The Book of Atrix Wolfe

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  Just before it hardened, she felt herself in another place, contemplating another candle, set in a holder of rosewood and deer horn. The wax warmed, spilled; she slid with it, felt it begin to slow down the sides of the candle, harden…

  Saro! a voice cried, in the memory, and a word moved in the back of her throat, an answer.

  “Saro!”

  It was as if the iron cauldron had shouted. Her bones shook, fell into place; her head jerked back. In sudden terror, she gathered the bright moths and blossoms and stars all around her, before she looked across her ring of fire and met the tray-mistress’s astonished eyes.

  Sixteen

  Talis rode among the hunters of Pelucir.

  He had grown accustomed, in the past few days, to being invisible. The horse he rode he had taken from a meadow where horses as beautiful as he had ever seen ran wild. It was the color of butter, with a white-gold mane, and it moved through the human hunt, the horns and dogs and shouts, as if through drifting leaves. Listening at random, Talis heard what had frozen the grim expression on Burne’s face, and why there were fewer who ventured into the wood with him, and why they all seemed intent on killing every living thing in the wood, as if preparing for a siege.

  Of Atrix Wolfe he found no trace. But if the Hunter still haunted the field, then the mage must still be there, somewhere: in a shadow under a bramble, in a window in the keep, watching Hunter’s Field. Talis had searched by day and night. By day the wood, unsettled by the King’s hunt, seemed so empty of mages he wondered if they had taken their battle back to Chaumenard. At twilight, the castle across the field sealed itself tightly; no one ventured out. Talis, hidden at the edge of the wood, could see the silent, motionless field until moonrise. Then something blurred the field—mist, or moonlight so bright it concealed what it illumined. When he tried to move into it, he invariably found himself back in the wood, no matter what shape he took.

  It was Atrix Wolfe’s magic, he had no doubt, and it was meant for him. The hunters saw it also from the castle; they spoke in hushed, shaken voices of battles of mage and Hunter and all the ghosts of Hunter’s Field they imagined raging within the mist. Talis spent several nights trying to isolate a single act of magic, trying to see even a moving shadow within the mist. He yielded finally in bewilderment, and let his star-eyed mount find its way back to the meadow, where, hock-deep in wild lilies, it drank from a silver pool that mirrored delicate faces among the lilies. They vanished when Talis looked for them.

  Oak receded from the meadow in all directions; he saw nothing else. He found a rock overlooking the pool, and sat down with a sigh, weary, hungry and harrowed with fears. Time seemed arbitrary in the Queen’s wood: Night in Pelucir meant perhaps a deeper shade of blue in the tranquil sky, or a dusky, lovely twilight that lingered until the sun rose over Hunter’s Field. Once, night had fallen into the Queen’s wood as well, for no reason he could find except to cast a powerful urge in him to fall asleep under moonlight. The Queen had walked through all his dreams, in robes of flowing moonlight; he had brought her gifts—a key, a bird’s nest, a sparkling stone, a gilded horseshoe, a scarlet mushroom—but she would not tell him her name. When the wood grew light again and he awoke, he found bread and cheese and strawberries wrapped in leaves beside him, as if, he thought wistfully, in her dreams, she had brought him gifts.

  She had not come to him, or permitted him to find her again. It was a spur, her absence, a goad to find Atrix Wolfe, so that he could see her face again. He thought of her ceaselessly, adrift and lonely in her realm as he was; his arms remembered circling her, his bones remembered her bones. Light fell through trees, gilding the dead oak leaves, and he saw her hair, fire and amber and gold. The hart raised its head at the sound of a hunting horn, and he saw her beautiful, vulnerable face. He saw wild roses and thought of her; slender white birch, and thought of her; a white dove flying through green leaves, and thought of her. Everything his eyes touched turned into her. Everything his eyes touched had a name, and was not her.

  He did not know her name. Nor, he realized, watching tiny fish make endless, interlocking rings in the still pool, did he know her consort’s name. Neither did Atrix Wolfe, who was fighting him within the mist on Hunter’s Field. Talis stirred restively, deeply disturbed at his own powerlessness. Atrix Wolfe would not let himself be found; neither would the nameless Queen. But unless Atrix could name what he fought, he would never defeat it, for he believed he fought only himself.

  A fish touched the surface, made a ring. A face appeared in the ring, so close to the colors of mosses and reflected meadow-grass that Talis did not recognize it until he saw the eyes in the water watching him.

  He started, lifting his own eyes to see the rider made of leaves. The rider said, as his dark horse drank from the pool,

  “The Queen has lost three birds: a bluebird, a red bird, a bird as yellow as the sun. She asks that, since you have nothing more pressing to do than to sit on a rock watching fish, you might find them for her.”

  Talis touched his lenses silently, studying the strange, elegant face. “The wood is full of birds,” he said finally. “How will I know which are hers?” He felt his heartbeat then, answering his own question: It did not matter, he would catch them all, for the moment in which he gave them to her.

  The rider turned his mount indifferently. “You will know,” he said.

  “Wait!” Talis called impulsively, and the rider halted his horse, glancing back expressionlessly. “What is the name of the Queen’s consort?”

  He did not see what happened. He found himself in the water suddenly, sitting among the darting fish, his lenses askew and dripping water, his face throbbing oddly, as if he had been struck.

  “Humans,” the rider snapped, with his back to Talis, and rode away. Talis, amazed, heaved himself out of the pool. A bluebird, he told himself, trying to wipe his lenses with a sodden sleeve. A red bird. A yellow bird. They blame us for the Queen’s lost consort and her child. Humans.

  He called again, this time silently: Wait. The rider, nearly into the wood, drew up under an oak. Among the leaves, he and his mount, dappled with shadow, were nearly invisible.

  Talis sensed his surprise across the meadow. He did not answer, but waited while Talis emptied the water out of his boots, then walked barefoot through the grass. Mount and rider gazed at him with the same remote expression as he stood beside them. The layered face reminded him of an unopened bud, an unfurled leaf, something wrapped neatly around itself, protecting an inner mystery.

  Talis said, “The mage who cast the spell over the Queen’s consort fights him with a human magic. If the mage dies, there will be no hope for the Queen’s consort; he will be trapped in that shape as long as he is alive.” A leaf-shadow, or the hint of expression, moved across the still face. Talis held up an open hand, continued carefully, “For the mage to unravel the spell, he will need to know what magic he is facing. That’s why I asked for the name. I did not ask lightly and I meant no offense. What you did to me beside the pool, I didn’t recognize.”

  A breeze wandered by, shook a leaf from the oak. It drifted to the ground. A bird called, blue or red or yellow; Talis kept his eyes, with some prudence, on the motionless face. The rider spoke finally. “You don’t use your magic here. You made me wait, while you walked across the meadow.”

  “She didn’t take me for my magic.” He felt the warm blood rise in his face in spite of himself. “There are many, far better human mages.” He paused, heard the unspoken question in the air. “She took me because she knew I would give her my heart. And then whatever else she wants. I walked across the meadow because I don’t know the language of magic in this land. I didn’t want you to misunderstand me. It’s simple to understand a walking man, especially when he is soaking wet and barefoot and carrying his boots.”

  There was a flicker in the green eyes, almost a glint of light. “It is less easy, I see, to understand the man sitting quietly beside a pool. I will give you nothing for the mage to use ag
ainst the Queen’s consort.”

  Talis shook his head quickly, swallowing. “I would not want to hurt her more,” he said softly. “It’s only for the mage to understand what magic he is fighting. If I can find him.”

  “When.”

  “When I find him.”

  The rider dismounted. A dove flew down, settled on his shoulder, beneath his golden hair. He stood very still, holding Talis’ eyes; Talis, as still, watched the leaf-mask waver, separate into leaves on a bough, rustling in a gentle wind. An oak formed in his mind, its great dark branches a lovely, complex filigree against the green. A face formed in the leaves; branches pieced themselves together like bones; leaves shaped around the bone. The tree walked away from its roots, turned to look back at itself.

  “I am Oak and I speak for the oak. The birds know me, lightning knows me. You know me now, Talis Pelucir. Take these birds to the Queen of the Wood. Then find me at the boundary between worlds, where wood meets Wood at the edge of Hunter’s Field. I have watched there with you. I want to show you what I have seen.”

  Talis blinked; the face formed again outside of his mind. Birds had landed on his shoulders; he felt feathers brush his cheek, a murmur at his ear. The Oak lord set the dove among them. “Take this, too,” he said. “Tell her it’s from me.” He added, mounting again, hearing the question in Talis’ head, “Behind you.”

  Talis watched him ride into the wood, until leaf and branch and shadow hid him, or he let his mortal shape flow freely back into them. Then Talis let his boots fall, put them on carefully, so as not to disturb the birds on his shoulders. He turned.

  A great palace stood in front of him.

  It filled the meadow, rose out of it, its lower walls and towers so thickly covered with vines that the palace seemed to be blooming out of something living. Its upper towers seemed made of light, blown glass, rainbow-colored air. Its gate was an arch of green leaves over a long bridge of thick, ancient vines. No one guarded it, except, Talis thought, perhaps the vines themselves. He walked carefully over them; vine-leaves whispered; the dove spoke softly back to them.

  He stepped through the oak doors, found a single room as wide as the meadow, with a small silver pool in the middle of it. Lilies made of bronze and glass and wax grew around the pool, some as high as saplings, others lit like candles, scenting the air with honey. The rest of the rooms lay in shadow, a palace waiting to be formed, Talis guessed, at every step.

  The figure sitting at the edge of the pool lifted a hand. The birds took wing off Talis’ shoulder, flew, streaks of color, to settle among the frozen lilies. The dove dropped into the Queen’s hands.

  She smiled across the pool at Talis, and he felt his heart open wings, try to fly.

  “I wish,” he whispered, “I had brought you every bird in the wood. If I had known you would smile…”

  “The birds brought you to me,” she said. “They were my messengers. But this white one…this is a message to me.”

  “It is from the Oak lord.”

  “I know. I watched you both within this pool.”

  Talis flushed. “You saw me sitting with the fish.”

  “Oak uses the lightning that catches in its boughs. I heard your question. You have not brought the mage to me.” She stroked the dove’s breast, no longer smiling, her face grave.

  “He is hiding from me, I think. He must know I’m searching for him.”

  “How will you find him?”

  “I don’t know. Learn from the oak how to attract lightning, perhaps. I must find him quickly, before he leaves Pelucir.”

  The Queen tossed the dove into the air. “Sit,” she said to Talis, and gestured at the shadows. “You are right to want my consort’s name. Oak, carrying lightning he has swallowed, can be occasionally testy.”

  “Is that what hit me?” Talis dropped down, marvelling, beside a cluster of bronze lilies. In the pool, fiery darts of light swarmed like tiny fish. The water was very still. The Queen gestured; servants came out of the shadows, carrying trays of food and wine. Talis ate mushrooms, wild herbs and onions, roast hare steeped in wine and spices, warm bread stuffed with hazelnuts and soft cheese. The Queen drank pale wine while he ate; when he finished, she said,

  “Saro looked like my consort. Eyes the color of ripe acorns, hair long and shining, milky-white. She inherited his powers and mine, something from each of us: the wordless, wild wood, and the language of humans. He had taught her many things, young as she was; she knew the languages of birds, of trees, almost before she could speak. My consort also carried a double heritage of power. That is how he became so terrible.” She paused; the water in the pool darkened briefly, as if the shadow of the Hunter had passed over it. She whispered, “I do not expect to see him again.” She shook her head at Talis’ wordless murmur. “Never as he was. Never. After what he became. How could he return from that?”

  “If Atrix—when he knows—”

  “What could he do? Change the past? My love rode away from me and vanished into the deadly night of humans.”

  “Atrix will try to save him. Once he knows.”

  “I am sending you to find him for Saro’s sake,” she said fiercely. “If a choice must be made, Atrix Wolfe must live. My consort is dead. I know him. He could not live knowing what he had become. Nor—except for Saro’s sake—would he permit the mage to live. He will kill Atrix Wolfe if he can, out of fury, out of grief, perhaps in memory of what he once was, once had. Once loved.”

  “Yes,” Talis whispered.

  “I have seen him, once or twice, in this pool. And I saw him the night I hunted you. Part of him still remembers my wood. I wonder, if he tries to find his way back here, what might stop him from a wild hunt for his lost memories.” She raised her eyes to Talis’ bloodless face. “You must not try to save him for my sake. You know how dangerous he is. You must help Atrix Wolfe for Saro’s sake.” Her voice trembled at the name. She looked down quickly; the water trembled as at a touch across the pool. “He took her from me; he will find her for me. My consort’s name was Ilyos.”

  “And yours?”

  She rose. He felt her fingers brush his cheek lightly; he closed his eyes; his hand, rising to touch her hand, closed on air. Swallowing something bittersweet, he listened to her steps until they faded.

  The palace vanished behind him when he left it. He made his way back through the wood, to the boundary between wood and field, and saw the sky in the human world bruised blue and purple with twilight. As the twilight deepened, mist rolled across Hunter’s Field, hid it and the castle beyond it, all but the single eye high in the ancient keep.

  His heart hammering in his throat, Talis walked into the mist.

  There was always one moment when the blinding, swirling brightness seemed about to shape itself, become the Hunter or the hunted. And, as Talis walked deeper into it, all the nebulous possibilities would become only leaves, the edge of the wood he had just left. This time, the leaves became an oak, and the oak, as he recognized it and turned, to try again, caught his shoulder in a sinewy, rustling grip and said, “Wait.”

  Talis stopped, still staring into the mist, baffled and frustrated. “I cannot move beyond the wood,” he said tightly. “How can I find the mage if I can’t see into this?”

  “Close your eyes,” the Oak lord suggested. “It blinds you because you’re trying to see. Listen.”

  Talis closed his eyes. A breeze slipped through the trees around him. A bird sang. He concentrated, listening to the field instead of the wood, what sounds the grass might make, what sounds a mage might make, moving silently across it, listening, himself, for the footsteps of the Hunter.

  “What do you hear?”

  “Nothing.” Talis opened his eyes. “Nothing.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Mist. Nothing.”

  “What do you feel?”

  He shook his head, feeling no warnings from the mist, any more than he would have felt a warning from lightning. “Nothing,” he said wearily. “It
’s like a maze with no path, no center—”

  “Listen.”

  “I tried—”

  “Listen to yourself.”

  He paused. Nothing, his eyes said, his ears, his listening heart. Nothing. Nothing. “Nothing,” he whispered, and heard the word.

  He whirled to face the oak, chilled suddenly, as if he still stood in mist. “Atrix Wolfe is gone.”

  “That’s what I felt,” the oak said. “Standing here on the edge of an empty field.”

  “He threw this into my eyes to keep me searching here, while he took his battle someplace else—”

  “Where?”

  Talis stared into the mist; it began to shape under his eyes, into peaks and crags and luminous clouds. He closed his eyes, finally seeing what the mage had cast across the field. “The Shadow of the Wolf,” he said. “Chaumenard.”

  Seventeen

  In the kitchens, Saro stared into a black moon of water. Fire from a torch held by a spit-boy flowed across the water, which stood in the bottom of her wash cauldron and was absolutely still.

  An apprentice, sitting beside the cauldron with the mage’s book open on his knees, struggled with a word.

  “Med-ate—Metation—Anyway, after that comes ‘on.’”

  “Don’t skip words,” the spit-boy said tersely, his eyes on Saro. “She has to know.”

  “Mediation.”

  The fire unfolded and flowed like silk across the water. Saro, her elbows propped on the rim of the cauldron, watched it thoughtlessly, barely hearing words. They sorted words and implements, whoever could read, whoever had a hand free. They pushed things under her nose and read words at her. She understood the fire better, whispering on the torch, flooding the dark iron with its light, trying to see something in the motionless water.

  “Meditation, you cheese curd,” another apprentice said, passing with his arms full of onions.