“Merciful heavens, Tobias!” said Mayhew. “What have you been doing in there? You’ll frighten the horses with your stink.”
His hair—no other word would do—was disgusting: greasy, grimy, and matted. His clothes were soiled with sweat and filth, his face and hands covered with mud. And even from a distance they could smell the rat-muck.
“I’ve been digging a tunnel,” Tobias said, looking not at Mayhew but at Molly, who was trying very hard not to laugh. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he took the reins and mounted his horse.
As they climbed the steep trail, Mayhew kept looking back at the drawbridge, and was astonished every time to see it still closed. Tobias was searching the west side of the city walls for any sign that his pursuers had made it past the rats to the tunnel, and noted with satisfaction that they had not.
But Molly just looked down at the beautiful valley below, and at Harrowsgode, the city of her people. As eager as she’d been to leave, being there had changed her; and now she felt a strange tug of sadness. She thought of all the people who’d been kind to her—Mikel, Pieter, Ulla, Laila, Sanna, Lorens—and knew she’d never see them again, would never know the end to their stories. Had William felt the same, she wondered, as he climbed this very trail on his way to a new life?
She saw her abandoned Magus wings, still lying in the stubble field like the carcass of a giant, dead insect. She hoped that someone would go out there and haul them in, use the beautiful embroidered silk for the bodice of a gown. That would be nice.
The sun had already dropped behind the western mountains, but it seemed rather darker than it ought to be. The coming of night, like the coming of morning, was gradual in the valley. Long after the sun set the sky would still be bright, slowly fading into twilight, then finally into the almost-dark of northern summer.
“I don’t much like the look of that,” Tobias said.
Looking up, Molly saw that the perfect mountain-clouds of less than an hour before had now turned heavy, lowering, and black. You never saw thunderclouds in Harrowsgode, not at this time of year. So why now?
Her breath caught as she suddenly understood. She squinted at the distant towers of Harrowsgode Hall. She could almost feel Soren up there, watching their ascent, waiting for the perfect moment. Of course. He’d never had any intention of letting them leave. But how was she going to explain this to Mayhew?
The trail made another of its many zigzag turns. The enormous stone figures loomed straight ahead and they heard the first rumbling of thunder.
When they finally left the narrow trail for the wide, flat ledge above, Mayhew looked angrily around. “Fie on Stephen!” he said. “I told him to wait!”
“No,” Molly corrected, “you said to take everyone up to safety. He probably wanted to get them through the canyon while there was still light.”
“All right,” he said, grumbling. “Let’s go.”
“No, wait. There’s something I have to tell you first.”
“Molly, it grows dark, and it’s threatening rain.”
“Yes. But this is important. And you’re going to have to trust me though you won’t—”
“Skip the preamble,” he said. “Make it fast.”
“I’ll do my best. There’s a man up there in one of those towers. He’s a very powerful Magus, the Great Seer. He uses ancient magic to control the clouds.” Mayhew stared at her, incredulous, just as she’d expected. Another growl came from the darkening skies. “Think—why didn’t they send anyone after us? Because this is so much easier. All he has to do is wait till we’re in the canyon, then send in a thunderstorm.”
Mayhew was still staring, but he seemed to half believe her. At least he was turning it over in his mind. “Well, magical or not,” he said, “I think we should stay here on the ledge until this storm has passed. We’ll get wet, but we won’t be drowned in the canyon.”
“I don’t know,” Tobias said. “We’re awfully exposed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lightning. Molly—can the Great Seer control that, too?”
Before she could answer, a thunderbolt struck, barely missing Tobias and throwing the horses into a panic.
“Let’s go!” Mayhew shouted, and dashed into the canyon.
They rode as fast as they could, but the floor was covered with small, smooth stones that slid beneath the horses’ hooves, causing them to scramble and slide.
“Can you swim?” Mayhew shouted back to Molly.
“No.”
“Well, your horse can, if the rush of water doesn’t overwhelm her. Stay on her back as long as you can. If you’re washed away, then kick your legs and flap your arms. That’ll keep your head above water.”
“All right.”
“Pass it on to Tobias.”
She did.
Now it began to rain softly, the high walls of the canyon protecting them from all but a few errant drops. But they knew this was only the beginning. Soon it would start to pour, and the water would stream down the mountain slopes and into their narrow cleft in the rock—water with nowhere to go but out the two narrow passages, one on either end. It would rise with alarming speed, the space being so narrow, covering first the horses’ hooves, then their knees, and then their chests. This would be no dip in a still-water pond on a warm summer afternoon; it would become a raging torrent, surging along the downward slope, carrying them with it to their deaths.
They urged their horses on as the rain picked up, little runnels already streaming down the sides of the canyon.
“Molly!” Tobias called. She turned to see him holding up his wineskin. Then he pulled out the cork and emptied it, and showed it to her again.
“What?”
He held up his hand: Wait. Now he blew air into it, his cheeks puffing out with the effort; the leather sack grew round as he filled it with his breath. Then, holding his thumb over the opening to keep it from deflating again, he quickly slid the stopper in and pressed it down hard.
“It’ll float,” he called. “Do the same with yours. Keep the strap around your wrist.”
Molly nodded and felt for her own wineskin, but it was hard to concentrate now. The rain was coming down the cliff walls with tremendous force, beating on their heads, their backs, the tops of their knees; running into their eyes and making it hard to see. She finally found the wineskin and did as Tobias had showed her. But half of the air escaped before she got in the stopper, so she had to do it a second time. Even then it wasn’t as plump as Tobias’s was, but she stoppered it successfully and felt its roundness. Better than nothing.
The horses pressed stoically on, heads down, heaving with the strain. Then a surge of water caught them from behind, lifting horses and riders alike, driving them forward, knocking them against the narrow walls as they went. Molly lost her wineskin and watched as it floated away. Her mare was paddling frantically, trying to stay afloat; but only her head remained above the flood. Molly could feel the force of the water tugging at her skirts.
“Stop it,” she screamed into the darkness, “you putrid, stinking sack of maggots!” Water streamed onto her upturned face and into her mouth, making her gag. “You weeping sore, you pestilent toad. Do you hear me, Soren? You’re nothing but an arrogant, stone-hearted, prideful old—”
Another surge came, and now she was out of the saddle, hanging on with only one hand. This part of the canyon was especially narrow; she was afraid of being crushed between her horse and the wall. And her gown, heavy with water, was dragging her down. She reached behind with her free hand and tugged at the sodden lacings, but they wouldn’t budge. Then she was slammed against the wall again. God’s breath! She would probably be crushed before she had a chance to drown!
If you are the great Magus I think you are, then you can find your powers even now.
She hadn’t heard this exactly—the words had just come into her mind fully formed.
Such as Archers, stand down!
And The girl has the brains of a goat.
She gasped, trying to make sense of it while searching with her fingers for something, anything she could get a grip on.
But Molly dear, you will at least have to try!
“Well, yes, you do have a point there!” she muttered, finding a second handhold at last, a strap that had once held a basket of provisions. Then she drove everything else from her mind—the raging storm; the sound of Tobias screaming behind her; the heaving gasps of her poor, wild-eyed, overburdened mount; the absolute hopelessness of their situation—and dived deep into herself, deeper than she’d ever gone before.
She didn’t feel the next great surge of water as it rushed over her head, slamming her against the wall; she didn’t see Tobias springing from his horse, beating the wild water with powerful arms, making his way toward her with desperate determination; she didn’t feel his strong grip as he hauled her up onto the saddle, where she lay draped over it like a felled deer being carried home from the hunt. She was unaware of everything but the dark place inside her spirit and the thing that she had to do.
She pictured the looming clouds, heavy and black, emptying themselves of moisture in great, steaming, drowning gushes of water. Then she reversed it, and the clouds became a giant dishcloth, soaking up a spill from a giant kitchen table. She focused her mind on the rain as it began to rise in vast, beautiful, silver sheets, stroking them softly as it passed. She clung fiercely to her vision, eyes shut tight, teeth clenched, till the great black cloud had sucked up every drop that had fallen, then slowly faded and began to dissipate like morning fog.
Then all was silent. The sky was clear, ablaze with stars—and moving across that dazzling light show she saw the dark form of a solitary raven.
Well! That . . . was very . . . impressive!
38
Sigrid
SIGRID?
Of course.
You made the archers stand down.
Yes. But I take no credit for the birds.
You let me escape. You helped me escape. Why?
Because you wanted to. No one should be a prisoner, least of all you.
Soren tried to kill me!
I know. Because you destroyed all his plans and broke his heart. He thought he could mold you in his own image and use your powers against the forces of change. How ironic that you should be the one to bring him down.
But I didn’t hurt him, not at all!
On the contrary, my dear; you destroyed him. Because you defeated him by feat of combat, he has lost his position as Great Seer. And because he used his sacred powers with the intention of taking lives, he will be banished from the Magi altogether.
I did all that?
All that and more; I think you may have saved Harrowsgode.
We’ve hidden behind our walls too long, living like misers, taking from the world and giving nothing back. It has weakened us, and what once made us great is dying. It’s time we went out and engaged the world. It’s time we opened our gates to let our restless spirits fly. Soren alone stood against it. Now everything is possible.
You aren’t at all what you seem.
Neither are you, my dear.
I’m going to miss you, Sigrid; I never would have thought it.
Miss me—we’ve only just begun!
I don’t understand.
Come now, Molly—do you really have the brains of a goat?
At the moment, yes. I probably do.
Through feat of combat you have taken Soren’s place.
I’m on the Council?
You’re the Great Seer of Harrowsgode.
Sigrid, no!
It’s already done, my dear.
But why? Why would I want to rule a city that kept me a prisoner?
Because it’s your ancestral home. Because there is so much here that is good, and we need your guidance. Because you were chosen to do it.
Well, I can’t. I don’t know how, and I won’t even be there. I’m going back to Westria.
Your deputy can handle most of the work—meeting with the ministers, passing on the will of the Council, seeing to the general business of the city.
You?
Goodness, no. That wouldn’t be appropriate at all. What I propose is that you choose a chief minister, someone who is not on the Council, nor even a Magus.
And you have someone in mind?
Yes. Prince Fredrik. By Harrowsgode law he is not permitted to rule while his father still lives; and since he’s not a Magus he can’t serve as Great Seer. But as your deputy, he can guide the city as he was born to do. It’s quite legal, and it’s what we should have done years ago—but Soren wouldn’t allow it.
And don’t worry. I’ll guide you and teach you as best I can. I’ll be by your side, watching you grow into your marvelous Gift. In return, wherever you might be, you will lead us out into the world.
But I think you’ve done quite enough for one day, and your young man seems to need some reassurance. I’ll just slip back into my mousehole now.
Molly opened her eyes. Tobias was holding her close in his arms. It was hard to see his face in the darkness; but she could feel his grief. She could hear his sobbing breaths.
“Tobias, you’re crushing me!” she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, Molly. I thought you were dead!” He touched her cheek and sobbed some more. “You didn’t answer when I called.”
“I was . . . busy, but I’m all right now. Just very tired.”
“Look!” He gestured with his hand to indicate the dry stones beneath them, the bright, starry sky above. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t tell anyone. You have to promise.”
“All right.”
She coughed and stirred, tried to get up, and found she didn’t have the strength.
“Tobias, you’re going to have to help me into the saddle. I don’t think I can do it myself, and I want to get out of this bloody canyon.”
He gathered her up as tenderly as a father carries a sleeping child, then gently set her down beside the mare. When she was steady, he laced his hands and leaned down. She set her boot into them, and he helped her rise till she could swing her leg over the saddle. He guided her feet into the stirrups and collected the reins, placing them in her hands. Then wordlessly he turned and walked back to his mount, knowing in his heart that she had passed out of his universe that night. She was beyond him now, and all the devotion in the world could never bring her back.
39
Incantations
SIGRID CAME AGAIN IN THE NIGHT.
If anyone had been watching, they’d have heard Molly talking softly in her sleep, would have noticed the restless movements of head and hands, the play of expressions across her face. But nobody was. They were all asleep.
She woke now and sat up, pulling her blanket around her shoulders and hugging her knees. For a long time she stayed like that, staring into the dying coals, trying to work out her story. When she was ready, she went quietly over to the clearing where they’d built their fire and ran her fingers through the dirt, searching for two smooth stones of equal size, smaller than a walnut but not as round.
Sigrid had been most specific, and Molly had feared she wouldn’t be able to find them. Smooth stones were found in low places, where water ran. But they had camped on high ground. Yet there they were, side by side, half buried in the hard-packed earth at the very edge of the fire ring as though Sigrid had put them there.
She wiped them clean on her skirt. Then she held them as instructed—one in each hand, palms up—and began the Incantation of the Stones.
The words felt foreign on her tongue, and she didn’t understand them. She’d merely learned them by rote, repeating after Sigrid many times. But when the stones grew warm and began to give off light, she knew she’d done it right.
She took a deep breath, shaking off her nervousness. This was a good beginning.
Now she went over to Tobias. Constance, who lay curled in the crook of his arm, woke and
looked up; but he slept on, mouth slightly open, breathing heavily. The torrent in the canyon had washed him clean. His hair was tangled, but golden again.
With her right hand she carefully set the first stone on his forehead. With her left she laid the second on his chest, for remembrance and forgetting were matters of heart as well as mind. You cannot change the one without the other.
They glowed softly in the darkness.
Now she set a thumb on each stone and began the Incantation of Forgetfulness. It was longer than the first, and some of the words had to be spoken with an uplift of the voice while others slid down, then up again. She focused all her attention on doing it perfectly. Then she lifted her thumbs, lowered them again, and repeated the incantation a second time.
Tobias’s heart and mind were open now.
“You will forget everything about Harrowsgode,” she whispered, “even its name. You will forget that I flew from a tower and what happened in the canyon tonight.”
Twice more she repeated the Incantation of Forgetfulness, and it was complete. She’d erased a part of his life, robbed him of memories. It was a heavy thing to do, and it frightened her. But she trusted Sigrid, and Sigrid had said it must be done.
Now came the final charm, the Incantation of Remembering.
Molly sang the magical words softly, in a pure, sweet voice. When she came to aii-kah, she remembered to press down on the stones, as one does when planting a seed. When she came to the word chi-ahn-o, she raised them to the skies, as if calling forth the sun and the rain.
Now she filled the empty spaces in his heart and mind with a new reality, a new memory. Tobias would go through his life believing it had really happened—and she could never tell him otherwise.
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