Renegade's Magic ss-3 Page 18

  The answer came to me, instantly and clearly. The fear and the disease that the Specs had already unleashed on them were merely discouragement. If I were Soldier’s Boy, and I wished to destroy Gettys and make it uninhabitable, I would set fire to it. In winter, when the inhabitants had no place to take refuge. Drive them out of their homes and then pick them off. For an aching instant, I could picture Amzil and her children fleeing through snow, Epiny heavily pregnant or carrying a newborn. They could not outrun an arrow. If the Specks struck with stealth, late at night, they could pick off the fleeing victims at their leisure.

  The moment the plan came into my mind, I shuddered away from it. I locked my thoughts tight, praying he had not sensed them. I was already traitor to one folk, showing the Gernians how to drug themselves against the Speck magic to cut down the trees. I would not betray both of them to each other.

  I did not think it likely Soldier’s Boy would come up with such a plan. He was more Speck than Gernian. The Speck did not winter near Gettys. It was possible, I hoped, that they did not see constructed shelter in the same way that I did. To discover what he might be planning, I would have to think as he would. I would have to become him. That thought would have made me grin, if I’d had a mouth to call my own. I’d have to become myself to understand myself.

  Slowly the truth of that sank into me. Perhaps it was my only strategy. To stop Soldier’s Boy from doing whatever he was planning to do, I’d have to merge with him. I’d have to become him, force him to share my sensibilities, make him see that he could not destroy my people without destroying a part of himself.

  The moment I realized the fullness of what I was considering, I rejected it. This scrap of “self” was all that was left of me. If I surrendered it to him, if I lost my self-awareness to become part of him, how could I know if I influenced him or not? I suspected it was an irrevocable act. I feared that in the final analysis, he remained stronger than I was. I’d vanish into him. And I’d never know if I’d saved the people I loved or not.

  I determined that I would surrender and become a part of him only if there were no other options. Until then, I would fight to take back the life that was mine.

  Likari’s snoring had ceased. He pressed closer to me and spoke very quietly. “I’m cold. And I’m tired of the dark. How long has she been gone? What if something happens to her?” He shivered suddenly and something like a sob shook him. “I’m scared,” he said, even more quietly.

  I had not thought he could press closer, but he plastered himself against me. I could feel his heart race and heard his breath quicken as he peopled the darkness around us with every bogey-tale creature that his young imagination could summon. I wondered what night terrors inhabited the dark corners of a Speck’s mind. I could recall, only too well, how I had been able to bring myself to the shaking edge of terror simply by staring up into the darkness of my room and letting my imagination run wild.

  When I was very small, I would let the terror progress to the point at which I would shriek from the nursery for my mother or nurse to come running to rescue me from my self-induced panic. The terror was almost worth the coddling and the warmed mug of milk.

  By the time my father took over my upbringing I was too big to shriek from my nursery. I would on occasion flee my bed to seek out the nanny I shared with my sisters. But I did that only once after my father had declared himself in charge of me. I was tapping anxiously at the nanny’s bedchamber door when my father caught me. To this day, I do not know what alerted him. He was still dressed in his smoking jacket and trousers. In one hand, he carried a book, his finger trapped to mark his place. He looked down at me severely and demanded, “What are you doing out of your bed?”

  “I thought I saw something. In the curtains by my window.”

  “You did, did you? Well, what was it?” His tone was brisk and severe.

  I stood up a little straighter in my nightshirt, my bare feet cold on the floor. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “And why is that, Nevare?”

  “I was afraid to look, sir.” I looked down at my bare feet, shamed. I doubted that my father had ever been afraid of anything.

  “I see. Well, it is what you will go and do now.”

  I glanced hopefully up at him. “Will you come with me?”

  “No. Of course not. You are to be a soldier, Nevare. A soldier does not retreat from what he imagines might be an enemy. In an uncertain situation, a soldier gathers information and, if the information is sufficiently important, he reports it to command. Imagine what would happen if a sentry came back to his commander and said, ‘I left my post because I thought I saw something. Would you come back with me and see what it was?’ What would happen, Nevare?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, but think. What would you do, were you the commander? Would you leave your post to go see what had frightened your sentry?”

  I answered truthfully with a sinking heart. “No, sir. I would tell my sentry to go back and find out what it was. Because that is his task. My task is to command.”

  “Exactly. Go back to your room, Nevare. Face your fear. If there is something in your room that requires action from me, come to me and I will help you.”

  “But—”

  “Go, son. Face your fear like a real soldier.”

  He stood there while I turned and walked away from him. Only a few months ago, my room had been close to the nursery and to my sisters’ nanny. My new room seemed very far from those safe and familiar places. The hall that led to my bedchamber seemed long and very dim. The wick in the lamp on the wall bracket had been turned low for the night. My heart hammered when I reached my own door. I had slammed it shut behind me when I fled so that whatever monster was lurking there could not follow me. I slowly turned the knob. The door swung into the darkness.

  I stood in the hall, peering into my room. It was dark. I could see the rumpled white sheet on my bed. As my eyes adjusted, I saw more detail. The bedclothes hung to the floor, and anything could be concealed behind them and under my bed. The only other pieces of furniture in my room were a desk and chair. It was possible something lurked in the chair alcove under the desk. As I watched, the long curtains stirred. The window was open, as it was every night, that I might enjoy the benefits of healthful fresh air. It might be only the wind. But it might not.

  I wished I had a weapon of some sort. But my wooden practice sword and stave were both inside the wardrobe and that was on the other side of the room. I’d have to face my fears unarmed.

  To an adult, the situation might have seemed laughable, but I was a victim of my own imagination. I had no idea what might be lurking in those slowly stirring curtains. Even if it was the wind now, could the being previously hiding behind them now be concealed under my bed? My heart was thundering in my ears at the thought; I’d have to get down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. Once I’d lifted the bedclothes, anything that was under there would most likely spring for my face. It would scratch out my eyes. I was certain of it.

  I didn’t want to look. I thought of racing across the room and jumping up on my bed and simply forcing myself to stay there. Perhaps there was nothing at all under my bed. Perhaps I was being foolish. I could stay awake all night. If anything did emerge to attack me, I could shout for help then. I didn’t have to confront it now.

  Except that I did. My father had ordered me to do so. It was what a soldier would do. And I was a second son, born to be a soldier. I could be nothing else. And I could do no less than my duty.

  But it did not mean that I had to be a fool in doing it.

  I slipped quietly away from my room and hurried through the deserted corridors down to a parlor. My home was quiet and almost unfamiliar at that late hour. There was no bustle of servants, no opening and closing of doors or snatches of voices. I heard only the padding of my own bare feet and my panting breath. When I entered the parlor, it was deserted, lit only by the dying flames in the fireplace. Spooky. I went to the rack
of fire irons and selected the poker. It was heavy, much heavier than my practice sword. I hefted it in both my hands and decided it would have to do.

  It was awkward to carry it back to my room. The end of it seemed magnetically drawn to the floor, but I gritted my teeth, gripped it firmly with both hands, and marched back to my room with it.

  The door was ajar as I had left it. I did not give myself time to think or hesitate. I charged into the room, dropped to one knee, and swept the heavy poker under my bed. It encountered no resistance. Emboldened, I used the log hook to flip up the bedclothes. Poker at the ready, I ducked down for a quick glance. The dim light from the hallway showed me nothing was there.

  I staggered back to my feet, the heavy poker at the ready, and stalked over to the blowing curtains. Again, I swung the heavy poker, hooking the thick fabric and pulling it out from the wall. Nothing there.

  But my imagination had already discerned my diabolic opponent’s likely strategy. The creature would be in my wardrobe by now. Heart hammering, I gripped the poker in one hand and with the other jerked the wardrobe door open. I gave an incoherent gasp of terror as the motion caused the clothing inside it to stir. Then I struck, jabbing the poker so firmly into the closet that the heavy tip of it struck and scored the wooden backing.

  A shadow loomed suddenly over me from behind. I spun, my poker at the ready. My father caught the end of it in a firm grasp and, with a quick twist, disarmed me. I stood, looking up at him in dread.

  He smiled down on me. “Well, what is your report, soldier?”

  “There’s nothing there, sir.” My voice shook. I’d made a fool of myself before my father. He’d seen how scared I was.

  He nodded at me. “I agree. Nothing to be frightened of. And I’m proud of you, son. Very proud. If there had been anything there for you to fear, you would have vanquished it. And now you know that you can face what scares you. You don’t have to run wailing for your mother or nanny or even me. You’re a brave boy, Nevare. Someday you’ll make a fine soldier.”

  He leaned the heavy poker against the wall near the head of my bed. “I think I’ll just leave that here for the night. In case you should think you need it again. Now. Into bed with you and go to sleep. We’ve a busy day tomorrow.”

  I climbed up onto my bed, and he spread over me the covers that I’d half dragged onto the floor. He leaned down and set his palm on my brow for a moment. “Good night, son,” he’d said, and then gone out of the room, leaving the door ajar so that a slice of dim light fell on my trusty poker.

  The memory had come back to me in a wild rush, triggered by the boy’s trembling body pressed up against my back. It was a child’s memory and now, as a man, I reordered it. My father had waited and watched to see what I would do. He hadn’t interfered, but he had been watching over me. And he’d been proud of me, his soldier son. Proud of my courage, and he’d told me so. I don’t remember how many nights the poker had remained in my room by my bed. But I don’t recall that I ever felt a night terror after that.

  Whatever might have happened in the years that followed, regardless of how we had parted, my father had given me something then. Given me something far more important than if he had carried me back to my bed and checked my room for imaginary threats himself. When had I lost that father?

  When had he lost his soldier son?

  I tried to lift my hand. I could not. Soldier’s Boy’s control of the body was complete. I could not even open my eyes. Instead, I poked at his awareness. It burned low. He was physically exhausted from battling his self-induced fever. It took all the focus I could muster to break through his stupor. I offered him my memory of my father and my current awareness of Likari’s fear. He received it but did not rouse from his torpor.

  “Do something.” I pushed at him relentlessly. “Do something for the boy. Now.”

  “Go away. Let me rest.”

  I would not. I was a thorn in his legging, a pebble in his bed. He finally gave in.

  “Water?” he croaked. “Likari?”

  “I’m here,” the boy instantly replied in a shaky voice. “I have the water skin.”

  “Help me drink.”

  The darkness pressed close around us. Likari fed the fire a small bit of wood, and as a flame licked at it, he used the brief bit of light to offer me water. He was not adept at it. The skin fountained water, and wet my chin and chest before Soldier’s Boy was able to catch it in my mouth. Then it was wonderful, cool and sweet and soothing. He had not realized how thirsty he was. Likari stoppered the skin. Soldier’s Boy rubbed his hand over my wet chin and scrubbed at my crusty eyes with it. Even the dim light of the fire seemed too bright for his fever-stricken eyes.

  “Where’s Olikea?” Soldier’s Boy asked Likari.

  “She went ahead, to see if there was any fish caught in the next fish trap.” The boy hesitated and then added, “She’s been gone a long time.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” It was hard to talk. Soldier’s Boy’s head hurt so badly. To press my ideas on Soldier’s Boy, I had to share his sensations. I steeled my will and pushed at him. He spoke grudgingly. The act took effort and hurt his head. “But you’ve stayed here by my side in the darkness. To watch over me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for the water, Likari. It’s good to know you are here.”

  The boy had stopped shaking. His voice was steady when he said, “Olikea said it was part of being a feeder. I’m proud to be a feeder for you, Nevare.”

  “I’m glad you are here,” and for that brief instant, I was truly the one who spoke. Soldier’s Boy was sinking back into his stupor. His weariness dragged at me. I’d tangled my awareness too completely with his, and now as he sank into sleep, I went with him. But dimly I was aware that the boy resettled against my back, and that he trembled no longer. I let myself sink into the darkness with Soldier’s Boy.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE WINTERING PLACE

  The aroma of cooking fish coaxed me slowly out of a very deep sleep.

  I came out of it clutching a peculiar dream. I’d been sitting in my father’s study. He was in a dressing gown and slippers, seated in a cushioned chair in front of an autumn fire. His hair was neatly combed, but in a way that made me think he had not done it himself. There were slippers on his feet; it was the guise of a man who had not been outside the house in days. On a table near his elbow was a bowl of late apples; their fragrance had perfumed the room. My father’s face was bowed into his hands, and he was weeping. His hair had gone gray and the hands that covered his face were ropy with tendons. He seemed to have aged a decade in the single year I’d been gone.

  He spoke to me without looking at me. His voice sounded odd, the words badly formed. “Why, Nevare? Why did you hate me so? I loved you. Fate made you the only son I could truly claim as my own, the only one who would follow in my footsteps as a soldier and a cavalla officer. You alone could have won glory for our name. But you threw it all away. You shamed me and you shamed yourself. Why? Why did you destroy yourself? Was it to spite me? Was it because you hated everything I was? What did I do wrong? How did I fail to inspire you? Was I such a poor father to you? Why, Nevare? Why?”

  The questions were like a driving rain, relentless and chilling. They soaked me with guilt and confusion. He was so miserable. So hurt and vulnerable, so profoundly hopeless in his sorrow.

  “I did everything I could think of to make you want to change, Nevare. Nothing moved you. Even when I took your name and home from you, you never once said that you wanted to try again. You never once said you were sorry for what you had done! You never came back. Did you hate me so badly? Why, son? Why couldn’t you just be what you were born to be? Why couldn’t you have taken what I’d earned for you, and enjoyed it?”

  In that dream, I was mute. I was not even sure I was really there. Perhaps I watched him through a window. Perhaps the window was in my mind.

  I woke confused. The fragrance of apples had changed to the aroma
of fish, and I was cold, not warmed by a fire. My father would not weep for me; he had driven me away. I rubbed at my sticky eyes. My head still hurt, but not as badly as it had. I was hungry and very, very thirsty. I opened my eyes. Olikea had returned. She’d built up the fire. On stones beside the coals, two fine fat fish were baking. Food. Light. A bit of warmth. All good things.

  But as I took a deep breath and tried to sit up, I realized what else had changed. My fever was gone. The sores still itched abominably, and when I scratched, one loose scab peeled away under my nails. But my fever was gone. I sighed heavily. “Is there water?” I heard myself ask hoarsely.

  “You’re awake! Oh, good. Likari, bring water.”

  The boy was no longer sleeping against my back, I realized. He came into the light, bringing the water skin with him. “I kept watch while you slept,” he told me proudly.

  I smiled. But when I tried to thank him, I abruptly became aware that I was not the one in charge of the body. Soldier’s Boy smiled at him with my mouth and felt kindly toward the boy, but he did not utter the words of thanks that I would have said. Instead he nodded at him and took the water skin from his hands and drank heavily of the cold, sweet water.

  I pulled my awareness apart from his. As I did so, I felt that he knew I had separated from him again. His smile widened. Because, for a time, I had merged with him and had not fought him. I had not even been aware that I existed separately from him for those minutes. “I’m feeling stronger,” he said aloud, and I cringed, thinking that he aimed the words as much at me as he spoke them toward Olikea and Likari.

  I held back from him, silent and observant, as Olikea finished cooking the fish and portioned it out. They all ate greedily, scarcely letting the fish cool before gulping it down. When it was gone, Olikea proudly produced a double handful of a viscous-skinned fungus. It wasn’t shaped like a mushroom, but instead had a fingered structure. In the barely flickering firelight, they looked yellow. The appearance repulsed me but Soldier’s Boy took a deep breath of their enticing odor.