by Bell, Hilari
The lesson did not go well.
“You’re thinking about something,” said Reddick for the third time.
Dayven opened his eyes and glared at him. “I’m doing the best I can,” he said. “How can you think about nothing? If you’re awake, which I’d rather not be, there’s always something going on in your head. You can’t just keep your mind blank — it isn’t natural.”
“It’s not a matter of blanking your mind,” Reddick explained patiently. “It’s more … emptying yourself of thought. Not even of thought, but of fussing. You slip away from the thoughts that fret and distract you. Then you can sink into yourself until you find the power.”
“Sink into myself? I live in myself already!”
“Hmm,” said Reddick. “Maybe you need a focus. Wait here a minute.” He walked away from the camp.
As he listened to the wizard thrashing around in the grass and bushes, Dayven wrapped his arms around his knees and wondered what Soren was doing now. And what was he doing, traveling to an enemy city with a wizard who was trying to empty his mind? His destiny was Guardianship. Surely this wasn’t his true path — but he had no choice. If he deliberately failed to learn, sooner or later even Reddick would become suspicious. Sundar had proved he had the gift. Magic. His grandmother had forgotten all honor and loyalty. Dayven shivered.
“Here.” A blanket dropped over his shoulders. “It’s hard to meditate when you’re freezing.”
Dayven jumped. “I didn’t hear you come back.”
“You were thinking about being scared.” Reddick shrugged. “Natural enough.”
Dayven glared at him. “Were you reading my mind?”
Reddick’s laugh boomed out. “It was written all over your face. Forget about it. Now take this.” He held out his hand.
“What is it?” Dayven reached out and lifted the papery crescent from the wizard’s palm. “A cocoon? What’s this for?”
“It’s for worms,” said Reddick. “They spin them and then live inside while they turn into butterflies.” Dayven scowled, and Reddick chuckled and went to stir the pot. “It’s going to be your focus,” the wizard continued. “For your meditation. Whenever you have a few minutes, I want you to study that cocoon. Hold it. Look at it. Try to learn everything about it. Don’t think of anything else. Explore it with all your mind.”
Dayven stared at the small brown scrap. “It’ll break as soon as I put it in my pack,” he complained.
“I’ll give you an empty salve pot to keep it in. And not in your pack — this is what your pockets are for. I want you to touch the cocoon a lot.”
Dayven grimaced.
“Hey, kid.” Reddick’s voice was soft, but there was a note in it that made Dayven’s eyes snap to his face. “You want to learn magic? Or do you want to turn around and go back to town?”
Back to town … home. Which would break his oath to the Lordowner, and destroy his only chance for Guardianship.
“Magic, sir,” said Dayven hastily.
“Then do what I tell you. Come eat breakfast. We’ll leave as soon as we finish.”
They reached the first village in the early afternoon. The thatch-roofed houses looked like all the other peasant houses Dayven had seen. The Lady’s altar was covered with sheaves of grain and near-ripe fruit, now old and withered. The offerings were the Cenzar way of showing their goddess the quality of “her” crop. The altar still looked odd to Dayven, who had spent his life in the Town-within-the-Walls. When the Tharn first conquered this valley, they’d had enough trouble subduing the Cenzar peasants to the point that they would plant, harvest, and pay the Lordowner’s share. According to Master Senna, they had threatened to fight to the death if the Tharn tried to take their goddess away as well. Now the villages were peaceful and full of people — but here, the hoofbeats of their mounts, echoing off the stone walls, was the only sound.
“I don’t understand.” Reddick gazed at the deserted street. “All the men might be in the fields, but it’s not harvest time yet. The women should be here. And where are the children?”
Dayven considered the silent houses. “Maybe they’re hiding. Maybe they went somewhere.”
“Just before harvest time? Where? And why? You wait here. I’m going to look around.”
“I’ll come with you.” Dayven dismounted.
“No, I don’t want to disturb anything. Meditate.” The wizard flashed him a smile and was gone.
Dayven sat down, leaning against the side of a quiet house. He pulled the cocoon from his pocket; if Reddick snuck up on him again, he wanted to look as if he were doing what he was supposed to. Then Reddick would have less reason to suspect him. He gazed at the rough, drab surface of the cocoon; it was feather light. How could such a trivial thing teach him magic?
Eventually, the silence seeped into his spirit and Dayven leaned back against the wall and relaxed. He wondered what Soren was doing now. What he’d be doing, if he were home where he should be. His mind drifted to the white fire the sorcerer, Sundar, had called forth in him. This cocoon couldn’t rouse his magic, he was sure of that. Could he admit to himself that the welling of power had been beautiful? He let the memory flood his mind. He imagined that power called forth by the cocoon, touching it — seeing it not with his hands, but with that part of his mind that sensed the flowing fire of magic. He couldn’t help but want it. Impulsively, he willed it.
Suddenly his mind was inside the cocoon. He felt the papery surface against his palm, but he felt the shimmering whisper of life with his mind.
Dayven’s eyes flew open. His heart hammered. He stared at the cocoon in horror.
“So it worked.”
Dayven jumped and gazed up at his tutor.
“I thought it might,” Reddick added. “Live things are a great focus.”
“I… I felt…” Dayven’s mouth was dry. “I did magic.”
“You did great. Keep practicing. But now, come with me. I think I found the problem.”
Reddick led him briskly down the hill to the dry streambed at the bottom. “You see? This would be enough to empty any village.”
“See what?” Dayven, his mind still on the power he had called forth, looked around them. “I don’t see anything.”
“You’re standing in it,” said the wizard. “Or rather, you’re not standing in it. That’s the problem. The stream is dry.”
“Couldn’t something natural have caused it?” A branch whipped back and lashed his face; Dayven brushed it aside irritably. It was past dark now and the track beside the dry streambed was rough.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s natural or not,” said Reddick. “Four villages depend on that stream for water, not only for themselves, but for their crops and livestock. In the village we’re about to reach, it turns a mill wheel. For those villages, losing that stream is a catastrophe.”
“That’s their Guardian’s problem, isn’t it? He’s the one who holds these lands for the Lordowner. Isn’t it more important to learn the Cenzars’ plans before they attack us?” Dayven glared at his tutor’s broad back as the mule scrambled nimbly up the trail in front of him.
“It’s not that simple,” said Reddick, exasperated. “There’s no natural reason for that stream to be dry. We haven’t had a drought. Another reason is that—”
A dark form slid from the shadows and grasped Dayven’s reins. A hand came from behind him and seized his wrist; more hands caught his arm before he could reach for his knife.
“What the — help!” Dayven shouted. Torches sprang to life revealing swarthy Cenzar faces — peasants. Not warriors, only peasants. The thought should have reassured Dayven, but his racing heart didn’t slow … perhaps because the expressions on their faces were far from reassuring. Two of them held Reddick’s arms behind his back while a third lashed his wrists together.
Dayven felt the harshness of rope on his own wrists.
“Take it easy,” said Reddick in Cenzar. “Nobody has to get hurt here.”
“I hope not,”
said one of the peasants gently, “for your sake, wizard.”
Chapter 5
“But why do you think it was magic that stopped the stream?” Reddick argued. “I agree it’s not a natural cause, but that doesn’t mean wizards had anything to do with it. Why would we?”
The village chieftain was an old peasant, who had welcomed them with exquisite courtesy and the steepled fingers which were the Cenzar gesture of greeting. “The stream has been faithful for centuries,” he said. “In the worst of droughts it never failed entirely. Something stopped it. And wizards are meddlers.”
“We’re also healers,” said Reddick. “We care about the land.”
“For all your care the land continues to weaken,” the old man retorted. “Each harvest is less than the one before.”
“You know why that’s happening,” said Reddick. “It has nothing to do with the wizards.”
“No.” The chieftain’s face twisted suddenly. “That is the fault of the Tharn. In their greed they force us to dishonor the Lady’s ways, straining the land, destroy—”
A rumble of anger from the crowd drowned his voice and Dayven shivered. The population of four villages hemmed them in. Dayven had always considered the peasants docile people, who would never challenge their Tharn overlords, but the faces that glared in the ruddy torchlight were hard, angry, and desperate. Dayven felt a reluctant sympathy. And despite the formal offering of corncake and wine — a Cenzar custom that proclaimed them guests instead of prisoners — he felt the beginning of a fear that should have been beneath a future Guardian.
“How long ago did the stream fail?” Reddick asked. “Did it get smaller over a long period?”
“No.”
“All at once.”
“We just woke up and it was almost dry.” Several voices spoke, almost together.
“That was nine days ago,” the old man added. “It went from full to barely a trickle in the space of a night. Do you wonder that we suspect magic?”
“What have you done about it? Hasn’t anyone gone to investigate?” Reddick asked.
“Of course. Two men from Banadeen, the village farthest upstream, set out that very morning. When three days passed and they had not returned, we agreed that all four villages would each send two more men. Six days have passed since they left. The stream is still dry and the men we sent are all missing. The crops are close to ripening; we could begin the harvest now. Indeed, we must if the steam remains dry. It will be a lean harvest. We will survive, but every hand will be needed to get the crops in before they wither. We are missing ten men. And without the mill to crush the grapes and grind the wheat and corn…” The chieftain shrugged.
“Why don’t you ask your Guardian for help?” Dayven spoke up for the first time. “It’s his duty to find out what happened to the stream and your men.”
“The Tharn Guardian?” The old peasant sneered. “What does he care about the land his father conquered, except to drain it to support his herds? Tharn steel makes strong plowshares; that is the only good we get from the Tharn… But we tried. When our men failed to return, we humbled ourselves and went to the Guardian. He told us he was too busy preparing for war to be bothered with ‘peasant problems.’ We wasted precious time on him.”
“Then you’d better not waste any more,” said Reddick. “Start your harvest tomorrow.”
“And abandon ten men to whatever fate they met?” The old man rubbed his face wearily. “I suppose we must. If we are to salvage anything from this crop we can lose no more time and spare no more hands.”
A murmur of protest ran through the crowd. A woman sobbed.
“No.” Reddick shook his head. “My apprentice and I will go upstream and find out what’s happening. I can’t promise to solve anything, but we’ll do our best. At least we’ll find out what’s going on up there.”
Dayven sat in the dry streambed, meditating on the cocoon. Reddick was preparing breakfast so he had plenty of time. In fact, after his first taste of Dayven’s cooking, Reddick had taken over all the food preparation. He said it would give Dayven more time to practice magic. During the two days they had been traveling toward the mountain lake that was the source of the stream, Reddick made sure Dayven got lots of practice. He couldn’t refuse without making the wizard suspicious. Now he could stretch out his mind at will and touch the life within the lifeless wrapping. He thought that if his skill was greater he could know every part of the transformation taking place in the small clay pot in his pocket. What frightened him was that he wanted to.
Dayven ran his fingers through the sand of the streambed, finding water-smoothed stones. He had told himself that learning magic wouldn’t change him. But now…
Perhaps it was because he had lived all his life in a city that he had never realized how alive plants were, but lately he had begun to notice stones. Rough and smooth, and of more types than he had ever dreamed existed. Reddick had found him staring at a vein of quartz embedded in a granite hillside and explained about different rocks and how they were formed. Before, Dayven had just assumed that rock was rock. Now he was beginning to find uniqueness in them — and life in everything around him. Had grandmother Adina seen the world like this?
Dayven wondered what Soren would think of it, if he ever had the courage to tell him. Thinking of his cousin made Dayven long for his company and with the longing came the vision. His eyes were open, but he no longer saw the streambed and bushes. His mind filled with a picture of Soren. His cousin was standing with a group of Watcherlads observing a bout in the practice yard. Judging by his sweat-stained clothes Soren had fought previously himself. Dayven couldn’t see the fighters, but he could follow the progress of the combat by the changes of expression on his cousin’s face. Then the struggle surged toward Soren, the ring of Watcherlads broke, and Soren leapt back, laughing. The vision vanished.
Dayven sat in the streambed; his heart pounded. He had heard of wizards spying on people from afar. Scrying, it was called. It was one of the magics people hated wizards for. Even wizards, he had heard, had rules about its use. Should he tell Reddick what happened? Master Senna had said that magic itself was not wrong, only using it to alter destiny. But he hadn’t been speaking about scrying. On the other hand, scrying could be very useful to a spy. And to refuse to learn any kind of wizardry would be suspicious. For a careless sot, Reddick saw a great deal. What if there were other wizard’s skills that could be turned against them? If Dayven could use magic to serve the Lordowner, then learning it was justified, wasn’t it? He would no longer resist his lessons. And he wouldn’t tell Reddick that he had discovered how to scry. Dayven packed the cocoon carefully in its pot and returned to camp.
“We’ll reach the lake soon,” said Reddick. They were climbing out of a ravine the stream had cut. It was hard going for the horse; Reddick’s mule was more surefooted.
Reddick glanced at the sun. “We’ll have several hours to poke around before dark, and we may need it. When I first volunteered for this, I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to go all the way up.”
“It’ll take days to go down, too,” Dayven grumbled. “It’ll delay our report on the Cenzar by almost a week.”
“I thought a Guardian’s first duty was defending the weak,” said Reddick. “What are you complaining about?”
“But you’re not a Guardian,” said Dayven shrewdly. “Why are we doing this?”
Reddick nodded approvingly. “You’re learning, kid. We’re here because the Cenzar are right when they call wizards meddlers. We’re not particularly noble, but we’re the worst busybodies in the world. I want to find out what happened to the stream, not to mention those men.”
Dayven frowned as they emerged from the ravine. “It is a Guardian’s duty to protect the weak, but sometimes other duties take precedence. Isn’t information about the Cenzars’ plans more important than… Fates!”
“What are you gaping at?” Reddick followed his gaze. A huge arc of stone ran from the top of the hill in front of them dow
n to the ravine. It was supported by sweeping arches. In the clear light, it looked as fragile as a sculpture in glass.
“What is it?” Dayven whispered.
“A water trough,” said Reddick. “Or maybe ‘water bridge’ is a better description. The Cenzar built it centuries ago to carry part of the river to that streambed, so they could farm the land in this part of the foothills.”
Dayven blinked. “You mean there wasn’t a stream there before?”
“That’s right. The Cenzar came all the way up here and found the lake. But the river that drains it went down the wrong side of the mountain. So they built that,” he gestured at the incredible structure, “to carry part of the river over this slope and down to the valley. Then they dug a trench and diverted part of the river. Remarkable, isn’t it?”
“But the Cenzar are barbarians! How could they build something to … to carry a river through the air?”
“It’s not carrying a river now,” said Reddick. “Come on. The lake’s just over that ridge.”
The stream had stopped because it had been dammed.
“It took us the best part of a day and a night to block it off,” the Tharn captain told them. “We’re fighting men, not ditch diggers. But Lord Enar figured that if the river flooded, the Cenzar troops might have trouble crossing it. At least they’d be likely to lose some supplies. So he sent us to see if we could find a way to make the river larger. Empty the lake faster somehow, he said. I thought it was cow flop. But when we got up here it was simple. We just blocked off this trench.” He gestured to the smooth-stoned canal that led from the river to the water bridge.
Dayven and Reddick had found the dam — and the two Tharn guardsmen who’d been posted there — shortly before dusk. One of them had stayed to keep an eye on the wizard and his apprentice, while his comrade went to fetch their captain.
Now Reddick gazed at the river, surging down the mountain’s other side. “Captain, permit me an ignorant question or two. Like all wizards, I’m a curious man. I’m very impressed with what you’ve done here, but won’t low-lying fields be flooded downstream?”