But he had wandered erratically, following no set path, and he had no idea in which direction the meadow lay. He should know, he told himself. He had designed this world; no part of it should be strange to him. It should not be possible to be lost in it.
Yet lost he seemed to be.
He wasn’t worried. This was still his own country, and his nap had left him rested and ready to venture on. He ambled along, expecting to come to the end of the woods before dark. However, night fell suddenly, as if the sun had been snuffed out like a candle, and he was still deep within the woods. Rather than wander blindly, he took shelter beneath a tree and sat down to think.
Could he have been walking in circles? He had not thought the woods would be so large. Had he ever imagined its size? He couldn’t remember. As precise as he had been about the details of the meadow, he had been vague about the outlying parts of his world.
Night insects burst into a loud chorus; an owl hooted a mournful solo in the pauses. He leaned back against the tree trunk and enjoyed the concert. He hadn’t imagined all these creatures; the place had acquired a life of its own. Or could his world have been grafted onto someone else’s?
That thought brought alarm. Maybe that’s why Marta had warned him about coming here. Someone else’s world might not be as friendly and safe as his. Yet he felt no menace. The night was pleasantly cool, the insects were singing, not biting, and the owl was a comfortable presence. After a time he slept.
He dreamed of Marta, dreamed that he took her to his special land, and they ran through the clover together and climbed the apple trees, and fed nuts to the squirrels. Only he lost her in the woods, Jerome was chasing him with a hammer, he was running, running, and a bear came out from the trees and grabbed him, tearing him with its claws. Its breath was hot on his neck, it was growling and snarling, and he screamed.
He woke up with the scream ringing in his ears. But the scream hadn’t been his. He heard it again, from somewhere nearby, and with it the growls and snarls of a large animal. A bear! He jumped to his feet and ran toward the sound.
It wasn’t as dark as it had been; a moon had risen. It shed enough light to let him see Jerome struggling in the embrace of a large, angry bear. The branch Jerome had pulled from the tree lay broken on the ground. Jerome must have tried to defend himself, and the bear had grabbed the stick, snapped it into pieces, and was trying to do the same to Jerome.
Ed grabbed up a large stone and hurled it at the bear. It hit the animal on the side of the head. The beast turned, snarling, to confront its new enemy. “Stop!” Ed shouted. “No one kills or hurts here.”
The bear slowed but continued to move forward, shaking its head from side to side. Its small eyes glittered in the moonlight.
Ed stood his ground. “Stop, I say. You can’t hurt me. I made you.”
The bear bellowed and lowered its head, ready to charge.
Still Ed remained motionless. “Go catch a fish if you’re hungry. Leave me and my friend alone.”
The bear blinked as if confused, rocked back and forth, then dropped to all fours and scurried off into the trees. Ed watched it a moment to be sure it had really gone, then hurried to Jerome, who stood as if stunned, blood pouring from gashes on his arm and face.
“Come and sit down,” Ed said. “Let me see how bad he’s hurt you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FEAR AND FRUSTRATION
Despite the filth and stench of the cell, despite the laughter and bawdy comments of the guards outside the door and the light from the lantern they held to the window every few seconds, despite Mother Esterville’s loud prayers, Kyla had fallen fast asleep on one of the hard, bare bunks. Marta regarded her with a mixture of anger and curiosity.
It was amazing that she could sleep. I’m the one who should be tired. I did all the work tonight. I tracked Ed, I checked the whole stream and its banks for traces of Ed and Jerome, I read the barn and the shoeing hammer for death signs. What did Kyla do? Nothing!
She was tired, though she had no desire to sleep. She wanted to find Ed. She resented being locked in this cell. And did Mother Esterville have to keep mumbling her interminable prayers?
She prodded the kneeling woman with her toe. “Do you have to pray out loud? Kyla’s asleep.”
The woman brought her petition to a rambling conclusion and struggled to her feet. “It didn’t seem to be disturbing her, and it does help, you know. Have you thought of a way to get us out of here?”
The guard with the lantern peered into the cell. Marta made a face and stuck out her tongue. He laughed and retreated.
“Best not to anger them, I’d think,” Mother Esterville said. “Those men are a low sort, capable of anything. I intend to give Orville Hardwick a piece of my mind about the way this guardhouse is run. Look at this dirt!” She pointed to the stains her kneeling had left on the front of her robe. “Not at all a place for decent people.”
“I don’t suppose it was designed for decent people,” Marta said.
“Then they oughtn’t to put decent people into it.” Mother Esterville walked to the door and put her face to the window. “Here, you, bring me a scrub bucket with water and rags and let me clean this place.”
As Marta had expected, the guard only jeered. “One bucket of water wouldn’t do much,” she said. “I don’t think they’ve cleaned in here since the place was built.”
“Disgusting,” affirmed Mother Esterville. “When I’m released, I’ll organize a citizen’s committee to rectify this abomination.”
If you’re released, Marta thought glumly. Though she supposed that Mother Esterville would not be treated as harshly as they would treat her and Kyla.
Mother Esterville had turned away from the window, and now she drew Marta into a dark corner of the cell and whispered, “It’s as I suspected. Only three men remain to guard us. Two are peacekeepers, the other’s a local recruit, not a peacekeeper. When they put us all into one cell though others are empty, I guessed it was so that fewer guards would be needed.”
Marta considered that unexpected intelligence. She could feel her own power slowly strengthening. If Kyla awakened with her power restored, they should be able to deal with three men easily enough. But then where could they go this time to conceal themselves?
“It’s too soon to wake Kyla,” she whispered back. “And I need to rest and let my power build, too. Then we can think about escaping.”
“We can’t wait long. In the morning more peacekeepers will come. And Hardwick will convene the Council as early as possible.”
Light spilled in and a guard shouted, “Where are you women? Stay where I can see you.”
“Give Kyla another hour of sleep, and we’ll see what we can do,” Marta whispered hurriedly.
She and Mother Esterville moved back into the guard’s line of vision. Mother Esterville squeezed her hand. “You rest,” she said. “I must return to my prayers. They do help.”
Marta nodded, although she had never known the gods to help anyone. She’d been forced to take part in prayers at the orphanage and later at the workhouse, so for her the gods would always be associated with those hated institutions. To her, prayer was nothing more than a display of false piety. Several times she’d had to bite her tongue to keep from saying so to Mother Esterville, but the woman didn’t deserve her scorn. She hadn’t had to get arrested with them. She hadn’t had to hide them in her home all those days. She’d protected them before she witnessed the display of Ed’s power or Kyla’s, and with Ed missing she was the only friend they had in this hostile town.
Marta lay down on the second bunk since Mother Esterville preferred prayer to sleeping. The cell had no third bunk. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but much as she willed herself to relax, she could not. She knew only minutes had gone by, not an hour, when Mother Esterville shook her shoulder and whispered, “We must try our escape. The gods have prepared the way.”
Annoyed, Marta rose and peered into the corridor while Mother Esterville r
oused Kyla. The three guards were slumped against the wall, asleep and snoring. Whether or not the gods were responsible, Mother Esterville was right; they’d have no better chance to escape. She aimed her power at the lock.
Kyla and Mother Esterville joined her silently as the lock clicked open. Marta felt Kyla’s power join hers in making the door swing silently outward and in deepening the guards’ sleep so that none awakened as they stepped into the hall and hurried through the cellblock.
Too easy, Marta thought.
Her power had not fully recovered, but she had no trouble opening the lock on the building’s front door. Again they eased the door open.
Orville Hardwick stood on the front steps.
He shouted and lunged toward the door. They slammed it shut and held it against him.
“I have to get free,” Kyla said. “I must find that girl, Veronica, before she kills the teacher.”
Marta frowned but threw her power into the effort of stopping Hardwick. With luck, they’d all get out.
The door burst open. Bellowing like a maddened bull, Hardwick charged toward them. His roars would wake the sleeping guards. Marta hurled at him all the power she could muster. It was enough to stop him and hold him paralyzed while Kyla and Mother Esterville slipped past him. It was not enough to silence his thundering shouts.
She heard steps pounding toward her. The guards! She eased around Hardwick and ran after Kyla and Mother Esterville. Rough hands grabbed her, yanked her back, and slammed her against the building.
“Get the other two,” Hardwick screamed, and the guards raced past. “Try your tricks on me, will you?” He lifted her off her feet, shoved her back into the wall.
“It’s your daughter we’re trying to save,” Marta gasped.
His fist struck her chin, knocking her head against the bricks. Stunned, she slid down the wall, and was caught up and dragged into the building. She tried to recover her wits and use her power, but her mind refused to focus. They hauled her down the corridor and tossed her into a cell; the door slammed shut.
“You’ll pay for this,” Hardwick shouted through the door. “We’ll get your friend, and you’ll both hang for witchcraft.”
They had run no more than a couple of blocks when Mother Esterville drew Kyla into an alley. The older woman paused in a darkened doorway and took several deep, gasping breaths before she could speak.
“I’ve asked the gods to open a way for us,” she said as she pushed on the door behind her. It opened, spilling them into a dark hallway. Mother Esterville shut the door, and Kyla heard the snick of a bolt.
Feet pounded by outside, men’s voices shouted back and forth. They’d check all the doors along the alley. They might break this one down when they found it locked.
With the door shut, the hall was totally dark. Kyla shuddered at the dank, musty smell. This place must be long abandoned. She stifled a sneeze and wished she had Marta’s gift of kindling the mage-light. “Do you know where we are?” she asked Mother Esterville.
“We’re in the oldest part of town,” Mother Esterville answered, drawing her away from the door, deeper into the blackness, though she couldn’t possibly see where she was going. “Many of the buildings along this alley have been deserted for years.”
The door rattled behind them. Something thudded against it. It was only a matter of time before the searchers got it open.
Kyla sent a frantic mental message to Alair: Where are you? Help me! Help Marta! Please!
She hoped desperately for an answer, but none came. Alair was keeping silent, as he’d said.
“I’ve found a stairway,” Mother Esterville announced, and guided Kyla’s hand onto a gritty banister rail. She stumbled upward through the darkness, following the older woman.
Fuming, Orville Hardwick stood in the doorway of the guardhouse, waiting for the guards’ return. How had the peacekeepers been so stupid as to let the prisoners escape a second time? Hadn’t he warned them, ordered them to take special care? At least they’d caught one, and he’d make sure she didn’t get away if he had to guard her himself. He’d have her hanged, and if those peacekeepers came back without her companion, he’d try to have them hanged too.
He didn’t particularly care about Mother Esterville. The old fool deserved punishment for hiding the two witches, and he’d see that she got it, but he was far more concerned about the second witch. The two women would not mock Orville Hardwick with impunity. He’d have his revenge.
The guards had been gone too long. The women hadn’t had that much of a head start, and old Mother Esterville surely couldn’t run fast. They should have been caught and returned by now. Did he have to do everything himself? If only he’d brought his pistol, he could have shot them when they ran. He’d left it at home, thinking everything was under control. Well, he’d learned his lesson. He’d get it, first chance he had to stop by the house, and he’d keep it with him until after the two women were executed.
He spotted one of the men he’d sent after the escapees coming toward him. Alone. He gathered his breath for a shout of rage, but choked it down. Why broadcast their failure to the whole street?
The peacekeeper approached, shamefaced. He hung his head. “Couldn’t catch ’em, sir,” he mumbled. “We were almost on ’em when they turned into an alley, and when we charged in after ’em they was gone. We searched every part of the alley and checked every door and nook and cranny and Lev’s hunting out the other end, but it’s a long alley and they couldn’t have run straight through and out of it and us not see ’em. So I figured I better come back and let you know, so you could put more men onto the search.”
“You have rifles. Why, by all the gods, didn’t you shoot them?”
“Thought you wanted ’em recaptured, not killed,” the peacekeeper said, addressing his explanation to the ground.
“Incompetent ninnies,” Hardwick said between clenched teeth. “Get inside and help guard the other one. Make sure she doesn’t get loose. I’ll have to roust your chief and get him and all his men onto this. If Lev comes back without the witch, have him stay here till I get back. Homer Farley’s man, too.” He stalked off, picturing the tortures he’d like to inflict on the fool. Work was piling up in his office, work that with Jerome’s defection fell on him. Now instead of going to the office, he’d have to round up another posse.
A memory surfaced through the seething anger. Kyla, the one who’d escaped, had warned him about danger to Genevieve from one of her students. He’d paid little attention at the time, thinking it only a ploy to gain her freedom. It probably had been no more than that. But it might be wise to post a guard at Genevieve’s house in case the witch did go there.
Better yet, he’d stand guard himself. He’d entrusted too much to incompetents. He’d have to leave his office work undone, but his priority was recapturing the witch-girl. He could stay at Genevieve’s until the one they called Kyla showed up or was captured, even spend nights for as long as it took. His daughter and her husband had room, and he’d get a reprieve from Nellie’s nagging. First, though, he’d go home and get his pistol.
Leah had gone back to bed after Abigail had convinced her that she wanted no breakfast. That’s youth, Abigail thought. Able to sleep in spite of all that’s happened, all the trouble, all the worry. Never mind that Leah wasn’t that young and Abigail only a few years older. She felt ancient, worn down, used up.
She sat on her bed, the spell book on her lap. She’d sneaked downstairs and retrieved it from its hiding place when she was sure Leah was asleep. Slowly she turned the pages, reading titles of spells, scanning the instructions. She had to find the right one to try, but they all seemed too alien, too dangerous.
Some required materials she had no idea how to get, ingredients she couldn’t identify. Hairs from the tail of a dead cat. She shuddered. Wistweed. She’d never heard of it and the book gave no description or clue to where it might be found. Fimblebiscuits. What in the world were they?
Other spells called only for
common items easily found around the house, but some of those required long and elaborate procedures. With little hope of finding one, she searched for a spell that would lead her to Edwin without arcane materials and long hours of preparation.
She paused at a spell for finding lost objects. Edwin wasn’t an object, but perhaps the spell would serve. She ran her finger down the list of contents. Candles, chalk, a bowl of water. Those were easy enough. A straight-backed chair, live coals in a dish. Fresh fennel. She knew what that was, but had none. A drawing of the lost object. She had no sketch of Edwin and was not enough of an artist to make one. Leah had artistic talent. She could probably sketch Edwin, but Abigail had no wish to involve Leah in this folly. Shaking her head, she turned the page.
She’d gone through most of the book, was looking through the last few pages, when a spell caught her eye. Not exactly what she was looking for, but …
It needed nothing that she couldn’t quickly find. She could do it. And once the materials were gathered together, the actual working of the spell seemed a simple matter, taking only minutes to perform.
"A Calling Spell," the title read. Below the title, a note explained, "To call to one who passed from this world and hear that one’s voice in return.” She hoped against hope that Edwin had not passed on, that he still lived, but if the spell worked, if she called and got an answer, she would know the worst. She did not expect the spell to work, but she decided to try.
She hurried from her room to gather the ingredients.
Jerome’s injuries weren’t as serious as Ed had thought when he saw all the blood. Ed cleaned the deep gashes in his left arm and the bite on his right shoulder and bound the wounds with strips he tore from his own shirt. He found no broken bones, no life-threatening gashes. The biggest danger was that the wounds might fester. In the morning, they’d go back to the meadow, and Ed would find healing herbs and make a poultice.
“Sleep,” he told Jerome. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Bringers of Magic (Arucadi Book 2) Page 17
