Swift Magic (The Swift Codex Book 2)

by Nicolette Jinks

  “You have questions, feyling?” the Wildwoods asked.

  Walking carefully to not upset the crow, I approached her and sat down on a log near where she stood.

  “Lyall showed me the infected trees.”

  “You called the infection an Unwritten.”

  “Yes,” I said. I wasn't sure how to proceed with my questioning from this point on, so I sat for a minute longer, thinking. I asked, “Do you know anything about the Unwrittens?”

  Without pausing in braiding the strands of a hops vine suspended from a tree, the woman said, “I know, yet I do not know. The words associated with the knowledge are gone from the living memory of those who dwell within my forest, but I know in my bedrock what it is.”

  “Do you know what they do?”

  Her fingers stopped in the middle of arranging leaves and a line formed between her brows. “They are unnatural. They do not allow for life to continue as it should. But more than this, I am not sure.”

  I watched as she went back to weaving, working so slowly that she made little progress.

  “Do you know when the infection started?”

  Her fingers quickened again. “Yes. They entered the forest the same day that you did.”

  A lump lodged in my throat, hard to swallow passed. The answer shouldn't have surprised me. A part of me was anticipating the answer, but hadn't wanted it to be confirmed.

  “Ah,” was all I could say. “Do you know anything of the husks?”

  “I know that they are dangerous, and that they take orders but can give none.”

  I nodded, not sure if it had been she who had first understood this or me. It didn't matter.

  “Is the thing which has started the infection a powerful enemy?”

  Her arms dropped to her sides, and she turned her full attention to me. All of the Wildwoods was staring at me, into me, through me, digging through my mind and memory and body. When she looked away, I gasped.

  “It is as you are. Yet it is not.”

  I remembered what it was that Death had said to me. “The same mold, but a different color.”

  “Precisely.”

  Now wasn't the time to feel unnerved and distracted. I focused on my next question. “The infected areas, can you feel them?”

  “They are there, but sensations are dulled and painful to focus on.”

  “Like a numb limb?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked distracted again. For a few minutes, she stared out into nothing. The crow ruffled his feathers, bringing her attention back to me again. “I have given permission to this beast to watch over you. He will not interfere. His role is to observe and report. Do you have any other queries for me?”

  I gave it thought. The answers hadn't been a road map to dissolving the Unwritten, though I had hoped for more clues than I was given. I settled on, “Do you have any words of advice for me?”

  The woman got a distant expression on her face, and she said in a half-statement, half-song, “Do you know what happened to the lost souls of a lost lake of a lost time?”

  A wordless thought nagged at my mind. I could feel it pressing in against me, an itch which I couldn't reach, something which slipped out of my fingers at the last possible second. The meaning escaped me, just as the meaning escaped the Wildwoods. She knew it was important, too, but she didn't know why.

  She wouldn't say any more. I knew that just by looking at her, and I was out of questions, anyway. So I turned to go back home, intentionally taking a wandering route. My feet passed over fallen bark and roots, raspberry leaves snagged at my dress, but it didn't stir me out of my reverie.

  A few things were important. One was that whatever had cast the Unwritten, it had entered the woods at the same time that I had. Another was that it was my personal enemy, the Immortal.

  They were waiting for me at home. I felt it gnawing about my consciousness and wriggling in my gut. It was the same way I felt as when I knew that the time was up even when I didn't have a clock to look at.

  So I angled my mind to take me back home, and soon enough I was walking in that direction. Next I knew, I was back at my willow hut, and I was quite right about the waiting party.

  Except I hadn't thought it would be Rossalinda's family.

  They were so impatient that they didn't even go sit down in my main room. No, they were all standing around the door, a few people even out on the road, as if anxious that I would see them and take off instead of sticking around to see what they wanted. If anything, it was this that made me want to bolt.

  “What is the meaning of the mob?” I asked. Mordon and Father were no where to be seen, and I didn't know if they were indisposed, inside, or busy with another mob somewhere else. A few of the feys in attendance bore a resemblance to Rossalinda. I brought my stride up short. “Is this about the book?”

  They looked one to the other, as if they hadn't previously appointed a speaker and no one wanted to take the privilege. I wanted to cross my arms and ask again, but I didn't. Taking up a defensive posture wouldn't do me any favors, and I'd skedaddle soon enough if they proved to be trouble.

  At my pursed lips, the man who I had chanced to speak to before stepped forward and said, “Yes, it's about the book.”

  He didn't elaborate. “And?”

  He looked to those around him, and someone shuffled forward, book in hand. He took it and started to cry.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  After a startled few seconds, I invited them all in to my hut and occupied myself with serving a round of drinks. This gave the man, whose name was Martin, time to recover his composure.

  “I can't tell you how I regretted what I said to you earlier,” Martin said. “I was ashamed to see the way your repaid my unkindness.”

  “You were forgiven long ago,” I said. “I was afraid that I'd be chased out of the village with pitchforks and torches.”

  “We agreed to stop doing that last year,” Martin said, “this year it's cattails and bog gas.”

  I laughed, as did others, but I didn't know how much he was joking and how much he was serious. An uncertain silence fell over our group. Various people sipped or cupped or just stared at their drinks.

  “Can I assume this isn't a lynch mob?” I asked.

  “A lynch mob! Why would you think that? No, we are all…very touched by your thoughtfulness. The skill is owed to Linnia?”

  “I did the enchantment. Aunt Linnia helped and guided me, but I did it.”

  “We never stopped to consider the talents you bring to the village,” admitted Martin.

  I assumed this was his way of asking. “I do potions. I have a client list and a couple of students, but that's been neglected to take care of matters here. I'm also a budding talent with illusions, and I dabble in enchantments and tinkering.”

  “Ah, you have more of Maggie in you than you look like. The tinkering comes from your father, though, doesn't it?” Martin hesitated. “We don't have long before the others return. I'll come to the reason we're here.

  “You did a good thing with the book of memories, there are things the old folks can show us that the youngers never saw, like…her…in her early days. It's something we'll keep and it will come out whenever we want to remember her.” He cleared his throat. “So believe us when we say that we want to help you now.

  “We know about the Cole death and about the Fey Council. They've gathered the information they want, and there's nothing you can do at this point. They'll make the decision on their own. You've been here long enough to recharge, and the Wildwoods are getting sicker and sicker. We want to give you the best chance you can. The Wildwoods aren't safe now.

  “We'll help you leave. The portals in and out are all collapsing, but we can work together to strengthen one. When it's stable, you and your fire drake can leave. Stay out of the woods for a time. Do whatever it is you need to do, make potions, teach your students, even go back to the drake's colony. But don't come back here. Not until we send word. The Infection is bad. We
've never had a case like this before. They say something like this is what destroyed a lot of the drake colonies, and before that, what claimed the sea serpent city of Atlantis.

  “We're all born and raised here. The Wildwoods is family, it's identity, it's us. We're dependent on it, it's dependent on us. We'll live or die with it. But you, you have a life outside of it. No one can, or will, ask you to risk yourself for it. You've already done more than you should. Get out of here, safely.

  “Even if we all die, and the Wildwoods goes with us, it'll live on through you. You can share your stories of what it was like to be in the Wildwoods, what it was to be part of the Swift Village. Maybe that's why you were here, after all, to observe and to keep us alive after a fashion. We can't offer you much of anything else, except this chance to live. Please take it. Maybe you can make another book and record your memories in it, then we won't be lost. What do you say?”

  The intensity behind their words frightened me. They struck me as genuine and truthful. The implication behind their words was a grim portrait indeed. Portals collapsing? I had no idea that it was getting that bad. But I wasn't tempted by the offer to flee. Rather, I felt indignant and angry. However, these people meant well, meant the best, actually, and I did believe their stated intentions. Supposing that I were to leave, the infection would take off and destroy the Wildwoods and everything. The result would be unchecked power—supposedly with a corresponding power surge in myself, too, but it was too soon for that. It'd be better to face the Unwritten now. Even if it killed me in the process.

  There had to be a better solution than that, though. I couldn't allow the Wildwoods to be destroyed, either through my action or inaction. I needed to find a way that would stop the infection and allow the Wildwoods to return to normal.

  “I understand the reason for your offer and I accept the sentiments behind it—but I will not abandon the Wildwoods. It is part of me, too,” I said.

  This caused them to regard me differently. From them stirred a warmth, and acceptance that hadn't been there before. It was wordless, but we all knew that it had happened, that I'd been brought into the village in a way I hadn't envisioned. One by one they each stood, but none of them made as though to leave. They exchanged soft muffled words and at last a speaker came to the front of their party.

  “There is a Celebration of Life Carnival coming tonight,” Martin said. “The caravans have arrived and are setting up now. It would be our pleasure if you would attend, with Meadows, as our guest.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The carnival opened at night, the declaration as simple as swinging open the wrought willow gates to allow entrance. Although there was no fencing connected to the gates, everyone respected them when they were closed and when they were thrown wide, the crowd crossed underneath the arches because everyone wanted the privilege of having done so.

  We entered the carnival at different times, Mordon and I. So I wasn't sure if I had crossed over the threshold first or if he had. Not that I minded either way. For now, I explored, keeping my eyes wide, just looking at the tents and attractions, not going inside anything just yet. They had streamers everywhere dangling from tree limbs and buntings supported between the tops of their striped tents. There was a little of everything.

  Fantastical and natural animals left free to wander or sleep in their homes as they wished. Acrobats and contortionists and street magicians dotted short stages outside of tents, and any manner of palm-readers and fortune tellers sat within their waving canvases. Penny games scattered around, small toys given to those who could shoot moving targets with darts or spells, or to those who could toss a ball into colored cups of water on a table. Cotton candy was spun in front of fascinated observers, done with a flare for the dramatic, the floss changing color mid-way through. Shaved ice and sweet syrup was sold under exotic names like Tiger's Blood and Unicorn's Sneeze.

  I got myself a Snickerdoodle, which tasted as I expected: a cinnamon-vanilla spiced cookie. Four sips into it, I'd had all the sweetness I could handle. When I threw it away, a swarm of will-o-the-wisps appeared from nowhere and packed it off, taking bites off it the way a school of fish attacks a bread crust.

  A booth also sold Elephant's Ear which was a gigantic oval of dough fried and served with spiced sugar or honey. Someone else sold popcorn, in the bag or cone or on a stick. Chocolate, caramel, and candy apple were the sweet flavors while their savory varieties were salt, butter, paprika, and earwig. Like the Tiger's Blood syrup, I doubted the earwig powder was made from its namesake.

  I went through a house of mirrors where the floors slanted and some feys had already unleashed a cloud inside and turned two mirrors to appear invisible. Then I watched a slowly-spinning carousel. I was admiring the way the animals breathed and tossed their heads while they leaped up and down in circles when I heard the distinctive low rumble of Mordon's performance voice.

  He was in the middle of the benches and people were eating, watching their kids as they sat in a semi-circle around him. Gone was his occasional distant behavior. Every line and wrinkle worked in exaggerated expressions as he continued to tell his story over puppets which appeared to have been made from manipulating various colors of paper napkins.

  “...and the young boy was by now so hungry that he would do anything to eat. What else could he do when no one would give him scraps and they all chased him away by hurling rocks at him and calling him names?”

  I decided to embellish the puppets just a little. I gave them faces but did not control their behaviors. Following Aunt Linnia's advice, I let the observer fill in those details. If Mordon noticed, he didn't lose a beat.

  “And so the boy had to steal food, and he always ran away because if anyone caught him he would be beaten very badly. The village thought of him as a nuisance and decided to drive him away. They found him and tied his hands and were going to chase him down the road with big rocks. But an old man stopped them. 'I will take this boy, and raise him as a son,' he said. And people let him do it, because in truth many of them felt guilty about the way they had treated the poor boy.”

  “Who was the old man?” a girl asked. “Is he Merlyn?”

  The old man puppet wagged an arm at the now-giggling girl while Mordon said, “Patience, patience. I am coming to that soon. The old man was not Merlyn; he was an old sorcerer and a kind one. He did not have much but he had a roof with no leaks to shelter the boy and plenty of food to feed the boy and he made a lot of time to teach the boy. Now, we have many, many tales of the boy's youthful adventures and misadventures, but this is not that tale. This is to say that the boy, thanks to the gentleness and open heart of the old man, survived his time as a lonely street waif and he survived a very cold winter which he surely would have died in if he hadn't had the old man's fire to warm up beside. The little boy grew up and became Merlyn.”

  A child raised his hand. “But none of it would have happened if not for the old man?”

  “You didn't wait for me to call on you,” Mordon said, but the scolding was so light that all it did was make the children laugh. “But yes, thanks to one old man who was just like anyone here, the greatest sorcerer ever known was given the gift of life.”

  He didn't even get to ask what the moral of the story was before the children were clamoring to hear more stories. A woman who I'd learned was the head teacher appeared to save Mordon with the words, “There's a whole carnival to enjoy. Shoo, shoo, shoo. Drake Lord Meadows will be with us longer than the carnival will.”

  The children broke apart after some more cajoling by the parents and a round of overly-loud ''thank you''s. And then the teacher sat down so close to Mordon that her knee brushed his, and she leaned on her elbow to say, “You have quite a way with the young ones.”

  Mordon glanced down her body, taking in her pose and the way she was twisting a bit of hair about her finger. He smiled. “I find they listen better than their elders.” He tipped his head to her respectfully, stood up, and walked away. Her mouth dropped op
en when she realized he was coming to see me.

  He slid an arm about my waist and pecked me on the lips.

  “Your mother wants to speak to you. Do you know what about?” Mordon asked.

  I shook my head, and looked at the carnies doing their thing under striped tents. Children screamed and played and caused a general ruckus with the performers and each other while their parents, older siblings, or guardians watched on. Even if this came about as a result of someone's death, it was far from a sober celebration. The bereaved at times forgot themselves to the joys of the evening. But I wasn't feeling like being sociable yet. No matter how appealing the curiosities were.

  “She said something about leaving before dawn,” Mordon continued.