Grayling's Song(35)

Grayling called to Sylvanus, “You never told us—what is the first rule of magic?”

He spun round and called back to her, “’Tis the hardest rule to learn: magic is not the answer. Magic may be convenient, brilliant, even dazzling, but it is not the answer.” He waved once to her before he turned and walked on.





XV





rayling dropped the coins into her pocket, and Pook thrashed and grumbled in irritation as they landed on his head. Eager to see what awaited her, she turned her feet toward home. Where the road was rocky, she trod carefully, for the soles of her shoes were as thin as a poor man’s soup. On paths smooth and soft she hurried her steps, though she felt ever so weary.

Auld Nancy, grown fine and thin and feeble, struggled, her shoulders slumped and breath ragged, and a sullen Pansy lagged behind. Pook slept most of the time in Grayling’s pocket, snoring small mouse snores. Their adventures had tired him, too.

Days dragged on, but soon the world around her began to look familiar, and her heart leaped. She had admired that church, fancied that cottage, run from those dogs. It seemed a lifetime since they had passed this way. She had expected to be joyful and relieved after the defeat of the smoke and shadow, but her mind was uneasy, and her humors disordered. Her steps grew slower and slower as they passed the remnants of the silk pavilion, flapping in the autumn breeze.

They were near to the crossroads where the metal-nosed warlord had accosted them, and though travelers were plentiful on this stretch of road, Grayling’s belly tightened with dread. To calm herself, she imagined the difficulties the man must have: sneezing his nose off, blowing a nose rusted in the rain, kissing Lady Metal Nose. She tried to laugh at the ridiculous images, but even as a daydream, his face frightened her, so she thought of more pleasant things: misty mornings, the smell of mint leaves brewed in hot water, robins in the spring, cabbage cooked with apples, yellow cheese and sausages and warm dark bread.

She turned to share this with Auld Nancy, but Auld Nancy was a ways behind, sitting on the roadside with Pansy beside her.

“Turnips and thunderstorms,” Grayling muttered in annoyance as she retraced her steps.

“Leave me, girl,” said Auld Nancy. “I am weary in my bones and can go no farther.”

“Fie, you know I would not leave you here,” Grayling said. “Sit and rest those weary bones awhile, and I will join you, for if my feet could talk, they would whine and complain and beg for a rest.” She dropped down beside the old woman.

Pansy’s belly rumbled a loud rumble. “My belly is empty all the way to the ground,” she said, “and these legs can go no more. There be an inn up this road. I saw it when we passed in the wagon of the warlord. Can we not spend some of Sylvanus’s coins on bread and mayhap a bed?”

Grayling shook her head. “Nay, we may yet need them.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “You sound like my mother. I have no need of another mother. I need supper.”

Dark clouds moved over them and rain began, whispering through the trees and pocking the ground. Water dripping from her hair, her nose, her fingertips, Grayling turned to Auld Nancy. “Auld Nancy, we are discomfited enough. Will you not stop the rain?”

Auld Nancy shook her head as she lifted her bedraggled broom. “We no longer have the power, my broom and I.”

Showers turned to downpour. Auld Nancy sneezed, and Grayling said, “Oh, drips and drizzles, it’s the inn for us.”

The three were soggy and chilled when they reached the inn on the outskirts of the town. Inside, it smelled like wet clothes, stale ale, and—Grayling sniffed—mutton stew, fragrant with garlic and pepper.

Auld Nancy dropped onto a bench at a table near the fire, while Grayling bargained with the innkeeper, a large young man with missing teeth in his broad smile. Returning to the others, Grayling said, “I have secured us bread, beer, and stew. There are no beds to be had, but we are welcome to sleep here by the fire.”

Auld Nancy brightened a little. But where was Pansy? In the dim light of the inn, Grayling saw the girl speaking with two men near the door. “Pansy,” Grayling called, “you complained of hunger, and I can hear your belly rumbling from here. Come and have supper.”

Grayling found that her weariness made even a wooden bench comfortable enough for sleeping. Rain pelted the roof and the wind wailed as she closed her eyes, and it was near dawn when she woke. The innkeeper was feeding great logs to the fire, and he winked at Grayling. “I shall warm some ale for ye, for ’tis a nasty morning indeed out there.”

Grayling nodded her thanks and left the inn to relieve herself. Her hair tangled and her cloak whipped about her as she trudged from the inn and back, cursing the wind. But this wind did not blight her spirits or extinguish her will. Certes, then, it was mere wind. Wasn’t it?

Pansy and Auld Nancy were stirring when she returned. “The rain has stopped,” she told them, “although the wind is fierce. We shall not have easy walking today.”

“No matter,” said Pansy, looking pleased with herself. “I sent word last night to the man with the metal nose, Lord Mandrake he is called, that the witches he sought before are here.”

Grayling lurched forward and grabbed Pansy’s arm. “What? Pansy, what have you done?”

Pansy shook off Grayling’s hold. “I want to do magic, and if Sylvanus will not teach me, I will go to Lord Mandrake.”