Elementary

by Mercedes Lackey

  A glimpse, nothing more, of a rat, its tail disappearing into shadows.

  Tom barked a laugh at himself and his racing heart, then focused on the task at hand. Lifting his lantern again, he headed down the narrow ways, ignoring the cells to the sides, down to the deepest part of the “cellar,” trying to catch his breath.

  He found a place then, between crates and barrels, and set the lantern down. He plucked at his uniform, adjusting it here and there, as he willed his heart calm and his breath steady.

  Normally, he’d call his Elemental allies and ask them to aid him in this task. He was strong in his own Element. But he’d not call any to this place. With the filth of London all about them, the sickness in the earth below the Tower, and the foulness of its moat waters, he hadn’t the heart.

  No, he’d do it himself. But not the usual way, of merging with an area below his feet, slowly expanding into the land in a strong wave. He’d not expose himself, either. He’d seek down into the bedrock below them, more like a needle thrust. He’d shape his power thin and sharp and send it down fast, like a weighted rope. Once he’d the answers he was seeking, he’d pull back, just as fast, just as quick. A lightning thrust in and out, swift and sure.

  At least, so he hoped.

  He centered himself, adopting a firm stance, his heart beating slow and sure. He barely opened his lips, concentrating on deep regular breaths.

  One last breath. He lowered his shields and braced himself for the onslaught.

  The pain came as a wave, rocking him. The sickness of the stone and earth around him, the corruption of all that was natural. Worse, the stones held pain, centuries of pain, that cried out like a wounded animal. He’d felt it from the Tower before, and he’d vowed to find a way to cleanse the stones. “Soon,” he whispered. “Soon.”

  He drew another breath and concentrated on his needle of power, bright and hot and sharp. Once the image was fully formed, he lanced it down between his feet, sending it plunging past stone and brick and layers of earth, down to the very foundations of the land. His body trembled, sweat forming at his collar, but he held on to the power and the needle and sent his awareness after it, abandoning his physical senses.

  Here, deep within, he reached the place where the stone was solid and impenetrable, seemingly one piece. He’d heard heathen tales that told of the world on the back of a tortoise shell, traveling through the universe. The image was an apt one. Here, at these depths, there was no foulness, no sickness. He took a moment to revel in the feeling. The earth was clean and strong and . . . stressed.

  He stopped his plunge, hovering the tip of his lance just above the source.

  The stone vibrated with tension and power. Raw Elemental power shimmered with the tiniest of ripples now and again.

  This was more than he knew how to handle, more than any one Elemental Master could handle, and well he knew it.

  Under London. Under the Tower.

  He distantly sensed his body, trembling and sweating, but his focus remained on the foundations below him. The threat was real and imminent. It would take weeks, months to gather enough Masters to solve—

  He didn’t have to solve. All he had to do was drain. Allay. Ease.

  Tom was fairly certain that somewhere above his body swallowed hard, for in truth this could mean his death.

  He didn’t take the time to think. He lowered his needle, not to pierce, merely to touch, to connect, to—

  Lightning sparked at the point, surged out, up the needle, up the link. Up his power to arc and dance through his body until each individual hair seemed to stand straight up. The world was at once the foundations of stone, the cellar walls, the insides of his eyeballs.

  It was glorious and terrifying, and he surrendered to it, feeling his life ebbing as the earth below—

  Denial, defiance, and the stones of the White Tower above tore through him, taking the burden, pulling the arc away, pulling him away, until he was every brick, every rock, every pebble, every blade of grass, every feather . . .

  The bedrock below grumbled, settling down, easing . . .

  He heard voices then, roused in anger, with shouts and rough hands on his shoulders. The energies were torn from him. He staggered and collapsed into the hands that seized him.

  • • •

  Thomas Davies, late of His Majesty’s Royal Army, recently sworn Yeoman Warder of the Tower of London, and reluctant Ravenmaster, sat collapsed in a chair, cold and sweating under his uniform, barely able to focus his eyes on the men before him.

  Before him were arrayed Lieutenant-General Loftus and Colonel Doyle, standing at either side of a great, wide mahogany desk. And behind the desk was His Lordship, the Constable of the Tower, Field Marshall Arthur, Duke of Wellington.

  Behind the Duke, at the huge window, three large ravens, their blue-black feathers pressed against the glass. Their claws skittered against the stone sill as they fought for position.

  Behind Tom, his fellow Yeomen stood in judgment.

  “Dereliction of duty.” The Duke’s anger boomed over his head. “Leaving one’s post in the dead of night—and found in this condition. Was it liquor? Opium?”

  Tom managed to shake his head, trying to speak. His shields were in tatters, his resources drained. He gripped the armrests of the wooden chair, trying to stop their shaking.

  “. . . court-martial . . .” The Duke’s word seemed to come through a fog.

  Tom shook his head, trying to deny it.

  “Beg pardon, your Lordship.” Loftus’ voice cut through Tom’s confusion. He heard Loftus move closer, felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Tom managed to lift his head to meet the man’s gaze.

  “On your honor.” Loftus was staring at him intently. “You saw the lads, didn’t you?” he asked.

  Tom jerked his head in astonishment. “Milord?” he croaked. “I—”

  The ravens started up with raucous cries, drawing everyone’s attention before he could offer any further explanation.

  Loftus nodded his head as if satisfied. “There’s no shame in it, son.”

  The other Yeomen exchanged glances, and to Tom’s confusion, their attitudes seemed to change in an instant.

  “Lads?” the Duke demanded. “What lads?”

  “The Little Princes, your Lordship.” Loftus squeezed Tom’s shoulder with what seemed to be sympathy, then stepped back to his position by the desk.

  “Princes?” The Duke’s eyebrows rose, his confusion as deep as Tom’s own.

  “Slain by the command of King Richard the Second,” Loftus said quietly.

  “Richard the Third, sir.” Colonel Doyle whispered.

  The room was silent, the ravens were silent, and all Tom could here was his own harsh breath.

  “Ghosts?” the Duke asked, and something in his tone made Tom raise his head to look at the man. Veteran of many wars, a fierce leader of men, he now looked . . . shaken.

  “Aye.” Loftus’ voice was resigned and chagrined and resolute, all at the same time. “And not a man here hasn’t been touched by one over the years.”

  In the following quiet, every Yeoman nodded, their faces just as solemn. No laughter, no mocking.

  The Duke drew in a breath and leaned forward in his chair. “There will be no court-martial,” he said briskly. “See to it that this doesn’t happen again,” he barked. “Dismissed.”

  Willing hands helped Tom out of his chair and into the dawning day. He blinked in confusion. How long had he been caught within the stone?

  “It’s a rite of passage, seeing the lads. Takes it out of a man.” Loftus’ voice was gruff, but his grasp on Tom’s arm was strong and supportive. “A good night’s sleep, and you’ll be right as rain.”

  • • •

  Loftus was right, but for the wrong reasons.

  Tom sat in his quarters, a pen in his hand, ink close, tr
ying to think on his letter to his da. His table faced the window for the breeze coming off the river. His teacup sat empty in its saucer. Ink dripped from the nib of the pen to the paper below, and he watched as the blot expanded.

  He’d been told to sleep, told that he was off duty until the next day. He’d felt better when he’d woke, that was sure. A dose of his ma’s stomach powders helped as well. But there was something else, and he wasn’t sure what it meant or how it had come about.

  Whatever else had happened while he’d lingered in the foundations of the Tower, down to the very bedrock of the land, he’d anchored himself somehow—

  No. Tom shook his head. In this, in all magic, there was a danger in not being honest, or at least, in refusing to look at the truth. He’d been anchored, been . . . claimed in a way he’d never felt before.

  Elemental Masters of Earth were bound to the land, aye, but it was a bond that formed over time, as one worked with the soil and the stone. His mentors, his teachers, his da had all explained that to him. Like the roots of a tree, so would grow his connection, and while those roots would bind him, they’d also support and nourish. But whatever it was that had happened below, it had been fast and harsh. Like a fist around his heart. Like the clutch of a dying man on a battlefield.

  Whether it was for good or ill, he did not know.

  How to explain all this to his da? How to acknowledge the warning and offer reassurance without risking exposure? How to explain to his da the risk he had taken? How to ask if his da knew of the like, of the land, of the very buildings, locking in on a soul?

  How to ask if any of Da’s acquaintance knew aught about ravens?

  The blot ceased to expand. Tom dipped his pen again, careful to drain off the excess ink. While he had his letters, words had never been his gift. He’d no idea where to start.

  A flutter of wings drew his attention to the open window. Two of the ravens settled on the sill, filling the opening, all blue-black feathers and black, gleaming eyes. The larger one croaked at the other, pecking at the smaller one’s head.

  The smaller one bobbed, something dangling from its beak. Spreading its wings, it glided to the desk.

  “Here now.” Tom set down his pen. “None of this.” These creatures could do some real damage if—

  The bird cackled, opened its beak, and dropped a gleaming earring into his teacup.

  Hearth and Family

  Dayle A. Dermatis

  Klara drew the rounded loaf of bread from the oven, sliding it out on a long, flat wooden paddle. The scent of yeast and wheat spread through the mill cottage, and her mouth filled with moisture as her stomach twisted painfully. She was past hunger.

  Still, the fire salamanders writhing and playing in the flames made her smile, and she thanked them before she pushed the iron door shut, letting the cottage fall into cool shadows.

  Even as hungry as she was, Klara knew the bread was too hot to eat just yet. She set the loaf on a windowsill and covered it with a towel of red-and-white checked cotton, faded and often patched.

  Turning to the burlap bag of flour, she saw again what she’d seen before she’d baked this single loaf: not enough to bake another loaf, not even a small one.

  Oh, there were bags of grain in storage, safely locked away from prying dormice—but with her beloved Hermann dead from a fever and Otto, her dear boy, conscripted and later killed (so she’d been informed by official, dispassionate letter) in the Märzrevolution, that horrible revolution of 1848, the mill was as silent as the Water Elementals in the river.

  Fire was her Element, not Water like Hermann’s. The undines and naiads acknowledged her, but she had no power to call them, to beg their assistance. And she couldn’t run the mill without them, not alone.

  One last loaf of bread, which she’d make last as long as she could. One scrawny chicken, no longer laying, that would make a meager stew along with the garden vegetables. The goat could take care of itself, thank goodness. The rich, loamy earth here near the river meant she could grow a small but decent kitchen crop without special help, and she traded some of the small bounty at the local market, but it wasn’t enough.

  Hermann and she had been hard workers, and the mill, built by her father, had served them well for many years. Between selling flour, grinding grain for others, and her own baked delicacies, they had thrived, had had a comfortable life. She wasn’t the type to give up, but right now, with the delicious scent of that final loaf of bread pinching her empty stomach and no solution in sight, she felt tired, defeated.

  Old, even, although she was far from that.

  She picked up the broom and began sweeping, long, steady strokes to move what little dust lay on the floor. It felt good to move, to do something.

  She had no idea what to do next, where she could go. Into the city, she supposed, and try to find a job at a bakery, if the salamanders would have her. But the thought of a city made her shudder: the noise, the smell, the lack of air and streams and trees.

  If she had any money left, she might have considered going to America. That’s what Hermann had wanted to do before he died. She was the one who’d always said no, always feared the change.

  Her mother had been an Earth Magician, and they tended to nest, to bond to the land that was a comfort to them. Although Klara herself was a Fire Magician, her mother’s early teachings had settled deep within her. She loved the mill and attached cozy cottage, loved the plot of earth and the cool green forest and the ever-changing river and the huge oven with the salamanders who never let things burn.

  But she had loved Hermann even more, and he was gone, and so was Otto, and now she would lose the mill, her land, and the last of her heart, too.

  She sat in the rocking chair her grandfather had carved for her grandmother and picked up a piece of mending. Let it rest, untouched, in her lap.

  Then she heard something. Living alone, in the forest, away from the town, she’d long grown used to its sounds: the constant splashing of the river, the breeze ruffling the leaves, the soft crunch of animals through the pine needles. The snuffling of a wild boar, the drumming of a grouse.

  This was different, unfamiliar.

  Hushed voices?

  She turned toward the window and saw the fresh loaf of bread—her last loaf of bread—was gone.

  She went to the kitchen and grabbed a butcher’s knife. Without truly thinking, she cracked open the oven. She didn’t know if the salamanders could help her, but their presence soothed her.

  Hiding the knife in the folds of her skirt, she eased open the door and crept along the side of the mill to peer around the corner.

  The tension rushed out of her. They were just children!

  No, she realized as she watched the scrawny twosome huddle beneath the window as they tore into the bread. They were perhaps thirteen or fourteen, nearly adults—the boy old enough, as her Otto had been, to be taken into the military. Their small stature fooled the eye.

  Like Klara, they were near to starving.

  Her first instinct was to drive them away, reclaim what few crumbs were left of the loaf. She hadn’t enough food to feed herself, not in these hard times, much less feed two growing children.

  But the boy reminded her of Otto, and they were both innocents, and Klara couldn’t have lived with herself if she did anything less than help two starving children. To send them back into the forest . . . no.

  She’d have to butcher the goat.

  She cleared her throat.

  The two leaped to their feet, eyes wide in their dirty faces. The boy took a half step forward, protecting the girl. Twins, Klara realized. Probably blond beneath the grime.

  “Ach, if you’re going to be eating my bread, we should be properly introduced,” she said. “My name is Klara.”

  “I—I’m Georg, and this is Frieda,” the boy said.

  “We’re sorry for taking your
bread,” Frieda said. “It’s just . . . we haven’t eaten . . .”

  They hadn’t eaten for longer than she had, Klara guessed, and they were still growing.

  “Wash up down by the river, and then come inside,” she said, nodding at the mill. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  As they rounded the corner, she caught movement out of the side of her eye. There, in the river, the undines and naiads leaped and splashed and waved. Klara turned to stare at the children.

  Were they Elemental Magicians, too? Could one of them be a Water Magician?

  • • •

  Klara asked Georg to fill the heavy iron pot with water from the river. Opening the small door in the front of the hulking black stove, she fed in kindling to catch the coals, then larger pieces. One of the salamanders leaped out to twine along her arm, sinuous as an otter, before diving back into the growing flames.

  When Klara stood, she saw Frieda staring at her, but the girl quickly looked away when she saw the woman’s gaze on her.

  “Some vegetables from the garden, I think,” Klara said.

  Georg, who’d just come in with the pot, said, “I’ll do that.”

  He came back faster than she expected, bearing a cabbage, some onions and carrots, and a beetroot she hadn’t realized still existed. Before she could say anything else, he darted back outside.

  “He’s off to find mushrooms,” Frieda said. “He’s good at that.” She picked up a knife and began deftly chopping vegetables.

  Mushrooms, Klara thought. She still had a bit of butter, tied in a sack and cooled by the river. Her mouth watered.

  She picked up another knife and asked Frieda how the two had come to be in the forest.

  Their story came as no surprise; it was one she’d heard in town, at the market, over and over again. Germany in the 1840s was a place growing harsher and harder. The potato blight meant famine was a constant threat—if it wasn’t here already—and it was little better in the cities, with food prices soaring. Frieda’s and Georg’s parents had been unable to see how they could feed a family of four and quietly argued whether they should stop hiding Georg from conscription.