The Mirror of the Moon (Revenant Wyrd Book 2) (12 page)

“I figured we could do with some actual food this morning,” Maeven said as he sat and started to skin the rabbits.

“No,” Grace said throwing the carcasses at Jovian. “Rabbit sounds good, but coffee sounds better. You know mine turns out like sludge, and that is one beverage that I don’t like so potent that it knocks me for a loop. Jovian can skin and gut; you make the coffee,” she demanded, lowering her creaking bones onto a log near the fire Jovian was now reviving.

“Grace, are you okay?” Jovian asked in concern, this being the first time he had ever seen the old lady in this kind of pain.

She waved away his worry as she looked around at the damnable moisture hanging in the air, not making her joints any more enjoyable.

“Only that which afflicts the aging,” Maeven said with a grin, which earned him a swat aside the head with Grace’s pipe. Slowly she filled it and lit it from a proffered ember from Jovian.

“I will be fine,” she said to Jovian, grateful for his concern. “Weather like this never did much good for my bones, and I feel that it is only worsening as I grow older.”

Jovian had never expected Grace to give into the pangs of age, and apparently his surprise was evident as she laughed a full throated laugh at the bewilderment on his face.

“It will be okay. Just make the damn food; an empty stomach never did much good for me either, though it normally affects my mood, not my body.”

Not long after that Grace was nursing her first cup of coffee for the day, and adding her sweet smoke to the mist around them. Angelica and Joya woke on their own, a little bewildered at not being rudely awoken. They gathered around the fire, their blankets wrapped around their stretching forms.

They got on the road late that morning, but it was the perfect morning for such a delay. By the time they saddled their horses and struck camp, the sun had burned away most of the dampness and warmed the air enough so that Grace could move a bit more freely. Any worry about injuring the horses with unseen tragedy dissipated with the fog.

As they climbed, it became necessary at times to lead the horses where the path was too steep for them to ride, and around evening they broke free from the woods completely and found themselves at the other side of the valley, peering back at the majestic Betikhan Valley, green and lush in the dying light, the bottom already hidden in shadows of night. Across from that, seemingly incredibly far away, they could see the towering Mountains of Nependier and the smoke billowing forth from the White Mines below.

Angelica wondered if she would get to visit the elves again, and if so what she would be taught then. Her time with them had been so rewarding, but she was somehow cheated out of the full experience, half of that time being spent worrying about her brother. With a sigh she turned from the sight behind to gaze at the way ahead.

An empty path greeted her. A path devoid of trees and water and wyrd, only white stone from Voyager’s Pass that had looped around the trade roots to the right of Whitewood Haven and missed Betikhan Valley completely; they would rejoin that road tomorrow in all its mind numbing white stone, grassy banks, and mundane creatures.

The evening seemed to pass incredibly fast. Angelica and Joya had been given the duty of picketing the horses for the night, which inevitably repeated Grace’s morning ritual. Jovian built the fire while Maeven provided the food, and Grace set up the beds.

Before long, their bellies full and their bodies warm, they laid down to bed, Maeven and Jovian taking the first watch.

As she began to fall asleep, Joya felt wyrd wrapping around her, wyrd so heavy and powerful that it felt tangible, as if her teacher was not only forming in her mind, but also in the very air of the camp itself. She knew that tonight would be different than anything she had ever experienced, and the idea made her both nervous and exhilarated. Finally her tiredness won and she sank irrevocably into sleep’s sweet embrace.

Jovian found a spot and sat down, waiting for Maeven to join him. When he did, it was with two steaming mugs of tea. Jovian accepted his with a nod of gratitude; first watches were always hard for him to take, for that was when he seemed to be the most tired.

“So, the son of a wealthy plantation owner,” Maeven commented as he sat beside Jovian, who gave him a strange look. This was the first time that Maeven had actually put forth an effort to get to know him, and at first Jovian was a little wary. Normally Jovian was the one to start conversation, though the topics never breached on anything regarding their pasts, though their experiences were often mentioned. “I have always been interested in how a lucrative plantation is run, especially after seeing how splendid your home was on the night of your birthday.”

Jovian took a sip of the hot brew and shrugged nonchalantly. “There really isn’t much to say. I was only instructed in accounting and dealing with trade so far as covering if something ever happened to Amber, as were the rest of us. Amber is the firstborn and therefore is the rightful heir to the Neferis wealth. We trade in wheat and corn, though this year because of the horrible windstorm our crops were ruined, and there would be no income, which will not only be bad for our plantation, but also all those we trade with. I am afraid that our rivals will make a lot of money this year, and no doubt inflate their prices.”

“I had heard about that windstorm; awful strange wasn’t it? Even more peculiar how it only battered your lands and none others.” Maeven looked at Jovian as if he was expecting an answer from the younger man, but when none was forthcoming he continued. “It is said that a hag is responsible for great storms like that. You might have heard of her in classes with Destra.”

“That was a main subject she taught us when the storm was in progress. Yes, I know of whom you speak, if you are speaking of Baba Yaga.”

“Indeed I am,” Maeven conceded, peering around them as if mentioning her would summon her wrath upon them. He took a sip of his tea with disinterest now that Jovian had caught on.

“What makes you think she is so bad?” Jovian inquired.

“There are countless tales of her treachery and punishment of those that did not sacrifice to her!” Maeven said, perplexed at how Jovian could not see what was clearly before him.

“Sacrifices that have not been made in ages.”

“And she destroyed your crops,” Maeven whispered, taking another drink.

“If she had been mad, don’t you think that she would have done something more than just destroy the Neferis crops?” Jovian asked, raising an eyebrow. “Instead she would have decimated much more than that. Besides, books can be misleading, and I am sure that not all of what the majority says is really completely true. After all, legends are prone to fabrication, and people to fear and superstition. Did you know at one point in time she was thought of as a fairy?”

Maeven did not answer and Jovian smiled inwardly wondering how they could go from civil conversation to near argument with only a few words.

“Huh, I think I will keep my life the way it is.” Maeven changed the subject back fast enough that Jovian was confused. “The life of farming is not really for me.”

“It isn’t for everyone,” Jovian agreed, looking back to camp where his family laid in restful sleep. Except Joya. She seemed to be plagued by fitful dreams.

 “You can sense the wyrd in others, can’t you?” the voice asked Joya. “I know that you were sensing it all day. Our lesson last night made your mind much more sensitive to wyrd than ever before.”

“It is true,” she said, nodding as his presence illuminated the stone room her dream found her in. He appeared to her out of one of the large windows that lined the walls of the circular room, floating on the air toward her, his white robe eerily undisturbed by the slight breeze that rustled her black lacey gown. The cold stone shown gray in the golden light he brought with him, shining through the large, glassless windows that overlooked lush fields. In the distance majestic mountains stood like sentinels wreathed in misty morning light.

“But you did not dare to touch it,” he observed hovering nearer. “I wonder why?”

“For fear that I would unknowingly hurt something by drawing on its wyrd,” she said, staring down at her fidgeting hands.

“Joya, my dear,” he said, “fear is something that you should never give into; it will weaken you. That will be a lesson you must learn with time. For now I told you that we would learn two things tonight: sensing wyrd and drawing on it.”

Joya was excited she would finally be learning how to harness the power she was born with, learn how to protect her family and avert that which the fire had shown her. The voice of wisdom smiled, and though she only saw the barest movement of lips from the shadowy depths of his hood, she knew that it was a beautiful smile.

“Come, there is much to do and little time in which to do it.” The gray walls of the room began to disappear along with the landscape outside. Soon she was being sped across new ground in a blur of green grass, grey stone, and golden wheat below her. When they came to stop it was in the center of the camp in which her form slept. There were no bodies but instead radiant lights of wyrd throbbing around her, blending together though somehow separate if only in color.

“Draw on it,” the voice of wisdom told her.

“But I can’t. This is my family; I can’t steal it from them.”

“But it isn’t,” the voice of wisdom told her. “This is not the wyrd of those you love; and besides, even if it was, you would not be drawing enough to harm them. Draw on it.” But there was something in his insistence that troubled Joya. “This is the way to protect your interests, and that of your family. DRAW!”

“But I don’t know how!” Joya protested on the verge of tears.

“Maybe I was wrong about you,” the voice of wisdom admitted, and she could feel his presence leaving her, his voice becoming distant. But before he left, she heard a soft echo: “Maybe you are too weak to ever learn to master yourself, and therefore are too weak to save your family from what you saw in the flames.”

“If you leave,” Joya cried out through tears, “how will I find my way back?”

“That is something I am not concerned with. You are too weak to be my pupil and therefore I have little concern for how you return to yourself. It would change, though, if you would give in to the drawing. You know how; you are just afraid, and your fear is what makes you turn from me, forcing me to turn from you. All of this would change if you would just take the wyrd around you. You must conquer your fear to grow, Joya. Now draw on it.”

“But my family …” she sobbed.

“WILL NOT BE HURT!” The voice’s shout nearly knocked Joya from her feet. “I am trying to help you save your family. I do not want them to end like the fire showed you just as much as you don’t want them to meet the same fate. However, I must admit that I think you would rather it happen, and that is why you hesitate. Is that the truth, Joya? Is that what you truly want? I am afraid it is, and I cannot work with Chaos such as you.”