Elementals small magick, p.13
Elementals: Small Magick, page 13
The least common—indeed, the author had never encountered such a mage and could not be certain that they did in fact exist—was the Leech. It was widely believed that a Leech maintained or increased his or her own level of magick by consuming the Power of other mages. Should the victim perish in the transfer of Power, it was rumored that the Leech would also absorb the accumulated knowledge of his victim, thus increasing the Leech’s abilities as well as his Power.
Drey sat and thought about this. Her aunt and Gran had tried to teach her to be a Shaper. She had actually managed it on a small scale when she almost lit the candle in her cottage. She had done it on a large scale when she finally managed to heal Betsy.
Was Kelsh a Maker? He’d assumed she was, teaching her the restoration exercises, which raised the likelihood that he was one as well. Was it possible that Shapers in general were women and that Makers were men? Such a division would explain why Kelsh was familiar with more efficient methods to tap into internal sources of magick.
Under his instruction she had found that the source of her Power lay within her. If she had managed a little bit of both generating her own Power and gathering it from around her, did that make her a mage unlike any other?
She realized she could easily satisfy her curiosity about the source of Kelsh’s Power. Closing her eyes, she spread out her senses and searched the workroom for ambient magick.
The place teemed with it. Glittering strands lay piled beneath the benches, heaped in the corners and filled the shelves.
Kelsh had to be a Maker. He’d been shedding Power the whole time he’d worked here and so had his guests. There was enough lying about to fuel his work for months, if not years. He could not possibly be a Shaper.
Was it possible for him to detect the ambient magick without being able to use it? Could she avail herself of the ready supply here in his workroom? Would he notice if she did? There were too many unanswered questions. She couldn’t risk it.
She searched the rest of the scroll for any hint of a hybrid, one who had both Maker and Shaper abilities, and found nothing at all. There were no hints that such a mage could exist but no mention of it being impossible.
Chapter Twelve
Was that something she could ask Kelsh?
No, she decided, to ask would be to reveal her clandestine studies. He might send her away and, if that happened, she’d never learn the extent of her Power or to completely control it.
Her days settled into an uneasy rhythm of study or translation and progressively more difficult exercises that taught her to tap into and control her inner magick. At night she experimented with locating ambient magick around the head of the river.
A gentle breeze often accompanied her on her walks outside Kelsh’s property. She would wander along the banks of the river, in the evening or the early morning, while the wind toyed with her hair and ruffled her hem. Often she’d play her silver pipes and relive the time she’d spent with Cyrus.
One night she felt her hair lift in the breeze as soon as she stepped across the bridge. The wind rose and stayed with her. Leaves rustled softly all around in the waning light. She sat on the bank of the large stream, above the fork where it became a river. Pulling her silver pipes out, she began to play.
As she played, the wind toyed with her hem. Sending out her mage senses, she determined that no mortals lingered in the area. Hiking her skirts up to her knees, she lay back on the soft grass. The notes from her pipes flowed up and out. The leaves trembled with their passing. Bathed in the soft breeze, she lay there for more than an hour, until full dark, playing her favorite tunes and thinking of Cyrus.
In her evenings spent walking around the river, she never thought she heard whispers of love as she had the day she’d sent him back but she couldn’t be sure the wind wasn’t him. In learning to develop her Power and control it, she felt she just might be treading the path to seeing him again someday, clothed in mortal flesh. The thought that she might someday be strong enough to again summon and bind him for a night fueled her late-night studies and exercises.
Her nocturnal ramblings ceased the night she read another shining scroll, one that spoke of how mages could perceive the activity and presence of other mages. She began to practice determining where Kelsh was and what he was doing and then, fearing discovery of her covert lessons, she stopped them altogether.
More visitors came and went, some lords in fine fur-trimmed garments with colored plumes in their caps, others threadbare scholars with whom Kelsh conferred late into the night. Drey was introduced to few of them. Most often he retrieved some scrolls or jars from the work shed and carried them to his great room, where he entertained his guests and carried out his own studies.
Several of them stuck in her mind. Once she caught a glimpse of naked fear on Kelsh’s face as an imposing lord in fine clothing rode up with a score of guards. The man stayed for three days and Kelsh spent the whole time berating his guards and Drey. During that time, they could do nothing fast enough to suit him. She spent the whole three days in the kitchen, working alongside Rose to feed all the extra men.
Another time she was summoned to translate a scrap of ancient parchment, one that made her skin crawl just to touch it. That visitor was a stooped and gnarled old woman, with dark skin and an explosive laugh. Despite her advanced age, she came and left on foot and alone. Drey wondered what unseen protection she might have, for no one who traveled the roads alone could be confident of reaching their destination.
She never saw the other visitor, for one of the guards met her in the hall, snatching the tray from her hands and closing the door in her face. She only heard a mumbled part of their conversation when Kelsh said, “She’s perfect for me and growing stronger every day.” She had the uncomfortable feeling that he spoke of her.
And she was growing stronger every day. She could now light the hearth with a look, shield her presence from the rest of the household when she wanted no one to notice her, and calm animals, even the wild hart and the hedgehogs, enough to let her do what she wished with them. That skill would serve her well in healing, for livestock in the past had frequently resisted her ministrations.
Mayhap she could return home on the morrow.
Impatience gnawed at her to get back to her cottage and try gathering magick to shape it. The days stretched long in front of her and she dared only practice locating magick, not daring to touch it lest Kelsh know. She couldn’t quite say why she didn’t want him to learn of her independent studies and how quickly she was progressing on her own.
*
The next morning when she arrived in the kitchen, Rose sent her in to the cottage’s main room. There she found Kelsh sitting at the table, which was set with tea and scones.
“You have made great progress with your studies.” Kelsh gestured to a chair. “Sit, and hear my proposal.”
Was it time for the reckoning? She sat. Her appetite evaporated. What might he ask of her as payment for her training?
He poured tea into two mugs and gave her one. Cradling the other in both hands, he inhaled the steam as he settled back in his seat.
She sniffed at hers. Hyssop and blackberries. Mayhap a pinch of oranges. A sip confirmed her identification of the contents. The heat was welcome and the combination of flavors was delicious. Some of the tension inside her uncoiled. If her suspicions were correct, she was much stronger than he. Perhaps he wished her to teach him how she had healed Betsy.
“I won’t bother mincing words. When I took you on as my apprentice, you gave me my choice of payment. You have far exceeded my expectations. You know you’re a very strong mage. I believe a union of our talents would serve us both.”
Her thoughts raced. She sipped the tea while she examined his words from every angle. “Union? Do you mean to promote me from apprentice to partner?”
“Nay, I mean union as in ‘marry me,’ as in live and work with me for the rest of your life.”
She blurted out, “I don’t love you!”
His mouth fell open and he stared at her for a moment. “I forget how young you are and how sheltered your life has been. Love has little to do with marriage.” He stood. “I promise you, you will not be unsatisfied as my wife. I know how to please a woman—in many ways.”
She could imagine that. He was a handsome man, with his neatly trimmed beard, compact build and transforming smile—but he wasn’t Cyrus. She shook her head. “I cannot imagine marrying a man I don’t love.”
“You will come to love me, with time. I promise. Will you at least remain here for some time, no longer as an apprentice but as my partner, to see how we might fare together? I’d like the chance to change your mind.” He watched her face closely. “I will not ask you to share my bed, not until you choose to.”
“Then the thing you ask from me as payment for my training is the opportunity to woo me?”
He grinned. “When you put it that way, it does sound odd but aye, that is my request.”
“For how long? I still have my own cottage to look after and my own responsibilities.”
“Let me think.” He clasped his hands and steepled his fingers, placing the tips of his fingers under his chin. “I believe six moons should be sufficient time for me to woo you.”
“I must spend at least one week each month at my home.”
“That is reasonable.”
“No later than the winter solstice, I am free to leave and you will consider my debt to you discharged?”
“Done.”
She could taste her relief. The fears Cyrus had harbored were unfounded. “Under those conditions, I agree.”
The rest of the day passed as if nothing had changed, as if their conversation of marriage had never taken place.
She spent the morning translating more texts. In the afternoon she hunted wild herbs, taking along Merv and his shovel.
Past the head of the river, she realized she had roamed almost to the hidden grove where Cyrus had danced with her. She turned her steps aside. That place was special, not to be shared lightly and certainly not to be shared with the stolid, grubby and very mortal Merv.
As they made their way along one of the brooks that fed the river, she found a stand of ferns sheltering a tiny clump of delicate flowers she’d never seen before. When she crushed the stem between her fingers, the plant released a pleasing aroma. She was free to bring back whatever she wished and she wanted to examine this one. Directing Merv to collect enough to transplant, she wandered ahead along the faint path, looking for willow bark to gather.
At the stream, the trees parted to let the sun through. Rocks dotted the surface, imparting a merry chuckle to the water as it rushed over them. Drey pulled up her hem and sat on the bank. Pulling out her pipes, she began to play a lively jig.
As happened the first time, the sounds around her stilled. A wren flitted onto a branch across the stream and sat silently, watching and listening, tail cocked up. Two small trout in a pool ceased fighting and turned to face her.
Air flowed through the bushes around her, flirting with her hair, teasing it from her plait. Her heart leapt within her.
She knew that touch.
Turning her face to the breeze, she almost wept when it freshened, rising to tug at her garments. Her hem twitched this way and that, until she shifted position. Her freed hem rose with the wind, coming to settle about her hips. As the cool caress swept over her bared skin, she parted her knees. Gust after gust stirred her nether curls. In her mind, she could again feel Cyrus as he stroked her, gently parting her lips to delve inside. She remembered his words when they first met. I liked this place best of all.
It was tantalizing, this almost-touch, so much that she felt wet heat building within her, and desire. Beneath the linen of her chemise, her nipples hardened.
An errant current brushed a strand of her hair across her cheek. She found the breath of air so different, yet so familiar. A firm breeze shook the bushes about her. A leaf stroked the tender curve of her neck, sending a ripple of gooseflesh across her skin.
Hunger bloomed in her belly, a craving for the fulfillment she’d found so many times in his arms. She spread her legs further. The tension within her built, fanned by the light touch feathering across her most sensitive places.
Without her volition, the tone of the music changed. The notes took on a soaring, sensual quality. Her breath came faster, each rise and fall of her chest rubbing her pebbled nipples against her garments. The weight of her breasts increased, along with her desire. If only Cyrus were here now, in his mortal form!
Uncomfortable with the tension gathering in her belly, she shifted position again and a tall clump of grass sprang free from beneath her skirt. The wind seized upon it, twirling the supple leaves this way and that in a sinuous dance.
While she watched, her fingers still dancing on her pipes, the wind bent the grass, to brush across her bared thighs and trail down her cleft. She fought the urge to jerk her hips. A tremor ran through her. The wind gusted again and a firmer touch stroked the leaves more deeply through her curls. Lightning trailed in its wake. Another rush of air plucked at her curls, a surge that cooled some of the building heat. The contrast in temperatures made her sigh into the pipes. The note came out in a gliding trill.
Again the grass caressed her and again she trembled with the force of the storm gathering inside her. She played mindlessly, not knowing or caring whether the notes followed a tune. Her awareness contracted until her world consisted of the stroking grass and nothing more. She lost the fight and her hips rose to meet each touch.
A light slap of the leaves sent her over the edge. Lightning sizzled from her toes up her spine, engulfing her again and again. She played on as she rode out the storm, soaring from peak to peak as the breeze flowed across her.
Finally she had to stop to catch her breath. When the pipes left her lips, the wind dropped. The wren flew off and other birds began to sing. She sat up and straightened her clothes.
When Merv called out to her, she rose on unsteady legs. As she turned to leave the brook, she thought she heard a whispered, “Thank you.”
Her heart contracted as she whispered, “No, thank you.”
Leaves rustled above her and a flower fell into her hand, releasing a lovely perfume. She knew the blossom came from Cyrus and had to blink hard to keep from weeping.
In her heart, she knew the truth. Kelsh did not have a hope of winning her.
Chapter Thirteen
She almost sang herself to sleep. The situation she found herself in was not as dire as she had feared.
Cyrus had not deserted her. She knew he loved her still, wherever he might roam and in whatever form. The price Kelsh had asked for training her was not as steep as she had feared. She had no illusions, however, that she might accept his offer and marry him. She would simply work here for the next six months and then return home to her cottage.
When her eyes drifted closed, she settled into the blanket on her pallet and slept.
She dreamed of lovely women, dancing in a moonlit meadow to soft music. They sang along with the tune, a song of Power and joy. A group of mages! Her toes and fingers twitched with the lilting beat. She longed to join them.
Just as she began to move her feet, she noticed a dark, cloaked figure approach on the other side of the meadow. He joined the dance, drawing the nearest woman into his embrace. They executed a few steps together. As the music slowed, she bowed backward over his arm and he bent to kiss her. The kiss began as a mutual act but then she struggled in his arms, tugging at his cloak and beating on his shoulder. Her struggles grew less and less forceful until she relaxed into limp submission. After another moment or two, he cast her aside. She fell onto the grass from his careless grip and he went on to the next dancer.
Drey looked carefully and decided the first woman was sleeping. To her horror, she looked again and realized, from the mage’s unnatural pose and pale skin, that she was dead. Drey slipped backward, further into the concealing shadows.
The cloaked man by then had discarded the second dancer and was busy draining the life from a third. One by one, he worked his way across the meadow, emptying the mages, one by one, stealing their Power—and their lives.
The words she’d read in the scroll came back to her. Beware the Leech.
She tried to move her feet, to run, but they betrayed her, carrying her forward instead into the moonlight, straight to the Leech, who had finished killing the last of the dancers.
He held out a hand, beckoning her into his dance of death. She tried to resist but the haunting music swelled, surrounded her and pulled her forward. She held out her hand and, when he took it, his hood fell back.
She stared into Kelsh’s face. His eyes bored into hers. He smiled his charming smile, saying, “You promised me anything I wish. I wish your Power to be mine.” Her heart racked her frame with its pounding as his hand tightened its grip. “We made a bargain.” He pulled her into his arms and whirled across the meadow with her.
His smile disappeared. His face changed. She now looked into the face of an ancient man, wrinkled and toothless. His eyes were gaping holes through which she could see his dark, shriveled soul.
He bent to kiss her. She found the strength to turn her face aside and his thin lips came to rest under her ear. She shivered at the whisper of sound, almost the rustle of parchment as he moved across her skin, before he forced her head around. She felt his lips cover hers. His fingers pressed into her jaw, pulling her mouth open. His tongue swept inside.
The only resistance left to her was to not breathe. She held her breath until she couldn’t any longer. He eagerly inhaled her Power as she let her breath out.
The wind picked up around them and the wraiths from her previous nightmare appeared, howling, first in wordless agony, then pleading, “Come to us, help us, avenge us.”
