by Maggie Furey
That’s not a rock!
Unless his eyes were playing tricks on him, that could be a cloaked figure, down there among the seaweed fronds. In a frantic burst of speed, the Wizard swam down and reached for the mysterious object – and sure enough, his hand grasped a tangle of wet cloth.
‘By the light!’ Feverishly the Wizard worked to free the figure from the tangle of weed, hampered by the slippery fronds and the wet fabric of the cloak that wrapped itself around his arms and clung to his skin. After struggling for what seemed like an eternity, he remembered his knife.
Oh, you fool, Ionor!
Thanking providence for the sharp blade, he hacked at the slick, rubbery fronds of the kelp, and felt a surge of relief as the limp, cloth-swathed form came was freed at last.
Who was this? As Ionor dragged the limp form to the surface, he caught a glimpse of several gleams of magelight on the cliff path high above. Who was up there and why had they not tried to rescue the stranger? It looked to the young Wizard as though there was some sort of foul play afoot – and he had just rescued the victim. But was the poor soul alive or dead now? Well, as a Wizard he wouldn’t have drowned, so everything depended on whether he’d survived the fall. Feverishly Ionor clawed the sodden fabric of the cloak away from the anonymous figure’s face – and it was as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. ‘Aldyth!’
From his very first days as a student at the Academy, Ionor had looked upon the old Wizard as his teacher, his mentor – and his friend. Having grown up with no real family to call his own he had formed a strong bond with the venerable scholar. Circumstances had prevented Aldyth from having a child with his beloved lifemate, but something in the gawky, intelligent boy had gone straight to his heart. From their very first meeting there had been a feeling that they belonged to one another. Ionor might not have sprung from Aldyth, but in their hearts they were father and son.
‘Aldyth.’ The Wizard’s voice took on a greater urgency as he patted the slack grey face. Feverishly he felt along the old man’s limbs, but he lacked the skill of a Healer to know whether anything had been damaged in the fall.
‘Ionor?’ The mental voice was thin and reedy, so that Ionor had to strain to catch his name, but then his heart leapt as Aldyth’s eyelids fluttered open. ‘Cold. So cold.’
Of course! He should have thought of that at once. Though the old man was a Wizard and could breathe underwater, he lacked the spell that Ionor employed to keep out the ocean’s chill. It was a complex magic to perform, and though long practice had enabled Ionor to cast it on himself and maintain it with very little thought, it would be too difficult to work the spell upon another, not to mention having to maintain it for two people.
He would need some help.
‘Lituya?’ His mindspeech rang out through the depths. ‘Lituya, come quick!’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Because of their close attachment, Ionor could sense that the Leviathan had put on a huge burst of speed. ‘My master Aldyth – I found him. He must have fallen off the cliffs. He needs our spell.’
‘I come.’ Already the Mage of the Oceans was entering the bay. Currents swirled around Ionor as the Leviathan pulled up beside him, his massive, streamlined form a darker shadow in the night. To Ionor’s relief he wasted no time asking questions.
‘Let us begin, my brother. Without our protection your friend the Elder cannot continue much longer.’
‘I’m ready.’ Ionor reached out with his mind to touch the consciousness of the Leviathan, then, conjoined, they sought the faltering life force of Aldyth, whose spirit was wan and flickering as a guttering candle. Together they wove the spell, fortifying him with their own strength and energy, forging a shield against the brutal power of the ocean, spinning and weaving their magic around the essence of the elderly Wizard. A golden glow flared and subsided around Aldyth’s body as the spell took hold, permeating flesh and bone, and beating through his blood.
The two friends, Wizard and Leviathan, waited anxiously. Had they been in time? Or was Aldyth so near death that their intervention had been too little, too late? Then Aldyth stirred, stretched and opened his eyes. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he murmured drowsily. ‘Warm blanket. Just the thing.’ His heavy eyelids closed again, but just as Ionor and Lituya thought he’d drifted back into slumber, they snapped open. His body tensed with alarm and his fingers tightened around Ionor’s hand like an iron vice. ‘Sharalind! She has betrayed us.’
Ionor listened with growing horror as Aldyth gasped out his story of the meeting, the ambush, and the arrest of Tinagen, Daina and Lanrion. ‘But what will Sharalind do with them?’ he gasped. ‘They’re Heads of Luens, three of the most important people in the city. How could she justify arresting them like this? With what crime could she charge them?’
‘Who knows?’ Aldyth said bitterly. ‘Her grief has robbed her of all reason; there’s no predicting what she might do. But I suspect she’ll just lock them away somewhere; render them incommunicado with the Time Spell and use them to hold the dissident Luens to ransom until they fall into line. In the meantime—’
‘You can’t go back,’ Ionor said decisively. ‘I can’t have you disappearing into their clutches. I won’t let them take you, Aldyth.’
‘It won’t be safe for you either, Ionor,’ Lituya pointed out. ‘Not unless you decide to join your friends and go to war with the others. Clearly Sharalind has decided to deal with all the dissenters, and your close association to Aldyth is well known.’
Ionor stared at him. In his concern over his mentor, his thoughts hadn’t reached as far as his own involvement in this mess. With sinking dismay, he realised that the Leviathan was right. Unless he wanted to join in a war he felt was wrong, Tyrineld was not a good place for him to be at present. But how could he leave his friends? Though he had more sense than to believe he could protect Chathak and Yinze in a battle, he knew that if anything should happen to them, and he wasn’t there, he would blame himself to the end of his days. And could he ever be certain, deep in his heart, that it had truly been his own moral compass that had steered him away from the conflict – or simply sheer craven cowardice?
Already sturdy Thara was talking about joining the fight: the fact that her Luen, headed by the dissenting Lanrion, had found so much work for its members in providing the city with enough stored provisions to withstand the dark days to come was the only thing that had kept her away so far. And though he knew that Melisanda was in complete agreement with his own abhorrence of war, her intense dedication to her vocation would drive her to go too, joining the cadre of brave Healers on the outskirts of the battle who risked their own lives to deal with the wounds, the maiming and insane destruction of life that would be the inevitable result of the hostilities. Apart from Aldyth, Ionor’s cherished circle of companions were the only family he had. For Iriana’s sake, and for Avithan, they would join the conflict. How in all conscience could he do any less?
Torn unbearably, the Wizard vacillated, while precious moments slipped away. Once she had got her captives to safety, the thorough Omaira must send people back to search for Aldyth. As a Wizard, she would realise that he was not dead or she would have felt his passing, and it wouldn’t be like her to leave such a dangerous thread dangling loose.
‘Ionor, come away with me,’ Lituya said urgently, and Ionor realised that they were so closely attuned that that his friend had heard his thoughts quite clearly. ‘Aldyth cannot stay here – that much is plain,’ the Leviathan went on. ‘We should take him to my people. We are only a few days behind them in their northern migration, and they were not hurrying. We should be able to catch them up. They will take care of your mentor, in honour and in safety. They will maintain the spells that keep him safe and comfortable beneath the sea.’
The Wizard knew that he was right, but . . . ‘But you could take him,’ he began doubtfully. ‘I don’t have to go.’
‘No, I cannot. He is old and weak and shaken. He does not know the spell, so
I would have to maintain it myself, without sleep, without rest, all the way to the north. I need your help, my friend. He needs your help. Even Sharalind cannot go to war all in a day. Once Aldyth is safe you can always some back to join your friends, if that is what you decide to do.’
It was a way out of the dilemma, and Ionor seized upon it gratefully. ‘You’re right. Why didn’t I see it before? It’s the only thing to do. Come on, we’ll go at once. I’ve delayed here too long already.’
Due to the spell keeping him warm, Aldyth no longer needed his cloak, so Ionor used it to bind the old man to his back. His mentor had lapsed into a stupor once more, which saved a lot of time in explanations, though it was also a cause for some concern, and made it more urgent than ever that they should start on their journey as soon as possible. Clumsily, because of the unaccustomed burden, the Wizard swam to Lituya and caught hold of the forward edge of his long, elegant fluke, at the place where it joined his body. That way he could rest on the great flipper and be pulled along, tucked safely into the Leviathan’s slipstream as they sped through the water.
‘I’m ready, Lituya. Let’s go. It’s time we were moving. If I’m to get to your people then return in time to help my friends, there’s not a minute to waste.’
Without another word the Leviathan arrowed out of the bay and into the ocean, heading north. For once he kept his thoughts beneath a careful shield, so that Ionor could not hear him.
It’s time we were moving indeed, my dear friend. But you won’t be coming back here to risk yourself in this insane conflict – not if I can help it. My people desperately need some help with the creation of their own artefact – one of healing, not destruction. Our talents will be much more useful there than in war-torn Tyrineld.
By the time the sun rose over the ocean, they were far away.
12
~
THE STRANGER
The girl drifted awake to see a primitive ceiling, completely strange to her, of planks laid over roughly hewn beams.
What is this place?
Frowning, she turned her head. She was in a small room with chinked wooden walls and a window with curtains that had clearly started their lives as sacks for carrying some merchandise or other. A dazzling streak of sunlight shone through the narrow gap between them, and she screwed up her eyes and turned to look the other way. The opposite wall was festooned with the assorted paraphernalia of the fisherman, all neatly hung on nails: nets draped like giant, shadowy cobwebs; net floats which were beautiful glass spheres coloured amber, blue or various shades of green ranging from dark to light; neatly coiled longlines, bristling with silvery hooks, hung up safely high in the rafters where the wicked barbs could not tear at clothing or vulnerable flesh. In the corner was a tottering stack of crab pots, handmade with wooden bottoms and bentwood frames enclosed in a sturdy netting of tarred string.
The chamber was filled with the wild, salt tang of the sea, with a faint, but not unpleasant, odour of fish in the background. In the distance she could hear the hiss and sigh of waves washing against the shore, and the wild, high cries of the gulls. Though her bed was slightly on the hard side, she was warm and cosy beneath soft, clean, woollen blankets, and she felt comfortable and safe – but she had never seen this place before, and she had absolutely no idea where she was, how she had come to be there, or indeed, any memories of herself at all.
What’s happening to me?
Like a bolt of lightning that came out of nowhere, fear flashed through her as the door creaked open. A big woman entered, statuesque and broad of beam, with a weathered face. She had dark brown hair, streaked with silver and twisted up into a practical knot, and piercing blue eyes. She was also a total stranger.
Who are you?
Who am I?
Brynne. The name came into her mind and stuck there.
Is that who I am?
Again, the girl fought vertiginous terror. Looking into these ghastly blanks in her mind was like staring into an endless abyss . . . The image made her insides clench. To steady herself, she focused on the woman’s kindly smile, holding on to it like a lifeline. ‘And there you are, my lovely,’ she was saying. ‘It’s good to see you properly awake at last. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for days, and burning up with fever.’
‘I – don’t remember,’ Brynne said.
‘I’m not at all surprised,’ the woman answered. ‘You’ve given us some anxious times, let me tell you. My brother nearly died of fright himself when he pulled you out of the sea. He thought you must be drowned for sure.’ She patted the girl’s hand. ‘But what do men know, eh? We women are a lot stronger than they give us credit for. Now, what you need is some good hot soup and a nice cup of taillin with plenty of honey.’
After the woman had, at her urgent request, helped her to the outhouse – at the bottom of the garden with a staggering view over cliffs and a rocky bay – she found herself tucked back into bed with the promised soup and tea, and a hunk of soft, new-baked bread. The only part of the house she had seen on her way through had been the kitchen, and she had barely noticed that: she had been in too much of a hurry on her way out, and too intent on getting back into bed before her legs collapsed completely on her return. She simply had an impression of dim and shabby cosiness. Besides, now that her most urgent need had been taken care of, she was conscious of a ravenous hunger, and was too busy concentrating on her food to think of anything else.
The soup was made from chunks of fish and vegetable in a strong stock. It was an unusual taste to her, but absolutely delicious. While she was attacking the steaming bowl, her new companion, who had left the room, returned with a basket that had wool and long needles sticking out of the top. She perched on the end of the bed, settling herself comfortably, and proceeded to knit away at a thick grey sock. ‘And now, lovey,’ she said, her eyes glancing up and down between the girl’s face and her flashing needles, ‘let’s get acquainted. My name is Osella. Who might you be? And how came you to be floating around in the sea for my brother to pick up in his boat?’
The girl looked at her, anguished and afraid. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think I might be called Brynne – that’s the name that comes into my mind – but I’ve tried and tried, and I can’t remember anything else. Who my family are, where I came from, what happened to me – it’s all a horrible blank.’ Before she could stop them, her eyes flooded with tears.
‘There now, there, Brynne. If that’s the name you remember then that’s what we’ll call you, at least for now.’ Osella took the tilting bowl of soup out of her hands, and set it aside on the floor. Then she took the girl into her arms and held her while she wept. ‘Don’t fret, now,’ she said. ‘This loss of memory is probably just your mind protecting itself from what happened to you, until you feel better. I’ve seen it happen before, to fishermen who’ve been wrecked at sea. You’ll start remembering soon, I’m sure of it, and in the meantime, we’ll take good care of you right here. If you like, my brother or one of his crew can sail over to Tyrineld, and ask around to see if anyone’s missing you.’
‘No!’ Fear jolted through her, and she clutched tightly at Osella. ‘Don’t tell anyone where I am. I’ll be in danger.’
‘In danger?’ The woman frowned. ‘What do you mean? How can you be in danger from people knowing where you are?’
‘I don’t know. I still don’t remember. But when you talked about asking around, I just got this feeling, as if danger were near.’
‘What are you saying? Surely you don’t think someone tried to drown you deliberately?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a feeling, nothing more. But it’s a very strong one. Please don’t ask anyone about me until my memory comes back, if it ever does.’
‘Of course it will,’ Osella soothed. ‘You just give it time. What about finishing your soup and taillin, then you can have a nice sleep?’
‘But I’ve only just woken up,’ Brynne protested. Then she considered. ‘But I think I could sleep a
bit more.’
The next time she awoke it was evening. The darkening sky was a deep, rich, luminous blue, with a single bright star looking down through her window like a sentinel. Brynne blinked and stretched. There was less stiffness in her muscles and she had fewer aches and pains, though the catch in her breathing and the tightness in her chest still remained. In her mind, however . . . Brynne shuddered. There it was still, that blank, impenetrable barrier between her future and her past that, try as she would, she could not push her way through. Behind that wall terror prowled. That was all she knew.
Best to stay here. Best not to risk what lay beyond. Best to remain on this side, where it was safe and warm and comfortable. She pulled the bedclothes over her head and tried to will herself back to sleep – only to find herself high on a clifftop. She wasn’t alone. There was someone else, just a quick flash of a beautiful face, contorted by jealousy and resentment, then the face became her own and she was falling, falling . . .
‘Wake up, my pet. Wake up now.’
Brynne fought against the entangling bedclothes, struck out at the arm that was shaking her shoulder.
‘There, now. Steady now. That’s a good girl. Wake up now, it’s just a dream, a bad dream you were having.’
Gasping, wheezing, Brynne pushed her face clear of the covers and opened bleary eyes to see Osella. ‘Why, there you are.’ The woman’s smile was strained and her brow was furrowed with concern. ‘That surely was some nightmare you were having. But you’re fine now, you’re safe here. We’ll take care of you.’ She stacked up the pillows behind Brynne’s back so that the girl could sit up comfortably. ‘There. Better now?’
