Arasan appointed himself full-time cook and housekeeper, with Ranz and Laria as assistants and clean-up crew. Wythcombe insisted on caring for his cow and goats. He was astonished to discover that Firekeeper was a passable gardener, eager to help with the autumn harvest. Therefore, while lessons were sometimes held around the large kitchen table, they as often took place out in the garden. The one section of Wythcombe’s domain where lessons did not take place was where the dairy cow and goats resided, and in their favored grazing areas. Offered no threat, the chickens accepted Blind Seer as a peculiar canine intrusion in the landscape, but the cow and goats were either wiser—or far more stupid.
Laria and Arasan often listened to the lectures, even after Wythcombe confirmed what Laria already knew—that her gift did not extend to spellcasting. Arasan and the Meddler dodged any of Wythcombe’s offers to test him/them, stating that he knew who he was and what he could do, and, especially at his age, he didn’t care to learn more. Nonetheless, Laria often caught Wythcombe studying Arasan and knew that he was puzzling over the peculiar nature of this man who talked so much and said so little.
Finally the day came when Wythcombe once again asked Blind Seer and Ranz what sort of goals they had for their magic.
Firekeeper grinned slightly as she translated. “Blind Seer says he wishes he could do his own talking. He says that while I am an excellent translator, he would speak for himself.”
“That could be managed,” Wythcombe said, making a note in a leather-bound journal, “although how best to go about it would depend on his other goals. Is there anything else he would like to study?”
“Blind Seer would like to be able to change his shape, maybe to one that is human or closer to human, even if humans are nose dead. We have talked about a shape that is maybe not completely human, so Blind Seer would not feel muffled by strange senses, but would mostly look like a human.”
“Ambitious. Anything else?”
Firekeeper tilted her head to one side. “We have talked that how would be nice if Blind Seer could change me into a wolf sometimes. I have always wished, since I was very small, to have a wolf’s body to fit around my wolf’s heart.”
Wythcombe’s note-taking took longer this time. When he raised his quill from the parchment so the ink would not blot, he asked, “Anything else?”
There was a pause, during which Laria thought the two wolves were conferring.
“Blind Seer says that he would like to know something of healing magics. We…”
Blind Seer growled, and Firekeeper sighed before beginning again.
“We—but most especially me—get hurt sometimes. We learned to rely on Doc and his talent, so it is very trying to need to wait for the body to do what it must to be healed. Blind Seer agrees that he does get hurt, too, but he knows that healing is difficult for a healer to do for himself. For this reason, he likes the idea of learning healing that could be done before and put into things—such as medicines and potions. We have carried with us medicines that are not even magic, and they help a great deal. If he could learn to add magic, this would be very good.”
“Never dream small,” Wythcombe murmured. By now he knew full well that the wolves would hear him even if he whispered, so he must have meant them to hear. “Anything else? No attack magics? Fireballs? Lightning from the skies? Rains of hail? Deafening claps of thunder?”
Firekeeper snorted. “What need we to learn of attacking? If Blind Seer learns to turn human, then I will teach him how to use a bow and a knife. We might even learn to use swords better, though they are very heavy to carry.”
“Mages often have difficulty using weapons of iron or steel,” Wythcombe reminded. “That’s why attack magics are useful.”
“Not Blind Seer,” Firekeeper said. “Iron and steel do not trouble him at all. This we have already learned.”
“Really?” Wythcombe’s eyebrows arched to where his hairline should be, but Blind Seer did not growl at the implied disbelief. “Amazing! I should warn him, if he is indeed resistant, then it is possible that he has already channeled some of his mana into this ability. It is not unheard of, especially among those who wish to use their magic on battlefields, but it is rare.”
Firekeeper shrugged. “If he has done so all unknowing, still Blind Seer had mana enough to be of great help to Ynamynet during the battle to keep the Nexus Islands. It has been said,” she went on with one of her typically wolfish brags, “that because Blind Seer fought querinalo as he did, he may be a great power among mages of both the Old World and the New.”
She humbled then, something she did as easily as she bragged. “But Blind Seer says he does not know if he would still seem greater if he should run beside those from Rhinadei, those whose powers have not been so cramped and dimmed by querinalo as were those in the Old World and New.”
Firekeeper drew in a deep breath after that speech—far longer than she usually made—and settled next to Blind Seer, throwing her arm around his neck as a signal that they were done speaking for now.
Wythcombe reviewed the list he had made, scribbled a few notes, drew what looked like the beginnings of a diagram, then crossed it out. “Very interesting indeed. My first, very general, thought is that shapeshifting would serve much of what Blind Seer desires. Speech, even healing, could be worked from that channel.”
Blind Seer thumped his tail, clearly pleased, then looked at Ranz, as if to say “Don’t forget you have another student.”
Wythcombe turned to a fresh page. “How about you, Ranz? What do you wish to study?”
Ranz licked his lips nervously, but whatever his reply would have been was cut off short when Firekeeper and Blind Seer leapt to their feet. The wolf crouched belly-low to the ground, then vanished into the trees that skirted the meadow. Farborn, who had been idly hunting for grasshoppers, darted after him without a sound. Firekeeper did not follow, but stood, stringing her bow, then dropping her quiver over her head and shoulder to rest against her back.
“Someones comes up the trail. We hear, but the breeze is wrong to catch if we know them. Blind Seer will tell—although his telling may startle these visitors. Do you mind?”
Wythcombe frowned, shutting his journal, and rising stiffly to his feet. “It is early for the traders and, in any case, I usually meet them not far from where Ranz built his snow art. Let Blind Seer know to hold his call. The trail here is steep, and if they have horses...”
“They do. And mules.”
“…these might panic and injure themselves.”
Firekeeper waved one hand over her head, then moved to where a cluster of boulders—probably not accidentally—overlooked where the trail entered the meadow.
For the first time, Laria wondered how they had come upon Wythcombe apparently unaware. Blind Seer and Firekeeper might have done it, but she, Arasan, and Ranz had been less than silent. Did Wythcombe have protections over this area or did he protect himself well enough that he didn’t need to fear intruders?
At this moment though, as he shooed them toward his house much as if they were exceptionally large chickens, he did not seem particularly powerful. Arasan trotted along, carrying the basket of potatoes. Ranz had run ahead to hold the door open. Laria darted past him, grabbing her own bow and quiver from where they were racked by the door.
Trust Firekeeper to always keep her weapons near, even in a “safe” place.
Laria ran upstairs to where windows set under the eaves gave—again not accidentally, she now thought—a clear view of the trail. A group of ten or so people, guiding half again as many laden pack animals, were laboring up the steep rise. Marching in the front was someone Laria recognized as Orten, the Five Spirits Alchemist, one of the two most annoying of the group who had interviewed them after they had triumphed over Rhinadei’s challenge. His long, iron-grey hair was still loose, but bound under a twisted scarf to keep it from his eyes. Laria, who had been keeping her own hair braided, knew vanity when she saw it—or was there some other reason the spellcaster kept h
is hair free? Gone were the elaborate robes that had given him a certain dignity, replaced by trousers, jacket, and boots. He leaned on a polished wooden staff whose top curved out like a crescent moon. His expression was as sour as ever.
Halfway down the trail, her hand on one of the straps that held the pack onto a stocky pony—although whether to guide the animal or for support—was Hanya, the Dance Warrior, also dressed for travel. Unlike Orten, who acted as if the steep trail had been designed for his personal inconvenience, Hanya just looked tired. Her drawn-in eyebrows were smudged and she seemed to be counting her steps.
Bow tight in her fist, Laria flew down the steps. “I don’t know who most of them are, but Orten is in front, and Hanya near the middle. Why would they be here?”
“To talk to me, obviously,” Wythcombe replied. “This is where I live, after all. And perhaps to check on you. You said ‘most.’ There are others?”
“Eight,” Laria said. “And five pack animals.”
“Is there a woman among them, maybe Arasan’s age, with fading red hair just showing grey? If she’s there, she’d be near the front.”
“Right behind Orten,” Laria said, then considered. “And not looking at all too pleased.”
“She wouldn’t be. That’s Fash, who has traded with me for many years now. I’m guessing that Orten and Hanya imposed themselves on her, probably moved up the schedule for the trip as well. Now that we know our visitors are more likely to be friendly than not, shall we greet them? Let’s not give away that Firekeeper and Blind Seer are watching. If anyone asks, they’re sleeping off the day, as everyone expects proper wolves to do.”
Laria nodded. “Want me to come with you?”
“I think so. Now that I know who it is, I don’t expect any danger.”
Not “any trouble,” Laria thought. Or maybe that’s just the translation spell and I’m reading too much into it.
After brief consideration, she left her bow and quiver inside. One thing Firekeeper had made clear—a weapon was a threat. Laria knew she didn’t want to be taken as threatening, especially by senior mages. Ranz hung back until Arasan turned and grinned the Meddler’s grin at him.
“Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
Ranz scowled. “You people don’t seem to realize that I’m not exactly welcome. Wythcombe seems to be coming around, so I really don’t want to cause trouble for him. He might change his mind.”
Arasan snorted. “That old man isn’t the sort to let others change his mind—as I suspect Orten is about to discover. Come along. Don’t let anyone think he told you to hide or that he’s ashamed of what he’s been doing.”
That got Ranz moving. Laria glanced at the young man from the corner of her eye, trying to understand. He acts as if he believes everything they say about him. But someone, somewhere must have trusted him to keep control. How else did he learn the magic he has? Snow and ice can be dangerous, as well as beautiful, so whoever taught him believed he wouldn’t do anything horrible.
Ahead, Wythcombe was greeting Fash. “Did I miss a message that you needed to meet up early, Fash? If so, I never received it. I hope you can wait around a few days. I haven’t even started packing up my trade goods. And I need to consult with you on an unrelated matter.”
He appeared to recognize Orten for the first time, something that didn’t please the senior council member one bit. “Is that Orten? Have you taken up trade then?”
“Don’t act the fool. You know perfectly well why I’m here. We sent some outlanders to you. I see that they arrived safely. We had assumed that, by now, we either would have seen them return, rejected by you, or you would have returned with them. At the very least, we thought you would have contacted us. Now we find you still up here, in company with someone I thought that you, of all people, would not care to spend time with.”
As the two mages had been speaking, Fash had motioned for her pack train to come ahead. When Hanya, limping and leaning against her chosen horse, drew up onto the level ground, she gave Wythcombe a slight bow and a genuinely friendly smile. Then, leaving the horse to move with the others toward the meadow, she limped over to join them.
“We have arrived at your holding, unannounced. I am here to witness that the committee was divided as to the best way to contact you. Orten could not be swayed from his belief that something must be horribly wrong and that announcing ourselves in advance might prevent us from coming to your rescue. Forgive him and us.”
Wythcombe returned her bow. “I am pleased that my associates care so much for my safety, even though they saw fit to send dangerous strangers to me without escort.”
Orten rolled his eyes. “Only after nothing had been heard from you did some of us come to believe we had misjudged the outlanders and put you into danger. As for your other complaint, given your aversion to contact, we did not think an escort would help the outlander’s cause or ours.”
Wythcombe gave him a dismissive nod. “And yet you toiled up and over mountains to come to my rescue. My thanks. Now that you have seen I am well, what next? I could send you away, but since I have business with Fash, I will extend hospitality to you rather than have you leave unescorted. Laria? I believe you have met Hanya. Can you take her to where she can get her boots off? Then, if you would fill a basin with warm but not hot water and add just a little salt, she should soak what I suspect are severe blisters.”
Laria nodded, glad that she didn’t need to deal with Orten—or with Wythcombe, who, beneath his air of affable bemusement, was clearly fuming.
X
BLIND SEER HEARD Wythcombe’s instructions to the others—as he suspected he had been intended to do—and passed them on to Firekeeper.
“So, do we go take a nap?” she asked. “The day is warm, and we were busy through most of the dark hours.”
“Let us watch,” Blind Seer suggested. “For all Wythcombe is acting calm, I can smell his resentment from here. More, I can smell a fight building between him and Orten. If it is to be one of words, then I would like to hear it. If it is to take a more physical form, then I would have us near to join in. We owe Laria and Arasan our protection.”
“And after the trouble we have been through to win you a teacher,” Firekeeper added, snuggling close to him, “I would like to extend that protection to Wythcombe as well.”
Farborn, who had been watching from a perch in a tree above, said, “Good choices for you both. I will fly to join the humans. In this way, I may hear what you cannot and call warning.”
“Excellent decision,” Firekeeper said. “Laria and Arasan will feel all the more secure knowing that you are there—and not merely because you could bring us. I would not wish for your talons in my face, nor your beak upon my nose. Since you are a small warrior, even those who intend harm will overlook you.”
She only spoke the truth, but the wolves were pleased nonetheless to see Farborn fluff his feathers and polish his beak against his wing before flying off. The merlin had too long underestimated himself. It was good to see him valuing himself as he should.
Melding with the shadows, Blind Seer and Firekeeper moved to where they could assess the humans who had accompanied Orten and Hanya, but where their scent would not trouble the pack horses and mules. Unlike the two elderly councilors, the traders showed little indication that the trails they had traveled had tired them. They all wore weapons, mostly long knives and bows, but there was no reek of tension from them that indicated they were prepared to attack. Their concern seemed to be first for their animals, then for the goods they carried. Third was the question of what should be done regarding the remaining members of their group who had remained below with the company’s mounts.
Eventually, two of the largest and best armed were sent to go down the trail to give word to their companions of what had happened. That they were to remain below was another indication that these—Blind Seer thought of them as Fash’s Pack, for they took their orders from her, not from Orten or Hanya—did not intend any hostile acti
on.
But as to the councilors, that was another matter. Orten, in particular, smelled so strongly of fear and aggression that Blind Seer felt his hackles rising in response.
“That one says he came here to see if Wythcombe was in any danger, but his mouth and his sweat do not say the same things. I find myself glad for a chance to compose myself. Whenever the wind brings me his odor, I must fight back a growl.”
“And Hanya?”
“She smells of worry but not of such anger. Still, when she looks at Ranz, there is something bitter in her scent. I would say her concern is honest, while Orten is a rutting buck, spoiling for a fight for no reason but that he thinks the other may have a bigger rack. Wolves, dear heart, are wiser. We, at least, do not pick fights unless we believe we can win them.”
“And this fight? Can we win it?” Firekeeper’s free hand drifted to her Fang, though her other remained at rest on Blind Seer’s back.
“Who knows? We have fought spellcasters before, but not like these.”
“Will you know if they build some spell? From listening to Wythcombe’s lessons, I have gathered that spells can be made without giving warning—especially if the user is very skilled. Whatever else we may think of Orten and Hanya, we cannot deny that they have much knowledge and more power.”
“Although,” Blind Seer huffed a laugh, “in Orten’s case, little wisdom. But, yes, dear heart, if you will keep guard, I can take their scent. This lesson is one I learned from Ynamynet, but since it is only to change myself, it will not raise the taint of blood magic.”
“I watch,” Firekeeper said, although there were no words, only a shifting of her posture, the removing of her arm from about him so she would be free to move if needed.
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