“I hope Lyall is alright. Guess we'll see when we enter the Wildwoods.”
Chapter Three
Chalk scratched against rough bricks laid out in diagonals in my sunroom where the houseplants had been re-potted and had their broken limbs trimmed back. When I shuffled sideways, careful to not disrupt the circular pattern with my knees, I instead smudged symbols with my toes. Already my hands boasted a white coating, and the thighs of my jeans wore finger streaks.
Not far away, my spell book and tutor, Skills of the Thaumaturge, lay open to a spread depicting an even ring with neat runes inside and two concentric circles within. Even with the best I could do, my circles tended to look more like eggs than rounds. Today, the circle bore a striking resemblance to a six-pointed star. Probably because, in an attempt to not be oblong, I had marked out three times the ends of a meter stick, thinking it would be a simple matter to join those marks in one smooth curve. Laughably mistaken in my basic art skills. I stared blankly at the floor.
I rubbed my forehead. It was that stupid letter combined with this hang-over-thing. Magic hangovers. Who knew?
Mordon sunk his thumbs into the knotted muscles of my shoulders, a thing which would have startled me if the fuzzy cloud of feeling blah wasn't thick around me. He rolled his knuckles over my shoulders, then moved my hair, loose for once, to the sides, and stroked my neck. It was the first time he had ever been so casual about touching, and it sent warm tendrils through my body. The brood ring on my finger tightened her tail in a gentle squeeze and began a tiny vibrating purr.
We should kiss more.
It was my fault we didn't. Of course, the court proceedings and all the stress of questioning hadn't set up a mood to invite such things, but still…I shivered. The man knew how to use his fingers. Before I could get mentally carried away on the topic, aforementioned fingers left my neck and seized hold of my chalk.
His breath, smelling of spearmint and chamomile, warmed my ear. "Like this."
Mordon rubbed at my lines until they were faded blurs, then re-drew the same circle, but fifteen times better. Watching him helped me to learn which strokes to put down first and how to calculate angles. Between the two of us, I drew portraits better, but he could sew thirty stitches a minute using just one hand. I brewed potions, he enchanted nicknacks. And he was convinced that one day, I would write the spells, not only use them. That day would be a long time coming.
He moved quickly, nudging Skills around the circle as he went, comparing it to what he had on the floor. When he was back to me again, I was so lost in admiring the deft flicks of his hands and the bright gleam to his red-green hazel eyes that I blurted, "I love you."
Embarrassment scorched my cheeks. What had made me choose this very moment to say that?
A smile split through his concentration and he took my hand and squeezed it. "And I love you."
Mordon finished the last symbol left-handed, holding my hand with his right. We pressed on with the procedure, taking our time to be sure of the right symbols and angles, finding appropriate power sources for it. Not many people went to the Wildwoods, and those who did had a permanent portal already. This was semi-permanent, or it would be when we got it going.
Eventually, we stood in front of an open portal. In the air was the mingled scents of our spells, my own honeysuckle and his nutmeg and black pepper.
It had been an hour that we struggled with it; most portals took half that time, but it depended on how often a particular point was being used. Ideal was moderate traffic activity, and few people felt the need to go into the Wildwoods, therefore we had to make a fresh path. Portals, I decided, were like roads. Best if used and maintained, but not to the point of being jammed.
“Ready?” Mordon asked, frowning as he conjured a knife up out of a bag he had around his waist. He tucked the knife into his boot as he waited for me to reply. Never had I seen him so jumpy and fidgety before. I fingered the necklace with various trinkets that dangled about my chest, hoping that none of them would be morphed by fey magic and wondering if I should leave them or take them with me. I couldn't stand to be parted with them, so I kept them on.
I took a deep breath, and let my magic flow into the portal. My connection was not as good as it could have been, but the portal desination felt calm enough, with lots of low foliage and then nothing until it reached the treetops quite the ways up.
“It's safe,” I said, though I wasn't sure why I thought it would be anything else.
Mordon raised an eyebrow at me.
“I mean, there isn't anything waiting for us there but a bunch of plants,” I said again. He shrugged, as though he expected nothing else, then held out his arm.
The others chose this instant to come say good-bye. Lilly was all forced smiles and too many hugs. She almost made me want to cry. Barnes gave me a handshake and the advice, “Don't trust your sight, feyling.”
I smiled at him. “You don't think they can pull the wool over my eyes, do you?”
He shook his head. “I don't.”
My chest swelled with a little pride.
Then Leif, who had hung back, gave me a one-armed hug. It reminded me of what my brother would do, and when I pulled back there were tears in my eyes. I looked at the three of them, wondering how long I would be gone for and if they would bear any resemblance to themselves when I did return. I refused to think that years would pass while I was in the Wildwoods. I wouldn't think it.
Mordon guided me to the mouth of the portal, the swirling glassy surface which rippled when I stepped towards it.
With one last breath, I pushed my hand through the portal and walked forward through it.
It tickled over my skin, then was cool and wet as though water were running over my body.
I nearly relaxed, thinking that this wasn't so bad, then it transformed into something more forceful, a little more painful. Then something slapped my thigh, and biting pain spread through my leg. Panic spread through me.
I fell forward and tumbled every which way, side to side, head over heels, feeling stings and bites in a constant rotation about my body. I stretched my arms out, and discovered I was rolling down a hill; I grabbed for anything at all, but the roots and tender branches gave way beneath my weight. A scream reached my lips as I neared a ravine.
“Fera!” the voice was distant, but I felt a jerk on my arms. “Fera!”
The voice was closer this time, and I focused on it, the falling sensation abandoning me as though it were a dream I was waking up from. I gasped, my eyes springing open to see the leaves of a fern waving in front of me, too close to focus on it.
“Feraline!” Mordon shook me, jarring my head against my shoulders.
I winced, blinked, and stared at him. My shoulders were in his lap, my feet soaking in a creek bed, and all about us were ferns and moss that coated every inch of exposed ground. Focusing on Mordon, I took one shaking breath after another, noticing that my eyes had been watering. I pulled myself into a sitting position, wiped my eyes on my shirt.
“What was that?” I asked. Had that been as bad or worse than when my compass trinket had failed?
“A defense mechanism. Or a test. It's hard to be sure,” Mordon said, his hands not leaving my shoulders. I leaned against him, cradled my head, and let out a groan.
“What now?” I asked.
He rubbed my shoulder. “It doesn't get much better from here.”
“How long did you spend in the Wildwoods last time?”
“A day, a week, an hour. It's difficult to tell unless someone outside is timing you, but even so, there's a distortion in effect. I came in search of a boy who was lost in the edge of the woods, and I found him as a young man. He agreed to go with me back to his parents. Not certain what he did after that,” Mordon said, his fingers finding and working on a knot in my muscle.
I gasped in pain, then wondered aloud, “What do we do now? Where do we go? I don't see any trails.”
“The Wildwoods don't have roads.”
&
nbsp; Shaking my head, I said, “No, I mean there aren't any game trails. Is there nothing living on the ground here?”
Mordon was too quiet in response. I looked over my shoulder at him, and he gave me a tight smile that ended up looking more like a grimace. “If that is what you see, it is more than I do.”
“What do you mean?”
My fingers brushed his face and he jerked, turning and squinting his eyes as though he were trying to see what had touched him. “It's me,” I said, and laid my hand on his arm firmly. He reached up and took hold, patting down my arm until he came to my shoulder, then to my neck. A finger brushed my lips as I spoke again, “What do you see?”
“It's dark. Darker than night. I see well in low light, so this is disconcerting. But if you see things, know that it may not be as you think it is.”
“I will mind that,” I said, feeling my trousers and shoes and finding that they were soaked through, so perhaps the creek I was in was real. “We can't stay here.”
A slow nod from Mordon. He was unwilling to let me go, so I did not press him to release my shoulder.
“We can't wander, either.”
We were in a place with no orientation, just a nudging feeling I got that we needed to move. It could be paranoia from a spell. Nothing was certain here, and what Mordon had been trying to tell me before sank in: the rules that applied everywhere else did not apply here, and if anyone had a hunch about what the rules here were, it would be me. I swallowed hard, and stood, helping Mordon up.
If there was one thing we could not rely on, it was our sight. Maybe mine was fine, maybe it wasn't. I put one foot into the muddy bank, and guided Mordon with me. “Pretty sure this is a stream. We'll follow it downhill, and hope it goes somewhere.”
Mordon shrugged, and held on to my elbow. “Sounds like a better plan than trying to walk in a straight line.”
Unwilling to fully trust my sight, I sent my magic in front of us, and while what I saw proved to be fairly accurate, there were times that an illusion covered up a pitfall or a large boulder. I was grateful that I could feel around with the wind and sense these things, but the longer we traveled, the shorter the distance became that I could sense in front of us, until ten feet grew to six, and from six to two. I made us sit down to rest. The drain on my body felt like it had been an all-day excursion, but Mordon thought it had been more like a few hours, and neither one of us could guess the distance we had traveled.
After a quick experiment with my trinkets, I found that none of them worked. While disappointing, it was a relief that they had not been changed by my bringing them here.
Chapter Four
I sent my magic out into the woods: no one in the bushes or behind trees, everyone absent from the immediate area. I relaxed a fraction, let my head droop back, a sharpish rock poking at my skull until I sat upright. Perhaps I wasn't in immediate danger, but I was in the Wildwoods and the Vanguard would not waste time to seek me out.
While I was still reeling, the ground angling beneath my feet as I stood, trying to think of what to do, I heard a faint voice whisper on the wind, “Feraline.”
Goosebumps spread up my arms. I looked left and right, sent my magic in a slow swirl to encompass the nearby trees. Nothing. No one. I rubbed my arms and started for a deer trail, hoping to follow it to a spot with enough level ground that I could do a portal home.
“Feraline, Swift Clan.”
The leaves rustled in a light susurrus.
My nails bit shallowly into the bark of the tree I'd grabbed to steady myself.
“Daughter of the skies, child of my kin.”
I'd heard talk of the ways the woods would play with its visitors, but I hadn't expected the experience to be so tactile, so real. Panicking was the very last thing I should do. Unease robbed me of any enjoyment of the woods in twilight, every rustle making me pause midstep, looking over my shoulder, wishing Mordon was here.
Though I set a brisk walk, it was still hampered by the fatigue of the previous days and I was a little distracted by folding and unfolding the fingers on my right hand, willing them to heal and cooperate. I was able to curl and uncurl my fingers into a fist soon enough, and I had my story in line for the obvious questions which were going to be asked by my coven and others. That was when I paused to look around again, and I saw a good clearing not far off.
I made for it.
Leaves from last fall crunched underfoot, the woods lightened as the moon peeked out from behind curtains of clouds and shed silvery strands down through ashen trees. The illuminated trail made me hasty. A blur of motion caught my eye. Before I could jerk away, an arm bolted for me, grappling me against a body and covering my mouth.
“Stay quiet and still and I'll let you go,” said the man who held me.
Even with my heart thudding and flashes of hot and cold zipping through my veins, I could think enough to recognize Lyall's voice. He didn't seem to have a blade pressed against me and I didn't feel the threat of a spell pressing against my skin. There was a low key of concern in his voice, though, a warning of danger.
Silent, I nodded.
Lyall released me, his hands not far at first, then they left me completely when he was reassured that I wasn't going to scream or bolt. In the darkness, I saw that he had a swollen eye and at his temple was a trickle of slow-seeping blood.
“I'm looking for my companion,” I said.
He frowned, then said, “You'll find them. Not now, though. There are more important matters now.”
A thought struck me.
“Did the Blackwings come through with us?” I asked, speaking softly the way he had done.
Lyall's eyes brightened and dimmed with the waving of a branch overshadowing and revealing his face, so it was hard to read his expression. He pointed to the clearing and said, “A few, yes. We have tended to the intruders as needed, but there was one who kept himself occupied while we were distracted.”
Before us was a clearing, a meadow which smelled faintly of stagnant water and was dotted with blue larkspur and yellow toadflax. Not far from us there was a man in a black hood, bearing a knife.
“Think he's fey?” I asked, but Lyall didn't reply. I thought I knew the reason.
That reason was, it was impossible to tell. He might have been a hair tall, average frame, no distinct deformities in his hands or legs. In the right clothes he could blend into any crowd anywhere—the difference was in the way he felt. Like an intruder. But what was he doing here?
Lyall advanced, glancing about the clearing. I followed. Off to the other side, I caught a glimpse of Lyall's female companion, but then she was gone. One day, I aspired to move like this pair, a flicker of sight then disappearance, like the bob of seaweed in a muddy lake. Here one instant, gone the next, only to appear again in another place.
A crow cawed, startling me, his black wings shining as he flew through the air. He landed in the tree above the man and ruffled his feathers, staring down at the hooded figure below. A threat or a challenge? The crow's appearance warmed me from the inside, not a good sort of heat, the sort which turned into claws and wound themselves around intestines in sickened anticipation.
The man dragged his knife across the bark of the tree then stepped back and looked up at the bird. I knew what was going to happen, and the bird knew it, too, but he was in the line of duty. Lyall pressed his finger to his lips, telling me that we were not to interfere. Not just yet.
As the man lifted his hand there was a shout which seemed to come from a hundred voices from all sides. The crow cried out, he fell backwards, and the bushes rustled as he fell through them. Leaves shuffled with tiny convulsions.
Then all was quiet.
The man who had killed the bird reached for his knife again. I watched, wordless, as the man sized up the tree. As his knife scraped shallowly across the thick bark, I wondered what he was making. The symbol was a faint trace, standing out enough for me to see it, yet I did not recognize it. The man changed his grip, and when he dug into
the tree next the bark fell away and exposed the pale wood beneath.
With a hushed voice, I asked Lyall, “Do you know what he's doing?”
Squinting, Lyall tried to make out the symbol. From his expression, the answer was no, he didn't know. Before he said anything, I realized that we weren't anonymous any longer—the hooded man had seen me. The expected chill did not fall over my skin, just a zing that stiffened my spine and made me stand upright. Lyall stayed crouched in his hiding place, and I was careful to not look at him and draw attention towards him. The wind stirred the grasses at the edge of the clearing, bringing up puffs of pollen which looked like glistening clouds whisking this way and that in the empty air between us.
Gradually the man lowered his knife.
Swift Magic (The Swift Codex Book 2) Page 3