Wind Magic

by Nicolette Jinks

  “Your mistake was not a mistake at all,” I said. “You knew what you were doing when you did it, and you don’t feel sorry about doing it.”

  Caledon's eyes turned from liquid pools to hot glass. “Is there nothing a man can do to please you, woman? I said I am sorry. I can’t undo the past. What would you have me do, would you have me beg? Would you have me scrape and grovel at your feet? There is nothing” – he rose to his feet, slammed his fists against the table so the glasses jumped and the ale ring found a groove to travel in – “nothing at all that a man can do to make you content.” His voice raised too high, too loud for the comment to be directed at me. “It’s that woman you were with, you love women, don’t you? Why harass my brother if you like the females, hmm? It’s the power you’re after. You want Mordon because you know you cannot control me.”

  He spat on the table. My temper flared. My ring twisted. How dared he?

  I felt the air coil about him like a snake.

  His lips moved in his next tirade, but no sound fell from his lips. There came the scraping of chairs, the cautious advance of the barman and his helper. It was these noises which made Caledon acknowledge that there was something amiss with his tirade. Namely, that he was yelling, that he’d run out of the air in his lungs, and that no fresh air was replacing it.

  Red-faced, he gulped with greater force. Claws dug at his neck, his body thrashed from one side to the other, a man turning into a writhing snake, scales glistening in the full sunlight streaming through the massive open doors. Face turning purple, scales reverting to skin, he grasped his throat. Panic set in, wide eyes, frantic grasps at his mouth and nose. Those who had arrived to help me were now debating if they should help him, staying out of range of his thrashing arms and sharp dragon claws, confused at what could be wrong with him.

  Their hushed consultation ended when I stood in front of the table.

  Caledon's expression morphed from confusion and panic into terror.

  “I will not be bullied and I will not be pushed over. If you use violence against me, I will use it against you.”

  The barman remembered what he’d heard about me then, his eyes went wide. “Wind drake,” he whispered to his assistant, who suddenly became very pale. “Feral.”

  The silence swirled around me. Three seconds. Seven.

  Caledon wheezed in his first breath curled into the fetal position on the floor, gasping desperately at the air, tears leaking out the corner of his eyes. For an instant, I wondered if I had given him access to the air again, then I recalled what it was like to be hit in the gut hard.

  “Get out.” I returned to my seat, unclenched my fist to reveal four half-moons imprinted into the pads of my palm. “Until you learn some manners, you aren’t fit for a stable let alone a bar.”

  Another minute of wheezing gasps passed, each breath less noisy, each breath a little longer. Face as vibrant as an unripe plum, Caledon struggled to his feet and staggered out into the sunlight, then I heard the crunching of his footsteps as he went away.

  A thunk on the table.

  The barman had brought a pint, dark as coffee but with a ruby hue about the edge of the glass.

  Two swipes with a rag cleaned the spittle, the ale ring spilled by Caledon.

  Slowly, cautiously, the barman sat opposite me, crossed his arms on top of the damp yet drying table top. His eyes were heavy, hooded, all business. “I wondered if you’d let him up.”

  Hands shaking, I drank. Too much, too fast, coughed. Wiped the tears from my eyes. Tried to settle my breathing before I fell apart. I cleared my throat, felt control return. “For a minute, so did I.” Sipping the stout again. Managed a swallow. “Firan calls his magic. Moves his hand before he does anything with it, you know? I don’t.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “I’m afraid that if I did, everyone would know how often it acts without my deliberate command.”

  The barman was silent in reply. He sat there across from me, a perfect stranger who I’d admitted this to when I’d tell no one else. There was safety in it, in his anonymity and my confession. This was a place I could leave behind, this was a man I might never see again. His opinion, one I could choose to never pay attention to again.

  A clatter and clamor emerged with the entrance of a boisterous team fresh from a good flight. Their excited energy diffused the deathly pallor of before, as they had no idea what had just happened. I did not know them, but I knew instinctively they had been flying with Mordon. They carried a trace of black pepper and hot metal.

  The barman said, “He deserved what he got,” and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Through the hazy smoke of cooking fires, I saw Mordon approach my table in its cavernous nook. I’d taken to using the table as a study zone, choosing to cling to the relative safety of this building and this booth yet needing a distraction from the nerves of what would happen on the mating flight. My time had been occupied with the comatose boy in the warehouse, and I was glad that Mordon was finally here to bounce ideas off of. I needed to talk to him to figure this out.

  Caledon had returned some time later in the company of rough-seeming folks, but he hadn’t cast a glance in my direction before taking up residence in the corner farthest away from my table. Mordon noticed the arrangement, taking it in within seconds of setting foot over the threshold.

  Mordon paused by the bar, met my gaze, and motioned toward the taps. Each were numbered. I held up five fingers. The bar lady poured one from Tap Five and one from Tap Three.

  “What's that?” I asked once Mordon sat beside me with a drink the color of a toasted tortilla.

  “A lightly roasted wheat and tea amber ale.”

  “Any good?”

  “Have some.”

  I took his glass as he took mine. I rolled the ale around my tongue. “It's rather bitter. A bit nutty. Very light, though, I feel as though I should be drinking tea.”

  “Don't like it?”

  “It's growing on me.” Even so, I took my drink back. The chocolate-cherry stout felt comforting.

  Mordon frowned after his brother, who was seated at the glossy bar along with a couple of Gudovan’s locals who were just rough enough to keep Caledon entertained.

  “I know you had a visitor. What did Caledon want?”

  “To say hello.”

  “And what did you say?” Mordon asked, suspicious of the dragon’s eyes that I still had. I saw the world just a little differently with slitted pupils, and I thought my skin might have a pattern of scales on it. Incomplete shifts were frowned upon and warned against, but I would be a full dragon by now if it wasn’t for the rat gnawing in my stomach demanding food.

  He had some in a pack, wrapped up in a handkerchief. I could smell it. Heightened smelling, unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I accepted the bundle with a peck on his cheek.

  “I said good-bye.” I ate a hunk of lamb without tasting it, then drowned it with some beer. I was full faster than I should have been, and contended myself with sipping on some of Mordon’s brew.

  I suddenly felt warm again, and more relaxed. Less like someone was pulling the skin tight across my body. Mordon relaxed his watch of me and began to fill me in on the various drakes. It was impossible to remember, but I was assured they would all be introduced to me sooner rather than later. For the most part, even the outlying drakes and those who chose to live alone rather than in family groups or join the colony knew all the others. As I listened to Mordon rattling off the family ties, I noticed that the others were watching us closely.

  “They’re staring.”

  Mordon cast his arm over my shoulders, lazily stroking my cheek. A few people glanced our way then leaned close to whisper. A female with pursed lips scowled, whether it was at his affection or at the story she’d just heard about me, I didn’t know.

  How far had Caledon's story traveled, I wondered. How much of it was being shared accurately? Did they think that I had been out of control? Was that why M
ordon had shown up now? Or were the competitors just done for the day? They wouldn’t want to wear themselves out in advance of my rising, after all. Still, I tried to stifle the unease in my stomach, the empty feeling like a hungry rat was eating my belly. Issa had been right. Today, I’d eaten several full meals, and I was ready for another.

  “That they are.”

  “Think they're upset at you or me?” I asked Mordon over the top of my drink's foam.

  “I don't care.”

  I giggled, trying hard to stifle its shrill tone. “So much for starting a conversation.”

  “If that's what you want, you can start by telling me what you found out.” He tapped my page, indicating my spells.

  “Why do you think I found anything?”

  “You're unusually contemplative.”

  “Fair enough.” I took a long sip of my cherry stout before plunging into the whole story from going to my barn, meeting Death, seeing Barnes, then to the warehouse and what we saw there. By the time I finished talking, my drink had gone a little warm. The roast in the central pit was gnawed down and others were putting up another spit. Against the far wall, old bowls of fruits and veggies were replaced with fresh supplied.

  “You did the right thing to leave the body untouched.”

  “I know. It's not like I had the whole private ICU set up at home. But do you think Death was telling the truth?”

  “About which part?”

  “All of it.”

  Mordon shrugged. “He knows the value of time better than we could possibly appreciate. If he lied, it was not to waste your efforts.”

  “Fine, but something feels wrong. I can't put my finger on what.”

  “When did you first get that feeling?”

  “I guess when we saw all the Unwrittens. We've seen them before. One that creates life. Another that brought Death to life. Another to bring wandering ghosts near. I don't see how it fits with Cole's son.”

  “He must have been trying to wake him up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why are you unsure?”

  “Because none of it fits. Here Cole is robbing all the power he can, getting into Commandancy, trying to wipe out the Wildwoods, abducting Anna, trying to defeat Death himself. It's all so selfish, his son doesn't fit into the usual mode of operations.” A thought struck me. “Unless he's using his son?”

  “I thought Death said his son was dead?”

  “Sure, but not physically. Is his magic still alive? Can it be harvested somehow? And if it can, who says he hadn't been doing that all along?”

  Mordon sighed. The idea of mistreating a child obviously did not settle well with him, but he knew some people could, would, and did just that to those under their care. Mordon said, “When you bring Unwrittens into the picture, you have no way of knowing what is possible.”

  “Too bad this doesn't get us any further, though.” I stopped myself. “Wait, what was it you said? With Unwrittens, you have no way of knowing what is possible.”

  “It's true.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A low, flickering oil lantern hanging over a table served as illumination for composing letters.

  Mordon was with Gudovan for one excuse or another, but I thought it was to keep him away from me.

  Barnes's urgings had resonated deeper than they had been intended to, and little short of controlled anxiety had set in as I made my way to my tree house. By the time I reached it, I felt calm again, glad that I’d taken the time to request and receive writing materials from Gudovan. All they had in this area were old-fashioned calligraphy pens and inkwells. The hostess on duty advised me to use a bit of water to keep the nib from having ink drying to it.

  I’d left Caledon at the pub. He’d been standing at the bar, surrounded by intrigued and rowdy individuals who were nowhere near as drunk as he was. I recognized some of them. The orange-haired town crier who had been pointed out to me, Valerin, and Firan amongst others who I did not know so well. Valerin stood at Caledon's side, seeming eager to prompt Caledon to drink faster.

  The others I might not know personally, but I knew that Valerin would definitely not approve of Caledon as my mate. He had a way of being able to suck up to an Alpha-type person, though, so my bet was that Valerin was doing everything he could to deliberately sabotage Caledon's chances in the mating flight. That was the advantage to making friends everywhere I went.

  The thought made me grin.

  Halfway to my tea, I paused, double-checked I was going to drink tea, not ink-water.

  I sniffed.

  The tangy scent of ink.

  I tried the other cup. A touch of honey. I put it down on the other side of the stacked up envelopes. One was to each Leif and Barnes, loosely asking the same question: details on Cole's son, specifically his illness and disappearance.

  Meanwhile, I tugged Skills of the Thaumaturge out of my satchel, opened it to a fresh page, and wrote, Suggestions to bring a person out of a coma or unconsciousness or never-ending sleep.

  You never knew which terms the wizards of yesteryear had used to describe the same circumstances Cole's son had been in.

  The ink blot dried on the page as I waited. This was unusual. Typically Skills responded very quickly.

  I was about to write a follow-up question when ink drew itself to the surface of the page in handwriting far more slanted than mine. Before the first word even finished, another line started. Then another and another.

  It appeared this dilemma had vexed healers for ages.

  Possible treatments went on page after page. In total, there were twenty pages. How best to narrow down the treatment options?

  I wrote, Can you group together the ones whose recipes and methods are similar?

  If there were slight variations of the same basic idea, then this would reveal it.

  Ink absorbed into paper and re-surfaced again in a new pattern. Spell families became evident, separated by a fancy flourish in between segments of slanted script.

  I named them after the plainest version in each pack. Lupton's Recovery, Sveltlanda’s Sleep, Mora’s Revitalization, Sinead's Signature Creation, Gwyn's Potions.

  Lupton's Recovery had the most in the family, thirty-five in total. Mora’s Revitalization and Sinead's Signature Creation each had twenty-nine. Gwyn's Potions had eleven. Those occupied the first five pages.

  Outliers took up the remaining fifteen pages.

  Sort by ingredients, I wrote.

  Skills went so far as to list them by type of ingredient.

  Spider

  Mangrove Swamp

  White Wolf Hair

  Mandrake

  Dionysus's Altar

  Tarantella

  Transmigrating Souls

  Opium Poppy

  Fava Beans

  Cemetery Dust

  Mihaly Csonka

  Bannock

  It was a strange list, that's for certain. Some, at least, I could reasonably cross off. Ridiculous ones included cemetery dust (if it had specified, for instance, clay loam or soil from near the body, then it would be a different matter), summoning a bannock (not as crazy as it sounds, but ultimately ineffective in Cole's case), and mandrake root (because it just isn't one of Mandrake's properties).

  A bit of research crossed off spiders as wrong for this application, White Wolf Hair as a transformation spell, Dionysus's Altar as impractical; the Tarantella held potential but proved to be a party trick. Fava beans were considered a folk remedy, best left as a footnote for their nutritional benefits rather than their magical qualities.

  That left me with the Mangrove Swamp ritual, the Transmigrating Souls, and the name Mihaly Csonka.

  I asked Skills about Csonka.

  Hungarian healer knowledgeable in homeopathy, alleopathy, and potions with talent for returning patients from the brink of death.

  Investigated in 1679 for causing ailments with the intent to later heal these same patients, often for exorbitant fees.r />
  Court record of witnesses being asked, “What do you know of the enchantment and wisdom of Mrs. Mihaly Csonka, which she used to bewitch the health of others and then remedy again?”

  Whatever the answer was, it must have been recorded in 17th century Hungarian. Skills could give me no translation, apparently because its Hungarian translator had tired of this particular article.

  The article resumed its English text for a final paragraph.

  Csonka was found guilty and beheaded by swordsman. Notable works include Winter's Lace and Forgotten Dreams series.

  One of the Forgotten Dreams happened to be on my list. Svetlana’s Sleep and Mora's Rejuvenation both had variations which came close to Forgotten Dreams, too.

  I wrote, Do you have Forgotten Dreams?

  Skills responded, I do.

  It paused dramatically before adding, It will be expensive. I have been patient with your requests today.

  I should have expected that, but the timing was terrible.

  I wrote, I knew it would be, but I can't write the articles now.

  Ink rose to the page again. On account of your upright character and unsolicited article balance, I agree to postpone payment of thirty (30) articles.

  “Thirty?”

  The book was going mad if it thought I was going to be able to dream up that quantity of content, but I needed answers.

  I wrote, Agreed on condition you help me get through this.

  Then I explained all the ins and outs of the boy in a coma.

  Skills responded with:

  FORGOTTEN DREAMS I

  Give a corporeal form to those who wander.

  Enter the bathhouse at midnight, should there be one, or in a fresh spring as an alternative. Draw upon the walls these marks and dedicate it these sacred bones.