Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  It was, as Bracht had warned, difficult to negotiate. The snow eased off as the morning grew older, the sky no longer banked with grey nimbus but brightened to a hard and cloudless azure, the sun striking brilliant sparks from the great drifts that lay across their way, the horses plunging sometimes chest-deep, Bracht’s powerful stallion breaking them a trail, the geldings content enough to follow in his path. They made the best time they could, but even so dusk fell before they came in sight of the next caravanserai and—the decision eliciting a sigh of relief from Calandryll—chose to spend the night there.

  The place was twin to Portus’s establishment, if more crowded with itinerants who had opted to wait out the blizzard. They learned that Daven Tyras had passed through, but now, thanks to the storm, had gained a day or more. This news was taken with phlegmatic acceptance by Bracht, less stoically by Calandryll, while Katya, who had lost some of her gloom during the day, fell once more into brooding. Nonetheless, to bathe in hot water and eat well before retiring to comfortable beds were luxuries that cheered them all and they departed the next morning in better spirits.

  The day, too, cheered them, the sun establishing itself early in a sky free of cloud, warming the air so that what snow yet remained began, just as Katya had promised, to melt rapidly, their pace increasing steadily as they cantered northward, hooves splashing rainbows from the puddles that now spread across their way.

  That night they once again found shelter in a caravanserai, though for the next three they slept in the open, Calandryll finding, to his delight, that he grew increasingly accustomed to such rude accommodations, even that, under Bracht’s tutelage, he mastered the art of the campfire. Within a day or two, he estimated, they would reach Wessyl, and with that calculation came the sudden realization that the days lengthened, spring, for all this inclement weather, advancing steadily.

  He had kept no calendar—it seemed a pointless exercise where they had gone, save perhaps to count off the days to the Mad God’s raising—and it was a shock that the winter solstice had gone unnoticed for it was celebrated in Secca with feasting and revelries, a great masked ball in the palace, and when last he had participated he had sat at his father’s side, his eyes seeking Nadama among the crowd, jealous of her attention, alarmed when she danced with Tobias. This year the festival had gone unnoticed, his attention occupied entirely by the quest. Indeed, he had forgotten to observe any of the festivals since departing Secca—the days devoted to the gods, his own birthday, all had passed unheeded. He was a year older—it seemed far more and soon it would be a full year since he had fled his home. He smiled thoughtfully as the weight of time sank in: it seemed so long, and yet no time at all, as if his journeying with Bracht and Katya were a thing entire unto itself, unending. Perhaps, he thought, it is; Menelian had suggested that Tharn must lie beyond the limits of the world and perhaps we must journey beyond the limits of time to thwart Rhythamun. That alone felt solid, a fact infrangible: that Rhythamun must be thwarted; though still he was not sure how, only that the pursuit must continue.

  That night he offered a prayer to Dera, asking the goddess’s forgiveness for his omissions and her aid in the successful conclusion of the quest. If she heard, she returned no sign, and he fell asleep wondering if perhaps she turned away her face, consigning the folk of Lysse to the awful fate threatened by the Mad God. It seemed to him a terrible carelessness if it were so, but he could not shake off the doubt and in the morning his mood was akin to Katya’s: one of somber reflection.

  He cursed himself for such pessimism, but it remained with him as they galloped northward through a day turned squally, rafts of serried grey cloud blowing constantly off the Narrow Sea to send rain drumming in fierce outbursts, as if in confirmation of his fears.

  They traversed moor and marshland now, ahead only a dull landscape of undulating hills and tussocky grass, colorless beneath the neutral sky. The road wound around the hillocks, weaving among them as if to tantalize with its promise of swift passage, the land to either side bare and windswept, scattered with reedy ponds and little rivulets that filled the ancient road with puddles, or, where the way dipped lowest, overran the dirt in muddy streams. It was a bleak terrain that seemed populated by nothing save curlews and honking geese, devoid of farmsteads or other travelers, the last caravanserai passed that morning, the next, save they be delayed, certainly found too soon to merit halting, leaving the prospect of a damp and miserable night.

  It was a surprise to come upon the crone in such a place.

  At first, as they rounded the shoulder of a drumlin shadowed by the westering sun, it seemed a great bundle of reeds was somehow animated, proceeding along the road of its own volition. Only when the heap wavered and fell, sheaves scattering, did they see the woman beneath, her threadbare gown a fusty green of a shade so similar to her burden as to merge, indistinguishable, with the rushes she stooped to gather. Calandryll slowed his horse as they approached, seeing a face scoured by age and wind turn toward him, a hand rising to brush meager strands of ivory hair from a forehead webbed with wrinkles, eyes a dulled and hopeless blue observing him dispassionately. The ancient made neither sound nor movement, seeming not to anticipate help or sympathy, but only to wait, silently watchful. Unthinking, he brought the chestnut to a halt. Bracht turned the black stallion to the side as if to ride around the old woman, then thought better of it and reined in. To the rear, Katya followed suit.

  “Shall I help you, mother?”

  Calandryll swung down as he spoke. Bracht said, “We’ve leagues to cover yet,” and Calandryll gestured at the crone, bending to loop rein about fetlock, saying, “Would you leave her unaided?”

  Impatience flashed briefly in the Kern’s blue eyes, but he shook his head and answered, “No,” as he dismounted.

  Katya studied them a moment, her expression unfathomable, then she, too, sprang down, hobbling her grey and moving to join them.

  It took little enough time to gather up the fallen reeds and rebuild the stook, but when that was done the bundle seemed greater than before and far larger than so frail a woman might carry. She stood staring at it, as though assembling her strength. Her shoulders were narrow and bowed, the wrists that protruded from her sleeves thin, sticklike; Calandryll saw that her feet were bare and muddied from her labors; her gown seemed far too worn to hold out the wind. He spoke without thought: “Where do you live, mother? We can use my horse to carry this.”

  At his side Bracht let out a short, sharp breath, indicative of his impatience; Calandryll ignored him. The crone said, “Not far,” and waved a withered hand in the general direction of the marshes.

  Calandryll nodded and bent to lift the stook: it was more than he could raise alone and he looked to Bracht for help. The Kern sighed, shrugged, and lent his strength to the task. Together, they maneuvered the bundle onto the chestnut’s saddle and lashed it in place.

  “Should we ignore her?” Calandryll met Bracht’s accusing stare. “We ask the aid of gods—why should they aid us if we ignore her need?”

  He thought to receive some angry retort in answer, but instead the Kern shrugged again and ducked his head.

  “Aye.” He grinned, bowing in the crone’s direction. “Forgive me, mother; in my haste I forget my manners.”

  “You find them, and my thanks.” The old woman’s voice was reedy as her load, barely discernible over the wind. “This way.”

  She turned, starting away, halting when Katya stepped forward, a hand upon her arm.

  “Would you take my horse? You’ve likely walked enough.”

  “You are kind.”

  The crone nodded and allowed the warrior woman to lift her up astride the grey, where she perched like some windblown scarecrow, her seat precarious, her legs too short to reach the stirrups.

  “Take the saddle horn,” Katya advised. “You’re safe enough.”

  The old woman obeyed, exposing yellow gatepost teeth in a smile of gratitude, her hands locked about the saddle horn as Katya took up the
reins and began to walk. Calandryll and Bracht fell into step behind; a curious procession as they moved slowly along the road.

  They descended the drumlin and went a little way farther before the old woman indicated they should turn off, between two low monticules where a stream gurgled, their approach startling a heron that rose on ponderous wings, croaking its annoyance. The ground was boggy, the marsh grass bedewed by rainfall, their boots and the horses’ hooves sinking in to draw loose with sticky, sucking sounds. It seemed a wonder to Calandryll that anyone should choose to live in so forlorn a place, and then that perhaps the old woman had no choice. He watched her, toylike on Katya’s saddle, and thought what a miserable existence she must have out here in this desolate landscape. Perhaps in summer it was more cheerful, but now, with the sky looming obdurate and grey overhead, the wind rustling like eerie laughter, it was a place he had sooner left behind. Still, it was unthinkable that they should have ignored the old woman’s plight: his words to Bracht had come out instinctively—how should those seeking help go on heedless of those in need?

  Beyond the close-spaced monticules the land broadened in a shallow depression, filled along its center with a stinking marsh set round with blackened reed mace. They skirted the quagmire, crossing the rivulet that fed the slough to climb the farther slope. Beyond that the land dipped again and then rose once more onto firmer footing, no longer soggy, sere grass spreading over a low plateau. The wind, its passage uncontested by hillocks, blew stronger here, salty and rank with the perfume of the surrounding bogland. The horizon was lost in lowering cloud and as they continued across the plateau more rain lashed down. Calandryll wondered where the crone sited her dwelling, for in all that mournful wasteland he could see no sign of habitation.

  Then, where wind-tortured stands of broom thrust tangled limbs from the dank sward, a cut showed.

  It fell down narrow and steep to a bowl sheltered by encircling hillocks. A spring babbled from among blue-black stones, birthing a stream of clear water that meandered across a little meadow of healthier grass. Beside the spring stood a lopsided hut, its walls haphazard, constructed of random planks and undressed branches, stone blocks that might have come from some earlier building long since tumbled down, its roof a wild thatching of reed. A little distance separate stood a no less ramshackle structure suggestive of a barn fallen long ago into disrepair. They halted there and Katya lifted the crone down as Calandryll and Bracht lowered the stook. From the entrance of the hovel came a black cat that studied them with suspicious yellow eyes, let loose a piercing shriek, and ran as if terrified across the meadow to disappear over the farther ridge.

  “He seeks his dinner,” the old woman explained, “and I would offer you the same.”

  “We’d not impose upon you.” Calandryll smiled, thinking that likely it were better they offered to share the contents of their saddlebags than take what little she might have.

  “Nor should we delay,” Bracht added, but kindly. “We’ve yet a way to travel.”

  “A storm builds,” answered the crone, beckoning with crooked fingers. “Come.”

  Bracht smiled rejection, taking up his reins as if to mount. Calandryll, for no reason he could understand, paused, then asked, “Where would you have your reeds, mother?”

  “There.” The crone pointed to the ruin of the barn. “And put up your horses, too.”

  “We cannot linger,” Bracht said. “Well stow your reeds and be on our way.”

  “Into the storm?” Yellow teeth flashed dully in an ugly smile. “You’ll not travel far, warrior.”

  As if in confirmation, a peel of thunder crashed and lightning stabbed jagged fingers toward the earth. The rain strengthened, heavy droplets splashing into the stream; the thunder dinned again, like some great drum beaten against the skin of the livid sky. Calandryll wiped his face, motioning for Bracht to take up one end of the bundled reeds, and they hauled the stook across to the barn.

  Inside, the place was oddly dry, the roof, for all it consisted only of a patchwork thatch, holding out the downpour that now beat a savage whiplash across the meadow. Clean straw was spread over a floor of aged stone, a rusted manger holding an amplitude of sweetly scented hay, a trough filled with potable water. Calandryll caught Bracht’s eye and frowned, seeing curiosity on the Kern’s face.

  “There is something strange about all this,” he murmured.

  “Aye.” Bracht kicked the stook. “You and I together found this hard enough to lift, and she’s frail as one of her own reeds.”

  “And this”—Calandryll indicated the barn— Sound as any stable. With hay and water . . . as if visitors are expected.”

  The Kern nodded, his eyes become troubled, fingers toying with the hilt of his falchion. “This place has the dimensions of witchcraft,” he murmured. “Is she some harpy, luring us here?”

  “I think not.” Calandryll shook his head, possessed of a certainty he could not explain. “I believe her honest.”

  Bracht’s answering gaze expressed doubt. He said, “No matter, we’re best on our way.”

  For reasons he could understand no better than his certainty the crone presented no threat, Calandryll hesitated to agree, though still he moved with Bracht to the open door. And halted as Katya came out of an afternoon gone midnight black save where lightning’s silver shafted down, leading the three horses, her face glistening wet, and somber, but not, he thought, with that depression that had gripped her. It seemed rather, as he studied her grey eyes, a kind of introspection that had little to do with nostalgia for her kinfolk. He stood back as she brought the animals inside.

  “I thought,” she said slowly, seeming unsure of both her words and motive, “that it were better we accept her hospitality.”

  “Aye.” He ducked his head in agreement, taking the chestnut’s reins. “In this storm . . .”

  “We can still ride,” Bracht interrupted. “Better a dousing than . . .”

  He broke off, shaking his head as if the thread of his warning were lost, puzzlement mapped by the creasing of his forehead, the doubt in his eyes.

  “Bracht fears a harpy lures us to her lair,” Calandryll explained. “Or a marsh witch exercises her glamours.”

  “An old woman offers us shelter.” Katya set to unbuckling her saddle. “Only that—a lonely old woman.”

  Bracht stared at her, dubious. “You know this?” he challenged.

  “I believe it.” Katya tugged her saddle from the grey’s back, set it aside. “I trust her.”

  She began to rub down the gelding. Outside, rain and thunder increased, the one a steady drumbeat, like myriad fingers tapping above their heads, though still no drops passed through the thatch, the other a great, fierce clashing that rolled and echoed like the angry roaring of some immense, invisible beast. Lightning bleached all their faces, painted silver over Katya’s hair. Calandryll loosened the chestnut’s harness.

  “I cannot understand this,” Bracht said, shouting over the bombardment of exterior sound. “Are you possessed by some glamour?”

  Katya laughed for the first time in days, tossing back her hair as she faced the Kern across her horse’s flanks.

  “What is there to understand?” she asked. “How far might we travel in this storm, in this sorry countryside? A glamour? No—save that the offer of shelter and hot food enchant me.”

  “We’d need camp soon enough,” Calandryll added. “Why not here? At least we shall have a roof above us.”

  “I . . .” Bracht shook his head, shrugged. “Very well, it shall be as you wish.”

  Calandryll was not sure whether the Kern acceded from a desire to please Katya or because Bracht began to feel the same pervading confidence that convinced him the crone offered no harm. He smiled as he saw the stallion unsaddled, Bracht scrubbing at the glossy hide with a vigor designed to conceal his doubt.

  The animals tended and settled, they drew on their cloaks and ran through pelting rain to the hovel, light showing now about its drooping door and irregu
lar windows. Inside, the single room was dry and warm, perfumed with the herbs that hung in bunches from the rafters, a fire blazing merrily in a stone hearth, a blackened cookpot suspended over the flames, stirred by the crone. She greeted them with a nod and a gap-toothed smile, gesturing at the rough chairs set about a precarious table. A clay jug stood upon the table, beside it four cups of the same material. At the old woman’s feet the cat glanced idly up from its delicate toilet. Calandryll saw blood about its muzzle.

  “He found his dinner,” the crone said, “and soon yours shall be ready. For now—I’ve wine to offer.”

  She rose from her stool, hobbling to the table to pour the wine, pass them each a cup, smiling as Bracht hesitated.

  “Neither bane nor cantrip, warrior. Only wine.” She raised her own mug, drinking deep. “And a toast to those who aid a helpless woman.”

  Katya was the first to sip, then Calandryll, Bracht a little slower, not yet entirely convinced. The wine was good, smooth on the tongue and rich, subtly flavored. Calandryll drank again and said, “We’ve food we might add to your pot, mother.”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “Your offer is kindly taken, but I’ve fare aplenty. One thing, however—I’d have your names.”

  He was close to blurting out his true identity, but a warning glance from Bracht reminded him and he said, “I am Calan; this, Katya; he is Bracht.”

  It seemed some hint of amusement sparkled in her dull eyes as he said the false name, or perhaps it was merely the reflection of the rush lights, for she only nodded and returned, “And I am Edra,” setting down her cup and going back to the fire.

  “How do you live here, Edra?” asked Katya. “It seems a lonely place.”

  “Well enough,” the crone replied enigmatically, “I find what company I need.”

  Calandryll looked around. The place was simple, crude even, but surprisingly comfortable. The floor was solid stone—the foundation of an earlier building, he supposed—strewn with mats of woven rush, and clean. Against the rear wall stood a low pallet, piled with sheepskins, close by a chest, beside the hearth was a cupboard from which Edra now took bowls and platters of the same rough pottery as the cups and jug. Unthinking, he rose to help her, aware as he took the platters that, like the barn, this hovel was free of drafts for all the wind howled outside. Indeed, the fury of the storm dimmed in here, shut out by the gapped walls.