A Circle of Celebrations: The Complete Edition (11 page)

I,
the voice said.
I would please you.
The warm touch brushed her hand again and encircled her wrist with a lover’s touch.

Vinory started, afraid. Samon
was
still here, and not only was he tied to this place, he was now tied to her as well! Abandoning bowl, loaf, and hunger, Vinory rushed out into the sunshine.

At least the ghost didn’t follow her beyond the walls. She ran down the hill toward the fields where all the able-bodied villagers were helping to bring in the hay. The good folk greeted her gladly, offering her bread, cheese, and meat from their own breakfasts. She accepted only enough to keep her from getting lightheaded.

“Now you’re here, will you bless the coming harvest, lady?” the blacksmith said, leaning heavily on his scythe. He swept a hand around to show her a valley filled with dusty gold and dark green. Poppies of that astonishing red clustered at the edge of the cropline.

“How hard you have worked,” Vinory said, sincerely. The villagers straightened up with pride. “Of course I will give the blessing. The gods have been good to this place. It will be a bountiful year. I need a handful of each of the young produce.” Two boys ran off and came back with handfuls of grain, fruit, and tiny, perfect vegetables. Vinory exclaimed over their beauty. “Good. And now I … I need wine, salt, a small bowl, and a crust.”

There were a few odd glances exchanged, and one or two people looked up the hill at her cottage, only a few hundred yards away. Vinory was ashamed to admit she was afraid to go back for her basket, so she waited and smiled politely until somebody gathered the components of the harvest prayer for her. At least her knife was in her belt.

Beckoning the workers together, Vinory sprinkled salt in a circle around them, then advanced to the sunrise side with the wine and bread. The headman, who had witnessed many a harvest rite, came forward with a large, flat stone, which he set down at her feet. Chanting the ritual words, Vinory poured the wine into the bowl and crumbled the bread into it. She held the bowl to the sky, and let the Veil open ever so slightly.

The powers of nature were formidable, but most folk saw only the merest wisp of that influence. It was only during rituals and festivals that they had the opportunity to see what Vinory and the mage-kind saw every day. The headman and his villagers were agog as a mouth opened in the sky and drew the wine and bread up to it in a garnet stream. A beam of light issued down on Vinory and her makeshift altar. The offering was acceptable. Now she filled the bowl with the fruits of the harvest. As she continued her chat of praise and entreaty, the golden light covered the bowl. In a blinding flash, the offering was gone. The light faded into Vinory, leaving her glowing in front of the stone, ponderous with the weight of godhead. She was silent for a long time. The villagers waited respectfully until she spoke.

“The gods hear us, and they are pleased,” she said, feeling both god and goddess resounding in her chest and brain. “Blessed be this place and these people. The work that they do shall prosper.”

The villagers muttered, “thanksgiving,” and Vinory ended the ritual by touching the point of her knife down to the flat stone, earthing the gods’ power as a symbol of the unity of the planes. When she broke the circle, she drew a little of the godhead into herself to protect her as she walked back up the hill to the cottage. It was hers now. She had earned it. No ghost would dare to keep her from it.

The bread on the table was stale now, and her broth was gone from the bowl. The cat must have lapped it up as soon as it cooled. Vinory’s movements were abrupt as she prepared another meal to restore her after the drain of rending the Veil.

The spirit presence was immediately at her elbow, offering concern. She pushed away at it with her thoughts, trying to find some peace to think. The spirit kept trying to get her attention.

“Leave off!” she said, irritably. “You’re worse than the cat.” It drew back perceptibly, hovering near the book chest. Vinory ate her meal and took a little rest on the bed with her back propped up against the wool-stuffed pillow. The presence stayed at a distance from her, but she could still feel its regard.

“What do you want?” she demanded at last. Protected by the fragment of light, she let her consciousness open up to the presence. Immediately a sensation of need flowed over her. Vinory raised the godhead as a shield, and the presence withdrew a little. It continued to broadcast to her its feelings: pain, fear, frustration, and despair.

“You are trapped here,” she said. “That I had already guessed. But what do you want of me?”

Her soul was suddenly flying, feeling wings stretching out to either side of her, feeling the air cupped beneath them as strong as a hill. Terrified, Vinory threw up her shield and cowered behind it. The sensation stopped at once. The spirit sent contrition, and she glared in its direction.

“You wish to be free,” she said.

Beside her on the bed, another daffodil appeared, fresh and golden yellow. Vinory reached for it, but her fingers stopped halfway. She could sense the spirit’s anticipation, but she was afraid.

There were spells to free spirits of the dead who had become trapped in a place. But she did not dare to try one of them without knowing how it was Samon met his end. Could his fate drag her along with it? Neither the headman nor her neighbors had mentioned anything haunting this cottage before her arrival. She, the mageborn, must have reawakened him. Now he radiated hope towards her.

“Go away,” she said, leaving the flower untouched on the blanket. “I must think.”

Ignoring the desperation she felt at the perimeter of her consciousness, she drew up wards of protection that she wore all day.

O O O

“Oh, yes,” the blacksmith said, scooping polishing sand into a cloth for her. “Master Samon demanded the best from us, but he gave champion service. Saved my cow when she was in calf with twins. Told me his price was I owed him ironwork for a year after that. I saved no money. He had gauged exactly how long it would take me to pay off two more bullocks. Ah, well,” he said, twisting the corners of the cloth into a knot, “fair measure’s fair, after all.”

“What about the child he left?” Vinory asked, tucking the parcel into her basket. The blacksmith put his own interpretation upon her question.

“She’s all right. Shows no sign of acting like one of the mage—like one of your good folk, lady. Just eight months old, she is. The girl was much too young when he picked her to dance the spring goddess with him, just into womanhood, but she’s turned out a good mother for all that. She’s wed to my son, now.”

O O O

Fair and foul,
Vinory thought, as she lay abed that night. The spirit offered caresses and favors, but she kept him firmly at arm’s length.
Every one of the folk here have a story to tell about him. He’s trustworthy. He’s not. He’s generous. He’s mean. I don’t know what to believe. And none knew how he died.

O O O

“He was kind, mistress,” the girl said. The house was small but very tidy. In a corner, a baby slept. Vinory glanced at it and noted the dark eyelashes and hair, unlike its mother, who had hair red as a fox’s fur. “He was good to me, so kind and gentle-like. The husband he got for me isn’t nearly as … nice to be with. Though he tries.” She gave a helpless shrug, and a shy smile.

The girl lifted her sleeping infant for Vinory to bless. Halfway through the incantation the child woke, and watched her with eyes far too wise for its age. They reminded her of the sunflower.

O O O

Over the following days, the spirit of Samon kept up its wooing. Every time she sat down, it was at her elbow. It stood at the end of her bed at night, and attended her at table like a servitor. She began to find its constant company oppressive.

“I can never be alone with my thoughts while you’re here,” she complained to the invisible presence. It had grown stronger and more distinct as the moon waxed. Tonight the moon was nearly full. She could almost imagine she could hear Samon speak from the other side of the Veil. She shooed him away so she could think.

Vinory had now been in Twin Streams two weeks. In another two it would be Lammas. She began to think of the harvest festival. It would be nice to have a strong male to play the corn king in the reaping dance. Vinory had studied all the available men, and confessed herself disappointed. The only really attractive man of exactly the right age, Robi the tanner, had a jealous wife whom it would be bad to cross. The blacksmith looked likely, too, though he was very heavy-handed. Vinory was speculating idly on the identity of her partner, because it didn’t matter whom she liked. The goddess would choose for herself when she possessed Vinory’s body. Luckily there was no such stigma on a young man as there was on a young woman joining the sacred dance. If he could perform, he was old enough.

“I could dance the autumn and the spring with you, if you set me free,” the spirit told her that night in her dreams. Vinory felt the warm touch of a man’s body against hers, strong muscle, questing hands. She squirmed against the caresses, enjoying them. She brushed against a smooth swell of muscle, which shouted, “Yow!” Vinory’s eyes fluttered open to see the cat scooting across the floor between her and the fire, tail lashing furiously.

I’m just dreaming about the dance because I was thinking about it today,
she told herself.
Because I’m lonely.

When Vinory settled back to sleep, she forgot again to raise her wards. A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man came to her and showed her visions of the times he’d led the dance. He was graceful and slim-legged, with broad shoulders and narrow, strong hands that he used to lead his partner to and fro in the complicated patterns. Vinory felt herself tapping her feet, wishing she could join in. It looked so tempting. The man paused within arm’s reach of her. She called him by name.

“Samon?”

He turned as if to answer, stretching out a hand to her, his eyes agleam … Then she woke up, with the fitful light from a lantern in her eyes.

“Sorry to wake you, mistress,” said Tarili, the baker. “My wife’s baby’s coming. She needs you. The baby’s turned wrong.”

“I’ll come at once,” she said, groaning. Vinory roused herself, and let the dream fade from her mind as she gathered her medicines and paraphernalia. She could now feel the presence standing in the corner, disappointed.

O O O

When she returned after daybreak, exhausted, the spirit resumed its campaign to get her attention, hovering around her like a bee on a lilac bush.

“Oh, go away, Master Samon!” she groaned, half asleep already. “I’m too tired to argue with you.”

“That’s why I’m pushing you now,” he said, to her dreaming mind. “Wouldn’t you like to have someone to warm you? Winter is coming. You could have a babe of your own next summer.”

“I have a dozen babies! The villagers’ children are my responsibility. You must not tie me down.” She could see his face again, an inverted triangle of ivory, with those dark, long-lashed eyes. She was afraid even in her dreams, but tempted. Samon was very strong-willed. And handsome.

When she woke several hours later, she was refreshed, and also resolute. Samon was dead. She, Vinory, must stay alive and clear her mind. That meant banishing the spirit who continued to trouble her.

She felt panic. But knew it at once it wasn’t her own.

“If you won’t, or can’t, go on your own, then I must help you along,” Vinory said, brutally. “It’s only logical, Master Samon.”

The presence sought to get between her and the book chest, but she just walked through him, ignoring the psychic shock she got from the contact.

She had seen a spell for setting free a trapped spirit in one of the handsomely made volumes that Samon had scribed for himself. Vinory thumbed through the books until she came to the one she remembered. It was a harsh enchantment. The rebound of the working would be hard on her, Vinory knew, but she would be rid of this nettlesome presence who awoke all sorts of feelings in her that she had no time for. She had what components were needed at hand. The text said the working must be done on Lammas Night. After that, he would be free, and so would she. She felt lucky that she had not come after Lammas. Otherwise, it would be a whole year before she could send him away.

The spirit’s panic was stronger than ever. Then, as she watched, the very pages of the tome turned over one by one, past the banishment spell, to another text. Vinory bent her head to read.

It was almost the same as the first, ridding a place of a troublesome spirit—but by locking it again into human form. The difference between the two spells was only a single word. She looked up involuntarily, as if Samon was sitting there across from her.

“You want me to re-embody you?” she asked. Feelings of joy and hope washed over her, then retreated at once, lest she chide him again for overwhelming her consciousness.

I could do it,
Vinory thought, rereading the text.
But do I want to? Samon has had his life—he’s led it! But was his work done? Do I dare to make that decision, for or against? I serve Nature. But do I want so strong a man to push me out of my place just before the weather begins to turn?

Perhaps, she was not as young as once she was; the thought of sleeping in cold caves and under the brush at waysides now bothered her.
You’re getting soft,
she told herself.
You’re becoming too earthbound.

I was not earthbound enough,
the presence felt at her.
I lost my hold. It was too soon. Help me! It is my will.

She read the spells again, both of them, hoping for clues to what she should do. The spells lacked reference to the high gods, and took part of her as well as of the one who sought reinstatement in life. Were these evil spells? Would she imperil her soul by performing one or the other? And yet, she had to do something, or the dead mage would drive her insane with his fretting and pleading. Either banish or restore, but she must do one of them, no matter what it cost her. To harvest one must sacrifice, so the Lammas rite went. But did she want this harvest? A mage who was neither good nor evil, and yet neither dead nor alive. And yet, he was a living being, deserving of her aid.