The Gate of Bones (8 page)

“Ah,” murmured Tomaz. He hooked his thumbs in his silver disk belt, the conchas gleaming like small, hammered suns, a work of his homeland. “And did they show?”

“They did. They were displeased at the decoy store-rooms Mantor set up, and avoided the catching pits he had dug in the surrounding streets and fields, and used their crystal lightning to smash gates and set the walls on fire. They vowed to be back, and take their vengeance for his trickery.”

“And that's the good news,” commented Jason dryly.

“Almost. Even better, after the many times I suggested it, it was he who said . . . ‘Send for the Magickers.' ”

Big, burly Stefan stomped back and forth behind Rich. He grunted. “Fight fire with fire.”

“Just so.” Renart nodded at the boy who could, and often did, change into the bear he was coming to resemble more and more.

It was Tomaz who voiced the comment, “We were all branded as enemies. Does this signal a change of mind?”

“I believe it does. And with it, a change of fortunes for us all. He's a proud man, the chieftain, but smart. You have to go. You have to.”

Bailey watched Jason who paled as Gavan said, “We are not proud of the countrymen who followed us through the Gate, Renart. I don't know what we can do to help, but help we will. Understand, though, that Jonnard and his Dark Hand have hostages of ours . . .” Gavan paused and breathed slowly, as if fighting for words or to contain something within, “And our hands are tied on many levels.”

“This is a breakthrough,” Renart protested. “You must go. Not for me, but for yourselves. If you intend to stay here and finish your school and live your lives, then you have to be accepted. Otherwise, you have traded one prison for another, my friends.”

“How many raiders?”

“A goodly number. I think I counted fifty or so. There are more. I've heard of two groups that size hitting the winter stores. She gathers them every week . . . there are always those who find working the land too hard, and taking from others easier. They flock to her side, this Isabella and her son.”

The Magickers looked at one another, remembering Isabella as one of their own, once . . . tall, haughty, in sweeping gowns and jewels, and with unbridled ambition. In the centuries following the magical split that set the Dark Hand against those who followed Gavan and his leader, Gregory, she had worked both sides, building her fortune and holding herself timeless and aloof, or so it had seemed. She had a depth to her powers they could only guess at, and an evil will to keep going. “She and Jonnard are building a kingdom,” Tomaz said slowly, and no one argued against that.

Gavan stirred restlessly but said nothing, his expression one of intense thoughts.

“I'll go.” Jason spoke up.

Trent traded looks with him evenly, before adding, “If Jason goes, I go.”

“There are masters here, and students. There is little wisdom in division.” Tomaz paused, as if he thought to say more, and instead dropped back into silence. Jason lifted his chin but also held his silence.

Renart wrung his hands. “It's not just an opportunity for me. These are my people. We cannot stand against the winter if we are stripped bare.” He stared at his six-fingered hands, knuckles white.

“We will go.” Gavan stood. “Bailey with me. Boys with me. Tomaz, stay with the others. Make sure that Jonnard has not thought we would rush off and leave this place unattended.”

Ting frowned. She hid her disappointment, like her hands, in the pockets of her long skirt and would not look at Bailey. Gavan traded looks with Tomaz, and then reached out to Ting.

“I need you here,” he said, “because of your rapport with Bailey. If anything happens, it'll be easiest and quickest for you to draw us back, through Crystal.”

“Oh,” said Ting. “Oh!” Then she brightened, her eyes widening with the realization of his words. She would anchor for Bailey as Bailey would anchor for her.

Bailey began to walk about again, the trader's horse smelling of sweat and heat and bruised heather from its run over the hills. It seemed to be breathing a little easier, although its gait was far from easy. She shot a sidelong glance at Ting, a little upset about her own plans for exploring being delayed, but this seemed far more important. Ting nodded back at her, eyes crinkling in understanding.

Renart looked at his mount. “Should I ask how we're going to get there?”

Gavan took his wolfhead cane from the staff harness at his back, and leaned on it, the great diamond crystal in its jaws winking in the morning light. “Now, Renart,” he said easily. “How did you think?”

Renart swallowed. “I had hoped . . . not that way.”

“We've few horses here, certainly not enough for all of us. As long as you can picture part of Avenha for us, and hold it, we can get there.” Gavin rubbed his palm over his crystal focus in the wolf's jaws. “Everyone going, link up.” He waited till Bailey passed the horse's reins back to Tomaz and linked arms between Jason and Trent.

“The one thing you absolutely must remember, Renart, is that as much as we may wish to fight the Dark Hand, as much as it is our will to do so . . .” Gavan frowned. “We may not have a way.” He cleared his throat. “But we will answer the call!”

Renart swallowed tightly again. He linked an arm through the crook of Gavan's elbow.

“Now think of Avenha,” Gavan ordered, “something you can see no matter what, and hold to it, tightly.”

The Stars help him, Renart tried to think of something else but all he could concentrate on was the lovely face of Pyra. His stomach lurched and there was a whistling in his ears as they winked out of
then
and went somewhere
else.

S
O THE SEVEN of them appeared abruptly in the sleeping quarters of the chieftain's daughter of the prosperous and important holding of Avenha. Bailey reflected that there was nothing like an actual demonstration to learn a good defensive kick and put-down hold, although Renart's red, bulging face indicated that Pyra's reaction was more than a mere demonstration as he squirmed in discomfort under her foot. And, as far as alarms went, Pyra's and her sisters' screams more than equaled any of the wailing windhorns from the Iron Mountain Academy. When all was said and done (and much was, in the confusion), their arrival was met with a great deal of fuss.

Bailey stared at the wiry chieftain's daughter with unabashed admiration. “That was some move.”

“Like it? I'll teach you later. Every woman should know how to defend herself,” Pyra said frankly. Her cheeks had flushed a bit, and her dark eyes flashed with an inner amusement, as she glanced over at Renart who had finally recovered some composure but wouldn't look back at them.

“That,” answered Bailey, “would be terrific!”

“Good. When Chieftain Mantor has spoken, and matters have been handled, I will meet up with you and show you a few of my tricks.” Her solemn words did not chase the hilarity from her eyes as she turned away then, and began to bring order to the shambles of her tent, which had nearly caved in around them during the tussle. All of Avenha's city proper had been sent into the hillside with its many caves, and tents dotted the hill about the caves as well, for additional housing while the night raiders were expected.

Wrapped in the shreds of his dignity, Renart escorted them all out, as the booming voice of Chieftain Mantor could be heard. He'd been one of the first to respond to the brawl in his daughters' tent, had taken a quick survey, and left when he was certain things were under control. He sat on horseback now, a small herd of similar mounts crowded around him, shaking their heads in the early morning, chomping their bits and stamping their feathered legs on the dewy ground.

“Dibs on the gold one with the white face,” Bailey said.

The ruler of Avenha turned his gaze on her, a slow smile creasing his face. “Because of the pretty color, outlander?” His hands opened and closed on the many lead reins bunched in his hold.

Bailey leaned back a little, unsure of what was really being asked of her, yet instinctively knowing there was much more to the chieftain's question than there appeared to be. When in doubt, the truth seemed best. Still, she picked her way through her answer, much as one of these sturdy horses might pick its way across uncertain terrain. “I have a sense, a Talent, for animals. It's pretty, yes, but more than that . . . I can feel a soundness in its legs, a curiosity but not fear of us, and a pride in its . . . well, how it carries a rider. How it performs.” Bailey stammered to a halt, and stood nibbling on the corner of her lip. She cupped her crystal pendant, her focus, and let its well-being flood her.

Mantor stared at her closely for a long moment, then nodded. “A useful Talent.” He sorted out the gold's reins and passed them to Bailey. “Anyone else have this . . . dibs?”

No one else had the Talent Bailey did, but it seemed unlikely that the chieftain would have brought ill-suited mounts for the expedition they had planned. The only clear choice was the large, broad-backed bay which seemed destined to carry Stef's bulky weight. Everyone else just shrugged and took whatever horse Mantor assigned to them.

Once up, Renart looked a lot more composed. He flushed deeply when Pyra appeared at her tent flap and gave a wave which could have been directed at any of them, and almost lost his seat when his horse sidestepped suddenly. He grabbed for its mane with both hands, and suffered the snickers with grace. Mantor leveled his consideration on Renart. Finally, he said, “A trader would be an asset to the family line.”

That remark made Renart blush even deeper and Mantor swung his horse about and into a trot before the flustered man could stammer out a reply of any kind. His garbled words were lost in the thunder of hoofbeats as the horses broke into a trot, following their leader.

True to her Talent, Bailey had chosen well. The gold moved with steadiness and a smooth gait that made it easy for her to sit the saddle, although she had rarely had a chance to go riding. Southern California, a world and a lifetime away, with its bustling, ever growing cities, had few stables left, and riding had become more and more the hobby of those with time and money to burn. She had neither.

The others rode much as she did, with flapping arms, legs ramrod stiff in their stirrups, trying to maintain as comfortable a seat as possible. Mantor moved among them, giving hints, reaching out and adjusting lanky frames when he felt like it. Trent rode as he walked through life, as though he heard an inner music and moved to it. His horse seemed to trot to the same rocking beat. Stef didn't ride his horse so much as conquer it, and Rich seemed about to fall off at any given minute, his attention far more on the plants dotting the ground about them. It was only a matter of time, Bailey thought, till he dove into those selfsame plants nose first. Only Gavan showed any horse sense at all, settling into his saddle, his cape flowing like a stormy ocean behind him. Of course, he'd probably been on a horse or in a carriage far more than any of them. Bailey watched him, thinking of the times he'd come from. All of the older Magickers had adapted quickly. But was Haven almost like home for him—or just as eerily strange as she found it?

By late morning, her bottom was sore, her stomach and her pack rat were reminding her noisily that they hadn't had breakfast, and she was pondering bringing all those subjects into public knowledge when they came to the top of a rocky crag and Mantor halted his horse.

“Down there,” he said. “Although they're making no attempt to hide their whereabouts.” He crossed his wrists, resting them on the pommel of his saddle and looked down into a valley crisscrossed with darkness. “That was an old fortress belonging to a warlord who died of a terrible disease, so his troops abandoned it many years ago. They have gone in, rebuilt much of it, added new outbuildings, most of it for barracks and stabling. To attack them directly would be to risk much, especially with their sorcery.”

Gavan dismounted. He tapped Trent on the knee. “What do you see?”

Trent stood in his stirrups. Bailey gazed at Trent. He couldn't work Magick but he could see it, and that was more than they could, because the working of it seemed to blind them to subtle underlying traps and strands. It wasn't a Talent exactly. . . . He shaded his eyes as he stared across the encampment of the Dark Hand, and then nodded to Gavan. “There are ward lines everywhere, that's the shadowing you see. Add that to the sentries positioned about, and they're armed to the teeth for trouble.”

“Which we won't give them today.” Gavan smothered a faint sigh. He pulled his staff free and ran his hand over the crystal diamond in the wolfhead. It flared, then clouded.

Stef grunted. He scrubbed a thick hand over his brushy golden-brown hair. “I came to fight,” he said flatly.

“We all did,” Rich told him.

“No,” Jason put in. “That's stupid, Stefan . . . did your football team ever go to a game without some scouting first? Think about it.”

Stefan made a face, then dropped into sullen silence.

“Nothing yet. At least we know where they are, and that they're confident about being able to hold it. That will make a big difference on how we approach things.” Gavan twitched, his feelings transmitted almost instantly down the reins to his horse, and his mount sidestepped quickly with a nervous snort.

“Then what are we going to do?” Rich, his face paler than ever, even under the Haven sun, stared at the headmaster.

Trent jabbed a thumb down toward the valley. “Figure out how to get a lot closer without getting tangled in that web.” He stretched in his stirrups, surveying the dark weaving, an intense look on his face as if memorizing it. “I think it can be done,” he finally finished.