Alissa nodded uncertainly. “The former I have free rein in. The second I know the theory and a small bit of practice. Talo-Toecan had sent me several times among the lines.” She turned to a disgusted Connen-Neute. “That’s why he was teaching me so soon. He was afraid if he didn’t, I would guess enough,” she bit her lip, “to get myself in trouble.”
Redal-Stan looked rather put out as well. “Your instructor—and I use the term loosely now—he sent you among the lines in the first place for what reason?”
Alissa took a slow, deliberate breath. “To frighten me away from the Hold.”
Redal-Stan ran a hand over his nonexistent hair. “You didn’t mention several wards that are generally taught to beginners, such as, oh, window wards?”
“That’s right,” she said, feeling herself warm. Connen-Neute brightened and ceased his irritating knuckle cracking.
Almost in disbelief, Redal-Stan leaned forward. “No?”
Face flaming, she stammered, “It wasn’t needful.”
“Can you unlock doors?” Connen-Neute asked.
“Those keyed for general entry,” she admitted, and he smiled with a smug satisfaction.
“How about a ward of deflection?” Redal-Stan shot at her, and she shook her head. “Misdirection? Ward of truth?” he added.
“No.”
“Can you preserve food?” Connen-Neute was thoroughly pleased now.
“No! That’s it!” she exclaimed, embarrassed.
Redal-Stan had the audacity to laugh. “You see?” he said to Connen-Neute. “Everyone is skilled in different areas.”
“But she possesses all the exciting things,” he complained.
“Maybe.” Alissa couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice. “But how often does one need a ward of silence? I would much rather know how to close my own window.”
“And your book studies?” Redal-Stan asked. “I don’t suppose you can read yet?”
Positively affronted, Alissa reached to a nearby stack of books and opened one. “The undesirable premature mixing of the populations,” she read, “can be accomplished by a physical barrier such as in mountains or seas, or mentally by using a bias or prejudice. The former is more reliable, but once breached is nearly impossible to contain. The secondary method has the potential to be less secure, but aberrations are generally few and can be dealt with on an individual basis rather than resorting to—”
The book was snatched from her grasp and closed with a snap. Redal-Stan put it out of her reach and settled himself. “Ah, yes,” he said, refusing to meet her glare. “You can read.”
Alissa made a mental note of which book it was, planning to find it later. She had a suspicion she was the aberration that must be dealt with on an individual basis.
“Connen-Neute appears impressed with your—ah—considerable accomplishments,” Redal-Stan muttered. “Let’s move on.”
“She’s been at it for almost a year,” Connen-Neute thought, moaning.
Ignoring this, Redal-Stan steepled his fingers. “I suggest we spend the morning exploring the mechanics behind what you did to get here. Alissa, show me the tracings you use to shift.”
“Now?” she questioned, glancing at the balcony with wide eyes. The whine of a cicada split the fog. In the distance, another answered. “In daylight? What if someone sees me?”
“We’re sixteen stories up, Squirrel. One raku is much as another at that height. Besides, you aren’t going to shift. I only want a resonance.” He leaned across his desk, squinting. “You can show a resonance without invoking a ward, can’t you?”
“Of course,” she huffed, affronted. She took a breath to settle herself, then set up the proper pattern. She blinked slowly at Redal-Stan, fighting to keep her mental vision and her sight of him at the same time.
“It’s perfect,” Redal-Stan grumbled as his gaze went distant, checking the resonance against his own tracings. “You’re using the expected pattern exactly.” He frowned to himself, his scalp wrinkling. “Show me the pattern you use when tripping the lines with a septhama point,” he demanded suddenly. “Try to hold them simultaneously.”
Alissa froze. What if she did it again? Who knew where she would end up!
“Sand and Wind. Just set it up!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “You are not—I repeat, not—to engage the ward. Understand?”
She glanced nervously at Connen-Neute, then closed her eyes so as to concentrate better. The pattern used to shift still glowed in her thoughts. Swallowing hard, she set up a ward to trip the lines. In an eye blink she was done. As expected, the first ward was gone. They didn’t use any of the same paths and so couldn’t be run together.
Slightly depressed they hadn’t found the answer, she opened her eyes to find Redal-Stan waiting. His gaze went distant and unseeing as he studied the resonance. A heavy sigh shifted him as his sight cleared. “Yes. Exactly what I would expect,” he said, and she winced. “It’s perfect. Talo-Toecan managed that right, at least. No extra paths, and you couldn’t hold them concurrently. There’s not the slimmest way the patterns for shifting and tripping the lines can cross, triggering them both into play. By my Master’s Wolves, Alissa. What did you do?”
“I don’t know.” Unhappy, she lowered her gaze and dropped the ward.
No one said anything, and Redal-Stan cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence. “Connen-Neute, I was going to send you on an errand, but why don’t you stay? I want to see Alissa trip the lines, to make sure she isn’t doing something odd, and there’s no harm in pushing your studies up. You know the theory; you know the patterns. It’s high time you actually went.”
Connen-Neute jerked upright. A gleam of anticipation curved the corners of his mouth. Ignoring Redal-Stan’s snort for his enthusiasm, he hid his hands in his sleeves and tucked his feet under him as he sat on the couch. Just to be contrary, Alissa put her feet firmly on the floor.
Noticing what she had done, Redal-Stan arched his nonexistent eyebrows. “Well, set the ash-ridden ward up!” he exclaimed, making her and Connen-Neute jump. “But I want to check the pattern again before you invoke it, and—ah—don’t use a septhama point.” He closed his eyes and pretended to shudder. “Use one of your memories.”
Alissa’s heart gave a thump. She was going to do it. He was actually going to let her trip the lines by herself! Redal-Stan was watching her expectantly. His fingers were steepled in a startling mimicry of her papa, who probably got it from Talo-Toecan, who assuredly got it from Redal-Stan. Well that, she thought, was something she was never going to do, and she uncrossed her legs and set her feet firmly on the floor, not remembering having put them back under her. Eyes open, she set up the pattern needed.
Redal-Stan’s eyes went distant, and then he nodded. “Perfect,” he muttered. “Connen-Neute, look sharp. You’ll be asked to duplicate this later. Take special note in the amount of energy used. Alissa seems to have a knack for knowing how much is needed for a good resonance without engaging the ward.” He turned to her. “Where will you take us?”
Her breath came in a quick, excited surge, and she forced her shoulders to the back of the couch. Her legs curled up under her and, resigned to their presence, she ignored Redal-Stan’s soft chuckle. For a moment, she considered. Strell? she wondered. Her thoughts of him were the strongest, but she couldn’t bear the idea. “Talon,” she said firmly.
“Who?” Redal-Stan asked, his eyes wide in wonder.
“Talon,” she reaffirmed. “My pet kestrel. She has been with me since I was twelve.”
“A bird!” said Connen-Neute in dismay. “Out of all the excitement you have lived, you want to tell us of a pet bird? Why not that insane Keeper, Bailic?”
Using anger to cover her fright of Bailic’s memory, Alissa rounded upon him. “I don’t like Bailic. I want to show you Talon,” she snapped. “And if you don’t think it’s exciting, you can just—just— Pursing her lips, she gestured to the balcony railing. “Take a flying leap!”
“Temper, Squirrel,
” came Redal-Stan’s calming laugh. “I’m sure your recollections of Talon will be most enlightening.”
Mollified, Alissa adjusted her skirt to cover the tips of her shoes with a quick, abrupt motion. She gave Connen-Neute a final glare—seeing he wasn’t sorry at all—then turned back to Redal-Stan. “What do I do?” she asked nervously.
“Set up the ward, place your thoughts upon your memory, and allow the ward to direct your awareness to the proper paths. I would suggest you concentrate on the more earthy sensations until the memory is in full motion. Scent, and to a lesser degree, touch, are powerful triggers of memory. Just give Connen-Neute and me a moment to get our own tracings alight in preparation to follow,” he murmured, slipping into a light trance with an enviable quickness.
Connen-Neute and Alissa exchanged a look of shared excitement, then he, too, leaned back into the cushions and appeared to go to sleep. His long, somber face was quiet and still. Putting her thoughts on Talon, she set her network aglow and slipped easily into the memory she had chosen as the clearest: The day they had made their acquaintance.
22
It was hot. Too hot for early summer, and Alissa loved it. On her knees in the freshly turned dirt, she breathed in the comforting fragrance of warm, moist earth, even now beginning to fade as the day grew warmer. Sitting back on her heels, she ran a hand under her hat and gazed down the long row.
“Beets,” she muttered. “I hate beets.” But they stored well and were good for trading with the flatlanders if nothing else. Plainsmen loved them. Still, sixteen rows took forever to weed out. It had rained two days ago, and the grass had sprung as high as her knees. Squinting from the sun, Alissa stood. She glanced at the house and wondered if it was worth the trouble to get the hoe from the barn as her mother had shouted out the window not long ago. Sighing, she brushed the pressed soil from her knees and moved to the low building beside the sheep pen.
The barn door creaked and groaned under her tugging, finally yielding enough so she could slip inside. It was cooler, and she shivered. A soft rustle telling of mice whispered. Mother couldn’t seem to keep a cat. She would try every spring, and every spring they would be back on their home doorstep before the sun went down. Traps were set for the mice, but who knew how much grain they lost every season. The rust-blemished hoe lay where Alissa had left it, and promising to oil the dratted thing this time, she snatched it up and went to the field.
Swinging it in short arcs, she tugged the weeds from the blood red beet tops, leaving a flattened trail of dying vegetation behind her. The afternoon sun spilled over her, doing as much as her exertions to rid her of the barn’s chill. A soft flutter over her head drew her attention, and Alissa paused to watch a small kestrel hover, waiting for the insects she was scaring up. Seeing her watching, he darted away. Alissa smiled and returned to her work. He’d be back. They had resident kestrels for as long as she could remember.
Lulled by her work, she almost missed the small falcon’s return. A large grasshopper took to the air with a startling buzz. Its flight was astonishingly short as the kestrel dove, snatching it midjump. Pleased she had provided the hunter with an easy meal, Alissa continued, putting off resting in the hopes he would come back.
For the longest time there was only her and the sound of her work. Then, so quietly as to be only imagined, came the fluttering of wings. Grinning, Alissa ignored him. As she watched for any darting shapes, there was a startled whistle and gust of wind. A shadow fell cold across her. She looked up, blinding herself with the sun.
Gasping, she dropped the hoe and covered her eyes. The heavy ash handle hit her shin. Clutching her leg, Alissa heard, rather than saw, a crashing among the brush at the edge of the clearing.
“By the Hounds?” she whispered as she stared at the still shifting branches. How could a bird make that much noise? She glanced at the house before hobbling to the edge of the meadow and peering into the scrub. Green silence greeted her. There was a sharp crack, and she jumped at the whoosh of air and muffled thump as a branch fell.
Alissa cautiously stepped under the cooling shade, clasping her arms about herself in the chill. A kestrel tumbled on the ground. “Oh, you poor thing,” Alissa whispered, watching it flop its wings and swish its tail side to side in an odd way. Upon seeing her, the small bird hissed, daring Alissa to come any closer.
“Let me see?” she coaxed, taking a step despite the obvious warning. Immediately it took flight, or tried to, smashing its way back through the underbrush to the meadow in a frenzied attempt to put distance between them.
Alissa’s predatory instincts took hold, and she was after it. It was hurt, she reasoned. She was going to help it whether it wanted her to or not. She quickly regained the open meadow and stopped, watching the tops of the grass. It wasn’t hard to tell where the bird was, and Alissa confidently made her way to where it sat panting.
“Careful, now,” she whispered as she eased into a crouch two arm’s lengths away. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to see if you’re all right. You don’t fly very well.”
The robin-sized falcon hissed and opened its wings, trying to cow her. Alissa watched with a mix of pity and amusement as it stood in place and stridently beat its wings, trying to become airborne. Finally it admitted defeat and sat in a miserable-looking lump.
“Are you done fanning the grass?” she said with a chuckle, and it seemed to stiffen. Clearly she would have to charm it, and as her mother always said, the best way to charm a beast was with food.
Alissa turned and began looking for anything edible. “Ladybug . . . no,” she mused. “Spider . . . definitely no.” Shuddering, she moved a step away. “Flies.” Lots of flies, but she couldn’t catch them. Sitting on her heels, she looked at the bird. It was a she, Alissa guessed by the larger size, though the coloration was more in line with that of a male.
“How,” she said to the bird, “do you ever find enough to get by?” Much to her delight, the bird bobbed her head as if in agreement.
“Skinny green caterpillar!” Alissa exclaimed, then grimaced. She wouldn’t give that to a plainsman, though he would probably eat it. Then Alissa saw it. A cricket. That she could catch. She wouldn’t get pinched or stung. Licking her lips, she edged closer, her eyes wide in anticipation as she lunged.
The smooth, spiny shape of the cricket filled the pocket of her closed hand. Fortunately, the kestrel hadn’t moved, and holding the violently struggling insect between her thumb and forefinger, Alissa slowly proffered it. “Come on,” she coaxed. “Your mother used to do the same thing. Just pretend I’m her.”
The kestrel hesitated. Clearly nervous, she looked from Alissa to the cricket. Then, much to Alissa’s delight, she cautiously stretched out her neck and took the horrid thing.
“There.” Alissa sighed, letting out the breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. Then she frowned. The bird wasn’t eating. The cricket was in her beak, kicking violently, but the bird was doing nothing with it. In fact, she looked most peculiar. “Go on,” Alissa prompted. “That’s what you’re supposed to eat.”
As if responding to her voice, the bird shifted its feathers and pinned the cricket to the ground. Tearing it to pieces, she delicately chose what she would and wouldn’t eat. By the time the kestrel was done, Alissa had another cricket. Scooting closer, she offered it as well. Three crickets, one grasshopper, and a slight sunburn later, Alissa had the bird pinching her stocking-wrapped hand as she walked cautiously back to the house.
“Mother?” she called softly, her eyes upon her new pet. “I think I found a way to rid the barn of mice!”
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Alissa snapped out of the mild trance. She opened her eyes with a blissful smile of remembrance, finding Redal-Stan waiting for her. “Well done, Squirrel,” he whispered from under half-lidded, somnolent eyes. “Very well done.”
From her other side came a desperate moan, and they turned to find Connen-Neute curled up in a black and gray clothed ball on the couch.
&nbs
p; “What’s your problem, student?” Redal-Stan said irately, then broke into a knowing grin. “Got a headache!” he shouted.
Connen-Neute whimpered, shuddering in pain.
“Oh, please,” Alissa said, pleading for sympathy. “It’s agony the first time.”
“I remember,” Redal-Stan admitted with a rueful chuckle. “It’s not anything one can easily forget.” Relenting, he leaned over his desk, and she heard a whispered thought. “Watch. You need to put in a shunt to relieve the excess energy. Like this.”
Connen-Neute sagged in relief. Taking a hesitant breath, he slowly uncurled and stared at them with haggard eyes. “Wolves’ Ashes,” he cursed. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Sorry, I forgot,” Redal-Stan and Alissa said together.
“So!” the old Master boomed. “What did we learn besides kestrels like crickets?”
“It hurts if you don’t have a shunt already in place,” offered Connen-Neute sourly. He rose and shakily went to the long-cold pot of tea, warming it with a quick thought.
“Besides that.” Redal-Stan stood and went to claim a cup. Alissa rose as well, hoping that if she stood by the teapot and looked wistful, Redal-Stan would make her a cup.
“Tripping the lines is only a mental journey—usually,” she drawled.
“Usually,” Redal-Stan agreed. “And it will stay that way until I’m convinced we have a foolproof way to send you back.”
Connen-Neute went still. Taking his cup, he glanced at her and turned away. Immediately Alissa went wary. “I want to go now,” she said, staring at Connen-Neute’s stiff shoulders. It had been five days. Only the thought that she would see Strell soon was keeping her calm. And that comfort was wearing thin.
“Hush, Squirrel. We must make sure the clouds are empty before you fly through them.”
“But I just tripped the lines,” she asserted. “I can do it. I want to go back now!”
“You must be patient.”
Connen-Neute moved to the narrow band of afternoon sun on the balcony. He completely turned his back on her. Alissa stared. Something was wrong, and Connen-Neute knew it. “I went back to one of my memories,” she said, her brow furrowed in thought.