Wizard of the Grove (30 page)

“'Twas easy,” he told her when she asked. “You wouldn't want ta pass the mines, not after . . .” He colored and continued, leaving the sentence hanging. “And I heard you tell Nad that you were headin' north when you stopped. If you were still goin' north, well,” he shrugged, the motion almost buried under his heavy furs, “unless you changed ta a bird, this is the way you had ta come.”

They both turned and looked down the only negotiable way up the cliffs that shielded the village from the furies of the north wind.

“And if I had turned to a bird?”

Ivan smiled. “Then I'd have seen that,” he said simply, “and have waved.” His eyes dropped to snowy boot toes. “But I'm glad you didn't,” he added.

“I am, too,” Crystal told him, and meant it. In the small pouch that held the few things she treasured—a birch leaf, withered and brown, a strand of her mother's hair, a smooth gray stone from Riven Pass—was Ivan's wild rose still, and always, blooming. She suddenly wanted to give him something that would mean as much to him, regardless of what the power use might open within her.

The heavy clothes she wore were more for conformity than necessity and although every breath hung in a frosty cloud and the sky had the brittle clarity that only comes with bitter cold, her hands and head were bare. She pulled free two long, silver hairs and, brows drawn down in concentration, braided them into a ring.

“Give me your hand.”

Ivan obediently removed his mitten and extended his arm.

Crystal slipped the ring on his smallest finger. It fit perfectly.

Speechless, Ivan stared at his hand like he'd never seen it before. Then he gasped as he took a closer look at the ring. From an arm's length, it appeared no more than a thin silver band such as anyone might wear, but up close the solid metal became again the intricate weaving of two of the wizard's long silver hairs.

“I . . . I don't know what ta say,” he managed at last.

“Well,” Crystal gently slipped the mitt back on his hand as he seemed incapable of doing it himself, “you came to say good-bye.”

The youth nodded and bit his lip. “Good-bye, Lady.” He took courage from the warm feel of the ring about his finger and met her eyes. “I hope you find what you're lookin' for.”

When he came up out of the emerald glow that had enveloped him, he was alone on the cliff top and his were the only tracks that marked the snow. He slid his thumb inside the larger part of his mitten and touched the ring. It was a beautiful gift but not the greatest the wizard had given him, for before he'd lost himself in her power he'd seen tears glisten in her eyes and he still felt the soft pressure of her silent good-bye.

Suddenly, he grinned and threw himself down the steep trail back to the village, bounding and leaping like a crazed mountain goat, his whoops echoing back from the cliff face and filling the valley with sound.

*   *   *

The last piece of equipment lashed tight to the sled, Raulin straightened and stared to the north. They'd follow the path young Ivan said she'd taken only to the top of the cliff and then swing west. He sighed and his breath laid a patina of frost on his mustache.

Jago stepped out of the Nugget, pulling on his mittens, and followed the direction of his brother's gaze. He couldn't help but be glad they were going on alone. Breaching a wizard's tower with another wizard in tow struck him as one wizard too many. Probably
two
too many, but he hadn't been able to convince Raulin of that and going along had seemed the answer. Besides, if they did win through . . .

“Jago?”

“What?” He slapped his pockets until he found his snow goggles and slipped them on.

“I wasn't leering, was I?”

“Afraid you scared her away?”

Raulin turned to face the younger man, his expression hard to read. “Yes,” he said simply.

Jago shook his head. “No,” he put as much conviction in his voice as he could, “you weren't leering. You didn't scare her away.” He shrugged. “If one of us scared her, it was me. She knew, in spite of everything, that I didn't completely trust her. But I think she had her own reasons for running.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Did you pay the innkeeper?”

“Of course.” Jago went to his place behind the sled and got a firm grip on the pushing bar while Raulin slipped the leather traces over his shoulders. “I gave her the brindle pelt.”

“You what?” Forgetting he was now held to the sled, Raulin turned so quickly he almost threw himself to the ground.

“Why waste our coin?” Jago asked practically. “We had no time to have it tanned and it was beginning to go gamy.”

“If I'd known you were going to throw that much payment at her,” Raulin growled straightening himself out, “I'd have asked for another bed.”

“I don't know what you're complaining about,” Jago muttered, rocking the sled from side to side to break the runners free. “You're the one who snores.”

“I don't snore!” Raulin threw his weight against the harness and the sled jerked forward, cutting the start of the path shown on the ancient map in the snow.

*   *   *

The great white owl drifted silently on a breeze, the tip of each wing barely sculling to keep it aloft. Its shadow kept pace, a sharp edged silhouette running along the moon silvered snow. Suddenly, with powerful beats of huge wings, it dove for the ground, talons extended.

Had the hare frozen it might have lived, for owls hunt by sound more than sight, but it panicked and fled, kicking up a plume of snow that clearly marked its position. The shadow reached it first. Frantically, it twisted and spun and died as the talons closed and the weight of the owl drove it into the ground and snapped its back with a single clear crack.

The owl shook itself free of snow and bent its head to feed.

Perhaps the bird's bad eyesight explained why it continued to eat, apparently unaware of the man who stood less than a wingspan away, observing it with distaste. Perhaps.

“How,” Lord Death asked with a shudder, “can you eat raw rabbit in the middle of the night?”

The owl clicked its beak in Lord Death's direction but made no other answer, save to eat a bit more raw rabbit. Not until its meal had been reduced to a patch of blood on the snow did it turn, blink great green eyes, and change.

“It could be worse,” Crystal told him, spinning herself new clothes made of snow and moonlight—the cloak she clasped round her shoulders was red. “Compared to some, owls have fairly civilized eating habits.”

“You realize that with no time to digest you have a stomach full of . . .”

“I realize.”

“And?”

“I try not to think about it.” She smiled. “I'm glad to see you.”

Lord Death smiled back; he couldn't help it. He hoped she never discovered how much a slave to her smile he was. Except for the times he hoped she would discover it, and therefore smile more often.

Occasionally—this moment—Crystal wished she could trust the expressions on Lord Death's face. Did it mean anything when he smiled at her in that way, his eyes soft and questioning? Or did it merely mean that one of mortalkind had died wearing that expression?

They walked in silence for a time and then both began to speak at once.

Crystal laughed and waved a regal hand. “You first, milord.”

“I merely wondered why you continue to travel alone.” He'd put some effort into choosing the phrasing and it had, he thought, just the right touch of curiosity mixed with polite interest. Enough to get an answer but not to give away how much the answer meant. He wished he knew why the answer meant so much.

“There was . . . I mean, I . . .” She sputtered into silence and came to a halt.

Momentum moved Lord Death a farther pace or two, then he stopped, turned, and studied the wizard's face. “What are you afraid of,” he asked, recognizing her expression. His voice grew cold. “What did he do to you?”

Puzzlement replaced fear for an instant then realization replaced that. “He didn't do anything.” Crystal wondered what Lord Death had thought to turn his cheeks so red.

“Then what?”

Should she tell him what she suspected was happening? That the threads of power that made her what she was were one by one coming untied. He couldn't help. But then no one could and didn't friends tell each other what troubled them? Still, they weren't the usual friends, not the last surviving wizard and the Mother's one true son. Or should she just make something up to satisfy him?

“I can't tell you,” she said at last, gifting him at least with no lie.

His voice deepened to a growl. “Why not?”

Helplessly she spread her hands. Why didn't she want Lord Death to know she was, perhaps literally, going to pieces? Why did it matter so much that she not shatter the image she knew he held of the perfect Crystal?

“Could you tell him?”

“Him? Raulin?” Strange question. She considered it. She hadn't told him, but could she? Raulin held no image of her the news could break and their friendship hadn't had the chance to develop to where what he thought of her mattered. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I could tell Raulin . . .”

Lord Death's face nickered through several expressions and ended up wearing none at all. “Oh,” he said. And vanished.

Crystal stared at the place Lord Death had stood, her hand half raised to pull him back. “He wanted me involved in mortal lives again,” she told the wind. “How could I betray him when I answered the question he asked?” she demanded of the shadows. “I never knew he carried mortal feelings,” she confessed to the moonlight and opened her mind to call him back.

Across the meadow a tree burst into flame as the presences in her mind surged out of the place where the shields had penned Stem and grabbed for her power. Crystal screamed and dropped to her knees as burning hands beat at the inside of her skull. Below her, the snow hissed and melted. Voices howled and voices shrieked and voices screamed at other voices, but outside Crystal's head the night continued quiet and serene save for the one tree consumed in a tower of orange and gold.

Crystal felt her body rise, the movements small and sharp, directed by an unskilled puppeteer, or by one whose efforts were hindered by another fouling the strings. She staggered, almost fell and felt her feet jerked back beneath her. One voice, its cadences the hiss and crackle of the dying tree, snouted defiance.

“
I
will have her!”

“No!”
purred another equally heated but infinitely more controlled.
“Mine, for I was the key.”

Arms flailing, Crystal lurched first one way then the other, every two or three steps leaving a steaming hole in the snow. Her clothes, power created, dissolved, leaving her wearing only the pouch of memories on a leather belt around her waist and a blue-green opal, hanging from a silver chain about her neck. She felt the cold and then she didn't and then the pain was too intense for her to tell.

Then a third voice moved from the tumult to the forefront of her mind and the burning within became almost bearable. Her legs steadied and lengthened into a runner's stride.

With her fists clenched so tightly the nails cut half moons into her
palms, Crystal clutched at the shards of her power and tried to force her shields back into place. Nothing remained to force; the shields had been obliterated and the voices fought over the ruins. When she tried instead to regain control of her body, something slammed her against a tree with enough violence to have her cry out in purely physical pain. Muscles and joints protested as the voices battled among themselves, twisting her from side to side. When the running began again, she let it.

Through the forest, across a small meadow, up a rocky cliff face and down an impossible trail, all done at close to full speed, the third voice fighting off the others while directing Crystal's feet. In shattered bits and pieces, Crystal felt the calm that had cushioned her while her hands repaired the Nugget's kitchen pump.

A small building appeared at the edge of her vision, her body changed direction slightly and ran toward it.

“No!” howled a voice.

The leg just lifted off the ground spasmed and when it came forward again, refused to bear her weight. Crystal pitched forward, rolling at the last second to avoid slamming her face into a granite outcropping. Her body racked with convulsions, she fed what little power she held to the third voice. She had to get to that building—she didn't know why, but its call nearly drowned out the chaos—and the third voice seemed also to be trying to get her there.

The convulsions eased and the puppeteer pulled heir to her knees, then her feet, then she was running again. The second time she fell, she tasted blood as her teeth went through her tongue.

The building stood barely two body lengths away, maybe less.

The convulsions returned and locked her muscles. She couldn't rise, not even to her knees, so she rolled through snow and rock and blood and vomit, rolled to the threshold and slammed up against the door. With the last of her strength, with the third voice falling before the other two, she lifted her arm and fumbled at the latch.

Her fingers refused to obey so she slapped at the piece of metal, drove her hand up against it, used the pain as a focus to keep control of her arm.

The door swung open and she flopped inside. . . .

Silence.

No sound save the soft murmur of the wind in the trees and the beating of Crystal's own heart.

She dragged herself forward, and with a swollen and bleeding foot pushed closed the door.

The wood beneath her cheek was cedar and from the spicy smell masking the stink that she knew had entered with her, the rest of the building was as well. A silver square of moonlight marked the floor a hand-span from her nose. She lay quietly, gathering together her splintered power, motionless until she held enough to feel whole again, then slowly, very slowly, she pulled her legs beneath her and pushed herself up until she sat.