I’m a stranger in a strange land, she thought. It wasn’t homesickness precisely, but she had a sudden longing to see something, anything, familiar.
After a while, Gertie pulled out a stubby pipe and packed it with tobacco. Taking a coal from the fire, she lit the pipe and inhaled. Pursing her black lips, she blew out a puff of sweet-smelling smoke.
Mauric noticed Raine’s curious stare. “Know what a troll smokes in her pipe?”
Raine shook her head.
“Any trodyn thing she wants.”
Chuckling at his own humor, Mauric rose and took a piece of canvas from one of the packs, flung the stiff cloth over a low hanging branch, and secured it with wooden pegs. Raine crawled inside the tiny tent to take a look. To her surprise, she found her aunt waiting for her inside, glowing like a candle.
“Mimsie,” Raine cried, forgetting her earlier misery.
Mauric’s booted calves appeared in the opening. “Eh?”
“Um, I said it’s not flimsy.”
To Raine’s relief, he moved away.
She wheeled around. “Oh, Mimsie, I’m so glad to see you. I’ve got so many things to tell you that I—” She faltered. “Wait. Can you understand me? I’m not speaking English.”
“Course you aren’t speaking English. We ain’t in Kansas anymore. Or any other place I’ve heard tell of, come to think of it.”
Raine smiled. “We’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, for sure.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “How’d you get here?”
“Followed you and that ginger-haired troublemaker through the mirror. Couldn’t let you go junketing around another world without me, could I?”
“Oh, Mims.”
Any seed of doubt Raine had harbored about her aunt’s trustworthiness vanished. Mimsie hadn’t poisoned her. Moved, Raine reached out to touch her aunt. To her shock, Mimsie’s flesh was cool and solid.
She received an electric shock at the contact, and yanked her hand back. “Ouch,” she said, nursing her stinging fingers. “That hurt.”
“Sorry,” Mimsie said. “I’m working on that. Now tell me. What have you been up to?”
Raine rattled off the events of the last few days while Mimsie listened with an enthralled expression on her pretty, young face.
“Brefreton says the god stone is lost,” Raine said, winding down. “Looks like I’m stuck here.”
“We’re stuck here,” Mimsie said. “I’m on you like white on rice, girl.” She shook her head. “But it’s strange goings on, for sure. How are you feeling?”
How many times in her life had Mimsie asked her that question, her searching gaze on Raine while she waited anxiously for the answer? Hundreds, no thousands of times. Raine hesitated. If she said the words out loud, would she jinx it?
“I feel better than I have in a long time,” she said cautiously. “Maybe ever.”
“That’s wonderful news, baby.” Mimsie gave a disdainful sniff. “I heard that four-legged doormat accuse me of poisoning you. The nerve.”
“You were there? I told Gertie she was wrong. My theory is lead poisoning.”
“Nope. Had you tested for that.”
Raine worried her bottom lip. “Very well. If it’s not lead poisoning, then what is it?”
“No idea. Don’t reckon it matters, so long as you’re better.”
“You’re right.” Raine sat up straight. “Hey, it seems I have a sister.”
“Stay away from Hara, baby. She’s a bad egg.”
“How do you—”
“Never mind how I know. I just do.” Mimsie reached out and stroked the fur coat. “Nice. A gift, you say?”
“Yes, from Mauric.”
“Mauric.” Mimsie gave a girlish sigh. “If I were alive, I’d hose him down and lick him dry.”
“Mimsie,” Raine said, shocked.
The ghost’s mischievous expression vanished. “Quick, before he comes back. There’s something I need to tell you. I was there the night you were left on the steps.”
“You were at the church? But you never—”
“It was late,” Mimsie said, cutting her off. “I’d gone back to Saint Mark’s to return an urn I’d borrowed from the flower guild—you know how that Norma Lou Higgins could be. Acted like she owned the damn church—and that’s when I saw her, the woman in the cloak.”
“My mother?” Raine stared at her in shock. “But why didn’t you—”
“Tell you?” Mimsie shook her head. “Because what I saw didn’t make sense, and it was over in a blink. I told myself I’d imagined it.” She stilled, listening, and put her finger to her lips. “Shh. Pretty Boy’s coming back.”
Raine heard the tramp of approaching feet.
Mauric cleared his throat outside the tent. “Gertie says come back to the fire.” He shuffled his feet in the leaves. “She’s made you a cup of herbal tea.”
“Coming,” Raine said.
When she turned back around, Mimsie was gone. It didn’t matter. Raine knew she’d be back. Spirits lighter, she crawled out of the tent and trudged back to the fire. As she drew near, Gertie and Mauric broke apart with a guilty start.
“What’s eating you two?” Raine planted her hands on her hips. “Did I miss something?”
Mauric offered her a steaming tin mug. “Um . . . we were wondering who you were talking to in the tent.”
Raine accepted the tea and sat down, her face burning. They’d overheard her chatting with Mimsie. No wonder they were acting peculiar. Should she lie, or tell them the truth? They’d think she was nuts.
“If you must know, I was talking to my Aunt Mimsie.”
The troll’s bushy brows rose. “The dead woman?”
“Yes.” Lifting her chin, Raine looked the troll in the eye. “I can see her spirit.”
Mauric’s eyes widened. “Tro, you see ghosts?”
“One ghost, and only in the last few months.” Raine blew out a breath. “It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Gertie said. “Necromancy’s unusual, but it’s as legitimate as any other talent.”
“I’m not a wizard. That’s absurd.”
“Of course it is.” Mauric slapped his thigh. “I’ll wager lots of people on Urp talk to the dead.”
“No, they don’t,” Raine said. “That would be weird.”
“Damn.” His shoulders slumped. “You’re a wizard.”
“So?” She looked from Gertie to Mauric. “It’s not a big deal, right? Wizards are probably a dime a dozen around here.”
“No, pet,” Gertie said. “Wizards are uncommon even in Tandara.”
“Thank Tro,” Mauric muttered.
Gertie gave him a repressive glare. “Most people have a smidgen of talent, little abilities that make life easier, but few are adepts. Magic takes training and discipline. More than that, it takes desire to become a wizard. Many of those born with the knack are too lazy to develop it.”
“What sort of talents are you talking about?”
“It varies,” Gertie said, with a lift of her bulky shoulders. “Brefreton’s people, for instance, are wonderful farmers. I once saw a Tannish farmer coax fruit from a stone. And the Esmallans weave beautiful cloth. Delicate as a spider’s web, and the colors are exquisite. What’s more, the fabric keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer, doesn’t tear or show dirt.” She warmed to her topic. “The Seths are renowned sword smiths, the Finlarans mighty warriors—”
“Stop, you’re going too fast,” Raine said, her brain whirling.
Mauric laid a hand on Gertie’s shoulder. “Let me draw a map. Maybe it will make more sense if she sees it.” Rising, he took a long stick and sketched a rough shape in the dirt next to the fire. “This is Tandara.” With a few, quick strokes, he divided it into segments, and pointed to a section at the top. “My country, Finlara, is here,
and here—” He touched a smaller piece of the map that hugged the coastline beneath Finlara. “This is Shad Amar, the Dark Wizard’s territory, where we’ve been.”
“Where we are,” Gertie grumbled. “We shouldn’t have stopped.”
Mauric ignored her and moved the stick to a large patch to beneath Finlara and to the right of Shad Amar. “Tannenbol, Brefreton’s home.” He touched another portion of the map. “This big patch over here is Durngaria—it’s mostly plains.” He moved to the far right of the rough map. “Over here is Seth, the land of the dwarves. And in this corner is the Amedlarian Forest. That’s where the elves live.”
“There are elves?” Raine said, her eyes widening.
“Of course, but they seldom mingle with the other races. Standoffish, elves.” He moved the marker to the bottom of the map. “Esmalla is here and below the Great Plains and to the left is Valdaria.”
Gertie smacked her lips. “Fine vintners, the Valdarians.”
“Gertie is fond of Valdarian wine, but she loves Finlaran ale. Right, Gert?”
“I’d give my left teat for a mug of it right now.”
Mauric chuckled. “The Rowan has recently installed troll-proof locks to keep Gertie out of his ale.”
“He what? Well, I like that. Who do you think gave the mingy ale-pinch the recipe for his precious brew in the first place?” Gertie thumped her hairy chest. “I did, that’s who.”
“Is the Rowan like a king?” Raine asked.
“Aye, and pay no mind to Gertie’s snarling.” Mauric grinned. “She and my uncle are the best of friends.”
“Oh, aye, I’m crazy about him.” There was a dangerous gleam in Gertie’s eyes. “Locking me out of his cellars.”
“The Rowan’s your uncle?” Raine turned her head to stare at Mauric. “Does that mean you’re in line for the throne?”
He shook his head. “Nay, Trowyn himself chooses the Rowan.”
“The god of Finlara,” Raine said, trying to keep it all straight. “There are nine gods, right?”
“Aye. Trowyn, Kron, Magog, and Reba,” Mauric said, rattling off the names. “Seth, Gar, Valdar, Esma, and Tam.” He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Tro, I forgot about Tam.” He quickly scratched an irregular blob in the dirt next to his original map. “This is Tamir. The Tamirs build the finest ships in the world from tukalla wood. The tukalla tree grows only on the Isle of Tamir. There’s no better wood for shipbuilding in the world—no knots, straight grain. It won’t warp or rot, and it’s impervious to insects.”
Gertie knocked the ashes from her pipe and rose. “Fascinating, I’m sure, Mauric, but it’s time for bed. We’ll continue the lesson on wood craft later.” She gave Raine a kindly glance. “Try not to fret about the wizard thing, pet. You have talent, or you don’t. Either way, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Chapter 12
A Matter of Patients
The bowl hit the wall with a resounding crash, sending bits of crockery flying. Broth ran down the marble wall and pooled onto the floor.
“Stop trying to feed me dishwater,” Raven said, glowering at Glory. “A warrior needs meat to regain his strength, not this pap.”
Raven seethed with anger and frustration. Illness of any kind was foreign to him, and restoring Glory’s vision had left him weak as a babe, necessitating a delay in their departure. The delay chafed, but the unaccustomed weakness irked him a thousandfold more.
“My goodness, Raven, sometimes you can be stubborn as a troll.”
“I was raised by a troll. Dandled on her great hairy knee.”
Glory sniffed. “How could I forget? It’s obvious you inherited Gertie’s charming disposition.”
“Aye, and her appetite as well. And you know what they say about hungry trolls.”
“You’re welcome to eat an entire stag once you’ve recovered. In the meantime, it’s broth or nothing.”
“They’re one and the same.”
“I made this stock with my own hands from a secret recipe with healing properties,” Glory said. “Every day you brangle with me is another day you languish in bed.”
With that, she motioned to the serving girl hovering in the doorway. Giggling and simpering, the wench sidled into the room with another bowl of soup.
Glory pressed her lips together. “What is it about you that reduces the members of my sex to twittering idiots?” Tilting her head, she studied him. “Granted, you’re not bad looking, but that alone doesn’t account for it.”
“No idea what you’re talking about.” Raven turned a smoldering look on the serving girl. “Bring me a haunch of venison, love. There’s a good lass.”
The girl giggled and dropped the bowl of broth.
Glory got to her feet and pointed at the door. “Out. This instant.”
“Yes, milady.”
“And bring me another bowl of broth, you stupid creature, if such a task is not beyond you.” The servant squeaked and scurried from the room.
Raven chuckled. “For shame, Aunt. You frightened her, and she but a child.”
“She should count herself fortunate I didn’t do worse. Silly wench. Twitterpated at the sight of a handsome face.”
“Handsome, am I?” Raven grinned. “I improve. But a moment ago I was not bad looking.”
Glory ignored him. When the trembling servant returned, she took the bowl of broth from the girl, dismissed her, and glided up to Raven’s bed.
“There’s more where this came from,” she said. “Feel free to toss it about all you like, but I advise you to take your medicine so we can be about our business.”
Raven considered his options. His aunt was more than capable of outwaiting him, and he itched to feel his ship beneath his feet. Glory wasn’t as proficient in herb-craft as Gertie, but she was an elf, and elves were fey and wise. Perhaps Glory’s broth would speed his recovery.
In any event, it wouldn’t hurt him. Or, at least, he didn’t think it would.
He sighed and held out his hand. “Very well, you win. Hand me the trodyn bowl.”
“Raven. Such language.”
“The bowl, aunt o’ mine.”
Shaking her head at his surliness, Glory complied, and Raven downed the liquid in two swallows. A vague herbal taste lingered in his mouth, but, otherwise, it wasn’t bad. Or perhaps he was merely hungry.
“There, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Glory folded her hands in her lap and gave him a serene smile. “A few more days of rest and we’ll be on our way.”
Raven leaned back against the pillows and surveyed her from beneath heavy lids. “Out with it. What are you hiding?”
“Oh, no. I will keep my own counsel. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I know, dear.” She patted his hand. “Try not to think about it. It will only make you grumpy.”
Chapter 13
Shads and Eaters
Gertie announced that moonlight made her twitchy and disappeared into the woods. Mauric bedded down by the fire, and Raine withdrew to the tent. Curling up in her blanket, she tried not to think about what a twitchy troll did in the dark. Her hirsute new friend was a predator, after all.
A low-hanging branch scraped against the tent roof in the wind. The ground beneath Raine’s rump was frozen and hard, making it almost impossible to get comfortable. Cold seeped through the leaves and a trickle of icy air fingered its way under the blanket. She shivered and tucked the covers tighter around her. She missed Gertie’s body heat, but it wasn’t the chill that kept her awake—it was the possibility that she might have magical ability. The idea left her teetering on the edge of the unknown; a stranger to herself, a prospect she found more frightening than any ograk or worg.
She drifted into an uneasy sleep disturbed by dark, indistinct shapes and whisperings. A winged figu
re invaded her dreams, lanky and vulturine, and Raine woke with a start to absolute stillness. The unnatural silence was unnerving. No birds chirped in the trees. Nothing stirred in the woods. A sense of waiting permeated the deep quiet, as though the forest were holding its breath. Pulling Mauric’s fur cloak around her, she hurried from the tent. Ice rimed the ground and crunched beneath her feet. Mauric stood by the fire with his sword drawn, listening. He looked tense, ready to spring. There was no sign of Gertie.
Motioning for her to be silent, he sheathed his sword and dismantled the tent, shoving the canvas and blankets into one of the packs. When the camp site had been cleared and they were ready to go, Mauric handed Raine a piece of white cheese rolled up in a bit of brown bread.
“Eat,” he said in a low voice, scanning their surroundings. “We’re leaving.”
“What about Gertie and Tiny? Shouldn’t we wait for them?”
“They’ll catch up. Trouble’s coming. I feel it in my bones.”
His unease was contagious, and Raine was suddenly anxious to get out of the open. She ate the cheese and bread in two bites and held out her hand for one of the packs. “I’ll carry one of those.”
Mauric handed her the smallest bag and slung the other two packs across his shoulders. He started across the clearing and Raine followed. As they neared the cover of the woods, Gertie materialized at Raine’s feet without warning. The troll’s breathing was labored and she was covered in blood.
“Shads, twenty-one of them in the woods behind you.” Gertie held up her dripping claws. “There were twenty-five.”
A group of men on horseback burst out of the woods behind them. Mauric dropped the packs and drew a wicked looking knife out of his boot. “Get behind us, Raine.”
The leader of the Shads, a hard-faced man in a red and black uniform, held up his hand. His men halted and he nudged his horse forward.
A Meddle of Wizards Page 10