HARRIER helped Simera lay Tiercel out on his bedroll. They couldn’t run, and they couldn’t fight, and despite his suspicions, he was beginning to believe that Roneida really was a Wildmage. She didn’t behave at all like the traveler, and she seemed to know a lot about all three of them. Besides, she could see him and Simera, and the traveler hadn’t been able to.
“When this tea is ready, we’ll wake your friend up and give him some. That will help him a great deal,” Roneida said.
“But aren’t you going to Heal him?” Simera asked.
“Why waste the spell?” Roneida snapped. “You youngsters! Magic this and magic that! As if the Good Gods hadn’t given you a brain to think your way out of your troubles with. Now, a little less talk and a lot more action—especially out of you, young Centauress! Mouse needs to be untacked and brushed down, and frankly, I’ve seen better camps organized by a troup of Fauns. You’ll never make Forest Watch if this is how you go about things.”
By the time the camp was rearranged to Roneida’s satisfaction, the tea was ready. She poured out a generous serving into a large earthenware cup that she removed from one of the packs that Simera had taken from Mouse’s back, and Harrier sat Tiercel up and shook him awake.
“The Wildmage is here,” Harrier said.
“Oh. All right,” Tiercel said groggily. He took the cup without complaint, but after the first taste he choked and tried to spit it out.
“Now, now,” Roneida said reprovingly. “What’s good isn’t always pleasant. Drink it all.”
Whatever was in the tea did a great deal to restore Tiercel’s strength, for as soon as he’d finished the entire cup, he was sitting up and regarding their new guest with interest.
“What happened to you?” Harrier demanded.
“I’m not sure. As soon as I started casting MageShield, I started to feel weak and dizzy. It always happens, but . . . never that bad.”
“And you keep doing it?” Harrier demanded indignantly.
“I thought it would go away,” Tiercel said. “Do you know what the problem is?” he asked Roneida.
“How in the name of the Gods of the Wild Magic should I know?” Roneida snorted. “Do I look old enough to have ever seen a High Mage in the flesh? Oh, I know that’s what you are—born with both the Magegift and the will to use it—and if that doesn’t worry you, it should, because the Gods don’t send us gifts we don’t need. I’d stop trying to cast spells though, if I were you. But that’s just me.”
Harrier sighed with exasperation, seeing Tiercel’s shoulders slump in disappointment. Somehow he’d thought a Wildmage would be more, well, useful.
Roneida shot him a sharp look.
“Can you at least tell me what’s going on?” Tiercel asked plaintively. “I think I’m in a lot of trouble. Well, actually, I, um, I’m not really sure,” Tiercel stammered.
“If I knew what was going on—in the sense that you mean—I’d be a great deal wiser than I am. I’m a servant of the Wild Magic, not a princess in a wondertale. All I know is that I was minding my own business in Vardirvoshanon, looking after my garden, when all of a sudden nothing would do but I should come south at once to find the Fire-Crowned boy—meaning you, young man. Not a light Price, to undertake a journey that long before the snows had melted, but one I’d been expecting to pay for years—which is a story that is nothing to do with you, nor do I intend to tell it to you. And having gotten here, and found you wandering halfway to Ysterialpoerin doing your best to break your neck or set yourself aflame—Fire-Crowned boy indeed!—pray, tell me what the Gods of the Wild Magic would have me do for you, young High Mage?”
The three of them looked at each other. They’d been spending so long looking for a Wildmage—at least Tiercel and Harrier had—that now that one had finally found them, they weren’t quite sure what to say.
Roneida sighed.
“This has all the earmarks of a long story, and will undoubtedly go better with food. I’ve a rabbit in my pack that will thicken your stew nicely, and I’ll make the griddle-cakes while you tell me all you know.”
BY the time the stew was cooking—thick with pieces of bacon and rabbit, and the second brazier had been set up to fry griddle-cakes—Tiercel had stumbled through his entire tale, having gone all the way back to Harrier’s Naming Day celebration, with the help of Roneida’s none-too-gentle prodding.
There were parts of the story that neither Harrier nor Simera had heard before. Until now, Harrier hadn’t known that untrained High Mages died—or that Tiercel’s periods of sickness had been getting worse since he’d left Armethalieh.
He’d thought Tiercel was getting better.
“Most of the time I’m fine,” Tiercel said. “But whenever I do magic—unless it’s something simple and quick, like lighting a fire—I’m weak afterward. Like I’ve held my breath too long. But it takes hours to go away.”
Roneida smacked him—very hard—with the wooden spoon she was holding. “I told you: stop doing magic.”
“But what if—”
She hit him again.
“That, or get used to falling down a lot. I told you: I know nothing about the High Magick.”
“But what about the visions?” Tiercel asked. “I was hoping you could make them go away.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” Roneida said, but this time her tone was more gentle. “Usually, people come to me asking to have visions. They want to know who they’re going to marry, or they want to see the face of their first child before it’s conceived—or find a lost horse, when they should have kept the gate locked in the first place. Ah well. You don’t want to hear about my problems, and you aren’t going to like my answers. So we might as well eat first.”
There was no shifting her from her decision, and Harrier was already afraid she wasn’t going to tell them anything they wanted to hear, so he helped distribute the food without arguing at all.
Roneida’s pack contained many luxuries their own did not—jam for the griddle cakes, extra spices and dried vegetables for the stew, and even a bottle of fruit cordial to round out the meal. When they were all comfortably full—and had washed their dishes in the stream and packed them away, something she insisted on—she settled back on her bedroll and sighed.
By now it was twilight. Tea-water was brewing on the brazier, and the pot was set ready for filling. The lanterns ringed the campsite—Harrier had gone back and fetched them earlier, along with Tiercel’s workbook and wand—but no one had lit them yet. He supposed—based on what Tiercel had said earlier—that if they wanted them lit tonight, they’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to see Tiercel doing any magic ever again.
“Now,” Roneida said. “You obviously have little experience with Wildmages, and that, children, is much as it should be, for the world would be in a sad mess if people were always running to us to solve every little problem instead of relying on their own limbs and wits. And, as with everything one sees little of, people develop a lot of silly notions—oh, we see the plays and stories, and get a good laugh out of them, too! As the Blessed Idalia certainly would, if she were here. But I will tell you this: all Wild-mages are not alike. Some are great in power, some are less so. All do the work of the Gods of the Wild Magic in the world, keeping the Great Balance, paying their Prices. We’re born as the world needs us, each to fulfill our destiny. Some are great Healers, others know weather best, others have a great gift for caring for animals, or knowing what is best for the crops. Some have every talent in moderation. Some simply see the best way that things should go, and try to persuade others to live simply and kindly together. It takes no magic to do that; just a clever tongue and a great store of patience, and I tell you no secret when I tell you that this is not the aspect of the Wild Magic that the Gods have seen fit to favor me with.”
Harrier laughed out loud, and even Tiercel smiled. Roneida favored them both with an approving look. Now that she had settled in to tell her tale—for a tale
it was, in some ways—her demeanor had changed. Harrier suspected that whatever she said about her store of patience—or lack of it—back in her own home, her own gifts lay in teaching.
“But to each of us, the Three Books come at some point in our lives, and we all do our best to live by the wisdom set out in them.
“What I mean to say to you, young Tiercel, is that I have no magic cure to offer you, though your problem and your danger is very real. Certainly you have been touched by magic, but I cannot see or sense it—it is High Magick, to which the Wild Magic is blind. And I am not fool enough to meddle with that which I cannot see. You sense danger, and I will not blind you to it, even though you ask me to. What it is, and where it lies, I do not know. Perhaps the High Magick can tell you, if you can master it.”
Harrier opened his mouth. Roneida held up a warning finger. “I told you I knew nothing of the High Magick, and that was the truth. But I know this: the Elves have memories longer than ours, and the dragons, longer still. If you need to know about High Magick and High Mages, ask them.”
“Ask the Elves?” Simera said, sounding dismayed and startled.
“Ask dragons?” Harrier echoed.
“Should I have stayed in Vardirvoshanon? Yes, witling children, the Elves—and the dragons!” Roneida sniped. “I have told you I know nothing of the High Magick—and that is true—but I know that the Elves remember it, and I do know the Elves. They’ll tell you what they know if they think there’s need. Go east through the Mystrals, find the Gatekeeper Pass, and keep heading east through the Bazrahils. If you’re lucky, you’ll reach the Elven Lands before you freeze.”
“Oh, there’s a comforting thought,” Harrier muttered under his breath.
“I’ll give you what help I can against what’s following you—but you shall have to make your way by your wits. And you shall certainly need your wits, if what I suspect is true.”
“It would be really helpful if you’d just tell us what that is, instead of dropping all these hints,” Harrier said, louder this time.
He’d been pretty sure the wooden spoon had been washed and put away with the rest of the cooking supplies, but suddenly he felt a stinging crack to the back of his head, and instead of the spoon, there was a long slender stick in Roneida’s hands, very similar to Tiercel’s wand, but of a darker wood. Apparently she just liked hitting people, and came prepared to do it.
“Oh, and then you would be convinced you knew exactly what dangers you faced, and precisely how to deal with them, wouldn’t you? Never mind my opinion, that it is far better to send you on your way afraid of everything, so that you won’t trust something you shouldn’t by mistake! Idiot child: you believe in only what you can touch, and what touches you. Just as before, many of the dangers you will face will be of that sort. Many will not. Many will be both, or will seem to be one and be another. There? Is that plain-speaking enough for you?”
“No,” Harrier said simply.
He’d pretty much changed his mind about ever wanting to meet a Wildmage. Apparently all they ever did was hit you and talk incomprehensibly. And thanks to Tiercel, he was already very tired of magic.
“But now you have had the bitter and the sour, so I will give you the sweet. Since I knew before I left Vardirvoshanon that I would be meeting you, I brought some objects you will find useful on your journey.” Once more she rummaged in the packs spread around her.
The first items she came out with were three white quartz stones the size of pigeons’ eggs. They were threaded on leather cords. The stones were slightly flattened, and the natural action of water had worn a hole through the center of each, through which the waxed leather cords were looped and knotted.
“Wear these,” she said, handing one to each of them, “and never take them off. I believe they will confuse the enemy which pursues you—and who knows, young man? It may allow you to get some sleep at night,” she added, with a nod to Tiercel.
When Harrier put his on, slipping the knotted cord over his head, he wasn’t sure what he expected to feel, but he felt nothing at all. The stone was just a stone, heavy and smooth, like any stone he might pick up out of a riverbed. He turned his attention back to Roneida, not quite sure she wasn’t going to hit him again. She was removing another object from her pack; a bundle of arrows tightly wrapped in a case of oiled cloth.
“If you’d been sensible enough to go north by way of Ondoladeshiron, you could have replenished your supplies there. As it is, you’re likely to run out of arrows long before you reach Ysterialpoerin, young Centauress, and you’ll never find a decent fletcher at any of the small towns you pass,” Roneida said, passing the bundle to Simera. “I’d suggest you stop for supplies at Windy Meadows, by the way. You’ll need to head a bit east of True North to run across it, but that pony of yours could pull a cart without trouble, and then you won’t have to live like savages. But I suppose you’ll do just as you please.” She sniffed disapprovingly—reminding Harrier forcibly of a nanny he’d had long ago—and continued removing items from her pack.
The next item was three large knives in their sheaths. All three were larger and heavier than their own knives—even Simera’s sturdy practical hunting knife—and obviously weapons rather than tools.
“And if there is something that my Talismans cannot turn aside, nor Simera’s arrows discourage, then you shall be forced to fight, and a strong edge is a compelling argument.”
They regarded the blades in their hands doubtfully. Of the three of them, Simera had the most experience with keeping the peace, and even she looked as if she’d rather be somewhere else. No matter how many times they told themselves—or Tiercel told them—that there was danger involved in all of this, no matter how many bandits, bears, ice-storms, and bizarre vanishing travelers they encountered, none of that was the same thing as holding a knife in your hands that had been forged for one purpose: to draw someone’s blood.
And thinking you might have to use it.
“But if these will not serve . . .”
Last of all she pulled the largest of her packs toward her and pulled out a long bundle wrapped in coarse cloth.
“Then Harrier shall at last have what he so ardently desires. The chance to hit something.” She placed the bundle in Harrier’s lap.
It was a sword. He felt its shape through the cloth, and unwrapped it quickly, swallowing hard. The sword was sheathed, and there was a swordbelt. He pulled the blade partway from its sheath and stared at it.
The silvery blade was slick with grease and gleamed like bright glass in the deep twilight. He knew better than to touch the blade itself—if he knew nothing of swords, at least he knew something of knives, and the grease was there to protect the metal of the blade. Besides, it looked sharp.
Very sharp.
There was no particular ornamentation to either sword or sheath, just good plain leather for the one, and plain metal for the other. The hilt was wrapped in plaited horsehair; the rough wiry surface would give him a good strong grip, no matter how much his hands sweated as he held it. He ran a finger over the hilt experimentally, feeling the roughness.
“I don’t know how to use a sword,” he said aloud.
“You’ll learn,” Roneida said unsympathetically. “And until you do, simply think of it as a long sharp club.”
Tiercel snickered nervously. Harrier turned and glared at him. Tiercel was the High Mage! Tiercel was the one talking about needing a sword for his stupid magic spells! Why hadn’t Roneida given Tiercel the sword?
“I, ah, um. Thank you,” he said awkwardly. It was a present, after all. And you thanked people for presents, even when they gave you things you’d rather not have.
It occurred to him that this had all started when he’d been given a present he hadn’t wanted—The Compendium of Ancient Myth and Legend. He hoped that this present didn’t mean the start of even more trouble. And he really hoped he wasn’t going to have to hit anything.
“And now we’ll have a nice cup of tea, and go to bed,
” Roneida said briskly. “We all have a long way to go in the morning, and you’ve all had a very busy day.”
BUT even after the evening tea—something from Roneida’s pack; spicy, fragrant, and unfamiliar—Harrier couldn’t sleep, though Tiercel dozed off immediately and even Simera seemed perfectly able to sleep just as if this were any other night. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Roneida had told them.
Go find the Elves.
It would take them two moonturns at least to cross the Mystrals and reach Ysterialpoerin, and he had no idea how far beyond that the Bazrahil Range was. A long way, he thought. The edge of the world. And Pelashia’s Veil was farther still.
Their parents were going to think they were dead.
They might actually be dead before they got that far, it occurred to him. Roneida hadn’t said her rocks could protect them—he fingered the white stone around his neck—she just said they might help. Whatever was chasing Tiercel would keep coming. None of them really knew much about fighting. Simera could defend herself against bandits—if there weren’t too many of them—but what if something worse came along? Since they all seemed to be falling into a Kindling Day play, why not expect icedrakes and dwerro and bearwards and minotaurs to come charging over the next hill? And unicorns and Frost Giants too? If they were going to visit the Elves, and see dragons, maybe they’d get to see all the creatures of ancient legend, wonderful and monstrous.
He really hoped not. It was one thing to imagine them safely in a wondertale—that was fine—and quite another to imagine actually meeting any of them. The bad ones would kill them outright, and Harrier couldn’t really imagine that even the good ones would have much interest in them.
And why wouldn’t Roneida just do something about Tiercel’s visions, if they were so dangerous, instead of sending them off to the Elves? What were the Elves going to do? Train Tyr as a High Mage? From everything Tiercel had said, that took years. If what he was seeing was an actual problem, wouldn’t it be over by then, one way or the other?
The Enduring Flame Trilogy 001 - The Phoenix Unchained Page 18
