by C. Greenwood
Approaching cautiously, I peered over the side and saw an infant, only a few months of age, lying amid a pile of thick, soft blankets knitted in a pattern I recognized as one of Mama’s. The pale-skinned baby turned its head, which was covered in tufts of silvery hair, and looked up at me with solemn grey eyes. Somehow I knew I was looking at myself.
I felt no sense of alarm at what I was vaguely aware should be a startling turn of events. Somehow this, like everything else in this place, felt perfectly natural.
“Do you think she’ll be safe here? Will any of us ever be safe again?”
I turned at the female voice.
I wasn’t alone anymore but stood alongside a couple looking down on the baby. He was tall and dark bearded, she pale and silver haired, her long tresses drawn back to reveal delicately pointed ears. It was startling to see Mama so young. Had she always looked like that? So much like … me?
Da put his arm around her. “Nothing can touch us here.”
The sound of his well-remembered voice made my eyes sting.
“I’ll make sure of that,” he continued. “The villagers are mostly magickers and they’ve accepted us. We’ll be away from prying eyes in this place.”
“But your family…” she protested.
“Are far away and they don’t know we have a child. Even if they did, what does it matter? I’m sure his anger has cooled by now—”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“If I thought otherwise would I have settled us in the same province?” he asked.
She shook her head, as if she had heard this argument before. “You know how hot his anger is, how he hates my people, especially now that I’ve stolen you away. He swore to hunt us down after your abandonment and he’ll never rest until he does. Not while he believes you’ve betrayed him.”
He smiled and kissed her neck gently. “I had to follow the bidding of my heart.”
“But look what it’s gotten you, at the danger it’s placed us in. Yes and maybe other magickers too. What has our selfish, reckless love done?”
Tears trickled out the corners of her eyes and he moved to comfort her. Neither seemed aware of me. I was so near they might have reached out and touched me, but instead, they looked through me as though I were a ghost.
Was I? Had I died in my sleep and wandered into some strange afterworld where I was forced to repeat scenes from my life, reliving each moment from the beginning, watching but never participating? And this was a scene from my life. I had no doubt about that. Somewhere in the distant past, this conversation had happened before.
For the first time I felt troubled, as if I were witnessing moments I wasn’t meant to see. Not the grown me anyway. The baby in the cradle saw all and looked on, unblinking.
I backed away, suddenly desiring to be somewhere, anywhere, else. The cottage felt close, the air oppressive. I thought I had come home but I was wrong. This wasn’t my home anymore. I shouldn’t be here.
I was reminded forcefully of a time I had seen Brig shortly after his death. Had strayed into some grey memory of him where I’d felt briefly comforted before recognizing the wrongness of what was happening and pushing his flickering image away.
I pushed now and was swept up in a dizzying sensation and the world around me shifted.
I awoke to find warm sunlight streaming over me and Seephinia cooking breakfast.
* * *
I told Hadrian about my nighttime visit to the home of my childhood.
“I have heard of such dreams,” he told me. “Many magickers are prone to them, though I myself have never experienced one.”
“It wasn’t a dream,” I said, unsure how I knew that. “It was real. Everything I heard and saw… at some point all of it really happened. I think I strayed into some sort of…” I hesitated, looking for a word to describe it.
“A magical rift,” he supplied.
“A what?”
“A tear in the fabric of time and possibly of distance as well. There are rumors such things exist, but again, I’ve had no personal experience with them.”
“I think I’ve experienced one of these rifts before,” I said and told him about the occasion after Brig’s death when I had seen a vision of my friend.
“At the time I thought I was losing my mind or seeing a ghost,” I finished. “But now I realize it felt the same as what happened last night. Like I was truly seeing Brig in a real moment of his life. Maybe even from a time before I knew him.”
“It’s possible,” Hadrian agreed. “I suppose we’ll never know the truth. Not unless you think you can stumble into one of these rifts again. Can you?”
I thought about it. “I don’t think so. It’s not something I can control. Both times it’s happened, it just came over me suddenly. I didn’t seek it out.”
“Not consciously anyway,” he suggested.
I didn’t want to think about that. My conscious mind had enough to deal with right now without worrying about what mischief my subconscious was up to.
I changed the subject and suggested we go out fishing with Seephinia’s young nephew, Eelus.
* * *
I didn’t have long to brood over my new discovery of magical rifts.
The following day a distraction came in the form of a visitor showing up on our doorstep. The old peasant hag, dressed in a baggy skirt with a frayed shawl drawn over her head, was peddling tin pots. She was the tallest old woman I’d ever seen. Even with her shoulders hunched, she towered over Seephinia in the doorway.
When the ruckus began, I was at the back of the hut, pouring with Hadrian over an old map of the Dark Forest I had procured from a traveling fur trader passing through Selbius the day before. I wasn’t sure why I had taken up the idea to study the lay of the Skeltai lands, but felt it couldn’t hurt my position to know my enemy’s home ground. The map was shriveled and worn, drawn out on a bit of cured hide, and I had only the word of the trader that any of it was an accurate portrayal of what lay on the other side of the provincial border. I suspected the villages and habitations marked on the map were outdated and so focused my attention on landmarks, committing them to memory. Hills, lakes, and forests didn’t change much over the course of years.
I was dimly aware of Seephinia at the door arguing with someone, but paid scarce attention until their quarreling grew louder. Annoyed, I looked up from the map spread over a low table to find the source of my distraction.
The ragged old woman in the doorway bore a long stick across her broad, crooked shoulders from which dangled a collection of rusted and dented pots and pans. Even as she disputed with the river woman in a reedy, high-pitched voice, she shoved her way into the hut.
Seephinia’s face darkened dangerously as she protested in the tongue of the river folk, but the old peddler wasn’t to be dissuaded.
“Look here, old mother,” Hadrian interrupted, hurrying to settle the argument, “we appreciate the quality of your excellent goods, but I’m afraid we have no need of pots or pans at present.”
Ignoring him, the old woman slung closed the curtain over the doorway and let her collection of wares fall to the floor with a clatter.
Seephinia sputtered in indignation but Hadrian held her back. “Perhaps you didn’t understand me,” he tried again.
His words cut off abruptly as the old woman straightened to her full height and threw back the hood of her shawl to reveal a mane of wild, red hair over a youthful male face. Ridged scars zigzagged his cheeks but the disguised man’s lips were drawn back into a familiar grin.
I sprang to my feet. “Dradac! How did you get here? Who told you where to find me?”
He laughed. “You left instructions for reaching you with Kipp’s brother. As to the how, you see that for yourself. No one looks long at a cantankerous old peasant woman selling a load of dented crockery.”
I tried to be stern. “Those instructions were for emergencies, Dradac. I expressly forbade anyone but the messenger to risk coming here in person. If you want m
e to remain leader of the circle, you must pay attention to my orders. Terrac’s Fists obey him better than any of my followers listen to me.”
He looked confused. “Terrac’s Fists?”
I had never explained to Dradac and the rest of my outlaw friends the connection between Terrac and the Praetor’s soldiers and I wasn’t about to now. “Never mind. Just don’t do this again,” I growled.
“Maybe it will relieve your concern if I tell you I’m acting in accordance with your orders even now,” he said. “It’s nothing less than an emergency that brings me here. A Skeltai scout was seen materializing near the woods settlement along Beaver Creek.”
“Materializing?” Hadrian stepped in.
“It’s a magical method of travel used by the Skeltai raiders and their shaman,” I explained hastily. “No one knows how they do it. Go on, Dradac.”
“Our man followed instructions,” he continued. “He held back and observed long enough to see the scout circle the settlement several times before pulling his disappearing trick again.”
“You think they’re marking the place in advance of a raid?” I asked. “You’re probably right. It fits their usual pattern. I’ll pass the word to the Praetor and he’ll have his men stationed there to stave off an attack before it comes.”
“Not so fast. I want to discuss an idea with you. That’s why I came directly instead of sending the messenger. I believe the Skeltai mean to attack this very night. Ada tells us tonight is a special occasion for her people—the final rites of Sagara Nouri.”
I bolted upright at mention of the pagan holiday. “I’m listening.”
“Good. We decided the purpose of the raids was to appease their gods by gathering sacrificial victims for their festival, right?” So, it occurs to me tonight being the bloodiest night of their rituals, Beaver Creek is likely to be their greatest massacre.”
“Not if we act quickly,” I said. “With the Praetor’s men surrounding the settlement, we may prevent the attack and drive the Skeltai back. It’s worked before.”
“But this is my idea… What if the Fists weren’t to show up so speedily? What if they held back and waited for the Skeltai raiders to make the first move? I know we’ve tried trapping them before—”
“You’re rotting right it’s been tried before,” I cut him off. “More than once, too. But the enemy always discovers our presence too soon and they disappear before we can close in.”
“Only because we were impatient,” he argued. “But this time, let’s hold back our Fists until the raiders have engaged with the villagers. They’ll be unable to extricate themselves and flee as we come charging in.”
“Meanwhile villagers will be slaughtered for some minutes while we’re too far away to do them any good,” I pointed out.
But he wouldn’t be swayed. “Balance their deaths against the number of lives that may be saved by this plan. Rather than counter one attack after another, wouldn’t you rather stop the Skeltai permanently?”
“I don’t see how that’s going to happen.”
“Just listen. What if we got close enough through the method of surprise to arrive while the raider’s magic portal is still open? We could send our men through the portal after their retreating army and trace them back to their home ground.”
“You want to strand a handful of men deep in enemy territory with an overwhelming number of enemies and no possible means of return?”
He rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t suggest a handful. Make it a large enough party to do some damage. Let us show them we’re capable of striking back. Maybe it’ll put a little fear into them if we prove we aren’t going to remain helpless victims. I can’t swear this would put a stop to their raids, but if we show an ounce of their own cunning, they might learn to respect us as a force to be reckoned with.”
I frowned. “There may be something to the idea. At any rate, I’ll certainly bring it up to the Praetor. All decisions are up to him. But I wouldn’t count on anything coming of it, if I were you. It’s a suicide mission. It might make a statement to the enemy, but the fact remains no one entering that portal is likely ever to set eyes on home again. Even if our people miraculously won their battle with the Skeltai on the other side of the portal—and that’s assuming the savages don’t have superior numbers on hand to replace their warriors as they fall—there’s still days or weeks of travel ahead of any survivors. We have no way of knowing the distance between wherever the portal lets out and the borders of the province. It’d be rough to cover enemy territory on foot, even for someone who knows his way through the Dark Forest. And I’m not sure such a guide is to be found. Certainly not in the little time we have.”
“Ada could do it,” he suggested. “And of course I’d go too.”
“No,” I said sharply. “I’ve lost too many friends lately. I can count the number of loved ones remaining to me on the fingers of one hand and have digits left over. No one is going through that portal unless it’s the Praetor’s Fists. He can throw away as many of his soldiers as he wishes, but I won’t let him waste my people on this. Anyway, Ada hasn’t been on the other side of the border since she was a child. I think she overestimates her ability to lead a band of men, many of them likely injured, back home again.”
He frowned. “I think you’re underestimating Ada. She’s not one to accept failure and I’d be there to prop her up. She’d get us home one way or another.”
“Enough. I’ve already said no and I don’t mean to change my mind.” I rose and snatched up my bow from its place on the wall. “Now I’ve got a message to deliver up at the keep. Our time grows short.”
He walked me to the door. “Will you be accompanying the Fists?”
“Not likely. You know Rideon doesn’t permit my presence in Dimmingwood.” I couldn’t hide the trace of bitterness in my voice.
He nodded but there was a distant look in his eyes. I wondered what he was planning.
* * *
At the keep I was shown into a dark-paneled room I had never seen before and instructed to await the Praetor’s convenience. Fully aware a guard was posted outside the door, it never occurred to me to do anything else, although the idea of passing interminable minutes in this stuffy little room while I carried such vital information was frustrating.
I controlled my impatience by studying my surroundings. It was a crowded but carefully organized room, dominated by a large elderwood desk at the center and a high-backed chair. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, most of them filled with leather-bound books or stacks of scrolls. I was surprised to recognize one object displayed on the shelves. My knife. It was the very one I had so recently used in my attack on the Praetor, although the blade was now polished to a sheen and bore no remaining trace of blood or poison.
I scowled. It was in keeping with the arrogant nature of my enemy to keep and display like a prize the weapon of his would-be assassin.
I continued to scan the shelves. There were a few foreign instruments I didn’t recognize arranged among the books, such as a large, revolving ball on a stand with multi-colored patches and markings covering the surface. Small writing was scrawled across the ball and, peering closer to make it out, I realized I was looking at a map of the provinces and surrounding areas stretched over a globe. I’d never seen anything like it before.
I turned my attention from the objects on the shelves to the tidy arrangement on the desktop. An inkpot, blotter, and quill stood on the right side where the hand would naturally fall and stacked next to these were a few clean sheets of parchment. At the other side of the desk was spread a clumsy heap of scrolls and in the center stood a candle stand holding a cold stub of wax, mostly melted away.
As I circled around behind the desk, I couldn’t help thinking what a perfect opportunity this was. Almost too perfect. Could the Praetor have some ulterior motive for leaving me alone in this room? Something he wanted me to find? I dismissed the thought as a ridiculous one. Why should the man want me to riffle through his desk? For an
other moment I held back, studying the silver-knobbed drawers longingly, then I cast a cautious glance over my shoulder and gave in to temptation. I had vowed to obey the Praetor, it was true, but I was fairly certain he’d never specifically commanded me not to snoop through his things.
I ducked behind the desk and slid open the upper drawer on the right-hand side. Nothing. Some extra sheets of parchment, more stoppered pots of ink, and a slender book. I picked it up and flipped through the pages, but it contained nothing of interest. A shower of pressed flower petals and leaves slipped from between the pages as I turned them and I replaced the sprigs with some amusement before putting the book back into the drawer. I wouldn’t have thought the Praetor the sort for collecting sentimental mementos.
The second drawer held a thick sheaf of papers. I only had time to scan a handful but they all seemed to be ancient notes on the history of the Skeltai race and the use of magic in the provinces in the days before the land became settled and most of my Skeltai ancestors driven out. That was surprising since the Praetor was so adamantly opposed to magickers. Why should he study a people and a practice he hated?
I spent little time on the next drawer as it only contained more dried plants, this time chopped into bits or preserved whole in jars. As I glanced over them, I noticed a stoppered bottle filled with a reddish liquid resembling dried blood. Another vial, half-empty, contained some blackish substance I didn’t want to guess the origins of. A peculiar smell of decay emitted from this collection and I moved on quickly. It was in the bottom left drawer that I eventually made a discovery in the form of a delicate, silver-worked box. There was a pretty little lock on the lid, but I would be a poor thief indeed if I didn’t carry a lock-pick and know how to use it. I took care not to damage the lid or the lock, and in moments, I had the box open. Its contents gazed up at me.
A feeling of unreality settled over me, for looking up at me was a familiar face, miniaturized in a framed portrait small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Before I knew what I was doing, I was holding the miniature. I almost didn’t know my own Da. Indeed, I wouldn’t have known him if his face hadn’t been fresh in my mind after my recent dream. He was young here, perhaps no more than twenty, and more finely dressed than I had ever seen him. There was a wistful look around his eyes and a solemn cast to his clean features. It must have required a skilled artist to capture him so perfectly. The kind of portraitist a farmer of dubious origins should never have been able to afford. Who had commissioned this likeness, and more importantly, how had it fallen into the Praetor’s hands? Was it part of some plan to control me? Had he been researching my family history?