The Sorcerer's Daughter

  Once, while they walked through a grove of cypress, the heavy mists above them suddenly opened and sunlight streamed through in long, hazy shafts that were stunningly radiant. It was magical—and so unexpected and foreign to this place that she could scarcely believe it. She smiled at the wonder of it. But in the next instant it vanished, the mists descending once again.

  As the streamers of light were replaced by shadows, her smile faded.

  They walked for hours through this strange world, deep into the gloom and stench and deadness. The Murk Sink seemed a place where things went to die, and all that could be found in the aftermath of their passing was the lingering smell of decaying bodies and a profound sense of loneliness.

  I don’t want to die here, Leofur thought suddenly.

  It surprised her, the forcefulness of it. This was no random thought. This was a plea to whatever forces governed the fates of men. It came from somewhere deep within, a response to fears and doubts she had tamped down but could not dispel. She was at risk here, and not in any familiar way. There was a sense of impending doom about the Murk Sink, a whisper of death that wafted in the air. She was not normally the sort who frightened easily or lacked the courage to stand and fight whatever might come against her. But today, in this place and time, she had reached her limit.

  She wanted to turn back but fought down the urge. She reminded herself of the shame and cowardice of abandoning Chrysallin, and the urge was quieted, at least for the moment.

  Ahead, the swamp opened up to reveal something quite extraordinary, and she stepped up her pace to get a closer look. At first it was only an unexpected brightness, and then she saw beams and struts and cross-bracings. And curtains made out of fabrics so thin and transparent they shimmered in the pale swamp light as if they were woven of the swamp’s mists. The structure emerged from the gloom, sitting open and empty in a clearing amid giant cedars that ringed it like sentries.

  A bower.

  Out here, in the middle of such desolation. Built by human hands, but for what purpose? And who maintained it? For it was in perfect condition, and someone must care for it or it would have fallen into ruin long ago.

  But no, she thought suddenly. Even caring for it wouldn’t be enough. The elements and the passage of time would erode the finishes, no matter how much care was provided. Something else was at work. Magic. This bower was cocooned in a shell of brightest sorcery, layered over so that nothing would change it. It was preservation of the purest sort.

  Olin walked under the canopy and into the bower without a word and stood there, awe reflected on his ravaged face.

  “You know this place?” Imric asked him.

  The boy nodded. “She built it. She brought me here afterward to witness her wondrous accomplishment. She remade me that day in ways I will never fully understand or even try to speak of. I was hers, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. You cannot imagine the joy I felt. You cannot believe how new and wonderful I was!”

  “But you’ve never been back here?”

  “Never.” He was crying now, barely able to speak. “I couldn’t find it again! Not until now. Not until this very moment. I searched for it as I searched for her cottage and could find no trace of either. But here is the one, so perhaps this time I will find the other, as well!”

  Leofur stood next to him, gazing upward through the rafters to the low-hanging clouds and wondering at the structure’s purpose. It was impressive, but so out of place here that she could not imagine a use that made any sense. She glanced questioningly at Imric, but he only smiled back and shook his head. His eyes were bright and there was an odd sense of happiness about him.

  “Is this not the most amazing anomaly?” he said softly. “I have this feeling I could stay here forever.”

  In fact, she thought, maybe she could stay here, as well. She felt a strange peacefulness in this place that seemed so contradictory to the rest of the Murk Sink. How was it that it could shut out the otherwise dark feelings the swamp generated in her?

  “We should go,” Olin said suddenly. “We don’t want to be out in the open at sunset.”

  They began walking again, with the boy leading, moving ever deeper into the Sink. Leofur went back to paying close attention to her steps and the surrounding swamp. Once, she saw fresh movement below the surface of the water, but nothing after that. It was past midday, and the diffuse sunlight was now brightest directly overhead. They still had not encountered anyone, only glimpsed birds in the air and shadows in the water. She wondered what else lived in the swamp. There would be moor cats, wouldn’t there? There would be snakes and swamp rats and iron herons, at the very least.

  And much worse things within the murky waters, if those shadows were any indication.

  She noticed some hesitation in the boy’s progress, as if he were casting about for a direction. He never lingered long, but she wondered anyway. He seemed more than a little unsure, even though he pushed ahead.

  Finally, after perhaps two hours of what seemed a decided lack of progress, Imric brought them to a halt and faced the boy. “Your instincts aren’t telling you anything, are they?”

  The boy stared at him with something approaching fear. “No. It’s not that. It’s just, I’m a little—”

  “You’re lost.” Imric cut him off dismissively. “I’ve been watching you. You don’t know where to go. You don’t have the vaguest idea.”

  Leofur frowned. “Did you plan to just keep us walking around in circles?”

  “I didn’t…I just wanted to…” Olin was stumbling over his words, unable to frame an answer. “I just didn’t want to give up! I need to find her as much as you do.”

  “We’ll find her,” Imric said. He reached over and touched Leofur’s arm gently. “I’ve found something.” He knelt, his head lowered to the ground. “No mistake. It’s there. A scent. A human scent.”

  “Chrysallin?” she asked at once, forgetting all about the boy.

  “I can’t tell whose scent it is without knowing more. But a scent is what we’ve been looking for, and this one’s worth tracking.” He straightened, then looked around the confines of the swamp and frowned. “Though it’s not a good place to be tracking anything on foot.”

  “What are you talking about?” the boy asked. “You won’t be able to find anything without me! You have to keep me with you!”

  Leofur knew he was asking not to be sent back, but she really didn’t care one way or the other. She looked at Imric. He shrugged. “The boy can come if he does what we tell him.”

  “You’re going to shift?”

  “If I can find the right shape. I’d be safer in the air, but the scent is on the ground, so let me think. Maybe a moor cat would do. Good trackers, great instincts, not many predators would go after them.”

  “Just be sure you stay in control after you change.” She took hold of his arms and positioned him so he was facing her. “I don’t want you losing contact with me again. Not for any reason. Do you understand? Promise me, Imric.”

  He nodded. “I’ll manage it. Are you ready?”

  She shifted her eyes away, a kind of resignation settling in. “As ready as I will ever be. Go ahead.”

  She was looking at the boy, who was looking at Imric. From the gasps he emitted and the look on his face, she could tell exactly when Imric began to change. It all happened quickly, and then he was inside her mind. She could feel his catness intruding on her thoughts, his feline instincts taking hold, his sinewy power as he flexed his claws.

  Don’t leave this spot. Wait for me here so I can find you. Keep an eye on the boy. He’s not entirely trustworthy.

  He isn’t? She laughed. Thanks for the warning.

  I will try to be quick. And keep myself safe. For you.

  Then he went silent. When she turned around there was no sign of him. She gazed out into the swamp, but it was as if he had vanished completely.

  For you? What did that mean? An attempt at irony, she supposed.

  She l
ooked at the boy. “Let’s find a place to sit while we wait.”

  They decided on a small clearing where a log offered them a seat and the trees and swamp grasses were not right on top of them. They were positioned where they could look out across of the broad stretch of water they had been skirting. They could not see very far because trailers of mist hung over the surface, shifting this way and that but constantly moving. She was surprised. It felt like a windless day to her.

  “Do you really want to see her again?” she asked Olin after a few minutes of silence. “Is it that important to you?”

  “That and more.” He didn’t look at her, his eyes on the swamp.

  “But what if she doesn’t want you back? What if she sends you away again?”

  “I won’t go.”

  “But if she makes you? If she threatens you with harm?”

  “I will accept whatever she does to me. Even dying is better than living without her.”

  She could not imagine this was so, but she was seeing in this boy a devotion that went beyond reason, a blind commitment to an ideal that in all likelihood did not exist. She wondered what that was like. She loved Paxon, but her commitment to him wasn’t blind, and she didn’t think she would choose death over life should something happen to him.

  Still tracking. The scent is strong and repeats itself. Whoever uses the trail must use it often.

  Imric? She quit thinking about the boy. Are you all right? Did anything try to come after you yet?

  A chuckle. Stop sounding so hopeful! Most things avoid moor cats, you know.

  His humor was unexpected. She liked it. Stay alert.

  He made no further response. She glanced at the boy again. He was watching her curiously. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Thinking.”

  She left it there, and they were quiet for a time. She stretched her legs and arms, sighed, and watched the swamp. The mists continued their pointless meandering, the shadows coming and going like wraiths. A squall appeared far out on the water, then moved away. A huge splash sounded from somewhere off in the gloom, but there was only silence in the aftermath.

  “Why did Melis take your friend?” the boy asked.

  “My friend has a brother. A sorcerer wants to hurt or manipulate him, I don’t know which. The witch is helping by taking his sister hostage.”

  “You won’t get her back, you know.”

  “I’ll get her back.”

  “You don’t know what Melis is like.”

  “It doesn’t matter what she’s like. Now stop talking.”

  She was angry at him for saying she would fail, but mostly she was irritated by the inactivity. She wanted to be doing something. Even knowing there was nothing more she could do until Imric finished with his tracking, she was looking for a way to help him.

  She rose and walked to the edge of the lake, noting the layers of scum and grasses that choked it, her eyes drawn to the slow movement of its waters the farther out you got. Something was down there, she thought. Something very big and probably very hungry. It wouldn’t do to get caught out there without a way back. Or even to think about wading in a few yards to test the waters.

  Leofur! Imric was speaking again. I think I’ve found what we’re looking for. A cottage, right in the middle of the swamp, set back from a lake in a stand of cypress. A very deep lake, I might add.

  Do you see anyone?

  No. I have to get closer to the cottage. I’m shifting back now. Just long enough to work my way along the shoreline and up to a window.

  Come back and get me first. I don’t want you doing this alone. You might need another pair of eyes.

  Not yet. I don’t want to take the time. Be patient. I’ll only be a little longer.

  Imric!

  Silence. He was gone. She stared out at the lake, suddenly worried. Why was he so insistent on doing things by himself? What was the purpose of the tethering if he wouldn’t let her be part of what was happening?

  I’m back. I had to make the change. Are you all right?

  Am I all right? Stop cutting me off like that! How am I supposed to know what’s going on?

  It was just to make the change. We can talk now. I’m walking the shoreline. Creeping along it, really. I have to be careful. I can’t tell what’s in that house. It’s facing right toward me. I thought I saw movement in the front windows…

  You come get me right now!

  All right. Maybe that would be best. There’s something out there on the lake…

  Imric!

  More silence, and then, I can’t make out what it is. It’s coming this way, though. I’m moving off the shore and back into the trees. It’s safer back there. Oh, oh, wait! This thing is huge! I can’t be sure where it starts and stops. I’d better hurry now.

  Fear surged through her, sudden and overpowering. His, not hers.

  Imric!

  I’d better run, in fact! It’s awfully fast for something that size. What…

  Imric! Shades, hurry!

  I’m doing that already. But I think…Oh, oh. Leofur, I’ve got to…

  Silence.

  Imric! Say something!

  She waited, breathless. No response.

  Imric? Imric?

  When again there was no answer, she screamed his name out into the gloom and mist and felt the silence like a vast immovable weight pressing down.

  Chrysallin was sitting by the window again. The light was beginning to fade from the hazy sky, and the day was winding down. She had been given lunch and subjected to more of the little girl’s revolting game, made to pretend at things she knew weren’t true. They were back to watching the swamp lake and the huge creatures that swam in its depths—an activity of which the little girl never seemed to tire. She sat primly next to Chrysallin, her knees together under her frilly dress, her hands folded in her lap. She wore this same outfit or some version of it nearly every day, having no apparent concerns about the dictates and challenges of the place she was living.

  Just once let her go outside and see what happens, Chrysallin thought. Just let her try walking the swamp in those ridiculous clothes.

  But maybe it wouldn’t make any difference. If you were a witch and you could do magic, you could wear whatever clothing you wanted. You probably didn’t have to worry about much of anything.

  Chrysallin tried not to look over at the witch. Looking at her only encouraged her. So there they sat, two bumps on a log, staring straight ahead, saying nothing. Chrys watched the swamp—not to see the swamp dwellers surface like leviathans to snatch something in their jaws, or even with any expectation that something interesting would happen. She watched it because most of the time the Murk Sink was peaceful, its waters smooth and still, its mists a gentle swirling that lulled and calmed her. She could think in those moments. She could let her thoughts wander where they would and remember better times. Always, she could picture those who were coming to her rescue—an army of them, led by Paxon and Leofur, who would never abandon her, never leave her in this horrid place…

  She couldn’t help herself; she started crying.

  Every time she was reminded of what she was missing, she cried. She despised herself for it. She tried to hide it from the horrid little girl, but she knew the other was watching, enjoying her suffering. It would have helped if she could have stopped thinking about home and her friends and loved ones and rescue, but she couldn’t. It was pretty much all she had to fall back on. She comforted herself with the knowledge that before, when the witch Mischa was trying to subvert her, she was in an even worse situation. At least now she could sort through what was what without drugs or mind control dulling her senses.

  She steadied herself and the tears stopped. When she got out of this mess—however long it took her to do so—she hoped to never again have anything to do with witches. Two in one lifetime had turned out to be more than enough.

  She found herself smiling. Good. If there was humor to be found, she could survive anything.


  She caught a glimpse of movement out on the swamp. A sudden flash against the landscape off to her left, away from where the little girl was sitting. Chrysallin fought to keep from looking at it more directly. But she could see, even if just out of the corner of her eye, a man, naked and unarmed, creeping along the shoreline of the lake. She blinked in spite of herself. She must be seeing things, because he had come out of nowhere. But no, there he was. And still without clothes. How in the world had he gotten this far in that condition?

  He was moving toward the cottage. Clearly, he had seen it and was coming to investigate. If the witch didn’t see him first, he just might…

  “What does he think he’s doing?” the little girl said softly, a sly tone to her voice. “Does he want to attract the things that live in the deep swamp? Does he think he will escape Mr. Teeth?”

  Chrysallin’s heart sank. Of course the little monster would notice. How could she help but notice? All she did when not tormenting Chrys was stare out into the swamp, waiting for some unsuspecting creature to provide entertainment for her pet, Mr. Teeth. It was the biggest beast of any kind she had ever seen, so huge she didn’t even know how the lake could hold it. Somehow, the girl had control over it and could get it to do what she wanted. If it didn’t act fast enough on its own.

  It didn’t seem to be paying much attention this time. The man was getting closer, and the swamp dweller was still nowhere in evidence.

  The little girl winked at Chrysallin conspiratorially, made a few quick gestures with her hands, and abruptly something splashed out on the waters, causing the man to hesitate and look back over his shoulder.

  “That should be enough to make sure we don’t get bored,” the little girl announced happily.

  Chrysallin was stunned. Now there was no hope for the man, none whatsoever. He was still trying to reach them, but she could see the surface of the lake swirling where Mr. Teeth rested—a clear indicator that he was awake and moving to intercept his prey.