Children of Magic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  I do not ask about my mother. I have so many questions, but I do have that answer already.

  I think to myself, The sands will not run out for Annelise.

  But what of me? What of me now? The world has changed, staggeringly, and yet I cannot stop thinking about myself.

  We are creatures of such darkness, those of my House.

  I never knew it until today.

  THE RUSTLE OF WINGS

  Ruth Stuart

  Ruth Stuart is a Canadian fantasy author whose first novel, Kin to Chaos, is presently under consideration by a major U.S. publisher. She has been active in the Canadian SF/F community for many years. Her first short fiction sales appeared in 2004 in Haunted Holidays (DAW Books) and Summoned to Destiny (Fitzhenry & Whiteside). This story, her third sale, is set in the world of her fantasy novels—a fact that thrills her beyond words.

  “HE IS NOT MY SON.”

  “Rayenn, keep your voice down. Do you want them to hear?”

  Anden, ear pressed against the wall of the sleeping chamber, heard the voices clearly.

  “Little late to think about that,” said a voice close to his other ear. “We’ve heard it before. Right, Anden?”

  He waved his younger brother Lienn to silence. They had heard it before but maybe this time their father would explain why.

  In his mind, he could see the cottage’s main room on the other side of the wall.

  His mother Jullie sat in the fireside chair, hands busy mending a rent in Lienn’s tunic. His father worked a whetstone along the blade of a hoe, the rhythmic rasping a soothing sound.

  “The boy is strange. Even you must see it.”

  Jullie smiled. “Anden is more mature than most thirteen year olds, I will grant you.” She glanced at the pile of mending beside her chair. “Definitely growing taller every day. That doesn’t make him strange.”

  “Mature?” Rayenn’s voice rose again. “He knows things he shouldn’t. I’ve never caught him but I swear he watches from the shadows.” The rhythm faltered. “Despite all our efforts, crops fail and the weather turns in a heartbeat.”

  She looked up from her work, locking eyes with her husband. “You think our son—”

  Rayenn broke in. “He is not my son.” The stone skipped on a chip, tearing a layer of skin from his hand. “Gods!”

  As Jullie dropped the tunic and reached for his hand, Rayenn twisted to look toward the sleeping chamber. “Curse the child.”

  Anden jerked away from the wall. There had been anger and fear in Rayenn’s eyes. He was certain his father had seen him.

  Was it real? How could I have seen them?

  “Anden.”

  Lienn’s low call drew him back to the chamber. And alerted him to the sound of approaching footsteps. He threw himself face down on the cot twitching the thin blanket over his legs as the heavy tapestry blocking the entrance was flung aside. He lay still, fighting to control his breathing, to slow his racing heart.

  A long moment passed before a breeze blew across his back and two sets of footsteps retreated toward the main room. He lifted his head long enough to see the tapestry again hung over the entrance and Lienn was still on his cot before letting it fall to his pillow.

  Did I truly see them? Anden closed his eyes. Is Father right? Am I strange? Could I be the cause of our failures?

  As sleep claimed him, one question crowded out all others. Am I his son?

  “Time for a break.”

  Anden glanced up at the sound of his mother’s voice. Jullie stood at the edge of the field, a covered basket hooked on her arm. Over the stunted grain, he could see the jug at her feet. Rayenn, hoe resting on his shoulder, strode toward her. He watched her welcoming smile fade as his father stopped. Likely telling her not to waste water on us, he thought.

  He bent to loosen the compact soil surrounding the root ball of a prickle weed. Experience had taught him to wait until his father called to him before stopping work. Sweat stung Anden’s eyes and he spared a moment to drag his tunic sleeve across his forehead and glance into the cloudless sky. He could wish for shade but the only trees in Trella grew in the Godswood. The village stood between their field and the gods’ home in the mortal realm.

  As close as I wish to be, he thought as he continued weeding. He had been working in the fields from the time he could walk. Now, nearing his fourteenth birthday, he knew something was wrong. The sun grew hotter and the rains came less. The last few harvests had dwindled, making winter meals lean.

  The whole village suffered, not just their family. How can Father think I would hurt everyone? Even his talent with plants—another thing to mark me as different—had not helped.

  “Anden.”

  Jullie’s normally calm voice held an edge. Anden drove his hoe into the weed and began working his way across the rows.

  “I forbid it.” He heard Rayenn say as he drew close. “We need to save water for the crops.”

  Anden carefully stepped over the row of small rocks marking the edge of the field and shook his head. “It won’t help,” he mumbled.

  Rayenn spun to face him. “What did you say?”

  Silently cursing himself for speaking, Anden looked over his father’s shoulder to see his mother. She shook her head in warning, short black braid bouncing on her shoulder.

  “Answer me!” Rayenn demanded.

  Anden met his angry gaze. One part of his mind noticed their eyes were level and their shoulders nearly as broad. Father always seemed so large, he thought. When did that change?

  A blow to his shoulder rocked him. He took a step back, trying to keep his balance and avoid the plants. His eyes snapped to his father’s.

  “Do you question my decisions?”

  Another push, another step back.

  “Rayenn, stop. You aren’t thinking.” Jullie reached for her husband’s arm. He shook her loose and swung for Anden.

  Anden raised his arm, catching his father’s wrist in his hand. “The small amount of water we drink will not save the crops. We need it as much as the fields,” he said quietly. When his father’s expression did not change, he added, “I know you have noticed the change in the weather.”

  Rayenn easily pulled free. “And whose fault is that?”

  Jullie’s hand fell to Rayenn’s forearm, her fingers tightening. “No. I’ve told you before.”

  “A mother’s blindness,” he snapped.

  In his confusion, Anden found himself stepping closer to them. Heartbeat quickening, he looked from one to the other. “Mother? Father?”

  “You,” Rayenn brought up both hands, striking him in the chest. “You are not my son.”

  Anden staggered back. Jullie’s voice rose above the blood pounding in his ears. “Rayenn, don’t.”

  “I have prayed,” Rayenn said. “I have made offerings to the gods. Still the rains don’t come.” He advanced. “You are a cursed bastard, changing the weather and ruining the crops. Nothing but trouble.”

  Anden prayed his father would stop. A touch on his mind accompanied by the caress of fingers along his cheek distracted him. When Rayenn pushed him again, he lost his balance, slamming to the ground hard. Pain flared behind his ear. As his mother’s gasp faded into silence, Anden heard the rustle of wings.

  Birdsong filled Anden’s ears. He lay still, eyes closed, listening for the cry of the morning lark. Once its raucous call came, he would have to leave his cot and prepare for another day of helping his father in the fields.

  Help Father in the fields? His eyes flew open as memory filled him. One hand rose to find a tender spot behind his ear. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. Heart pounding, he glanced around the chamber. “This isn’t my room.”

  “No, child. It isn’t,” a quavering voice replied.

  He had mistaken the darkness beside the window for simple shadow. Jumping to his feet, he faced her, bowing his head. “Healer Brianne.”

  “Be at ease, Anden. Sit.”

  He swayed but remained standing. “My mother
taught me to respect my elders.”

  A low chuckle came from the shadow. “Then respect my request before you fall down.”

  Anden lowered himself to the cot, hands grasping the edge. How had he come to be here? The Healer’s cottage lay far from their field, beyond the village wall, on the path leading to the Godswood.

  His mind shied away from the thought. Once on a dare, he had approached the line of trees marking the boundary of the gods’ home and the source of their power. The darkness within the wood had not been marred by the bright sunlight. Despite assurances the gods and goddesses seldom walked in the mortal realm, he had been certain something watched him, measured his worth. He shivered in remembrance.

  “Are you cold?”

  He looked into Healer Brianne’s wrinkled face. She sat before him now, somehow moving silently across the room while he was lost in memory. His mother’s training coming to the fore, he dropped his gaze to his lap and shook his head.

  “Anden, look at me.”

  Her voice was gentle but left no room for argument. He glanced up and found himself caught by the shifting color of her eyes. First brown, then a subtle slide into green. He saw concern, anger and understanding in their depths. Above all, he sensed someone studying him. She grasped his chin with surprisingly strong fingers.

  “Do not fear.”

  Another voice echoed the words in his mind. A wave of calm washed over him. His heart raced as he fought whatever—whoever—tried to control him. Another wave of calm, stronger this time, settled around him, numbing him. He kept fighting, clawing the webbing away from his thoughts.

  Who are you?

  A feminine sigh, at once old and young, accompanied by the thought, Peace, child filled his mind. Then silence.

  Healer Brianne released him, dropping her hands to her lap. “You are strong, but—”

  “But what?” Anden leaned closer to her. Her eyes, brown again, filled with sadness. He touched her hand. “Healer?”

  “I fear you will need all of that strength and more.” She captured his hand between hers, squeezing as he began to shake.

  “For what? To face my father?” He was still a half cycle from his fourteenth birthday, the day he would be considered an adult under Trellan law and able to leave home. Still, to be under his father’s rule even for so short a time frightened him. The memory of his mother’s restraining hand on Rayenn’s arm as they had argued filled him with dread. “Has something happened to Mother? Or Lienn?”

  “Jullie and your brother are fine,” she assured him.

  “Did she bring me here?

  The healer drew a small stoppered bottle from her pocket and gave it to him. She waited for him to drink it before standing. “You simply appeared at my door. Your mother came earlier to check on you. She said a voice in her mind had told her where to seek you.” Retrieving the bottle, she motioned him to lie down. “For now, rest. You will be safe here a little longer.”

  He hesitated. “Safe?”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a little push. “Rest.”

  The presence in his mind echoed the healer’s order.

  How can I rest? What other things must I face?

  Warmth filled him as the healer’s medicine spread through his body. This time when the feeling of calm eased through his mind, Anden did not have the strength to fight it.

  Anden pulled another weed from between the velen plants, finding calm in the repetitive motion. When he had awoken and quickly bored of bed rest, Healer Brianne had put him to work, saying she trusted him to know which of the greenery should remain. He had been reluctant to ask her again why he would need strength, why the healer’s cottage would not be a safe place.

  His fingers brushed the leaves of a tiny plant topped with purple blossoms. A sharp odor filled his nostrils, making him sneeze. He drew his hand away.

  “Why not that one?”

  He jumped and looked up. The healer leaned against the garden gate, studying him. He glanced down at the plant. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like a weed.” Her smile surprised him. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “It’s known as feverbane,” she replied. “Few are found outside my Lady’s home. They require just the right conditions to thrive.”

  He nodded. Rayenn had made certain he understood each crop’s needs. He had enjoyed those lessons before the weather had changed and his father with it. “Your Lady?” He thought a moment, trying to determine who the healer meant. “Do you speak of the goddess Ayrmid?”

  Her smile broadened. “Aye, the goddess of healing. Who else?”

  The sound of someone banging on the front door drove his response from his mind.

  “Where is he?”

  At his father’s bellow, Anden jumped to his feet. Healer Brianne opened the gate and held out her hand. As Rayenn burst around the corner of the cottage, she grasped Anden’s arm, pulled him from the garden and shoved him toward the path leading to the Godswood.

  “Run, child. I’ll delay him as long as I can.”

  “But Healer.”

  She gave him another push. “Go!”

  In the face of his father’s approach and the healer’s determination, Anden turned and fled down the path.

  He could no longer hear his father’s voice and the path behind him remained empty but Anden continued to run. Barely breaking stride at the dark Godswood border, he plunged between the trees, dodging low-hanging branches until he stumbled over an exposed root. He flung his arms around the nearest trunk to break his fall.

  Gasping for breath, he closed his eyes. The tree thrummed where his cheek pressed against the rough bark. “Gods,” he whispered, “what have I done?”

  Nothing, child.

  He winced as the words tore through his mind. Gentle fingers brushed the hair away from his face. His eyes flew open.

  Before him stood a young woman. A long blonde braid festooned with feathers hung over one shoulder. Pinned to her tunic at the other shoulder was a circle of velen leaves pierced by a tiny dagger. He looked closer. Not a dagger. A staff.

  She cocked her head to the side, studying him as he did her. Embarrassed, he began to look away until he heard the rustle of wings. Anden met her eyes.

  “You were there,” he said slowly. “In the field.”

  She nodded. “You asked the gods for aid.”

  His arms tightened around the tree and he swallowed hard. “Goddess.”

  Peace, child.

  His knees buckled and his eyes filled with tears. The goddess closed the distance between them and took his arm.

  “Ayrmid did not mean to cause you pain, Anden.”

  Her voice was low and soothing. He blinked and met her grey eyes. “That wasn’t you?”

  As she shook her head, another voice answered. “Brianne was correct.”

  Anden’s head snapped up. An older woman, russet hair pulled into a loose bun at the base of her neck, stood a body-length away, watching them. She stepped closer and caught his chin in strong fingers, much as Healer Brianne had done. Eyes as green as his own captured him. The intensity of her regard froze his tongue. He felt her presence, the same presence which had tried to control him at the Healer’s cottage, in his mind, testing him, probing his thoughts. This time, when he tried to fight her, she easily brushed him aside.

  The younger goddess was distant but he could feel her distress. He tried to touch her hand where it still rested on his arm but he could not move.

  A heartbeat passed—or an eternity—he could not tell which. When Ayrmid released him, she looked pleased. His arms spasmed and he slid to the ground, slumping against the trunk. From the tree came the same distress he had felt from the younger goddess.

  She crouched beside him, peering into his face. Her eyes hardened.

  “What have you done? He is only a child!” she snapped.

  “Much more than that, Birte.”

  Anden struggled to raise his head. Birte was glaring at Ayrmid but the older goddess watched hi
m. He blinked, trying and failing to hold her gaze. He heard her sigh.

  “Rise, Anden. After you rest, we will talk.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I’m not certain I can, he thought.

  Fingers brushed his arm. Opening his eyes, he took in Birte’s angry and worried look. She held out her hand. He stared at it a moment, then took it. As she helped him to his feet, Anden could not help smiling at her muttered “We will certainly talk.”

  Anden drew his knees to his chest, allowing the hearth stone beneath his feet to ground him. They had traveled within the spirit realm to reach this dwelling. The trees around them had become orange-red glowing columns within a field of light. Shadows and fog had confused him until he had closed his eyes and allowed Birte to guide him.

  He glanced to his right at the room of plants beyond the doorway. Among the pots they passed, he had seen feverbane. This must be Ayrmid’s home, he realized.

  From his vantage point on the edge of the hearth, Anden looked from one silent goddess to the other. Ayrmid sat enthroned on the cottage’s only chair. Birte seemed unable to remain still, pacing from the fireplace to the window and back. Each time she turned, her pace quickened. She came to an abrupt stop, her back against the fireplace stone.

  In the buzzing suddenly filling his ears, he could almost discern words. Tension, palpable enough to touch, grew, the pressure tightening against his temples. He squeezed shut his eyes.

  Stop, he thought. Please, stop.

  The pressure eased immediately. He opened his eyes to see both women staring at him. Sliding until he felt the fireplace at his back, he sat straight and met Ayrmid’s gaze. He swallowed hard, searching for a way to break the silence. From memory came the first words she had said.

  “Goddess, what was Healer Brianne correct about?”

  Her hands rose to rest on the chair’s arms. “Your strength.”

  “Strength?” He remembered how easily his father had knocked him down. How helpless he had been when the goddess had tested him.

  “Not all strength is physical,” she said gently. “And I have an advantage here that you do not.”