by Lynn Kurland
The darkness didn’t move. It only stood there, filling the doorway and drawing all the light available into itself.
Or at least it did for a moment or two. Then it receded and revealed a simple man—if a mage could ever be called that. He wore a cloak with the hood pulled forward to cover his face. Perhaps his visage was ruined, or terribly wrinkled, or so fierce that he thought to spare anyone the ordeal of looking at it.
Then again, given that he was likely more interested in frightening off any potential visitors than sparing them discomfort, perhaps he was simply cold, or had just come in from a lengthy bout of terrifying his neighbors and hadn’t had the time to hang up his gear.
“Well?” he demanded, his voice rough, as if he didn’t use it very often. “What do you want?”
“I need aid,” she said quickly. “With magic.”
He stood there for another moment or two in silence, then slammed his door shut in her face.
She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t that. She looked at that rough-hewn door for a moment or two, then knocked again. And again. She knocked until she was pounding on the wood.
The mage jerked the door open again suddenly. “Woman, if you don’t stop that, I’ll make it so you can’t knock again.”
His threats were nothing worse than she’d heard from her brother and his tone nothing worse than she’d been accustomed to from her mother, so she stuck her foot in the doorway so he would have to shut her in the door before he might shut her out, and quickly got down to business.
“I need your services,” she said frankly. “I can pay you.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t need gold.”
“Good, for I have very little to give you.”
He seemed to consider for a moment or two, then cursed as he turned and walked across his great room. Sarah was surprised to find he didn’t move as an old man might have, but perhaps his magic rendered him eternally young. He cast himself down into a chair by a table, his hood still shadowing his face. Sarah didn’t particularly want to come inside his house, but if that was what was required, then that was what she would do. She left Castân sitting on the path outside, then started across the threshold. There were spells there, but they were merely fierce, not evil, so she parted them as she might have a curtain and passed through. She continued on until she stood next to the mage’s table.
’Twas obvious he lived alone. The floor wasn’t disgustingly filthy, but it hadn’t been swept recently either. Books littered the table in front of her, along with plates needing a wash and a collection of cups that begged for the same attention. She started to straighten a pile of manuscripts, but stopped when she remembered what had happened the last time she’d touched something on a mage’s table.
She hazarded a glance at the mage in question, but he sat with his head bowed, studying his fingers steepled together in front of his face. She took the opportunity to dust a little and stack a plate or two whilst making certain out of the corner of her eye that he wasn’t reaching for a wand of any sort.
He wasn’t reaching for anything, as it happened. He was merely sitting, as if a sudden bout of deep thought had overcome him. He actually didn’t look terrifying, his large stature aside. She was faintly surprised to find herself still breathing whilst standing at his hearth, but perhaps her offer of just a few coins had been more appealing than she’d suspected.
“So,” he said, lifting his head finally, “you want my aid, do you? In return for what? A handful of coins and a clean table?”
She stopped brushing crumbs off the table onto the floor and put both her hands behind her back. “I’m nervous.”
“I intended you to be.”
“I imagine you did.”
“I don’t like company,” he said shortly.
“You’ll like even less what comes crawling up your pathway once my brother creates another of what he fashioned in my mother’s house.”
The mage sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “Your brother?”
“Daniel of Doìre.” She attempted a dismissive wave, but succeeded only in tipping over a mug she then had to rescue from tumbling off the table onto the floor. She set it back down on the table carefully, then took a deep breath. “He vows to destroy the world.”
“The whelp of a village witch?” the mage said with a humorless laugh. “I don’t think I’ll lose sleep over the thought.”
“You didn’t see what he created to raze my mother’s house and barn.”
He snorted. “Surely any witch’s get could have managed the like. And since you’re one, why didn’t you stop him?”
“I thought it might make a better impression on him to have someone swoop down and beat sense into his very thick head,” she said honestly. “Someone with a terrifying reputation.” She paused. “Someone like yourself, actually.”
“I don’t swoop.”
She reached out and straightened a stack of books on his table that was nigh onto tumbling over. “Whyever not?”
“ ’Tisn’t dignified.”
“Then change yourself into a bloody dragon and singe him from tip to tail—”
She gasped and realized that her wrist was again on fire only after she saw why. The mage had leaned forward suddenly, caught her by the hand, and shoved her sleeve up to her elbow before she could protest. The pain winded her.
“What,” he asked in a garbled tone, “is that?”
It took her a moment to catch her breath. “A spell,” she gasped. “I touched—”
He released her so suddenly it was as if he too had been burned. He stood up, cursing viciously, then took her by the arm and pulled her across his floor only to push her out his front door.
“Seek aid elsewhere,” he said curtly.
The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding bang.
Sarah gaped at the door for a moment or two in astonishment. Then she felt her eyes narrow.
“But I have nowhere else to turn,” she shouted.
“Go away,” came his voice quite audibly through the door. “You won’t like what opens the door the next time you knock.”
“I need your help!”
Only silence answered her.
Sarah stood there for several minutes, torn between wishing he would change his mind and open his door and hoping he wouldn’t so she wouldn’t catch an eyeful of something she wouldn’t want to see. That was balanced nicely with her fury over the lazy, bad-mannered oaf’s unwillingness to spend even half a day tracking down her brother and convincing him of the inadvisability of the course he currently contemplated.
Damn all mages to hell, where they could stay and rot.
She spun on her heel and strode away, leaving Castân to trot along after her. That stomping helped keep her warm for a bit until she reached the forest again and the chill began to bite. She looked back over her shoulder at the mage’s house. Whereas it had a handful of moments ago looked merely rugged, now it took on other, more unsettling shapes. Well, one thing could be said for that ancient, crusty knave: he could weave a decent spell.
But he was obviously not going to weave one for her. She pulled Castân’s blanket more closely around herself and reluctantly faced the rest of the hard truth: she was going to have to find her brother and stop him herself. As she had just seen, mages were unpredictable and, based on her experience, not particularly altruistic. Perhaps the man in the house behind her had the power to keep the entire world at bay and himself safe in his snug house, so therefore cared nothing for what her brother might manage. Perhaps he simply assumed he would never be troubled by things he imagined she should have been able to stop herself. She didn’t hold out much hope that anyone else of a magical ilk would be any more inclined than he to see to the same thing.
Nay, she would see to Daniel alone, because she had no other choice. It wasn’t the quest she wanted, and it wasn’t one she went on willingly, but it was one of necessity. Unglamorous, unforgiving, unpleasant ne
cessity.
She thought about the tales of Heroes she’d heard from the alemaster in the village, tales told to her during her youth when he’d been certain her mother wouldn’t overhear them, tales of courageous men striding off into the deepening Gloom with their bright swords shining and songs of battle and victory on their lips. She’d heard a handful of tales about women as well—many of whom, oddly enough, had somehow thereafter found themselves queens of Neroche—who had challenged powerful forces and come away victorious. They had generally been skilled with either the sword or a spell, which had lent to them an undeniable advantage. There had been only a handful about ordinary souls who had undertaken tasks far beyond their skills or means. She supposed she would do well to avoid thinking on the terrible price those last souls had paid along the way or what that boded for her.
All she could do was stride into her own deepening Gloom and pray she had the strength to face what it contained.
Four
Ruith walked back to his fire to cast himself down into his chair there. He couldn’t help but notice that spot on his table where that ridiculous wench had begun to clean with her apron. He supposed it could have been worse. She could have tried to clean him.
Of all the things he’d expected to have come to his door, she had been the last. Tales of the witchwoman Seleg’s passing had reached him several fortnights ago, and whilst he’d suspected that any restraint her son might have shown earlier out of respect for his mother wouldn’t last long, he’d hoped the fool would merely come to a bad end thanks to his own spells. Apparently that happy event hadn’t come to pass yet, though Ruith was certain it couldn’t be far off.
The daughter, Sarah he thought her name was, had always been something of a mystery. Rumor had it that she wove fine cloth out of wool and invisible tapestries out of spells. He’d never been one to give credence to the results of eavesdropping in taverns leagues from Doìre itself, but he could say that he had verified at least one thing for himself: she was astonishingly pretty. In a wholesome, weaverish sort of way, of course. And her hands had been green. For some reason, that had been rather reassuring.
Why those hands hadn’t managed to prepare an extra spell or two a bit sooner to counter her brother’s inevitable madness was a puzzle. Surely she should have given thought to the eventual unraveling of her brother’s wits. It wasn’t so difficult to seek out spells for use in such a case—
Unbidden, a memory came to him, a memory of sitting in front of a different fire with books sitting in piles around him. He could hear his mother’s voice as clearly as if she spoke to him now.
Ruith, love, come away from the books and go to bed.
In a moment, Mother. I haven’t yet found what I seek.
He couldn’t say even now how much more time had passed before he’d looked up from yet another round of searching through heavy tomes full of spells—for there had been innumerable such searches—but he remembered on more than one occasion seeing his mother sitting across from him, simply watching him. His terribly beautiful, impossibly courageous, and determined mother, who had been watching him with love in her eyes.
Now that he was a man full grown and not a ten-year-old whelp, he suspected there had been sorrow in her eyes as well, for surely she had considered that the task lying before her was one in which she might perish. She also had to have known that there was little hope of his finding something to aid her, though he’d needed to feel as if he were aiding her somehow.
He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace before those memories caught him up. Unfortunately, all his pacing served was to run him bodily against the words he’d heard that silly wench bellow from outside his front door.
I have nowhere else to turn.
He scowled. He couldn’t have cared less where she turned, even if it was only in circles until she came to her senses. He had much to do and none of it included going off to help her brother find wisdom. The fool in question had likely decided he was tired of the provincial nature of the county of Shettlestoune and had determined that stretching his wings was the wisest course of action. Who was he to deny a lad a decent adventure?
Besides, he was perfectly comfortable where he was. He had drawn his reputation around himself like a cloak and used it to hide quite happily for years.
Until today. That brassy wench had tromped through spells that should have given her pause, knocked on his door as if she’d had every right to, then crossed his threshold as if she hadn’t minded all the other spells that someone besides him had seen woven across it, spells guaranteed to threaten and repulse.
He turned abruptly and walked across the chamber to fetch his bow from where it stood in the corner, already strung. He slung a quiver of arrows over his shoulder, then paused. He had a sword propped up in the corner as well, but he didn’t think he could stomach getting that close to his supper before he slew it. The knives strapped to his back would have to suffice him where arrows did not.
He paused at the doorway, decided the witch’s get had likely gone east, and turned west. Solitude was what he craved. Aye, that and something fresh to put into his stewpot.
He pulled his door to, then walked swiftly and quietly in the twilight, his bow loose in his hands. He wasn’t unhappy with the bitter chill of the air for it cleared his mind in ways the warmth of his fire never could have. Having his silence disturbed had simply unsettled him more than he’d anticipated. His unease had nothing at all to do with that trail of magic he’d seen scorched into that quite lovely woman’s arm.
He spent so much time attempting to ignore his unease that he didn’t realize he was being followed until what was following him was almost upon him. It crossed his mind briefly that perhaps that man he’d seen in the hour before dawn had decided to make more of a nuisance of himself than he should have. If that were the case, Ruith wasn’t above quickly disabusing him of that notion. He turned, drawing an arrow and fitting it to the string as he did so. But what stood twenty paces from him was not a man dressed in clothes better suited to a salon than a faintly traveled path through inhospitable woods.
It was a creature from nightmare.
The beast watched him with unblinking eyes that glinted in the twilight. Ruith was surprised enough by that that it took him a split second to realize that his greatest peril lay not in front of him, but behind him.
He spun to find another monster standing not an arm’s length from him. He didn’t think; he merely took the arrow he held and shoved it into the beast’s eye.
It fell with a crash and a howl, thrashing about in a loud and unpleasant way. Ruith left him to it, then turned, fitted another arrow to the string, and let it fly into the troll that was now ten paces away, not twenty.
The monster continued to come, the arrow buried halfway into its chest.
Ruith managed two more arrows before he opened his mouth and found a spell of death there. It occurred to him instantly that whilst the words might have been there, the power to make them more than just interesting conversation most certainly was not. Any magic he might or might not have possessed, he had buried long ago. Releasing it without completely destroying the anonymity he’d carefully cultivated for a score of years was impossible. Death by ordinary means would have to do.
He pulled the knives from the sheaths on his back and flung them together with all his strength into the creature’s chest. It was borne backward, then it tripped over something in its path and fell with enough force to make the ground tremble.
Ruith looked about himself to make certain there were no more enemies to slay, then leaned over with his hands on his thighs and concentrated on breathing for a moment or two. It wasn’t that he was opposed to taking another life to protect his own, though he didn’t do it without great need. It was the look in that creature’s eye, a look that said it had found what it had been seeking—
Which was, of course, impossible. For all anyone knew, he was a mage who had dwelt in the mountains for centuries, a mage of little conse
quence but fierce reputation. That someone—or something—should stumble upon him was nothing more than happenstance. He had been alone in the woods and therefore an easy mark for anyone wanting a bit of sport. Killing the first creature had likely enraged the second, which he could understand. Whatever he’d thought he’d seen in either of their eyes was just his sorry imagination running off with him.
He blamed that witch’s get. She was obviously trouble.
He walked over to his first victim, wrenched his arrow free, and cleaned it in the snow that still lingered nearby in drifts. He paused, then squatted down next to the corpse and fingered what seemed to serve the fallen man for a tunic. He realized with a start that it was less a fabric than it was part of the beast itself. It was as if water had been formed into a shape, for it slid through his fingers, yet remained as it was, as if it were held together with some sort of spell.
A spell that gave off a very unpleasant odor when disturbed, truth be told.
He froze. It was an odor he hadn’t smelled in years—
He rose abruptly, retrieved his other weapons, then strode away. Damn it, he should have brought a heavier cloak. He shot a baleful glance heavenward at stars that had begun to twinkle in the heavens. He wished the sun were still up where it might have provided him with a bit of warmth.
He suddenly stooped, snatched up a handful of pine needles, and shoved them against his face, ignoring the prickles. The scent trapped in his nostrils was one he wanted to rid himself of as quickly as possible. He threw the pine away after a moment or two. It didn’t matter where he had smelled that smell before. What mattered was that he return home, lock his door, then try to regain the wits he’d obviously lost at some point along the way. Again, the blame could be pinned squarely on that bloody wench. If she hadn’t arrived at his door with her very self setting his great room afire, he would now be enjoying a decent supper and an interesting book. She had driven him from his own home with her ridiculous requests, but no longer. He would return and be about his usual business of doing absolutely nothing that required any magic at all.