Bandu did not like this place. The wind did not speak here, and when birds flew above, their voices could not be heard. The villagers knew it. They called their new home Silent Hall, and spoke in whispers even when Psander was not around. The animals lowered their voices too, even the goats. Kids and lambs cried out in desperation, afraid of their own shrill bleating. Despite ample room and good water, Silent Hall was not really a place for sheep. It was the den of a predator, and the animals knew it.
Narky felt something too. “I feel weird in this place,” he said, scratching at his chest. “Unwatched, somehow.”
“I don’t think I know what you mean,” Phaedra said. They were sitting in Bandu and Phaedra’s room, waiting for Hunter to come back from his talk with the wizard.
“I feel watched here all the time,” Phaedra continued, “even when I’m dreaming. It’s frightening, feeling like that wizard knows all about us, and yet we don’t know anything about him. Her. Her, I meant. It’s so odd seeing that bearded man and knowing that it’s really a woman!”
“It’s not Psander I was talking about,” Narky objected. “I mean, you’re right, Psander’s watching us all the time. But it’s something else.”
“What is?” Hunter had come back, and was standing in the doorway. “She wants you next, Phaedra.”
Phaedra hopped to her feet, motioning for Hunter to take her spot on the bed. She wasn’t one to sit still for very long anyway. It had not taken Bandu long to realize that Phaedra liked to be in constant motion, in her body no less than in her mind.
Criton looked up at Hunter curiously. “Boar of Hagardis, right? What did she promise you?”
“Nothing specific. She just talked about what a menace that boar is, and said she’d be grateful if we’d deal with it. I don’t need anything from her. If the rest of you want to go, I’ll come with you anyway.”
Narky raised his eyebrows. “Do you think it’s really possible for us to hunt the boar without getting killed?”
Hunter shrugged. “Psander seems to think so. She’s probably right. With thirty Gallant Ones, it should be fine. I don’t know if they’ll even need us.”
“You should have asked her for something then,” Narky said. “If she’s willing to reward you for doing what you would have done anyway, take her up on it! I mean, if she’ll give you a sword that always stays sharp or something, then why not?”
“I like sharpening my sword,” Hunter told him, and even Bandu could tell that he was missing the point. What she didn’t know was whether he was missing it deliberately.
“I think she is a wicked woman,” she said. Her mind was still full of the dreams that Psander had forced upon her. Bandu hated those dreams. She did not believe them.
The others went on talking, but Bandu did not listen. She was saving her head for her own talk with the wicked woman. She knew there would be a talk. The wizard was meeting with all of them, one by one. Soon Phaedra came back holding a metal tube and sending Narky off in her place.
“I don’t know what good I’ll be at boar hunting,” she said, “but Psander offered me access to her library if I come along and make sure you get back safely. I’m trusting you, Hunter, that this is doable. I told her I’d only go if she gave me one scroll now, in advance. You should have seen how quickly she agreed! I should have asked for more.”
“What did you get?” Criton asked her.
Phaedra presented the tube triumphantly. “This is a treatise on Ravennis, written by a priest who was an attendant for the Laarna Oracle in his acolyte days. I don’t know much about the God of Laarna, and obviously I should. I’ve been thinking about the mark on Narky’s chest. I don’t think it’s just a sign of his punishment. I think it’s more of a brand, to signal Ravennis’ ownership. It might come with expectations that Narky ought to know about.”
Phaedra pulled a dry curled-up sheepskin out of the tube, uncurled it, and spent the next half hour staring intently at one side of it. Bandu went over to see what she was looking at, and found that Phaedra’s side of the skin was covered in black marks. Now and then, Phaedra opened her mouth and spoke as if she was the priest of Ravennis herself, which made Bandu think that perhaps the priest’s spirit was trapped in the skin, and trying to possess Phaedra’s body.
“Phaedra!” she cried, and Phaedra immediately turned to her and said, “What’s the matter?” It must be all right then. Phaedra’s spirit was younger and stronger than the one in the skin, and she could come back if she needed to.
After another ten minutes or so, Narky returned to them. He was trying to look more angry than frightened, but it was the other way around. He didn’t tell anyone what the woman had said to him, or what he had said to her. But he insisted that they had to bring her the animal she wanted.
Then it was Bandu’s turn. She met Psander in a big dusty room full of dried skins, all curled up on shelves. “Bandu,” Psander said quietly. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you.”
“You are a wicked woman,” Bandu spat back at her. “Your dreams are lies, and the birds do not sing in your den.”
“You’re right about the birds,” said Psander. “I do miss the birdsong, but it was a necessary casualty of my solitude. You’re wrong about your dreams, though. They are your dreams, Bandu, and your memories. I only called them up and probed them a little, until you expelled me.”
“You lie!” Bandu leapt forward and scratched at Psander’s face, and the older woman fell back in surprise, a spot of blood welling on one cheek. Bandu burst into tears. “You wicked woman, dreams you give are not real!”
Psander had sat down heavily on a stack of marked skins and dried leather, but she now stood up again. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her cheek and looking ruefully at the red spot on her sleeve. “I only wanted to know more about you. I thought perhaps, if I looked into your past, I might discover how you came to learn fairy magic. I didn’t find what I was looking for, if it makes you feel any better.”
The apology seemed sincere enough, but Bandu still hated her. “You are selfish,” she said.
“Yes,” Psander said, “I’ll admit that. But I think I can help you, if you’ll help me.”
“You don’t help me.”
Psander picked up one of her little stacks of dried skins and began idly flipping through it. It was bound on one side, Bandu saw.
“There was once a great warrior mage, whose wife died while she was still young,” Psander said. “By magic, he tore his way into the underworld and retrieved her, and she lived with him another fifty years.”
Bandu picked up a curled skin and smelled it. It had been goat once, definitely goat.
“You say I have magic, just like Narky says before. Magic is a way of tearing things?”
This surprised Psander. “You don’t even know…?” The wizard shook her head in disbelief. “Where do I start? There are rules that everyone knows about the world, right? Simple rules. People cannot fly. Animals cannot talk. Magic is really a word for anything that seems to be breaking those simple rules. Now it gets very complicated, because there are different kinds of magic: God magic and dragon magic and fairy magic, which is what you do without knowing it. And those magics aren’t really breaking rules, they’re just obeying rules that most people don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand your words,” Bandu said, even though she thought she might, “and I don’t care.”
Psander’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing for a time. Bandu could tell that she had hurt her, and it made her glad. After the dreams, Psander deserved to be hurt.
“Either way,” Psander said, gritting her teeth, “this wizard I was telling you about went and rescued his wife from the underworld. Now personally, I would never attempt such a foolish expedition. It is more than dangerous. It imperils your body, your mind, your very soul. But research on the underworld is substantial, and comes from sources both clerical and academic, from priests and blasphemers alike. There is even some guidance as to how such expeditions might be attempted again. Now do you understand what I am offering you, Bandu?”
Bandu shook her head. She was not just trying to hurt her this time: Psander’s words were big and unfamiliar. They made Bandu feel stupid – stupid because she did not understand, and stupid because she could not ask Psander to repeat herself.
“You want to give me something?” Bandu ventured. She knew the word offer well enough.
Psander’s mouth tightened. “I do not want to give you anything. What I would like is to spend some time studying you, to see if I could ever replicate your form of magic. But what I am offering you, in return for your help, is the opportunity to use my research to your benefit. I’m offering to give you Four-foot back.”
When Bandu got back to the others, they were all looking expectantly toward her, waiting to hear what she would say.
“If Psander wants a dead pig,” she said, “we give her a dead pig.”