The Green Lands
٤٣ Gerstesykli: ١٥ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Yeidil had sat with him for what felt like hours. Hells, it might have actually been hours. Looking up, she saw the dawn hadn’t yet begun to kiss the horizon, so that was something.
Kozioł had asked her nearly every question she could imagine, and a few she’d been surprised by.
How did I wind up so far afield, Mistress? Is it true that we always enter in a Hollow’s grove? Does it really not matter where we enter, then? Why can we not simply appear here, on the hill? On and on, and on yet more, the questions came.
She’d answered them as swiftly and completely as she could. You were so far afield because you lost concentration. You must balance the song’s cadence and rhythm, even as you balance the image of where you wish it to take you. Yes, we always enter in a Hollow’s grove. No, that’s incorrect. It does, indeed, matter where we enter, in that the farther you must travel in the Green Lands to reach your destination, the more power you risk that travel exacting from you. We cannot appear here because this place is protected by the hollow ones, and the hollow ones protect the Green Lands from those who would damage it.
Her hope was not simply to educate, but to tire his mind enough that they could focus on the matter at hand. Time was short, after all, and this unexpected jaunt had not only delayed their start but had clearly absconded with her apprentice’s fire for the lessons he so desperately needed to learn.
His encounter with the hollow ones left him exhilarated rather than intimidated—a dangerous quality, though it certainly served to inform his future as either sword or shield. And there was more beyond even that. What of his rescue by the strange caster? He may only be accounted as strange for his convenient timing and placement—their chance meeting in that exact spot within the vastness of the Green Lands, and at that precise time. What of that? It was coincidence enough to make her wary, at the very least… something her apprentice seemed incapable of doing just now.
“Mistress? What is…” He screwed up his face as he tried to recall. “What is ass and vel?”
She blinked. “What is… what?”
“Ass in vel? Passing bell? No… no, it was a V sound, to be sure. Vel.”
“Give me the context in which you heard him say it.” She refused to ask if he knew the word context. Azhferd would have seen to that much of his education, surely. It was the way Borys taught everything—her father, too, for that matter. Think deeply, see far, understand context, listen for subtext, thus will the world unwind its secrets for you.
“I was speaking to the man in the barbute about how I’d come to the Green Lands. He said… whatever the word or phrase is—it sounded like ass and bell or vel, though I don’t think he was saying it to me specifically.”
“Did you…” She paused, choosing her words carefully, all the while, trying to mask the sudden fear in her heart. Had he unwittingly revealed clues to this stranger? The wrong words, even thrown out unintentionally, might lead a wise caster to uncover who they were and where they made their home.
Kozioł looked at her, trying to gauge her mind.
She shook her head, forcing a calm she didn’t feel as she spoke again. “Did you speak any part of the song to this man? Did you mention the Torn Hour?”
He blinked, smiling uncertainly. “No, of course not. Those are secret things, Mistress.” He sounded almost hurt, as if she’d accused him rather than asked.
She nodded, doing her best to make her expression as warm as she could. “Good. Even if you had, the fault would be mine, not yours. I’m pleased that you understand how important our secrecy is.” She reached forward, patting his forearm before continuing. “Go on, then. You told him what—that you spoke the rite you were learning and found your way here earlier than usual?”
He shook his head. “No, Mistress. I told him the truth.”
Yeidil blinked, then made a go on gesture. “And what is the truth, then?”
“That I’ve no idea—had no idea that it could happen.”
“What could happen, exactly?”
He shrugged, looking down. “That… That my speaking—that singing the song in my head could affect the rite.”
“In your…”
“In my head,” he supplied. “I was trying to commit it to memory all through supper, but I felt dizzy—began to see the hall as if it weren’t truly there.” He met her eye and became instantly defensive. “I stopped myself straight away! I swear, I did. By then, I was so damned tired it was all I could do to concentrate on individual lines. I did manage it, though. I said other things, spoke to Jarek, drank, looked around—anything to put time and other thoughts between the lines of the song, and it worked. No more fading.”
She stared at him. This was impossible, surely.
“What then?” She tried to keep her voice conversational but wasn’t sure she’d managed it.
“I went to my room shortly after the woodsman left. I tried to wait up for you, but I was so tired…”
She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, nodding. It was perhaps ten seconds before she trusted herself enough to continue. “And then?”
He began to grow pale, as if he were suddenly afraid. “I ran the lines in my head again, lying there and waiting for you to speak to me. I kept them spaced out. Of course, I did. I didn’t get through all of them, I don’t think. Next I knew, I was in the grass.” He shrugged, eyes widening. His next words came out high and breathy. “Tell me! Yeid—Mistress, why do you look so?”
“Hecnvel,” said she.
“What? Yes! That! That was it! Ass on vel!”
“Hess-en-vell,” said she. She took pains to enunciate each syllable, meeting his eye and holding it.
“Hess-en-vell.” Kozioł rolled the sounds around in his mouth for a moment, then made a gesture of acceptance. “What is it? What’s it mean?”
“Blood magic.”
“What!?”
“Hecn means red or blood. Vel means magic, or a near enough equivalent. They don’t use that word on Nausha, as a rule—magic, I mean.”
Kozioł moved from a sitting position up to his knees, then stopped himself. With an obvious effort, he forced himself to sit back down—forced the muscles of his jaw and his brow to loosen and unbind.
Yeidil was impressed. Most adults weren’t capable of calming themselves in a time of stress, let alone in extraordinary circumstances. That Kozioł had done so at a time like this spoke well of both him and the training he’d received thus far.
“Please explain, Mistress. Please…” His voice was low, for him at any rate. He wore an expression of utter, focused solemnity.
“I will. It’s simply more than I’d intended to teach you tonight. Need must drive us, however. A moment to clear and order my thoughts.”
He drew back, seeming to settle into himself, and waited.
“You’ve learned the wrap, yes? My brother’s taught it to you?”
Kozioł nodded, the ghost of a grin playing across his pale lips. “This past Lessykli.”
“It’s the hardest blow to master, isn’t it?” Her tone made it less a question, more a commiseration. “You throw it around the pell’s flank, snap your wrist and forearm as you pull the sword back toward you, hunting for the magic combination of timing, speed, power, and aim to make the blow a telling one.”
Kozioł couldn’t nod. He was too busy gaping at her.
She grinned at him. “And all the while, as you deliver poor, misshapen shots, the vibrations do their best to force your hand to release your weapon, adding embarrassment to frustration.”
“How… how do you…?” He couldn’t get the question out.
She snorted. “Did you think only men and boys paid attention to that sort of thing?” She fought back a powerful urge to wear derisive triumph on her face and won the contest—work to do and all that. “The point is, you had to work at it, yes? At first, and for some time, you had no idea how in the hells anyone could manage it … until you’d done it.”
He nodded slowly. “Practice is the only way to get better—either practice at home, or putting your training into practice against others… sparring and the like.”
She beamed at him. “Azhferd would be so proud to hear you speak like that.” She saw him beginning to smile, but pressed forward before he could bask in the compliment for too terribly long. “When you first started practicing, your arm would grow tired quickly. Until you began to run regularly, your breath would run out swiftly.”
Kozioł made a gesture of understanding. “The more you practice and train, the longer you can hold the shield or sword—the longer you have ‘till you’re out of breath.”
“Exactly so.” She waited for a moment, searching his eyes to see if he’d interrupt her with questions or further conclusions, then pressed on. “Magic’s the same. We all begin with talents—your weave walking talent, for instance, but we also begin with a limit to our ability to use magic in a given day.”
“So… you’re saying it’s like a muscle?”
She grinned widely. “Exactly. And like the sword and shield, you have to do more than hit the pell in order to improve.”
“I… yes. Yes, I see. You find a person or creature to use the magic on, even yourself, I suppose, to see if what you’ve used on the… well, there’s no pell, but something like that. Have I got that right?”
“You have. Books and someone teaching you rotes and rites they, themselves, have mastered… That serves as the pell.”
“Working on my own—that’s a match in tournament or brigands on the road…” His eyes were wide again, but he looked awed rather than afraid.
“Just so.”
“All right, and Hecnvel?”
“You’ll strengthen the muscle of your power with practice. Like hoisting sword and shield, or better control over your wind, things will get easier for you with time and work. What drains you now will seem a trifle, eventually.” She saw him nod his understanding and pressed on. “Blood magic literally draws on your blood—your actual blood, mind—and converts it to raw magic to accomplish the rite or rote you’re trying to use or cast.”
“But… but how?!” He was too stunned to be afraid, and it showed in his voice. “Wouldn’t it make you ill?” His eyes were suddenly large enough that they looked about to fall from his skull. “I was so tired suddenly—not because of the extra work in preparation for our leave-taking, but because I gave my blood to create magic!? Hells! How!? I didn’t do it a-purpose, so how do I stop it from happening again?”
“Peace, Apprentice. It isn’t as daunting as all that.” She waited for him to calm himself before continuing. It didn’t take him long, and once more, she was pleased at how much self-possession he seemed to have. “Blood magic is most specific. It augments existing work in very particular ways, and each such augmentation is its own form, with its own cost. One can be taught its use, but on rare occasions, the tie and affinity to magic is strong enough that such an augmentation comes as an inheritance, as it seems to have with you.”
“An inheritance? Blood magic can be … passed down in…” He trailed off, unwilling to complete the turn of phrase.
She had no such reservations. “… in and by the blood, yes.” She chuckled as he rolled his eyes. “You felt this wave of tiredness when reciting the song’s lines in your head. That suggests to me that you’ve somehow inherited the Stilled Tongue Hecnvel. It’s supposedly a comparatively minor augmentation allowing the caster to work a given rite without having to speak the words aloud.”
Kozioł frowned. When he spoke, his voice was dark and a touch disparaging. “That sounds like a tool for a thief or an assassin.”
“Well, Apprentice, if you’d spurn the gift, then simply don’t use it.”
He nodded at that, aspects of the sheepish and the resolute warring on his young face.
“It could be put to good use, certainly, if only to protect my brother without anyone knowing you were the one providing that protection.”
His brows lifted … a hopeful smile beginning to form. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll consider it. Thank you, Mistress.”
She stood, smiling at him. “If you’re finished with your questions on that score, we should consider the hour and try to press forward with the actual reason we’re here tonight.”
He stood as well, brushing grass from his knees and shins. Rather than nervous, as he had been previously, he looked calm and focused.
She considered commenting on this but thought better of it. Instead, she began to rekindle their previous lesson.
“What are you here to seek?”
“I’m here seeking my Cień Duszy. I’m here to call him to hand, to bring him here, to me.”
Yeidil nodded. “Quite correct. He is exactly as the name suggests, Apprentice. Already you have given it an aspect—a gender. Already he is yours, for your mind is what gives him form. He is the shadow of your soul—your agent and aid, your intimate and familiar.” She saw his spine stiffen, his hands splaying their fingers. She raised her voice, not in volume, but in intensity. “He is as bound to you as the shadow beneath your feet, the dark you see when you close your eyes. He is your Cień Duszy, and he must come when you call him!”
Kozioł nodded once, swiftly, fingers bending into claws.
“Reach for him—call to him… now.”
Kozioł’s bright arm rose toward the top of the hill, hand reaching up and outward, shaking. His head was lowered between shoulders hunched with effort, though his gaze remained locked to the place where his hand—his power reached.
“Twój czas na walkę o mnie dobiegł końca. Czas wreszcie walczyć obok mnie. Przyjdź do mnie, cieniu mojej duszy…” (Your time to fight for me is over. It’s time to finally fight alongside me. Come to me, shadow of my soul…)
She smiled at his use of the old tongue. That he was already creating pathways—methods to couch his own rites and rotes—was an excellent sign for his future.
She hoped with her whole heart. If he failed this summons, it was likely someone had, indeed, severed the connection between him and his shadow. The ramifications of such an act were horrid to contemplate. As each second passed, however, she found that her mind kept coming back to that miserable idea.
“Ah! Mistress! I…” His voice was near to weeping.
She took a single step toward him, then stopped.
The sigh of the wild wind through the long grass was the most perfect of heralds as, at last, his shadow came.
The hilltop was suddenly home to the embodiment of the word stallion. His aspect was muscular and impossibly tall, yet there was an amorphousness to him. His color seemed to swirl through the darker shades: now brown, now red roan, now brindled, now deep blue, now as black as sin.
It tossed its head, rearing like a delighted colt as it saw Kozioł. It stepped down toward him as if to bow before him.
She heard his laughter mingled with soft sobs. He stepped forward to meet the creature and embraced him, murmuring too quietly for her to understand. So be it. His words weren’t for the likes of her. Not just now, at any rate.
Her own relief was so very great that almost she began to weep. They would need to discuss all that this meant for him, and he would have a choice to make. For now, however—for tonight, at least—this was enough. She would stand, perhaps sit by for his questions, should he have any, but for now… it was enough.
Mother… forgive me. I feared the worst. That in a mad race to save your sense of control—your ownership of Father’s dreams, as I own Azhferd’s—you severed and subsumed Kozioł’s shadow. I was wrong, and I’ve never—never been happier about discovering that. She smiled once more, and as she did, her eyes over-spilled. You’ll never know it, but that doesn’t matter. It’s right—it is meet that I acknowledge it. She took a deep breath, bowed her head briefly, then looked up to gaze upon Kozioł and his shadow stallion once more. And so, I thank you for the instruction, elder. May I learn this lesson well, and may it save me from the Torn Hour when all else has failed, and fear is given form before me.