Lady did not underestimate them; the Jess within her provided enough narrow-eyed alarm to keep it from happening. But she stood where she'd been told—stock-still, now, intensely attentive—and Ramble, taking his cues from her, did the same.
When the agents were close enough, Arlen crossed his arms, leaned back against the tree, and said, "You people are just amazing—the sky is falling and you're trying to kill the one person who can stop it."
They exchanged a glance among themselves and came on.
Arlen flicked a spellstone out onto the trail, invoking it in midair. Garish colors blazed to life, words Lady couldn't read and what seemed to be a distorted image of a man and woman exchanging sappy looks.
The agents flinched, stopping several arms' lengths away. At their discomfort, Arlen smiled happily. "The sky is falling," he repeated. "You won't recognize the phrase—learned it from a friend of mine—but you ought to get the gist of it. You certainly seem to know the implications of throwing silly little spells around.
We were lucky with that one. Imagine what would happen, for instance, if I decided to spell-shave? I really need one, you know." He rubbed a hand over his jaw and frowned.
"You couldn't be so stupid," the woman said, her voice ragged by nature rather than fear.
"Stupid would be to let you get any closer. Stupid would be if I were you, and I was after me ." Arlen tilted his head, a faintly derisive gesture. "Or has SpellForge got you convinced that things are under control?"
"There's already a permalight checkspell in place," the woman said. "Things are under control."
"Don't talk to him," the older man said, disgusted. "Just—"
Arlen overrode him without a glance. "You think so?" he said. "I don't. There's been no sign of stabilization. Of course, we don't have to take my enlightened word for it." He held out his hand; nestled in the palm was a single stone. "We can give it a try." He tossed the stone at her; she caught it without thinking, displaying the reflexes Lady had feared she would possess.
The woman gave Arlen a startled look; he said, "Don't worry, I can trigger it from here."
The older man scoffed. "No one can do that."
"You think not?" Arlen said. "I just did it with the calling-stone. Of course, it's your life to risk. I'm not the one holding the stone."
"It's one of the permalight stones, all right," the woman said, sounding less certain. Abruptly, she flung it away; it fell into the woods with a plopping sound no louder than the rain from the branches it disturbed.
Arlen recrossed his arms. "Of course," he said, "the good thing about being a wizard is that you don't need spellstones. They're handy little tools, but sometimes it's nice to customize things." He rubbed his jaw again, gave a thoughtful frown . . .
Lady felt the flicker of magic; quite obviously the woman and the barrel-shaped man did as well. They backed a few steps, looking around with alarm . . . waiting for the woods to spring to life around them, stirring them into a forge pot of deathly reaction.
Arlen calmly rubbed his fingers across his cheeks, leaving them clear of stubble. "Much better," he said.
"Shall we see if we get a reaction to the next one?"
"Clever," the older man said. "They told us you would be. That's why they sent a good number of us. Do you know how many people are converging on that little display of magic? Sooner or later, we'll catch you off-guard."
"I doubt that," Arlen said, giving a small smile as he glanced in Lady's direction. "It does amaze me that you're willing to keep trying. All I want to do is stop the damage . . . and find a way to fix it."
"Our people can do that without you," the agent said. "Your interference will only make it harder for them."
Arlen snorted gently. "You mean, my intention to reveal the nature of the problem to the rest of Camolen. That would be inconvenient for SpellForge, wouldn't it? You tried to stop me from figuring it out and couldn't; you've tried to stop me from doing something about what I learned and won't. You killed my friends —and the world will know it. I suggest you go back and warn SpellForge to get ready for it."
The quiet one, the bigger man, gave a sudden jerk of his head that looked more like an order than a suggestion: retreat. He said to Arlen, "You're only putting off the inevitable," and simply turned and walked away.
With reluctance, the older man did the same . . . and then the woman, although she looked over her shoulder once or twice while she was at it, showing reluctance of a different nature. She'd been convinced . . . and she was afraid.
But not of Arlen. Not anymore.
Chapter 27
The magic hit Dayna like a blow. Not from the strength of it—it came through as a scant trickle, distorted and warped as were all the spells she'd felt since returning. But she gasped at the impact of it—a noise of surprise beyond mere surprise.
Distorted it might be, but she knew that signature when she felt it. The signature of a dead man.
In the turmoil of the hold, no one immediately noticed her reaction. Like Wheeler and Suliya, she sat in the back of the job room, behind the common-use desk and out of the way of the discussion in the middle of the room; the couriers moving in and out and around them, wincing over the meltdown-riddled map. Carey had been installed in what Dayna couldn't help but call the school nurse's office—the courier first-aid room—although the healer tending him was most assuredly the equivalent of an experienced doctor. There they would have stayed, had they been allowed . . . but they were not. Wheeler left easily, Dayna with more difficulty, and Suliya had to be dragged away despite Simney's assurances that they would be fetched as soon as it was appropriate, for good or bad.
Somewhere along the line Suliya seemed to have acquired loyalty to someone other than herself.
Jaime hadn't even considered staying; she didn't have the choice. She and Linton were already in deep discussion when Dayna and her entourage returned to the job room, a conversation into which Wheeler was all too happy to insinuate himself. Dayna, numbed by the turn of events—unprepared for Camolen's dire state, unprepared for Carey's further collapse and the prospect that no one here could help him, full of self-repercussions for both—sat behind the desk and numbly watched the bustle as couriers responded to the alert, preparing their horses before they even knew their assignments.
Assignments still under discussion.
"These are couriers ," Wheeler said as Dayna realized her mouth had dropped in reaction to Arlen's magic; she forced herself to close it, her mind and heart racing, barely able to follow along as Wheeler, incongruous in the red-and-black western shirt, made his point. "They don't have the kind of training it takes to work with the public in a crisis situation. Especially not if they're going to demand that people give up their property."
Natt gave him a withering look—more, Dayna thought through her daze, because Wheeler the outsider dared to speak up than because his comment held no sense. "Gathering the permalight stones is the only certain way to stop their use."
"We can spread the word," Jaime agreed, "but Natt's right—there will always be people who think they're the exception. That it won't matter if they use just one little spellstone. Or that we're wrong. We can't leave the stones out there where they can be used."
Linton crossed his arms, looking tense. "You're right. But Wheeler's right, too. Some of our couriers are burning good at dealing with difficult customers—but this goes beyond."
"Spell it back a level," Wheeler said, his mildly annoyed expression speaking volumes to someone who knew him. "I didn't mean gathering the spellstones was a bad idea. But the couriers should have a backup plan for people who won't cooperate, rather than waste their time trying to make those people cooperate when they aren't trained for it."
"You should know what it takes," Suliya said under her breath, garnering no one's notice but Dayna's—Dayna who smiled wryly in agreement while she frantically and silently hunted for another sign of Arlen's signature, just a small clue to prove to herself that she hadn't imagined
his magic . . . or allowed the distortion of Camolen's power to trick her. She had to know for sure— had to—before she said anything in front of Jaime.
"What, then, do you suggest?" Still stiff, Natt leaned over the end of the desk, weight resting on splayed fingers.
Wheeler sat at the other end, one hip hitched over the edge of the desk, a relaxed contrast. Restrained, under the circumstances—here in what could be considered enemy territory. The corner of his mouth crooked aside; he gave the smallest of shrugs. "First of all, make things easy for the couriers, so they can move fast today. They should simply ask everyone to spread the word, and assign each community a spot to turn in the spellstones and receive chits of surrender. That's your first wave. Second wave—that's tomorrow—the couriers go home to home, checking chits and asking for stones. Have them make a list of those people who won't cooperate—and keep in mind some people won't have chits because they didn't have spellstones in the first place. Third wave, send someone with more authority around with the list."
"And eventually, send someone like you?" Natt said, openly antagonistic and earning a worried look from Cesna—a Cesna whom Dayna found changed, never fully recovered from experiencing the Council's death.
But Wheeler only nodded. "Eventually. Until then, accept that you won't get all the spellstones. Their early distribution surpassed any commercial spell up until this point. The goal is to spread the word as widely as possible and make it easy for people to comply."
Jaime gave him a skeptical look. "That kind of thinking isn't exactly what your colleagues led me to expect when they came to visit."
"Force is a last resort, and leads to the poorest possible result."
"Which doesn't mean you're not prepared to use it, as Carey can burnin' well tell you," Suliya said, louder this time.
Wheeler gave her a gentle smile; only in retrospect did Dayna give him a double take, looking for the not-at-all-nice undertone she thought she'd seen. By then it was gone. By then, they'd gone on to discussing details. The ride of the Paul Reveres , Jaime called it, making Dayna snort even in her distraction, her dismay at the complete silence from Arlen. She'd been so certain . . . Maybe it was time to go looking.
Distancing herself from the clamor of the job room, she gently reached for the feel of Arlen , casting her direct communication spell toward the magic she'd felt and keeping the effort to the lowest possible trickle of magic.
His response was so strong, so clear—a whisper zinging straight to her mind like a skillfully shot arrow.
Who? Dayna jerked, startled, not expecting it in spite of her hope. "Arlen!"
Silence fell around her; she opened her eyes just in time to see Jaime descend upon her, taking her upper arms in a punishing grip—wild-eyed Jaime, and not someone Dayna thought she knew. "What about Arlen?" she demanded, only inches from Dayna's face.
"Whoa, Jaime—" Linton said, uncertainty on his long features.
"What about Arlen?"
"I—he—"
Wheeler somehow came between them. "Maybe if you stop shaking her," he suggested in a way that wasn't a suggestion at all.
"Dayna!" Jaime said, pleading now.
Dayna knew she should have been reacting to such treatment, defending herself as she was wont, throwing her keep off signs up in Jaime's face. Instead she searched Jaime's bay-brown eyes in wonder and whispered, "He's alive. I just . . . I just spoke to him."
"Magic?" said Wheeler in disapproving alarm.
They all turned on him at once, all of Arlen's colleagues and friends and his lover, all snapping a quick "Shut up!" before turning back to Dayna, a tight semicircle of anxious faces that made her want to run.
"Back off, guys," she said, gaining strength in her tone. "I felt a spell with his signature and I went looking—" She glanced at Wheeler and added, "Don't worry, we're whispering. It may not be smart, but not talking to him would be even stupider. Of anyone, who do you think needs to know about SpellForge? Who do you think can help us out of this mess?"
"Is he okay? Where is he? Where has he been? What's happening?" Questions tumbled out of Jaime; she looked as though she could barely restrain herself from grabbing Dayna again. "Are you sure ? Are you really sure ? God, Dayna, if you're wrong about this, if you make me believe —" She stopped short, gulping an uncontrollable but silent sob, and spun away from them all, hiding her face in her hands.
Linton, Natt, Cesna—all took a step toward her, reaching for her, stopping short with the uncertainty of such strong emotion, of further exposing such vulnerability.
It was Dayna who rose and gently touched Jaime's back from behind, talking to the bowed head, the obscuring fall of sienna-touched brown hair, and the self-striped maroon tunic stretched over her bent shoulders, typical Camolen style. "I'm sure," she said gently. "He's not far from here, that's all I know.
He's not far, and he sounded strong. I should go talk to him, don't you think?"
Jaime nodded most emphatically without lifting her head from her hands, drawing a short laugh from Natt; a glance showed him red-eyed, but with hope in his face for the first time Dayna had seen since her return. Cesna, damaged Cesna, had withdrawn to the corner, gripping her elbows tightly enough to whiten her knuckles . . . unable to believe.
"Okay, then." Still gentle, Dayna said as reassuringly as possible, "I'll find out what I can," although already her thoughts were racing ahead to the overwhelming desire not to ask questions of Arlen, but make demands— where the hells have you been foremost among them.
If ever she used restraint . . .
"Ask him—" Natt started, and then the others were all talking at once, suggesting their own questions, hemming her in with noise.
"I can't ask him anything if you don't give me some peace!" she snapped, and they drew back slightly so she could return to her seat—everyone but Wheeler, who had never moved from the edge of the desk in the first place. She sat, glared them all back another step, and closed her eyes to concentrate more easily on the conversation within, easing the spell into place with as little magic behind it as she dared. Arlen? A long moment passed, long enough that fear tightened her chest—and then she felt his responding tendril of magic, his clear, clear voice. Thought I'd scared you off .
Voices from beyond the grave can do that, she told him, not sparing the sardonic tone. We've thought you were dead—where the hells— But no. She wouldn't say that.
At least, not quite.
Arlen, never offended by Dayna's blunt outbursts, didn't need to hear the rest of it. He said only, I know. I'm sorry. I had no choice, and beyond that it's a long story. Where are you?
She got a brief image of woods, random meltdowns, three horses. Lady. Ramble. And an ugly dark gelding.
He said, Not far from Anfeald, but blocked off. On my way to the peacekeepers if I can make it.
Dayna, you have to pass the word; the corruptions are caused— SpellForge! Dayna said, talking right over him. The permalight spells! Ah. Looks like you've done fairly well without me.
Hardly. She made a face, not even considering what it would look like to those watching her so closely.
And quickly, she sketched for him their trip to Ohio, their failure with Ramble, their encounter with Wheeler . . . and the grave condition of his head courier.
He didn't interrupt . . . and then he didn't respond right away. After a moment—just long enough to make her anxious—she felt the faint gust of a sigh. "Carey's got a knack for putting results above survival," he said, and she could tell by the faint echo that he'd said it aloud. Oh, hells, that was a mistake— "Lady, no —no changespell! We already talked about this—no, whoa. Whoa!" For another long moment Dayna heard nothing but internal silence with a background of faint static, magic with enough wrongness to it that she began to feel queasy. In her physical ear, only faintly, a voice became insistent—she didn't even know whose it was. "Dayna, what's going on? Are you all right?" She held up a hand to forestall the interruption, just in time for Arlen's return. Ha
rried-sounding, he said, I've only got a moment, I've got to deal with Lady—my big mouth . . . listen, Dayna, you've got to take steps to get those light spells under control. We are.
And you've got to send someone to the peacekeepers, in case I don't make it.
She grimaced, but had to acknowledge the sense behind that move. We will. And here's the big thing. We've got to come up with some kind of shield to protect people from the—what did you say Jaime called them? Meltdowns? Yes, good name. I've been working on it— Inverted shields! Dayna blurted without thinking. With the magic on the outside!
You have done well without me, he said, but his inner voice was dry enough to cause her chagrin. I've been working on it. Don't you even try—we can't have raw magic in play. None. You understand that, right?
She nodded, knowing he'd perceive it.
My problem is in making the shield interior free of magic, he told her. I've visited Jaime on your magic-free earth, but I always had a connection to Camolen. I don't know what no magic feels like. In truth—and now she could hear his chagrin—I haven't the faintest idea. And until I do— There was silence between them, but only for a moment. Only long enough for Dayna to consider and discard the ramifications of letting him go deeper, beyond the surface of her thoughts. You want to borrow a memory? she asked him.
She felt his slow grin.
"I'll be right back, " Arlen told Dayna, out loud as well as through the finest pinpoint of targeted message he could send—and even then he examined the woods around them uneasily as he opened his eyes, trying to take in the enormity of the things he'd learned—of Jaime, here and waiting for him and never giving up hope despite all evidence; of Dayna and Carey and Jess gone to Ohio with the stallion who'd seen the ambush, a decision that drove a wedge between Carey and Jess . . . of Carey, now barely hanging on.
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