Mearsies Heili Bounces Back

by Sherwood Smith

  None.

  Good.

  I made my way up the tunnel to the cave entrance, then slipped out into a quiet, moonlit night. The forest leaves were silver-tipped, the shadows faint. I walked out onto the grassy slope and over the soft hummus, breathing deeply of the beloved scents of the woodland. My stomach seemed to settle a little as I listened happily to the cheerful chitter of crickets, and the rustle and plappity-plap of some forest animal racing about in its night life.

  I peered around, sniffing the scents of wildflowers, so busy enjoying myself I didn’t notice when the crickets went silent. A light flickered, surprising me. Dummy! Too late I realized the animal might have been running from something—there was a crashing noise in the shrubs behind me. A muffled voice, and more crashing to the right.

  Running footsteps from the left.

  Because whoever it was with the light had, of course, seen my figure in its pale nightgown drifting along.

  It had to be Chwahir—who had that magic-enhanced night vision.

  I whirled around, but by then the 360 degree crashings and thuds of footsteps made it clear I was surrounded; someone or something thumped into my from above, and I crashed down, struggling and kicking and yelling—or trying to yell.

  But someone else had had a magic spell ready, and the weight of a stone spell numbed my limbs.

  Yours Truly had not only managed to ignore what signs and portents really did exist, she’d gotten up and walked smack dab into a roving patrol of Chwahir.

  “Oh, barf.” I tried to say it, but my lips were too heavy to frame the word; it came out “Blllllrrrrggggh.”

  And that, I decided later, about summed up my feelings.

  Magic tipped me into the sleep that had evaded me naturally.

  o0o

  I woke slowly, drifting upward through foggy wisps of dream-vapor that made me feel groggy and listless. Magic—

  Magic! Chwahir—had to be! Jilo and his friends had learned by grim determination the general area the Junky was located in.

  I groaned. And heard a soft hiss of breath.

  Someone was there!

  I hadn’t opened my eyes yet. Now I kept them closed—like that would help, if I was stuck in Shnit’s dungeon! But—sniff, sniff—the air did not smell like home, but it did not smell like vintage dungeon either, and I’d experienced enough of the aroma of Chwahir Dungeon by now to know.

  Plus, the gold on my eyelids hinted at real sunlight.

  Okay. No dungeon stench, no gloom. So far, so ... not good, but hopeful.

  I cracked an eye—then flipped up both eyelids in surprise when the face hovering nearby turned out not to be a villain, a Chwahir, or even a monster, but a girl somewhere near my own age, with curly golden hair.

  The girl had looked anxious at that very first glance, but now she smiled. “You are awake! Just when the Wise One promised.”

  She spoke Mearsiean, but with a strong accent. I’d heard that accent before.

  I croaked, “Wise One?”

  “Your guardian,” the girl said. “Elderly man in a mage’s robe. I only caught the briefest glimpse of him. “ She added soberly, “Raneseh told us the Wise One sent you here because of troubles in a faraway kingdom. You will be safe here.”

  “What?” I squawked. “Elderly—do you mean a geez with a long white beard? One that has needed an emergency laundering for a couple of centuries?” The girl looked puzzled at this last, then gave a hesitant nod, and I gave vent to a moan with extra tremolo and verve. “No, no, no—that cannot be good. Guardian? Oh blech, I gotta get outa here.”

  The girl rose from her stool and moved to glass doors that let in the light. She opened drapes and let the crack of golden light widen to mellow sunshine that filtered through the greenery of a substantial garden.

  Then she returned. “I am sorry,” she said, and looked so. “But the Wise One requested that you be kept here, for your own good. As well as for the good of the kingdom he guards.”

  I gritted my teeth against a bellow of rage. This girl could not be a villain. She didn’t act like one in the least. And I was thirsty, had a headache, couldn’t think.

  “Shall I let in some fresh air for you?” the girl asked. “There is water here on the tray.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I struggled for politeness as dizziness smeared the edge of my vision. I picked up the water the girl had poured. Good, clear, tasty. It settled my stomach. I flopped back on the pillow.

  “You look pale,” the girl said, her smooth brow slightly puckered as she surveyed me. “I will see to a meal, if you will tell me what you like?”

  “Dunno—just some breakfast junk. Thanks.”

  “‘Junk’?” She said the word in English—I remembered it didn’t translate.

  ‘Um, food.”

  “Thank you. Why do you not rest until then?”

  “Okay.”

  The girl repeated, “Oh—kay?”

  “It means all right. Who are you?”

  “Oh, you may call me Pralineh. You are in the house of Raneseh Khavnan.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “I guess the next question is, why?”

  Pralineh tipped her head slightly, as though that question had either not occurred to her, or that the answer was too difficult for her to frame. She said, “Please rest. We will see to a meal. Then you may speak to Raneseh, who will explain better than I can.”

  She walked out. Pralineh was not dressed like a servant—not unless servants wore fine gowns with ribbon trim in elegant geometric patterns.

  The door closed. I got up, experienced only a little dizziness, and padded to the door. I eased the latch—and was surprised that it worked. I was not locked in.

  I turned to the glass doors, which Pralineh had pulled open to let a breeze in. I eased forward, fingers out in case there might be a nasty ward. No. Nothing. I peered out into a quiet garden overshadowed by flowering trees.

  If this is a klink, I thought, it’s the fanciest one I’ve ever heard of. Colend, maybe? Despite the situation, I grinned. Did Colend even have any jails? If they did, of course they would be more elegant than anyone else’s palaces, surely. Imagine pretty prison clothes, and what kind of restitution jobs would they do—embroidery? That just fit them, somehow.

  But this girl had a Mearsiean name, even if she pronounced it differently. At home she’d be ‘Praline’ that is “Pra-lin-eh’ with the final ‘eh’ no more than a breath. Like our Cherene, Faline, Irene. The LIN (or EN) is what you emphasize. Here, the syllables got pretty even emphasis. And she spoke Mearsiean, even if with an accent.

  I scowled, turning around in a circle on the soft rug. The room was square, smooth-walled, painted a pale gold. Opposite the bed stood a wardrobe. I opened it. Half a dozen kid-size dresses hung neatly on pegs, with a cleaning frame just inside the doors.

  Somebody meant for me to stay, then.

  I sighed. Refusing to dress wasn’t going to get me out any faster—nor would floobing about in a grass-stained nightgown.

  I jumped through the cleaning frame, felt the magic snap the grime from me and the nightgown both. Then I inspected the dresses. They were all one piece, no skirts and shirts like I preferred. At least they weren’t frilly or flouncy—not that I mind that once in a while, but not on an adventure. I’d learned that managing a big dress while climbing trees or running from villains is a hassle. Not to mention trying to get in a good kick past a couple billion yards of fluffy skirt.

  I pulled out a gown of plain blue polished cotton, with a sash of a darker blue. It was almost the right length, just a tad short, and I wondered if it was one of Pralineh’s old ones. It wasn’t new, but it was well-cared for.

  I tied the sash round my middle, stuck my tongue out at the shoes lined up on the floor of the wardrobe (there were three pairs of fine, satin-covered walking slippers) and passed through the glass door into the garden.

  Beyond flowering shrubs was a stone bench, placed under a vast tree that reminded me of pepper trees from my Eart
h days—lots of fine leaves hanging in clumps. I plopped down onto the bench, feeling better just sitting in that filtered green light. Feeling better despite my stomach growling and my head panging.

  Magic reaction. After all, I was recovering not just from one spell, but two: the spell that had dropped me, and also a long distance transfer. I was certain as I could be about anything that I was far away from Mearsies Heili.

  So my first job was to get back home. I couldn’t even think about trying magic yet, not with that gigantic headache. But what about ...

  I jerked up my hand, and stared at my empty fingers. Oh yeah. My ring was still in Clair’s magic chamber. The spell to summon Clair in an automatic transfer wasn’t so easy, and she hadn’t been sure it would work even under the horrible wards of villains like the Chwahir.

  So I had no way to get home. Or even to send a message.

  I looked back inside, and grimaced. This was certainly not my home, no matter what that girl said. Though it was pleasant enough that I could pretend until I felt better, and so I stepped farther into the garden, found a grassy spot beneath a tree, lay down and watched the sky through the whispering, rustling green leaves.

  TWO

  I woke with a snort, and looked around wildly. Was that a bad dream? Was I home? No. The greenery overhead looked and smelled different from the forest at home.

  I rubbed my ear, recalling noises. Footsteps! Passing by. But there was only the silent garden around me, no humans.

  I sat up. At least the headache had faded.

  I closed my eyes, breathing deeply the way I’d learned when gathering the inward energy for a big spell. I depicted the transfer destination at home, and—

  And—

  And the words were still gone. This wasn’t just headache. My magic was gone.

  I keened softly, “E-e-e-e-e-e!” No, no, no—not my magic!

  But it was warded. And by someone who had been able to take the time to do it right. When I reached for even the simplest spell form, all I sensed were was foggy ‘sounds’—bits of magic words—and vague memory images of having used the spell, but no spell itself, or the feel of magic gathering and the sounds that shaped it.

  Quick, light, rustling steps brought me scrambling to my feet, fists tightly clenched.

  Pralineh approached, gracefully lifting her skirt to step over the root of a huge climbing rose vine. “There you are,” she exclaimed. “The sun is almost gone—it will be cold soon. Won’t you come inside?”

  I fought the urge to snap a signed-and-sealed CJ zinger back at her. Pralineh couldn’t be the mage who’d warded my magic. She was a girl my age or a bit older, and she was trying to be nice. She didn’t deserve a CJ temper tantrum.

  I bet I know who does, I muttered under my breath as I followed Pralineh back through the glass doors into the guest room, which had been lit by two candelabra set before pretty ovals against the walls on either side of the bed.

  “What shall I call you?’ Pralineh asked.

  I shot out my breath in a snort. “Whatever that old geez told you, I am Princess Cherene Jennet Sherwood of Mearsies Heili, hater of evil, and foe to all villains, and wielder of the prune pie of justice.” As always when upset I tried to turn my declaration into a joke, but my voice wobbled at the end.

  Pralineh studied me in perplexity, fingers twiddling absently at the silken ribbon stripe down either side of the laces on the front of her gown. She did not look angry, just puzzled, and a little wary as she said slowly, “We were told you had broken the law. But because you are young—”

  I cut in. “Are we in Tser Mearsies, like I think we are?”

  Pralineh’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes—of course.”

  I grimaced terribly. How could Kwenz possibly have any connections with anyone in Tser Mearsies? Well, maybe there were villains here, too, and there really was some sort of Villains’ Guild. You stash this prisoner somewhere, and I’ll trade you some evil spells. I shook my head. Didn’t matter right now. What did was getting home. “Listen, Pralineh,” I said urgently. “That means you’re a Mearsiean same as me. Have you ever heard of the Chwahir being friends to us? Ever?”

  Pralineh pressed her hands together.

  “I’m telling you Kwenz—if that geez you mentioned was Kwenz, and what other geez would it be who’d take away my magic, and send me away, after bucketing me in the middle of the night at home, unless it would be his brother, who is ten times worse, but he wouldn’t put me in a nice place like this—well, I just lost where I was. If that geez was Kwenz, he is an enemy. They use dark magic, which means they spend it right out of the world, and for spells that do nasty things. Not good things. Get it?”

  For a moment she seemed convinced, then she shook her head. “I really think you ought to be speaking about this matter to Raneseh. Here, I came to bring to you some supper. Then afterward, if you like, you may help me with my marriage linens.”

  “Marriage linens?” I saw from Pralineh’s nervous manner that I’d scared her. I made an effort to calm down.

  Pralineh said in mild surprise, “Oh. I did not think. If you are a princess you probably would not need to make your own. Come, let me show you!”

  She opened the door opposite the wardrobe, and I followed her, more interested in the layout of this dwelling than in the prospect of wedding-whatevers.

  The house was one-story, built in such a way that most of the rooms opened onto pocket gardens through glass doors. It meant wandering along right-angled halls, but these were pretty, many with hand-painted pictures along them, mostly flower motifs, all up high just below the ceiling. The rooms were also built on slightly different levels, as if the house was cut into the side of a slight hill; it seemed every time we turned a corner we also stepped up a couple of broad, shallow tiled stairs.

  Pralineh’s rooms were a very soft peachy pink, with a pattern of climbing white roses painted below the ceiling on all the walls, the dark green leaves and the white blossoms nicely contrasting with the pale, warm-toned pink.

  There was a sitting room with comfortable low chairs, all satin-covered, and little tables. Beyond that a room I realized was a sort of dressing room storage closet: a wall-sized wardrobe stood against one wall, and along the other were trunks and shelves.

  Pralineh rushed to one of the trunks, lifted it, and pulled from it a long table runner embroidered with golden bell-shaped blossoms picked out with light green leaves. “This is my own pattern.” She held it up proudly. “And my grandmother’s is the rose pattern you see here.” She pointed at the walls. “When I have my own house, everything will be colored to match my firebells. We always begin with runners first, and trunk covers. Better linens later when our stitchwork is good.” She lowered the runner into the trunk with careful hands. “You say you are Mearsiean, yet you look as though you’ve never seen a table runner before!”

  “Sure I have.” I just can’t imagine wasting my time making them. I grimaced. “I, um, am not so hot with a needle. But a couple of my friends are,” I added, hoping at least that sounded friendly and interested.

  I was not about to give my opinion of weddings or any of that nastarooni.

  Pralineh led me back into her sitting room just as a woman dressed in a plain gown of pale green pushed in a cart on which sat silver-covered dishes.

  “Ah, supper,” Pralineh exclaimed. “Come. Be seated anywhere. And you must tell me more about your home. If you do not hold household or stitch in prospect of heading your house one day, what do you do?”

  I took a few bites of trout lightly poached in white wine with herbs and onion. “I adventure,” I finally said. Then, fearing I sounded like a show-offy gasbag, “And play. Well, and patrol, watching out for Chwahir.”

  Then the taste hit me, and my appetite woke up. I applied myself enthusiastically to the fish, to the fresh beans steamed with just a hint of herb, and to rice cooked in something tasty, I had no idea what: the girls and I tended to eat plain food at home, and mostly the same thing
s over and over, with occasional slight variations.

  “Adventure?” Pralineh said after a delicate bite or two.

  I stopped my enthusiastic gobbling, remembered that I did know manners, and carefully laid my spoon down. “Yes—oh, I don’t want to sound like a fat-head. But there are a lot of villains, and not just Chwahir, who think because Clair—she’s the queen—is a girl—um, did I get that mixed up? Well, anyway, they think they can take over. Or fool her into making stupid decisions. Or other rottenness. But they can’t, because she’s smart. Smarter than most grownups.”

  Appetite forgotten, I leaped up and began to prowl around the room as I described the Junky, the other girls, Clair, and Mearsies Heili. I kept biting back the urge to brag about my adventures, and kept myself to descriptions of home, but—looking back—I suspect my longing got into my tone if not my words. Pralineh also forgot her food, and sat listening, hands folded in her lap.

  Finally I remembered the cooling food. “Um,” I said, wondering if there was some kind of manners I’d managed to totally unnotice that a hostess couldn’t eat unless her guest did. Seshe hadn’t mentioned that during our Propah Dinner what seemed a thousand years ago—but this was a different country. A different continent. “Well, so anyway. I tend to be a blabber-mouth. You can always stop me before you snore—the girls sure do!”

  “But it is all interesting.” Pralineh smiled. “So far outside my experience.” Her voice was tentative, and I wondered if I hadn’t done my home justice—that Pralineh was just as glad MH and the Junky and all the rest of my life lay outside her experience.

  “I didn’t tell it very well. It’s a free life! I love it for that as well as for the fun. Real freedom is roaming the woods with bare feet, and all day in front of you, and no adults yapping at you.”

  Pralineh smiled politely. I gave up, plunked myself down onto my chair and began eating again.

  Pralineh resumed her meal. I couldn’t tell much from her expression, but later on I found out she was thinking over what she’d heard. So far, their guest—Raneseh had insisted I was a guest—was a surprise. There were aspects of my words that were so unfamiliar she began to consider how it could be two girls more or less the same age (actually she was a couple years older) could have such a vast chasm of experience between them.