by C. Greenwood
He looked at me. “I believe this is the magicker settlement you were bound for ten years ago when you set out for Cros.”
It was a startling revelation. I thought back to the fateful day Master Borlan had set me atop a peddler’s wagon and given the old man instructions to deliver me to a place in Cros where I could live among others of my kind. A place where I would be safe from the soldiers who had killed my parents. But I never reached that mysterious destination thanks to the intervention of a band of forest brigands in Dimmingwood.
I looked over the rooftops of Swiftsfell. Was this really the home that would have awaited me had I finished that long-ago journey? Would this community of magickers have taken me in?
Compelled to learn more of this place and its inhabitants, I had only one question for Hadrian. “How do we get in?”
* * *
“A good question,” said Terrac. “It will take us days to make our way down into the canyon and cross the river and even longer to scale the cliff on the other side.”
“Perhaps not.” Hadrian was mysterious.
He led us down the sharp incline by way of a slippery path that was so rough I was not sure it actually was a path at all. It looked as likely to have been carved by wind and weather as by the hand of man.
All the while we descended, Hadrian seemed to be looking for something. We had not gone far when he stopped us. We were on a narrow ledge, just wide enough for the three of us, with a sharp drop-off overlooking the valley below.
“It should be about here,” the priest muttered under his breath, and he began exploring the face of the rock, scrubbing away dried clay and moss and scattering pebbles.
“What should be here?” I asked. “What are we supposed to be looking for?”
“There ought to be some sort of symbols or inscription etched into the rock. According to the description from my sources, it must be close.”
Terrac caught my eye, and I shrugged. If the priest was determined to be cryptic, it might be faster to help him instead of dragging the facts from him piece by piece. I joined the search, and Terrac followed suit.
“Is this it?” I asked a moment later, glimpsing some foreign writing carved into the stone at eye level. I peeled away the dead moss that had overgrown it until the entire inscription was revealed.
Hadrian came to my side, and together we surveyed the strange writing.
“It is the old tongue,” he explained. “You do not see this anymore outside scholarly writings.”
“But you can read it?”
“I would not be much of a cleric if I couldn’t decipher Old Writ.”
As he began to read the ancient words aloud, a chill crept over me.
Chapter Two
A sudden gust of wind came whistling down the canyon. When it hit us, its cold teeth bit through my clothing. As the gust grew stronger, it snatched up Hadrian’s words and carried them away.
As thunder rumbled overhead, Terrac touched my arm and pointed skyward. A collection of dark clouds was swiftly forming, roiling directly overhead, while the sky in all other directions remained clear. It was an unnatural sight.
“Are you doing this?” I asked Hadrian over the rising howl of the wind. “I didn’t know you had weather abilities.”
He finished his incantation and shouted back, “It is no skill of mine. Whoever engraved this spell endowed it with great power.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t approve of spells and incantations. You always said they smacked of dark magery.”
He put his head closer so I could hear him over the roaring gale. “I do not like any source of magic that is not naturally born. But I trust the goodwill of whoever created this spell.”
The intensity of the storm was growing. The wind tossed my hair into my face and ripped at my clothes. Hadrian motioned for me and Terrac to join him in planting our backs against the rock and bracing ourselves against the strength of the gale. Raindrops began to patter down around us.
The priest pointed out over the canyon, toward the distant village on the far cliff. “Look for the void in the rain!”
I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly, but I looked anyway. And as soon as I did, I spotted it. Just a short distance away, the rain appeared to collide with empty air and bounce away as though from a solid object. There was nothing there for the drops to hit, only a yawning emptiness spanning between this cliff and the other. But somehow, impossibly, the rain picked out an invisible shape, a long and narrow stretch where the water spattered and formed pools and finally ran off in little streams.
The others saw it too, and together we approached the invisible bridge.
Terrac would have stepped out first, but I held him back. I did not trust that mysterious surface enough to let him test it. Not when I couldn’t see it or whatever supported it.
Hadrian went first. Cautiously he extended his walking-stick in front of him like a blind man, tapping the surface until he was satisfied it was solid enough to hold his weight. He took one step, then two, onto the invisible bridge.
Behind him, I held my breath, waiting for him to fall.
But he did not. Instead he kept going until he was well away from the safety of the ledge and standing, apparently on thin air, above the chasm.
I followed next. It was a strange sensation, walking on a surface I could feel but not see. Looking down between my feet, there was nothing to block my view of the canyon and the rushing river far below.
Whatever materials the bridge was made of, it was dangerously slick with the falling rain. Away from the shelter of the rocks, the wind was unnervingly strong, pushing and pulling at me as if wanting to throw me over the edge. I didn’t know whether there were invisible ropes or rails to prevent a fall. My hands found nothing but air to either side.
I was unused to such heights, and the view of the valley so far beneath me was dizzying. I had to stop looking down and focus instead on Hadrian’s back just ahead of me, following his every step until, together, we made it to the other side. Moments later, Terrac safely joined us. Only then did I dare to look back.
The wind and rain evaporated as soon as we were on solid ground again, the storm clouds dissipating so suddenly we had only our sodden clothes to prove there had ever been any storm. And without the rain, the bridge too disappeared before my eyes.
We were now on a rocky outcropping at the opposite side of the canyon from where we had started. The only visible way off this ledge was by a short walkway of timber and rope leading to a suspended platform from which branched a series of other walks heading to different parts of the village. At the end of these paths, dozens of small homes clung like the nests of mud-wasps to the sheer face of the rock.
We followed the near walk. Despite its swaying, I felt much safer on the ordinary bridge than on the invisible one we had just crossed.
As we came into what seemed to be the heart of the village, it was clear our arrival, or maybe the storm that made it possible, had not gone unnoticed. Heads poked out of doorways to watch us pass, and the locals crept out of their homes and onto the swinging bridges and suspended platforms. There was something cautious in their movements, as if they were undecided whether to greet us or drive us away.
This was my first close look at the inhabitants of Swiftsfell, and I studied them with interest, remembering what Hadrian had said, that fate had almost delivered me to this place as a child. How different might my life have been if I had grown up here instead of Dimmingwood?
The children looked clean and well fed and as content as any little ones I had ever seen. Among children and adults, I saw a mixture of races and clothing in varied styles that suggested many different provinces. I recognized the rough garb common in the mountainous province of Kersis and the smoother garments and tinkling accessories that might have come from Camdon. I saw too many folk like me, whose pale skin and silver hair denoted a distant Skeltai ancestry. Had all these people fled their home provinces and settled here for the same re
ason? To be free of persecution toward magickers? I saw more folk who looked like they belonged to my own province than any other, confirming my guess. These people would have sought refuge in Cros during the “cleansing” of Ellesus over a decade ago when the Praetor had attempted to destroy every magicker in the region—and very nearly succeeded.
By the time we reached the end of the walk, many of the villagers had gathered to meet us, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and hostility.
Above their low murmuring, a voice broke through the crowd. “Who are you strangers, and what is it you want?”
The question came from a big fellow, whose height and shock of fiery red hair reminded me briefly of my friend Dradac back home. But there was nothing friendly about the way this man eyed us or the way he held the thick staff in his hand as if it would take very little provocation for him to attack us.
Before we could respond, another voice called out, “Calm yourself, Tomas. Let us give them a chance to speak before we determine them to be our enemies.”
The throng parted to reveal the speaker, a stooped old man with a shining, bald head and milky white eyes that stared sightlessly ahead. He rested his hand on the shoulder of a small boy, who steered him expertly through the gathering until he stood before us.
He said, “I apologize for my friend’s unenthusiastic greeting. Visitors from the outside are not often seen or encouraged. I am Calder, the elected head of Swiftsfell.”
His courteous smile was fixed on a point directly before him.
Hadrian stepped into that empty space. “I greet you, master Calder. I am Hadrian, a priest of the Light, and these are my companions, Ilan of Dimmingwood and Terrac… also of Dimmingwood.”
I wondered if his hesitation was because he had almost named Terrac as an Iron Fist in the service of Praetor Tarius but had changed his mind at the last instant. The Praetor of Ellesus would not be a popular man here, and neither would anyone known to be one of his soldiers.
If the village head, Calder, took note of Hadrian’s slip, he said nothing of it, instead remarking, “A priest of the Light, you say? I am surprised an Honored One would visit our little village.”
Hadrian nodded. “My interest in your community is purely scholarly. I am compiling a history of magic and magical races in the region. It is the first such book of its kind, and if I wish to do it full justice, the work will require me to travel the full breadth of the provinces. But it would not be complete without the inclusion of the largest magicker community in Cros.”
Calder looked cautious. “Then you come here seeking information for your book?”
“Only whatever the inhabitants here are willing to share,” Hadrian reassured. “I merely wish to interview anyone open to talking with me and answering a few questions. Naturally, I will not record anyone’s names or the exact location of this village. I have every respect for the privacy of your community.”
Calder’s forehead furrowed. “I am not sure this is something I should allow. We in Swiftsfell work hard at secluding ourselves from the outside and, as you have seen with our invisible bridge, have set certain safeguards to maintain our privacy. We would prefer to avoid unwanted attention.”
Hadrian asked, “Are such precautions truly necessary? I thought Cros had a more tolerant praetor than ours, one more lenient toward magickers?”
“That is true. But not all persecution comes sanctioned by praetors. There are other sources of danger.” The village head looked as if he would say more but then thought better of it. “However, your endeavor sounds like a worthy one, and if any members of the community are willing to take part, it is not for me to forbid it. And I sense that you are not quite a stranger to our kind, are you?”
“I am not,” Hadrian agreed. “I was born with the gift of natural magic, as was one of my companions here.”
I was glad when he did not single me out or go into detail. The loss of my powers was not a thing I was eager to share with strangers. As it was, this Calder could probably sense the flicker of what had once been in me.
Thankfully, he did not pursue the subject. “I will not deny your party permission to stay in Swiftsfell for a few days. We will need to discuss boundaries for your mission to ensure the safety of our people is not compromised. But this is not the time or place for such a discussion. I invite you and your companions to be guests in my home. Perhaps we may clarify matters over dinner.”
I had been following the conversation up to this point, but now I was distracted by a face in the crowd. A petite old woman had stationed herself at the front of the onlookers and was studying me with a strange look of fascination. As if unable to contain herself any longer, she pushed forward now.
“Ada ,” she burst out. “Ada, it is you!”
I blinked. The woman was looking directly at me, but I kept silent, half expecting someone else to step forward in answer to her question.
When I did not respond, she came closer until she stood right before me. For a brief moment I thought she was going to reach out and touch me. The dazed look in her eyes, as if she could not believe what she was seeing, was unnerving. Unconsciously, I stepped back from her.
At my motion, the light in her eyes died, the expression of confused hope being replaced by resignation and disappointment.
“Oh,” she said dully. “You are not she.”
“No,” I agreed. “I am Ilan.”
She recovered herself briskly. “But you bear a resemblance to her, so I am not a mad old fool for thinking it. Do you know Ada?”
My heart beat a little faster. “That was the name of my mother.”
Her eyes lit up. “Then your Ada and mine are one and the same—and how like her you are! It is no wonder I was confused.”
Instantly I was intrigued. I had never met any friends of my mother, and it was startling to find one here where I had least expected it.
“You knew my mother?” I asked. “When? What can you tell me about her?”
“It would be better to ask what you can tell me,” she countered. “For I have not seen her this past decade.”
I swallowed. “I am sorry to tell you she is dead.”
The woman’s eyes reflected pain. “That I have long known. But I would like to hear of how she died and of the life she lived since I last saw her. And in return, perhaps I can answer your questions as well.”
“Ilan,” Terrac cut in. “Calder is leading the way.”
He was right. The village head and Hadrian were departing together, and if Terrac and I did not hurry, we were in danger of being left behind.
I made up my mind quickly. “You go on with Hadrian, and I will find the both of you later,” I said. “I need another moment here.”
I could see he was displeased at the separation, but turning back to the old woman, I did not give him the chance to protest.
“Is there someplace we could talk privately?” I asked.
She nodded her silver head. “Of course. Come with me.”
* * *
From the outside, the old woman’s house was the same as all the others. Again it occurred to me that these cliff homes looked vaguely like mud-wasp nests turned on their sides. The sheer face of the cliff formed their backs, and their outer walls were a mixture of timber and dark clay constructed into tunnellike shapes. Each was stacked directly over the next in connected rows. Swaying rope bridges ran between each cluster of homes, joining them like a great hive.
Inside, my host’s home was unlike anything I had ever encountered. Long and narrow, the rooms were like passages, each leading into the next with no central room or entryway to connect them. But that hardly mattered because there were few rooms anyway. She apparently had little need of space, which was as well, because the overall feeling of her house was of a cramped but cozy atmosphere.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked. Without awaiting an answer, she went to the fireplace, a small niche carved out of the inner rock wall, and fetched a kettle from over the low flames.
She moved with surprising ease for a woman of her years, and I mentally adjusted my first impression of her from elderly to a bit past middle-aged. Like myself and many of Swiftsfell’s inhabitants, she bore evidence of Skeltai ancestry, and the silverness of her hair combined with the heavy lines of her face made her age difficult to guess.
I took a seat on a bench near the fire. On such a warm day, the proximity of the flames was mildly uncomfortable, but every other surface I might have sat on seemed occupied by baskets and blankets and various kinds of clutter I could not identify. My bench was rickety and roughly put together, like all the other furnishings in the room. The floor was scattered with rushes as a primitive replacement for rugs. The mud-dobbed outer walls were hung with big woven mats, presumably as an extra layer of insulation during the winter months.
It took me a moment to take all this in as my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of the windowless space. The fireplace cast a little light around the room, but a cooler source of illumination was the series of lamps resting on tabletops and other surfaces. The bluish color from the lamps made me wonder if they were lit by some means less natural than ordinary flame. This was, after all, a place where magic could be used freely and openly.
My thoughts returned to my host when she passed a warm cup into my hand. The scent of the steaming skeil was reassuring. The drink, at least, was familiar.
“Now,” she said, seating herself on a nearby stool. “Let us introduce ourselves properly. My name is Myria. I did not catch yours.”
It seemed strange to be introducing ourselves so formally, after our excited initial meeting. But perhaps neither of us knew quite how to act toward the other.
“Ilan of Dimmingwood. That’s the forest that covers half the province of Ellesus.”