Dumas struggled against the paralysis, but her body no longer obeyed her. She lay there, screaming with a voice that echoed only in her own skull as Belize spoke a spell from the book. It was a spell that seemed to unravel the very tapestry of her will …
A breeze rustled the high grass and whispered through the leaves and branches of the copse of trees. In the distance, lights flecked the fields where farmers and woodsmen settled in for the night, their clusters of homes small islands of comfort in the darkness. It was a peaceful place, filled with the memories and the voices of the past. Tythonnia could hear her parents and friends in the sounds. She could smell the lamb and potato stew that her mother made.
More so, she relished the smell of wild grass and smiled as whirring insects took to the air in fright. The sky above blazed with a diamond-studded panorama of stars; even the air seemed so much clearer, cleaner.
Tythonnia felt young again as she crept forward, deeper into the small thicket of trees. Her dagger felt reassuring in her grip. It was another reminder, a token of her past when her father taught her to hunt the land for her food, and magic had yet to dominate her life. For certain, she was grateful for her studies, but she remembered another time as well … a time when magic was a thing of awe and wonder. It was more organic, somehow. It wasn’t fossilized in reagents or cocooned in words. It wasn’t formulaic and rehearsed.
In the quiet of the hunt, Tythonnia’s thoughts drifted to home. She remembered the local wisewoman, a sorcerer named Desmora. Her magic flowed naturally-a protean, Wyldling thing. Everyone told their children to stay far from Desmora, but everyone bartered with her for the goodwill of the elements all the same.
Desmora was both legend and monster in Tythonnia’s childhood-a crone to be feared or adored, her powers a frightening mystery. And more frightening was when Desmora took Tythonnia as her pupil. Tythonnia would hunt the occasional hare for Desmora, and Desmora taught her a trick or three in return. The old crone frightened her to bits, but never once did the older woman justify that fear. Desmora was primal and fierce and she knew how to whisper to the world.
For a while, Tythonnia thought she might forget that particular part of her life as she’d almost forgotten the incident involving Elisa, but out there, in the absolute darkness of the wild, surrounded by familiar echoes that plied the strings of all her senses, the memories returned. Hunting, Desmora, the magic, her parents, her flirtation with Elisa … all of them rose to the surface again with surprising clarity.
Her muscles remembered as well, and she continued advancing slowly, making as little sound as possible. Her eyes were well adapted to the darkness, and she could make out the tan Heartlund hare. Tythonnia raised her dagger to throw it as her father had taught her; years of training remembered in a rush of memories.
The hare bolted upright. Tythonnia heard it a second later; the heavy scrape of boot against earth. The hare bolted.
“Sihir anak!” a woman’s voice cried from behind Tythonnia.
Tythonnia yelped as four darts of light trailing glowing streamers appeared from over her shoulders, zipping around her body. Their glow temporarily blinded her night-accustomed eyes before they slammed into the hare. The four bolts shredded their target, blasting it apart, scattering two of its limbs and splattering its entrails on the tree. It didn’t even have time to scream. From the underbrush, more noise rose as other animals scattered.
Tythonnia whipped about to find a startled Ladonna behind her. “What’re you doing?” Tythonnia said, practically screaming.
“Helping you hunt,” Ladonna said. A surprised chuckle escaped her mouth. “But I wasn’t expecting that!”
“I told you to collect firewood!”
“No need … I cast an Unseen Servant to take care of that for us. We have more than enough now. In fact, why are we even hunting? Can’t you just use a spell to stun-”
“No!” Tythonnia said. She could feel her temper slip, her voice rise in pitch, and her anger provoking the better of her. Another part of her, however, was content to let that happen. “Is everything magic with you? Can’t you survive without it?”
“Better than any of you know,” Ladonna said, her voice chilled.
“Really? Or maybe you just can’t let anyone else prove their worth? It has to be about you and what you can do.”
“Or maybe,” Ladonna said, “I was trying to help you.”
“You can help me by staying out of my way. I know what I’m doing.”
“Oh yes, skulking about in the darkness like a beast, that’s a fine talent. Maybe it’s not me who’s desperately trying to prove her worth.”
“I’m doing this for you!” Tythonnia protested. “The both of you!”
“I don’t need your help,” Ladonna said.
“What’s going on?” a voice asked. Par-Salian stood in the shadow of a tree, his gaze curious but cautious.
Without a word of explanation, however, Ladonna turned and brushed past him as though he were nothing more than another branch. He turned to ask Tythonnia, but she was too upset to respond. She simply waved him off and shook her head. Don’t ask.
Par-Salian shrugged and followed Ladonna, leaving Tythonnia alone. A moment later, their footfalls faded Tythonnia took the quiet moment to regain her thoughts before creeping forward again, hunting for another meal. She listened intently, but the copse was silent, its denizens scared away by the intruders and the strange scent of magic. The red wizard could sense the change as well; even her memories refused to return. They were gone, as were her feelings of contentment. It was nothing like home anymore.
Tythonnia spit a curse that would have shocked her father, who always swore a blue streak, and headed back to her camp. There would be no cooked meal to warm the bones and fill their sleep with happy thoughts. It would be rations-salted beef, pickled carrots, and perhaps a candied fig to wash down the taste.
Maybe their hunger tomorrow would instill Ladonna with some regret. Tythonnia doubted it, however.
“Where are you going?”
Ladonna didn’t bother turning around to face Par-Salian. “A walk,” she said, heading for the open field. She didn’t want to be around them right then. She was angry. It made it hard to think, and more important, it made her spiteful. In that instant, she despised everyone. She hated Tythonnia and she hated Par-Salian. And Par-Salian’s attempts to mollify her grated on her nerves even more.
“It’s not safe out there.”
Ladonna turned around long enough to level Par-Salian with a seething gaze. “I’m sure I can handle any wayward cows,” she said.
“That’s not what I meant,” Par-Salian replied. “I think we should talk about-”
“Not now,” Ladonna said as she walked away. “And I suggest you learn to understand women better. I don’t need your help.”
To Par-Salian’s credit, he didn’t pursue the matter. Ladonna marched into the darkness and continued past the high grass that stroked her hips. In the lonely quiet, her anger bled away and her nerves went still. Ladonna turned to gain her bearings; she could barely make out the clutch of trees against the distant sky, but it would be enough to guide her back eventually.
Ladonna found an outcropping of rocks that broke the sea of grass and sat upon her granite throne. It was too peaceful out here, too quiet. Absent were the noises she found familiar, the sounds of a city that never truly slept. The noise of humanity. The sleeping breath of other children. She missed that; she missed the sense of family, the close-knit bonds that made survival more bearable. She inhaled deeply, as though winded by the memories.
What’s bothering me? she wondered. She was usually in better control of her emotions. She angered too easily these days, too quick to the boiling. And too quick after that to the overflowing, rash decisions and actions she would always regret.