“What else is a ghost?” Yeenos sneered, then he whistled for his dog to run the sheep farther uphill from the farmhouse.
“I don’t know. But they refuse to believe they are true ghosts, and they need these things to work a spell that will lay the other ghost to rest and free them from the trap.” Vareena rubbed her hands together nervously. She’d have gone to Uustass for help, but he had led a dozen men to the river this morning with scythes. The village needed fresh grass and reeds to repair the thatch on several dwellings and byres.
Jeeremy Baker had gone with them, his burns heavily bandaged but no longer in pain.
“I agree with Yeenos,” Vareena’s father Ceddell said, coming over to them from the byre. “We owe the ghosts food. That was the curse laid on this village three hundred years ago for refusing hospitality to a benighted traveler. S’murghin’ magician.” He crossed his wrists and flapped his hands as he spat onto the ground. “But we owe them nothing more. I’ll not be spending our resources to find these odd ingredients for a useless bit of magic.” He kicked the water trough and called his dog to his heels, away from the flock Yeenos worked with his own dogs.
“But, Papa, if we can end this curse once and for all . . .”
“We’ve had priests and magicians alike trying to end the curse with no luck.”
“But these ghosts are magicians trapped by the curse, not magicians working outside of it. They might have a chance . . .”
“You’ve gone and fallen in love with one of them, haven’t you!” Ceddell raised his voice and his hand in anger.
Vareena stepped back but did not duck. She faced her father, refusing to submit to his violence. She might be as trapped here as the ghosts, but she refused to lessen herself by accepting any man’s abuse.
“Your mother did the same thing, before I showed her the wrong of it.”
“Showed her with your fists, no doubt.” Vareena schooled her voice and features to betray none of her fear or her disgust.
“I’ll find you a husband this night. Then you’ll give up this nonsense.”
“No man in this village wants me. I’ll have none you bribe or coerce into the act.”
“You’ll marry the man I choose for you. The law of the land and the laws of the Stargods decree that you must obey your father.” Ceddell raised his clenched fist once more.
Vareena stood her ground. “Touch me, and I move into the monastery permanently. The villagers will have to bring food, clothing, and bedding to me there. They will have to come to me for healing. How far will your authority stretch, Ceddell, once the Ghost Woman removes herself and her witch healing from your household?”
“Enough!” Yeenos nearly screamed at them. His nostrils pinched white and his mouth pursed to a thin lipless line. “This village has borne the burden of this curse too long.”
Both Vareena and her father stared at the young man as if he had lost his reason.
“You say these new ghosts are magicians, Vareena?”
“So they claim. I have seen no evidence of their talent other than lighting a fire from a distance. But I can do that.”
“Lord Laislac sent around a newscrier three years ago,” Yeenos said, almost gloating. “Magic is illegal in all of Coronnan now. I’m going to the capital to talk to the priests, and to the Council of Provinces. I’ll get the obligation removed from us. Ghosts or no ghosts, there will be no more food and supplies wasted upon those who haunt the monastery.”
“You can’t!” Vareena gasped.
“You can’t stop me, Eena. It’s time.”
He whistled one last time to his dog and turned his crook over to his father. Then he stalked into the house and began throwing journey rations into a pack.
Vareena took off running for the hill crested by the abandoned monastery.
“Vareena!” her father roared. “Come back here.”
“Never. I have to save my ghosts. I can’t let them die of neglect.” She had to find a way to bring Robb back to life. Marcus, too. If the Stargods showed any mercy at all, they’d allow her to kiss her love just once in this existence. She’d give up the freedom Farrell promised her for one kiss from Robb.
“How much time do we have?” Robb asked at Vareena’s breathless news.
She shrugged her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and spoke. “A week. Perhaps two. Depends if Yeenos changes steeds along the way, or if he talks his way onto a barge.”
“We’re doomed.” Marcus slid to a heap in the corner of the refectory. He wrapped his arms around his knees and began rocking.
Robb wanted to do the same, but refused to give in to the despair that his friend exhibited.
“ ’Tis a long way from here to the capital and back.” Robb finger-combed his beard. Years ago he had copied the thinking gesture from Jaylor. Now he’d done it for so long that it had become a part of him. “We’ve walked from the capital to the border often enough in the past three years. Even with magic urging a steed to greater speed and endurance, the trip always took at least a week each direction. Once Yeenos reaches the capital, he’ll need to gain an audience, first with the priests at the Royal Temple, then with the Council of Provinces. That could take weeks. Moons. Until he returns with an edict withdrawing village responsibility for us, we have food and supplies. We have time to trap that ghost in the library and get some answers.”
“Papa has agreed to village responsibility to feed you two until Yeenos returns. But he refuses you the supplies you need for the spell.” Vareena turned her face away from him.
Robb wished he could watch her eyes, know what she hid. But the mist that separated her from the two magicians veiled her eyes and her mind from his probes.
Strange how physical objects retained their crisp outlines, but the people looked as insubstantial as a dragon. He could touch physical objects, lift them, probe them for long-lost memories, but a kind of armor prevented him from touching other people—except Marcus.
Perhaps if they probed the walls rather than trying to climb them, he could discern the nature of the spell that kept them within. Later, when he was alone and could concentrate. Hard to do since the entrapment.
“Can you find these supplies for us?” Robb asked Vareena.
“Some of them. The herbs are common enough. Some of the minerals, but crystals and the cauldron . . .”
“We’ve got little crystals in our supplies. We’ve got a little cooking pot. They will have to serve for now. A smaller spell. Less chance of success, but perhaps enough to show us what can be done.”
“I’ll bring you what I can.” She rose up on tiptoe as if to kiss his cheek, then reared back, repulsed by the energy barrier. “I’ll go now.” A tear formed in the corner of her eye, like a perfect dew drop glinting in the sun. Then she ran off on her errand.
“Stargods! She’s in love with you,” Marcus choked on a sob. “I might as well curl up and die. I’ve lost everything.”
“What are you talking about?”
Marcus moaned and buried his head in his knees. “I can’t do anything right, can’t even love the right woman!”
“Marcus, stop wallowing in misery and help me. We have a ghost to trap.”
His friend only moaned again.
“Marcus.” Robb stalked over and shook him by the shoulder. “What are you talking about. Until we got here, you were madly in love with Margit—and she with you. Before Margit, you loved that little dairy-maid in Hanic. You are always in love with someone. Now you think you love Vareena, and you think she loves me. You aren’t thinking straight.”
“I can’t think of anything else but Vareena. This place twists everything back to her.” Marcus clutched Robb’s hand in a painful grip that bordered on desperation.
“Perhaps this place does cloud our thinking.” Robb had kept visions of Margit in his heart and his dreams for a long, long time. He focused hard on her each night before sleeping to stave off the recurring nightmares of attack and fruitless defense. But she obviously had strong feelings for Ma
rcus. He did not want to come between his two best friends if their affection was genuine.
Now?
“What a tangled mess.” He slumped down beside Marcus and draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders.
Marcus rested his head on Robb’s shoulders and sobbed.
“Vareena loves me,” Robb mused. “I love Margit, Margit loves you, you love Vareena . . .”
“I love you, too, Robb,” Marcus sobbed. “You are right. My feelings for women are temporary. Illusions. My love for you will last forever.”
Horror shuddered through Robb. He stood up jerkily, putting as much physical distance as he could between them.
“Snap out of your adolescent hero worship, Marcus. I’m going to climb the tower, see if a summons spell works from there—above the level of the walls.”
CHAPTER 23
Unlike my son, those who seek to capture me are bumbling beginners. My son would have known how to break my spells and leave this cursed place. My daughter, too. They did not need this paltry dragon magic to bring them anything they wished. Nor did they need the convoluted and time-consuming rituals of the Rovers.
And yet these amateurs do not panic easily. They have been trained to think a problem through—as Nimbulan did. I could have trained them better.
Let us see how they handle my next little trick. Their own fear will force them to leave me alone long before I finish with them. They shall die in another ninety-seven days if they remain here. Soon I will be alone again with my power.
The nameless woman surveyed the long line of pack steeds, sledges, merchants, and other travelers who had banded together to cross the pass safely into Coronnan. Every traveler had to be wary of bandits, out-of-work mercenaries, and rogue magicians. They were too close to the border of Hanassa for comfort.
A flash of memory lanced her mind right between her eyes. Images of battles, war, displaced families, hungry people, noble and peasant alike, fire, flood, kardiaquakes without end.
She clutched the mane of Zebbiah’s beast for balance as the world spun around and around, taking her with it.
“M’ma!” Jaranda screamed.
She fought her way through the maze of images to find the coarse, mottled brown-and-gray hide of the pack beast. It brayed loudly, threatening to sit again in protest of her fierce clutch on its mane.
Her memory flashed again to another steed, one she rode, a docile little mare that was greatly intimidated by the mighty war stallion beside her. Her husband sat atop that horse, surveying the battle below. She had eyes only for the red-haired man who commanded the troops. “I was too young to see beyond the glamour of being in love with the notion of love,” she whispered. “I worshiped him.” He was a powerful general with tangled political connections, a strong and handsome man: what more could an idealistic young girl ask for in a man? He took care of her, protected her from . . . she couldn’t remember from what, only that she cherished his domineering presence.
And she thanked him daily for the child he had given her.
“Jaranda,” she whispered.
“M’ma!” Jaranda tugged on her gown. “Wake up, M’ma. I’m scared,” the little girl implored.
“Jaranda,” she said again, louder, firmly. “Jaranda, my love. Do you remember your father?”
Strange, she felt no sense of loss at the man’s absence. No regret. She focused entirely on her daughter, stooping to put herself on the same level as the child.
Jaranda shook her head. Her thumb crept toward her mouth.
The woman gently restrained her from the baby habit of insecurity. “This is important, Jaranda. If I know your P’pa’s name, I might remember my own.”
“You’re M’ma. You don’t need ’nother name.” Jaranda thrust out her lower lip. A tear trembled in the corner of her eye.
“I am your M’ma, little one. But these other people need to call my by another name. I ’m not their M’ma, after all.” She touched the edge of her hem to her daughter’s eyes, blotting the half-formed tears.
“I don’t remember P’pa. ’Cept he was big. He filled the doorway when he came to watch me at night. He thought I was asleep. He wouldn’t have come if he knew I was awake.” Jaranda flung her arms around her mother’s neck and hugged her tightly, nearly strangling her.
“We don’t want P’pa. He scared me. I like Zebbie better.”
“Yes, I like Zebbiah, too, Jaranda,” she choked out, fighting the pressure on her throat from the little girl’s enthusiasm. She stood up and gently held her daughter’s hands.
She turned to find the dark-eyed man watching her.
“You remember something.” His usually expressive eyes took on a hooded look, and he refused to meet her gaze.
“Where is my husband, Zebbiah? Why did he not come for us in the palace when everyone deserted me?”
“Many men died in the war.” He bent to fuss with the harness on his pack beast.
“Dead?” A huge weight seemed to lift from her chest. “I’m a widow.” She had to restrain herself from jumping in glee. “I guess the marriage was not happy,” she whispered to herself. Jaranda renewed her stranglehold, on her knees this time.
“Serves you right.” A bulky man, managing the sledge behind her spat into the dirt. “Can’t trust outlanders. Especially those with dark eyes. Brown or blue as dark as midnight, don’t matter, they’s all signs of outlanders,” he sneered. “Best you don’t remember the man what give you a child with outland hair. Best you take her and your dark-eyed lover out of SeLenicca. We don’t need no outlanders tainting our blood or telling us what to do.”
“And yet you travel outland. By the looks of the goods on your sledge, you intend to stay there a long time.” She raised an eyebrow at him in irony at his hypocrisy.
“Prejudice has to be learned, Lady,” Zebbiah said quietly.
“And I have forgotten my prejudices along with my name.”
“Common enough name,” the bulky man snarled again.
“Do you know my name, traveler?”
He turned his back on her, refusing to answer.
“Somehow I thought he’d say that. But I’ll remember eventually. I’ve started to remember. The rest will come.” She brushed Jaranda’s dress free of dust. “Let’s get started. The day is too beautiful to waste on the past and regrets and prejudices.” She whistled to the pack beast. It brayed in an obnoxious imitation of an agreement and plodded along behind her. The other steed riders and sledge drivers followed her lead.
“Your M . . . Your Ladyship, get back in line,” the caravan leader snarled, pushing ahead of her. But he kept marching, no longer finding excuses to delay.
“Excuse me, do you happen to know my name?” she asked the leader, assuming a place just behind his left shoulder.
“That ain’t your place in line, Lady. Get back with your outland lover.”
“Why did I know you’d be as evasive as the others?”
Jack stood on a promontory overlooking the vale where Margit and Katrina made camp. Even after three days, he struggled to reconcile the double nature of his vision. The massive spell to separate the queen from her cat had sapped his energies to a dangerously low point.
Amaranth balanced easily on his shoulder. Corby used to perch in much the same spot. Amaranth was heavier, but more willing to please and become an extension of Jack’s magic and personality. A friend. His rich fur brushed Jack’s face and they both leaned into the caress, needing each other.
Jack had cried the morning he could not wake Corby, but he’d accepted the loss. Corby had been his only—if somewhat reluctant—friend for a long time; much longer than jackdaws normally lived. Corby deserved his rest. Hopefully, he’d pass peacefully into his next existence, into a life without the wild adventures reserved for a magician’s familiar.
Amaranth chattered his teeth in anxious anticipation of the coming adventures.
“They’ve come a long way in so short a time,” Jack mused as he stroked Amaranth’s fur. He’d sta
lked the two women for three days, not daring to approach closer lest Katrina reject him. He’d also husbanded his strength. That last spell had drained him of more energy than usual. More often than not, he was so tired he saw double.
“We’re very near the border with SeLenicca. I don’t like them camping without a bubble of armor.”
But if Katrina would Sing as she had Sung in SeLenicca, she might create her own spell of invisibility that Margit couldn’t duplicate. Jack had to chuckle at how many villages and homesteads had eluded him on his quest, all because the women unconsciously Sang spells of protection for their loved ones as they went about their daily chores.
The flywacket ruffled his feathered wings, getting used to their size and the skin flap that hid them when at rest. He rubbed his cat’s muzzle against Jack’s chin, eager for more caresses.
(Steeds.) Not so much a word as an image of two fleet and one pack steed picketed beyond Margit’s fire, but sheltered by an outcropping of rock. Jack could not have seen the animals without Amaranth’s help.
“They’ve stopped early. Still hours of daylight left,” he mused. As he watched, Katrina and Margit both rubbed the insides of their thighs through their journey trews. Riding had taken its toll on unfamiliar riders.
“Is it time to let the girls know we’ve followed them?” Jack asked Amaranth, not really expecting an answer.
Amaranth purred, devoid of opinion. Jack supposed the true cat spirit he’d liberated from Queen Mikka vied with the dragon intelligence for dominance inside the flywacket. They’d compromise soon enough. Then Amaranth would reawaken his true telepathic communication with Jack.
Something alien churned inside Jack, and the base of his spine itched as if it needed to twitch. The smell of Margit’s roasting hedgehog filtered up to his nose in hundreds of component odors. He grew dizzy trying to sort them.
The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) Page 19