(don't let me die—)
Does love or duty call him?
Is his kindness to me all a mask?
(take up the task)
And could I trust his answer
If I dared to ask him "Why?"
(give all your trust—my will [you must])
So now I stand within the circle
I have drawn upon the floor—
(the open door)
I have no further answer if
This spirit's friend or foe
(nor can you know)
Though I have prayed full often, nor
Can I this moment answer if
I'll tell him "Come" or "Go."
Hallowmas Night
MERCEDES LACKEY
The moon is on the wane tonight, and her light is fitful and hard to work by. There is a chill and bitter wind tossing the bare branches of the trees; had there been any leaves left upon those sad, black boughs when the sun set, they would have been ripped away by now. That same wind shreds the thin, fraying clouds that scud across the moon's face, so that she seems to be dressed in the tattered remnants of a shroud. The sound of it among the trees is like the wailing of a hundred thousand lost souls.
And while my hands busy themselves with the preparations I have rehearsed in my mind too many times to be counted, I find myself trying to trace the path that brought me to this night, and these perilous rituals.
Was it only last month, a bare moon-span of days ago that I came to this place? It hardly seems possible, and yet that is indeed the case. It seems so strange, to look back upon the thing I was, so sure of myself and my place in the world—
A wizard I was and am, for my talents lie with the manipulations of energy, and my knowledge is that of the doors to and creatures of other worlds. Unlike some of my fellows, I do not hold that witchcraft is the lesser art—oh no; I have seen too many things to believe that to be the case. Faced with an elemental or the need to bring fertility to man, beast or field, I should be as helpless as a witch given a wraith to exorcise, or a demon to subdue. And the healing arts that come so easily to the witch born were slow and painful for me to learn. To each of us her strengths and her weaknesses, say I—but in my craft, I count myself no weakling. I long ago attained the Master's rank and staff—and yet, I wandered, ever wandered, as if I were a Journeyman still.
At first it had been by choice, for I took joy in the sights and sounds of new places—but that was no longer the case. I was long wearied with traveling, with the hardships and mundane dangers of the road, with being the plaything of the weather, the pawn of the seasons. But I, having been hurt too many times by my fellow man—fellows in my art, let me say—had grown shy of their company, and would settle only in some remote place, far from other practitioners of my art, in some rustic habitat where I might meditate and study at leisure, and use my skills to the mutual benefit of my pocket and the well-being of ordinary folk.
But we of wizardly kind are often of that frame of mind; and it seemed that no matter where my feet carried me, there were others settled there before me.
Until, one autumn day, my wanderings brought me here—
It was a goodly village I saw, nestled in a quiet little valley. The gold of freshly-thatched roofs blended with the brighter gold and red of the autumn leaves; there was a mill clacking and plashing the water of the stream (always a good sign of prosperity) and from the row of carts next to it, the harvest had been an ample one. Even more cheering, I could see from my vantage point where my road crested the hill that the mill wheel was being used to power a cider press at the side of the building. Three or four village folk were tending it, and an errant breeze brought the scent of apples to me even as I determined to descend into their valley.
The inn, though small, was cheerful with whitewashed wall, red shutters, and smoke-blackened beams. I took my seat within it at a trestle table and nodded in a friendly fashion to two or three broad-shouldered lads (farmers waiting for their grain to be ground, I judged). I had waited no more than a breath or two before the portly, balding, redcheeked innkeeper appeared to ask my desires.
I told him; he served me my bread, cheese, sausage and cider—then stood behind me as if he wished something of me.
I let him wait for a little as I eased my parched and dry throat with his most excellent drink, then looked up at him with a sidewise glance out of my eye—I have found that common folk do not like to be looked at directly by a practitioner of arcane skill.
"Your fare is quite satisfactory, good innkeeper," I said, giving him an opening to speak.
"'Tis all of our own, milady," he made answer. "Well, and it may be humble by some folk's lights, but 'tis proud we are of it. Milady—might I be askin' ye—be ye a magiker?"
I nodded at my staff, that leaned against the wall beside my table. Carved with silver-inlaid runes, and surmounted by a globe of crystal clasped in an eagle's claw of silver, it told all the world what my calling was. "As you can see, goodman. I am of wizard-teaching."
"Then, milady, would it be puttin' ye out of yer way to be speakin' to our headman?"
I was a bit surprised by the question, but took pains not to show it. "I have nowhere in particular to go, good sir; I am a free wanderer, with my time all my own."
He bobbed his head at me. "Then, if ye'd be so kind, I be goin' to fetch him."
And to my astonishment, he trotted across the rutted dirt street to the chandler's shop.
He returned quickly enough, and by his side walked a thin, sallow-faced fellow clad in brown homespun, who might well have looked disagreeable but for the lines of good humor about his eyes and mouth.
He came straight to my table and wasted no time in coming to the point.
"Jesse tells me you are a magician—and a wanderer," he said. "Forgive my impudence, but—milady, we have strong need of one such as you."
Again, I was astonished, for this seemed the perfect place for wizard or witch to settle, and in truth I had been somewhat expecting to be greeted by another such as I with a subtle hint that I should let my feet carry me further.
"How so?" I asked, still not letting my astonishment show. "I would have thought that so charming a place as this would have a resident mage."
"We—did have, milady," the man said, looking anxious. "He—died. We don't know why."
By the Powers of Light, that had an ominous ring to it!
"Was he old?" I asked cautiously. "How did this happen?"
"Nay, lady, he was young, young as you, I would reckon. He just—died. Between sunset and sunrise. The dairymaid found him, sitting up at the table, when she brought the morning milk, with not a mark on him."
My mind worked furiously; such a death could have any number of causes, some arcane, some as simple as an unguessed heart ailment. "And why do you say you have need of one such as I?" I asked while I thought.
"Because of the forest, lady," he said in a half-whisper, gesturing northwards. "East, west and south, it's just woods—but northwards—nay. It's haunted, belike, or worse. Uncanny things live there, and sometimes take a notion to come out. He kept 'em bound away, so that we never even heard 'em squall on black nights, but since he died—well, we hear 'em, and we're starting to see 'em again just beyond the fence he put 'round 'em, when we have to travel in that direction. We need another magiker to keep 'em bound, and that's a fact."