SpringFire (10 page)

When Oggam learnt that his daughter, Dayrina was with child, he was livid. For Dayrina—his only offspring—had no husband, nor would she tell him who the father was.

Oggam went to the herb woman and demanded she make the strongest abortifacient possible. The herb woman objected that the efficacy of the potion was related directly to the desire of the one who consumed it, but Oggam was not to be gainsaid.

He forced Dayrina, who was all unwilling, to drink deeply of the potion. When days and days passed with no sign of miscarriage, Oggam grew angrier than ever.

He tried other methods, grim and cruel, to loose the baby from Dayrina’s womb, but to no avail. Dayrina held fast to the soul who grew within her, and in the fullness of her time, she brought forth a healthy baby son, bearing the same clover-leaf birthmark on his shoulder that Dayrina had and as had her mother before her.

Oggam, however, took the babe and, locking Dayrina in the pantry, took him to the village green, leaving him in the appointed spot to die or be taken, howsoever it was meant to be.

Dayrina beat upon the door, pleading with her father not to do this thing. She worked to loose the hinges until her fingers bled. But Oggam’s heart would not be softened toward her, this daughter of his old age, this girl who reminded him in so many ways of her long-dead mother.

The next afternoon, a village elder arrived with the news that the baby had been taken, no one knew by whom. Oggam sighed in relief while Dayrina wept for sorrow.

Not wanting to risk another unwanted grandchild, Oggam sold the house and removed far away, to a distant village where he had kin. Surely now life would return to its former happy routine.

But Dayrina pined for her lost son. By rights, the day he turned six months old should have been his naming day. Then his first birthday, which should have been a day of celebration, passed. But Dayrina did not recover from her grief as these anniversaries passed, and on the eve of her son’s second birthday, she died of a broken heart.

Finally, belatedly, Oggam grasped the error of his chosen way. He wept at Dayrina’s grave, beating his hands on the earth and tearing out his hair. When the worst of his grief had burnt itself out, he resolved to right what he had done wrong: he would find Dayrina’s son and bring him up himself. Let the child take his mother’s place as Oggam’s heir, that his despair might be relieved and his line not come to an end.

He returned to his village and began to seek in earnest. Word went far and wide that Oggam sought the child who’d been taken from the village green two years before. But every clue he chased, every faint path of hope he followed, all came to naught.

Then one night a dark figure came to his door. Oggam could not tell whether it was a man or a woman, neither by appearance nor by voice. This person, who claimed no name other than “wise one,” would not set foot across the doorstep, but from the shadows offered to find Oggam’s grandson. It would take, promised the wise one, nothing more than a simple ritual of finding, one that was known to only a few. The cost: everything that Oggam had—his gold, his property, all that he valued. And yet all this, set against keeping his name alive, was as nothing to Oggam, who willingly agreed to the price.

As instructed, at midnight nine days later, Oggam arrived at the place the wise one had told him, a secret place deep in the bosom of the mountains, a place of mystery and of magic and of marvel. The black-cloaked wise one stood at the head of a large, flat stone on which lay a covered bundle. Oggam crept nearer, fearful yet curious to see a ritual the like of which he’d never heard of before this.

The wise one muttered words in a language Oggam did not know, whilst candles, magically suspended in the air, flickered. With an unexpected movement, the wise one whisked off the covering from the bundle to reveal a small human figure bound to the stone, gagged and unmoving. Oggam recoiled from the sight but felt compelled to keep watching, anxious that this ritual of finding succeed.

With an unearthly cry, the figure raised a knife above the stone. Its blade glittered in the moonlight, capturing a beam and reflecting it onto the figure below.

In which Oggam saw, only a second before the knife plunged into the child’s heart, Dayrina’s clover birthmark.

~an ancient tale from the deeps of time

Before I could gather my wits, a woman with a sharp, nasal voice said, “Tie ’em up.”

Moments later, my hands were bound securely behind me.

The woman who’d given the order whispered in my ear, her breath warm and sour on my cheek. “Rennirt is well pleased. Oh, yes, very well pleased indeed.”

Rennirt! Shandry’s father!

“Shove them off into the corners. And make sure they can’t move.”

The guards holding me dragged me to a corner and forced me facedown to the ground. They tied my ankles together, then, to my horror, pulled them up behind me and tied them to my wrists. My leg muscles cramped up against the awkward position and tears sprang to my eyes.

In a miasma of fear and pain, I lay there, unable to do anything—not even move—except listen to the guards’ long carousing. From their voices, I concluded they were all women. The sound and the smell of them filled the room.

I couldn’t tell if the thing in my mouth was a stone of some kind, or perhaps the pit of a strange fruit, or what. It no longer tasted horrible; it had no flavor at all for it had numbed my tongue. Swallowing was making my throat grow numb, too. Stranger than that, though, was the numbness that blanketed my maejic. Anazian had cast a spell on me that made me believe I’d lost my power, so I knew that feeling well. But this was different from that time.

I withdrew deep into myself. The laughter and bawdy conversation of the women became so much sighing of wind in trees. I couldn’t be bothered to give a drop of attention to it.

I sought my maejic. When at first I couldn’t find it, I tried not to panic. Anazian, for all the effort he’d put into trying, hadn’t been able to take it away; surely neither could Rennirt. I must simply go deeper to find it. I slowed my breathing, calmed the beat of my heart. Being unable to move or to see seemed to help, to strengthen my inward focus.

And there it was, so deep in my soul I almost missed it. It was hard and cold, like a lump of ice. I touched it, gingerly, not wanting to damage it. It burned like fire yet left frostbite behind. Its heart was still aflame, just waiting to be loosened. Once the stone was out of my mouth, I knew my maejic would burst forth into life again. I need only be patient.

When my awareness of my surroundings returned, all I could hear was the crackling and snapping of the flames in the fireplace. Our guards must be asleep now. From outside came sounds of snuffling and the occasional stamp of horses’ hoofs. Inside, I identified six distinct breathing patterns: four slept, one was awake and alert—that must be the watch—and one shallow and labored: Traz.

I wanted to sleep, but the discomfort was too great. My shoulders and thighs ached, while I lost the feeling in my fingers, ears, and nose.

Then someone was fumbling with my bindings, and the jerks and tugs sent spasms of agony through my body. I must finally have dozed off, and I could have wished for a kinder awakening.

The tension on my legs eased. I tried to straighten them, but could barely move. Two of the women pulled me to my feet, but my legs couldn’t take the sudden strain and I collapsed right back down. My head cracked painfully on the floor.

“Oh, just carry her,” came the sharp command from the leader.

“Shall I give her some water?” asked a voice next to me.

The leader snorted. “A day without water isn’t going to be killing anyone.”

One of my captors shoved a shoulder into my stomach and lifted me. As she carried me away, colors that seemed to emanate from where my head had struck the floor flashed across the insides of my eyelids with each step.

Outside, she dumped me on the ground. After forcing me into a sitting position, she untied my hands from behind my back and retied them in front of me.

“I suppose you’ll be needing to relieve yourself. And you’d better, because I’m not wanting to smell your stink later.” She tugged down my trousers, and when I was finished, pulled them up again.

Then, with no more regard than if I were a sack of grain, she picked me up and tossed me across an unsaddled horse, my legs dangling down one side, my head and arms down the other. Just like Traz a few days ago, except, of course, that I was conscious. Another guard helped her to secure me in place with a harness while the others saddled the remaining horses.

The blood rushed to my head and I had to suppress the urge to vomit.

Someone shouted that breakfast was ready, and I was left to worry what would happen next, how long the ordeal ahead would last, and how badly they’d hurt Traz.

The meal seemed to drag on; with no points of reference, I couldn’t really tell the passage of time. I was all alone in my uncomfortable little world. The horse stamped impatiently several times, sending shudders through my frame.

After an interminable time, the guards came out, joking and laughing. They mounted up, and we all began to move. Each step sent a judder of pain through me. When, once the horses were warmed up for their day’s exercise, the leader sang out the order to trot, I wanted to scream. Instead, I passed out.

All day, I slipped in and out of consciousness. Each awakening was worse than the one before. My bones screamed in agony, my muscles froze into knots, and my tendons burned. But worst of all was the thirst. My lips felt cracked, and I was sure they must be bleeding. My whole body ached for water.

Early on, though I knew it would be useless, I tried to speak with the horse. If only I could make enough contact to get it to smooth its gait. That alone would be a triumph. Alas, the stone did exactly the job it was meant to.

The group stopped for the midday meal. Before we started again, one of the women tested the straps holding me to the horse, but she needn’t have bothered. I hadn’t moved an inch on the first part of the journey, and I doubted I’d ever move again.

The afternoon lasted an eternity. When I was conscious, I turned all my attention in on myself, trying to strengthen my body to withstand this ordeal, trying to ignore where the straps seemed to be cutting into my flesh. I focused my mind on transcending the pain. This would surely be over some day, and when that day arrived, I wanted to be strong—in mind, if not in body—to face whatever came next.

Then finally, after twenty lifetimes, it was over. The women called out and were answered by male voices. The women’s voices went off in one direction while my horse was led in another. My feet crashed painfully against something, which I concluded was a doorframe when the air changed from feeling open and chill to being enclosed and warm. I guessed it must be a stable.

Several pairs of hands loosed me from the horse. They slid me off one side and I fell in a heap, unable to stand or even to move.

“All right, then,” a loud male voice said, hurting my ears, “I’m not supposing you can walk.” He laughed at his own joke. “I guess I’ll be having to carry you.”

He picked me up as if I weighed nothing and tossed me over his shoulder. Someone made weak little groaning noises with every step the man took, and I realized it was me.

Out into the open again, then back indoors. His footsteps rang out on a stone floor. After a little while, he stopped. Another man made a strange grunting noise, then I heard a metallic rattle, a loud click, and the creak of door hinges.

The man carrying me stepped through and, as the door closed and locked behind us, began descending a staircase that went on and on, turn after turn, forever.

We finally stopped at what must be the bottom. Another voice made a series of unintelligible grunts, after which the man carried me a little farther. More key rattling, another lock turning, and a door scraped open. I was dumped onto a damp stone floor. The man untied my wrists, making me want to weep for joy, only to secure them behind me again.

“That’ll be doing you for awhile,” he said. The door closed, the lock clicked into place, and I was all alone.

I didn’t even try to move; I just lay there like a dead thing. I’d been without eyesight for almost a full day now, and my hearing had grown keen when I cared to listen. I did now, but heard nothing—no footsteps, no keys, no locks, no doors. Was there simply no noise beyond the door, or was it so heavy that it blocked outside sound?

My thoughts twisted in on themselves, and as time crept past, my imagination began to supply the sensory stimulation that was lacking. Colors swirled before my eyes, resolving into images then dissolving into haze. A mountain reflected perfectly in a still lake. Sunset beyond a field of ripened wheat. Water trickling over stones in a creek. And I even heard the babble, which, as I tried to force my mind away from water, turned into a distant chanting. I strained my ears to catch the words, sure that they would supply the magic to free me.

My senses threatened to take me on a hallucinatory ride, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I could only hope that my sanity would be intact on the other side.

But then a sound—a real sound—chased the imaginary ones away. The door was opening. I lay still, hoping they would think me asleep. Footsteps approached, and someone crouched down next to me. My heart pounded so hard that it sent flashes of light into my brain.

The person held a cloth over my nose.

At this new threat, my body burst into life. I struggled in earnest, not wanting to die, not now, not here, not this way. As I tried to draw air into my lungs, a pungent odor filled my nostrils, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Still, I jerked my head from side to side, but it was no difficult thing for the person to keep the cloth over my nose.

My body began to relax, loosen up, float away. I released my consciousness to follow.