Avoid them, yes. Every holding had its discreet signposts or hastily built walls to keep the unwary from a disconcerting encounter.
Maleonarial whistled tunelessly through his teeth as he worked. His own preference for wilder places had a practical side. Though a gossamer was not what he intended, he’d made more than his share over the years. So far, only the bells knotted in his hair haunted him. That, and an opinionated breeze.
Though in weaker moments, he feared the wind nipping at his ears had more to do with the opinion of The Goddess.
The parchment, stiff and almost clear, barely covered his palm. He held it in place with his thumb and smallest finger. The other hand held the pen, its bone nib ready with fresh-made ink.
His heart beat like a drum. Sweat chilled on his forehead; his hands were dry and steady. Welcome signs. Potent. He was here, in this moment, sure and set. His intention filled his mind, words arising and flowing together . . .
Not gossamer, with mind and desire of its own. Something controlled. Needful.
The nib touched parchment.
Magic itself . . . at man’s bidding.
He always saw their faces at this moment. See every one of the latest crop of students waiting for his welcome as scribemaster, Saeleonarial’s young brother among them. Look to his friend with a smile, a master himself and proud, and suddenly, like a bolt of summer lightning, see the toll of stolen time on that face. They weren’t old men, but they were. And so, too soon, would be all those he welcomed, doomed the moment they became mage scribes.
Twelve years ago. He’d left the school that same day. There had to be an answer, a way to avoid Her toll. It couldn’t continue like this. Not like this.
His intention was clear. The words were ready.
With every fiber of his being focused on his task, Maleonarial couldn’t hear the pound of boots on rock, so like the pounding of his heart. The first inkling he wasn’t alone came as rough hands grabbed his shoulders and flung him backward to the ground. A bag—from the taste and dust, a flour sack—was pulled over his head. Harsh cries rang out from all sides, more like seabirds than men. “Quick!” “Stop him!” “Fools! Grab the pen!” Hands wrested that and his parchment away. Something smashed. Something cracked. Something ripped.
He lay still as they destroyed his scant belongings, trying not to cough. Pots could be replaced; a canvas mended. Old fool, not to have heard them coming; careless, not to have kept proper watch. Brigands were a known hazard. They’d discover he had nothing of worth and leave. Hopefully with him still breathing.
Maleonarial freed his mind of the intended words, cast them away without trying to remember. Regret was pointless. There was no way to know if these would have been the ones, if this would have been his moment.
The pen . . . that he’d regret, if this time it was broken beyond repair. But he could make another.
Would.
He didn’t resist as they searched his person none too gently, though he felt another regret as they discovered the remaining vials of Tankerton ink. But instead of the triumph he expected, there was another round of smashing, this time of porcelain against rock.
Thieves would know the value of those little pots.
“Who are you?” he croaked, for the first time afraid. “Why are you doing this?”
In answer, they seized him by ankles and wrists, carrying him away.
* * *
“Come out.” Cil ripped the head from another fowl. “Come out.” He tossed its body to join the spasming pile. “Come out.” Each final flight left a runnel of blood in the mud that curved and twisted and rose. Great butter-yellow eyes sought targets. Fangs curled open from gaping mouths, dripping hate.
The doors stayed closed. Ignored him. Scorned him. Discarded him like trash.
“Not for long,” he told himself.
The road rippled as sinuous bodies, swollen and heavy, made their way to the buildings, wrapped themselves around pillars and beams, crept up walls and over roofs and always, always, pressed and squeezed and sought their way in.
Cil licked bloody lips and smiled.
* * *
The wagon left Meadton with the wounded young farmer sitting with Rid. The made-oxen would follow the road to Riverhill without guidance, but Domozuk was adamant they should show a face familiar to the villagers when they arrived. Nerves would be frayed. He wanted no arrows or pitchforks aimed their way.
Saeleonarial hadn’t argued, grateful for the warmth and relative comfort of padded benches. Relative, for this final section of road was as poor as he’d feared. As the wagon jostled through deep ruts, the only way any of them stayed in their seats was by braced legs and a tight grip on a handhold. Despite the bounce and sway, he did his best to close his eyes and rest.
Seated across from him, Domozuk and Harn had already closed their eyes. A snore louder than the rattle of wagon and wheel drew the scribemaster’s lips into a smile. His servant could—and did—sleep anywhere. Even knee-to-knee with the Designate of The Goddess.
“M-my lord Scribemaster.”
One who couldn’t sleep. Saeleonarial opened his eyes again. He couldn’t discern more than the faint blob of the student’s face. The lantern glow outside barely reached the windows. “What is it, Harn?”
“Wh-at happens? When we find the mage?”
Ah. Conscious of the silent figure sitting beside him, he waited to answer until the latest series of jerks and bounces stopped rattling his teeth. “First we must be sure that magic was involved. This is a wild land. There are—” he waved his free hand vaguely upward “—beasts in the mountains.”
“But if it is someone from the school—what then, Scribemaster?”
Fear the loss of trust among common and noble alike. Learn firsthand how vulnerable we are to our neighbors and Her wrath.
Since none of that would comfort a frightened boy, he sighed. “Hope he’s reached his last bell already, saving us the trouble.”
And weep for an old friend.
The wagon lurched through another bone-wrenching series of holes. Harn bounced into Domozuk who grunted something unpleasant and curled deeper into his seat. Saeleonarial clung to the handhold, imagining how much worse it must be up front. But he didn’t ask Rid to try and slow the made-oxen.
Get it over with. Better for everyone.
Almost.
* * *
Magic must be intended, directed, written by those with Her Gift and Words. Above all, it is limited by the willingness of a mage scribe to spend his life. Ordinary men, men who accomplish marvels with their hands and tools, who father children and build homes, fail to grasp their own superiority. There is nothing to envy. The best a mage can hope for is to acquire wealth for a comfortable death bed.
Those who’d captured him, who carried him, who whispered in fear and desperate anger—if they only knew, Maleonarial thought wryly, how much more life they had than he. From their deep voices, most were in their thirties or forties, prime years for an ordinary man. Full of future. Careless of it.
Could they believe the aged body they carried with grudging care was no older than theirs? That he’d been born a mere forty-one years ago, in a mountain village likely twin to theirs, that he had older brothers who looked like great-grandsons, that not even his mother had known him within the decay of a man almost too old to still breathe . . .
A shift of grip. They had him by the shoulders and legs. Downhill now, boots skidding over wet leaves more often than stone. Not murderers. That could have been easily accomplished with a rock to his head.
They knew what he was, or they wouldn’t have feared his pen.
They knew what he was, but didn’t want him for it. The rude handling, the sack stifling his face proved as much, even without the fearful whispers. Maleonarial couldn’t believe they expected his willing cooperation, and torturers soon learned The Go
ddess would not permit Her Gift to be forced. With the first tainted word to parchment, She took what life remained to any mage scribe who succumbed to pain or threat.
The Deathless Goddess protected Her Gift, if not her mages.
Why? Who? Where were they taking him?
The closest village was Riverhill. Peaceful. Having more bottomland than most along the Terrhom, Riverhill’s surplus grain found its way upstream and down. Welcoming folk, if reserved with strangers. He’d been there only a week ago. Traded wildberries for a day-old loaf and some honey. Followed the savory aroma of lamb stew to the inn’s kitchen and coaxed a bowl from the kindly matron. Camped where he could see lamplight in windows and hear laughter from the wharves. Written his words and failed again. Left by dawn.
If these angry men were Riverhill farmers, they must think him someone else. “You’ve made a mistake. I’m Maleonarial,” he croaked through the sack. “Maleon—”
“We know your name, Hermit.”
“You’ll pay!” From the other side, edged like a knife. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done!” A hoarse chorus of agreement. The hands gripping his sore body tightened, as if ready to pull him apart.
Those carrying him moved faster, jostling any breath he had left to argue, to plead.
This was not good. Not good at all.
* * *
Made-oxen didn’t falter or slow, even for a swollen bladder. Designate be damned, Saeleonarial thought, staggering with Domozuk to stand at the tail gate and send a companionable stream of piss onto the road.
The scribemaster clung to a handhold, swaying with the wagon. The world receding from them was gilded by early morning sun, drops sparkling along leaf edges, puddled wheel-ruts become flashes of light. Warm amber tinged the distant hills and the crisp air had a fresh-washed taste. Bird song—what could be heard over the huffing breath of the beasts, the slam of plate-sized hooves into mud, and the creak of wheel and wagon—rose from the meadowlands to either side.
The Deathless Goddess was in a better mood.
That couldn’t be good. He scowled. “We’re almost there.”
Harn lurched between them, waving an apologetic hand. Domozuk caught him as a rougher jolt almost sent him flying after his piss. “Careful, lad!”
“Thanks.” If the boy blushed a darker hue of red, he’d match his jerkin.
Saeleonarial leaned his shoulder into the side of the wagon, loath to return to his seat beside the Designate even though his legs shuddered in complaint and both knees ached.
Harn almost fell out again as he pointed urgently. “What’s that?”
“That” was lying across the remnants of what had been a man. A lazy head, capped in horn, lifted as they passed, twisted to follow them. The motion pulled a pink loop of gut free, hooked on a tooth. The creature casually flipped the morsel down its throat, staring at the wagon until they turned a corner and were out of sight.
Not a bear. Saeleonarial’s mind struggled as hard as his heart. What, then?
Nothing he knew. Nothing anyone knew. Which left only . . . “A gossamer.”
“Gossamers are harmless,” Harn protested, voice rising to shrill. “Harmless!”
Musk in the night. A dream of a dream. “So we believed.”
“If that’s—if they—what about the rest?”
“I don’t know.” Saeleonarial dug his fist into his aching chest and closed his eyes. How many? They’d no tally of the things at the school. Gossamers were mistakes; their creation cost a mage scribe without payment for the privilege. This—this mistake cost Riverhill its blood. Old fool. “I don’t know,” he sighed and clung with both hands to the holdfast.
“Enough.” Domozuk pulled them both inside the wagon. The Designate turned from the small side window at their return, face raised, empty sockets bound by black tattoos. Beams of sunlight stabbed the gloom of the dark interior and picked lavender and gold from her silks, fingered the delicate ropes of jewels on her chest. No stains marred her clothing; the worms had been neat and swift. If it hadn’t been for the screams . . .
No doubt the Designate had seen the gossamer. Saeleonarial let his servant ease him to the bench beside her and wondered if a goddess could be surprised.
“You should have brought the hunters,” Domozuk scolded, half under his breath.
Sitting was its own joy. The scribemaster let his head fall back against the cushions and listened to his sputtering heart as it settled. “We can’t harm The Goddess Blessed.”
His servant gave him a familiar, dour look as he took his place beside Harn. “Tell that to our farmer up front.”
Still, Saeleonarial cheered ever-so-slightly. A gossamer was never intended. This one, however grim, couldn’t be blamed on its creator. “A mistake—”
“The intention was perfect. Despair. Vengeance. Perfect.”
They all stared at the Designate, but she said no more.
Harn whimpered deep in his throat.
Saeleonarial was tempted to do the same. How could anyone imagine something so foul, let alone find words in Her language to form it.
Musk and laughter. Droplet-laced whiskers, glittering by moonlight. He hadn’t imagined that either, nor intended to create it. He’d only wanted . . .
The scribemaster closed his eyes in defeat.
He’d wanted wonder.
Old fool.
And now a mage had wanted . . . what? Despair? Vengeance?
They were none of them safe, if those could be given life.
* * *
“It was me!” Cil grabbed a broken timber and threw it with all his might. It landed atop others. There were many others. Wood mixed with shards of bone and flesh and shredded cloth.
And everywhere blood. He stomped a puddle of it, squished it to warm mud between his toes, kicked it into the air.
His creations lay quiet, scaled sides heaving from their exertion, mouths agape. Spites formed tiny lines along what had been gutters, wings still, mouths closed. The first, the best, the biggest would be back soon. Someone had run.
Cil sank to his knees in the mud. “Silly-Cil,” he sobbed. “Stupid-Cil. Couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be special.”
Nothing answered.
There was no one left to know.
Then he heard the cries.
Cil looked up and smiled.
* * *
The body can only take so much. Maleonarial was half unconscious when his captors stopped, only dimly aware of being dropped to the ground. His hands and feet were numb; every joint on fire. He breathed in gasping whoops that burned the inside of his throat and raced his heart, but did nothing to fill his lungs.
The sack was ripped from his head.
Light and sound overwhelmed him. He curled into a fetal crouch, but they’d have none of it. With incoherent cries of rage, he was seized again, forced to his feet. When he couldn’t stand on his own, they held him.
Rows of nodding heads, tawny brown against gold. They were standing in barley. Hairs from the ripe heads covered pant legs. Stalks lay trampled into mud.
Why would farmers trample their own fields? Maleonarial doubted he’d like the answer.
“Look, damn you!” Hoarse and distorted by passion. “See yorn bloody work!”
His work? What had he done? Maleonarial honestly tried to see what they meant, but something was wrong with his eyes—or with the world. Where was this place? What was it?
He must have whispered the questions aloud, for one of those who held him answered. “Riverhill.” And spat.
The wet glob slid down Maleonarial’s cheek, hot, then cold.
Riverhill?
The barley field swooped down to the river, dew-laden heads sullen and still. The river flowed past, dirty and swollen from the storm. All was as it should be.
Nothing was.
He swallo
wed bile, staring at the heaps of splintered wood lying between field and river. What could have done this to walkways and wharves, homes and shops, the friendly inn? Between the heaps, the sunlight struck red. Not blood, he told himself. It couldn’t all be blood.
Thankfully, one of the Riverhill men blocked the dreadful view. Big, dressed as a smithy, fists the size of melons. His contorted features glistened with tears. “What did we do to you?” he pleaded. “Why di’ we deserve this?”
The Deathless Goddess did, on occasion, clean house. Summoned by a hold daughter, or for reasons of Her own, Her Designates would appear to claim what life remained from any and all in a place.
Not this. Even if a simple village could somehow offend Her, this was not Her work. She dealt in life’s start or its end, not wanton destruction.
Maleonarial looked from one face to another. All held the same question. Ten surrounded him. One more held him upright. Farmers, bearing pitchforks and spades, an axe. Tools, not weapons. All that remained of Riverhill. They’d kill him. How could they not? The disbelief that held them waiting for his answer would break with his first denial.
Maleonarial counted heartbeats, waiting for his last. Odd it would come like this and not be taken by The Goddess. Would She count that a trick on his part, to do Her out of Her just fee?
A dark cloud appeared behind the smithy, dissipating into hundreds of tiny black flies. From the decimated village, he guessed, confused between corpse and living flesh.
No, not flies. As the tiny things surrounded them all, one hovered before his eyes long enough to see it was nothing more than a tiny ball, a ball with wings and a gaping, toothed mouth.
The Gossamer Mage Page 5