Mind of the Magic (Arhel Book 3) (2 page)

“That’s enough!” Faia banished the clouds before the lightning could catch the thatching of the roof on fire. Lady give me strength, she thought.

A sudden incredible clamor came from the front of the house. “Stay right there,” she told her daughter. Faia frowned and started toward the gate. Whoever stood out there was not politely knocking, but slamming the metal knocker down onto the plate over and over again. The booming reverberated in the breezeway and filled the garden—she was suddenly certain it was Magdar, back to complain about the damage to her skirt. She took a deep breath and got ready to make her apologies. She lifted the heavy bar and flung open the inner door in the gate. No one at all stood there, however, and quick glances in both directions proved the entire street to be empty.

Children, she thought—though Kirtha’s little friends were usually polite and well behaved when they came over to play, and most of them couldn’t even reach the knocker. They were so invariably good, Faia suspected, because their parents had warned them about her… Omwimmee Trade’s own outlander magic lady, who would turn them into wingless hovies if they were naughty. Perhaps some new child had moved into the neighborhood.

Faia sighed. Whoever the prankster had been, he was gone. She began to pull the door shut, but as she did, a faint breeze stirred something on the ground, something someone had shoved up against the sheltered overhang of her gate. She stopped and looked over the mess. Why, she wondered, would anyone dump their old rags by my gate, then make such a racket to get me out here to find them? Puzzled, she propped the door open, and went out to investigate.

The rags weren’t simply rags. They were the filthy, tattered clothes of the person who still wore them. It was a tiny person, too—she thought at first that someone had abandoned a small child, but when she knelt and brushed back some of the shredded clothing and matted hair to get a better look, she realized the huddled figure was a man—dwarfed, misshapen, and very near death. He was bruised and bloody, hardly breathing; his skin clung to his bones so tightly she could make out the shapes of his teeth beneath his lips. His eye sockets and cheekbones stood out in ridges so sharp Faia could almost have believed he had no flesh at all. Looking at him, she could not imagine how he still lived.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, poor man.”

She couldn’t imagine who had left him there—the villagers, when they brought one of their sick to her, hovered over her and worried aloud about their loved ones while she worked. They always brought some pay for her, too—if not silver or copper, then a piglet or a fat duckling or a half-measure of dried, smoked fish.

Whoever had brought this man obviously didn’t intend to pay her anything. She sighed and scooped both the little man and his pack into her arms. “Which isn’t
your
fault, though, is it?”

He weighed almost nothing. “Poor man.” She looked down the street again; it remained empty. In Omwimmee Trade’s tropical climate, that was normal; midday was the time when business shut down and everyone went home to nap through the worst of the heat. Still, she wished she knew who had brought the little man to her. Knowing something—anything—about him would have helped her a great deal.

She was almost glad to find him there. Until only months ago, she had taught preliminary magic classes to students who hoped to one day be accepted into the great universities of Ariss or Bonton or distant, mysterious Dumforst. She performed warding spells and healing, hired out her services to break the spells of local hedgewizards who were forever renting themselves as cursemongers for the peevish masses, and in other ways made herself useful and needed in the little trading and fishing town. None of her students had seen fit to continue their studies when the magic changed, however, and her services in Omwimmee Trade became redundant. She had always had plenty of free time before—now she and Kirtha had nothing but free time.

She didn’t want to take pleasure in the misfortune of another… but caring for the sick man would make her feel needed again, for however long he might survive.

I’ll put him in the guest room—he’ll be there only a day or two, most likely, and then he’ll die and I’ll have to notify the Omwimmee Trade council and get a permit to bury him.

She sighed. Death remained the one thing magic could not postpone forever, or reverse when it came. She might not be able to save him. She would do whatever she could for him, though; if he died, at least he would not die friendless and alone, huddled in some street corner.

The stranger’s eyes flickered open just before Faia carried him into her home. They stared directly into hers—bright, crafty, and incredibly alert. She paused, foot lifted above her threshold but not yet over, subject to a sudden wave of vague uneasiness. The man was completely helpless—but the look in his eyes sent tingles down her spine.

Almost immediately, though, he closed them again—and once again was as obviously helpless and near death as he had been a second before.

Faia shifted, disquieted.

Maybe I should leave him where I found him. Maybe I ought to just put him back and pretend I never saw him.

Then she shook her head. Oh, Lady, I should be ashamed of myself, considering a thing like that. He’s dying, he has no one—and I get the chills because he manages to open his eyes for an instant to look at me.

She felt terrible. Mortified by her momentary callousness, she carried him through the gate and inside, down the long breezeway to her large guest room, really the main bedroom of the house, which had once belonged to Medwind Song, barbarian mage and ex-headhunter, and her tenth husband, Nokar Feldosonne, one-time librarian of Faulea University and a powerful old saje.

Faia wiggled the door latch awkwardly with the tips of her fingers, trying to keep from hitting her guest’s head on the wall, and shoved the door open with a hip. Musty, dust-laden air blew into the breezeway, and she stifled a sneeze. She hurriedly placed her guest on the bed, and threw open the windows; light streamed into the dark room and illuminated the dust motes that swirled and spiraled upward with every step she took. The bookshelves were cobwebbed and grey with dust, the corners of the round rug she’d made while she was pregnant with Kirtha appeared to have been gnawed by rodents, and spider silk hung in long trails from the beams overhead.

She winced. The room had been long vacant and long neglected.

She closed her eyes for an instant, picturing everything as it should have been—fresh sheets on the bed, fresh flowers at the bedside, the room clean, the air sweet-smelling. The task took her no time and little energy. She opened her eyes to a bright, welcoming room.

“Better,” she said to herself as she began undressing the little man. “It’s a start, at least.” She needed cool water and wet towels to bring his fever down quickly, she needed to start a healing broth simmering over the fire and to pick some fresh herbs for restorative simples. She would have to put thought into remembering the training her mother had given her for focusing wellness into the sick.

Perhaps Kirtha can gather the vigonia for me, she thought. She needs some tasks that must be done by hand, and with care. A little responsibility will be good for her.

Suddenly finding herself with much to do, Faia covered her guest with a sheet and hurried out of the room and down the breezeway. Not until much later did she realize she was singing as she worked.

MUCH to her amazement, her guest lived. First he managed to open his eyes and watch as Faia and Kirtha worked in his room, then to sip broth through a reed; and one morning he rolled over on his own while they were bathing him. He gained weight at a prodigious rate, never as fat, but as muscle; that was a trick Faia pondered over in her off hours.

The little man’s presence was as good for Kirtha as it was for Faia, too. Kirtha proved attentive, and each day delighted in pointing out “her” patient’s improvement. Faia, once again honestly tired from hard work when nights came, felt happier than she had since Arhel’s magic changed. Her careful spell-working was the best she had ever managed.

And at last the day arrived that the little man spoke.

Faia and Kirtha were tucking fresh bedclothes over him, thinking he was asleep, when suddenly his eyes opened and he smiled at both of them.

“You are too kind, fair ladies,” he whispered, “too kind indeed, to come to the rescue of a helpless wretch like me.”

“Mama!” Kirtha squealed. “He can
talk!”

Faia grinned, as delighted as her daughter. “Indeed he can.”

He struggled to sit up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, with the sheet wrapped around him. He gave a shaky bow. “I’m Witte,” he told them both. “Witte A’Winde. Sometimes known as Witte the Mocker.” He staggered a little, and his next bow nearly landed him facedown on the floor. “At your service.”

Faia and Kirtha steadied him and helped him back into bed, while Faia noticed for the first time how very much he’d changed since she’d found him on her doorstep. Though he was still no taller than Kirtha, he’d become as wide as he was tall, and muscled like a bull. Thick cords of veins ran over the backs of his huge hands, and broad, flat muscles made his neck thicker than most men’s thighs. His eyes, no longer sunken-in and hollow, were the bright and impossible green of spring leaves; his hair, that had been so dirty and matted, was the pale yellow of butter. It stood out from his head in a wild, shrubby mass at the front, though the back—which Kirtha had braided with great delight—reached nearly to the ground.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Kirtha scolded, perfectly mimicking what her mother had said to her on more than one occasion. Faia, looking at her daughter, realized Kirtha even had her hands on her hips, the way Faia invariably did when saying the same thing.

The two of them helped Witte back into the bed and Faia nodded. “Kirtha’s right. You aren’t ready to get up yet.”

“Kirtha. What a pretty name.” He flopped back, weak and obviously worn out from his few moments of standing. “For a lovely little girl.”

Kirtha preened.

“And, lovely lady, who are you?”

“Faia. Rissedote.”

“Faia, you are as beautiful as you are kind.” He closed his eyes. “But you are, I think, correct. This has been too much for me.”

After that first day up, he recovered even more quickly. Less than a week later, Faia came into her guest’s room to find Witte up and sitting on the side of the bed, dressed except for one boot, which he was polishing. He tugged on the boot and jumped to the floor as she came in, and again bowed, this time with a quick, bobbing, almost birdlike motion. He wore an odd, short-skirted robe of gorgeous red silk with the front of the skirts tucked up into his sword-belt—and his sword, she thought, would have made her a serviceable carving knife. His red silk pantaloons, piped in gold along the seams, bloused over the tops of black boots that reflected the room around them like twin mirrors.

He looked hilarious—and Faia could just imagine her daughter’s response as soon as she saw Witte’s outfit. Kirtha was going to want one just like it.

Faia managed to keep a straight face in spite of her amusement, and bowed back.

“I think I am ready to be up and on my way,” he told her. “I was on important business when I was taken ill, and now I must conclude it. Did I get as far as Omwimmee Trade, or have I still a distance to go?”

“This is Omwimmee Trade.”

He smiled. “Ah. How wonderful. Then, perhaps you could tell me how I can repay you. Whatever I can do, dear lady, I will do.”

“I’ve enjoyed… feeling useful again,” she told him. “You owe me nothing.”

“Nonsense—but I can see in your eyes you’re stubborn as well as beautiful. I’ll repay you in my own way if you won’t tell me what you’d like.”

Faia smiled. He was looking up at her, so sincere. “I have my repayment. You’re well.”

He smiled. “You are kindness personified. Then if you can do me one further good turn, I’ll be on my way. Do you by chance know how I would get to the home of Nokar Feldosonne, the saje master? I’ve come far to see him, and with important news.”

“You’re a friend of Nokar’s—” Oh, no, she thought. This is too cruel.

“I am an old friend—come to see him from the other end of the land, all the way from the cold and the dark of South Point Bay, and come to meet his lovely wife.”

Faia took a deep breath. She felt sick. “This… well, you found the right house… Ah—when was the last time you and Nokar visited?”

“This is Nokar’s house? Then you must be his wife—and beautiful as he described. When did I visit him last?” He looked at his feet, and sighed. “He was still Librarian at Faulea—it’s been that long. Sad, isn’t it, how old friends lose touch? However, I got a letter from him, oh, I guess almost three years ago—he was working on something fascinating. I haven’t heard from him since. I’ve had a breakthrough in my own research that may give him some of the pieces to his First Folk puzzle, so I thought I’d take time off and visit him.” Witte looked around. “Is he out?”

Faia shook her head slowly. “I’m not his wife. Her name is Medwind Song. And… maybe you should sit down. This was his house. His and Medwind’s.”

The little man frowned and hopped back up onto the bed. “Was?”

Faia breathed out slowly. “Oh, I am so sorry to have to tell you this. He died—just more than two years ago.”

Witte’s face fell. “Died? Oh, no!” His eyes filled with tears, and one ran down his cheek. “How terrible. And I’ve come so far to see him and his wife—and with such important news, too.” He looked up at Faia, his expression suddenly thoughtful. The tears stopped as if his eyes were pump-wells and he’d just stopped pumping. “Now that I think about it, he mentioned a Faia in his letter as well as his wife—though I simply did not connect the names. You’re the young woman who made such a mess in Ariss, aren’t you?”

Faia felt herself blush. “Well—”

Witte waved a hand as if to brush away his remark. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed, dear girl. At least it was an interesting mess.” He hopped down and paced, thumbs hooked into his belt. “On, dear. Nokar dead. That is terrible—simply terrible, and for more than one reason. The last letter I got from him indicated that he’d discovered an interesting First Folk artifact, and had a lead on more. Do you know if that came to anything?”