BeneathCeaselessSkies Issue007 Page 2

  “So you pawned me off on one of your friends.”

  “We aren’t friends.” She adjusted her travel coat. Its inner pockets contained some tea, a few deadly herbs, and her dagger. Just in case. “We are—the most I can say is that we are aware of each other. Yves and his comrades are on a different level than I.”

  “It was a conjurer of that ‘level’ that did this to me. What makes you think this one will be generous enough to give my spirit back?”

  “It won’t come to that. We’ll catch up to Marchand long before he reaches Yves’ stronghold. Marchand will be generous. I’ll see to it.”

  Still, it bothered her. Conjurers and shapechangers had no love for each other, but they’d never openly fought. What had been done to Philemon amounted to an act of war. Unless .... The sudden idea chilled her spine. “Could this be LeKestra’s doing?”

  “Who?”

  Therese started; she wasn’t aware she’d spoken aloud. “You’ve never heard of LeKestra?”

  “No. Is he a conjurer?”

  His innocent question shocked a laugh out of her, one shrill with bitterness. “No, I’d say not. He slaughtered enough of us to prove that. Or hadn’t you noticed how few conjurers are left in this part of the world?”

  Philemon shrugged. “We don’t keep track of conjurers, or their enemies. What are either to us? No conjurer ever came to our aid when a shapechanger faced persecution.”

  “No,” Therese agreed, her scorn deflating. “A pity we didn’t. We may face the same enemy now.”

  “If so, he must be a conjurer himself, or else have one working for him. How else could he have halved me like this?”

  She’d been trying not to dwell on that selfsame riddle. “We’ll have to ask Marchand. We should overtake him soon.”

  “Not soon enough for me.” Philemon tested the air with his tonguetip. “I don’t smell dwarf nearby.”

  “Wait.” Therese reached into a pocket and pulled out a small bound book. “Maybe this can help us pinpoint him.”

  Philemon leaned forward. “What is it? A book of spells?”

  “No, just something he sold me. It may still have a trace of his aura on it.” She held the book to her lips and whispered to it, then blew across the cover, as if puffing off dust. A thready beam sparkled in the air, following the road. Several yards ahead it abruptly swerved, and darted into the woods.

  “I don’t like this,” Therese said.

  “That’s his trail? It looks as if someone chased him. Maybe attacked him. Maybe stole my—” Philemon bolted into the forest.

  “Wait—” Therese called, but he’d already raced off in pursuit of the twinkly thread. “I am a fool,” she growled, and dashed after him.

  The thread twisted and wound between treetrunks, darted through brambles and brush. These same brambles caught at her hem and her sleeves. Pine boughs slapped her in the face, leaving scented needles in her hair.

  The trail ended abruptly at the bank of a swift-running creek. The thread extended its sparkling line out over the water, and stopped. Philemon was casting back and forth along the bank, like a frustrated hound seeking scent. He barely glanced up at Therese’s arrival. “There isn’t any blood,” he said. “I don’t think he’s dead, but I can’t—”

  “Therese?” Marchand stuck his head out from beneath a tangle of brambles. His clothes were drenched and muddy, and water ran in creeklets from his hair. “Therese, it’s you! And with help! You couldn’t have timed it better. I was attacked!”

  Therese and Philemon each took an arm and helped the trader wriggle out of his hiding place. “Where’s your pack?” Philemon asked.

  “Gone. Everything’s gone. They took my pack. They’d have taken my life if I hadn’t slipped in the creek. The current carried me off.” He slanted a look up at Philemon. “Do I know you?”

  “This is Philemon,” Therese said. “The owner of the snake.”

  Alarm sparked in Marchand’s eyes. “I don’t have it. It’s stolen, along with the rest—”

  “Yes, we heard you,” Therese broke in. “Do you know who they were?”

  “No. There were three of them, on horseback. Dark cloaks and clothing. No insignia. I tried to beg a ride and they charged at me. Followed me into the woods. Over a ride. So touchy, some people.”

  “Not LeKestra’s men, then,” Therese said, with a thrill of relief. “They like their uniforms. Thieves?”

  “Thieves? With horses?” Marchand spat. “Thieves are lucky to have shoes. It’s why they’re thieves.”

  “Conjurers, then,” Philemon said with blunt certainty. “After the glass.”

  “After everything, you mean. No one knew I had the glass. No one but Therese.” Marchand flung this at her accusingly.

  “And whoever you showed it to last night,” Therese returned, unperturbed. ‘You had money; you stayed at an inn. Who did you show it to?”

  “No one. I kept my pack by my side at all times. I never—”

  Therese pressed her fingers to her forehead and sighed. “What was her name, Marchand?”

  “There was no ‘her’.” Therese folded her arms and glared down at him. “All right, there was a waitress. I thought I’d impress her—”

  “And she screamed.”

  “More of a squeal.” He was silent a moment. “There were a lot of people in the common room. I suppose some heads did turn.”

  “Then it could have been stolen by anyone.” Philemon slumped. “And taken anywhere.”

  “Or,” Therese said, “it could have been reclaimed by the ‘owner,’ tracking it as you were. Where did you get it, Marchand? Or rather, who did you take it from?”

  “Therese.” He sounded hurt. ‘You know I’d never—”

  Quick as a striking snake, Philemon grabbed Marchand by the front of his sodden shirt and hefted him off the ground. “Let’s try again,” he hissed. “Who had the snake before you stole it?”

  The merchant’s eyes bugged. His hands fluttered like the wings of a captive bird. “Therese ... ? Some help?”

  “Philemon.” She pried Marchand loose and set him back on his feet. Stepping between them, she said, “Marchand, this is vital. Where did you find the snake?”

  Marchand made a great show of choking. When that got him no sympathy, he settled for a scowl. “What are you helping him for?”

  “I gave him my word.” She slanted a wry glance at Philemon. “There was a time when our word carried weight.”

  “Well, if you’re going to get snooty about it.... I got it from a caravan coming up from the south. I cadged a ride with them. Most were traders or travelers, but there was one wagon that was always kept locked—”

  “So naturally you broke into it.”

  “I investigated,” Marchand corrected. “A fine mage you are, with no curiosity. There was a chest filled with those globes, with different animals in them. I grabbed the one on top.”

  “A chest? Filled with....” Philemon’s initial look of shock slowly gave way to dark rage. He whirled on Therese. “What are you conjurers doing to us? Why?”

  “When we find the one responsible, we’ll know,” Therese soothed him. “Where was the caravan headed?”“

  “Through the mountains and into the Steppelands, I think,” Marchand said. “But I don’t know who owned the locked wagon. It could have turned off along the way.”

  “Anywhere along the way,” Philemon said morosely. “We have no way to track them.”

  Therese considered. “Perhaps we do. I can find a being through some object they’ve owned or touched. I’ve never tried it the other way ‘round, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work.”

  “You mean like that trick with the book?” Hope rekindled in Philemon’s eyes. “Can you do it?”

  “Let’s find out. Come here.” He glided toward her. So like a snake in his movements—Therese bit down on her loathing. Lives are at stake, his and his people’s. Perhaps the lives of mine as well.

  She rested her hands on his cheeks
and whispered the words of search. She gently blew through his hair.

  And there it was, the trail that linked shapechanger and glass, shimmering like sunlight on a serpent’s scales. It stretched from the bank of the creek back through the trees to the road. “I see it!” Philemon cried.

  “Well, I don’t.” Marchand shaded his eyes and squinted into the—to him —empty forest. “What is it? Does it lead to my pack?”

  “Among other things,” Therese said dryly. “It will thin with time and distance, so we must hurry. Come.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  They followed the thread, and the road, for two days, as fast as Marchand’s short legs and Therese’s lack of stamina allowed. She feared the thread would dim and die, but though it lost some luster, it held firm. It startled her how good it felt to use her magics so openly. Then she remembered the potential consequences, and urged herself and her companions on to greater speed.

  On the third day they hitched a ride with a farmer carting vegetables to the city. The pace was slow, but it saved their feet and energy. Marchand claimed the seat beside the farmer, leaving Therese and Philemon to find room amid the crates of carrots and beets. While dwarf and farmer bemoaned the overall poor state of their respective markets, Philemon and Therese pondered motives.

  “So it wasn’t just me,” Philemon said. Outrage lent a quiver to his voice. “There’s been a plague among my people—powers lost, vitality draining away. Our physicians couldn’t find a cause or cure. Then I met the conjurer, almost a month ago. I felt the snake ripped out of me. Like being hacked in two. He left me for dead. His mistake.” His eyes were thin, unblinking slits. “I didn’t see his face. He wore a hood. He never spoke, except to cast the spell. It’s clear now he was part of the caravan. And part of what’s been happening to shapechangers.”

  “And not alone. Marchand said three men attacked him.” Therese chafed her hands. Her fingers felt like sticks of ice. “I wanted to believe it was LeKestra behind this, but this isn’t his way. He’d have sent his soldiers to butcher you. This is—I don’t have a word for this.”

  “How about ‘atrocity’? Those are my people your people are destroying. At least butchery would be swift.”

  “Please.” She pressed her fingers to her brow. Frigid fingers, burning brow—perhaps they’d cancel each other. “I’ve been wracking my brain for three days. I don’t know any mages capable of this. At least, none I know of would have been, before .. before LeKestra. That night changed us. Those who survived it, that is.”

  “As this changes the shapechangers.” His eyes sought her face, perhaps to gauge her reaction. “We can’t let this assault go unpunished. Our survival as a race is at stake.”

  “And what do you want from me? Permission? My blessing? My aid, when your race attacks mine?” Therese drew in a long breath, held it, and slowly let it go. “I’ll help you recover yourself, and then we’re quits. Whatever you do after that, I don’t want to know.”

  “Fair enough.” She sensed his stare upon her, and didn’t try to meet it. Too unsettling, that blinkless regard. “Are you all right?” he finally asked. “You look flushed.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m not one for life on the road. I could really use a cup of tea.”

  She could use a lot more than that and she knew it. I don’t want to be here. I want to be home, behind my doors and as far away from politics and wars as I can get. Away from a world where such a horror could be done to a person like Philemon. Back to how my life was before.

  And how was my life before? I heard the warnings spoken against LeKestra, but I thought it couldn’t touch me. And here I am. I was a fool. Then and now.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  They were approaching the foothills. The road angled upward, preparatory to its easy slide into a river valley and the little village nestled at the bottom. Beyond the village lay the mountains and LeKestra’s empire.

  Therese half-rose and turned to peer ahead. The thread still shimmered before them. Just before the road crested, however, the shimmer curved and veered upward, into the hills.

  Philemon heard her murmur, and looked where she looked. His tonguetip flickered rapidly in and out. “It’s near,” he whispered. His hand brushed hers. His fingers were trembling. “Very close. Up there.”

  He hopped off the wagon and stretched out his arms to Therese. She let him help her to the ground. “Marchand,” she called. “We’re leaving.”

  “What?” He bolted upright on the seat. “But we’re not even at the village yet! There’ll be food and drink and—”

  “Go on, then. We’ll find you afterwards.”

  “No. Those brigands took my pack.” The farmer brought his team to a halt, and Marchand swung down. “Thanks for the ride. And don’t buy any of that grain seed from Wielandside. It’s got the blight, I’ve heard.”

  They waited until the farmer topped the crest, then hurried along the thread. Philemon uncovered a track, just wide enough for a carriage or wagon. The thread ran along it, up into the trees.

  “Therese, look.” He pointed out hoofprints in the dirt. “See how much deeper this set is, and this? Three riders, two of them side by side, carrying something heavy. That chest from the caravan, I’ll bet.”

  Marchand peered at the dirt and nodded sagely. The jumble of prints looked indistinguishable to Therese. However, there was no arguing with the bold, thick shimmer in the air. “Yves has a stronghold somewhere in these hills,” she murmured. She didn’t like the implications.

  “Yves. That’s your old cohort, is it? The customer you recommended to me? Looks like the thieves had the same idea. And beat us to him. Pirates!” Marchand spat at a hoofprint. “Well, we can still salvage this. There may still be time to strike a bargain.” He marched purposefully up the track.

  Therese and Philemon followed. “I don’t like this,” Philemon muttered. “I’ve never trusted conjurers—” He glanced at her quickly, then as quickly away.

  “It’s all right. I never liked Yves, but occasionally he could be reasonable.”

  Philemon looked grim indeed. “Then this had better be one of those occasions.”

  Marchand’s cursing burst out of the trees up ahead. They dashed to join him.

  “There you are. Look at this.” Marchand stood off to one side of the track. At his feet lay three bodies, all wrapped in mages’ robes, all riddled with arrows. The thread shimmered and stopped just above them. “Bloody thieves,” Marchand snarled. “Got what they deserved. And them mages, too! Robbing people. Er—you didn’t know any of ‘em, did you, Therese?”

  Gingerly she turned the bodies over, one by one. Green, filmy eyes stared up at her from one of the bloodless faces. “Stephen,” she said. “I knew him vaguely. He was a friend of Yves’.”

  “Mage turned thief. What’s the world coming to?” Marchand spat at a fern. “So what do we do now?”

  “We follow.” Philemon bent to read the marks in the earth. “It’s plain enough what happened. They were ambushed from the woods. Their assassins took the chest and the horses, and went on.” He pointed to the hoofprints, as if that confirmed it. “Let’s go.”

  Therese peered uneasily up the track. If the glass were still intact, why did the thread not continue? Only another mage’s magic could have stopped her spell. And only warded assassins, armed with charmed weapons, could have slipped up unseen on three mages, let alone dispatched them.

  Few conjurers remained who had such power. One lived at the end of this trail.

  “Yes,” Therese agreed, “but slowly. When we get there, I’ll go in first, alone. And while we climb, let me tell you everything I remember about Yves.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  For a lord of conjure in hiding, Yves apparently had done quite well for himself. His hideout in the hills was not the humble cabin Therese had envisioned. Rather, it was more of a fortress of stone and hewn timber, overlooking the valley, the village, and the mountain peaks beyond. Perhaps he wanted to watch the passe
s for signs of LeKestra, but she doubted that had much to do with it. Yves had always lived ostentatiously. Just because he was a mage in exile, why should he change his habits?

  She wondered, fleetingly, if he locked his doors at night.

  A barn large enough to engulf her cottage sat behind the fortress, sheltered by a craggy overhang. Therese passed it by and approached the dwelling itself. The door swung open before she could knock. A sullen servant greeted her, after a fashion. “The Lord Yves welcomes a fellow mage,” he recited.

  Therese arched a brow. “‘Lord’ Yves is a gracious host.”

  The servant chose not to respond to this. “If you would follow me.”

  He set a brisk pace, but Therese deliberately lagged to get a better look at the dwelling. Hardwood floors, padded furniture, fine rugs and wall hangings. Palatially high ceilings with exposed wood beams, for that humble, rustic touch. Not a very defensible position for a fortress, she thought; anyone with a bow and fire arrows could climb that crag and torch the place. Yves was either stupid, or felt monumentally secure. She did not believe he was stupid.

  The servant conducted her to a hearthroom fit to welcome kings. He grudgingly offered her a curt bow and departed.

  She noted his exit in passing. She had far more interest in the man rising from his chair before the fireplace to greet her. All smiles, all silken mage’s robes, and quite a bit of jewelry. He extended a hand weighted with rings. “Well! This is quite the surprise ... Therese, is it?”

  “Lord Yves.” She stepped into the room and took his hand politely. She succeeded in not staring at the mantel, and the glass globes that lined it. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long, I’d say. Three years?”

  “At least.” She gazed about the room. “You’ve recovered quite well. Better than most.”

  “Some people just naturally rise to the top.” He released her hand. “Can I offer you something?” His nose crinkled. “You look—and smell—as if you’ve had a rough journey.”