Magic of Thieves (2 page)

The startling crack of a stick underfoot alerted me that at least one of my pursuers stood mere paces from me. I strained to see him but could make out nothing, not so much as a moving shadow in the darkness. I squeezed my fingers tight around the round metal trinket Mama had thrust into my hand and pressed myself flatter to the ground, the movement rustling the leaves around me.

The stranger’s deep voice was terrifyingly near. “Is that you I hear, little witch? Hiding from old Logart, are ye?”

His chuckle was followed by an unfamiliar whisper, like the sound of drawn steel.

As he stamped at the surrounding shrubbery, I wrapped my arms around my head and willed myself to sink into the earth or to turn into a pebble or an insect, anything beneath notice. To my dismay, I remained a solid human being.

The frightening stranger spoke as if to himself, but his voice was loud enough that I knew he meant me to hear. “They say you magickers can summon fire and wind at will,” he said. “And that you can speak to the dead and call wild beasts to defend ye. Well, old Logart doesn’t believe everything he hears. But he’s a loyal Praetor’s man and if the Praetor wants his lands cleansed of your kind, than cleansed they’ll be.”

His foot sank into the thorny brush beside me, his shiny black boot resting next to my hand. A finger’s breadth farther and he would be crushing my fingers. He had but to look down to see me huddled at his feet.

Terrified, I did something I had never done before, something Mama told me it would be years before I could do. I reached inward, seizing hold of the tiny new flame of magic just beginning to flicker within me, and stoked that fitful fire to a roar. Remembering how Mama had looked crumpling lifeless to the ground, I fed grief and outrage into the potent mixture I was creating.

Even as I concentrated on the magic I was forming, a vague, unsought awareness of my enemy’s cold weariness filtered through my senses. Startled by this unfamiliar consciousness of another being, I almost dropped my hold on the magic. Quickly, I released the weapon I had formed, casting it from me and into the path of my enemy.

My magic slammed into him and, with a muffled shriek, he stumbled backward, dropping his sword. I heard him collapse to the ground, then there was no sound but the rattling, wheezing noises of his struggle for breath as the magic fastened itself to his throat. I lay still and waited until the sounds of his choking ceased.

I could still hear the others out there, crashing through the wet underbrush, but I felt too drained to move. My body was numb, disconnected from my mind, as I lay listening to my heartbeat and feeling drops of sweat form, despite the cold, and trickle down my ribs.

A distant shout went up. “Captain! We’ve caught up to the cart, sir, but there’s no one else in it. Or if there were others, they’ve jumped out and got a headstart on us.”

There followed some noisy conferring about whether to continue pursuing “the child” or to concentrate their search on the other possible escapees. I heard my nonexistent companions declared a higher priority than I, and soon the footsteps of my enemies receded into the distance.

Too exhausted to feel relief or to think of using this opportunity to run, I closed my eyes and groped after that strength-giving fire within, but it had deserted me.

***

The events that followed were a hazy blur to me. I slept among the thorny leaves for what seemed like days, but might only have been hours, until the neighbor my Da had trusted came to discover what had become of our homestead. Master Borlan found me among the trees and carried me back to his home. I recovered from the effects of the thorn bush’s toxin and Master Borlan’s family kept me hidden in a cellar beneath their farmhouse for weeks, so I survived the cruel times that destroyed most of the magickers in the province.

I leaned all this when it was later recounted by Master Borlan, but I couldn’t have been above six years old and my memory holds little record of that dangerous time. I don’t recall the fear I must have felt cowering in the dark of the cellar or the fading fever and partial paralysis as the toxin worked its way out of my body. I have no memory of the fearful, whispered conversations that must have taken place over my head, nor could I have had any comprehension of the grave risk Da’s friend took upon himself and his family in protecting me from the soldiers determined to wipe out my people.

But of this I must have been aware. My future was uncertain and I was very much alone.

CHAPTER TWO

The threads of my memory are taken up again on a damp day in late winter, when I found myself waiting alongside a muddy road cutting past the far side of Master Borlan’s farm. Not too great a time could have passed since the night my parents were murdered because there was still a bone-deep chill in the air and the dreary weather remained.

I wore clean clothing that must have come from one of Master Borlan’s daughters and was shod in a sturdy pair of boots that felt too tight around my toes, but were infinitely better than standing on the cold ground. My old cloak had been washed and mended. Only from these details can I surmise what must have been the attitude of Master Borlan’s wife toward me. She had bundled me efficiently against the wet and cold, and I don’t recall that I felt afraid or ill treated, only curious, as I stood at Master Borlan’s side and stared up at the peddler atop the rickety wagon drawing to a halt before us.

“What kept you, man?” Master Borlan demanded. “The arrangements were made for dawn and we’ve been waiting half the morning. I was near to giving up and going back home.”

The elderly wagon driver showed no remorse. “On a day like this, you can thank the fates I came at all,” he said. “Bad weather for traveling.” He cast an eye toward the cloudy skies and the light drizzle raining steadily down.

The gray mare hitched to the front of the wagon curved her neck around to regard us with a long, lazy stare mirroring that of her master.

“You’ve the money?” the old peddler questioned, extending an upturned palm.

He had a bony hand, which shook slightly, though whether from age or overindulgence in the cheap spirits he reeked of, it was impossible to tell. When Master Borlan dug into his purse and deposited a few shiny coins in the peddler’s hand, the old man snatched the money greedily and pocketed it with haste.

Only then did he show any curiosity toward me. The brim of his hat was bent downward beneath the weight of the rainwater collected atop it and he had to tilt his head back to view me from beneath.

“This is the child, then?” he asked, his gaze critical. “Looks pale and skinny to me. You’re sure she hasn’t been touched by the plague?”

“The child is healthy enough,” Master Borlan said evenly, “and she had better be still when she arrives in the next province. I’m entrusting her to your safekeeping.”

“Aye, I’ll look after her right enough,” the peddler snapped defensively. “Gave my word, didn’t I? But it’s a powerful risk you’re asking of me. If I’m caught smuggling a young magicker over the border—”

“You’ve been well paid for your risk,” Master Borlan interrupted. “Plenty of children around here have the silver hair and pale skin of Skeltai ancestry, so no one should give this one a second look. Just deposit her in a safe magicker settlement in Cros and your duty will be discharged.”

The peddler grunted reluctant agreement.

Master Borlan lifted me up, setting me on the slippery wooden seat beside the old man, and tugging the hood of my cloak down to shield my head from the rain. It was too late for that. My hair was already slicked to my skull and I was shivering like a wet pup.

Master Borlan said to me, “You understand what is happening, child? You’re being taken to a place where you can be with more of your kind, a place where you'll be safe from the Praetor’s soldiers. All you must do is conceal your magic until you arrive there.”

I nodded but was suddenly afraid at the prospect of leaving this last familiar face behind me.

“Why don’t you take me there?” I asked.

He looked uncomfortable and it came to me in a flash that this large, strong man was afraid. Afraid the red-cloaked horsemen would come and murder him as they had my family and the other magickers in our village. Even now, none of us were safe.

A shadow seemed to fall over the day, and I shuddered beneath my cloak.

Observing the motion, Master Borlan squeezed my shoulder with a heavy, work-roughened hand. “You’ll be all right, girl,” he said briskly, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes as he pressed something cold into my hand. “You were holding this the night…”

I knew he wanted to say the night Mama and Da died.

For the first time, I really looked at the object my mother had given me on that last terrible parting. It was a big, fine looking brooch of the type a man might use to fasten his clothing and was made of hammered metal, inlaid with copper and amber colored stones.

Master Borlan said, “You spoke of your mother wanting you to keep it with you, so here it is. Only pin it to the inside of your waistband, where it won’t be lost or seen. I don’t know how your mother came about such a trinket, but there’re desperate folk who’d do you a harm for items of less value than this.”

I noticed he dropped his voice as he said so and cast a wary eye on Wim, but this appeared unnecessary as the peddler paid us no mind at all.

Once I pinned the brooch into my waistband, as instructed, I became teary and Master Borlan tried to sooth me. “Now you mustn’t cry,” he said. “Master Wim doesn’t want a wailing little girl on his hands all the way to Cros. Do you, Wim?”

“There’s plague about. Don’t touch me; don’t breathe on me,” was the peddler’s only response.

“I won’t cry,” I promised Master Borlan and he nodded approvingly in a way that reminded me of Da.

“Can we be off now?” Wim demanded. “I’ve delayed long enough and the weather’s not gettin’ any better.”

Master Borlan stepped down from the wagon and backed away. “Just you mind your word, Wim Erlin,” he warned. “I’ll hold you responsible if any harm befalls the child.”

“Right, right,” the peddler said impatiently. He snapped the reins and called to his horse, “Whitelegs, let’s be off.”

As the wagon started forward, I clung to the rattling seat. The peddler’s old mare was faster than she looked and having never ridden in anything higher than our rickety farm cart, I was afraid of being thrown from my seat and run over beneath the tall wheels. By the time I screwed up the courage to lean over and peer around the side of the wagon, Master Borlan, standing beside the road, was already fading into the distance.

***

The wagon wheels splashed through pools of filthy water as we lurched down the rutted road. The driving rain had ended hours ago, but left its evidence in the deep mud and sodden leaves strewn across our path. The wind hadn’t abated and I flinched each time I heard it stirring through the tree branches overhead, knowing another shower of cold droplets was about to be shaken loose to patter down on us. Occasionally, a ray of golden sunlight would peek from behind a thick layer of clouds and fall across our path, as if to taunt us with its promised warmth, but as suddenly as it appeared, it would be snatched away again, leaving us in this depressing world of gray.

The winding road we followed soon twisted and led us into a forest of firs and elder trees. Here, thick-trunked sentinels loomed over our path, hedging us in like rabbits in a snare, so that I had an uncomfortable desire to turn and head back out into the open. But if the peddler shared my unease, he kept it to himself as our wagon rolled steadily onward, until the grassy meadowland behind was lost from view.

The wood was still and heavy with shadows. Only small patches of overcast sky revealed themselves through the green canopy overhead and nothing stirred the foliage on either side of the road. There was a sameness to the passing scenery, and every towering tree, every splintered trunk or thick stand of ferns looked like the one before it.

I shivered, scarcely feeling my frozen fingers and toes, and wished Master Wim would stop and build a fire to warm us. But he never gave any indication he noticed the weather, and he appeared perfectly comfortable in his heavy cloak and sturdy boots. Perhaps he didn’t feel the bite of the wind through the strips of wool twined about his hands.

I was surreptitious in my studying of the peddler because he made it plain early on that he wanted nothing to do with me. I wasn’t to chatter or ask foolish questions such as when we would arrive at our destination or when we could eat. I had been ordered not to shift in my seat or to stand, as it would make the horse nervous.

Seeming all but oblivious to my presence now, the old man kept his gaze fixed on the road. He had one foot propped atop the wooden board at our feet and I noticed a crooked bend to that knee, which might have caused him to limp awkwardly when on foot. From time to time, he dropped a hand to massage the damaged joint and when he did, a grimace would spread across his features. They weren’t particularly attractive features even without the scowl. His closely set eyes were a frosty shade of blue-grey, like ice over a winter pond, and his long nose bent sharply downward at the tip. His skin was like a faded map, with wrinkles for pathways and moles and age spots sprinkled around generously, like markers.

I was so intent on examining my companion’s flaws that I noticed immediately when his brow furrowed in concern. Snapping my attention to the road ahead, I was met with an unexpected sight. We had just rounded a bend and we suddenly found ourselves facing an obstacle. A thick tree lay fallen on its side, covering the full width of our path and blocking any traffic that might have passed. The trunk was so wide a large man couldn’t have reached both arms around its base, let alone have a hope of shifting it an inch to either side.

But the tree didn’t hold my gaze long, for my attention was swiftly drawn to the collection of rough-looking men clustered around it. There were half a dozen of them, dressed mostly in ragged clothing of dappled brown or green. A few were outfitted in mismatching pieces of leather armor or chainmail and here and there, daggers or short swords were in evidence. The men lacking blades were armed with quarterstaffs or cudgels and many of them carried bows. They were a lean and ragged looking lot, and even at a distance, menace was clearly written across their hard faces. Small as I was, I had the sense to be afraid.