The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

“Maybe sometime, I can dance with her.” 

Archimedes was surprised that he wasn't out of breath when they reached the hill.  They ascended the incline, but halted well short of the top, a perspective that offered a view of the slope, the lake, and trees and cliffs on the far side.  Archimedes contemplated the wavelets shimmering on the lake and thought of how small they seemed with the drop.     

“Bok,” Archimedes said softly, feeling his face burn.  

“You want me to fly it.”

Archimedes averted his eyes.  “Bok, it's like this.  I once made a horrible mistake.  I built that accursed airship, and by doing so, I showed Rome how to build its own airships.  Soon Rome will send their airships to other lands, and bomb cities and villages, including here in Britan.  Thousands will die and many more will become slaves of Rome.  All my fault.  But this new flying machine, it could stop that.  Do you understand?”

Bok gazed down the hill and said quietly, “My parents are dead, sir.”

“I had suspected.  I'm sorry, Bok.”

“It happened in early summer.  My father and I were delivering sails to another village.  When we sailed home to our village, no one came to the beach to greet us.  My father told me to wait in the boat, and he went into the village.  Then he came out.  He told me to stay away, it was the plague.”

“I'm so sorry, Bok.”

“I slept on the beach for three nights.  Then I went into the village.  They were all dead.  My father had been burying them when he died too.  I got scared and took food and books and left.  I lived in the woods and read the books because they helped me to not think about what happened.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Then I went to another village, and they were all dead.  I read their books too.  That's how come I know all about science and history and things.  People were dead, but it was like the books were alive and they talked to me.”

“Yes, they will do that.”  Archimedes considered:  Connected by the relatively rapid transportation of boats, the coastal villages would have been hit soonest and hardest by the plague. 

“Sir.  The Romans caused the plague, didn't they?”

“It was part of their plan to conquer Britan.  Fortunately, the Wizard stopped them in time.”

“Not in time for me, sir.” 

Bok stooped over the cart, untied the bundle, and set out the parts.  Wordlessly, they assembled the glider.  Archimedes tested Bok on how to operate the hand controls.  Then Bok fit into the harness, Archimedes check-flighted, and together they surveyed the down slope 

Good visibility, few clouds, low humidity, cool air but not cold, light breeze.  Perfect flying weather.

Archimedes stepped back and took in the scene.  The glider was small, the boy was smaller.  The hill was too steep and it was a long way to the bottom.  If the wings broke, the boy would fall.  If the air gusted and the boy could not catch it, the craft would tumble and the boy would fall. 

Like everywhere else in Britan, the hill had its share of rocks.  Come down on one, and the boy's neck would break.

What am I doing to this child?
Archimedes asked himself.  The unsavory answer he found in the darkest place of his heart was that he was waging a guilty gamble, balancing one life against thousands.    Was he truly seeking redemption – or plunging even darker into the moral abyss that he had been descending since he departed Kresidala to seek his fortune in Rome?  

He's only a child.
 

Archimedes could see a future.  Upon the slope:  a wrecked machine, a tangled body, a broken neck.  Lifeless eyes, grass stained with blood.  A clear sky with a high sun whose relentless light would burn the image of his complicity in the death of a child into his memory as long as he might live. 

And yet . . . thousands of lives.     

“Be careful, Bok.  Very careful.”

“I don't wish to die, sir.”

And then the boy broke into a running leap, raising his feet with perfect timing.  He took flight, holding level altitude in the face of the fickle breeze while the slope fell away beneath him. 

3.

Several mornings later, Carrot awoke, dressed, and had a simple breakfast.  She commenced sweeping the hut that was her home in Fish Lake.  She had never been taught the Method of Loci, but even so her thoughts ordered themselves into the corners.

Southwest (practical): 
Tomorrow wash day, need more firewood, dress to mend . . .

Northwest (social): 
Layal invitation for tea, should bring gift . . .

Northeast (military): 
Signal drills going well, need to devise test for class . . .

Southeast (personal): 
Matt, Matt, Thoughtless and Confounding Matt . . . .

The broom was no longer raising a cloud of dust.  She upended it and discovered the straw had been worn to nubs. 
Obsessive compulsive disorder
, she remembered Matt calling it.

Outside the hut, the autumn weather took its morning bite, and Carrot put on a shawl, for even mutants have their comfort zone.  She noted the time on the makeshift sundial in the village center, and detoured into the forests west of Fish Lake. 

As she walked the trails, she counted steps and noted landmarks.  She scrutinized a stand of trees, estimating whether its shadow would fall upon a nearby hill in mid-afternoon. 
No, the sun would be in attacker's eyes.
  She decided the hill could be easily held.

Completing her morning survey, she headed for the training field at Ravencall, where men were engaged in drills with staff, sword, and catapult.  Their numbers had thinned since she had led West Britanians in the Battle of the Dark Forest, for it was harvest season and fields back home needed reaping.  Still, she counted hundreds.  Several men called and waved, and she smiled and waved back. 

Then she saw Norian.  He was practice-dueling with long-bladed swords.  Carrot's own skills were strictly with short sword and shield, and the flash of the long blades was mesmerizing.  Her arms twitched with Norian's lightning motion as she imagined blocking
that
stroke with shield, that one with blade, that one with . . .
that one
, she realized, might well have gotten through.

“I must have you teach me that,” Carrot murmured.  But she was well out of his earshot, and her cheeks burned at the thought of speaking to him. 

Her discomfort with respect to Norian went back to the celebration the night of the victory, when they'd been gathered at the campfires, hundreds of the men in their tatterdemalion army singing and dancing and drinking.  Carrot was immune to alcohol, but the laughter of the men she'd led to victory was as inebriating as a tray full of flagons.  Norian had been dancing in a circle with several friends, arms locked, and then he had spied Carrot and dragged her in.  She had care-freely whooped and joined the jig. 

In Rome, where she'd been the previous weeks, it would have meant nothing.  But this was Britan and mores were traditional.  For a young woman to even smile at a young man would scatter rumors like leaves from deciduous trees.  It didn't matter that they were only dancing side by side and their hands touched only their arms.  Gossipers had a way of phrasing their tellings for the most salacious insinuations.     

Even worse, there were many at Fish Lake and the nearby villages who were under the impression that she was betrothed to the Wizard. 
To have violated his trust,
they would gossip
.  So brazenly, so public!

So here she was, weeks later, ruminating as to whether a moment's lack of reserve had forever stained her reputation.  And so, she realized, she could never learn the longsword from Norian, lest the sight of them together restart the gossip mills.  And if someday she should die in battle because of lack of skill, would the gossipers have remorse? 

Probably not
, she thought.  She'd lived in a village long enough to knew gossipers had no sense of shame or responsibility for their own behavior.

Norian signaled a stop to the mock duel and called,  “Carrot!”  She waved, smiled and resumed walking away, but he trotted after, shouting cheerfully, “I would speak to you!”

Why am I so nervous?
she thought.  Norian had made nothing in these weeks that could be construed as an advance.  And surely by now Matt knew how she felt. 
No reason to be nervous at all.
 

Out of the corner of her eye, Carrot spotted an elderly village woman on the other side of the field.  The woman was making too much of an effort at looking everywhere but toward them.   

Norian caught up and said between huffings, “I have someone for you to meet.”

“Oh?” Carrot said, trying to sound casual.

“A comrade from the northwest, who bears interesting news, about our search.”

“Our . . . search.”

“Yes, you know.  For 'The Box That Everything Came In.'  Or at least, one of them.”  He frowned at her puzzlement.  “We're still looking for that, aren't we?”

“Oh, that.”  Carrot nodded vigorously.  “Yes, yes.  The Box.  We're still looking for that.  Indeed, we're about ready to send patrols.  As soon as Matt – the Wizard – returns.”

“Well, I've received word that she's on her way.  She should arrive no later than tomorrow.”

“She.” Carrot tried not to emphasize the word.  “And who is she?”

“Mirian.  My wife.”

“You have a wife,” Carrot said monotonically.

“Yes.  Now and then.”  Norian chuckled.  He restively stretched his arms.  “Well, you seem distracted.  Preoccupied with thoughts of strategy and logistics, no doubt.  And I must resume practice before I stiffen.  I'll bring Mirian to see you when she arrives!”

Norian trotted off.  Carrot glanced toward the woman across the field, who was finding fascination in a boulder that, as a local, she must have seen a thousand fold since childhood. 

He has a wife,
Carrot thought
.  So now I will be branded an adulteress
 

Carrot was so lost in thought that she had a novel experience.  Someone had come up behind her without her noticing.  It was Senti, the wiry, gray-haired woman who served as Fish Lake's midwife and, under Matt's tutelage, assistant healer. 

With a concerned look and slight bow as preamble, Senti said, “Carrot, dear.  There's been an accident.  Nothing overly serious, but I imagine the boy is in discomfort.  If you're not busy . . . ?”

Carrot gave a brisk nod and followed Senti back to the clinic, a hut located on the path between the Oksiden Road and Fish Lake.  Archimedes was pacing outside the door.  Upon sight Carrot immediately blurted:

“Bok.”

Senti raised her eyebrows.  “Why yes, how did you know?”

Carrot wordlessly met the gaze of the old man.  She followed them into the hut.  In the shade, upon a mat amid jars of ointments and powders, the boy was resting with hands on lap.  At sight of Carrot, he  attempted to rise. 

“Lady Carrot – “

“Sit down,” she said firmly.  “Let's have a look.”

She knelt and examined his outstretched wrist.  She knew immediately upon contact that it must be the source of considerable pain.  “A bad sprain.  Doesn't seem to be broken.  How did this happen?”

Bok's eyes darted to the doorway, which was blocked by a thin silhouette.  “I was flying a kite.”

“Rather vigorously, it seems.”

“I stumbled while running downhill and fell on my wrist.”

Carrot prided herself on the ability to detect lies, but Bok seemed no longer the intimidated child who had stammered confession upon first greeting.  This 'new' Bok seemed sturdied with a sense of mission, and was a blank tablet to her inquiring gaze. 

She glanced at Archimedes.  There indeed was a story of guilt. 

“Hold still,” she said to Bok.  “This won't hurt, but it may feel odd.”

She gripped the boy's forearm firmly and concentrated.  Then it was as if she could see beneath the skin, to the volume of inflamed tissue within.  She willed: 
Heal
.  The longer she held, the smaller the volume became.  Unable to see what she saw, Bok watched her expression raptly, keeping still as stone.  Having a sense of how much pain his injury must be causing, she was impressed by his composure. 

“I apologize for being a nuisance,” he said.

“You are not a nuisance.” 

“I had heard that you could heal.  Is it true that you can also talk silently to the Wizard over distance?”

“Only about a quarter kilometer.  And I can't do it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I returned the device that enabled us to communicate.”

“Why would you do that?  Did he ask for it back?”

“No, I – I didn't want it.”

“Why not?”

How to explain that she felt uncomfortable being unable to hide, even if it was from Matt? 

“Let us say, it served its purpose at the time.”

The blob of inflammation dissipated.  Examining the rest of her patient, she noted a bruise on his other arm.  “Do you want me to take care of that?”

“It doesn't hurt anymore.”

She doubted that, but she retracted her hands.  Bok wobbled to his feet, went over to Archimedes. 

“Good as new, sir.  I'm ready to report to work.”

Archimedes bowed to the boy.  “Very well, then.  We have much to do.  And thank you, Carrot.”

Once they were gone, Senti gave Carrot another concerned look and said, “First Bok was in here for scrapes, then bruises, then this.  You know Archimedes better than I.  Would he ever – ?”

“He would not abuse a child,” Carrot replied firmly.

She got up and left the hut.  Outside, she wondered if she had lied.  Well, she was certain that Archimedes would never strike the child.  And that was what had worried Senti. 

I answered fairly
, Carrot thought. 
So why do I feel shame?
 

Bok was sprinting far ahead toward Ravencall, while Archimedes lagged, hobbling on his staff.  Carrot caught up with the old man and paced alongside.  Archimedes stared fixedly ahead.

She broke the silence:  “You have no alternative candidate?'

“He's ideal.  Small, lightweight, and teachable.  And very determined.”

“He's only a child.  Surely there is a small enough adult – ”

“The workers will readily fill my requisition and construction orders, but if I ask one of them to do this . . . well, even if they would be willing to take the risk, they'll say they have to clear first with Matt.  And you know where that would lead.”

“Matt would call it an 'escalation' of an 'arms race.'”

“Sadly, our disagreement isn't merely a quibbling over terminology.”

Carrot parted with an incoherent mumble and returned to the training field.  Geth and Ral were waiting by the training hut with a man whom she had not seen before.  He was stocky, with pepper-gray hair so thick that it was like a helmet.  His clothing was well-cut, something that would come out of a factory-shop in Londa rather than the loom of a farmer's wife.  He was frowning deeply, and Carrot immediately surmised that the visit was not going to be friendly.

“This is Carrot,” Ral said to the man.  To Carrot, “This is Krobart.  He is a representative from the Inner Circle of the Leaf.”

Krobart didn't return her bow.  His eyes swept over Carrot and his frown only deepened as he growled to Ral, “She's very young.”

“She is quite competent,” Geth snapped.

Krobart blinked like an owl.  “You're her father, aren't you?  Despite your age, only a corporal in the Northern Leaf.” 

“We had no formal ranking as our association with the Leaf was informal.  Carrot was the leader of our group, first among equals, and I was counted second.” 

“We have formal ranks in the Leaf now.”

“Boudica's army had ranks too,” Geth muttered.   

Carrot knew that was irrelevant as she too had assigned ranks to her makeshift army, but decided not to reprove her father in front of the newcomer.  Instead, she looked from face to face and said, “May I ask what this is about?”

“Your activities have attracted the attention of the Inner Circle,” Ral replied. 

“For which she should be commended,” Geth said. 

“We're not concerned with what she's done,” Krobart said.  “We want to know what she'll do.”

Carrot felt an urge to mirror the man's displeasure, but calmly bowed toward the training hut.  “I have a map inside that will explain.”

They entered the classroom.  Carrot opened windows and skylight, wound around the logs that served as rows of seating, and flipped through the presentation boards leaning against the wall by her table at the front.  She separated the portfolio covers and hung the rice paper map which she had diligently sketched and embellished over the weeks following the Battle of the Dark Forest. 

“It looks like a lump of bread,” Krobart snapped.  “You say this is a map?  Of what?”

“Of Britan of course,” Geth said.  “Don't you recognize your own country?”