by Thomas Locke
The act of pulling the string back to his chin and releasing the arrow was as fluid as falling rain. He breathed the words as he released, the Milantian spoken too softly to carry. “Fly true!”
The entire world held its breath as the arrow lifted slightly, soaring above the river’s sparkling surface, then falling, falling . . .
And striking the target right in the center of the silver coin.
The roar that met him when he returned to the world of senses and form was enormous. The innkeeper was hugging herself with two brawny arms and shrieking with joyous wonder. All the knights but one gaped at Hyam as he approached them and said, “We are done here.”
“Wait!” The bully’s face was savage in its disappointment. Two defeats in one day had left his gaze poisonous with fury. “Who are you?”
“Come, Dama,” Hyam said, and started away.
Behind him the sheriff’s son shrieked, “I will have your name!”
The dog responded by leaping about and roaring with a ferocity that left the knight sprawled on the earth.
“Dama, hold.” Hyam turned long enough to reply, “You will have nothing more from me. Is that clear? We are through.”
25
Hyam bathed away the day’s stress and replayed the contest and the cheers. As he dressed, he forced his mind to other concerns. No matter how fine the energy coursing through him might have felt, there were more important things to ponder. Such as why King Ravi had issued a surprise edict banishing the Ashanta, and if it was truly a matter of old debt, as the banker assumed, or if more was at work. And what role the crimson rider with his orb might play. Not in the battle but in the realm.
He ate in his room to avoid running into any of the defeated nobles, and was asleep before the day’s final light faded from the sky.
He was awoken by a cold nose prodding his shoulder. Then he heard the scratching at his door. “Who is there?”
“The woman who wants to see you live through this night.”
He recognized the innkeeper’s worried voice. Hyam slipped on his trousers and opened the door. “Yes?”
She stepped inside uninvited. “The ones you vanquished sat and drank for hours. I passed by enough to know for certain they were busy hatching plans. The sheriff’s son means to trap you in another challenge tomorrow. One you won’t survive.”
“I had planned to depart at daybreak.”
“It could be too late. I suspect they’re already busy gathering their mates, surrounding my place of business, cutting off your escape.”
Hyam was already moving. “I am leaving now.”
She watched his hasty packing with genuine regret. “Such shooting as yours should be rewarded, not form a cause for revenge.”
Hyam hefted his belongings and motioned to the dog. “I need supplies for three days.”
“And you’ll have them.” She padded quietly down the hall, through the silent great-room, and into the empty kitchen, where she hastily packed two satchels. “The sheriff’s son is like many of the nobles who’ve risen with the new king. Too many, if you ask me.” She followed him into the stable and watched him saddle his horse. “I warrant you’re aligned with the house whose name I dare not utter.”
“I am.”
She sighed noisily and shook her head. It was all the response she would grant, and it was enough. “Where shall I say you are headed? If they ask. Which they will.”
“I will take the river-road, so tell them somewhere else.” He pointed to the byre holding the barn’s oats. “May I fill a sack?”
“Help yourself.” She watched him shovel in grain for the horse. “Is it true what I heard you say, you came by way of the Galwyn Road?”
“I did.”
“And you didn’t find trouble?”
Hyam fastened the oat sack behind his satchel. “How far will this go?”
“I need attach you to nothing I say. An innkeeper knows when to forget the names of her guests. Which won’t be hard in your case, since I never asked.”
“There were three witches preying on travelers.”
Her eyes were round and deep in the lantern’s glow. “You vanquished them that bested a force of the king’s own guard?”
“The witches are no more.” Hyam opened his purse and extracted a florin. “For your troubles.”
“The news you’ve just handed me is payment enough, good sir.”
Hyam pressed the coin into her hands. “Then for your kindness.”
Joelle had a new favorite hideaway. She had been given the responsibility of cleaning the library, partly because no one else wanted the duty, and mostly because she did a very good job. Not even the desiccated prune of a Librarian could find fault in her work. She was good because she wanted to come back. And she came back to borrow, though the Librarian would have called her a thief. Only now that was no longer necessary, for Joelle had discovered a door whose lock had become loose, and with a gentle tug she could slip inside. And come here, to a space that was snug as a velvet cave, a place she liked to think of as made for her.
One wall actually was fashioned from velvet—long drapes that framed the lead-paned windows. The library was unique in that manner, for the Long Hall community had few windows, and none so large as these. The library windows overlooked the central fields and faced south by east, so that on clear mornings the light could be blinding. Velvet curtains fell floor to ceiling, hooked by golden ropes that could be released when the light grew fierce. The windows themselves were flanked by broad benches with rectangular horsehair pads. In the daytime, students crouched there and pondered the world they had left behind. On nights such as this, the haven was hers to claim.
She loved everything about the library except the mage who ran it. The shelves of scrolls and books ran up four times her own height. The vast chamber was wrapped on three sides by a balcony whose bronze railing she carefully polished. She loved walking the narrow way, dusting the shelves, deciding which of the tomes she would dive into next.
Since being defeated by the portal, all her nights had been given over to finding a means of unlocking the binding spells that sealed the Long Hall’s only exit. Failing that, she sought a way into the chamber at the Long Hall’s heart. So far, both goals had eluded her. The library held two locked side alcoves, and she suspected the answer might rest there. Both were surrounded by fierce mage-heat. A senior mage might request entry, but the Librarian alone held access. Even so, Joelle was determined to find a way inside. It was only a matter of time.
She settled into her niche and tugged the curtains closed, then fashioned a candle to illuminate her space. She loved practicing these small bits of magic, especially when she heard acolytes complain they could never make the light stable. Her own candle glowed a foot or so above her head, steady as her breathing. She unrolled the scroll, then froze as a door creaked.
“See there, it’s just as I said. She’s magicking, she is!”
The voice belonged to the Librarian and rang with the triumph of one who lived to forbid, to punish, to wreak havoc on those within reach. Joelle set the scroll aside and gripped for the knives she always carried. To attack now would mean certain defeat. She was not ready. But attack she would. And to take this one down with her would offer a small portion—
“I’ve noted your complaint,” Trace replied. “Now let’s be—”
“Complaint, you say? Complaint?” The Doorkeeper sounded outraged. Of course the Librarian would not come alone. Not when accusing her before the Master Wizard. “What she’s doing there is forbidden!”
“Duly noted.” The voice rang clearly from the gallery across from her alcove. Trace sounded wearily defeated. “It’s late, and I’m tired from a long—”
“She must be made to bleed, I tell you. Bleed!” the Doorkeeper snarled.
Trace underwent a remarkable transformation, one so potent it ruffled the velvet drape by her cheek. “There’s a hermitage high in the western badlands that’s awaiting your arrival. I could send
you both there tonight. Announce your retirements after you’re gone. Perhaps I should.”
The Librarian’s indignation rang through the chamber. “She’s the one doing wrong! Not us!”
“She’s the most innocent person who’s ever graced this Long Hall,” Trace replied.
“She’s imprisoned!” The Doorkeeper sounded as if he gargled with lava. “She’s to be held here for life!”
“But the pair of you have no idea why, do you. So you feed those shriveled, wretched excuses you have for souls with rumors.”
“This is an outrage!”
“I couldn’t agree more. If either of you speak a word of this to anyone, you’ll be off to the windswept reaches that same day. And you’ll be the ones banished for life.”
“And you dare call yourself a Master Mage!”
“And you, the both of you, dare call yourselves human!”
“I knew you were a fraud!” The Librarian revealed a stutter in his fury. “First time I ever set eyes on you!”
“You disgrace the Long Hall,” the Doorkeeper agreed.
“Get out of my sight while you still have posts to claim,” Trace snapped. “Go on. Move!”
When the door slammed shut and the voices rang ever more faintly, Joelle finally released her breath and tremors both. She used a shaky finger to repair the tear in the scroll, then rose from the place that was her haven no longer. It was only a matter of time before the Librarian, the Doorkeeper, and their venomous allies shut her away. And when that happened, she would fight.
She set the scroll back in its place, crossed the library, and headed back for her room. She would spend the rest of this empty night with her knives as companions. Fighting away the tragic knowledge that she had already lost. But fight she would.
26
The rain set in soon after Hyam left the main road. It began as a gentle apology, a soft mist that drifted and coalesced into gradually larger drops. By the start of his second hour upon the road, Hyam could scarcely see the horse’s head, the rain was so hard. What was more, the trail he followed was hardly ever used. The earthen track was turned into a rivulet, then a stream. They were well into the forest now, and the trees became sentries guarding a myriad of what might have been paths, all of them inviting Hyam to become extremely lost.
He halted beneath a giant hardwood whose boughs melted into the dark and the rain. He stood for a time, then squatted, and finally sat. The rain washed away the day’s heat and replaced it with a chilling edge. Dama’s thick pelt protected her from the wet cold, but Matu’s flanks began trembling. Hyam knew the destrier would survive the night, but the question was, did they have to do so in such sightless misery.
He drew the orb from the bottom of his quiver. As soon as his hands fastened upon the globe, a light gleamed through the mouth and the canvas fabric. He pulled it out and stood holding it, marveling at the immediate sense of force at his disposal. Once again the bond was forged with the earth beneath his sodden feet. He lifted the globe, holding its smooth surface with both hands, and willed the light not just to strengthen but to shield.
Instantly the rain stopped falling. Or rather, it stopped touching them.
The rushing drumbeat of raindrops surrounded them. But where they stood, an island had been formed, a refuge illuminated by a brilliant purple glow.
He set the globe on a stump, then unsaddled the destrier and tethered him to a nearby sapling. He stared at the globe for a time, then decided he wanted to see how far this mystery could be taken. Hyam lifted the orb and instructed the light to vanish but the protection to remain.
Immediately the darkness returned, and yet they remained shielded from the storm.
Hyam pressed his hands down more tightly and clenched his eyes shut, as if he needed a stronger grip to try the next step.
Slowly, steadily, the moisture evaporated from his clothes.
Hyam opened his eyes to discover Matu and Dama both watching him. He set the globe back on the stump and stroked first the horse, then the dog. Both were dry. As was the earth at their feet. The torrent ran in a steady course around their haven.
Hyam slipped the globe back into the quiver and replaced the arrows by touch alone. Then he lay down on the springy dry earth. And slept.
The night was almost over when the dream carried Hyam away. He knew this because the first image he had when he rose from his body was of a faint light growing in the east. The clouds made for a beautiful and subtle dawn. Hyam had no chance to pause over the glory, however. For he was drawn as he had been before, following a current not of his own making.
He swept over forest, he passed high above the waterfall and the pool, he flew across a trio of hidden vales, and then he arrived at the wide emerald pasture that framed the Havering Long Hall. Before his repulsion could rise strong enough to halt him, he passed through a tiny crack in the stone alongside the main portal. The spells that protected the mages from unwanted visitors were mere spiderwebs, tiny fragments of force that could not hold him. He wondered idly if they were alerted to his passage, but he had no space for concern. As before, his focus remained not just intent but single-minded. All he could see clearly was the next portion of his path, leading to his unseen destination.
Then he heard the weeping.
A woman sobbed deep within her broken heart. The silent lament was one she had fashioned over years. He knew this without question, just as Hyam knew she was three years younger than he. The same awareness he had known within the Assembly filled him now, directed like a compass to this young woman’s heart. But when he entered her windowless cell, much like the one that had held him for five long years, the woman revealed no tears. Instead, she raged in a tightly controlled manner.
The furniture was crammed to one side, the battered table and chair piled atop her bed. Hyam’s awareness was such that he knew she did this every morning. It was her ritual method of meeting each new day. Neither bowed nor beaten. She was a fighter. She prepared. She was going to war.
A book lay open on the bed, one detailing stances for a knife fighter. Her hands held two implements she had fashioned herself. She had spent months honing and balancing four kitchen knives until they were instruments of combat. Two were for throwing, two for wielding. Her movements were a dance of fierce coordination and vicious intent. Hyam realized she intended to break out of the Long Hall. Her sweeping stabs and high kicks were aimed straight at the Doorkeeper and the Librarian and their aides. To take on an entire bevy of wizards armed only with knives suggested a courage and ferocity that left him in awe.
She was also breathtakingly beautiful.
Hyam watched her spin and stab and slice and parry, and wondered if anyone else had managed to pierce her armor and perceive her heart’s tears.
She remained lost in her routine for a few moments longer, then stopped and breathed hard. And realized she was no longer alone. She cried aloud, “Who is there?”
Hyam had no idea how to respond, except, “It is I.”
“You are a Long Hall mage?”
“I have nothing to do with the Long Hall.”
His disgust must have resonated, for her panic eased. “Who are you, then?”
“My name is Hyam. And you are . . .”
“Joelle.”
But that was not what he intended to say. “You are Ashanta.”
The heart’s dirge rose up once more, so potent it masked the rage in her words. “I am nothing! I am no one!”
“I don’t understand. The only other time this has happened to me was when I traveled to an Ashanta Assembly.”
Her anger became matched by a desperate hunger. “They let you in?”
“My arrival was unexpected. I caught them all by surprise. But they let me stay. Reluctantly.”
“I visited their settlement once. They forbade me from ever returning.” She used both hands to clear her face of more than just sweat. “I still dream of them sometimes. Those are the harshest dreams of all.”
“Why are
you here?”
“Because the Ashanta ordered the mages to hold me.” Her lovely face twisted with bitter ire. “I am the girl who should never have been born.”
He realized, “You are half human.”
Hyam hated how this flooded her with shame. Joelle swiped the air in front of her face with one of the knives. “I am leaving. The mages say I will perish if I depart and have vowed to keep me here all my days.” She glared at where he would have been, had he actually been in the chamber at all. “But I am through heeding their words. Either I leave or I die in the process.”
Hyam felt the gentle tug drawing him away. He called back while he could still be heard, “Stay where you are. Be patient. Let me help.”
She sensed his departure and cried after him, “Don’t leave me here!”
But he was already gone. He swept back into his body and awoke.
Hyam opened his eyes and leapt to his feet, calling out to the forest that surrounded him, “I am coming!”
27
The orb was utterly blank when Hyam awoke. He stared into its dull depths as he walked the forest trail and listened to the remnants of last night’s storm drip from every leaf and limb. There was clearly some limit to the orb’s potency, but how it returned, he had no idea. Unless, of course, he happened upon a river of power coursing here as it had in the desert. And if he was able to sense the current and draw it up. Otherwise he might as well be carrying an oversized glass bauble. Hyam slipped the orb back inside his saddlebag and did his best to plan. Though pondering on how he might manage to rescue a lovely young woman trapped inside a Long Hall only drew up outraged memories of his own treatment at the mages’ hands.
Dawn’s beauty was soon replaced by a sullen, steamy heat. The rising sun chased away the few remaining clouds and bore down hard. By the time Hyam passed the waterfall and the glade’s green pool, he and his animals were panting from the simple exertion of drawing a decent breath. The forest trail was empty and airless. Hyam let the animals drink, then rounded the lake and continued through the glade. The two vales trapped the heat and the humidity both and fought him for every inch of forward movement. He had no idea if the globe might have cooled them, had there been any force remaining. Still, he decided it was not altogether bad that he could not form another spell as he approached the Long Hall. If the mages had not detected his nighttime passage, he had no interest in alerting them to his approach. They would find out soon enough.