The Gate of Bones (18 page)

“Trust me,” Gavan repeated again, his voice thinning a little, and his gaze darted to Rich.

Rich put his hand on Stef's well-muscled forearm. “Stef . . .”

He shoved Rich away. “I'll go back when I want to.”

“It's not about you, Stef, or Beryl.” Rich shifted his weight and touched his friend again. “Am I right?”

“Very right. We think the Dark Hand means to get Jason any way they can. They almost had Bailey. They'll go after any of you. That, with Eleanora and FireAnn already hostage . . . well, that would break me.” Gavan sat down abruptly. “I can only take so much.” The crystal in the wolfhead cane flickered, as if affected by his mood.

Stef let out a low grumble. Then he sighed. “All right. For now.” He pushed away Rich's hand and strode off toward the academy larder, intent now on finishing an interrupted breakfast.

Rich hesitated a moment. “It's that bad?” he asked softly.

Gavan gave him a nod. “It could be. So we need to be cautious.”

“We need to get Eleanora and FireAnn back.”

“Aye. And that, too. I'm working on it.” Gavan stood heavily, leaning on his cane.

Something about that bothered Rich, but he shut his mouth instead and went in search of the kitchens himself, for he'd had almost no breakfast at all, and there seemed to be a very long day ahead of them.

Gavan watched them leave. He realized, like yet another weary burden settling on his shoulders, that they were not the boys he'd welcomed to summer camp just a few years ago. These were young men. Still awkward, still gangly, still growing into their own, but he no longer looked down on them . . . they met his gaze straight across or, in one or two cases, Gavan had to look up to see into their eyes. They had grown, all of them. It was that time of their lives when they did. He smiled ruefully. It seemed like only yesterday he'd been such a new-made man, coming into his own as a Magicker and falling in love with Eleanora, the head Magicker's daughter. What a time that had been. She'd scarcely noticed him, for she'd been older, and wiser, and had many suitors to choose from, if she had been interested. Devoted to her father Gregory and to the schooling of their Talents, she had never seemed very interested in courting.

And then had come that day, after losing everything, and fighting to gain it back, step by step, when she'd looked at him, and slid her hand into his, and he'd realized he'd finally caught up to her. Or perhaps she'd waited for him. No matter. Their hearts were finally in step.

Now, though. Now he could not tell if hers still beat or not. He closed his eyes tightly. If this were true, he could not wait to go after her. As soon as Tomaz came back from his investigation of the wolfjackals, they would have to strike. The Dark Hand would hold him at bay no longer. The day was upon them. Trent woke with a hum, as he usually did, although that day's melody held a slightly mournful note which he changed as soon as he recognized the melancholy. He missed his father, but knew that with the adventure he had dived into, his father would be upset if he did not go after it with all he had. So he would. Then, he would go home and tell Frank Callahan of the wonders of another world where Jason talked with dragons and he . . . he could see Magick. Not as good as working it, to be sure, but he could see the miracles others worked around him, something that, till they got to Haven he didn't realize only he could do. He'd seen it from time to time before that, but never realized it was nearly impossible for the Magickers to see what they were actually doing. Jason might gesture at an object to move it, but only Trent could see the colored wave of energy moving through the air and affecting the rock or whatever it might be. It was cool beyond words. He thought his dad would appreciate that.

The problem was in finding the words to describe it. Words didn't fit. Music did. Maybe something composed by John Williams, like for the
Star Wars
movies, or
Indiana Jones.
Something that built and built and became a stirring crescendo of music as the magic hit and its force shattered everywhere, doing its will. Maybe that.

Trent drummed his fingers against the washbasin as he cleaned up his face and made an effort to scrub at his teeth. He wondered if Gavan would send them all home now and then for dental exams and cleanings. He ran his tongue over a rough filling. Maybe even . . . ugh . . . something more.

Jason let out a soft groan as Trent tossed dirty water over the side of the building wall, and refilled the basin for him. From the mussed condition of the cot, Trent guessed that Jason had had a fitful night. He'd gone to bed glowering over something which he wouldn't discuss.

Looking over the side of the unfinished floor, the chill of the morning hit him. As much as he liked sleeping on the top floor of the Academy and seeing the tips of the Iron Mountains and the sharply blue sky, Trent didn't relish the idea that soon he would be waking up to a face full of rain if the roof didn't get put on. Trent grinned at that thought. He broke into a hummed rendition of “Singin' in the Rain” as he waved at Jason and hit the stairs to get a warm piece of toast or coffee or something before doing the work Gavan had assigned them. Jason would soon follow him down, making notes as Trent did the survey.

Dokr had left the wanderers' camp early, and sat squatting by the cook fire, a heavy mug of his own brew in his hand. He nodded respectfully at Trent. Regardless of the boys' age, the wanderers seemed to have this innate courtesy and, since the building had begun, Trent felt they had earned it even more. The wanderers were building the academy, of that there was no doubt, but all of the Magickers had thrown their backs and their will into it, and although clumsy at first, soon they'd become sure at following the building plan and helping. Even Ting could miter a board to be jointed neatly, and Stef used his bearish strength in putting huge beams into place that might take the muscles of three other men.

Dokr motioned to the academy. “You checking the frame again today?”

Trent nodded. Madame Qi was already up, her wrinkled face a little pinched as if the foggy morning hurt her aging joints, but she deftly drew him a cup of oolong tea. With a wink, she palmed a bit of sugar and sweetened it for him. Trent flashed her back a thankful grin.

“Always checking the framework,” he said to Dokr. “Not for your craftsmanship, but for the alignment with the energies and stars.”

The Havenite acknowledged his words with a sage nod of his own head. The two groups had not discussed Magick. Gavan thought it prudent not to, and Trent agreed. The wanderers were outcasts even among their own people, but why add to their burden by making them work with Magick they might consider devilry? The wanderers reminded Trent of someone back home. Not Gypsies, though, although they had that nomadic quality. They were not carefree and colorful in the least. No, not Gypsies . . . perhaps . . . he blew on his tea and drank it. Puritans! If the Puritans had become homeless followers of the road, they would be like Haven's wanderers!

Pleased with himself, Trent was still humming “Turn, Turn, Turn” by the Byrds when Jason showed up, grabbed a hunk of corn bread and a slate and motioned to him that he was ready.

Trailing corn bread crumbs, the two went over the building from the buried basement and foundations upward, going over the old warding as always to make sure it held, before going onto the new. Trent could see the lines of energy laid into the wood and stone as clearly as if they'd been drawn by Day-Glo markers, and often marveled that Jason couldn't. But Jason could sense them, and their strength, so he used both his own Talents and his note taking, to double-check Trent's work. So far, in all the weeks they'd been doing this, they'd only found one failed ward. Trent wasn't sure how Gavan and the elders did what they did, but he knew the outcome was to keep the wood sound against termites and dry rot and other effects of time, to keep it fireproofed, and to provide a thin layer of magickal protection against outside harm, and to prevent the magic used inside from leaking out. It wasn't strong enough to hold against an fall-out attack, but it would discourage almost anyone from ordinary sabotage and trifling. And, from what Trent gathered, no one could magickally eavesdrop on those inside either. Not unless one knew the frequency.

He'd tried to explain that to Jason. The warding Gavan guided into place was like a broadband radio wave. It sealed Magick on all those frequencies. But there was still leakage above and below the normal band of frequencies. He couldn't quite put together what he saw and heard, though. Either it was sealed or it wasn't.

Trent pointed at the new workings. “Looking good,” he said. “As far as it goes.”

“Are you on that again? Gavan knows this isn't a foolproof fortress, we don't have the resources, but he thinks it's guarded pretty well.”

“Oh, it is, it is.” Trent pondered. “I guess it doesn't really matter, most people can't see what I do. I doubt the Dark Hand will see the problem with it either. But it's there all the same.”

Jason shook his head. He finished sketching the addition, and indicating where the warding lay, according to Trent's pointing finger, and how strong it was. “Either it is or it isn't.”

“Jason, my man, the world isn't black and white. Neither is Magick.” He pursed his lips. “It's like . . . like dog whistles! Just because you can't hear the frequency doesn't mean a dog can't.”

His friend raised an eyebrow, then stopped as the analogy hit him. “Dog whistles,” he repeated.

“Exactly.”

“And you think Magick works on frequencies like that.”

“From what I've seen, it does. I mean, I feel magick differently than you do, and it's hard to explain, but that does it. Imagine, too, Jason, that there are colors and sounds I can't see or hear. Maybe your dragon can, though.”

Jason finished sketching in the ward lines as Trent had outlined them to him. “Interesting idea. So you think this place is protected well enough for the average Magick user.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. It's just not as impregnable as Gavan seems to think it is.”

“That could be very important some day. I'll talk to him about it. Later, though, I think. He was up early bringing Stef and Rich back, and everyone seems a little edgy.”

“You caught that, too?” Both had been conspicuous by their absence. Now, as they worked, and could see off the upper floor wings, Stef was visible working the big, two-man saw with some of Dokr's men, and his grunts could be heard drifting upward. He seemed to be full of angry energy, which they both felt like a buzz of bees shaken out of a beehive. Stef was no one to be around in that temper because the bear could erupt, and no one but Rich was certain what that bear might do.

Jason lowered his slate. “We're done up here.”

Trent held up a finger. “Not quite. I want to look at the chimney shaft again.”

“Thought we caught that?”

“Yesterday, not today. They added some more rocks and mortar and a new vent to it.”

Jason nodded and trailed after him. Trent caught the new stonework immediately, with its spidery net of runework throughout it, and gave his approval after showing Jason the ley lines of the warding. Jason sketched it quickly, and held it up for Trent to view.

“That's it.” Trent wet his lips. “I think second breakfast, and then back to work?” He gave his friend an appealing look, which wasn't necessary because neither had really had a first breakfast.

“Sounds good to me.” Jason folded his sketches carefully into the slate cover and trotted down the staircase to Gavan's office where he dropped the slate on a pile of similar slates. Then the two raced each other for “second breakfast.”

 

It was not foggy when Jon awoke, but a black-frost wind had swept over the fortress grounds as he dressed and ate quickly, after first giving the order for a mount to be groomed and saddled for him. He penned a note to Isabella that he was riding out to check the Mirroring at the fortress site before leaving. He had other reasons, of course, that he did not wish his dear mother to know. She was not the maternal type in many senses; she had abandoned him as a baby on Brennard's doorstep and not bothered to introduce herself as his mother till he was nearly eleven, but she had her qualities and he could see many of them in himself, like it or not.

She did not need to know that what he really sought at the other fortress site, the one near Avenha, was the essence of Bailey's short visit there. He wondered if he could still taste, smell, touch it. He rode off the grounds of their home fort to a secluded glen where he would Crystal the remainder of the way. The icy ground crunched under the horse's hooves, smelling of winter, and his breath frosted on the morning air. Forget fall; winter seemed nearly here. Avenha, farther south and lower in the hills, would be much more amenable to his spirits.

The horse shivered as he Crystaled them through, and shook his head nervously, not liking the teleportation, but he had been schooled by Jon for this, and so bore it. As he kicked the animal into a canter, the difference in weather and terrain enveloped them. Grass was still green here, although not the lush grass of spring and summer, and fog dewed it in heavy drops. They splashed through the morning dew like riding through a brook, and the horse whickered as he stretched out into a canter.

Jon did not rein him up until they reached the hollow where he had had Bailey trapped. Then he stretched in his saddle and looked about, letting his senses fill the air as the horse put his head down to greedily crop up the last summer grass.

Oh, yes. He could feel her. Much as when, walking into a room where Isabella sat, he was overwhelmed by musk and jasmine, he could smell and taste Bailey. She was different, though—cleaner, lighter, a fragrance as much of crisp lemon and apples as well as heavier roses—and her touch lingered on the air like something fine and wonderful. It did not leave behind a feeling of dread.