“Yes, you did,” Gar said. “You just didn’t put it into words—you understood it all in an instant.” His smile was slight, but his eyes glowed at her.
Alea looked away, embarrassed. “I didn’t know why I was so sure aiming my anger at them would work—I just knew it would.”
“As indeed it did,” Gar said. “I suspect that it was your self-confidence that daunted them as much as your rage.”
Alea frowned. “You mean they’re all bluff?”
“No, all thought,” Gar said, “even if they are made of gossamer. Their essence is mind-energy; they’re creatures of idea—mental constructs.”
“And if they’re shaped by people’s minds, they’re vulnerable to them.” Alea nodded.
“Therefore they should be attracted by telepathy. I see how you worked it out.” Gar nodded. “Let’s try the experiment.”
“What experiment?” Alea asked in alarm.
But Gar was gazing off into the night. She could feel the pressure of his thoughts, hear his unvoiced words: Here I am—here, for all to see. Come find me if you will and match me thought for thought.
Alea leaped to her feet. “You’re crazy! You have no idea what might answer that call! Gar, stop!”
But he didn’t; he was already in a trance in which the world of thought seemed more real than the world of the body. She had to distract him, make him break off that mental searchlight. In a panic, she leaned forward and planted her lips squarely on his. She knelt frozen, shocked by her own brazen conduct, then was amazed by how good his lips felt, how surprisingly soft; they almost seemed to swell, to turn outward, to become sensuous instead of the thin gash he showed the world. His arms came around her, the kiss deepened, and she knew with certainty that he was no longer issuing his mental challenge. The kiss had served its purpose. That was enough.
The trouble was, she didn’t want to stop.
5
A moan of grief swelled out of the night and wrapped them in its lament. Startled, they broke apart, and Alea knelt trembling, frightened, looking up. A ghost towered over them, an amorphous thing with upright ovals for eyes and a larger one for a mouth, arms spread wide in grief, and Alea told herself it was the specter that made her tremble. Yes, that was it. Surely. The ghost drifted closer, moaning, arms uplifted—in supplication, Alea realized with a shock, then wondered how she knew.
“Beware!” Mira called, awakened by the moans, her voice shaking. “It is a wild ghost, a half ghost! It will be hungry.” The ghost turned away, looking back over the slope that passed for a shoulder, and began to float away from them, its moan becoming piteous. “Such are their tricks!” Mira cried. “It will beguile you into following it, lead you into a mire, then wait for you to sink and die so that it may feed upon your spirit!”
“We’ll have to be very careful, then.” Gar stood, gaze fixed on the ghost. “Will you come with us, damsel? It might not be safe for you here alone. Or perhaps Alea could stay with you.”
“And let you go chasing a will-o’-the-wisp into some swamp?” Alea snapped. “Not a chance!” She glared at the fire; it shrank a little, then flared up again. “Oh, be dimmed to you!” she snapped, and scooped dirt on the flames. They went out, but smoke spiraled up; she tossed more dirt to smother it completely, then pushed herself to her feet, resolving to practice her telekinesis. “Come, lass,” she said to Mira. “We can’t let him go hunting by himself—there’s no telling what kind of trouble he’ll find!”
Trembling, Mira stood and followed them.
The ghost drifted away, its tone changing to one of relief, then to worry. It flitted into the trees.
“I’ll watch the ghost,” Alea snapped. “You watch the ground.”
“And I shall watch before and behind us.” Mira pressed close but kept going, trembling but resolute.
They went into the trees, watching every step. The ghost waited until they were about ten feet away, then drifted onward, staying close enough so that its glow could show them roots and rocks in their path.
“Strange, for a wild ghost.” Mira frowned. “They don’t usually help you see your way.”
“It may only be half-formed,” Gar said, “but it’s not half-smart.”
“Let’s reserve judgment on that, shall we?” Alea asked, “We haven’t come to the mire yet.”
Mira was deeply puzzled. Ghosts didn’t behave like this, trying to keep you from falling—they wanted to trap you, or so everyone said. Why did this one seem to care about them? Why did it sound worried?
They followed the ghost for half an hour before she discovered the reason. The phantom stopped by a huge old oak, with leaves so thick the ground was bare all around it. The tree was so old that a waist high root bulged out of the earth—and beneath that root huddled a man, a young man. The ghost’s glow showed her a strained, frightened, but very handsome face—one smudged with dirt from a dozen falls, a cheek swollen with a bruise, but the large eyes faced them bravely and the square chin firmed with determination that did not quite hide its dimple. His lips were full and supple, promising a sensuous nature. His nose was straight, his forehead high, and his hair tousled. Looking upon him, Mira felt something turn over within her, and knew it was her heart trying to escape to him.
The ghost hovered near the young man, its moan turning to a plea. Gar came slowly to stand across from it, gazing down at the lad. “It would seem our specter has a friend.”
“A friend who needs help,” Alea agreed. “No wonder it wanted to make sure we came here safely.”
They stood close enough so that the ghost-glow fell full upon them, and the young man glanced at Gar, then Alea, but his gaze went past them both to Mira, and his eyes widened in awe. She stirred uncomfortably—why was he staring so?
“I had thought there were no goddesses,” the young man breathed, “but here is one glowing before me!”
“Enough of pretty speeches, boy.” Alea sounded nettled, perhaps because he had not spoken to her. “What is your name, and how have you come here?”
The young man hesitated, then said, “My lord lost a battle and was slain. I tore off my livery and fled. The ghosts shielded me from the enemy’s soldiers, but I lost my way.”
Mira was amazed. He must be a very good man indeed for ghosts to care for him.
“But your name?” Alea pressed.
“He fears we will use it to work magic against him,” Gar told her. “Come, lad, do we look like magicians?”
Mira had to admit that they didn’t, though she knew that they were, but she also knew she could trust them, so she did not betray them to the young man.
“You do not,” he admitted. “My name is Blaize.”
“A good name.” Gar reached down. “Come, lad, on your feet—or have you turned your ankle?”
“No.” Blaize took Gar’s hand and pulled himself upright. “I hide only for fear of Pilochin’s guards.”
He wore a peasant’s tunic and leggins, but not a plowman’s buskins—his feet were cased in well-made boots, like a soldier’s. Mira’s heart went out to him—a poor serf, pressed into service as she had been, though his duties hadn’t been as degrading as those Roketh had intended for her. They might, though, have been just as shattering, or even fatal. She stepped up to take his arm. “You are favoring that ankle. Will it hold your weight?”
Blaize turned to her in surprise, and Mira saw the awe and admiration in his eyes. She began to glow inside and it must have showed in her face, for his gaze was riveted to hers, and his eyes seemed to expand to become the world. Mira shook off the trance, looking down at his foot. “Come now, stand on it.”