Baehrly Alive (11 page)

Donovan pinched my butt. I squeaked and swatted him away. “What was that for?” I demanded.

He laughed and dodged away as I attempted to return the favor. “Stop being so negative. We’re going to be fine—we’re going to cure your brother and Gwyn, and then we can focus on healing your Magic so I can keep you,” his voice dropped to a whisper, even though we were the only ones for miles, “in my bed,” his voice returned to normal, “for the rest of your life.”

I laughed. I loved this new, light-hearted side of Donovan. I had only caught glimpses of it here and there at times. I hoped that I would be seeing more and more of it.

For the rest of my life, I reminded myself with a delighted shiver.

Why did people get so worked up about marriage? So far, mine was all the good stuff with none of the stress.

Worked for me. Maybe more people needed to be married and not worry about fancy-ass weddings.

I tried to picture me prancing down an aisle somewhere in a big, poofy, white dress and nearly snorted. I’d gotten married in my hiking boots, and that was perfect for me.

I strapped my pack on securely, so it wouldn’t move too much and chafe while we were hiking, and pointed out our destination on the map to Donovan. “See? It’s not far at all.”

He nodded. “Other than the fact that, apparently, it’s straight up the side of that cliff,” he stabbed his finger in that direction. “Unless you have an extra set or two of wings, we’re going to have a heck of a day ahead of us.”

I shrugged. “Details, details. Why else do you think I packed my climbing gear? It wasn’t because I like carrying the extra weight!”

Donovan mock-sighed. “Fine. I guess I will… if I have to.”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, you big baby, I bet I can beat you to the top!”

Donovan’s eyes flashed with the challenge. “You’re on! Winner takes…“ He eyed me up and down with a suggestive and overdone leer. “—all.”

“Deal,” I shouted. I took off running, even though I knew I was going to be out of wind in no time. It had been so long since I had felt playful, silly. I was going to take advantage of that as much as possible.

Fears and worries would just weigh me down. Maybe, with Donovan by my side, I might actually just learn how to fly.

Ancient burial mounds are fascinating. I had once dreamed of being an archaeologist—until Dad had told me that my Magic would have been a liability in that profession, not an asset.

“You might know for a fact,” he pointed out, “that an artifact was not used for worship at all, but was just a daily utility, but you wouldn’t be able to explain that to your colleagues. They won’t accept the answer that you know because of your Magic.”

I made a face in remembered frustration. I understood then, as I did now, why Magic had to remain a secret from the world, but it really would have made life so much easier if everyone could be in on the secret.

But we lived in a world where tiny differences—like what religion, what race, or what sexual orientation you had been born to—even what specific location your parents had settled in-- could get you persecuted and murdered. What kind of jealousy and rage would knowing about Magic ignite?

It had been tried in the past.

And it had always failed.

I didn’t know if the world would ever be ready.

I’d often thought about a world where Magic was accepted and out in the open—where it was just like having blue eyes or freckles, but the truth was—it wasn’t like that at all. It was more like the difference between a normal child and a child prodigy, both having Music lessons together.

How would the world handle knowing about the Council of Magic? Would they shut it down? Would they want people to be registered as Magical or Ordinary?

Would they do science experiments, trying to reap the benefits of Magic—or even trying to give Ordinary people Magic?

No, it was difficult, but still better this way—with most Ordinaries completely unaware that a whole other world existed within theirs. Sure, there was some overlap, here and there, but Magic folk tended to stick with Magic folk, and so the culture was separate—preserved in a way.

I wondered—if Donovan and I ever had children—how we would decide to raise them. Would they go to Ordinary school or Magic school? Which version of History would they be expected to learn? What would Donovan think of Magic school’s version of field trips?

And how would Donovan feel if all of his children had Magic and he didn’t?

And how would I feel, if none of my children inherited any Magic at all? It was unlikely, but not impossible.

Well, those were all thoughts better saved for another time. I didn’t have to stress and worry about something so far in the future that I couldn’t even spit at it.

Plus, even hypothetically thinking about me and Donovan having kids made me full of one part wonder and about ten thousand parts terrified.

I didn’t even want to imagine what could happen if I got pregnant while my soul was messed up the way it was. What would something like that do to a developing soul? Would it be tainted, corrupted?

I shivered, just contemplating the endless possibilities.

It was better to try not to think at all. I needed to just focus on the task at hand and ignore everything else that could be ignored.

The slope had steepened by now to the point where we were forced to half-crawl, grasping onto low branches and roots to haul ourselves up a little at a time.

Despite my teasing words to Donovan, climbing gear was not something I had packed along for this trip. Fortunately, it looked like any free-style climbing was going to be easy—the rock face ahead of us displayed more cracks and wrinkles than a thousand year old zombie. It would be no problem to find finger and toe holds in that.

With all the vegetation, the steepness of the slope, and the dampness of the ground from the constant on-again, off-again, rain—the going was painstakingly slow. I paused to catch my breath and frowned at the depressingly small amount of progress we had made. Sure, it was almost completely vertical, but it still was still maddening.

No wonder Thomas kept trying to fly.

With the thought of my little brother, I charged ahead—if not with new energy, with a new fire of determination. I wasn’t doing this for me—it was for him.

This might be his only chance to grown up—to keep on trying to fly.

The world needed more people like Thomas.

“Not far now,” Donovan called reassuringly.

I nodded, saving my breath for the climb. He was right; we were only about eight feet from our destination, now.

Of course, all eight feet were straight up the face of a cliff.

Without pausing to rest, found a finger-hold and started to climb, digging my toes into the cracks that seemed to appear just when I needed them.

After all, I was an Earth Witch. Maybe I hadn’t lost all of my connection, after all.

I had always loved to climb like this. My dad had called me his ‘little mountain goat’ when I was a child. I’d spent so many hours hiking and climbing up rocks—it was a wonder that I hadn’t run off to live with the yeti or some troll clan up in the mountains somewhere.

I supposed it was a testament to my mother that I was even remotely civilized. Dad certainly had never attempted to tame me. If anything, he had encouraged me to run wild.

I’d been too young, when my parents split up, to remember what life had been like when they were still together, but I did remember the arguments when I was growing up—differences in opinions in what I should be preparing myself for.

Dad had wanted me to cling to my childhood, while Mom was all about aiming for success.

Well, for good or ill, I was where I was because of the both of them.

I heaved up the last foot or so of cliff face, huffing and puffing like an old time train. I was starting to get out of shape—when was the last time I had climbed something like that?

My whole body was telling me that it had been way too long.

I flopped down on my backside, ignoring the small rocks that insisted on digging into the softest parts of my anatomy.

“I’m never moving again,” I announced. “This is it. I’m going to sit here until I die. In a hundred years explorers will discover my skeleton sitting here and wonder what strange ceremony I was taking part in.”

Donovan chuckled. “I don’t believe that for a second. I’ve never seen you sit still for more than a couple minutes at a time—and that’s when you’re asleep. I bet you anything you’ll be up on your feet again in moments.”

He was right, but not entirely.

I ended up on my feet again as a skeletal hand, shreds of ancient tendons hanging from it like Spanish moss, burst through the rock only feet away from where I was sitting.

I let out a shriek like an elephant spotting a zombie mouse and found a fresh burst of energy that launched me back onto my feet, and several yards away before I could even completely register what had just happened.

The hand reached out and grasped at the rock around it, pulling as more arm appeared, and then a mangled elbow.

“Um, Goldie,” Donovan said uneasily. “What should we do?”

“I told you there would be trouble,” I reminded him. “We just have to wait for the right moment—I don’t have any Magic to spare right now.”

Another arm burst through the stone at our feet, blindly grasping for us. This time it was Donovan who let out a wordless cry as we darted out of reach.

“These are shades?” He asked, his eyes focused on the forest of bones springing up around us like evil crocuses. “Shouldn’t they… I don’t know, be more like shade?”

“Sorry,” I muttered between my teeth, wishing that I had my sword, even though I knew metal would be no use against creatures like this—not unless I wanted to destroy my new blade. “I wasn’t responsible for naming them.”

“Shades,” Donovan muttered in disgust, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. He glanced behind us—we were edging awfully close to the far rim of the plateau. Soon there wouldn’t be room enough for shades and the two of us to all fit.

Of course, I had my preference as to who should survive.

Around us, from every direction, the gruesome shades approached, some still dragging stones from their rocky graves—all damaged from their time underground—and their time alive, as well. These men and women had been sacrifices, murdered on this ground and bound to protect the sacred blade.

Then, I saw her—the Guardian—the one who we sought. Unlike the other shades, she had been buried with ceremony—though, she, too, showed the scars of her murder—the gaping grin of her open throat to the missing chunk of her skull, briefly snapping into view underneath her long, luxurious mane of white hair.

Despite the color of her hair, this had been a young woman—young and particularly tall for her time. She was dressed as a warrior, wearing skins and jewelry—cuffs of carefully wrought metal, a pouch of deerskin hanging around her neck—perhaps carrying some form of talisman.

Or the knife we sought.

Though the Guardian’s face and skin were tanned and weathered with age, we could make out the pattern of elaborate tattoos—covering one whole side of her face, both wrists, and the backs of both hands.

When she held up her hands toward us, I could see that the palms of her hands, also, were tattooed.

She stared at the two of us, though the slack of her brittle eyelids told me that her eyes had been removed—possibly as part of her burial process? She did not seem to miss them at all, as her head was turned unerringly toward us.

A prickly feeling gathered at the base of my skull.

“Duck!” I shouted, knocking Donovan to one side as a blast of light burst from the woman’s hands, directed at us.

Thanks to my senses, the main force of the blast missed us, but we weren’t able to fully evade the edges.

It was cold—as frigid as a Mongolian Midnight.

What was this woman? Or, rather—what had she been when she was alive?

Some kind of ice goddess?

Her fair hair whipped around her skeletal face as she twisted her hands, calling on the wind to obey her. It whistled around us angrily, tugging at our clothes, shredding the skin off of the shades that had us cornered.

“If you are going to do something,” Donovan shouted—his voice barely audible in the roar of the gathering storm, “It better be soon!”

Even as the words left his mouth, snow began to fall—not light, fluffy flakes floating down from above, but sheets of the stuff, raging toward us in a tsunami of wind and snow.

In a movement of pure reflex, I threw up my arms, drawing on the power of the rock beneath our feet with every inch of my battered soul. I yanked on the energy beneath me, begging it to respond—not to abandon me in this moment.

It resisted for a moment—long enough for me to fear that it was all over—Donovan and I were about to die and no one would ever know what had happened to us.

Then, quietly, I could feel the tingle of the Earth answering my plea. First, the power just trickled through me—but that trickle grew to a flood. Sheer power flowed through my body, arching my spine back near to breaking—having no mercy on my frail mortality.