Hidden Warrior (35 page)

Lhel warned me never to touch the window spells
, he thought, as a wave of nausea rolled over him. No wonder she’d been so hesitant to trust him with this sort of magic.

B
ecause the wound was so clean, it took a bit of doing to get the bleeding stopped. Cook stitched up the end of his finger, smeared it with honey, and tied it up in a bit of clean linen.

He cleaned the box out himself and said nothing of the incident to Kaulin or Wythrin, but he was more careful than ever to keep others away as he cast the spell.

Rather than dampen his zeal, however, the accident spurred him on. He spent the next few days experimenting with different objects: a slip of parchment, an apple, a cloak pin, and a dead mouse from the kitchen traps. Only the metal pin survived. The parchment was shredded to bits, but not burned. The apple and the mouse carcass arrived in very much the same state as his severed finger; the flesh and delicate bones were mangled, but the mouse’s skull survived intact.

Having determined that only very solid objects could be safely transported, he then experimented with weight and found that a carved stone book end took no more effort
to send across the room than the beans had. Satisfied, he went back to beans and began distance trials.

Nari and the others gave him some odd looks as he dashed around the keep. Stationed by the box, it was Wythnir’s task to yell down the stairs as soon as the little travelers appeared.

No matter how far Arkoniel got from the box, no matter how many doors or walls lay between, he only had to imagine a hole in the side of the box itself, concentrate carefully, and the bean would find its way home.

He next tried sending beans to other destinations. The first one made its way successfully from the workroom to the offering shelf of the house shrine. From there, he sent it on to Cook’s flour barrel—a messy success in that case—then began sending it outside.

Kaulin remained unimpressed. “Don’t see much use in it,” he sniffed, watching Arkoniel retrieve a bean from the bole of a willow beside the river.

Arkoniel ignored him, already making a mental list of places in other towns he could picture clearly enough to focus the magic on.

“It is a drawback, of course, not being able to send parchment letters,” he muttered aloud. “Still, there must be some way around that.”

“You could write them on bits of wood,” Wythnir offered.

“I suppose I could,” mused Arkoniel. “That’s a very good idea, Wythnir.”

Kaulin gave them a disdainful look and wandered off about his own business.

E
ven in the mountains, that spring and early summer were hotter than the last. Tradesmen raised their prices, complaining of dead livestock and fields blasted with drought and blight. On the mountainsides the birch turned yellow in high summer. Even Lhel seemed to feel it, and Arkoniel had never once heard her complain of heat or cold.

“The curse on this land is spreading,” she warned, scratching symbols into the dirt around her camp.

“Tobin is still so young—”

“Yes, too young. Skala must suffer a little longer.”

T
he heat finally broke in late Gorathin with a spate of violent thunderstorms.

Arkoniel had taken to sleeping through the hottest part of the day. The first clap of thunder shook the keep like an avalanche, startling him bolt upright on his damp bed. His first thought as he lurched up was that he must have slept the day away, for the room was nearly dark. Outside, clouds the color of a new bruise were scudding low over the trees. Just then another blinding blue-white flash split the sky and another rending crash shook the house. A puff of damp wind stirred against Arkoniel’s cheek, then the rain came, falling in thick, silvery curtains that instantly cut off all view. Fat drops spattered across his sill so hard he felt the spray from three feet away. He went to the window, glad of any respite, but even the rain was warm.

Lightning lanced down in angry tridents, each flash leaving a deafening report in its wake. The storm was so
loud he didn’t notice that Wythnir had come into his room until he felt the child’s hand on his arm.

The boy was terrified. “Will it hit the house?” he asked, voice quavering as he tried to make himself heard.

Arkoniel put an arm around him. “Don’t worry. This old place has been here a long time.”

As if to contradict him, a bolt struck a dead oak at the edge of the meadow, splitting it from crown to root and setting it ablaze.

“Sakor’s fire!” Arkoniel exclaimed, running for the workroom. “Where are those firepots you cleaned the other day?”

“On the shelf close by the door. But—you’re not going
out?
”

“Just for a bit.” There was no time to explain. Arkoniel knew of at least half a dozen elixirs that could only be brewed with this sort of fire, if he could get to it before the rain put it out.

The pots stood ready on the shelf, pierced brass lids gleaming. Wythnir had been diligent, as always. Their round iron bellies were filled with dry cedar bark and greasy wool. He snatched the largest and ran down the stairs. Kaulin called after him as they passed in the hall, but Arkoniel didn’t stop.

The rain pelted his hair flat and plastered his kilt to his thighs as he sprinted barefoot over the bridge and plowed on through the coarse, waist-deep sea of dead timothy and thistle, hugging the pot close to his chest to keep the tinder dry.

Reaching the oak, he was glad to see that he was in time. Flames still hissed and crackled in the fissures of the blasted trunk and he was able to knock a few brands into the pot with his knife before the last of them fizzled out. It was enough; the tinder caught and he had his fire. He was just clamping the lid in place when Kaulin and the boy came panting up to join him. Still frightened, Wythnir cowered as lightning struck again down by the river.

“I only brought the one pot,” Arkoniel told Kaulin, not anxious to share his prize. Dividing the fire diminished its potency.

“Not looking for that,” Kaulin muttered. Rain ran down his broad back in rivulets as he crouched on the blackened grass at the base of the tree and poked about with a silver knife. Wythnir did the same on the far side and soon straightened up with a cry of triumph. “Look, Master Kaulin, here’s a big one!” he cried, juggling something back and forth between his hands like a hot ashcake. It was a rough, dirt-caked black nodule about the size of a man’s finger. Kaulin soon found some, too.

“A fine one!” Kaulin exclaimed, taking it and holding it up for the rain to cool.

“What is it?” asked Arkoniel. The man was as pleased with this fruit of the storm as he was with his.

“Sky stone,” Kaulin told him, tossing it to him. “Got the power of that lightning bolt fused in it.”

It was still very hot, but Arkoniel felt something else as well, a subtle vibration that sent a tingle up his arm. “Yes, I feel it. What will you do with it?”

Kaulin held out his hand and Arkoniel reluctantly surrendered it. “Lots of things,” he replied, rolling it in his cupped palm to cool it more. “This here’s a couple of months’ livelihood, if I find the right one to sell it to. This’ll put the hot iron back up an old man’s worn-out prick.”

“Impotence, you mean? I’ve never heard of that cure before. How does it work?”

Kaulin slipped the stones into a leather pouch. “The man binds one of these to his member with a red silk cord and leaves it until a thunderstorm comes. As soon as he sees three flashes in the sky, his vitality’s restored. For a while, at least.”

Arkoniel stifled a grunt of disbelief. Such folk “cures” were seldom more than an idea planted in the customer’s mind, sympathetic magic that had more to do with the cully’s desperation than any inherent power of the so-called
remedy. It was the sort of cheat that gave their kind a bad name. All the same, he had felt something in the stone. Satisfied, the others set off with their find. Rain sizzled on the lid of the firepot as he trudged after them.

Wythnir slowed until he was walking with Arkoniel. Without a word, he pressed something into the wizard’s hand, then hurried back to Kaulin. Looking down, Arkoniel found himself holding one of the rough hot stones. Grinning, he pocketed it for later study.

The rain had slackened a bit. Halfway across the meadow, Arkoniel caught the distant jingle of harness on the Alestun road. Kaulin had heard it, too.

Arkoniel passed him the firepot. “Take this to my workroom and stay there, both of you. Don’t make any sound until I send word.”

They ran for the bridge. Kaulin and the boy disappeared through the main gate, while Arkoniel sprinted for the empty barracks. Inside he crossed to a window overlooking the road and peered out through a crack between the shutters. The rain had increased again and he could see no farther than the bridge, but he didn’t dare expose himself.

Presently he heard a heavy snort and the creak of harness. A brown-and-white ox appeared out of the storm, pulling a high-sided cart. Two people sat on the driver’s bench, wrapped in cloaks against the storm. The one next to the driver threw her hood back just then and Arkoniel’s heart leaped; it was Iya, baring her face to make herself known to anyone watching from the keep. The driver did the same, a fair-haired young man with vaguely ’faie features. It was Eyoli of Kes, the young mind clouder from Virishan’s orphan brood. Iya had brought at least one of them to safety. The fact that they’d come by cart gave him hope of others.

Though no great wizard herself, Virishan had earned Iya’s respect by gathering up neglected wizard-born children from among the poor, saving them from filthy seaports
and backward border towns where their sort were too often abused, exploited, and killed by the ignorant. An outcast herself, Iya had been happy to give Virishan what support she could.

“Ah, there you are, and in this weather!” Iya called, as Arkoniel stepped out to greet them. Eyoli reined in the horse and held a hand down to him. Climbing up the muddy wheel spokes, Arkoniel glanced into the cart. There were only five children huddled there among the baggage and their protector was not with them.

“Where’s your mistress?” Arkoniel asked, as they rattled off again.

“Dead of a fever this past winter,” Eyoli told him. “It carried off twelve of the children, too. I’ve had the care of the rest since, but it’s hard to make a living with no more magic than any of us has. Your mistress found us begging in Kingsport and offered us sanctuary here.”

Arkoniel turned to the shivering children. The older three were all girls. The two little boys were no older than Wythnir.

“Welcome, all of you. We’ll have you warm and dry soon, and there’s lots to eat.”

“Thank you, Master Arkoniel. I’m glad to see you again,” one of the girls said, pushing her sodden hood back. She was nearly woman-grown, he saw, and very pretty, with wide blue eyes and a flaxen braid. He must have stared, for her smile faltered. “I’m Ethni, remember?”

“The little bird tamer?” She’d been young enough to sit on his knee the last time he’d seen her.

Ethni grinned and lifted a wicker cage to show him two brown doves. “You helped me with that, and now I’ve a few new tricks to show you,” she said proudly.

I’d like to see them!
Arkoniel thought, wondering if she’d still sit on his knee. Catching himself, he quashed the thought with a guilty pang. The fact was, though, that this was the first pretty young girl he’d met since he’d broken
celibacy with Lhel. That realization, and his body’s warm reaction, were rather disquieting.

“And us! Do you remember us?” the younger girls chided, turning up identical faces. Even their voices seemed the same.

“Rala and Ylina!” one reminded him.

“You made luck knots for us, and sang ballads,” her sister chimed in.

Arkoniel smiled at them, but was aware of Ethni’s gaze still on him. “And who are these fellows?”

“This is Danil,” one of the twins told him, hugging the dark-eyed boy.

“And this is Totmus,” said her sister, introducing the shy, pale one.

“Who else has arrived?” asked Iya.

“Kaulin and a little boy.”

She pulled her wet cloak closer around her, frowning. “That’s all, after all this time?”

“How many did you call?”

“Only a dozen or so since I last saw you. It wouldn’t do to have a crowd streaming down the Alestun road. But I’d expected more to be here by now.” One of the boys whimpered. “Don’t worry, Totmus, we’re nearly there.”

In the kitchen yard Nari and Cook hustled the shivering children to the kitchen hearth and wrapped them in dry blankets.

Later, when the children were all settled on pallets in the hall, Arkoniel and Iya carried their wine cups up to his bedchamber. The thunder had passed, but the storm raged on. As night fell the wind turned cold, pelting the keep with hailstones the size of hazelnuts. The wizards sipped their wine in silence for a while, listening to it clatter against the shutters.

“Our wizards aren’t much of a collection yet, are they?” Arkoniel said at last. “One old faker, a half-grown mind clouder, and a handful of children.”

“There’ll be more,” Iya assured him. “And don’t underestimate
Eyoli. He may be limited, but he’s good at what he does. I think he might do to keep an eye on Tobin for us in the city. It’s risky, but he’ll attract far less attention than we would.”

Arkoniel rested his chin on one hand and sighed. “I miss Ero. And I miss traveling with you.”

“I know, but what you’re doing here is important. And surely Lhel isn’t letting you get too lonesome?” she added with a wink.

He blushed, unable to answer.

She chuckled, then pointed at his right hand, noticing the missing finger. “What happened there?”

“A happy accident, actually.” He held up his hand proudly; thanks to Cook, it had healed clean over the bone end. The new skin there was still a shiny pink and a bit tender, but he hardly noticed it anymore. “I’ve got wonderful news, but it’s easier to show you than explain it.”

Rummaging in his pocket, he found his wand and a coin. He wove the spell and made a black disk the size of his fist, its surface parallel to the floor. Iya sat forward, watching with interest as he flourished the coin like a conjurer and dropped it into the disk. It disappeared and the black aperture snapped out of existence. He grinned. “Look in your pocket.”