Marta leaned close and muttered into Kyla’s ear, “The sad thing is, he means it.”
Kyla nodded and would have added a comment of her own, but a glare from Mother Esterville sent her back to her supposed devotions. Facing the image of Nisil, she bowed her head and whispered, “Alair, protect Ed from that woman. He needs your help.”
A loud thump and Marta’s gasp ended Kyla’s petition. She opened her eyes to see Ed fallen onto his knees. Marta reached him before Kyla. He looked up at them and said in a trembling voice, “He answered me. Harin answered me.”
Mother Esterville shouldered Marta aside. “He spoke to you?” she asked Ed.
He nodded. His face glowed; tears gleamed in his eyes. “He told me to have courage. He said, ‘I am with you’ … and …” He hung his head and mumbled, “and that’s all, I guess. But his voice was deep and strong. It filled my mind.”
A chill coursed through Kyla’s frame. She was sure that Harin had not spoken to Ed. It must have been Alair. And it seemed to Kyla that the Power-Giver could have chosen a better time to grant his oracle.
Perhaps not. Mother Esterville fell to her knees beside Ed and embraced him despite his filthy clothes. “O blessed of Harin,” she said in an exalted tone. “My charity is rewarded. You bring blessings to this house. May your stay here be long and happy and may Harin give a fresh revelation each day.”
Hope you heard that, Alair. I guess you know what you’re doing, and I hope you don’t mind Harin getting the credit for it, but she’s going to expect more spectacular results.
The Power-Giver laughed and replied in her mind, I’ll try not to disappoint her.
CHAPTER SIX
EXPLORATION AND DISCOVERY
Tired as he was, Ed couldn’t sleep. He lay on the bed in the room Mother Esterville had assigned him and stared at the ceiling, finding patterns in the peeling white paint. He could see them although the curtains were closed to shut out the daylight. It didn’t seem right to sleep in daytime, though he’d had no sleep all night and his adventures of the day before left him sore and weary.
He was clean, his hurts bandaged. They’d sat him in a big metal tub warmed with several kettles of hot water. He hadn’t wanted to undress in front of Kyla and Marta, but his sore shoulder made their help necessary. At least Mother Esterville had gone and left them alone.
Getting clean felt good despite his embarrassment. They’d scrubbed away all the stink from the ditch he’d lain in. Miss Kyla had checked his shoulder and declared it not broken. It hurts so bad because it’s sprained, she’d told him, and she’d rubbed liniment into it, but it still ached.
Two of his fingers were broken, and Miss Kyla had put a splint under them and bandaged them so he couldn’t bend them. The splint rubbed against the palm of his hand, making it sore. He wouldn’t tell Miss Kyla that. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
She and Marta helped him dress in clean clothes that Mother Esterville brought in. They were Jerome’s clothes, and he felt strange wearing Jerome’s things. They fit him well enough, but they were finer than what he was used to, and he had a feeling Jerome would be angry when he saw Ed wearing them. Or maybe he’d think it was funny and laugh at him.
Ed wanted to go home. He wasn’t comfortable in Jerome’s house. Mother Esterville made him nervous. He’d never known anyone who prayed to all the gods. Harin, yes. He was the patron of Inland Province and everybody prayed to him, but usually only a short morning prayer like the one the children said in the morning exercises at school. Mother Esterville said that wasn’t enough, that we owed Harin much more.
But Harin had spoken to Ed, so he couldn’t be angry with him.
No, that wasn’t right. Miss Kyla had told him in secret that it wasn’t Harin but the Power-Giver who spoke to him. He wasn’t to tell Mother Esterville. That wouldn’t be hard. He didn’t want to talk about it. He liked Miss Kyla and Miss Marta, but he was afraid of their magic. Afraid of the Power-Giver.
Miss Marta told him how lucky he was to hear the Power-Giver’s voice. Not many people could do that. She couldn’t, though Miss Kyla could. “It means that you’re gifted,” she said. “The Power-Giver will show you how to use your gift.”
He didn’t feel lucky. He felt confused. He decided that he didn’t want magic of his own. It had been fun to dream about doing things like they did in Miss Leah’s stories. This wasn’t like her stories; this was scary. He hadn’t told them the other thing the voice had said: Through me you will do amazing things.
He thought of the light he’d held and how his pa had appeared inside it. Maybe Miss Kyla was right, and he’d created the image with his own imagination. Maybe. He didn’t think so. It had been terribly real. His pa had a board in his hand, swinging it the way he used to, laughing at Eddie’s cries. He didn’t want a magic that brought his father back.
Thinking about his father as he stared at the ceiling, he saw a pattern emerge in the random bare spots and specks of peeling paint. Dark spots against a white background became his father’s hard, mean eyes. A strip of bare wood formed the mouth, open to pour out curses. Scratches and fly spots formed the ever-present whiskers too sparse to form a beard but never shaved entirely off. The face loomed larger, leered down at him.
Ed leaped up. He had to get away, had to escape. He had one refuge always open to him, one place his father couldn’t follow: his imaginary meadow with its brook and its flowers that bloomed in every season. His special place. As he created the picture in his mind, he took two or three steps, though it was not a place he could walk to. Yet it did seem that as he stepped forward he passed through some sort of gate.
Spring grasses crunched beneath his feet. It was autumn in the real world, but here it was always spring. A bee buzzed by his ear; the sweet smell of clover perfumed the air. Close by, he heard the burble of the brook, the splash of a leaping fish. He laughed. He was safe here; his father couldn’t follow him into his private land.
It had never seemed so real. He’d always seen it clearly, but now he could feel it, smell it, even taste it. He plucked a grass stem and chewed on the tender end, sucked in the fresh sweetness.
With a whoop he ran toward an apple tree by the brook. Ripe, red apples hung from its boughs; in his land the apples were always ripe and ready to pick, in any season. He clambered up into the tree, noticing that here his shoulder no longer pained, his broken fingers worked well. He tore the bandage from them, let the splint fall to the ground. On a wide limb he sat, his back against the trunk, dozens of apples within his reach. He picked one and bit into the firm flesh. Sweet juice flowed across his tongue.
He ate four apples, savoring every bite, spitting out the seeds and tossing the cores into the brook where minnows rushed to nibble at them. Feeling full and happy, he climbed down from the tree and wandered along the edge of the brook for a while, then turned away and climbed a knoll carpeted with wild flowers. He lay down among the sweet-smelling blossoms and watched fluffy clouds drift across a blue sky, no threatening shapes in them, no frightening faces. How pleasant it would be to stay here, where it was safe, and never go back to the real world.
It would get lonely after a while, he supposed, with no one here to talk to. Not that he wanted anyone else here. Animals could be his friends—squirrels, rabbits, birds. The woods beyond the meadow might even hold a small, fuzzy bear. He’d never explored there; he’d always stayed in the meadow. This time, maybe he’d go into the woods, but only after he took a nap here beneath the warm sun and the drifting clouds.
Unable to sleep, Marta heard Mother Esterville walk past her door and climb the steps to the attic shrines. It was the third time since they had retired to their rooms. Every time Marta started to doze off, the creak of the steps awakened her.
She got out of bed and quietly slipped into the hall in time to see Mother Esterville enter the shrine with an armful of fresh cut flowers. She must be replacing the wilted blossoms.
Good! That should keep her busy long enough for Marta to explore the rest
of the house while Kyla was asleep. She might not approve of Marta’s snooping. Kyla often laughed at her fears and might not see the need for locating escape routes in case their welcome turned sour.
Though two years younger than Kyla, Marta had wider experience in the treachery of supposed benefactors. She tried to count the many times she’d had to run: first from the orphanage where she’d been abandoned as an infant. She’d run away when she was scarcely more than a toddler but old enough to want to get away from the harsh treatment and abuse heaped on the hapless orphans by sadistic attendants. As a dirty street urchin she’d lived by begging and stealing and had run from the peacekeepers many times. Confined to the workhouse, she attempted several times to sneak away but only earned floggings. She refused to give up. Her escape with Kyla had succeeded only because Kyla had relied on Marta’s judgment, but Kyla was growing less willing to rely on it, listening instead to the voice of the Power-Giver.
Marta didn’t like that. She doubted that Alair could really see everything that happened here. How could he? He had neither eyes nor ears; he was a mind imprisoned in a crystal sphere in another dimension.
“We are his eyes and ears,” Kyla had snapped when questioned. “He sees and hears through us. His mind links with ours and lets him share our knowledge as we share his.”
“Then how can he know things we don’t know?” Marta had argued. “How can he see and hear more than we do?”
“I don’t know, but he can. Or maybe Claid tells him things. You need to have faith.” Kyla’s answer didn’t satisfy, but it was useless to argue further.
As she prowled through rooms and halls, Marta reviewed the many people with whom she and Kyla had shared power in their travels through North Woods Province. Some had achieved feats of power that neither Marta nor Kyla could duplicate, but none had claimed to hear the Power-Giver’s voice. Why should Ed receive a message from Alair?
She could find no answer to that question, but thinking about it distracted her into losing herself in a part of the house she hadn’t seen before. The size of the house amazed her: so many rooms for only two people. Most of the rooms were no longer used, their doors kept closed but not locked. Some were empty of furniture; others held furniture that must have been generations old. Most were dusty and musty and made Marta sneeze.
Mother Esterville had explained that this had been the family home for generations back, and though the once large family had dwindled to only two members, she prayed daily that Jerome would find a young, healthy bride to give him many children and fill the house again. “I pray to every god, but especially to Liadra, who is known to bless young families.” She’d cast an appraising eye over Kyla and Marta.
Concern that Mother Esterville might fasten on one of them as a candidate gave Marta further reason to search out escape routes. She memorized the location of a room with windows opening onto the roof of an adjoining shed. A window in another room gave access to a tree that could be climbed down. She added it to her mental map.
At the rear of the house she saw more trees, and through them caught glimpses of a large garden filled with flowers. So that’s where she gets the bouquets for the shrines.
Her exploration led her to a locked room, which her curiosity persuaded her to unlock. She couldn’t sing the lock open, like Kyla, but with careful concentration her power could move the latch bolt. She slipped into the room and closed its door behind her. A quick inspection told her that this was Jerome’s bedroom. She decided it merited a thorough search. It might offer hints of what lay behind his smooth manner.
Scarcely begun, the search turned up an unexpected prize. In a dresser drawer beneath starched collars and neatly folded vests lay the Breyadon, Alair’s spell book. Though Marta couldn’t read, she knew the book well. It had been in Kyla’s valise. Jerome had promised to return their valises to them, but clearly he couldn't be trusted to keep that promise. If he did, he might first replace the Breyadon, but she didn’t trust him to do that, either. Maybe she should take it now.
It was, she knew, written in a mage language that could only be read by using power. Kyla said Jerome had power. Suppose he could use it well enough to decipher the language? The book contained spells that would be extremely dangerous in the hands of an inexperienced and unprincipled person.
Even if he couldn't read it, the book held power. Probably someone would have to know about that power to draw on it, but she didn’t like the idea of leaving it in Jerome’s possession.
On the other hand, if she took the book, Jerome would know as soon as he discovered the loss that she or Kyla had searched his room. He’d no longer trust them and might put them out or return them to custody.
She decided not to wake Kyla. After all, Kyla didn't use the book’s spells and didn't need its power. She valued it because it had been Alair’s but feared the strong magic it described. Her power came directly from Alair.
Marta couldn’t read the Breyadon, but the idea occurred to her that if Ed could hear Alair, maybe he could also read the book and work the spells. She'd take the book to him secretly and test that possibility. If the Power-Giver objected, let him speak to her himself.
Hugging the book to her breast, she left the room and used her power to lock the door behind her. The hall was clear; she neither heard nor saw Mother Esterville anywhere. She hurried to Ed’s room and tapped lightly on his door. No answer. He was probably sleeping too soundly to hear. She eased the door open and slipped inside.
The room was empty.
He must have awakened and gone off somewhere. She hoped he wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave the house. Perhaps he'd gone back to the shrine.
Marta rushed to her own room and hid the Breyadon beneath the pillows on her bed. Not a good hiding place; she’d find a better one later. She had to locate Ed.
She hadn’t heard him moving about during her own exploration, but as large as the house was, that meant little. Having just roved throughout the second floor, Marta descended to the first and hunted there. She checked the front door and was relieved to find it locked. Ed couldn’t have left that way unless he’d developed a gift for opening locks. Three other doors led outside: one from the kitchen, one from a side parlor, and one from a corridor on the opposite side of the house. All were locked. Ed had to be in the house.
He must be in the attic with Mother Esterville. Marta headed in that direction, but as she approached the attic stairs, Mother Esterville came down them.
“Ed isn’t with you?”
“No, dear. I’ve been engaged in my devotions. I said extra prayers for you three. Isn’t he asleep in his room?”
“No, he isn’t, and I can’t find him anywhere,” Marta said. “I’d better get Kyla.”
“I’ll check his room to be sure,” Mother Esterville said, turning in that direction. Marta went on to Kyla’s room, roused her, and when the two of them stepped back into the hall, Mother Esterville joined them.
“You’re right,” she said, her surprised tone indicating she hadn’t believed Marta. “He’s gone.”
“The outside doors are all locked, so he must be somewhere in the house,” Marta said. “But I’ve looked through the ground floor and this one.”
“You didn’t look in every room, surely.” Mother Esterville’s frown warned Marta to answer in the negative. “I’ll look. He may have been hungry and gone to the pantry to find something to eat.”
She turned back toward the stairs to the ground floor and gasped. Turning to follow her, Marta saw Ed emerge from his room, a dazed expression on his face and a bunch of flowers in his hands. He held out the bouquet to Mother Esterville. “I picked these for you.”
She took them from him and was examining them when Marta and Kyla stepped up beside her. The warm, sunny scent of the blossoms tickled Marta’s nose.
“Larkspur.” Mother Esterville touched a fingertip to a dark blue petal. “Black-eyed susans. Red maids. All spring flowers. They don’t bloom this time of year. How did you get them?”
Ed looked confused and embarrassed. “I picked them,” he said. “In my special place.”
Marta could only stare, bewildered. He’d come out of his room, but he hadn’t been in it when she’d looked, and he hadn’t been in it mere seconds ago when Mother Esterville had looked. Another pang of envy lanced through her. Wherever he'd been, a power far greater than hers had taken him there.
Kyla placed her hand on Mother Esterville’s arm. “Surely these flowers are a gift to you from Harin,” she said. “He must have carried Ed away to some sacred spot to gather them for you.”
Mother Esterville’s face took on a rapturous glow. “The Fields of the Blessed,” she breathed. Her eyes rolled back and she collapsed in a faint.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PARTNERS
“They can’t have simply vanished.” Councilor Hardwick pounded the desk to emphasize each word. “They must have left some trail, some clue.”
Behind his desk, Peacekeeper Captain Thomas Wronson flinched and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’ve had all my men on it all day to the neglect of their other duties. You know our force is undermanned. I’m doing the best I can with what I have. I don’t have the staff for a house-to-house search.”
“Then hire temporary help. I want the wonder workers found and exposed for the frauds they are before word gets out about the break-out and people start believing Ben Muller’s tale that they worked some magical spell. And I want Simple Eddie back in custody before Homer Farley stirs up more trouble.”
“Will the council authorize the funds for the extra men?” the captain asked. “Will the budget permit it?”
“We’ll find the funds. I’ll sign the authorization.” Hardwick was overstepping his authority. He knew too well how limited funds were, but the prisoners had to be found. When they were back in custody, the council could surely be led to see the necessity for the expenditure. Still, he’d have to do all he could to keep the expenses down.
Bringers of Magic (Arucadi Book 2) Page 7
