Mind of the Magic (Arhel Book 3) (12 page)

“Your daughter needs you here with her,” Kirgen said.

Faia looked away from Kirgen long enough to glance at Gyels and Medwind. Then she glared back at him. “My daughter has her father here—she can stay with you, and you can stay with your wife. I would not take you from the birth of your child.” She saw him flinch as he recognized the fury in her eyes. “Or do you also question that I will do what I promised to do?”

Kirgen flushed. He was a city boy—but he also came from the paternalistic side of Ariss. A woman’s oath had, until recently, counted for little there, and no matter how much Kirgen had come to accept women as equals, Faia knew he was still a product of his upbringing. His mind might accept, but his heart still doubted.

The hunter had been looking from Faia to Kirgen, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” he said to Faia. “I admire your… courage. And I know the mountains.”

“No,” Faia said.

“Don’t be stupid!” Kirgen glared at her. “If you insist on going, take help with you.”

“There’s no need. The trip may be very short,” Faia said. “The magic-barrenness may end just outside the city walls.”

“It doesn’t,” Medwind said “The hunter went out for us many hours ago carrying a lightstaff. He ran the distance someone unused to the mountains could walk in a day, watching to see if ground-magic would light the staff.”

Gyels said, “It never did. So I ran farther. I’m strong,” he said, “and I can do things most men cannot do. I ran the distance of a second day’s journey, along the high road—and still the staff did not light. So I ran back. If you go, you will have more than two days of walking to reach this place your Hoos woman thinks exists—if it exists at all—and in that time, many things could happen to you.” His expression grew tender as he looked at her, and he said “I would be honored to travel with you and offer my blade to protect you.”

Faia felt again that overwhelming desire to be with him, to let herself slip into his arms, to feel the love of a man once more. Overwhelming physical desire; a twinge of nervous caution. She did not flatly turn him down, though; she’d learned enough guile to avoid that mistake. It only led to arguments, and arguments could be lost as easily as they could be won. Instead she said quietly, “I will consider your offer, Gyels. Thank you.”

However, Medwind’s expression grew puzzled. She narrowed her eyes and looked from Faia, to Gyels, and back to Faia again. Then she pointed a gnarled finger at Faia and said, “You and I must talk. Alone.”

KIRGEN took Kirtha back to his and Roba’s dwelling; Choufa went along to help Roba; Gyels politely made his excuses and got out from underfoot. When they were well gone, Medwind turned on Faia and said, “What are you doing? You’re turning him down without even giving him a chance.”

Faia turned her back on Medwind and said, “We aren’t going to discuss this.”

“By the gods we
are.”
Her friend’s voice rose. “You’ve been living like a cloistered celibate since Kirtha was born, and I haven’t said anything to you. But you haven’t been happy, Faia—and now I can see why. You refuse opportunities without even considering them.”

“You were right not to say anything.” Faia turned and studied her friend. It was almost impossible to see, in the old woman facing her, the young woman Medwind Song should have been—yet Medwind Song was looking at Gyels with those young-woman eyes.

“I did consider his offer, Medwind. It takes everything I have in me to keep myself from throwing my arms around his neck and dragging him off to some dark, cozy corner and bedding him. Obviously you’ve felt the pull of his attraction, too.”

“More than I would have believed.”

“I noticed.” Faia looked down at the backs of her hands, and rubbed her right thumb along the backs of her left knuckles. “But for all that he’s a pure gem of a man, I don’t entirely trust him.” She signed. “I’d like to trust him—and I have nothing but the convenience of our first meeting that makes me doubt him.”

“Convenience? You met him in a cave, in total darkness, when he was trapped under a scaffolding cave-in.”

Faia smiled slowly. “Exactly. How lucky for him that I happened by.”

“Remind me that I don’t want you doing any favors for me. You might decide, once you’ve found a way to make me young again, that it is entirely too convenient that you were able to help me—and that I must have plotted the whole thing to use you.”

Faia arched an eyebrow. “I have reasons for my suspicion. I traveled to the ruins with Witte—who turned out to be none other than the god Hrogner. He was a vile little god—he used me, and made a great deal out of the fact that I would never be able to get even with him. He said that no mortal could ever hope to kill a god.”

“Of course not.”

“Then he proceeded to die.”

Medwind pursed her lips.

“And after I had nearly escaped the First Folk caverns with Kirtha, I run across a man so irresistible that when I am in his presence, I find myself able to think of almost nothing but touching him—a man I rescue from darkness and certain doom, who would have died had I not coincidentally happened along just the series of tunnels I did.”

Faia took a deep breath. “I don’t want to think this, but I suspect that Gyels is Hrogner, hoping to use me and make a fool of me yet again.”

“Hmmmm.” Medwind settled in front of the fire and stared into it. “Your hunter Gyels is as fine a bit of horseflesh as I’ve ever seen—and I’ve had ten husbands, Faia. Nine of them at one time.” She raised an eyebrow and her grin quirked to one side. “Briefly, I had nine husbands at once. It became too much of a good thing. But, damnall, girl—so what if he is a god? If I were you, I’d take him—I wouldn’t trust him, perhaps, but I’d have the pleasure of him. Hold your heart in reserve—but by Etyt and Thiena, girl, don’t waste that body.”

“I wish it were that easy.” Faia rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. “I’ve been alone too long, though. I’m afraid he might come to matter to me in spite of all my caution.”

Medwind clucked her tongue. “Hearts are made to break. Still, give yourself a chance. Take Gyels with you—you have no idea how far you have to go, or what you’ll have to get through to get there. He’d be useful in the mountains. Don’t bed him right away. If you would feel better with other people along, then take them—though I think you’re throwing away a wonderful opportunity to be alone with him. Why don’t you take the Bontonard scholars with you. We need to get them out of the ruins, anyway. Without magic here, and with the Tide Mother’s false winter sure to kill most of this year’s crops, we’ll need our stored food for ourselves.” Medwind nodded. “In fact, if you and the hunter would lead them back to their city, that would solve a big problem for us here.”

Faia nodded. “I can do that—but is their city in the right direction?”

“If my guess about the taada kaneddu is correct, then we’re in the center of a circle. It shouldn’t matter what direction you travel, so long as you go in a straight line.” Medwind shrugged. “And if my guess is wrong, at least you’ll get them home.”

Faia considered traveling with Gyels. Her heart raced at the idea, and she wondered if she was insane to even consider it. Still, a hunter would be a useful companion.

Hrogner would be dreadful company… but as long as she suspected him, and didn’t let herself rely on him, even if Gyels was Hrogner, he wouldn’t be able to trick her. And with a few other people along, she’d be safe enough.

“I want to leave as soon as possible. Where can I find the Bontonards?”

“Check the library.”

THE snow at the mouth of the dwelling’s curved tunnel lay waist-deep—but it was dry and powdery, so that Faia had to wade through it, with no hope of going over the top. She stepped into a night of incredible beauty. The clouds were gone, and stars glittered in the clear sky from horizon to horizon. The burning halo of the Tide Mother, eclipsing the sun, hung directly overhead. She glimpsed it and looked quickly away. “It’s midday,” she whispered. It seemed impossible to believe.

She waded toward the library and her lantern swung in front of her, throwing a warm yellow glow that danced over the drifts and snow-covered rubble and made shadows that shimmied and stretched like things alive. Where the snow hadn’t drifted, it rose to the middle of her thigh. The rolling white surface bore only deep tracks that ran from dwelling to dwelling; the rest of the city was covered by an unmarred blanket, with the hulking forms of the mountains rising high and dark out of it. The air was still; her breath hung in front of her like a fog. The drifts sprawled in fantastic shapes throughout the ruins, and the crisp, clean scent of the air brought back memories of winter in Bright.

Faia stood still for a moment remembering playing with her dogs Chirp and Huss in a snow like this one, throwing them sticks and watching them plow through the white drifts trying to find what she’d thrown, exploding out of the powder and barking madly, then burrowing back in again. She smiled. It seemed so long ago. That had been—one?—no, two winters before the spring when she lost everyone. Her smile died and she felt the familiar, painful lump in her throat. More than seven years ago in all.

She leaned on her staff and thought, How much longer? How long until I can remember them all without pain—with only happiness?

She doubted that day would ever come.

She waded to the raised, broken stone slabs that made up the First Folk road and climbed up. The wind had blown away some of the snow from the high, smooth surface—the road made comparatively pleasant walking. She trudged to the narrower road that led directly to the library, then stopped again.

The First Folk statues on either side of that road stared at her with their glittering black eyes. Their winged, taloned, arrow-tailed bodies were deformed into shapes even more monstrous than the original ones by layers of snow. They were at once hideous and comical and frightening. Faia held her light higher and stared, and the lantern flame reflected in the black stone eyes. Those eyes gleamed, bright and alert. The statues of the First Folk looked so frightening—and their glittering eyes watched her with an expression that seemed sly and fierce—and always hungry.

She shivered, only partly from the cold, and hurried down the long road between their ranks. They stared after her as she passed, and when she was beyond them, they still watched.

She went through the gaping stone maw of the library doorway, through the drifts of snow that covered the stone floor, and walked down the long central corridor. The noise of her booted footsteps and the tapping of the brass tip of her staff echoed weirdly, and her light made only a small, hardly comforting circle in the darkness around her—while her little sphere of light made the far shadows seem even blacker and more mysterious. The library was
wrong
to her human senses. The angles were awkward, the scale far too large—and her light kept picking up flashes from the live-looking eyes of the brightly painted stone gargoyles that leered at her from the tops of stone shelves and the recesses of unexpected nooks.

“Hallo-o-o!” she shouted into the cavernous spaces. Her voice bounced back to her, echoing from the vaulted wings on either side of the main part of the library and from the vast open spaces in front of her. Echo layered on echo, her chorus softening to whispers—her single voice became in an instant a choir.

She tipped her head and closed her eyes, listening—intrigued by the permutations in that one shouted word, until the last hushed “hallo-o-o” died to silence. She smiled slowly, and in a quiet voice, sang:

“Oh, fair was my love—as the summer, the summer

As sweet as the rich ripened fruit on the vine.”

The echoes sang with her, adding depth and richness to the folk tune. Faia grinned, and sang a little louder.

“As cool and as strong as a river, a river,

And heady as autumn-pressed wine.”

She liked the rich reverberation through the corridors as she sang the old love song—she loved to sing, though her voice was ordinary. The First Folk library, however, made her sound wonderful. She started walking toward the back of the library, looking for the two Bontonard scholars—but she walked as slowly as she could, and sang as she walked.

“I danced with my love in the summer, the summer,

I danced with my love by the side of the sea.

We danced in the dark ‘til a sailor, a sailor…

He came and took my love from me.”

“So I wait as the winter grows colder—grows colder,

I wait for my love as my hair turns to grey.

I wait where he left, by the sea—by the sea,

For the sea shall return him some day.”

She could imagine herself, on the stage in the square in Omwimmee Trade, gorgeous in one of the low-cut, flower-decked dresses the Omwimmee Traders wore at festivals. Her audience would be rapt. She stopped walking and closed her eyes and imagined the stunned townsfolk watching her, whispering that never had they heard the song done with such feeling or skill. She belted out the next verse, putting a lot of passion in it.

“And now the sea blows the waves higher—and

higher,

And now a ship founders beyond the cruel reef.

For now my love’s come back to me—come to me,

But the sea brings me nothing but grief.”

She heard a soft scurrying noise from the library’s depths. So the scholars were in one of the little side rooms.

I can’t imagine why they haven’t heard me yet, she thought, and then she grinned. Scholars got lost in their studies so deeply, they would likely not hear the world end.