Wind Magic

by Nicolette Jinks

  I unrolled the parchment, feeling it crinkle beneath my fingers.

  Drink Me.

  That was a favorite scene in Alice in Wonderland. When she ate things to change her size until she was just right to meet her challenges. Just like how we had to. How I had to right now.

  The wooden calligraphy pen felt slightly rough under my fingertips. The inkwell remained sealed shut. I twirled the pen between my fingers, managing to spin it around three fingers before it clattered to the table. Mordon was way, way better at this trick than I was. I picked the pen up again, unscrewed the cap off the ink, carefully dipped the pen so there wasn’t too much black on the copper tip. I hesitated over the page.

  What did I want to say?

  Before the ink could dry on the nib, I pressed it to the page, felt the way the paper tugged at the sharp point as I wrote.

  There is a warehouse with Cole connections. What is its story?

  -me

  I stared at the short note. It wasn’t too late to pretend that I didn’t know about the warehouse. To erase the page with a spell (even though I’d have to look it up, as I usually didn’t bother to erase my mistakes). I could keep Leif in the dark, along with anyone else who he may be sharing the information with. But, no. Either I trusted him or I didn’t. There wasn’t a lot of choice, and the risks were low.

  I dropped the pen into a bit of water, watching the ink cloud out and sink to the bottom. Slowly, I rolled up the parchment, slipped it in its bottle so the typed words were out. I had to trust Leif. Now wasn’t the time to start losing faith. Releasing a breath, I eased the cork into the bottle, let it hang off my necklace.

  As I watched, the letters I wrote faded into creamy parchment as if they’d never been there. All that remained were two artsy, typeset words.

  Drink Me.

  I felt so small, so alone, in a massive web of fate.

  Feeling very tired, I climbed to my feet and found my cot. It was every bit as uncomfortable as I remembered it being, but I felt a sleep cover me that would last well into the next day.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was full daylight when I woke, and Death had left me a sandwich on the counter. It’d sat out long enough that the bread was crusty and its jelly lukewarm. A gnawing hunger demanded that I eat it, so I did, and from there all the protein in the cabinets was thoroughly plundered. Once full, I went for a short walk that ended up lasting all through the hot afternoon and well into the sunset before I found my way back home.

  As I approached my barn, a large shadow separated from the wooden siding. Startled, I froze stock still until I could make out what it was. It had the form of a person, but was a man or a monster? Had Cole found me hiding out here? He knew this barn existed, he’d been here himself, but was he going to bother? The shadow moved.

  A jolt raced through my body, and then I recognized Mordon’s gait. Part of me relaxed, but my heart slammed in my chest uncomfortably hard.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, not sure if I was happy or terrified that he had come. “Druidan said you weren’t to find me. Caledon—”

  “Is drunk and on his way to pissed at the Mermaid's Tale. I’m sure he did not intend to be reminded of your track record on the snail races, though, or he might have selected another establishment.” Mordon paused. “I nearly agreed to accompany him.”

  I hurried to the barn door, motioning for him to join me. This was not a conversation to be having outside—whatever ‘it’ was we were discussing. I struck a match, lit the oil lamp on the table.

  “You don’t look like you came for a social call. But you are healing,” I said.

  “I am.”

  I touched his cheek, feeling the rough rasp of stubble which would never grow out into a beard, even a thin one. He leaned into my palm, released a long breath through slightly parted lips. To my shock, he looked old, many years my senior.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Leif.”

  A chill went through my spine. He hadn’t betrayed us, had he? I asked, “What?”

  “He’s publicly supporting Commandant Cole.” Mordon spat the word Commandant as if it were a filthy word, then tossed a paper onto the table. Its edges were frayed, its center very well creased, as if it had seen a battering.

  My heart fluttered. This was something I needed to hear, no matter how much I didn’t want to believe it.

  “Tell me. Please.”

  “What is there to tell? He’s bought out, sold out, intimidated. Whatever it is, he’s failed those who believe in him.” Mordon’s brows narrowed as he looked around the dim recesses of the barn, at the way the lamp and the westward windows were the sole sources of orange-hued light. “Are you here alone or is Death in tonight?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. He comes and goes so quickly.”

  “Kuwaithe,” Mordon started and muttered the rest.

  “Hey, now. I heard those words come out of Denise’s mouth. I don’t know if I should scold her or you.”

  “I don’t care where you heard them, you’ll hear them again. What is he thinking leaving you alone? This means one beer only. You have that?”

  Stunned by his outburst, I found myself pointing at the end of the kitchen, towards the old cattle stall where my bed now was. “In the water trough. The water’s clean.”

  Mordon grunted as he got up to fish in the crisp water. “You want one, too?”

  “Sure.”

  He took the time to wipe dry the bottles using a small kitchen towel, and then popped the bottles open with the opener sitting out by the dishes.

  Mordon sat on my cot, not minding the way its wooden frame creaked and moaned beneath his weight. On account of all the layers of bedding, it appeared to be a small mattress and a real bed, but it wasn’t. While it was reasonably comfortable, better than some real mattresses in fact, it made me feel as if I were once again living on the outside of both worlds, an outcast amongst lambs and sorcerers alike. Seeing Mordon sitting there made me keenly aware of this.

  Timidly, I stood nearby until he passed me a beer.

  “Death has good taste. These come from Heathvale.”

  “Alright.”

  I didn’t know what to make of his mood. He was distressed, yes, but I didn’t know how to comfort him, or if he even wanted that. The water trickled by, the noise a little different since Death had repaired the trough and directed water into it. It was a soothing sound, and I appreciated it as Mordon sat brooding. I drank my beer to match Mordon’s slow, savoring pace, but couldn’t taste anything. Not with the nerves mounting in my gut, my stomach tying itself up into knots.

  I supposed I could read the paper he’d brought.

  Oil light was not easy to read by, and the condition the paper was in made it worse. I managed by bringing it to the west window, reading over the deep sink by the fading sunset and the rustling of tomato leaves outside.

  Frey Pledges Support to Commandant

  Judge Leif Frey has said he will support and enforce the new commandant’s order in this statement released by Frey:

  In my years in Merlyn's Market, I have remained steadfast to upholding the peace and order of the Market and its people. There have been difficult times and terrible decisions to make. Through it all, I have striven to right the wrongs of both my own and other’s doings. It is my belief that the best interests of Merlyn's Market and its peoples are best served by a showing of support, or at least tolerance of, our new Commandant and his ambitious policies. This is not a time when we should be divided on minor issues, but a time when we must be a strong community together. Our goal is to unite and forge our way forward as best we can with an open mind to finding flexible solutions to new, pressing problems.

  I put the paper down on the counter beside the sink, where the breeze rustled its pages. There was added commentary—a criticism on Leif’s decision to decline signing a petition which called for a general election for commandancy given the unexpected deaths of Cole’s superiors—but I did not have
enough light to read it by. Likely it was just a variation on the same old script I’d read often before about other people. Things like how dare he, we’re so mad, and what will we do now?

  It was an article intended to shame, to rattle those who were prone to be rattled. What surprised me was Mordon’s response. He was not typically one of those people. Quietly, I sat down beside him. He took a swig of beer, the bottle making a pouf of suction as he leaned against the wall with slouched shoulders. Rarely had a man radiated such utter defeat and desolation as I saw in him now.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  The beer bottle switched hands, freeing the one nearest me so he could rest it on my opposite arm and draw me close to his side. He stroked from shoulder to elbow three times before saying, “I can’t believe he would endorse Cole. He knows what he is.”

  “Yes. Wouldn’t you say he knows better than either one of us?”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, Leif has known of Cole his entire life. Leif’s father was involved in Council business, you know. It’s probably made life alternately easier and harder for Leif. And Lilly. Once they were in the Market themselves, they had to work with Cole on a frequent basis, I’m sure. Was Leif in the Market longer than you?”

  Mordon frowned, visibly reluctant to accept my assertions. “He was.”

  “Is he the kind of person to be blinded by another? To be swayed with corruption?”

  “Not if it happened fast. But if it was a slow increase, how many people would notice?”

  I smiled and hid a chuckle. Mordon was learning how to use my questioning skills against me. “But it didn’t happen slowly. How long have we been gone?”

  “It did happen slowly. Did you read the article? He’s angry with his sister. Angry at being held back. Humiliated by his association with you.”

  That froze my internal plotting and scheming. “Is this about Leif, or about me?”

  “It’s about him. Him and his forked tongue. He has no right to get angry with those he chose to surround himself with. He had no right to blame others for the problems he’s created himself. What he has done is let down those who depended on him. They trust him, they trust his word, and how is anyone to trust him now that he has gone so completely against his character, against everything he stands for and believes it? It makes no sense. None!”

  Mordon’s words should have been heated, but they weren’t. He spoke with a plain, straight face and did not so much as move an eyebrow in agitation. His hand kept moving up and down my arm. Was the motion to comfort me, or to comfort himself?

  “Mordon, what if he hasn’t forsaken everything he’s stood for?”

  Mordon snorted derisively. “He has. I wonder what Cole promised him. Money? Wealth? A place in the highest chair on his right hand, all the fat foods and fine clothes and the fanciest wand money can buy? Or is it a chance at power, to be able to say whatever he wants and make others do his work for him, glorying in a fan base who are only there so long as they can bask in his power, too?”

  I took a long drink of beer, relishing the cold liquid in a building that did not have air conditioning in the summer. The sunset tickled over my skin, bringing a measure of clarity with the refreshment. “We aren’t talking about Leif anymore.”

  Mordon’s hand stilled on my elbow, his fingers went lax, and that furrow formed between his eyebrows again. “No. I suppose we are not. An unusual mistake on my part.”

  “You’ve been under stress since long before Caledon's arrival. It’s about time you went a bit crazy with all the stuff he’s bothered us with. Heaven knows, I’ve been free with my angry outbursts. Maybe you shouldn’t bottle it all up so much.”

  That furrow grew deeper. I realized I’d misspoken. Mordon said, “Speaking of bottles. Lilly doesn’t have the other one, does she?”

  I mouthed the word ‘no’ and grabbed the bottle. Drink Me was barely visible in the flickering lamp light which filtered its way to our dark little nook. “I didn’t want anyone to know that he was going to try to do something. If he’s getting close to Cole, if Cole doesn’t think that maybe Leif really has turned his back on me, then I don’t want any accidental reveals that Leif and I are still in contact.”

  Mordon swore again. “He could get himself killed.”

  “He knows that, and I wasn’t in a position to argue him out of it.”

  “No, if you had tried, he would have turned to someone else who might be less trustworthy. He’s always been meticulous.” Mordon’s hand left my arm to stroke his bare chin. “Always thought things through. Tried to see how every angle could end. He’s usually perceptive, too, and accurate in his predictions.”

  “I think he’s trying to get solid evidence against Cole.”

  “He will have a difficult time of it. Cole is very literate. A literate, wily opponent who will do what others would not to achieve his ends.” Mordon sat upright again, suddenly bright and energetic, once more the man I knew and adored. “Do the two of you have a code system in place?”

  “Just using the bottles. We didn’t go over anything. Why? Do you think we should?”

  He shook his head. “Coding takes time to learn and perfect. If Leif was going to need you to use codes, he would have made sure you knew it.”

  “Do you know how to code?”

  “I know some basics. How to use a word as a key, the old using numbers to reference words on a page trick. I have others in the colony who could do the job if I needed it done. My role up until now has been to learn a little bit about everything. It keeps people happy if they have a work-based relationship with their rulers. The worst thing that a leader can do is become disconnected to the lives and hardships of those they work for.”

  Something jarred into place. I asked, “What about me? Am I expected to know every business in Kragdomen?”

  “You are expected to make an effort once you settle in. Nest will see that you do what’s needed.”

  “Alright.”

  Mordon slung his arm around me again.

  I snuggled up against him and fell asleep again.

  When I woke, he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Valerin came on the warm wind to my barn when they were ready to go to the First Order. It was the wind which blew in from downriver, a wind laden with a sultry summer afternoon and the promise of a storm upon the setting of the sun. It brought his scent, musky cologne, chocolate-coated pancakes, and the earthy bitterness of strong coffee.

  There was a jaunty excitement in Valerin’s step as he made his way from the place he’d portalled in by the pond whose surface was a summer nursery for a dark sponge-like moss.

  I watched him approach, my back sore from weeding the vegetable patch which had gone crazy, on my hands leather gloves that stuck to my fingers as I removed them and put them onto their hook inside the barn.

  I’d tidied up over the last few days, spending a shocking amount of my time in deep slumber. Fresh herbs from the garden filled jars of water. The crock pot was again working hard with a meal of chicken. Upon seeing my house-in-progress, his eyes widened.

  “Is that a Ra Everlasting Chalk Pencil?”

  I had to do a double-take to see that he was examining the workspace where Death had his stuff spread out. There in the corner was a wooden cart with a suspiciously splintered wheel. On the table a broken marionette, a depiction of a dancing lady whose skirts were brilliant and gaudy, decorated generously with golden embroidery. Spectacles, the old round kind that came with a chain to clip to a gentleman’s clothing. Costume jewelery, fake rings with massive glass stones, real jewelery with dainty designs and modest stones. A scarf heavy with silver sequins, scented with patchouli so heady I stifled a gag any time I caught drift of it. A few things had reasonable use, such as the chalk pencil, but other things were simply clutter shining brightly in their nest.

  “I guess.” I took stock of yet another acquisition Death had made, a maroon and orange pencil with a white core.

 
Valerin admired it from a distance. He seemed hesitant to move from the door, as if by setting foot inside the barn, he would be trespassing. “These are outrageous to afford. How did you come by it?”

  “I didn’t. Death is my housemate, and as far as I know he’s as poor as a pauper. I’m guessing this is probably loot from his latest victim.”

  “Nice.”

  I didn’t think he really understood what I told him, but I wasn’t going to repeat it. He changed his mind about lingering in the doorway, stepping forward eagerly. A strange expression crossed his face.

  Valerin froze in place. “On second thought, if I start through your trinkets we’ll be late to the First Order. Do you have a portal stone?”

  I pointed to where Death had one painted on the floor, ready to be finished with the proper coordinates. No wind blew through this portal, not yet. That was not true of the cave-like concrete wall behind the portal. That wall was a mesmerizing tangle of scents, places, and sensations, a true dream to snuggle up against with a cup of iced tea during midday when the heat radiated through the loft’s tin roof. Valerin nudged by me, oblivious that Death had disguised so many portals in plain sight.

  “Yes, perfect.” Valerin started to fill in the blanks in the spell with quick, sure strokes in a hand that only Selestiani taught. It elongated the lateral letters and used a curly punctuation marks in place of plain dots. “About the First Order. Firan and the Kaisden Clan have been talking about your mating flight. There’s something you should know about the Kaisden’s Lady Heir, Glyka.”

  I poured myself a glass of water with cucumber slices floating in it. “Oh? What about her?”

  “She’s looking for another Lady. If you object to the idea, you need to let her know. Privately. And nicely. Glyka’s a kind soul, but she’s had a difficult time, and if you don’t say something, she’ll assume you’re accepting of her.”

  “Equal chances for my tail, right?”