There followed a communal release of held breath, and a smattering of awed applause. Like marionettes cut loose by the puppeteer, Micah and his cousins collapsed to the ground and lay still.
Raisa knelt next to Micah and rested her palm on his clammy forehead. He opened his eyes and stared up at her as if he didn’t recognize her. She looked up at Lord Bayar. “What’s wrong with them? Are they going to be all right?”
Bayar gazed at them with a peculiar, cold expression on his face. “They’ll recover; though I daresay it’s a lesson they’ll never forget.”
Raisa tried to imagine her own father thrusting her into the middle of a spellcasting with no preparation or explanation. And couldn’t.
But then, he wasn’t a wizard.
Byrne had walked some distance out of the canyon and stood in the rain, kicking at the still-smoldering debris. “Strange,” he said. “I’ve never seen a fire like this before, that burns in the wet.”
“Lord Bayar,” Queen Marianna said, gripping the wizard’s hands, “that was truly remarkable. You saved all our lives. Thank you.”
“I am glad to be of service, Your Majesty,” Bayar said, forcing a smile, though he looked as though it might crack his face.
Raisa looked over at Byrne. The captain gazed at the queen and her High Wizard, rubbing his bristled jaw, a puzzled frown on his face.
CHAPTER THREE
Ambushed
All the way back to Marisa Pines Camp, Dancer strode along, slender shoulders hunched, his usually sunny face clouded, his body language discouraging conversation. After a couple of tries, Han gave up and was left to wrestle with his questions alone.
Han knew nothing of wizardry beyond his mother’s dire warnings. Did it come on in childhood or not until much later? Did it require amulets like the one that seemed to weigh down his bag? Did wizards need schooling, or did charmcasters have an inborn knowledge of what to do?
Most of all, how was it fair that some people had the power to make others do their bidding, to create fires that couldn’t be put out, or turn a cat into a hawk, if the stories could be believed.
To break the world nearly beyond repair.
The clans had magic too—of a different sort. Dancer’s mother, Willo, was Matriarch of Marisa Pines Camp, and a gifted healer. She could take a dry stick and make it bloom, could make anything grow in her hillside fields, could heal by touch and voice. Her remedies were in demand as far away as Arden. The clans were known for their leatherwork, their metalwork, their tradition of creating amulets and other magical objects.
Bayar had made much of the fact that Dancer had no named father. How did he know that, and why did he care? The way Han saw it, Dancer didn’t need a father. He was totally embedded in the clan, surrounded by aunts and uncles who doted on him, cousins to hunt with, everyone connected by blood and tradition. Even when Willo was away, there was always a hearth to welcome him, food to share, a bed to sleep in.
Compared to Dancer, Han was more the orphan, with only his mother and sister and a father dead in the Ardenine Wars. They shared a single room over a stable in the Ragmarket neighborhood of Fellsmarch. The more he thought on it, the more Han felt sorry for himself—magicless and fatherless. Without prospects. Mam had told him often enough he’d never amount to anything.
They were about a half mile from camp when Han realized they were being followed. It wasn’t any one thing that caused him to think so: when he turned to inspect some winter burned seed pods at the side of the trail, he heard footfalls behind them that stopped abruptly. A squirrel continued to scold from a pine tree long after they’d passed. Once he swung around and thought he saw a flash of movement.
Fear shivered over him. The wizards must have doubled back after them. He’d heard how they could make themselves invisible or turn into birds and strike from out of the air. Ducking his head just in case, he looked over at Dancer, who seemed absorbed in his own gloomy thoughts.
Han knew better than to allow an enemy to choose the time and place of an attack. Just as he and Dancer rounded a curve of the hill, he gripped Dancer’s arm, pulling him off the trail, behind the massive trunk of an oak tree.
Dancer jerked his arm free. “What are you . . . ?”
“Shhh,” Han hissed, putting his finger to his lips and gesturing for Dancer to stay put. Han loped back the way they came, making a big circle so as to come in behind any pursuers. Yes. He glimpsed a slight figure clothed in forest colors gliding from shadow into sunlight up ahead. He put on speed, lengthening his stride, thankful that the wet ground absorbed the sound of his footsteps. He was almost there when his quarry must have heard him coming and cut sharply to the right. Not wanting to allow the charmcaster time to conjure a jinx, Han launched himself, crashing into the intruder and hanging on as they rolled down a small slope and splashed into Old Woman Creek.
“Ow!” Han banged his elbow against a small boulder in the creek bed and lost his hold on the charmcaster, who twisted and wriggled and seemed incredibly slippery and soft in unexpected places. Han’s head went under, and he sucked in a lungful of water. Coughing, half panicked, he pushed himself to his feet, slinging his wet hair out of his eyes, worried he’d be jinxed before he could act.
Behind him, someone was laughing, gasping with merriment, scarcely able to speak. “H-H-Hunts Alone! It’s still too cold for s-swimming.”
Han swung around. Dancer’s cousin Digging Bird sat in the shallows, her mop of dark curls plastered around her face, her wet linen blouse clinging to her upper body so the light fabric was rendered nearly transparent. She grinned at him shamelessly, her eyes traveling up his body in turn.
He resisted the temptation to duck back under the freezing water. His face burned, and he knew it must be flaming red. It took him a minute to get his voice going. “Bird?” he whispered, mortified, knowing he would never hear the end of this.
“Maybe we should change your name to Hunts Bird,” she teased.
“N-no,” he stammered, raising his hands as if to ward off a curse.
“Jumps in the Creek? Red in the Face?” she persisted.
That was all he needed. Clan names constantly changed to fit until you were grown and thought to be stable. You might be Cries in the Night as a baby, Squirrel as a child, and Throws Stones as an adult. It was always confusing to flatlanders.
“No,” Han pleaded. “Please, Bird . . .”
“I’ll call you whatever I want,” Digging Bird said, standing and wading to the shore. “Hunts Bird,” she decided. “It can be our secret name.”
Han stood there helplessly, waist-deep in the water, thinking she was the one who needed a new name.
He and Bird and Dancer had been friends since he could remember. Every summer since he was small, Mam had sent him up from the city to live at Marisa Pines. They’d camped together, hunted together, and fought endless battles against imaginary enemies throughout the Spirit Mountains.
They’d studied under the ancient bow master at Hunter’s Camp, chafing at the requirement that they build a bow before shooting it. He’d been with Bird when she took her first deer, then burned with envy until he got his. When he did, she’d taught him how to slow smoke the meat so it would last through the winter. They were twelve at the time.
They played hare and wolf for days on end. One of them—the hare—would set out through the woods, doing his or her best to throw the other two off, by walking over solid rock or wading miles in a streambed or detouring through one of the high-country camps. If one wolf found the hare, then they’d walk together until the third player found them.
Bird was great to travel with. She found the best campsites—sheltered from the weather and defensible. She could build a fire in the middle of a rainstorm and find game at any altitude. Many nights they’d shared a blanket for warmth.
The three of them had tasted hard cider for the first time at the Falling Leaves Market, and he’d washed the sick from Bird’s face when she drank too much.
But these
days he always felt awkward around Bird, and she was the one who had changed. Now when he walked into Marisa Pines Camp, she was likely to be sitting with a group of other girls her age. They would watch him with bold eyes and then put their heads together and whisper. If he tried to approach her, the other girls would giggle and nudge each other.
He’d once owned the streets of Ragmarket, and people made sure to get out of his way. He’d had his share of girlies, too—a streetlord could have his pick. But for some reason, Bird always put him off-balance. Maybe it was because she was so damnably good at everything.
When they were younger, wrestling in the creek would have been prelude to nothing. Now every word between them crackled with meaning, and every action had unintended consequences.
“Bird! Hunts Alone! What happened? Did you fall in the creek?” Dancer had appeared at the top of the slope.
Bird squeezed water out of her leggings. “Hunts Alone threw me in,” she said to her cousin, a little smugly.
“I thought you were someone else,” Han muttered.
Bird swung around to confront him, her face darkening. “Who?” she demanded. “Who did you think I was?”
Han shrugged and waded to shore. That was another thing. Where once they’d finished each other’s sentences and all but communed mind to mind, now Bird had become unpredictable, given to bizarre fits of temper.
“Who?” she repeated, hard on his heels, intent on prying it out of him. “You thought I was some other girl?”
“Not a girl.” Han yanked off his boots and dumped the water out of them. At least some of the mud had washed off. “We ran into some charmcasters in Burnt Tree Meadow. They spooked the deer, and we got into an argument. When I heard you following us, I thought you were one of them.”
She blinked at him. “Charmcasters,” she said. “What would charmcasters be doing up here? And how do I look like one, anyway?”
“Well. You don’t,” Han said. “My mistake.” He looked up, and their eyes met, and he swallowed hard. Bird’s cheeks colored a deep rose, and she turned to Dancer.
“What words did you have to say to a jinxflinger, cousin?” she asked.
“None,” Dancer said, shooting a warning look at Han.
“We would’ve each taken a deer if not for them,” Han felt compelled to say, then was immediately sorry when Bird looked at him and raised her eyebrows. Bird always said that a deer in the smokehouse was worth a whole herd in the woods.
“So what happened?” Bird asked, leaning forward. “Was something burning? I smelled smoke.”
Han and Dancer looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. “They set fire to Hanalea,” Han said finally. “The charmcasters.”
“So you confronted them?” Bird said, leaning forward, looking from one to the other. “And then what?”
“Nothing happened. They left,” Dancer said.
“Fine,” Bird said, angry again. “Don’t tell me anything. I don’t care anyway. But you’d better tell Willo about it, at least. They shouldn’t be in the Spirits at all, let alone setting fires.”
Han shivered. The sun had gone and he was covered in gooseflesh. In past days he’d have stripped off and laid his wet clothes out to dry. He glanced over at Bird. Not anymore.
“Let’s go on to Marisa Pines,” Dancer said, as if he could read Han’s mind. “They’ll have a fire going.”
The sky had clouded over, and a chill wind funneled between the peaks, but the brisk six-mile walk kept Han’s blood moving. Bird’s lips were blue, and Han thought of putting an arm around her, to warm her, but it would have been awkward on the narrow rocky trail. Plus she might only snap at him again.
The dogs greeted them when they were still a half mile from Marisa Pines. It was a motley pack—rugged, long-haired sheepdogs, wolf mixes, and spotted flatland hounds bought at market. Next came the children, from solemn round-faced toddlers to long-legged ten-year-olds, alerted by the dogs.
Most had straight, dark hair, brown eyes, and coppery skin, though some had blue or green eyes, like Dancer, or curly hair, like Bird. There had been considerable mixing of Valefolk and clan over the years. And Valefolk with the blue-eyed, fairhaired wizard invaders from the Northern Isles.
But almost no direct mixing of wizard and clan. Wizards had not been allowed in the Spirit Mountains for a thousand years.
Questions flew from all directions, in a mixture of Common and Clan. “Where have you been? How did you get all wet? How long are you staying? Hunts Alone, will you sleep in our lodge tonight?” Even though Han came often to Marisa Pines, girls a year or two younger than him still dared each other to run up and touch his pale hair, so different from their own.
Bird did her best to shoo them off. One especially aggressive girl yanked out a strand of his hair, and Han stomped after her, scowling, pretending to chase her. That sent her and her friends scurrying into the woods, their laughter sieving through the trees like sunlight.
“What’s in the bag? Do you have any sweets?” A tiny girl with a long braid made a grab for his backpack.
“No sweets today,” Han growled. “And keep off. I’ve got a bag full of blisterweed.” Excruciatingly conscious of the amulet in his bag, Han protected it under the curve of his arm. It was as if he had a large poisonous snake in there, or a goblet too fragile to touch.
By the time they came within sight of the camp, they had a large following.
Marisa Pines Camp stood sentinel at the pass that led through the southern Spirits to the flatlands beyond. It was large, as clan camps went—perhaps a hundred lodges of varying sizes, built far enough apart so they could be added onto as families grew.
The camp was centered by the Common Lodge—a large building used for markets, ceremonies, and the feasts for which the clans were famous. Close by the Common Lodge stood the Matriarch Lodge. Dancer and Bird lived there with Dancer’s mother, Willo, Matriarch of Marisa Pines, and a fluid mix of friends, blood relations, and children fostered from other camps.
Marisa Pines prospered as a center for commerce, given its strategic location. Handwork from camps throughout the Spirits flowed into the camp, where brokers shopped its famous markets and funneled clan-made goods to Arden to the south, to Tamron Court, and to Fellsmarch down in the Vale.
Relations between the clans and the queen might be strained these days, but that did not staunch the thirst of flatlanders for upland goods—silver and gold work, leather, precious stones set into jewelry and decorative pieces, handwoven yard goods, stitchery, art, and magical objects. Clan goods never wore out, they brought luck to the owner, and it was said that clan charms would win over the most resistant of sweethearts.
The Marisa Pines clan was known for remedies, dyes, healing, and handwoven fabrics. The Demonai were famous for magical amulets and their warriors. The Hunter clan produced smoked meats, furs and skins, and nonmagical weapons. Other camps specialized in nonmagical jewelry, paintings, and other decorative arts.
Too bad it wasn’t a market day, Han thought. On a market day they’d have got no attention at all. Which would’ve been fine with Han, who was growing tired of explaining his sodden clothes. It was a relief to duck through the doorway of the Matriarch Lodge and escape the relentlessly rattling tongues.
A fire blazed in the center of the lodge, hot and smokeless. The interior was fragrant with winterberry, pine, and cinnamon, and the scent of stew wafted in from the adjacent cooking lodge. Han’s mouth watered. Willo’s house always smelled good enough to eat.
The Matriarch Lodge could have been a small market, all on its own. Great bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling, and casks and baskets and pots lined the walls. On one side were paints and dyes and earthenware jars of beads and feathers. On the other were the medicinals—salves and tonics and pungent potions of all kinds, many rendered from the plants Han gathered.
Hides stretched over frames, some with designs painstakingly drawn on them. Three girls about Han’s age huddled around one of them, thei
r sleek heads nearly touching, brushing paint onto the leather.
Hangings divided the room into several chambers. From behind one curtain, Han could hear the murmur of voices. Patients and their families often stayed over so the matriarch could tend them without leaving the lodge.
Willo sat at the loom in the corner. The overhead beater thudded as she smacked it against the fell of the rug she was weaving. The warp stretched wide and winter-dark, since weavers worked a season ahead. Willo’s rugs were sturdy and beautiful, and people said they kept enemies from crossing your threshold.
Still shivering, Bird disappeared into one of the adjacent chambers to change into dry clothes.
Willo laid down her shuttle, rose from the bench, and came toward them, skirts sliding over the rugs. Somehow, Han’s resentment and frustration faded, and it was a better day.
Everyone agreed that the Marisa Pines matriarch was beautiful, though her beauty went deeper than appearance. Some mentioned the movement of her hands when she spoke, like small birds. Others praised her voice, which they compared to the Dyrnnewater, singing on its way to the sea. Her dark hair fell, beaded and braided, nearly to her waist. When she danced, it was said the animals crept out of the forest to watch. She was a crooner, who could speak, mind to mind, to animals. Her touch healed the sick, soothed the grieving, cheered the discouraged, and made cowards brave.
When pressed, Han had trouble even describing what she looked like. He guessed she was in a category all on her own, like a woodland nymph. She was whatever you needed her to be to find the best in yourself.
He couldn’t help comparing her to Mam, who always seemed to see the worst in him.
“Welcome, Hunts Alone,” she said. “Will you share our fire?” The ritual greeting to the guest. Then her gaze fastened more closely on Han, and she raised an eyebrow. “What happened to you? Did you fall into the Dyrnnewater?”
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