some refreshment. Rin, were you able to glean any other clues about our quarry from the trail while running point?”
“He’s a soft-foot,” Rin said at once, downing her first glassful and pouring another. “Good grapes. He has chosen the simplest way, even if it meant changing paths often. He knows where he’s going, though I haven’t divined his destination yet. He’s heading northeast, and soon he must cross the Arown.”
“There are only six bridges over the river,” Lakanta said, “though that’s more than we can oversee alone. What about setting a magical snare for him?”
“I’ve tried and tried again,” Edynn said with a sigh. “He is well hidden. I have not been able to detect where he has gone, nor have dozens of the finest mages alive today. I have not given up hope of conceiving some magic that will guide us to him. Let it be. I will send messages to other observers to mount a guard on the bridges. Tomorrow we will go back to where we left off, and hope we can find a fresher scent very soon.”
Lakanta rubbed her hands togther. “Well, now that we’ve settled that, let us dine. I am ravenous.”
“So am I. I didn’t eat much of lunch,” Tildi admitted, then cringed. She glanced at the door. No, there was no way that Morag could hear her.
Rin followed her eyes. She snorted, flaring her nostrils humorously. “He is a terrible cook, I agree. I can tolerate it for the time. He was undoubtedly a most faithful servant and brave soldier, and for that I will eat what he serves me.”
“So will I,” Tildi said bravely. She was thankful that at that moment the door opened, and a stolid teenaged boy came in carrying a heavy tray. With possibly days of inedible meals ahead of her, Tildi applied herself solidly to the platters of food.
“Tell us what life was like at Silvertree, Tildi,” Lakanta said, around mouthfuls of delectable lamb cutlets. “It seems a marvelous place.”
“It is,” Tildi said. In between servings, she told them about her life as
Olen’s apprentice. The others listened appreciatively, interrupting often with questions.
“About Silvertree,” Rin said, helping herself to another plateful. “I have visited twice before this. I firmly believe that it has a personality. When my brother said something disparaging about its doorways, they all seemed to become smaller.” She whickered in amusement. “He either had to admit that he had offended it, or claim that all the bumps on the head he got trying to pass through them were the result of his own clumsiness. My brother is vain about the grace of his movement. All of us are. It is a point of pride among centaurs.”