Bringers of Magic (Arucadi Book 2)

by E. Rose Sabin

  “If only Miss Kyla was here, she could probably find a spell in here to heal Jerome.”

  “Don’t be so gullible, Edwin,” Abigail said. “That book isn’t anything special. I can read it.”

  “You can?” He regarded her with awe. “Then you have power, too.” He opened the book and held it out to her. “You can find a healing spell.”

  “Praise the gods!” Mother Esterville exclaimed. “That must be why we were sent here.”

  Abigail felt trapped, forced to be a part of something she did not believe in and was strongly opposed to. Yet to refuse would be to seem indifferent to Jerome’s plight. If only Leah were here, perhaps she could help, could tell her what to do.

  Except that Leah believed in magic. If she were here she’d join in urging her to violate her principles and use the cursed spell book that Edwin was shoving into her hands.

  She took it and sank into a chair, finding the book’s weight too much to bear. It fell open on her lap and she looked at the hated pages. Why could she read so easily what all the others claimed to see as foreign words and meaningless symbols? She still suspected some sort of plot to deceive her.

  “Look for a healing spell, Miss Abigail,” Ed urged.

  Slowly she turned the pages, glancing at the titles, shuddering at some of them. “Most of these spells require ingredients I wouldn’t know where to find,” she said as she looked. “So even if there is a healing spell here, I doubt it will be anything we can use.”

  “Find one and let’s see about that,” Mother Esterville begged. “Hurry.”

  Even as she heard the exhortation, Abigail read the words, “For the Healing of Bodily Ills and Injuries.”

  She was secretly disappointed to discover that it required no exotic ingredients—nothing, in fact, that she would not be able to find in her own storage closets or pantry.

  The thought occurred to her that she could say she needed some impossible ingredient, and if everyone was telling the truth about not being able to read the book, no one could be the wiser. She was so tempted to do this that she was glancing through other spells in search of a suitable item when Jerome’s body twitched and a gasp and rattle issued from his throat. His mother threw herself onto her knees beside him. “We’re losing him,” she wailed. “You’re too slow!”

  The accusation stung. “Maybe not,” Abigail said. “Edwin, get me a sharp knife, a silver bowl—there’s a small one in the cabinet in the dining room—and a sprig of mint and a bulb of garlic from the kitchen. Run!”

  Ed ran. Taking the book with her, Abigail went to kneel beside Elspeth Esterville. “He’s still breathing, isn’t he?” she asked, looking closely at Jerome.

  “Barely.” She patted her son’s face and rubbed his hands between her own.

  Edwin dashed back into the room clutching the items she’d demanded. She took from him the bowl, the knife, and the mint. “Separate the garlic cloves and peel them,” she ordered him, and then busied herself with the other items, not bothering to see whether he followed her instructions.

  Determined to follow the ridiculous instructions to the letter so Elspeth could not blame her for Jerome’s death, she took the knife and, gritting her teeth, made a cut across the ball of her right thumb. As the book directed, she squeezed drops of blood into the bowl and dipped the mint sprig into it. Brushing the bloody sprig across Jerome’s forehead, down his cheeks, and over his chin, she chanted the words of the spell. Only dimly did she realize that the words she spoke were not Arucadian and that they would sound like gibberish to Mother Esterville and Edwin. To her they made sense, though she could not have translated them if asked.

  At the appropriate moment she raised her hand for the garlic cloves, and Ed placed them into her palm. She blew on them and spread them on Jerome’s chest.

  She took hold of Jerome’s hands—they were deathly cold—and grasped them tightly while she repeated the remaining words of the spell. As she concluded, a wave of pain flowed through her body, rocking her so that she would have fallen if Mother Esterville had not reached out and supported her.

  Another wave surged after the first, causing her to cry out in anguish. Now Edwin, too, was beside her, holding her upright. When she thought she must surely pass out from the pain and weakness, strength poured into her, letting her continue.

  The cloves of garlic on Jerome’s chest were turning black, withering. As more agonizing spasms tore through her body, she somehow kept her grip on Jerome’s hands. The world spun about her. She seemed to be descending into a swirl of blackness. A ringing filled her ears, blocking all other sound.

  Blind, deaf, speechless, her only contact with reality was the feel of Jerome’s icy hands within her own. She clung to them as a drowning person might cling to a rope.

  She sensed their coldness flow into her and her warmth flow into them in an exchange that hurled her deeper into the vortex that threatened to swallow her.

  Was swallowing her. Drawn into the inky depths, she gasped vainly for air.

  Then it seemed that a voice spoke out of the darkness and said, “Had you not waited so long, you would not have needed to plunge so deeply.” A melody played on panpipes followed the words. Her hands fell away from Jerome’s.

  Gradually she became aware of lying stretched out on the sitting room floor with Edwin hovering over her. “Miss Abigail,” he called, his voice sounding very far away at first but drawing nearer as he continued to call.

  It seemed to her that she had been on a long journey and was returning from some far distant point. Her body felt weak as if from long disuse; she could not muster the strength to move her limbs.

  Edwin lifted her head and supported it while he put a glass of water to her lips. She sipped a bit of the welcome moisture and found that she could speak.

  “Jerome?” she asked.

  “You did it, Miss Abigail. The spell worked. He isn’t awake, but he’s much stronger.”

  Elspeth Esterville bent over her. “I’m sorry I spoke so harshly to you, Abigail. I was sick with worry over Jerome. But as Edwin said, your spell succeeded. He is breathing well, his color is good, and I think he will wake soon.”

  “I’m glad,” Abigail said, though she wasn’t. She’d been proved wrong, and she resented it.

  “Your power must be as great as Ed’s, though your gifts are different,” Mother Esterville continued. “It is truly amazing that you both should be so blessed, though you are cousins.”

  “Cousins?” Ed said. “We’re not cousins.”

  “Abigail says you are,” Mother Esterville persisted.

  Abigail groaned, and her resentment turned to guilt. This was not the time or the way she would have chosen to reveal their relationship. She was too weak to manage a long explanation. But Ed was regarding her with puzzlement, and she had to tell him something.

  “It’s true, more or less,” she said. “I’m sorry I never told you, Edwin. Your mother and I were first cousins.”

  He gazed at her for a long time without speaking, and she could see the hurt and the shock in his eyes. At last he said flatly, “You were ashamed of me.”

  “No, it wasn’t that.” She knew how hollow her denial must sound. “It was … a lot of things. I just never found … the right words … the right time."

  He nodded. “I understand,” he said, and she knew he understood only too well.

  “I had no idea that he didn’t know,” Elspeth Esterville said. Her tone was apologetic, but her eyes were disapproving.

  Abigail felt ashamed and stupid. She should have told Ed the truth long ago. She’d agonized over that failure since he ran away.

  Now she’d lost his respect and that of Mother Esterville, immediately after regaining it by performing the healing.

  “Now that Jerome is out of danger, I have to find out about Marta,” Ed said quietly.

  “Of course you do,” Mother Esterville said. “I’ve delayed you far too long.”

  He strode to the door and exited without another
word to Abigail. Probably he had rejected the relationship she’d announced. She deserved it. She was cursed, and her use of magic, however successful it seemed, had only added to the curse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MEETINGS

  Jerome awoke to find himself lying on a comfortable sofa, not under a pile of rocks where his last memory told him he should be. Not boulders but a soft blanket covered him. The room in which he lay was unfamiliar, yet he was fairly certain he was back in Carey and not in what he thought of as “Simple Eddie’s World.”

  His mother came in and smiled at him. “You’re awake! Wonderful! Abigail,” she called to someone in another room, “Abigail, he’s awake.”

  “We’d almost given you up for dead, you know, but Abigail could read the spell book and found a healing spell and used it and it worked. Who would have thought that Abigail Dormer had that kind of power!”

  She sat beside him and took his hand. “You’re very lucky. If it hadn’t been for Ed and Abigail, you would have died. They saved you, and at great personal cost, too. The healing’s left Abigail weak and shaky, exhausted, really. She’s resting in another room. And Ed took the time to find you and get you back here, though he needed to go to rescue Marta before they can hang her. I only hope he got there in time, though what he can do to save her I don’t know. But the gods are with him, I do know that.”

  He listened to the fountain of words with little interest. He understood them well enough. His life had been saved by the very people he’d plotted to disgrace and kill. He should feel something—puzzlement, shame, self-loathing.

  He felt nothing. A strange lethargy prevented him from interrupting his mother or asking her questions. It was not that he could not speak, that he lacked the strength. He simply lacked interest.

  “You should eat something,” his mother announced. “You need to build up your strength.”

  She went away. He lay, not caring about food or anything else. Shriveled, black crescents that smelled vaguely of garlic were scattered on his chest. He gazed at them incuriously, considering it too much of a bother to flick them away.

  His mother returned with a bowl of something. She set the bowl on the table and lifted his head to stuff pillows behind him. “There now,” she said. “Isn’t that better?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Brushing the black crescents off him, she said, “My gracious! That’s the garlic Abigail used as part of the healing spell. It looks like it was burned on a stove.”

  He could have told her he didn’t care what it was, but why bother?

  Frowning, she brought the steaming bowl close to him. “It’s barley soup,” she told him. “In good beef broth. Doesn’t it smell good?”

  He could smell it, but the odor failed to arouse his appetite or interest.

  “What’s wrong, Jerome?” his mother asked in a voice heavy with concern. “Aren’t you hungry? Can’t you eat?”

  It was too much trouble to answer and whether he ate or not was a matter of supreme indifference.

  She dipped the spoon in the hot liquid, blew on it to cool it, and raised it to his mouth. His lips parted and he allowed the broth to flow over his tongue. He swallowed, and his mother fed him another spoonful.

  “There now, that tastes good, doesn’t it?”

  He didn’t care whether it did or didn’t. He continued to swallow each spoonful his mother placed in his mouth until she declared with pleasure, “There, you’ve eaten every bit of it. That’s a good boy.”

  Something told him he should be annoyed at her for speaking to him as if he were a small child. He felt nothing, said nothing, reacted not at all.

  The beef broth was warm in his stomach, and it must have satisfied a hunger he hadn’t been aware of feeling. He had taken no pleasure in the eating of it.

  After taking away the bowl, his mother returned to his side. “Are you still feeling ill, Jerome? Are you in pain? Why don’t you speak to me? Can’t you talk?

  He was not in pain, nor did he feel ill. He simply had no desire to summon the energy to answer her questions.

  She talked on for some time, asking more questions, chatting of this and that, telling him of her arrest along with Kyla and Marta, and of how she and Kyla had escaped, and how she had been recaptured, but Marta had found a way to help her escape a second time, though Marta had not been able to free herself.

  He heard it all and cared about none of it.

  At last she tired of speaking and fell into a silence as deep as his. He cared nothing about that, either.

  Marta crept along the dark corridors, alert for any sound. She hoped either to find the house deserted or to find that Mother Esterville had returned to it. In either case she could get herself cleaned up and rest enough to recover her power.

  What she feared was that some of Hardwick’s minions might be hidden here, ready to apprehend her or Kyla, should they return. In no condition to deal with the opposition, she had to proceed with extreme caution.

  At the sound of voices she stood absolutely still, listening intently. Some of the tension drained away when she recognized Kyla’s voice. But until she knew who was with Kyla, she would take no chances.

  Slowly and silently she edged closer to the room from which the voices came. The door was closed, but she was not averse to listening at keyholes.

  When she heard a child speak to Kyla, Marta guessed who it must be. Kyla must have reached the girl of her vision, after all, and snatched her away in time to prevent the foreseen tragedy.

  A third voice spoke. She failed to recognize it until she heard Kyla call the person “Leah.” She remembered the woman they’d met when they were trying to find Ed. She’d been friendly; she must be helping Kyla. Marta could probably go safely into the room. Instead, her overweening sense of caution persuaded her to continue to listen at the keyhole.

  What she heard next made her glad for that caution.

  Kyla had not saved the girl’s teacher: that soon became clear. And Leah was deeply depressed by that failure. The child—Veronica—was hysterical. Kyla was attempting to calm her and ease her horror at what she’d done.

  The child must have unleashed a tremendous blast of power. Where had she gotten it? More importantly, what would prevent her from striking again? In her emotional state, she was a danger to everyone near her.

  No, it would not be smart to startle the girl by barging into the room. If only she could send Kyla a mental message, speak to her as Alair did. With no way of letting Kyla know of her presence, she remained outside the door and continued to listen.

  What she heard weighed heavily on her already troubled mind. Veronica’s power was a new thing. However it had come to her, it had come only after Kyla and Marta arrived in Carey. It was hard to escape the notion that they had awakened it, although they’d had no previous contact with the child.

  They shouldn’t have come here. Most likely they shouldn’t have set out on this mission. Why give people the gift of magical power if it only brought hurt and sorrow?

  She had thought the gift would benefit Ed. It had certainly seemed to give him greater confidence. But then he disappeared and might very well be dead. The gift had been far from the blessing for him that she’d originally thought it.

  And Jerome. His power had failed to awaken only because Kyla bound it. But when the binding failed, Jerome with power would become more dangerous than he was without it, which was dangerous enough. Jerome was certainly responsible for Ed’s disappearance and possible death.

  As far as she could see, they'd accomplished nothing positive in Carey and had caused a great deal of suffering. They weren’t wanted here. In North Woods Province they had also met with opposition, but they had left with the feeling that they had brought some good to the people. Maybe they’d been wrong about that. Who knew what had happened after they left? They weren’t gods. It wasn’t their business to throw power around as if they were.

  The conversation she was listening to tapered off into an awkwa
rd silence. Anyway, she’d heard more than enough. She eased herself away from the door and slipped to the stairs. Time to finish checking the rest of the house. Kyla had most likely been too busy with Veronica to have done so.

  It had grown quite dark, so she tested her power and found she could kindle a dim mage light, enough to allow her to complete her prowling. Satisfied at last that the house was empty of unwanted visitors, she made her way to the bedroom Mother Esterville had assigned her when they’d been her guests here. Letting the mage light flicker out, she threw herself on the bed and was asleep in minutes.

  It was growing dark by the time Ed slammed out of Miss Abigail’s house. If the hanging had gone as scheduled, he was too late to help Marta. The time he could have devoted to trying to save her had been used to save the life of the man who had tried to kill him.

  He couldn't waste time pondering the revelation that he was Miss Abigail’s cousin. She hadn’t told him because she was ashamed of him. Well, her statements about Marta and Kyla and her unkind words to Mother Esterville had shamed him. She had redeemed herself by saving Jerome, but he had been denied the chance to redeem himself by saving Marta.

  The police wanted him. His life was in danger. It didn’t matter. He had to know what had happened and see for himself whether Marta was alive or dead. The quickest though most visible way to get into town was to ride one of Miss Abigail’s horses. He ran to the barn and was greeted with loud whickers of welcome. The horses had missed him. They’d been fed and watered, but hadn’t received the care and grooming he would have given them. He stroked Bitsy’s neck and buried his face in her mane for a moment, breathing in the familiar horsy smell. Then he saddled her and mounted. She neighed a protest at being expected to ride out so late in the day, but he was firm with her, and she moved reluctantly out of the barn.

  He rode well—that was one thing even those who called him simple had to admit. His heels pressed into Bitsy’s side, urging her into a fast canter that carried him quickly into the heart of town.