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The next afternoon, the meeting Quinn had dreaded finally occurred. Around the table were Arwen and Ezra, Daren, Dorcas, and, unexpectedly, Gauvain. Willow sat beside her, solemn.
“From what little I’ve gleaned so far,” Arwen said. “Quinn’s experience reinforces our decision not to open the trail through the hills. Gauvain needs the complete picture as much as we do, so I included him today.”
Earlier, Quinn had walked into the woods, taking the track around the Motherhouse and its environs while she considered the words she’d use to convey the horror of their early history. The reality was, mere words couldn’t hope to be adequate. If she let herself fully remember that time...
She gave herself a shake to cast off the visceral experience of the memories. Willow glanced at her, brows raised.
All eyes focused on her. She took a breath, exhaled, breathed again.
“First, to be very clear, it will be impossible to remove the spells. There are multiples, layers of them, woven from each side without coordination. I got first-hand experience, trying to navigate around their templates, so this isn’t conjecture. Over the years they’ve become entangled, strengthening them and possibly giving rise to anomalies like the monster that attacked Kiril.”
Her voice hiccupped slightly when she said his name. Willow noticed; she doubted anyone else did.
“So even with your old document, I doubt you’ll be able to disentangle the weaves of the Borgonnian spells,” she said, addressing Gauvain. “The Midland ones are lost beyond recovery.”
“I see,” Gauvain said in a low voice, more as if he were talking to himself.
“Any other questions about the spells?” Quinn asked.
“Is it possible to ameliorate them? Lessen the risk?” Dorcas leaned forward. “For instance, could we find a specific thread that produced Kiril’s lizard?”
“I doubt it. The templates are so intertwined, they’re like a maze with no exit. I haven’t seen anything that points directly to the lizard. Have you?” she asked Gauvain.
He shook his head.
“So if we choose to provide continuing relief to Borgonne, we need another way to convey emergency supplies,” Arwen concluded. “This will be a political decision and not one for this meeting. Can you continue?” she asked Quinn.
Kind words, Quinn thought. A request, not a command.
“Bear with me,” she said. Once again she breathed, as much as her lungs would hold, then slowly released it. Willow pushed her mug of water closer; nodding a thank-you, Quinn took it and drank.
“It was bad,” she began. “It all fell apart. Our ancestors established settlements in what we now call Borgonne, but some kind of crisis struck. I’m not sure what, but I don’t think it was drought. Pestilence, possibly. Anyway, they ran low on food. Arguments about shortages blew up into a full-scale revolution. I couldn’t sort out the political positions or who wanted what, I just saw father against daughter, neighbor against neighbor.”
She stopped, swallowed, began again. “Desperate parents watching their children starve. The brutality... whole families massacred, assaults in the night against unarmed and unprepared people. Guerrilla attacks, and no mercy. I witnessed... a bloodbath. Cruelty I can’t even imagine.”
As she spoke, her voice became robotic. “Ultimately, a band gathered at the foot of the hills and struck out. No spells guarded the hills then, and they were... different. As we have suspected, the spells make them seem smaller, lower, more benign. These were mountains, harsh and without trails. But the people went, carrying what they could. Other parties followed.”
Quinn stopped. No one broke the silence.
“The violence died down. They survived and built civilizations. I was running by then, looking for a safe way out, so I only saw the next years in flashes. Understand,” she added, “my deepest penetration took me to the Borgonnian side of the hills. What I learned about the Midland came later, after a hundred years or more.”
No one spoke or so much as moved. She held their full attention.
“They’d discovered the Aura before the troubles and presumably knew something of manipulating it. The people in the Midland soon realized that spells had been placed on the mountains to prevent anyone else from crossing. They added layers of their own. By unspoken consent, both sides blocked further communication.
“Our system of Weavers, and Borgonne’s of Mages, evolved gradually over the next hundred years. And occasional word did leak through. It wouldn’t surprise me, Gauvain, to hear you weren’t the first to brave the hills.” She nodded to him; he grudgingly returned the gesture. “Gradually we learned that those with Entrée could cross, yet we didn’t. We allowed the myth of impermeability to stay.” She fell silent.
“Our ancestors didn’t want us to mix,” Arwen concluded. “With good reason? It’s impossible to say now. Our systems of governance, our general philosophies of life, even our ways of working with the Aura are radically different. Quinn’s report reinforces what we already knew, so our decision stands. We will not assist in any endeavor to open the hills, other than this one trip for emergency relief during your drought.”
“None of this changes my determination to create a safe passage,” Gauvain said flatly.
“You will not be successful,” Dorcas said. “You cannot be, not with half the protections based in the Midland. Even your Mages, if you sent them, would have no place to start. The spells are lost, Gauvain.”
He acknowledged the comment with a magisterial nod of his head.
And then it was over. Quinn found herself whisked away, Willow in tow, as Arwen propelled them both to her workroom.
“I wish you could see yourself,” Arwen said as they settled around the workbench. “You’re a wreck.”
“Yeah. I feel like one.”
“This is enough, Quinn. I need you whole and functioning. In the last season or two, you’ve gone beyond duty, and now it’s time to stop. Go home.”
“Home?” Quinn’s head jerked up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean home. Mother and father. Old haunts. The trek to get there will rebuild your health, and time away from here will give you perspective. I hate to lose you right now, but... realistically, I already have. We’ll be fine here. So go. Tomorrow.”
Arwen rose from the stool at her workbench where she had installed herself.
“Arwen?”
The older woman paused, her hand reaching for the door. She didn’t turn around.
“Care to tell me what happened?”
Arwen turned slowly and faced Quinn. “As you were coming out of the Aura, you mean.”
“Yes. Was it Daren? I was grateful for the comfort once I got far enough to be out of danger. But it broke precedent.”
“No, not Daren,” Arwen said shortly. “It was Kiril.”
She opened the door and left the room.
Kiril?
“Sustainer.” Quinn slumped, as if she had taken one blow too many. “How did he get involved?”
“I’ve heard rumors,” Willow said. “He heard you screaming and barged in. Arwen tore a piece off him later.”
Kiril. Her mind couldn’t accept it. She remembered the hands, so gentle. And the strength of his chest as she clawed toward safety. But no one ever, ever, interrupted a Weaver coming back from walking a template.
Abruptly light-headed, Quinn closed her eyes. “She’s right. I need to get away. My world’s galloping out of control.”
“It’s a great idea,” Willow said. Her hand brushed Quinn’s forehead, returning her to the here and now. “You can’t go on like this, so leave. At least you have a home to go back to,” she added with an unexpected hint of bitterness.
“Not tomorrow, though. I couldn’t be ready by tomorrow.”
“The next day then.”
Quinn squeezed her friend’s hand. “Come with me.”
Willow shook her head. “I’ve got my place. And you need to do this on your own. Go, Quinn. For yourself.”
She didn’t answer as she slid from her stool and moved to the door. “Walk?”
“Sure.”
They left in silence, each absorbed in her own thoughts.
~~
KIRIL CAUGHT SIGHT of Quinn the next morning as she crossed the green toward the west, heading for some unknown destination. For once she lacked her usual determined manner. He’d been resting on the amphitheater slope, soaking up the sun over a mug of caff. Without thinking he rose and, mentally plotting a trajectory, set out to intercept her. Rescuing her from that bunch of over-zealous Weavers had at once thrilled him and knocked him off balance; he needed to yell at someone. Overhead, the sky threatened a lingering rain, which suited his mood perfectly.
She saw him coming and ignored him.
He caught up with her on the edge of the Motherhouse complex, near the open forest that marked the beginning of the track to Stanstead. Grabbing her arm, he jerked her to a halt. “What in the blazes possessed you to do something that foolish?” he hissed.
She yanked free from his grasp; he seized her again.
“Let me go.” The threat in her voice was palpable.
Instead, he shook her. “Not until you tell me you won’t risk yourself that way again.”
She rounded on him, as much as she could with his hand holding her captive. “What business is it of yours? You don’t even belong here.”
“I don’t belong anywhere else. Get used to it.”
“The trail’s right there. How about taking it? Just get the hell out of here. You’re no Weaver, and you have no idea what I was doing. Or why.” She twisted her arm free; this time he let her.
As usual, she’d triggered his ire, beyond his previously unacknowledged fear for her. “You think I’m so blind to what’s going on? You risk being invaded, and instead of talking to people with training and experience, you delve into history and damn near get yourself killed.”
Quinn spoke through clenched teeth. “You’ve hardly given us any reason to trust you.”
“Oh, I see. Saving your precious Bryar wasn’t enough? Ask him his opinion, why don’t you?”
Both their voices had risen; they were shouting in each other’s faces now.
“You know nothing about the Aura. Nothing about the peril facing us.”
“Dammit, I’m the one carrying around the remnant of that thing in the hills. Not you. Not Bryar or Arwen or anyone else. Me. Remember me?”
Her voice fell and dripped with ice. “Despite my best efforts, I find you hard to forget.”
“Then say you won’t make such a damn fool decision again. Stay out of the Aura, Quinn.”
“Stay out of my business.”
She tried to turn from him; he yanked her back. “Call it enlightened self-interest. After all, you’re the one who keeps this demon in me under control. Or maybe I just want you around until the day I take you. Because make no mistake, that day’s coming.”
Where had that come from? He hadn’t known he’d say any such thing. Hadn’t even contemplated it.
Rage flooded her face. “Bastard.”
He caught her wrist before her hand made contact. Based on the jolt along his arm muscles, he would have worn the mark for days. “And when it happens,” he said with a tight smile, “it’s going to be a pleasure to tame you.”
Furious, she spat, “I saved your life.”
“Did I ever ask you to?”
He yanked her closer. They stood there, eye to eye, each of them seething.
Then his mouth was on hers and her teeth scraped his lip, their tongues fought as hard as their words, he felt her hands clawing into his back, and he had a death lock on her as if he wanted to pull her into him, make them one being...
Simultaneously they came to their senses and stood panting, staring at each other.
“Don’t you ever, ever, try that again.” Her fury lay barely beneath the surface of her words.
“Try?” Kiril did his best to keep his voice light, edging on sarcastic. “Why darlin’, you were right in there with me. And not objecting, unless you’re a damn fine actor.”
She wheeled and stormed off in the direction of the Scribes’ lodge.
Seems like she forgot all about where she was going. For some reason, that pleased him.
Kiril picked up the forgotten caff mug and returned to his place on the slope above the green, disconcerted by their encounter, and more sure than ever of his intention to control and tame the magnificent, dark-skinned woman.