Renegade's Magic ss-3 Read online

  I’d unsettled him. I suddenly became aware that his back was cold. At the same moment, he felt the draft. He left me, surfacing from sleep just enough to pull his blankets back into place. I waited in a limbo of grayness, hoping, but although he slept, he did not dream. “Lord Burvelle!” I cried into the nothingness. “Hear me! Your daughter needs you. She is hungry and cold and oppressed with sadness. Send help to her. Please, say you’ll send her help!”

  There was no response. A sudden and dangerous idea came to me. Recklessly, I acted on it. The clinging scent of her heavy perfume. The clicking of her heavily ringed hand against her wine goblet at a dinner table. The cold stare of her icy eyes. “Lady Burvelle. Daraleen Burvelle!”

  I tumbled into her dream as if a trapdoor had opened under me. Instantly, I wished to be away from it. I had not thought a woman of her years and position would be prone to such salacious fancies. She was entangled with not one virile young man, but two, and from her panting, was fully occupied with the sensations their efforts were waking. I was horrified, scandalized, and embarrassed. “Lady Burvelle! You daughter Epiny is in dire circumstances and has need of your aid! The Specks have raided Gettys and near destroyed it. Do whatever you must to send her help.” I barked out the words. My message jolted her from her dream and once more plunged me into a gray netherworld.

  I wondered how much time was left to me. My first impulse was to return to Epiny, but I had no good news to give her. I doubted that either her father or mother would heed the messages I had delivered.

  It came to me that I might still see Yaril that night and possibly fulfill Epiny’s charge to me as well. I fled to my sister and found her effortlessly. The dream I slipped into made no sense to me at all. Yaril was pinning fish to the wall of the parlor, rather like the way she had once collected butterflies. But the fish were alive, slippery and thrashing, so it was a messy and futile undertaking. No sooner had the drawing tacks been put through their tails and fins than they wriggled free of them and fell to the floor. Yet Yaril seemed obsessed with finishing her task.

  Even before I spoke, she was aware of me. “Nevare, hold this one, please. I think if you held him, I could pin him down properly and he wouldn’t come loose again.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked her in some amusement. Her activity had distracted me completely from the desperation of my visit.

  She looked at me as if I were daft. “Well, if I don’t, they’ll all be on the floor and underfoot all the time. What else should I do? Hold his tail flat to the wall. That’s it! There!” She pushed another drawing tack into the fish’s tail and then stepped back to admire the effect.

  “Yaril,” I said quietly as she began to choose another fish from the floor. “Do you know that you’re asleep and dreaming this?”

  “How would you know?” she asked me in a tolerant fashion. “Oh, look, let’s have that handsome bluegill next.”

  “I would know because I’m using Speck magic to visit you in your dreams. Because I have something important to tell you, and many things to ask you.”

  “Ask away, so long as you hold the fish for me. Here. Mind, now! He’s a slippery one.”

  “I’d rather tell first,” I said as I took the flapping fish from her hands. I tried to keep my voice calm and my tone light. I didn’t want to startle her out of her dream. “The first thing is that you must remember this dream in the morning, and you must believe that you dreamed true.”

  “Oh, I always remember my dreams. You should know that. Don’t you remember how Papa sent me from the breakfast table for talking about my dreams, and you came afterward to comfort me? And to bring me a cold pastry to eat.”

  “I do remember that. Good. So you will remember what I tell you. It’s important. I have bad news but you must take it calmly. Otherwise, you’ll waken yourself and we won’t have any time to talk.”

  “Oh, drat! That’s my last tack, and I need two more.”

  “Here are some more.” I reached into my pocket, wished for tacks to be there, and drew out a handful of them. “You pin him while I talk. Yaril, it’s about our cousin Epiny. She’s at Gettys with her husband, Spink.”

  “I haven’t heard from her in ages! I expect I shan’t until the post riders can get through the snow again. They say it was deep this year in the foothills.” She made a little sound of effort as she pushed the tacks through the tail and into the wall. I tried not to focus on it. If I thought too much about my dainty little sister tacking living creatures to the walls of the drawing room, it would bother me, and I was sure she’d be aware of it. Aware enough to perhaps awaken herself. She stooped to pick up another fish from the floor.

  “Yes, the snow was very deep. It has blocked the roads between Gettys and the west. That is why I need you to send a letter to our uncle Sefert in Old Thares. Or perhaps ask our father to intervene directly, if you think you can persuade him to do so. It has been a hard winter in Gettys, and both Epiny and Spink are in dire circumstances.” I took a deep, slow breath, willing calmness toward her. “The citadel at Gettys was attacked by the Specks, Yaril. They came by night, with fire and arrows and swords. Much of Gettys was burned, and many soldiers killed. Epiny and Spink and their infant came through unscathed, but in the days since then, the cold and the lack of food have been a great hardship.”

  She was staring at me. The fish slowly waved its tail. “Cannot they simply cut firewood and stay warm that way?”

  “It is difficult for them to go into the forest. A magic spell makes them fear to go there.”

  “Wait. You say they have a baby now?”

  “Yes. And that makes it even more difficult for them.”

  She nodded slowly, the fish in her hands forgotten. “What should I do?”

  Patience, I counseled myself. Patience. “Write to Uncle Sefert. Say that you’ve had word of the Speck attack and their harsh conditions. You don’t have to say how you know. Just tell him that he must urge that food and other supplies be immediately sent to Gettys. Even if he has to make such arrangements himself, it must be done. And if you think our father will act on it, recommend to him that he immediately send off whatever supplies he can.”

  “Father is not well.” The fish in her hands stopped wriggling. It became a rag doll and she held it to her cheek now, seeming to take comfort from it. “Things are strange here, Nevare. You should come home and help me. I don’t know what to do!”

  I sensed her rising emotion. In the dream, I opened my arms and she fled into them. I held her tightly. I was a tall, strong young cadet, golden-haired and fit. That was the Nevare she needed now, and she made me take that form; she wanted me to be the hero who would come to rescue her.

  “My dear, I will do what I can.” I did not say that it would be nothing. “What is your situation?”

  “Father is…changed. He is healthier in body, though still he walks with a stick. He…sometimes he seems to know that Mother and Rosse and Elisi are dead. But sometimes he asks questions about them, or speaks as if he has just seen them. I am a coward, Nevare. I don’t contradict him. I let him be. He speaks of you, too, with pride. He says you have gone for a soldier, and soon will come home covered in glory. That is what he always says of you, ‘covered in glory.’ It is comforting to hear him speak well of you. I don’t remind him that he sent you away in disgrace. It is easier, so.”

  “Covered in glory,” I repeated softly. My father’s dream for me. My dream for myself, not so long ago. For a moment, my mind wandered. The old dreams stung now but still I touched them and longed after them.

  “Nevare,” Yaril said, speaking against my chest. “You are really here, aren’t you?”

  “It’s magic, Yaril. I’m here in your dream, and as real as I can be in a dream. My body is far from you, but my heart is here.”

  “Oh, Nevare.” She held tighter to me. “Stay here. Stay here and help me, even if you must be a ghost who only comes into my dreams at night. I am so alone and adrift. And Caulder’s uncle frightens me.”


  My heart sank. Of all my betrayals of my own people, this was bitterest and most shameful to me. My little sister was threatened, and I could do nothing. Coward that I was, I wanted to know no more. I forced the words out woodenly. “What does he do, Yaril, that frightens you?”

  “He is so strange, Nevare. He and Caulder have stayed so long here, far past the length of a proper visit. I fear for my reputation among the neighbors, for all know that Father is not the man he used to be, and I can claim no proper chaperone in this household of men. Caulder feels it keenly and is humiliated. Over and over he has urged his uncle to leave. He has found some courage, he says, and wishes to go back to his father and demand that his father be the one to make an offer for my hand. He had a great quarrel with his uncle over this. His uncle was most cruel, reminding Caulder that his father had disowned him, and saying a great many things to put Caulder in his own debt. He says that he is as Caulder’s father now, and has made the offer, and he sees nothing improper in staying so long as guests in the home that Caulder will eventually inherit.”

  These were words that stuck in me like a knife. Caulder Stiet would inherit the estates of the Burvelles of the East. Their firstborn son would be Lord Burvelle of the East, if my father petitioned the King to make it so. But he would be a Stiet by his blood. For a moment, anger seethed in me. My father could have elevated me to be his heir son, if he had chosen to do so. Many desperate nobles had petitioned the priests to move a soldier son up to the status of heir. But before my anger could turn to greater bitterness, Yaril’s words caught me again.

  “I overheard other words he said. He told Caulder not to be a fool, that they must not leave until he had deciphered the map you sent them. Time and again, he has asked a hundred questions, of me, of the hired men, of virtually anyone who can speak, asking about a ridgeline or a dried-up watercourse. He studies and studies the map you sent him, but will not allow anyone else to see it to interpret it for him. He is obsessed with finding the place where you picked up the rock you gave Caulder. I have shown him all the other rocks you had gathered—you thought they had been thrown out, didn’t you, but I saved them. I thought they were quite interesting, but he pronounced them all just rubbish and pebbles and took no interest in them.”

  I recalled the map I had sent him. I had dashed it off in a matter of moments, from memory, giving little thought to accuracy or even scale. At the time I had thought to do nothing more than send him a token map in order to put an end to his nagging correspondence. “Sergeant Duril could look at the map and recognize the area I drew. Tell him to show it to Duril.”

  “The sergeant has offered, several times, to look at it for him, but Caulder’s uncle always declines. Sergeant Duril has become quite frustrated with the man, for he says he has made him waste time riding aimlessly about when he should have been tending to the concerns of the estate.”

  “Duril’s a good man. Keep him by you, Yaril, as close as you can. And if at any time you feel you are in danger from anyone, go to Duril and tell him.”

  I had no warning. Even if I had, perhaps I could not have chosen better words to end on. With a sudden tug, I felt my awareness pulled loose from Yaril’s. Soldier’s Boy was calling me back. “Not yet!” I shouted at him. “It’s not fair! I’m not finished.”

  A most peculiar thing happened. Suddenly my father, eyes empty, was sitting up in his bed, his hands clutching mine. “Nevare? Nevare? Where are you, boy, where are you? Do you need my help? Son, where are you?”

  He was a glimpse of a nightmare to me. He was pale and aged, and the magic had eaten holes in him, like a piece of fruit spoiled by worms. I could see, in this dimension, how it had attacked him, body and heart and mind. He’d caught it from me, I suddenly knew. It had infected me, and I’d passed it on to him. And just like Buel Hitch, it had reduced him to doing its will.

  “Father!” I shouted at him. “Be strong. Protect Yaril!”

  Then I was torn loose again.

  As sudden as blinking, I was back in Soldier’s Boy’s body. This time, the wall he had held between us was gone. I was once more a party to his thoughts and emotions. It was like being plunged into a hurricane. Anger, despair, humiliation, and defeat battered him and thus me. The strength of his emotions was such that it was some time before I became aware of my physical surroundings.

  Night was full around us and chill. Dew had settled on his skin. Those cold drops contrasted harshly with the hot tears that flowed down his face. He curled forward over his belly and put his face in his hands and wept like a scolded child. I thought he had seen what the magic had done to my father, and felt as horrified by it as I had. There was a strange comfort for me in that he wept. If I’d had the body under my control, I’d have done the same. “It wasn’t really him, doing that to me,” I told myself hesitantly. “The magic had to tear all support away from me, to make me come to where it wanted me to be. I don’t have to blame him. I don’t have to hate him.”

  “I knew that!” Soldier’s Boy spoke disdainfully. “I never hated him or blamed him. I could see that much clearly; I’m surprised that you could not.”

  “Then what is it?” I asked at last, unwillingly. The harshness of whatever assailed him made me pity him; I felt sorry for myself in a way I never had before. No man should be as pitifully miserable as he was. He did not immediately answer me. His sorrow choked him. A very long time seemed to pass. The wind blew in the branches overhead. In the distance, I heard someone call into the night, “Great One, where are you?” Someone called something else in reply. Soldier’s Boy made no response. His harsh breathing filled my ears as he got his sobs under control. I waited.

  After a time, he sat up slowly. “We’ve failed her,” he said quietly. “Yesterday the workers came again to the road’s end. They have begun to clear away the winter debris and repair the last of the damage you did. Soon enough, the axes and saws will begin to bite their way through the ancient forest. The workers are no longer drugged. You know the best way to combat fear, Nevare? With hatred. I woke hatred in the intruders, and their hatred of us is now stronger than Kinrove’s fear spell. They will chew through the trees like worker ants. They will cut our forest and drive straight into the mountains and beyond. They are resolved to find us, and when they do, they intend to kill us all.”

  “Just as you intended to do to them,” I reminded him.

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath and sat up, squaring his shoulders. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  RESOLUTIONS

  It was dark and Soldier’s Boy felt stiff from sitting on the cold rock by the stream. It took him some time to lever himself to his feet, and then he groaned as he straightened his back. He kneaded the earth with his feet as if he were a cat, trying to limber up his reluctant body. He walked for a short way, seeing the trees only as blacker pillars in a less dense darkness. We could see where the village was; a dim glow came from the lighted windows on the hillside above us, but it was not sufficient to light the path. Blundering haplessly, he soaked his feet twice before he found the bridge and crossed the stream.

  At the bottom of the hill, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by dark, cold, and sorrow. He remembered his feeders calling for him earlier, and wished he had responded. He wanted to call for someone to come with a lantern and guide him home, and then despised himself for even thinking of it. He forced himself to trudge up the hill. In the dark, he could not find the trodden path. Twice he stumbled, and once he went to his knees. He staggered back to his feet, his teeth clenched on his silence.

  One of his feeders suddenly appeared on the brow of the rise with a torch. “Great One! Is that you?” Before he could respond, the feeder shouted out, “I see him! He’s here! Come quickly!”

  In moments they surrounded him. One carried a torch. Two others took him by the arms and tried to help him along. He shook them off. “I do not need assistance. I’d prefer to be alone.”

  “Yes, Great One,” they responded, and stepped back
from him. But the man with the torch walked before him, lighting his way, and the other two followed him, ready at any moment to spring to his aid if he needed them.

  Once in the lodge, he perceived that in his absence no one had gone to bed. Instead, a hot sweet drink was simmering by the hearth beside a platter of fried dough drizzled with honey. No one asked if he was hungry or thirsty. It was their assumption. The moment he sat down by the fire, someone whisked his shoes off his feet and replaced them with dry, warm socks. A blanket, warmed by the fire, was draped around his shoulders. He realized then he was shuddering with cold and gripped it gratefully around himself. Olikea poured the warm drink into a mug and put it carefully into his hands. Her words were not as caring as her actions.

  “The night before we begin to travel, I have a hundred tasks to organize and you walk off into the darkness and lose yourself. If you cannot be helpful, at least do not be a hindrance!” Her eyes were still red and swollen from her earlier weeping. Her voice was hoarse with it, but none of her pain showed in her tone. It was purely the waspishness of a woman irritated beyond her limits. No one but Olikea would have dared speak to him like that. The other feeders had grown accustomed to how bold she was with him. And he almost welcomed her anger following her weeks of lassitude.

  “I’m cold,” he said, as if somehow that excused him. “And hungry. Just bring me food.”

  I do not think he intended to sound so harsh. Perhaps if he had known how close she was to breaking, he would have chosen his words differently. But spoken, there was no calling the words back. Olikea seemed to swell with her anger like an affronted cat, and then her own words burst from her in a torrent.

  “You are cold? You are hungry? And what of my son, whose delight it was to serve you? Do you think he is warm right now, and comfortable and well fed? But unlike you, who make the choice to wander off into the night and chill yourself, Likari dances because he must.”