Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 8

Leor squatted underneath the stand of selver trees high on the hillside, where the tall grey trunks concealed him from the swarming camp below. He could hear the distant thump of mallets as tents were erected, and the faint banter and occasional warning shouts of the Riders doing the erecting; but the only person he could actually see – and who could see him – was Tamu, sitting as alertly as a sparrow on a fallen trunk to watch him.

“All right. Let’s try this one,” said Leor heavily. Pointing a weary finger at the little pile of vegetation on the ground, he launched without much hope into the next spell on his mental list. “Brienot a brienot, ha del enfuala sin balu…”

Tamu, listening attentively, said, “That’s not brienot, though. It’s only clover.”

“I know. Give me a chance: next I’m going to say the spell again, with clover substituted. I’m approaching this logically.” But even as he repeated the charm, with the substitutions, Leor knew that there was nothing logical about his approach. It was born, rather, out of sheer desperation.

Clover was the nearest thing that he could find to brienot. He was sure his magic wouldn’t work on it. In fact he almost willed it not to work, because if by some extraordinary chance it did, the results could be extremely dangerous. Clover lived all over the place. It was a vital constituent of the fields.

So, to minimise the danger, he was focusing his magic on this tiny, shielded heap of greenery. It was like trying to cook a single bean. It felt ridiculous: a pointless exercise. Yet what else could he do? How else could he discover how to counter Adon’s spell, unless he could work out exactly what Adon had done?

Anyway, his words – however phrased – were having no effect at all upon the clover. As Rothir came marching up the slope towards them, Leor was glad of the excuse to straighten his stiff legs, and abandon this latest vain attempt.

“No luck, then,” said Rothir immediately, reading his face.

“I’m afraid not. And you?”

“Yaret and Maeneb have just tried speaking to the Farwth, via an old yew tree. Yes, I know; but it seemed a possibility, if only a faint one. However, no luck there either. I don’t suppose that you could try that, could you, Leor?”

“Speaking to the Farwth? From here? I have only ever talked to the Farwth face to face. Or face to leaf.”

“You could try anyway.”

“I could,” said Leor, “but we are plucking at straws here. What I need to understand is what Adon has done. And I don’t, at all. Changing the appearance of the brienot is one thing: I can do that. I can change a plant’s habit, the way it grows, its size, within the bounds of natural possibility. I can make it embrace a tree-trunk but I cannot make it pull the whole tree over. And I cannot with any spell I know make it so deadly and so poisonous that no medicine or counter-spell will be of the slightest bit of use.”

“But there must be–”

“I tell you, Adon must have woven wizardry into the plant itself. He made of it a different thing – no longer a true plant, but a…” Leor waved his arms helplessly. “A hybrid. Something between plant and magic. A creeping sorcerer with leaves.”

“All right, forget the plant,” said Rothir. “Concentrate on Veron’s symptoms. The wounds the plant left, and especially the pain. Because nothing will alleviate it except the stonemen’s drug Athelid, and he can’t keep taking that for long. It has side-effects. I just looked in on him before I walked up here, and I got a mouthful of abuse. He’s not attacked anybody yet, but he could at any time.”

Leor shook his head. “Did you not pay attention?” he replied reproachfully. “I tried every charm for Veron’s pain that I could think of, on the journey here. None worked. If anything, I think I made it worse.”

“All the same...”

Tamu stirred on his log. “And when Leor first tried to charm the brienot, that made matters worse as well. He merely tightened the plant’s grip.”

“That’s true,” admitted Leor, although it filled him with despondency to say it.

Tamu said, “It was as if his spell to counteract the magic simply reinforced it.”

“What?” said Leor. He spun round and stared at Tamu, who shrugged.

“That only just occurred to me,” he said. “But is it something that Adon could weave into his wizardry?”

Leor leant against the nearest selver tree and thought about it. He felt bone-weary; not just from effort, but from his growing sense of failure. It weighed him down.

Yes, he thought, it most likely could be done. And the more he considered it, the more likely it appeared that it had been done. He groaned.

“If you’re right, Tamu,” he said, “and I think you may be, then any spell that I can try is bound to fail – indeed, to make things worse. I killed the plant but not its magic: that’s what’s taken hold in Veron’s body. All the spells that I know, Adon knows also. He can not only build in a defence against them, but can turn them to his purpose.” He struck the tree with the side of his clenched fist. “He’s left me powerless.”

Rothir was watching him with a frown. “I don’t understand that. You were not powerless when you raised the darkburn from the pit up by the Outland Forts. Nor were you powerless when you sent a river through the streets of Kelvha to put out the fires. Adon could not stop you there.”

But Leor pounded at the tree again, in helpless anger and frustration, until the stinging of his fist reminded him of the foolishness of such an act. He stopped and rubbed his hand, bidding the pain to go away. Such minor magic worked easily on himself. Why not on Veron?

“Those spells were different,” he said. “Adon wasn’t expecting me to use that sort of magic. And they weren’t even spells as such. Although they started out as standard charms, they took on their own… sort of... They were just…” He spread his arms, unable to explain his wizardry in a way that these ordinary men would comprehend.

How to describe the flow of force that he had felt on both of those occasions? The feats had been achieved almost by instinct, by the will of the magic that he held within him; by its need to be undammed. All he had done was to allow it – to set his power free. His sorcery had done the rest.

“I was just a channel,” he said quietly. “I was just an instrument.” Then he left the tree and walked swiftly away from the others, through the murmuring wood. The wind high in the branches spoke a musical language quite alien to him. The trees had become the instrument of the wind. How did that relationship work? What hope had he of understanding it? What hope had he of understanding anything?

When I raised the darkburn, when I made the flood, he thought, it seemed a mammoth effort, all but impossible, until I let the magic take it over. Then it did it by itself.

Could he let his magic loose to flood over Veron? He had a strong feeling that, if he could – if he could undam that force to remove Veron’s pain – it would do it by removing Veron’s life. His wizardry untrammelled would be huge, a vast whirlwind of power: it could not be focused on one man’s legs, or one tiny creeping plant. It would destroy them. Which was not an ideal outcome.

He became aware that the other two were following him as he walked.

“Go away,” he said over his shoulder. “Please. I need to think.” He strode on up to the hill’s rounded summit and stood beneath the sighing trees to look down at the country on its other side. A scene of nature shaped by man, not magic. Neat close-cropped pastures, a stone sheepfold, a few grey scattered sheep like small reflections of the clouds that gathered in the sky above them.

Although he had said that he needed to think, Leor found he was incapable of thinking. What was the point, when he could not understand any of this, when he could not work it out? What was the point of puzzling about what magic could outwit Adon, when Adon knew all his magic and could use it to outwit him?

They had learnt the same spells together, six centuries ago and more, two charmed children who soon outstripped their guardians: they had practised magic skills together, seeing who could blow a wall over the fastest, or turn a pond bright pink… Although it seemed to Leor, looking back, that Adon had never practised anything. He had always succeeded perfectly, first time.

He never doubted himself, thought Leor. Unlike me. I doubt myself continually. Maybe that is why I don’t succeed – because I don’t believe I can. Adon believes he can do anything.

I cannot believe. And thinking is useless to me. I cannot think. All I can do is feel. Anger, grief, dismay, shame, bitterness. I am my own darkburn. Last year I told myself I had forsworn my wizardry because I did not want to be like Adon. In truth it was because I knew that I could never be like Adon. I could never wield my magic as skilfully and strongly as he does. I cannot make it do just what I want.

Leor let his head drop to his chest. The sight of the white streaks in his own beard only added to his shame and self-dislike. So old, and he had gained so little wisdom, such meagre skill, compared to Adon! What was the point of his being a wizard at all? The frustration and fury began to roll up inside him, like the slowly massing clouds that hung low and heavy in the sky.

He could not make his magic do what he wanted. Very well. He would let it do what it wanted. Whatever that was.

Leor raised his head, and then his arms, and spread his fingers. Those fields ahead of him were empty: so let his wizardry do what it willed.

Without giving it form or direction, without placing around it any guard or control, he felt the power rise up in him and flow through him like a river. Just do what you like, he thought, I don’t care any more.

That tingling flow, that heady rush, that sense of an unstoppable giant presence shouldering its way out through his body, down his arm and past his hands to fill the empty fields–

Below him on the slope the sheepfold exploded. Its stones shot high into the air – two hundred feet at least, he thought in some amazement, watching them slow and seem to hover momentarily; until, on their starting to come down, he panicked and ran backwards.

He ran straight into Tamu, bowling them both over. Around them with a cacophony of heavy thumps and splintering snaps the sheepfold’s stones hit earth and tree-branch. Pine needles fountained from new-made craters in the ground: trees cracked and roared and groaned as rocks bombarded them: one great bough crashed down in three large pieces.

A final stone rolled to his feet, and stopped. After the thuds and crashes it seemed very quiet. He lay next to Tamu, wondering if was safe to stand.

“What. In. Stars’. Name?” said Rothir, his voice full of astonished reproof.

Leor sat up. Tamu was rubbing his knee, and wincing; but Leor felt the echoes of his own fury roll around him still. He would not apologise to anybody for simply letting free his magic. That was what they all wanted of him, for stars’ sake. What else should they expect?

So he scrambled to his feet, and rounded on Rothir.

“I’m doing magic. Is that all right with you? I’m a wizard. This is what happens if you want a wizard for an ally. You have to put up with the odd explosion. So take it as a lesson to be careful how you speak to me!”

Rothir was looking grim.

“How did I speak to you?” he said softly. “Did I say anything that would justify your destruction of my sister’s buildings?”

“It was only a sheepfold.”

“And the killing of her sheep?”

Leor looked around. And then he realised that the fallen stones were interspersed with bits of ragged, bloody carcass. A sheep’s leg lay nearby, still profusely bleeding.

“I… that was not my intention,” he said, feeling slightly stunned. “I didn’t know that there were any in there.”

“It’s what a sheepfold is for,” said Rothir. “To hold sheep. How will you explain this to Wiln?” His voice was still dangerously quiet.

But another voice was calling to them, much more loudly: “What is going on here? What was that noise?” It was Thoronal, marching heavily down from the wooded ridge.

Leor groaned inwardly. Of all the men to arrive just now, it had to be one of Huldarion’s chief counsellors. And the most pompous one. “I was experimenting,” he said stiffly. “It went a little awry.”

“Experimenting? What on earth with? And what is this?” Thoronal picked up the sheep’s hind-quarter and held it, dangling, dripping blood.

“Sheep,” said Tamu.

“I’ll tell Wiln it was an accident,” said Leor.

“It was no accident,” said Rothir, his voice still very low and even.

“You’ve been carving up Wiln’s livestock? What did you think you were doing, Leor? All I can say is, you need to tidy up this mess right now. And you’d better not let Huldarion know about it,” announced Thoronal, in the tone of a scolding schoolmaster. “He’s got enough to deal with at the moment, without a rogue wizard massacring his host’s sheep.”

“And hostess,” said Rothir in a deep, quiet rumble. “This is my sister’s property, not just Wiln’s.”

Leor turned to Rothir. “I apologise. Like I said, that was not my intention.”

“What was your intention?” Although Rothir seemed very calm, Leor began to feel a little… not exactly afraid, for Rothir surely was his friend. But he felt a rapidly dawning realisation that he would not like Rothir to become an enemy.

Nor would he care to displease Huldarion. This act would certainly do him no favours in Huldarion’s eyes. He tried to frame a reasonable answer. Yet what had his intention been? The truth was, to express his anger and frustration. His magic had certainly done that for him. And the sheep had borne the brunt of it.

“Spells are unpredictable things,” offered Tamu. Standing up, he shook each of his legs and arms cautiously in turn. “Oof. If we need to keep this, um, interesting event from Huldarion’s knowledge, then perhaps the best thing we can do is pay Wiln and Olbeth for the damage, and eat the evidence.”

“And eat the…?” Thoronal frowned. “Well,” he said ponderously, “that’s one solution, I suppose. All right. That makes sense. Rothir, if I find the money, can you set it right with Wiln, discreetly?”

After a moment, Rothir slowly nodded.

“Good. Gather up all the bits, and bring them over to the camp, as unobtrusively as you can. The men won’t object to an unexpected mutton roast, I’m sure.” Thoronal plucked a ragged haunch out of a nearby tussock. Then, carrying a bleeding joint in each hand, he began to trudge back up the hill.

Rothir gazed at Leor. “That was no accident,” he said again, even more softly than before.

“I was trying to see what my wizardry would do, without direction,” Leor explained. “I didn’t expect it to do that.”

“Without direction? It didn’t occur to you that it might be a little dangerous?”

“Like I say,” said Leor. He was feeling most uncomfortable.

But at last Rothir turned away, to pick up a blood-soaked head by one horn. He tossed it in a thicket before plucking out a foreleg and an unidentifiable bloody lump. “You’d better start hunting bits of sheep,” he said distantly, and walked off after Thoronal.

Leor ran his hands through his hair. “I really did not mean any harm to those poor animals. I didn’t know that they were in there,” he said plaintively to Tamu, although Tamu was not looking nearly as severe as Rothir had. Indeed, the archivist was surveying him with something more like pity. And when he spoke his tone held no reproach: only mild enquiry.

“You’ve been studying magic for how long?”

“Over six hundred years,” said Leor wretchedly.

“And you’ve never given it free rein before?”

Dismally, Leor shook his head. “I’ve always practised wizardry the way that I was taught. Which is: first decide what you want to do. Then decide the best spell to do it. Adapt the spell as necessary. So, no, I’ve never left it up to the wizardry to do itself.”

Tamu walked over to the broken branch and detached a floppy grey object from it. It was a tail. He pushed it in beneath the fallen log so that it was hidden.

“I think you may need to start your studies all over again,” he said. “I’m sure that was an accident. But it’s not one that you would want to have repeated.”

“Ah,” groaned Leor. “But how do I start again? Where do I begin? How do I learn to control something that’s so strong?” That is stronger than I am by far, he thought.

Tamu gazed at him with compassion. “I expect you’ll work it out,” he said. “Like learning to read in a new language. The fundamentals will be the same as those you know already. Once you learn the alphabet and grammar, the meaning will take shape.”

“You think so?”

“I hope so,” answered Tamu gravely, “because you need to learn it fast.”