The Wysard (Waterspell 2)

by Deborah J. Lightfoot

  If Verek heard the distant, unhappy chorus, he ignored it. But still Carin kept her eyes and thoughts fastened on him. The attempt to reach his mind kept her own from wandering back to the endless questions that gave her no rest.

  A mile or so after the exercise began, Carin gave it up as a failure; Verek never shot her a glance. But when she tore her gaze from the wizard, she discovered a landscape that was markedly different from the thick forest that had surrounded them twenty minutes ago. They were about to leave the pines. Ahead lay an expanse of tall, coarse grass.

  “My lord!” Carin called sharply to the rider up ahead. “Please give me a minute before we lose the cover of the trees. I need some privacy.”

  Verek rode on, advancing several steps. Gradually then, he eased his horse to a halt. For a moment, he sat still. Slowly, as if he wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing, he reined Brogar around to face Carin. But his eyes seemed to have trouble finding her. They stared vacantly over her shoulder before finally moving to Carin’s face and seeming to see her. Then, with a curt nod, Verek acknowledged her.

  “Very well.” He dismounted with easy grace, showing none of the ache that afflicted Carin’s muscles. “You may have your moment alone. Be quick about it. We must press on, or fall short tonight of a creek where we may camp and water these beasts.”

  Carin climbed down stiffly, and hobbled off to a cluster of pine saplings that promised better cover than the scattered mature trees. In the heart of the grove, where Verek and Lanse couldn’t see her, she pulled off her gloves and called softly to the woodsprite. The spark that had been flitting through the trees behind her like a tenacious firefly would have found a way to follow her here, even through the spread-out trees at this forest fringe.

  The sprite did not disappoint. There was a tiny flash, then:

  “My friend!” an anxious voice piped from a sapling at Carin’s elbow. “How pleased I am to see this caravan halted before you’d left me behind. Into the field that stretches away beyond these trees, I may not venture. It would be the death of me.”

  “I know it, sprite.” Carin flung her cloak back and worked her bare, rapidly chilling hands through the layers of her clothes to get at the drawstring of her trousers. “I’m glad I woke up in time—I was daydreaming.” She gasped as she bared her nether regions to the cold. But she forced her bladder to avail itself of the last chance it might have for a thorough emptying, for who knew how long.

  “Sprite, how will you go from here?” she whispered. “Can you stay in the edge of the trees and work your way around, and catch up to us on the other side?”

  “No.” The sprite was only a mouth muttering from a sapling’s trunk, with nothing like eyes peering out to violate Carin’s privacy. “I dare not let myself be far separated from you. If the trees do not circle, if they end here while the grass stretches on for leagues, I would be stranded in this forest—never, perhaps, to see you again. No, I could not bear that.”

  “Me either,” Carin said. “So what do we do?”

  “What I propose,” the creature piped, “is this: Pull up by the roots—carefully!—one of these tiny pines. Bundle the roots snugly against this cold, dry air to keep the life in them—and thus in me. I’ll leap within the bantling, and in the safety of it I’ll ride with you, hidden in your cloak.”

  “In s-safety!” Carin hissed as she yanked up her trousers. “Sprite, you’re daft! What happens if the grass does go on and on, and it takes us days to cross? By the time we find more trees up ahead—maybe in the mountains, where Verek’s headed—it could be too late for you. If your little pine dries up, and if I can’t find a shrub for you out there”—Carin pointed at the prairieland ahead—“then you’ll die. Will you risk it, just to stay with me?”

  “Indeed I will. I don’t doubt that the mage has his reasons for making this journey. And if he thinks it’s necessary to have one of his otherworldly ‘guests’ with him, then I count it no great mental leap to believe that the other—myself—may also have cause to attend him. I pray you, let’s waste no more time arguing. What do you have that would make a fitting wrapper for a ball of roots, to hold the moisture in them?”

  That was a good question. If Carin gave up a stocking, her foot would freeze to her boot. Her gloves were equally indispensable. The only item on her body that might be superfluous in this cold was the chemise that she wore next to her skin.

  “Watch those two.” Carin jerked her head to indicate the men who were waiting for her. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  She threw off her cloak, coat, quilted doublet, and linen shirt, then pulled her chemise over her head. Already shivering violently, she restored all the layers of her clothing, except that her frozen fingers had trouble doing up the buttons of her coat.

  “Hurry!” the sprite urged her. “The mage looks this way with a frown upon his face. In another minute, he’ll be tramping over here to see what’s keeping you.”

  Carin left her coat mostly unbuttoned. She reached for a seedling that was small enough to conceal under her clothes, and pulled it up so gently that its roots lost only a few grains of moist soil. She wrapped the roots in her shed chemise.

  “Your carriage awaits, sprite.” Carin held the seedling up for the creature’s inspection.

  “And a fine one it is!” the woodsprite declared. The seedling twitched as the sprite leaped into it. “Slip me now inside your coat,” the creature said, its voice humming through the needles, “and I’ll travel comfortably indeed. No more sparking through cold trees for this wight!”

  Carin did as it suggested. Then she wrapped up in her cloak to hide both her unbuttoned coat and the green pine needles that were bristling out of it. Fresh misgivings flashed upon her. She was putting the woodsprite within Verek’s reach once more. But there was no backing out now. She grabbed her gloves and dashed out of the grove, just in time to meet Verek arriving at its edge.

  “At last!” the wizard exclaimed. He glowered at her. “What have you been doing all this time? Are you ill?”

  Carin shook her head. To avoid meeting his gaze, she focused on the task of regloving her cold-whitened hands. “No, I’m all right. I’m ready to ride on, if you are.”

  Verek said nothing. He stood blocking Carin’s way until her gloves were on and could no longer command her attention.

  Reluctantly then, she looked up to find the warlock studying her. His face betrayed no hint of what he was thinking. Did he come by that enviable skill naturally? Or was it the product of careful practice?

  Don’t make him suspicious, Carin told herself. Think of anything except the creature that hides next to your heart.

  In Carin’s thoughts, however, the woodsprite’s seedling rooted itself firmly, allowing nothing else to come to her mind. On her face the secret might already be plastered, as plainly as if she’d pulled the little pine from her coat and brushed Verek’s nose with it.

  Carin’s shivering intensified until her teeth began to chatter.

  Still Verek gave nothing away, by word or look. What did he know? What did he suspect?

  At last the wizard turned and stalked away. “Come,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Small use standing here until you freeze. Get on your horse and don’t let me hear you call for a stop again before nightfall.”

  Carin found that her knees had locked, and she was gripping one hand so tightly in the other that both ached. The tension in her body thrummed almost audibly as she broke herself loose and hurried to Emrys. But when she was remounted and trailing Verek at a lengthening distance, her muscles began to uncord, and she felt safe in working the seedling up into the light, a little way out of her clothes until its topmost needles tickled her throat.

  “This is delightful!” the sprite whispered, too airily to be overheard. “I haven’t been so warm since I left the mage’s sitting room in Myra’s potted rowan.”

  “You feel the cold?” Carin whispered back, surprised. “I wouldn’t expect it to matter to you. The trees you
live in don’t seem to mind whether they’re hot or cold.”

  “They might not, but I know the difference. When I leap into the heart of a sleeping oak, I find the timber disagreeably cold. Winter’s breath drives down the sap. But the wood of an evergreen is always pleasant, for those trees keep their needles all year.

  “On balance, though,” the sprite added, “I’d rather be chilled than roasted. A stupor comes over me when I am overly warm. And I’m sure you remember, my friend, how I yelped when the mage passed the roots of my captured hazel twig through the fire on his library’s hearth. Wet enough, those roots were, to protect them from burning, but feel the heat I assuredly did.

  “—Which brings me,” the woodsprite interrupted itself, “to a point I would impress upon you with some urgency, if I may. Pray favor me with a moistening of this seedling’s roots, as soon as you’ll not be put to trouble to do it.”

  “Sprite!” Carin hissed at the creature in alarm. “It may be hours before I get a chance to water you. Are you shriveling already? Drisha! I knew we shouldn’t have done this.”

  “Pray do not distress yourself!” the creature squeaked. “I assure you that I am in no danger, and shouldn’t be for days. The sprig in which I travel is young, fresh, and full of life. My desire to keep it so is the reason I ask that it be watered—but only when you may find it convenient.”

  The pine needles poked Carin in the throat as she heaved a sigh of relief. She worked her hand inside her coat and grasped the seedling by its bundled roots, intending to draw it down a little, away from her face. But for a moment her hand stayed where it was, her irritated neck forgotten, as she caught sight of Lanse gesturing up ahead. The boy pointed to his left, calling Verek’s attention to something southward.

  Carin followed their gazes, then began tugging the seedling deep out of sight.

  “We’ve got company,” she whispered to the disappearing needles. “Three riders spurring toward us. I’ll stick close to Verek and Lanse in case there’s trouble—so keep quiet.”

  “—As a green bud,” the sprite promised.

  Both of the horsemen ahead of Carin had removed their gloves and unshouldered their bows. As she caught up with them, a frowning Lanse tossed her the packhorse’s lead rope. Then he and Verek drew arrows from their quivers and nocked them. Neither bent his bow, only held his weapon lightly at rest.

  The three riders who were kicking up dust from the south were similarly armed—bows in hand but not drawn. As the trio neared Verek’s party, their scruffiness was the most striking thing about them. Though they rode good horses and carried well-made weapons, the men were dirty and unkempt. Their clothes had been unscrubbed too long to ever be clean again. Carin wrinkled her nose as an errant breeze brought her a whiff of the strangers.

  “Halt!” the trio’s leader cried.

  He rode in so tight in front of Verek that the wizard had no choice but to comply. Lanse reined in at his right hand. Carin brought up the rear.

  “In the name of my Lord Attis of Imlen,” the stranger said, “you are hereby commanded to leave his land at once.”

  Verek looked the scruffy spokesman up and down. “I take it ill that a baseborn hireling should presume to command me to any action,” he growled. “As it happens, however, my path takes me off this ill-favored plain as quickly as these tired beasts will cross it. Move aside and let us pass.”

  The leader of the opposing party shook his head. “Nay. You’ll go no farther. Turn those nags around and ride back the way you came.”

  “And if we do not?” the wizard asked. He leaned forward in his saddle.

  Though Carin couldn’t see Verek’s eyes, the stranger’s reaction told her the wizard had fixed him with one of those deep, menacing stares that could unstring her own nerves instantly. The rider flinched and averted his gaze.

  Quickly, however, the man collected himself. He scowled back. “If you do not,” the rider barked, “then you’ll end your journey here, with the vultures plucking out your damned eyes before the sun is set.”

  “Destruction on you!” Verek spat the curse. He straightened. “Provoke me further and it’s your worthless carcass that the scavengers will feast upon. Move aside, or have but a moment to regret your error.”

  The rider laughed. He cut his eyes at his companions. Then he ran his stare appraisingly over Verek’s two.

  His gaze lingered longest on Carin. She gripped Emrys’ reins and barely mastered the urge to back the mare away. The stranger’s leer made her feel as violated as if his hands were on her.

  The rider returned his attention to Verek. “Those are brave words for a rich fool who’s backed by a cub and a pretty boy.” He scoffed. “I think we’ll spare the pretty one for a bit of sport. A fair-faced boy will please like a strumpet if he’s all there is to be had. But it’s to farsinchia, sir, that we send you and the cub!”

  Before the last word was out of his mouth, the rider and his men had their bows drawn and their arrows leveled.

  Only Lanse was as blindingly quick with his own weapon. The wizard’s bow still rested on his leg, held casually in his disfigured left hand. Verek did not appear to have twitched a muscle, except he’d raised his right hand. He held it out before him, the long fingers spread.

  Carin’s stomach heaved. Under all the layers of her clothes she was cold but damp with sweat. She gawked at a scene that seemed frozen in time, as if painted on a canvas of colorless sky and winter-killed grass. The three ruffians and their horses didn’t move. But then Lanse drew his arrow back a little further, and Verek began to raise his own neglected weapon.

  It’s too late! screamed panic inside Carin’s head. They’ll be killed. Get out of here!

  She dropped the packhorse’s rope, yanked Emrys around, and kicked the mare to a run. She didn’t look back to see whether Lanse could down one of the riders before he himself fell—alongside Verek. The wizard, so carelessly caught off guard, was sure to take an arrow before he could loose his own shot. Verek and Lanse were done for. But at least two of their killers would survive—to come after her.

  The ensorcelled band on Carin’s ankle clamped down, hard. “Aaahhh!” she shrieked, and hauled back on Emrys’ reins before the iron could bite deep and cleave her foot from her leg.

  As the horse skidded to a halt, foam flecking its mouth, Carin slumped over the mare’s neck. The blood roared in her ears. All but witless with terror, she was powerless to choose:

  Which fate? Run, and be dismembered? Or surrender to the ruffians to be raped and murdered?

  Chapter 6

  An Unpardonable Offense

  Her ankle iron loosened.

  Verek is dead, and his spell dies with him! Carin clutched at the possibility. She hazarded a glance backward to the scene of the wizard’s murder—

  —And discovered his doppelgänger approaching at a trot. The ghost saw Carin gaping at him. He reined Brogar to a halt and called out, in familiar clipped tones that said he was no apparition:

  “Why do you weary that poor beast with a hard run in the wrong direction? You must know by now which way is east and which, west. Kindly recover your bearings and get yourself back here.”

  A stunned and half-strangled “Uhh …” was the sum of Carin’s response. But Emrys heeded the wizard’s call. The mare’s breath fogged the air as, chuffing and snorting, she took them to Verek at a slow walk.

  When they were still a few steps from him, Carin bent from her saddle and vomited. The full contents of her stomach splashed to the ground, steaming in the cold. Emrys never paused, but carried her to the wizard’s side.

  “Steady!” Verek exclaimed. “What’s all this?”

  The sky seemed to press down on her as Carin dug for her water costrel. But before she could get at it, Verek had leaned across the slight space between their two horses to hand her a different bottle—one that didn’t hold water.

  “What you appear to require is a swallow of this,” he said. “Dhera is a great comfort to those who are s
ick with fear. In these symptoms of yours, I read no other malady. You needn’t be so anxious as this, however. I should not have left Ruain if I meant to be stopped by common ruffians.”

  Carin took a long pull of the liquor. Its warmth spread through her belly, calmed her retching, and helped her to stop shaking.

  “Come,” Verek ordered as Carin silently gave him his dhera back. “There’s little now to hold us here. We must be away.”

  She followed him too closely to allow even a whispered word to the sprite in its seedling. They rejoined Lanse. The boy was waiting impatiently astride his gelding, holding the packhorse’s rope. As Carin rode up, he shot her a black look. She ignored him. Her attention was all for the three bodies that lay on the ground, already stiffening in the cold.

  The dead riders’ horses stood as they had at the moment the men raised their weapons. The animals might have been statues, except for their eyes. These rolled in terror, the whites showing.

  The spell of stone, Carin thought, beginning to make sense of events. With the spread fingers of his right hand, the wizard must have cast horses and riders under the enchantment at the instant the men brought their bows up. Verek and Lanse had been free then to dispatch each motionless target with an unhurried shot through the heart. The blots of blood in the center of each chest testified mutely to a single arrow entering, then being pulled from the flesh the way it went in.

  Merciful Drisha. What a way to die. Carin felt certain that the slaughtered men had been fully aware of their peril, if they experienced the spell of stone the same way she had. Each of her three brushes with the magic had deadened her limbs but not her mind. She had known exactly what was happening to her.

  Verek dismounted and approached the three frightened horses. He spoke softly to them and placed his bare hands on the foreheads of the first two. With his eyes closed, he held that pose a moment, then dropped his hands.