by Jeff Wheeler
Itziar used the pain in her leg and back to shut out the clamor of alarm that arose in the back of her mind at being called Guardian. She glowered at the fisherfolk and told them gruffly, “I have some ideas. They will regret crossing me.” She wasn’t willing to name herself Guardian a second time. With that statement, she turned and collapsed across the threshold.
The mender, who had been standing just inside, tried to catch her, but only managed to slow her fall as her momentum pushed him backward into the wall. Itziar twisted, landing next to rather than on top of him.
Outside, she could hear Kirsi shooing the fisherfolk away, “Let us be sure her wounds are healed before she faces them again.”
Itziar didn’t have to turn to know the mender was studying her profile. “I said what I had to, but I am not a Guardian—I do not deserve the title, nor the faith they put in me.”
“Well, I hope you have a plan. Because you certainly can’t tell them that,” he advised, “or they’ll go back to suspecting you.”
She only sighed in response. The most prudent course of action would be to absorb the power in the wards that surrounded this place and fly as far as her wings would take her. But she had tried flying from her troubles once before, and she had run out of power before she ran out of ocean, losing her dragon form and splashing into the sea. The people she had faced during the storm had been powerful, maybe they had enough magic to sustain her without killing them. Maybe she could do some good here, and no one would have to die.
“If their pattern holds, I have until the next storm to consider,” Itziar reasoned, levering herself to her feet as she told him, “They are unlikely to strike tonight.”
Kirsi joined them, coming from the other room, rather than outside, carrying a roll of bandages, with Nalu in tow. Itziar studied him as he brought a large bowl of water to the bedside and assisted the mender and Kirsi as they tended her fresh and reopened wounds. His resemblance to the people taking the children was uncanny, but he didn’t seem out of sorts or ruffled by the events of last night, and the mender would have told her if he’d broken through the wards. He smiled kindly under her scrutiny, and Itziar found it hard to suspect him of being involved.
* * *
The next day, Itziar woke early, got dressed, and perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for the mender. He had barely entered from the other room with an armload of linens when she intercepted him. Tossing the fabric on the chair, Itziar put a hand under his elbow and propelled him toward the door, saying, “Walk with me.”
Startled, the mender reached out to catch his balance on the door frame. Itziar felt a jolt of crackling power where her hand touched his arm, and she dropped it before she could be tempted to siphon some off for herself.
“Sorry, I forgot your leg,” she stammered, trying to cover of up her confusion. “Is it your leg? What happened, anyway?” she asked abruptly. Belatedly, she realized that her attempt at a distraction was fairly insensitive, but she didn’t want to start her actual conversation until they were well away from the house, so she let it stand. The mender gave her a perplexed look before retrieving his walking stick and following her out the door. He didn’t seem inclined to answer, so she backtracked. “Never mind, none of my business.”
He shrugged and matched her slow limp with his own halting steps. “Several years ago, I was convicted and hanged for piracy. The rope broke. I shattered my hip on the rocks below. I would have died had a passing ship not rescued me, but it never healed properly. Neither did my throat,” he said, and pulled down the ever-present scarf to show her the angry red knots of old wounds that ringed his neck.
Intrigued in spite of herself, she asked, “Were you guilty?”
“Of what?” his voice contained a wisp of surprise, like that hadn’t been what he’d expected her to ask.
“Piracy.”
“At one time, yes.” He turned his head to the side so Itziar couldn’t read his expression if she had wanted to as he explained, “But by the time I was caught, I had given up that lifestyle. When I was given a second chance, I took it and retired here to live a simple life.” The bitter note in the last few words pointed out what she already knew—his life at the moment was anything but simple.
“What’s your name?” Itziar asked, “I mean, it’s not Mender, right?”
“Cor-Coren,” he stammered as he turned to study her intently.
She couldn’t tell if he was trying to wrap his mouth around the long unspoken word or if he was deciding whether he should trust her with it, but she frowned at him and asked, “Does it really matter? You paid for your crime.” Her tone of resentment was mostly directed at herself. She hadn’t. “Besides, no one will be looking for you here,” she told him, sweeping an arm to encompass the empty beach and the line of trees from which they had just emerged.
A smile ghosted across his face, and he said, “My name is Corentin.”
“Well, Corentin, did you know that Nalu is one of them?” They turned to continue up the beach, and she clarified, “One of the people that has been taking children?”
“I suspected.” He confirmed her suspicion. “But he hasn’t broken my wards.”
“Does he know that it’s his people?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t really know,” Corentin told her, shaking his head as he added, “It’s hard to tell since he doesn’t speak.”
“I need to set a trap then,” Itziar amended, she had been hoping they could just use Nalu to make contact with his people.
“So you’re going to do it then? Be the Guardian that they want you to be?” Corentin asked carefully without looking at her.
“Yes,” Itziar lied, thinking, Perhaps I can, perhaps we can all get what we want out of this.
As if in silent agreement, they turned and headed back toward the house. The soft whisper of their steps in the sand made a quiet counterpoint to the thundering crashes of the waves as they each sorted out their own thoughts in silence.
They had just reached the tree line when Itziar asked, “How did you do it?” He gave her a confused look, so she clarified, “You said you had given up your life of crime. What made you change?”
“I fancied myself in love with a beautiful woman—and decided to be good for her,” he responded. The wry tone of his voice indicated that there was more to the story, but Itziar was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to do more than take note of it. She was already thinking about the possibilities. He had been a pirate and changed his ways. All he had needed was someone to love in order to correct his course in life. She hadn’t been nearly as bad; she’d only lost control once. Nalu stood in the doorway as they approached the house, sweeping the workroom floor. Maybe all Itziar needed was someone to keep her on track.
She didn’t notice Corentin frowning contemplatively in her direction as he gathered up his pile of linen.
Nalu had set aside the broom when he saw them and went to retrieve a basket of muffins that Kirsi must have left behind. “Let me help you with that,” Itziar offered as Nalu doled out breakfast from the basket.
He smiled and handed her the empty basket. She smiled back, and it almost felt natural. After breakfast, Itziar challenged Nalu to a rematch of sea stones and glass. They played into the afternoon, and he laughed at her silently as he won the fifth game in a row. Kirsi arrived with lunch and saved Itziar from continuing her losing streak.
When they all had bowls of food, an unusually quiet Kirsi told Itziar, “The village wants to know what you plan to do to keep their children safe.”
Gulping down a mouthful of stew, Itziar explained, “We’ll have to wait for the next storm, but I can tell when they’re close.”
“I can help with the storm,” Corentin announced quietly. He didn’t look up or stop alternating sewing with spoonfuls of stew, and if it hadn’t been his distinct gravelly voice, Itziar almost would have thought he hadn’t been the one who had spoken.
“Oh?” Itziar asked skeptically, “Are you a weather-witch, Men
der?”
He didn’t deny it. “It doesn’t always work, but sometimes, I can nudge a storm if it’s nearby.”
Itziar nodded and said, “Okay, you get us a storm. I’ll get us one of them.” Itziar didn’t tell them how, didn’t tell them that she planned to drain the power from one of the child-snatchers. She had no intention of killing someone, just draining enough power that they couldn’t run away. “We just need to figure out where to set the trap, which house they’ll strike next.”
Kirsi paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth and stared intently at her plate without seeing it. “I can’t believe we missed it.” She looked up at them and explained, “There’s a pattern—the houses closest to the beach. Only two of those that remain contain children.”
“Then we move both the families out,” Itziar told them decisively. “If they choose wrong and the house is empty, hopefully they’ll correct their mistake.”
Kirsi nodded and offered, “I’ll talk to the families. When should I tell them to expect us?”
“How long do you need?” Itziar asked Corentin.
He shook his head and said, “It’s not that exact. But if I start tonight, it’ll be here sooner than if I don’t.”
“Just tell them we’ll be in touch,” Itziar told Kirsi.
After dinner, Kirsi headed down the path to the village, and Corentin limped outside to see if he could feel a storm. Itziar didn’t really know what that involved, but she was left alone with Nalu.
They were working together to fold the garments that Corentin had finished repairing when Nalu surprised Itziar by speaking. “Do you have the power to stop them when they come for the child?” his voice dropped off in places as though unused, but the strong, unfamiliar accent almost covered up the variations.
Startled that he could speak and compelled by the earnest expression on his face, Itziar answered honestly, “I don’t know.”
“What if I lent you mine?” he offered.
She shook her head and took a step backward. “No, no, I can’t do that.”
“I know they think it’s me, and I want to help,” he insisted. “But I’m stuck here, and I don’t know how I can be useful any other way.”
“Why—?” Itziar didn’t know what question to ask first.
He shook his head and told her, “I can’t explain. I know you’re a leech, and you can use my power. Let me help.” His earnest expression didn’t waver.
For a moment, Itziar simply stared. “Nalu, I don’t want to hurt you.”
He met her eyes with his blue-green ones. “You won’t. I trust you. Take me with you, and I’ll lend you my power.”
“Are you sure?” Itziar asked, thinking about Corentin’s story. Maybe to steer a straight path, she just needed someone to believe that she could be good. But she couldn’t entirely dismiss the echoes of another voice in her past saying, “I trust you, Itziar, you wouldn’t hurt me. Take as much as you need.”
Itziar tried to shut out the echo of her memories and the results of that other conversation. When Nalu nodded, she agreed.
“Please don’t tell the mender,” he whispered quietly.
“Okay.” She agreed to that too. She needed his power and his faith in her, so she didn’t want to betray him. She lay awake half the night trying to sort out why Nalu was there, why he had chosen not to speak until now, and why he wouldn’t explain.
* * *
Ultimately, when Itziar couldn’t figure out the answers to those questions, she decided to stick with the plan, which now contained the added wrinkle of slipping Nalu out of the house without anyone’s knowledge.
On the surface, it was simple—Itziar would absorb part of the warding, let Nalu pass, and put it back. But she hadn’t worked out how to keep Corentin from noticing. He wasn’t involved in the trap portion of the plan, and would likely be at home in the workroom.
As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Corentin returned shortly after it started raining, soaked through. “The storm’s being temperamental,” he explained. “If you want a chance of it remaining in this area until nightfall, I’ll need to find some open sky near the shore and persuade it.”
Itziar needed no convincing. She told him, “That would be best. But change into dry clothes first, and take this”—she handed him a blanket coated for water resistance. “And this”—she held out a covered bowl of leftover stew.
He nodded. “Take care of yourself, Itziar.”
“You too, Mender. Don’t, you know, fall in or anything.”
As soon as he was gone, Itziar went to work on the ward. It was nicely done with a tight, even pattern. She had less trouble unraveling it than putting it back together—she wanted to take its power with her, but she knew that she couldn’t without making Corentin suspect Nalu. The sky had already darkened by the time she and Nalu were scrambling down the path toward the village.
Not a single person was in sight as they slipped into the house. Itziar turned to Nalu and asked one more time, “You’re sure about this?”
He nodded and held out his hand. “I trust you. This is freely given.”
His hand remained steady, and she grasped it in her own. She tried to memorize the complete faith on his face and the confidence in his voice. He believed in her. She could do this without killing him.
Closing her eyes, Itziar began drawing on his magic. His wasn’t the strongest magic she had ever borrowed, but it did have a unique flavor. In addition to the salt-on-your-skin feeling that marked it as belonging to him, it felt slippery in a different way than other power she’d encountered. She had begun to convert it into what she could use to shift to her dragon form when she felt the others approaching the house.
It was too soon; she needed more power. She felt more than heard Nalu’s small gasp as she increased the amount she was draining. She just needed a little more, enough to take her dragon form and sit on one of them while she fought her way into their head and took their power. Nalu trusted her, the village was counting on her, and she would make it right.
“Itz—” Nalu’s voice faded as he collapsed away from her.
An attack from behind tore his hand out of her grasp. Itziar wasn’t sure she would have been able to let go on her own.
Turning to face her assailant, she wrapped her fingers around his forearm. The child-snatcher set his jaw stubbornly, insisting, “False-dragon, you will not kill me as easily as the wayward one.”
Kill? Kill? She hadn’t taken that much power. Had she?
Itziar looked around wildly before spotting Nalu, unmoving, with two of the child-snatchers standing over him.
“Get away from him!” she roared before finally converting enough power to slip into her dragon form. She shouldered between the child-snatchers and gathered Nalu up in her arms. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing. No, no, no, she chanted. In two steps, she had crashed through the open doorway and taken flight. He couldn’t be dead. He was supposed to save her.
Fighting the wind to keep steady, Itziar beat her wings toward where she felt that distinct hair-standing-on-end feeling that wasn’t quite like that produced by the rest of the lightning. She landed next to Corentin, who had been sitting on a rock overlooking the sea, humming. He tried to jump back at the sight of her, but his bad leg didn’t seem to want to support his weight. Shifting back to her human form, Itziar addressed his surprise by explaining curtly, “That’s right—Guardians don’t call dragons. We become them.” Taking a step forward, she placed Nalu on the flattest section of rock and pleaded, “Fix him, Mender.”
Corentin reached out a shaking hand to touch Nalu’s pale face, and asked with despair, “Oh, Itziar, what have you done?”
Rain dripped down Itziar’s face, and thunder crashed out over the surf as she explained, “Before I was a dragon, before I tried to become a Guardian, I was—am—a leech, but I thought I could control it. I thought I could be the person he believed me to be.” Taking a shaky breath, she forced the words out of a suddenly dry throat
and said, “Please tell me I didn’t kill him.”
While she talked, Corentin knelt down beside Nalu looking for signs of life. “I’m not sure,” he murmured. “I think you might have leeched too much power. I don’t suppose you can put some of it back?” he asked, blinking up at her hopefully against the rain.
She shook her head. “It’s not what it was anymore. And I’m no healer.”
“Neither am I,” Corentin told her, adding, “Not by trade.” He moved his hand to Nalu’s wrist and announced, “He’s alive. Barely. Maybe you and I can work together and make sure he stays that way.” Itziar just stared at him numbly for long enough that he asked, “Are you still with me?”
With effort, she pulled her mind away from thoughts of another face, another unmoving body. “What do you need from me?”
“First, I need you to pull my power out of the storm and give it back to me.” For the first time, she noticed how tired he looked—she could see the shadows under his eyes when the lightning flashed. “I used up most of it getting the storm to stay in place this long.”
Drain power from something she had no chance of killing? Itziar thought she could handle that. Raising both of her hands above her head, she felt for the pieces of the storm that held Corentin’s unique hair-raising signature. Traveling on the wind and strokes of lightning, she used her leeching magic to call those pieces to her. A metallic taste filled her mouth, and the feeling of electricity intensified until she wondered if lightning would begin to sizzle down her arms.
She reached down and grasped Corentin’s outstretched hand. Resisting the urge to convert the power of the storm to her own uses, she poured it into him. Glancing down, she watched lightning dance across his features as storm clouds gathered in his eyes. This is what he must have looked like at the height of his power, standing on the deck of a ship surrounded by wind and lightning. He closed his eyes and the image was gone.
Corentin remained kneeling on the flat surface of the rock, unmoving while lightning slowly died down to the occasional spark. No, Itziar realized it was moving in a repeated pattern across his skin. Before she could remind him he was supposed to be helping Nalu, he opened his eyes—they had returned to their usual dull gray—and told her, “You’re going to take the power back from me and put it in him.”