Jo Clayton - Wild Magic

Panote heard Faan’s screams and hurried into the alley. He froze as he saw the serpents.

“Talmak6s, Tannakes, Tannakds,” he shouted, held his arms out before him, bent upward at the elbow, crossed at the wrist. “My shield and my strength.” He ran out, knelt in the middle of the wynd, spreading his arms.

Blindly, Faan ran into them.

He held her, tenderly, gently; she struggled, bit, scratched, kicked, but he restrained her without hurting her. “Hush, Honeychild,” he said, “Hush, lovey, it’s just old Pan. You know old Pan, Pan oh tay.” He sneaked a look past her, gulped as he saw the huge serpent heads weaving over him, then calmed as he understood they weren’t threatening him.

Ailiki was sitting in the middle of the wynd, busily grooming her fur, licking at her small black hands and rubbing them over her body. She’d been hurt by something or someone, but she was healing herself as Panote watched.

Utsapisha struggled to her feet, but Panote waved her back. “Keep everyone inside,” he said. She nodded, shut the door and rested her back against it.

Faan stopped struggling and begin to sob. Panote hummed a Tannak hymn and the sobbing diminished until the child was leaning exhausted and silent against his massive arm.

Silently, subtly, the serpents melted into earth and air and the stink of strange magic cleared from the Wynd.

“Broke,” Faan said. “Bad boys. Dolly all broke.” Ailiki came over, put a small black hand on Faan’s arm.

“Broke Liki?”

The mahsar wriggled and produced a spurt of chuckling laughter. Then she scrambled up into Faan’s lap and nuzzled at her, tickling her with her wide-springing whiskers.

Utsapisha stumped over to Panote, stood hands on bony hips, gazing down at the drowsy child. “An’t she somefin, eh?”

“So it seems.”

Utsapisha inspected the wynd that stretched empty and shabby in the spring morning sunlight. “What were them things?”

“Earth elementals,” he said. “My guess is Faan called them. To save her from… urn… bad boys.”

“Bad boys, link. Tricky or the Pigg or one a them.” She snickered. “Musta scared the potz outta ’em which serves li’l bassards right.”

Panote set Faan on her feet, stood, and dusted his knees off. “What I want to know is how she got out.”

Utsapisha shook her head. “Kids. You turn your back a minute and off they go. That ’un gonna be a handful ‘n a half w’en she get a bit older.” She chuckled, a scratchy sound like rusty hinges. “A handful ‘n a half. Oh diyo.”

“She wouldn’t go upstairs; she screamed and struggled so hard we were afraid we’d hurt her. So we left her here till you could talk to her.” Panote led Reyna into his bedroom, then backed out and shut the door.

Faan was curled in a tight knot in the middle of the bed, her head almost hidden in a pillow. When Reyna put his hand on her shoulder, she jerked away from him and wiggled toward the far side of the bed, head still buried in the pillow.

“Honey, Pan told me what happened. I sorry you were scared, but you’re all right now.” Reyna lowered himself onto the bed, but didn’t try to touch her again.

Faan muttered something into the pillow; her small body was rigid with outrage-and temper.

“Hnh!” Reyna reached out, pulled a strand of the silky black hair. “So you’re mad at me.”

Faan rolled over, her face red and tearstreaked. “You lef’ me.”

“I came back.”

“Dirty boys. They hurt me.”

“They won’t do it again.” Reyna grinned at her, leaned over, tapped her on the nose. “You scared them so bad, I bet they ,haven’t stopped running yet.”

Faan blinked at him, a thoughtful look on her face.

“And if you try that on any of us, I’ll dust your behind so hard you won’t sit for a month. Come here, you.” He held out his arms.

Faan scrambled into them and started to cry; her body was shaking again, but the hard rigidity was gone. “Wen’

‘way,” she sobbed.

“Diyo, diyo, honey, I know. I have to do things, be’be, and there’s times I can’t take you with me. But I’ll always come back. I promise you, Honeychild, I’ll always come back.”

The Kassian Tai blinked as a timid knock interrupted her meditations. She scrubbed her hand across her eyes. “Come.”

Areia One-eye slid into the darkened room. “Kassian, Taravven’s come for a Blessing on her prayer-beads.”

“Again? Tchah, that woman’s souls must be leprous if she’s that worried. Bring the beads up. I don’t want to see her, though, make my excuses, hmm? I don’t know how it comes about, but I feel like I’ve been a week on bread and water after she leaves. Well?”

“She doesn’t want your blessing, Kassian. The child, she said, give it to the child for me.”

“Abey’s Sting!” Tai slapped her hand on the table. “This is the third one nosing after Faan. It’s got to be stopped now.” She shook her head, got to her feet. “Interesting times, Ree. Interesting times.”

Goddance. The Fifth Year

The huge old man sits in a naked heap huddling close to the Forgefire, his tools dropped carelessly about the stool that cupped his withered buttocks. He stares at the coals, the occasional flame licking feebly and briefly at the air.

Young and vigorous, the Bee-eyed Woman walks three times widdershins about the black stone Forge floor. Her wings vibrate, creating a thin high descant to the alto hum of her powersong. The ivory fimbo which she holds in her left hand glows palely gold.

Three times widdershins, two times otherway-then she steps onto the stone and stamps her foot.

Deep in the basements of the Camuctarr Chadian (The Lesser) in Bairroa Pili a wall crumbled, exposing a set of shelves, three leather-bound books on the second shelf the top, books written in a script unknown to the Land.

The Old Man glances at her from rheumy eyes, then goes back to staring at the fire-though one huge, ropy hand drops to rest on the shaft of the great Hammer tilted against the stool.

The Bee-eyed Woman sings her buzzing song and dances in figure eights on the far side of the fire, small tight figure eights, this is only the start of the dance, she is making her challenge, a series of subtle attacks coming at him on the veer.

The High Kassa Juvalgrim found the books when he went to inspect the foundations of the Camuctarr and took them to the Sibyl to learn what they said.

The Old Man watches the Bee-eyed Woman without seeming to, his hand tightening on the Hammer’s Haft, waiting for the time to strike. Watches and measures the pace of her dance-and when she turns away in the far loop of the figure, he brings the Hammer up and over in a power-filled circle, strikes the Anvil such a blow she misses a step and falters in her dance.

Wenyarum Taleza, High Maulapam, Hereditary Gen-

eral of the Armies of the Amprapake of Zam Fado-

gurum maneuvered to ensure his son would be chosen as the Amrapake’s heir.

The Bee-eyed Woman slams the butt of her fimbo on the stone; her wings vibrate more rapidly, her hum deepens and gets louder, driven by the force of her anger and desire.

The GodDance goes on.

Sibyl

The Wheel is turning, the Change is near

One by one the signs come clear.

Fear creeps into weary hearts

Pill dissolves to its separate parts

Honeychild burns

Draws out the strange

Wild magic churns

And trickles t’ward Change.

Honeychild is celebrating her nameday with fire, poor baby. Eight and bewildered, she went from the loving cradle of the Beehouse to the battleground of the School. It’s hard to be scorned and tormented for how you look, hard to be terrified of your own Talent.