Reaching out with long white talons, it rushed at him and engulfed him before he could run.
It was all around him, swirling and intangible. It billowed through his clothes, slid across his skin, burning him with cold. Caelan beat at himself, wild with fear, trying to drive it away.
But how could he fight the wind? The demon had him. He felt its talons rake his shoulder, and he screamed again.
“Caelan!” Old Farns shouted and clutched his arm.
The wind raged around them. Caelan toppled over and felt himself being dragged across the ground. Then he was lifted bodily on the current of wind despite Farns’s desperate attempt to hang onto him.
Fear congealed within Caelan. He realized it was taking him, carrying him off like prey.
Its screams drowned out his own.
He fought and struggled, his flailing arms hitting Farns instead of the wind spirit.
“Help me!” Caelan cried. “Farns, get help—”
At that moment a second wind spirit came boiling into the struggle, whirling like a miniature cyclone. It caught Farns and ripped him away from Caelan. The old man’s screams rose into the night, and Caelan could not see him at all within the white, twisting column.
“No!” he cried. “No! Farns!”
He struggled with all his might, yet the spirit that had him could not be touched. One of Caelan’s flailing hands struck something hard ... a post. Realizing he was near the stables and had rolled into the railing where horses were tied for grooming, Caelan gripped the post with all his might, while the spirit buffeted and clawed him.
“Caaaaeeelaaaannnnn!” the spirit screamed.
It shrieked his name at him again and again, filling his mind, driving his consciousness down, hammering at him.
Sobbing with fear, Caelan hung onto the post, but his strength was failing fast. The wind yanked at him hard enough to break his grip. Dragged bodily, he went bouncing across the cobblestones, and heard something clang beneath him.
It was the warding key, still in his pocket.
Twisting around despite the wind that clawed him, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the key.
It was still cold and lifeless. Dismay rose in him. Why didn’t it activate! Why didn’t its spell work like it was supposed to?
“Caaaaeelaaannnn!”
The wind spirit lifted him off the ground. He found himself flying, his cloak sailing away, his clothes shredding and whipping in the wind, his hair blowing back and forth as though it would be yanked out by the roots. The demon’s face reformed right in front of his, just inches away, close enough for him to inhale the frosty, lethal vapors it breathed out.
He choked, gagging on his own fear. His heart was hammering so fast he thought it would burst in his chest.
The spirit shrieked in triumph. Its eyes glowed red, and it opened its mouth wider and wider, until all Caelan could see was a whirling maelstrom. And he was being sucked straight into it.
Panic filled him. He held up the key with shaking hands and remembered that he’d severed it. Crying out to the gods for mercy, Caelan instinctively used sevaisin, the joining. He poured back all its fire and heat, all its fearsome power.
The key ignited with heat and light, an immediate response that shone across the wind spirit.
The spirit squalled and dropped Caelan.
He hit the ground with a jolting thud and dropped the key. The sound of metal hitting stone cobbles rang out loud and clear, cutting off the wind spirit’s shrieks. It drew back, shredding into mist, then vanishing in a swirl of snow.
The key was shining now, bright enough to illuminate the courtyard. It drew on Caelan, fed on him.
He could feel the tremendous charge of its power. It was like inhaling fire. He was burning up with it, dying from it as though exploding from the inside out. No mortal was meant to feel such things.
Even as he arched his back, screaming, he heard Farns’s feeble cry for help.
Consumed with heat, Caelan twisted about on the ground and saw the second wind spirit still raging several yards away. Dimly he remembered Farns, who had been captured by it.
Caelan knew he must somehow save the old man. It was his fault Farns was out here. His fault... his fault.
Groaning, Caelan reached out and picked up the key. The pain seared his hand and up his arm, shooting into his heart with a jolt that seemed to break him apart.
Barely conscious, he somehow hung onto the key and scrambled to his feet. Staggering forward, he drove himself into a weaving, unsteady run, holding the key ahead of him, and thrust it straight into the midst of the white cyclone.
The second wind spirit shrieked in an agony unbearable to hear. It vanished as though it had never been, and suddenly the courtyard was absolutely still and calm. Only a few snowflakes drifted down, sparkling in the radiant golden light of the warding key that Caelan still held aloft.
He could not drop it, could not separate himself. Sevaisin was complete. He was melting, becoming heat, radiating ...
With one last desperate try, he reached for severance. Cold met heat in a collision that burst and flowed over him. He felt himself flung aside, falling, falling; then he heard the key hit the ground with a clatter. It broke into pieces. Caelan landed in a heap of snow, the blessedly cool snow, too weak to even lift his head or care.
People surrounded him, their voices a babble.
Then strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and lifted him. “My son,” a voice said clearly.
Caelan could not see him. The world remained a swirl of color, light, and shadow. Pain was everywhere, seeping into his awareness at first, then rushing over him.
“Farns,” he whispered, his voice a broken, feeble sound. Guilt filled him, riding the pain. “Old Farns—”
“Caelan,” his father said urgently. “My son, answer me. Caelan!”
But the darkness came, extinguishing even the light from the torches and lanterns. Caelan faded into it without a struggle.
Chapter Eight
FOR THREE DAYS Caelan did not speak.
Revived by his father, whose healing gifts soothed the fever from his veins, took away the cuts and bruises from the wind spirit, and cooled the burn in his hand, Caelan lay in a strange lethargy, aware of his surroundings but apart from them.
The infirmary was quiet and plain. Kept very warm, it consisted of his father’s study, the examination room, and the tiny ward with its shuttered windows and row of cots.
Caelan lay with Farns on one side and the injured Neika tribesman on the other. Farns was alive, but unconscious. The Neika man and his brother—barbaric in long blond braids and fur—spoke to each other in hushed, fearful voices. Caelan ignored them, ignored everything. He was aware of the activity around him, but without interest or response.
Lea, her little face tight with worry, came to see him frequently. She would chatter and stroke his forehead. She would smooth his blankets and tuck the fur robe more closely around him. She would show him her dolls and bring him something to drink, which he did not take.
He saw her, but as though she stood far away. Her voice was very soft, almost too faint to hear. When she stroked his face with her gentle fingers, he felt nothing.
After a short time, the adults would gently shoo her away.
Beva came every hour, peering into Caelan’s eyes, changing the bandage and salve on his hand, pouring a measure of dark liquid down his throat.
Huddled in her shawl, Anya stood at Farns’s side, holding the old man’s hand. Her eyes, however, were for Caelan. “Master,” she said softly, “is there any hope for him?”
“Of course there is hope,” Beva said briskly. He pulled up Caelan’s sleeve and counted his pulse.
“But it’s said that when the wind spirits catch a person, if he’s not killed outright he goes mad. Is our sweet boy driven mad, good master?”
Weakness suddenly shook through Caelan’s legs and traveled upward through his whole body. He closed his eyes in wretchedness, then
felt his father’s warm, dry palm upon his brow. The trembling fit was driven back, and Caelan sighed in relief.
“He is not mad,” Beva said.
“The gods be praised,” Anya said, dabbing at her eyes with her shawl. “Why, then, won’t he speak to us? Why does he look so far away?”
Beva replaced the blankets around Caelan. “He is deeply severed, Anya. It is a way to heal his mind and soul after what happened. When he is ready, he will rejoin us.”
She tried to smile, without much success. “And Farns?” she whispered, stroking the old man’s gray hair.
Beva paused, and for a moment his gaze did not look so sure. “Old Farns will rejoin us when he can.”
Anya nodded and wiped her eyes again. She left to return to her work, but Beva lingered to gaze down at Caelan.
Caelan saw worry show plainly in his father’s eyes, as though to refute everything he had just said.
Caelan let his gaze wander away. He did not speak.
Sunshine awakened him, bright and warm on his face. He stirred and opened his eyes, only to squint against a blinding beam of light. Shifting on his pillow, Caelan looked around.
The man with the broken leg was gone. Old Farns slept, his chest rising and falling beneath the blanket.
The inner shutters on the ward windows had been folded back. Sunshine was coming in around the edges of the outer shutters. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful.
Caelan flung off his covers and climbed out of bed. His legs felt strange and shaky, but he managed to stagger over to the window. Unbolting the shutters, he pushed them open and looked out across the courtyard.
The snow was dazzling in the sunshine. Great drifts of the white stuff filled the corners of the courtyard. Lea, bundled up in a scarlet wool cloak, scampered about. She was rolling up huge balls of snow almost as big as herself. Caelan smiled to himself at the sight of her.
Across the way, a neat path had been shoveled to the stables. He saw Raul breaking ice on the watering trough and lifting out the chunks. They shattered and skidded across the cobblestones.
“Oh!” said a voice behind Caelan. “You’re up.”
Caelan turned around and saw Gunder standing in the doorway like a startled hare. Always ill at ease, Gunder turned beet red and hastened forward.
“Your eyes look back to normal,” Gunder said. “Are you feeling better?”
“I’m starving,” Caelan answered. His throat felt dry and sore. His voice sounded like a rusty croak. “Is Anya still in the kitchen?”
As he spoke, he walked back toward his cot. One moment he felt fine; the next, his knees buckled.
Gunder caught him before he fell and made him sit on the bed. “Slowly,” he said. His long fingers gripped Caelan’s shoulder to steady him while he peered into Caelan’s eyes. “Hmm.”
“What is this?” Beva said sharply, entering the ward without warning. “Why is the window open? Cold air is pouring in.”
Gunder stepped back from Caelan hastily and tucked his hands into his sleeves. He stared at the floor. “I think he may be better, Master Beva,” he said diffidently. “He spoke.”
“Ah.” Beva shut the window with a bang. Dusting off his hands, he tilted up Caelan’s chin to look at him.
Caelan pulled back. “I’m tired of being poked. I want to eat.”
A rare smile lit Beva’s face for an instant; then he glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you, Gunder. Go and tell the Neika he must not walk so much on his leg yet.”
Gunder hastened out, mumbling something too low to hear.
Beva turned back to Caelan. “Your severance is ended. I am glad to see you so much better.”
Confusion filled Caelan. He rarely saw tenderness in his father. He didn’t know how to react.
“I’m hungry,” he said again.
Beva smiled and nodded. “Very well. Growing boys think only of their stomachs, but you haven’t eaten in three days. Let me cover you with the blanket, and Anya will come soon with a tray.”
Caelan frowned and took a wobbly step away from the bed. “Why can’t I go to the kitchen? I’m fine.”
He tried to walk, but gave out by the time he reached the end of his bed. Beva steadied him, and Caelan found himself glad of his father’s help. Beva made him sit on the bed.
“You must not tire yourself,” Beva said sternly. “You are not yet ready for activity. Take things slowly.”
While his father walked away to call for the house keeper, Caelan looked over at Old Farns. The man’s face was sunken and gray on the pillow. His breathing came in quick, shallow rasps.
“What happened to Old Farns? Is he ill too?”
Beva returned, his eyes watchful and curiously eager. “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what? He looks bad. He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”
“Perhaps,” Beva said, still watching him closely. “Winter is a hard time for old men. He was caught outside in a snowstorm, trying to cut peat for our supplies. Foolish and stubborn, our Farns.”
Caelan rubbed back a yawn, then stared at the bandage on his hand. “What happened? Did I cut myself?”
“Frostbite,” Beva said. He reached out and smoothed Caelan’s hair. “Your hand will heal quickly.”
Caelan picked at the bandage, trying to see beneath it. “It hurts when I flex my hand.”
He flexed it again as he spoke. Something about the resultant pain stirred his thoughts. The snowstorm ... yes, he remembered being outside at night, trying to get back to the house. Farns had been with him ....
“Caelan!” his father said sharply.
He looked up with a blink.
“I think you should lie down and rest now.”
Beva pushed at Caelan’s shoulder, but restlessly Caelan shrugged him off.
“I’m not tired. I’m not sick, either. Am I?”
“You have been. You should rest. I will make a potion that will help you sleep.”
“No!” Caelan said. “I don’t want it. I’m fine.”
But he felt strange—hollow and somehow emptied inside, as though an important part of him was missing. What had he and Farns been doing cutting peat at night in a snowstorm? Had they been caught unexpectedly by the weather?
No ... he remembered darkness and the walls of the courtyard. They had been trying to hurry. They had been afraid.
Caelan caught his breath sharply and looked at Old Farns with fear. “Wind spirits,” he whispered.
“No!” Beva said forcefully. He shook his head with peculiar urgency. “No, Caelan. You are mistaken. There were no wind spirits.”
Caelan stared at his bandaged hand. The pain called to him.
“Listen to me,” Beva said harshly. His tone was like a net, surrounding Caelan and drawing him in. “You have frostbite in your hand. You forgot your gloves and stayed outside too long. We feared lung sickness for you, but you are better. That is all. There is nothing else to remember.”
Beva went on talking, but Caelan felt as though he were floating on the words. Strange, compelling words. The ward shrank around him, becoming distant and small. He could feel the cold rush of severance, cutting him off from everything except his father’s voice.
Caelan thrust out his hand and knocked it accidentally against the bedpost.
Agony flared from his palm, and with a jolt he remembered holding the warding key. Wind shrieked around him, sounding almost alive.
It was alive. And the key was burning his hand, burn ing the life from him . . .
No!” he shouted, jerking from his father’s hold. Terror seized him, breaking a cold sweat across his skin. His heart thudded, and he found himself on his feet, his clenched fists held up as though to ward off an attack. “No! Get it away! Get it away!”
“Caelan!” His father caught him and shook him hard “You’re safe. Stay within severance and be safe. Hear my words, Caelan. Stay within severance.”
Caelan closed his eyes, feeling the terror fade by degrees. His father was taking
away the fear, taking away the memories one by one.
From a long distance, he heard Master Umal’s dry, boring voice delivering a lecture within the hall of Rieschelhold: “Relinquish memories one by one. When they are gone, then knowledge will go, piece by piece, until there is nothing left. Only an emptied vessel, purified and wailing to be filled.”
Caelan blinked and struggled to focus. He felt as though he were spinning on a string, suspended within his father’s voice. And he was shrinking with every word Beva uttered, losing all that he knew. Losing all that he remembered.
“No,” he said in a whimper, trying to draw back. “I don’t—”
“Trust me,” Beva said. He held Caelan’s face between both hands. His eyes pinned Caelan’s, digging deep. “Follow me into the severance, and I will make you worthy—”
“No!”
Caelan jerked back, breaking his father’s hold. Gasping and shuddering, he dodged when Beva reached for him again and lurched across the ward on unsteady legs, staggering from bed to bed in an effort to reach the door.
Beva came after him. “Stop! You are not strong enough to—”
Caelan turned to him. “No!” he cried. “You are taking my strength. Get away from me.”
Beva stopped, his face white. They glared at each other.
Caelan pulled his sore hand into a fist and began smacking it into his left palm, striking again and again, using the pain to break the awful webs of coldness his father had spun around him.
“I held the warding key,” he whispered, struggling to regain his memory. “The wind spirit had me. Another spirit had Farns. I took the key from my pocket, and it came alive.”
He could feel a flash of heat inside him. His hand began to ache in earnest, throbbing. “I used it to drive the spirits away,” Caelan said.
Long shudders ran through him, and suddenly his mind felt sharp and clear. The hollowness inside him vanished, and he was whole again.
Gasping and blinking, drenched with sweat, he slowly lifted his gaze to his father’s. Horrified certainty spread through him. “You tried to purify me,” he whispered. “When I was hurt and couldn’t defend myself, you tried to sever me and make me into a—a—” He choked, unable to say it.
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