Wizard of the Grove

by Tanya Huff

  Besides, the gear had never been in such good repair. Now he went over it for at least an hour each night before retiring to the shelter the three of them still shared.

  * * *

  Crystal found Raulin both an enthusiastic and a considerate lover, as straightforward and uncomplicated in bed as out of it. She thanked the Mother-creator that Jago approved of their relationship and treated the inevitable silliness with amused tolerance. Two things disturbed her. Avreen had made no attempts at freedom in spite of the amount of energy directed toward her aspect. For that matter, none of the goddesses made their presence felt during her nights with Raulin, almost as if something blocked them out . . .

  I’ve seen more fire in wet wood.

  . . . although Zarsheiy made a number of sarcastic comments during the day.

  She wasn’t complaining, lovemaking had never felt so, well, so complete, but Avreen’s silence puzzled her. The second thing that disturbed her was the continuing absence of Lord Death. Not for years had he gone so long without appearing. In spite of the companionship of both men, she missed him. He was, after all, her oldest friend.

  * * *

  Raulin had decided early in life that women and men were not intended to understand each other. He therefore refused to analyze the experience during those few times when they seemed to. He stuck to that principle now. Lovemaking with Crystal lifted him to the heights every night. He cherished it, he enjoyed it, he didn’t worry about it. Fortune beckoned, and he traveled to it with a beautiful woman by his side and his brother at his back. What more could any man ask for?

  * * *

  Their first morning in the valley, they crossed rabbit spore three times, and once a huge buck, his head held high under a majestic spread of antlers, regarded them somberly for an instant before spinning and bounding away.

  “Snares tonight,” Raulin declared, rubbing his hands in anticipation, “and meat tomorrow!”

  Crystal laughed, suddenly looking wild and fey. “Meat tonight, I think.”

  * * *

  Doan sprawled in the curve of a giant stone foreleg, his brow furrowed in thought. He often came to the Dragon’s Cavern when he had a particularly knotty problem to work out and wanted to be uninterrupted. His brother dwarves had developed the habit of avoiding the cavern when the dragon had been alive—not from fear; a large dragon in a confined space in warm weather smelled impossibly unpleasant—and now, although the dragon curled about the center pillar had returned to stone, the habit remained.

  “I could,” he said, “let the giant handle it.” He twisted into another position and drummed his fingers against his thigh. It bothered him that the giants considered Aryalan’s tower enough of a danger to get involved. The notion that Crystal herself might be a danger rather than in danger, he discarded completely. He admitted, reluctantly, that the centaurs might have reason for paranoia, considering how the last wizards they trained had turned out. He also admitted, more reluctantly still, that this wizard was an image of the Eldest, of Milthra, the Lady of the Grove, and that might, perhaps, be influencing his thinking.

  Snarling at nothing in particular, he swung down to the ground.

  “Only one way to be sure,” he informed the dragon, slapping it affectionately on its sandstone nose. He hitched up his pants and went to collect his weapons from the forge.

  “Heading off again?” asked a brother, glancing up from his anvil where a vaguely axehead-shaped piece of iron glowed red hot.

  Doan pulled his favorite sword off a wall where a large number of weapons hung. It annoyed him that so few of them ever got used. It annoyed him even more that no one paid attention to his complaints. “You got a problem with that, Drik?”

  “Nope.” The smith swung his hammer and the iron sprayed sparks. “Just curious. This trip got anything to do with the Call?”

  “Might.”

  “I thought the Council decided to let the giants handle it.”

  “Yeah, well you know what they say,” Doan buckled on the swordbelt and settled the familiar weight across his back, “if you want a thing done right, do it yourself.”

  “Figure you’ll need your sword?”

  “What do you think, slag brain?” Grumbling beneath his breath that anything in Aryalan’s tower would be a welcome change, he picked up a dagger and stomped from the room.

  “Pleasure talking to you too, Doan,” Drik called after him, shook his head, and returned to work.

  * * *

  The huge white owl opened its talons, releasing the hare it carried into Raulin’s arms. Raulin staggered a little under the weight of the dead animal, then shifted his grip and held it out by the ears.

  “Fresh meat!” he exclaimed.

  “So I see.” Jago set a pot of snow on the fire to melt. “Are you going to clean it or do we spend all night looking at it?”

  Raulin tossed him the carcass. “You do it. You need the practice.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jago agreed, pulling out his knife and laying the hare on a patch of clean snow, “because you are inept.” He slit the belly and scooped out the entrails. “You want these, Crystal?”

  She stepped into the firelight and bent to pick up her clothes. “Not now thanks, I just ate. Maybe later.”

  “You know I consider you my heart’s delight,” Raulin said, watching her dress with deep enjoyment, “but that’s disgusting.”

  Crystal pulled the sweater over her head, her expression thoughtful. Lord Death had said much the same the night things between them had fallen apart so badly. Was he still angry with her? She hadn’t seen him since . . . since the demon’s cave, weeks ago. Uncertain whether anything could go wrong with the one true son of the Mother, she still began to grow uneasy at his absence.

  “Crystal?” Raulin gently lifted her chin. “Please don’t look worried. I didn’t mean it.”

  She managed a smile, pushing her concern for Lord Death back out of sight. “It’s okay.” She snaked her arms under his open overcoat and around his waist. “When I’m not in feathers I find it pretty disgusting, too.” Leaning forward, she kissed him hard and when her mouth was free again, added: “I try not to think about it.” Which, she suddenly remembered, releasing Raulin to pull on her boots, was exactly what she’d said to Lord Death. All the concern came tumbling back.

  Best make up your mind, Zarsheiy taunted. The quick or the dead.

  What? Usually Crystal ignored her, but usually the goddess’ jibes made sense.

  Poor child, don’t you know your own mind? False sympathy dripped from the thought.

  That’s hardly surprising, Crystal gave a mental snort, since I’ve squatters in most of it. Her hair, she realized as she straightened, curtained her face from Raulin’s view so she carefully schooled her features before it fell back and he grew upset again. For reasons unknown, it didn’t seem right discussing Lord Death with Raulin. Maybe if she had some time alone with Jago . . .

  “That tickles,” she said lightly, as he traced a finger along the edge of her left ear.

  He grinned and winked. “You know, I’ve never kissed a bird before.”

  “A number of birdbrains,” Jago put in, skewering the cleaned hare and setting it over the fire. He shielded himself with the teapot as Raulin took a quick step in his direction. “Hurt the cook and the cook burns dinner!”

  “As you’re just as likely to burn it without my help that’s not much of a threat I’ll . . .”

  They never heard just what Raulin planned as an anthem of wolf howls drowned out his next words. The three froze as the chorus climbed up the scale, then faded.

  “Great bloody Chaos,” Jago breathed, trying to wet his lips with a tongue gone dry.

  “Great bloody Chaos’ balls,” Raulin expanded, swallowing convulsively. “Both of them.” He drew a long shuddering breath and added, “In a sling.”

  Crystal clutched
at a wandering breeze. “They have us surrounded . . .” She twisted, seemed to reach for something neither brother could see, and threw up her hands in disgust. “There’s more, but it won’t tell me.”

  She seemed frustrated rather than afraid, so the brothers took their cue from her. They began to breathe almost normally again. Raulin continued to stare into the darkness, but Jago sank down to tend the fire.

  “Think the meat attracted them?” Raulin asked, trying to forget that howl despite the chills still running up and down his back.

  “Perhaps.” Crystal tossed her head. She stepped toward the trees, then back, then twisted her hair with her hands. “But there’s lots of game around here. They can’t be hungry enough to approach the fire.”

  “Well, they haven’t yet,” Jago offered, pouring the snow, now transformed to boiling water, into the teapot, dumping it, tossing in a handful of herbs, and refilling the pot.

  Suddenly, golden eyes glowed just outside the ring of light and then just as suddenly disappeared.

  “And then again,” he continued, his voice steady but the hand that set the pot back on the coals shaking visibly, “who wants first watch?”

  “Wolves do not attack people.” Crystal pronounced each word clearly and calmly, but whether she spoke to convince herself, the brothers, or the wolves, not even she was sure.

  “Maybe they don’t,” Raulin admitted, his head jerking back and forth as he tried to watch all directions at once. He pulled off his mitts and wiped his now sweaty palms. “But they don’t act like this either. Jago, you take first watch. Crystal second. I’ll take last.”

  Not even Crystal’s wizard-sight saw the wolves that night, but they continued to make themselves heard. No golden eyes broke the darkness, but howls shivered through the silence, time after time. Crystal wove a net of power about the shelter, blocking the noise so the two within could get some sleep.

  Nashawryn stirred each time the wolves called.

  Sitting alone on second watch, she fed wood to the fire and power to the barriers that held the dark goddess confined.

  At dawn, the howling stopped. Daggers drawn, while Crystal stood by ready to help if necessary, Raulin and Jago slipped into the woods and separated, each circling half the camp. Just before they completed the circle, following tracks now deserted by their makers, Jago dropped to one knee and beckoned to Raulin. “Come take a look at this.”

  Raulin came, looked over Jago’s shoulder, and whistled through his teeth. “Big bugger,” he said, carefully noncommittal.

  “Big bugger? That’s it? Look at the depth of that print!” Jago put his fist against the snow and pushed. “This stuffs damp under the trees; it compacts. This wolfs gotta weigh more than it should.”

  “I hate to break it to you, junior, but that’s not our biggest problem. There’s a track as large on the other side of camp that wasn’t made by any wolf.”

  Jago stood, brushing snow off his pants, his eyes beginning to look a little wild. “Then what?”

  “Looks like a cat.”

  “That big?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “Uh-huh. You think you should’ve stayed home and found honest work.”

  “How did you know?”

  Raulin draped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “It’s what you always think when our ass is in the fire.”

  “Do we tell Crystal?”

  “Only if you intend on living to an honored old age.”

  “Good point.”

  They took one more look at the oversized print, at the whole line of oversized prints, and headed back to camp.

  When told, Crystal looked thoughtful.

  “What is it?” Raulin asked, buckling himself into the harness.

  “I don’t . . .” She shook her head and bent to pick up the other trace. “I’ve got the feeling I’m forgetting something very important. Something someone once told me.”

  “Oh, that’s very definite.” Raulin watcher her shrug the harness on, leered, and reached out a hand. “Let me help you settle that strap.”

  Crystal grinned, the thoughtful look vanished, and she slapped his hand away from her breast. “Is that all you ever think of?”

  “Yes!” Jago called from his position behind the sleigh. “It’s all he’s thought of since he turned thirteen. Now, can we get going before our visitors return for breakfast?”

  One silver brow rose. “Thirteen?”

  Raulin threw his weight forward, straightening out his trace with an audible snap. “So what’re we going to do, just hang around here all day? Let’s go.”

  Except that the way was easier than any they’d traveled for some time, the morning passed no differently than others they’d shared. The quiet of a world muffled in snow soothed ragged emotions and, gradually, night terrors faded. They made good time, pausing only once to rest, and covered nearly ten miles.

  “Hey!” Crystal yelled at the brother’s backs. “Let’s stop for lunch, I’m starved.”

  “. . . and a huge conservatory . . .” Raulin spread his arms, deep in his favorite topic of conversation: spending the gold he knew they’d find at the tower.

  “What do you want a conservatory for?”

  “For plants . . .”

  “I know that’s what it’s for, you uncultured boob, I just couldn’t figure out why you’d want one.”

  “Guys! Food?” Crystal tried again as Raulin swung, Jago ducked, and neither heard her. She sighed, they’d never hear her now. A strong tug and the metal prongs of both brakes dug deep into the snow. The sleigh stopped cold and she used just enough power to ensure it couldn’t move farther.

  Raulin, being heavier, kept his balance. Jago’s feet took a step his body couldn’t complete, his arms wind-milled, and he sat down.

  “Oaf,” Raulin said fondly and extended a hand to help him up.

  Back on his feet, Jago turned to face Crystal, who shrugged, and smiled.

  “It got your attention,” she pointed out. “Let’s eat.”

  Jago’s stomach chose that moment to loudly express its agreement. His mouth, open to deliver a blistering retort to Crystal, closed. He unbuckled his harness. “Well, I guess that’s my vote. Raulin?”

  The older man squinted into the sunlight then along the direction they had to go. “We’re making such good time . . .”

  “We won’t get anywhere if we feint from hunger.”

  “True enough.” He tossed his harness on top of his brother’s. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As he walked into a nearby copse of trees he heard Jago say, “You notice how he only has to go when there’s work to do?” Distance cut Crystal’s reply down to a musical murmur. Raulin grinned, the sound reminding him of murmurs into his chest, inarticulate expression of contentment. He swung behind a scruffy jackpine.

  Crack!

  The grin vanished and he froze, the image of giant tracks in his mind’s eye. The hair on the back of his neck lifted and he felt himself watched. In the silence he could hear the tree’s needles rub together, a faint shirk shirk that now seemed sinister. He managed to do what he had to—the sound was not repeated—then backed slowly out of the trees.

  Branches, he knew, often cracked in the cold. He really wished it was cold enough for that to be a valid explanation.

  Crystal looked up from the small blaze that heated the ever-present teapot, and frowned. “Raulin, are you all right?”

  Jago snorted and tossed his brother a hunk of leftover rabbit. “Probably left it out too long and it froze.”

  “Something was in those trees with me.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact; no sense in causing panic by frothing at the mouth.

  Crystal stood to kick snow over the fire, but Raulin stopped her.

  “We still have to eat. And the fire’s a we
apon if we need it.”

  Acknowledgment at last!

  Shut up, Zarsheiy!

  Conversation was strained and no one felt the urge to linger over tea.

  They hadn’t traveled more than a couple of miles when Jago held up his hand for a halt. “Raulin,” he called without turning, “did you by chance see what joined you in the trees at lunch.”

  “No. Heard something. Why?”

  “Because something is pacing us, something big and black. I’ve caught sight of it a couple of times now.”

  “Last night’s visitor?”

  “Could be.”

  Crystal’s eyes flared as she tried to see through rock and trees and get a good look at their companion. Finally she gave up. “Wolves hunt at night.”

  “It isn’t hunting, just following.”

  “Well, if it decides to move in . . .” Raulin unstrapped an oilskin bundle and laid it carefully on the snow. Squatting, he cut free the lengths of tarred rope that held it closed. As he opened it and lifted free what it contained, his expression was bleak. The crossbow was a soldier’s weapon, easy to manufacture, easy to use. Raulin had been a soldier. He’d hoped he’d never have to be one again. Memories of men and women screaming and dying stirred. With an effort, he pushed them back.

  “Are you sure . . .” Jago began, recognizing his brother’s discomfort, knowing the source.

  “Yes.” He stood, slinging the deerskin quiver over one shoulder, and shoved the oilskin on the sleigh where the weight of his pack would hold it securely. Letting the head of the bow fall forward, he hooked the heavy bowstring with the cocking lever and shoved the toe of one boot into the iron bracing ring. A hard pull and the string snapped safely behind the trigger.

  “Loading it too?”

  “An unloaded bow is a fancy club.” He heard the armsmaster’s voice in that and his lips curled into a mixture of a snarl and a smile. He slipped a quarrel into position and laid the bow carefully on top of the load, the head pointed toward the trees at the left, the stock inches from where his hands rested on the crossbar of the sleigh.