Changespell Legacy (44 page)

"We haven't been able to talk for nearly a month," Jaime said. "Maybe longer. I've lost track, between your calendar and mine. The point is, they know we're having trouble with magic. This could be a heads-up; it could be a test. It could be both. With any luck, in a few moments we'll know."

Cesna lifted her head slightly, a listening attitude. "Yes," she said. "Here it comes."

"Guides." Natt's soft voice took on a new kind of horror. "What's that kind of magic going to do to the area?"

"It's Dayna," Cesna said, her eyes big and hollow in the obtuse light of the candle she held. "The new Council said . . . that is, she's so careless with raw magic—"

Jaime wanted to protest, to tell them Dayna was hardly
careless
at all—she just employed that which they would not. But it didn't matter, because the end result would be the same. When the Council's message—the final dispatch message from
anyone
, as it turned out—came through warning them to avoid using magic in an affected area, and to avoid raw magic under any circumstances, they'd all immediately recalled Dayna's claim to have felt raw magic before the old Council died.

"We'll let her know," Jaime said firmly. "And we'll just have to hope—"
that the sudden burst of travel
magic doesn't cause a meltdown on the spot,
but she didn't finish the thought out loud.

She didn't need to. They all knew. And she didn't have the time, because the air inside the travel chamber rippled, an effect she'd never seen from this side of the spell. Rippled, wavered, and—somewhere between one blink and another—figures appeared within the ripples and quickly stabilized, a pond of matter recovering from disturbance, crowded into a space meant for one, maybe two . . . not four.

Four?

Those figures hardly seemed to be aware of their welcoming party—and Jaime hardly knew what to make of what she saw.
Carey's down, there's a stranger
— "Dayna!" she said, but Dayna only gave a sharp shake of her head, going to her knees where Carey struggled to rise, to say something—and failed.

The stranger spoke to Dayna, a few quick, hard words from a lowered head, and she came to her feet.

"We need a healer," she said, looking out at Jaime and barely acknowledging Natt and Cesna. "He should have stayed, the fool! The travel—" She scowled, targeting Cesna. "We need a healer
now
."

"Go," Natt murmured to Cesna. And to Dayna, a gesture at the stranger—a stranger in Mark's bold shirt and a pair of Camolen-cut pants—and a no-nonsense question. "Who's that?"

Dayna went back to Carey, tossing the answer over her shoulder. "Name's Wheeler. Came to abduct us, changed his mind. More or less. It's a long story and Carey's—" She closed her eyes, thinking, and Jaime abruptly knew she was hunting spells, hunting for something that might help—and that if she couldn't find one, she'd be just as likely to make it up on the spot with raw magic.

"No!" she cried, getting everyone's startled attention; Suliya's wide-eyed face, Wheeler's unsettling gaze, Dayna's blink of surprise. Carey lifted his head, his eyes glazed and unfocused; for the first time Jaime saw the blood.
Oh guides, that can't be good.
The blood, and the gurgle, and the blue tinge of his lips, the grey of his skin barely noticeable in the candlelight.

Natt closed in on them, coming down hard on the heels of Jaime's command. "No magic," he said. "No
raw
magic, Dayna."

"I knew that," Dayna said, surprisingly mild. She knelt by Carey. "But—"

"Dayna," Jaime said, "We're using
candles
for light."

She looked, showing the shock of it; they all did. Suliya's lip trembled slightly, and then she glanced away, to Carey—and then right through him, assessing a burden Jaime couldn't see.

"Those bastards," Wheeler said. "They said they'd do the right thing."

"What bastards?" Jaime asked. "No, wait—I don't care." She entered the crowded chamber, pushing in beside Dayna and crouching for a closer look at Carey, checking his torso, looking for a wound to cause the bright frothy blood she saw. "
This
is what I want to know—what happened?"

"Another long story. He should have
stayed
, dammit—Mark would have had him to a hospital by now—"

Suliya whispered, "He had to—Jess—you
know
he had to—"

On sudden impulse, Jaime leaned over and said, "She's here, Carey." Not saying where, or in what form, but— "She's here. She's well. She brought me your notes, and I told the peacekeepers."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good job," he said, almost soundlessly. Jaime stood, dragging Dayna up with her and right out of the booth.

"Jaime—!" Dayna yanked her arm away, rubbing it, hating to have her size so used against her.

"We're in trouble here, Dayna," Jaime said, her voice low and intense, welcoming Natt and his candle into the conversation with the slightest lift of her chin. "Real trouble. I wish you'd
all
stayed in Ohio, if you want to know, but Carey—"

"Even if we wanted to use magic, the spells aren't reliable," Natt said, not giving Dayna any time for protest. "Cesna's getting the healer, but she's stuck with physical remedies and the vaguest of healing spells, and you know damn well it won't be good enough for
this
." He gestured roughly toward the travel booth, more upset than he'd first seemed, and Jaime reminded herself that he and Carey had worked together with Arlen for some time now.

"We didn't know," Dayna said, her voice as low as Jaime's, the words coming out with difficulty. "We knew it was bad, but—"

"We've got a lot to catch up on," Jaime said. "I just wish I could send you right back, but there's no way.

For all I know that last shout of magic gave us a meltdown outside the front door, or even within the hold. We just
can't
. His only chance is to stop the meltdowns, and no one even knows what's causing them."

Dayna gave them a grimly triumphant little smile. "
We
do."

Lady browsed beside Ramble and Grunt, three horses moving slowly deeper into the woods with the leftover drizzle from the dawn rain dampening their coats and the giant splashes from disturbed branches soaking through to the skin. Ramble tolerated the gelding, disdainful, having been warned off more than once by Lady and leaving Grunt delighted to have friends and delighted to browse untied, as unknowingly fettered to his companions as to any tree.

Lady kept them close to where Arlen chewed—and chewed—some tough trail fruit leather. To judge by his expression, he enjoyed it no more than he enjoyed the rain; his shapeless floppy hat still drooped over his eyes, leaving her only a view of his bristly jaw. No more depilatory spells, and he'd run out of safety-spelled razor blades—or so he'd told her as he made brief and brisk toilet that morning, apparently in quite the habit of talking to anything that might perk an ear.

He was not meant for being on the trail, not as Lady was or even Lady-as-Jess. It had not suited him, for though he'd grown tougher, handling Grunt's saddle and pack equipment with ease, walking the uncertain footing with practiced resignation, judging trails and shortcuts and skirting small blots of destruction with efficient skill, he'd also lost weight, going from lean to thin in a way that showed even under his layers of clothing. Unlike Carey, who'd always found a meditative peace on the trails, Arlen wore a constant expression of longing, as though his mind were ever elsewhere. And though he maintained a cheerful dialogue with the horses, keeping his touch gentle and attentive when they interacted, Lady could well feel his underlying discontent.

If she'd been human, she might have rationalized it as the circumstances—the damage and danger all around them. But she was equine, so she simply recognized it for what it was.

Homesickness. Longing. A certain conflict of purpose with needs.

Things she felt herself. Felt and couldn't understand and dismissed . . . or tried to.

At that she realized she'd moved too deeply into the woods, with a tiny spot of corruption to the left of her and a larger spot just ahead, still as difficult to focus on as any of them had ever been. She snorted gently and reversed course, a deliberately thoughtful move that ever set her apart from other horses.

Lady, once touched by Jess, had never again been only a horse. No matter how desperately she'd tried, no matter how she'd depended on her time with Ramble to take her there.

And Lady, more than only a horse, knew well that the new scent of approaching strangers meant no good for Arlen. They were still out of sight but closing, separated slightly in course.
They meant to box
him in
— She called to him, strident and loud enough to startle Grunt and Ramble—both of whom knew of the strangers, neither of whom attached significance to their presence; they started slightly, rustling, and she glanced back with her ears flat, unable to hush them to silence.

Arlen hastily rewrapped what was left of his breakfast and shoved it into his coat pocket, glancing first at Lady—she called again, making sure he knew it was no coincidence—and then at the woods and trail.

He seemed to consider his gear, as though he wondered how fast he could slap it on Grunt's back and be away from here—but in the end he backed up against a tree in a posture that Lady well recognized.

He was taking a stand.

She'd fought beside Carey and Jaime, but never Arlen. She eased closer, watching him, her neck raised and arched, her prancing steps infused with the intent of a war mare ready to protect her own.

He stopped her with a gesture, and although her legs resented it, she made herself wait, backed by Ramble—ready to protect
her
if not Arlen—and Grunt, who watched them all with an innocent curiosity, moist greens drooping from the corner of his mouth. Lady bobbed her head, the only thing left for her to do, impatience in stark contrast to Arlen's quiet readiness.

The agents closing in on them cast aside their stealth. Two came from the woods and one from the trail, all reminding Lady of peacekeepers in their movement and attitude, even though one of the men carried a barrel stomach under his barrel chest and the other had plenty of grey in his hair and lines in his face. The woman, too, was stocky, filling out her muddy-colored lightweight jacket to the seams. All of them confident.

Lady did not underestimate them; the Jess within her provided enough narrow-eyed alarm to keep it from happening. But she stood where she'd been told—stock-still, now, intensely attentive—and Ramble, taking his cues from her, did the same.

When the agents were close enough, Arlen crossed his arms, leaned back against the tree, and said, "You people are just amazing—the sky is falling and you're trying to kill the one person who can stop it."

They exchanged a glance among themselves and came on.

Arlen flicked a spellstone out onto the trail, invoking it in midair. Garish colors blazed to life, words Lady couldn't read and what seemed to be a distorted image of a man and woman exchanging sappy looks.

The agents flinched, stopping several arms' lengths away. At their discomfort, Arlen smiled happily. "The sky is falling," he repeated. "You won't recognize the phrase—learned it from a friend of mine—but you ought to get the gist of it. You certainly seem to know the implications of throwing silly little spells around.

We were lucky with that one. Imagine what would happen, for instance, if I decided to spell-shave? I really need one, you know." He rubbed a hand over his jaw and frowned.

"You couldn't be so stupid," the woman said, her voice ragged by nature rather than fear.

"Stupid would be to let you get any closer. Stupid would be if I were you, and I was after
me
." Arlen tilted his head, a faintly derisive gesture. "Or has SpellForge got you convinced that things are under control?"

"There's already a permalight checkspell in place," the woman said. "Things
are
under control."

"Don't
talk
to him," the older man said, disgusted. "Just—"

Arlen overrode him without a glance. "You think so?" he said. "I don't. There's been no sign of stabilization. Of course, we don't have to take my enlightened word for it." He held out his hand; nestled in the palm was a single stone. "We can give it a try." He tossed the stone at her; she caught it without thinking, displaying the reflexes Lady had feared she would possess.

The woman gave Arlen a startled look; he said, "Don't worry, I can trigger it from here."

The older man scoffed. "No one can do that."

"You think not?" Arlen said. "I just did it with the calling-stone. Of course, it's your life to risk. I'm not the one holding the stone."

"It's one of the permalight stones, all right," the woman said, sounding less certain. Abruptly, she flung it away; it fell into the woods with a plopping sound no louder than the rain from the branches it disturbed.

Arlen recrossed his arms. "Of course," he said, "the good thing about being a wizard is that you don't
need
spellstones. They're handy little tools, but sometimes it's nice to customize things." He rubbed his jaw again, gave a thoughtful frown . . .

Lady felt the flicker of magic; quite obviously the woman and the barrel-shaped man did as well. They backed a few steps, looking around with alarm . . . waiting for the woods to spring to life around them, stirring them into a forge pot of deathly reaction.

Arlen calmly rubbed his fingers across his cheeks, leaving them clear of stubble. "Much better," he said.

"Shall we see if we get a reaction to the next one?"

"Clever," the older man said. "They told us you would be. That's why they sent a good number of us. Do you know how many people are converging on that little display of magic? Sooner or later, we'll catch you off-guard."

"I doubt that," Arlen said, giving a small smile as he glanced in Lady's direction. "It does amaze me that you're willing to keep trying. All I want to do is stop the damage . . . and find a way to fix it."