Jo Clayton - Blue Magic

Kori stared into the crystal a few moments longer, vaguely disappointed in the look of the hero who was supposed to defeat the mighty Settsimaksimin when all the forces of the King could not, nor could the priests and fighters of the Vales. Brann was strong and vital, but she was old. A fat old woman who made pots. Kori sighed and rocked herself loose from Her Place. She looked up at Trago. “Did you get any of that?”

Trago leaned toward her, hands on knees. “I heard the words. What’s she like?”

“Not like I expected. She’s old and fat.”

He kicked his heels against the chest, clucked his tongue. “Doesn’t sound like much. What does it mean, Drinker of Souls?”

“I don’t know. Tre, you want to go on with this? You heard the Voice, HE’s sticking his fingers in, if HE catches us… well.”

Trago shrugged. His eyes were frightened and his hands tightened into fists, but he was pretending he didn’t care. “Do I don’t I, what’s it matter? You said it, Kori. Better’n nothing.”

“I hear you.” She moved her shoulders, straightened her legs out. “Oooh, I’m tired. Let’s finish this.” She pulled the medal from around her neck, dropped it on the platform.-Think you could cut this in half like the Voice said?”

“Uh huh. Who we going to give it to?”

“I thought about that before I went to see the Women of Piyoloss and wangled my way up here.” She rubbed at her stomach, ran her hand over the crystal. “Moon Meadow’s down a little and around the belly of the mountain. The Kalathi twins and Herve are summering there with a herd of silkgoats. And Toma.”

“Ha! I thought the soldiers got him.”

“Most everybody did. I did. ‘ Kori pulled her braids to the front and smoothed her hands along them, smoothed them again, then began playing with the tassels. ‘Women talk,” she said “It was my turn helping in the washhouse. They put me to boiling the sheets; I expect they forgot I was there, because they started talking about Ruba the whore, you know, the Phrasin who lives in that hutch up the mountain behind House Kalath that no one will talk about in front of the kids. Seems she was entertaining one of the soldiers, he was someone fairly important who knew what was going on and he let slip that they were going to burn the priest next morning and throw anyone who made a fuss into the fire with him. Well, she’s Vale folk now all the way, so she pushed him out after a while and went round to the Women of Kalathin and told them. What I heard was the Women tried to get Zilos away, but the soldiers had hauled him off already. Amely was having fits and the kids were yelling and Toma was trying to hold things together and planning on taking Zilos’ hunting bow and plinking every soldier he could get sight of. What they did was, they took Amely and the young ones away from the Priest-House and got Ontari out of the stable where he was sleeping and had him take them over to Semela Vale since he knows tracks no one else does. And they gave Toma sleeproot in a posset they heated for him and tied him over a pony and Pellix took him up to Moon Meadow and told the Twins to keep him away from the Floor. They said he’s supposed to’ve calmed down some, but he’s fidgety. He knows if he goes down he gets a lot of folk killed, so he stays there, hating a lot. What I figure is, if we tell him about this, it’s something he can do when it’s just him could get killed and if it works, he’s going to make you know who really unhappy. So. What do you think?”

Trago rubbed his eyes, his lids were starting to hang heavy. “Toma,” he muttered. “I don’t know. He…” His eyes glazed over, his head jerked. “Toma,” he said, “yes.” He blinked. “Aaah, Kori, let’s get this finished. I want to go to bed.”

“Me too.” She got stiffly to her feet, sleep washing in waves over her. “Put this away, will you.” She held out the crystal sphere. “Um… We’re going to need gold for Toma, is there any of that in there? And you have to cut the medal before we go. I don’t want to come here again, besides, we already lost a week.”

Trago slid off the chest and stood rubbing his eyes. He yawned and took the sphere. “All right.” He blinked at the medal lying by his foot. “You better go back where you were before. I think the god’s going to be doing this.”

“‘Lo, Herve.”

“‘Lo, Tre, what you doin’ here?”

“‘S my time at Far Meadow. Toma around?”

“Shearin’ shed, got dry rot in the floor, he was workin’ on that the last time I saw him.”

Trago nodded and went around the house, climbed the corral fence and walked the top rail; when he reached the shed, he jumped down and went inside. Part of the floor was torn up. Toma had a plank on a pair of sawhorses; he was laying a measuring line along it. Trago stood watching, hands clasped behind him, as his cousin positioned a t-square and drew an awl along the straight edge, cutting a line into the wood; when he finished that, he looked up. “Tre. What you doing here?”

“Come to see you. I’m over to Far Meadow, doing my month, ‘n I got something I need to say to you.”

“So?” Toma reached for the saw, set it to the mark, then waited for Trago to speak.

“It’s important, Toma.”

Muscles moved in the older boy’s face, his body tensed, then he got hold of himself and drove the saw down. He focused grimly on his hands and the wood for the next several minutes, sweat coursing down his face and arms, the rasping of the teeth against the wood drowning Trago’s first attempts to argue with him. The effort he put into the sawing drained down his anger, turning it from hot seethe to a low simmer. When the cut was nearly through and the unsupported end was about to splinter loose, peeling off the edge of the plank as it fell, he straightened, drew his arm across his face, waved Trago round to hold up the end as he finished sawing it off. “Put it over by the wall,” he told Trago. “I think it’ll come close to fitting that short bit.”

“Toma…” Trago saw his cousin’s face shut again, sighed and moved off with his awkward load. When he came back, he swung up onto the plank before his cousin could lift it. “Listen to me,” he said. “This isn’t one of my fancies. I don’t want to talk to you here. Please, stop for a little, you don’t have to finish this today. I NEED to talk to you.”

Toma opened his mouth, snapped it shut. He wheeled, walked over to stare down into the dark hole where he’d taken up the rotted boards. “If it’s about down there…” His voice dripped vitriol when he said the last words, “I don’t want to hear.”

Trago looked nervously around; he knew about ariels, knew he couldn’t see them unless they chanced to drift through a dusty sunbeam, but he couldn’t help trying. He didn’t want to say anything here, but if he kept fussing that would be almost as bad; AuntNurse always knew when he was making noise to hide something, he suspected the Sorceror was as knowing as her if not worse. He slid off the plank, trotted to Toma, took him by the hand and tugged him toward the door.

Toma pulled free, stood looking tired and unhappy, finally he nodded. “I’ll come, Tre. And I’ll listen. Five minutes. If you don’t convince me by then, you’re going to hurt for it.”

Trago managed a grin. “Come on then.”

He led his cousin away from the meadow into the heart of an oak grove.

Kori stepped from behind a tree. “‘Lo, Toma.”

“Kori?” Toma stepped back, scowled from one to the other. “What’s going on here?”

“Show him your shoulder, Tit”

Trago unlaced the neck opening of his shirt, pushed it back so Toma could see the hollow starburst.

Kori dropped onto a root as Toma bent, touched the mark. “Sit down, cousin. We’ve got a lot of talking to do.”