The Exile and the Sorcerer

by Jane Fletcher

  The three sorcerers sat in dour reflection. Iralin shook her head slowly, as if combating her disbelief. “I guess we’re just incredibly lucky to have got the warning at all. When I received the report from Chenoweth about the villager’s complaints, I was torn between ignoring it completely and writing to Jemeryl for an explanation. I’m still not sure in my own mind why I put it to the oracle. It was just an odd whim, and that was the answer I got.”

  “The whims of sorcerers can be serious things.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  The Guardian waved her finger at Iralin. “Your awareness of the future is far better than you’re prepared to admit, even to yourself. Something this momentous was bound to attract your attention. If it hadn’t been Chenoweth’s report, you’d have found yourself wanting to cast an oracle just to find out how Jemeryl was going to cook her eggs for breakfast. You only resisted the call because you’re one of the few people who hate prophecy even more than Jemeryl.”

  Iralin pouted. “Because all you get is ambiguous hints that only make sense with hindsight. Like now—have we still got no real idea of what’s involved?”

  “No. Our best attempts have produced no more information than you gave Jemeryl: a blind warrior, a basilisk, and a quest. Make what you will of it.” The Guardian shook her head. “We’ve even tried some active intervention, which is asking for trouble. We’ve caused as much temporal disruption as we dared and got nothing from it. We’ve had to give up and weave the neatest patch we could. Even so, Jemeryl will pick up the after-waves when she hits the critical moment.”

  “Jemeryl won’t be pleased if she thinks we’ve been tampering with her fate,” the man said.

  Gilliart’s expression hardened. “Which is why I was happy for Iralin to give her a good kick in the right direction. The future of the Protectorate is at stake, and the only useful thing we know is that our best hope of success is if Jemeryl goes on the quest. The Protectorate is my sworn responsibility, and I’m helpless. We don’t know enough. The oracle was the next best thing to useless.”

  Iralin nodded and said dryly, “In fact, a quote from Jemeryl herself comes to mind: ‘Foretelling is great as a party trick, but you can’t rely on it to tell you tomorrow’s date.’”

  Chapter Eleven—The Web of Fate

  The preparations took Jemeryl the rest of the morning. Even so, her expected patient had not arrived by the time she had finished. As the day stretched on, Jemeryl found herself checking and rechecking artefacts, pacing the hall, and snapping irritably at the squirrels, although they were the only things Iralin had not picked out for criticism—presumably, even the villagers were not frightened of them.

  Her actions were becoming increasingly pointless. She swapped the positions of two talismans, considered the new arrangement, and then swapped them back. She was reaching out a third time when irritation took over. Her fist thumped on the tabletop.

  Jemeryl marched out onto the porch. She glared at the castle gates, fighting the childish urge to blast them into flames. She was in enough trouble as it was and did not want to imagine what would happen if she actually did something to justify the villagers’ fear of her.

  And where was the blinded warrior?

  Jemeryl raked the fingers of both hands through her hair in frustration. What could she do? If she tried to scry the entire valley magically, she would be exhausted before she even started reconstructing the eyes. If she went looking in a conventional manner, she would probably miss the woman on the way. Iralin had been confident that the warrior would come to the castle. Presumably, the senior sorcerer had a reason for thinking this.

  “It would’ve been nice if she’d shared the information, rather than acting like a dragon with diarrhoea, and dumping me in it.” Jemeryl gave vent to her feelings.

  Ruff whined in sympathy. The bears had been avoiding her, clearly unsettled by her anger. Jemeryl glanced over her shoulder. Ruff was peering around the edge of the door with dark, pathetic eyes. The sight caused Jemeryl a twinge of guilt, and her expression softened, which emboldened Ruff to pad to her side and bat his head against her hand, wanting his head rubbed.

  “It’s all right. I’m not angry at you. You’re both good bears. I don’t care what Iralin thinks.” Blaming the bears for her misfortune was unfair. There was no one to blame but herself.

  Still the warrior did not come. Jemeryl left the bears happily digging into lunch and climbed to the old barrack room high in the keep. Once, a squad of soldiers had slept there; now it was an empty room with bare floorboards and unplastered walls. The windows were arrow slits set in wedge-shaped alcoves. The openings were a couple of feet above floor level, intended for kneeling, rather than standing, archers. They made good window seats— provided you used magic to warm them.

  Jemeryl clambered into the one commanding the best view of the path down to the village and curled up inside, bracing her knees and shoulders against the slanting walls. There was no sign of anyone, blinded or otherwise, approaching the castle.

  With nothing else to occupy her mind, Jemeryl’s thoughts kept returning to Iralin’s tirade. To call it a severe reprimand was an understatement. Iralin had verbally ripped her apart. Jemeryl’s face twisted in a pained grimace. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Whether they were due to anger, humiliation, or disappointment, Jemeryl could not say, and she did not want to poke around at her emotions to find out.

  Her relationship with Iralin had never been warm, but Jemeryl had believed it to be marked by mutual respect. Several times, she had been tempted to request a change in mentor. However, Iralin was third in seniority in the Coven, and Jemeryl was keenly aware of the honour of being her apprentice. She knew Iralin had taught her more than anyone else could have done. Their talents and personalities were very similar, and therein lay the source of much of the friction between them.

  In all honesty, Jemeryl had to admit that Iralin’s words held some truth, but she could not see that she had been so wilfully negligent as to deserve all that was said or the final judgement. It felt as if Iralin had deliberately skewed the facts to justify an outcome that had been determined before the start.

  Jemeryl was still brooding when Klara flew in and landed on her knee. There was no need for the magpie to report her findings aloud. Jemeryl already knew what she had discovered on her circuit of the valley: six of the protective ward charms, broken and scattered.

  “Someone’s been deliberately wrecking them.” Klara’s beadlike eyes mirrored Jemeryl’s anger.

  “But who, and why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does. Why break the wards and let the basilisk in? Was someone deliberately trying to harm the villagers? Or was it just a game by someone too stupid to see what they were?”

  “I wouldn’t bother trying to make sense of it. You can’t hope to understand the ungifted. They’ve got less sense than the squirrels.”

  Jemeryl thumped the stone. “How could I have been so careless?”

  “You couldn’t have predicted it.”

  “I shouldn’t have relied on the wards. It’s the sort of mistake novice witches make. I should have gone down to the village every day and made certain I knew what was going on. I’ve walked into this like an idiot, and there’s more to come. I can feel it.”

  Klara tilted her head. “I think you should try to calm down. Otherwise, you’ll be in no state to heal the warrior when she finally decides to show up.”

  Jemeryl sighed and closed her eyes, then opened them again. A squirrel had left a small pile of broken nut shells. Jemeryl arranged them into a neat row, and then irritably swept them out the window. The thought of the warrior had brought a fresh set of worries.

  “Who goes hunting basilisks without the most basic knowledge of the risks involved?”

  “A fool?”

  “She must be. I’ve got to go with her—and no idea for how long. It could be months, even years.”

  “Following a brainless, sword-swinging lout
.” Klara’s words were not comforting.

  “You’re coming, too. Iralin didn’t forbid it, and I’ll need a friendly beak to turn to,” Jemeryl said, although this was a trap in itself. The magpie was a fully locked familiar, giving only the appearance of independence. In a very real sense, Jemeryl was talking to herself.

  The bell outside the gatehouse rang loudly. Jemeryl jumped. While talking to Klara, she had forgotten to watch the path. The intervening castle walls now prevented her from seeing whoever had rung the bell, but at the last peal, two villagers raced away and fled down the hillside.

  “Have they left the warrior outside?”

  “Either that or they’ve become totally infantile and are playing knock and run,” Klara suggested.

  Tumble lumbered across the courtyard below. With her teeth, she caught the rope hanging on the inside of the gate and pulled it open. Jemeryl heard the grinding of the hinges and the clatter of hooves, and then a pony trotted into view. The saddle was empty, although its pack bristled with assorted weaponry. Someone on foot was hidden on the far side. The sight of the weapons reminded Jemeryl that Iralin had said “warrior,” not “scout” or even “assassin.” It did not bode well for the woman’s intelligence.

  Jemeryl glanced at Klara. “I guess I’m going to need you to talk to after all. Her conversation skills might be very limited.”

  The pony came to a standstill. A two-handed battle-axe protruded prominently from behind the saddle. “An axe woman!” Without waiting to see more, Jemeryl scrambled from the alcove.

  Klara fluttered onto Jemeryl’s shoulder. “Limited conversation, my foot. She’s probably still at the grunt-and-point stage.”

  Jemeryl braced herself for the worst. She cast a last muttered obscenity at Iralin and strode to the spiral staircase. With each step, her anxiety grew—not about healing the warrior’s eyes, she had no doubt of her own ability, but at the sense that she was being pushed into something irrevocable. She was quite certain that far more was at stake than Iralin had implied.

  The scene greeting Jemeryl in the courtyard was approaching chaos. The pony had fled in panic from Tumble, who was trying to make friends. The frightened pony was now threatening to kick over the water butt by the kitchen door, while Tumble was licking the warrior’s hand, and even Jemeryl would accept that the gesture might be misunderstood. Squirrels were bouncing around the woman’s feet, excited by the novelty; others sat on a branch, chattering a noisy welcome. And still, Jemeryl could not get a good look at her visitor. The woman had her back to the keep and was obscured behind a tree.

  Re-establishing order was a good starting point. Jemeryl pulled all the animals under her control and commanded them to back off and keep quiet. Peace descended on the courtyard. In the resulting silence, Jemeryl crossed the drawbridge and descended the steps. At the bottom, she turned for her first clear view of the warrior.

  The future crashed into the past. Time was ripped open. Jemeryl recoiled in shock, with no sense of when she was. A gaping hole opened in the web of fate, inviting her to see things she had no wish to know. She was sucked in, while forever spun around her. Klara screeched in terror, a cry more awful than anything Jemeryl had ever heard from her familiar.

  The sound pulled Jemeryl back to the courtyard, to here and now. She hurled out every temporal barricade she knew and forced the future out of her head. For a space, fate rippled in the courtyard, distorting Jemeryl’s time sense in the same way that heat above a fire distorts vision. Then, gradually, the seconds resumed their steady march, each one following the last.

  Jemeryl stood with her eyes closed. This was the meeting that had overshadowed her all day, she realised, not the confrontation with Iralin. It was also a meeting that had not been allowed to run its own true course. Someone had been tampering with fate, and it took little to guess who that someone was. Iralin and the Coven were playing games.

  Why couldn’t they trust me? Jemeryl thought in fury. Instead, they just left me to walk into that botched mess. However, there was nothing she could do. She was going to have to bite back her anger and get on with the task before her.

  Jemeryl opened her eyes and again looked at her visitor. This time, there was no upheaval, and she was able to evaluate the warrior. The results were unexpected. The woman was both younger and smaller than anticipated—scarcely older than Jemeryl and only a handbreadth taller. She was of medium build, with short dark hair. Over her eyes was a wet bandage. Her hands bore the mercenaries’ red and gold tattoos. Her clothes were splattered with blood, which, judging from its colour and quantity, had belonged to the basilisk. She was clearly confused, frightened, and in pain, but making a desperate attempt to hide it all.

  Jemeryl forced her feet to continue walking. The warrior turned to face the sound of approaching steps.

  “Please. I need your help.”

  “I know. I’ve been expecting you.”

  While combating the aftereffects of time shock, Jemeryl continued to study the woman, aware that her emotions were lurching in a surprising direction. Jemeryl had anticipated feeling dislike, even contempt, for the warrior, partially blaming her for the turn of events. However, the young woman before her, vulnerable and suffering, could only inspire pity. She was even more of a victim than Jemeryl was, and in a far worse state. How much was her condition due to Iralin’s tampering? Jemeryl directed a fresh blast of anger towards her mentor—this time, on behalf of the blinded warrior.

  Jemeryl spoke, more gently than before. “Come with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  The woman flinched at Jemeryl’s touch. It seemed as if she might give way to panic and bolt—or would, if she could see where to run. But then she meekly allowed herself to be led towards the great hall.

  Just before they entered, Jemeryl caused the harness on the pony to loosen. The pack slipped to the ground for the bears to take care of, and the pony was sent to the stables. Everything else could wait until the matter of the eyes was resolved.

  The woman collapsed on the chair Jemeryl led her to. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She gripped the armrests so tightly that her knuckles were white.

  Jemeryl put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry; you’re going to be fine.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Yes, I can, and I will. My name’s Jemeryl, and you’ve got nothing to be frightened of.”

  “My name’s Tevi. A basilisk, it—”

  “It’s all right, I know.” Jemeryl took a deep breath and released the warrior’s shoulder. It was time to start work. “All right, Tevi, I’m going to remove the bandage and examine your eyes.”

  The clumsy knot took only a few seconds to untie. The material was wet and very cold—an attempted ice pack. Jemeryl swore under her breath. Everything was stacking against her. Were the villagers really so ignorant? The ice would have reduced blood flow to the eye socket and possibly cemented the crystallisation.

  Despite her fresh worries, Jemeryl tried to make her voice reassuring. “Now, Tevi, I’m going to examine your eyes. I’m afraid you need to be conscious so I can test the reactions of the nerves. It will be unpleasant, but it won’t take long. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you open your eyes?”

  The prospects were poor if the twin effects of transmutation and ice had caused too much damage for Tevi to do this. To Jemeryl’s relief, the eyelids quivered open. The glasslike orbs would have been unsettling enough for any ordinary ungifted person. It was far more shocking for Jemeryl, who could see the eyes for what they were—hideous twin drains in Tevi’s aura, through which her life’s energy could be sucked away.

  Jemeryl placed her fingertips on Tevi’s forehead, temples, and cheeks in a circle. With her extended senses she could feel the coursing of blood through veins, the electric messages in the nerves and the taunt elasticity of membrane. Unfortunately, it was impossible to numb Tevi to the pain without blocking the very responses she needed to examine. Jemeryl went as carefully a
s possible; yet still, she heard Tevi whimper.

  Soon, Jemeryl let her hands drop and sat back, feeling very relieved. The sockets were undamaged, although it would have been less painful for Tevi had this not been the case. The active nerve ends must be causing her agony. Jemeryl looked at her patient with respect, surprised that she was even able to walk and talk. At least it was now possible to do something to help. A goblet with a sleeping draft was already prepared.

  Tevi was slumped forward, gasping. The pulse in her neck beat rapidly. Jemeryl gently coaxed her upright and placed the goblet in her hands. “There’s a lot of work to do, but I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know you don’t have to be aware of it. Drink this, and you’ll sleep.”

  “Can you stop it hurting?” Tevi’s voice was a raw whisper.

  “I can do more than that. I can restore your eyesight. I can’t guarantee it will be like before, but it should be good enough for you to remain a warrior.”

  At first, Tevi hesitated, with the goblet at her lips, but then she resolutely downed the contents.

  “If you could come over here...” Jemeryl took Tevi’s hand and guided her to the table. “You’ll be asleep soon and won’t know anything more until tomorrow morning. When I’ve finished, I’ll put a bandage around your eyes. You mustn’t remove it, even if you feel fine. Your eyes will be extremely sensitive to light. If you expose them before they’ve healed, you may cause fresh damage.”

  Tevi lay on the table with a cushion under her head. “I won’t touch it.” Her voice was already sounding drowsy.

  “I’ll try to be around when you wake up. If I’m not, you can say my name aloud anywhere in the castle, and I’ll hear. My name is Jemeryl. Will you remember that?”

  Tevi nodded and mumbled, “Jem’r.”

  Jemeryl moved to the few final preparations. Tevi was deeply asleep by the time she had finished. The expression of pain had faded. Without it, the warrior looked even younger than Jemeryl’s first estimate. Her body was athletic but certainly not muscle-bound. Where did she find the strength to use a battle-axe? Jemeryl wondered. And how did anyone so inexperienced kill a basilisk? The questions would have to wait. Jemeryl had a long afternoon’s work ahead of her.