by Karen Miller
Walking back through the close-pressing trees afterwards, she came face to face with Maris Garrick. Felt herself tense, with dislike and resentment.
Of course she had to survive. Why her, and not Irielle of Granley? Or Dreen Brislyn? Or any other mage?
But that was a horrible thing to think.
“Wait,” she said, as sneering Maris turned away. “Have you handed over any books or pamphlets or old scrolls of incants still in your safe-keeping?”
Maris was dreadfully thin now, her hair dull, her face drawn. But though she’d suffered, she’d lost none of her haughtiness. “Ehrig and I didn’t bring any,” she said, looking down her nose. “Our parents had them.”
And their parents were dead.
Barl winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—Maris, wait.”
Breathing harshly, Maris stopped. “What?”
“I know we can’t be friends, not after—” She felt a surge of belated shame. “Only… Maris, there are so few of us now. Can’t we put aside our differences and work together, for the good of—”
“No,” said Maris, coldly. “Don’t speak to me again.”
Disappointed, but not surprised, Barl made her way to the camp’s communal area, where several mages and a handful of youngsters were eating an early breakfast. Small bowls of honey-sweetened porridge. Tart berries and apples. A meagre offering of eggs. Compared to the paucity of the mountains, it was plenty… but remembering Dorana’s bounty made the meal harder to accept.
Venette sat on a roughly sawed log, sipping sour Olken tea from a wooden mug. She seemed content, which was remarkable for a mage who’d spent her life drinking vintage icewine out of jewel-crusted gold cups.
“Barl,” she said, faintly smiling. “Join me.”
She was the highest-ranked surviving mage and the only councillor they had left, and she took both responsibilities seriously. Working almost without respite from dawn to dusk and later, cooking and cleaning, helping their three pothers, easing the hearts of orphaned children, the grief of mothers who’d lost their children and wives who’d lost husbands, she never complained or shirked no matter her exhaustion.
Barl shoved another rough log closer.
I hated her once. How times have changed.
She should tell Venette about the dream. If she didn’t, Remmie would. And she should confide in her the thoughts she’d had about protecting them from Morgan. But they were only half-formed… and the magework she’d need didn’t even exist. Not yet, at least.
And it might never exist if I fail to create it.
Venette lifted an eyebrow. “Barl?”
“I saw Maris,” she said, to divert her. “She says they have no books for our library.”
“Yes, she told me the same thing,” said Venette. “And it’s hardly a library. A motley collection of mostly useless information is what it is. Or will be, when I’ve done nagging everybody.”
But it was all they had left of Dorana, so it was precious. “You know about Councillor Horbeck?”
Sighing, Venette rested the emptied mug on her thigh. “I do. But on the other hand, my dear, four of us are pregnant. Relief, it seems, is a potent aphrodisiac.”
“Pregnant?” She stared. “I suppose that’s good. Isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Venette murmured. “Let’s hope so.”
“It must be, surely. When so many of us—”
And then she stopped, because here came Chaffie, the wizened elder of the Black Woods’ village they’d stumbled into three-quarters dead, nearly two months ago.
“Good morrow to you, mages,” the Olken greeted them. “The last of our people have arrived in Gribley to hear your story. We’re in the hall, gathered and waiting. Can you come?”
Chapter Thirty-six
It was the oddest thing, Jervale thought, to find himself staring at the face of a stranger he knew so well from his dreams.
Mage Barl Lindin.
She was young… and at the same time, dreadfully old. What she’d endured had aged her. It had aged her brother too. And the woman standing beside him, Lady Venette Martain, her eyes were as old as time itself.
These Doranen had suffered. It was harder to fear them, feeling their pain. But he couldn’t let sympathy soften him. Suffering or not, they were dangerous.
Nearly one hundred of Lur’s hamlets and villages had answered Elder Chaffie’s call and sent someone to Gribley. Sitting with his new friends Bannet and Del, crowded into the village hall to hear the mages of Dorana tell their sorry tale, Jervale traced his fingertips over his still-tingling face, where Remmie Lindin had soaked magic into his flesh.
They’re speaking Doranen and I understand them. That seems unnatural. These are unnatural, powerful folk.
Which begged the question… how in the name of all things green and growing was he supposed to stop them from destroying Lur? The task seemed impossible. He quailed at the thought.
But if not me, then who? There ain’t nobody else.
Which hardly seemed fair.
Barl Lindin was into the meat of the Doranen’s story now, fear and bloodshed and desperate doings, and her captivated Olken audience was aghast. Some of the women were weeping. All the poor little children. The cruelty of death.
But the Doranen mage was telling them lies.
Or not lies, exactly. Just… not the whole truth. She was leaving things out, things he’d seen in his dreams or simply knew, when he looked at her. The handsome mage who terrified her. The dreadful thing she’d done, that helped bring about the fall of her people. And she’d done something. He could feel it, like a sharp knife carving in and out with his breathing.
Del of Westwailing leaned close. “You all right there, Jervale?”
“Fine,” he whispered, and willed his pounding heart to ease.
Del didn’t seem to notice the lie.
At last Barl Lindin finished her terrible story. Glanced at her brother, and Lady Martain, then turned back to the hall.
“Good people of Lur,” she said, sounding weary and sad, “I know we must seem strange to you. Perhaps frightening.”
With a snap of her fingers she summoned fire from thin air, hovering it in a glowing ball above her outstretched palm. Jervale felt his heart pound even harder. It was just like his dream.
“Sink me,” muttered Del, beside him. “That ain’t right.”
She wasn’t the only one who thought so. Around the hall, gasps and a rising tide of unease that could easily wash away sympathy.
Barl Lindin closed her fingers around the ball of fire, snuffing it out. “And I know our magework must seem like a threat,” she added. “It’s not. But if you choose to disbelieve me, if you don’t want to help us, we will leave your land peacefully. Only—” Her voice shook. “I am begging you. Do not turn us away. For if you do we will perish to the last man, woman and child. The mages of Dorana will become bleached bones and scraps of faded linen. We do not deserve that.”
As the gathered Olken turned to each other to comment, Bannet leaned close. “Mayhap they don’t, but do we deserve to starve faster, with all of them to feed?”
“There ain’t so many of ’em,” said Del, staring narrow-eyed at the mages. Staring longest at Barl Lindin’s brother, a small, appreciative smile quirking her lips. “Enough to fill a few villages, and a hamlet or two.”
Bannet grunted. “Until they start breeding. D’you tell me they won’t?”
“You’d drive them away so they can die?” Del frowned. “That’s harsh, that is.”
“Eh?” Bannet gaped at her. “You’re the one said there’d be no helping them.”
“The fishing village elders said that,” Del said, shrugging. “But I’ve seen ’em now, ain’t I? I’ve heard their sad story.”
With another grunt, Bannet folded his arms. “Got yourself an itch for that scarred mage, you mean. Hussy.” Ignoring Del’s protest, he jerked his chin. “Jervale, what’s your thought?”
Not one he could share. “That we’
ve a lot of talking ahead of us, and—”
“Mage Lindin,” said Elder Chaffie, sitting in the crowded hall’s front row, as was proper. “We’re not heartless, but Lur’s got its own strife. There’s crops failing. Rivers running dry. Skin and bone livestock dropping dead and still-birthing their young. If our woes keep on, could be we’ll need to escape over the mountains ourselves.”
Again, Barl Lindin looked at the other mages. Then she took a step closer to Elder Chaffie. “You mustn’t,” she said, her eyes terrible. “For one thing, the crossing will kill you, as it killed many of us. Those mountains are treacherous. Unforgiving. Believe me, you don’t want to watch your loved ones plunge to their deaths, as we have. You don’t want to sit helplessly beside them as they die in agony from snake bite, or because they ate a poison berry.” She took a deep breath, shuddering. “Besides, as bad as things are in Lur, beyond the mountains they’re worse. Those lands are blighted by rogue magics and fear, and their princes and potentates are no friends to strangers. Whoever survives the mountains will be slaughtered without mercy.”
A frightened silence followed her stark words.
“But hope here is not lost,” Barl Lindin continued. “I know things are dire, but the mages of Dorana can help you. All we need is your trust.”
Watching closely, Jervale saw her brother and Lady Martain fail to hide their surprise. And that surprised him.
So she’s keeping more secrets? What’s she got up her grubby sleeve?
Elder Chaffie found her feet. “Posing riddles ain’t the way to win us over. Plain speaking, Mage Lindin, if you please.”
Barl Lindin smoothed the skirt of her roughspun dress. “Plainly speaking, Elder Chaffie, I’m not ready to say. But when I am, I—”
With a sharp look at his sister, Remmie Lindin stepped forward. “Elder Chaffie, I think we’ve already given you a great deal to think on. We’ll withdraw now, so you can talk about us freely. Thank you.”
Before Barl Lindin could object, her brother was hustling her from the hall. Lady Martain followed them, her expression unreadable.
Elder Chaffie turned to face everyone. “Right, then. Let’s mingle a while and talk this over.”
A shuffling of feet amid excited chatter. Jervale looked at Bannet and Del. “Need to water a tree,” he muttered. “I’ll be back by and by.”
Under cover of the noisy crowd, he slipped from the hall. Saw Remmie Lindin and Lady Martain walking towards the mage camp, slowly, on account of his limp. But where was Barl Lindin?
A flash of movement turned him towards the northern edge of Gribley village. Yellow hair and a straight back clad in ill-fitting roughspun. Remmie Lindin’s untruthful, surprising sister. He plunged after her.
The Black Woods swiftly swallowed them. A scritch-scritch of squirrels dancing in branches overhead. The low, plaintive bo-bo-no of a wood pigeon. A breeze soughing through dry leaves. Brooding unseen above them, the might of the mountains.
The slight shift of her head showed that Barl Lindin knew she was being followed, but she didn’t stop until the village was merely a murmuring hint behind them. Then she turned.
“If you’re worried I’ll lose myself, you needn’t be,” she said, raising her voice. “The mages of Dorana don’t get lost.”
Once they were close enough for comfortable talking, Jervale slowed to a halt. Thought of fire plucked from thin air, and straightened his shoulders.
She won’t hurt me. She can’t. Lur’s not done with me yet.
“Are you sure, Mage Lindin? You look mighty lost to me.”
Her clear blue eyes, beautiful as a summer lake, sharpened with suspicion. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Jervale,” he said, politely enough. “Mage Lindin, you know he won’t rest ’til he’s found you.”
She was already pale from her long ordeal, but her face drained so colourless he thought for a moment she might faint. Still, he couldn’t let that put a bridle on his tongue.
“You did your best to fettle him, but he’s stronger than you thought. Isn’t he?”
“What d’you—” Her voice cracked. “I’ve no idea what—”
He raised a finger at her, as though she was his Tilly. “Tell another lie and I promise, there’ll be mischief.”
“Another lie? I haven’t lied. Everything I said in that hall is true.”
“Sometimes a lie gets told by leaving things out.”
Baffled, she folded her arms. “Who are you?”
“I told you. Jervale. And I know things, Mage Lindin.”
Surrounded by the hushed woods, she stared at him, uncertain. He remembered her in his dreams, dressed in fine clothes, and laughing. A younger Barl. A happier Barl. This Barl Lindin’s spirit was maimed.
He closed his eyes and heard the flapping of large, leathery wings.
“Mage Lindin,” he said, looking at her again, battered sick with dream memories. “What d’you reckon’ll happen when he finds you? What d’you reckon’ll he’ll do to the woman who left him, and the folk who gave her shelter?”
Her eyes glittered in the shafting sunlight. “You can’t know this. How do you know this? And who have you told?”
“No-one,” he said, stepping closer. “Yet. As for how I know, that don’t matter. Just tell me, Mage Lindin. How can you keep us safe from a man who can do what he’s done? You can’t, can you? You did tell a lie.”
She flung up one hand in protest, or self-protection. Fearing fire, he leapt back and they stared at each other, breathing harshly.
“I wasn’t—I’m not going to hurt you, Jervale!” She sounded shocked. “Do you really think I’d—” And then, when he let his eyes speak for him, she pressed shaking fingers to her lips. “Oh.” There was a fallen pitty-pine nearby. She sidled to it and sat on its trunk, heedless of creepy-crawlies and fungus. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “How do you know?”
He shrugged, in no mood to talk of his dreams. “I just do. What’s his name, Mage Lindin?”
For a long time she didn’t answer, simply breathed in the sweet, living silence of the Black Woods.
“Morgan,” she said at last, her voice full of grief and longing. “Morgan Danfey.”
“And you love him.”
She looked away. “That’s not your concern.”
Except it was. “He loves you too. And he hates you. Love can turn to hate quick as a wink. You know that.”
“I don’t—” She bit her lip. “You knowing things. It’s Olken magic, isn’t it? Clearly, Jervale, you’re a powerful mage.”
Surprised, he shook his head. “I ain’t a mage.”
“Of course you are,” she said, impatient, then stood. “Show it to me. Your magic. I need to feel it, I need to know if—”
“If what?” he said, wary. The glitter in her eyes now wasn’t unshed tears.
Arms folded again, tight to her ribs, Mage Lindin turned to stare into the woodland’s depths. “I didn’t lie, Jervale. I do think I can save your people. And mine. But first I need to understand Olken magic. I need to know if what I’m thinking is even possible. It might not be. And if it’s not…”
Then the man she loved would find her… and Lur would be deafened by the sound of leathery wings.
She looked at him, her face naked. “Will you help?”
Barl Lindin was the most dangerous creature he’d ever met. How could he help her, when helping her meant ruin for Lur? But that driving voice inside him was driving him now to say yes. He didn’t understand.
“Please,” said Barl Lindin.
He knew so much about her… and knew nothing at all.
If I trust her, and I’m wrong, Lur’s ruin’ll be my doing. And if I don’t…
If he didn’t, and he was wrong, then that would mean ruin too.
Without warning the hushed Black Woods blurred, and he was thrust into the midst of a waking dream. Instead of crowding trees and leaf-filtered fingers of sunlight he was staring at Lur’s heartland, the gently rolling
hills covered in long, rich grass, the flat plain in ripening grain. The pasture was a lush, brilliant green and the ripening grain was turning gold like the sun. He could feel the sun gently warm on his face, not scorching, feel the gentle caress of a breeze, smell the richness of damp earth. And in his bones he could hear the damp earth’s voice… but not as he’d ever heard it before. Now he could hear two voices singing, the sweetest of harmonies, the sweetest of songs. And he knew without knowing how that this was the magic of the Olken and the Doranen mingled, singing together for the plentiful bounty of Lur.
Gasping, he blinked… and was in the Black Woods again.
“What was that?” Barl Lindin demanded. “Jervale, what just happened?”
He waved a hand at her for silence, and took a moment to breathe in and out, breathe hard, shake himself free of the vision.
A vision which makes no sense at all. On the road I dreamed crimson lightning and black hail. Death and destruction for Lur. But now there’s this—this bounty… and what does it mean?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know. All the things he knew… why couldn’t he know this?
“Jervale?” Barl Lindin almost sounded nervous. “Are you ill?”
Trust yourself, Bene would say. You always do what’s right.
Heart thudding, sweat trickling, Jervale shook his head. “No. Just weary. It was a long road here.” He blotted his forehead on his sleeve. Trust myself. “In Lur we don’t call it magic. It’s just—it’s singing, to us.”
Her smile was swift and trembling. “Then sing for me, Jervale. I have to hear you sing.”
There were foxes in the Black Woods. He coaxed two out of hiding, a vixen and her half-grown kit. Their pelts glowed brownish red in the dappling sunlight, eyes in their dark masks shiny and unafraid. Barl Lindin stared at them, silent. He held them in thrall for only a few moments, then released them.