Mistress of the Wind (Arucadi Series Book 1)

by E. Rose Sabin

  Kyla jumped up, snatched the chits from his hand, and stormed from the house without another word.

  Claid would have to do without sweetcakes, ham, and the eggs he seemed to crave. So, of course, would she.

  Claid endured the deprivation better than she. “Don’t worry, mistress,” he consoled her when she gave him the news. “I’m used to meager fare.”

  “But why must the Townmaster and the villagers be so cruel? I serve them faithfully, yet they mistrust me and treat me like the lowliest servant.”

  Claid shrugged and said with a wisdom of one of far more than his apparent years, “People mistrust and belittle what they don’t understand. Much as they need your windspeaking, they also resent it because it’s beyond their comprehension.”

  She sighed. “I suppose that’s true, but I can’t help thinking it’s more than that. The other windspeakers don’t have this trouble. Mistress Forythe is highly respected and honored in Weaversville, and in Fenley—”

  Claid interrupted. “Those windspeakers have neither your talent nor your beauty, mistress. Their villagers have less to envy.”

  She felt herself flush and frowned down at him for a few moments, then said, “How can you know that? You aren’t speaking like a child at all. What are you, Claid?”

  He spread out his arms and spun around on one foot, then plopped onto the floor and grinned up at her. “I am what you see, mistress—if you look hard enough.”

  Although she remained angry with the Townmaster, elders, and villagers, Kyla’s pride would not let her demand an end to her punishment. For three days she kept her daily tryst with the wind, dutifully but coldly reported the results to the Townmaster, and accepted the reduced chits.

  On the fourth day the Townmaster restored her full allowance with the grudging comment, “I trust you’ve learned your lesson.” She accepted the chits without a word and hurried home for Claid, happy to be able to satisfy his hunger and indulge his whims.

  They stopped first at Mistress Laron’s and traded one chit for bread and sweetcakes, then walked to the Conraths’ farmhouse, where Kyla exchanged another chit for a generous slab of bacon. “Next we’ll get eggs,” she told Claid. “Just for you.”

  He skipped happily along, stuffing a sweetcake into his mouth and humming at the same time. Kyla smiled. Whatever he was, at this moment he looked and acted exactly like a young child, and Kyla preferred that to Claid the connoisseur of books and raiser of difficult questions. That Claid disturbed her.

  Maybe he’s not a real child, but he’s as much of one as I’ll ever have. She’d thought she’d accepted without regret the chastity and childlessness that Mistress Forythe insisted were required of a windspeaker. She’d watched mothers nursing infants and observed children at play with no pangs of longing. Now this pseudo-child was awakening instincts and feelings she’d not known she possessed.

  She turned in at Turley Beal’s gate and went up to the front door of the sprawling house on the edge of town. Cackling hens and crowing roosters engulfed the house in a cheerful cacophony. Turley’s eggs were the largest and tastiest of the valley. No one could raise poultry the equal of his.

  She knocked on his door. It swung open and Turley stepped out, glaring. “I didn’t expect to see you here, witch.”

  She took a step back, puzzled. “I’ve made my report and brought authorization for a dozen eggs. I’ve—”

  “Eggs! You expect eggs! You must know … Come and see what a spell’s been done here.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her around the side of the house and through a gate into the chicken yard, Claid tagging along.

  Hens left off their scratching and scattered before Turley’s advance. Feathers floated in the air; Kyla held her breath against the overpowering odor of chicken droppings. Turley led her into the henhouse.

  He motioned to the rows of nests filling a double tier of wooden ledges around the shed. “Look!. There’re your eggs, still in the nests. Help yourself.”

  Although all the eggs should have been gathered hours before, almost every nest held a single large egg, some white, some brown. Mystified, Kyla moved to the nearest nest, picked out a white egg, and held it in her hand. It was heavy and cold—a piece of marble.

  She moved to another nest and tried a brown egg. Granite, like that quarried in the Rocky Hills.

  “You see?” Turley bellowed. “Every one of ’em. Marble or granite!”

  “And you think I did this?” How could he accuse her so groundlessly?

  “No one else in Waddams knows spells.”

  “Nor do I. Why do you blame this on a spell? Maybe an enemy made the exchange during the night.”

  He snorted and spat on the ground. “You telling me somebody took the trouble to cart in all them stone eggs and leave ’em in place of the real ones? You know how heavy that load of fake eggs would be? You got any idea what a ruckus the hens’d make if somebody come in and lifted ’em off their nests? I’d ’a’ heard ’em, girl. I’d ’a’ heard ’em even if I was deaf as old man Ryne. I was up and about when the hens was a-layin’ this morning. Couldn’t ’a happened during the night. Hens lay in the mornin’. If these stone things’d been snuck in at night, there’d be real eggs alongside ’em by now.”

  “Are you sure there aren’t?” Kyla walked farther into the hen house and peered at the rows of nests.

  “Checked ’em all, I did. See for yourself.” Turley stomped along the rows, plucking eggs randomly from nests and hurling them to the straw-strewn plank floor. They all fell with a hard thud, rolled a bit, and came to rest coated with droppings and bits of straw.

  “Stone. Every last one,” Turley said. “You wanted eggs. Take ’em. Mebbe you can turn ’em back.”

  “Turley, it’s ridiculous to think I—” She stopped at the sight of Claid scampering around gathering up the eggs Turley had thrown. “What are you doing?”

  “He said we could have them. I’m hungry.”

  “Them eggs won’t help your hunger none,” Turley said.

  “You said she could turn them back.” An egg slipped from Claid’s full hands and smashed on the floor, spreading yolk and white among fragments of shell.

  “What? Let me see them eggs you got.” Turley snatched an egg from Claid’s hands and crunched it in his fist. Egg yolk spurted through his fingers and splattered onto his tunic.

  Turley turned back to the nests, grabbed a handful of eggs and banged them together. Granite thudded against marble. He plucked two more from Claid’s collection and slammed them together. Eggshells crumpled; a gooey mess filled his hands. “Witch!” he yelled, face flushed, beard quivering with rage. “Right before my eyes you work your magic. Get out!”

  “Claid!” Kyla whirled on the lad, who was replenishing his supply of eggs. He danced out of the henhouse with an armful of the white and brown ovals. She stormed after him.

  He darted ahead of her, dashed through the gate and out to the street without dropping an egg. Chasing after him, Kyla nearly collided with the Widow Lee.

  “There you are, you evildoer,” the widow screeched, brandishing her walking stick. “I’ll beat you black and blue, I will. My dog’s lost, and this morning my Tizzy gave sour milk. You’ll pay for my cow and dog, or I’ll have you run out of town.”

  She aimed a blow at Kyla’s shoulder. Kyla ducked, but the blow never landed. The widow screamed and dropped the hissing, writhing thing in her hands. A long black snake slithered away and disappeared into the bushes.

  “Witch!” the widow screamed, backing away.

  Turley Beal’s shouts joined the widow’s cries. With the two of them chasing her and Claid, confusion and anger drove Kyla’s racing feet. How could she defend herself? Even if she could prove that Claid, not she, was the guilty trickster, they’d hold her responsible for bringing him to the town.

  “This way, mistress! Follow me.” Cradling the eggs, Claid dodged around a large tree, sped between two houses and through a neatly tended garden, jumped a small stream, and doubl
ed back toward the center of town with Kyla puffing along behind. They had long since lost Turley Beal and the Widow Lee, but Kyla’s relief vanished when they turned a corner near the town square. A crowd was gathered in front of the Townmaster’s house. Kyla would have ducked back out of sight, but Claid pranced forward unconcerned. She lunged to catch him.

  “There’s the windspeaker,” someone shouted. The crowd surged around them. With dread squeezing her gut, Kyla stepped in front of Claid to protect him. He stared at the angry faces, his eyes a brilliant jade, his arms filled with eggs.

  Sedder Sims pushed through the crowd and faced Kyla. At first she thought he was wearing a cap—but no. The bald head had sprouted a bushy growth of flaming red hair.

  Sedder pointed at the luxuriant thatch. “You know anything about this, Mistress Kyla? Grew in overnight, it did.”

  “Thank her, Sedder,” a man called out, laughing. “You won’t have to worry about your head getting chilled anymore.”

  “Hush, don’t mock the work of evil,” a woman scolded. “She couldn’t do such without trucking with Dire Lords.”

  One of the Farno brothers came up leading a goat. Its loud bleats mingled with the shouts of the crowd.

  “Tie her to the goat and drive her out of town,” a voice shouted.

  A young girl ran up with a coil of rope and tossed it to Sedder Sims.

  Kyla glanced around, hunting a way of escape, but the crowd pressed in around her. Claid, beside her, looked utterly unconcerned. She considered blurting out that Claid was the spell caster, the mischief-maker. Would they believe her? Perhaps if she told them about the Mage Alair … She grabbed Claid’s arm so he couldn’t run away when she accused him.

  “People! Good people!” The voice of the Townmaster rose above the din. “Beware. She’ll strike you with the wasting sickness like she has me.”

  All heads turned upward to see the Townmaster, in nightshirt and nightcap, leaning out of his second-story window.

  “I’ve had chills and fever off and on for several days,” he called down. “I thought I was better, but since I talked to her this morning, all my bones ache and all the blankets in the house won’t keep me warm. I had to drag myself to this window.”

  Farno pointed to his goat. “We’re about to ride her out of town,” he said.

  “Ohhh!” The Townmaster grabbed his head. “Ohhhh, the pain, the pain!”

  The old faker! Kyla thought bitterly. He’s claimed sickness all his life to get sympathy and to get out of work. And they all know it, and ignore it. Yet now they choose to believe him.

  “Hurry, she’s killing him,” Sedder shouted and grabbed for Kyla.

  She released Claid so she could defend herself. Claid tossed up his arms, sending the eggs into the air. They split open in flight, and miniature cocks, fully feathered and with sharp beaks, sprang from them, wings flapping, spurred feet extended. The tiny birds launched themselves at the crowd in furious attack.

  Shielding their faces from the jabbing beaks, the mob retreated with screams and yelps.

  The Townmaster slammed his window shut as a feathered missile hurtled toward him.

  “Come, mistress.” Claid grabbed Kyla’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

  They ran to Kyla’s cottage and once inside latched all the windows and barricaded the door.

  Kyla turned on Claid, tears stinging her eyes. “How could you have done those terrible things? And let me take the blame? To them you’re only a child, but they’ve always believed I have some kind of magic power.”

  Claid only smiled and said with no glimmer of remorse, “In that they’re wiser than you, mistress. They know what you deny—that windspeaking is a magical gift, and those who have it have other powers as well.”

  “That’s nonsense, but this isn’t the time to argue about it.” Kyla paced about the room. “Those people won’t forgive this. They’ll be back, and how will we hold them off? We’ll be lucky if they only drive us from town. They’re more likely to kill us. And if I do get away, where will I go? When word of this spreads, no village will have me as windspeaker. What will I do?”

  “You could fry up the bacon you’re carrying,” he said, licking his lips.

  “You want me to feed you after you destroyed my life?” She whirled toward him, her hand raised to strike him. “You ungrateful wretch!”

  Her intended blow never fell. She looked into Claid’s eyes, big and earnest and blue as a summer sky, and her hand fell to her side. She slumped and began to cry.

  Claid patted her arm. “We can go to my master. And if you have the courage, maybe you can pull loose the chain that binds me.” He gave her a sly grin.

  Were Claid’s tricks designed to force her to return to Alair? Not to pull a mythical chain, but to satisfy some scheme of his or of his enigmatic master?

  “Whatever happens, I’ll not go to Alair,” she vowed. “Not to pull a chain, or for any other reason.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EXILE

  Footsore, shoulders aching from the heavy pack, Kyla glanced at Claid, who strode beside her with no sign of weariness despite the bundle of books he’d insisted on bringing. saying “We mustn’t leave these behind. These ignorant peasants have no appreciation of their worth. I’ll wager not one of them can read. They’d burn them, believing them to be spell books.”

  He was right, though Kyla refused to admit it. She’d observed coldly that they could hardly trek through the hills burdened with a package of twelve books besides clothes, food, and cooking utensils.

  In answer Claid had hefted the bulky pack to his shoulders and strutted around the room to prove how easily he could manage it, reminding her again that he was not a mortal child.

  Not a child at all. And not to be trusted. Look at him! He doesn’t tire. That weariness on the road from Martyr’s Pass was pretense.

  Was his distress at being parted from Alair an act, too, or had it been genuine? His tales of beatings and mistreatment had surely been lies, and the story about the chain was patently impossible. Most likely, he missed his master, and the spells he’d cast had been a ploy to get her to take him back to Alair. Well, it wouldn’t work. I’ll be on guard against his tricks, and I’ll not go near his master, she resolved.

  “If you’re tired, mistress, we can rest in the shade by the brook.” Claid pointed to a stand of caronut trees that offered a tranquil haven from the dusty road and the bright autumn sun.

  Kyla nodded, still too angry to break the silence she’d maintained since they’d left Waddams. It was too early to be taking a rest, but she was weary, heartsore, and in no mood to argue. Claid might not chafe under the burden he carried, but her steps lagged. She’d paused a few times just long enough to sip water from her canteen. That was empty now. She hadn’t thought to fill it up when they’d crossed the Sar Bridge over the Damin River. Now they were nearing the Seaway Hills. She’d hoped to pass through them and reach the moors to the west by nightfall.

  The fisher folk of the western shore beyond the moors kept to themselves. No coastal village had a windspeaker to carry word of the scandal that drove her into exile. If she could find a village willing to accept her, she’d have time to prove her worth before the news could catch up with her. The villagers might disregard the tales and let her stay.

  If she could make Claid behave.

  She slipped off her pack and sank down onto the ground to lean against a tree.

  Claid rummaged through the pack and pulled out a tin cup. Taking it and her canteen, he ran lightly to the brook and skipped back to her in just moments. “Here, mistress, this will refresh you,” he said, holding out the cup, filled with clear, cool water. “And I’ve filled your canteen, too.”

  Her thirst won out over the urge to throw the water in his face. She accepted the cup. “Is this an act of contrition?” she asked.

  “Contrition, mistress?”

  The puzzled innocence in his hazel eyes brought a bitter laugh to her lips. “Are you being so thoughtfu
l to make up for all the grief you’ve caused me? Because no amount of helpfulness will make up for the loss of my home and livelihood.”

  “Ah, mistress, how could I guess those ignorant villagers would get so upset over a few harmless pranks?”

  “Harmless! Claid, Turley Beal’s eggs support his wife and eight children. Widow Lee trades her cow’s milk for the goods she needs to live on. Without them—”

  “The spells were only short-term. In three or four hours they’d have worn off.” He sighed and shuffled his feet. “That’s the best I can do. No matter how hard I try, the spells fade in a few hours.”

  Kyla grinned in spite of herself. “You mean Sedder Sims won’t get to keep his new head of hair?”

  Claid’s wide grin answered hers. “By now his head’s smooth and shiny like Turley’s marble eggs.”

  Kyla’s grin faded. “I wonder … when everything’s all right again, do you think they’d let me come back?”

  Claid cocked his head and gave her a saucy look. “Oh, yes, mistress, they’d take you back. And blame you for every mishap that befalls them. They’ll have no more accidents, no natural illnesses. They’ll only be bespelled, and they will know who set the spell. So go back, take up your duties. Protect them from danger and live off what they’re willing to exchange for that service. No doubt they’ll be properly grateful and reward you as you deserve.”

  Kyla’s temper flared. “They were generous enough and grateful enough before you pulled your stunts,” she protested with imperfect truthfulness. “My life was good; I had all I wanted.”

  “And you were content.” Neither statement nor question, the sly remark prickled.

  She’d been far from content, and the villagers had been far from generous. She’d blamed her restlessness on her need to avenge her parents, but her victory over the mindstealers brought her no peace.

  Because of Alair, she told herself, and because of this creature he foisted on me.

  Blaming Alair was too simple; her feelings about the mage were complex. Her encounter with him had left in its wake a dissatisfaction that pecked at her the way Turley’s hens pecked at gravel. The feeling of something missing from her life had increased, but no other place in Noster Valley could offer more. If living in Waddams had been like living confined in a box, Noster Valley was only a larger box.