The Mirror of the Moon (Revenant Wyrd Book 2) Page 8

  It made them all think of home, and the leagues they had traveled since. How much they missed their father, and how much they wished to retrieve their sister. At times Joya thought it was hopeless to ever imagine them all being back together, of being safe at home again in the company of her best friend and the rest of her family. What would it be like if they were not able to save Amber? What would happen then? For the first time in what seemed like ages Joya thought of Alhamar. Dislike him as she may, he still made Amber happy. She guessed if nothing turned out right that at least she would always have him as a link to Amber, a link to a life she would never get back.

  Another thought troubled her then. Even if they got Amber safely into their possession, neither of them would be able to live a normal life ever again. They were both sorceresses, or were about to be. For the first time she felt the weight of her calling as a burden on her shoulders, and she wondered what the future would hold for her. There was a sense of destiny around her, something grander than she could ever completely fathom, but in a moment the thought was gone and she scoffed at herself. Everything would turn out fine, for the voice of wisdom would never let anything bad happen; he told her all would be well if she sought training from him, and she knew without a doubt it would be.

  As the last of their chanting ceased, a slight wind picked up and rustled the grass and ferns in a strange symphony of nature. The ferns on the litters began to shiver with more ferocity than that of its counterparts around the group, and each of the five nymphs began to fade, as if they were nothing more than a painting that began to dull with age, until finally there was nothing left of them but the litter they had lain on, and the clothes they had worn.

  The passing of the nymphs drifted on the air like wyrd made tangible, and all of them shivered with the cold passing of their souls.

  Grace must have felt, or seen, something none of them did. She pulled out some parchment and coal and began writing.

  “Here marks the passing of twelve-year-old Andray Flesta, twenty-one-year-old Sranda Inia, eleven-year-old Alesta Vellen, fourteen-year-old Erenes Haten, and seventeen-year-old Lleon Feliays.”

  They spent one night with the nymphs. Despite Orilyn claiming to know Grace, none of the fauns or the nymphs would so much as look at them. They understood, through the coldness of their demeanor, that the other nymphs and fauns would not take Orilyn’s word that the group had nothing to do with the deaths of their beloved nymphs. So it was, when the next day dawned they parted with not so much as a good-bye from the mourning nymphs.

  Leading the horses up the steep incline out of Betikhan Valley proved to be somewhat of a challenge at times, and breaks were frequent while sweating human and beast took time to rest. Talking was nearly non-existent except for a few pleasantries here and there.

  That left Angelica and Jovian to their own devices, and sometimes that was not the greatest thing. Having been together nearly every day of their lives, there was little that one did not know about the other, but still they found their new mental link to be incredibly fascinating as it brought them closer to one another in a way they had never been before. It was now, more than ever, that they felt more like one entity rather than two.

  It was that night the voice of wisdom started Joya’s training.

  “Everything is possessed of wyrd,” he informed Joya. “Because everything is made of energy, everything then is also made of wyrd. Tell me, Joya, what exactly is wyrd?” the voice of Wisdom asked her.

  “Wyrd is hard to explain. It is a force that resides in beings, and it is also the force that decides the outcome of one’s life.”

  When the voice did not say anything for a time Joya started to fidget.

  “Yes, it has been called that, but it is also much more. Wyrd is that which comes from past influences. It could be said that wyrd is the future, or the future determined by what we have done in the past, but it is also not solely that. Wyrd also means to become, to grow, and to come to pass. It is the force that drives us, the same force some choose to call Goddess. It is what makes us, and it is what destroys us; it is the beginning and the end and the eternal moment between. Wyrd is not just an enigmatic power that we can wield, but it is our life, our existence, our very being.” So impassioned was he that Joya sat in awe for a moment. “Being that, all things, corporeal and incorporeal, possess wyrd which the sorcerer calls to himself and uses.”

  “So you are saying that we draw on energies around us to work our wyrd?” Joya asked, and for the first time she was stunned at how many times, in ordinary life, she used the word wyrd to mean many different things. She had used wyrd to mean her destiny, wyrd as energy being worked, wyrd as mystical, and also as life forces.

  “Now you see how often it is used and none really understand fully what it means. Wyrd is not something that can be explained so simply to the uneducated because they do not understand the mechanics of it. Yet to a wyrder the word is able to be understood, to be fathomed.” He was silent for some time as she continued to think. Finally he answered her question: “Yes, we draw on the energies around us to work wyrd.”

  “Yet when I worked my wyrd all those times before it was not something that was from outside me; instead it felt as though the wyrd welled up from deep inside me,” Joya argued with conviction.

  “Yes, it can seem like that when another force is teaching you to use wyrd by using your body. Wyrd is definitely drawn from other than yourself, though when you are untrained it can be difficult to discern where it truly comes from. Rest assured once you realize how to draw on it you will feel a slight difference in the way it comes to you, but that is only because you will be looking for the difference. You will understand then and feel how it is different because you will know that it is different.”

  To Joya that made perfect sense.

  “Well if everything is possessed of wyrd then I should be able to use my own to work, shouldn’t I?” she asked, and the voice paused for a moment.

  “No,” he answered finally.

  “Why not?”

  “There are many reasons, one of which is that no single being has enough wyrd to work the way sorcerers do, so you will need to draw on resources to work. Another reason is that tapping into your own wyrd will tire you faster than tapping on those around you. Both methods will tire you, but using your own wyrd, even only a little, will tire you much faster than drawing on that around you.”

  Joya considered for a time.

  “So when do I learn to draw on wyrd?” she asked with wide-eyed interest.

  “Patience, my dear. You will learn tomorrow all about sensing the wyrd in other things and also how to draw on it. For now you must rest; you have been through many things, and there are yet many more things left for you ahead. Rest tonight, for tomorrow night you might not get much.”

  And with that darkness once more stole over Joya as the voice of wisdom and his light left her.

  The morning dawned cool and dull with a heavy mist hovering over the forest floor. Insubstantial light trickled in through the canopy of leaves and needles to shine golden-green on the moss, glowing off the haze that clung to the ground and trunks. Birds could be heard twittering lazily in the cool morning light, not wanting to leave their nests, but hunger demanding their flight. Grace felt much the same as the birds, wishing nothing more than to find herself in a comfortable bed with unburdened hours to sleep away. Instead she found herself here, tracking down a youth that had been kidnapped by a former friend, now a hated enemy.

  She groaned as bits and parts of her aged body protested her movements in a symphony of cracks and pops. Finally she righted herself with a balled up fist in her lower back. Days were not getting any easier on her, that was for sure, and at her age how could they? She supposed they would only get worse before they got better.

  As she was normally the first to rise, Grace was a little distressed when she saw that Maeven and Jovian’s bed rolls were already empty, and with a frown she went to tend the horses, making awful child
ish noises at the steeds as she watered and fed them. Patting each on the head, she brushed them down, readying them for the journey ahead.

  This was mornings as usual. She would rise before the others so that they would not see how much pain she was in, and then ready the horses. Maeven would normally wake next and make breakfast and coffee—and Grace was currently wondering where that was now as her stomach growled and her body yearned for the hot brew—and soon the others would stretch lazily and only rise at Grace’s insistence, and sometimes at the toe of her boot jabbing them awake.

  Finally, as she finished readying the snorting horses for their trip, she overheard voices and laughter coming her way from ahead, and smiled when she saw Maeven’s shaved head and Jovian’s golden curls glowing softly in the morning light as they approached with their hunt.

  “I figured we could do with some actual food this morning,” Maeven said as he sat and started to skin the rabbits.

  “No,” Grace said throwing the carcasses at Jovian. “Rabbit sounds good, but coffee sounds better. You know mine turns out like sludge, and that is one beverage that I don’t like so potent that it knocks me for a loop. Jovian can skin and gut; you make the coffee,” she demanded, lowering her creaking bones onto a log near the fire Jovian was now reviving.

  “Grace, are you okay?” Jovian asked in concern, this being the first time he had ever seen the old lady in this kind of pain.

  She waved away his worry as she looked around at the damnable moisture hanging in the air, not making her joints any more enjoyable.

  “Only that which afflicts the aging,” Maeven said with a grin, which earned him a swat aside the head with Grace’s pipe. Slowly she filled it and lit it from a proffered ember from Jovian.

  “I will be fine,” she said to Jovian, grateful for his concern. “Weather like this never did much good for my bones, and I feel that it is only worsening as I grow older.”

  Jovian had never expected Grace to give into the pangs of age, and apparently his surprise was evident as she laughed a full throated laugh at the bewilderment on his face.

  “It will be okay. Just make the damn food; an empty stomach never did much good for me either, though it normally affects my mood, not my body.”

  Not long after that Grace was nursing her first cup of coffee for the day, and adding her sweet smoke to the mist around them. Angelica and Joya woke on their own, a little bewildered at not being rudely awoken. They gathered around the fire, their blankets wrapped around their stretching forms.

  They got on the road late that morning, but it was the perfect morning for such a delay. By the time they saddled their horses and struck camp, the sun had burned away most of the dampness and warmed the air enough so that Grace could move a bit more freely. Any worry about injuring the horses with unseen tragedy dissipated with the fog.

  As they climbed, it became necessary at times to lead the horses where the path was too steep for them to ride, and around evening they broke free from the woods completely and found themselves at the other side of the valley, peering back at the majestic Betikhan Valley, green and lush in the dying light, the bottom already hidden in shadows of night. Across from that, seemingly incredibly far away, they could see the towering Mountains of Nependier and the smoke billowing forth from the White Mines below.

  Angelica wondered if she would get to visit the elves again, and if so what she would be taught then. Her time with them had been so rewarding, but she was somehow cheated out of the full experience, half of that time being spent worrying about her brother. With a sigh she turned from the sight behind to gaze at the way ahead.

  An empty path greeted her. A path devoid of trees and water and wyrd, only white stone from Voyager’s Pass that had looped around the trade roots to the right of Whitewood Haven and missed Betikhan Valley completely; they would rejoin that road tomorrow in all its mind numbing white stone, grassy banks, and mundane creatures.

  The evening seemed to pass incredibly fast. Angelica and Joya had been given the duty of picketing the horses for the night, which inevitably repeated Grace’s morning ritual. Jovian built the fire while Maeven provided the food, and Grace set up the beds.

  Before long, their bellies full and their bodies warm, they laid down to bed, Maeven and Jovian taking the first watch.

  As she began to fall asleep, Joya felt wyrd wrapping around her, wyrd so heavy and powerful that it felt tangible, as if her teacher was not only forming in her mind, but also in the very air of the camp itself. She knew that tonight would be different than anything she had ever experienced, and the idea made her both nervous and exhilarated. Finally her tiredness won and she sank irrevocably into sleep’s sweet embrace.

  Jovian found a spot and sat down, waiting for Maeven to join him. When he did, it was with two steaming mugs of tea. Jovian accepted his with a nod of gratitude; first watches were always hard for him to take, for that was when he seemed to be the most tired.

  “So, the son of a wealthy plantation owner,” Maeven commented as he sat beside Jovian, who gave him a strange look. This was the first time that Maeven had actually put forth an effort to get to know him, and at first Jovian was a little wary. Normally Jovian was the one to start conversation, though the topics never breached on anything regarding their pasts, though their experiences were often mentioned. “I have always been interested in how a lucrative plantation is run, especially after seeing how splendid your home was on the night of your birthday.”

  Jovian took a sip of the hot brew and shrugged nonchalantly. “There really isn’t much to say. I was only instructed in accounting and dealing with trade so far as covering if something ever happened to Amber, as were the rest of us. Amber is the firstborn and therefore is the rightful heir to the Neferis wealth. We trade in wheat and corn, though this year because of the horrible windstorm our crops were ruined, and there would be no income, which will not only be bad for our plantation, but also all those we trade with. I am afraid that our rivals will make a lot of money this year, and no doubt inflate their prices.”

  “I had heard about that windstorm; awful strange wasn’t it? Even more peculiar how it only battered your lands and none others.” Maeven looked at Jovian as if he was expecting an answer from the younger man, but when none was forthcoming he continued. “It is said that a hag is responsible for great storms like that. You might have heard of her in classes with Destra.”

  “That was a main subject she taught us when the storm was in progress. Yes, I know of whom you speak, if you are speaking of Baba Yaga.”

  “Indeed I am,” Maeven conceded, peering around them as if mentioning her would summon her wrath upon them. He took a sip of his tea with disinterest now that Jovian had caught on.

  “What makes you think she is so bad?” Jovian inquired.

  “There are countless tales of her treachery and punishment of those that did not sacrifice to her!” Maeven said, perplexed at how Jovian could not see what was clearly before him.

  “Sacrifices that have not been made in ages.”

  “And she destroyed your crops,” Maeven whispered, taking another drink.

  “If she had been mad, don’t you think that she would have done something more than just destroy the Neferis crops?” Jovian asked, raising an eyebrow. “Instead she would have decimated much more than that. Besides, books can be misleading, and I am sure that not all of what the majority says is really completely true. After all, legends are prone to fabrication, and people to fear and superstition. Did you know at one point in time she was thought of as a fairy?”

  Maeven did not answer and Jovian smiled inwardly wondering how they could go from civil conversation to near argument with only a few words.

  “Huh, I think I will keep my life the way it is.” Maeven changed the subject back fast enough that Jovian was confused. “The life of farming is not really for me.”

  “It isn’t for everyone,” Jovian agreed, looking back to camp where his family laid in restful sleep. Except Joya. She seeme
d to be plagued by fitful dreams.

  “You can sense the wyrd in others, can’t you?” the voice asked Joya. “I know that you were sensing it all day. Our lesson last night made your mind much more sensitive to wyrd than ever before.”

  “It is true,” she said, nodding as his presence illuminated the stone room her dream found her in. He appeared to her out of one of the large windows that lined the walls of the circular room, floating on the air toward her, his white robe eerily undisturbed by the slight breeze that rustled her black lacey gown. The cold stone shown gray in the golden light he brought with him, shining through the large, glassless windows that overlooked lush fields. In the distance majestic mountains stood like sentinels wreathed in misty morning light.

  “But you did not dare to touch it,” he observed hovering nearer. “I wonder why?”

  “For fear that I would unknowingly hurt something by drawing on its wyrd,” she said, staring down at her fidgeting hands.

  “Joya, my dear,” he said, “fear is something that you should never give into; it will weaken you. That will be a lesson you must learn with time. For now I told you that we would learn two things tonight: sensing wyrd and drawing on it.”

  Joya was excited she would finally be learning how to harness the power she was born with, learn how to protect her family and avert that which the fire had shown her. The voice of wisdom smiled, and though she only saw the barest movement of lips from the shadowy depths of his hood, she knew that it was a beautiful smile.

  “Come, there is much to do and little time in which to do it.” The gray walls of the room began to disappear along with the landscape outside. Soon she was being sped across new ground in a blur of green grass, grey stone, and golden wheat below her. When they came to stop it was in the center of the camp in which her form slept. There were no bodies but instead radiant lights of wyrd throbbing around her, blending together though somehow separate if only in color.