Trig's outrage sent him stamping off through the slowly moving crowds, oblivious to the way Massan was staring after him. It's true, Massan thought, his big hands turning to fists as he stared. All of it was true. The wizard, the trek, the fighting, all of it. To the east, Rothaz had said, my holding is to the east. Somewhere near the Death Swamp, then, but what man in his right mind would ride toward the Death Swamp?
Massan stood unmoving where Trig had left him, but slowly, slowly, his head turned until he was looking east.
"Indelee," he whispered very softly.
MANDRAKE
Caralyn Inks
“Grandpa?"
Though Joss heard his grandson call his name, he concentrated on his fingers. Under them, the hair he'd just carved in the root stirred. The wild magic was working a change! Fear filtered through his awe, fear not for himself, but for the woman trapped in the root.
Joss hooked the carving knife onto his belt, then slid the 'drake into the chamois bag he'd made for it. "Yes, Wairen?"
"Grandpa, we're here."
"So we are." Joss put his hand on the boy's shoulder. During his reverie, they had moved through the Galzar Pass. Ahead, his son Masen's wagon slowed to a halt behind a long line of wagons, peddlers and merchants waiting to pass through the gates of Ithkar Fair in the morning, their lanterns and campfires glowing like gold eyes in the predawn darkness. He felt Wairen bend forward, setting their own lanterns to swaying. Joss laughed. "We'll get there soon enough. Or is it young Tass, the acrobat, you're so anxious to see?"
"Grandpa!"
"I'm sorry. Do you care so much?"
He patted Wairen's back. The boy looked like his dead wife, Jena, with his bird-bright eyes and his hair as red as the apples they'd brought from the farm. Since discovering the 'drake his mind had turned often to memories of Jena. He'd never loved another woman.
"I do. At the last fair I asked her to bond with me. We love each other, but she's afraid she might not like a farmer's life. Tass loves visiting the big keeps and fairs."
"And she might love it more than she loves you?" At the boy's silent nod, Joss said, "Have you thought about going with her?"
"What would Father, Mother, and you do without me?"
"There's your sister and her husband," Joss suggested. They and his daughter-in-law had not come to Ithkar, as Mari was expecting her first child in the next ten-day.
"What good would you be to us if your heart is elsewhere? Boy, whatever you decide, go for your heart's desire. If you don't follow it, you'll wither like an apple— life will lose its crispness, and it will shrivel and rot until the seeds won't even sprout into renewal. Think about it. Whatever you and Tass decide, you'll have my blessings."
The sun was two fingers high in the sky when Masen leaned out from the wagon he was driving. "Y'ho. Father, Wairen! Catch up. We're next. Old Sanda is Ithkar's witch this year."
Wairen and Joss laughed. Sanda was a favorite of theirs. Off and on for the past forty fairs she'd been one of the gate's protectors.
"Nothing can pass her." Joss chuckled. "She can sniff out illegal magic as a spice merchant sorts his wares by smell alone."
Joss's humor died. He smoothed the bag holding the 'drake, then cupped it close to his side. Why hadn't he thought? He was bringing wild magic to the fair. It was banned by the temple. Rightly so, they believed magic that could not be controlled was dangerous, especially wild magic, for it transformed its wielder and not always pleasantly. Only the mage-priests had the power to destroy it.
The woman in the root was helpless in her present state. Until he could release this child of the wild magic, he must protect her. As if in response to his thoughts, the femaledrake moved inside the chamois bag. She'd been doing that, off and on, ever since he'd finished carving her nose.
Wild magic took many forms. It erupted, spring and winter, during the violent storms that formed over the Tors.
Last spring, during such a storm, he had heard a woman scream his name, though all his family denied hearing it. When the storm blew over, he and his son and grandson separated to check the farmland and the apple orchard for damage.
Joss had felt compelled to climb up from their small valley. On the Tors he had glimpsed a moving light. As he'd approached it he'd realized the light was stationary and that the wind blowing through branches gave the illusion of movement. He'd found a mandrake entangled in the roots of a lightning-struck blue oak. A silvery-gray aura had surrounded the 'drake, as if it had absorbed the electrical bolt that had felled the tree. Joss had known better. It was wild magic.
Old wives' tales said death came to those who heard a mandrake's scream, but he wasn't dead, yet. He now believed this was the source of the voice he'd heard during the storm.
The wild magic had attracted him. He'd reached out. Its aura had twisted outward, threading his fingers. The power had pulled him. Unable to do otherwise, he'd grasped the root. The stored magic had exploded up his arm!
When Joss had regained consciousness, daylight was gone. His son Masen was holding him, asking what was wrong. Awe had held him still for a moment. The wild magic had tossed him several yards away from the blue oak, and clutched in his hand was the mandrake.
It wasn't until Masen had taken him home and his daughter-in-law had finished fussing over him that the chance had come to examine the strange gift the wild magic had given him.
The smooth, bifurcated root was a hand and a half long. Its magic-hardened, silver-gray body was akin to wood; a pale grain flowed throughout it. Years of whittling had told him it would take well to a carving knife.
As Joss had studied it, knowledge had flowed into him that it was not a mandrake, but a femaledrake, and a woman was imprisoned in the root!
"Grandpa!"
“Hmm?"
"We're at the gate, and here comes witch Sanda," said Wairen. "What were you thinking about? I called you three times."
"Nothing. Old people's minds often wander."
"You're not old!"
"Wairen," Joss said, "I'm eighty-seven winters old. My life is nearly over. Look at me. Do not hide from the truth. You'll only cause yourself undue pain if you do."
Joss slipped the chamois bag into his shirt, then tied up his vest lacings. He caught Wairen watching him. Making no comment, the boy looked away.
Thinking rapidly, Joss sat back and forced himself to relax as Wairen pulled their wagon alongside Masen's.
"Y'ho, Sanda," called Joss. "Are you ready to sample some fresh cider? Or"—he lowered his voice and winked— "would you like to sample some that has aged for a while?"
"Hello yourself, you old fool," she answered, laughing. "You only want to get me soused so you can lift my skirts!"
Joss watched her as she approached. They'd been good friends for many years. But friend or not, old Sanda was a witch. The moment she paused he knew she sensed magic.
"What's going on here, Joss?" she asked. Sanda rested her hand on his boot, which extended out over the wagon's side. "Since when do you hire a wizard's protection for apples?"
"Now, why would we do that?" asked Masen, who had followed her. "We have never resorted to magic!" He said "magic" as if the word tasted foul. "Is there something wrong here?"
"Is there, Joss?" she asked.
He lifted Sanda's hand from his boot and climbed down, hoping the tremors in his hands would be attributed to old age and not to fear. "Sanda, I don't know what you're talking about. What's troubling you?"
"There's a smell of magic on this wagon," she said, walking around it and the horses.
Sanda nodded at Wairen but continued to run her hands over the wooden sideboards, then over the horses' harnesses. I'll have to go inside."
Masen stepped up beside her, half lifting her until she perched beside Wairen. "Ever was our tent open to you, so, too, our wares. No magic has been used to enhance the produce, be they from the apple tree or made by our hands."
When Masen's eyes met his questioningly, Joss shrugged his shoulders, turning his hands
in an outward motion.
"Here, help me down," said the witch. "No magic has been worked on the wagon or its contents. Still, there's something here. A strange magic. What it is, is beyond my experience. Because I know and trust you folk, you're free to enter Ithkar Fair.
"I will have to report this to the priests. I'm sorry. Leave the barrel of cider I've marked at the temple." When Sanda passed Joss she whispered, "Later I'll be over to sample the aged apple-fire I saw under the rugs!"
"Do," said Joss, winking.
As he began to climb back up to the wagon seat, Masen grabbed his arm. "What was that all about?"
"She just plans to come by later and share some hard cider with us."
"By the Three, that is not what I meant. This magic business. What do you know of it? You have been acting odd ever since I found you on the Tors. I ask you again—as I asked you then—what happened to you?"
Joss evaded the first question, answering the second. “Nothing happened to me," Joss said, letting irritation show in his voice. "I was tired and fell asleep."
Sitting down, he asked, "Are you ready, Masen? We're blocking those behind us."
When the wares were unloaded Joss left Masen and Wairen digging post holes for the tent's key poles. He climbed into the provision wagon and began tying the tent to its high sides. He would do the same to Masen's wagon, which he had drawn up at right angles to this one. At eventide the tent's sides would be let down and lashed into place. He tugged on the tent ropes, checking each before fetching the hard cider for Sanda. If not tonight, then on the morrow she would stop by for drink and gossip. Hearing Masen speak, he paused.
"Watch Grandpa. I'm worried. There's been a change in him."
"I will," said Wairen. "He's been frail since spring and getting more so, though he tries to hide it."
"I don't know what to think since Sanda sensed magic in his wagon," Masen said. "I'm sure he knows something. But I've never been able to get my father to talk unless he wants to. Well, I'm off to take the horses to the boarding pens."
Joss waited until the sounds of Masen's leaving faded. As much as he didn't want to agree with Wairen, he realized he wasn't as strong as he had been. He glanced down at his hands. The backs of them were riddled with brown spots. They were nature's way of warning the mind the body was giving out. He carved with his left hand, and after each carving the spots grew larger on that hand. When he wielded the knife he felt the wild magic stored in him course from his brain down his arm to his fingers to meet with the 'drake. It was as if the magic in the femaledrake and the magic in him communicated with each other through the knife and his fingers. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, but each time he put his tools away he trembled with weakness.
Joss stepped down from the wagon. "Wairen?" He met his grandson's eyes.
“You heard?"
Joss nodded. "You seek your destiny at Ithkar Fair among the acrobats. I, too, seek. It may bring me death or something else entirely. Give me the dignity of choice such as I give you." He watched his grandson nod. “I’ll mind the wares." Joss laughed as Wairen hesitated. "Go on. See if she's arrived yet."
In between letting his customers sample the cider and selling apples and hearthcrafts, Joss whittled on the 'drake. He was a firm believer in the old saying, "If you want to hide something, put it out in the open."
Joss thought about what he'd said to Wairen. When the wild magic had revealed that a woman was trapped inside the root—he'd committed himself to freeing her. He could have fought the power and been transformed into something unpleasant, but he'd bent his will to its. He was also curious.
Joss believed some rare and strange life force would die if he didn't make the effort to save it. Once before he had failed to save a life, and he'd spent his lifetime trying to bury grief.
His wife, Jena, had died in his arms when Masen was two winters old. He'd done all he knew to save her. Even if a healer had been there when the wood viper struck, she still would have died.
In remembrance of her he carved the 'drake in Jena's. likeness. In some way he felt if he succeeded in bringing forth the wild magic's child, he'd have made restitution for his powerlessness to save Jena.
Joss wielded the carving knife deftly, finishing the face. He moved downward, shaping its throat, shoulders, and small, pert breasts. Never before had he carved wood that parted so willingly for the blade. It was as if the magic-hardened root eagerly sought the sharp edge giving it birth.
He held it out to see if his work was in balance, and the 'drake bent at the torso and bit his thumb!
Shocked, he dropped it. It fell into the small barrel of cider he'd been dipping samples from.
"By the Three," he exclaimed, wondering why it had bitten him. Joss bent to fish it out, halting when he heard his name called. Looking up, he saw Sanda walking toward him with a priest at her side. The priest's silk robe proclaimed he had reached third-level attainment. Joss thought for a moment, then sucked in air. That meant the priest was a mage.
"What are you doing," Sanda asked, amused, "fishing for a drink without a cup? Have you sampled the apple-fire without me?"
He fumbled for the ladle hanging on the far side of the barrel, hiding the excitement he knew was reflected on his face. The 'drake was sentient! He'd thought so but had had no proof until now. When it bit him it was protecting itself. Unlike normal wood it did not float but had sunk out of sight. Joss filled the ladle and offered it to Sanda.
"Now, would I do that?" he asked, winking at her. "I was so startled by your beauty I forgot what I was doing."
"Hush, you old fool." She laughed. Sobering, she turned to the priest beside her and offered him the brimming ladle. When he shook his bald head Sanda said, "Ta'xel, this is my friend. He and his kindred have been coming to Ithkar Fair for generations. In all that time they never manifested magical abilities. It is passing strange that some power now surrounds one of their wagons. There is a taste about this magic I cannot place."
"So you have said before," Ta'xel replied, walking toward the wagons.
Joss shivered. The force of the priest's personality frightened him. He'd need all the wits he had garnered in his lifetime to face Ta'xel down. Though invisible, power surrounded the priest. His search was more methodical than Sanda's. When the mage-priest stepped down from the last wagon, an aura was shining about his fingers, a silvery-gray glow like that which surrounded the femaledrake when he'd first seen it.
"Who is he?" he asked Sanda, nodding at Ta'xel.
Sanda leaned her head until her mouth touched his ear. "Ta'xel is a gatherer and sorter of power. Given time, he will discover what kind of magic hides itself in your wagon. Then he will destroy it."
Joss fought his growing fear. He moved away from Sanda and forced himself to face the mage-priest.
“Joss, is something wrong?" When he didn't reply she added, "If there is, I'll help all I can, but if you've involved yourself in forbidden magic, there's little I can do."
"What could possibly be wrong?" he prevaricated, keeping his eyes on the priest.
"Goodman Joss," Ta'xel said, wiping the silvery-gray magic from his fingers and rolling it into a ball. "This form of magic is unknown to me. What is unknown is unacceptable to the priesthood. You will accompany us to the temple."
"A judgment?" Sanda asked in shocked tones, reaching out to grasp Joss's arm.
"Questioning," replied Ta'xel, looking down at her. "I hold back on sentencing judgment only because no wares are enhanced by magic."
Ta'xel removed from his robe a clear glass ball. The mage whispered over it. The glass split in two. He placed the magic into it and spoke an inaudible word. The sphere once more became whole.
"Come," he said.
Joss found himself wanting to defy the priest. He hadn't disliked someone on sight for many seasons, but he did now.
"Grandpa!" shouted Wairen, bursting in among them, pulling Tass with him by the hand. "What's going on here? Where are they taking you?"
�
�It is in regard to the magic Sanda sensed." Joss saw the fear in Wairen's and Tass's eyes. They knew full well the danger of being brought before the temple priests with the suspicion of using illegal magic. The least that could be done to one found guilty was banishment, but sentence sometimes was to be hung naked by the thumbs outside the fair gates until dead.
"Mind the wares until your father returns. I'll not be gone long," he said, forcing an air of confidence he did not feel. Joss moved off with the mage and the witch. Casually, as if in afterthought, he turned back to the young couple still holding hands. "Reseal that barrel of cider, and mark it. The flavor is a bit sour." He ignored Sanda's surprised glance. The cider wasn't bitter at all, but he had to protect the femaledrake. Silently he expelled the breath he was holding when Sanda said nothing. Old loyalties and friendship still held true, but not for long if the truth willed out.
Though the way to the Temple of the Three Lordly Ones was short, it seemed to take a long time to arrive. Ta'xel led them through the temple to a small door.
"Wait here," he ordered Sanda. He led Joss inside. It was a small oval room, empty except for a long table and benches placed on a raised dais. "I will return with the judge-priests," Ta'xel said.
Joss relaxed for a moment. He rubbed his face with his hands and through his hair, pulling it hard. The pain helped him focus his thoughts, and he whispered, "Wild magic within me. You got me into this. If you want the femaledrake to be born, get me out!"
Behind the dais a panel slid open; through it filed two men carrying an old woman in a chair. Joss straightened and nodded his head in respect. The woman was Ra'nar. He had thought her dead. The priestess was ten winters older than he. The simple purity of her robe proclaimed her rank, chief priestess. To his surprise, she inclined her head in return. They'd been friends until their lives went in different directions.
Behind her Ta'xel and Sanda came through the panelway and stood behind Ra'nar and the other two seated priests.
Ta'xel stepped forward. "Goodman Joss, you have been brought before the council to be questioned about the magic brought to Ithkar Fair in your wagon. Please answer each question with a yes or a no. If judgment is weighed against you, then you may speak in your behalf. And, if you so desire, have witnesses brought before us to speak for you. Do you understand?"
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 10