“Oh, so now you would shoot down my poor little dragonlings, would you?”
“Not I,” Blaize said, totally taken aback. “But ghosts need not fear arrows.”
“Then your ghosts will shoot my wyverns?”
Blaize wondered when they had become “her” wyverns. “Ghosts have nothing against the little dragons—well, I suppose there might be one or two who suffered at their claws when alive. Most phantoms are more likely to attack soldiers than wyverns.”
“Maybe you should have your ghosts protect my fliers, then,” Mira said with full sarcasm.
“What a splendid idea!” Blaize turned away to gaze off into the distance. “They have a common enemy, after alclass="underline" magicians. How could I fashion that alliance?”
Mira stared at him, astounded. He seemed to have totally forgotten her, to become immersed in a new problem. She turned away, fuming, and hurried on uphill away from Blaize.
He came back out of the clouds to stare at her back, feeling sadness settle upon him. For a moment, he had thought she had forgiven him for being a magician, or for wanting to be one. Now, though, the anger and disgust seemed to be back. Certainly she couldn’t have argued so hotly against his ghost leading if she didn’t have even more contempt for him than for other magicians—no doubt because she knew him personally.
He sighed and plowed on up the hill, trying to find refuge in the new problem of a wyvern-ghost alliance, but failing. Mira’s face kept coming into his mind no matter how he tried to banish it—her lip twisted with scorn, her eyes flashing anger. She was the loveliest creature he had ever met, but he would have to give up all hope of winning her. She clearly didn’t even like him, let alone love him.
It was definitely better to pledge his life to his art. With an immense effort, he began to contemplate the natures of ghosts and wyverns. For one thing, they had both been here on this world before his ancestors had come from the stars—or at least the wild ghosts had, though not their Terran forms. Could that be bond enough?
He felt the fascination of the problem dosing over him like a shield and strode uphill, following his teachers.
The subject came up again that evening, when the villagers had gone home to prepare their evening meal. Alea said, “You know, we might have lost that battle if Mira hadn’t been able to turn the wyverns away.”
“We might indeed.” Gar didn’t seem completely confident in his own ability to have dealt with the reptiles. He turned to Mira. “You really must develop that talent.”
“Become a magician?” Mira said, horrified.
“For your own defense, and to protect these villagers? Yes, I think you should,” Alea said.
“But I don’t want to become a tyrant!”
“Then don’t,” Gar said simply. “Having power doesn’t mean you absolutely must abuse it, after all.”
“I suppose there is truth in that.” Mira tried to ignore the gleam in Blaize’s eyes. “But how could I go about learning?”
“I would say trial and error,” Gar said, “but the errors could prove very painful. The wyverns’ teeth looked sharp and their claws rather strong.”
“They say a flock of them can tear apart an armed soldier,” Mira said, and shuddered.
Blaize nodded gravely. “I saw it happen once, before Arnogle’s ghosts put the creatures to flight.”
Mira turned to him in surprise. “Ghosts can banish wyverns?” Blaize spread his hands. “It must be as you said—both are native to this world, and like listens to like, even if the ghosts’ guise is human.”
“Ghosts…” Alea said thoughtfully. “What if we could bring the ghost of a wyvern-handler here?” She turned to Mira. “Would you be willing to learn from such a one?”
Mira shrank back, then mustered her courage, tilted her chin up, and said, “I would, if you could find such a ghost who had a good heart.”
“It’s worth trying,” Gar said slowly. “Blaize, see if any of our friendly neighborhood ghosts are hanging around, would you?” Blaize’s eyes lost focus as his mind called, Conn—Ranulf—if you are near, please appear.
“Should we let them know we were listening?” Conn’s voice asked out of the dusk.
“No. Let them think we only come if they ask.” Ranulf’s form began to coalesce against the darkness of the cliff face.
“Let me guess.” Conn appeared near the fire. “You wondered if we knew any wyvern-handlers who happened to be conveniently dead.”
“I wouldn’t think death could be convenient,” Gar said, “but other than that, yes. You’re very skilled eavesdroppers.”
“It comes naturally, when you can be invisible,” Conn said airily. He turned to his friend. “What do you say, Ranulf—Goedelic? That little old outlaw who haunts the diff face in the Brogenstern Mountains?”
“He’s crusty but kind.” Ranulf nodded thoughtfully. “Of course, no one ever called him a magician. You don’t, generally, when it’s an outlaw who has discovered he can work magic.”
“Yes, but there was Lord Starchum,” Conn reminded. “He took over the whole forest, then used the outlaw army to overthrow Lord Imbroglio.”
“Well, Yes,” Ranulf conceded, “but he was a fire-caster. Outlaws in the greenwood pay attention to that kind of thing. Still, are you sure Goedelic is the best teacher for the lass? That middle-aged woman’s ghost by the River Ripar—wouldn’t she be a better teacher in this case?”
“Well, she’s honest and no tyrant,” Conn said thoughtfully, “but she’s not very pleasant. Abrupt, too. I don’t think she’d be very patient with a beginner’s first fumbling steps. No, I’ll go find Goedelic.” He started to fade.
“No, please!” Gar held up a hand. “Just connect with another ghost who can connect with a third ghost to whom he can pass the message. Then the third can add a fourth and so on, until Goedelic hears and answers.”
“Ah! Your ghost-to-ghost network!” Conn said brightly. “Yes, why not put it to the test?” He gazed off into space for a moment, then smiled. “Roigel answered. The message is on its way.”
Suddenly the fire belched a massive cloud of smoke, which thickened as it drifted aside and took on the contours of a human form and face. “Why would you be wanting to contact Goedelic?” a booming voice asked.
12
Gar blinked. “Am I talking to an Irish ghost?”
“I wouldn’t be knowing. Are you?” The cloud rotated toward him, rapidly solidifying into the face and form of a middle-aged warrior with a huge tear over the chest of his tunic. His nose was a bulb, his hair a fringe around a bald head, his chin a knob. His chubby face seemed made for smiling. At the moment, though, it was set in stern lines.
“I would say I am,” Gar said, “by your accent.”
“Accent? What accent would that be? Everybody talks like this in my parish!” the ghost said. “Faith, it’s yourself that has an accent!”
“Him, and all the rest of the world,” Conn grunted, and Ranulf laughed.
The Irish ghost turned toward them, raising a knobbed stick. “Be showing some respect, or you’ll have a taste of my shillelagh!”
“It looks like licorice,” Ranulf said.
“No, chocolate.” Conn grinned. “Come on, old fellow! You know we can’t hurt one another after we’re dead. Who are you and why did you answer a call for Goedelic? For that matter, what are you—outlaw or soldier?”
“It’s all of us were warriors in my day,” the Irishman answered. “There was none of this business of outlaws or soldiers, for we were all free! If any magician tried to set himself up as a lord, we taught him the right of it, and quickly, too!”
Conn and Ranulf lost their smiles. “How old an ancestor are you?”