Shadow Magic Page 8

  Tamsin laughed. “The Talismans of Noron’ri are not so unremembered as that!” he said. “The sorcerer Noron’ri made them for his followers long ago, before Alkyra was settled. There were twelve in all: three for the creatures of the sea, three for those of the land, three for the birds of the air, and three for the creatures of the depths of the world.”

  “You mean the Lithmern might have eleven more of those things?”

  “No, for two sank with the island of the Kulseth and another was destroyed in the fires of Mount Tyrol in the south,” Tamsin said. “The other nine have been scattered and lost for hundreds of years. How many still exist I do not know, but it is unlikely that the Lithmern could have found more than the one we saw.”

  “And now the Wyrds are sending it to the Shee,” Alethia said. “But why do they want us to go with it?”

  “Grathwol was concerned for your safety,” Tamsin said uncertainly.

  “Why should the Wyrds care about me?” Alethia demanded. “And if the Lithmern only had one Talisman, why wouldn’t I be safe in Brenn?”

  “There is no certainty that the Lithmern have only one of the Talismans,” said a soft voice from behind Alethia, and Murn stepped into view.

  “If the Talismans are so powerful, why aren’t you keeping this one here?” Alethia said. “You could use it, couldn’t you?”

  “We could use it, in a way,” Murn said. “But our magic is of the forest and the wild things, tree and leaf and changing season, and the slow, ancient spells of earth. The Talisman is a different type of magic, and we would have to twist it before it could be used to help us. Twisted magics are dangerous, and the more powerful they are, the greater the danger. The Talisman is not for us.”

  “Won’t the Shee feel the same way?” Alethia asked.

  “The Shee are well versed in the high magic of old,” Murn said. “They are better suited to deal with this. Even so, it will be a difficult decision; that is why my father wishes you to go to Eveleth.”

  “Why?”

  “To speak before the Queen of the Shee and her Council,” Murn said. “They will make the final decision about the Talisman, whether it is to be destroyed or kept safe somewhere. Your story may help them decide.”

  Alethia stared into the forest. “I think I see,” she said at last. “Still I cannot go to Eveleth.”

  “Your tale might well make a difference in what the Shee will do,” Murn said, frowning. “And Brenn is not safe for you.”

  “I am of the Noble House of Brenn, and my place is there, even if it is not safe,” Alethia said. “I am willing to go to Eveleth after we reach Brenn, if you still think it is necessary, but I must reassure my parents first and obtain their permission in person.” Wryly, she imagined herself begging her parents’ permission to seek a legend in the mountains. Who would believe her?

  Murn nodded slowly. “I am sorry that you have chosen this, but I think I understand.”

  “I, too, am sorry to hear your decision,” Grathwol’s voice said. A moment later he appeared beside his daughter. “Yet your concerns are good ones. Since your motives are true, perhaps this course is better; I have no gift of foreseeing.”

  “Thank you for understanding, sir,” Alethia said.

  Grathwol smiled. “Even so, you will travel with the Talisman for a way. I suggest you go with it to the foothills of the Kathkari and spend the night with the keeper there. A large group will travel more safely, and you can continue south to Brenn in the morning, while the Talisman goes north to Eveleth.”

  Alethia nodded. Grathwol went on, “Now I have preparations to make for tomorrow. Murn, show our guests to their rooms.” He turned and slipped out of sight once more; hardly a leaf stirred at his passage.

  “Where do you have rooms?” Alethia asked Murn curiously. “I have not seen anything even remotely like a building.”

  “Come, I’ll show you,” the girl said. She led them along a narrow path. As they walked, the trees grew closer and closer together. Then Murn turned sharply left and vanished between two massive trunks. A little hesitantly, Alethia followed. “Oh,” she gasped, and stopped abruptly as Tamsin came up behind her.

  They were standing at the front of a long entry room, very like those of the houses of the nobles of Alkyra. Rather than stone, however, this one was made of whole logs set upright side by side in the ground. Alethia wondered how the small Wyrds could move such enormous tree trunks, and then she realized that those were living trees, growing so close together that they formed a solid wall. The ceiling, high above, was made from strips of bark woven into the lower branches. “How do you do it?” Alethia breathed.

  Murn smiled. “This hall was planted about two hundred years ago. It is not particularly old; the walls did not grow closed until about seventy-five years ago.” Alethia nodded, wide eyed.

  Turning to Tamsin, the Wyrd went on, “Now perhaps you will understand better what I told you of our magic. It is old and slow, but sure, like the growth of the trees we care for. To hurry them would kill them or twist them into shapes that would be useless. We use our spells to strengthen them, and to keep them growing evenly. It is our gift to the earth, and the price of our power.”

  “Oh.” Tamsin was still too overwhelmed to say more. They followed Murn through an opening on the other side of the entry room and down a long hallway. They passed several doorways covered with heavy hangings; then Murn paused before one and swept the cloth aside. “Tamsin, this is for you.”

  Alethia peered inside as the minstrel stepped forward. It was a fairly small room, and the ceiling was at a normal level compared to the great height of the entry hall. Noticing the direction of her gaze, Murn said, “We do not always leave the space between the ground and the lower branches unused. We attach crosspieces to the tree trunks to support floors, and add more as the trees grow. In some places there are two or three floors that have been put on as the roof grows upward.”

  Alethia and Murn left Tamsin almost immediately. Murn showed the other girl to her own room and then left. Alethia fell onto the bed without bothering to remove the torn green silk she wore, and was soon deep in the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.

  “We can’t be far behind them now,” Har said for perhaps the twentieth time that morning.

  Maurin frowned at the brush that edged the roadway. “We must have missed the spot where they turned off the road. I think we should turn back.”

  “No.”

  “Har, they couldn’t have gotten this far in a single night’s ride, and they’d have been mad to stay on the road after sunrise.”

  “You know languages and bargaining; I know hunting and tracking,” Har said. “And I haven’t missed their turn-off.”

  “But if—”

  “There!” Har reined in suddenly and pointed. Without waiting for Maurin to respond, he dismounted and hurried to the side of the road. A moment later, he looked up, smiling grimly. “A group of horses went through here and on to the north, some time last night.”

  “How many?” Maurin asked as Har remounted.

  “Hard to say. At least four, possibly as many as eight.” Har frowned. “The traces are odd—they’re too faint for a group traveling as fast as this one must have been.” He hesitated. “It looks as if they’re heading into the Wyrwood.”

  Maurin considered, then shrugged. “If they can do it, so can we. And if they’ve been pushing their horses, they’ll have to rest soon.”

  “And they’ll be easier to track, now that they’re off the main road.” Har grinned fiercely. “Come on, then.”

  The two men turned their horses north, toward the Wyrwood.

  Chapter 6

  A LIGHT TOUCH ON HER shoulder brought Alethia out of her sleep. She sighed and opened her eyes to see Murn’s serious inhuman face bending over her in the dim lamplight. “The messengers will be leaving very soon,” the Wyrd girl said. “I will come for you then.”

  Alethia sat up. Her muscles had stiffened overnight, and she moved a little g
ingerly. She heard a soft sound as Murn left the room, and turned her head; the sudden movement made her wince. She slid her legs out of the bed and looked around.

  On a table by the bed stood a washbasin, pitcher, and towel; beside them was a platter of honey biscuits and a cup of cream-heavy milk. A small lamp hung from a bracket near the curtained doorway. Draped over the chair on the other side of the table was a dress of the same dark material worn by most of the Wyrds. Alethia smiled at this thoughtfulness and reached for the pitcher.

  Washing and dressing took very little time. The dress proved to have a split skirt, obviously intended for riding. It was a little small and far too short, but there was a generous hem, and by taking out the stitches Alethia contrived to bring it almost down to her ankles. The only shoes she had were the sandals Murn had given her the day before. They were not really suitable for riding, but at least they were comfortable.

  By the time Murn returned, Alethia was seated on the edge of the bed, nibbling at one of the biscuits. The Wyrd girl surveyed her critically. “The dress is much too short, I am afraid; it is a good thing you are slender. I am sorry we could not do better for you.”

  Alethia laughed. “It is much better than what I had,” she said, indicating the stained and crumpled green silk.

  “True.” Murn smiled in return. “Have you finished eating? Then come; they are waiting.” She plucked the lamp from its hanger as she spoke, and Alethia rose and followed her out into the hallway. Murn took a different route from the one she had shown them the previous night, and by the time the two emerged into the pre-dawn shadows of the forest, Alethia was thoroughly confused.

  Tamsin was already there, towering over Grathwol and four Wyrd archers. Another Wyrd approached, leading two horses. One was Tamsin’s Starbrow; the other was a brown mare. Both animals were saddled and bridled for the journey. They were followed by five shaggy ponies, who were evidently well trained, for they wore only halters and followed without benefit of a leading rein.

  Grathwol nodded to the Wyrd leading the horses and took the mare’s rein from him. “We were fortunate enough to capture one of the Lithmern mounts. I hope you will not object to riding her; she is a gentle beast and one of our mounts would be… a little small, perhaps.”

  Alethia smiled. “I do not mind,” she said. “What is her name?”

  “She has none as yet; I do not know what the Lithmern called her, but I do not think she would mind a different name,” Grathwol replied. “Choose one.”

  “I will call her Alfand,” said Alethia after a pause, reaching out to pet the horse’s velvet nose.

  Tamsin cleared his throat. “You said you were fortunate enough to catch one of the Lithmern horses. The others escaped, then?”

  “Not all of them. We have seven other new additions to our stables.” The Wyrd leader smiled a little grimly. “They would seem to like their change in ownership well. We will keep them, I think. Though they are not the type of mount we prefer, I suspect we can find a use for them.”

  “But what of the Lithmern themselves?” Tamsin asked with a frown.

  Grathwol’s eyes darkened. “Their leader is dead. Four of the men were killed immediately by our archers; three more died in the chase.”

  “Then three escaped,” Tamsin said quietly.

  “Three escaped,” Grathwol confirmed. “Our only excuse is that we did not know of the Talisman at first, and sought only to drive the Lithmern out of our forests. By the time we learned of it and sought captives instead, it was too late, and they eluded us.”

  “You haven’t given up, have you?” Alethia asked.

  “No; there are still two parties tracking them,” Grathwol said. “But I am afraid I have little hope for their success.”

  “But surely they won’t all escape?”

  Grathwol’s ears twitched. “At least one of them is badly wounded, so no doubt you are correct. But as long as even one survives to reach Lithra, we have not succeeded. That is why I wish to have you safe, and the Talisman in Eveleth, as soon as possible. I do not know what the Lithmern will do when they learn what has happened.”

  Tamsin nodded. “I think I begin to see.”

  “I suggest that you leave now,” Grathwol said with a piercing look at the minstrel. “It is nearly dawn, and at a comfortable pace you will barely reach the Kathkari by nightfall. These are your guides as far as the mountains: Worrel, Rarn, Anarmin, and Shallan.” He waved in the general direction of the archers, who nodded formally and stepped to their ponies as Grathwol called their names.

  Worrel was young, and the thick mane of hair covering his head was a rich chestnut color. Rarn was rather tall for a Wyrd, with snapping brown eyes; her fur was a tan color, with streaks of darker brown in her mane, and brown ear-tufts. The third Wyrd, Anarmin, was a uniform dark brown in color; a few threads of silver sprinkled his ear-tufts, and Alethia found herself wondering whether that was the Wyrd counterpart of graying at the temples. Shallan’s fur was also dark, but his mane and ear-tufts had a reddish tinge. All four wore deep green cloaks and tunics, and the belt and quiver of the Wyrd archers.

  “Murn will also accompany you,” Grathwol finished, and waved them toward their horses.

  Tamsin bowed deeply to Grathwol, Alethia curtsied, and with that formal farewell they mounted and departed. Soon they were out of sight of the living buildings of Glen Wilding.

  Har reined in abruptly as he broke through a clump of bushes near the edge of a clearing. Even at the slow pace they were keeping, Maurin’s horse nearly ran on top of Har’s. Fighting back an impulse to object furiously to Har’s carelessness, Maurin leaned forward in search of the cause. He saw the firepit in the center of the clearing at the same moment Har’s whisper floated back to him: “Someone’s camp. Seems deserted.”

  “I’ll swing left,” Maurin said in a voice pitched to carry only as far as Har’s ears. He waited until he saw Har nod, then moved out to check the camp, thinking, we shouldn’t have been so careless—if they were here, they must have heard us coming.

  No Lithmern appeared, and after circling the perimeter of the camp, the two men tethered their horses to a nearby sapling and went to examine the clearing.

  “They seem to have stopped here quite a while,” Maurin commented. “See, they tied their horses over there. Looks like there were a dozen or so.”

  Har poked the dead ashes of the fire and looked up with an expression of chagrin on his face. “Maurin, we must have crossed another trail somewhere and followed the wrong one. These ashes are nearly a day old.”

  “There can’t be two groups of horsemen traveling north and west through the Wyrwood,” Maurin said.

  Har stood up and prowled impatiently about the clearing. “There must be. The Lithmern we’ve been chasing couldn’t have gotten this far in one night, no matter how hard they pushed their horses. We had better go back and see if we can pick up their trail before they get impossibly far ahead of us. We have no idea how much time we may have lost already.”

  Maurin nodded reluctantly, and started back toward the horses. As he passed the edge of the clearing he detoured around a clump of bushes and stopped short. Behind him he heard Har exclaiming, “Maurin! Look here!”

  “You come look here,” Maurin replied in a voice that sounded odd even to himself. Har came hurrying through the trees carrying an empty dagger sheath.

  “I found this under that tree,” he said, gesturing vaguely back toward the clearing. “It’s Lithmern work, no doubt of it; maybe you weren’t far wrong after all.”

  “I know I’m not wrong,” Maurin cut him off, and pointed. At his feet lay two pieces of cord and a woman’s spangled dancing slipper, the mate to the one they had found on the road the night of the kidnapping.

  Har stared at it for a moment. “I don’t understand it,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Neither do I, but there it is. We are on the right trail.” Maurin’s eyes flashed and he almost smiled.

  With new energy, Har ducked
back through the bushes toward the horses. Maurin meanwhile followed Alethia’s footprints for a short distance. He turned as Har came up behind him with their mounts.

  “It’s a good clear track; we should make better time now,” he said briefly as he mounted his horse. Har nodded as they started off. They rode in silence, stopping now and then to examine the tracks more closely. They saw no traces of the Lithmern, which puzzled them greatly, but several times they found bits of lace or green net to assure them that they were still on Alethia’s trail.

  They followed the trail for half an hour, moving as quickly as they could without risking a mistake. Then they were confronted by another clearing, the cold ashes of another fire, and more hoof prints. Maurin’s eyebrows rose as he surveyed the scene. “This gets stranger and stranger. I begin to think these woods deserve their reputation.”

  “That would really be all we need!” Har commented. “Aren’t Lithmern enough to worry about?” He dismounted for a moment to study the confused tracks. “There’s only one horseman this time. Well, come on; she’s not here.” He remounted and they continued, following the latest trail.

  Gradually the trees grew denser, and they had to slow their pace slightly. A little later they stopped to rest their horses. Har had had the foresight to grab a water bottle as they left Styr Tel; this was now nearly empty, but there was enough left to wet their throats. They stood for a moment watching their horses as the animals munched hungrily on nearby bushes and low-hanging branches. “Makes me wish I were a horse,” Har commented.

  Maurin sighed. “We had better get going if we are going to catch up to them,” he said, and started toward the horses. He had gone several paces when he heard Har’s strained voice behind him. “Maurin. Don’t move. There is a… a little brown person pointing an arrow at your head.”

  By the time Har had finished his sentence, the warning was no longer necessary. A dozen furred archers had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with drawn bows and very businesslike arrows. One motioned Maurin back toward Har, while another collected their horses. The remaining archers fanned out into a ring, well out of sword’s reach but within easy range for their own bows. Wyrds, Maurin thought, and wondered what had happened to Alethia.