She stoppered the now-empty bottle and slung it on the outside of the pack. A faint trickling sound in the distance told her there was a stream nearby where she could refill it. She hadn’t yet passed over it, so it must still lie ahead. By her reckoning it would be the Grayling, a small stream that fed off from the Yellowtail, the river that divided the Morningside Quarter from the Nightside Quarter. The Yellowtail would still be far ahead. She wouldn’t see that until she was level with the Northern Tors.
Long before that she expected to have passed over the notch through the Eastern Hills and to have met up with the high river road. The way to Overhill lay along the Arown. That was the main route humans and others used to visit the Quarters. Teldo and Marco said it was an easy road, well maintained and well signposted. They had often discussed the benefits of this pub or that inn along the road, but Tildi had no real notion of how long it would take her on foot. Her brothers were often gone for a week or more on business, and were somewhat vague on how many days they spent in the towns they visited. The precise itinerary was not important: they went; they returned. Tildi never expected a full travelogue, but at the moment it would have come in handy.
This early in the day she did not expect to meet any other travelers coming into the Quarters, nor, she hoped, coming up behind her from the village. As much as she longed for sleep, she wanted to find a particular kind of stopping place, one that was on a level, with thick woods to either side of the path so she would not be seen. As she continued her walk, on a steadily increasing slope, she saw signs that others had rested here, even camped for the night, based upon the rings of head-sized stones with a residue of gray ash inside.
About midday she heard a heavy rhythmic sound coming toward her. A horse or pony, moving at a plodding walk, scraped the packed-earth road. Her keen ears told her it was ahead, not behind. The others were not coming to take her back, not yet. If it was one of the smallfolk traders returning from a journey she must hide at once; she couldn’t risk word of a lone traveler outbound from the Quarters at just the time Tildi Summerbee had gone missing. As quietly as she could, she stepped off the main path and retreated into the brush, letting the twigs swish back into place.
Within five minutes the other traveler appeared. It was a young human male. He had long hair tied at the nape of his neck with a leather cord. He rode a multicolored horse that was half again as tall as one of her brother’s plow animals. Strangely enough, nature had marked the mare’s master as oddly as it had herself. The human’s hair was a mix of colors, caramel and white streaks running through the dark tresses at the nape and one temple. Weatherworn packs were tied behind the saddle and behind both knees over the horse’s flanks. Tildi would have assumed that he was a peddler but for the soft leather case held to his back by a strap that crossed his chest. By its shape Tildi guessed it held a jitar. A minstrel, then. By tonight he would be in Clearbeck, and a meeting would be held to hear his news and dance to his songs. She sighed with regret.
The noise of her breath, tiny as it was, brought the man’s head up with a start. He pulled the horse to a halt. He scanned the area with keen, bright eyes the color of hazel leaves. Tildi held very still. Providing they weren’t caught out in the middle of a field her kind was good at hiding from predators. Smallfolk seemed to pull themselves into a hole in the air. It was reputed that not even their scent escaped. Only fear could make her reveal herself, and a traveling bard was nothing to be afraid of. After an interval, the young man decided there was nothing to see. He flicked his reins, and the good horse began once again to make his way downhill, grunting as it trudged down each terraced step. Tildi waited until the pair was out of earshot before allowing herself to relax.
She prepared to hoist her pack and go on, but her legs had finally decided they had had enough. She bent her knees underneath and tried to stand up.
She sat down. Her thighs were as wobbly as a new colt’s. Tildi braced her hands against the rucksack’s straps, and discovered her shoulders winced at the notion of taking the pack’s weight again.
Perhaps it was time for a rest after all. She glanced around and discovered that beyond the brush at her back was a tiny, grassy meadow shaped like the open palm of a hand. Sun dappled the raised northern edge, and a fire ring occupied the center. A few logs, green with moss, had been stacked up against the big, motherly-looking beech tree at the side. It looked so inviting that Tildi decided it was the very place she was looking for: well secluded from the road but close enough that she could hear travelers approaching. The only thing that gave her pause was the crescent-shaped slice of sky beyond the circle of the tree’s crown. The thraik could come back while she was asleep and carry her off. The thought chilled her soul, but her exhausted feet told her they just didn’t want to go looking for a better spot. She surveyed it and came to the conclusion that if she huddled just beneath its roots she would be invisible from above. Tildi carried her pack to the far edge of the clearing. She flattened out the flap end to use for a pillow.
Tildi hoped no wolves would come and sniff her out, nor wild dogs, nor any of the other things that the elders had always warned against—were they right to be so cautious?
Their mother had once taught her a protection charm. Teldo had laughed at it as having no magical power behind it, but Tildi had always found comfort in it.
Nature guard me while I sleep,
From all who fly or walk or creep,
Ward the earth and guard the sky,
May I wake safely by and by.
The drowsy rhyme went around and around in her mind, becoming less and less coherent. Tildi thought in the distance she heard a faint shrieking of a hunting thraik. They could smell magic, she knew, but she felt too heavy to move. She tried to recapture the rhythm of the charm, and soon the noise receded. No night monsters would come now. She pretended the cloak above her head was the four walls and roof she had left behind at Daybreak Bank. The shrill, faraway whistle pursued her into her dreams.
The snap of a twig brought Tildi out of a sound sleep. She sat up and clawed the all-enveloping cloak away from her face. The light in the clearing had diminished by two-thirds, and Tildi could no longer see the sun peeping through the leaves overhead. Footsteps on the path now hidden from view receded, heading in the direction of the Quarters. It must be some lonely traveler seeking to find a bed in Morningside before night set in. Tildi realized she had better bestir herself if she didn’t want to spend the night in the clearing. She ought to have a few more hours of daylight. She was glad to know that her hiding place had been a good one.
It had been warm during the day, but the evening that high up on the hillside was considerably more chilly. A good meal would warm her up from within and give her the heart for a second hike. Tildi chose a meal for herself from her cold viands, cutting a slice of chicken pie and counting out a few pieces of dried fruit onto a flat rock that would serve well as a table. A cup of tea would taste very good with those, she decided. She poured some of her water into the small kettle and set it just inside the ring of stones that lay near the flat rock. Clearly some practical earlier traveler had decided to set his cooking fire near to his serving area.
In spite of the warm weather it was damp underneath the trees. Tildi had to forage to find the driest sticks, and an abandoned bird’s nest for tinder. Then she felt in her pack, working her hand carefully past the roll of Teldo’s papers to the small cache of tools at the bottom. Her heart sank. She had no flint and striker to make the fire.
In her mind’s eye she went back over how she had packed the rucksack, and hoped she was mistaken about the omission. But, no. The black square of flint and matching steel she used at home was still on the shelf above the hearth.
Cursing herself for a fool, Tildi looked around for a rough flint among the rubble that formed the surface of the road. With a few tries she was sure she could strike a spark using the blade of her knife. Unfortunately, none of the stones in her vicinity looked like flint nodules. She wonder
ed how far it was to travel back to the nearest smallfolk holding, then laughed bitterly at herself. She could hardly walk in and ask, “May I buy a flint block from you? I … er … lost mine somewhere.” She would be worrying the whole time whether the farmer, or more likely, his wife, would penetrate her disguise and send her back to Daybreak Bank in disgrace.
Annoyed, Tildi shoved the pack away from her with one bare foot. The heavy sack rolled over the root behind it and rustled to a halt, its contents shifting noisily. There was plenty of paper in there that would make good tinder, if she had a means of making a fire, but she would never burn any of Teldo’s lessons or books.
She grinned to herself, half sheepishly. She had the means to light a fire, if she could manage it. Fire was the simplest of the magics, Teldo had always told her, though it had never felt simple. To reach deep within herself to bring forth the spell always made Tildi feel like she had to turn herself inside out. She was ashamed that she had not been able to help Teldo in his ultimate need. Intellectually she knew how; she had even done it in practice several times, but the skill had deserted her while under pressure. The last time she had attempted to create a viable fire she had failed, and her brothers had died as a result. It was hard to summon up the confidence to try again. But Teldo had believed in her. She must try. Perhaps it would be easier now, when no one was looking. She held out her hand over the mound of tinder and concentrated.
She still felt held back. Should she be allowed to make magic for such a homely purpose, then? In the books she had read magic was only to be used for great purposes, to save lives or defeat great perils. Yet, Teldo often practiced his spells. Was it really permitted? She found she was waiting for someone to give her permission to proceed.
Well, there was no one left to ask. She had no family, and she had just cast away her claim to a place in decent society by cutting off her hair and running away in boys’ clothing. She had no intention of waiting until she got to her new master to ask him if she could make a cup of tea, please and thank you! Time and Nature knew he wouldn’t want to be bothered by such silly, minor questions, so she’d surely have to answer it herself. The absurdity made her laugh, and unlock the tight place inside from which she had to evoke the magical power. Even before she began to properly think the words, a green glow erupted from beneath her outstretched hand. The spark leaped from her palm to the leaves. A white curl of smoke arose. She regarded it with pleased astonishment. It worked!
“I did that,” she said out loud, her voice a surprise in the quiet woods. “Oh, I wish Teldo could have seen!”
She sat beside it and watched. As the green flame consumed the pile of leaves and fluff it expanded and warmed in color to a more normal yellow-colored fire. Tildi warmed the pot and brewed the tea. It tasted better than any she had ever made. She sipped it appreciatively, holding the bowl up between her hands to warm her cool cheeks.
Yes, it would be good to practice the skills before she arrived in Overhill. The wizard Olen would surely want to see that the smallfolk he was taking to apprentice was worth the trouble. He would no doubt have many such tests for her. She hoped they weren’t too hard. In her experience the boys who apprenticed themselves to a trade needed little more than a reasonably good wit, willingness to learn, and a strong back, not expert knowledge of that trade. The secrets would be imparted to them once they signed the contract. Surely magicians weren’t that different as masters from, say, smiths, who had lore of their own?
She had no idea how much farther it was to the crest of the pass, but she knew that just beyond it was a tiny town owned by humans. The main feature of Rushet was an inn that catered to every race in the world. Gosto had told her stories of drinking beer in its cheerful pub with centaurs and elves as well as humans.
The flames flickered brightly. Tildi found it amazing how just having a fire in a cozy place could make it feel as though she was safe at home. The thought that she had no home made her sad again.
Light dwindled around her with distressing haste, and the temperature crept distressingly lower. Night must be fast approaching. Tildi pulled both pairs of socks on again and tied up the boots. She brushed the crumbs off her little table and tied up the backpack over her cloak. She would just warm up the last cup of tea, and she would be on her way. She reached for the kettle, and a yellow hand stretched past hers toward the fire.
Tildi jumped back in horror, dropping the kettle. Water splashed into the fire, making it hiss. A glowing mask leered into her face. It seemed to float on the air above the campfire, as did the two skeletal claws now reaching for her throat. Tildi let out a muffled shriek. She threw at it the only thing she had in her hand, the half cup of tea. The specter recoiled. It looked shocked.
Tildi scrambled backward, fumbling for the knife at her belt. The ghostly being gnashed a mouthful of yellow stumps at her. She brandished the gleaming blade. The creature floated toward her, an avid, hungry look on its face. Tildi thought that it was the last moment of her life. She slashed at the creature desperately with the knife. Her blade passed right through the specter’s body. It paused, its ugly mouth open in a rictus. It was laughing at her! She scooted backward, holding the knife outward, but the specter swooped through blade and arm. Its temperature scalded Tildi’s skin. She whimpered and snatched her hand back. The specter raised a claw and swiped at her. Tildi fell back, clutching her cheek. The scratch burned red-hot. Tears filled her eyes.
“Please leave me alone,” she begged.
The specter grinned again, moving closer and closer until her hair crackled from its heat. No weapon she had could stop it.
The campfire popped, shooting sparks outward. The creature stopped. It turned away from Tildi, fixing its hollow eyes upon the yellow flames. It floated back toward the dancing light until it hovered over the circle of stones. Fed by an invisible breeze, the flames roused and licked upward. The creature’s body took on the same glow as the fire and began to grow. Its hollow eyes rolled upward. Tildi watched, frozen like a frightened rabbit. The creature fed upon fire. She crept toward the edge of the clearing, glancing back to make sure it was paying no attention to her. Only a few feet from the undergrowth and the road now. She mourned for the loss of her pack, but better to lose her possessions than her life!
Snap! Her knee came down upon a twig, shattering the silence. She glanced back. The fire demon’s dreamy gaze focused upon her again. Eyes pinpoints of white-hot light, it flew at her. Tildi sprang up and dodged toward her pack. She could use it as a shield. The monster, perhaps divining her motive, harried her from this side and that, until she found herself driven toward the fire, now a pillar of gleaming gold.
The specter dived at Tildi. Its claws caught in her shirt. Tildi batted at it, her hands passing through its hot substance. She was helpless to keep the talons from ripping the cloth. Fool, she chided herself. She should have run for it when she could. With a yell, she tripped over the stone ring, and huddled down in as small a bundle as she could make herself. She did not want to die! What could she do? Burbling noises told her the kettle still sat steaming away on its make jack suspended in the middle of the fire. Tildi almost raised her head in surprise. The tea! The monster had recoiled from the cup she threw at it, though it had no fear of her knife. It was a creature of fire—it must abhor water. She sprang up, grabbed the kettle, and splashed its contents at her pursuer.
The campfire went out with a loud sizzle. White steam rose from blackened ashes. The specter drifted to a halt, its mouth widened in horror. It let out a wail, the first noise she had heard it make, like a rusty hinge screeching open. Its yellow light faded away, like the wick of a lamp running out of oil. Tildi found herself staring at the empty clearing, the kettle in her hand.
A wet drop fell onto her wrist. She looked down and saw a dark dot on her pale skin, followed by another. In a moment, her eyes accustomed themselves to the absence of the firelight, and she realized that her cheek was bleeding. A handful of grass would do to pack the scratch and stop
the flow, but first she meant to ensure that the fire was out! Tildi poured all the remaining water from the kettle and her bottle over the sodden logs, then kicked dirt onto it for good measure. She would rather go thirsty than let a single ember feed that horrible creature. Then she gathered up her pack and made all good speed getting out of the clearing.
Chapter Seven
The moon known as the Pearl was rising in the east, just a day past full. Tildi noted the sigil that seemed to be limned upon its round, white perfection. The rune was not as distinct as it had been when she first noted it, at the eastern edge of the Quarters, but was still clear enough to read. The other moon, the Agate, because it was not as beautiful as its younger sister, showed a glimmer more like a wet river pebble, but it, too, displayed its name on its dull surface.
She had been walking for three and a half days. The scratch on her cheek from the fire-demon had stopped bleeding long since, but under her cloak, Teldo’s shirt was ripped. She was very annoyed about that, but she had not wanted to take the time to repair the tears until she reached a safe place. The first night she had stopped to camp, she had heard a chilling cry overhead. She looked up and saw a shadow against the moonlight. It was a thraik, hunting in the dark. Had it been looking for her? She did not want to find out.
She longed for a hot bath and a real meal, and someone to talk to. As she had promised herself, she had practiced her spells while she had walked. She could now ignite a green flame in her palm every time she tried, but she could not extinguish it without dousing it with water. Fortunately, there was plenty of that along her way. Practicing kept her mind off how much her feet ached in the unfamiliar boots, or how much the pack straps rubbed the skin of her back and shoulders.
An Unexpected Apprentice Page 7
