Shadow Magic (26 page)

Trembling, Alethia brought her hand nearer her face and stared at the stone, concentrating desperately on shelter, a place to be out of the wind and snow. She had heard Clasiena and Illeana speak of guidance spells, but they were difficult and she did not know more than the fact of their existence. Since her lessons began, she had not cast any spell without knowing the chants that structured its power. She knew that uncontrolled magic was dangerous and could destroy its wielder; she did not care. Blindly, she stared at the stone.

Slowly, the firestone began to glow. An image formed in the air just in front of her; a wavering picture of a dark opening in a rock wall, overgrown with bushes and with a glow of power about it. “Terrific,” Alethia said aloud, “but where is it?”

The image wavered slightly, and swung to the right. Alethia pulled at the reins with unfeeling fingers, and eventually the horse turned to follow it. The semitransparent picture faded, but the glow of the firestone grew brighter, and suddenly the horse was plowing through a large snowdrift, held in place by a clump of shrubs. A moment later, Alethia’s mount stumbled and nearly fell into the interior of a small cave. Alethia slid from the saddle and collapsed unconscious to the ground.

The birds were gaining ground. Maurin was slashed in a dozen places; the others fared no better. Then, unexpectedly, one of the birds gave a cry, and the others broke away to fly rapidly back toward the cliff from which they had come.

Maurin blinked stupidly after them for a moment. Suddenly he realized what must be the cause of their flight, but as he opened his mouth to shout a warning the storm arrived. In seconds, the others were mere shadows, and Maurin realized that they would lose each other quickly if they did not act at once.

The Trader slid out of his saddle and stood for a moment with his horse’s body between himself and the wind. Knotting the reins around his arm, he started for the nearest shadow. This proved to be Har, who had already dismounted and was knotting his own reins in much the same fashion.

“Rope!” shouted Maurin, trying to make himself heard above the wind. “Do you have rope?” It took a couple of tries before Har understood. Once he did, he produced a length from a saddlebag, and the two men tied the horses together and started in the direction of the third shape.

When they reached it, they found Tamsin trying to tie the unconscious Shee to his own saddle. Corrim was draped limply over another horse. Maurin immediately went to assist the minstrel; fortunately the guide’s mount was well trained and stood stock-still throughout the entire operation.

Har peered vainly into the gloom for another shape that might be his sister. “Where is Alethia?” Maurin shouted as he tied the other horses into the string.

“Don’t know!” Har yelled back. Then he pointed. “There?”

“Maybe,” Maurin answered. There did seem to be a darker area in the general direction of Har’s pointing finger, but the snow was heavier already, and it was difficult to say for certain. Maurin waved Har back to the line of horses and began pulling the reluctant animals along.

They did not find Alethia, but in a few moments they were among the trees they had been heading for when the birds had attacked. The grove blocked the wind somewhat, and it was easier to move. Soon they found the overhang their guide had mentioned, and they crowded gratefully into its meager shelter.

The wind still howled so that they could barely hear each other speak. Maurin found a spot to secure the horses and was starting to unlash the Shee when he saw Har heading back out into the storm. He dropped the rope he was holding and grabbed for his friend.

“You can’t go out there again!” Maurin shouted. “You’ll be lost in less than three paces!”

“Alethia’s still out there somewhere!” Har said, pulling against Maurin’s restraining grip. “I have to find her; she’ll die if she stays out there!”

A lump of ice settled in Maurin’s chest, but he said roughly, “Will it help if you die too? Going off like an idiot without even a rope! How did you expect to find us again once you got to her?”

“Maurin, please!” Har begged. “Let go, I have to find her.”

“Then wait long enough to be sensible!” Maurin snapped. His hands were already busy with the saddlebags. “We have enough rope among us to reach a long way. Tie it together and take an end so you can find your way back. It won’t do anyone any good to have two of you lost in that storm!” He jerked his head in the direction of the trees. The snow was falling so thickly that he could only discern the closest trunks; beyond was only a wilderness of swirling whiteness.

Reluctantly, Har agreed, but he fretted and fumed all during the time it took to knot the ropes and secure them to a large boulder. Then he grabbed the free end, tied it around his waist, and ran out into the blizzard.

Maurin looked around. Tamsin was tending the Shee, so Maurin crossed to the last horse and eased Corrim to the ground. The Karlen Gale man’s head hung limply, and it was almost unnecessary for Maurin to feel at the throat for the nonexistent pulse. With a deep feeling of regret, Maurin pulled the man’s cloak to cover his head.

Once the horses were securely tied, Tamsin and Maurin set about arranging some sort of shelter for themselves and the wounded guide. Then they bandaged the Shee, and finally they turned their attention to their own injuries.

Har had still not returned by the time they finished. Maurin bit his lip, frowning, then turned to Tamsin.

“I’m going out after Har,” he told the other man. “He may be having trouble. Don’t try to come after me if I don’t make it back; someone must stay with him.” He nodded at the injured Shee.

“If you don’t make it back, I might as well come after you,” Tamsin said. Maurin nodded reluctantly; two men helping a badly injured companion might have a chance of escaping the mountains once the storm was past, but alone it would be nearly impossible. “I’m still going,” Maurin said. Forcing himself to ignore Tamsin’s bleak expression, he turned, grasped the rope, and stepped out into the grove.

At first the trees blocked most of the wind, but when he reached the edge of the grove Maurin was almost swept away from the lifeline. With all his strength he clung to the rope and shouted into the storm, “Alethia! Har! Alethia!” The wind swept his words away almost before they were uttered.

Maurin gave up shouting and lowered his head against the wind. Hand over hand, inch by painful inch, he worked his way along the rope. Underneath the concentration, fear sang along the borders of his mind in an endless chant, “Not Alethia, not Har, not both of them. Not Alethia, please, not both of them.”

So intent was he on making progress that when he tripped he continued on his hands and knees for a moment. Then he realized that he had fallen and lost the rope; almost in panic he groped behind him for the lifeline. Instead of rope his hands found the rough surface of a cloak, half buried in the snow, and under it was Har, the lifeline still tied fast around his waist.

Har was barely conscious. After one or two futile attempts to get him to his feet, Maurin untied the rope and lashed it around his own waist. Then, half dragging, half carrying the smaller man, he started back toward the shelter of the grove. Progress became mechanical; one foot in front, haul in the rope, drag on the other man, next foot forward.

An endless time later, Maurin reached the overhang. By this time he was crawling, stopping frequently to rest. Dimly he saw Tamsin’s face above him, full of relief. “Har,” he croaked. “See to him.”

The minstrel’s face vanished, and Maurin closed his eyes. All that he wanted to do now was rest. He couldn’t rest, though; someone was shaking him. He opened his mouth to protest, and something warm and liquid gushed into it. He almost choked on the first swallow, but Tamsin was insisting that he take more.

A few more gulps of broth restored some of Maurin’s energy, and he realized how cold and hungry he was. He tried to sit up, and Tamsin helped him for a moment. “Finish the cup and I’ll help you over to the fire,” the minstrel said. “You need warmth almost as much as you need food and rest.”

“How did you do it?” Maurin asked hazily.

“Don’t talk,” Tamsin said. “Drink!”

Obediently, Maurin finished the broth and Tamsin helped him to his feet and guided him over to the fire he had somehow built in the Trader’s absence. Har was already there, bundled in all the blankets and cloaks the minstrel could find.

Once Maurin was seated out of the wind, Tamsin returned to Har and tended the ragged slashes made by the birds. Maurin watched him for a few minutes, until the minstrel looked up and noticed his regard.

“It is a good thing these wounds are clean,” Tamsin said. “At least we will not have to worry about fever and poison.”

“It’s as well that we were this close to shelter, too,” Maurin replied. “None of us are in any condition to be wandering around in that storm.” Suddenly memory hit him, and he sat bolt upright with a cry. “Alethia! She’s still out there!”

Tamsin’s eyes were sympathetic. “I know,” the minstrel said. “I feel for her, too, but we can do no more. You are the strongest of us, and you barely made it back. Will you kill yourself trying to find her? She is strong and sensible. Perhaps she has found shelter.”

Maurin collapsed with a groan. “There must be something…” he murmured, but he knew there was not. He did not have enough strength left to haul himself to his feet, let alone face the storm once more.

The storm raged for two days. The enforced idleness enabled both Maurin and Har to recover somewhat from their injuries, and to regain some of the strength they had lost fighting the blizzard. The guide, however, was still unconscious. His wounds at first seemed light, and the three humans were greatly puzzled, yet it began to seem unlikely that he would survive unless he reached the healers soon.

This posed a problem. Har wanted to remain where they were, to search for his sister’s body, for it seemed impossible that Alethia could have survived the storm. Maurin, tacitly acknowledged leader of the group now that the Shee was unable to function, agreed to a brief delay while he and Tamsin constructed a litter for the Shee and erected a cairn for Corrim, but he refused to jeopardize the guide’s life by remaining any longer than necessary.

Finally Har capitulated. It was a subdued and wary group that set out under the leaden skies of the third day after the storm. Har was moodily silent, given to flashes of temper. Maurin rode in silence, absorbing Har’s occasional remarks with the grim indifference of a granite cliff. Tamsin, riding at the rear alongside the litter, found Maurin’s silence more disturbing than Har’s temper, but there was nothing he could do, so he, too, kept silent.

There was no sign of the mysterious white birds, but that did not keep any of the men from casting surreptitious glances at the mountaintops when they thought the others were not looking. The weather was bitterly cold, and the men wore their clothes in layers to keep warm. The few blankets were bundled around the guide in an effort to ease the jolting of the makeshift litter and provide some warmth to the wounded man.

Maurin set a slow pace, for the drifts were deep and masked treacherous footing. Several times they had to retrace their steps when snow blocked their passage. At such times Maurin was painstakingly careful not to lose track of their direction. Without a mountain-born guide, to be lost was a certain death sentence.

On the second day of travel, Maurin began to worry. With all the backtracking they had done he knew that they could not have come far enough to be out of the Kathkari, but he had expected to see signs that they were nearing the edge of the mountain range. When the group stopped for a moment to rest, Maurin scrambled up to a ledge and looked out over the terrain ahead. There was still no sign of an end to the mountains, and Maurin began considering whether to voice his concern to his companions.

Har forestalled him. “Look there!” the young noble called up to him. “Are those specks travelers or deer? I can’t tell at this distance; you have a better view.” Har pointed through a gap in the trees.

Maurin squinted in the direction of Har’s finger to where a number of dark shapes were moving against the snow on the valley floor. “If deer carry riders, I’ll eat my saddle. Come on!”

They picked their way carefully down the mountainside, keeping out of sight in case the other group were Lithmern scouts. By the time they reached the valley floor, the riders were close enough for Maurin to see that they were Shee. With a quiet sigh of relief, he signaled his companions, and the little group stopped and waited.

“Ho, Maurin!” The foremost of the Shee hailed them. “Har! We had scarcely hoped to find you this quickly, though we came in search of you!” The rider was Jordet, and suddenly Maurin found himself shaking.

When they did not return his greeting, Jordet’s smile of welcome changed. He looked closely at their faces, and his eyes flew to the litter. “Not Alethia?”

“No,” Maurin whispered as Jordet rode forward. “I wish it were. Gods, how I wish it were.”

T
HEY MADE CAMP WHERE
they stood. One of the new group was a healer’s apprentice, and Jordet insisted that the man examine all of them, beginning with the guide.

Though they would not admit it, the others were glad of the chance to stop and rest, and to catch up on the news of the battle preparations. They were surprised that Jordet had ridden out in search of them.

“We knew that you planned to leave Eveleth five days ago,” he explained. “When the Veldatha felt the blizzard coming they tried to warn you, but they couldn’t reach your guide. Herre and Bracor were worried enough to send us out looking as soon as the storm was over.”

“What do you mean, felt the storm coming?” Har asked. “I didn’t think the Veldatha did weather-working. Rialla almost took my head the one time I suggested it!”

“They don’t, as a rule,” Jordet said. “But the Lithmern and the Shadow-born do. This was no natural storm; that’s one reason Herre was so worried.”

“Was it as bad at Coldwell as it was up here?” Har asked.