Moon Dreams (The Jeremy Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by Brad Strickland

  “Well—” Melodia extended her palm, and Nul dropped the chain into her hand.

  “There,” the little creature said with a sigh. “All done. We all even now.”

  “Good,” Kelada said. She had shouldered her pack. “Now I'll be going.” She reached to open the door.

  “Lock!” barked Nul, and the door latch clicked. Kelada rattled it without effect, and when she turned toward him, Nul added without looking directly at her, “You not to leave. Nobody leave till I say go.”

  Jeremy felt some of the old anger. “Now look, you little—”

  Nul smiled at him, a wide, sharp-toothed smile (except for one gap where the left upper canine should be). It was not unlike being smiled at by a shark, and Jeremy paused.

  “Good,” Nul purred. “Everyone together. Very good. Tremien tell me what to do.”

  “And what,” Melodia asked with suspicion in her voice, “did Tremien say?”

  Nul clasped his hands, as well as he could clasp hands that boasted only six fingers altogether. “You,” he said, “all of you—Tremien say you under arrest!”

  Chapter 6

  Kelada objected most strongly, until Nul spelled her quiet. Then she stood until told to move, stared straight ahead, and said nothing. Jeremy objected to that, and Nul growled to him, “Council of magi gave me permission. Temporary spell, anyway. We go now.”

  Melodia took his arm. “It's all right,” she said. “He hasn't harmed her, and she'll remember nothing of this when the spell is lifted. It's better for her if you accept the spell.”

  “Better for all,” Nul muttered. “Tremien waits for us. Better we leave at once.”

  But they couldn't go right away. Melodia insisted on making sure that Whisper, the dappled mare, was cared for, and so Nul, tapping one three-toed foot in his impatience, said, “Call someone to care for horse.”

  The calling was impressive to watch, at least for Jeremy. Melodia sat at the table, folded her hands on her lap, and spoke a series of words, ending in the name “Fairborn.” From thin air, or at least from a spot on the bare tabletop about two feet in front of Melodia, a gruff male voice suddenly spoke up: “Ya, Fairborn here. What is it, I'm milking?”

  “Good farmer Fairborn, this is Melodia the healer—”

  “Ah, ya. The sheep are fine again, Lady—”

  “Good farmer Fairborn, I have a problem.”

  The invisible farmer paused just perceptibly before saying, “How can I help?”

  “I must be away for a time. While I am gone, I need someone to look after my mare.”

  Relief at the smallness of the request broke through with the farmer's words: “Oh, sure. Nice little animal. I fetch her over to stay in the barn with my Bob-Tail and Stepper.”

  “Thank you, good farmer Fairborn. I will find some way to repay you for her feed.”

  “Na, na. Only maybe my little daughter Belle can ride her of an afternoon? She is a good rider, and she would make sure your Whisper don't get fat and lazy on you.”

  “That will be fine, good farmer.”

  “Good, good. I finish milking and come over in maybe one ona. The weather is good there?”

  Melodia lifted an eyebrow at Nul. Nul grunted and said, “Cloud spell off now. Sun shining out.”

  “The weather is good,” Melodia reported. “Thank you, good farmer Fairborn.” She uncrossed her arms and stood up. “I am ready to go,” she said.

  Jeremy stirred. “I suppose that was a long-distance speaking spell?”

  “Of course,” Melodia said. “It works much like the travel spell. The wizard Dornadin devised it, and all who pay his family tribute may use it.”

  “Then why not simply talk to Tremien—”

  “No,” she said. “A great mage will not allow just anyone to speak with him. Tremien is one of the council, and the council control use of the speaking spell.”

  “Brother,” Jeremy breathed. “AT&T thought they had a monopoly.”

  The demon fetched a charred stick from the fireplace—the fire had burned itself almost to embers, and Jeremy wondered if Smokharin were dozing there—and used it to scribe a black circle on the floor. “Now,” Nul said, tossing the stick back into the fire, “everyone in circle. Thief, walk here.”

  Kelada, who had been standing in a corner, drifted unseeingly to the spot Nul indicated. Jeremy winced at the indignity while at the same time marveling at the girl's unsuspected grace: while conscious, Kelada contained so much fire, so much life, that she was like a grasshopper, all arms and legs and sudden movement. Now, under Nul's spell, she walked with the fluid, enchanting motion of the woman she might have become under other circumstances.

  Jeremy and Melodia joined her, as did Nul: they stood with heels just inside the circle, all facing in, the demon frowning anxiously down to make sure everyone was in. Jeremy could smell the faint charcoal scent of the circle even as Nul scrutinized it carefully and closely. “Good. No smudges, no breaks. Now,” Nul said impressively, “we travel to Whitehorn.” Raising his arms again and spreading his six fingers wide, he intoned, “Four together, four to speed, to Whitehorn Mountain, at Tremien's need!”

  The sound was louder this time and the feeling of pressure more pronounced, but the effect was the same as Nul's earlier vanishing: they all disappeared at once.

  All except Jeremy.

  He stood feeling foolish and alone in the kitchen. “Ah—Melodia?” he called out, raising only the ghost of an echo. “Anybody?”

  No one answered. After a minute or two, Jeremy stepped out of the circle and shivered. Again he had the impression of being watched, and somehow he knew that someone, something, a presence, was just outside the door. Gritting his teeth, he strode across the floor and flung the door wide open.

  Cold noon sun came straight down on the yard. Two bare trees stood in scant pools of shadow. Away to his left, from the barn, he heard the whicker of a horse. From the yard he heard only the rustle of wind across bare branches. “Is anyone there?” Jeremy called. After a moment of silence he closed the door again. Closed it, and after a moment, barred it. He shivered once more. It was getting cold in the house, that was the problem; he tossed a couple of logs on the fire and sat on the hearth, considering. As the fire leaped up behind him, he had an inspiration. Turning toward the blaze, Jeremy said, “Smokharin. Are you there?”

  The fire burned a little more brightly.

  “Smokharin, please manifest yourself.”

  Flame and smoke.

  “Smokharin—I think Melodia needs you.”

  That did it. The manikin, diminished now, possibly because the fire was smaller, stood with evident belligerence on one of the new logs. Squat and round-headed, it reminded Jeremy irresistibly of one of those soft-sculpture dolls come to life and glowing from within. “What about Melodia?” the elemental demanded in its smoke-rush voice.

  Quickly Jeremy explained what had happened. “I don't know why, but when they disappeared, I was left behind,” he said.

  The elemental, dwindling visibly as the coals beneath it cooled, paced back and forth on its firewood, leaving little scorched, smoking footprints behind. “She is at Whitehorn,” it said. “If Tremien called her, that's where she will be. You"—the eyes burned at him for a moment—"you are immune to the travel spell, maybe. Or have you paid tribute?”

  “Of course I haven't paid tribute,” Jeremy said. “I'm new here. But Kelada, as I understand it, hasn't paid, either, and she went.”

  “True, I wasn't thinking. It must be that you are somehow immune, then. But Tremien's servant will be back for you, never fear. Hmm. You think the magi may be angry with Melodia?”

  “I don't know. They have no reason to be. Everything that's happened is really Sebastian's fault—and maybe mine.”

  With a keen look Smokharin said, “You would tell that to Tremien? To his face? And stand the consequences?”

  “It's the truth. Yes, I'd tell Tremien.” Jeremy felt a tightness in his chest. “And,” he added, “I'd
stand the consequences. Whatever they might be.”

  The little salamander, now no bigger than eight inches high, nodded decisively. “Get the tinderbox,” it said. Jeremy found it on the windowsill where he had left it the previous night. Smokharin, having dwindled now another two inches, said, “Open it and hold it close to me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I'm going along with you to Whitehorn. Keep the box with you. I'll be asleep in it until you strike the flint.” The little being poised as if to leap, then looked up. “It will be cold in the house,” it warned.

  “That's all right. I'll find some way to stay warm.”

  “Good.” Another false start, then: “You like Melodia, don't you, strange human?”

  “My name is Jeremy. Yes, I think I like her a great deal.”

  “You hurt her, ever, and I'll roast you alive from the inside out.” And then Smokharin did leap, became a sudden rainbow of flame, into the box. The fire on the hearth, even the embers, went dead and gray at once, and in Jeremy's hand the wood box felt heavier—or was that only imagination again? In the new darkness Jeremy slid the top of the tinderbox shut, hefted it thoughtfully, and dropped it into the same tunic pocket that held Nul's broken tooth.

  Almost as soon as he did that, he felt the change in pressure in his ears that heralded Nul's return, back in the circle behind Jeremy. The demon was beginning to look a little ragged, its orange eyes now purple-rimmed with fatigue. “You not come,” he growled.

  “It wasn't my fault.”

  “Hold still.” Nul had a sort of purse hung around his shoulder. He opened it and fumbled inside for a moment before producing a soft leather envelope that held a pair of round, black-rimmed spectacles. They were not made for his face, but by holding them by one temple piece and slightly crossing his eyes, Nul could stare through them at Jeremy. He grunted, carefully folded the spectacles, put them back in the case, and dropped the case back into the purse. “You have a strange emanation,” Nul muttered. The little demon began to pace, muttering to himself. “Magic not working on you. Better try another spell. Try one of mine.” The creature whirled, chanted some words, and then said, “How you feel?”

  “Fine,” Jeremy said.

  “Damn.” Nul sighed, then said, “We have to go on foot. Wait. I call Tremien.” Nul sat in a chair, his three-toed feet dangling clear of the floor, and glared at Jeremy. “You in trouble,” he said. “Tremien hate to be called like this.” Then Nul crossed his hands on his lap, chanted briefly, and said, “Hello, Mage Tremien.”

  From the air came a deep voice: “This had better be important, Nul.”

  “It is. The Jeremy not pervious to magic. Not mine, anyhow.”

  An ominous pause, then, “Let me speak to him.”

  To Jeremy, Nul said, “Cross hands. Good. Now ready. Mage Tremien? The Jeremy ready.”

  “Young man,” the voice boomed, now seemingly focused on Jeremy, “can you possibly explain why one of my strongest spells failed with you?”

  “I don't know,” Jeremy responded. “Maybe it's because I'm not even from Thaumia to begin—”

  “Answer me!”

  Nul blinked. “Is answering, Mage,” he said.

  The voice fell quiet again. “One moment.”

  It proved to be a very long moment. Then the deep, disembodied voice boomed out, “Transmute and ensorcel it, I read only Sebastian-sign! But everyone here assures me that isn't Sebastian at all. And I'd be able to hear Sebastian.” An ill-tempered grunt. “Very well, Nul. Bring the man here overland.”

  “Long march,” protested Nul with some indignation.

  “I can't help that. There's a war on, you know—wait a bit.”

  Nul glared hard at Jeremy. Jeremy shrugged.

  The voice resumed shortly: “All right. Melodia has a horse, Whisper. She's arranged for you to ride him. What? Sorry, her. That's the best we can do. You should be here in three days.”

  “Three?” Nul squawked. “Four at least, Mage.”

  “Three, if you start now. Nul, guard the prisoner well.”

  Nul grunted.

  “Answer me!”

  “All right, all right! I see he hurt nobody.”

  “More to the point,” the deep voice said dryly, “make sure nobody hurts him. Leave. Now.”

  After a moment's quiet Jeremy said, “Is he gone?”

  Nul slid off the chair. “Damn,” he said. “Have to ride all the way to Whitehorn. Three days. Hardly have time to eat or drink. Come on. Get horse ready.”

  “Uh—there's something else you should know.”

  Nul glared. “What?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “I can't ride a horse, either.”

  Tremien had advised the two of them to leave at once, but preparations had to be made, and at once stretched into a couple of hours. Nul, for one thing, was unprepared for an outdoor winter journey: he wore a dark blue tunic and trousers, sturdy enough, but scant protection against the cold. And of course he wore no shoes.

  Jeremy found the trunk Melodia had mentioned in a squarish, windowless room—hardly more than an outsized closet, really—across the hall from her bedchamber. He found for himself a fur robe, black but trimmed dramatically in white, that fit him perfectly. He had less luck trying to find something scaled to Nul's size, but he finally did dig out a short jacket (had Sebastian lived here, Jeremy wondered, or was he just uncommonly careless about where he left his clothes?) that swallowed Nul up from neck to mid-calf. The sleeves, because of Nul's disproportionately long arms, were four inches too short, but that couldn't be helped.

  Sebastian seemed to have left behind no riding boots or anything like them, only the black slippers Jeremy wore and a pair of carpet slippers with swirling floral designs worked into them. Jeremy solved Nul's footwear problem as well as he could by giving the little creature three pairs of socks to wear, one over the other. With them on, Nul padded around in high ill temper, looking like a grotesque toddler got up to play in the snow. Jeremy took from the trunk one other outfit and a change of stockings and underwear for himself. Then from a shelf in the room he took four blankets. With one of them he improvised a sort of bedroll containing the clothing.

  Food, Nul said, was no problem. “Eat along the way. Plenty of inns.”

  “I have no money.”

  “I have.”

  The really big problem was dapple-gray. Whisper seemed gentle enough and willing enough, but beyond a doubt she was, as horses go, rather stupid. She was no help at all in getting the saddle on, and since Nul was so small, Jeremy had to bear the whole responsibility. He tried to follow the little demon's directions carefully, but somehow things got mixed. The blanket was wrinkled and the saddle had to be taken back off. Then the saddle was ill-placed and slid off the other side while Jeremy stooped to try to cinch it. Nul blistered the air with arcane curses. Whisper turned her head to give Jeremy a big-eyed gaze of commiseration.

  Finally the horse was bridled and saddled to Nul's grudging satisfaction. The demon had found a small bin of grain and sat on it, taking handfuls out to munch on as he gave his instructions. Now he hopped off the bin and waddled over to the horse. He took a complete tour, circling Whisper with a critical eye. He tugged the girth, tightened it, and tested the knot securing the bedrolls behind the saddle. “That may do,” he grunted at last. “Get on. Not from that side!”

  Whisper shifted her footing as Jeremy climbed aboard, complicating the process, but he managed to swing his leg over, and before he knew it, he was sitting on the horse. Nul, far below now, stretched a hand up. “Help me.”

  Jeremy swung him up. The demon rode pillion, his right arm hooked around Jeremy's middle. “Now we go,” he said.

  Opening and reclosing the barn door while on horseback was only the first problem. In the stable yard Whisper suddenly twitched her ears, neighed, and stamped. “Whoa!” Jeremy cried in desperation, calling on the only horse word in his vocabulary. “Easy!”

  “Something bother her,” Nul
said. “She sense something.”

  “How do I—woop!—calm her down?”

  But Whisper calmed herself down, stood a moment, blew through her nostrils, and became docile. “Better go,” Nul counseled, and Jeremy goaded her with his heels. Whisper fell into a gentle, slow walk. Jeremy wobbled from side to side precariously for the first few minutes. At last he found the rhythm of Whisper's gentle amble, and then he had no immediate fears of falling off.

  However, he was beginning to notice that the saddle pinched his buttocks together and chafed the inside of his thighs uncomfortably. He tried to ignore both sensations, and for the first time really began to notice the countryside around them. “Which way are we headed?” he asked.

  “North and west. Can tell from the sun,” Nul said. “Not much daylight left today. We get to inn at Drover's Ford, though. Rest there tonight, then travel.”

  They rode along a grassy and level country lane, between hills of dry winter grass or rolling fields, furrowed but bare under the winter sky. Birds sang in the trees around them, and a small flock of them, straw-yellow and the size of pigeons, took off from knee-high grass at the edge of the lane as they passed. “Trouble-me-nots,” Nul said as the wings whirred. “Too bad we have no time to hunt. Good eating.”

  “Why are they called that?” Jeremy asked, just before one of the birds called out in a clear treble and answered his question for him. “Trouble-me-not,” it seemed to say. “Trouble-me, trouble-me, trouble-me-not today.”

  Jeremy merely said, “Oh.”

  The encounter led him to ask Nul the names of other things they passed, trees and plants and small animals. He learned the names of five trees: the spreading black-heart, something like an oak but smaller; the tall, bare tremble-leaf, graceful in the light afternoon breeze; the evergreen quickthorn, low, with spiky, glossy-green leaves; the pomminut, rough-barked and many-branched, with a few nuts still clinging to a twig here and there; and the windmurmur, another evergreen, very piney in appearance but alive with the smallest puff of air. He learned about grasses, the wayturf on the lane, the taller and hardier sheafblade of the pastures to the sides. He learned the name of the brownstreak, an animal smaller than a cat that once dashed out of their path and into the sheltering undergrowth.