But war had come, war with Hardorn, and the Guards had been taken away to serve elsewhere, never to return. Now the only way that the people of Errold's Grove could keep the road open was to run their own volunteer patrols over it. Then things had somehow gotten mixed up with magic as well, and so far as the people of Errold's Grove were concerned, order and their old way of life had all but disappeared.
First had come the physical storms, worse than anyone had ever seen before, that washed out the road in places, flooded the village twice, and buried it in yards of snow for most of the last several winters. Then had come the mage-storms to batter them all along with the physical storms, and all anyone from Valdemar could do after the Herald's initial warning was to send a messenger with a map that showed what places were going to change, and when. That was no great help, when all the places were out in the wild Forest and no one could get out there to chase large animals away from the danger zone. So the animals became monsters, or maybe the monsters were brought in by the magic; no one was really certain. The only thing that everyone in Errold's Grove could agree on was that now it was far too dangerous to leave the village and its fields. You never knew if or when you might disturb something that was canny enough to follow you back home. People stopped going into the Forest, and the dye-traders stopped coming, since there was no longer anything here to trade for, or even worth the peril to investigate.
Cowards! Darian thought, angrily scrubbing the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. Other people kept going in! Other people weren't so scared of their shadows that they gave up!
People like his parents, for instance…
Darian's parents had been trappers, as had many generations of his ancestors on either side. But when it became too dangerous to actually live in the Forest, they had made Errold's Grove the base of their operation, carefully working a territory with cautious respect for the Hawkbrothers' claims and the new strangeness that the mage-storms brought with them. Some of the creatures that arrived on the wings of the mage-storms had handsome pelts of unusual colors, and traders would pay a lot for them. Other changes had occurred in the normal species of the Pelagiris that had made improvements in color or texture of the furs of animals native to the Forest, and for these, too, traders would come. Then, although they were not as expert as the villagers had been, they would look for the dye-fungi when time permitted, thus bringing back a bit of the prosperity that had left on the storm-winds.
They were careful! Darian silently told the village. They knew how to be careful! They would never, ever have let anything follow them here, no matter what you think! They always made certain to use traps that any truly intelligent species would spot, just to keep their consciences clean, but even with that caution they had brought in some incredible prizes. Darian had often gone with them, for during the winter they would both be out together for weeks at a time. He loved the Forest, and even at its most dangerous, he had never been as terrified of it as the villagers were now. It was right to be cautious around the Forest, but it was stupid to be afraid of it-after all, it wasn't the Forest that was so dangerous, it was the things living in it, and as long as you were careful, there was nothing to worry about! Any fool could see that!
And how could anyone let fear blind him to so much of wonder and beauty?
"Dari, listen," his mother would whisper, and he would cock his head to listen for the new sound that had caught her attention-perhaps the liquid trill of a new bird (or was it a tervardi?)-or the bell-like tone of a hammer-jay. Whatever it was, once he caught it, he would look to her, and see the pleasure shining in her eyes as she listened, too. Then she would tell him what it was they had just heard, and spin him tales of the little lives of the creatures of the forest, tales far more wonderful than anything in those dusty books the villagers thought so important.
"Dari, look," his father would say, pointing to something wonderful-a soaring hawk, the sunset light glowing red and orange on a towering cloud, a doe with a fawn only minutes old. And then his father would show him how to follow the hawk and watch it stooping to a kill, what the fiery sunset portended in the way of weather, and how to find the fawn when she hid in the grasses to doze while her mother went off to drink or graze. He would stand an excited witness to the hawk's victory, sit in quiet contentment until the last red rays of the sunset faded into blue dusk, or creep up to whisper to the fearless fawn, being
careful not to touch it lest its mother scent him and reject it, even though his hands itched to stroke its soft pelt.
He still loved the Forest, loved the green silences, the huge trees, the sounds of it. He couldn't get anyone else in the village to see what drew him there; when he tried, they looked at him with suspicion and even a little fear, just as they had looked at his parents.
But he could have borne even that, if he still had them.
Dad-Mum-why didn't you come back? Why did you leave me alone? Why did you let the Forest take you away from me?
The pain returned, greater for having been bottled away beneath his anger and rebellion. His eyes flooded with tears, his throat knotted, and he pounded his hand against the bark of the tree until his knuckles were raw and scraped. Loneliness filled him until there was no room for anything else, except for anger at the insular villagers who hadn't even bothered to mount a search party when his parents didn't return. It didn't matter to these fools that the exotic furs his Mum and Dad brought back had been the only thing that kept traders coming to the village! Oh, no-because they went out into the Forest, everyone was just certain that something would follow them back into the village, something too big and monstrous to get rid of! There hadn't been a particle of evidence that something like that had any chance of happening, but it didn't matter; his Mum and Dad had been watched like criminals every time they came back from a trapping run. And they'd felt it; how could they not have? So they would go back out more and more often, spending less and less time in the village. And maybe that was taking on too much risk in the middle of the mage-storms. Maybe that was why, after an agony of waiting, he knew that they wouldn't come home this time.
They'd left him behind because there was going to be another mage-storm coming, and Justyn and some of the others had persuaded them not to risk his safety along with their own. He'd protested, but they'd slipped off during the night, leaving him with the innkeeper as they usually did. By the time he woke up the next morning, they were gone, and the wind and snow had obliterated their trail. He'd tried to follow, but had been forced to turn back.
He waited and waited, going out every day to watch for them, sure each dawn that he would see them coming in laden with their prizes.
But this time he had watched in vain, for they didn't return.
Darian was left to the village to care for, and it hadn't taken them long to figure out how to dispose of him. Within a day or two of being certain that Darian's parents were never returning, the village elders had quickly apprenticed him to Justyn. Justyn had long been after his parents to bind Darian over to him as an apprentice; Justyn had told them that he had the Mage-Gift, and that it had to be trained or it would be dangerous. Mum and Dad only laughed at him and told him he was a silly old fool if he thought a boy could be dangerous to anything or anybody. But the villagers had been only too ready to believe in the danger, and only too happy to get him disposed of-and more than once there'd been intimations that "disposed of" is exactly what he'd be if they detected any connection between him and these weird times. They told him then, and they continued to tell him frequently, that he should be grateful to them for seeing to his care, and for persuading his parents to leave him behind on that last trapping run. They never stopped telling him how grateful he should be, in fact. There was even a hint behind it all that it was a good thing that his parents had been lost-because now he, Darian, would no longer find his own life at risk in the Forest.
The tears welled up again.
Needless to say, he wasn't grateful.
I helped them! They
said I did! When they set the traps, I was the one up in a tree, watching and listening for danger-when they needed an extra set of hands, I was right there, and when they were tired, I was the one who was still fresh enough to tend to dinner or build the fire up. Maybe that hadn't been true back when he was just a little boy, but it had been the past couple of years, and there was no denying it. They'd been able to concentrate on the work at hand instead of having to keep one eye on the work and one watching for peril or approaching weather.
And-maybe-that was why they hadn't come back.
That was the stuff his nightmares had been made of for the last year. He kept thinking of times when he'd been there when they'd needed him-when they needed a third set of hands on the rope in a blizzard, when he'd spotted large carnivores stalking the camp-even when he'd been up a tree and had seen the signs of a bad storm coming up without warning. Had a pack of some magic-twisted horrors ambushed them, attacking them until finally their defenses were all gone? Had a terrible storm overwhelmed them? Had it been simply accident, the falling branch, the hidden crevice, the slip in the dark that left one or both of them crippled and helpless? Was that why they didn't return? Because they'd counted on his eyes and ears to warn them, his extra hands on a knife or a bow to help fight off danger, and he hadn't been there? He'd never been bad with a knife, and he was even good with a short bow… could it have made the crucial difference?
Or was it something else? Had they been caught by bandits, eager to steal their precious furs? Had there been an avalanche, or had one or both of them fallen through the ice while crossing a river? Horror of horrors-had they been caught in a Change-Circle and Changed themselves? Were they out there even now, rooted to the spot as half human trees, or wandering in some shape not even he would recognize?
He couldn't shake the conviction that if he had been along, they would have all come back to the village as usual. Somehow, some way, his mere presence would have made the difference. He knew better than to try and tell this to anyone in the village; he'd tried once to tell Justyn, and the old wizard had told him that he was overreacting, that whatever had happened to his parents had nothing to do with him. After that, he had kept his guilt and fears to himself.
But he couldn't help but think that if he had been along, his parents would have had that extra set of hands and eyes that would have kept them safe, and brought them through whatever it was that took them away.
And that was what made it all the more horrible.
Here, in this refuge, away from the fools who didn't understand, he could let his real feelings out.
Why? he cried in silent anguish, face turned up to the canopy of leaves, both fists grinding against the back of the tree, Why did you leave me? Why didn't you take me with you? Why did you leave me all alone?
His body shook with silent sobs, and tears coursed down his cheeks, soaking his patched and much-mended shirt. It was too small in the arms for him by far, but he wouldn't let anyone take it from him, nor would he give up the leather vest that went with it. She had made him the shirt, and he had cut and stitched the vest, and those two articles of clothing were all he had left of them.
Why? he asked them again and again, until there was nothing left in the world but sorrow and guilt. Why did you leave me alone?
Finally, his body trembling in every fiber, he collapsed in on himself, curled into a ball, and sobbed, muffling the sound of his weeping in his arms and the bark of the tree. He wept himself dry and exhausted, until there was no more strength left, even for a single tear.
Before Justyn was satisfied that Kyle's injury was no longer life-threatening and was as clean as one herbalist could make it, there was a great deal of blood spilled on the stone floor of his cottage. It wasn't the worst wound he'd ever tended, but it was definitely one of the messiest. Justyn had finally stopped the bleeding with a compression bandage, and after liberally dosing the woodcutter with brandy and poppy-powder, began stitching the wound closed with a curved needle and fine silk thread. Kyle was a stolid enough fellow, and in a way it was a blessing for both of them that he was so very insensitive (and, one might as well say it, stupid), for he didn't seem to mind the ugly wound and the stitching half so much as the two farmers who'd brought him in. Vere and Harris grimaced every time Justyn put a stitch in, and Harris, who had no livestock at all but a few chickens, relying on the loan of his brother's oxen to plow his own land, was looking a bit green about the face. Kyle had just sat quietly, as if he were a good plowhorse waiting for a new shoe to be fitted. The brandy and poppy concoction made the muscles of his face go slack and relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair, propped up by Harris and Vere, blinking sleepily whenever the needle went in.
I could be generous, Justyn thought. / could suppose that he's in shock by now. Except that he hasn't any of the symptoms of being in shock.
Such stolidity in the face of serious injury had been the hallmark of some of the mercenary soldiers Justyn had tended in the past-the long gone past, so removed from what he was now that it might be the past of another person altogether. There were just some men who never felt much of anything, either physical or emotional. In general, they got along well with their fellows, and they made good enough soldiers, for although they never displayed the least bit of incentive, they always obeyed orders without question. And, if a woman didn't mind being the one to make all the decisions, they made perfectly amiable husbands and fathers. Certainly their phlegmatic temperament never led to beatings or other abuse. There had been times when he envied them that easy acceptance.
Virtually everyone in the village was cast from the same mold, and it wasn't at all difficult to tell that Vere and Harris were Kyle's cousins. All three of them were husky, light-haired, and brown-eyed, but Harris and Vere were darker than Kyle, and Kyle had features that were much more square. Justyn sometimes wondered if the reason he and Darian had never quite been accepted by the villagers was a simple matter of appearance; both he and Darian were thin and dark, in stark contrast to everyone else here. Or at least, he amended mentally, / was dark until my hair started going gray.
"He's gonna be laid up a couple of days," Vere said with irritation, his thick brows furrowing in a decided frown. "That means we'll have to spare someone from field work to keep an eye on him so he doesn't get into trouble, all juiced up with that poppy like he is. Can't you magic him,'stead of sewing him up like usual?"
"I've told you before," Justyn said patiently, manipulating the needle through a particularly tough patch of skin, "I'm not a Healer, I'm an herbalist, a surgeon, and a bone-setter. I would have to use a complicated magic spell to do what you suggest. Whatever it was that the Heralds did to end the mage-storms fractured all the magic, and left it scattered around like a broken mirror. It takes a long time to gather up enough shards of power to work any spells. It's very tiring, it exhausts all the magic that's nearby, and then, if you really needed some magic to be done in the case of an emergency, I wouldn't be able to do it. What if something bad came out of the Pelagiris, and I couldn't protect the village? You wouldn't want that now, would you?"
The farmers both shook their square, shaggy heads, but they also looked skeptical and cynical, and Justyn could hardly blame them. After all, no one in Errold's Grove had ever seen him work anything involving powerful magic, and they had no reason to think he could do anything much.
And they have every reason to doubt me, he admitted to himself, taking another careful, tiny stitch and tying it off.
"Besides," he added as an afterthought, "you can get Widow Clay to watch him. She can't work in the fields with that bad leg, but she can still weave baskets, or knit and sew while she keeps an eye on him, and who knows? She might decide that he's better than no husband at all, and then your wives won't have to cook and clean for him anymore."
Justyn felt a bit badly that he was talking about Kyle as if the woodcutter wasn't there, but in a sense he wasn't. He'd had enough poppy and brandy that he wouldn't recall a thing that had b
een said once the drugs wore off. And even if he did, Justyn rather doubted that he'd take offense at any of it, since worse things had been said in his presence that he never took offense to. He felt no guilt whatsoever about setting up Widow Clay, however. The good Widow had been setting her cap at him of late, and that was something he wanted to put an end to by whatever means it took! The last thing he needed was some meddling woman coming in here and "setting his life to rights."
Both the farmers brightened at that idea, and they didn't say anything more about magic. Instead, they exchanged the kind of cryptic sentences that almost amount to a code among close kin, and Justyn gathered that their conversation had something to do with a plan to persuade the Widow Clay that her best interests lay in dragging Kyle over the broom. Justyn rather doubted that Kyle would mind if she did; he'd probably accept being married with the good natured calm with which he accepted having his leg stitched up. As for the Widow-well, she'd have nothing to complain about in Kyle.
Justyn continued to sew the two sticky flaps of skin together with tiny, delicate stitches a woman would have envied, but the meticulous work was not engrossing enough to keep his mind off the past.
The irony was, at one time he would have been able to mend a minor wound like this with magic, using magic to bind the layers of skin and muscle together, leaving the leg as sound as it had been before the injury. Granted, his grasp of power had been minor compared to the great mages like Kyllian and Quenten, but at least it had worked reliably- and what was more, it probably would be working better after the end of the Storms than the magics of those who were his superiors in power. He had never used ley-line magic, much less node-magic, and the loss of the ley-lines would have made little difference to him. He had been a hedge-wizard, one of those who practiced earth-magics, with a little touch of mind-magic thrown in for good measure, and he had served in the ranks of Wolfstone's Pack, a mercenary company recruited by Herald-Captain Kerowyn to aid Valdemar and Rethwellan in the war against Hardorn. His had been a minor role in that Company; using the earth-magics to tell him where the enemy was and how many his numbers were, helping patch up the wounded, helping conceal their own men from the enemy and his mages. Kerowyn's Skybolts had worked with the Pack in the past, and they were one of the few mercenary Companies she felt sure enough of to trust in the treacherous times when Ancar still ruled Hardorn. All that had been explained very carefully to the members of the Pack, as had the risks and possible rewards, and the Company had voted unanimously to take the contract. After all, it was Captain Kero they were talking about: no one who took the same side as she did ever found himself working for people he would really rather have lost down a mine shaft. And usually no one found himself facing a situation where foreign commanders were spending mere lives like base coin that they couldn't get rid of fast enough.
Lackey, Mercedes - Mage Storms 04 - Darian's Tale 01 - Owlflight.doc Page 3