“If Ed is found, I believe we can clear him of the ridiculous charges against him,” the woman persisted. “And what of your secretary, Jerome Esterville? He’s missing, too. Has anyone searched for him?”
“I’m curious as to why you think my secretary needs to be searched for. Do you believe that he’s met with foul play—perhaps by the hand of Simple Eddie? Or do you think he’s committed some crime?”
“I think it highly likely that he’s the one who struggled with Ed and tried to drown him.”
“Jerome, a murderer? That’s preposterous!” Hardwick put far more conviction into the protest than he actually felt. He was unsure what Jerome might be capable of since his contact with the wonder workers.
“Regardless of what you think, shouldn’t you be conducting a search for them so that the facts can be ascertained?”
“I’ll do that after the witches are properly disposed of. I—”A commotion at the side of the house interrupted him before he could announce the execution and note her reaction.
He cocked the hammer of his pistol and readied the percussion cap as he headed toward the source of the noise. Before he reached the corner of the house, two peacekeepers came around it, dragging the missing wonder worker between them.
“Caught her trying to sneak in the back way, Councilor,” one said as they drew near.
So that’s what the Wesson woman was doing—keeping him occupied so the witch could sneak into the house and harm Genevieve. Rage twisted within him like a snake. He whirled around to confront Leah. “So! You thought you could distract me while this slut broke into my daughter’s house.”
“We only want to save Genevieve’s life,” Leah protested.
Kyla, brought close enough now to confront him, put in, “Why do you refuse to believe your daughter is in danger?”
At her question, the snake writhed and coiled, eager to strike. “Oh, I do believe it. That’s why I’ve stood guard here. You’re the danger I’m protecting her from. We’ll all feel safer once you’ve joined your friend on the gallows.” It gave him pleasure to say that.
It pleased him more to hear the witch’s horrified gasp. “Marta! You’ve hanged her?”
“Not yet, but we will in less than an hour from now.” He licked his lips in anticipation.
“You refuse to listen to reason,” the witch cried out. “Once you asked me to help your daughter. Please let me help her now.”
She shouldn’t have brought that up. Several of the men gave him curious looks. It wasn’t something he wanted them—or anyone—to know. “She doesn’t need your kind of help,” he snapped, raising his pistol.
The peals of a handbell alerted him that school dismissal time had come. He restrained his impulse to shoot the witch, not wanting to upset the children, who would momentarily begin exiting the classroom. “Quick,” he motioned toward Kyla, “get her away from here before the children come out.”
But the children suddenly poured toward them, shouting and laughing, orderly no longer. Hardwick slipped his pistol into his waistband and faced them. “You children hurry home,” he ordered.
Most of them, wide-eyed at the sight of the white and tan uniformed peacekeepers, dispersed quickly. But one small, red-haired girl shoved past the others and ducked around him.
“Miss Wesson, Miss Wesson, you’re here!” The red-haired tornado spun around them and threw herself into Leah Wesson’s arms, nearly throwing her off balance and forcing Hardwick to back away.
“Calm down, Veronica, dear.” Her former teacher hugged her, laughing. “I’ve tried to see you, and now here you are.”
“Have you come to take me back to Miss Dormer’s school? Please, Miss Wesson? I don’t like it here.”
“Mistress Wirth is a fine teacher, Veronica.” Leah stooped down and looked the girl in the eye. “You must listen to her and do as she says. You’ll learn just as much from her as you would from me.”
Genevieve came out of the house and started toward her father, a welcoming smile lighting her face. He motioned her to go back inside, but instead she hurried to Leah Wesson and Veronica.
“Miss Wesson. What a surprise to see you here. Veronica, you need to run on home now.”
Hardwick stepped to his daughter’s side. “Go back in the house, Genevieve. I’ll escort both Veronica and Miss Wesson to their homes.” He’d meant to take Leah Wesson to the guardhouse along with the witch, but he couldn’t do that with the child and his daughter looking on. The peacekeepers had already moved off with the wonder worker.
“I want to talk to Miss Wesson,” Veronica insisted, hanging on to her former teacher’s arm.
Leah Wesson gently unwrapped the small fingers from around her wrist. “I think you had better go now, Veronica. We can talk another time.”
“No. I want to come back to your class, Miss Wesson.” She glared up at Genevieve. “I won’t stay in Mistress Wirth’s class. I won’t!”
“You’ll stay where your parents tell you to stay, young lady,” Hardwick said, taking hold of the child’s arms and lifting her away from Genevieve and her former teacher.
“Really, Veronica, you’re behaving very badly,” Genevieve said. “I think your parents need to hear about this.”
“Don’t anger her, Genevieve.” As the Wesson woman spoke, she stepped in front of Genevieve as though to shield her.
Again Hardwick said, “Genevieve, get back inside the house, please.”
“Why? What is this all about?” Genevieve stepped around Leah and strode toward Hardwick and the child, who was struggling in his arms.
“Let me go! I want to go with Miss Wesson. I want to go back to her class.”
Hardwick gave the child an angry shake.
“Please, be gentle with her,” Leah called out. “Genevieve, she has power. She can hurt you. Don’t argue, just go inside.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Genevieve demanded, making no move to do what Leah advised. Instead, again she confronted Veronica. “Stop making a spectacle of yourself, Veronica. Act like a young lady and go home as you’ve been told.”
The “young lady” stuck her tongue out at Genevieve and squirmed in Hardwick’s arms, delivering a painful kick to his knee.
He lost his grip on the writhing child. She tumbled free and rolled away from him. “Go in!” Hardwick bellowed at Genevieve.
Genevieve resisted Leah Wesson’s attempt to pull her toward the house. “Have you all gone crazy?” She jerked free of Leah's grasp and moved deliberately toward Veronica.
Veronica scrambled to her feet and pointed a finger at Genevieve, shouting, “You’ll be sorry!” A small flame sprouted from the girl’s finger and expanded into a fireball. The fiery sphere flowed toward and swallowed Genevieve.
Ed tried several times to make the transition, Mother Esterville clinging to his arm. His fear for Marta may have been what held him back. His desperation to reach her was probably what finally let him go.
He and Mother Esterville stood under a stand of caronut trees bathed in the pale light of early morning—the same stand of trees where he and Jerome had rested before going on to the ruined building.
“You did it,” Mother Esterville exclaimed, glancing around in amazement at the stand of trees and the brook that burbled through it. “But where is Jerome?”
Ed frowned. Why had they arrived in this spot when he’d pictured the ruined building? “If he’s where I left him, it’s a bit of a walk from here. Maybe he came back here. I’ll look around.”
Leaving Mother Esterville resting in the shade, he scouted around the area, first circling the cluster of trees and then threading his way through it. He even waded in the brook to be certain he missed nothing along its banks. Finding no evidence that Jerome had come back, he returned to Mother Esterville and reluctantly informed her that they’d have to go on.
“Then we’d better hurry,” said Mother Esterville, hiking up her skirt. “Which way?”
Ed pointed and she set off, not waiting. Realizi
ng suddenly how tired he was, he did not at first try to catch up with her and take the lead. Instead of the grain fields that spread out on the other side of the copse, the land on this side was filled with weeds that had surely grown taller since he and Jerome had come this way. They’d sprouted burs that caught in his clothing and scratched his ankles; they sported whiplike strands to entangle his feet and hid rocks he stumbled over. Some had furry blossoms that gave off a sour odor and attracted swarms of gnats. At his passage the insects flew up and buzzed into his mouth and nose, making him sneeze and cough.
Worse than any physical discomfort, thoughts of Marta tormented him. If he didn’t get back in time to save her, he’d have no reason to go on living.
Marta had power; she might be able to free herself. She might not even want him interfering. Jerome was stranded here without Ed’s help. But if Jerome hadn’t tried to kill him, he wouldn’t be here. Jerome had brought his plight on himself, while Marta was an innocent victim of Hardwick and his men.
Ed remembered with a sickening jolt that time flowed far differently here. How much time had passed since he left Jerome? The cycles of day and night didn't correspond at all with those of his home world. A week might have gone by since he’d left Jerome—or a month, or no more than an hour or two.
How much time had already gone by for Marta since they’d come here? Like a splash of icy water in his face, the thought revived him and put new speed to his slowing pace.
Driven by his anxiety for Marta, he outdistanced Mother Esterville and, reaching the building, left her to fight her way through the tall weeds while he jogged to the entrance to the courtyard where he’d left Jerome. He was staring in dismay at the jumble of stones that blocked that entrance when Mother Esterville stepped to his side. Pointing at the blockage, he said, “That wasn’t there before.”
“And is that where Jerome was? In there?”
He nodded.
“Well, then, we’d better get these moved, hadn’t we?” Suiting action to words, she pulled a stone loose, tossed it aside, and dug at another.
He joined in, yanking stones from the pile with a frenzy that bordered on madness. Tumbling stones bruised his shins, slammed against his ankles. His hands were soon bleeding, his nails torn and cracked. The fury of his assault made Mother Esterville leave off her own effort and back away. He noticed but did not, could not curb his frantic labor until enough stones were removed to open a space large enough to crawl through.
Heedless of the unstable mass of remaining stones, Ed wormed over and between the shifting rocks until he was inside the courtyard. He spotted Jerome almost immediately—his legs and an arm, at least, protruding from under the heap of stones. Hearing Mother Esterville scrambling through the opening, Ed moved to shield her from the sight.
Too late! With a cry, she threw herself down beside the outstretched arm and clasped the hand. “It’s warm. He’s still alive,” she cried. “We’ve got to dig him out.” She caught hold of a large rock and tugged at it.
Ed lifted her aside. “You have to be careful, or the stones will shift and cut off his air.” Showing her by example, he checked the covering heap and tested each one before lifting it away as carefully as he had formerly been reckless.
Mother Esterville watched only a moment before joining in with equal care. It seemed to take a very long time, though the sun had risen only a scant bit higher by the time they moved the last stone. As Ed rolled it aside, he saw that it was the dreadful stone face he and Jerome had noticed earlier. He set it aside and bent to examine Jerome’s battered body.
He did still live, but only barely. His breathing was rough and irregular. His head was a mass of cuts and scrapes; blood stained his face and clothes. One leg was clearly broken; one arm might be. Ed guessed that the internal injuries could be even worse than those that were plainly visible.
An irrational rage shook Ed. How like Jerome to do this to him. If Jerome had been dead, he could leave him and go to Marta. If he had been uninjured, he could return with him and go to Marta. But here was Jerome, lying helpless, badly hurt and in need of care. Ed had no idea how to get him home in his present condition or how to get help for him. He knew only that he could not abandon him, that Mother Esterville needed his help, and he had to do what he could though his heart urged him to get away, go back, and get to Marta.
“We have to get him to a doctor,” Mother Esterville said. “Can you take us home?”
“Um, I don’t know.” Ed ran his hands through his hair. If only he could consult with Marta and Kyla.
“Well, try. Please. I’ll ask the gods to help you.” Without waiting for his response, she dropped to her knees beside her son, placed one hand on his forehead, the other on his chest, and entreated first Harin, then Liadra, and then each of the other gods in turn for assistance and guidance.
Her loud pleas made it difficult for Ed to concentrate. He knelt beside her, grasped her arm, took Jerome’s limp hand in his, and tried to picture his room in Mother Esterville’s house, imaging Jerome lying on the bed there. He chose that room rather than Jerome’s own because he knew it better and could form a clearer mental picture of it.
He tried to recall all the details of the room, to get it right not only with respect to the placement of the furniture, but the pattern on the rug, the small tear in one of the curtains, the dust on the windowsill.
The picture was as accurate as he could make it, but it remained only that—a picture in his mind. His knees still pressed painfully into the rough stone of the courtyard. A morning sun still beat down on his head. The hopeful gaze Mother Esterville had turned on him was changing to one of despair.
He released Mother Esterville’s arm and stood. “It isn’t working. I don’t know why. Let me think a bit.”
She nodded and went back to stroking her son’s head and calling on her gods. Ed wanted to ask her to be quiet, but he was ashamed to. Maybe the gods would help where he could not.
He stepped over the stones and made his way to the door into the building. Gazing into the darkness within, he wondered if he might find an answer there, if the mysterious voice might speak to him again.
“I’ll be right back,” he called to Mother Esterville. He stepped into the dark hallway and walked forward several steps. “Is anyone here?” he asked in a low voice. “I need help. Can anyone hear me?”
No answer came, but an overpowering feeling that he was not alone made him wish for light. He thought of the globe of light he had held in his hands. If he could hold light as Marta did, could he call it forth as Marta did? He’d always been afraid to try, since that first globe had brought his father’s ghost. But he’d vanquished the ghost, or his fear of it, which was the same thing.
He cupped his hands as he’d seen Marta do and thought light. Very small and faint at first, a light bloomed between his fingers. He held it carefully, shaping it with his mind into a globe that filled his hands and spilled its light into the corridor.
“A fair start,” said a voice that was deep and rumbling and echoed through the chamber. “You’ll have to do much better and much more if you’re to save your friends.”
How he kept his grasp on the ball of flames as the large figure stepped into the light he didn’t know. It may have been only that he couldn't move. What he saw was nothing human, though it had the face of a man. Its hoofed feet and furry legs looked like a goat’s. Its head was horned like a goat. But its bearded face smiled jovially enough and its voice held no hostility as it said, “I like your world. That’s why I forged this link to it—so I could protect it from other Dire Lords, jealous of your ability.”
“D-Dire Lord?” Ed stuttered. “You—you’re a Dire Lord?”
“I am,” the being responded. “Your friends know me as Claid.”
“Then you—” Ed couldn’t finish. It wasn’t possible that Marta and this powerful and unearthly creature … no. No, his father had lied.
“Marta saw me in another form,” the Dire Lord said, smiling as
though he knew Ed’s thoughts. “You have no cause to be jealous, you know.”
Ed did know. This being was far beyond his jealousy or anger. Whatever might have transpired in the past between it and Marta was nothing that Ed could possibly resent or fear. “You’ve spoken to me before,” he said timidly.
“I have. Your mind is wonderfully open to me.”
That response made Ed uncomfortable. Had he no secrets from this being? He’d been taught that the gods knew all things and no one could keep secrets from them, but a Dire Lord was not a god. Was he?
“Not at all,” the creature answered his thought. “What the gods know or do not know I cannot tell you. What I know is only what your need reveals to me, not those things you keep hidden within the core of your being.”
That assertion gave Ed some comfort but not a lot, since he himself had no idea what things were hidden at the core of his being. It didn’t matter. He had called out for help and this Dire Lord had answered. He couldn’t waste time with self-examination.
“Jerome is dying, and I tried to take him and his mother back to Carey, and I couldn’t.”
“You could have, but I blocked your power.”
“Why? Jerome can’t last much longer, and Marta needs my help. You told me before that I had to help her.”
“That is true, but you did not go to her. Now only one person and one act can save Jerome, an act that, if done, will save several other lives, more deserving of being saved than Jerome. Had you taken him where you intended, you would have placed yourself and Mother Esterville in grave danger and Jerome would have died. He may die anyway, but there is a slim chance for his life if you do what I now tell you.”
“And Marta?” Ed dared to ask.
“Marta’s life hangs in the balance, and I cannot say which way the scales will fall nor whether it will be you or another who tips them in either direction.”
“You wouldn’t let her die,” Ed hoped that was true.
Bringers of Magic (Arucadi Book 2) Page 24