by M. C. Elam
“You play games with me.” Where is Evan?
“No games. Stand behind them.”
“How, how can I stand behind an illusion?”
“Not an illusion. They exists as you exist but in a different time”
“What? Now you’d have me believe I view the past?”
“Not the past, Hawk, the future.”
A smirk crept across Hawk’s upper lip. “Doesn’t matter. I cannot do what you ask.”
“Use your thoughts to move before it’s too late.” Impatience tinged the old man’s voice. The boy lacked discipline and patience. His mind darted from place to place.
“I can’t.”
“You can walk, can’t you? Imagine that you walk toward them.”
Hawk gazed at the two women through the opening, but his focus weakened. “No, it’s closing.”
The boy’s anxious tone touched Melendarius. He gripped Hawk’s shoulder and an energy jolt passed between them. The opening strengthened and held firm. “Go now before my vigor ebbs.”
Hawk walked into the space and stood behind the woman who dressed the girl’s hair. Now every part of the room seemed solid, so real that he expected to see his own reflection staring back from the mirror. Instead, he saw Evan, her sweet face, and those black eyes that had lost none of their power to swallow his soul and grip his heart. She sat quiet and still while the woman secured the braided coil.
“By the gods, I see her, Melendarius.” His voice choked with ragged emotion.
Hawk touched the gentle curve of her shoulder where it met the smooth line of her neck. She raised her hand and turned toward him. He felt her fingers against his rough knuckles, but then they slipped through his flesh and rested against her own skin.
“Does she know I am beside her?” He meant to caress her again, but the wrinkle slammed closed, and she disappeared. “Bring her back,” he shouted.
“She is there still. Your spirit stepped into the future, but your body remains locked in Ascalla’s present.”
“She felt me touch her. I was there.”
“No, Hawk. You never left Ascalla. When she arrives at the time you witnessed she may feel the warmth of your spirit and think of you in that moment. I cannot say. The Mother has blocked her from us.”
Hawk regained his stance and started back the way they had come. “Such a cruel monster has no honor.”
“Stop.”
He spun toward Melendarius. “Speak no more of the Mother’s ways. Evan languishes housed in stable quarters while the entity that you claim Mothers the Earth lets me glimpse her plight.” He turned to continue along the trail and found his feet plunged ankle deep into solid ground. “What the… Goat piss, let me go you old fool. What trick do you play now?”
“Watch your tongue.” Melendarius raised Lunarey, and Hawk’s mouth opened. His tongue unrolled almost to his waist. “Evan faces hardship far worse than a clean stable room. I have seen her journey and feared she might die. The Mother’s pity gave us sight to a future time. The stable master protects her. The Mother blocks her from me because she knows I meddle where I should not, and your brash nature makes you act before you think.” He lowered the staff, and Hawk’s tongue shrank to normal.
“I’ll march on Lawrenzia in the spring. You have shown me the way.”
“You know the way but not the time. Attack Lawrenzia in the spring and Peter Brenan will defeat you. Already he claims a third of Glynmora and takes more each year. A regiment of two hundred men is no match for the force he keeps constant.”
“If not in the spring, tell me when.”
“The Mother will guide you. If you want to save Evan and Ascalla, build your army, as many as you can muster. Call them from Shadall and Glynmora, Andors, too.”
“The Mother.” Hawk looked at him resigned to listen despite his anger at a god that played them all like chessmen.
“Aye, King Hawk, you are a son of the Mother. A billion years ago, she cast her hand over the land, and Ascalla emerged. Deny her and you’ll inherit nothing but ashes and ruin. Love her, hate her, I care not. But obey her.”
25 - Brendemore
Luther spent a day looking for the horse before he abandoned the search and pushed south along the Osway River. Damned witchy woman had slowed his travel plan. He had hoped for an easy trek all the way to Brendemore. A week of heavy rain added to his misery when The Osway spilled over her banks and forced him to seek high ground that took them miles away out of the way.
He plodded along mulling the whole escapade over in his head and grew angrier at every mile. Pure and simple, that flaming witch had fouled his plan when she turned the nag loose. Least her tongue turned silent. She looked sickly these last days, and her belly swelled so big he feared she’d whelp. By the time they struck Brenan’s Fist, he had made-up his mind. First bloke that come down the road and showed a might of interest, he’d cut a deal. Trouble be those they passed never give her a second look, dirty like she be. Fat lot a good that river dousing done her, slogging through the mud on the road last couple a days. He be glad enough to get shed of her and be on his way.
They come to the stable inside the Brendemore slave pens just shy of noon. He set the woman to pulling burs from the nag’s tail while he cleaned the dirt from his face and brushed the snarls from his wiggy mop. No sense in calling out for the stable master until he got spruced up a might.
“Get that done, use this on it.” He threw the brush at her head and flinched when it hovered midair before dropping to the ground. Another of them witchy tricks he supposed.
Evan picked it up and pulled some strands of Luther’s hair from the bristles. When she caught him watching, she sent him an empty gaze and rolled them into a tight ball.
“Here now, what you be wanting with that?”
The corners of her mouth marked a faint smile, and she squeezed the rolled hairball between her thumb and index finger.
A pain, sharp enough to make him wince and grab his head, arced across Luther’s crown. “You be doing witch stuff on me.” He strode toward her and raised his hand. “Give it to me.”
Defiant, she glared at him, dropped the hairball and ground her foot over the place she imagined it fell.
“Leave off messing with me, you hear. I got no feelings for whether you live or die,” he spat at her and stalked away.
The brush had a leather strap across the top that Evan settled over her hand. A few reluctant burs tangled the horse’s scraggly mane. She freed them one at a time. Poor thing was more in need of a good feed and a descent rest than anything else. His neck rippled under the sweeping strokes of the brush that Evan followed with her free hand. Dried mud crumbled to dust and came away in little clouds that made her nose run. She continued until no more debris lifted from the animal’s shabby coat, and its tense muscles relaxed.
“He be looking a bit more sound with that curry. Got him a limp though. Mayhap picked up a stone.” Luther moved toward the horse for a better look.
“I’ll see to his feet,” Evan said.
“Well, breath of a whore. Witch woman got a voice after all. See to it then and be quick. I mean to get shed of him before high sun.”
What of me, Evan wondered? She felt as worn and used and nameless as the horse. She knew Luther feared her, convinced that she used the hair pulled from the brush against him. Let him think so. Superstition had kept him away from her since that night on the trail when she came naked from the icy water and found him ogling her. The lust in his eyes had triggered her anger. She shivered remembering how her mind made a connection between his beating heart and the idea that with a thought she could rip it from his chest. She shook her head. Was that the dark meditation of which Melendarius spoke? If so, she had learned it on her own. She touched the rolled edge of her chemise and found a round bulge. The black pearl, still secure, warmed under her fingers.
“Get at it whore.” Luther started toward her.
She glared at him until he lowered his eyes. Such a fool, his utte
r and complete stupidity betrayed any confidence he might have owned. She could have walked away while he slept anytime during the last month, but Lawrenzia was a foreign land. She had no food or any way to hunt. Big now with child, her agility had waned. The few times she considered leaving she had heard wildcats calling in the dark. The cunning that served so well against Luther wouldn’t go far if a big cat tracked her, and the call of wolves had disappeared as soon as they struck Brenan’s Fist.
She bent to take one of the horse’s hooves between her knees and clean away the accumulated debris. Methodically she checked first one and then another. Lame indeed and no wonder; poor thing needed a good trim and new shoes.
“Find the stone, did you?”
“No stone. He needs his hooves filed and new shoes.”
“I’ll not be paying for a shoeing. Not for the likes of a that nag. Cost more to shoe than selling it’ll bring. Fix him best you can.”
***
Good as his word, Luther approached the main gate outside the stable before midday. Weeks on the trail had trimmed some of the fat from his corpulent physique, and after scrubbing his face and shaking his trail leathers free of mud he felt dapper, a man of means with property to sell. Why he might even take a few coppers and buy a nice soft whore once he got shed of the business at hand.
An empty saddle made the horse’s lopsided gait less severe. Luther didn’t begrudge walking, not one bit if it meant the jingle of coin in his pocket. Worn down and in need of a shoeing, lowered the nags selling price, plain and simple. So, he set his feet to the road and sought to fool the stable master a might. He put old witch-woman out front. Let her draw some of the interest away from the nag. Besides, a man got tired of those black eyes boring into his back.
“You want any victuals today just keep that hole in your face plugged soon as we get in there.”
Evan kept walking. The stable was big. Three separate corrals ran the length of the building and she counted forty stalls. The structure looked well kept. The clapboard construction meant each board fit against the next with no mud chinking. A bare-chested youth carried a bucket of whitewash in one hand and a wide bristled brush in the other. He headed across one of the corrals to a side of the stable she couldn’t see. She heard him whistling, and despite the present company, the sound made her smile. The tune was one Marcus sometimes hummed when he worked. She wondered if he would try whistling now that his mouth… Her throat pinched.
Stop now before you’re bawling like a lost puppy, she thought.
They approached the fence, and Luther looped the horse’s reins across a hitch rail. Three men worked to control an agitated stallion in the first corral while a fourth tended a fire. He wore heavy gloves and turned a long handled branding iron in the hot coals. Luther shouted for the stable master, and one of the men motioned toward a smaller shed-like structure attached to the main building.
Luther knew Runderly and didn’t much care for the man’s attitude. Insisted everybody call him Mr. Devon like he be something special and not just another one of old King Peter’s slave boys. Boot licker was what he was, pure boot licking fool. Just because he worked his way off the block and run the stable didn’t make him free. Still, that long-nosed stare of his made Luther feel like he was the slave and Mr. Devon, owned him. And what was the idea of all that Mr. Devon, pig shit? Well, he’d just plain have to tolerate that or forget any idea about selling the nag. Luther glanced at the woman.
“Stay put and don’t give me cause to hunt you down. Owlmen be pickin’ your bones they catch you lookin’ like you do without a man and no papers.” He headed for the shed, chest all puffed out with his own importance.
Evan watched him walk away and bit the inside of her cheek. Better not get him riled with a retort. No one wanted her. She was like so many others they had passed on the road, dressed in rags, dirty and not a copper for a pint of ale.
Luther emerged from the shed followed by a tall man with a freckled complexion and a shock of red hair that framed his strong features. He looked familiar, but she knew she had never seen him before today.
Devon Runderly noted the wrestling match with the corralled horse. “You slackers ease up on that horse. I told you to brand him, not ruin his spirit.”
“Aye, boss, aye, but we got us a mean devil here. Not worth that silver asking price.”
Silver, Luther’s ears perked, silver for a horse? Must be one of those purebreds. Didn’t look like anything grand to him. Mean be what he saw. Evil mean from the looks of things.
Devon frowned. “See you mind what I tell you before I find a use for that brand more fitting than a horses flank.” He turned to Luther. “Now what brings you my way, Luther? Can’t be that piece of rundown horse flesh.”
“Aw, tough as nails he be. Crossed the mountains sure and steady as any you please. Ice and all, and not one false step, Mr. Devon, sir.” He sidled near the horse, and it shied closer to Evan.
“Seems he doesn’t like you much,” said Devon. “Laid on the whip a time or two I’d warrant.” He ran a hand along the horse’s side and across its flank. “Looks nearly starved.”
Evan watched the stable hands in the corral throw another rope around the chestnut’s neck. Frantic, it struggled harder. Terror and fury marked its wild eyes and the plaintive, high-pitched whinny pierced her heart. A third rope whistled through the air, but the wide loop missed. The man reeled it in and sidled closer. Arm raised above his head he began swinging the rope in a wide arc. The noose expanded with each revolution. His throw found the mark. He pulled tight and used his weight to restrain the horse. Meanwhile, Luther continued to cajole Mr. Devon in a singsong kind of way that became part of the buzz in the air around her.
Devon paid small attention to Luther’s whine and watched the ragtag bunch of men in the corral. He’d handpicked them to mind the stock. They cleaned stalls well enough, but branding was another issue. The stallion was prime. Deep red coat and three white hooves, the star-like blaze that extended from forelock to muzzle made its expressive eyes look huge. When he found the tiny “E” tattooed inside its ear two days after Brenan’s man brought it in for him to sell, he knew the horse had belonged to Queen Ellyanna. Somehow, he hadn’t been able to let it go. Maybe it was thinking about the sad eyed queen. Maybe it was just holding onto something beautiful. At any rate, when it came to horses, he had never seen better. He didn’t really want to brand the animal either, but the inspector had ordered it the last time through, and the only thing that saved his arse was saying he’d held off for a prospective owner. That excuse wouldn’t work twice. So he’d ordered the fire built to heat the iron. He meant to take care of it himself, but when Peter Brenan’s taxman caught him off guard demanding payment and a look at the ledger, he had trusted the men to handle the horse. Now, the frenzied thrashing fired his anger. He started over the fence bent on stopping them. That was when he noticed Evangeline and held back.
“That your woman, Luther?” He nodded toward the corral.
“What?” Luther had forgotten about Evan. He followed Devon’s gaze. Fool woman was halfway across the corral. “Got no wife. She be my property. I aim to sell her soon as you and me finish our dealings.” He walked closer to the fence. “Told you not to be trying nothing stupid. That horse’ll end your days you get to close.”
Evan ignored him and kept walking. She raised her hands palms outstretched. “Drop your ropes and move away from him.”
The closest man shot her a malignant glare. The other two fought the raging horse.
“Get a rope round one of them front legs, and we’ll bring him to knee. Where’s that fool boy a yours. Need us another hand.”
“Mr. Devon’s got him spreading whitewash.”
Evan moved closer. “He’ll die before he lets you break his spirit. Drop the ropes before he charges.”
“Get back woman. It be you he’ll take down.”
Luther started through the fence rails after her, but Devon stopped him. “Let her go.”
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“That horse be fierce. It kills her, you bought a dead slave.”
“Let her go, I said.”
“Back out of the way, woman. Be men’s work here.”
Evan kept walking. “Men do not torture innocent animals.”
The horse reared hard against the restraining ropes and plunged forward. All three ropes went slack and sent the men sprawling. It twisted toward the nearest one, reared and brought its sharp hoofs crashing against the ground mere inches from his head.
The man dropped the restraining rope and scrambled clear. “I’ll teach you, you bloody devil. He reached for a whip fastened at his waist.
“No! Leave him alone.” Evan ran toward the man and grabbed his arm. He shoved her hard. She lost her footing but grabbed the end of the whip and wrapped it around her arm.
“Drop the ropes.” Devon shouted over the din. “You put a whip to that horse and I’ll lash you myself.”
“Can’t leave it go now, Mr. Devon. He be on us sure.”
“Let him go,” said Evan. She glared at the three men and cast the whip aside.
“He’ll tramp her into the ground.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Evan. She stood and moved past them toward the horse.
“That woman be a mouthy whore,” said Luther. He leaned on the top fence rail and watched Evan inch forward. “Brought old Luther a mess a trouble. Best I stop her before her cussedness gets a hold a you, too, Mr. Devon.”
Devon leveled him with a gaze. “Best you leave hands off, Luther. She’s got an eye on that horse. I want to see what she’s about.”
“’Bout getting dead. Got no sense at all and that bundle she’s carrying ready to drop.” He started over the fence.
“Your bundle?”
“No, sir, not old Luther’s. Found it out after I snatched her.” He started over the fence again.