Gannimere released Marcel’s ears from their silence. ‘It’s time you recited the oath,’ he said.
No, no, Bea shouted inside her head. She might have thumped her fist against Gannimere if Fergus hadn’t pulled her away. He didn’t just drag her back from the wizard, but kept hold of her, drawing her away from Marcel too, towards the wood as though he wanted them both to hide. What was the point? Gannimere would find them in an instant. Only when they were among the trees and Fergus headed for one in particular did she guess what he was doing. The bow, she tried to say, then gave up when her tongue wouldn’t obey her commands.
It hung from the low-reaching branch where they had left it and while Fergus stretched onto his toes to unhook the string from among the twigs, Bea found the arrow. Returning to the light, she saw that it was no more than a shaft. They hadn’t finished the job. Worse still, she saw the bow in Fergus’s hands and felt her slim hopes fade even further. How crude it was. Kertigan and his friends would laugh at such a poor weapon, and this was what Fergus wanted to use against Gannimere. They were fools, both of them, and she was glad her tongue was tied because she would have said as much to Fergus.
He saw the defeat in her eyes. ‘We’ll make it work,’ he said cheerfully, and dug a hand deep into the pocket of his pants. Out it came again after a brief search and when he opened his palm, a sliver of stone crossed from the base of his thumb to the first joint of his little finger.
‘I found it in the stream,’ he said. ‘I’ve sharpened one end to make a point, and this deep groove here will hold the shaft. All we’ve got to do is tie it onto the arrow as tightly as we can.’
They did this quickly with the leftover twine made from Bea’s hair. Fergus fitted the arrow to the crudely made bow and drew it back to the firing position.
‘Doesn’t feel so bad,’ he said.
Bea shook her head. It wasn’t going to work.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Fergus, easing the arrow forward until the string was straight once more and then examining the bow for flaws.
How could she tell him when words were impossible? The bow was as sound as they would ever make it, the shaft of the arrow straight enough, even the makeshift tip would pierce flesh if it got the chance. But that was just it. No arrow would fly as it should without fletching on the end. It would wobble and shake in flight, veer quickly off course and fall well short of its target.
She took the arrow from his hand and flicked her thumb over the naked end. When he looked quizzically at her, she began to flap her arms like a bird in a guessing game that made her laugh despite their desperation.
‘A bird,’ he said, still unsure. ‘Oh, you mean feathers to fletch it with.’
He understood at last, but what use was that when they had seen no birds in Baden Dark and she knew of nothing they could use instead? She threw her hands wide and turned a circle where she stood to show what she meant.
When she faced Fergus again, he was smiling. Then he took hold of her shoulders and turned her around.
What are you doing? she cried in her head. Am I supposed to see something? Had he found a bird after all? If he had, the least he could do was point out the direction!
No arm stretched over her shoulder. Instead she felt a sudden tug in her hair and spun round to reprimand Fergus for playing such childish games at a time like this. She found him holding two precious feathers in his hand.
But where … ? She looked again for a bird. Then she looked closely at the feathers, one blue, the other yellow and pink. They had lived in her hair for most of this journey, yet she’d forgotten all about her headband.
The joy this discovery brought would have to wait. Right now, Bea had to fletch the arrow. First she broke the feather carefully into pieces as she had seen Long Beard do. They needed to cut grooves into the end of the arrow; a simple matter if they’d still had Fergus’s sword. But Gannimere had destroyed it. Fingernails weren’t strong enough. Did Fergus have a knife? She despaired of ever making him understand her need, then she saw his belt. Despite his startled protests, she slipped it free of his pants before he could stop her. The thin metal tongue of the buckle was what she needed and, pressing it into place, she split the shaft and fitted the fletching.
‘Come on,’ Fergus said when it was done. ‘Marcel might be reciting that oath already.’
FERGUS WAS RIGHT. When they emerged from the wood, Marcel was standing solemnly before Gannimere, his lips moving. He was too far away for them to hear the words, but there was no time to go closer.
Fergus planted his feet one well ahead of the other to turn his body sideways and gripped the centre of the bow in his hand.
‘The arrow,’ he whispered to Bea.
Since words were denied her, Bea responded in the only way she could, with a shake of the head.
‘What do you mean?’ Fergus hissed, struggling to keep his voice low. ‘This is why we made the bow. We have to kill Gannimere before he destroys all our lives.’
Bea knew that better than he. She’d refused him the arrow for an entirely different reason and, again, only action would show her meaning. She held out her hand for the bow. I’m an elf, she would have said, if the magic hadn’t been worked against her. It didn’t matter. Fergus heard the words despite her silence. He passed the weapon to her.
Bea nocked the poorly fashioned arrow to the string, raised the bow to her cheek and took aim between Gannimere’s shoulder blades. In the back was the coward’s way, but what choice did she have when the wizard’s power held them hostage.
Was this why her hand trembled? Perhaps it was more than that. She had never killed a living creature before, not a deer nor even a rabbit. To kill a man, in cold blood …
No, she couldn’t lose courage now, no matter how savage it seemed. If she faltered, they would all die a death of one kind or another. She willed her hands to stop shaking. There was no magic in this, like Marcel’s command of the wind and the seas. But it was certainly the power of her mind. The bow steadied in her grip. Only part of her was elvish but she had learned their skills under her grandfather’s eye. She had beaten Kertigan in a fair contest; she must be as good again today or it meant nothing.
Her eye strained along the shaft of the arrow and saw a new difficulty. Marcel stood before Gannimere, only the merest fraction from the line of her aim. Just the heavy beat of her heart would be enough to divert the arrow. If she missed …
There was no more time for such fears. She took a breath and let it ease from her lungs the way she had been taught. She counted her heartbeats, feeling each pulse and the tiny gap before the next. In one of those briefest of moments, when her body was utterly still, she sent the arrow on its way.
Was it the sharp thwack of the bowstring or simply magic that alerted Gannimere? He spun round instantly and found Bea with his eyes. She felt them on her as she followed the flight of the arrow. Her aim was true and the arrow stayed on its path; no magic, no wizardly chanting guided it, only the skill she had learned, spurred on by her desperation. The arrow flew towards Gannimere’s heart.
Gannimere had turned, but he had not ducked or stepped aside. He must see it, Bea thought as the arrow crossed the distance between them. For most folk, such time was measured in the blink of an eye, but when elves wielded their bows time seemed to slow, allowing thoughts, fears, hopes, decisions. For Gannimere, a wizard, it meant time to sweep his hand in an action that came naturally to him to deflect the harm this imperfect arrow would cause. Even a witch could manage such a spell, according to Fergus.
The arrow sped towards its target and still Gannimere’s hand remained by his side. He was watching it, too, now. She felt his eyes flick from her face to its flinty tip, crude by every standard she knew but deadly all the same.
Bea’s own gaze shifted from the arrow to Gannimere’s face. The weariness she had seen in it was there still, but for an instant she saw a flicker of joy. And then, with a brief and surprisingly dull thud, the arrow struck in the centre of his ches
t, a better bull’s-eye than Bea could have hoped for.
The wizard gasped, his eyes widened in pain and he staggered backwards into Marcel, who caught him even before he knew what he was doing. The full weight of a man’s body was more than he could hold, however, and he was forced to let Gannimere slip to the ground.
Bea was already running, even though she couldn’t recall commanding her legs to move. Fergus used his longer stride to catch her and they arrived together to find Marcel settling Gannimere’s head on the grass. The wizard’s gaze was fixed on the high vaults of Baden Dark above them while his hand clutched the arrow buried deep in his chest.
‘You did it, Bea,’ Fergus crowed in celebration.
Bea didn’t listen. She was the archer and Gannimere her prey. She felt a bond between them that would last only a few seconds longer and she couldn’t bear to waste even one of them. Why, she wanted to ask as she stared into his stricken face. He could have stopped the arrow. She was sure of it.
Marcel tried to pull her away. She threw off his hand and stayed looking into Gannimere’s eyes. They moved to take in her face and, in the last moment of his life, let her see what relief death brought to those tired pools of grey.
Only then did Bea stand up and look at the others. Their solemn faces mirrored her own.
‘What happened?’ Marcel asked her.
‘He’s dead,’ she said, startled to hear her own voice. The spell that had muted her tongue had died with the wizard who conjured it. ‘His spirit is making the journey to Arminsel, the shortest any spirit will ever take. Then, eternity.’
‘Yes, but before then, after you fired the arrow. Time seemed to slow.’
‘You felt it too? I wondered whether Gannimere was using his magic after all. Can a person choose between life and death during the flight of an arrow?’
‘I don’t understand.’
Bea was suddenly tired of magic, of wizards, of her own elvish skills. ‘He could have stopped the arrow,’ she said. ‘I saw it in his face. But he didn’t do it; he let me kill him, rather than make you finish the oath. He hated himself for what he was doing — threatening Fergus and me, forcing you to stay — when all along it had been his own weakness he was most afraid of.’
‘He chose his own fate then, like I was trying to do,’ Marcel said. ‘Wisdom before magic. It was the same choice.’
Bea looked down at the wizard’s dead body once more. ‘The hand of another — the only way he could die. It was my hand.’
CHAPTER 32
Daylight and Shadows
THE LIGHT BEGAN TO fade, as though candles were being extinguished one by one throughout the vastness of Baden Dark.
Fergus glanced around for some mischievous Grechie to blame.
‘The light came from Gannimere’s magic,’ Marcel explained. ‘Now that he’s dead, there’s nothing to keep it alive.’
‘What will we do? It’ll be pitch black any minute.’
Bea had disappeared already, even though she was standing only a few paces away.
Marcel stared down at his hand; it seemed to belong to someone else. He raised it to the level of his nose and, for the first time in many years, wondered whether his will could change the world around him.
He let his palm sweep through the familiar movement and immediately the light began to strengthen. ‘I’m still a sorcerer then,’ he muttered wryly.
The words had barely left his lips when he staggered and would have fallen if Fergus hadn’t caught him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘Conjuring the light takes all my energy.’
‘Don’t make it so bright,’ Bea suggested. ‘We just need to see the ground around us, that’s all. The rest of Baden Dark can live up to its name.’
Marcel took her advice. Fergus helped him to a nearby rock, and he sat silently there for many minutes until the faintness had passed.
‘I was no match for him,’ he said finally, without looking at the others. ‘If Gannimere hadn’t wanted to keep me alive, he could have killed me with a wave of his hand.’
‘You’re not the sorcerer you thought you were,’ said Fergus, who must have heard Marcel say the same thing to himself earlier. His bluntness showed he was in no mood to forgive his cousin just yet and nor would Marcel expect it.
‘No, not invincible after all,’ he said bitterly, resting his elbows on his knees so his head hung low between his shoulder blades. ‘Not the greatest sorcerer of the age either. I listened too closely to the old sages in Noam. They should have told me that magic has its limits, and so do I — quite humble limits, it seems.’
He looked around for Bea. Did she have a cutting remark for him too? In the half-light she had encouraged him to create, she could easily stay out of sight, but no, there she was, lingering where he could see her. He searched the expression on her face, but the poor light meant he couldn’t make out her features. She didn’t speak and he realised she was still angry with him. What a fool he’d been to use magic on someone he loved. He had let her down and, when he needed it the most, the magic he’d placed so much store in had let him down as well.
With Fergus taking most of the load, they carried Gannimere’s lifeless body through Arminsel’s arched entrance one last time and settled him among its coiled branches.
‘The best of him is already here,’ said Bea, remembering her mother.
‘The best of him,’ Marcel repeated, then added under his breath, ‘and my father too, and one day me along with them.’
What would he leave with Arminsel when the peace of death beckoned? If it was to have any value at all, he would need to learn from all that his magic had once blinded him to. There was hope in that, at least.
His two companions were looking towards him, waiting.
‘There’s no reason to stay here any longer, I suppose,’ he said.
‘Suits us,’ said Fergus.
The quick reply reminded Marcel of the divide that had existed between them — the two of them against him alone. How could two simple words sting like a hornet? He was their leader again now though and he had given his order, no matter how tentatively.
‘Let’s go,’ he said with more assurance.
There was nothing to carry but what they had brought with them, and that was little enough, especially since Bea left the bow where it lay.
‘Look!’ cried Fergus when they stopped on a rise for a final look at Arminsel.
The dim light meant Marcel could only see the outlines of the great tree. He wondered what had caught Fergus’s eye until a small shape moved on one of the lower branches. ‘A Grechie,’ he murmured.
‘Not just one, it’s all of them,’ said Bea, whose eyes were better in this light.
Indeed, it seemed that every last Grechie had come to stare down at them, their huge eyes shining like fireflies amid the gloom. Despite his exhaustion, Marcel increased the light’s intensity so he could see the enormous spread of branches. In his mind, he listened again as Gannimere explained the full wonder of Arminsel and remembered the awe he’d felt standing before it. He felt that again now, as he took his final glimpse of the great tree he’d been lured here to watch over.
‘I won’t live here as your guardian,’ he whispered, ‘but I’ll watch over you all the same.’ It was a personal oath to honour Gannimere and as much as he could offer.
EVEN AFTER HE LET the light wane, Marcel had to be supported between Fergus and Bea as they retraced their path of days earlier. When he couldn’t go any further, they rested in total darkness and slept for a time that none of them could judge. Marcel awoke feeling stronger, and just as well because another hour’s walking brought them to the solid stone that stood between two worlds.
‘Can you open a breach to set us free?’ Fergus asked.
‘It will be a slow and hungry death if I can’t.’
He pressed his hands against the rock, expecting to feel the same wards that had needed his strongest magic to break.
‘Nothing,’ he said in surprise an
d with the simple spur of his will, the rock broke open.
‘Why was it so easy?’ Fergus asked.
Bea had the answer. ‘Because Gannimere is dead.’
When the rock swung back, a faint light spilled into the opening — not from their own side but the narrow tunnels beyond. Bea and Fergus both turned to stare at Marcel.
‘It’s not my magic,’ he said, perplexed.
It wasn’t magic of any kind they discovered when Fergus stepped through warily, only to cry, ‘Long Beard!’
Bea followed him, leaving Marcel as the last to step free of Baden Dark. There was nothing but black emptiness behind him and so what point was there in lingering? The Grechie would go on tending Arminsel, in darkness now as they had before Gannimere came to live among them. They would do their job without him, just as the tree would go on whether it had a protector or not.
In leaving Baden Dark, Marcel was crossing a boundary that Gannimere had forbidden himself. Once he was home in Elstenwyck, would he be able to resist the treasures that Arminsel offered? Everything that had ever been known; all that a single man could need to command the Mortal Kingdoms. Gannimere had not trusted himself to ignore the temptation. Was he any better?
It wasn’t too late. Bea and Fergus were safely through the breach, and Long Beard was there with torches and food, no doubt, to help them the rest of the way. Marcel could close the barrier. He could turn his promise into the oath Gannimere had demanded of him and then there would be no doubt that Arminsel’s power would remain in Baden Dark.
He stared into the breach outlined by the torchlight from the other side, aware of how easy it would be to shut himself off. A simple flexing of his will was all it would take. Magic had granted him that.
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