A Forthcoming Wizard

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Oh, let me by!” Tildi’s voice came, full of frustration.

  Magpie swung down at the sound, so relieved that his knees wobbled under him, and he stood waiting on the stony roadway as the smallfolk girl emerged between a pair of bearkin like a vixen threading its way through tree trunks. She made straight for Rin, and hugged her about the forelegs. Serafina gasped, and held out a hand of warning. Magpie held his breath, realizing that he was waiting for the smell of burning flesh. It did not come.

  “I am glad you are safe, little one,” the centaur said, leaning down and kissing her on the top of the head. She stroked the smallfolk’s soft brown hair. “I was concerned when we became separated.”

  “I know,” Tildi said apologetically. “I couldn’t find you, but I couldn’t see where to run back to. I hate fog at night! Oh, I am so happy to see all of you! Jorjevo said they could feel you were close by. Come back where it is warm. There’s soup and tea and—and I am so glad you are safe!”

  Lakanta enveloped the girl in a sound embrace, then held her out at arm’s length. “Well, you are looking fine. We were worried to pieces, I must tell you, with you disappearing like that. Not a rune in sight, and here they are all over again!”

  Tildi beamed at her. “I feel wonderful. I . . . I feel as though I have been set free. I can’t tell you how good that is. I vow that if I ever have a dog again, I will let him run free all the time. How I hated that leash. I am so glad we are together again.”

  The smallfolk girl took Magpie’s hand shyly in both of hers and squeezed it, before climbing the air to saddle-height and throwing her arms around Serafina’s waist.

  “I am long overdue to show you proper sympathy, master,” she said, dropping her voice to a murmur that Magpie could barely discern. “I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry for both of us. I can’t ever repay the debt I owe Edynn, or you, but I hope you will be assured I will try. What is wrong?” Serafina had stiffened in her embrace. Tildi let her go, looking guilty. Serafina examined her own shoulders, then took Tildi’s hands and turned them over to see the palms.

  “You . . . you don’t carry the power any longer?” Serafina asked with concern. “You’re cool again. Is the book lost? We saw the runes. I thought it was here.”

  “Oh, no! It is here, master, I promise you!” Tildi beckoned in the direction of the rune-studded forest. A pale shape swooped over the heads of the bearkin around them, and came to hover beside her. “See? But don’t touch it. It still doesn’t want anyone else to touch it.”

  “But what did you do?” Serafina asked.

  “It wasn’t my doing,” Tildi said with a glance over her shoulder at their gigantic hosts. “They did it.”

  “The fire in her hands was an imbalance waiting to be corrected,” boomed a smaller and lighter boned bearkin beside Jorjevo. “We listen to the pulse of the earth here. The Great Book is so powerful that we could hear the blockage of power like rapids in a river hammering against a weir, trying to break free. It disturbed us, even at a great distance. We are glad to have set it on its course again.”

  “What caused the imbalance? And how did you correct it?” Serafina asked, as though she still could not believe it.

  “Peace!” Jorjevo laughed, his deep voice rumbling. “Why stand here where it is cold and damp? Come to the fire and ask your questions, my daughter.”

  Tildi dashed down to help her enormous hosts lead the way. Magpie had never seen the reserved little smallfolk so uninhibited. She nearly sang every word she spoke, and her steps were just a twitch away from dancing. Her joy was infectious. Tired as he was, Magpie was ready to join in. He could well understand her relief. They were away from the onerous presence of the Scholardom. He for one was glad to be out from under the eye of his aunt-in-law elect. Should everyone survive to see the Great Book put back in its place and return alive to the north, he would never again be able to trust Sharhava for any reason at all. She had been showing signs of a dangerous insanity that had grown since the book came into their hands—or, rather, into Tildi’s. He hoped that the werewolves could handle her. They weren’t easy to get to know, and they had chancy tempers, but Sharhava could match anyone for acrimony. He respected Inbecca’s choice to stay with her aunt. Perhaps she could persuade her aunt to reason, but he doubted it. He’d known them both all his life.

  He missed Inbecca. The ride from Oron Castle to the bridgehead was the longest uninterrupted period they had spent in each other’s company in their lives. He’d loved being near her all that time, though half of it she was angry with him. The other half, when she had permitted him to think she knew he was alive, and even liked it a little, had made it worthwhile. Ah, but the very end, when he had left her in the company of the werewolves, that had been the sweetest moment of all. When he had seen her for the last time for who knew how long, though her face was tanned and polished by the wind, and her hair was all down over her shoulders and wet through, and she had not a trace of the heavy court makeup applied, she was more beautiful than any woman who ever trod the royal carpet. She loved him. She said so. It boded well for compatibility in their future marriage—if such a thing was even possible now that Inbecca had taken the Scholardom’s vow. He sighed. He kept berating himself for having pushed her into it from keeping too many secrets.

  He was not the only one to have the Scholardom on his mind. Serafina had ridden most of the way from the werewolves’ encampment to the bearkin’s homeland without speaking, though she had occasionally let out a snort of disgust. She could not let go of the notion that Sharhava had manipulated her, not once, but at least three times: when she had persuaded her that only with the Scholardom’s escort could they reach the book’s hiding place, when Sharhava had perverted the protection spell that had concealed them from thraiks and other spies, and when she had clouded their minds to the thought of escape. Serafina’s dignity had to have been sorely bruised. Then, for her to lose sight of Tildi had to be the final blow that brought down the hewn tree. All was well, now. Almost all.

  Tessera was restless under his legs. He dismounted and tied her reins to a clump of brush beside Serafina’s mare.

  “Poor girl, you ought to have been resting hours ago. So should I.” He patted Tessera on the nose.

  “Give her this.” The voice at his shoulder should have made him jump, but it was so soothing that he smiled as he turned to the speaker. The lighter-boned bearkin held out to him a small bundle tied up in rough cloth. Magpie smelled the sweet scent of flowers on it. “Crystallized honey. We enjoy them as sweetmeats. It is something we have in common with the plains people, both horse and centaur.” He offered some to Serafina as well.

  “Thank you,” she said. The white mare lipped the golden crystals delicately. For the first time, Serafina smiled. The expression made her narrow face breathtakingly pretty in the soft light.

  “I am Danevo,” the bearkin said. “Be welcome here. I hope you can find some peace.”

  Magpie gave him a wry smile. “I think your people’s ability to read minds is more disconcerting to my kind than your size.”

  Danevo showed his impressive set of teeth. “We do not read minds. We listen to the sounds of the earth. You will see. Go. All of you. Join the others.”

  “Come!” Jorjevo roared as the companions came into the firelight.

  Magpie was reminded of a castle courtyard. Lanterns brimming with light hung from stout tree branches in an irregular clearing.

  Rin settled near the roaring campfire with her legs curled under her like a great cat. Tildi sat with her back in the curve of Rin’s body, talking intently in a low voice, holding the book in one arm as one might hold a cat. Such an odd couple they were, Magpie thought, the smallfolk and the centaur, but he realized how close they had become over the months that they had been together on the road. Rin’s strength and good humor had been a bulwark to Tildi. When the smallfolk girl was in danger of letting the Scholardom’s prejudice beat her spirit down, Rin was always ready to defend her, until she r
egained her natural sense of independence. They had become good friends, something that would be worth the telling in the smallfolks’ frequent town meetings, though the princess of the Windmanes might be thought of as an exotic monster rather than a friend. For Rin herself, the friendship was an odd one as well. A centaur wasn’t likely to make a bosom-friend out of a stranger, but they found common ground in their pride of home. And who could resist an open ear for one’s most exciting stories? Tildi sat agape, listening to even the most outlandish tales with enjoyment, if not belief. Magpie was wondering himself how he would get along without such an audience as Tildi once their task was at an end.

  Ah, but that was selfish. One day this mission would be over, and they must all go their separate ways. Alone. He felt a trifle sorry for himself. Inbecca was in the custody of the werewolves, suffering who knew what, all for the sake of the greater good. The least he could do was stop his foolish selfpity in its tracks. It wasn’t like him. He must be very tired.

  Serafina could not seem to settle down. She kept frowning at Tildi nervously, going over a dozen times an hour to touch her arm.

  “Are you well?” she asked. “You aren’t catching a chill here?”

  “I am well, master,” Tildi said, for the twelfth or thirteenth time. “I am as I was before. That is, except for the book.” She reached up to caress its surface, as if it had been a child’s face.

  “The hell-heat is gone,” Rin assured Serafina. “The pain had been lessening slightly since the first day, but it is gone entirely. The little one has no more fire in her but her spirit.”

  A piercing cry in the distance made them all sit up in alarm. The Great Book took off from Tildi’s grasp like a startled bird and hovered protectively above her.

  “What is that? We must be miles away from the werewolves by now.”

  “I hear it, too,” Serafina said, settling herself down on a fold of her cape. The wizardess looked immaculate once again. She had taken the time to bespell her garments clean again. “It sounds like their voices.”

  “But we must be miles away from them by now,” Tildi said, alarmed. “The bearkin walked for hours before we came here!”

  “Their voices carry, my child,” Jorjevo boomed, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. “You are away from them now, but they are not your foe. Those who would thwart you are gone from your sight forever. Can you take comfort in that?”

  “Their voices terrify me,” Tildi said.

  “It is only in the way they call to one another,” Jorjevo said. “Since you can’t help paying attention, listen to the music in their cries.” Tildi gave him a doubtful look. “There is poetry in their speech, if you allow yourself to hear it.”

  Magpie grinned at the notion. “Come on, you’ve heard singers that bad in your day, haven’t you?”

  “Well, I admit that I have,” Tildi said with a nervous glance up at him. “Not you, of course.”

  “Thank you for your reassurance,” Magpie said with a laugh.

  “Is all well, then?” Serafina asked.

  “Stay by us,” Tildi said, putting a hand out for the wizardess. With a glance back at him, Serafina hesitated, then sat down.

  “Of course, if you need me.”

  Magpie was a trifle disappointed. He had hoped to have Serafina be with him for a time.

  “Come, friend,” a huge, dark gray bearkin said, embracing him soundly in limbs like fur-covered bolster pillows. It draped one arm fondly over his shoulder and led him to sloping stones set around the fire that he saw served the big folk for backrests. “Sit with me. Do you drink beer?”

  “Willingly,” Magpie said. “Though I may not be awake long enough to enjoy it.”

  “Come, then, and we’ll sing with the others until you are ready to rest. I am Chviaga.”

  “Eremilandur,” Magpie said, “but call me what you like.”

  “We have heard of you, prince of Orontae. Name yourself as you choose.”

  “We called him Magpie, after the bird, Chviaga,” Lakanta called, “but it turns out he’s a bird of a different plumage.” She grinned up at them. “How I’ll just travel by myself in years to come when I’ve grown used to such distinguished company, I don’t know.”

  “Then, so shall we,” Chviaga said. “It sounds more like your true self than the many syllables.”

  How odd, Magpie thought, that like him they were all thinking of the end of the journey they had yet to make. Chviaga dragged him down with a hearty hand.

  “Beer for the traveler!” he boomed.

  Lakanta had made herself at home at once, slapping bearkin on the sides and calling them by name. She seemed to know everyone, Magpie thought. At the sound of her voice, a handful of the smaller beings galloped toward her—children, he realized, though they were easily his size. They towered over Lakanta, but she treated them as if they were knee-high to her small stature. She tweaked their ears and laughed at their antics. When they clamored for presents, she felt in her pouch and produced sweets and handfuls of colored beads.

  “Scatter, now!” she cried. Laughing, they tumbled over one another to catch the treats.

  She must be a popular visitor. A female, with a very young cub at her heels, lumbered over to hand Lakanta a gigantic rounded beaker foaming with beer. Lakanta accepted it, but not before giving the female a hearty hug and scratching the cub between its little round ears. They settled down together with a bunch of the others for a natter.

  The two Rabantavian guards did not look as comfortable as the trader. All three sat stiff-backed among their hosts. The guards, Magpie thought with a grin, were unaccustomed to being treated as guests. They had removed their armor and hoods, but not their wary manner. They regarded refreshments offered them with open suspicion, which luckily did not offend the bearkin at all.

  For the first time, Magpie got an unobstructed view of both their faces. Captain Teryn was quite a pretty woman. Her wide, molded cheekbones would be envied by any lass, her neck was slender and long, and her hair, still severely braided for the trail, must have been honey-gold when she was young. Morag’s appearance shook him. The misshapen bones of his face Magpie was familiar with from weeks together on the trail, but the deformity carried on to the skull itself. It had dents and bulges like a potato. His neck and wrists seemed to have too many joints to them. His coarse black hair escaped from its queue in shocklike tufts. Magpie felt horribly sorry for him. He knew Tildi could not rebuild his rune for lack of an original model to work from. From his expression Morag looked as though he would like to hunch down and conceal his face, but his training required him to be upright and ready to defend at a word. He was the picture of courage, Magpie thought. It was one thing to be brave in battle, but to live with the scars forevermore afterward took inner strength. He deserved a ballad to be written about him, though it would mortify him to hear it.

  One very large bearkin, Magpie couldn’t tell at the distance whether it was a male or a female, took a fancy to Morag, and sat with its arm around him, singing a song in its subterranean voice, crushing him to its breast every time it emphasized a syllable. To Magpie’s surprise, and no doubt that of the human guard, the limitless goodwill began to warm through Morag’s glum exterior. His rigid back began to relax. The bearkin ruffled his hair, fed him a sip of beer from its own mug, and launched into another song. Morag glanced at Teryn in apprehension. In turn, the captain looked to Serafina for instructions. The young wizardess seemed not to know what to do, but she was loath to offend their hosts. She shrugged. Teryn passed the gesture to her soldier, who gave a shy grin to the bearkin. The big furry creature embraced him again.

  “Sing with me, friend!” it cried.

  It enunciated the words to its song carefully line by line. Morag repeated them slowly. To Magpie’s delight, they started singing together, the soldier’s raspy voice underscoring the musical boom of the bearkin like the roll of a drum beneath horns. Tentatively, Teryn joined in. At odds to her stern face and upright carriage, she had a sweet
, lilting voice, adding a flute to the orchestra. Shyly, Morag tilted his craggy face toward her, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a gentle smile. Morag returned it. His smile lifted his countenance and made it handsome and noble. Suddenly he became aware that others were looking at him, and the rare moment passed. Teryn’s face went stern, and she glared around warily.

  She loves him, Magpie thought in wonder. Bless the Mother and Father, there’s someone for everyone.

  “Do you know a song or two?” Chviaga asked Magpie, interrupting his thoughts.

  “I do,” Magpie said emphatically, though he was sorry to miss what might come next between Teryn and Morag. “Do you know ‘The Boatman and the Lock-keeper’s Daughter’?”

  Magpie thought he would find it difficult to tell his hosts apart, but it was not. The youngsters, of whom there were many, were always coming over from their games at the perimeter of the fire circle for a cuddle. Magpie often found himself face-to-face with juveniles who were almost his size. Except for infants in the arms of massive mothers, Tildi was the smallest being present.

  She seemed to have made herself right at home without hesitation. He had always known she was exceptional among smallfolk.

  As night waned and the fire burned down, conversation still continued in low, musical rumbles. Magpie found himself unable to stay awake. Hoisted gently under the arm by a massive hairy limb and assisted to walk in between trees by Tirteva, a friendly soul who was younger than Jorjevo but older than the young ones who played among themselves at the perimeter of the firelight. Found himself on a staircase that spiraled downward. The walls smelled like a healthy garden after a rain, and the steps, though squared off, did not ring like stone. After he had completely lost his sense of direction, he and his guide emerged into a vast room. It was like a great hall, but beehive-shaped. Another bonfire like the one below burned at the center of the room, banked by rounded rocks that his eye told him were just the right shape and size. Everything in the round room had pleasing proportions that were restful to his spirit just to look at. More of the bearkin sat at this fire. He wondered where the smoke went to, since the air in the chamber, though fragrant with the scent of the burning hardwoods, was clean.