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Quinn prowled her suite in the Scribes’ lodge, wishing she hadn’t bothered to get out of bed. The small lodge sat east of the green, and her rooms faced outward, toward the morning sun pouring over the hills and flooding the valley. Part of the massif that loomed over the Motherhouse complex to the north was visible, adding its appearance of either menace or safety, depending on your point of view. The swath of fields and meadows it sheltered was not as lush as it appeared, stony ground more fit for goats than corn.
A familiar, inspiring vista. But not this morning.
She was fed up with being at Arwen’s beck and call, for almost a year now, as she held things together and trained for her role as heir apparent to the council head.
Fed up with the way her two closest friends, Willow and Bryar, had both become doe-eyed, mindless idiots over the new loves in their lives.
Life at the Motherhouse had acquired a patina of sameness, making her question her stated preference to work from here and not move around the Midland. She’d be gone this very morning, if she could present herself with a logical reason. That despite the fact that the time working with Arwen had resulted in the most complex and beautiful weave she had ever devised, and quite possibly had saved their civilization.
And where her friends were concerned... well, Willow had been willing to sacrifice everything, and damn near had, to contain the power cell. Bryar had not only risked his life, but forfeited two fingers, surely the most painful loss imaginable for a musician. They deserved their mawkish moment.
Wasn’t that the problem with being the rational one? She couldn’t even muster a hateful day without compelling herself to hurl out valid justifications.
Grow up. You’re exhausted, that’s all.
Nevertheless, Quinn was not best amused when a messenger kid came to the door. Arwen again. Her workroom. Immediately. Please – a clear afterthought.
She thanked the child and ignored the message. The power cell that had threatened the very underpinnings of their civilization was contained and safely on its way to where nobody would ever find it. Problems loomed, but nothing that couldn’t be dealt with in half an hour.
Other than Kiril, that is. But she’d been barred from work on that particular problem. She knew why – Arwen doubted her objectivity, given the antagonism that flowed between them. Among all the other reasons for irritation this morning, Quinn resented her exclusion from the healing room where he had lain catatonic for days.
She peered out the window of her sitting room. Everything as usual. Circle the massif to the north and strike east into the hills, and you end up... in a land she’d never visited. Bryar and Willow both had spent time in Borgonne. She, the Scribe, had only their stories. She had never seen the country with her own eyes, nor had she been able to probe it in depth... and what was that about? Did the hills block not only travel, but also records stored in the Aura? Or did Borgonnians work such potent magic that they could screen their activities?
Her own Entrée, her ability to access the life-giving powers of the Aura, was among the strongest in her generation, and she couldn’t do these things. The Aura itself was stronger on the Borgonnian side of the hills. Did this mean they could manipulate it in ways never contemplated in the Midland?
And if all this was true, the Mages of Borgonne were a force to be feared, and Quinn was grateful that the spells on the hills kept them on their side.
When you got right down to it, what good did her investigations do, anyway? Who really cared about the origin of life on their planet, the snippets of history she wove together like varying weights of linen thread on a loom, culminating in the life they lived today? Big picture, small picture... no picture, for most of the inhabitants of the Midland. They planted and harvested, celebrated their triumphs and festivals, worked through their disasters, and faced another day. History? Not so much. Even Bryar seldom wrote songs about actual historical events, relying on tales that had come down from... somewhere.
Maybe Kiril or Joss would recognize those legends. Because with the similarity in their languages, there had to be a historical connection.
If Kiril lived.
Quinn was seized by a moment of guilt. When had she last enacted a morning ritual? Days, anyway, perhaps as much as a nine-day. She’d never put as much stock in such things as Willow and Bryar did, but still...
She lifted her hands, palms up.
Sustainer of Air, disentangle my thoughts. Grant me clarity and decisiveness.
Thank you for the brilliance of the sun, for friends and commitments...
She fell silent and let her hands drop as the words dried up. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful for the Aura and the Entrée she’d been born with, but she lacked the intuitive poetry to say so. ‘Hey, thanks’ didn’t feel very ritualistic.
Quinn snorted. At least she could still laugh at herself.
Bryar and Tai had left two days before; they’d be at Ezra’s compound by now. She wouldn’t mind a stay at Ezra’s herself. The most powerful Scribe in generations, he had made her journey year, spent primarily under his tutelage, one of the most rewarding of her career.
What did Arwen want? And why now?
Quinn knew better than to give in to her sour mood. She was just so tired, though. Tired of the unrelenting challenges and changes of the last year, which had kept her away from her usual historical research and left her feeling lonely and isolated.
She wandered into her even smaller bedroom and flopped on her bed. Perhaps a nap...
The knock came again. No point questioning who was there, or what the message would be. With a huff of exasperation, Quinn rolled upright yet again.
“Sorry, sister,” the messenger kid said. “Arwen says you’re to come, no matter what you’re in the middle of.”
Even if I’m mired in a sulk of epic proportions?
Not the boy’s fault. She sent him off with a half smile and fished her sandals out from under the table.
Arwen waited in the entry lobby of the lodge. As Quinn came down the stairs, she could sense fire smoldering in the older woman, who rounded on her as soon as she reached the foot of the staircase.
“I don’t have time to search all over the Motherhouse for you,” she snapped. “You’re the one who’s so determined to mine the Aura for every secret it can divulge, so where the deuce have you been?” She grasped Quinn’s arm and shook it. Quinn noted that the older woman was panting lightly, as if the prevailing tension had closed up her chest.
“Sorry. I needed to—”
She didn’t sound sorry enough, evidently. Without further explanation, Arwen wheeled toward the door, dragging her along as if she were still a young teen bent on exploring boundaries and had just exploded a stink bomb in the dining hall.
“Hold it.” Quinn dug in her heels. The two women stopped at the threshold of the small lodge – small because there had never been more than fifteen Scribes at any one time. “Before we create a spectacle out there for the apprentices, tell me what this is about.”
Arwen sighed, and Quinn at last noticed the deep circles under her eyes, the slight slump in her shoulders. “That man. What else?”
That man. Kiril. The Healers were keeping him alive, but nobody had been able to figure out what ailed him.
“And this concerns me?” Her snapped comment gave clear evidence of her resentment at being shut out.
“You know it does,” Arwen snapped right back. “Whatever’s got hold of him, its origin is the Aura. There’s some... magic.” The word, familiar enough but never used in regard to the life-giving energy that sustained the Midland, seemed to tangle Arwen’s tongue.
Never until recently, as it now transpired that the Aura was far from the beneficent energy they had assumed.
“I didn’t want to do this, but we need you involved. We’re getting nowhere trying to fathom what it is,” Arwen continued. “The Healers lack the skill set, and you’re the best currently in residence for this type of exploration. For everyone’s sake, stop being difficult.”
“Sorry,” Quinn mumbled again, feeling as if she were thirteen instead of three times that. Arwen had that effect, when she chose to.
Arwen released her grip, and the two women set off together across the green to the healing rooms.
As they crossed in front of the amphitheater, Quinn strove for unbiased reflection. She and Kiril had been antagonists ever since he tumbled into their world on that little space ship of his. He’d made no attempt to integrate into their society and had seldom been less than abrasive. Worse, he looked at her like a meal to be devoured, which left her uneasy. Not because of the look, but because of the reactions it triggered – mostly negative ones. But not entirely.
Damn.
She’d visited the healing room once before since his collapse the day of the binding that finally rendered the power cell harmless, and like the others had sensed a weird energy in him, but... her mind went to work, seeking the one thing that might prove to be an entry into his current state.
“Where Kiril’s concerned, we can guess the origin of his problem, but what’s happening to him now... I’m perplexed,” she admitted.
“I’m relying on you to dig out the truth. I consider this a crisis, and I’m about to break every rule in our code and ask you to violate his personal privacy. Don’t argue,” she added, anticipating Quinn’s reaction. “Something happened in those hills, and it’s been carried into the Midland. This isn’t only for Kiril’s sake, although my instinct suggests that if we manage to save him, we’ll be glad.”
“You’re thinking of his eyes?” Quinn was only half joking. Blue eyes were so rare that a folk belief suggested those who had them carried a special destiny. Kiril’s eyes were shockingly blue.
Arwen made a noise that sounded like a hiss. “No. There’s no evidence for the validity of that tale. But I sense trouble in Borgonne as well. A disruption in the patterns to the east. Keeping Borgonne stable is vital to us – the reasons are buried in history, but I believe in the truth of it. We need to understand what’s going on in the hills, Quinn.”
Still fighting off her earlier grumpiness, Quinn grunted.
“This thing with Kiril is a clue. And,” Arwen added, as if dangling a scrap of meat before a starving dog, “it’s the sort of work you love. Don’t deny it. But for this, I need your absolute commitment.”
“I’m surprised you’d doubt me.” She ran one hand through her short, tight curls; the other formed a fist.
“Normally I wouldn’t... I don’t. But there’s danger here, and so far we haven’t been able to isolate it. It’s like being threatened by an invisible enemy.”
“You specialize in tearing me apart, don’t you?” Quinn retorted mildly.
Arwen smiled, nearly a first since the binding, and drew them to a halt. “This last year has been hard for us all. My responsibility is to cultivate in you the confidence and toughness for whatever lies ahead, not tomorrow but next year, and the years after. Something tells me the council will face troubling times. Not the easy road we’ve walked for generations.”
At the door of the healing room, Quinn paused before pushing through the heavy curtain. “I’m uneasy about what we might be unleashing. The Aura’s not what we believed it to be. These days, every time I venture into it I feel as if it’s alien territory. It makes me nervous.”
“I understand.” The older woman’s eyes were serious, the lines in her face prominent, even in the filtered light of the overcast day. “There come times we are given no choice.”
With the accord struck, Quinn pulled aside the curtain and allowed Arwen to precede her into the healing room.
~~
KIRIL LOOKED LIKE A skeleton in skin.
His hypnotic blue eyes were open but empty, his body unmoving.
“He’s aware,” Beatris, an experienced Healer, reported. Usually Beatris could be relied on to inject lightness, if not humor, into a situation, but not today. Besides the tension in the room, attending to the participants in the power cell binding had left lingering fatigue behind her eyes. “There’s no fever. In fact, there’s no sign at all of illness. He’s not comatose or unconscious. Yet you see his condition for yourself.”
From a corner by the workbench, Dal nodded agreement. Currently senior among the active Healers, he had attended Kiril since he himself recovered from the energy drain of the binding. Dal looked as bad as Arwen, his finely drawn face reflecting the strain of the past four days.
“Can he hear?” Quinn asked.
“We don’t know,” Dal said. “Given his personality, he’d not be in favor of being left out of whatever we plan, so I’m not worried about being overheard.”
“He rejects our ways,” Quinn said. “He’ll resist any kind of Healing.”
Dal shrugged, evoking a tiny smile from Beatris. “He’s learning.”
“Quickly enough?” Arwen asked. “Where are his loyalties?” She addressed the immobile man on the cot, although it seemed evident he could not respond to her. “Kiril, are you with us? Are you willing to accept our help?” She received no response, nor had they expected one. Arwen forged on. “Are you seeking death?”
Kiril’s right hand twitched, then lay still. He’d heard.
“I say we proceed,” Dal said. “It’s good to have you here, Quinn. We’re hoping that once you figure out what’s happening, between us we can devise a remedy.”
“Maybe,” Beatris muttered.
“Maybe,” Arwen confirmed. “But we’re out of options. Quinn, do you need time to prepare?”
She did, but every instinct told her they were short of time. Kiril was fading. He might not be alive in another day. “What are you doing now?”
“Treating symptoms,” Beatris said. “Sustaining, but not Healing. And our remedies are losing their effectiveness. Whatever it is, it’s growing in strength.”
“As we might have anticipated, had we known he’d been infected by that beast in the hills in the first place,” Dal said. “Even before he collapsed, he was losing weight and becoming weaker by the day. We were so wrapped up in the binding we failed to notice.”
Self-recrimination colored his words. Arwen crossed the small room and put a hand on Dal’s shoulder. “Don’t do this. He didn’t seek help. No one is to blame.”
Dal met her eyes, wearily. “I suppose not. But this...” He trailed off and said nothing more.
Arwen turned back to the room. “Quinn, are you ready? What do you need?”
As the conversation continued, Quinn had set aside her early pique. She felt sufficiently calm and focused to answer the question with confidence. “Quiet, a glass of water, and a lifeline.”
“A full link?” Arwen asked.
“No, I don’t think so. This shouldn’t be that deep, merely intricate.”
Dal crossed the room to her. He had been a figure in her life since he taught her very first class in Healing, many years ago. She admired and trusted him for his skill, his judgment, and his innate sympathy. “You’re familiar with Ezra’s prophecy?” he asked quietly.
She frowned.
“He said you three would be involved in events to come.”
She had forgotten, but remembered now; Willow had relayed Ezra’s unsettling words, over half a year ago. “I didn’t consider it prophecy, just a... foretelling? One of Ezra’s odd ways of seeing things?”
Dal didn’t smile. “Willow and Bryar both paid a price—”
“And are prospering now,” Arwen interrupted.
“Mostly,” Quinn said, remembering Bryar’s hand.
“Yes,” Dal said, “but both stood on the brink of catastrophic loss. Nothing has happened to you yet. All I’m saying is, don’t take chances. If Ezra’s right...” His eyes changed focus, seeing far into an invisible horizon.
Quinn hugged the older man. “I’ll be careful,” she whispered.
“I’m staying,” Dal concluded. “I won’t get in the way, but I want to be here if you need me. This thing is energetic, but there are medical implications, too. It’s likely to require both of us to deal with it.”
“Thanks.”
Dal turned to Beatris. “Why don’t you take a break? With so many in here, we’re stepping all over each other’s energies. I’ll send for you when you’re needed.”
Beatris touched Kiril’s forehead, nodded, and said, “Watch yourself, Dal.”
She poured a mug of water from a flask, handed it to Quinn, and left. Quinn assigned positions to Arwen across the cot from her and Dal along the wall furthest from Kiril. “I need space. Since I’m not going deep, don’t fill the room with worry. If there’s a problem, I’ll signal.”
Arwen’s grim face and silence did nothing to reassure her, but Quinn was counted among the most experienced explorers of the Aura. Whatever plagued Kiril must have its roots in the spells blanketing the hills, and probably in the attack by the beast that savaged his arm. Facing a challenge unlike any other of her career, and with Dal’s caution ringing in her mind, she settled on a stool next to Kiril, murmured a quick invocation – Sustainer of air, guide my exploration – placed a hand lightly on his chest, and began the process that would culminate in access to Kiril’s demon.