Grayling's Song (9 page)

“Me, I nearly drowned. Twice,” said Pansy.

Auld Nancy shouted, “You are young and hardy. I am old and my—”

“Enough!” said Grayling, with surprising firmness. “I have seen such things as will haunt my dreams for years. Weary or no, I will go on—with you or alone. If there is a way to free all those who are rooted, I will find it. You do as you wish.” She stood and wrapped her damp cloak, redolent with the stench of wet wool, about her.

“Fie, fie, you are most boasting and prideful today,” said Pansy.

“Hush, Pansy,” said Auld Nancy, climbing to her feet. “Of course I will go on. We will all go on.” She crossed her arms and stared at Pansy and Desdemona Cork.

Pansy said, “I would not be left here alone.” She frowned and pulled on her shoes.

Desdemona Cork huffed a lock of hair out of her face and reluctantly nodded. The company, now four once again, stepped outside.

The morning sky was blue and gold and the soft violet of woodland flowers. Grayling breathed deeply.

“As we continue west,” said Desdemona Cork, “we shall not encounter the soldiers, for I sent them elsewhere.” She gestured toward the outside of the pavilion and the man standing there. “Sir Whoever-he-is will provide us with his coach and four. I will wake him.”

“Nay. Such a splendid coach will attract unwelcome interest,” said Grayling. “I would rather not meet the metal-nosed warlord or suchlike again.”

“You, Desdemona Cork,” said Auld Nancy as she waved her broom, “think ever of yourself. Grayling has the right of it. The coach would be too conspicuous.”

“I say we take the coach for the sake of my poor feet,” said Pansy.

Grayling bit her lip in consternation before asking Desdemona Cork, “What would happen when the enchantment wore off and he found us in his coach?”

Desdemona Cork frowned and sulked and twirled her skirts and her scarves. “If we cannot ride, I would prefer to return to the town and the mayor. You may go on without me.”

“Still I will take the coach,” Pansy insisted.

Auld Nancy turned on her. “You will do what I bid you!”

“Fie upon this company!” shouted Grayling. “Fie! I have had enough of the carping and scolding and bickering! Take the coach or do not take the coach. I am leaving!”

A sudden rumble of thunder shook the ground, followed by a flash of light. Grayling, Pansy, and Desdemona Cork all looked at Auld Nancy. “'Tweren't me,” she said.

More thunder was followed by a swirl of smoke and the sound of trumpets. Grayling grabbed Auld Nancy's hand. Smoke and shadow! Were they discovered? Were they now doomed to be rooted to the ground?

ut of the thick
yellow smoke, a man appeared, a man as gnarled and knobby as a sack full of sticks. Charms and amulets, half hidden in his beard, clanked at his neck. “Who is it that disturbs the peace of the morning with squabbling?” His voice was between a rumble and a roar.

Auld Nancy stood and waved the smoke away from her face. “Sylvanus, be that you behind all the clamor?”

“Auld Nancy?” The booming voice was replaced by one more human and even elderly.

“Auld? Not so old compared to you. Except for the food stains, your beard has gone quite white.” Auld Nancy cackled. “I trust you are well. I have not seen you since the sad affair of the magic chickens.”

“Sad indeed.” The man's eyes filled with tears. “I was certain that a sprinkle of my flying powder would see those birds safely down from the roof. Alas, alas.” His tears wet his cheeks and dampened his beard, and he wiped at them with a blue handkerchief. “Still, as the ancients say, ‘'tis better to try than to wonder.'”

Auld Nancy dismissed him with a wave. “This,” she told the others, “be Sylvanus Vetch, adept of soothsaying, conjuration, and the casting of charms. He be teacher of enchanted scholarship at the school in Nether Finchbeck.”

The school at Nether Finchbeck was a famed training academy for wizards, sorcerers, charmers, and spellbinders.
This unlikely looking magician must be powerful and important indeed,
thought Grayling. But if he were a famed magician, could he not have conjured a new cloak and better shoes? And why was he not rooted to the ground like so many others?

“These companions of mine,” Auld Nancy continued, “are Desdemona Cork; Hannah Strong's daughter, Grayling; and the young Pansy, my niece Blanche's girl.”

Desdemona Cork twitched her shawl, and Sylvanus looked at no one else. “An enchantress, I see,” he said to her with an awkward bow. “And very . . . well, enchanting, I find.” He waved his hand, and a large green bush near the path burst into bloom with creamy soft flowers. He slinked closer to her and presented her with a spice-scented bloom. “Sylvanus Vetch at your service, my lady—Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, illustrious scholar, celebrated magician, and esteemed practitioner of tyromancy, or divination with cheese.”

Desdemona Cork took the flower with a frown that was yet as lovely as any smile Grayling had seen, and Auld Nancy snorted. “Peace, Sylvanus! 'Tis not Desdemona Cork you should be attending but Grayling, who will tell you from the beginning what has befallen us.”

And Grayling did. Her tongue was tired of telling the tale, and she was no closer to freeing Hannah Strong and the others than she had been at the start. But now Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, who had called himself illustrious, celebrated, and esteemed, was here. Looking at the weepy, bony fellow gaping at Desdemona Cork, Grayling tried to bury her doubts. Perhaps their fortunes would change now for the better.

“Alas, alas,” said Sylvanus when Grayling had finished. He wiped his drippy eyes and nose on his sleeve. “To think the world is in such a state! I have heard rumors that the faculty of Nether Finchbeck is now a grove of hornbeam trees, grimoires and scrolls have been taken, and the students guzzle ale as they make vague and unsuitable rescue plans.” Tears overflowed his eyes and disappeared into his beard until they emerged drop by drop at the bottom. “Alas, alas, oh, woe and sadness. 'Tis true that ‘only the busy bee has no time for sorrow.'”

“Rumors? Only rumors? How did you not know, you who call yourself illustrious scholar and more?” Auld Nancy asked. “And how is it you, too, are not rooted to the ground?” She narrowed her eyes and peered at him.

He snuffled one last great snuffle and said, “Belike because I was not here. I was somewhere else. Somewhere”—he gestured vaguely toward the clouds—“else.”

Grayling looked up to the sky but saw only sky.

Desdemona Cork asked, “Why have you, with the magic to make flowers bloom, not vanquished the evil force and made things right again?”

Pansy said, “Are you truly from Nether Finchbeck?”

Grayling broke in. “Do you, sir, have such a thing as a grimoire?”

With a great
harrumph,
Sylvanus said, “Nay, I have no need of a book for my spells. All my knowledge is stored here.” He tapped his head with a bony finger.

“Likely that is why you have not been rooted,” said Grayling.

Sylvanus smoothed his beard, smiled, and said, “Be of good cheer, fair mistresses. After hearing your sad tale, I shall favor you with my company for a time.”

C
ompany?
Just
company?
“Can you do nothing to help?” Grayling asked him. “About the rooted folk and the grimoires, the smoke and shadow and the mysterious wind? Do you have no useful skills?”

The magician's eyes snapped. “I cannot combat the evil force until I know what it is,” he said, “where it is from, why it was sent. That will take cogitation, consideration, contemplation, rumination. I cannot be hurried.”

Grayling was not satisfied, but Sylvanus turned from her and whistled. A small spotted mule trotted out from between the trees.
Pook? Is it Pook? Is he now Pook the mule?
Grayling patted the herbs in her basket and was relieved to feel the shape of a sleeping toad. Nay, not Pook.

Sylvanus tightened the saddlebags that clanked against the mule's rough and dusty sides. “Shall we depart?”

Grayling, Auld Nancy, Desdemona Cork, and Pansy looked at each other, at Sylvanus, and then back at each other. Finally Auld Nancy shrugged and nodded.

As Sylvanus started to climb onto the mule, Grayling pulled on his tunic. “Do you not think,” she asked in a soft voice, “Auld Nancy might ride? Her bones pain her something fierce.”

“Nay,” said Auld Nancy, with a shake of her head. “Better for the beast to carry Pansy. She is most pale and frail-looking of a sudden, though I cannot think why.”

Pansy was to ride? Grayling thought that would be excellent, if only Pansy would ride elsewhere. Away. Anywhere but there.

“Foolish coddling,” said Sylvanus, grabbing the mule's lead. “The girl is young enough to be strong and hardy. As they say, ‘a new shoe lasts longer than an old.' Why, in my day, we not only did not ride mules, we sometimes carried them on our shoulders, for animals were precious and to be cared for, whereas we teemed with young people.” He combed his beard thoughtfully with his fingers. “I remember once when I had two beasts to pack over the Hermantine Pass in winter—”

“Enough,” Auld Nancy said, and she shook her broom at him. “Enough talk from you. Hailstones and thunder clouds! I don't know if you have more words or more tears, but they both try my patience.”

Sylvanus scowled while Pansy climbed onto the mule. “What be in here?” Pansy asked, poking the saddle-bags. “They do be lumpy and uncomfortable under a rider.”

“Leave off my belongings, wretched girl,” said Sylvanus, and he swatted her hands away. Pansy snorted and settled onto the mule's back.

Auld Nancy was right, Grayling thought. Pansy definitely ailed. She'd lost her rosy plumpness. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, and she hadn't whined or mentioned food in minutes.

As they left, Grayling turned to take a last look at the flowers Sylvanus had conjured. The bush was black and blighted, the lovely blooms shriveled. “Magic always has a price,” said Auld Nancy.

Grayling turned away, took a deep breath, and once more sang to her grimoire. The grimoire sang back. “Hurry. This way,” she said to her companions, and they followed her, heading away from the sunrise—west, the grimoire sang them ever west.

Their steps grew slower as the morning wore on, and now and then one of them stopped to rub one sore body part or another. Every sound made Grayling startle and look around, but other travelers were few and none seemed apt to threaten them.

By late morning, the sun had dried her cloak a bit, but the sun beat fiercely on the back of her neck. She envied Auld Nancy the protection of her wimple. Finally she unloosed her braid and let her hair hang down her back to cover and cool her.

On and on they walked, on and on. The morning turned to bright afternoon, and the sun shone in Grayling's face. She had no hair there to let down. Maybe she could grow her eyebrows long enough to cover her. She snorted at the image and slowed down to walk next to Auld Nancy. “You can command the rain,” she said to the old woman. “Can you then make clouds to cover the sun? My face is sizzling like a sausage in a fry pan.”

Auld Nancy shook her head. “Belike any magic will call attention to us.”

Grayling thought of the warlord. She nodded. But without using her magic, Auld Nancy had no more power than Grayling.

After a time, Auld Nancy and Sylvanus lagged behind, each with a hand on the mule for support, and Grayling found herself walking beside Desdemona Cork. She sniffed deeply of the scent of roses. “I have been wondering,” she said to the lovely woman. “How is it to have people admire you and obey you and seek to satisfy your every wish?”

Desdemona Cork pushed her cloud of hair back from her face. “'Tis useful at times, and often amusing, but very wearying. And when the enchantment wears off, folks are confused, and I am abandoned.” She sighed a sigh that sounded like a spring breeze ruffling the meadow grass. “If I could choose, I would live in a cottage by the sea, make fresh bread, spin in the sunshine, and live on goat cheese and apples.” She sighed again. “Alone. Blessedly alone and untroubled by the wishes of others.”

“Could you not choose to live so now?” asked Grayling.

Desdemona Cork smiled, and a faint rose color tinged her cheeks. “I suppose I could. A cottage by the sea . . .” She fell into a thoughtful silence.

In such circumstances,
Grayling wondered,
would I choose the cottage over such magic as Desdemona Cork's?
The word
cottage
awakened memories of rain on the roof thatch, the comforting whisper of her mother's spinning wheel, and mugs of warm cabbage soup. Soup. Her belly rumbled. Desdemona Cork's roast meat seemed so long ago. When might they eat again? And what? Would they be reduced to catching and cooking weasels and badgers?