Wind Over Bone: The Estralony Cycle #2 (Young Adult Fantasy Romance)

by E D Ebeling

  “No one’s going to hurt you,” she said.

  Then they came out from under the tree, and Savvel and Leva stood very close together while Sarid looked for loose stones. She found a few at the edge of the clearing and placed them at the four points of a circle.

  And then, as her sister had left her with the power to summon, she opened the circle. A cold wind blew from it.

  Savvel grabbed her arm, turned her around to face him. “You’re sure about this?”

  The moon hung above them––full, except for a dark smudge on the side. She could see his eyes clearly. The pupils were large, the whites shining like old bone.

  “Listen,” she said, and Leva looked over. “I can’t promise you safety.” Leva nodded. Her wrists looked small and frail. Her hair hung round her neck in a messy braid, like a noose. Sarid straightened her back and tried to be ruthless, like Savvel, like her sister. “Don’t make her angry. Forget pride for a while, let her play with you.” She looked away from them. “And when things get bad I’ll summon him.”

  She turned to the circle and said the words. Her sister shimmered before her like a reflection on a dark lake.

  Yelse parted the charged air and stepped out of the circle, smelling of rain and thunder. Sarid kept the circle open. Leva and Savvel’s hands locked together. Sarid didn’t think they were acting.

  “Sarid,” said Leva, and then she was silent, and the silence was like a question.

  “What did she tell you?” Yelse asked them. “That she was raising the old Ravyir from the dead?” She laughed, sounding obscenely happy. “What shall we do with them?” She took Sarid’s hands and swung them out playfully. Her eyes were quite black.

  “Just kill them,” said Sarid.

  “No,” said Yelse. She dropped Sarid’s hands as if she were disappointed. “Nature rages. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Yelse turned then to Savvel, who didn’t let go of Leva’s hand. She ran a finger over his dark cheekbone.

  “Why the dark skin? Were you trying to hide from me?” she said. “My sister hates you, madman. Your death will be a relief to her.

  “And Leva.” She looked Leva over with a sad smile. “Poor Leva. Bold, gawky Leva. If only you’d bothered to learn some graces––any woman can act helpless with a little practice.

  “But your height! Such a strike against you.” With a sudden, vicious movement Yelse grabbed Leva’s hair and threw the girl down on the grass. “On your stomach before your Ravinya,” she said.

  Sarid half-expected Leva to leap up and fight. She was relieved when Leva just lay there, face down.

  “Don’t start crying.” Yelse leaned over her, hair falling in a curtain. “I shan’t kill you. Not completely. Come.” She raised Leva’s head by the hair––Leva’s face was expressionless, eyes blank as a corpse’s. “Let me show you what I’ve prepared for you.” Leva made to rise and Yelse knocked her down with a fist. “It’s more proper that you crawl.”

  Savvel leaned slightly toward Sarid, and she shook her head. Not yet. She looked towards Rischa’s tree. Savvel rolled his eyes, more out of fear than exasperation.

  Yelse dragged Leva by the hair, over to a fir tree on the other side of the clearing. It was a deeper shade of black than the others. “You’ve trespassed on Lob’s clearing,” Yelse told Leva, pointing at the tree, “on a very special night.”

  Sarid looked at the tree, confused. Dark blemishes clung to it, and she looked closer and saw they were wolf skins––tattered, black furs with the heads still on. Yelse hadn’t told her about this.

  An eerie cry sounded round the clearing, and a girl crawled out from under the tree.

  She came toward them with a swaggering, loping gait. Six dugs swung from her chest and belly. The hair was thick on her head and back.

  Aleksei’s daughter, the girl said, we are ready for the feast of initiation.

  More wolf-girls crawled from the trees, similar to the first one. Luminous, white-blue eyes, long, grinning teeth, they gathered, about ten of them, in front of Yelse and Leva.

  “Do you know these?” said Yelse to Leva. Sarid half-turned toward the circle; Yelse’s voice held her still: “They’re vodlaki. Girls who acted too much like wolves. They have a skin for you.”

  A wolf-girl held up a rotting wolfskin. Its shriveled tongue hung from its mouth. Its eyes were horrible––two black gouges crusted with old blood.

  “Do you recognize it?” said Yelse. “You killed her. You’ve inherited it––it’s yours. But you can’t have it yet. They must tear you to pieces first, and sew your organs into the skin, and in three years’ time you’ll leap up in your new skin and run about as a Lob, creeping through windows and eating children. Your sister’s first.”

  Leva stared at the skin with round, terrified eyes. Bile came up in Sarid’s throat; she opened her mouth to summon the saebel: Gloraghlla Strihegadje caeforgiolaeghl––

  The wolf-girls circled Leva, biting and pulling, tearing her clothes off, looking more and more wolfish. The laughing sounded like panting now, and Sarid saw the skins were gone from the tree, the torsos had stretched out, the legs gone thinner. They’d become wolves, black wolves. There was a white one as well; Sarid recognized her.

  “Run, Leva,” said Yelse.

  Leva ran. She sprinted naked over the grass, hair flying about, blood trickling down her legs. She stumbled. A wolf got her ankle. Gryka jumped out from the huddle and took the creature down by the neck. Another wolf stuck on the dog like an inkblot and ripped open her belly.

  Sarid closed her eyes and finished the summoning and binding: Gloraghlla Strihegadje lieaidiolaeghl.

  She tore through the words, muddling them.

  “Cold feet?” Her sister had come up behind her. “Bitch.”

  Sarid looked toward the circle––it stayed empty; the grass didn’t stir. Yelse took Sarid by the shoulders and cracked her head over a tree stump.

  The moon rolled above her. She heard trees creaking and sawing, and Savvel said in Gireldine: “A game! Is someone playing games?”

  His voice was loud. Louder than anything else.

  “Who is this?” he said, and she lifted her head––pain made the clearing swell. Savvel strode over, dragging someone behind him. His breath came out, a great wave that bowed the trees over and sent the wolves scurrying like spiders back to the trees. “I hate the stinking children of Veles.” The grass flattened before him. “Rotten, nasty things.”

  He held Rischa by the neck, unbound but still gagged.

  Yelse stared at him, and Savvel dropped his brother at his feet. His eyes spun like hurricanes.

  Sarid knew at once what had happened.

  She got up, head throbbing, legs flailing under her. She ran past her sister and shouted at him, “Get out of him. Get out!”

  “No,” said Savvel. “This is a fine puppet.”

  She’d never heard a saebel refer to himself in the singular before. What had she been thinking, trying to bind her grandfather?

  “You failed to bind him?” Rage made Yelse’s voice tremble. “Well done, Sarid.”

  Sarid held her head in her hands, and decided to try civility. “Strihegadje, Paronna’s son”––her voice trembled like Yelse’s––“please take another form, so I might speak with you properly.”

  “No,” he said again. “I like this one.” He tilted Rischa’s head up, ripped off the gag, and kissed him on the mouth.

  Rischa’s eyes widened, his back arched. His fingers splayed as though a jolt of lightning had gone through him. Savvel-Strihegadje dropped him, laughed, and walked away.

  Sarid ran after, panic animating her legs. She caught up, put hands in his hair, and slipped into Savvel’s mind, not knowing what else to do.

  Everything went blue. She released her hands and stepped back.

  A band of bright white wind was wrapped round Savvel, whispering in his ear.

  “It’s getting close in here,” Strihegadje said. He used Savvel’s mouth. The expression on Savvel�
�s face wasn’t so coy as the words; his eyes were very dark. Something wasn’t quite right…

  Behind him the wind twisted the trees and tossed a net of leaves over the field. It pushed like water against Sarid’s skin.

  And then it stopped. It was as though the place held its breath. Sarid fancied she heard howling.

  Blue-white eyes stared like stars from the edge of the clearing. They crept round the trees, blacker than the shadows, much bigger than they had been. They slinked forward, grinning with long teeth, a dark mass of them, and Strihegadje made breath. Nothing happened.

  Sarid wiped blood off her cheek. “He's taken your power away,” she said.

  “I am power,” said the saebel, and again he tried to blow.

  “Not in Savvel’s mind.” Sarid felt Strihegadje’s fear, like cold hands on her shoulders.

  Strihegadje’s eyes darkened and only steam came from his mouth. He looked utterly consternated.

  “The man you’re possessing is mad,” Sarid said.

  “What man isn’t?” growled Strihegadje.

  “He can control it.”

  The giant wolves made a half-ring round him, snapped and licked slobber from their jaws. Strihegadje backed away. With quick, spider-like movements they jumped after, almost catching his hands and feet: they were herding him. A wolf bellowed, and the saebel fell backwards into the circle, which was still open.

  Sarid began reciting the saebeline binding words as clearly as she could. The wolves went back to the trees, melting into the dark.

  As she chanted, she noticed a dark figure on the other side of the circle. Yelse chanted too, her arms raised, her eyes black as berries. A darkness blacker than the sky came down round her. Wind poured over her, pulling her hair and gown straight and sharp.

  Sarid finished the binding spell, trapping her grandfather in the circle. She shouted at Strihegadje, “Out of his head.” Strihegadje crawled all the way out; Savvel fell to the ground behind him.

  The saebel stood tall as a young spruce, clear except where dust whirled in his hands and feet. His hair and eyes crackled with lightning, and a cloak of flashing cloud blew around him.

  “Silence her,” Sarid commanded him.

  Yelse’s mouth snapped shut. She tried to touch her lips and flinched when blue sparks shocked her fingers. The wind stopped. Her hair fell weakly at her sides, and she turned and began running away.

  “Stop her,” said Sarid.

  Yelse’s right foot sank into the ground.

  “Bind her magic,” said Sarid.

  Yelse’s skirts went stiff; her arms stuck to her sides, and the last Sarid saw of her face was a bitter smile twisting into the bark.

  A skinny little juniper stood across the circle from her.

  It worked well enough. Sarid’s fingertips pricked, and as she rubbed her hands together, warmth filled her body. A breeze broke from her hands and rustled the juniper’s branches.

  “I can’t bind her power without permission,” said Strihegadje. His voice drummed in Sarid’s ears. “She’s human.”

  Sarid knelt, took Savvel’s foot, and dragged him away from her grandfather. As she brushed close to the circle she felt a faint blankness, a confusion curling in the air like smoke. A djain. Her sister had been summoning a demon.

  She shuddered and dropped Savvel into the grass. She said to Strihegadje who was trapped in his circle, “Is she stuck forever like that?”

  “No.” His voice was so powerful it looked as though some invisible thing were stamping on the grass around him. “But––” He smiled. It was blinding, and Sarid had to shut her eyes. “The counterspell only half works.”

  She thought she might turn all to water and steam if she stood there longer. She wanted him gone. He was far more terrifying than Yelse.

  He seemed to guess it. He bowed a goodbye and his breath tangled her skirts and hair.

  Wiping dust from her face, she said the words of banishment, and he went away. A blanket of dust settled over the grass. She didn’t notice the great pressure until it was gone, until it had let go the air and grass and trees, and she could breathe easily again.

  She closed the circle and went to crouch over Savvel. His face looked like slate under the dye. His eyes were still very dark, and they reflected the moon at her. She shook him by the shoulder. He blinked. “I think you’re still in my head.”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.”

  She heard a long, squeaking scrape. She looked behind her and watched as Rischa slowly, methodically, made a gash in the juniper with a dagger. She had no idea where he’d found a dagger.

  She climbed to her feet. Leva sat naked in the grass next to the flat stone. She had a confused, idiotic expression on her face.

  Sarid had left it too late.

  “You’re not going to kill it,” she said to Rischa. “Go look after Leva.”

  Moving furtively, as though he’d rather nobody watched him, Rischa took off his cloak; and Sarid turned and said to Savvel, “I suppose we should dig it up and burn it.”

  “Leva can squat on the ashes.” His face moved, trying for a smile and not managing it.

  Behind him, Rischa dropped his cloak around Leva. He said something to her. Her head jerked––a shake or a nod Sarid couldn’t tell. He got her up––she was shaking quite badly. She walked three steps forward and fell. He was far too weak to carry her, but he did it anyway.

  Sarid asked Savvel if she’d have to blow him to Charevost. But he found his legs, and the two of them walked to the edge of the clearing.

  She stopped just before the trees. Moved toward what looked like a patch of snow.

  Gryka lay over a wolf, her paws tangled together. Sarid knelt and held the wet nose in her hand; nothing came from it. She put her head down on the dog’s stomach and surprised herself by starting into great, broken sobs. The fur stuck to her wet face.

  Twenty-Four

  There was a horse gone when they made their way back to the hollow: Rischa and Leva must have taken it.

  The lake was still and the sun rising and they rode down the hill to the hall. The news had gone before them. They had baths drawn and food brought up, and refused separate rooms, but curled next to each other in Savvel’s bed.

  Sarid woke to the singing of crickets. Evening had washed everything in a luminous purple. There was a hollow in the mattress beside her.

  She didn’t bother changing from her nightgown. She went out into the hall and asked the first person she saw––a lamp lighter––where Leva was.

  The infirmary. Sarid went down the stairs, and the lamps flickered as she walked past. She opened the door silently. Leva was sitting at a table, writing a letter.

  Sarid stood at the door, wondering if she should go in. “Your mother?” she said finally.

  “Yes.” Leva didn’t look up, and she grasped the pen so tightly her fingers reddened.

  “Did you sleep at all? I could make a tincture––”

  “I slept fine.”

  Sarid played with a hole in her sleeve. “Have you spoken with Rischa?”

  Leva swung around in her chair. “I’m going to be Ravinya.” She didn’t smile, and she had dark circles under her eyes. “He was kind enough about it. Made it sound like I had a choice.”

  Sarid frowned. “You do have a choice.”

  Leva turned around and made a big blot on the page. “I loved a boy, once. His name was Havel.” She scribbled little circles in the blot so that it looked like a spider. “He was good with horses. He was Rileldine. They said it was disrespectful to old Eliav, who had set me up with his grandson. So they sent him away.” Sarid saw the glitter of tears on her cheeks. “But I don’t know what they did with him. That’s just what they said.”

  “When you’re Ravinya you’ll be able to help them.”

  “I’m not even seventeen.”

  “But you’re very brave and loud, and you’ll have a husband you can boss.”

  Leva laughed, and put her chin in her han
d. “That tincture––”

  “I’ll send one up.”

  ***

  Sarid went down to the kitchens, where the cook promptly bellowed at her. She blew him into the pantry. He stared out the door in disbelief as she heated a pan of wine and valerian, and gave the tincture to a page to deliver.

  Then she asked around for Savvel, and finally found him engaged in one of his favorite activities. He and Rischa were on a third floor balcony, shouting, waving their arms as though there were a cloud of gnats between them.

  She strode up and said, “Could you be civil with each other for once in your lives?”

  Savvel swept out his hand. “He chopped down the tree.”

  Nausea shot from her throat to her stomach.

  “The same axe,” said Rischa to him, “would’ve killed any other tree.”

  “That wasn’t a tree,” said Savvel.

  “Well, it’s dead now. Burned. Roots and branches.”

  Sarid put her hand to her eyes. “Maybe. Probably.” There was no reason to believe otherwise––she was simply being paranoid. Her hand slid up into her hair and she said to Rischa, “But you’d better go south for a while. You and Leva.”

  He looked at her face, and shook his head in wonderment. “I’m sorry.” He sat in a chair and pulled his forehead up with his palms. “All I’ve done is mess up. I’m so stupid.”

  She was scared he might burst into tears. “No,” she said. “Just sick with rage. Go south and forget about it.”

  ***

  Rischa and Leva prepared to go to Anturvy, where the old Ravyir had kept his court. The day before their departure Sarid was in Leva’s room, helping her pack the clothes she hadn’t the chance to collect the first time she’d left the hall. Sarid looked up when Mari came through the door.

  She stood for a minute in the sunshine. Then she pulled her sister into a hug, tossed her aside, and hugged Sarid. “Brilliant girl,” she said. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait. I followed you north.”