Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  “There are several general kinds of changes,” Nysander went on, warming to his topic. “Transmogrifications change one thing completely into something else—a man into a tree, for instance. His thoughts would be those of a tree and he would exist as one without memory of his former nature until restored. A metastatic spell, however, would merely give a man the appearance of a tree. To alter the nature of a substance—iron into gold, for example—would require an alchemic transmutation.”

  “And what about that intrinsic nature spell of yours?” Seregil inquired blandly, staring down into his mug.

  “I might have known you’d bring it around to that,” Thero sniffed. “A trick to entertain children and country peasants!”

  “There are those who believe it has some value,” Nysander said with a meaningful look in Thero’s direction. “Myself among them.”

  Seregil leaned over to Alec as if to speak in confidence, though he didn’t bother to lower his voice. “Thero hates that spell because it won’t work on him. He has no intrinsic nature, you see.”

  “It is true that this particular spell does not affect him,” Nysander admitted, “but I am certain that we shall discover the impediment eventually. However, I suspect that it was not Thero’s nature you had in mind?”

  Seregil gave Alec a playful nudge in the ribs. “How about a bit of magic?”

  Nysander laid his knife aside with a resigned sigh. “I see that I am not to enjoy this meal in peace. I suggest we retire to the garden in case Alec proves to be something especially large.”

  “Me?” Alec choked down a bit of ham. He had no idea what an intrinsic nature spell could be, but it suddenly appeared that they meant to work one on him.

  Seregil was halfway to the door already. “I just hope he doesn’t turn out to be a badger. I’ve never gotten on with badgers. Thero will probably turn out to be a badger if you ever get it to work.”

  They followed Nysander down to the Orëska gardens and into a thick stand of birch surrounding a small pool.

  “This will do nicely,” he said, stopping in the dappled shade near the water’s edge. “I will transform Seregil first, Alec, so that you may observe the process.”

  Alec nodded nervously, watching as Seregil knelt on the grass in front of the wizard.

  Resting his hands on his thighs, Seregil closed his eyes and all expression vanished from his face.

  “He attains the suscipient state so readily,” Thero muttered with grudging admiration. “Still, you take a chance, trying to work anything on him.”

  Nysander motioned for silence, then laid a hand on Seregil’s head. “Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa, let thy inner symbol be revealed.”

  The change was instantaneous. One moment Seregil knelt before them. The next, something was squirming about in a tangle of empty clothing.

  Nysander bent over the wiggling pile. “The change was successful, I gather?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied a small, guttural voice, “but I’ve lost my way in here. Could you lend a hand?”

  “Help your friend, Alec,” Nysander said, laughing.

  Alec gingerly lifted the edge of the surcoat, then jumped back in surprise as the blunt head of an otter thrust out from under the loosened shirttail.

  “That’s better,” it grunted. Waddling free of the clothing, the sleek creature sat up on its hindquarters with its tail stretched out behind. It looked exactly like any otter Alec had ever trapped, except that its small round eyes were the same grey as Seregil’s.

  Seregil smoothed his drooping whiskers into place with a webbed paw. “I should’ve stripped down first, but the effect is more startling this way, don’t you think?”

  “It’s really you!” Alec exclaimed in delight, running a hand over the otter’s gleaming back. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you—I think,” Seregil clucked. “In light of your former profession, I’m not certain if that was a compliment or an appraisal of the worth of my pelt. Watch this!”

  Humping to the edge of the pool, he slid into the water and dove out of sight with sinuous ease. After a few moments he climbed out again to deposit a flopping carp at Thero’s feet.

  “A cold fish for a cold fish!” he announced with otterish glee before dashing back into the water.

  Scowling, Thero nudged the carp back into the pool with his foot. “He never can go anywhere without stealing something.”

  Nysander turned to Alec. “Ready to give it a try?”

  “What do I do?” Alec replied eagerly.

  “Remove your clothes first, I think. As you saw, they can be a hindrance.”

  Excitement overcame Alec’s modesty for once and he disrobed quickly. In the meantime, Nysander changed Seregil back: the restoration was as sudden as the initial change.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve done that,” Seregil said, grinning happily as he pulled on his breeches. “I spent a week as an otter once. I’d like to do that again sometime.”

  “There is no great trick to this,” Nysander assured Alec as he took his place in front of the wizard. “Simply clear your mind. Think of water, or a cloudless sky. Before we start, however, I must know your full name.”

  “Alec of Kerry is all I’ve ever gone by.”

  “He’s the son of a wandering hunter, not a lord,” Seregil reminded him. “That sort hasn’t the use for long names that we do.”

  “I suppose not. Still, the lad ought to have a proper name if he is going to trail about with you. Alec, what were the names of your father, and his father, and his father before that?”

  “My father’s name was Amasa. I never knew any of the others,” answered Alec.

  “In the southern fashion, that would make you Alec í Amasa of Kerry,” said Nysander. “I suppose that will have to suffice.”

  “He’s not likely to use his real name much at all if he runs with Seregil,” Thero observed impatiently.

  “True.” Nysander placed his hand over Alec.

  Alec thought of clear water as hard as he could and heard Nysander say, “Alec í Amasa Kerry, let thy inner symbol be revealed!”

  Alec staggered, found his balance, braced for flight.

  Everything appeared in varying tones of grey, yet the slightest movement caught his eye. More overwhelming still were the scents. The pool gave off the sweet message of water and there were horses nearby, mares among them. The countless plants of the garden wove a green tapestry of aromas, some stinking of poison, others succulent and inviting.

  Most emphatic, however, was the warning stink of the men. Some new part of him signaled innate alarm. He couldn’t understand their ridiculous noise or the strange grimacing that accompanied it.

  Then the smallest of the three moved closer, making new, calmer sounds. Watching the other man creatures with suspicion, he stood his ground, allowing this one to come close enough to stroke his neck.

  “Magnificent!” exclaimed Seregil, looking over the young stag Alec had transformed into. Its nostrils flared nervously, scenting the breeze as he touched its powerful neck. Tossing its antlered head, it looked at him with wide blue eyes.

  “Remarkable,” Thero admitted, taking a step closer. “Bring him over to the pool so that he can see—”

  “Thero, no! I think he’s—” Seregil hissed, too late.

  At the young wizard’s sudden approach, the stag reared in panic. Seregil threw himself back out of reach of the flailing hooves.

  Grasping at the back of Thero’s robe, Nysander managed to yank him to safety just as the startled animal leapt forward, lashing out with its antlers.

  “Change him back!” yelled Seregil. “He’s lost in the shape. Change him back before he bolts!”

  Nysander shouted the command, and the stag form shifted and dissolved, leaving Alec in a dazed heap on the grass.

  “Easy now,” Seregil soothed, wrapping a cloak around the boy’s shoulders.

  “Did it work?” Alec asked, feeling dizzy and odd. “Things went all funny for a minut
e.”

  “Did it work?” Seregil rocked back on his heels, laughing. “Let’s see now. First you changed into as handsome a stag as I’ve ever seen, then you tried to gut and trample Thero. Nysander stopped you, of course, but otherwise I’d call it a grand success!”

  “The transformation was rather too complete,” said Nysander, less satisfied. “How do you feel?”

  “A little wobbly,” Alec admitted. “I’d like to try it again, though.”

  “So you shall,” promised Nysander, “but first you must learn to govern your mind.”

  Left to himself that afternoon, Alec wandered out into the gardens again. He had still not entirely thrown off the morning’s disorientation; the world seemed rather muted after experiencing it through the senses of an animal.

  As he neared the centaur’s grove he caught the sound of harp music and paused. Mastering his shyness, he entered the trees. Hwerlu and Feeya stood close together in the clearing, Feeya leaning languidly on her mate’s back as he played. There was an intimacy to the scene that made Alec halt, but before he could withdraw Feeya caught sight of him and broke into a broad, welcoming smile.

  “Hello, little Alec,” Hwerlu called, lowering his harp. “You have the look of one in need of companionship. Come and sing with us.”

  Alec accepted the invitation, surprised at how at ease he felt with the immense creatures. He and Hwerlu traded songs for a while, then Feeya attempted to teach him a few words of her flat, whistling language. With Hwerlu’s help he managed to learn “water,” “harp,” “song,” and “tree.” He was just attempting “friend” when the centaurs suddenly raised their heads, listening.

  “That animal is being driven too hard,” Hwerlu stated with a disapproving frown.

  Seconds later Alec’s ears also picked up the distant staccato of a galloping horse. Looking out through the trees, he saw a rider heading for the main entrance of the House. As the man reined in and dismounted, his hood fell back from his face.

  “That’s Micum,” Alec exclaimed, setting off at a run. “Hey, Micum! Micum Cavish!”

  Already halfway up the stairs, Micum turned and waved to him.

  “Am I glad to see you!” cried Alec, noting as he clasped hands with him that Micum looked haggard, and that his clothing was stained and spattered with mud. “Seregil and Nysander wouldn’t say so, but I think they were beginning to worry. It looks like you’ve had a hard ride.”

  “I did,” the big man answered. “How’d you and Seregil make out?”

  “We had some trouble on the way back, but he’s fine now. I think he’s with Nysander.”

  “Trouble?” Micum frowned, glancing back at Alec as they hurried toward the wizard’s tower. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Bad magic from that wooden thing. He got sick, but Nysander put him right. I’m just glad we got here soon enough. I still don’t understand much of it, but Nysander and Seregil can tell you.”

  “Let’s find them, then. I’ve something I want you all to hear and I don’t want to have to go through it a dozen times.”

  Micum felt a rush of relief as Nysander let them in at the tower door. This was one Watcher report he was anxious to share the burden of.

  “Here you are at last!” said Nysander.

  “Is that Micum?” Seregil looked up from something on Nysander’s desk, then hurried over to greet him. “Bilairy’s Balls, man, you look like hell!”

  “So do you.” Micum inspected Seregil with concern. He was thinner than ever, and looked tired in spite of his usual grin. “The boy here says you had some trouble on the road?”

  “I think it would be best if we heard your report first,” said Nysander. “Come down to the sitting room, all of you.”

  “All of them” didn’t appear to include Thero, Micum noted as Nysander shut the study door.

  “Seregil, pour the wine,” the wizard said, taking a seat by the fire. “Now, Micum, you have some news?”

  Micum dropped into the other armchair and accepted the cup gratefully. “Yes, and it’s not good.”

  “You found the place marked in the Fens, didn’t you?” Seregil asked eagerly.

  “Yes. After Boersby, I rode to the southern end of the Fens. From what you’d told me, I figured the Plenimarans must have come up the Ösk and followed the river trail in. I soon picked up word of them in the villages along that route. Mardus and his men had been through less than a month before.”

  “The Blackwater Fens are a bad place to travel,” Alec said, shaking his head. “One minute you’re on solid ground, the next you’re up to your waist in mud.”

  “That’s the truth. If the cold weather hadn’t firmed the ground up as much as it had, I’d have lost my horse before I got out of there,” Micum told him. “Mardus had gone clear into the heart of the Fens. It’s a cursed waste of quaking bog in there. The villages had given out miles back, and I was about ready to turn back when I came upon a little settlement set up on a rise.

  “It was the usual sort of swamp village—just a dirty jumble of hovels clustered around a muddy track. A wooden causeway led into it and I was halfway across it when I felt something was wrong. There wasn’t a soul in sight. You know how it is with these little villages—the minute a stranger turns up the dogs bark and the children run out to see who it is. But I couldn’t see anyone around. There was no smoke, either, no sound of voices or work. But there were gathering baskets and nets by the doorways, like someone had just laid them aside. I thought maybe they were hiding at first, until I heard ravens making a racket nearby.

  “Looking around, I began to have an idea what I was going to find. The remains of three people were scattered down the other side of the rise below the village. Animals had been at them for days, and what remained was frozen into the mud. Two were adults, a man and a woman. From the way they lay, it looked like they’d been cut down running. The man’s head had been knocked twenty feet away and the woman was hacked almost in two at the waist. A young lad lay half in the water at the base of the hill, with an arrow still in his back.

  “The signs were easy enough to read. Dozens of tracks led to a depression in the earth halfway down the rise; only a few came back out to cross over them. By the manner that the dirt had been thrown around, I’d say it was a wizard’s doing. Going down for a closer look, I suddenly sank into the ground right up to my hip. When I went to wiggle loose, I realized that my foot was in open space down there.

  “There was a hollow place in the hill, like a barrow. Digging down, I found a little chamber in the hillside, built low and shored up with timbers.”

  Micum paused and took another long sip of wine before continuing. “The whole village had been killed and carried in there. The stench was fearsome; I wonder you don’t smell it on me still. The torch burned blue when I stuck it through to see. There were bodies sprawled out everywhere—”

  Meeting Seregil’s level grey gaze, he shook his head. “We’ve seen some hard things, you and I, but by Sakor, nothing like this. Some they’d just killed, others they’d hacked open, pulling their ribs back until the poor bastards looked as if they’d grown wings. Cut up their insides, too.

  “There was a big flat stone in the center of the chamber, like a table. They must have done their butchery on that—it was all black with blood. A little girl and an old man were still laid out there, their faces gone green. I counted twenty-three in all, plus the three above. Must’ve been the whole damn village.”

  Micum sighed heavily, kneading his eyelids. “The strange thing, though, was that I found older bones beneath the bodies.”

  Nysander had been staring impassively into the fire all this while. Without shifting his gaze, he asked, “Were you able to examine the stone?”

  “Yes, and I found this.” Micum drew a bit of rotted leather from a pouch at his belt and showed them the remains of a small bag.

  Nysander took the scraps and examined them closely. Then, without comment, he cast them into the fire.

  Micum was
too surprised to react immediately, but Seregil leapt up and tried to rake them out with a poker.

  “Let it be!” Nysander ordered sharply.

  “This is to do with the disk, isn’t it?” Seregil demanded angrily, still grasping the poker.

  Micum felt a palpable thickening of the atmosphere of the room as Nysander and Seregil faced off. Judging by Alec’s startled expression, the boy was feeling it, too. The wizard betrayed no outward sign of anger, but the lamps went dim and the warmth of the fire failed.

  “I have told you all I can in the matter.” Though Nysander spoke quietly, his voice seemed to reverberate like a thunderclap in the deadened air. “I tell you again that the time is not come when you may know.”

  Seregil tossed the poker down on the stone hearth with a snarl of disgust. “How many years have I kept your secrets?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “All the intrigues and dirty jobs. Now this touches my own life—Micum’s, Alec’s—and you won’t say a word? Oaths be damned, Nysander! If I’m not worthy of your trust, then I’m not worthy of your roof. I’m going to the Cockerel—today!” And with a final furious glare, he slammed out of the room.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Micum demanded as he and Alec rose to follow.

  Nysander motioned them back to their chairs. “Give him time to calm down. This situation is tremendously difficult for all of you, I realize, but perhaps especially so for him. Curiosity alone will drive him half mad, not to mention his wounded sense of honor.”

  “Do you mean to say you know something about that business in the Fens but you’re not telling us?” asked Micum, none too happy himself.

  “Please, Micum, I need your cool head to govern Seregil just now. Should the need for action arise, be assured that I will look to the two of you—” He paused, catching sight of Alec sitting stiff and silent in his chair. “Pardon me, dear boy—to the three of you to deal with it. In the meantime, do you think you can prevent him from charging off in a fury? There is another matter I must discuss with him before he leaves the Orëska.”