Grayling's Song(19)

Grayling kicked off her soggy shoes, curled herself onto a soft cushion, and ate her fill of beef and apples and bread with honey. What a day she had had! Would she survive another like it? She combed her still-damp hair with her fingers and pulled it into a braid, then fell into a deep and dream-free sleep.

Dawn sun, shining through the silk, brightened the pavilion. The mist was gone. The travelers woke, comfortably rested and full of roast meat. “Now we must go,” Grayling said. “I will sing to the grimoire, and we can follow.”

Pansy stuck her blistered feet toward Grayling. “See you these? And my ankle is not yet mended. Can we not linger for a day or more?”

“And I,” said Desdemona Cork, “I am weary—”

“Weary?” shouted Auld Nancy. “You, weary? I spent a night in a cage, crossed a river, and walked until my feet near fell off! And you think you are weary?”

“Me, I nearly drowned. Twice,” said Pansy.

Auld Nancy shouted, “You are young and hardy. I am old and my—”

“Enough!” said Grayling, with surprising firmness. “I have seen such things as will haunt my dreams for years. Weary or no, I will go on—with you or alone. If there is a way to free all those who are rooted, I will find it. You do as you wish.” She stood and wrapped her damp cloak, redolent with the stench of wet wool, about her.

“Fie, fie, you are most boasting and prideful today,” said Pansy.

“Hush, Pansy,” said Auld Nancy, climbing to her feet. “Of course I will go on. We will all go on.” She crossed her arms and stared at Pansy and Desdemona Cork.

Pansy said, “I would not be left here alone.” She frowned and pulled on her shoes.

Desdemona Cork huffed a lock of hair out of her face and reluctantly nodded. The company, now four once again, stepped outside.

The morning sky was blue and gold and the soft violet of woodland flowers. Grayling breathed deeply.

“As we continue west,” said Desdemona Cork, “we shall not encounter the soldiers, for I sent them elsewhere.” She gestured toward the outside of the pavilion and the man standing there. “Sir Whoever-he-is will provide us with his coach and four. I will wake him.”

“Nay. Such a splendid coach will attract unwelcome interest,” said Grayling. “I would rather not meet the metal-nosed warlord or suchlike again.”

“You, Desdemona Cork,” said Auld Nancy as she waved her broom, “think ever of yourself. Grayling has the right of it. The coach would be too conspicuous.”

“I say we take the coach for the sake of my poor feet,” said Pansy.

Grayling bit her lip in consternation before asking Desdemona Cork, “What would happen when the enchantment wore off and he found us in his coach?”

Desdemona Cork frowned and sulked and twirled her skirts and her scarves. “If we cannot ride, I would prefer to return to the town and the mayor. You may go on without me.”

“Still I will take the coach,” Pansy insisted.

Auld Nancy turned on her. “You will do what I bid you!”

“Fie upon this company!” shouted Grayling. “Fie! I have had enough of the carping and scolding and bickering! Take the coach or do not take the coach. I am leaving!”

A sudden rumble of thunder shook the ground, followed by a flash of light. Grayling, Pansy, and Desdemona Cork all looked at Auld Nancy. “’Tweren’t me,” she said.

More thunder was followed by a swirl of smoke and the sound of trumpets. Grayling grabbed Auld Nancy’s hand. Smoke and shadow! Were they discovered? Were they now doomed to be rooted to the ground?





IX





ut of the thick yellow smoke, a man appeared, a man as gnarled and knobby as a sack full of sticks. Charms and amulets, half hidden in his beard, clanked at his neck. “Who is it that disturbs the peace of the morning with squabbling?” His voice was between a rumble and a roar.

Auld Nancy stood and waved the smoke away from her face. “Sylvanus, be that you behind all the clamor?”

“Auld Nancy?” The booming voice was replaced by one more human and even elderly.

“Auld? Not so old compared to you. Except for the food stains, your beard has gone quite white.” Auld Nancy cackled. “I trust you are well. I have not seen you since the sad affair of the magic chickens.”

“Sad indeed.” The man’s eyes filled with tears. “I was certain that a sprinkle of my flying powder would see those birds safely down from the roof. Alas, alas.” His tears wet his cheeks and dampened his beard, and he wiped at them with a blue handkerchief. “Still, as the ancients say, ‘’tis better to try than to wonder.’”

Auld Nancy dismissed him with a wave. “This,” she told the others, “be Sylvanus Vetch, adept of soothsaying, conjuration, and the casting of charms. He be teacher of enchanted scholarship at the school in Nether Finchbeck.”

The school at Nether Finchbeck was a famed training academy for wizards, sorcerers, charmers, and spellbinders. This unlikely looking magician must be powerful and important indeed, thought Grayling. But if he were a famed magician, could he not have conjured a new cloak and better shoes? And why was he not rooted to the ground like so many others?

“These companions of mine,” Auld Nancy continued, “are Desdemona Cork; Hannah Strong’s daughter, Grayling; and the young Pansy, my niece Blanche’s girl.”