A Forthcoming Wizard

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Hold hard, she said severely to herself. Was she truly upset on Lady Inbecca’s part, or was she jealous? Why and wherefore did she have a right to interfere in the happiness of others? The princess had decided to stay behind with her aunt’s knights, or so Prince Eremi had told her. The engagement must have been broken off. Inbecca had selected the Scholardom over her beloved. He was free to bestow his affections where he chose, and wasn’t Serafina a worthy person to be given them? I was meant to cast away the sorrows of the past, she chided herself. So were they. They need each other, if not forever, then for now. I will need them both for what we must do. If they joy in each other, then they won’t be lonely any longer. A master wizardess, though young, was the equal of a third-born prince.

  The female looked at her sagely. “You need to dance some more,” she said.

  Tildi got to her feet, ashamed of herself. She paced slowly, looking for a chance to catch up with the double ring of dancers and get into the pattern. She let her arms rise and fall with others, but could not seem to find the tempo of their movement. She no longer felt as if she was part of the collective peace that the ritual had created. Once again, she was out of place and out of step. Her sense of belonging was fading.

  The bearkin seemed to pick up on her distress. The second ring widened out, and the paws of the dancers parted to take her hands in them.

  Tildi took in a huge breath. Their enveloping touch restored to her the feeling of being in harmony with the world around her. All of them were part of the same music. A poem that she had read in school had talked about the “music of the spheres.” The phrase had intrigued her at the time, but her schoolmaster was dismissive that she would ever be able to understand such a complex notion. She was living it now. Her childish mind had pictured the twinkling of harp strings or the jangle of bells, but the true music was so deep she felt it rather than heard it. Her mind had learned to distinguish complex beats within the humming, pounding, and thumping. It all worked together, as all the odd parts of a clock did, producing one giant pulse. Tildi let herself be carried along by it. She had her own small part in the music, a very faint pulse. She became aware of the sounds that distinguished her friends, as individual as the runes on their chests. Magpie’s was more thoughtful than she would have guessed. Lakanta’s was not the liveliest; to her surprise it was the reserved Captain Teryn whose tempo felt like a happy dance step. All things had their own pulse, whether simple or complex, even the Great Book.

  But when Tildi concentrated upon the book, she felt her feet faltering. The book, which floated sedately behind her like a benevolent cloud, had its own pulse, but it did not fit comfortably within the complex dance. Its tempo was not even or comfortable to listen to. True, the contents of its pages changed all the time, but, she wondered, since it contained all of nature, wouldn’t it fit in with the rest?

  The answer appeared to be no. Though she tried to fight against it, the book’s influence became more insistent, until she could not keep up at all. She put a wrong foot down on the dancing ground, and Neva stepped on it. Tildi let out a cry of pain.

  At once, the elderly bearkin realized her error and pulled up short. The line of dancers behind was caught off guard and tripped over one another. Tildi dodged to avoid having the big creatures land on her, and fell over her own feet. Instead of their crushing weight, she felt the warmth of power. She looked up to see the mass of fur arrested a few inches away, as if against a glass window.

  The thrumming died away to a low hum. The huge bonfire died away to embers as though snuffed by a gigantic thumb and forefinger. The bearkin helped one another up and dusted each other off. Serafina rushed to Tildi’s side. Jorjevo lumbered behind her.

  “Are you injured?” she asked, feeling Tildi’s ankle.

  “I don’t think so. I apologize for ruining the dance,” Tildi said.

  “Only for a moment,” Jorjevo said mildly. “No fear; it renews itself even now.” The humming rose again, and the bearkin resumed their stately gavotte. It went perfectly once Tildi had left. She grimaced.

  “It’s the book,” Tildi said. “It upsets everything. I don’t think it can help itself.”

  “I perceived that,” Serafina said. “It is what it is, Tildi. It’s not in harmony with the world because it is out of place. It jars, because it is trying to reconcile a dual existence. It is a physical thing, so it is in the world, but because it contains all the world within it, it also exists outside reality. The changes is wreaks are gradual, subtle, but inexorable.”

  “It will eventually change everything it is near,” Jorjevo said gently. “It has undoubtedly changed you.”

  “I don’t mind that,” Tildi said. “The book is dear to me. I have kept other things as they are.” She appealed to Serafina. “I can do it.”

  “But it amplifies your feelings, too,” the wizardess pointed out. “It defends you. It made a creature out of your rage. It distorted solid matter near you because you were having a nightmare. You didn’t control it. You cannot.”

  “Even a strong and experienced wizard would find this wonder too much to handle,” Jorjevo said. “We don’t blame you, but it should not be out and about in the world.”

  “It should never have been made,” Danevo said.

  “I agree,” Serafina said. “We have been here too long. We must leave very soon.”

  “I don’t want to go yet!” Tildi exclaimed.

  “You must take it to where it can do no harm.”

  “I will,” Tildi said, feeling the support she had felt dissipate like morning fog. “I am. I promise. Just let me rest here awhile longer.”

  “I am sorry,” Jorjevo said, his kind eyes very sad. “We have done our best to heal you and set you in balance. While that healing is strongest, you should begin your travel. Tomorrow.”

  Tildi slumped. Not even the soothing feeling the book offered her assuaged the sense of abandonment she felt.

  “It is cold out there,” she said, “and not just because it’s autumn.”

  “You must brave the cold, smallfolk,” Jorjevo said, though not unkindly. “Your task can be undertaken by no other. Would you waste the rescue that brought you away from those who would stop the book in its tracks, by ending your journey here yourself? You must go.”

  “No,” Tildi begged. “Please, don’t send me away from here. It has been so long since I was happy.” The book snuggled up to her, and she pushed at it. The voices inside it sounded distressed. She started to cry.

  Jorjevo captured her in a massive hug and pulled her to him. She vanished into the depths of his fur. She snuggled in, never wanting to come out. If she never again saw the sun, it would be fine.

  Still, she could not escape the rumbling voice that permeated her whole body.

  “Would you waste the sacrifices of all who have been with you? If you do not go, the peril of the book remaining aboveground will cause chaos. We have held it back, for a time, but what becomes of the world when we go into our winter sleep? The spell will weaken. The book will break free of our control. Change will come. Will you never become weary of repairing the damage it leaves in its wake?”

  “I’m tired now,” Tildi murmured into the enveloping fur. “I thought I had found peace here.”

  “You have, but it was to give you strength to go on with your task, not to stay here as if nothing else would happen. What about your friends? Will you expect them to remain with you? Again, they are as welcome as you, but they have their lives to return to. This is a moment out of time, no more.”

  She realized what he said was true. She pushed herself free and looked him straight in the eye.

  “I know,” she said miserably. “I wish none of it had happened. I wish I could be back home before all this came to pass.”

  Jorjevo’s huge hand patted her shoulder as though she were an infant. “Now, now, do not let the sorrow build up again. You danced yourself free. You can start afresh, from now.”

  “Control yourself, apprentice,” Se
rafina said severely.

  A rumbling noise from Jorjevo sounded like a gentle admonition to the wizardess, but Tildi obeyed. She did need to pull herself together. She straightened her back. Jorjevo put her carefully on the ground.

  “I have two surprises for you, Tildi,” he said. “Here is the first.” He reached between the feet of the dancers and picked something out of the barren firepit. He put it into her outstretched hands.

  Tildi gazed in astonishment at a much-folded white cloth on which lay a hand-carved flute, a belt knife, and a small parchment scroll. “My brothers’ tokens!” she exclaimed. “But I thought the fire consumed them!”

  “The dancing fire takes away only the unhappiness,” he said. “I told you you would lose nothing you treasured. Your cap, it seems, was more sorrow than substance, so it was indeed consumed. The others should find their items among the ashes, if they care to retrieve them.” He glanced up at Serafina, who dipped her eyes gratefully.

  Tildi put Pierin’s knife back on her belt and tucked the other things into her pouch. “Thank you!” she said. “What is the second surprise?”

  “We have had a message from Komorosh,” Danevo said. “You must go to the port town of Lenacru on the west bank of the Arown. Olen will be waiting for you. He is on board a ship. He advises you to take the sky path. It will be the fastest way.”

  “Master Olen?” Tildi asked, torn between excitement and sadness.

  “May I read this message from Master Olen?” Serafina asked, holding out a hand.

  Danevo smiled. “Of course you may. But it is not in a scroll or a piece of parchment. Listen. I will try and help you to hear that part of the earth’s heartbeat in which Komorosh embedded his message.”

  He took Serafina’s shoulders between his hands. “Close your eyes. Listen deeply. The heaviest sound is that of our beloved Alada’s heart. The next deepest sounds are those of the largest masses of land and the most active bodies of water.” He beat a tempo on her arm with the tip of one pad. “Listen for this rhythm. Can you hear it? It seems to be irregular, but it has its own complex pattern.”

  “I . . . I can feel it,” Serafina said. “What is it?”

  “It is the town in which Komorosh makes his home when he is not with us. Many people have added their own sounds to it, as you can tell, but the deliberate beat is Komorosh. He is always in harmony with us, no matter how far away he is.”

  “How do I understand what it says?”

  “Give it time. It will make sense to you.”

  She smiled. “I see the ship,” she said. “I am amazed at this marvel. I will have to study it further when this task is done.”

  “You are welcome back among us at any time,” Danevo said. “As are you, little one. We love you already. We look forward to seeing you again.”

  Tildi was sad but resigned. “I hope to return to Silvertree, but I will come and visit you when Master Olen permits me.”

  Jorjevo set his huge hand on her head. “Go in peace, Tildi Summerbee. Return to us whenever you choose. It will be most interesting to discuss ancestors with you again. Find your family tree if you can. I would not be surprised to find we have relatives in common.”

  “I would love that,” Tildi said, her good humor returning. She gave him a cheeky grin. “How I would adore to introduce you all to Mayor Jurney as our long-lost cousins!”

  The kotyrs bounded upward through the earth like salmon leaping in a stream. They sought not sunlight, but the rune at the heart of their beings. They sensed the thraiks that circled far above them. In their primitive, angry brains, they wanted to leap at those winged beasts and hold fast to them, but an overriding command told them the thraiks were the hunters who would catch what they, the hounds, located. Once they reached the surface, they spread out, covering as much of the land as they could.

  The glint of their skins drew stares from other living beings. A fisherman, his bare feet wet from hauling in his nets, noticed the pretty things racing toward the surf and tried to capture one of them with his hands. His friends and neighbors, riverfolk all, laughed at him. The kotyr, shocked that anything should touch it against its will, turned faster than a hornet and plunged its fangs into his wrist. The fisherman cried out and, as his companions watched in horror, sank to his knees. His wrist swelled and turned purple. Before his shocked wife could run to his aid, he fell down dead. By that time, the kotyr had forgotten about him. All it cared for was finding the source of the rune it bore.

  Chapter Sixteen

  nce day had dawned on the first morning of their captivity, Inbecca found she had awoken into a different world. The Patha who came to awaken her was no longer a silver-gray wolfkin in a loose green tunic, but a human woman with long silver hair braided down her back. Green became her. It picked up emerald lights in her eyes, which were almost as yellow as they had been in her wolf phase. Inbecca was amused to note that Eremi’s eyes were almost the same color, and he had no werewolf in his ancestry at all. She knew his family history back to the first kings of Orontae. Patha had overseen Inbecca’s breakfast and morning ablutions, then brought her out to be secured underneath a venerable hornbark tree where she would be shielded from the direct rays of the sun. Though the year was growing old, sunny days were still hot. She doubted whether her fellow knights were grateful for the consideration. Certainly her aunt, still assigned the tree next to Inbecca’s, was not.

  The other werewolves, who had been similarly transformed, went about the tasks of their day as if nothing had changed, for they lived all their lives with the moon-borne alteration. It was only strangers who found anything to remark upon in the shift from body type to body type. Eremi had once told her werewolves were natural sailors, because they had an instinct for moons and tides that no human could match. Inbecca couldn’t stop herself looking at each person who passed by, trying to guess if she knew which one had been which wolfling. The big, good-looking man with thick black hair who closely resembled Patha had to be Grolius. She guessed he must be Patha’s son. As for the rest, Inbecca didn’t yet know. She fancied she had a good deal of time to learn each, though.

  Though in between visits by Alada’s two moons, the Pearl and the Agate, they were human in form, the elders were able to transform into wolflings at will. The first time Inbecca saw it happen, on that second day, she knew it was rude, but she could not help but stare. A young man, about Inbecca’s age or a little younger, sought to move the tongue of a cart laden with boxes into the yoke between two oxen. She thought privately that he didn’t look strong enough to accomplish the task. Her fears nearly came true as suddenly the cart shifted and rolled forward a yard. Inbecca let out a cry of warning. The young man didn’t lose his grip on the tongue. His face turned red with strain, and Inbecca thought he might drop the metal phlange. Suddenly hair began to sprout from his arms and face. The bones of his forearms lengthened, as did his jaw. Inbecca thought it looked agonizing. The spine bent under the weight of the cart curved, then straightened, as if the young man had found a reservoir of strength within himself. His ears, which had been small and hidden within his light sandy hair, grew into tall triangles lined with fur. A brushy tail appeared at the rear of his spine, and swished intently from side to side. He bared his teeth with effort, let out a wordless grunt, and pushed hard. The cart tongue slid forward and clicked onto the hook attached to the underside of the yoke across the oxen’s shoulders. He let go, and rubbed his hands, now much longer and covered with sandy hairs, together. He noticed that Inbecca was watching, and winked a yellow eye at her. She blushed.

  Her fellow knights who sat nearby were also agog, some of them aghast. Inbecca guessed that it reminded them of the death of poor Bertin, though the young knight had contorted himself without the knowledge to make the transformation safe. She knew it was different; the Makers had thought through how one species could become another without harming itself. It was masterful magic, but to the Scholardom, Inbecca thought with despair, it must just be further evidence of the unworthin
ess of werewolves to continued existence. In contrast, she was fascinated. Whenever she noticed the change beginning, she tried to look, but not stare. The werewolves did not mind. In fact, they became aggressive if any human looked as though they disapproved of what was to them the natural state of things.

  Patha was a good organizer, Inbecca thought, watching her oversee the camp. It looked to her like any outdoor domicile, with the added task of goods to be sorted and packed. The werewolves must have visited Orontae and Levrenn, at the very least. Inbecca recognized the realm’s stamps on the packages. The large, rounded bales were undoubtedly textiles, possibly the fine fleeces that her people raised. Smaller boxes, dwarf-made, were being tallied by a middle-aged female with brown hair streaked with white. Lakanta could have identified the various dwarfhollows for her, but she, too, was gone.

  Patha was taking full advantage of the time she and her people must sit idle. Over the last few days, groups of werewolves had arrived and departed. Those leaving took bundles of goods stamped from the southern continent. The returning parties led oxen-drawn wagons full of boxes, bales, and barrels. Often, the topmost layer contained fresh fruit and vegetables and bags of flour. Meat the werewolves had no trouble hunting for themselves. At least two deer and a handful of fowl or small animals were needed to feed the party, swelled as it was by the arrival of dozens of humans. Unlike the Scholardom, most of Patha’s people took some part in food preparation. Their cooks would have been an asset to any court. All of them were competent, and some were inspired. She spotted two middle-aged women beginning preparations on a folding table across the fire circle from her, and was pleased to note that the one on the right had a particularly light hand with pastry. Blackberries were in season, and baskets of berries had been gathered by the many children. Hand pies were in the offing, a treat Inbecca enjoyed, one easily eaten by those with restricted movement. The werewolves had been kind, in spite of their task as jailors.