Flamecaster (5 page)

Adrian lay on his belly on a rooftop in the city of Delphi, peering down at the shop below. A gnarled walking staff hung next to the door, the sign of the Voyageur. Over the doorframe, a wooden sign had weathered to a whisper.
La Ancienne
. The Old One. Voyageur children with stick-straight black hair, flat noses, and thick, embroidered sheepswool coats herded goats around the yard.

It was two weeks since his father had died, ten days since he'd slipped across the border onto enemy ground. Since his stays at Marisa Pines lodge in the high country, Adrian knew how to survive in the mountains and navigate off-trail. The border was porous to a single rider in a white winter cloak—even a rider with a bad ankle, a
stolen pony, and a broken heart.

Riding into Delphi was like descending into a fuming, sulfurous hell—if hell happened to be bitterly cold. The air was thick enough to chew, but almost impossible to breathe. It stung Adrian's eyes and set him to coughing. Everything was covered with a layer of soot and coal dust thick enough to kill what little color there was. The people were thin and haggard and hollow-eyed, so worn out and weary that they took little notice of a stable boy with mud-brown hair (the result of a night spent rubbing black walnut paste and strong tea into it).

He'd come here hoping to intercept the healer Taliesin Beaugarde on her way to Oden's Ford. She'd told Adrian that she planned to visit relatives in Delphi who owned a shop that sold herbs and remedies. This was the only one in town, so it had to be the place. He'd been watching it for a week, and there'd been no sign of Taliesin so far. It was risky to stay here, but he had nowhere else to go.

The ankle was worrisome—swollen twice its size, purple and green. Maybe he deserved whatever pain he was in, but he wouldn't seek healing from someone he didn't know. A wizard can't use his gift to heal himself, and incompetence would only make matters worse. So he kept it wrapped and hoped for the best.

Despite the ankle, he'd found bed and board in a stable in exchange for mucking out stalls. It seemed that help was hard to come by in Delphi, since every able-bodied person
had been sent into the mines. To call it “board” was being generous, even by Fellsian standards. Neither he nor his pony was living high.

The herb shop stood in a Delphian neighborhood so desperate that the toughest streetlord from Ragmarket would think twice before moving in. First off, there was nothing worthwhile to steal. He'd already seen a knife fight break out over a warm pair of gloves.

Second, the king of Arden's blackbird guards were thick as crows on a carcass. Black was a good color choice for Delphi—a mountain town that resembled a Fellsmarch gone horribly wrong.

Adrian shivered. The heat from his body had melted the snow underneath him, and now he was soaked to the skin. Since he'd come to Delphi, he'd developed a cough and a fever that wouldn't go away. It was either camp fever from the wells or winter fever from exposure. It would be another day wasted, but he needed to get off the roof and out of the cold.

Hearing voices below, he slid forward again, far enough so he could see over the gutter tiles. A wagon had pulled up in front of the shop, and the children who had been playing in the street clustered around it, chattering excitedly.

The wagon was painted in Voyageur style, and the ponies were sturdy, shaggy, mountain-bred. Adrian's heart beat faster. He slid back, out of sight, as a clutch of mounted blackbirds appeared, shouting at the driver to
move the wagon out of the way. The blackbirds seemed bent on emptying the streets, using clubs and short swords to encourage those who didn't move fast enough. The wagon lurched into motion, turning down the alleyway next to the shop so it could park behind.

“Getting your eyes full, boy?” The voice came from behind and above him. Before he could turn to look, the speaker delivered a vicious kick to the ribs, connecting with a crackling sound. Adrian rolled and came up on his knees, gasping, groping for his amulet until he remembered where he was, and let his hand drop away. Not a good idea to draw attention to himself with magical displays in a place where they burned the gifted.

The speaker was a blackbird, dressed head to toe in black, down to his shiny black boots. He was totally bald, with a slash of a mouth and officer's braid on his shoulders. He reached down, gripped Adrian by the front of his cloak, and dragged him to his feet. With his other hand, he pawed him all over, looking for weapons, but thankfully missing the amulet. He found nothing else, because Adrian, of course, had nothing.

“What's your name?” the blackbird demanded in Common.

“Ash Hanson.” The name spilled out before Adrian could edit it.

“Ash Hanson, sir,” the blackbird said. “Waiting for someone?”

“No, sir.”

The blackbird shook him, hard. Adrian's weight came down on his ankle, and he smothered a cry of pain that evolved into a fit of coughing.

“Don't lie to me,” the blackbird said, pulling him in close, so close Adrian could have spat in his face. “I'm going to ask you one more time. What are you doing up here?”

Adrian cleared his throat. His fingers twitched, eager to take hold of his magic. “It's just—the air's clearer up here. I've got this awful cough, and lately it's all blood.” Adrian coughed into his sleeve, then extended it for the blackbird's inspection. “See?”

The blackbird recoiled from the offer. “Keep your distance, you consumptive Delphian whelpling. If you lot didn't live like vermin, you wouldn't catch the fever. I want you down off this roof and away from here. Now!” he roared, giving Adrian a push. “If I see you again, I won't be so gracious.”

“Yes, sir,” Adrian said, backing away. “Thank you, sir.”

Back on the ground, Adrian circled around in back of the Voyageur shop. He needed to get out of sight, but he didn't want to leave and come back and find the wagon gone. The rear courtyard was deserted, the wagon's owner having gone inside. He boosted himself up and into the bed of the wagon.

It was a typical vagabond wagon, with a pallet in the front corner and cooking pots hanging from hooks. It was lined floor to ceiling with bins and containers of goods.

Adrian knew he was in the right place when he breathed in the familiar scents of ginger and sage and peppermint. It brought back memories of nights in the upland lodges, Willo and Taliesin telling stories, their faces bronzed by firelight and inscribed by time and wisdom.

Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling—black cohosh and blessed thistle and mistletoe. Jars and bottles were jammed into net bags on all sides. It was an apothecary on wheels. Many of the containers were marked, but he didn't know what the marks meant. He began opening bins and jars, sniffing the contents, kindling light on the tips of his fingers in order to see.

Finally he found it, in the back corner, hidden behind two rows of bins. As soon as he sniffed it, he recognized the potent odor of death. Gedden weed—insurance against an uncertain future. Emptying peppercorns out of a cloth bag, he scooped a few tablespoons of weed into it and slipped it into his breeches pocket.

Adrian knew he should leave and find some less compromising place to wait and watch, but this bit of thievery had exhausted him. He was shaking with chills, and knew that his fever was rising again. He scrounged around until he found a packet of willow bark and a tin cup. Scooping the cleanest snow he could find into the cup, he melted it with flash from his hands until the water was steaming. Dirty or not, it was likely to be safer than water from the wells.

Back in the wagon, he steeped the willow bark into a
murky tea and drank it down. Still shivering, he found the pile of blankets and crawled underneath, planning to rest a bit until the willow bark took hold.

The next thing he knew, somebody was shaking him awake and thrusting a lantern in his face. “Come on now, you, climb down out of there before you freeze to death. If you're looking for syrup of poppy, it's locked up.”

She spoke in Common, but Adrian recognized the voice.

“Taliesin,” he said, blinking, shading his eyes against the light. He heard a quick intake of breath as the lantern slipped from her hand, then a clunk as it hit the bed of the wagon.

Taliesin usually didn't startle easily, but now she stared at him like she'd seen a ghost. “Blood and demons,” she whispered. “Mageling?”

“It's me,” Adrian said.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “They said you were dead.”

“Not quite,” he said.

“Well, you will be, or worse, if the blackbirds find you here.”

“I need to talk to you.”

She reached out and gripped his chin, leaning in to take a good look, then pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. The witch had a way of pinning a person with her narrow black eyes. She could tell more with a look than Adrian could with an hour of hands-on.

“How long have you been sick?” she asked.

“I'm all right,” he mumbled, trying to pull free.

“Wait here,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

It took a while, but she returned with a heavy sheepswool coat. “Put this on,” she said. “It's my nephew's, but I think it's about the right size.”

Adrian was still shivering, so he pulled it on.

“Now, come inside, where it's warm,” she said. “Nobody will see you. I've cleared everyone out of the back.”

Before he knew it, he was sitting in the back room of the shop, and Taliesin was sitting between him and the door, pouring hot water over crushed leaves in a kettle. She'd made up a makeshift bed on the floor by the hearth.

While the leaves steeped, she shook some black, wrinkled beans from a cloth bag onto a stone and added some dried brown root and a pinch of yellow powder. “Tell me what happened.”

“What have you heard?”

“It doesn't matter what I heard, I asked you to tell me what happened.” She set the stone in Adrian's lap and handed him a pestle. “Crush these fine as you can.”

Adrian weighed the heavy pestle in his hand. He didn't know what to say.

“I'm guessing you're here because you want my help,” Taliesin said. “If you want my help, you're going to have to talk to me.”

Adrian sighed. Maybe once Taliesin knew what had
happened, she'd give him what he wanted.

“My father is dead,” he said, smashing the pestle down.
Crunch
.

“So I've heard. The whole town was in mourning when I left. For both of you.” Her voice softened. “I'm sorry, Mageling.”

“It's my fault he's dead.”
Crunch.

“You killed your own father?”

“No!”

“Then I suspect it's someone else's fault.”

“But it was my fault he couldn't get away. I lured him into a trap.”

“Ah.” Taliesin nodded, her beads clattering together. “So
you
were in on the conspiracy.”

“No!” Adrian struggled to organize his feverish thoughts. “They—some people—grabbed me on the street. My father came to help me. And they killed him.”

“Then I suspect someone else used you to lure him into a trap.”

“It doesn't change the fact that if I hadn't been there, he'd still be alive. I was useless. Worse than useless.” Despite his best efforts, tears welled up in his eyes.
Crunch.

Taking the ground herbs from Adrian, Taliesin brushed them into a mug and added the steaming contents of the kettle. She held it out to him. “Careful,” she said. “It's hot.”

He blew on the tea, and the aroma boiled up into his
nose. Glaring at Taliesin, he banged the mug down on the hearth. “If you think you're going to drug me and ship me back home, you're wrong,” he said.

Taliesin sighed. “You're going to want that for pain, because I'm going to need to work on your ankle.”

Taliesin should be queen of something, Adrian thought, since she was so good at giving orders and having them obeyed. He picked up the mug and sipped at the tea.

Taliesin unbuckled his boot and slid it off. His ankle had not improved. The healer rolled her eyes.

“You've been walking around on a broken ankle? Did you forget everything I taught you?”

“I should be dead by now,” Adrian said. “Then it wouldn't matter. It's just—
blood and bones
!”

With a quick, expert snap, Taliesin had realigned the bone. The pain nearly put Adrian through the roof.

“You could've warned me,” he said.

“You're the one that didn't want to drink the tea,” Taliesin said without sympathy. She began wrapping the ankle with long strips of cloth. “Why are you here?”

“I want to come with you to Oden's Ford,” Adrian said. “You said you could get me into Spiritas. I'll study with you, then transfer to Mystwerk when I'm old enough.”

“I
can
get you into Spiritas. But right now you should go home to your mother. You can't let her go on thinking you're dead or kidnapped. She needs you right now.”

“She doesn't need me. She doesn't need anyone. If not
for her, my da would still be alive.” Even as he said it, Adrian knew that it was wrong, and unfair. But he was sick and tired, and in no mood to be reasonable.

“Ah,” Taliesin said, sipping at her own tea. “Then
she
was in on the conspiracy. I suppose she didn't love him?”

“Just stop it!” Adrian shouted. A young girl poked her head between the curtains that divided the back of the shop from the front. Taliesin waved her off without taking her eyes off Adrian.

“That's not what I mean, and you bloody well know it,” Adrian hissed. “Yes, she loved him. He's dead because he loved her back, and because he loved me, and he shouldn't have had to pay that price for love.”

“Aye, there's something we agree on.” Taliesin set her cup down. “He shouldn't have had to pay that price. Love is the root of so much suffering and misery, so much loss. It's the worst thing in the world, to risk yourself by loving someone. At the same time, it's the best thing in the world—and worth the risk. I don't know your mother and sister—but I know you, and I'd wager that they want you back.” That was as close to a compliment as he'd ever get from Taliesin.