Wine of the Gods 08: Dark Lady

by Pam Uphoff

  "Are you coming today, Rustle?" The girl who'd waved eyed her uncertainly. "Answer said you didn't remember much . . . I'm Xanthic, this is Ultra, and Swish. You really don't remember us, do you?" Her searching glance was mentally open, and Rustle shakily raised her shields. Using the rhyme, it didn't hurt nearly as much. Really. And they only leaked a little.

  Ultra was aghast. "What did you do to your brain?"

  Swish smirked a bit. "Guess you won't be showing off today."

  "Girls . . . " A slightly older group of witches was coming up behind them, and made shooing motions with her hands. Rustle joined the younger witches as they walked into the woods. The sulfur smell strengthened, and they walked out into a rock floored clearing. Three steaming pools along the base of a ten foot cliff. A small waterfall tinkled into the northernmost pool. Other witches were already there.

  Rustle's first try at witch exercises gave her a pounding headache. She sat quietly and meditated beside the hot springs, pretending she didn't see the worried looks everyone was giving her. Even with everyone well shielded, quite a few emotions were seeping through. More worried and caring than gleefully spiteful, but there was a bit of that as well. Chilly disapproval from the "eldest sister" of the pyramid. She failed to remember why she had a bad relationship with the leader of the Pyramid but jumped up another notch toward a blinding headache.

  A couple of pinprick jolts, as someone, or several someones, tested her shaky shield. I am vulnerable. Bare to an attack from any of these people, and I don't remember who among them might bear me ill will. Nor why.

  There were twelve Half Moons, and they would have made even triads, if she had been up to the work. As it was, Elegant, who was running the exercises today suggested that she simply listen and hopefully remember. She pulled Swish and Ultra out of the groups and set them each up with solo exercises, and resorted the rest into three triads.

  Rustle was relieved to see that the triad from Rip Crossing, which was apparently her demesne, was well up to the work. When Ask was swapped out for Ultra, she came and sat beside Rustle. Her shield was solid, and her hug worried.

  "Xen's been drilling us on keeping quiet. And everyone else is mostly through the gate. So if you need privacy, you can come to the Rip."

  Rustle frowned. "Can I travel that far? I'm not sure I can travel at all, right now."

  Ask snorted. "We have a corridor now. Very handy. Some days I feel like I've never left Ash."

  Rustle nodded slowly. Corridors. Of course.

  The witches took a well timed break, as all twelve of them had infants, and all twelve decided it was time to eat. Iron's little girl was the oldest of the bunch, fast approaching her first birthday, and apparently determined to meet it on her feet.

  After another resorting of Triads, and repeat exercises, they were dismissed.

  "Rustle, wait a moment, please." Answer was looking disturbed.

  "Eldest Sister?" Rustle used the title the others her age and below had used.

  "Rustle, your were precocious, and too independent, living with Never and that man outside our influence. Your brilliance was not tempered by our keeping you from straying across lines that should never be crossed without considerable thought and animal experimentation. Your arrogance was untempered by caution, when you were in Karista, pretending to be a princess, and inciting violence. You have caused me more trouble than any ten other witches.

  "But now you are injured. And you are still my great granddaughter. We will help you regain what you have lost, teach you all over what cannot be recalled. You may rely on us. And I truly wish that you would come and live with us, not with some man. God though he calls himself."

  Rustle blinked back tears, nodded. "I cannot live in the village yet, my shields are too weak, my mind too raw. When I can, I will consider your offer." She tried to smile. "And if I recall too much, you may well wish me gone, or glad of what I can no longer do."

  Answer looked away. "I should hope to never be so petty as to be glad of anyone's loss of power. Heal, then decide. I think you should sit in on our usual lessons for the Crescent Moons. Tuesdays. After school. Here. Otherwise, let your brain rest."

  "Yes, Eldest Sister."

  The old woman waved her off, and turned back to the other old witches, who had remained as if they had business to discuss, apart from the younger women.

  She followed the path back toward the village. Quail stirred, woke suddenly and demanded lunch in no uncertain terms. Rustle hustled the last steps out of the forest, then stepped off the path to sit in the grass.

  So. I was the Bad Girl of the Pyramid. And the head witch—my great grandmother!—won't even say what I did. No doubt hoping I won't remember doing it, or at least that I won't be able to do it again.

  But she offered me a home.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Spring 1367

  Ash, Kingdom of the West

  "Let's see what old friends we can offend by not remembering them today, eh? Wish I had your excuse, Q."

  "Oh, most of us aren't that snotty."

  Rustle tracked the voice to the herb garden.

  A crooked little old lady straightened, cane in one hand, a handful of weeds in her other. "Humph! Now that's an interesting knot you've gotten your brains into. Looks like a charley horse of the gray matter. You must have been trying to shield with the wrong parts of your head."

  "A . . . "

  "Oh, sorry. No one says charley horse any more. And the brain isn't a muscle anyway. But you've certainly got your neural pathways tangled a bit. Not much real damage, so I expect it will go away. Both the damage and the memory problems." Bright eyes studied her. A brisk nod. "You've erected mazes, since you couldn't manage walls. You will have to make yourself relax, and untangle things. I'm Gisele."

  "The Goddess of Health and Fertility." Rustle blinked. Smiled. "I remembered that."

  "Yes. One more path through the maze. Work at it." The old woman plunked the weeds into a basket on the ground and straightened. All the way. A wash of brown flooded through her hair. A handsome matron, experienced and wise, stepped closer. "So this is your little Quicksilver." She reached out and touched the baby's cheek. "Hmm. Interesting. I think you need to avoid the Auld Wulf when he's in a healing sleep. No telling what he'll come up with next." She stepped back and frowned at the ground. Leaned on a cane that hadn't been there a moment before as she bent to pull an offending bit of vegetation. Gray haired, wrinkled and older than time.

  Rustle retreated. That was enough for today. Scary old woman. Or middle aged woman. And I think there's a young version, too.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Spring 1367

  Ash, Kingdom of the West

  The big barn was used to anchor corridors. Rustle could see them, faint behind illusions of weathered boards. Above the illusions, in paint that nearly matched the weathered gray of the barn, some one had labeled the corridors. Karista. A faint memory of a city came to her, then disappeared as soon as she tried to remember more. Halfway. No explanation for halfway to what, either on a label or in her head. A foggy view of a twisted pine tree growing between granite boulders.

  She stepped through. Coughed, her ears hurt. Stunted pines giving way to rock. They were standing on a mountainside. Quail sucked in a deep breath and screamed. High altitude, low atmospheric pressure. Rustle turned and stepped back through the side of the barn. Quail gave a last wail then pouted. Rustle wiggled her jaw and popped her ears.

  "Ouch! I think that was halfway to Mount Frost. Or more. I don't think sudden air pressure changes are a good idea." She popped her ears again and patted Quail's back. "You sure didn't like that."

  She eyed the end of the barn.

  A gate, not a corridor. She could only see the slow swirling energies of the . . . phenomenon. "Must be the world the mages moved to."

  Quail craned her head, looking for something more interesting than barn walls.

  Rustle walked around the barn; the far side had more corridor
s.

  "Rip Crossing. Excellent, we'll go there in a couple of days, practice magic with a tiny group. Crossroads? That doesn't even sound familiar." Between the illusion and the fogginess of the corridor, all she could see was brick pavement. She hesitated, then stepped through.

  Brick pavement, that ended abruptly at a meadow ten feet away. She turned and looked back. She'd stepped out of a blank wall. Horizontal logs, painted brown. A steep pitched roof with blue trim. "Harry's Tavern. Now located at the crossroads of the worlds."

  She walked around to the porch and through the wide front doorway. Inside, tables were scattered about, a beautiful polished mahogany bar to the right. She blinked a bit as her eyes adjusted. The bar was a tree trunk, split vertically and propped in place. Stairs led to a balcony, hallways led off . . . she rubbed her eyes. Were those hallways in bubbles?

  "Yep. I think You're the first person to notice that in a thousand years." Harry set down his mug and stood.

  "Sorry, I didn't see you."

  The old man grinned. "That's the Auld Wulf's training. 'Sit there, Harry, and you'll get a good look at whatever comes through your door before it sees you.' Paranoid, I told him. But I still do it, often as not. How are you, Rustle?"

  "Better. Not so tender, and improving faster than before." She looked around. "No customers?"

  "Damn few, but I feel itchy, not keeping an eye on this place." He glanced ruefully at the door to the side.

  Kitchen. Some certainty in her mind.

  "Yep. And no cook. I need to try to recruit some witches. So I can't even offer you lunch, unless you cook it yourself."

  Rustle nodded. "I used to work here, didn't I?"

  "Eh, witches don't so much work here as have cooking contests." He was looking a bit hopeful, so Rustle peeked through the door.

  A wave of familiarity pulled her through. Wood stove, cold. Sink. Polished wooden work spaces. Pots and pans hanging. Collecting dust! Cupboards that she knew held plates, that one had the bowls, the eccentric flatware . . . Beginning metal molding practice pieces.

  She pulled the drawer open and smiled at the wild range of design and size. Iron, steel, brass, bronze. Some that appeared to be pure copper, but no sign of a green patina marred them. "I don't remember which of these I made. Or . . . did I do something else?"

  Harry chuckled. "Ball bearings, wheel rims, and harness buckles for Havi and the Goat Boys."

  "Hmm . . ." She remembered Havi suddenly. Black hair and amber eyes, but otherwise the image of her father. Her best friend growing up. "My half-brother. And . . . " Other children with black hair and golden eyes. Others, she remembered a younger Ask, another blonde girl, and two red headed boys. "The Goat Boys . . . and Primo . . . the dragon?" Campfires, ghost stories, laughter cascaded through her mind.

  "Yep, and his eleven siblings. They moved far away, off to Asia and well away from those Earthers." Harry sighed. "I don't know how they're doing, they don't make roads." He stepped out the back door, then came right back, bearing a large wrapped paper package.

  "Going to have some cowboys coming through later. They're moving their herds, as the water holes start drying up. My own cooking never did get much better than mediocre."

  Rustle reached out and took the package. "Venison? Do you have any vegetables bubbled up somewhere? Fruit, flour, sugar, and lard . . . no, wait. I remember the bins now. I hadn't realized they were bubbles . . . "

  It was a pleasant way to spend the day, the yeasty odor of bread, spices, apple pies baking. Slow roasting meat. The ranchers and their hands reminded her of the ordinary people of Joramtown.

  After they left, she slipped outside. In the dark, she could see the glowing circles of gates. She headed for the first one to the north and stepped through.

  The wind was warm and dry, the grassy hills even emptier. The moon was in the right place, but turned even further than she remembered. What had someone said? That it rotated once every nine months, or had they said nineteen? Must have been nineteen, because it's barely a quarter of the way around since I came. . . five months ago? Or is it almost six? She rubbed her temples. Do I dare get near a Summer Solstice celebration?

  She lay in the grass, thinking slow peaceful thoughts. I could live here. Or through one of the other gates. Or anywhere . . . except Quail would get lonely . . . would Xen come with me, or stay with his father, his school and friends?

  She blinked in sudden alarm and bolted back through the gate.

  Quail was still sleeping peacefully where she'd been left. Harry was kicked back in a chair, reading by the light of a hovering ball.

  She gave a relieved huff.

  Harry chuckled. "She's a bit young to be one of my strays. And you're older than most. You can stay here, if you need to Rustle, but all my strays move on, sooner or later."

  "Thanks Harry. I don't think I'm lost, just confused. But I'll see if some witches are interested in cooking duties, or contests as the case may be."

  "Any guests I get will appreciate that."

  Rustle hefted Quicksilver and walked out. But before she walked through the corridor, she looked back for a long moment at the gate to Arrival. I wonder what Liz is doing?

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Monday, June 15, 3493 AD

  City of Arrival, Arrival

  ". . . and this is the Grand Cathedral." Kurt had brought Liz to the square in a roundabout path so she first saw the whole perfectly balanced edifice.

  "That's . . . it looks light and airy enough to float away." He caught her again trying to not look intimidated.

  He hesitated, then dived straight in. "How are you doing at . . . home?"

  She sighed and shook her head. "The, umm, staff are a bit shocked. I guess they are just the minimal caretakers, and most of the staff travels back and forth from East Heights to the Arrival House with the baroness and her children." She gulped. "They should be arriving tomorrow. It's going to be . . . interesting."

  "I wish I could be there." Kurt chewed a knuckle.

  "Ha! You've got to explain Lady December to the archbishop and his council. They'll probably make you do some sort of, umm, service meditation? Isn't that the usual?"

  "Oh yes." He stopped in the shade of an old oak and pulled her into his arms. "The worst they can do is a year and a day of service, away from the World to contemplate God without exposure to more corruption. Will you wait a year and a day for me?"

  She leaned comfortably on him. "Heck. I might even wait a year and two days. Although to be honest, I can't exclude running off to Jeramtown for a good solid part of it. "

  He chuckled. "Smart of you. Especially when it's time for Moxie to foal. If nothing else, you can use the money in your Exchange account for a small horse farm. I'll find you, wherever you've gone off to, even if I have to try and find a 'gate' and hunt down Lady December."

  Liz chuckled. "Now there's a thought. I'll tell my mother if I'm going that far abroad, though."

  "And we're being horribly pessimistic, aren't we?" Kurt resumed strolling toward the Cathedral, enjoying the growing awe on Liz's face as she realized how big the building truly was.

  He led her up the broad steps and gave her a personal tour of all of his favorite parts. Their presence was noted but they were left alone for several hours of rambling.

  A young man, a student by the colors on his robes, brought Kurt a message from Bishop Langdon, requesting a moment of his time. Liz bit her lip, then suddenly decided she'd take some more time in the small chapel, if he'd excuse her.

  The Bishop greeted Kurt looking like a fox in the hen house. "The diary of the priest who married Jameson to this Lucy Garner is quite clear, and damning. He suffered considerable agonies of guilt and shame, mostly, I'm afraid, after spending the money the old Baron paid him to remove the record of the marriage. He has been questioned extensively. The Council agrees with me, that it is the vows spoken before God that are binding, and the record is just a matter of book keeping. They have signed writs of annulment on both Jame
son's subsequent marriage and Lucy's. The pair of them will have to come to us and request a divorce from each other, which—under the circumstances—will of course be granted." The bishop was suppressing a smile. "What a scandal. The Baron with four children and the, ahem, Baroness with eight from their now dissolved marriages."

  Kurt gulped. "I do hope I don't end up regretting bringing the subject up. Baron Jamison will be bad enough. What the, err, Not-Baroness is going to say or do boggles the mind."

  The Bishop almost lost control of his smile. "One suspects that she will be making Jamison's life quite uncomfortable."

  And Liz is going to be in the middle of it. Kurt winced. "Yes."

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Wednesday, July 1, 3493 AD

  City of Arrival, Arrival

  "This shocking belief in magic and gods is disturbing, Prince Kurt."

  "Magic, as I explained, is a useful term for phenomena I observed. These odd gods, as I said, are not the creator, nor actual gods of any other sort. They are simply strong magicians. I do not 'believe' in them." Kurt nodded politely to the archbishop.

  "I believe that a suitable interval of peaceful contemplation will allow you to wrestle these heretical ideas from your soul. You will remain within the inner precincts of the Cathedral for a year and a day."

  Kurt sighed. "As you wish." The Council had given a strong impression of having not listened to a word he said.

  "Go with our blessing, my son."

  Kurt stood, bowed to the Council and walked out. He had an escort of three full priests.

  "I'm Father Miles Alabama. I will be your Counselor for the year." Father Miles was the oldest of the three. "Do you have any questions?"

  "Yes. I got the distinct impression that my reporting of observations were being taken as if they were declarations of faith. Why was that?"

  "My son, what you described was simply impossible. The strain of the siege clearly unbalanced your mind and caused these fantastical hallucinations and dreams."