Claire brushed at damp hair clinging against her cheek. Rain fell in little patters against the leaves. A calming sound that made it easy to curl up for a nap, if they weren’t walking through a wet woods and if the wet wasn’t starting to soak through her cloak. But she couldn’t complain as they made much better time than she expected. Bromisto’s scouting and ability to lead the way, while providing them with the occasional rabbit dinner, allowed her time with Jorga. The younger boy also managed to entertain Errol and keep him busy. They walked ahead, with Bromisto teaching Errol how to weave a leather cord into a snare.
“Again,” Jorga demanded. Her lips pinched thin in a tart expression. Her higher position up on the horse gave her additional authority—not that her grandmother needed the help. “Keep going.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“Not Singing. Again.”
“I can barely remember the words. I only heard them five minutes ago. It’s hard to fix on a memory.”
“Excuses, excuses. Are you a Woman of the Song or not?”
Claire huffed, but still drew her body up straight in her Singing posture. In order to get the Share Memory to work, she had to focus on a particular memory while Singing the words to the Song, all while holding strong to her will and intent. Not nearly as easy as Jorga made it sound, but her grandmother said this method was a shortcut that let a woman share images from her mind without having to create a fresh Song each time.
In fact, this magic and creating illusions, as when Claire had made herself and Ramiro appear to be deer to some Northerners, were very much related. Both times you shared what you wanted the target to “see.” However, in Share Memory, the image had been real at one time—and thus should supposedly be easier to recreate—and wasn’t meant to deceive.
Claire still felt like she juggled four balls while balanced on one foot.
She built a picture in her mind of one of her earliest memories: being among the branches of an apple tree and looking down at her mother’s upturned face. She still remembered her infant feeling of triumph at being above and separate from her mother.
“Thus do you see,”
“That which has been.”
“Given freely.”
“Memory shared is pain . . .”
The next word faltered on the edge of her tongue. As she struggled for it, the image fractured, intent collapsing. The magic crashed around her with a snap of recoil like a physical slap. Claire flinched.
“. . . lightened.”
Claire rubbed at her cheek, though the sensation of being struck covered her whole body, not just her face. “What was that?”
“The punishment for failure,” Jorga said. “Magic takes energy, power. When it can’t go to the intended purpose, it has to go somewhere. Now focus. I got a little something that time. A tree? Again. Sing.”
“I—”
“No excuses. Sing.”
Claire bristled. If these were her grandmother’s methods, no wonder her mother ran away. “I’m not a child. Stop treating me like one.”
“Do you want to learn or not? You won’t learn anything complaining and arguing.”
No longer did she want to share a pleasant memory with Jorga. Instead, she latched on to another recollection, discarding the bland Song whose words she could only half remember and seizing on the feelings associated with this memory.
“Terror. Foes. Death.”
“Sweat so cold.”
“Heart stopping.”
She formed the memory, quivering with the terror of standing weaponless and surrounded by the entire Northern army, knowing she was going to die, and flung it at Jorga. Then she enlarged the sensation as she switched to the moment her Song had first brought Dal to bear down upon her. Claire lost herself in reliving the passions that had been projected onto her, sending them at Jorga.
“Evil. Hate. Contempt.”
“An ant squished under a heel.”
“All life to be wiped away.”
“Darkness within light.”
“Destruction.”
“Kill—”
“Stop!” Jorga had cringed down into a ball on the horse, hands over her head. “Stop! That’s not possible.”
Claire closed her mouth, shutting off the Song. Before she could apologize for her thoughtless use of the magic, Bromisto and Errol came running with questions, but Jorga already struggled upright again. She waved the boys away.
“What did you do?” Jorga demanded. “That wasn’t the image of a memory. I didn’t see anything.”
Claire bit her lip. “I think I sent the emotions from a memory. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. That might be an entirely new use of the magic.” Jorga gave a nod. “You are of my blood, after all. Hmm.” Her eyes turned inward. “If we could merge the two, you’d have a powerful tool to impress those old brood hens at the Rose Among Thorn gathering. It will be triple the work and preparation, but if we practice it every chance we get, you should have it perfected before we arrive.”
Claire stifled a groan. Triple the work. Triple the difficulty, Jorga meant. Claire didn’t mind the work of using magic, but the balancing act was another story. She already felt drained from one attempt at sharing the emotions, wrung out and tired. Handling that much pure feeling daily was not going to be fun.
And yet, a smile of pride pulled at her lips for having done something new.
It wasn’t such a surprise, after all. Women of the Song kept to themselves so much, private in the extreme, that they rarely shared their memories, let alone ever discussed feelings with each other. Claire got the sense from her grandmother that emotions were something to keep hidden, and probably considered shameful—while she had found it second nature to share her thoughts with her mother and then Ramiro. For the Women of the Song, doing so would be pure horror. Which led her onward to another worry.
“Grandmother, why did you call them old hens? How hard is it going to be to get their help?” She already knew the Women of the Song didn’t like meddling with outsiders. If speaking to them about Dal was such a waste of time, maybe she’d rather deliver her warning and leave.
“They’re ‘old hens’ because they tend to scratch around in circles, set in their ways and proud of it.”
Claire closed one eye as she tactfully kept from saying that described Jorga very well.
“But”—Jorga held up a finger—“with Errol and the few others like him to back you up and the extreme nature of this challenge to our way of life, I’d say their taking you seriously are even odds. Showing you have the power of my family line will definitely help. Now try that again, but this time, direct it at a tree instead of me.” Jorga sniffed. “Never thinks before she acts. We’ll knock some sense in that silly noggin of yours. Try it again, girl, if you can remember what you did the first time.”
Claire glared, suddenly filled with enough prickly anger again, and drew herself up straight. Silly, am I? It looked like gathering up the required emotions wouldn’t be a problem with Jorga around to set her back up. Just from spite, Claire Sang a different tune Jorga had taught her days ago, relying on the moisture in the air to help carry the magic:
“Hear me across the void.”
“Distance is no bar.”
“Heed my call.”
The Speak on the Wind Song was short and easy enough to remember. For the last line, she inserted Ramiro’s name. The longer she held the notes on the ending, the more powerful and on-tune her Singing, the better the range of the magic, though she knew well enough her call would never reach him in the desert, no matter how perfect her voice. She put her all into Singing his name anyway, letting the notes belt from her tongue with power and holding them as long as her breath held out—all the while making sure not to make the message a cry for help. Instead, she used her earlier trick of inserting emotion, adding a touch of satisfaction and well-being. If Ramiro should happen to receive her call, she wanted him to know she was fine and in no danger—for the time being.
Bromisto and Errol turned to watch, their eyes wide with astonishment. Bromisto whistled. Errol put his hands over his ears and hunched his head. Her uncle was deaf to magic and likely tone deaf as well. His discomfort didn’t shake her voice, but she did reluctantly let the Song die.
Claire quickly vowed to do the same every day that separated them. It might not do anything to reassure Ramiro, but it made her feel better, closer somehow. She had a feeling she was going to need that encouragement in the future.
“Satisfied?” Jorga snapped with a scowl. “Got that out of your system? Now, how about we get down to business? Sing.”