Earth Magic (14 page)

Chapter 16

O
N A MORNING THAT WAS BRIGHT,
cool and still as a clear teardrop of dew hanging from a spider’s eye. On a hill that was higher and safer than Morca’s.

Below, the pattern of land was as deliberately made as writing on the page of a book. But the pattern was visible only to one who could sense the power that the pattern gathered. Otherwise, it was invisible, unsuspect, unimaginable. And still, the power gathered in the land, as palpable as fear and hate, as imminent as catastrophe, awaiting direction, awaiting discharge.

Four men stood in a tableau vivant, two within the open gate of a dun, and two without. Even the wind did not blow, honoring the moment.

Haldane, dressed in bridegroom finery, stood poised with his horn, which was his from Arngrim’s own hand. Oliver held his pipe, as though by and by to knock it against his palm, but not for now. Arngrim—who was like a silvered sword, or a falcon, or an ugly tall monkey with a large nose and eyes deep set in circles within circles—displayed no expression. Ivor, a fixed half-smile on his face, peeped around the corner of his graveyard eye.

When this frozen moment ended, things were not the same as they had been before. Time itself was shattered, never again to be reassembled as it was.

What outwardly happened was suddenly begun, suddenly over, and of no import in itself. That is, Ivor spoke. Haldane passed his horn from his left hand to his right, drew Marthe’s black dagger, then rushed at Ivor to kill him. Arngrim, that tall powerful private old man who seemed to understand all there was to be understood, struck Haldane a terrible efficient blow that knocked him to the ground just within the gates of the dun. Then he spoke words to Haldane, and all went within to breakfast.

Outwardly, nothing was changed. Nothing was different. But after this moment all was changed in Haldane’s mind. He was not the same Get he had always been, but one step along the path toward being something else, something there was no name for that he would yet accept. The Get world had no place for him. Very well, he had a glimpse of a larger and older order.

Here is the outside and inside of it:

Ivor Fish-Eye unfroze his smile and spoke with the relish of a starving man watching a suckling lamb at play. He said, “Now—so soon—we begin. It is no matter now when Romund arrives with the pig.”

Oliver thoughtfully tapped his pipe out on his palm. He coughed rackingly—the expectable outcome of the weight of spells he had carried so far. The cough seemed dry and forced, and more racking therefore.

For one blazing moment, Haldane hated Ivor fiercely as he who had broken the old warm secure world, the island fortress in the Sea of Nestor, the safe near horizon. This was the last moment that Haldane still thought as a Get. In his anger and rage, he felt that the dun of Black Morca had been a glowing gem, precious and enclosing, now shattered by men like Ivor Fish-Eye who had no concept of its value.

He unsheathed the thin knife with the fine black handle and rushed at Ivor with determination to kill him. While Haldane was striving to rise from the ground, Arngrim picked up the fallen knife, cleansed it of spring dirt with a finger, and made of it something to keep.

Then he said to Haldane, “By the horn you hold, and have, it seems, learned to sound, I take you to be my daughter Freda’s son. If this be your main method, you will soon be dead.”

It was when he heard these words that Haldane changed. He nodded his head once in assent, for it was then that he realized that he must be different than he had been.

The old world was truly shattered. The jewel could not be mended.

He was at sea, and he was bound to swim for his life in this shocking and promising universe, so vast and incredible—this universe in which everything was always new.

Later, after they had eaten, but before they had fled the dun on Little Nail, Haldane said to Oliver, to indicate what he now knew: “It is exciting and fearsome, both, to be out here where everything is always changing.”

Oliver tested his cough and then said, “That’s what life is like. One thing after another. It is something you can forget when you are near a man like Morca who wraps the world around himself and holds it still.”

But in that moment before breakfast, when Haldane was on his knees before Arngrim, his head still ringing from Arngrim’s blow, it was within this moment that Haldane woke up. In an instant of splendid clarity, for the first time since the death of Morca, Haldane knew where he was.

He was at home in the unknown.

He was no longer lost in the unknown.

It was a great difference, as different as up and down. As different as being a Get and not being a Get.

Arngrim said, “Breakfast waits. You must surely be hungry after your long journey.”

It was a strange feeling. All that Haldane had ever known, all that had sustained him and given him being and definition, all this lay thrown down and broken. But he was not thrown down and broken. Through a miracle, he still continued, independent of the world that had given him birth.

As they went in for breakfast, Haldane’s heart turned over at the very thought of not being a Get anymore. Strange to feel joy in the midst of danger and uncertainty, so frightening and exciting. But the day was still clear and cool and sustaining, by itself giving him being. And when he shot one last look through the open gate at the message writ for him on the land, the design in the tapestry was still there like a key.

A Gettish woman, wholly unlike the Nestorian serving women Haldane was used to, served their meal. He was taken with her braids. He allowed himself to look at her twice when to do so meant glancing away from Arngrim and Ivor. But he felt reckless and powerful.

That recklessness was still with him when he and Oliver were alone. That was in the moment before Ivor burst upon them to kill them for his own reasons.

“How is that cough of yours, Oliver?” Haldane challenged. “How are your pains?”

“I am . . . not so ill as I might be. Ill, though, mind you. What demands would you make on me?”

“We must be gone from here,” Haldane said. “They are certain to kill us if we stay. There is no one in Nestor to trust, so we must leave Nestor.”

“And where are we to go?” Oliver asked.

“Let us go to Palsance as you proposed before.”

“Palsance . . .” said Oliver, and sighed deeply for what might await him there. Then he raised his head and said, “Let it be Palsance, then. But how are we to leave? We are in the grip of hosts, and their hospitality is strong.”

Haldane nodded. With cunning certainty he said, “We must use your magic.” If he was no Get, he did not mind magic.

Oliver attempted to protest, waving him away, breaking down into coughs. “How can you ask that? I can only bear so much.”

“A small spell only. You once instructed me in such a spell—the Pall of Darkness. I don’t ask that you magic us to Palsance. But cast a net of invisibility over us, and let us leave this place.”

Haldane was strangely sure of his words. He was delighted to be in the new universe where the stuff of education—like spells—might be applied to make more newness.

But Oliver protested. He said, “No, my young friend,” and patted his chest. “Lend me a hand with your strength. You cast the spell. Remember your studies with me and cast the Pall of Darkness for us.”

Haldane shook his head. “It is for you to do. I cannot. I would an I could, but since I was granted justice by my father, I cannot . . .” and he gestured to show that memory and voice must fail him whenever he approached the spell.

“You cannot remember at all?” asked Oliver in amazement.

Haldane shook his head again. The passage surrounding Morca’s death was still a blank to him. If this were not so, he might not have been so blithesome and so certain. He might have had questions to ask of Oliver. As it was, his very lack of memory permitted him to act, and to demand of Oliver that Oliver act.

“You must suffer another spell for us,” Haldane said. “I will supply our strength and see you safe to Palsance.”

“Do you swear that?” asked Oliver.

“I swear it,” said Haldane, who was still Get enough to make oaths and to keep them.

That was when Ivor burst upon them.

Throughout the meal, Ivor had played them with his eye, enjoying his power. He had talked of the art of tracking with pigs, of which he was evident master. Arngrim had not interrupted him, but let him speak. Haldane and Oliver had made no comment.

Ivor talked of great hunting boars that killed redly.

Ivor talked of pigs set to hunt their masters.

Ivor talked of hunting.

Ivor talked of the minds and tricks of those who trailed and those who were trailed.

Ivor talked of his great ability to kill.

Then Haldane looked from the door closing behind the woman who had served them, and said to Ivor, “But I do not recall that you killed the wurox for which you hunted so long. Perhaps the quarry must be large enough for you to see.”

“The wurox does not exist,” said Ivor. “That I may tell you. It is but a peasant jest. If it had existed, your father would have eaten it for his last meal.”

“You have overstepped yourself,” said Arngrim.

“Your pardon, Lord Arngrim. I was in error. I will talk of hunting.”

“Some other subject yet, Baron.”

“I am confused,” said Ivor, and hid behind his eye. When he came out, he said, “Let us talk of the meal. This is very good. Do you smoke your own meat, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“When my friend Romund arrives, I’ll have a small pig for your butcher. I’ll return in the fall for a taste of the bacon.”

And he smiled as though he had, at great risk and daring, won through to a prize. Ivor was a triumphant man.

As Ivor entered that brown room where they were with its well-carved furniture stolen before Arngrim was born, Haldane was swearing to lend his strength to Oliver. Ivor had his sword drawn.

Ivor paused but a brief moment to let them know who he was and why he had come. Then he proposed to kill them swiftly. He crossed the small dais.

Haldane did what he had never done before. He struck a new blow, made of nothing he had ever learned, filled with power, while Ivor was stumbling over Oliver’s bag. The bag was suddenly there as Ivor stepped on a stair. And Haldane as suddenly struck Ivor a blow much crueler than that which Haldane had had from Arngrim. The sword clattered on stone. Ivor went wandering in night realms.

Oliver could only look on in surprise at this swift passage. Violence had always held the potential of surprise for him.

Haldane turned with the sword recovered in his hand and saw Ivor helpless.

“He would not have killed you,” said Arngrim from the doorway, “for you are my daughter’s son, and I would not have let him. But neither will I let you kill him, for you are the son of Black Morca and good men have seen him rightly dead, as I have report. I will not let you be killed here, but I will not let you stay here. Therefore, you must be gone. And with you, this foul wizard of Morca’s. If Morca had not bargained for advantage with witches in the forest and given refuge to this man, then he might still be alive at this moment. I would have let my voice be heard. But I do not like magic. And you, my daughter’s son, smell of magic. You are like your father. You are not Gettish.”

Arngrim stood waiting, sword in hand. Haldane did not look up at him, but rather at Ivor.

He said, “I must kill this man.”

Arngrim said, “Bind him. He will not be found immediately. I’ve seen that your bellies are full. I will see you out the gate of the dun and three hours on your road. You must run for your lives.”

So Haldane bound Ivor. He used the cord that he had from Rolf on the night of his betrothal. It occurred to Haldane to wonder how Princess Marthe fared in this universe where everything was new. He used the rawhide thong from his horn to bind Ivor’s knees together. He gagged Ivor’s mouth with a dried fish from the breakfast table that he had brought away to chew on.

“Leave the sword,” said Arngrim. “You must rely on your magic, since you stand to die for it.”

“I will leave the sword and I will rely on my magic,” said Haldane. He stood before Arngrim who was still two steps above him on the dais. “I am not a Get, as you say. But you are my grandfather and I would lay eyes on you again. Take this from my hands.”

He held out the horn which Arngrim had given him so long ago when his mother was alive and they had come here to Little Nail. At the sight, Arngrim looked downward at his feet.

“Your rebuke is sharp,” he said. “I do what I must, not always what I would like.”

“It is no rebuke,” Haldane said, and laughed strangely. “Or take it as a rebuke if you want, Grandfather.”

He was not the same person anymore. He was not like Arngrim. He could do what he liked. He did not know what that was exactly. He did what he did and said what he said, and surprised himself.

Haldane said, “But no, I say, take this horn from my hands and keep it close until I return here. Someday, perhaps, when you have forgotten me, I will pay you a visit.”

Arngrim could only think Haldane’s words to be boyish bravado, spoken by one who did not fully appreciate his situation. The old man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, as though his life was drowned in the bitter tide of iron fate, and he was resigned. He took back the horn he had once given to his only grandson, the last of his line, whom he had condemned to die.

“Do you know the sound of this horn?” he asked. “Do you know its voice?”

“Yes,” Haldane said. “I do know the sound of that horn.”

Arngrim said, “When your chief hunter is unbound, he will blow his hunting calls on this horn. I will place it in his hands. And when you are dead, I will see that this horn is buried with you.”

Arngrim’s world and Haldane’s world might once have been the same, but they were the same no longer. Haldane heard Arngrim speak and did not lose his strange new certainty. He answered the old man in plain words, straightly spoken.

“That would be honor if I were still a Get,” said Haldane. “But I am not a Get now. When I am gone away and your huntsman returns your horn to you, keep it close until I come again. I will see you by and by.”