Panic lodged in Petril’s throat like a broken fishbone, choking him with fear. Was the fear his own or the horse’s?
Probably a bit of both, a tiny voice whispered in his mind.
Sweat soaked his tunic in spite of the icy night air. He shivered and swallowed hard, and suddenly Da’s voice was in his head, soothing and calm.
“Fear’ll send ye ta the deeps quicker than lightnin’ if’n ye let it. Set yer mind on somethin’ ye can do rather than sweatin’ what ye cain’t. If’n yer still breathin’, set yer mind on that.”
Petril blocked out the horse’s screams and the men’s curses and forced himself to take a deep breath. He listened to his breathing, felt the air rush in and out of his lungs.
And then he softly recited the lines of an old children’s song: “Bluegills swimming, one by one, hurrah, hurrah. Come into the net, that’s the fun, hurrah, hurrah.”
Petril’s breathing slowed. His mouth was dry as a sponge that had sat in the sun too long, but he could breathe freely again.
He listened for a moment, then his heart jump-kicked like a rabbit being chased by a dog. It was too quiet. All he could hear were gentle waves lapping at the shore and a bit of shuffling.
How long had he been curled up like a frightened kiddie?
Slowly, he rose to his knees and peeked through the hole he’d been using to spy on the clearing.
Firelight illuminated the mare, head down again, near the wagon. Otherwise, the clearing appeared empty—if he didn’t count the tall man sitting by the fire, facing the opposite side of the clearing.
Petril chewed his lip, watching the mare and thinking. Realization washed over him like warm rain. The mare’s head wasn’t down because she was exhausted. Ropes had been lashed around her body from one end to the other, anchoring her head low to the ground and preventing her from moving.
Something else caught his eye, and Petril stiffened, feeling as though he’d been caught in winter’s icy winds.
There was a net beneath all that rope.
Roped and netted.
Petril fingered the short-bladed knife at his waist. Would a netting knife be enough to cut through all that? He kept his knife proper sharp, as did all fisherfolk, but the blade was short, meant for cutting light nets, not sawing through heavy rope.
The hair on his arms and neck rose like the hackles on a dog’s back, and the heavy weight returned to his chest.
Petril made himself take slow, deep breaths.
Bluegills swimming, one by one . . .
Time to move. Before the men came back.
He searched the ground until he found a large, clublike stick—just in case—then lifted his chin, pulled his knife from the sheath at his waist, and slipped into the clearing.
• • •
Petril was halfway to the wagon when a twig snapped beneath his foot. He froze, mouth gaping like a stranded fish, and glanced at the man by the fire.
The tall man didn’t turn.
Petril dashed to the wagon and ducked beneath it, holding his breath and listening for an alarm.
No alarm sounded, only a loud snuffling that made his skin crawl.
It took a moment for him to pinpoint the sound. It was coming from the horse.
The angle of her head made it hard for her to breathe—
He needed to get to her, get her head free.
Heart thumping so loud he could barely hear anything else, he eased toward the enormous hooves an arm’s length away. He stayed as low as he could, inching his way beneath the wagon, his back brushing the broad beams holding the wagon bed in place every now and again. It suddenly occurred to him that the lordly man—and the man who’d been stomped, if’n he wasn’t dead—might be sleeping inside.
The thought almost froze him in place again, but Petril breathed through it. He reached the side of the wagon nearest the horse, paused between the wagon’s wheels, and studied the horse.
She was huge.
He stared at the mare in dismay. He’d never been around an animal so large—except the sturgeons and they’d been, well, fish, swimming below him in the water and well on their way to dead. If he’d been betting with his brothers, he wouldn’t have bet a fingerling that he could control such a horse. He was just a boy; she was as big as a longhouse and she was furious. He could feel the anger simmering inside her, just waiting to be released.
What was he thinking?
Not thinking, Petril reminded himself. Imagining.
Imagining he knew all about horses.
Imagining he was someone important.
Imagining he was a hero.
Petril took a deep breath.
Time to stop imagining and get on with it.
“Easy now,” he murmured, fear cracking his voice. Someone was bound to hear him, but he had to let the horse know he was here; convince her he was going to help. Otherwise, she’d probably stomp him into the ground when he got her free. “I’m a friend, now. Gonna hep ye get quit o’ this mess.”
The horse snorted softly.
Without stopping to think, Petril darted out from under the wagon and fell to his knees next to the horse. He peered at the stakes anchoring what amounted to a cocoon of net and ropes. He finally gave up trying to figure out what rope went where, grabbed the nearest stake, and yanked.
The stake didn’t move.
Scowling so hard his cheeks hurt, Petril felt for the rope attached to the stake, then used his knife and sawed the rope through.
Just before the rope parted, memories of the mare stomping the small man into the ground flashed through his mind. She could stomp Petril, or kick him in the head as she tried to get rid of the net.
Or she could get tangled in the netting—
The mare lifted her head with a soft sigh but didn’t move otherwise. She wasn’t able to move her head far, but it seemed to be enough to help with her breathing. Her right front leg stiffened, and Petril realized she was shifting her weight.
“All right, then,” he murmured. “Let’s see if’n we kin get a bit farther.”
One by one he cut through the lines, each rope taking a bit longer than the strands of netting. He shook his head, wondering at how he’d found himself cutting this particular net apart instead of working hard to weave it back together. Whoever owned this net was going to be madder than an osprey robbed of its catch.
The mare rhythmically shifted her weight from side to side, testing her bonds. Petril got the sense she was preparing—
“Don’t go doing nothin’ stupid now,” he quietly admonished. “Lemme get this thing off’n ye first. Elsewise, ye might get tangled and go down.”
And then it was back, that strange connection between his mind and the horse’s, only this time she wasn’t in a rage—or panicking.
She was calm. And determined.
The mare wasn’t talking to him, not exactly. But he understood what she was feeling. He could sense the dull pain still lingering in her head, the sting where the whip had ripped her hide open. But most of all, he could feel the sense of protection and panic at being separated from her foal.
Petril almost laughed out loud. He wasn’t hallucinating or even imagining.
This was real.
“We’ll get yer little ’un back. Jus’ one last—”
He sliced through the final rope. Done. With one side, anyway.
Petril glanced at the man still staring into the fire. The man hadn’t moved.
A good sign. Petril chewed his lip again, pondering his next move. He could go behind the horse and pull the net and ropes off, but that would put him too near her hindquarters and he didn’t relish getting kicked.
He could go in front of her and risk getting run over.
Or he could crawl beneath her belly, which could get him stomped into a bloody pulp.
�
��Stand still, now. Jus’ like ye bin doin’.”
Smothering a groan, Petril swallowed the lump threatening to choke off his air and inched forward. He imagined himself underneath the horse, pulling the rope-and-net cocoon free. He kept that picture in his mind, going over it again and again.
And then he was doing it.
Without getting stomped or trampled or kicked.
He hooked his hands into the net and dragged it downward. At first, the weight of the “cocoon” was so great he could barely move it.
How had the mare stayed on her feet?
His arms ached and his fingers burned.
He should have brought help. Should have known he wouldn’t be able to rescue the mare on his own . . .
Petril gritted his teeth and pulled again, relieved to feel the cocoon slowly move. Over and over he pulled, ignoring the burn in his hands and arms. Inch by inch he dragged the heavy ropes and netting off the mare’s back. It felt as though he’d never get the mare free. He’d still be here, hauling on the ropes and netting when the sun brightened the horizon—
He started as the cocoon slipped toward the ground instead of fighting him. Heart racing in anticipation, he snagged another section with his fingers, pulled . . . and ducked back under the mare’s belly, barely reaching the safety of the wagon as ropes and netting fell to the ground with a dull whomp!
Freed of her prison, the mare leaped forward. Quick as a wink, she spun, rounded the end of the wagon, and skidded to a stop. Petril snatched his stick off the ground and followed her, feeling slow as a snail trapped in winter cold.
The tall man rose to his feet with a start, hand going to the whip coiled on his belt.
The mare screamed and charged the man, knocking him back toward the fire.
Petril didn’t watch. He peered through the darkness at the back of the wagon, searching for the mare’s foal. He doubled over, feeling as though he’d been thrust into heaving seas, when he saw the spindly legs sprawled on the ground.
One of the legs moved, and he sighed in relief.
They’d bound the baby, just as they’d bound the baby’s mum.
He kept his movements calm and slow, moving close enough to see the ropes wrapped around the young foal’s hooves. He set his stick down and went to his knees next to the baby.
A muffled thud shook the wagon just before a trousered leg appeared at the open door, followed by the rounded shape of the man who made Petril’s skin crawl.
Petril grabbed his stick and rose before the man realized he was there. Without hesitating, he stepped on the wagon’s rear wheel to gain a bit of height, gripped the large stick in both hands, and swung.
The stick connected with a satisfying thud, and the man dropped like a rock. Petril leaped after him, delivering another resounding blow, this time to the back of the big man’s head. Petril winced. That was sure to raise a lump on the man’s head. He carefully stepped over the fallen man’s belly and climbed into the wagon.
Except for a few barrels, a crate, and a body-size lump under a bloodied blanket, the wagon was empty. He lifted a corner of the blanket and immediately dropped it. The short man wouldn’t be going anywhere, at least on his own.
Quickly, Petril scrambled out of the wagon and dropped to the ground near the baby’s hooves. One by one, he carefully sliced through the ropes. It took longer than he liked—the baby wasn’t nearly as patient or still as her mum—but he finally cut the last rope free and stood back out of the way.
The baby lurched to her feet and stood for a moment, spraddle-legged, like a man on the deck of a heaving boat. Then she let out a bleat and bolted toward her mum.
Petril turned in time to see the mare swing her rump into the tall man, knocking him into the fire. He screamed as he rolled out the other side, writhing and twisting, attempting to put out the flames devouring his coat. The mare was after him in a flash, hooves raised.
Then she stomped the tall man into the dirt.
Once, twice, three times, her hooves pounded the still-burning body.
The screaming stopped.
For a moment, all Petril could hear was the mare’s heavy breathing, then the baby bleated again. The mare turned as the baby trotted up and they touched noses, nickering softly to each other.
He had to get them out of here. Had to get them back to the village. But how?
More’n likely she wouldn’t let him put a rope on her. He wouldn’t, if’n it was him.
She’d listened to him so far, though. Would she listen now she was free?
“Come on, then,” he said. He winced as his voice cracked. He’d meant to sound commanding, like distant thunder, and managed to sound like a kiddie who was too long for bed.
The mare lifted her head and looked straight at him, ears pricked and eyes intense.
Then she lowered her head, nuzzled her baby once more, and headed his way.
• • •
Petril watched an osprey rise gracefully on the morning currents, circling up, up, up, then soaring out over the lake. He imagined himself flying along with the bird, scanning the water far below, seeking the shadow that signaled a fish, then folding wings tight to his body, hurtling toward the lake’s surface like a bolt from a crossbow, flaring his wings seconds before hitting the water, extending deadly talons—
“Ye ready, son?”
Petril turned from the lake, raising a hand to his da. He would miss watching the birds, miss the lake and the village, but he wouldn’t be gone all that long. He skipped from rock to rock until he reached the grassy sand, then jogged to the waiting cart and climbed into the seat. Behind the cart, the mare and her foal waited patiently.
“Mind yer manners now. Do what old Fritz here tells ye.”
Petril nodded as the carter, an ancient man with wrinkles as deep as the lake, heaved himself into the cart and took the reins.
Da had been quiet for a long time after he’d gotten home. He’d taken a few men and checked out the clearing. No sign of the three men—dead or alive—or the wagon, only a dead campfire and trampled ground. He’d clapped Petril’s shoulder as they watched the big mare and her foal grazing on the wiry shore grass. “I’m proud o’ ye, son,” he’d said, and then he’d asked if Petril wanted to help the horses get back to their home.
Petril had solemnly nodded, trying not to show his excitement.
He didn’t try to contain his excitement now. He’d already said goodbye to his family and the rest of the village. He’d miss them, but there was a whole big world out there, waiting to be explored. A world filled with adventures and mishaps and Heralds and Companions and Mages . . . and spies.
The world could always use another hero.
Couldn’t it?
The Hidden Gift
Anthea Sharp
Tarek Strand shifted on the bench in the Healer’s classroom, his skin prickling uncomfortably. His unease didn’t come from the room itself, which was well-lit, with an open window letting in a breath of late summer air. Nor was there anything the matter with him. He might be one of the newest Healer Trainees at the Collegium, but he knew enough to sense that the discomfort was coming from a source outside his own body.
That source, in fact, seemed to be seated to his right, embodied in a girl named Lyssa Varcourt. As Master Adrun continued his morning lecture, Tarek gave Lyssa a sidelong glance.
She was small-boned and fair, a waif of a girl with big blue eyes, who was probably a half-dozen years younger than Tarek. Just like most of the class, some of whom only came up to his elbow. He tamped down a flare of resentment at his own Healing Gift, which had chosen to lay dormant for an abnormally long time before making itself known.
At least there were a few other Trainees closer to his own age, even if he was almost an adult. Lyssa, though, was the youngest of the First-Year Trainees. She’d come from a family of Healers, and Tarek often
envied how easily she knew the answers to Master Adrun’s questions.
Today, however, there was definitely something wrong. Tarek felt an invisible vibration coming off Lyssa’s body at a frequency that set his teeth on edge. He closed his eyes a moment, trying to calm his mind and see past the discomfort.
Through the fabric of her long-sleeved tunic, he was shocked to sense that Lyssa’s left arm was scored with cuts, some already healed, some newly scabbed over. Her entire forearm pulsed with a dim violet light, and he sucked in a dismayed breath. Why was her arm in such a state? Especially here, in the center of the Healers’ Collegium?
She looked up, blue eyes scared, and met his gaze.
“No,” she whispered.
The buzzing in Tarek’s head stopped, as if a door had been slammed shut. The violet light around her arm disappeared, too. Strangest of all, the pain was entirely gone—the smarting from the cuts completely vanished, as if it had never even existed.
Tarek shook his head, and at the front of the room, Master Adrun looked over at him.
“Are you having difficulty grasping the lecture?” the Master asked in his deep voice.
“No, sir.” Though, in truth, Tarek had no idea what the most recent part of the lesson had been.
“Excellent.” Master Adrun folded his hands into the sleeves of his bright green robes. “Then please tell me about the healing properties of willow bark.”
“Ah . . .” Tarek searched through his memory of the assigned reading. “It helps with, um, stomach aches?”
The Master lifted one brow. “Come see me after class, Tarek.”
“Yes, sir.” He bowed his head, feeling the heat of shame on his cheeks.
None of his classmates laughed openly, although he saw the pitying looks and hidden smiles. Bad enough to be the oldest one in the class, but to be thought stupid into the bargain was too much.
At least young Lyssa didn’t seem to think less of him. In fact, she was ignoring him completely, seemingly intent on studying the herbal primer open in front of her.
The rest of the lecture crawled by until at last Master Adrun released the class. The younger children bolted out of their seats, already hollering about the game they were going to play.
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