by Anne Bishop
While he looked like a scruffy ne’er-do-well most of the time, he cleaned up well enough when he got the chance, and the smoky blue eyes and brown hair that was always a bit shaggy went with the face that was handsome enough to attract the ladies but not so handsome it made people uneasy.
Until they found out what he was.
As the rhythm of the gathering shifted from gossip and food to unspoken hopes and expectations, he fetched his tin whistle, nodded to the other men who had brought instruments, and shooed the children out of the small space that had been cleared for the musicians.
Michael closed his eyes and let himself drift on the feel of the room. Ah. There was that odd sensation he sometimes felt when he was deliberately trying to change the feel of a place. A presence, like a child too shy to come forward where it might be noticed, but too intrigued by the things and people around it to go away. More than that. This wild child, as he thought of it, was intrigued by him. He had the feeling that it could hear the music in his heart in the same way he could hear the music in other hearts, and that’s what intrigued it enough to come to a gathering. The reason didn’t matter. What mattered was that when he felt the wild child’s presence, sometimes he could make things happen that were more than a little luck-bringing or ill-wishing directed at a specific person.
Lifting the tin whistle to his lips, he let the first notes float through the air, soft and bittersweet…and hopeful. Little by little, conversations faded—or maybe he no longer heard them. The fiddler joined him, slow and easy.
There was nothing but the music, and he wasn’t playing for the people in the room. Not yet. This song was for the wild child. To catch its interest, its attention. Its heart.
With his eyes still closed, he slipped into the next tune. More energy. Drum added to the fiddle and whistle. A sparkle of notes drifting out into the night, dancing in the fog, glistening with the energy and good spirits of the people like dew glistened on a web when touched by the morning sun.
Yes, he thought as he opened his eyes and watched the dancers, these were good people who welcomed the Light, who deserved the Light.
Musicians came and went, taking their turn for a few songs, then stepping back for someone else. When he was given a shove and told to take his turn on the dance floor, he ignored the bold, silent invitations—especially the one from Doreen, who worked for Shaney and always made him think of the fate of the mouse caught under the cat’s paw—and chose a girl who was old enough to be flattered by his asking to be her partner and young enough that she wouldn’t expect him to be any other kind of partner.
Not that he didn’t want to take hold of a woman and kiss her senseless. The music was hot. The energy was hot. And he wanted with a need that chewed at his bones.
But what he hungered for wasn’t here, so he gave himself to the music.
Food was reheated. People drifted to corners farthest away from the music in order to talk. Shaney opened up a few of the upstairs rooms, where children were tucked up in beds, cuddling together like puppies.
Michael talked. He danced. He ate. He played. And always, he held in his mind and heart the image of the notes sparkling in the night.
As her mind rose to that twilight place that was neither true waking nor sleeping, Glorianna dreamed of music. Folksy, but like nothing she’d heard before. Slightly different sound to the drum and the violin—at least, she thought it was a violin. But it was the bright notes of the whistle that made her smile, that had her feet twitching as if they wanted to dance, and the drum heated her blood until her heart pounded with the rhythm.
The music dimmed, as if someone had shut a door, and she stood outside in a fog as thick as a soft blanket. She wasn’t surprised when his arms closed around her, pulling her back against the warmth of his chest. Then…
She heard the drum in the beat of his heart, heard the long sigh of the violin in his breath. Knew the bright notes of the whistle would be in his voice, in his laugh.
“There is music inside you,” she said. “I can hear the music inside you.”
His smile, that curving of lips against her cheek, was his only answer.
Hours later, drained in body, mind, and heart, Michael lowered his whistle and looked at the men slumped in the chairs around him. “Well, lads, looks like we’re done here.”
One of the men looked at the people asleep at the tables and grinned. “I’d say we are.”
Wanting some fresh air, Michael wove his way through the tables until he reached the tavern door and pushed it open.
“Lady of Light,” Shaney whispered behind him. “Look at that.”
Oh, he was looking—and he was stunned by what the dawn light revealed. Thick strands and knots of that heavy fog clotted the street, but it was broken up by a thin mist—the kind of mist that softened sunlight and created rainbows.
“You did it, Michael,” Shaney said, resting a hand on Michael’s shoulders.
“We all did,” he replied. He’d never influenced a place so much, so obviously. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, what to think about it.
“Wouldn’t have happened without you, though. You’re a fine musician. The best I’ve ever seen.”
“And you’ve seen the last of me for the next few hours.”
“You’ve earned your rest and more. If the Missus and I aren’t around when you wake, just help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen, and she’ll fix you up with a proper meal later.”
Michael just nodded and headed for the stairs at the back of the tavern that led up to the rooms Shaney rented. He felt drained, hollowed out. But it was a good feeling that left him looking forward to the pleasure of stretching out on a bed with clean sheets and sleeping through the day.
He didn’t see Doreen until he was at the top of the stairs. By then it was too late to fix the tactical error of coming up to his room alone.
“Took you long enough,” Doreen said, giving him a smile that was meant to be enticing.
“It’s a proven fact that the number of stairs increases in direct proportion to the amount of drink that is consumed or the amount of sleep that was lost,” Michael said lightly.
Doreen shrugged, clearly not interested in anything but what she’d planned. “I figured, after playing all that fine music, you’d be wanting a bit of company about now. Private company.”
You figured wrong. There was a meanness in Doreen. She hid it well, most of the time, but he heard sharp notes every time he was near her. He didn’t like her, and yet despite those sharp notes, she had fit into the music that was Foggy Downs. Right now, however, even if he had wanted her, he wouldn’t have done either of them any good. At least he could be honest about that much.
“I thank you for the offer, Doreen, but I’m too tired to be good company—or any kind of company if it comes to that.”
Her smile faded. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? I know you’ve pleasured other women, but because I wait tables in a tavern, that puts me beneath men of good reputation.”
Michael shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was due to fatigue or the other meaning beneath Doreen’s words. And maybe he was just too muzzy-headed and tired to hear it clearly, but her tune didn’t seem to fit the village anymore. It was too sharp, too…dark. Wrong.
“But you’re not a man of good reputation, are you, Michael? You’re nothing but a drifter, a wanderer, a—”
The word she spoke struck him like a blow to the heart.
“What’s that you called him?”
Michael jumped, startled by the voice on the stairs behind him. He stepped aside to let Maeve, the village postmistress and owner of Foggy Downs’s lending library, pass by.
“Musician?” Maeve said, touching fingers delicately to one ear. “Well, there’s no need to be sounding all dramatic about it. Of course he’s a musician, girl! Are your ears so stopped up with wax that you couldn’t hear him playing all night?”
Doreen’s eyes flashed with anger, but she didn’t reply.
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Smart girl, Michael thought. Maeve might have a thinning head of white hair and a wrinkled face, but there was nothing wrong with her mind or her hearing. And since she was responsible for obtaining the magazines published in the big city that informed young ladies about the latest fashions and young wives about household tips, even the sassiest woman understood the value of being respectful to Maeve.
The postmistress shook her head and let out an exasperated sigh. “Leave the boy in peace, Doreen, and let him get some sleep. Any woman worth her salt knows a man that tired hasn’t the wit for romance.”
He wasn’t sure he appreciated Maeve’s way of helping him escape, but he wasn’t going to ignore the opportunity.
“Good night, ladies,” he said, slipping past both women to reach his room. Once inside, he slid the bolt home as quietly as possible. No point insulting Doreen into doing something foolish by letting her hear him lock the door. But he wouldn’t rest easy without the lock, especially since she seemed determined to have him.
He couldn’t imagine why. Doreen enjoyed men for what she could get from them, and he didn’t have much to offer in terms of providing a woman with material things. Wary of her interest, he’d always found an excuse not to be one of her men—and now it was going to cost him. Even if Shaney and Maeve stood by him, it was still going to cost him sooner or later.
He walked toward the washstand, intending to rinse a bit of the fatigue and grittiness from his face. But he ended up staring in the mirror above the dresser.
He was twenty-eight years old. The last twelve years hadn’t been easy. He missed his sister Caitlin and his friend Nathan. Even missed his aunt Brighid on occasion. Missed the feeling of having a home and roots, even though he hadn’t felt like he’d had either when he lived in Raven’s Hill. But his continued presence would have made things harder for his family. Brighid had been a Lady of Light and still commanded respect because of that, but Caitlin Marie was whispered to be odd, strange…unnatural. A young girl who had found the walled garden hidden somewhere on the hill behind the family’s cottage. Caitlin would never be offered the things most young women dreamed of—a home, a husband, children—and his heart ached for her.
Until people discovered Caitlin’s link to the hidden garden, he had been the one the villagers didn’t want around because he had a power no one understood. But everyone knew what it did and what the person who wielded that power was.
A luck-bringer. An ill-wisher.
A Magician.
There was nothing wrong with Maeve’s hearing. And there would be nothing anyone could do to curb Doreen’s spiteful tongue. It wouldn’t matter if Maeve tried to soften the gossip. The damage would be done. By the time the next market day ended, everyone in Foggy Downs would know he was a Magician.
Some would hate him for it, and would blame him for any bit of trouble that came their way. And, in truth, he would deserve some of that blame. But he had heard of Magicians who had been killed in other parts of Elandar because it was so easy to bury them in the blame.
So he would leave Foggy Downs while the people still thought kindly of him. He needed to get back to Raven’s Hill anyway, needed to talk to his aunt as soon as he could.
Because of the dreams. Because of her.
That was the real reason he wouldn’t have been of any use to Doreen, even if he’d been willing. He didn’t want any other woman since he’d begun dreaming about her.
Long black hair. Green eyes. A beautiful face that he had never seen in the flesh. But he could feel the shape of her in his arms, breathe in the scent of her, taste the warmth of her. Hear the music of her heart.
That, more than anything, seduced him. He could hear the music of her heart. And it made him yearn for things he couldn’t put into words, except one: home.
Night after night, she filled him with hungers he thought would kill him if he didn’t satisfy them soon. And there was always someone or something whispering in his ear, “This is what you’ve searched for. This is who you’ve searched for.”
Deny it, defy it, reject it during every waking moment. It didn’t matter. Somehow he had fallen in love with the woman who haunted his dreams—a woman he’d never met and wasn’t certain even existed.
His aunt was the only person he knew whose training might provide him with an answer about the nature of these dreams, so he was going back to Raven’s Hill.
Stripping down to his drawers, Michael got into bed and was asleep within minutes. He didn’t dream about the woman; he dreamed about his aunt. She stood in front of the family’s cottage, holding out two plants.
One was called heart’s hope. The other was belladonna.
Chapter Four
It found Its way to the sea. Taking the form of the well-to-do, middle-aged gentleman that had served It so well in other places, It spent a few days hunting around the docks and alleyways of the seaport. To Its delight, the brutal killings nurtured seeds of distrust and fear that sprang up whenever humans encountered someone who wasn’t exactly like themselves. Easy enough to hunt and then feast on the dark feelings shaped by terror—and then be the whisper in the back of the crowd, assuring people that anyone who wasn’t them must be evil.
Easy enough. But not as easy as It expected. There was strong bedrock around the docks of this seaport—a heart and will through which Ephemera manifested the emotions and wishes of other human hearts.
But what bedrock, what heart? It had destroyed most of the lesser enemies, the females called Landscapers and the males called Bridges. Through Its creatures, It controlled the school where the enemies had gathered, turning their place into one of Its own landscapes. Now the few Landscapers who had survived were contained in whichever landscapes they had fled to, leaving all the other landscapes in their care vulnerable to Its influence.
But this bedrock did not have the resonance of a lesser enemy. And it didn’t feel like the True Enemy, the one called Belladonna. This was something other, something different.
A new kind of Enemy.
It had touched the resonance of this Enemy in two other places in this part of the world. It would recognize that heart now if It found the resonance in another place.
But if It could recognize the Enemy, could the Enemy recognize It, find It?
As that thought took shape and grew stronger, It lost Its pleasure in the hunt. It didn’t want to be found until It was ready to be found—until It had destroyed the Place of Light the True Enemy hadn’t yet hidden within her landscapes.
It left the seaport and flowed steadily north, a shadow beneath the waves. When It wanted to feed, It changed into the form that belonged to the sea, swelling Its size to be able to hunt whatever creatures were available.
Then It stopped at a fishing village, hungry for more than the flesh It could find in the sea. Slipping into the human minds through the twilight of waking dreams, It found a fear that matched Its sea shape. A diminished fear; a safe fear that produced no more than a delicious shiver. Because the thing that was feared was nothing more than a story now, wasn’t believed to be real.
Pleased by the discovery, It followed the fishing boats the next day, causing no more than ripples of uneasiness as It flowed around and beneath the boats. But It also herded schools of fish into the nets, so the uneasiness that might have kept the fishermen away from that spot was drowned by their excitement in hauling in such a good catch.
It watched the fishing boats head back to the village at the end of the day, felt the swell of happiness in the hearts of the men—and the hope that the catch would be as good tomorrow.
The catch would be as good. But not for them.
While the hope and happiness of the fishermen and their families fed the currents of Light, the Eater of the World floated in the water—and waited.
Ten fishing boats went out the next morning. Five returned home.
Fathers, sons, brothers. Dead.
The older men said they should have known something was wrong, with fish practically
leaping into the boats to escape some danger hidden in the sea. But no one had imagined something out of the old stories coming to life. No one had considered the terror that would fill a man’s heart when he saw tentacles as thick as masts and twice the length rise up out of the water and smash a boat into kindling. No one had considered the anguish of hearing a friend, wrapped in one of those tentacles, screaming as the life was crushed out of him. Or, worse, hearing bones snap before a man was flung into the sea, too injured to stay afloat for long or even swim toward another ship, but too close to the tentacles for anyone to risk trying to save him.
Because every time they had tried to save a man, another ship was lost.
So the survivors sailed back to the village, knowing they were leaving men to die. And the pain of that, the shame of it, smeared their hearts with so much hurt that the darkness of their grief seeped through the bedrock that protected their village, staining everything until a man only had to think of the possibility of bad luck to have it come true.
Chapter Five
Merrill fingered the silver cuff bracelet on her wrist as she stared at the stone that formed a natural, shallow basin. The Sisters filled the basin with water every morning for the birds. Brighid, their leader until she had abandoned them sixteen years ago, had found the stone and designed this little contemplation corner around it.
But Merrill hadn’t come for contemplation this morning. She had come to let her heart speak to the Light as eloquently as it could. She needed help. They all needed help.
