Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden) Page 9

  “So I have always been taught,” Lute said carefully, while Moonhawk opened herself to the other woman’s self and scanned each nuance of emotion.

  Distress, she found, but no disorder such as madness might generate. She glanced at Lute and saw he had reached the same conclusion.

  “Before aid can be bestowed, we must be aware of the nature of the problem,” he told the woman gently.

  “Yes, certainly!” she cried, and gave a breathless little laugh, though Moonhawk detected no joy in the sound.

  “It is my daughter,” she said again. “Three days together she has been gone. Her sister would have it that she is only about some madcap scheme and will return when it occurs to her, but she is not like that! Wild she may be, and heedless of manner, but her heart is good. To worry me so—and she must know that I would worry! No, I cannot believe her so cruel. She must have fallen aside of danger—she may even now be lying in some rock-catch, broken-legged and hoarse from calling… “Her voice faltered and Lute stepped expertly into the small silence.

  “Lady, I am distressed to hear of your trouble. But surely this is a matter for those of the village, who are familiar with the country roundabout and who will know where best to search.”

  “They have searched,” she said, suddenly listless. “They say—they say she must only have gone off with a lover and will return, in a day or six. They say, no one could stay hidden so long, from all the wilder-wise.” She bent her head. “They say, unless she is dead.”

  “Goddess forefend,” murmured Lute devoutly. Moonhawk slanted him a slicing look, which he disarmed merely by refusing to meet her eyes. He kept a grave face turned toward the woman. “But this other—that she is gone with a lover to celebrate the Goddess’ best joy—is that not possible?”

  “With her own betrothed sitting at my hearth, wringing his hands and wondering what is come of her? I say again. Master Magician, she is not a cruel girl.”

  “Ah.” Lute did glance at Moonhawk then, eyes explicitly neutral, then looked back at the grieving mother. “What is it you think I may do for you, Lady?”

  “Find her!” she cried, and made as if to clutch his hand again, a move he adroitly avoided. “You have magic… power… the sight… In the name of the Goddess, Master Magician! In the name of she who bore you! My child must be found. My child—” She gasped, bent her head and struck her breast three times, slowly, with a shaking fist.

  Lute cleared his throat. “Alas,” he said, face and voice betraying nothing but the utmost sincerity, and perhaps a shade of sorrow. “There is magic and there is magic. I have no ability to find what is lost—”

  “But I have,” Moonhawk said abruptly, and lay her hand briefly upon the woman’s head, feeling the warmth of the unraveling hair beneath her palm. “Peace on you, Sister,” she said “in traditional benediction. She took her hand away and met the woman’s incredulous stare with firm coolness.

  “You are—Sing thanks to the Goddess! You are of the Circle?” The woman’s eyes shone with tears, with transcendent hope. “A priestess?”

  “I am Moonhawk,” she said austerely. “Witch, Healer and Seer. I may find that which is lost, by the grace of our Lady.” She glanced aside, saw Lute watching her intently; returned her gaze to the woman. “There are certain items I require, in order to search most efficiently.”

  “Certainly!” The woman cried. “Certainly—and you shall have them! You shall come—both of you shall come!—to my house, sup with us, sleep, you may have all I have. Only find her, Lady Moonhawk! Find my child.”

  “I shall try,” said Moonhawk and felt a sudden chill.

  * * *

  THE WOMAN’S NAME was Aster and her house was a large one, set just above the village, with two goats In the front yard and a hen house in back. Taelberry twined up an arbor by the door, the heavy purple blossoms silking the air with fragrance.

  “Here we are,” said Aster, leading them to the flower-hung porch and working the latch, “Lady Moonhawk, Master Lute—please be welcome in my home.”

  “Peace on this house,” Moonhawk returned in proper ritual.

  “Joy to all who live here,” Lute said sweetly, bowing his head in respect before stepping over the threshold.

  Moonhawk followed, then the host, into a kitchen smelling of new bread and warm spices. By the hearth stood a slim and well-made young man, dejectedly stirring the stew pot. From another portion of the room hurried a girl: brown hair neatly done into a knot at her neck, sturdy hands drying themselves briskly on a clean white apron.

  “What’s this?” she cried, her eye full of two tall, ragged strangers; then she spied Aster. “Mother? You said nothing of guests—”

  “I said I was gone to fetch the magician from the village, if he was still there and looked kindly on my case,” said Aster sharply. “As it happens, he did, but could do nothing for me. However, his traveling companion has skill in finding what is lost and she has consented to help.”

  “Traveling—?” Again, those quick brown eyes counted Lute and Moonhawk, flashed back to the older woman’s face. “You bring us a pair of gypsies to guest?”

  “Even not, gracious lady!” cried Lute. “For gypsies have the foresight to bring their houses with them, where I am so dimwitted as to have no house at all!”

  “And so we ask travel-grace,” added Moonhawk, in her deep, level voice, “from charitable homes along the way."

  The boy at the cauldron laughed once, a sharp-edged sound carrying more scorn than merriment. “Bested, Senna,” he called out. “Make welcome before they eat you alive.”

  “Wrong also, young sir,” Lute said dulcetly. “For what person of dignity will stay in a house where welcome is not a gift?”

  “As it is here,” cried Aster, bustling forward, “most sincerely! Senna! Cedar! Your manners want brushing! Bow to Lady Moonhawk, Witch of Dyan Temple, and to Master Lute the magician! Lady, Master—my eldest daughter, Senna; and—and Cedar, who is betrothed to my youngest—to Tael…” She caught her breath hard, then straightened and clapped her hands together.

  “Quickly now, children! Senna, show the Lady and Master to the guesting room. Cedar, take hot water to fill the basins. Give them houserobes, Senna; and put their things to wash. I will be along in a moment with wine and a bit of cheese, to help you through till dinner…”

  So directed, the two young things obeyed with startling will, and it was not too long before Lute was reclining shamelessly among a mountain of pillows, wineglass in hand, dressed in a houserobe of rich vermilion wool.

  “Much better than eggs,” he announced with satisfaction, and took a deep draught of wine.

  Moonhawk looked over from the table at which she was combing her hair and paused, comb arrested. Lute glanced up, eyebrow quirking. “Yes?”

  She recovered herself, finished the stroke and began another. “It is only that you look very nearly respectable, dressed so.”

  His eyes gleamed and he brought his glass up to drink.

  “Who is he, Zinna?” demanded a girlish falsetto from across the room. “What do you mean who? That handsome fellow in the red gown, of course! Do you suppose he’s a wealthy merchant? Perhaps a noblewoman’s son…”

  Moonhawk laughed, conquering the urge to turn and stare at the girl she knew was not there, put the comb down, picked up her glass and moved over to the pillows. “I didn’t say handsome,” she protested. “I said respectable.”

  “My hopes dashed,” he sighed, face reflecting unsurpassed sorrow. He assayed the glass, slanted his eyes at her face. “Perhaps I’ll have a try for the eldest daughter. This will be hers someday, after all, and with a few manners I’m certain she’d be quite tolerable.”

  “A mannerly woman is very important, “Moonhawk agreed with false gravity and he inclined his head.

  “Present company excluded, certainly.”

  She froze on the edge of hurling the contents of her glass into his gaunt brown face; sighed and shook her head.

  “Alwa
ys one step before me, Master Lute,” she said, with equally false softness.

  He tasted his wine. “Hardly that. At the most, half-a-step ahead and half-a-step to a side.” He leaned forward suddenly; surprisingly extended a hand. “Come, cry friends! I swear I hadn’t meant it to sting so sharply!”

  Carefully, she put her hand in his, felt his fingers exert brief, warm pressure and then withdraw, leaving something light and cool in her palm. She cupped her hand and turned it over, revealing a tael-blossom.

  “Named for the berry that gives the good wine,” murmured Lute. “Heedless, but not cruel. And the elder sister’s a shrew.”

  Moonhawk glanced up. “You think she left with forethought—and intent?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps they argued—the shrew and the heedless one—or perhaps love’s veil was somehow shredded and she saw that dull young fellow for the boor he is.”

  “Quick judgments, Master Lute,” she chided him. “You were with them for less than a quarter-glass.”

  “It’s my business to make quick judgments,” he said, unperturbed. “Magic must be good for something, after all.” He waved a hand at the hourglass, now three-quarters done. “We shall soon have the opportunity to make less hurried appraisals. And then you will do your magic.”

  “Then I will ask the assistance of the Goddess in the pursuit of truth,” Moonhawk corrected austerely, and he sighed.

  * * *

  “I WILL REQUIRE a new candle,” Moonhawk told Aster; “a length of string or thin rope and something that belongs to Tael—preferably something she often had about her.”

  “At once,” said Aster, face glowing with the half-sick hope that had filled her all through the meal, so that she pushed her food around the bowl and shredded the good, warm bread into untasted crumbs. She turned to her eldest, who was hovering with Cedar by the fire. “Senna. Bring Lady Moonhawk what she requires.”

  “Yes, mother,” the girl said quickly enough, though her mouth was turned down with ill temper. She bustled out and returned with a new candle in a wooden holder, a cord of fine white wool, a bright blue cloak and a string of pierced beads. She placed them, one by careful one, on the table, saw Moonhawk’s eye on the cloak and faltered, a blush warming her cheeks.

  “I know some feel it is sacrilege, Lady Moonhawk, for one of the world to wear Circle blue. But Tael loved the color. She spun the thread, wove the cloth, dyed it in taelberry juice, fashioned the cloak—all with her own hands. Being so, I thought it might aid you. This…” her fingers caressed the beaded necklace.

  “Is my troth gift to her,” Cedar finished harshly, and laughed, “which she hardly wore.”

  “Still,” said Aster, “it must have meant a great deal! Perhaps fear of losing it—”

  “Yes, of course!” he said bitterly. “But the truth is that she would rather wear that length of leather and that stupid bit of wood—” He caught himself, folded his lips and made an awkward bow. “Your pardon, housemother; my concern and grief make me short of temper.”

  “I see that it does,” Aster replied, “but in just a few moments, Lady Moonhawk will find her and—”

  “I also require, “Moonhawk interrupted, “quiet. You may repair to the parlor. I will call as soon as I have found what there is to find.” She looked hard at Aster. “Remember, this lies with the Goddess, not with mere mortal hope."

  The older woman bowed her head, hand rising to touch her breast. “We abide by the will of the Goddess,” she said devoutly. She beckoned the others with a sweep of her hand. “Come.”

  Moonhawk bent to arrange the items upon the table: Candle to the north, string coiled before her, one end tied securely about the trothing gift. The cloak she considered for a long moment before laying it about her own shoulders and twisting the brooch closed.

  “You may leave also,” she said, without turning her head to look at Lute, leaning silent against the mantle.

  “Ungracious, Lady Moonhawk!” he returned. “You watch my magic, after all. Fair trade is fair trade.”

  She did look at him then, for the fine voice carried an undercurrent of what—had it not been Lute—she would have identified as worry. “I have done this before” she said, wishing it didn’t sound quite so tart. “It’s a very simple spell.”

  “Nothing can go wrong,” he agreed pleasantly, then brought a fingertip to his lips. “But here I am babbling when you require silence! Forgive me, Lady.” He sank soundlessly to the bench and folded his hands in his lap. “Silent as the dead, you find me. My master insisted upon the same condition when he was working, so neither of us is novice at our task.”

  Far more distracting to argue with him than to acquiesce; which she did with a tip of the head. She then ignored him, closing her eyes and offering the prayers that would ready her for the work.

  Lute bent forward on his bench, foreboding like a chill handful of stone in his belly.

  Moonhawk’s breathing deepened; the lines smoothed out of her face, leaving it at once childlike and distantly cruel. She raised her left hand, eyes still closed, pointed a finger and lit the candle. She lowered the hand, laid it on the coil of twine and pulled in the necklace, holding it in her right hand.

  She opened her eyes.

  “By the grace, with the aid and in the Name of the Mother, I reach out to the one called Tael.” with a smooth flip of the wrist, she hurled the necklace far across the kitchen, paying out the twine until the beads hit the stone flooring with a rustling clink.

  “With the will of She who Is, I call Tael to me.” Moonhawk intoned, and began, slowly, to pull in the cord.

  It came easily at first, sliding over the stones with a half-audible murmur. But midway to the table the cord faltered in its smooth passage through Moonhawk’s fingers, picked up—and faltered again.

  Lute craned forward, gravel-dread gone to ice in his gut, saw the necklace move jerkily into the circle of light cast by the candle—and stop altogether.

  The Witch continued to work the cord, taking up the slack, then tightening the drag, until it stretched taut against the necklace, which moved no more, but lay as if welded to the floor.

  He looked back, saw Moonhawk’s eyes closed and sweat on her face, the cord taut as a lute-string between her hand and the troth-gift, quivering and giving off a faint, smoky luminescence.

  The ice in his belly sent a shaft lancing upward into his chest and he came off the bench in a silent rush, meaning to shake her, to pull away the cord, even to shout—

  The beads shifted against the floor with a sound like sobbing, and, obedient at last, hurtled through the air to land with a clatter upon the table top, half-an-inch from the Witch’s long hand.

  Lute froze, staring at her face, willing her to open her eyes, to shake her hair back, extinguish the candle and put aside the blue cloak; to mock him, even, for his terrors—She sat, still and silent as death. Beside her, the candle flame flickered, and went out.

  Finally, he moved; relit the candle and set it so the light fell full on her face. It was then he saw that she was crying.

  “Moonhawk?” A cracking whisper; much unlike his usual manner. He reached forth a hand and touched her, lightly, on the shoulder. “Moonhawk.”

  She gasped and hurled back in her chair, lifting a warding hand, eyes wide now, and bright with terror.

  “Moonhawk!” He caught the uplifted hand, and nearly gasped himself at the coldness of her flesh.

  “Ah!” She cried and bent her head, making no effort to take her hand from his. Her breathing shuddered. “Gone,” she mourned. “All gone. Goodbye sun. Goodbye flowers. Goodbye love. Hello dark. Mother? Mother! Where is she? Why is there no rest, no sweet embrace and welcome home?”

  “Moonhawk!” He held tight to her, cupped her chin in his free hand-sacrilege, and worth a stoning, to touch the sacred body of a priestess without her aye—and forced her head up. Wide, unseeing eyes stared into his.

  “Moonhawk sleeps,” she said, still in that young, grief-sodden voice. “T
ael was called and Tael is here—and here will remain until right is done. “She put her hand up and gripped his wrist in cold, ice-cold, death-cold fingers.

  “Avenge me.”

  * * *

  THEY WERE GATHERED in a bright-lit parlor two steps down the hall from the kitchen: Mother, daughter and son-to-be, all with a bit of work to hand. The boy was mending a harness—competently, Lute noted with surprise; the shrew was setting tiny, precise stitches into a shirt. Aster sat with her work held lightly in her right hand, needle poised in her left—but she was not stitching. Her eyes dwelled dreamily upon the candle flame and she seemed lost to her surroundings.

  Nonetheless, it was she who looked up as Lute paused outside the room, and she who rose to greet him.

  “Master Lute. Is there—has Lady Moonhawk found my child?”

  He smiled, and bowed with professional grace, trying not to think of the mourning wraith he had left in the guesting-chamber, tucked among the pillows.

  “The Lady Moonhawk,” he intoned, “has wrought a very powerful spell. Your daughter has indeed been located and—Goddess willing—will be home tomorrow morning.”

  Joy lit Aster’s face. She clapped her hands and looked to where her eldest still sat, calmly stitching.

  “Senna, have you no ears? Did you not hear Master Lute say that your sister will be home tomorrow?”

  She glanced up, brown eyes hard as pebbles. “And did I not say she would be home when she had done with whatever madcap scheme she was chasing?” She bent her gaze once more to her stitching.

  “You would believe that some ill had come of her. Ill never comes to the likes of Tael, who laughs at everything.” She made a particularly violent jab at the fabric with her needle before concluding, half-whispered, “As she will be laughing at all of us, tomorrow.”

  “Senna—” her mother began, shock blighting the joy on her face.

  “Tomorrow?” That was the boy, rigid as a carving on the stool, harness forgotten in his hands. “If she’s close enough to be here tomorrow, why don’t we go and fetch her tonight?” He turned wild, glittering eyes on Aster. “You’d do better not to let your hopes rise, housemother! What do we know of this Lady Moonhawk, in truth? what word have we, except her own, that she is Circle-trained? Does she come to us properly clad—no! She comes like a ragged gypsy fortune-teller, bearing company with a—”