On Wings of Magic (Witch World: The Turning) Page 11

  Arona could no longer control her tears. The injustice of it all overwhelmed her, and her eyes and nose ran until she must use up her pocket rag and part of her shawl as well. “These strangers keep changing their names and their stories, and there has been more to write since they came than there has ever been before! I've had to give lessons, and my he-student loves to plague a teacher younger than he is. I tried, Mistress, I did try, but there were times I was all alone without help last fall, and, you were away on elders’ business so much!”

  The recorder steered her into Records House and dipped out a cup of hot water from the kettle which always hung on the hearth. Arona blew her nose and let her mistress sprinkle some herbs in her cup to steep.

  “I can see it's been too much for you,” the old recorder said, her voice remote and thoughtful. “Perhaps I should take on another apprentice. The matter's been put to me.”

  Arona's tongue froze. Another apprentice, instead of her? After all her efforts? It “wasn't fair! One look at Maris's closed face warned her it would be useless to say so. The matter ‘s been put to me. By whom? Had the elders complained? She had taken risks and now she was being punished. She had spoken up in meeting and had burst into The Dissident's house-Tyith Lowri. She should have—no, for a hurt child she'd to the same thing again no matter what they did to her.

  But she should have kept silent in meeting. That she could do. Her head started to pound again. Slowly she sipped her herb tea and ate a bowl of soup. She looked at her mistress for reassurance and found none. Sick to her stomach’, she wondered who the new girl would be. Would she do any better? She finished the soup and excused herself. Outside, the wind was growing colder and the clouds deeper. That was a relief. The wet light after a storm always hurt her eyes and gave her headaches.

  She stored the tablets in the writing room—for the new girl?—and supplied herself with fresh ones wrapped in damp towels. She stopped to get a fresh handkerchief, and on second thought, made it two. Her nose always ran in nasty weather.

  She hurried back to her old place, and shoved the hay bale aside, so that she would be alone. As the elders and the villagers started trickling back in to the Mulehouse, she stopped Brithis, and out of her own misery, asked, “Cousin, what happened between you and Oseberg?”

  Brithis tossed her head. “Well, anyone who's so jealous she can't love any baby but her own, doesn't deserve to have friends.” Her face was red and her eyes were puffy. “That horrible mother of hers got to her,” she then admitted miserably. “Well! I'm glad Dame Noriel kicked her out! I hope she freezes, starves to death, and all the wolves eat her, and the Falconers find her, and, take her to Falcon Crag to feed their birds!”

  Arona had to laugh, and she gave Brithis a huge hug. Egil's prissy contempt for vengeance like this was even funnier, and after a while, Brithis began to laugh too. The eldest raised her spindle again. Maris Guidasdaughter came forward with Egil. “In the matter of the petition of Egil Elyshabetsdaughter,” maiden, to be apprenticed to the recorder,” the Eldest began.

  The clay tablet dropped from Arona's numb fingers and fell face-down into the stableyard mud, obliterating some of the characters. Arona scarcely noticed. She stared at Egil, her mouth hanging open, her belly frozen, and at Maris, for whom she had worked so hard and so well. She gasped as tears began to flow down her cheeks. Her head suddenly seemed to explode.

  “Petition granted,” the eldest said. There was more, but Arona could only hear it as a babble of noise. She could not pick up the tablet; she could record nothing. She sat, as in a bad dream, while Egil came to join her.

  “It seems we'll be working together from now on,” he said cheerfully. “Hey! Arona! What's there to cry about?” He handed her a handkerchief, looking puzzled and annoyed. “Aren't you happy for me?”

  Nine

  Falcon Winter, Falcon Spring

  The sunlight was as icy and wet as the snow that still clung to the houses and barns. Arona wiped her eyes again and trudged down to the well-worn path to Records House. She was drawn and gaunt, and a stubborn weariness clouded her face as did the long bangs which obscured her eyes. It had been a hungry winter.

  Now Egil Elyshabet's he-daughter, may Jonkara's talons tear its lying soul from its beautiful flesh, was going to live at Records House, as of tomorrow morning. “Mistress, how could you?” she burst out, hastening to catch up to the old woman.

  Maris sighed and took Arona's hand. “It's as you said, dear, there's too much work for one person, and Egil loves the work as much as you do. It will all work out; you'll see.”

  Sourly Arona persisted, “Have you heard his wild ideas about what he'll do when he becomes recorder?"

  Maris coughed, then chuckled softly. “As I recall, all bright young girls have their own ideas. Weren't you going to turn Records House into Magic House, and learn every ritual you could find for doing things?”

  Arona didn't answer. Since the strangers came, she had no more time for hobbies. Even in the depths of winter, there had been Egil's lessons to work at, and knitting until her fingers were sore, to replace garments lost in the Great Storm of the Turning. Her own scrolls, tucked away behind her bed, had gathered dust.

  She could only lie sleeplessly in bed that night and hope Egil would be less a rival and more a friend.

  He came very shortly after dawnlight, authority in his very walk. Arona bristled, for all she had promised her mistress she wouldn't. Maris wasn't well and couldn't deal with nonsense.

  “I know you have quarreled in the past,” Mistress Maris said gently, laying one arm around each youngster's shoulder, “but now my apprentices must lay their quarrels aside and be as one. Arona, please show Egil your room, and then show her her chores, that's a good girl.” She sounded tired and looked frail.

  Egil unaccountably whistled when he saw the low-ceilinged loft room, with Arona's robes hanging from pegs in the wall, and he looked at her speculatively. But downstairs, when she said, “We'll take turns doing the housework,” and handed him the dishpan, he cocked his head to one side. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

  How could she? “I'm only trying to be fair,” she said stiffly, still not looking at him.

  Egil shook his head. “If one person is better at outdoor chores and one person at indoor chores, doesn't it make a lot of sense that each one do what she's best at?” he argued.

  This was one of their standing arguments. “If Mistress Maris wants to change the custom, she may; I won't,” she said, wrapping her hands and shoulders to draw water. He followed her outside, carried the buckets back in, and winked at Arona when Maris, seeing this, handed the dishtowel to Arona. She glared at his unrepentant grin of triumph.

  From morning dishes to record room, to mending and sweeping, to the records again they went, arguing as they went. “The first thing I'll do,” Egil said thoughtfully, “is take that horrid tale of treachery and add the proper interpretation to it.”

  “You do just that,” Arona challenged. “What Mistress wants is a complete account of yesterday's meeting, as well you know.”

  “Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “One granddam crying that another's child blacked her son's eye? Be serious.” But he was too canny to let their mistress know how lazy he was, and applied himself to the task as diligently as if he wanted to. When they finished, he rolled up the scrolls and capped the inkstones carefully. But he raised the expected fuss over peeling dried vegetables for the supper stewpot. Lazy, Arona thought in contempt. One day Maris would see it.

  That night, in what was now their room, she started to undress, then turned around and saw Egil frankly staring, as if he would devour her. “Egil,” she said firmly, “that's rude.”

  He laughed softly. “I never expected such false modesty of you, Arona, since you know what we're here for.” He moved closer to her, and then held her in a bear hug while he kissed her, as hard as he had that first time. Taken unawares, she twisted back, pushing with the heels of her hands against his chin. She tried t
o gasp out, “Stop it!” but he laughed a little and said, “If that's the way you want to play it,” and she saw he was like a Falconer about to do his duty.

  She had not come here to get a child! What made Egil think she had? She struggled with hands, feet, and teeth, until she managed to free herself. Then, totally undressed, she scrambled down the ladder. “Mistress,” she gasped, and started to sob. The old recorder, dozing in a rocker by the hearth, snapped her head up and focussed sleep-blurred eyes on her. Arona knelt by the rocker and laid her head in her mistress's lap. Through choking sobs she said, “He tried to do as Falconers do.” She used the ending reserved for Falconers and rutbeasts, spitting it out with a sharp-sounding negative. “He said I knew it would be so. Mistress,” she begged, “did you tell him he could do this?”

  Maris blinked. “Were you having a bad dream, dear?” she asked, seeming confused. Her face was hot from the fire.

  Arona gasped and extended her arms, scratched and bruised, into the dying firelight. “Is this a dream?” she cried.

  “You were fighting,” Maris said severely. “That is unworthy, Arona.”

  “He tried to—Mistress! Didn't you hear me?”

  “Go back upstairs, dear, and you two make peace.”

  Arona bit her lower lip, tears rolling down her face. “It is not right to send me to get a child without telling me. You even heard the elders say so. If you keep Egil upstairs, I will sleep down here.”

  Maris sighed and looked closely at Arona.” She was badly upset about something, to be sure, but then, she had been badly upset about a good many things ever since Egil Elyshabetsdaughter had come to the village. What was this about a child? Nobody had said any such thing; she told the girl so most firmly. Then would she go back upstairs? Arona wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Only if you tell Egil he is not to do this!” she insisted.

  Maris peered at her more closely. She did seem frightened. It was hard to imagine the softspoken, deferential Egil as a bully, but the old recorder remembered a few old humiliations at the hand of the equally soft-spoken Peliel Laelsdaughter long ago. “Egil?” she called. “Egil Elyshabetsdaughter? Please come down.”

  Egil threw on his shirt and trousers, thinking furiously. This Maris Guidasdaughter had made him recorder's apprentice in Arona's stead, had put them in the same room, and had told them they must now be as one. What other meaning could this have, but that she had given him Arona as his handfast wife? And Arona was no blushing innocent; he had heard from many sources how explicit was the instruction of these Falconers’ women. Was there some necessary preliminary she expected? Kisses, flowers, eternal vows? Well, she would have them! But he would not be treated as an outlaw for simply claiming his rights.

  As Egil came down, Arona raced for the ladder, scrambling into her heaviest and most concealing robes. She braided her hair tightly and put on soft house boots. Egil and Maris were talking softly together. The old recorder broke off in the middle of a sentence, and said, “No, Egil Elyshabetsdaughter, I do not understand. Now, what I want you two girls to do is go upstairs and promise to live like sisters as long as you both are here.”

  Arona's eyes searched Egil's face in the dim firelight. She made up her mind. “I can stay here by the fire,” she answered. Both Maris and Egil shook their heads. She examined Egil's ovemiuscled arms, remembering their strength as he held her against her will. “Egil,” she said desperately, “you go on upstairs. I won't be able to sleep; I'll stay down here and keep our mistress company.”

  His hand closed around her upper arm. “Don't be foolish, Arona,” he said in the grim voice of a bully about to have his way.

  Arona dug her short, strong fingernails into his hand, to no avail. “Mistress!” she cried desperately, once more.

  Maris jerked her head back, now totally alert. “I do not wish to think I have made a bully my apprentice,” she said firmly. “Arona, you must not be afraid of her. You must learn to stand up for yourself.”

  Trapped, Arona said softly, “You go first, Egil. I'll come along later.” Then, to the recorder, “Dame Lennis is right, Mistress. They are different.” She blew her nose on a fresh rag the old woman handed her. “They act like Falconers. We don't understand them. Do you? Maybe the Witch does.” She glanced towards the door.

  Maris stroked her hair. “The hour is very late for one the age of the Witch, but if you really fear Egil's bullying, you can sleep with me tonight—just this one night. You really will have to learn to live together, you know.”

  . She knew. That's what frightened her most. The next morning, Egil, dressed and washed, put his head next to hers. “What do you require, my little sisterfriend?” he asked softly. “An oath of lifetime fealty? Do you wish me to beg you on bended knee? Pay a (something) price to your family? All you need to do is tell me; just remember, I'm a stranger here, and do not know your customs.”

  “Egil,” she said, distressed, “what you must do is ask.”

  “Well, then! I'm asking now.”

  “No. Not yet. Not while I'm afraid of you.”

  “You told me,” he spat out in a nearly inaudible fury, “that all I needed to do was ask. So I did. And now you refuse me? I don't know what game you're playing, but you'd better be a bit more honest with me from now on.”

  She twisted loose again. “You think you own me!” she exclaimed in shock. “Well! Go ask Loyse Annetsdaughter how that works! And leave me alone!” She went about her chores and continued writing up the village meeting, shoving the relevant sections under Egil's nose.

  He stared at her, brooding, all day: at work and at chores, at meals and after, when they sat knitting by the fireplace, and shortly before bedtime. She excused herself early, and heard him on the ladder. Scrambling back down, she dragged her quilt behind her with, “It wants mending.” Then she sat stitching at it until she could keep her eyes open no longer. Egil was still watching her like a cat at a mousehole. She yawned, stretched, and excused herself with a remark about the outhouse. Then she wrapped her quilt around her and quietly slipped out of the gate and onto the darkened path.

  It was too dark to run. As quickly as she could, she picked her way along the path, eyes alert for obstacles. Which way was the House of the Witch? From the plains to the west, one of Jonkara's Dogs cried mournfully. The end of the quilt dragged on the sodden, half-frozen ground. Lips tight, she fumbled for it and wrapped the heavy cover tighter around her. The path was rough under her soft house boots. She stopped, breathing very softly. Was there a sound behind her? If Egil came after her, she would sound a warning call as loudly as possible, and see this taken before the elders.

  Why was he behaving so? Like Roldeen and Asta Lennisdaughters and the Falconers all rolled into one! She caught her breath and set off again. The familiar village pathways looked entirely different after dark, and she had not dared take torch or candle. She heard a very soft, faint footstep again, close behind her, and stopped. Something soft and furry wound itself around her leg. She stooped down to touch it. A familiar voice demanded, “Yow?”

  “Little Red Pest!” she breathed, picking up the cat. Then she set it down again with, “Show me the way to the Witch's House, kitty. Please?” The cat darted off. She followed. The path did not seem familiar, and the night was chill. Oh, Dame Witch, help me, Arona's mind begged as the wind knifed through her hair. Her ears felt made of ice, and hurt painfully; her nose was full of ice. She set down one foot after another, and, stepping on the side of a rock at an angle, fell heavily on one leg. Dame Witch! her mind screamed. In the distance, Egil was calling, “Arona? Arona!” She struggled to her feet.

  Then she felt her mind held fast by the mind of the Witch. Her feet, with no volition of her own, now held her up and began walking her down the path she had thought went the wrong way. With no light from sun, moon, stars, or torch, she could see every detail of the ground underfoot. Her legs moved faster and faster, until she was running like a message-girl. Egil's voice sounded louder and louder behind he
r. With one last effort, she burst through the Witch's open door and flung herself, gasping for breath, against the haggard old woman's plain, heavy robe.

  “Just sit,” the old Witch said dispassionately. A kettle hung over the fire, and from it, rich soup smells rose. Arona recognized root vegetables and what had to be the eldest of the he-hens, boiled for days. She fell, nearly fainting, onto the Witch's plank-wood settee. “Arona!” Egil was calling. The Witch dipped out soup into a red pottery bowl, handed her a spoon of the same material, then stared into the distance. The calls ceased, and the girl sensed Egil turning back to Records House. Satisfied, the Witch watched her eat until the bowl was empty.

  “I knew this was bound to happen,” the Witch's voice came from a distance as Little Red Pest jumped on top of the girl and settled between her legs, purring. Then the old woman set herself to contact the recorder, whose ultrasenses were sharper than either her sight or her hearing.

  Egil was at the Witch's house at dawnlight, followed by a distraught Maris. The Witch sat them both down with herself and Arona. “We can take this before the elders if you wish,” she said judiciously, “or we can settle it here.” The frail old recorder's face, clouded at the thought of another meeting, brightened. It was a horrible stain, not to be able to keep order in her own home.

  “Maris, under no circumstances do a girl and a he-girl share a room, but one: that ‘wedding’ you heard Huana Guntirsdaughter speak of the day before yesterday,” the Witch said with mild distaste, for her order rejected all that. “Egil acted according to his own customs. Every dog gets one bite, not two. We must now warn people to keep the he-girls and the girls apart. Shall I call the meeting, or will you?”

  Egil brooded at Arona over his bowl of the witch's porridge. “I cannot believe you people had no concept,” he began, stopped, and the Witch nodded. “Arona, I would never hurt you. I will be honest. I want you for my—'sisterfriend’ is the closest I can come in our common tongue, but there's another, used only in the ancient records. Do you understand me?”