How to Talk to a Goddess and Other Lessons in Real Magic

by Emily Croy Barker

  “That can’t be right. I didn’t mean to burn her.” Nora’s face felt hot, as though she were about to burst into flames herself. She steadied her voice. “It all happened so fast. I don’t remember everything, exactly.” There had been other times when she had made fire a weapon without meaning to. And now this. Nora tried not to remember the sight of the ravaged, blistered skin on Yaioni’s shoulders. Then she made herself remember it.

  The magic’s not as good if you can’t control it. What would Ramona think of her now?

  “How is Yaioni?” Nora asked. “Will she survive?”

  Sisoaneer pointed downward. “Listen,” she said. “What do you think?”

  At first, Nora heard nothing. Then a slurred, tired, relentless voice. “Holiness, forgive me. Help me. Forgive me. Have mercy. Mercy.” The kind of prayer that was really a symptom of unforgiving pain, a sign that no one could help you anymore. But this time there was a real, live goddess to hear.

  Nora regarded Sisoaneer, whose head was bowed, her eyes cast into shadow. “Aren’t you going to help her?” she asked. “She’s praying to you.”

  “I answered her prayer before. She failed.” Sisoaneer sounded regretful.

  “She only gets one chance? But she’s suffering. She’s in pain. Aren’t you the goddess of healing?”

  Sisoaneer raised her head. “When you cause pain, it will always come back to you somehow. Always, always. Do you understand that?” Her steady dark gaze was an unbearable weight; Nora felt shifty, unreliable, but she forced herself to meet the goddess’s eyes. Sisoaneer went on: “To heal, that is the best use of power. When you heal someone, you are healed, too.”

  “So, will you help her?”

  Sisoaneer said nothing. Yaioni’s distant prayers continued, as frail and maddening as the whine of a mosquito.

  “She’s going to die, isn’t she? Because of me.” Nora balled her hands into fists. “And you’re just going to abandon her? You told me that you hear the prayers of those who have faith—and love.”

  With a twitch of her head, Sisoaneer seemed to rouse herself from whatever thoughts had been preoccupying her. She smiled at Nora, as though Nora had said something that pleased her mightily, and reached out to squeeze Nora’s clenched fist, the same hand she had healed the night before.

  “I have not abandoned Yaioni. My High Priestess is a healer, always. I will deny you nothing. Whatever you ask, in my name, I will give you.”

  “What do you mean?” Nora asked, hoping that she had misunderstood.

  “You only have to ask.”

  Sisoaneer disappeared. The cloud-strewn sky was replaced by a smaller, stuffier darkness.

  Nora found herself looking up at the shadowy stone visage of the goddess’s statue, still crowned with limp flowers. She was back in the temple, alone. The fire on the round hearth had died down to a few glinting coals. After the cool wind on the mountaintop, the air felt heavy with smoke and damp.

  She knotted her hands together and stared hard at the statue, making herself take in the details. It was just a statue. The same tawny rock as the temple. Too dark to see much now. She would have liked to examine the face more carefully, to see if there was any resemblance at all to the woman she had just been speaking with.

  She pivoted slowly, scrutinizing the dark forest of pillars. All was quiet. She was alone here, as far as she could tell.

  Alone but not ignored, according to Sisoaneer.

  Nora took a deep breath. She knelt, trying to cushion her knees somewhat with a fold of her gown, and bowed her head. A fragment of Emily Dickinson came to mind: My period had come for prayer, no other art would do. Nora had knelt like this only occasionally in her life, Christmas and Easter when she was a kid, EJ’s funeral. The few times she’d gone to her mother’s church, they stood up. What to say?

  “All right,” she said aloud. “Dear Sisoaneer—” Too Judy Blume? She went on: “Please help Yaioni. Soothe her burns, please heal them. Please be merciful.”

  There, I’ve done it, I’ve prayed, Nora thought. Can I go now?

  Very faintly, she caught the sound of Yaioni’s moaning, persistent, unnerving. Nora looked around, but she was still alone.

  “Please,” Nora said, raising her voice to drown out Yaioni’s. “Please heal Yaioni. Take away her pain.” For the first time, Nora wished she had gone to church more often and could rattle off some appropriate prayers. Sisoaneer wouldn’t know if they were repurposed from a Christian liturgy. Batter my heart, three-personed God—not quite right here.

  “Please be kind to Yaioni. Forgive her. Heal her. She loves you—um, Holy Queen of Power. Show her your grace. Ease her pain. For you are merciful and kind.” It seemed to her that prayers often seemed to involve some measure of flattery. “You are powerful and loving, O Sisoaneer. Heal your servant Yaioni.”

  And still, whenever Nora paused for breath, Yaioni’s fretful voice haunted her ears and the chambers of her mind.

  “I ask you this, because you have been kind to me. Heal Yaioni, the way you healed me. Help her, the way you helped me.”

  Nora’s knees ached. She wondered if Sisoaneer were even listening. What had Herbert said about prayer? Church bells beyond the stars heard, soul’s blood, the land of spices. Something understood. Not this endless, inadequate pleading.

  “Holy Queen, Mother of Power, please soothe Yaioni’s burns, heal her broken bones, and fix anything else I did, I ask you wholeheartedly. Please show me your favor and make Yaioni well again.”

  She was running out of inspiration. “I’m giving you all I can, Sisoaneer. Please, holy—holy you. Only you can save her. Please save her. Please.”

  When Nora finally stopped speaking, the temple was very quiet, aside from the white noise of rushing water outside. She got to her feet stiffly. Her knees felt bruised and flattened.

  At some point, she wasn’t sure when, Yaioni’s moaning had stopped.

  I did what I could, Nora thought heavily. If it wasn’t good enough, it’s not my fault. She could have saved Yaioni anytime.

  Even if you believe in a goddess, Nora thought, is that a reason to trust her?

  At least Yaioni was no longer in pain. Nora shuffled toward the door of the temple, holding out her arms so that she wouldn’t run into any of the columns in the darkness. At the archway, she stopped to let her ears fill with the soothing crash of the waterfall. Her eye caught a bobbing light.

  Someone was coming. Nora waited warily. It might be Uliverat, coming to fetch her and tell her that her maran was in disarray. It might be the goddess. The light was close now, shedding glints of gold in the river as the person who carried it crossed the little bridge. Now it spilled upward to show that person’s face. Yaioni’s strong, dark features, looking fatigued and quiet. The skin of her face and arms smooth and unmarked.

  As she approached, Nora let out her breath. “Are you all right?” she asked awkwardly, discovering that her feelings toward the First Deaconess were not quite as simple as she’d expressed them in the prayers. But she made herself say: “I’m sorry.”

  Yaioni hesitated, and then, so quickly that it took Nora by surprise, she went down on one knee, lifting her hands in a graceful gesture. Nora stared down at her, unsure of how to respond. “I thank you, Blessed Lady,” Yaioni whispered harshly, her eyes cast down. She rose with the same swiftness, as though not wishing to prolong the encounter, and disappeared into the darkness inside the temple.

  After a minute, Nora heard her begin to chant. Closing her eyes, Nora listened to the wavering flight of Yaioni’s voice, straining to follow it over the thunder of the falling water.

  Thank you, Nora thought but did not say.

  Chapter 16

  Aruendiel sat upright in the bed, noting with distaste that the effort still gave him a slight vertigo, and resolving at the same time to ignore it. “Well?” he demanded. “What did you find?
”

  Nansis Abora was looking down at the clutter of scrolls and books on the floor beside the bed. “Did you get up while I was out, Aruendiel? I am quite sure that I told you that you should rest.”

  Aruendiel scowled. “I have been doing nothing but rest for three days. What have you discovered? Anything?” He added, in a clipped tone calculated to hide his disappointment: “You didn’t bring her back, obviously.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Nansis Abora said regretfully. He scratched his head, leaving his rusty-gray hair in some disorder. “I’m afraid I couldn’t find her at all. I found the place you described without any trouble. The forest is mostly gone now. Was it really necessary to burn so much valuable timber? One of the villagers told me they lost a lovely grove of chest—”

  “Nora was not in the fire, was she?” Aruendiel asked. He felt the vertigo again, much worse than before. Reckless, not to consider that the fire might endanger her. The poison had degraded his judgment.

  “Oh, no, I don’t believe so. You’re pale, Aruendiel. I think you had better lie down.”

  “I’m fine. Where is she, then?”

  “I don’t know, but here is what I found out.” Nansis Abora pulled up a stool to the bedside and sat down. “You were right, she did go to the village nearby. They told me all about it. Dear sun, the place was in an uproar. Nothing so interesting has happened there in a dozen dozen years.”

  Aruendiel’s hand twitched on the blanket, as though ready to drag the story out of Nansis Abora by physical means. “Yes?”

  “They said a witch with a bleeding hand had come to the village three nights ago. Some of the fingers on her hand had been cut off, although no one could agree on how many. I heard as many as seven.”

  “I found only one.” Aruendiel gritted his teeth. “They called her a witch, did they?”

  “Yes, I’m getting to that part. A man named Pelg saw a witch riding a dragon in the woods that day; he said they chased him, and he barely escaped with his life. Then, later, the witch came to the village and said that the dragon was dead and asked for their help. They couldn’t agree on what to do with her at first—some of them didn’t believe Pelg, he’s known as a tippler—but then she showed she was a witch. So they decided to—” Nansis Abora paused, frowning, and looked shrewdly at Aruendiel. “Now don’t distress yourself unduly. I really do believe she left the village unharmed.”

  “What did they do?” Aruendiel eyed Nansis Aborna like a dog about to snap at a piece of meat.

  Nansis Abora sighed and shook his head. “Well, you can imagine, Aruendiel, ignorant folk like that—”

  “I don’t have to imagine. What did they do to her?”

  Nansis Abora took another look at Aruendiel and evidently decided that full disclosure was the better course. “First they tried to burn her inside a hut—they showed it to me, what was left of it—but the fire went out.”

  One of Aruendiel’s black eyebrows leaped. “Good. She remembered something.”

  “Oh, yes, I think she did well, especially for a young lady. You know, I think magicians as old as we are sometimes forget what it’s like for the young ones—how difficult it is to recall the right spell the first time you get into a tight spot. I remember when I was twenty or so—”

  “What happened to Nor—to Mistress Nora, Nansis?”

  “Lie back, Aruendiel, you should not exert yourself. Well, then they decided to stone her.”

  Aruendiel’s mouth tightened. Of course, knock the witch unconscious, then burn her—that was the preferred method. Nora should have been able to deflect the stones, he thought. But he recalled how clumsy she’d been with the stone at their last lesson.

  It was excruciating to remember that episode, and not just because of Nora’s lack of skill. He refocused his attention on Nansis. “What happened then?”

  Cautiously Nansis Abora said: “They told me they thought they hit her a few times. But then the men who were stoning her began to choke. One of them died.”

  Aruendiel lifted an eyebrow in appreciation, then frowned suspiciously. “Nora doesn’t know any suffocation spells,” he said. “She has done nothing with air magic.”

  “This might explain it, then. The villagers said another witch appeared, and then they flew away.”

  “Another witch?”

  “Yes, is that not curious? I wondered if they might be mistaken, but more than a dozen people saw her.”

  Aruendiel was silent for a moment. “What did she look like, the second woman? Did she have black skin?”

  “You are thinking of Hirizjahkinis.” A kind, apologetic smile moved across Nansis Abora’s wrinkled face. “I don’t believe it was her. I asked the same question, and they said no. A woman with brown hair, in a gray cloak. I thought it might be that troublesome Faitoren queen.”

  “Ilissa?” Aruendiel shook his head. His recollection of that night was imperfect, fogged by the poison, but Ilissa had been in his presence continuously, tormenting him, until the moment he had taken her prisoner. “No, she can cause no more trouble.”

  “Then I can’t imagine who it might have been. I don’t know of any other female magicians besides Hirizjahkinis. Do you, Aruendiel?” Aruendiel shook his head again, his pale eyes narrow and distracted. Nansis Abora went on: “I wonder why there are so few. Women are not suited for the rigors of study, perhaps. I don’t believe any of my wives could read. No, I’m mistaken. Pelly could read quite well. She used to read to me in the evenings from the almanac.”

  “What else did they say about this other female magician?” Aruendiel demanded.

  “One of the men said she had horns like an elk, but no one else remembered that. I tend to discount it.”

  “Did Nora go with her willingly?”

  “Oh, they seemed to think so. I suppose the other woman could be a village witch of some kind. There used to be plenty of them in the country. Although I never heard of one flying. Not many country witches could even cure a sick goat, poor things.”

  “Or work a suffocation spell,” Aruendiel said dismissively. He shifted impatiently under his blanket. “Where did they fly? What direction?”

  “East, some of them said, but some said south, and some of them said they went straight up into the air.”

  Aruendiel cursed briefly. Nansis Abora sighed aloud, rubbing the side of his nose with one finger. “I wish I had brought back better news for you, Aruendiel. Or more news, anyway. But at least it is not worse news.”

  Aruendiel grunted in a manner that indicated that he did not find this observation helpful or reassuring.

  “Will you be all right by yourself for a while longer?” Nansis Abora asked. “My neighbor up the road has a wife in labor, he asked me to look in on her. And you had better seek some rest. That is, honest rest, not looking through the books that you should not have gotten up to fetch in the first place.” He extended a hand and waved at the nest of books and scrolls on the floor. They disappeared. “How is the numbness in your feet?”

  “Virtually gone,” Aruendiel said, glowering. “Otherwise I would not have been able to get up out of this bed at all.”

  Nansis Abora pursed his small, rosy mouth in a way that, for a moment, made him look almost cynical. “You’re a very poor patient, Aruendiel. I suppose you have heard that before. Well, in a week or so, if you continue to mend, you may be able to set out yourself to see what has befallen Mistress Nora.”

  “A week? I would not impose on your hospitality so long, Nansis. A day or two, and I will go.”

  “We shall see, Aruendiel. It’s not a great imposition to keep you here, no greater than having you fall on my thatch in the middle of the night with no more breath in you than a fish has. You were exactly as blue as one of my Pure Lake plums.”

  Aruendiel grimaced, preferring not to dwell on a moment of weakness that he could not recall anyway, having been virtually un
conscious at the time. The opposite wall of the bedroom was lined with green glass jars and clay pots housing part of Nansis’s considerable store of preserves. Presumably some of them contained those wretched plums of which the other magician spoke. “I have suffered worse,” Aruendiel said, and even he could hear how ungracious his words sounded. He added: “But I am obliged to you, Nansis. There are few magicians who could have made any headway against that Faitoren poison. That is why I came to you.”

  “Well, it’s very nasty stuff, that poison,” Nansis Abora said severely, looking rather pleased. “I’d advise you to stay clear of it in the future. And now, that’s enough talking. You really must rest.”

  Frowning, Aruendiel was about to say something else, but changed his mind. “All right,” he said. The straw in the mattress rustled as he lay down. Nansis Abora raised his faded eyebrows in some surprise at Aruendiel’s acquiescence but elected not to question good fortune. He inquired whether Aruendiel would like some water before he slept. “Only leave me undisturbed,” Aruendiel said, closing his eyes.

  Still the other magician hesitated. “It may be some hours before I am back. Babies take their time. There is more leek soup in the pot. But if you have some, you must conjure up a bowl. I do not want you getting out of bed again.”

  “Very well,” Aruendiel muttered, trying to keep an edge out of his voice. He listened to the creak of the shutting door and the sounds of Nansis Abora moving about in the other room, probably reshelving the books that Aruendiel had taken down earlier. Those noises were followed by the slam of the kitchen door, as Nansis Abora went outside. Then Aruendiel began to wrap himself in layers of silence.

  This was a spell of air magic, one that borrowed power from the vast restlessness of wind and sky. A spell that could reach halfway around the world, if necessary. He made himself deaf to his own heartbeat and the movement of air in his lungs; deaf to the sound of Nansis Abora’s retreating footsteps; deaf to the cackle of chickens in the coop and the soft scratch of their feathers rubbing together; deaf to the creaking of tree branches; deaf to the thudding of horses’ hooves on turf, on dirt, on the cobblestones of cities; deaf to the gurgle of water in a hundred streams and rivers; deaf to the cries of babies, the shouts and laughter and conversing of men and women—deaf to every human voice but one. He was listening for words shaped and spoken by one particular throat.