Renegade's Magic

“I overheard other words he said. He told Caulder not to be a fool, that they must not leave until he had deciphered the map you sent them. Time and again, he has asked a hundred questions, of me, of the hired men, of virtually anyone who can speak, asking about a ridgeline or a dried-up watercourse. He studies and studies the map you sent him, but will not allow anyone else to see it to interpret it for him. He is obsessed with finding the place where you picked up the rock you gave Caulder. I have shown him all the other rocks you had gathered—you thought they had been thrown out, didn’t you, but I saved them. I thought they were quite interesting, but he pronounced them all just rubbish and pebbles and took no interest in them.”



I recalled the map I had sent him. I had dashed it off in a matter of moments, from memory, giving little thought to accuracy or even scale. At the time I had thought to do nothing more than send him a token map in order to put an end to his nagging correspondence. “Sergeant Duril could look at the map and recognize the area I drew. Tell him to show it to Duril.”



“The sergeant has offered, several times, to look at it for him, but Caulder’s uncle always declines. Sergeant Duril has become quite frustrated with the man, for he says he has made him waste time riding aimlessly about when he should have been tending to the concerns of the estate.”



“Duril’s a good man. Keep him by you, Yaril, as close as you can. And if at any time you feel you are in danger from anyone, go to Duril and tell him.”



I had no warning. Even if I had, perhaps I could not have chosen better words to end on. With a sudden tug, I felt my awareness pulled loose from Yaril’s. Soldier’s Boy was calling me back. “Not yet!” I shouted at him. “It’s not fair! I’m not finished.”



A most peculiar thing happened. Suddenly my father, eyes empty, was sitting up in his bed, his hands clutching mine. “Nevare? Nevare? Where are you, boy, where are you? Do you need my help? Son, where are you?”



He was a glimpse of a nightmare to me. He was pale and aged, and the magic had eaten holes in him, like a piece of fruit spoiled by worms. I could see, in this dimension, how it had attacked him, body and heart and mind. He’d caught it from me, I suddenly knew. It had infected me, and I’d passed it on to him. And just like Buel Hitch, it had reduced him to doing its will.



“Father!” I shouted at him. “Be strong. Protect Yaril!”



Then I was torn loose again.



As sudden as blinking, I was back in Soldier’s Boy’s body. This time, the wall he had held between us was gone. I was once more a party to his thoughts and emotions. It was like being plunged into a hurricane. Anger, despair, humiliation, and defeat battered him and thus me. The strength of his emotions was such that it was some time before I became aware of my physical surroundings.



Night was full around us and chill. Dew had settled on his skin. Those cold drops contrasted harshly with the hot tears that flowed down his face. He curled forward over his belly and put his face in his hands and wept like a scolded child. I thought he had seen what the magic had done to my father, and felt as horrified by it as I had. There was a strange comfort for me in that he wept. If I’d had the body under my control, I’d have done the same. “It wasn’t really him, doing that to me,” I told myself hesitantly. “The magic had to tear all support away from me, to make me come to where it wanted me to be. I don’t have to blame him. I don’t have to hate him.”



“I knew that!” Soldier’s Boy spoke disdainfully. “I never hated him or blamed him. I could see that much clearly; I’m surprised that you could not.”



“Then what is it?” I asked at last, unwillingly. The harshness of whatever assailed him made me pity him; I felt sorry for myself in a way I never had before. No man should be as pitifully miserable as he was. He did not immediately answer me. His sorrow choked him. A very long time seemed to pass. The wind blew in the branches overhead. In the distance, I heard someone call into the night, “Great One, where are you?” Someone called something else in reply. Soldier’s Boy made no response. His harsh breathing filled my ears as he got his sobs under control. I waited.



After a time, he sat up slowly. “We’ve failed her,” he said quietly. “Yesterday the workers came again to the road’s end. They have begun to clear away the winter debris and repair the last of the damage you did. Soon enough, the axes and saws will begin to bite their way through the ancient forest. The workers are no longer drugged. You know the best way to combat fear, Nevare? With hatred. I woke hatred in the intruders, and their hatred of us is now stronger than Kinrove’s fear spell. They will chew through the trees like worker ants. They will cut our forest and drive straight into the mountains and beyond. They are resolved to find us, and when they do, they intend to kill us all.”