Marcus and Robb followed the Battlemage across the camp. They passed dozens of men on the way. All of them moved quickly away to avoid any contact with the magicians.
“Fear is a wonderful thing,” Woodpecker continued his litany of complaint. “Fear gives us mages all of the privacy we could want and then some. No one interferes with our work. But they won’t help either.
S’murghit!
They won’t even feed us. Have to do it all ourselves so they don’t taint their precious mundane lives with magic. If I didn’t know that King Simeon’s rule would be worse than putting up with these lumbird-brained fools, I’d desert to the enemy. Or go outlaw. I’d get more respect in Hanassa!”
Marcus resisted the urge to make the ancient ward against evil by crossing his wrists and flapping his hands. No one went to Hanassa voluntarily. No one except mercenaries, outlaws, and rogue magicians—all determined to make trouble for the rest of civilization. King Simeon hailed from Hanassa before he’d married SeLenicca’s very young Queen Miranda. And look at the mess he’d made there!
“Stand aside. I have need of a few things,” Woodpecker demanded of the three armed men at the supply hut.
“Orders are no one gets anything until the next boatload of supplies comes upriver,” the sergeant sneered. Three gold stripes on the sleeve of his green uniform tunic shone brightly in the freshly ignited rushlights beside the door. His collar and cuffs were threadbare and his left elbow nearly poked through the cloth. But his boots were new and shone with fresh polish.
Marcus nearly salivated with greed at the thought of the warm and dry feet those boots would give him.
“You dare give orders to me, Giiorge?” Woodpecker asked. “Didn’t I bind up an ax wound on your left side with barely a scar after you dropped your guard and allowed a wounded enemy to sneak up on you?”
“Um . . .” Sergeant Giiorge shuffled his feet and blushed.
“One pair of boots for my journeyman. He might very well be the one to throw the spell that wins the next battle. You and all of your men owe the Battlemages more than your lives.”
“Two minutes inside. And don’t tell anyone I was the one that let you in.” Sergeant Giiorge unlocked the door and then gestured to his men to move forward two paces, just enough room for Woodpecker to get between him and the door. They kept their backs sternly to the doorway and the activities of the magicians.
“Not very grateful, if you ask me,” Robb muttered.
“The best we can hope for,” Woodpecker replied. He brought a ball of witchlight to his hand and scanned the shelves inside the hut. A few uniform tunics, some blankets, and mess kits. Not much left to supply an army.
“One pair of boots left. Take them and hope they fit.” Woodpecker thrust the solitary pair into Marcus’ hands and sidled out of the hut.
The moment all three of them were clear of the doorway, Sergeant Giiorge locked it again and resumed his post.
“Follow me back toward the enclave, then leave as soon as no one is looking,” Woodpecker ordered as they hurried back the way they had come.
At the edge of the empty circle around the Battlemage’s hut, Marcus and Robb veered off toward a clump of trees beside the paddock. Marcus plunked himself down on the ground beneath the spreading branches of an oak. Pale green swelled the ends of the branches with the promise of new life and plenty of shade come Summer. He pulled off both his boots and managed to tug on one of the new ones before a commotion on the other side of the paddock interrupted him.
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed a deep voice. “We have the boot thieves! Arrest these men.” A burly soldier dressed in a faded green uniform tunic with a single muddy yellow stripe on his sleeves ran toward them brandishing a long dagger and an ax. Three more men with no stripes on their sleeves followed close behind him armed with clubs.
“Run!” Robb exclaimed. He pulled Marcus to his feet.
Marcus grabbed the second boot and followed, limping and off-balance.
“Out of the way!” Robb turned to face the enemy, still running backward. He launched a witch bolt that looked like an arrow at the growing number of soldiers in pursuit. Fire fletched and tipped his missile.
“Theft of a comrade’s equipment is punishable by hanging,” the leader pronounced. His followers screamed more invective.
Marcus couldn’t understand a word they said, but their auras displayed intense outrage and bloodlust.
The witch bolt landed directly in front of the leader’s feet. He hopped back, careening into his men. They tumbled backward, like so many stacked game cartes.
“Lucky shot, Robb,” Marcus panted as they pelted away from camp toward the dubious cover of a shrub-lined creek.
“Careful aim. I make my own luck.”
They had just slid into the chill water of the foaming creek and drawn a deep breath when six men crashed through the shrubs a few paces to their right.
“Keep running!” Robb called, hauling Marcus to his feet.
“How about another witch bolt while I put on my boot?”
“No time.”
“We’re heading the wrong way.” Marcus limped behind Robb as he scrambled up the other side of the shallow ravine. His left sock was soaked and his foot hurt from running across the uneven turf and stones.
“We’re heading toward safety.”
“But the pass is back that way.”
“Later. We’ll go after the dragons later.”
Marcus dodged a real arrow followed by a knife aimed at his back. “I think my luck just ran out.”
CHAPTER 2
“
T
hree wizards and two Rovers beats your two ‘dragons and three turnips!” Vareena laughed loudly. A deep ripple of mirth warmed her heart. She didn’t laugh often enough. “That’s the first time I have beaten you at cartes, Farrell. Now hand over your treasure.” She peered through the misty light of her witchball at her ghostly companion who faded in and out of her vision.
“My concentration slips, Eena,” Farrell excused himself. “Since this last fever, I have become quite forgetful.”
“Very forgetful, indeed,” Vareena said around her smile. “You seem to have forgotten that you bet three acres of land in the Province of Nunio against my two cows and three chickens.” She had no hope of ever claiming her winnings. She and the ghost had played this game before. He always bet the same three acres and she always lost the same two cows and three chickens.
Although her ghost required food and medications, blankets and shelter from the weather, he had no need of her dowry. Once trapped inside this ancient building, her ghosts never left.
“Promise me, Vareena, that when I finally pass into the void between the planes of existence, you will take the amulet from around my neck and carry it to my family in Nunio.” Farrell paused a long moment, breathing heavily. His hand stole to his throat where he fingered the leather thong that held the silver-encased amethyst. After a moment he shifted his hand from his only treasure to lay it flat upon his chest. He closed his hand in fierce spasm three times, as if clutching the pain of his worn-out heart.
Vareena saw the pulse in his throat beat more rapidly in an irregular rhythm. She wished she could rest her wrist against his forehead to test for fever. A barrier of stinging energy separated her from each of the ghosts who had found refuge here.
“Tell my sister’s sons that you are my heir,” Farrell resumed when his breathing and pain eased. “Tell them what happened to me, how you and only you have cared for me these past two years. The amulet is the deed to the land. My nephews will care for you and the land.”
A moment of hope brightened within Vareena. When this ghost died, her duties here in this abandoned monastery and within the village would ease. She’d be free to do as Farrell asked.
“I would like that very much, Farrell.”
“Promise me, Vareena. Promise that you will leave this cursed place and never return.”
Vareena shifted uncomfortably upon her stool. She did not want to lie to her ghost.
He reached out to grab her sleeve. As always, the wall of shocking energy repulsed him before he came in contact with any part of her. ’Twas always the same. He was a ghost and she still human. They were destined never to touch until one of them died.
“Women may not own land.” A safe answer.
“King Darville changed that law three years ago.”
Vareena lifted her head in surprise. She shouldn’t be surprised, though. If such a drastic change had taken place, her isolated village near the Western border of Coronnan would be the last to hear of it. The women of the village would hear of it later still. The men here did not like change. They did not like her ghosts. They did not like her. They did not like much of anything.
A measure of hope warmed her heart. She clamped down on it, afraid to allow it to grow and be drowned later.
“I have duties here, Farrell. My family, the village, this monastery. I do not think I will be allowed to leave.” She hung her head, refusing to meet his gaze.
“They feed off your generosity, Vareena. They need to fend for themselves. You must leave this place. As you have so often dreamed.”
“But . . .” He was right of course.
“For the friendship we have shared these past two years,” Farrell pleaded, “promise me that you will leave this place before it curses you, as it has cursed me and countless other men over the centuries. Leave and follow your heart, Vareena.”
“My brothers . . . They need me to care for them as my mother did before her untimely death. The villagers . . . I am their only healer.”
“They can all tend to themselves if forced to. You do not belong here, Vareena. Your spirit is too bright and loving to be swallowed whole by your family’s selfishness. You’ve given them twenty years since your mama died. Ten of those years ago, you should have married and started a family of your own.”
This time she could not avoid his stern gaze. His brown eyes seemed to blaze through the ghostly mist like two dark coals, lit by his fervor. Or his fever.
She sighed a moment in regret. She’d like a family of her own. But none of the men in this village trusted her or honored her because she could see the ghosts and was destined to care for them. None of them had offered for her hand despite her handsome dowry of two cows and three chickens.
“I promise, Farrell. When you pass fully into the void, I will take your amulet and claim the three acres of land in the province of Nunio.”
“Good. Now another game, perhaps. With different stakes. I have won your dowry too many times to make it worth anything. Why don’t we play for the pile of gold in the library of this place?”
Vareena shuffled the stack of wooden cartes, each one lovingly engraved with a different image and then painted red, black, green, or yellow. “The trick to winning that particular pot is the courage to enter the library to claim the gold. Neither of us will be lucky enough to lose this pot.”
“Ah, but what need have I of gold? I am dying, and you will need much money to buy more land in Nunio. Three acres is a fine dowry but not enough to support you.”
“Then I will bet a chicken stew, made with the pickled beets that you love so well.”
“Not made from your three chickens. Those you must preserve as part of your dowry.”
“Those three chickens are sacrosanct. They know it. Even my brothers know it. They refuse to gather eggs lest those haughty ladies peck their eyes out.”
“From what I know of your brothers, they deserve whatever fate your chickens hand out.”
“Why do you think I always send Yeenos to the coop when his temper is particularly vile.” They both laughed at the image of her tall and lanky brother fighting off the aggressive hens, feathers flying in all directions, squawks and squeals setting the entire coop aflurry.
“I hope Yeenos takes the younger three boys with him as well. They deserve some lessons in humility,” Farrell finally said, breaking off his weakening laughter.
In the distance a temple bell tolled twice, long and loud.
“That is the priest calling the shepherds in from the hills for supper. I must go now, Farrell. I’ll return in the morning with your breakfast.”
“Don’t bother, Vareena. There is more than enough stew left. Rest yourself and do something that you never allow yourself the time for.”
“I could wash my hair.” She smiled, anticipating the luxury of a private bath beneath the waterfall half a league below the village. The cold mountain stream was warmed slightly at the base of the fall by hot springs. All the women of the village went there for bathing and laundry, but never first thing in the morning.
“Use the violet-scented soap. I love the smell of violets on you.” Farrell lay back on his cot, one arm thrown across his eyes. “I remember the scent of violets in the Spring, how the cows would trample them and the smell would fill the valley.” He drifted off into a light doze.
Vareena packed up her mother’s precious cartes and tiptoed out of her ghost’s cell. He had chosen one in the middle of the southern wing of the old monastery. The rooms were larger here, originally intended for retired magicians and priests rather than novices and journeymen. The south-facing exterior wall warmed the room better than the small rooms of the chill north wing. As she threw her shawl about her shoulders against the Spring chill of early evening, something heavy and awkward tangled in her hair.