by Dorian Hart
* * *
Mrs. Horn sat down beside him as he ate. “Ernest, these are excellent carrots.”
“Oh, well, they’re from Abernathy’s food box. I just cooked them.”
She smiled at him the way his grandmother used to before she passed away. “When someone gives you a compliment, it’s yours. Don’t turn around and hand it to someone else.”
Ernie felt himself blushing. His trainer back in White Ferry, Old Bowlegs, used to say similar things. Ernie still remembered what the old man had said to him the day he left White Ferry. “You’re the best student I’ve got, and I don’t mean your skill with a pig-sticker, though that’s good enough for a start. I mean what’s in here.” Old Bowlegs had thumped Ernest on the chest. “You won’t misuse your gifts, Pyknite included. Copper to kettles, that’s why your great wizard picked you to visit him. You are destined for great things, Ernest Roundhill.”
Pyknite was Old Bowlegs’ sword, the famous blade he had used twenty years earlier to singlehandedly slay the seven goblins that had raided White Ferry. It had been unthinkable that Ernie should accept it, but Bowlegs had insisted.
Mrs. Horn wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “So, young man, tell me about your statue. Do I remember correctly you saying there was a statue of you in your hometown?”
He had almost forgotten about that! “Yes, but it’s not because of anything I did. It’s so odd. Murgy Thorn owns a tavern, the Rusty Mug, next door to my parents’ bakery, and he’s having his wine cellar expanded. The pick-men working for him uncovered the top of a stone head while they were digging. They cleared out the earth around the head and neck, and guess what? It was me! At least, it looks exactly like me, but it’s been buried down there for hundreds of years, and I’m only seventeen.”
“Amazing,” said Mrs. Horn. “How do you think it got there?”
“I have no idea. No one had any idea. But that was the day after Abernathy’s card arrived, so everyone was convinced it was connected somehow.”
Ernie’s invitation to Abernathy’s tower had already been the talk of White Ferry. His father, Hob Roundhill, had made sure the whole town knew about the glowing letter. Every farmer, every merchant, every craftsman had a theory about what Abernathy of Tal Hae wanted with Ernest Carabend Roundhill, and Ernie had been obliged to listen to them all over drinks at the Rusty Mug.
“Bet the old wizzy needs an apprentice!” grizzled old Bannick Greengrass had opined, before slapping Ernie on the back—a habit which Ernie had learned to endure with a smile.
“Or a bodyguard more like,” added the carpenter Marb Mudcat. “Old Bowlegs always says you’re goin’ places, Ernie. Now we know where!”
“Tell you what I think,” Lefty Appleford had said. Lefty was the oldest man in the village, but he still tended his riverside orchard every day. He had leaned over the table and managed to be loud and conspiratorial at once. “Abernathy is raising an army for King Crunard, and wants you to be part of it, Ernest!”
The only reason anyone in town even knew what an archmage was, was that Sally Cooper told them. Sally Cooper lived two hundred yards away on the far side of town. She was known for reading lots of books (and was considered an odd duck for it), and she said that “archmage” was a fancy word for “a damned powerful wizard.” Every big city had one, she claimed. They lived in enormous stone towers, hundreds of feet high, and no one ever went in or out of them.
“They keep the sky from falling,” Sally Cooper had told him, dropping in on the Roundhills after the news of Abernathy’s letter had shot through White Ferry like brushfire. “The wizards, I mean, not the towers. I’ll bet they need someone strong to help hold it up.”
Ernie told all of this to Mrs. Horn, who nodded and said, “It would be an unlikely thing if they weren’t connected, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. I can’t think of any other reason for Abernathy to choose me. I’m still not much of a swordsman.” Ernie felt embarrassed to have talked about himself at such length. “How are you holding up? That was a long day of walking.”
“Oh, fine, fine,” said Mrs. Horn. “I’ll feel it in my calves tomorrow to be sure, but it’s nice being out in the open country. William and I used to go for long rambles like this. Our farm was in a valley, and we had to go over the hills when we traveled to Minok.”
Mrs. Horn was the kind of woman Ernie’s mom would call a “tough old bird.” It made him feel safe to have her as part of their band, in the way that his parents made him feel protected back home in White Ferry.
“Why do you think Abernathy chose you to be part of our group?”
“Ernest, my parents both died when I was young—younger than you by a couple of years. I inherited the farm and was running it myself when I was fourteen. William didn’t come along until I was in my twenties, and he was never much of a farmer even afterward. He preferred his fishing boat, his pride and joy.”
The campfire caught a far-away gleam in her eye.
“I’m a survivor,” she continued. “I can mend a fence or build one up from nothing. I can kill just about any animal you can name, skin it, gut it, and cook it. And I know where to put my knee if a young man gets fresh with me.”
Ernie blushed, and Mrs. Horn laughed. “I don’t understand magic,” she admitted. “But I recognize the burden of responsibility on someone’s shoulders when I see it. Abernathy is bearing a heavy load, and he’s put a great deal of faith in us. I daresay each of us has a good reason for being here, and before long we’ll have a good idea what that is.”
“I don’t know that I’m ready to be a hero,” said Ernie, and that was, if anything, a terrific understatement.
Mrs. Horn smiled encouragingly. “I don’t think anyone’s ready for that.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ACCORDING TO ARAVIA, the Greatwood stretched a hundred fifty miles east to west, filling nearly the entire western half of Harkran. Their little band reached the forest’s southern border just before noon on their third day of hiking, and Morningstar, in near-desperation, dashed the final ten yards to the tree cover. Reaching the shade was like breaking the surface of the ocean just before drowning. She threw back her hood and gingerly touched her raw, blotchy cheeks. Her nose stung when she wiped the sweat from it, and her head ached.
These past couple of days had been hellish. Though the temperature had remained moderate, there had been no cloud cover, and the road was dry and exposed, with trees growing only infrequently beside it. The walking itself had been tiring, too, as the long march worked muscles that were never strongly tested during her sparring sessions at the temple. But while that would be overcome with time and miles, her feelings about daylight were not so optimistic.
Now, finally, blessedly, the road ran beneath the canopy of the red pines and mighty elm trees of the Greatwood, its thick green ceiling filtering away the harshest rays of the sun.
She shook her damp hair away from her cheeks. “Thank Ell.”
“How are you holding up?” asked Ernie. She smiled at him; the young man had asked that at least a dozen times over the past forty-eight hours. This time, as with every time, his brow was furrowed and his voice filled with genuine concern.
“Fine, Ernest, but thank you for asking,” she said. “Now that we’re under cover, I think I’ll be more comfortable.”
“Maybe Dranko could heal your sunburn,” Ernie suggested. “Him being a channeler and all.”
Dranko looked up. “Channeling is serious business. Maybe Dranko should save his energy for something more debilitating, like if someone rips a cuticle, or stubs their toe.”
“Dranko, have some sympathy! Morningstar hasn’t had to—”
“It’s okay, Ernie,” said Morningstar. The last thing she wanted right now was to cause a row or (worse) get Dranko riled up enough to start his mouth going. His company was much easier to endure when he was quiet, and since they set out from Tal Hae, he had hardly said a word.
Mrs. Horn was rooting around in the underbrush besid
e the road, and soon she pulled up a bunch of purple-flowered weeds. She pressed them into Morningstar’s hands. “Buckthorn. Mash this up and rub it on your sunburns. I always find it helps after a day in the fields.”
Morningstar blinked. She hadn’t realized that Mrs. Horn had been paying attention to her. “Thank you,” she managed. “Are you an herbalist?”
“I’m a farmer, so yes.” Mrs. Horn smiled her crinkly smile. “Hang in there, young lady. There’s nothing so terrible that a body won’t adjust to it in time. Human beings are designed to endure hardships.”
Grey Wolf cleared his throat. “We’ll stop for lunch the next time the road widens out.”
Dranko made another one of his sour faces at Grey Wolf’s command, and that made Morningstar smile. Grey Wolf was a natural leader—confident and decisive. She saw how Ernie and Tor in particular looked up to him.
“Morningstar, if you—”
Grey Wolf abruptly stopped talking and clutched his stomach. His face contorted. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
He walked a few paces off and doubled over, but nothing came up. Morningstar took a few steps toward him. “Do you need water?”
“I don’t know.” Grey Wolf groaned. “It feels like…mff…like someone is reaching into my guts and grabbing my stomach. Not nausea or…or like any pain I’ve felt before, but…Gods, it’s awful.”
“Ernie!” called Dranko. “Did you poison Grey Wolf’s breakfast?”
“No!” The baker’s son looked scandalized at the suggestion.
Grey Wolf stood up, color returning to his face. “Huh. It’s over. Yeah, I must’ve eaten something off this morning. Ernie, check the supplies, make sure nothing’s moldy or rotten.” He immediately set off again at his brisk pace.
Grey Wolf’s intestinal troubles aside, this was the nicest day of travel by a wide margin, and it helped drain some of the agitation from Morningstar’s mind. She had been trying, without success, to convince herself that the letter from the temple was not as damning as she had originally decided. There was nothing explicitly mentioned about excommunication, or even an extended leave of absence. But it was all too easy to read between the lines.
Morningstar had always taken pride in her even-keeled nature, and her fury at the church’s “dispensation” now embarrassed her after the fact. In the comforting shade of the trees, she made a conscious decision to regain control of the situation. If they wanted her out, they would have to make it overt. Let them wear their bias in plain sight if they felt they must reject her. In the meantime she would treat her new designation with all the stoic grace she could muster and deal with Abernathy’s assignments as professionally as possible.
When the sun had set beyond the trees, the eight made camp by the side of the road and lit a fire. The spring evenings were cold, and though Morningstar had to sit with her back to the flames lest they blind her, she appreciated the warmth.
Tor rummaged through his pack. “I didn’t bring enough extra food.”
The boy was always hungry, even after Ernie’s generous meals.
“That’s why they’re called ‘rations,’” said Dranko. “You’re supposed to ration them out.”
“We should reach a village called Walnord the day after tomorrow,” said Aravia. “We can get you some more food there, I imagine.”
After that they munched on their provisions in relative silence, as the forest outside the circle of their firelight grew darker. Nighttime was home to Morningstar; she breathed out the troubles of the past few days and inhaled the cool comfort of the evening. Aravia sat next to her and scrawled in a small notebook when she was done eating. Morningstar asked the young wizardess what she was writing.
“Oh!” said Aravia. “I write down my ideas for improving the spells I know. Abernathy promised me access to his spellbooks in return for joining his team, but in the meantime there’s no reason I should not continue the refinements and efficiencies I was working on under Master Serpicore.” She spoke with an affected eloquence, as though every sentence was an opportunity to demonstrate the quality of her education.
“Did you understand what Abernathy was talking about when he gave us our marching orders?”
“I believe so,” said Aravia.
“Good,” said Tor, who had moved to join them. “I’ve already forgotten what he said. Something about a body in a field in a building? How can a field be in a building? Unless it’s a really big building…”
Aravia graced Tor with a condescending smile—not that the boy noticed. “He said a magical field. You know the circle of light around a lit candle? Think of that as a ‘field’ of light. Now substitute ‘magic’ for ‘light.’ There must be a source of magic near Verdshane that’s emanating a magical field.”
“With a person in it!” said Tor. “I wonder if it’s a live person or a dead one.”
“Almost certainly alive,” said Aravia. “As a wizard, Abernathy chooses his words with care. He would have said ‘body’ instead of ‘person’ if they were dead. I noticed some other interesting tidbits among his speeches to us so far. For instance, recall that he said in regards to his monster, ‘If he succeeds and comes to Spira.’ From that I deduce that the monster’s prison is extra-dimensional, not of this world. I could imagine that the interior of Abernathy’s magical field is not part of the world either, and even that the person suspended in it is the monster itself.”
Morningstar couldn’t help but be impressed, even though she knew that was part of the point. “Aravia, how old are you?”
“Nineteen. I’ll be twenty next month.”
It was curious that Abernathy’s spell had picked three teenagers and an old woman, given their enlistment was so important. But then she realized something that must be related. “None of you are married, are you?” she said, sounding it more like a statement than a question.
Dranko grinned. “Morningstar, that was the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”
Morningstar cringed.
“I’m married,” said Mrs. Horn quietly.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Morningstar. “Do you have any children, Mrs. Horn?”
“No, William and I never had any children.”
“I meant no offense. We don’t know why Abernathy picked us specifically, but I’d wager his magic worked to choose people not tied down to their old lives by family obligation.”
“But it stole you away from your temple,” said Ernie. “That’s almost as bad, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Morningstar admitted. Though her mother was a priestess, Sisters of Ell swore to place all family ties beneath their devotion to the temple. Marriage was outside the realm of her everyday consideration.
Grey Wolf idly picked up a piece of bark and flicked it into the fire. “It makes sense. Some of us are a bit skeptical about this whole arrangement. Can you imagine how we’d feel if Abernathy was asking us to give up wives and husbands? Children?”
“I’m sure he’d have let them move into the Greenhouse with us,” said Ernie.
“I’m not,” said Grey Wolf. “Abernathy never even brought the subject up.”
Morningstar sighed and unfurled her bedroll. “Strange as this is to say,” she told the others, “good night. I’m going to sleep.”
* * *
Morningstar is observing a turtle. She stands above it, watching it plod forward, step by unhurried step.
Someone has built a tiny model of a city, a model of astounding detail. Houses, inns, shops, streets…every feature has been lovingly crafted by some supernaturally talented artisan. But the model sits on the ground directly in the path of the turtle. It is inevitable that its stumpy soft-clawed feet will smash the model unless something is done.
Eddings appears, also watching the turtle, and his eyes shine as though a lantern has been lit inside his skull.
“Are you going to watch?” he asks.
Morningstar cannot answer. As far as she knows, it is impossible for her to speak inside a Seer-dream. It
is odd, though, that Eddings is talking to her.
“Maybe you should stop it,” says Eddings. “And maybe you shouldn’t. There are reasons, either way. But here is my opinion.”
The butler produces a letter opener, and with shocking violence jams it straight into the left nostril of the turtle, nearly to its entire length. The turtle stops, twitches, and falls dead upon its underbelly, its corpse smashing the city before erupting into flames.
CHAPTER SIX
YSABEL HORN LOOKED back at Kibi. The bearded gentleman was the slowest walker of the group, and so tended to wind up by himself, quietly trudging along the road with his eyes downcast. In four days, Ysabel didn’t think he’d had a single walking companion. Maybe it was time to draw him out.
She slowed to let him catch up, and squinted up through the canopy at some cotton-ball clouds. “Nice day for a stroll.”
“Can’t disagree,” said Kibi.
“William and I always enjoyed walks around the farm on days like this. Though he used to joke that there was something wrong with me, that I preferred the smell of manure to the tang of salt.”
Kibi gave a slight smile but said nothing in reply. And his reluctance to engage in conversation, while stronger than everyone else’s, was not entirely atypical of the group. If their little band wasn’t willing to talk to one another, they’d have a tough time working together for Abernathy. Maybe Kibi would be willing to chat about something more substantial.
“How are you feeling about all of this? About all of this wizard nonsense, I mean.”
“Ain’t nonsense, don’t think,” said Kibi. “Abernathy needs some folk, and we’re it.”
Ysabel could have believed he was talking about how much he liked Ernie’s porridge at breakfast, he was that matter-of fact.
