Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #211

by TTA Press Authors

  * * * *

  He gave Naraya some of his wife's clothes, and blinked back tears when he saw her: her hair held in place by his wife's horn hairpins, the russet, delicate oval of her face. She moved within the house with hunger in her eyes, encompassing everything new to her, devouring human things with her gaze.

  "I have dreamt my whole life of entering one of your dwellings,” she said, when he grew curious.

  Her existence was the forest and the herd and the pool; was it any wonder that just as Lesper dreamt of losing himself under the trees, she too dreamt of something beyond her reach?

  Naraya wrapped her doe-skin around her shoulders, tied the ends so it would not fall. “Shall we go?"

  He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  Once within the forest she did not speak, but bounded ahead, mingling with the trees. He could taste her fear. What did he think he was doing? It was sheer foolishness to go back there.

  No. He had to see Tarra.

  Within the forest, the light never changed, as if the sun outside had no power under the canopy. It seemed to him that no time at all had passed when Naraya stopped. Ahead of them, trees grew sparser, changed in some indefinable way to become old and vast and terrible.

  "Here,” Naraya said. She did not need to; this was what he had been seeking, all his life. The need to see Tarra was greater now, constricting his chest, shortening his breath. He had to run forward.

  He checked himself, with difficulty. Tarra was dead. Nothing he said or did would bring her back. Cautiously, he focused on his surroundings. The forest sang its endless, familiar tune, but here it sounded stronger. The air smelled of stale magic, with a tantalising hint of the familiar, one that eluded him the more he sought it.

  Naraya was kneeling by a tree, looking at the ground. “Their tracks are a day old. The wards have drawn themselves together again."

  "Is it safe?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “As much as it can be."

  They went forward, slowly. Naraya was looking everywhere around her, as if horsemen might burst out from one of the trees. Her lips were pressed against each other, so hard they showed white against her russet skin.

  He felt a resistance as they passed the edge of the wood, but it quickly vanished, leaving them standing, alone, in a place where light fell in swathes, like a shining veil over the blades of grass and the surface of the water.

  Less disoriented than Lesper, Naraya had run forward, and was kneeling by the lakeside. He followed her, his head still spinning at the wonder of it all, still tracking that elusive scent in the spells of the invaders.

  Tarra lay on her side in the dewy grass, bathed in light. She was in human shape. For a moment he allowed himself to think she was sleeping, but then Naraya moved aside, and he saw the arrow between Tarra's shoulder blades.

  The world spun and spun and went darker. A wordless cry escaped him; he knelt by her side, touching the cold, moist flesh, the dull hair.

  "I am sorry,” Naraya said, behind him, her voice toneless. “She chose the wrong moment."

  He could not speak. There were no words to encompass the depth of his grief. His wife was dead and everything he had held to for fifteen years had irremediably shattered.

  Slowly, Lesper worked the arrow loose, raised it to the light. The shaft was black, and the tail feathers bore no distinctive patterns. It throbbed with magic: it had to, to bring one of the deer-people down.

  Magic. Hunters. Yes, he knew the patterns of the spell in the air, knew them because they were his own, expanded upon to break the entrance barrier. His own.

  "Areskia,” he said.

  "What does it mean?” Naraya asked.

  A thousand words rose in his mind, clamouring to be released. “It means you are in danger."

  "Why?"

  "She knows all there is to know about the forest and your kind. However far you run, she will find you."

  "I don't understand."

  "I taught her,” Lesper said. “A long time ago.” He remembered her, twenty years ago: a cocky girl Lord Wustan had chosen as Lesper's apprentice, eager to learn, eager to mock. And she had learnt, all too well. When Lesper had turned his back on the court and chosen the forest, Areskia had replaced him. As far as he knew, she still was Wustan's wizard. Why should she want to hunt the deer-people? Why would she kill?

  It made no sense, he thought, kneeling by the side of his wife, dead for no reason he could discern. No sense at all. Gently, he closed Tarra's eyes, brushed her hair, as he had used to do, when they lay together in bed. Forgive me. I was not there when you needed me.

  * * * *

  He did not know, afterwards, how they managed the long journey back. Tarra's body lay heavily in his arms, her doe-skin on her shoulder. He had stabbed the arrow into it, to carry it better, and now it seemed to drag him down with each step he took.

  Naraya walked by his side, silent, her head lifted to scent the wind. He longed, more than ever, to lose himself in the magic of the forest, to find a place where there was no grief, no tears. Areskia, he thought. Is this how you repay me for my teachings?

  Her hunters had scattered the deer-people, had hunted Naraya through the woods. To kill her, as they had killed Tarra? But why would they want to kill the deer-people? Why would they leave Tarra's body by the pool? He did not know. But they had been after Naraya, and the one thing he did know was that Areskia was not one to let her prize escape. Or Wustan, for that matter, although the man he remembered, easygoing and blunt-spoken, would never have understood what power lay in the forest.

  He would bury Tarra, give her that at least. And then he and Naraya would have to leave his house, which was too close to the castle and the city it protected. They would have to move to some other place, away from Wustan's power, away from Areskia's sight. If there were such places in the world.

  What did Areskia want of the deer-people?

  They were within yards of his house when Naraya stopped. “What is it?” he asked.

  She shook herself, turned to him a face twisted by fear. “They are here,” she said. “Run."

  And then the world burst apart.

  From behind the thick foliage, he caught glimpses of colours, heard horses’ hooves, clinks of metal, harsh words barked by familiar voices. Before he could think clearly, he turned, and ran after Naraya.

  She was already far in front of him, a blur of movement among the trees. He followed, still holding Tarra, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, a sour taste of fear filling his mouth. Already he was no longer a wizard or a human, but something far more primordial, something that ran and hid in the shadows because it was defenceless, something doomed by the hunt.

  Running, running with the sound of the hunters’ hooves behind them. Faceless, voiceless, the horses galloped after both of them, getting closer and closer. His grip on Tarra loosened; he could not think of anything but the hunt at his heels.

  "Where?” he asked, his breath burning in his throat. “Where do we go?"

  She was ahead of him, bounding on legs that did not seem to work the human way. She turned back, liquid eyes alight with terror, and shouted, “The pool, inside the woods! They won't be able to—"

  The rest of her voice was lost to him. His chest ached; he was an old man, with none of her grace, none of the agility that never seemed to leave the deer-people.

  "I can't,” he said, struggling to remember a word, a spell. The forest seemed to have taken everything from him. His hands, deadened, finally lost their hold on his wife's body, and for a moment he stopped running and stood unmoving over the corpse he had gone so far to claim.

  He heard her scream. She reached out, threw something white towards him. He extended his hands to receive it, but it went wide.

  "Don't touch it,” she shouted. “Run, Lesper, it's all that matters."

  He had time to see, at his feet, one of the horn pins that had held her hair. And then she was near him, lifting him, pressing something into the palm of his hand
. “Hold on,” she said, and the sounds of hooves echoed all around them.

  There was a noise, like hundreds of twigs breaking. He turned, and saw that where the pin had lain was now a vast expanse of thorns.

  He felt her doe-skin unfold, wrap itself around her, felt the forest magic rise. He was holding on to her, and she had become something else now, her neck elongating, and she was holding him not with hands, lengthening under him, changing.

  Run, she said, in his head, and the doe beneath him leapt forward, into the shadows.

  But ... he said, thinking of the thorns.

  They're not real, she said. I made them using the power in the horn, but I can't shape more than illusions. As soon as they realise this the thorns will vanish. It's a matter of seeing what's true and what's not.

  He could still hear the hunt, the hounds baying. The air was thick with magic; patterns he had once known by heart, the mastery of which remained just beyond his reach.

  He turned, and saw the horsemen behind them. The thorns had vanished. They're gaining on us, he said. He could barely hang on to her: he was tossed from side to side as she ran.

  Throw the bracelets, she answered.

  They were in his hand: she had given them to him as she picked him up.

  Throw them.

  He raised his hand, threw them as far as he could; watched their glittering arc. As they touched the earth light blinded him, and when he looked again, twin lakes extended as far as his eyes could see.

  Another illusion? he asked.

  Yes, she said. I am the youngest of my kind, Lesper, I can't cast more than this. And we have no horn left now.

  The lakes did not stop the hunters for long, either; soon he heard again the hooves behind them. The doe under him was breathing hard; he could feel her weariness, and knew it would not be long before she collapsed.

  Naraya. He wanted to tell her to abandon him; without his weight she might run fast enough to elude them.

  The words never got past his lips.

  Something rose under the hooves of the doe, something unexpected. Her front legs collapsed, throwing him towards the ground.

  He landed on a carpet of dead leaves that failed to soften his fall. His head ached, and one of his legs felt broken.

  "Naraya,” he said.

  She was struggling to free herself from the branch that had snared her legs; the eyes she raised to him were filled with tears.

  Gently, gritting his teeth against the pain in his legs, he tried to lift the branch. His arms failed him. “I'm sorry,” he said. He stood over her, shaking as if with fever, as a dozen horsemen formed a circle around them.

  "Leave her alone,” he said, as the world spun and spun around him.

  The hunters laughed. He knew what they saw: an old, greying man, barely able to stand.

  "Leave her,” he said, in a shaking voice.

  The circle opened, to admit a white rider on a white horse, with clothes so bright they hurt Lesper's eyes.

  "She is mine,” the rider said, and then her eyes focused on Lesper.

  "Areskia,” Lesper said. He did not have the energy to bow.

  "Lesper? What are you doing here?” She had not changed: the drawling voice was still the same; her face, with its harsh lines and aquiline nose, was still that of the girl who had eagerly learnt every one of his spells.

  What I have to do. “Leave her be,” he said. He struggled to find other words. “She is innocent."

  Areskia laughed, bitterly. “I should hope so. Otherwise my time has been wasted."

  "I—” Her radiance hurt his eyes; he struggled to focus his mind on something, anything that would reach her. He was so weary the trees and the riders had started to merge with one another. “Leave her,” he said.

  "And if I do not? What spell do you plan on revealing?” Her voice was sad. “You are a wreck, Lesper. Fifteen years in the forest, looking for your wife, and even human words have deserted you. You couldn't even recite a simple spell without collapsing."

  I made my own choices. Words fled, as if Tarra's death had scattered his being to the corners of the world. He could no longer focus on anything.

  He heard Areskia say to the riders, “Take her. Alive."

  No. No. You killed Tarra, he thought, and then the world spun and spun, and darkness came to swallow him whole. The last thing he heard was Naraya's screams.

  * * * *

  Sometime later, Lesper woke, so weak he could barely move. He was alone; Naraya had disappeared. Areskia had won.

  Why? he thought, and had no answer. For a long while he lay on his back, staring at the canopy of trees overhead. Tarra was dead; Naraya had been captured. He had failed both of them.

  You are a wreck, Lesper.

  He was.

  The forest made no comment. It spoke with its usual voice, in the rustle of leaves in the trees, and in the birdsong above him. It did not judge. It could not judge.

  He had failed both Tarra and Naraya.

  When he could move again, he rose, wincing at the pain. He felt so weak he thought he would collapse again.

  Slowly he made his way back, leaning on a branch he had picked up. He recovered the bracelets and the hairpins. They had resumed their normal shape; Naraya's illusions were no more. He held them in his hand, breathing in the forest magic that was as alien to him as the human spells he had once mastered.

  Tarra's body was still where he had dropped it, the arrow still embedded in her doe-skin. He knelt, slowly, picked her up. Her weight was tangible, almost reassuring. That at least he had not lost.

  He carried her all the way, clinging to her even though his arms ached and his hands threatened to drop their burden.

  Back in his house, Lesper paused to eat some bread. He then found a shovel, and slowly dug a grave for his wife at the back of the garden.

  Tarra.

  I am sorry.

  After he had covered both her and her doe-skin with earth, he stood back, and looked at the brown patch of earth at his feet, with the black arrow driven point first into the ground, to serve as a marker: all that was left of fifteen years. He would have wept, but he no longer knew how.

  He knelt by the grave instead, and prayed to a god he had never really believed in. He prayed that she would find safe passage into heaven, and ascend into the light with no memory of the hunt.

  Night fell, covered him with its cool mantle. He did not move, feeling the forest around him come awake with starlight, with the voices of owls and great cats on the prowl.

  Naraya was gone. He felt the warmth of the hairpin and of the bracelets in his hands.

  You are a wreck, Lesper.

  What could he do? Any spell would sap the strength out of him. Areskia was right: fifteen years spent at the edge of the forest had slowly drained his power, leaving him with nothing of the magic he had once wielded. Nothing.

  The bracelets tingled under his touch. He remembered no human spell. But in fifteen years he had had time to see another kind of magic.

  The forest was silent now, watching him.

  "Help me,” he said aloud. “Naraya was yours. She is still yours."

  There was no answer. But the horn in his hands was warm, exuding magic.

  Help me.

  He felt the magic rise, felt himself open to the power pouring out of the objects in his hands, even as they were reduced to dust. The magic wrapped itself around him, shaped him as it would. It was wild, and old beyond belief, and it felt his need as no one else could. Naraya had not been able to see its full potential.

  Help me, he said, and then all human words were burnt out of him. Power coursed through his veins like sap, rustled in his hair, extended wings like giant leaves. His mind widened, touched the forest. He was the trees growing slowly towards light they could not reach, the bucks fighting each other for the does, the roots burrowing deep under the earth in their endless quest for water.

  He rose, scarcely aware he had done so. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a wordl
ess roar came out of him, scattering owls from their perches.

  He saw in his thoughts a building made of stone, with towers like branches and walls with deep-seated roots. There.

  Under the light of the stars he walked towards the castle. The earth was smooth under his feet, and the trees whispered to him in words of wind, words that encompassed every question he had asked himself for fifteen years, words that went beyond the meagre spells he had once known.

  He reached the road, which lay deserted at this hour of the night. Had there been robbers he could have scattered them with a word.

  No one was there to stop him in the streets of the city either. Only one building was lit, and the sounds of revelry floated to him, meaningless.

  Before the castle gates two guards watched him come, and raised their spears to block his way.

  Let me pass, he wanted to say. I have come, and you may not stop me.

  They would not have understood.

  He raised a hand instead, and vines rose along the shafts of the spears, extending tendrils towards the guards, until they were bound as securely as prey in a spider's web. He walked past them then, towards the gates. They sprouted leaves at his touch, remembering spring in the forest and the deep longing to put forth flowers. He had only to push, and the gates opened.

  More guards ran towards him. He bound them with a flick of his hand. He could feel, like a faraway heartbeat, the presence of the one he had come to rescue, and it was in that direction that he went.

  I am coming.

  At last he reached a room with thick, oaken doors. His hand extended towards the panels, but they opened without his touch.

  A woman dressed in white, with a harsh face, stood watching him warily. She had just shaken off the last of the vines twining on her dress. Behind her, not so lucky, two guards had been bound.

  "Begone,” she said, and the taste of her spell filled the air.

  You may not touch me, he thought. You have no hold over what I am.

  She heard nothing, but something made her pause, look at him. “Lesper? What have you done?"

  Give her to me. Give her to me and I'll leave.