He stood there for long moments, waving the stick about. The dancers seemed oblivious to its presence, taking no conscious note of it but evading it with amazing agility. It seemed to bother them not in the least.
What the devil could he do? He stomped around the ring in frustration, shouting himself hoarse. Beatrice had charged him to guide and protect his companions; and here, mere days into the woods, were they ensorceled and in peril.
He looked up at the sky; the moon had set. He prayed to Deeset regardless, drew on his link to the goddess to power a spell-but it failed. That was a god, or an avatar of one, there within the ring; and the faerie ring itself was no feeble power. He could not overcome it.
Not, certainly, with the moon as slim as it was now. It was recently out of the new, a thin crescent when in the sky. His power waxed and waned with its extent. When it reached the full, perhaps he might fight this spell, perhaps he could break his companions free ...
But that was eleven days from now, he realized with despair. Could they survive for eleven days, without food or drink, caught in the faerie dance? Well, yes, they might; time passed oddly for those ensorceled by the fays. What seemed a night might be a century, and eleven days outside the ring might be mere moments for those inside.
The sky was tinged with rose, now, the sun beginning to rise. And as the air lightened, the scene within the faerie ring faded away, fays and musicians and humans evaporating like the morning dew.
They would return, Mortise knew, with the setting sun, to dance away another night. And another, and another, and more to come; they would dance, if he could not save them, until their deaths.
The glade was quiet, now, serene; birds twittered in the trees. The bedrolls and packs of his companions were scattered across the grass; those, at least, had remained.
With a groan of despair, Mortise sat on the boulder at the glade's center, his head in his hands.
For long hours, he debated what to do. He considered digging trenches across the glade, or building barricades of logs, or damming the nearby stream and flooding the land; but he feared none of this would work. Indeed, it might simply cause his companions to trip, fall, injure themselves, and continue their ecstatic dance without regard for injuries. He might merely advance their deaths.
He saw only two possibilities: He could wait eleven days, until the night of the moon's fullest extent; or he could leave the glade in hope of finding aid.
He might as well spend eleven days traveling as sitting here in despair, he supposed.
If he were to leave, should he return to Biddleburg, or continue the pursuit of Broderick?
He could think of no one at Biddleburg with the power to aid him; but then, he knew no one in the HamsterDzorzia, whither Broderick was seemingly bound.
He shrugged, and searched the packs until he found Broderick's socks. He closed his eyes and concentrated; some faint remnant of Jasper's spell remained. Eastsoutheast, that was where Broderick headed.
Before he left, he took a last glance around the glade; the packs of the others were strewn across the grass. Animals might rip them open in search of food, he realized;and so he picked them up, and hung them from the branches of trees.
He shouldered his own pack, took up his walking stick, and hiked resolutely east-southeast. Without the others to slow him down, he made good speed.
Some days later, Frer Mortise smelled a campfire, the smoke on the wind. It was night, a few hours after sunset. He pulled forth the socks again and closed his eyes, but felt nothing; if any power remained in Jasper's spell, he was not sensitive enough to feel it any longer. The people camped ahead might include Broderick, but again might not.
He eyed the sky through a gap in the trees; Deeset was waxing, but still slim. There was less than an hour before she set.
Mortise hesitated, then decided to take the risk. He should have enough time. He took on owl form.
His gear and garb fell away, onto the needled forest floor. The owl flew up through the trees and circled once, fixing the place in memory. It would not do to lose his equipment, Mortise thought.
He flitted above the trees. The moon shone slantwise through thin wisps of cloud; the firs looked dark below. Bats shared the air with him, as did another owl or two; Mortise heard an annoyed hoot, as the owl whose territory this was took exception to his presence. Below, he spotted a flying squirrel, leaping from one tree to another; almost without thinking, Mortise folded his wings, dived, and snatched it from the air. He bit the creature's head off, then landed in a tree to rip at its flesh.
He hadn't had anything to eat for hours; the squirrel was delicious. But this was unwise, he realized; time was short.
He darted through the forest, dodging the boles of trees. The campfire was just ahead now. He came to a perch on the branch of a white pine, just outside the perimeter of the camp.
There was a babble of speech; high voices, silver tones: elves.
Mortise advanced crabwise down the branch to get a better look. A dozen or more. They had the statue of Stantius, sure enough; they'd set it up by the fire, and someone had put a peaked elven cap on Stantius's upturned face-a joke, perhaps.
Some sort of stew bubbled over the fire. Several elves were singing, while another group played cards.
Mortise gave a start; one of the card-players was human, an old and toothless man. The old man looked up from his cards, stared directly at Mortise—and winked.
Mortise was terrified; would the old man betray him? But the human, whom Mortise did not recognize, merely returned his attention to his cards.
Mortise heard a noise from beneath his tree, the scuffle of a boot on leaves. He looked down; another human, gray-haired but not as old as the other, was sneaking out of camp. Mortise identified this one easily enough: Broderick.
One of the elves turned at the very same noise—but at that instant, Vincianus threw down his cards and yelled, "Grand spatzle!"
Hoots and groans came from the card-players; the singers broke off, their song interrupted. Vincianus jumped up and did a little dance of victory, waving his hands—and suddenly, the air was full of explosions and colored lights, exuberant magic to express the old man's pleasure at winning.
Broderick ran flat out away from the encampment.
The old man was providing a distraction, Mortise saw, to allow Broderick to escape. Should he follow Broderick, Mortise wondered, or stay with the statue?
Before he could decide he realized with a start that the moon was already sinking behind the—
Oh, fudge, he thought. The moon had set. He was trapped in this form until it rose again—late tomorrow afternoon.
Mortise sighed internally, and flitted silently after Broderick.
Broderick paused at the forest edge to survey the land beyond. Nearby, Mortise came to a landing on a tree, grateful for the rest.
Parallel ridges ran out from the Dzorzian Range, cutting the countryside below into valleys. The slopes were terraced, planted with grapevines and olive trees; the valley floors were patchworks of wheat, corn, and fields left fallow. Here and there stood farmsteads, isolated clusters of buildings, and peasants' huts. Down the left slope was a village, a cluster of buildings along a road; no lamps burned now, in the hours before the dawn.
Broderick came to a decision and made his way downward, toward the town. At each terrace edge, he crouched and let himself over the lip.
Mortise took to the air behind him and circled high into the night sky. Sharp owlish eyes easily picked out the figure of Broderick, struggling down the ridge; indeed, saw mice scutting amid the still young corn, rabbits in a farmstead's vegetable patch. Mortise contemplated a snack, but feared losing track of Broderick.
Dawn neared; with each of Broderick's steps, they left Mortise's gear farther behind, a heap somewhere off in the forest. At dawn, Mortise would need to depart; he had no wish to brave the day's harsh glare, not with sensitive owlish eyes. He hoped Broderick would soon find a place to rest.
At
last Broderick came to the road along the valley floor, and made quicker progress along it toward the village. There he hesitantly surveyed each building in turn, until, with apparent satisfaction, just as the eastern horizon began to lighten, he came to the village's only inn.
He began to hammer on the door, shouting. Mortise glided down to a landing atop the stable's peaked roof to watch. Mortise was thankful; doubtless Broderick would take shelter here. Mortise could flit back to the forest, find his gear, and return soon after.
After some moments, a candle appeared at an upper window; and shortly afterward the door was unbarred and opened. A haggard, middle-aged woman in nightclothes stood there, holding a candlestick.
"Hola, woman, your best mount, and on th' instant," Broderick said sharply.
Bugger, thought Mortise. Doesn't the man ever tire? Broderick clearly intended to ride onward, and Mortise could not pursue.
"Well enough, good sir," said the woman sleepily, "but a deposit will be needed, and we must agree on the rental—"
Broderick drew a blade. "Your life will be deposit enough, methinks," he said, "and as for rental, you may request it of your lord."
The woman made to slam the door, but Broderick pushed inward. The door slammed behind them both.
Unhappily, Mortise watched the door, swiveling his head from time to time to survey the eastern sky; but no one returned, not for several moments, though there were crashes and muffled oaths from within the inn.
At last, Mortise took flight again, and headed back toward the woods.
Frer Mortise slept, head under wing, until the late afternoon, when the moon finally rose. At last able to return to human form, he donned his clothes and collected his things.
It was not until the evening that, trailworn and weary, he returned to the fields where he had left Broderick. Familiar now with the lay of the land, he managed to come to the forest edge not atop the ridge, but down in the valley. This at least spared him the difficult descent down the terraces.
He took comfort from the waxing moon; if danger was near, so at least was his goddess. In the few days yet to go, though he had scant hope now of finding help for his friends, he hoped at least to learn of Broderick's fate, and perhaps the statue's, too. The faerie ring was two days' travel, if he went swiftly; he still had time to gather provisions and return.
Across the fields came the lowing of cattle, returning to their pens. From huts and houses, tendrils of smoke reached skyward, fires cooking the evening repast. Down the road, Mortise could see the inn where Broderick had been; he noticed its sign, as he had not before: a broken column, surmounted by an olive branch. Other men, and some older women, were heading there likewise, no doubt to quaff a pint of ale or stoup of wine after the day's hard labor.
The door stood open; within, there was comfort and cheer, the hearthfire casting warmth and light across the taproom. When Mortise appeared, conversation trailed away, as the locals took in his habit and sickle; a wandering priest, clearly, his cult not readily apparent. He seemed harmless enough, so the lull in conversation was momentary.
Two young children ran about, bearing cups and sometimes platters of food; the clientele knew them, it seemed, and would pop them onto their knees, or tell them a joke before asking for another ale. A third, a babe, crawled on the bar itself, plashing its hands in a puddle of wine.
A group of people clustered about the woman at the bar. Mortise recognized her as the innkeeper from whom Broderick had demanded a horse. She had a shiner about her left eye. She came around the bar and approached him.
"Good evening, Father," the innkeeper said. "May I be of help?"
"Not `Father,' " said Mortise. "Merely `Frer,' if you will. I could use a bite to eat, and a place to spend the night."
She hesitated. "May I ask your cult, Brother?"
"I follow Deeset," he said.
"Oh-very well," she said. "We can spare some pottage and the local wine; and if you don't mind the hayloft, there's room in the-stable."
Mortise blinked; the offer of charity was unexpected. He could pay, of course-but perhaps he'd take her up, in the interest of appearing a harmless itinerant, and secretly leave her a stack of coins on the morrow. "Thank you," he said. "May I sit by the fire?"
"Of course," she said, snagging one of the children. "Get the friar a bowl of pottage, Albrecht," she said.
"Righto, Ma," said the boy, and ran off toward the kitchen. The innkeeper rejoined her circle.
"It just goes to show," said a red-faced and portly man, taking up the conversation where it had paused, "you need a man about the place, Lotte."
"And you'd like to be my man, is that it, Johnny?" the innkeeper said, pouring a mug of wine and motioning Mortise to take it.
There was general laughter, as Johnny turned even more red-faced. "That's not what I had in mind," he protested, "though I'm not saying I wouldn't, either. But all sorts come down the road. And with the war on, there'll be more. One man with a sword stole your best horse, Lotte, you have to think about that. Think of the children, if not your own safety. We should take turns, sleeping here—"
"I think," said a woman with the lined face and largehands of a lifetime of labor, "people who open the door in the middle of the night get what they deserve."
"Thank you kindly, Tanya," the innkeeper said in an annoyed tone, "but I can't afford to turn away custom." Mortise sat on the bricks of the hearth and sipped his
wine, listening. Albrecht appeared with a bowl of brownish, lumpy stew, and dropped it unceremoniously in Mortise's lap. Mortise wolfed it down, scooping it up with pieces of bread. It was the usual thing; an inn generally had a pot bubbling away above the kitchen fire at all times. Into it went leftover scraps of meat, vegetables, occasional bones, and water to keep it all from burning. It served as the basis for stocks and gravies, but was edible alone in a pinch. Years of continuous simmering gave it a rich, meaty consistency. Mortise thought it quite satisfactory.
He hoped they would mention where Broderick had gone; but the topic did not arise, and Mortise had no desire to raise suspicion by asking.
Besides, he was looking forward to a good night's sleep. He could always ask Lotte tomorrow.
Mortise awoke in late morning, nose filled with the warm scent of hay. At the far end of the loft, golden sunshine poured from an open window. A beam protruded out over the road there; Mortise supposed they used it to hoist up bales of hay.
It took Mortise a moment to realize what had awoken him; more than sunlight poured through that window. He heard the voices of a good many men in conversation, the tinkle of harness, the clopping sound of horses on the move. Mortise climbed over bales of hay to peer into the road.
An army marched through the town. Not a large army; perhaps twenty horse and forty foot. The latter bore polearms of some kind, oddly shaped blades waving in the air. The van had already passed, but Mortise peered up the road; at the head rode two men abreast, a woman between them. One of the men, even from behind, Mortise identified as Broderick; that salt-and-pepper hair, that arrogant stance were pretty well imprinted in the memory of any Biddlebourgeois who had lived through the time of tyranny. The other was evidently a nobleman; behind him rode a footman bearing his arms—a dragon displayed, gules on argent. His armor was curiously stark for a nobleman; the modern fashion was for increasingly elaborately decorated arms, but his mail was plain as plain. Functional, Mortise supposed.
The woman wore a mage's robes; and by the color, she was evidently of the College of Fire.
"Think we'll have time for an ale, after?" said one of the soldiers passing below Mortise's perch.
"If you don't watch where you put your bloody guisard," snarled another, "you won't have an after, Mauro, you turd."
"All right, you lot," said another commandingly, "save it for the elves."
Elves? thought Mortise.
Of course! Broderick had made some kind of deal; they were off to take the statue from the elves.
Mortise lun
ged toward his clothes.
By the time he'd gotten his clothes on and made it out of the stable, the party had left the village and was winding its way along a cattle path, up the southern ridge.
Mortise watched them a moment, wondering how much use cavalry would be amid these terraces; a charge down these slopes would mean risking your mount's legs with every drop.
He ran down the road and skirted someone's wheat. To follow the cattle path himself would be to court disaster; they would wonder why he followed, and might detainhim. Instead, he'd have to struggle up the ridge some distance away, hoping to avoid notice. It was hard work, pulling up the terraces; and the grapevines around him gave no shelter from the hot sun-and not much more from observation.
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