by Shannon Page
“Right, of course.” I looked around me. It was a natural cave, probably, though it had clearly been enlarged and smoothed out by both magical and human hands. I’d been slumped against a huge pillow; there were half a dozen like it in the room. Petrana, of course, was standing by the cave opening, unfazed.
The warlock followed my gaze to the pillows and gave the barest hint of a smile. “You are not the first traveler to require rest upon emerging from the line.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I bet.” Did anyone not? A nudge at my feet snagged my attention. As soon as she caught my eye, Elnor began informing me of the desperate, urgent, well-nigh fatal hunger that she was suffering. “I know, I know,” I said, scritching her ears as I tried to get to my feet. But wow, I was drained.
“Would you like me to carry the child?” Petrana asked, stepping toward me.
The warlock startled a bit at this, though he tried hard to cover it up. Just as I tried to cover my own ongoing pride in the fancy, fancy golem I’d made. The golem with initiative. The golem who could be glamoured to pass for a person. “Yes, please, for now,” I told her.
She even had to help me unbuckle the harness.
Through all this, the young warlock stood by, waiting patiently, not offering any more help than he already had. If he was this community’s greeter, then the rules of hospitality were more different here than I’d even realized.
“My name is Callie,” I said to him, once the baby weight had been transferred to Petrana and I could actually make my way all the way to my feet.
He raised an eyebrow. “I am known as Parson.” Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could almost hear an undercurrent of If you won’t give me your real name, I certainly won’t supply mine.
Fine, whatever. He’d offered food and shelter. I put out my hand. “Shall we?”
Parson led me out of the cave and into bright—well, not sunlight; it was still overcast though it had stopped raining. But brighter light than my eyes were ready for.
And humid! “Wow,” I said, wiping my brow. “It’s damp here.”
Parson smiled thinly. “Yes.”
He led us down a trail. The cave had been in a rather steep-sided hill, which struck me as strange. Coming from underneath the ocean as I had done, I’d expected to emerge closer to sea level.
The landscape was green and lush. I saw no buildings. “It’s beautiful though,” I commented.
Parson nodded.
Five minutes later, we arrived at a small hut. He lifted his hand and performed a complicated spell with his fingers, muttering under his breath in what was probably the ancient language, though too quietly for me to make out. When he’d finished, I felt the tang of odd magic in the air, and the hut’s door creaked open.
Show-off, I thought as I followed Parson into the hut—then immediately took the thought back.
The spell he’d worked had lifted the disguise off a palatial home, tropical style. It was built into the side of the green, gorgeous mountain we’d just climbed down. Layers and layers of rooms and stairs and gardens and waterfalls and—I turned my head, suddenly overwhelmed. Was I going to have to climb all those stairs, just to get to some food?
Parson probably couldn’t read minds. No doubt he was just accustomed to weary travelers. “Here,” he said, pointing to a low couch. “Wait here. Food will be brought, for…” He stopped, momentarily flustered as he glanced between me and my cat and my golem and my baby.
“Just a meal for me, and tuna for my familiar,” I told him. “Thank you.”
Another short bow, and he turned and left.
I sank down onto the couch. Petrana stood beside me, holding my bizarrely placid baby. Surely, if I was this hungry, she must be starving; I hadn’t nursed her since Canada. “I’m not sure I even have any milk yet,” I told my golem. Like she’d know any more than I did.
Petrana nodded anyway. “After you eat, you will replenish, no doubt.”
“I expect so.”
Rose just watched me, eyes big and calm.
It wasn’t Parson who returned, but three witchlets, carrying platters full of fresh fruits, cured meats, aged cheeses, amazing pickles, a salad of tomatoes and basil and fresh mozzarella, pennyroyal tea, both elderflower and dandelion wines, hot buttered rolls that were the best things I’d ever tasted in my whole life—oh, on and on. I stuffed it all in my mouth faster than I can even describe it to you, and felt my energy plump up even as I chewed. Still exhausted, though; just…it was rare, and wonderful, to feel such a direct correlation between fuel and energy.
Beside me, Elnor gnawed on a whole tuna fish. No, it couldn’t be; tuna were bigger than she was. Weren’t they? “What is that?” I asked the witchlets, around a mouthful, as I pointed at the fish.
The youngest-looking one—maybe twelve, thirteen years old?—giggled and shrugged, looking to the others. They were nearly identical, and (now that I had begun to notice such things) as European-pale as a San Francisco witch.
“Anila,” said the darkest-haired one, and also shrugged.
“Lantoon,” said the third witchlet.
The first one added, “Meeg.”
“Do you guys not speak English here?”
They all just looked at each other and giggled again.
Whatever. I wasn’t staying here anyway; this was just a way station. And a very comfortable one, at that.
I returned my attention to my meal, and soon the witchlets were whispering amongst themselves, as witchlets do the world over.
I’d sat back, rubbing my belly, and begun nursing Rosemary when Parson returned. “All good?” he asked, looking at the demolished feast before me.
“Yes, thank you so much.”
“All right, younglings, thank you,” he said to the witchlets. They sprang up and began clearing the meal away. “They’ll be back with dessert,” he told me.
“You guys run a first-rate operation here.”
Parson smiled. “It is our calling.” He slipped out again, off on whatever mysterious errand took him away.
Dessert was even more spectacular and sumptuous than the meal had been. I was entirely stuffed, but I managed to squeeze in a bit of this and a bit of that, just so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings.
I mean, hospitality was their calling.
After another while, Parson came back and asked if we were ready to sleep. “I think I’m halfway there already,” I admitted. Rosemary had fallen asleep on my breast; Elnor snoozed across my ankles. I was dozy and overly full, but very happy about it.
He nodded. “Right this way.” He showed us to a small, cozy sleeping room—essentially just a large bed, plus a shelf to put things on. No windows, no chair, no nothing. “Bathroom is shared, just down the hall here,” he said. “Sometimes we get a big group through here, but you’re the only travelers we have at the moment, so you’ll have all the amenities to yourself. Yourselves.”
“Thanks.”
“How many days will you be staying?”
“Just overnight, I think,” I told him. “I am in something of a hurry.”
“Are you jumping to Ponta Delgada?” he asked, naming an island on the other end of the chain.
I shook my head. “No, straight to the mainland.”
He frowned slightly. “Oh. All right. Just send a message to me when you want breakfast, and we can show you to the main line out of here.”
“Is that weird?” I asked. He paused in the doorway. “I mean, staying only one night?”
“Most travelers spend a few nights in the Azores, even if they move from island to island. Two long stretches are a lot to ask of a body, without adequate time for recovery. Especially…” he glanced at Rosemary. “Especially for someone who has recently been through other taxing events.”
“I’m pretty strong,” I said.
“I was thinking more of the newborn.” Then he gave a small, thin smile, and shrugged. “But we do not judge here—do not misinterpret my words! Every witch and every warlock is assumed capable of making their
own assessments of their strength. We merely provide support.”
“Right.”
“I’m sure your baby will let you know if she is not up to the journey tomorrow.” He nodded, his face softening as he looked at Rose again. “Well, goodnight, all of you. I will see you in the morning.”
I lay on the comfy bed, holding Rose. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” I asked her, rocking her gently. “Even though you’re not talking to me yet. Or crying. Or anything.”
“Ma-ma-ma-ma,” she said, and stuck her fingers in her mouth.
I guessed that would have to do.
Somehow, I’d imagined the Azores to be closer to the European continent than they were. They were part of Portugal, after all; I knew they weren’t right off the coast, like the Canary Islands are to Spain…or was that northern Africa? (Geography was never my strongest subject, nor was it focused on much in any San Francisco witch’s education.) But I was dismayed to learn, the next morning, that I’d traversed only slightly more than half the Atlantic.
“You are sure you won’t lay over one night in Ponta Delgada?” Parson asked again. “Our chapter has its headquarters there, and very comfortable accommodations.”
“No, I really need to keep moving,” I told him. I was already over a week into my two-week estimate, and I hadn’t even gotten to where I was going.
“Very well.” He paused a moment. “I will see to breakfast. Coffee, or tea?”
“Tea, please.”
“Excellent. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
I used the time to explore the amenities, availing both Rosemary and myself of a delightful bath. Sadly, I didn’t have a lot of clothes with me, so I had to change back into old travel-worn grubbies. Then I found my way back to the room where I’d had dinner.
“You will want to make landfall in Lisbon or Porto, to be sure,” Parson told me as I munched on a plate of sliced tropical fruit. I didn’t know what kind of fruit it was; it was pink, and sweet, with soft, tangy, edible seeds. “If you have a preference, I can send word along ahead of time.”
“I thought I’d just follow the flow,” I said. “Aren’t these lines the most malleable?”
“They can be.”
I ate another bite. “Which city has the best pathways to the Old Country?”
“Where are you trying to go, specifically?”
I paused. I had some very specific thoughts, but I was also trying to be discreet. “Balszt,” I said, naming the capital.
“Either one will do, then. Porto’s probably a bit easier; you should head there.”
I nodded. I didn’t imagine that Parson would blab my business to other travelers, but better safe than sorry. Zchellenin was near enough to Balszt. Once I got there, I could fine-tune it.
Besides, it’s always easier to hide in a big city. I would need to lay low at first, get a feel for the country, and its inhabitants. Which reminded me: “Do they speak English in the Old Country? I mean, when they talk out loud at all?”
He looked up at this, clearly surprised. “Why, of course. What else would they speak?”
I blinked back at him. “I don’t know, whatever it is you guys speak here, maybe? Or the old language, the…ritual language?” A lifetime of conditioning kept me from naming the language of spells.
Parson smiled as understanding dawned. “Were the witchlets pretending not to know English? My apologies, I will have to have a word with them.”
“No, no,” I assured him. “They were fine. They just used some words I didn’t know, and I wondered—”
He laughed, but looked chagrined. “It’s a phase they’re going through. They’ve invented a whole new vocabulary so they can tell secrets among themselves, and imagine their elders are none the wiser.”
“I teach witchlets myself,” I assured him. “I understand perfectly.” I took another bite of fruit. “It’s good to know I’ll be able to be understood in the Old Country, though. As long as I speak to adults.”
Parson nodded. “Yes, it was decided early on that a common language needed to be established, so that immigrants and visitors from anywhere in our realms could function and communicate. English and French were in use over much of our world at that time, so you will see them both, though these days, more English.”
“And then there’s a lot of ætheric communication, too, right?”
He looked slightly puzzled. “Well, yes, of course. It is our home country, after all.”
“Right.” I thought again about how strange it must be, how silent. “Well, this has been very helpful,” I told him. “Thank you.”
“It is our pleasure.”
After breakfast, I made short work of packing up, and then I was ready to hit the “road.”
Parson showed me to the closest point for catching a ley line to Porto. Or, well, a ley line that would lead to a branch of lines that came closest to Porto…in the way of such things. It was across a wide lawn about two hundred yards from the building we’d slept in, next to a little stream which, he assured me, ran to the ocean.
“You all made it here in such good shape, I think you should be fine,” he said, though he looked fretful. As if he wanted to check all my straps and peer into my gas tank, to mix about six metaphors. I decided he was the perfect person to have running a way station: fussy, detail-oriented, caring without being smothering, and entirely competent. It didn’t even bother me much anymore, that he wasn’t at all warm.
“Thank you again for everything,” I told him. “If you’re ever in San Francisco, do look me up.”
“I will, of course,” he said, sounding utterly sincere, even though I was quite convinced he’d never leave this island.
He stepped back a few yards, letting me find my own concentration, to feel for the energy of the ley line myself. Elnor leaned against my ankles, melding her feline energy with mine; Rose breathed against the skin of my chest. I clutched tightly to Petrana’s hand. I’d gotten so used to the feel of it, it almost didn’t feel strange anymore.
“All right, ladies?” I said to my little gang.
“Miaow,” Elnor replied.
“Yes, Mistress Callie,” Petrana said.
Rosemary blew a bubble.
We stepped onto the ley line and resumed our undersea journey.
This stretch was somehow easier and harder. I knew something of what to expect, so I wasn’t as nervous; but it seemed to take much longer than the first length, even though I knew it was shorter. Part of the problem was that the lines branched much more frequently here. It was a mess of rivulets and small streams, as opposed to the large river of the Canada-to-Azores segment. My way was always clear enough, but it took more concentration to focus on it. I couldn’t just float along, lost in the mystery and weirdness of it.
And yet it was somehow more tedious, more boring. I suppose that had as much to do with the familiarity as anything else. But also the water surrounding the lines was warmer, which made everything less comfortable. My sense of urgency was greater, and I was starting to dread what I might find once I finally got to the Old Country.
All in all, I was very glad to make landfall.
I hadn’t quite managed to hit Porto, but rather a small town a hundred or so miles down the coast. Fortunately, this was apparently a common enough occurrence that the way station workers had lookouts posted up and down the seaboard, and I was found and brought in quickly.
The Porto way station was similar enough to the last one that it was obvious that the same order ran them both. I will tell you, though, that Portuguese food is even more amazing than Azorean. I was replete and thoroughly revitalized by the time we resumed our journey the next day, and Rosemary was as robust and content as ever—despite Parson’s concerns.
“One more long push, gang,” I told my little group. “And then we’ll be in the Old Country.”
The thought gave me a shiver.
You’d have thought that all this time on the road, much of it with nothing to do but float along on ley
lines or rest up in between stints of floating along on ley lines, would have given me plenty of time to come up with a plan of action. It had all seemed so clear back in Berkeley: Gregorio was the mastermind behind the essence-stealing, and he’d victimized a number of witches and warlocks so badly that their very souls were missing. Furthermore, he was doing this with machines that had been manufactured by a particular company in Zchellenin, a village in the Old Country.
Even if I hadn’t had that clue, Gregorio had strong ties to the Old Country. He was not simply born, raised, and spent many hundreds of years of his life there, but he’d fostered his son there, and he regularly ordered materials and supplies from there for his legitimate research. The old warlock was more Old Country than not, to the point where Sebastian and I had openly wondered why he even chose to live in San Francisco.
So, simple: I was just going to go to the Old Country and get to the bottom of…
That’s where my bold ideas failed me.
I started to remember Jeremy’s telling me about how he’d tried to find word of Logan’s parents, also in Zchellenin, and how cold and unapproachable Old Country folk were…
Of course, we now knew where Logan’s parents were. Their bodies, anyway. They were stockpiled in a basement underneath the UC Berkeley library building.
How much work would it be to transport soulless bodies that far?
Not that I needed to know the mechanics of it, just…it was another measure of just how much power Gregorio Andromedus wielded. How entirely outmatched I was.
And by now, surely he knew that I was onto him.
I rested in a small hotel room in southern Germany. It was my last night before making my entry into the Old Country, and that’s as specific as I can get in disclosing its location. Tonight was the night I needed to figure out exactly where I was going, and what I was going to do when I got there.
Great.
When in doubt, I fall back on my scientific training. What I had was a problem with too many variables. So, the first thing to do should be to eliminate some.
Once I started thinking this way, things got a bit clearer.
I sat at the little desk in my room. It was too small for even me. So many things in Europe, I’d already found, were smaller than what I was accustomed to. Cars, café chairs, servings of food and beverages…except for steins of beer, here in Germany, at least. Those were absurdly large for some reason.
