She walked to one of the huts and showed them holes drilled in some of the top stones. “For roof poles.”
“Will you stay with us, Mistress?” Danil asked, holding the witch’s hand tight. The day before Lhel had shown him how to call field mice to his knee, something even Arkoniel had not thought the child capable of. The little boy had followed the witch around like a puppy ever since.
“For a time,” Lhel replied, patting his hand. “Maybe learn you more magic?”
“Can I learn, too?” asked Totmus, wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve.
“And me!” the twins cried eagerly.
Lhel ignored the glares from the older wizards. “Yes, little ones. All you learn.” She smiled at Arkoniel and he felt another surge of that strange assurance that things were falling into place as they were meant to.
Under Lhel’s direction, the servants made several of the old foundations habitable for the night, building makeshift roofs of saplings and boughs.
Meanwhile, Malkanus, Lyan, and Vornus took Arkoniel aside.
“Is this your Third Orëska?” Malkanus demanded angrily, jerking his thumb at the children tagging along after Lhel. “Are we all going to be necromancers now?”
“You know it’s forbidden,” Vornus warned. “She can’t be allowed to go on teaching them.”
“I know the histories, but I’m telling you, they’re not entirely correct,” Arkoniel maintained. “I’ve studied for years with this woman, and learned the true roots of her magic. Please, just let me show you, and you’ll see that it’s true. Illior would never have guided us to her if we weren’t meant to learn from her. How can that not be a sign?”
“But the magic we practice is pure!” said Lyan.
“We like to think so, but I’ve seen Aurënfaie shake their heads at some of our work. And remember, our magic is no less unnatural to our kind than Lhel’s. We had to mix our blood with the ’faie before we had any wizards in the Three Lands. Perhaps it’s time to mingle with a new blood, one native to Skala. The hill folk were here long before our ancestors arrived.”
“Yes, and they killed hundreds of our people,” Malkanus snapped.
Arkoniel shrugged. “They fought off the invaders. Would any of us have done differently? I believe that we’re meant to make peace with them now, somehow. But for now, believe me when I say that we need Lhel’s help, her kind of magic. Talk with her. Listen with an open heart to what she tells you, as I have. She has great power.”
“I can feel that,” muttered Cerana. “That’s what troubles me.”
Despite Arkoniel’s assurances, the others went away shaking their heads.
Lhel came to him, and said, “Come, I’ll teach you something new.” Walking back to the wagon, she searched through the baggage and pulled out a copper basin, then set off along the stream, leading him deeper into the forest. The ground was steep here, and the banks tiered with mossy ledges and shaggy frost-burned clumps of fern and caneberry. Thick stands of cattail rushes waved at the water’s edge. She pulled up one and peeled the fleshy white root. It was fibrous and dry so late in the year, but still edible.
“There’s plenty to eat here,” Lhel said, as they moved on. Pausing again, she plucked a large yellow mushroom from a rotting tree trunk and offered him a bite. “You must hunt before the snow comes, and smoke the meat. And collect wood. I don’t know if all the children will see springtime. Totmus won’t, I think.”
“But you healed him!” Arkoniel cried, dismayed. He’d already grown found of the boy.
Lhel shrugged. “I did what I could for him, but the sickness is deep in his lungs. It will come back.” She paused again. “I know what they said about me. You spoke for me, and I thank you, but the older ones are right. You don’t know the depth of my power.”
“Will I ever?”
“Pray you don’t, my friend. But now I’ll show you something new, but only you. Give me your word you’ll keep this to yourself.”
“By my hands, heart, and eyes, you have it.”
“All right then. We begin.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, Lhel let out a harsh, bleating call, then listened. Arkoniel heard nothing but the wind in the trees and the gurgling of the stream.
Lhel turned and gave the call across the stream. This time a faint reply came, then another, already closer. A large stag emerged from the trees on the far bank, sniffing the air suspiciously. It was as large as a palfrey, and had ten sharp prongs on each curving antler.
“It’s the rutting season,” Arkoniel reminded her. A stag in his prime was a dangerous thing to meet this time of year.
But Lhel was unconcerned. Raising a hand in greeting, she began to sing in that high, tuneless voice she sometimes used. The stag let out a loud snort and shook its head. A few shreds of antler velvet fluttered from the prongs. Arkoniel saw a piece fly loose and noted where it landed; if he survived this encounter, he knew of a concoction that called for it.
Lhel sang on, drawing the stag across the stream. It splashed up onto the bank and stood swinging its head slowly from side to side. Lhel smiled at Arkoniel as she scratched the beast between the antlers, calming it like a tame milk cow. Still humming, she drew her silver knife with her free hand and deftly nicked the large vein just under the stag’s jaw. A freshet of blood spurted out, and she caught it in her basin. The stag snorted softly, but remained still. When an inch or so of blood had collected in the basin, Lhel passed it to Arkoniel and laid her hands on the wound, stopping the flow with a touch.
“Stand back,” she murmured. When they were safely out of reach, she clapped her hands and shouted, “I release you!”
The stag lowered its head, slashing the air, then sprang away into the trees.
“Now what?” he asked. A thick, gamy odor rose from the basin, and he could feel the lingering heat and the strength of the blood through the metal.
She grinned. “Now I show you what you’ve wanted so long to know. Set the basin down.”
She squatted beside it and motioned for Arkoniel to do the same. Drawing a leather pouch from the neck of her ragged dress, she passed it to him. Inside he found several small herb bundles wrapped in yarn, and some smaller bags. Under her direction, he crumbled in a handful of bindweed flowers and some tamarack needles. From the small bags came pinches of powdered sulfur, bone, and ochre that stained his fingers like rust.
“Stir it with the first twig you find within reach,” Lhel instructed.
Arkoniel found a short, bleached stick and stirred the mix. The blood was still steaming, but it smelled different now.
Lhel unwrapped one of the firechips he’d made for her and used it to light a hank of sweet hay. As she blew the pungent smoke gently across the surface, the blood swirled and turned black.
“Now, sing as I do.” Lhel let out a string of strange syllables, and Arkoniel struggled to copy them. She would not translate the spell, but corrected his pronunciation and made him sing it over until he had it right.
“Good. Now we weave the protection. Bring the basin.”
“This is how you hid your camp, isn’t it?”
She answered with a wink.
Leading him to a gnarled old birch that overhung the brook, she showed him how to coat his palm with the blood and mark the tree, singing the spell as he did so.
Arkoniel winced a little; the blood felt thick and oily on his fingers. Singing, he pressed his hand to the peeling white bark. The blood stood out starkly against it for a moment, then disappeared completely. There wasn’t even a trace of moisture left.
“Amazing!”
“We’ve only just started. It does no good, just one.” Lhel led him to a large boulder and had him repeat the process. The blood disappeared just as readily into the stone.