Shadow Magic

by Patricia C. Wrede

“Father wanted her to go, too, but she decided to stay in Brenn,” Har admitted reluctantly.

  “Well, I won’t go either!” Alethia said indignantly. “I’ll stay here if he doesn’t wish me to be in Brenn, but I can’t see any point in going off to Wentholm! And I don’t like First Lord Thielen anyway.”

  “Alethia, be reasonable,” Har said. “The Lithmern have already tried to kidnap you once, and this time they’ll have a whole army with Shadow-born in control. The Veldatha are already saying that the Shadow-born’s influence is spreading into the mountains; in another week it won’t be safe to travel. You must go!”

  “I do not have to go,” Alethia contradicted him. “I can very easily stay here in Eveleth, though I can see that I must find someone who is willing to tell me what is going on. I had not heard anything about Coldwell Pass, or ambushes, or anything.”

  Har cast an I-told-you-so look at Maurin, and applied himself once more to reasoning with his sister. The argument continued for hours. When he learned that the Shee were teaching Alethia magic, Maurin pointed out that the Shadow-born would be even more delighted to get their hands on her if she were partly trained, and Alethia began to weaken. The thought of the Shadow-born filled her with an unreasoning terror. Reluctantly, she agreed at last to accompany them.

  Even after the fact of their departure was settled, it was three days before they were ready to leave Eveleth. The Veldatha wizards had succeeded in designing an amulet which would, they hoped, protect Corrim from the Shadow-born; without it he would almost certainly become a puppet once more as soon as he left the protection of the magicians. Corrim was eager to leave Eveleth; the Shee were a constant reminder of things he would prefer to forget, and he was uncomfortable with the presence of magic. Even after three and a half weeks with the Shee mind-menders he seemed a broken man.

  On the fourth day after their arrival, the amulet was finished, and they prepared to leave. A young Shee soldier was chosen by Prestemon to accompany them as a guide. “The mountains are easy to lose your way in, and they are dangerous for strangers,” said the Shee captain. “I would give you more men if I could, but most of them are already at Coldwell Pass.”

  The weather was fair when the small party set out. Their Shee guide led them almost directly south, and, noting this, Maurin frowned and rode forward to speak with him. “I am not familiar with the Kathkari,” Maurin began, “but it seems we travel south. Will this not take us to Coldwell Pass?”

  “We should come out of the mountains just north of the pass,” the other replied. “Does this displease you?”

  “To term it so is perhaps too strong,” Maurin said. “Yet I wonder if it is wise for Alethia to travel so close to Lithra.”

  The Shee shrugged. “This is the fastest and safest route through the Kathkari. I would not lightly chance another with so small a group; these mountains are unpredictable. Also, we shall not travel directly by the pass, but turn east through the woods once we are clear of the mountains. Will that suffice?”

  Maurin nodded, though he was not completely reassured. He felt strangely uneasy, and long ago he had learned to trust such hunches. None of the others seemed at all disturbed. On the contrary, they appeared to be enjoying the ride; Corrim was even smiling a little at something Alethia was saying. Rather than speak of his vague forebodings, Maurin dropped back to the rear of the group, where he could keep watch.

  His worries seemed needless, for the trip was uneventful. By night they were well into the mountains, and shortly before dark they made camp. Still, Maurin found himself prowling restlessly about during his watch later that night. There was nothing to see except small animals and an owl that swooped low over the embers of the campfire.

  The next morning was cold and clear. Alethia commented on the temperature as she poured water to wash in, and their guide frowned. “It is too early for frost, even here,” said the Shee. “Also there is something in the air I do not like.” He urged them all to hurry, and none of the travelers objected. Camp was broken in record time. Maurin was no longer alone in his worries; the entire party seemed edgy, even the horses. Alethia continually shifted in the saddle, and several times Maurin saw Corrim’s hand reach to feel the amulet he wore, as if for reassurance.

  Barely an hour after they had left the campsite, their guide called a halt. “Stay here a moment,” he instructed them. “There is a place a little above us that gives a good view, and I think it wise to take advantage of it today.” He was gone before the others could protest, scrambling on foot up the rocky slope to disappear among the trees.

  The Shee reappeared well before any of the others expected him. “We must hurry,” he said as he remounted. “A storm is coming from the north—I do not like the look of it. There is a place ahead where we can shelter, if we reach it in time. Fortunately this area is full of caves.”

  The little group hurried on. The sky had darkened ominously and the wind was rising when the guide finally pointed to a clump of trees ahead of them. “We will have to stop here. There is an overhang behind the grove that will keep off the worst of the wind and rain. It is not as good as a cave, but better than nothing, and we shall not be able to make the one I was heading for before the storm hits.”

  “The horses are still fresh; we can certainly ride a little way through the storm even if it is as bad as you fear,” Har objected.

  “If the storm is unnatural, as I fear it is, we must be under cover when it arrives,” the Shee said firmly. “Come.” He nudged his horse and started forward once more.

  Suddenly a loud screech echoed from above them. All heads jerked upward at once, but it was a moment before any of them located the slowly growing specks in the sky overhead. There were seven of them, great white birds drifting down toward them like giant snowflakes. “Ride!” shouted the guide.

  Chapter 19

  ALETHIA PULLED ON THE reins, turning her horse toward the grove the Shee had pointed out and dug her heels into the animal’s sides. Her mount responded with a burst of speed, and for a few moments it seemed that they would gain the shelter of the trees in time.

  Then the birds ceased their slow downward spiraling and dove. Alethia heard Maurin’s cry of warning and drew her dagger. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Maurin and Har had their swords out; Tamsin and the Shee guide were barely behind them. Corrim was still struggling with his when the birds struck. The first two plunged toward the Shee. One passed over his head, slashing downward and forcing him to raise his sword and duck sideways to protect himself. Just as he did so, the second bird arrived, diving directly into his side and knocking him out of the saddle onto the ground.

  Alethia did not have time to see more. One of the birds stooped toward her, and she struck up with her dagger as the bird came in. She was conscious of a great mass of white, a gust of air, and golden eyes staring into hers with surprising intelligence. Alethia ducked sidewise. She heard a tearing sound and liquid fire ran down her arm; the creature gave a scream of rage and was gone.

  Another appeared to take its place before Alethia could look to see how the others fared. This time the bird swept low and slashed at Alethia’s horse. The frightened animal shied and bolted. Alethia yanked desperately at the reins, but the animal had the bit between its teeth, and she could not control it.

  Behind her the sounds of battle faded, until they were lost under the noise of heavy wing beats and drumming hooves. At least one of the birds was following, hoping perhaps for an easy meal when the horse tired. Alethia made fleeting mental note of the pursuit and concentrated on staying in the saddle. Her arm ached, and the horse’s headlong flight threatened to throw her to the ground.

  There was a sudden gust of wind, and the bird screamed and veered away. With no more warning, the storm struck. It was not the rain Alethia had expected, but snow, whipped into stinging missiles by a bone-chilling, blinding wind. In seconds, she was unable to see past the horse’s nose. She could only cling desperately to the saddle and hope that luck or instinct
would keep her mount from falling.

  The harrowing ride did not last much longer. The wind and snow forced the horse to slow before its strength was completely exhausted. As soon as she could control the animal again, Alethia turned it back toward what was, as nearly as she could judge, the way they had come.

  It was difficult to persuade the horse to travel across the wind. Snow was already drifting about the animal’s feet, and it was impossible to see. Alethia had to knot the reins to keep from losing them. Pulling her torn summer cloak closer around her shoulders, she bent low in the saddle, trying to present a smaller target to the biting wind.

  She lost track of time. Her arm throbbed painfully, and her fingers grew numb with cold. Several times she tried breathing on them, but afterward they felt colder than before. Finally she gave it up and huddled miserably in the saddle. She had no way of knowing if they were traveling in the right direction or not, and had only her own increasing coldness by which to judge the passing of time.

  The storm was now nearly a full-fledged blizzard. Alethia raised her good hand to pull at her cloak once more, and the dull glow of the firestone caught her eye. Until that moment, the thought of her newfound power had not occurred to her; she still thought of it as an impractical skill, something to play with. It had not occurred to her that it might be useful.

  Trembling, Alethia brought her hand nearer her face and stared at the stone, concentrating desperately on shelter, a place to be out of the wind and snow. She had heard Clasiena and Illeana speak of guidance spells, but they were difficult and she did not know more than the fact of their existence. Since her lessons began, she had not cast any spell without knowing the chants that structured its power. She knew that uncontrolled magic was dangerous and could destroy its wielder; she did not care. Blindly, she stared at the stone.

  Slowly, the firestone began to glow. An image formed in the air just in front of her; a wavering picture of a dark opening in a rock wall, overgrown with bushes and with a glow of power about it. “Terrific,” Alethia said aloud, “but where is it?”

  The image wavered slightly, and swung to the right. Alethia pulled at the reins with unfeeling fingers, and eventually the horse turned to follow it. The semitransparent picture faded, but the glow of the firestone grew brighter, and suddenly the horse was plowing through a large snowdrift, held in place by a clump of shrubs. A moment later, Alethia’s mount stumbled and nearly fell into the interior of a small cave. Alethia slid from the saddle and collapsed unconscious to the ground.

  The birds were gaining ground. Maurin was slashed in a dozen places; the others fared no better. Then, unexpectedly, one of the birds gave a cry, and the others broke away to fly rapidly back toward the cliff from which they had come.

  Maurin blinked stupidly after them for a moment. Suddenly he realized what must be the cause of their flight, but as he opened his mouth to shout a warning the storm arrived. In seconds, the others were mere shadows, and Maurin realized that they would lose each other quickly if they did not act at once.

  The Trader slid out of his saddle and stood for a moment with his horse’s body between himself and the wind. Knotting the reins around his arm, he started for the nearest shadow. This proved to be Har, who had already dismounted and was knotting his own reins in much the same fashion.

  “Rope!” shouted Maurin, trying to make himself heard above the wind. “Do you have rope?” It took a couple of tries before Har understood. Once he did, he produced a length from a saddlebag, and the two men tied the horses together and started in the direction of the third shape.

  When they reached it, they found Tamsin trying to tie the unconscious Shee to his own saddle. Corrim was draped limply over another horse. Maurin immediately went to assist the minstrel; fortunately the guide’s mount was well trained and stood stock-still throughout the entire operation.

  Har peered vainly into the gloom for another shape that might be his sister. “Where is Alethia?” Maurin shouted as he tied the other horses into the string.

  “Don’t know!” Har yelled back. Then he pointed. “There?”

  “Maybe,” Maurin answered. There did seem to be a darker area in the general direction of Har’s pointing finger, but the snow was heavier already, and it was difficult to say for certain. Maurin waved Har back to the line of horses and began pulling the reluctant animals along.

  They did not find Alethia, but in a few moments they were among the trees they had been heading for when the birds had attacked. The grove blocked the wind somewhat, and it was easier to move. Soon they found the overhang their guide had mentioned, and they crowded gratefully into its meager shelter.

  The wind still howled so that they could barely hear each other speak. Maurin found a spot to secure the horses and was starting to unlash the Shee when he saw Har heading back out into the storm. He dropped the rope he was holding and grabbed for his friend.

  “You can’t go out there again!” Maurin shouted. “You’ll be lost in less than three paces!”

  “Alethia’s still out there somewhere!” Har said, pulling against Maurin’s restraining grip. “I have to find her; she’ll die if she stays out there!”

  A lump of ice settled in Maurin’s chest, but he said roughly, “Will it help if you die too? Going off like an idiot without even a rope! How did you expect to find us again once you got to her?”

  “Maurin, please!” Har begged. “Let go, I have to find her.”

  “Then wait long enough to be sensible!” Maurin snapped. His hands were already busy with the saddlebags. “We have enough rope among us to reach a long way. Tie it together and take an end so you can find your way back. It won’t do anyone any good to have two of you lost in that storm!” He jerked his head in the direction of the trees. The snow was falling so thickly that he could only discern the closest trunks; beyond was only a wilderness of swirling whiteness.

  Reluctantly, Har agreed, but he fretted and fumed all during the time it took to knot the ropes and secure them to a large boulder. Then he grabbed the free end, tied it around his waist, and ran out into the blizzard.

  Maurin looked around. Tamsin was tending the Shee, so Maurin crossed to the last horse and eased Corrim to the ground. The Karlen Gale man’s head hung limply, and it was almost unnecessary for Maurin to feel at the throat for the nonexistent pulse. With a deep feeling of regret, Maurin pulled the man’s cloak to cover his head.

  Once the horses were securely tied, Tamsin and Maurin set about arranging some sort of shelter for themselves and the wounded guide. Then they bandaged the Shee, and finally they turned their attention to their own injuries.

  Har had still not returned by the time they finished. Maurin bit his lip, frowning, then turned to Tamsin.

  “I’m going out after Har,” he told the other man. “He may be having trouble. Don’t try to come after me if I don’t make it back; someone must stay with him.” He nodded at the injured Shee.

  “If you don’t make it back, I might as well come after you,” Tamsin said. Maurin nodded reluctantly; two men helping a badly injured companion might have a chance of escaping the mountains once the storm was past, but alone it would be nearly impossible. “I’m still going,” Maurin said. Forcing himself to ignore Tamsin’s bleak expression, he turned, grasped the rope, and stepped out into the grove.

  At first the trees blocked most of the wind, but when he reached the edge of the grove Maurin was almost swept away from the lifeline. With all his strength he clung to the rope and shouted into the storm, “Alethia! Har! Alethia!” The wind swept his words away almost before they were uttered.

  Maurin gave up shouting and lowered his head against the wind. Hand over hand, inch by painful inch, he worked his way along the rope. Underneath the concentration, fear sang along the borders of his mind in an endless chant, “Not Alethia, not Har, not both of them. Not Alethia, please, not both of them.”

  So intent was he on making progress that when he tripped he continued on his hands and knees for a moment
. Then he realized that he had fallen and lost the rope; almost in panic he groped behind him for the lifeline. Instead of rope his hands found the rough surface of a cloak, half buried in the snow, and under it was Har, the lifeline still tied fast around his waist.

  Har was barely conscious. After one or two futile attempts to get him to his feet, Maurin untied the rope and lashed it around his own waist. Then, half dragging, half carrying the smaller man, he started back toward the shelter of the grove. Progress became mechanical; one foot in front, haul in the rope, drag on the other man, next foot forward.

  An endless time later, Maurin reached the overhang. By this time he was crawling, stopping frequently to rest. Dimly he saw Tamsin’s face above him, full of relief. “Har,” he croaked. “See to him.”

  The minstrel’s face vanished, and Maurin closed his eyes. All that he wanted to do now was rest. He couldn’t rest, though; someone was shaking him. He opened his mouth to protest, and something warm and liquid gushed into it. He almost choked on the first swallow, but Tamsin was insisting that he take more.

  A few more gulps of broth restored some of Maurin’s energy, and he realized how cold and hungry he was. He tried to sit up, and Tamsin helped him for a moment. “Finish the cup and I’ll help you over to the fire,” the minstrel said. “You need warmth almost as much as you need food and rest.”

  “How did you do it?” Maurin asked hazily.

  “Don’t talk,” Tamsin said. “Drink!”

  Obediently, Maurin finished the broth and Tamsin helped him to his feet and guided him over to the fire he had somehow built in the Trader’s absence. Har was already there, bundled in all the blankets and cloaks the minstrel could find.

  Once Maurin was seated out of the wind, Tamsin returned to Har and tended the ragged slashes made by the birds. Maurin watched him for a few minutes, until the minstrel looked up and noticed his regard.

  “It is a good thing these wounds are clean,” Tamsin said. “At least we will not have to worry about fever and poison.”