No True Way (16 page)

Both girls murmured conventional replies, as the rest of the group sat down and began to eat. Photine seemed nervous, and she kept looking around the room. “Do you have secret passages and spyholes in the walls here?” she asked.

“Probably,” Lord Tobias said. “This is an old castle, and it was built to guard the border.”

“Do your servants use them?” Photine shuddered. “I can
feel
the eyes watching me!”

Robin chuckled. “My mother always used to say that Vanyel's eyes were always watching us—I think she was trying to make sure we didn't get into too much trouble when
her
eyes weren't on us.”

“‘Vanyel's eyes are watching you'—I think that's a song,” Lena said. “It sounds familiar, somehow.”

“Yes,” Agneta agreed. “I think I've heard it too.”

“Before we become immersed in ancient ballads,” Lord Tobias said with a fond look at his daughter, “we need to deal with our current problems.”

“We should make a list,” Samira said. “Lena, are you still Mindspeaking to the wake?”

“I'm not actively speaking to them,” Lena said, “but I'm still linked, and I can't break it. Ever since we saw them on the road, I've been linked to all of them.”

“So Lena is bound to the vultures,” Samira said.

“And my son is dead.” Photine appeared to find that more important.

“Dead and uncorrupt,” Samira pointed out, “which is not natural. Do you have any idea how that could have happened?”

“He was working on spells to increase his magical ability, I believe.”

“Does he have older siblings who are more powerful?” Robin asked. He was more familiar with sibling dynamics than Lena, who had not been blessed with siblings—or even friends—her own age.

“Younger ones,” Photine said dryly. “Eskil was my oldest child, and very obviously the least talented.
Everyone in the family knew that. I think the dog has more magical ability.”

“He probably did something stupid,” Lena said. “Young men tend to . . .” her voice trailed off, as she remembered that her older brother had done something stupid—not to mention blasphemous—and ended up dead at about the same age as Eskil.

“Is there a spell in Rethwellan to increase one's magical power?” Agneta asked.

“Several, actually,” Photine admitted, “but they wouldn't work here in Valdemar. There's no magic here.”

Lena frowned in thought. “So if he tried some sort of spell that absorbed ambient magic . . .”

Photine sighed. “He would go for maximum power—I caught his little sister teasing him when I was home last—but his body wouldn't be strong or trained enough to handle it.”

“At which point he would cross over to Valdemar in order to stop the spell,” Samira said.

“But it didn't stop,” Lena objected. She turned to Photine. “I've heard that evil Mages used to get power by killing people. Does that mean that life force, whatever it is that keeps us alive, works like magic?”

“I supposed it could,” Photine said reluctantly, “but any spell he was using should have stopped at the border. Everyone knows you can't do magic in Valdemar.”

“Wasn't what you did to the vultures magic?” Lena asked. “There was fire shooting out of your fingertips.”

“Levin-bolts,” Photine corrected absentmindedly. “They're more like lightning than fire.”

“Well, I can assure you that they burn,” Lena said, looking pointedly at the still-reddened area on her arm. “But the point is that you
can
do magic in Valdemar.”

“Vanyel's Eyes!” Agneta said suddenly. “That's what I was trying to remember. They guard against the sort of magic foreign Mages do. That's why you feel that you're being watched; as soon as you used offensive magic within our borders, they started to gather.”

“Started?” Photine said nervously. “What happens
after
that?”

“It's an old ballad,” Agneta said, “not a recipe book.”

“The point is,” Lord Tobias said, “that magic does work in Valdemar, so whatever spell your son was attempting would not have stopped at the border.”

“I think it's still active,” Lena said. “I didn't notice at the time because I was distracted, but your . . . levin-bolts . . . were pulled toward the body. That's why you had trouble hitting the vultures. And I think that anything that touches the body has its life energy pulled from it to the body.”

“The grass!” Robin said suddenly. “When I was guarding the body yesterday I noticed that the grass around it was dead.”

“You don't get energy from
grass
,” Photine said scornfully.

“It was alive, and now it's dead,” Lena pointed out. “A vulture ate a rat that touched the body and fell away from it as it died, and the vulture died as well. The vultures have kept anything alive from touching it since then—aside from the grass.”

“And you say it was sucking in levin-bolts?” Photine asked.

“Not completely.” Lena said, “From what I picked up from what the vultures were seeing, it seemed more like it was trying to draw the bolts in, but you were trying to hit the birds, so it just pulled them toward it. I don't know
what would happen if they actually reached the body. And the vultures appear to be convinced that any human that touches it will die. That's why they're staying there and keeping guard over it.” She looked at Photine. “
Would
it kill a human who touched it?”

“Quite possibly,” Photine said. “We would need to experiment to be sure.”

“Not with my people you don't,” Lord Tobias said firmly.

“No,” Photine sighed. “That would be much too dangerous.”

Samira, who had apparently been pondering the various possibilities, asked, “Could the spell be what's holding the vultures and Lena together?”

“Gifts aren't Rethwellan's sort of magic,” Lena said, “but they can't be
entirely
natural or everyone would have them. And if the spell on the body is pulling energy from grass, maybe it could be trying to pull it from the link.”

“Which means we really need to do something about the body,” Lord Tobias said grimly. “It obviously can't be buried where it is now. Can you transport it back to Rethwellan? What do you normally do in a case like this?”

“We don't normally
have
‘a case like this'”, Photine said crossly, “and I'm not certain what it would take to transport my son's body safely.” She scowled. “I believe our best option is to destroy it here.”

“Cremation?” Robin asked. “If we piled wood around it as close as we could get, and you used your levin-bolts to amplify the flames?”

“No,” Lena shook her head violently. “Poisonous smoke.”

“You don't know that,” Robin objected.

“Do you want to risk it?” Lena demanded.

“The girl has a point,” Photine said. “If we don't know whether the smoke will be poisonous, this is not a spell I can ethically use.” She fell silent, apparently lost in thought. “Not Fire,” she murmured, “apparently not Earth, using Air would have the same problems as Fire, but maybe Water. . . .”

“Elemental transformation spells?” Lena asked. She had always been a bit of a bookworm, and the Palace and Collegia in Haven had large libraries. She had read some books on foreign magic, and she remembered that there were systems that used four elements: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water.

“Something of the sort,” Photine replied, “and Water is my strongest element. Let's see: ‘Let this skin and all within be changed to purest Water'—if I specify purity in the spell, that should transform whatever might be poisonous.”

“But that doesn't cover anything outside of his skin,” Lena objected. “There's still his hair, his clothes—would that spell even change his fingernails?”

Photine looked first startled, and then approving. “It's a shame I can't take you home for training. You obviously have the mind for it, and apparently some natural ability. How would you word the spell then?”

“Well, I'd test whatever I came up with on the dead vulture first. If turning it to water doesn't damage the area around it, then we know the spell is probably safe to use on a human. And if the spell doesn't work properly, at least it will be on a much smaller scale.”

Photine nodded approvingly. “And the wording?”

“May garb, hair, skin, and all within be changed to
purest water,” replied Lena. “He's wearing gloves, so using ‘garb' would include fingernails and anything else covered by his clothing, and his clothing needs to be destroyed anyway. For the vulture, I'd substitute ‘claws, beak, feathers, skin' for ‘may garb, hair, skin'—I think that would work.”

“I think so, too.” Photine said.

*   *   *

They all went to the roadside; Photine was needed for the spells, Lena had to explain what was happening to the vultures and get their cooperation for the test spell, and everyone else was either concerned about Lena's safety, curious, or both.

It took a while for Lena to persuade the vultures to allow a foreign Mage to destroy one of their wake, even if it was dead. But once they agreed, the test spell proceeded flawlessly. The body of the vulture turned to water, and the water ran along both the dead grass and the grass that was still green. They observed the area for some time, during which the green grass remained that way, and the area with the dead grass started to sprout new growth. Photine, however, became more agitated.

“Yes, the spell works,” she snapped, “but those wretched Eyes appear to have called in all their friends to watch. They're even more unnerving than the vultures!”

Lena, meanwhile, was discovering that the dead body that had anchored her link to the wake was the vulture, not the human. Her Animal Mindspeech was now back under her own control. The vultures, however, still perched in the trees, keeping watch over Eskil's body.

“Can you do the second spell?” she asked Photine, “even with the Eyes watching?”

“Yes,” Photine said through gritted teeth. “Remind me of the words again, just to be safe.”

“May garb, hair, skin, and all within be changed to purest water,” Lena recited.

The Mage repeated the spell, and the body dissolved into water, washing the surrounding area clean. Lena could tell that the vultures were satisfied even before they started to fly away. In a few moments, all that remained were the humans and a patch of damp grass and earth.

“Now that I know my son is properly at rest,” Photine said with profound relief, “I can go home and get away from all these Eyes!”

Michele Lang

Spring had finally returned to the Northern village of Longfall. Sparrow walked silently through the edge of the Forest of Sorrows, where only shadowed patches of old snow remained, clinging to the darkness under the shade of the great evergreens.

The air smelled of tender, green new leaves, and she inhaled their fragrance like a tonic. Sparrow knew the forest held many unknown and hidden dangers—her old dad had been careful to warn her about them—but the air smelled so sweet, and the dappled sunlight warmed her face so deliciously that she couldn't imagine anything dangerous happening to her on this sunny morning. Still, just in case, Sparrow carried a stout walking staff for defense.

Besides, she needed the healing herb trefoil, needed it badly and the villagers had picked the beds closest to the village clean. Sparrow's mother had died for lack of trefoil during the long winter just past, and she'd be hanged before she lost her father, too.

This morning, his face had looked gray and drawn. Her mother had looked exactly like that before the symptoms of snow fever had closed in, shutting down
her lungs and killing her. It was spring, but only just . . . the danger of winter sickness still lurked. Sparrow's father didn't realize the snow fever had returned to claim him, but Sparrow saw the shadows over his face.

She just
knew.

So trefoil she must have, no matter how far into the forest she must venture to claim it. After her morning chores were done, she'd dressed for a long forage, wore her oldest homespun skirt, her winter shoes. Carried the family herb basket, its wicker handle rubbed smooth by her dear mother's fingertips. And, recklessly, she wore the berry-red sash Sparrow herself had woven and embroidered through the endless, gray winter.

Her villagers, virtuous, sober, and hardworking, preferred the dove-gray of homespun, with light blue veils for ladies for festivals, faires, and hearth celebrations. So the red was bold. But Sparrow so craved a splash of color in that endless Northern gray that her father had given her the berry dye himself, kind man. The sash had distracted her through long, closed-in days when the weather was too bitter and violent for her and her family to emerge from their cottage. And during the nightmarish nights, when Sparrow tended her mother in her last illness, she'd desperately contemplated the stitching, the leaf border, how she would finish the tassels at the end. Anything to distract her from the cruel, indisputable fact that her mother was slowly dying under Sparrow's patient fingers.

So she wore her red sash today in defiance of the gray, in defiance of sickness and of death. And it was the red sash that ended up changing the world that morning.

Still and all, defiance alone wouldn't find Sparrow her trefoil. Only a deep foray could do that, a long hike deep
into the heart of the forest, her thick shoes slipping in mud and her hands untangling her skirts from thorny brambles.

By midmorning, Sparrow's tenacity was rewarded. She found a clearing hidden deep within a circle of broken boulders, ringed inside a dense clump of bluefurr trees. A bluebird shot over the circle and safely past, and its progress reassured her that no spell, not even a benevolent one, hovered over the silent, watching stones.

She gingerly touched the nearest greenish stone, and no hum of magic warmed her palms. But as she slipped between the stones and entered the circle to harvest the trefoil, Sparrow wondered.

The trefoil swept in a gaudy carpet between the stones, sparkling with droplets of morning dew. The bluebird, hidden within swaying branches over her head, broke into a virtuoso song so beautiful that it thrilled Sparrow to the marrow. Spring had come, new life had returned to the North. The moment contained pure magic, crystallized out of time, and Sparrow uptilted her face to the sun, greedily soaking up sunlight and gratitude both.

But the sublime moment passed, as such moments always do, leaving Sparrow alone in the hidden glade. Her fears returned, and the gray shadows in her father's face evoked memories, too fresh, of the darkness that had already stolen her mother. She had a job to do.

With a sigh, Sparrow bent to the purplish-silver trefoil, the bottoms of her skirts soaking up the cool dew as she began harvesting. But a sudden rustle in the underbrush past the clearing brought her upright again, trembling. She scanned the encroaching forest for the
dangers her dad had warned her against. Downwind, no scent of bear. No muffled roar of a Mountain Cat or screech of a Great Eagle or other magical, malevolent winged beast.

Sparrow strained her eyes staring into the undulating shadows underneath the swaying evergreen branches, searching for pair or two of hunters' eyes. But no.

She feared the hidden tribes even more than the beasts of prey that hunted in the untamed forest. When Sparrow was a tiny mite, her best friend, a sturdy five-year-old named Brock, had been carried away by a tribe—or so her parents had told her, in an effort to scare her from wandering away from the village and into the woods the way Brock had loved to do.

Fear held Sparrow now in its grip. She could see nothing, sense nothing, but an inner knowing insisted that
something
was coming out of the cool darkness.

Coming for her.

Sparrow glanced at her walking stick, propped against the side of one of the stones, and then forced herself to harvest the trefoil once more. Standing tall, flashing her red sash, wasn't going to protect her from that creeping fear edging along her spine. Or from bears, either.

And secretly, in her heart of hearts, she was so sick of waiting. Waiting for her mother to die no matter how hard Sparrow fought to keep her in this life. Waiting for spring to finally arrive. Waiting, waiting. Afraid, afraid . . .

She refused to wait for that unknown magic to leap out of the forest and grab her. Refused to fear it, even. Sparrow had trefoil to pick.

She bent again to her task, gratefully inhaling the flowerlike fragrance of the herb carpet as she worked. Gently, she stripped the mature leaves from the stem,
leaving the tender, growing buds intact. The repetitive motion and the peaceful stillness of the glade soon soothed Sparrow's jangled nerves and she sighed in relief. Like the surface of a cool lake, the ripples of her fear edged out to shore and away, and the natural tranquility of her spirit surfaced once more.

Another rustle, unmistakable this time, and Sparrow rose again, ready to run. But where? If she chose wrong, she might well leap into the jaws of a hidden hunter.

The bluebird shot out from the tree branches, trilling its magnificent song. The bird was clearly not frightened—it swooped overhead, singing, as if announcing an important visitor.

The bird alighted on the boulder nearest to Sparrow, scarcely a hands-breadth away. She held her breath, half in fear, half in wonder, and watched the antics of the bright little creature with growing amazement.

The bluebird cocked its head, focused one bright eye upon her. And then it burst into an intricate little chorale of joy, as if trying desperately to convey some compelling news.

He sang the same series of notes again, a wind rose in the clearing, and then he cocked his head the other direction, shot into the sky and away. Sparrow watched him go, even as he disappeared and the rustling grew louder.

She had not understood the specifics of his song, but the bluebird had brought her glad tidings.

Sparrow took a deep breath, ready now to face whatever emerged from the forest, the bird's song still echoing in her ears. She no longer feared predators, but she did not know quite what to expect.

What emerged from the deep shadows under the trees struck Sparrow with absolute, starkest amazement.

A scent of spices wafted along the breeze, and in the next moment an enormous white stallion, richly caparisoned, leaped out of the darkness and into the golden sunlight of the clearing.

Sparrow's knees went soft, and she almost fell into the herbs, so great was her shock. She had seen horses before—traders' hacks, donkeys. But never such a noble steed, with such velvet-smooth haunches and beautifully expressive sapphire eyes.

The steed strode forward impatiently, scuffing at the moss outside the ring of boulders. Answering his call, Sparrow stepped hesitantly out of the circle, her mother's herb basket overflowing with fragrant trefoil.

As she drew near, for the first time she noticed the young man on horseback, bent over the stallion's glorious snow-white mane. His fingers interlocked deeply within the long, glossy strands. His face was turned away from her, seemingly oblivious to her approach.

He wore the tunics and the leggings of the tribes who hid within the forest, and who of late had been engaging more and more in trade with the villagers of the North. Brilliant embroidery bordered his sleeves and cuffs, and the feathers and plumage embroidered on his sleeves and across his back dazzled her eye with color, as if a fantastic tropical bird had emerged from the green darkness in search of the bluebird.

His appearance thrilled her, and yet, despite the finery of both horse and rider, the hairs on Sparrow's nape prickled in warning. Her fingertips tingled with a sudden rush of fear. She looked him up and down again, from
the shock of his white-blond hair, down the length of his slim, wiry body, to the clenched fists buried in mane, and then ending at his feet.

Bare feet.

Sparrow took a step back. It was too soon in the season, the mud and the bare underbrush too unforgiving, to go about without shoes at all. Aside from that, this prosperous-looking young man had no provisions rolled up behind him, no saddlebags, no water, nothing. And he had clearly ridden far, in such outlandish foreign dress.

These were no hunters. But something was terribly wrong here.

Gingerly, Sparrow forced herself forward, and she dared to look the stallion in the eye. He whickered gently and waved his nose at her, as if beckoning her to approach. Her mouth went dry, but step by step she grew closer to this spectacular creature.

He must be a Companion. No mere horse would carry a slumping rider for so long without becoming spooked and attempting to drop him.

She reached out a trembling hand, and the Companion tapped her fingers with his velvety nose. At his touch, her fear completely melted away, and new confidence rose inside of her like a secret spring.

She gently moved to the Companion's right side in order to peer into the young man's face. His eyes were shrunken and looked sealed shut, and pockmarks marred his cheeks and chin. His thin lips moved soundlessly, as if he were whispering a secret spell under his breath, but he seemed to take no notice of Sparrow, his surroundings, or even of his Companion.

From what little Sparrow knew of Companions, only
their Chosen may ride. But this bent over creature was surely no Herald . . .

Without thinking, Sparrow reached into her mother's herb basket and pulled out a trefoil leaf. Gently, she rubbed the silver foil from the purplish leaf's underside over the boy's pitted, scarred face, knowing that the silvery pollen held the greatest concentration of the herb's healing qualities. If only she could steep a tea and get it into him!

:Thank you
,: a voice whispered inside Sparrow's mind.
:We finally found you . . . your beautiful red sash was like a flare in the forest.:

Her fear whipped up again, so sharp it sliced her like a knife. Her heart beat hard enough to pound in her throat. She knew instantly that it was the beautiful white beast who spoke.

:Do not be afraid
,: the voice whispered, so lovingly that her heart pulled back from a full gallop into a canter.
:We have been seeking you, Sparrow.:

“Me?” she squeaked aloud. “But why? This boy needs a Master Healer, one trained by Keisha herself, if possible. And how did you know my name? I am just the goat farmer's daughter.”

:You are Sparrow. And Brock needs you . . . only you. This boy is Brock.:

With a cry, Sparrow sprang to the boy's side, reached up to give him an awkward hug from far below. Brock! Her beloved childhood friend, somehow returned.

But she hadn't recognized him, he was so grievously changed.

“I don't understand, sir. He needs more healing than I could ever do.”

:He does not need healing. He needs you. Besides, do you not realize your calling?:

And in an inner whisper, the Companion shared his name, Abilard, a precious gift. Sparrow knew enough to understand that such direct communication with a Companion only occurred with their Chosen.

But she knew just as certainly, in her heart of hearts, that she was not the Chosen one here. It was Brock, somehow, even maimed and silent as he was . . .

:He is Brock, but his Clan calls him Cloudbrother. He needs you to call him out from the clouds, back here to me.:

Chills rippled up and down her spine. “Call him out of the clouds? I don't know how to do that . . .” she whispered.

:I know. But I believe you will.:

*   *   *

Abilard quickly made it clear that he wanted them all to return to Longfall without delay. After tying her mother's herb basket to the Companion's tack, Sparrow used one of the smaller rocks to climb up behind Cloudbrother. And after only a moment's hesitation, she left her walking staff behind. She was safe with Abilard.

Sparrow had ridden a horse astride before, but in her skirts she was forced to ride sidesaddle. Once the Companion made sure she was ready, he leaped forward down the pathway back to the village. Abilard's stride was so huge and smooth that Sparrow relaxed after a few moments, resting her head against Cloudbrother's back. And tried her best to be sensible and to think.

Cloudbrother.
She was glad to call Brock that new name, because she saw hardly a trace of her old friend in this new, strange form. She remembered a busy, funny, always moving little boy with a restless, wandering spirit.
This silent, distant, closed-off person held no resemblance to that boy who had been lost to the forest so long ago.