She ran her hand along the crack and touched the wetness to her cheek. The creature was not one of the First Folk, as she had thought. It was mammal, and not from the wild. Wheat sensed that this was a domesticate of sorts, in the old tales often called a familiar. She searched her memory, trying to recall some sort of clue from Sierra’s stories. Did the First Folk harbor canines or felines? In ancient times, were there aviaries filled with mimic birds? She shone the amber light into the frozen opening, trying to get a better view of the dark pelt, wet from the melting ice, the imprisoned form of an animal perhaps otherwise extinct since before the world began again. The sodden fur shivered, shrinking from the warm crystals, as Wheat felt the identity of this being come to her slowly, yet still slightly beyond her reach.
The cabochons burned radiant, signaling danger. Wheat turned to see that the camp was beginning to stir, although dawn had not broken. Several Lowlanders had noticed her and were gesturing wildly to others behind them. Wheat looked to her sheep and the fate they would face if she could not free them. Tracks’ bell tinkled. It was time to run.
But what about the animal still imprisoned in the ice? It could suffocate or drown on the march south. Wheat doubted that the Lowlanders would care. Dead or alive, the creature would prove to their queen that they had found the famed Crystal Caves.
However foolish, Wheat knew what she must do. Letting the dark thing loose was rash. Her act might unleash something malicious—and certainly malodorous—from legendary times. But she could not leave it to die; and perhaps freeing it would keep the beast out of Tasman’s grasp. Not least, the commotion the creature caused would create the distraction she needed to rescue her sheep. She wondered if any Lowland soldier would dare confront a familiar raised from the dead.
Summoning what powers she possessed, Wheat brought the force of the twin cabochons to bear upon the weakening ice, which spat hail-like bits at her. Soon the dark thing writhed, causing more cracks to appear. Sheep bleated in fear. The young Lowland guard had awakened, still as if in a slight trance that seemed to be fading. In a flash of heat, Wheat passed the flat of her hand before his face, but the ploy that had worked before now had no effect. As the ice melted, a torrent of icy water drenched the boy, who jumped up and ran toward his comrades, with his dripping cape dragging behind.
Wheat’s time was up. She aimed the cabochons along the fault line, releasing a rush of noxious yellow liquid that pooled about her feet.
Tracks peeked from behind a drift, watching as the ice cracked and then cracked again. A group of Lowlanders, moving in silence and with pikes raised, ran toward her. Almost without thinking, Wheat sent a fire bolt toward the closest soldier, slashing his tunic as easily as she had burned holes in Ratta’s dresses. The soldier went down, clutching his stomach, and the air smelled of seared flesh. Two others grabbed him by the arms and dragged him beyond the range of her staff. Wheat aimed her fire beam toward the ground, scorching a line in the snow. The Lowlanders in front fell back. Tracks trotted out of his hiding place to poke his nose into Wheat’s skirts, but she would not be deterred.
The beast whirled within its icy cell. Squinting at it in the pale light of waning night, Wheat made out leathery wings flattened against sleek dark fur, wings that flexed and then beat for the first time since before the age of ice. Ancient knowledge, some odd trivial fact of forgotten animal husbandry, lurked just beyond her mind’s grasp. “Tracks,” she murmured. “Tracks, come here. I believe I ken this First Folk creature.”
Tracks approached tentatively, watching the great piece of ice shift as the wings flexed inside, straining against the ropes that bound it—less securely every moment—to the creaking sledge. Waves of yellow water gushed from the fissure, spewing debris across the ground. Gingerly, Wheat reached into the ice with the tip of her staff. She held it to the edge of a leathery wing. The jolt of recognition that struck through the shepherd’s staff flung her to the ground, sending the twin cabochons swirling like circling birds of prey. Still caught, the furred being went into hysterics at Wheat’s knowing touch. The chunk of ice pitched and rocked in the tangle of hempen ropes.
Wheat scrambled back behind the drift where Tracks had taken refuge.
“It’s a Watcher,” she whispered. “A whirling dervish. The ancients trained them to protect their ruling class, like we would guard dogs.” Crouching behind the snow bank, she held Tracks close and absentmindedly patted his head. “Or sheepdogs.”
A pike flew into the drift in front of them. Lowland soldiers with smudge torches were surrounding them, still eerily quiet. The men in front held up shields against her fiery crystals. Wheat slammed her staff hard onto the ground. The cabochons ricocheted off each other, smashing and arcing with light. As the jewels overlapped to cast burning circles, Wheat shot bolts of fire toward the row of shields and they burst into flames.
The Lowlanders threw their blazing weapons aside and scattered. Wheat stepped forth, routing them with burning beams of light.
She planted her glowing staff once more and rubbed Tracks’ neck as they watched the struggling beast begin to break out of the crumbling ice.
“Nasty they are rumored to be, the dervish,” she confided. “Legend has it that if they didn’t know or trust you, there was a lot of biting.”
Tracks gave her a questioning look. “Not to worry,” she said. “This Watcher recognized my touch. He’ll not bother us.”
The amber beetles lit again in warning, but weaker than before. Wheat glanced at her staff. The crystals were almost spent. They would grow dark soon. She searched the edge of the woods. The Lowlanders, using snowdrifts for cover, had begun to surround the clearing, intending to block her in, along with the sledge and her sheep.
Wheat heaved herself to her feet and brushed the snow from her cloak. “Time for us to go.”
With Tracks at her side, she hurried to the sheep pen. Behind them, the ice rocked, threatening to topple the sledge each time the dervish stretched its wings further. The soldiers paused at the rumbling sound of shattering shards as the ancient ice splintered along the fault line. The being still could not break free, but it would only be a matter of moments before the ice smashed to smithereens. Wheat knew she should leave quickly, but with her hand on the gate she paused and looked back over her shoulder, her face flushed with excitement. She hoped that what she would see next would be like the hatching of a great bird.
“He’s wild with anger,” she murmured to Tracks. “Instinct tells him to return to his First Folk Family.” The Lowlanders were creeping toward the sledge. “Good thing he’s mad at them, not us.”
The ice was still thick in places, and the dervish was unable to fully spread its wings. The creature was laboring too hard, Wheat saw, and tiring quickly. If it stopped trying to fly, she still feared that the beast would drown. The dark wings beat desperately. Wheat raised her staff and focused the last of its waning light on the frozen shell. Almost immediately it split with a crash. The sledge tipped over backwards, taking the winged creature with it.
Lowland soldiers sprinted toward the overturned sled.
In the fray that followed, Wheat yanked open the twig gate and her sheep began to surge into freedom.
Then she pulled up the hood of her traveling cloak, and faded into the shadows as dawn threatened. She spotted Tracks waiting at the far edge of the clearing, but could not resist pausing a moment longer to see first hand if the dervish would be reborn from the ice, as legend said that fabled birds had risen from the ashes of the first dead sun.
Freed at last, the dervish whirled in place, in ever-tightening circles, flipping viscous spray over the Lowlanders who had been brave and foolhardy enough to close in. Caught in ropes of mucus, the soldiers that were able to run struggled away from the foul liquid, while others fell to the snow as the slime cooled and solidified.
Dawn began to break with a strange red light. Wheat turned as the dervish took wing, bathed in the blushing
glow. The sheep bleated in terror and stampeded through the gate, knocking down sections of brush. They thundered toward the valley below in a blur of black and white. In the rosy haze, the remaining Lowlanders scattered as the dervish swooped down on the encampment. Those that dared throw pikes saw them caught in huge talons and crushed like kindling. Tracks nosed at Wheat’s hand as the last ewes and lambs disappeared down the trail.
Wheat, distracted and blinking in disbelief at the reddening sky, absently rubbed the furry patch of forehead between Tracks’ horns. She took an involuntary step forward, then lifted her booted foot and examined it as if it were something possessed before she let it back down. Her heart began to thump in her chest.
The dawn was too bright, its colors bloody and surreal. To make matters worse, the garish light was coming not from the east, but from the north.
Silhouetted against the lurid sky, the dervish arched high on skeletal wings. Its gray hide stretched over gaunt bone that ended in curled talons. Fine tufted ears lay flat to its head. Its opaque eyes stared out, unblinking. As fire suffused the sky, the great creature circled above the clearing with lazy, yet laser intent, as if searching for prey.
“Broken shards,” Wheat swore softly, resisting the urge to step toward the light as the cold-fire crystals exploded over the mountains in spangles of scarlet and rose. It was the summons. Aubergine was calling.
The dervish flapped its wings and flew north, blind to the bloody sunrise. Soon it was a speck of black against the crimson horizon, disappearing toward the dim outline of the glacier.
Wheat stood alone at the edge of the ruined encampment. Tracks was hiding behind her, peering out in curiosity. The Lowlanders who had not fallen had either taken refuge or fled. She shook her head wearily and glanced around at the desolation. “Red sky in the morning, all take warning,” she said quietly.
The sledge yawed on its side across a bed of smashed ice. The makeshift sheep pen lay flattened to the ground. Among the dead, broken pikes and smoking shields had fallen haphazardly across the dirty snow. Wheat looked up at the crook of her staff. There was no need to hood it. The spent cabochons dangled lifelessly.
Wheat scanned the rows of tents, searching for Lowlanders who might still notice her. None stirred. Even so, Wheat kept the hood of her traveling cloak up and stuck to the shadows at the edge of the clearing. She realized she would not after all be taking the easy track south, for she felt the call and could not deny it. She wished she could wing her way north, like the dervish, because that was the way she needed to go.
Picking up Tracks, she tucked him under her traveling cloak, and made her way unseen past the few stunned Lowlanders who huddled before a fire, gesturing to each other as their eyes flickered toward the sky.
Why had Aubergine waited so long to set off the cold-fire crystals? Wheat had expected to see this red dawn a decade earlier, after the Lowlanders burned out the first set of ice caves now called the Burnt Holes, or more likely a few years later, when the Northlanders banned the use of magic, or even two years ago, when the Northland Guard started rounding up conscripts.
Back at the Crossings, Wheat looked around to make sure she was not being followed. Then she let Tracks out from beneath her cloak. Once again, he refused the high northern trail, and this time Wheat did not scold him when he trotted down the southern track. She just asked, “Where are you going?” Tracks had to have his reasons.
Leaning heavily on her staff, she shrugged and began to follow. The dervish had vanished into the strange sky. The southern route was longer, but she had a chance of catching up with her flock in the lower valley. Perhaps she could convince one of the farmers in Coventry to pasture them for a while. She had a feeling that she would not be passing this way again for a long time. It was time to shed her guise as a shepherd and resume her place in the circle as one of the Twelve.
Who else among them had felt the summons, and who would give the answering call? As far as Wheat knew, Sierra Blue had last held the tinderbox. It was identical to Aubergine’s seamless box, except that it contained answering fire, to let those waiting at the Potluck know that the Twelve had seen the call and were coming.
But Wheat couldn’t stop wondering: Why now?
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“Naught is worth saving if we do not protect what is within.”
CHAPTER 12
FROM HER CELL SIERRA EYED THE guards in the antechamber, who were casting Skells by lamplight. The two were no older than her son Warren. Neither knew that their seemingly harmless children’s game of cards and dice had its beginnings in magic, and that the original symbols were steeped in lore so powerful that the first cards and dice had been confiscated by the Northland Guard long ago. She remembered those painted birch-bark rectangles and carved-bone cubes. The boys played with pale imitations, but they enjoyed their game.
The round was all but over, and the burly soldier thought he was winning. He rattled the dice in his wooden cup as his companion, a skinny youth with an untrimmed beard and protruding ears, drew his card eagerly.
“Show me your money,” the chunky guard said. Coppery hair covered his head, curled from the front of his jerkin, and even dusted the knuckles of his hand.
Both young men were clad in short, belted tunics with the white crest of the newly formed Glacier Guard. This meant that they were probably conscripts, taken from their families as her son had been.
The dark, skinny guard tapped his Skell card on the table. He seemed nervous. “Let them fly.”
“Not so fast.” The big red-haired youth looked uncomfortable in his uniform. She pictured him at a smithy in the village of Coventry, forging horseshoes and roofing nails, since she had overheard him telling the kitchen wench that he had been a blacksmith’s apprentice before the war.
“Roll ’em, Hairy,” said the slight and clever guard, who gave off the smoky scent of cured hide when he got close enough to hand Sierra a dipper of water. She had learned that he worked at his father’s tannery in Woolen Woods before the Guard took him. Impatiently, he caught up his long black hair and pulled it back into a ponytail with the leather thong he wore around his wrist.
Hairy shook his dice cup lazily. “Let’s see ’em, Raven.”
Reluctantly, the thin boy produced two army-issue chits, ivory tokens that could be used in place of Northland silver at the garrison commissary and even some alehouses in Winterwatch if you knew where to go.
Hairy spit on his wrist. “For luck.” He shook the cup once more and let the set of dice spill onto the table. “Tigris!” he shouted, willing the cubes to show the symbol of the ancient twined rivers.
With a smile, Raven shook his long hair. “Re.” He pointed to the lidded eye carved into three of the bone dice.
Hairy looked toward Raven’s unplayed card. “Ice.”
Laughing, Raven turned over the Skell, showing flames. “Fire thrice. You lose.”
Hairy pushed two chits toward the others and watched his companion pocket the four. “Methinks you cheat,” he said sourly. Raven laughed. With a hopeful look, Hairy offered, “Another round?”
With a weary smile, Sierra shouldered her blanket and turned her face away, hoping the darkness would soothe the headache that had plagued her throughout the night. Indeed, Raven was cheating, counting combinations of cards played against the dice and marking them with fingernail strikes on his deerskin gauntlets every time he pretended to sneeze.
No matter. She found it ironic that these young men toyed with the same base magic that she was accused of using, magic she did not use—magic that instead had always used her. She gazed through the iron bars—bars that could not contain her unless she chose to make it seem that way. She was at a loss as to what she should do.
By the change of the guard, s
he hazarded that she had been held here little more than one day. She guessed they worked a twelve-hour shift, first these two and then two others equally young, and then back to these. Because light did not reach into the Burnt Holes, she had no other way to gauge time. Since her abduction, she had been silently watchful and listening.
Sierra had not been surprised when the soldiers had arrived at her stall in the main tent to arrest her. One among them was the surly soldier, Maynard, who had troubled her at the Middlemarch bridge. Nor had she resisted when a small detail of four Northland soldiers led her from the fairgrounds, for she felt the hands of fate guiding her, as always. For her entire life so far, Sierra had left herself to fate. She found her insights at once oddly comforting and frustrating, because she understood this: She could change nothing that was fated. People who recognized her ability to see as if with a sixth sense called that knowing look her lion eyes, since when she was perceiving in this way the gold flecks in her irises grew intense as those of a lioness watching her prey. This was especially noticeable when she sensed another of the Twelve close by. A lot of merit her unusual awareness had done her these past few days, she thought, with chagrin. She had cast her glance on those about her for direction, but had drawn a blank. Perhaps there was nothing from her mind’s eye that could penetrate these walls of burnt ice.
Worst of all, her captors had confiscated her traveling cloak; so she had no way to bend any of them to her will, or to pass unseen. The soldiers in Middlemarch had taken everything from her stall, while Chloe the button vendor looked on in dismay. Sierra had watched Chloe steadily until she caught the woman’s gaze. Then she let her eyes flicker ever so slightly to the bundle hidden under the table. She waited until Chloe nodded with understanding.
The Broken Circle: Yarns of the Knitting Witches Page 16