by Unknown
"Old Master Forktree, he always sits at the end of the corner bench. He met his first wife there, the one that had the bad miscarriage and died. I don't believe he has ever spoken of her once to the wife he has now. Been married to her fifty years. But he always sits there. She always lets him."
Eventually Hewer stood up to leave, off to help repair the rope bridge upstream. Hyacinth found herself wishing he could linger. She watched him as he walked away. Smiled at him when he turned to look. Then she rose and brushed the bread crumbs from her skirt, taking comfort in knowing they could pick up the conversation in the evening—a luxury she had not always enjoyed these past five years.
She immediately went to the scullery, where she washed the utensils and trencher. She stored the jar of jam back in the pantry and hung the wet dish towel from the line in the laundry courtyard. Checking the dried bedsheets that still hung there, the previous day having been so busy, she began folding them and placing them in a basket.
She was suddenly aware that someone was watching her from the doorway. It was Mistress Summer, who smiled at her warmly.
"I hope you understand how welcome you are. How well you fit in."
"Oh, yes," Hyacinth replied. "Very much."
As she said it, it sank in how true it was. What she was feeling now was more than the sense of being among good people or being appreciated for her contributions. She'd had that a number of times, from the journey on the barge when she was twelve, to the ocean crossings when she was fifteen, to the weeks at the scholar's sanctuary in the Cloudlands just last summer.
What she was feeling now was more than just a reaction to Mistress Summer's approval, or the appeal of Hewer's broad shoulders and kind eyes, or even being immersed once again in the routine of innkeeping. The last time she had felt this way was before her grandmother had died and her mother's health had turned bad, back when she could not have imagined ever living anywhere but in the village in which she had been born.
"What is it?" Mistress Summer asked. "You look so startled."
"I...need to ask you something."
* * * *
She found her uncle walking back from the river, carrying a brace of fish he had caught.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
She hesitated, toes grinding at the hard clay. She inhaled deeply.
"Uncle. I want to stay."
"I know."
"You do?" She dabbed her eyelashes with her sleeves.
"It's what you've needed for some time now. This is a good place. Of course you should stay."
"But...you...?"
"We both know I have to go on." He held up the fish, turning them this way and that. The sunlight glittered on the scales. Bear's yearning, the locals called them. "I'll have a nice dinner tonight. Sleep in a good bed. And in the morning I'll be on my way. Whenever the hunters of the book manage to catch my scent again, they will have no reason to search here. You will be safe. As I promised."
"Will...will I ever see you again?"
"I am already counting the days," he replied.
Now the tears came in full. She collapsed against him, soaking the front of his shirt as she kept sobbing. For the rest of her life, whenever she smelled fresh-caught river fish, she would remember her uncle and all he meant to her.
* * * *
Rowan did as he said. He left in the morning, having said his good-byes properly, having sworn Mistress Summer and her husband to look out for Hyacinth, and having handed over to his niece the small purse of gold he had been surreptitiously accumulating as her dowry over the past few years.
He left by the river road, heading the opposite way they had arrived. The burled terrain soon hid the village from view. The horse appreciated the chance to exercise after a week spent mostly in a paddock and Rowan did not rein in for a stop until well after the noon hour.
A meadow flocked with arched clover and lambsbell beckoned. Rowan hobbled his beast and set him out to graze. Rowan settled on a smooth log in the shade of a russetleaf and snacked on bread and some of the squeakcheese Mistress Summer had wrapped up for him just before he left. Licking his fingers and wiping them off, he fetched the book from his saddlebag.
He opened the volume to the usual spot, just before the uneven page that marked the present moment.
The leave-taking was bittersweet. Bitter because Rowan knew he was unlikely to ever have offspring of his own. His niece had been his daughter these five years. No one could replace her. The prospect of the loneliness to come wrapped iron weights around his ankles. Sweet because at last he was on his own again, freed from his worries about her wellbeing, knowing she was happy, and was likely to remain so.
A lavender-sweetened breeze fluffed the stallion's mane, urging him on. Rowan smiled.
Rowan lifted his nose from the book, and breathed in. Yes. Lavender. The perfumer he had heard tales of back in Many Mills must have fields somewhere up ahead. Not close—the aroma was still so subtle he would not have detected it unless trying to do so. The writer, whoever that magical entity might be, often noticed details he missed.
To read more, he would have to turn the page. If he did that, the page opposite would describe things that had not happened yet. Instead, he flipped back and began reading of the voyage he and Hyacinth had taken to the Vineyard Isle, and of the friendly seamstress whose company he had enjoyed during the crossing. It was one of his favorite chapters.
Long ago when he had first acquired the book, he had done as Hyacinth had done, and opened it to its end, only to find that section blank. He had conquered his curiosity before he encountered text, and his strength of will had not faltered since. He had never once read of future events. When Hyacinth had asked if she would be all right, he had not known it as a fact of history. He only knew that was the only right way for things to turn out, and had faith that it would somehow come to pass.
He always had liked a good story. It wouldn't do to spoil the ending.
The Cave of Almerzan
by Patricia Duffy Novak
Marion bought several of Patricia's 'Robes' stories set in a world where magicians are classified by the color of their robes in addition to the usual levels of apprentice, journeyman, and master. Garrin Windson, a character in this story, previously appeared in " The Valley of Stones" and " Valemist Tower" in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine. Both stories are available at Fictionwise.com.
Patricia lives in Alabama, with her husband, Jim, two dogs, and more cats than she wants to count. Her short fiction has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, Realms of Fantasy, a number of the Darkover® anthologies, and several past volumes of Sword & Sorceress. A number of her previously-published short stories are available in electronic format through www.mzbworks.com. This story is her first new work of fiction in many years, and we're glad to have her back.
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Davida rode in silence, watching the stiff back of the man who led. Along the wooded path, sunlight filtered through the canopy of pale green new-growth. His earth-brown pants and tunic exactly matched the color of his horse. Only his hair of dark and silver, which caught the sunlight's gleams, set him apart from the animal.
The breeze carried the scents of damp soil and awakening vegetation. Birds trilled and insects hummed. The air felt warm with the promise of summer to come. A glorious day. And yet she wished with all her heart some other Red wizard could have handled this mission.
It was rare for Blue and Red magic to blend compatibly, and she and her current companion had once formed a highly effective team. She didn't expect capturing the blood mages to be taxing, but working with Arnolf Verani, after what had gone between them years before, was proving very difficult indeed. Her heart ached with a pain she couldn't express. Five years ago she had made her choice. She must abide by it now.
Just before sundown they arrived at their destination, an army camp at the extreme northwestern border that her country of Alworyn shared with the mountainous nation of Helvar. Cabins dotted the
wooded hillside, and in the hollow at the base of the hills stood a ramshackle hall. A small, but well-kept house just past the hall marked the only exception to the general air of rustic disrepair. Arnolf led in that direction.
As they neared the structure, a man stepped from the shadows beneath the trees. He was exceedingly tall, his black hair held back by a leather tie. The hilt of a mountain sword protruded above his back. Davida thought for one startled moment that they confronted a Helvari raider. A second glance revealed a worse possibility. Davida pulled back on her horse, causing the animal to shy to a sudden stop. She looked again at the man by the side of the path. It couldn't be. But it was.
Garrin Windson. She hadn't seen him in three years, and yet she could never forget those eyes. Unnatural blue, cold as sapphires or the winter sky at twilight. He had filled out some, since last she saw him, still thin but not painfully so. His adolescent awkwardness had vanished, and he moved with a confidence that made her anger rise. If justice had prevailed, the man would be sitting in a Worhold jail, not striding freely across these hills. And he still carried that sword, when no wizard of her kind other than he would take to common arms. She supposed he did it as an insult to all that the Order valued.
Arnolf dropped from his horse, walked toward Windson, and clapped the younger man to him in a hug made awkward by their difference in height. Arnolf was an average size man, but his head came no higher than Windson's chin. Arnolf said something Davida couldn't hear as he released the other man from the rough embrace.
Windson looked up, caught Davida's gaze, and then looked away. He said nothing, but instead turned and glided back between the trees.
Davida let out a breath, wondering why no one had thought to tell her that man would be here. Muttering a dark invective, she took her horse's reins and followed Arnolf toward the stables at the back of the house.
After they had seen to the horses, they crossed to the dwelling. A young man met them at the door; a housekeeper from the look of him, Davida thought. Otherwise the place was deserted. "There is so seldom serious trouble on this section of the border," Arnolf explained, as he ushered her with a false cheerfulness into the main room while the housekeeper scurried up the stairs with their bags, "that no wizards are permanently assigned to this spot. We come and go, as needed."
With a flick of his hand, he lit the room's mage globes bringing the shadowy room into light. Then he walked to a credenza at the side of the room, brought back a tray with glasses and a bottle of port, and offered her a glass. Davida shook her head. Arnolf gestured at one of the rooms many chairs, but she didn't take it. Instead, she stood by the window, her back to it, fixing him with a hard gaze.
"What is Windson doing here?" she demanded, as soon as the man had put down his tray, finishing his self-appointed duties as her host.
Arnolf took the chair she had refused and poured himself a small glass of the ruby wine before responding. "Garrin is in the army," he said levelly. "He goes where his commanders tell him to go. There is trouble here, so they sent him."
Davida pondered cause and effect. "Did he come to stop the trouble or did he have a part in starting it?"
Arnolf let out his breath and shot her a look. She knew that Arnolf had trained Windson in the Blue path in Worhold, after the disgraced young wizard had left the shelter of Wizards' Keep three years before. She and Arnolf had fought about it bitterly at the time, but Arnolf would not listen to her. He had called her irrational, stubborn and unkind. With the history that lay between them, she had wondered if he'd trained the other man for spite.
"There were reports of young people gone missing from the towns near this part of the border," Arnolf said, his tone flat. "Garrin was sent to investigate. He found an altar in a cave, and the traces of evil magic. Several blood mages attacked him there. He barely escaped with his life."
"Do you plan to have Windson come with us tomorrow?" she demanded.
Arnolf nodded. Davida felt her blood chill. "No," she said. "This I will not allow."
"It is not your choice." Arnolf twirled the stem of his glass in his hands. "I know you will not change your mind about Garrin's character, so I will not argue that again. But heed this. We need him. He can guide us to the cave where the blood mages have sheltered. I cannot find it on my own."
"All right," she conceded. "But once he takes us to the cave, he can stay out of our way. I will not have a half-trained fool interfering."
Davida saw Arnolf's jaw tighten at the slight delivered not only to Windson but to himself, the man who had provided much of that training. "I will ask Olan about getting your supper," Arnolf said and left the room.
* * * *
She took supper alone at a dining table that would easily hold ten. Arnolf had gone to eat in the army hall. After she finished eating, she stepped into the moonlit yard. With the descent of the sun, the air had grown chilly, and she drew her woolen cloak close around her.
What had the Council been thinking, she wondered, to send her on a mission with Arnolf, no matter how smoothly their magics blended? Years ago, they had been partners in more ways than one, but when her father died and she learned the state of her family's finances, she'd had no choice but to marry well.
She looked at the circle of opals on her left wrist, the marriage band from Kalvan Ferhandor, given five years before. She had married terribly in all ways but one. His money had restored her estate, keeping her mother and younger brother from penury. She had sold herself in a loveless marriage to an aging merchant who wanted her ancient family name and her status. In exchange, he had paid her mother enough to keep her family secure. Her brother did not have the wizard's gift, but he was showing signs of excellence at running the estate. She had saved her family's future with her sacrifice.
She leaned against the cool wooden side of the building. The thought of meeting Windson again made her gut ache. A decade past, he had come to the Keep as an illiterate mountain brat, half foreign, with his alien eyes and no inkling of manners. She had never liked him, and yet she had not suspected him of anything more than ill breeding until she had come out of her sleep one night to find herself in a trap.
Although she didn't want to face those memories, her thoughts returned to that terrible night, three years past. Someone had set a deadly spell, seeking to steal the fire magic from her. All evidence had pointed to Garrin Windson, at that time still an unrobed apprentice in her Order, the only one of her kind who had no mastery at all of the fire gift.
Master Fen, the head of the Wizards' Council had sensed the plot and foiled it. Despite the traces showing Garrin's power signature in the magical trap, Fen had championed his innocence. Davida had never accepted Fen's conclusion, but he had persuaded enough members of the Council of the uncertainty of Windson's involvement that Windson had earned a wizard's robe. Deeply mistrusted by his kind, other than Fen and Arnolf, still the man had his freedom, which was perhaps more, Davida thought as she looked again at her marriage band, than she herself had retained. She heard steps and turned. Arnolf was coming across the yard. He froze for a moment when he saw her, but then he walked toward her.
"I don't believe I've ever wished you happy," he said. "How careless of me."
"You know why I married," she said, her voice low. "It was not for happiness."
"I thought that's what money was." He shrugged. "To you at least."
Even after all these years, he could still hurt her with words. She had loved him dearly, but her duty would not let her follow her heart. He had been badly wounded by her choice; she understood. But of the two of them, she knew she had suffered more. He at least was not bound in a mockery of a marriage. It would do no good, she realized, to try once again to explain her reasons. He did not come from a landed family. He had no heritage to preserve. He would never understand what she had done.
She turned without speaking, went into the house, and up the stairs to her room. Tomorrow she would have the strain of working with both Arnolf and Windson. She would need t
o be well rested for that. And yet she knew sleep would come hard to her this night, if at all.
* * * *
Davida woke at dawn and dressed with care. Her shoulder length copper hair, she bound in a tight braid. She put on pants, boots, and a hip-length tunic, and over all, the red silk robe with gold braid on the sleeve that marked her status as a master, the highest honor her Order bestowed. The long robe could be inconvenient in the field, but the symbolism mattered, especially in work of this kind, where they would confront a perversion of the natural powers.
Shortly after sunrise, they left the army camp. Arnolf had donned his own robe of shimmering blue silk. His sleeves were marked by the chevrons of an adept, a high rank but not as high as her own. His raw talent was large, she knew, but he had never had the inclination to train for master. Windson did not wear the journeyman's robe he had been granted three years ago. But then he was here only as guide, she reminded herself. He would not work magic with them. And it was just as well he did not wear the sign of their Order. The sight of that man in a wizard's robe might prove more than she could stomach.
The path he took twisted and turned, growing so narrow at points they needed to go single file. They forded a stream, doubled back, and forded it again, all the while climbing steadily into the mountains.
Davida assumed Windson had chosen this circuitous route for a reason. It was odd for blood mages to work together, when they were normally solitary. And they never, in her previous experience, had holed up in caves. They put their altars outdoors, where the moonlight would enhance the power of the blood. What they were doing, she had no idea, but she estimated that whatever it was added more danger to this mission than might at first be apparent. There were no doubt reasons to approach with stealth, but she wished all the same they could hurry. The sooner they captured these mages, the sooner she could get away from her unwanted companions.