Suddenly she wanted to do as Nightshade had urged. She wanted to hug her father as tightly as she could, to hold him close, to feel the strong press of his body against her own. She wanted him to take her in his arms and give her shelter and reassurance. She needed to tell him how much she had missed him. She needed to be reassured of his love for her.
The day was still and hot, and the breeze that brushed her face was as dry as fly wings. “Father,” she breathed softly, and hurried forward.
Then a sudden, desperate shout rose out of the silence. “High Lord! Mistaya! Wait!”
Questor Thews broke from the trees to her left, stumbling out of the shadows and into the sunlight. Disheveled and unkempt, robes trailing in tatters where the bright sashes had come loose and the seams had ripped, he raced toward them with his arms waving, his white hair and beard flying, and his eyes as wild and frightened as those of a creature pursued by hunters. Mistaya and her father both whirled in surprise, watching the ragtag figure come hurtling toward them. From out of the trees behind him, some thirty yards back, Abernathy appeared, huffing and panting and trying futilely to keep up.
Then Mistaya heard Nightshade’s gasp of fury. The witch had gone into a crouch, looking like a cat poised to spring, arms extended as if to ward off something terrible. Her eyes locked on Mistaya’s, as red as blood. “Go to your father!” she shrieked in rage.
Mistaya started forward in response, barely aware of what she was doing. But Questor Thews was still coming, running doggedly onward through the heat and dust, arms and legs pinwheeling wildly. Again, Mistaya stopped, transfixed.
“Mistaya, don’t!” Questor Thews cried out. “It’s a trap!”
Suddenly everyone was trying to reach her: her mother surging forward atop her mount with the King’s Guards in close pursuit and Bunion racing ahead, Nightshade lifting her arms and spreading her dark robes like some great bird of prey, Rydall fighting to bring his rearing, panic-stricken black horse under control, Abernathy tumbling head over heels through the dry grasses as he lost his footing, and her father breaking into a sudden sprint.
But it was Questor Thews who reached her first, careening wildly across the last bit of space that separated them, snatching her up as if she were a rag doll, and crushing her to his breast.
“Mistaya!” he whispered in relief.
Then wicked green light flared between them, spraying outward from the pendant like shattered glass. Questor Thews grunted in shock, and the blood drained from his face. His grip on Mistaya weakened, and he dropped to his knees, barely able to cling to her.
“Questor!” she shrieked in horror.
She drew back as she realized where the light was coming from and peered quickly down. The thorns on the rose stem had grown impossibly long and jutted from the old man’s chest like spikes. There was blood seeping from the wounds. Questor was shaking, and his fingers had tightened into claws. He was gasping for breath. Mistaya yanked the thorns from his body, tore off the pendant, and flung it away. Questor’s eyes fixed on her without seeing, and he slumped to the ground and lay still.
“Questor!” Mistaya gasped. “Questor, get up! Please!”
Questor Thews did not move. He had quit breathing.
Mistaya leapt to her feet, sobbing with rage and despair. “Nightshade!” she screamed. “Do something!”
Her father came up quickly and reached for her, but she pushed him away. She rushed to where the pendant lay, looked down at it, then squinted out across the scorched flat. “Nightshade!”
The witch stood frozen in place, her pale, smooth face empty of expression but her eyes filled with terrible fury. Her arms swept downward, casting off the magic they had gathered.
“You gave me that pendant!” Mistaya screamed. “You made this happen!”
Nightshade’s hand swept the air before her. “I am not responsible for this! Questor Thews shouldn’t have interfered! He was a fool!”
“I trusted you!” Mistaya shrieked.
Now her mother was there as well, dismounting and hurrying over as King’s Guards reined to a halt behind them, weapons drawn, and Bunion hissed at Nightshade in warning. “Mistaya, look at me,” Willow ordered.
But Mistaya waved her away, picked up the pendant by its chain, and held it out accusingly toward Nightshade. “You intended this for my father, didn’t you? You meant this for him!”
“I did not mean—”
“Don’t lie to me anymore!”
“Yes!” The witch shrieked. “Yes, I meant it for him! The poison was meant to take his life, not that old fool’s!”
Mistaya was shaking with fury. Her small body was as taut as a spear’s wooden shaft, all straight and set to fly. Her hands were clenched into fists, and her face was streaked with tears. “I hate you!” she screamed.
She threw down the pendant. Her small hands came up, and fire lanced out of them, shattering it where it lay on the ground, turning the metal to dust. Ben and Willow shrank back in spite of themselves, startled at the power Mistaya possessed.
Abernathy finally reached them, panting heavily, tongue hanging out. He bent hurriedly over Questor Thews, dog’s ear to the old man’s chest. “There isn’t any heartbeat!” he whispered.
Mistaya was stalking toward Nightshade now, all determination and iron will. “You’re going to help him or else!” she hissed. “Do you hear me, Nightshade?”
The witch took a step back, then straightened. “Do not presume to threaten me, you little fool! I am still your mistress and your better!”
“You were never anything but a liar and a sneak!” the little girl snapped. “You tricked me! You used me! What else have you made me do? What of those monsters I helped you make? The earth giant and the metal man and the others? To what use did you put them?”
“They were sent to kill your father,” she heard her mother say from behind her. “Ask her to deny it.”
“Rydall!” Nightshade wheeled on Marnhull’s King. “You wanted your chance at Holiday! Well, here it is! Kill him!”
Rydall was still struggling with his charger, barely managing to keep the frightened animal under control. At Nightshade’s words, he twisted about to face her, menace radiating from his black-armored body. For a moment it seemed he might attack her instead. Then he reached for his sword, shouted in challenge, spurred his charger forward, and came at Holiday. But Bunion was quicker. The kobold rushed at Marnhull’s King, teeth bared, a small black blur in the heat, and threw himself into the horse’s face. The animal shied, reared, bucked, and threw Rydall from his saddle. Rydall’s right foot caught in the stirrup as he fell. Burdened by the weight of his armor, he could not break free. He tumbled to the earth beneath the rearing, stamping horse and was hammered by the iron-shod hooves. The horse bolted, dragging his helpless rider across the flats. Bits and pieces of armor broke free, and blood stained the ground. King’s Guards spurred forward to catch the terrified horse, but by the time they had reined him in, Rydall of Marnhull was a ruined, battered husk.
Mistaya continued to advance on Nightshade. “No!” the witch shrieked, clearly shaken. “We are even now! A life for a life! Rydall goes back to where he came from, and you and I do the same, little girl!”
But Mistaya did not slow. Her father and mother were hurrying after her, both of them grim-faced. Bunion came skittering like quicksilver through the brown grasses. King’s Guards spread out all about them. Ben Holiday had the medallion out, and he held it up to the light in one hand. A streak of fear crossed Nightshade’s face. She crouched to meet these threats, a feral look on her face, bits of green fire rising off her fingers. Instantly Mistaya pointed at her, crying out. Magic lanced from the little girl’s hands and knocked Nightshade flying. The witch gasped in shock and tumbled backward. Then she scrambled up in rage.
“No! You cannot touch me! You have no right!” She whirled on Mistaya. Her pale face was contorted and ugly. Her self-control was shattered. “I will show you what magic can really do, little witch! I will s
end you back where you belong!”
Her hands came up, wicked green flames swirling at her fingertips. Mistaya locked her arms before her in self-defense.
Then, suddenly, Haltwhistle was there, materializing at the edge of the Deep Fell. Frost rose off his hackles and turned into ribbons of steam. Nightshade became aware of him an instant too late. She turned, but the mud puppy’s magic lanced out and knocked her legs from beneath her. Flailing wildly, her conjuring out of control, she collapsed in a heap. Down came her magic, falling about her like rain.
Nightshade was engulfed. The strange mix surrounded and consumed her in the blink of an eye. She had time for a single quick scream, and then she was gone.
For a moment afterward no one moved. They stood rooted in place, half expecting the Witch of the Deep Fell to reappear. But she did not, and then Haltwhistle came up to Mistaya where she stood transfixed before the smoldering bit of earth where the witch had stood. The mud puppy looked up at the little girl with soulful eyes and slowly wagged his tail. Mistaya broke into tears.
Her father came up, knelt, and put his hands on her slender shoulders, bracing her and looking into her eyes. “It’s all right, Mistaya,” he told her. “It’s all right.” And then he drew her close and held her against him.
Willow took her then, holding her as well, rocking her, telling her that it was over now, that she was safe. As she did so, Ben rose and walked to where Rydall lay sprawled in a crumpled heap on a patch of barren ground within a ring of King’s Guards. He dropped to one knee beside the fallen King, lifted the black visor, and peered down at the face inside. Blood-filled eyes blinked up at him from beneath a shock of red hair.
Ben Holiday shook his head bleakly. “Kallendbor,” he whispered.
The Lord of the Greensward coughed weakly. Blood streaked his face and beard and leaked in a steady stream from his mouth. “I should … have killed you that first day … on the drawbridge. I … should never have listened to … the witch.”
He drew one last breath, sighed, and went still. His eyes stared sightlessly into space. Ben closed the visor once more. Kallendbor had never been able to accept the way things had worked out, it seemed. Only Ben’s death would have satisfied him. He must have been desperate indeed to have allied himself with Nightshade. Now Ben knew how the robot had managed to get so close to them at Rhyndweir without being detected. Now he knew how the witch had been able to use her magic to make him think he had lost the medallion. Kallendbor had arranged it all. Nightshade must have told him Ben was coming, and he had laid his trap for Landover’s King and waited for him to die. Now the Lord of Rhyndweir himself lay dead, and there would probably never be any real understanding of the madness that had allowed it to happen.
He rose and walked back toward his family, but Mistaya was already crouched over Questor Thews, surrounded by the others, her small face intent with concentration.
“He can’t die,” she was saying as Ben came up and dropped to his knee beside her. “This is my fault. All my fault. I have to make it right. I have to.”
Ben looked at Willow, and she lifted her stricken eyes to meet his. Questor Thews was not breathing. His heart had stopped. There was nothing anyone could do for him.
“Mistaya, he came out of love for you,” Abernathy said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “We all did.”
But Mistaya was barely listening. She reached down impulsively and seized Questor’s limp hand. “I learned something from Nightshade that might help,” she murmured fiercely. “She taught me how to heal. Even the dead, sometimes. Maybe I can heal Questor. I can try, anyway. I have to try.”
She rocked back on her heels and closed her eyes. Ben, Willow, Abernathy, and Bunion exchanged hesitant, wary glances. Mistaya was calling on the magic Nightshade had revealed, and nothing good had ever come of that. Don’t use it, Ben wanted to say, but knew he mustn’t. The sun beat down on them, and the air was thick and humid with its heat. All about, the grasslands were still, as if nothing lived there or what little did waited as they did to see what would transpire. Mistaya shuddered, and a bright shimmer ran from her body down her arm and into Questor Thews. The wizard lay motionless and unresponsive. Twice more the shimmer of light passed from Mistaya’s body into Questor’s. The little girl’s eyes fluttered wildly, and her head drooped forward, her hair spilling down around her face. Again Ben thought to intervene, and again he kept himself from doing so. She had a right to do what she could, he told himself. She had a right to try.
Suddenly Questor Thews jerked. The movement startled Mistaya so that she gave a small cry and dropped his hand. For a moment no one moved. Then Abernathy hurriedly bent down over his old friend, listened for a moment, and looked up in astonishment.
“I can hear his heart beating!” he exclaimed. “I can hear him breathe! He’s alive!”
“Mistaya!” Ben whispered, and hugged his daughter to him.
“I knew I could do it, Father,” she said. She was shaking, and he could feel tremendous heat radiating from her body. “I knew I could. I do have magic.”
“You do indeed,” Ben agreed, alarmed, and called immediately for cold water and cloths.
The others hugged Mistaya as well, save for Bunion, who merely gave her a toothy grin. The cloths were applied, she was given water to drink, and her temperature fell again. She seemed to recover. But the battle to save Questor was not yet over. His heartbeat was weak, his breathing was shallow, and he remained unconscious. The poison was still in his body, and while Mistaya had managed to negate some of its effects, she had not been able to slow them entirely. Ben sent several of his King’s Guards in search of a wagon and had the others build a stretcher in the meantime. They secured Questor in place, tied the stretcher to Jurisdiction, and started slowly home.
Mistaya insisted on riding on the stretcher next to Questor. When a wagon was found, she rode next to him there as well. She held his hand the entire way. She refused to let go.
SPECIMEN
For six days after their return to Sterling Silver Mistaya sat by Questor Thews as he slept. She held his hand almost continually. She left only when necessary and then only for moments at a time. She took her meals on a bedside tray and slept on a pallet on the floor. Now and again Haltwhistle would appear, materializing out of nowhere to let her know he was close before disappearing once more. More than once Ben Holiday slipped into the bedchamber at midnight to cover his daughter with a blanket and smooth her rumpled hair. He thought each time to carry her to her own bed, but she had made it plain that she intended to see the matter through to its end. Questor would recover or die, but in either case she would be there when it happened.
Bit by bit Ben pieced together the story of how Nightshade had tried to destroy him. They elicited from Mistaya the Earth Mother’s role in providing Haltwhistle to help disrupt Nightshade’s plans and were then able to deduce by themselves how the mud puppy was meant to insure that even when separately deceived they might find a way back to each other and the truth. Abernathy filled in his part, trying to gloss over what the transformation from dog to man and back again had done to him, trying to downplay his role in saving Ben’s life. But Ben would not allow it, knowing what it had cost his faithful scribe to give up his human form once again, painfully aware that Abernathy might never be able to return to who he was. They spoke quietly of Questor Thews and his determination to save Mistaya. They worried together what it might mean for the little girl if Questor died.
Willow spent long hours talking candidly with Mistaya of Nightshade and her experience in the Deep Fell, smoothing away some of the hurt and guilt that her daughter felt. It was not Mistaya’s fault, she pointed out, that the witch had used her to get at her father. It was not her fault that she had not realized what was being done. She had not intended her father harm or meant to give help of any kind to the witch. In fact, she had used her magic in what she believed to be an effort to save her father’s life. Given her position, her mother would have done the same
. All of them had been deceived by the witch, and not for the first time. Nightshade’s was a pervasive, devious evil that would have destroyed anyone with less character and courage. Mistaya needed to know that. She needed to accept the idea that she had done the best she could.
Her father, speaking to her alone at one point, said, “You must forgive yourself for any blame in this, Mistaya. You made a mistake, and that’s part of growing up. Growing up is painful for every child but more so for you. Do you remember what you said the Earth Mother told you?”
Mistaya nodded. She was holding tightly to Questor’s hand, one finger on his pulse where it beat softly in his wrist.
“Growing up for you will be harder than for most. Because of who you are and where you come from. Because of your parents. Because of your magic. I wish it could be otherwise. I wish I could make it so. But I cannot. We have to accept who we are in this life and make the best of it. Some things we cannot change. All we can do is try to help each other when we see that help is needed.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“No, I don’t suppose it does.” He reached over and pulled her gently against him. “You know, Mistaya, I can’t afford to think of you as a child anymore. At least not a child of two. You’ve grown way beyond that, and I guess I’m the only one who didn’t see it.”
She shook her head and kept her face lowered. “Maybe I’m not so grown up as everyone thinks. I was so sure of myself, but none of this would have happened if I’d been a little more careful.”
He gave her a small hug. “If you remember that the next time you decide to use your magic, you’ll be grown up enough for me.”