The Wisewoman (Waterspell 3)

by Deborah J. Lightfoot

  She never expected to be ambushed half a mile from Weyrrock’s gates, however. What dangerous foolishness! How could that boy, Lanse, feel such hatred toward Carin that he would attempt to murder her in so foul a fashion, hiding himself like a brigand in the shadows to attack her as she rode beside the boy’s master? Lanse’s disobedience, his refusal to acknowledge Verek’s commands to stop the assault, spoke of a deep-seated enmity toward the girl. Why had the boy persisted after Verek said, “I rescind my previous order”?

  But, of course, that begged the question: Why had Verek ordered Carin’s execution in the first place?

  To that question, perhaps I do know the answer, Megella admitted. I have seen what the girl is capable of.

  Meg had reached the library. The room was lit only by the stars shining through the high windows. But she glimpsed a reddish glow toward the back. Groping her way through stacks of books, she found the door to the chamber of magic standing open. Red light brimmed up the stairwell from the cave below.

  As Megella stepped through and began the long, winding descent, she recalled the only other time she had set foot on these steps …

  She and Merriam had their things packed and their route chosen. Before the sun rose on the following day, they would slip away from Weyrrock. Merriam would desert her husband and her son rather than live under the same roof with the creature of evil whom Legary had betrothed to Hugh.

  Megella’s last act of rebellion had been to steal down to the wellspring of Legary’s power and take a jugful of wysards’ waters. How could she have been so bold? True, she’d been a much younger woman then. And anger at her brother-in-law had made her reckless to the point of foolhardiness.

  Even so, Meg had been surprised that her encroachment upon the seat of Ruainian power had been tolerated without so much as a ripple from the pool of magic. It had not destroyed her; it had not even questioned her. The wysards’ waters had permitted Megella to approach the rim, to fill her big brown jug with liquid ice, and then to depart unchallenged.

  Now the jug and its contents were gone, and Megella felt a rush of anxiety as she eased her way downward. Would she be held to account for the theft, these many years later? The wellspring of power might fault her failed stewardship of stolen magic.

  Then again, the wysards’ well might know the whole story: Carin filching the magic from Meg’s wagon and dumping it—and herself—in the Easthaven harbor. In the days after her dunking, the girl had been so hazy … lost in a mental fog, as if brain-bruised by what she had experienced … Carin had given Megella no satisfactory account of any part of that night’s business.

  But it had had something to do with saving Ladrehdin from plague and pestilence: that much, Meg had worked out for herself. How had Carin known to employ such a remedy?

  Perhaps the magic speaks to wysards in a voice no wisewoman may hear, Megella thought.

  Having made her slow, careful descent of the spiral stairway, Meg stepped from its foot into the chamber of the wysards. The cave was just as she remembered it: huge, dimly lit by rough walls that glowed red, with a lustrous floor. Out in the middle of that floor, centered among four stone benches, was the pool of magic, its waters still, its surface like a mirror.

  But Megella was not studying the wysards’ well. Her gaze had gone immediately to the figure of Theil Verek lying flat on its rim amid a scattering of rocks that appeared to have crashed around him from the cavern’s roof. Theil was shivering violently. And standing near him, peering at him, was a fellow whom Meg did not recognize, a round little man wearing—of all things—the brown robes of a Drishannic monk.

  “You there! Step away from Verek,” she barked. “What is your business here? Who are you?”

  The man jerked his head up. Clearly startled, he took a short step back, his hands slightly raised and open as if to show that he was unarmed.

  “I, madam, am Welwyn, an elder of the craft and an old friend of House Verek. And if you will allow me to ask it—for your presence in this place of power is, don’t you know, nothing short of an astonishment to me: Who in the name of fortune are you?”

  “You are Welwyn? Yes, Carin mentioned you. But where—”

  Megella broke off, running her gaze around the cavern and seeing no sign of the girl.

  “Where is Carin? As astonished as you may be at my presence here, Master Welwyn, I am more surprised by the girl’s absence. I expected to find her lending Lord Verek her strength as he subjected himself to—” Megella stopped again, unsure of how to phrase an undertaking she could not begin to fathom.

  Pulling off one shawl, she threaded her way through strewn-about chunks of rubble to the pool’s rim. She stood looking down at her nephew, then draped the fabric over Verek’s shuddering form. Her shawl was too thin to warm him much, but she had to do something. Theil had clearly been in the pool, and Megella had seen, from his reaction to the glob of wysards’ waters that he handled in her cottage, how painful the touch of that frigid liquid could be.

  Abruptly Meg glanced across at Welwyn, realizing with a sense of foreboding that the fellow had not answered her question about Carin’s whereabouts. The monk had plopped down on a bench facing the pool. His face wore an expression of bewilderment.

  “What is it?” Megella demanded. “What has happened?”

  Welwyn shook his head. Then he cleared his throat with a rough “ahem” and locked gazes with her.

  “Please forgive my impertinence, madam. But before I reveal any part of what I have witnessed within this chamber, I must ask again: Who are you?”

  “Wheesht!” Megella exclaimed. “Wysards! Always so careful to guard your secrets.”

  She drew herself up to her full height—which was appreciably greater than the monk’s. Though round-bodied he was, the fellow looked shrunken, sitting there swathed in his brown habit, his hands slipped into his sleeves, nothing showing but his flabby jowls, wind-abraded cheeks, and rheumy eyes.

  “I, sir, am Megella,” she said, “sister of the late Merriam who was the wife of Lord Legary and the mother of his lordship’s only child, the lad named Hugh. Hugh being my nephew, it naturally follows that this one, his son”—Meg nodded at Theil on the floor at her feet—“is my great-nephew.”

  “Your great—!”

  Welwyn labored to stand, but then seemed to abandon the effort. “Lady Merriam’s sister—still living!” he murmured, sinking back to his bench. “Lord Legary thought you must both have perished.”

  “Tah! Why should he think that?” Megella snapped. “Did he believe Merri could not live without him?” She snorted. “My sister enjoyed a long and rewarding life after she left Legary in Ruain to ponder his sins and rue his errors.”

  She took a step toward the monk. “But let us have no more reminiscing over old times. I have been too much engaged in it of late. My concerns must lie in the present. I ask you again: Where is Carin?”

  Welwyn heaved a long and nervous-sounding sigh.

  “In truth, Madam Megella,” he muttered, “I have no idea where our intrepid Lady Carin has gone. I was awakened from a nod-off in the library by the sound of Carin and Theil hieing past me. They raced by so quickly, I glimpsed only a blur—a moving shadow. Who it was, I would not have known but for Carin crying Verek’s name.”

  The monk raised his arms to the level of his shoulders, still with both hands tucked into his sleeves, giving him the appearance of hugging empty air.

  “I sought to follow,” he continued, “but the pair far outpaced me. They had reached a point clean out of my sight when I heard Theil shout as though he had been wounded. Then I heard a great whirring noise, as of something rapidly spinning, and under my feet the stair-steps shook. Next came three shouts in close succession: An eerie voice cried, ‘Take it away!’ Carin screamed, ‘No!’ And before the echoes of those two voices had begun to fade, I heard Theil shout, ‘Stop!’ Then he shrieked unintelligibly, and I heard terror in his cries.”

  Welwyn lowered his arms and shook his head.
“I was flying, don’t you know, down those twisty, quaking stairs with all the speed I could manage. Yet by the time I arrived in this chamber, all the speakers had disappeared. I saw no one.”

  “No one?” Megella queried. She pointed at Theil. “He seems solid enough—nearly frozen solid, to judge by the way he shivers.”

  Welwyn nodded. “When I approached and gazed into the wysards’ well, I saw Theil drifting low. He was very deep.” The monk gave a shudder so pronounced, Megella detected it even through the thicknesses of the fellow’s woolen habit.

  She glanced at the well but could not see down into it. The pool’s surface was a mirror that reflected only the rough, stony roof over their heads.

  “You say he was deep in the waters of the wysards,” Megella said, turning back to Welwyn. “Do you believe Theil was attempting to retrieve Carin from those depths? Or was a penetrating immersion necessary to restore to him his wizardly powers?”

  Welwyn gave another sigh, this one communicating bafflement.

  “I cannot answer your questions, Madam Megella. I can tell you only that I watched, awestruck, as Theil rose slowly through the water. It seemed to take five forevers. When finally he broke the surface and could draw a loud, groaning breath, he appeared considerably closer to death than to life. He barely managed to flounder his way to the pool’s rim before he passed out. I hauled him onto the floor—by Drisha, his hands were colder than death!—and tried to chafe some warmth into him.” Welwyn shot a worried look at Theil. “I fear that cold submersion may have congealed his brain, so long has he lain there, bereft of his senses.”

  “And you saw nothing of Carin?” Megella demanded. “You did not glimpse the girl drifting in those depths with Verek?”

  “I sighted not a single trailing strand of Lady Carin’s gleaming hair.” Welwyn tilted his head. “If Carin did plunge into wysards’ waters, perhaps she may yet surface, in her own time and place. Her magic is not the wizardry of Ladrehdin. She takes her strength from another source altogether, don’t you know.”

  Megella nodded. “Yes, I have come to understand something of the girl’s otherworldly qualities. She remains tied to the place of her birth, in ways that are as profound as Theil Verek’s connections to the powers that flow through Ruain.”

  Meg looked at her nephew. “How long before we know whether he has succeeded in regaining his mastery of those powers?”

  Welwyn shrugged. “I cannot hazard a guess, madam. I have never kept such a vigil as this.”

  The monk leaned toward Megella and added, “Theil and Carin rushed past me so quickly, I received an impression of their great urgency but no explanation for it. A wizard would be keen, don’t you know, to seek the restoration of his abilities. But I must wonder: Why such a headlong, tumultuous, frantic rush?”

  “Wheesht!” Megella exclaimed. “Master Welwyn, the boy Lanse lies in the kitchen half disemboweled—or dead, perhaps, by now.” She pointed at Theil. “Lord Verek was hastening to reclaim his powers in hopes of bringing wizardry to the boy’s aid.”

  “Fair weather find us!” Welwyn cried, this time managing to spring to his feet. “Lanse, mortally wounded? I must go to him.”

  The monk barreled toward the stairwell, exclaiming as he went. “Woman, why did you not say? Do you think me powerless?” Welwyn planted his foot on the bottom step and shoved upward, commencing his climb to the library.

  Briefly after he had vanished from her sight but before he’d ascended far, Megella could still hear the monk berating her. “All this time—sitting and chatting! A life in the balance—”

  A hopeless case, more like, Megella thought.

  Even so, she felt twinges of guilt. The truth was, she’d forgotten Lanse the minute she realized Carin was missing.

  She threw another glance around the cavern, and up at its ceiling to be sure no more stone was threatening to fall. Then she turned back to Verek.

  He showed no signs of returning consciousness. Megella kneeled stiffly beside him and rubbed his hands. They felt bloodless. Theil’s face was ashen, his lips blue.

  Meg put her hand on his heart and was somewhat reassured by its strong, steady beat. Deciding that more vigorous measures might be required to bring him round, she slapped him, hard. Her fingers left livid marks on his face. But he did not rouse.

  Sighing, Megella peeled off her remaining shawl and spread it over Theil’s trembling form. Then she creaked to her feet, stepped to the rim of the wysards’ well, and peered straight down, trying but failing to see through its mirror sheen.

  If Carin had gone into the well and Verek had plunged in after her, then by rights it should have been Carin who dragged Theil up to safety. Back in Meg’s cottage, Carin had barely flinched while holding the gobbet of wysards’ waters, while Theil had seemed scarcely able to endure the pain.

  The girl had explained, with marvelous nonchalance: “I’ve been dunked in wizards’ waters twice now. I’m almost getting used to it.”

  Twice before … and now for the third time?

  “Are you in there, widgeon?” Megella muttered.

  “No,” came the lightly ringing, shimmering voice of the wysards’ well. “She is gone.”

  “Wheesht!”

  Megella jumped back from the pool, her heart hammering in her chest. She clutched reflexively for her shawls, wanting to wrap up in them, needing to feel covered, hidden from the sight of the uncanny presence in the pool. But Verek had all her shawls now, and she stood unprotected, vulnerable.

  “Gone?” Meg faintly repeated as the echoes of the voice wavered through the cavern, then faded. “Is the girl … dead?”

  “No.” The waters’ sparkling answer was like an audible glint of sunlight. Megella fancied she could see as well as hear it. “Gone from here. Alive out there.”

  Something in the way the wysards’ waters expressed its sense of Carin’s “aliveness” gave Megella to understand that the girl, wherever she might be, was fully in possession of her faculties. Carin had more than a warm-body existence “out there.” She was alert and in control.

  “Thank Drisha,” Megella breathed, and immediately regretted using the phrase. Whatever power ruled in this cavern of magic, it was not the hoary and impersonal deity that claimed lip service from most of Ladrehdin.

  A ripple disturbed the mirror-stillness of the wysards’ waters, making Megella gasp.

  “I beg pardon,” she muttered, her breath catching. Hesitantly, Meg inclined her head toward the pool, hoping the gesture would be obeisance enough, since she had long since given up curtsying. “I offer my profound thanks to you, the wellspring of Power, for setting my mind at ease. I have been anxious about the girl—she is a favorite of mine.”

  “And of mine.”

  The ripple flattened, restoring the pool’s mirror sheen. Megella stood frozen to the spot, a few steps from the rim, wondering what would happen next.

  But all fell still and silent, and after a time Meg ventured to kneel again beside Theil. His eyelids were fluttering. And he was clenching his right fist, jerking it toward him, then straightening and stiffening his fingers, reminding Megella of someone counting, spasmodically, by fives. She did not doubt, however, that his actions had a greater significance.

  “Come along,” she muttered to him, giving Verek’s face a few light slaps. “Come to your senses, nephew of mine. Let us see whether your powers are restored.”

  “We will be whole again,” shimmered the voice of the well, so unexpectedly that Megella flinched away, “when she returns.”

  Meg swallowed in a dry throat. Slowly then, she nodded.

  “I see. Thank you.”

  The well relapsed into silence, and after a moment Megella refocused on Theil. He was groaning under his breath and muttering incoherently, and though he had his eyes open now, looking up toward the roof of the cave, he stared blankly. Gradually, however, Verek’s gaze found Megella. A look of recognition came into his dark eyes, and seeing her bent over him seemed to jolt him to ful
l awareness.

  “Aunt,” he breathed, barely audibly. “She’s gone.”

  His first lucid thoughts, Megella observed, are neither for himself nor for the injured Lanse. He thinks of Carin.

  “She will be all right,” Meg said crisply, levering herself up. “Carin has crossed the void before. I advise you to worry less for your lady and more for that young villain, Lanse. Master Welwyn has gone to see what he can do for the boy.”

  “Welwyn!” Theil exclaimed. “He’s here? By the powers! He can—”

  Verek’s struggle to rise took all his strength; he could say no more. Megella helped him as best she could, bracing as he almost clawed his way up her to stand wobbly-legged. Meg’s shawls fell from him but she caught them and wrapped him up again, for he continued to shiver.

  Theil twisted to look at the wysards’ well. His gaze raked its surface. Then he threw his glance around the cave and studied the broken ceiling-stones that littered its floor.

  His eyes were shadowed as he looked back at Megella. In them, she could read the pain of his loss. He’d had to be doubly certain, before he could leave this place, that Carin was truly gone.

  Together they turned for the stairwell. Theil went first, with Megella’s bulk below him to catch him if he stumbled. The spiraling climb began with him barely able to lift his feet. But by the time they reached the top, Theil was moving briskly. The ascent seemed to get his blood pumping, restoring the color to his face.

  Through the library’s shadows Verek rushed as though he could see clearly. He threw off Meg’s shawls and dashed away, down the hall toward the kitchen. Megella heard the pounding of his boots as he ran.

  Left to reclaim her wraps and fumble her way between towering stacks of books, Meg threaded a path to the front of the library, to stand beneath its windows and gaze at stars in a sky of black velvet.

  A beautiful, clear summer night, this first night of my return home to Weyrrock.

  Megella remembered her bags and bundles pitched unceremoniously into the road as Carin emptied Meg’s cart. Drisha willing, she couldn’t help thinking, no thieves will make off with my things. But immediately she realized that thieves would be unlikely to venture this close to the ancestral seat of Ruain’s wysards. Her belongings, in all probability, would lie in the road unmolested until she ventured out tomorrow to fetch them.