It took her several breaths and several more steps before she even realized she had escaped the forest and had entered the meadowed plains of the lower foothills. Only when her feet splashed through a wide stream of shallow snowmelt did her eyes focus on the open fields. Around her, the last of the afternoon sunlight, smudged with blowing smoke, cast the meadow grasses in hues of rose and gold. A few scattered islands of young oaks dotted the landscape, and in vernal pools, splashes of wild daffodils heralded the spring. Among these round hills, a thousand brooks and streams coursed through the lush growth.
Free of the overhanging branches and the webs of her children, Vira’ni felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable. Her legs slowed as she continued along the trail that led down out of the highland forests toward the distant plains. She glanced behind her at the black skies, lit up from below with the scarlet glow of the flames. Like a living beast, the conflagration rolled slowly toward her, growling its anger at her escape.
She found her legs stumbling faster again. Would the fire be happy with just the forest? Though the meadow grasses were green and wet with spring growth, would that necessarily sate this hot flame and stop its progress?
She stumbled on, her hand moist on her belly. She had more to protect than just herself. She must keep going. As the sun retreated toward the horizon behind her, she struggled onward. Once she was sure she and the Horde were safe, then she could stop and let her master know what had befallen them. She kept glancing over her shoulder as she marched and splashed through the wet meadows.
With her eyes fixed upon the flames and her ears full of the fire’s roar, Vira’ni failed to see the small hunters’ camp sheltered beyond the rise of the next hill until she practically fell within the circle of tents. She seemed to surprise them as much as they startled her.
Vira’ni shuffled to a stop, wary of these strangers. She quickly weighed the danger. A dozen men, dressed in the green leathers and knee-high black boots of hunters, stood or sat around three fires. A handful of women, now frozen in various poses around cooking pots and spitted meats, also mingled among the men. Scattered among the larger folk, the small faces of a few children peeked from around legs and bosoms.
Everyone stood fixed for a heartbeat until a hound tethered near one of the tents let out a long, baying howl in her direction. The dog’s voice set everyone in motion at once. Vira’ni backed a step away. Several of the men nudged each other and words were exchanged with appreciative glances in her direction. Spits of grilling meats began to turn again, and one broad-shouldered woman cuffed the hound and scolded it quiet.
One man separated from the group and approached her. Sandy haired with a matching broad mustache, he was a good head taller than the other hunters. His lips were set in a firm line, but his green eyes carried a trace of suspicion. “Lass, why are you out among these hills by yourself?”
Vira’ni shrunk under his gaze, letting her long black hair drape between his eyes and her face. She could not find words, still too shaken by her sudden intrusion among people.
“Where are your companions? Did—?”
The hunter’s voice was cut off as a woman who stood as tall as the large man elbowed him aside. She had blond hair cropped short and wore an uncompromising set to her mouth and eyes. “Sweet Mother, Josa, can’t you see she’s heavy with child and practically scared out of her skin?” She nudged the hunter farther away. “Go tend to your hound before it chokes itself on its tether.”
Once Josa had shuffled back to the heart of the camp, the woman placed fists on her hips and ran her eyes up and down Vira’ni. Her voice was warmer than the tone she had used with the man. “Now, child, don’t fret. My name is Betta. You’re safe here. Just take a few deep breaths and calm yourself.”
Vira’ni straightened and moved a few strands of black hair from her face. “The fire . . .” she began, but her voice failed her.
“I guessed that from the soot and ash all over you. So you came from the wood? Were you traveling alone?”
“Yes . . . no . . . my children!” Vira’ni could not stop the flow of tears from bursting from her eyes.
Betta swallowed Vira’ni in her large arms just as her legs finally gave out. Vira’ni sank within her embrace, allowing the woman to support her for a few ragged breaths. It felt so good to unburden herself. Only another woman could truly understand the pain a mother felt at the loss of a child—to carry a life in your womb and see the world destroy it. She sobbed uncontrollably into Betta’s chest as the woman stroked her hair and whispered words to soothe her.
Betta led her into the camp, sweeping her into a tent for privacy. Once the woman had settled Vira’ni into a nest of pillows and ordered a cow-eyed woman to fetch a cup of tea, Vira’ni began to regain control of her emotions. She allowed Betta to wipe her face with a cold wet rag, clearing soot and tears from her cheeks. Vira’ni tried to speak, to let her know how much she appreciated the kind attention, but Betta placed a finger across Vira’ni’s lips to silence her. “Drink this; then we can talk.” Betta handed her a small cup of hot mint tea. Its steam and aroma seemed to seep into her bones and give her strength.
Vira’ni savored the tea in silence, allowing it to warm her tongue and hands. Once she had finished, she felt vigorous enough to speak without crying. She handed the small cup back to Betta. “Thank you,” she said shyly.
Betta settled to the pillows beside her. “Now tell me what happened. Are there others of your party that we should search for?”
Vira’ni studied her hands, willing her voice not to break with the sorrow. “No, I traveled only . . . only with my children.”
“Did they not escape the fire?”
She shook her head. “It caught us by surprise. It was too fast! I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t save the others.” Her voice began to rise until Betta placed a hand atop hers.
“Hush, now, do not blame yourself. You had to save who you could,” she said, nodding toward Vira’ni’s bulging belly. “Now, I want you to rest. You must be strong for the child you grow now.”
Vira’ni sniffed back the tears that threatened, and nodded.
Betta pushed to her feet and began to leave.
“The fire rages fierce,” Vira’ni said before the other woman left the tent. “It might yet cross to the meadows here.”
“Don’t you fret. We know these lands. These spring meadows run wet and will stanch the fire’s path beyond the wood. And we’ll have watchers out to keep an eye on the flame. If it threatens, we can break camp and be all on horseback in a blink. So you sleep. We will not let anything happen to you or your unborn child.”
“You are most kind,” Vira’ni said. She began to settle back into her pillows when a pain reached up from her belly to grip her heart. Her vision blacked, and a gasp escaped her throat as the fire ripped through her. For the briefest moment, she saw with the thousand eyes of her forest children: A small woman atop a horse . . . her right hand raised, glowing like a small ruby sun . . . Death rained out from her and consumed all . . . a death more horrible than flame . . . a death born of dire magicks!
As quickly as it came, the pain and vision vanished, leaving only a dull ache and hollowness in her chest. Betta was leaning over her, concern etched in every plane of the woman’s face.
“What is it, child?”
Vira’ni stayed silent, picturing again the woman’s fist aglow with wild magicks. She knew who approached, burning her way through Vira’ni’s children. It was the wit’ch! The one the master craved! One trembling hand reached up to finger the lock of white hair nestled within the black. She had not forgotten her duty. The master must be served!
Her face paled as she realized how close she had come to failing her Dark Lord. The wit’ch had driven her from her post and almost slipped past her—but the wit’ch had made a mistake. The master had attuned Vira’ni to the woman’s black arts. With her magick’s first touch upon the Horde, Vira’ni’s own body had felt its searing fire, warning her to the wit’ch’s pr
esence. Foolish child! Now alerted, Vira’ni would not fail her lord a second time—or her lost children. She would make the wit’ch suffer and writhe as all those spiders had upon their flaming webs.
But she needed help—Vira’ni raised her face to the worried eyes of Betta and recognized a potential ally, someone to help her with her duty. Especially with a little coaxing . . .
Vira’ni allowed tears to rise to her eyes. “I remember now!” she moaned loudly. “My mind tried to erase . . . to deny the horrors . . . But now it comes tumbling back in a dreadful rush! Fire and death!” She pushed up from the pillows and clutched Betta’s arm. “Those who set the fires and murdered my children come this way.”
Betta’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed with fire. “You know who set this flame upon our wood?”
“Yes . . . yes . . .” Vira’ni stared into Betta’s reddening face. “She comes with many others. I saw a wagon.” Vira’ni forced her shoulders to shudder. “They murder all in their path.”
“Who are they?”
Vira’ni sat straighter and cranked her voice to a fevered pitch. “Foul murderers . . . and defilers of children. Not men—but beasts!”
Betta’s eyes sparked with hate; her lips bled of color. She spoke rapidly. “Our elders warned that this wood was befouled by evil, that the poisonous beasts were unnatural markers of corruption. We were sent here to watch the wood and make sure the spiders didn’t spread to the meadows. And for moons now, the beasts have stayed cloaked among the trees, shunning the direct light of the sun. But now . . . Sweet Mother! Now if your words are true, the evil prepares to spread its foul reach—and fire marks their coming!” The woman broke Vira’ni’s grip on her arm and stood. “I must alert the others. Those monsters will not pass here.”
Vira’ni watched the woman fly from the tent, Betta’s voice already raised in alarm. No, Vira’ni thought as she rubbed her full belly, the poisonous smile of a spider fixed on her lips. No, these killers of her children would not escape these hills.
5
THE MAGICK STREAMED in rivers of coldfire from Elena’s open palm while sparks of blue flames danced like will-o’-the-wisps around her wrist. With sweat beading on her brow, she concentrated fully on her task, struggling as best she could to maintain a leash upon her magicks. Though Er’ril had instructed her in the basics of manipulation—simple lessons he had learned while serving as a liegeman of the Order—any complex orchestrations of her gifts were beyond her current abilities.
Still, what Elena lacked in skill, she made up for in raw power. Wild magick was a force few things could withstand. As her flow of coldfire washed upon the shore of the web-shrouded glade, hoarfrost and ice froze all it touched. Tree trunks burst with explosive cracks. Frozen roots snapped their hold upon the dirt, toppling ancient oaks and stately maples. Even the tenacious webs of silk were transformed to delicacies of frost that shattered with even the slightest breeze.
A cloud of frigid mist rose from the forest, driven into the smoky sky by her coldfire crackling through the glade. Her magick devoured the wood and its denizens just as thoroughly as hot flames had scoured the main forest. Two fires, twins in extremes, consumed all in their paths. As Elena watched the white mist meet the black smoke in the sky, it reminded her of the extremes of her own magicks. While studying with Er’ril, she had learned that the character of her magicks was dictated by the light that renewed her power. Sunlight gave her power over red flame and heat, whereas moonlight aligned her to the burn of ice and frost. It was as if her magicks mirrored her own spirit, divided—two extremes again—between wit’ch and woman.
In the sky above, where icy mist met fiery smoke, spats of whirlwinds grew as the two sides fought for control. Ice-coated leaves rattled like the bones of the dead. Branches snapped and were drawn into the air. The sky itself groaned as the battle raged.
The fury of the skies spread to Elena’s breast. Her magick sang in her blood, crying to join the war above. Her heart thundered to its chorus of destruction. She fought against its call as surely as the smoke fought the mist. But another part of her, the wit’ch within, sang with the harmonies of her magick, thrilled to the crackles of blue flame and screaming winds.
Elena squeezed her eyes closed against the sight of the roiling skies, pulled her attention back to herself, and centered her breathing. She concentrated on her body and searched through muscle and tendon, ligament and bone, blood and bowel. She acknowledged the soreness of her inner thighs from the long day of riding, felt the throb of a fresh bruise where her shoulder had struck a low branch, even dwelled upon the faint tenderness of her newly budding breasts. She was more than mere flows of arcane magicks. She was a woman—and that was magick enough for her.
A voice intruded. “Elena, you’ve destroyed the glade. Pull back.” It was Er’ril. He still sat atop his draft horse at her side.
She inclined her head slightly, keeping her eyes closed. Now was not the time to be distracted by the awful beauty of her magick’s crackling flows. She slowly closed her raised hand. Her fingers felt frozen to the marrow of her small bones. For a moment, she feared she would snap her digits from her palm as she willed her fist to close. Yet slowly, one by one, like a bloom closing at midnight, her fingers clenched to a fist, severing the flow of coldfire. The traces of magick still left in her screamed at the interruption. Her hand trembled with the pent-up power. More! sang her blood. Taste the full rage of your wild magick! One finger began to stretch back out.
A voice intruded again. “No!” But this time it was not Er’ril’s clipped Standish accent. It was Elena’s own voice, spoken aloud to the magick within and without. She tightened her fist, feeling her own heart beat in her clenched palm. She willed the beat to slow from its fevered pitch to a controlled throb. Without opening her eyes, she knew the brilliant radiance of her hand had faded back to its normal stain. She lowered her fist to her lap.
“Sweet Mother, child!” Kral said as he danced his war charger behind her. “Just look at that!”
Elena opened her eyes and for the first time saw the result of her magick. The wooded hollow now lay etched in silver ice, each bole, branch, and leaf entombed in crusts of hoarfrost. Thousands of spears of cloudy ice stretched out from trunks and limbs, some as long as a man was tall. But instead of draping toward the ground, these thorns of brilliance stuck straight out from their woody perches, pointing away from Elena, as if a terrible wind had been blowing out from her. Which in some ways, she realized, was true.
As Elena studied her handiwork, the smoky sky cleared for a brief instant to let the sharp rays of the late-afternoon sun pierce to the assaulted glade. Where sunlight met crystal ice, thousands of tiny rainbows burst forth. The entire glade transformed for one long hushed breath into a sweet dream—a forest of ice and rainbows.
“It’s so beautiful,” Nee’lahn said with wonder thick in her voice. “As if woodsong itself were given substance and form.”
Elena tore her eyes from the brilliant wood. Here numbing beauty hid so sweetly the death and destruction at its heart. Hot tears flowed across her chilled cheeks. Death should never be this radiant.
“What’s wrong?” Er’ril asked. “Are you injured?”
Studying her hand, Elena shook her head. Even where the dagger had sliced her thumb, no wound now seeped. It had healed without even a shade of a scar. Her right hand, though, had not escaped completely unscathed. As the magick had bled out from her wound, the stain had drained from her skin. Instead of the usual deep ruby whorls, her palm now was only slightly reddened, as if she had suffered a bad sunburn. The ruining of the wood had cost almost all her magickal reserve, leaving only a small trace of her power. She raised her hand to show Er’ril. “I’m fine. But I only have a bit of magick left.”
The plainsman stared, then nodded. “No need to worry. We should be able to clear the wood from here. You can always renew once you’re completely drained.”
“Why must I wait until all the magick is gone before I can ren
ew?” she asked, lowering her hand. “Wouldn’t it be safer to keep my reserve full at all times?”
“Now you’re thinking like a true mage,” he snorted, the lines of worry momentarily easing. “My brother Shorkan used to voice the same complaint. Many mages in his time tried to discover ways to renew before their magick was fully spent. They all failed. It just doesn’t work that way.”
“Then maybe I should spend the last dregs of my power. Empty my reserve and renew now.” It seemed the most prudent course, but the thought of again opening her magick trembled her heart.
“No. Do not even harbor that thought.” Er’ril’s face darkened with concern, his voice tight. “Magick is a gift not to be squandered lightly. It should only be used with true purpose. Leave it be.” Er’ril kicked his horse forward and waved for the others to follow. “Now let’s go.”
Elena, though, urged Mist to keep abreast of the plainsman’s steed. “But why? What difference does it make? Can’t I use my power in whatever way I want?”
Er’ril did not look at her. “There’s danger in that path, Elena. Lax and frivolous use of magicks during my time led to the corruption of many a mage’s spirit.”
He continued down the trail in silence, his eyes staring somewhere far from the frozen forest as they entered the dead hollow. Elena thought the conversation had ended and began to turn away, but Er’ril started speaking again, his voice thin and strained. “Soon those mages grew drunk with their powers. It twisted many of them. From this corruption, the Brotherhood of the Darkmages arose.” He turned to stare at her, his gaze intense. “Be warned. More than just the danger of death is risked by the wanton use of your wild magicks—it can also blacken and pervert your spirit.”
Elena sensed the truth in his words. She had felt the seductive call of her magicks and knew deep within her that a corner of her spirit already sang to the raw wildness of her power. A shiver passed through her. How long until that part of her spirit grew? With trembling fingers, Elena slipped her deerskin glove back over her right hand and resolved that she would only use her magick when no other path lay open. Even then, she would think twice.