Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2)

by D J Salisbury

  After all, a plant is for eating. Why should it mind?

  Thunderdrums, he was far too sleepy. What did Bahtdor Nose mix with the anise? Just willow bark? He doubted it. He wind-blast-him doubted it very much. Bahtdor Bait made sure he’d be here in the morning. If he tried to stand up, he’d fall over. That drooling sandcrab.

  He should have listened to Natalie. She tried to warn him. But, listen? Not me, of course not. I have to blunder my way through, like I always do. Nameless, worthless friend-murderer. It was my fault. He wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for me.

  Viper squeezed the root at its leaf base. His entire body relaxed, began to float away.

  I couldn’t have killed him. I did exactly what he told me to do. He said I did it right. And he warned me that it was dangerous.

  I didn’t kill him.

  When next he opened his eyes the Racer was about to set. The Miner was rising above the peak of the mountain.

  He placed both hands around the root, just under the velvet leaves. “It’s time,” he whispered dreamily. He pulled on the stem.

  And screamed, and screamed, and screamed–

  Spiders danced over his skin. His father glared down at him from both heads. His heart raced, slowed to crawl, and hopped franticly around the inside of his ribs.

  I’m dying.

  Viper stared at the broken root in his sap covered hands.

  Trevor had warned him. A broken root, too much sap, that’s how the mandrake killed.

  What had he done wrong? It didn’t seem cool enough to make the root fragile. But it broke, just the same. He must have done something wrong. And he’d thought he was good at pulling up carrots and tubers.

  But he could hardly compare a mandrake root to a carrot.

  His vomit-soaked tunic clung to his body like a leech. He eased one hand down, plucked at the hem, let his fingers fall. His hand curled in the grass. It reminded him of a dead spider. The dead spiders twirling all over his skin.

  He gazed at the mandrake root in his other hand

  I’m not going to leave this root for old Bahtdor Nose. I don’t owe him a thing. I’ve got to get rid of it.

  Could he throw it? Not far enough. But what else could he do?

  Eat it?

  That would stop Frujeur. He giggled, but soon ran out of breath.

  He bit into the root. The fibers were surprisingly sweet and tender. The flavor washed away the clinging taste of gall. He licked the sticky sap from his fingers like molasses candy.

  Ay, this must be the Deathsinger’s haven. A cramp in his belly stopped that thought.

  The cramp spasmed into writhing pain. Convulsions, whispered a distant part of his mind.

  Enough, shrieked his body. Enough, enough.

  He found voice enough to scream.

  And scream, and scream.

  ˜™

  “By the seven moons of Menajr, he’s alive.”

  Viper stirred, trying to find the source of the familiar voice. He couldn’t see anything in the dazzling light. “Who?” he whispered.

  “It’s Frujeur, boy. Who did you think it would be?”

  Viper sighed and closed his sticky eyes. I hoped it would be Trevor. My turybird Trevor, come to rescue me. But he can’t rescue me anymore. Can’t help me ever again.

  “Wake up boy.” Frujeur fidgeted a few feet away. “Where is it?”

  “What?” Viper blinked at the herbalist, but sighed, wearied by just breathing. Who cared what Bahtdor Nose wanted?

  “The root, boy.” In his frustration, Frujeur began to bob like a rutting bahtdor.

  He wanted to laugh at the ridiculous old man, but he couldn’t find the strength.

  “The root. Where is the root?”

  What root?

  Thunderer’s drums. That lightning-blasted root he ate last night. If he told the truth, the cold goat would kill him, and he couldn’t lift a foot to protect himself. What could he say?

  “I see it in your face, boy,” Frujeur shouted. “You know what I’m talking about. Where is it?”

  “A deer ate it,” he whispered. It wasn’t a plausible lie, but his mind seemed blank. “She came just before dawn and ate all the pieces, even though it was here in my hand. Then she ran away like she’d gone crazy.”

  “A deer …” Frujeur moaned. “Ate. It.” He shook his head. “It broke into pieces? No wonder you’re in such bad shape.” He gasped and stepped forward a pace. “You heard it scream. And survived. What did it say to you? What? What?”

  “I couldn’t hear anything above the sound of the screams,” he whispered. He hoped the sorcerer wouldn’t question him too closely. He’d run out of tales to weave for the old goose. Let old Bahtdor Nose hold on to his silly myths. He knew the secret.

  Frujeur beat his palm against his forehead.

  Dizzy darkness crept up on him again. “Please help me,” he whispered.

  “There’s no point, boy.” Frujeur rubbed his hands briskly and turned away. “You’re dying, and nothing I can do will save you. Be peaceful. This is a decent place to die.”

  “Could you give me a little water?” His mouth felt like filthy cotton. Just the thought of water turned the cotton into rancid burlap. “I’m so thirsty.”

  “There’s no point, boy.”

  “Will you stay to bury me?”

  “I don’t have the time. Sleep well.” Frujeur marched out of the valley, muttering about a wasted trip and wasted chances.

  Good. You’ll gain nothing from me, Bahtdor Nose. And watch out for me, little man who thinks he’s a sorcerer. Watch out for me. I refuse to die at your convenience. Watch out for me, for someday I will come back as the power Trevor wanted me to be, and you’ll answer for what you’ve done to me, and to Natalie and Belle, and to all of the others they hinted about. Watch out for me.

  Watch out.

  Watch.

  Watch the trees. How beautiful they are. How charming! Watch the dancing of the leaves…

  Thirst woke him.

  Must find water. Downhill? Which way was downhill?

  The reek of old vomit engulfed him, nauseated him. He tried to roll over, to sit up and escape the foul odors, but a stone under his ribs forced him back, gasping in pain.

  A warm, wet stain spread across his middle and revived the stench.

  He lay on his back and cursed at rocks in general. In his thoughts, at least. He couldn’t find the breath to swear aloud. But he’d never been so humiliated in his life. Except for the times Lorel tossed him over her shoulder like a sack of feathers. Except for the day he’d been Outcast by his own father.

  He picked up the stone to toss it away.

  And froze.

  The stone was velvety to the touch, and a dark burgundy to the eye. He sat up without noticing the effort.

  The mandrake leaves. They dried up into a husk.

  He looked at it again and realized that the husk surrounded a seed.

  Now, how did he know that? He studied the seedpod intently. It glowed with nascent life. Sleeping, but ready to grow.

  He couldn’t wait to show it to Trevor.

  But Trevor was dead. They’d never share another seedpod, another dried leaf, another wonder. His throat closed up until he could barely breathe.

  Crying wouldn’t solve any of his problems. Time to start moving. He tucked the seedpod into his only remotely clean jacket pocket and tried to stand.

  Ay! How he hurt. And he stank. No wonder Bahtdor Nose kept his distance. Where was the nearest stream?

  He staggered down the incline, holding his aching belly with one hand and his suffering nose with the other. He wished he had the strength to strip off his crusty clothing. Saddle sores rubbing against stiffened cloth quickly transformed into agony.

  But after a few steps he forgot about the pain or the smell.

  How beautiful the valley was. His whole being overflowed with the life shimmering all around him.

  Every living thing glowed brighter than Trevor’s will-lamp. How
enticing and fascinating and– How very alive it all was. Hundreds of mandrake plants grew in the valley. And thousands of bees and lizards and rabbits and flowers. Glowing orange monarchs and brilliant silver-dotted whitewing butterflies fluttered over green-apple grass. How wonderful and enthralling and–

  Splash.

  Waves rocked the surface of a pond he hadn’t even noticed. Spluttering like a nercat kitten who’d dived unexpectedly deep to catch a plump gillifish, he pushed against slick rocks until he was sitting up to his shoulders in cool, refreshing water. Viper giggled and pushed soggy hair out of his eyes. He needed a bath, but he wasn’t in this much hurry to get clean.

  He rescued the seed pod and his other treasures from his pockets and set them on dry ground. He waded to the leading edge of the pool for a long drink from the brook. Thirst satisfied, he settled down to bathe.

  It took what felt like an hour to peel his crusted clothing off. But still the world around him glowed as if all seven moons lined up during an Alignment radiated from every living thing.

  How long would the effect of the mandrake root will last?

  And how long it would take him to walk back to Zedista?

  Chapter 8.

  Nobody answered when she pounded on Trevor’s front door.

  Where on the Loom was the kid? She hadn’t seen him in days. She hated to admit it, but she was getting worried.

  Lorel hitched the strap of the ugly old harp case higher on her shoulder. She shouldn’t’ve brought the fraying thing with her, but she’d hoped she could kidnap the kid and head straight up to the forest for an hour’s sword practice.

  No practicing now. She needed to find out what happened to him. Had Trevor dragged him off on a trip? It didn’t seem likely. Trevor hated traveling.

  But how could she find out?

  A bunch of sorcerers hung out at Trader’s Inn most days. She’d ask them.

  The sun was barely up, but some guy sat on the stoop across the lane. He was the sixth stranger she’d noticed watching the street in the last few days. Too weird. Was there trouble on Thorn Lane lately? Enough to get the neighbors to pool their money and hire a guard?

  She hadn’t heard of any, but she had been out of touch lately. Spying on the gangs seemed wrong, somehow. Kraken’s glazed eyes still haunted her.

  Pink sunlight glimmered on Outland Ter as she traipsed up the hill. Servants and housewives heading to Market Square for the morning shopping smiled at her. She tried to smile back. She’d known these people all her life, and liked most of them.

  But it was hard to smile when her best friend was missing. Her only friend. Fraying Faye still wasn’t speaking to her.

  Not a thing she could do about that at the moment. She’d concentrate on finding the kid.

  The jog to Trader’s Inn took way longer than it should.

  She shouldered her way past the tavern door and blinked into the darkness. Sleepy carters shoveled porridge into their mouths. Gamblers shoved dice across their table. In the far corner, a group of old folk hovered around the fireplace.

  Crossing the big, quiet room felt like walking clear to Dureme-Lor.

  Several wrinkled faces turned to face her. Red-rimmed eyes stared at her indifferently.

  Her stomach curdled. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s here, in Zedista,” a wispy old lady whispered.

  “What’s here?”

  “The killer,” a gray old man muttered.

  “Murderer,” another moaned.

  Panic grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. “Trevor? The kid?”

  The gray man nodded.

  A familiar-looking old woman lowered a limp handkerchief from her face. “Trevor is dead. Viper, I’m not sure about.”

  “He’s dead.” A gray-headed man with a nose as big as a bull’s covered his face with his hands. “You know they’re both dead, Marise. We all felt them die.”

  The other sorcerers glared at him. “We felt Trevor die,” one said. “Some­thing happened to Viper the next night, but we’re not sure what.”

  “He doesn’t feel dead,” Marise said stubbornly.

  “He’s dead,” Bull Nose repeated.

  Wishful thinking, Lorel hoped. She remembered those two, and one of the silent men. Samiwhatis and Marise were Trevor’s friends. Bull Nose wasn’t. The kid couldn’t stand him.

  “You’re sure Trevor is dead?”

  All the sorcerers nodded. One she didn’t know said, “We held a memorial for him yesterday. We couldn’t find his body, but his spirit is definitely estranged from it.”

  Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. Trevor’s death would kill the kid. She had to find him quick.

  Wait. “When did all this happen?”

  “Trevor died five days ago,” the wispy old lady said.

  The very day Kraken died. No, the day she’d killed him.

  Marise bit her lip. “Viper’s … incident occurred three and a half days ago.”

  While she was off feeling sorry for herself. Some friend she was. She’d barely noticed he was missing.

  “He’s dead,” Bull Nose insisted.

  “I doubt it,” Samiwhatis said. “That young man is a survivor.”

  Bull Nose snorted, drained his glass, and shouted at the server, “Bring me another beer.”

  Everybody else nodded at Samiwhatis. She sure hoped the old man was right.

  Lorel saluted the sorcerers and jogged out of the tavern. Harp strings complained and vibrated against her back. Good thing she didn’t plan to play the fraying thing. It must be totally out of tune by now.

  Where to look next? Market Square. Where she’d just come from. She gotta start planning her trips better. She strolled back down Outland Ter, keeping her head low to avoid the Guard’s notice. All she needed to mess up her day was another quarrel with that fraying lieutenant.

  Sooner or later one of the gang was gonna rat on her. Could she lie well enough to claim she didn’t know Kraken was dead?

  His daddy was the captain of the City Guard. They wouldn’t let his death go unsolved, like they often did. There’d be blood paid once Kraken’s body was discovered. Captain Owyn spoiled his son, but hated his son’s gang. He’d blame them to start with, and they all knew it, so they might even have hidden the body. But sooner or later someone would point at her.

  She needed to get out of sight for a while. And stop hauling around her fraying swords. What was she thinking, carrying them around when the Guard might be looking for her?

  Still, until she found the kid, she had to risk being out on the street, swords or no swords. He was sure to have done something stupid by now.

  Nobody in Market Square admitted to seeing the kid for days and days. She asked the bakers, the vegetable vendors, even the booksellers. The used-tea-leaves seller whispered he hadn’t seen any slavers, either. That was good news, at least.

  Nobody seeing the kid at all was awful news. The frayed thread normally went down to the market every few days, just for the fun of it. Bread, books, bones, it didn’t seem to matter as long as he could bargain for it.

  Where else could he try his chatter? The stables? If she wanted out of town fast, she’d rent a horse. But the kid was so little, he’d never be able to get up on a horse by himself, much less put a saddle on it.

  What was left? Assuming slavers didn’t get him. How would she ever track down slavers?

  Could he have taken a ship? Without telling her? He better not have. He’d promised to take her with him when he went traveling.

  Of course, with Trevor murdered and herself in hiding, he might’ve gone off without her. She’d check the shipyard. The kid was pretty unusual. Somebody would’ve noticed him.

  The docks were as busy and noisy as usual. Sailors shouted and cussed, oxen bellowed and jangled their harnesses, and the ocean roared in the background. Sweet salt spray drifted in the air, smelling of seaweed and distant dreams.

  Teamsters trudged up and down long gangplanks, loading or unloading the twe
nty-odd ships perched in their cradles. Bored sailors supervised the cargoes, fierce-looking merchants’ clerks wrote in overgrown ledgers.

  She understood the merchant types better, but hated dealing with the frayed threads. Sailors were lots more fun. Especially sailors who couldn’t leave their posts.

  “You seen a blond kid around here the last few days?” she asked the nearest cargo master. “My age, but short.” She held her hand out a little above her waist to show his height.

  The sailor leered up at her. “What you want with a little thing like that when a real man’s looking at you?”

  Men. They all had their brains in the mud. “His master’s dead. Murdered.”

  Both the sailor and the clerk gaped at her. Maybe she shouldn’t announce it like that.

  “Leastwise, that’s the rumor. I’m worried he’s running from the killer. Or slavers. Or something.”

  A teamster carrying a wooden box big enough to hide three of the kid stomped down the ramp.

  The clerk yanked his jaw into place and wrote in his book.

  The sailor shook his head, but his eyes gleamed. “Sorry. We just made land last night.”

  Weaver’s chamberpot. He didn’t know nothing, but he looked ready to spread all sorts of rumors. “You hear anything about him, send word to the sorcerers at Trader’s Inn. They want him.”

  He jerked his head back. “Not likely I’ll hear a thing. I ain’t talking to no sorcerers.”

  Good. That might slow down the rumors. Wait. “If you see the kid, send word to them sorcerers. There might be a reward.”

  His squinty eyes got big and he nodded.

  The clerk concentrated on his book. Concentrated way too hard. That one would rat back to his merchant boss as soon as he could. Nothing she could do about that, though, except find the kid quick, before the teamsters finished unloading. He’d be stuck here ’til then.

  The sailor looked behind her and turned away.

  A hand grasped her shoulder. She turned to face a City Guard nearly as tall as she was. Blood in the Weave. His fraying hand squeezed the strap of the harp case. What if he confiscated it?

  He studied her face like he thought he knew her. Which he might, since she’d seen him around for the last couple of years. But she felt pretty safe; dark-skinned, tall Kerovi girls like her all looked alike to most Zedisti.