A Forthcoming Wizard

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Are you ready?” Jorjevo asked, coming up behind them. He took Rin and Lakanta by the hands and led them in a delightful step, a dip, hop, and half turn to the side, then back the other way.

  “When does the ritual begin?” Tildi asked, clinging tight to Rin’s mane.

  “It has already begun. You might say it never ends. We pay heed to the eternal song, that of the great Lovers who formed this world between Them, and Their joy in Their creation. Their hearts beat with a single purpose, but we hear many different tempos from all the different children They made. We join together in a dance to become more open to the oneness of Their union.”

  “It sounds . . . it sounds like our festival meetings,” Tildi said, relieved to find common ground. “We hear the lessons in which Father Time instructed Mother Nature to make all the parts of Alada.”

  Jorjevo’s eyes twinkled. “Smallfolk, it would be unwise for a lover to instruct and not assist in such a great undertaking. But take comfort in that which is familiar to you.” He regarded them all kindly. “All of you have those things that tie you to your sorrow. Bring them into the dance. I already have yours, Tildi.” From the pouch, he took a handful of small items. Tildi recognized the mementos she had kept of her brothers: Gosto’s handkerchief, Pierin’s knife, Marco’s flute, and Teldo’s scrap of parchment that was a copy of a leaf in the Great Book.

  “I haven’t looked at those in weeks,” she said. “I’m ashamed to say I had almost forgotten I was carrying them.”

  “Don’t be,” Jorjevo said. “Your brothers would be honored by your devotion. I am sure they have never been far from your thoughts.”

  “They aren’t,” Tildi said solemnly.

  “What sorrows would you shed?” the bearkin asked her friends.

  “Well,” Lakanta said slowly, “I do have the last letter my husband sent me.”

  Rin said, her chin out in defiance, “I am sorry for those poor beasts we left behind us. I regret those who died because of mad wizards and greedy kings.”

  “We know of whom you speak,” the bearkin said. “We felt the pulse through the earth’s skin change around them when the monstrosity that the orind had guarded was freed. We were aware of them. A not-so-successful experiment, roots, roots of clay, roots of the earth itself that were creeping out, curious, and strangling everything they touched. Surface dwellers must beware of digging too deeply.”

  “But you live underground, too. Aren’t you afraid of the roots?” Tildi asked.

  “So do our stone-brothers,” Jorjevo said, indicating Lakanta. “But none of us have burrowed down to where those originate, down in the hidden places. Truly, the roots are content as they are, and should never have been allowed a doorway to the upper world. But they did not thrive well in light. They were better off underground, where their reaching out harmed nothing. Everything belowground has a tough skin, devoid of color. The creatures are attracted to bright lights, bright colors. They cannot help themselves. They are not evil, but they are out of place. The orind kept them from roaming.”

  “The orind?” Rin asked.

  “That was the name of the beasts of whom you speak. They were simple beings, until they were changed.”

  “By the Shining Ones?” Tildi asked.

  “Yes, as they called themselves. They had many names, all brimming with arrogance,” Jorjevo said, without rancor. “We record their actions, but what is done is done. They are out of the world now.”

  “I hate them,” Rin said. “I do not regret that my people were brought into being, but they had no right to make one species eternal captives because it happened to be convenient to look after a mistake they made. I would kill them, if any still live.”

  They do, or at least one does, Tildi thought, but she didn’t want to say it aloud.

  “You shouldn’t look forward to killing,” Lakanta said.

  Rin looked at her in surprise. “How can you say that, when the Makers’ work robbed you of your husband? You and Tildi have more reason than any of us to call for their blood.”

  Tildi was shocked that Rin would speak so freely. Lakanta wasn’t offended, but her blue eyes were solemn. “It is because I have had time to think, and mourn. Hate gets in the way. I don’t want my memories of him tainted. We were too happy together.”

  “You have a warrior’s spirit, Windmane,” Jorjevo said. “Would you let go your anger? It weighs down your heart. You may defend the helpless all the better for its lightness.”

  Rin nodded, her thick hair bobbing. “Then, I will.”

  “Then we begin.” Jorjevo tilted back his head and let out a bellow to the skies. His people echoed it, and the sound formed a wall around them. “Join us, sisters!”

  Rin opened her arms and screamed out a defiant challenge to the unseen. Lakanta laughed.

  “That’s telling them, Princess,” she said. “Eternal Ones, I love you!”

  Feeling a trifle silly, Tildi looked up. The spherical golden rune against the disk of blue sky stared down unblinkingly at her like a gigantic eye. What should she say?

  “I still obey,” she called, thinking of the elders and what they expected of females.

  “Does that give you peace?” Jorjevo asked gently.

  “It ought to,” Tildi said. Suddenly she felt like weeping. “If I tell the truth, I was not so obedient to the strictures as I should have been. I practiced magic. I thought myself a match for any one of my brothers. I was a stranger in my own homeland, and I never knew it until I lost them.”

  “Then let me add one more item to your sacrifice,” Jorjevo said. From the heart of her knapsack he produced the white cap she had worn all her life, and the long braid folded up within it that she had cut off on the night her brothers died. “Turn your back on that which restrains you. The Mother and the Father will always love you, as we do.”

  “But what will I do with them?” she asked.

  “Ho-ah!” Jorjevo cried.

  “Ho-ah!” the bearkin responded.

  As if in answer, the glowing sigil descended from its height. The bearkin pushed back from the center of the clearing to make room. When the globe of light touched the ground, it burst into golden flames that flared up as high as the treetops. Tildi recoiled, throwing up her hand to protect her eyes.

  “Give your sorrow to the flames,” Jorjevo said. “Throw them into the fire. Get rid of that which holds you back from reaching your heart’s desire.”

  She clutched her brothers’ possessions to her heart. “I can’t do that,” she said, horrified. “This is all I have left of them.”

  The bearkin’s eyes were kind but insistent. “You have your memories, and you will have them still when the physical objects are gone. You will lose nothing but your grief. Come with me. Will you trust me?”

  Tildi hesitated for a moment. “I will.”

  Jorjevo lifted her off Rin’s back and carried her through the swaying bodies to the innermost ring of dancers. She stepped down from his arms, holding the few things tightly. She wasn’t given time to think. The bearkin already near the scorching blaze took her by the shoulders and led her around in a circle.

  “Wait, we are going anti-sunwise,” she protested.

  “We are unmaking sorrow,” the female nearest her explained. “Let it go. You do not need it.”

  Am I ready to let go of my memories? Tildi wondered. She thought back to the day the thraiks had attacked her family in the meadow over Daybreak Farm. She pushed away the painful sight of her brothers disappearing one by one into the black gash in the sky. Her mind refused to let that vision go. Instead, it added the terrible day, ten years before, when her parents had been carried off by the terrible beasts as well. Then, suddenly, her mind was in Oron Castle, at the north end of Orontae, seeing the doors close behind Edynn for the last time. The image of the white-haired wizardess gave her a kind and affectionate glance, then was lost from view forever.

  Tildi thrust her hands away, as if she could drive the memories from her heart. To her
horror, she also let go of the trinkets: the cloth, the knife, the flute, and the strip of parchment, her cap and braid. They tumbled into the fire, which flared up greedily and engulfed them.

  “No!” she cried, leaping after them.

  “Yes,” her escort insisted, holding her back effortlessly. She held the protesting smallfolk by the shoulders. “Be rid of them. Remember the good. Let your strength come from those times.”

  She tried to move back through the line, to the spot where she had flung her treasures into the fire. Perhaps she could rake them out. Oh, but what would be left? A lump of metal from the knife? But she was too small and weak to resist the tide of dancers who swept her before them.

  She saw then that Serafina had come into the ring. The wizardess held a white saddlebag in her arms. Tildi saw that there were tears standing in her big, dark eyes. She flung the pouch as far into the licking flames as she could. The fire leaped high where it fell. Serafina bowed her head, and was swept into the dance and out of Tildi’s sight.

  Why would she destroy her own property? Tildi wondered. Then she realized that it must contain Edynn’s things. Her heart ached for Serafina. She wished that the young wizardess would find some comfort in the ritual. Serafina turned away hastily, not wanting anyone to see her weep. Yet Tildi watched something rise from the heart-stroke of her rune, like a drop of dew rolling along a blade of grass, and vanish.

  Magpie came forward with his hands cupped together. Tildi guessed what was within them belonged to Lady Inbecca. He thrust his hands toward the flames and opened them. No object fell from them, but a rune appeared and hung briefly before it faded away. Tildi could read that one, for it had changed little since its ancient days: regret. She gave him a sympathetic smile. He returned it, but his eyes were ineffably sad.

  “My turn,” Lakanta said. She clapped Tildi on the shoulder as she pushed by. From her belt pouch, she took a much-folded parchment. Her round cheeks were pink. At Tildi’s puzzled glance, she explained, “It’s the last letter I ever received from my husband. If I’d known it was to be the last . . . well, then.” She swallowed hard and gave Tildi a brave smile. “Got to let it go.” She opened it, scanned over the lines within it, then thrust it from her. The flames rose up in a gush, making all standing nearby fall back from the heat. “It’s done,” she said, her voice thick. Tildi reached out to squeeze her hand. Lakanta gave her a grateful smile. She pulled Tildi along as the rhythm sped up, and they did a gavotte.

  “Ah, they always could dance in the Quarters,” the dwarf woman cried.

  The bearkin nearest her bent to take Tildi’s other hand. As soon as they touched, Tildi was able to hear even more clearly the pulsing rhythm that drove her feet. It made her happy and sad at the same time: sad with a deep and inexplicable longing for things she would never know and things she had lost yet happy to be alive. The music passed through every fiber of her body, driving her to dance. The book followed her. The voices inside it sounded glad as well. Lakanta let go of her hand, to make way for one of the smaller bearkin, who gave way to Morag, who let his singing companion take her for a wild reel that made her laugh out loud. She did feel lighter, knowing that the terrible moment was only the end of the happy life she had had with her brothers. She knew the good things about them, which she couldn’t wait to share. She had stories of Gosto and some of his yarns, and Pierin’s conquests, Marco’s music, and Teldo’s fascination with magic. She and the others exchanged tales as they danced.

  “So Olen was not your first teacher,” Serafina said as they stepped gaily in a circle with Magpie and Jorjevo. She seemed more at peace than she had been, ever. The small frown line between her eyes faded, and Tildi was struck again by how pretty she was when she wasn’t looking severe. She beamed at Magpie, who held her other hand. “It was Teldo.”

  “He learned, and he taught me,” Tildi said. “He would have made a good wizard if he had lived.”

  “You carry on his legacy,” Serafina said. “We live, so they are not forgotten.”

  “What have you cast off?” Magpie asked the towering bearkin.

  “Frustration,” Jorjevo said with a laugh. “I am too impatient for my people. I must give up my hastily begun projects and finish only that which is important. When I think of an idea, I wish to pursue it. When I cannot, it irks me and disturbs the harmony of our life. You could not hear it before, but my loves were complaining that I was upsetting the balance.”

  “I would never have thought of you as rash,” Magpie said, grinning.

  “Nevertheless, sometimes my will to act speedily comes of use,” the bearkin replied. “If it were not for my jumps, it might have been a long time before we agreed to intercede when Irithe called upon us. Forgive me. I speak in pride.”

  “Oh, no!” Tildi said. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you did it.”

  Jorjevo looked pleased. “So I am vindicated. That gladdens my heart, Tildi. We also thank you for the gift you have brought us.”

  “I haven’t given you any gifts,” Tildi said, alarmed. She wondered if she had neglected some facet of the bearkin’s traditions. Jorjevo pointed to the silver-gilt rune on his chest.

  “Indeed you have. We are delighted to see our true names. We also find joy in seeing our song made manifest.” He pointed to the rune at the heart of the bonfire. “All of these things please us. You have given us much more than we have given you.”

  These must be the happiest people in Alada, Tildi thought.

  Not far away, Teryn and Morag danced together, looking happy. Tildi did not know what sorrows Morag and Teryn had given to the fire. The guards had gone to the center of the circle together very late in the ceremony, after most of the bearkin had taken their turns. Teryn had emptied out a small bag tied at the neck. The flames leaped up to greet whatever fell out of it. To Tildi’s astonishment, Morag had surrendered his sword. Teryn had put her arm around him and drawn him back out of her sight. Tildi was glad to see them now. She observed the tendrils that connected their runes, even here, not on the page of the book that followed her, and was glad for them. As the music changed tempo to a softer, slower dance, Tildi sank into a heap with a bunch of the small bearkin behind her. They all fell on her like pillows toppling out of a cupboard. She was buried beneath them like a furry avalanche but she couldn’t stop laughing. She felt so good inside, the best she could ever recall. The children helped her up, holding her close, rubbing their noses with hers. It was wet and cool, and she giggled.

  “What a funny way to kiss,” she said, and offered her nose to the others. They were all giggling. Big ones clustered about to pick up the children and Tildi and joined the embrace. Tildi offered her small nose, and had it tickled by the stiff whiskers around Danevo’s snout. She was passed from hand to hand, as each of the big bearkin wanted to share their joy with their guest. The sun sank in the sky, until the light around them was red and golden. Everyone was still singing and laughing. The book floated along behind her. She guessed that it was taking notes. The voices from it sounded as happy as she felt. She had been handed all the way around the circle many times. Wine as sweet as nectar was offered to her by a pale golden-furred maiden. The jar was too big for her, but dozens of bearkin helped steady it so she could drink. Trays of food came along afterward. The cooks had thought of her: on every platter there were pies and cakes and dried meats cut to a size she could consume. Everything tasted so good. The wine and the food gave her more energy to dance, and the dance made her hungry and thirsty again. When the sun had long set, she sat by the fire with her new friends, listening to them sing and swaying to the music. When she felt like it, she got up and danced again. There was always more food and wine and song and stories when she wanted those, too.

  She woke from a comfortable slumber and discovered she had been asleep on the shoulder of a mother who was nursing a small cub.

  “Are you well, little friend?” she asked. The circle of sky above them was a clear, deep blue. A feather of cloud was edged with a strea
k of light. The bonfire had shrunk to waist high. A dozen or more bearkin still circled it. Lakanta was among them, as was Captain Teryn. Tildi stretched.

  “Is it morning already?”

  “Morning and morning again since we began our dance,” the female said, shifting her hold on her baby. “I think this is the first you have slept. No dreams?”

  “Only good ones,” Tildi said. “I feel wonderful.”

  “I take joy in that,” the female said. The baby, its fur wiry brown plush, reached out and touched Tildi on the knee. Its little round eyes regarded her with trust and affection.

  Tildi felt a rush of love for all living things. She had never felt so comfortable and protected. Then she sat up, alarmed. The dancers had been circling the fire for hours. They could have churned the forest rune up into anything while she slept! She peered through the dancers’ legs, looking for anything amiss.

  “All is well,” the mother said gently. “Whatever you fear, it has not come to pass.”

  She was right. The hard-packed earth had been disturbed, true, but no more than one would expect from having a hundred gigantic creatures with thick claws on their back feet. The rune looked exactly as it had been when she stopped paying attention to it.

  “I . . . think I must be restoring it in the back of my mind,” she said.

  “I thank you for that,” the mother said. “You are a good wizard.”

  “Not yet,” Tildi said with a blush. “I have a long way to go yet.”

  “Then I wish you joy of your journey. I hope you have found peace here.”

  “Oh, I have,” Tildi assured her. “I love it here.” She reached out to pat the baby. It grabbed her hand in both of its small paws and mouthed it. She laughed.

  In the soft, bluish light, Tildi saw Serafina and Magpie dancing alone together next to the fire, and a small measure of her happiness seemed to drain. They were embracing warmly, out of step with the music, but in step with each other. Like the guards, threads of their runes began to intertwine together. Tildi had an urge to interrupt them, to stop it.