Unbound (42 page)

I climb to the tower every night before I dream. The bat arrives first and then the owl as night thickens. The hedge below the tower grows denser by the day, winding between the trunks of the lofty evergreens as thick as marsh fog and more dangerous, but no news comes. . . . I begin wondering if the eagle has failed me, for he has not yet returned. Perhaps I should send the owl. . . .

But as the darkness draws in tonight, the bat flutters to the tower top and hangs himself on the bare limb I've left there for him, wedged into the crenellations of the parapet.

There is a breeze from the mountain that smells of carrion.

"Indeed, Master of the Evening Sky?" I ask.

Would I tell you something that was not true?

"You never have."

And never will. I have no need to lie, Swarmcaller.

"Everyone lies."

The bat chirps his laughter.
I shall bear that in mind when I converse with you.

My grief for you has made me incautious, and I would regret my candor, but regret is something I shall have to learn to live without. And the bat, at least, has the virtue of humor--a trait I share with neither the eagle nor the owl, who possess it not at all.

"What does this wind tell you?" I ask.

A man draws near--flies leap from the trail of his leavings and they taste of his journey. The eagle accompanies him, so he has neither eaten the man, nor been killed by him--though that might be a battle worth seeing.

"What would you know of battles, Leatherwing? Your kind does not duel or fight."

My kind are wiser than to kill each other over a bit of land. But battles draw such delicious insects, spiced with tales! And your kind are amusing in their battle array--surging together and churning like a confluence of rivers. It's a good thing your kind have not learned to fly, for then
we
should have to learn to fight! Would we not look proper fools flapping through the night bearing tiny swords?

I chuckle at the thought. "Like a battalion of idiots."

The bat bares his tiny fangs in mock anger.
Do you call me an idiot? Perhaps you mistake me for an eagle. . . . I fear I've been insulted. Should I challenge you to a duel, Swarmcaller?

I look at him askance, but smile as I say, "That would not be wise--as the challenged, I choose the weapon."

But pity me! Would you be so dishonorable as to choose one I cannot wield?

If I were an honorable creature, I would not, now, be plotting your death. A sudden pang squeezes my chest and I must shut my eyes against it, shedding a tear as large and hard as a pearl. "I will choose that which suits me," I reply.

I cast a spell into the air and send a buzzing cloud of gnats toward the trees below, rife with my own sorrows and stories.

The bat looks first to me, before he makes to fly away after the fast-moving flight of his supper.
Coward.

Then he falls from his perch and swoops to follow the swarm away into the twilight.

I send away my only friend and draw you to your fate here, where you will be powerless against me. For yes, I am a coward, as much as I am a monster, but I am not a fool.

* * * * *

For two nights I see neither bat nor eagle and return to my chamber alone to cast my dreams. The forest of thorns has grown thick and full all around my tower and there is no path to me but by my art or through the air. I have made it difficult for you, knowing you as I do; like me, you crave challenge and have no time for that which is acquired without effort. So much comes easily to you now, that it was inevitable that you would seek me, though you do not know the price that you will pay in finding me. I am the prize that holds a hidden sting, death at the heart of love. I despise myself, but this will pass. . . .

Late in darkness the owl comes, swooping to the parapet on silent wings like a windblown flurry of snow.

She lays a shimmering crystal on the parapet and turns her head to regard me with a somber gaze.

I pick up the pretty rock and bow. "Well met, Queen of Night. What passes?" I ask and put the stone away in my pocket.

I have taken a mouse that crept into the forest from the shadow of the eagle this afternoon.

"What did it say before you devoured it?"

She hacks and spits its rendered carcass--only bones and fur and long tail--onto the parapet between us.
Ask it yourself. I do not cross-examine my dinner.

I take up the pathetic bundle and sort it with my fingers, muttering memories to it, willing it to recall its shape and life. The remains rise and take their form, bones assembling into skeleton, fur wrapping about, until the dead mouse stands in my hand, squeaking. I listen closely to its tale, holding it near my ear, feeling the twitch of ghostly whiskers at my cheek.

Sharp beak by evening, where the bramble roots make a den beneath the hazel. As I cross a field of grass, the eagle--monstrous large--roosts above an oak waiting for daylight.

I consider what it's told me. "At the base of the hills where an oak stands beside a field that spreads to my woods. The owl caught you near the bramble and a hazel tree, only the distance a mouse could run from evening into night. . . . I think I know the place," I say.

The owl blinks at me.
Another day will see him to the edge of the thicket.

"Yes. And then another to the tower, if he can pass the thorns." My breath stumbles in my chest and I look back to the mouse. "I will ask a favor of you, little one."

The remains squeak and tremble--even dead it is afraid of me. I part its tattered fur with my fingertips and take two of its tiny ribs. The creature's cries wring me with pity. "There, Mouse, it will soon be over and you will live again. Find the man and lead him to your ribs, which will rise up into a gate. When he is through, touch your bones and they will return to their proper place as you will return to life. Then scamper fast back to your home and be at peace."

But he is far. . . .

"Never mind it. I will bring him closer." I work my magic over the sad bundle of remaining bones and fur and the mouse stands again as if alive, though it is only an illusion for now.

I breathe into its mouth and ears and it looks up, speaking like a man, "My thanks, Mage."

"Do not be foolish with my gift, Mouse."

It trembles again. "Never!"

I place it on the parapet and watch it scamper away down the vine-grown walls of my tower.

The owl regards it hungrily, then turns her gaze back to me.

You place much faith in the rodent.

"It will do as I ask."

Why trust such a one? They are foolish and easily frightened. Why not ask the bear to drive the man to your hidden path?

I shake my head. "The bear could not resist his impulse to do the man harm. I would rather that he comes without violence."

Why?

"Now that he walks in my domain, every drop of his blood shed is as a drop of my own. The longer he takes to come to me, the greater the danger."

My plan proceeds and the ache within me builds with every step you take in my direction. I walk to the edge of the parapet and look over, but the view down is obscured by night and the constant stream of my tears.

You should find some other way . . .

"It is none of your concern, Owl," I snap. "There
is
no other way. I have studied and I have searched and if I would gain the greatest potential of my power, it must be thus."

But this pains you.

"Little worth doing comes without pain." There would be much more if not for my plan. I shall not abandon it, though it means your death and my own agony.

I pick up the tiny bones and hold them out to the owl. "Take these to the place where the hidden path lies at the edge of the wood and lay them on the ground there. Then summon the bat to me. And leave the mouse to its own devices."

The owl stares long at me, keeping her own counsel. Then she blinks and takes the bones in her beak, flying away with neither word nor sound.

* * * * *

You must not delay, nor wander far afield, for I cannot bear this much longer. The path is strewn with horrors--with the bodies of those who would have the prize that was not meant for them and met their end, instead. By your gentlest feelings I will compel you quicker to my side.

I draw my knife and weave my sending around your name, my illusion of perfection cast to dreaming night--for you would never come to me were my image otherwise. Then, I stab the blade into my chest and fall to the tower roof, blood drawn from those who've died before you spreading all around as I cry out into your dreams. I know you hear me, see me fall, and feel my pain as your own. I hear you in the darkness, startled from sleep and shouting your distress, compassion, love. . . . You will rescue me—you must. And soon, for my creatures and my plan ensure it.

But for me this pang, this bleeding, is nothing. You must come and you must die and that is the greater torment. I sob for you until I sleep, wrapped in blood and watched by cold stars until the bat comes.

His fluttering awakens me and he leaps to roost as I climb to my feet, streaked in blood.

Are you clumsy, Swarmcaller? I have never seen you fall before.

"I do not fall--I sleep."

I don't care for your pajamas. . . .

"At least I do not ask you to wear them. I have another task for you."

I guessed as much. What now?

"Only this," I say. "Take your kin and drive the man across the field and toward the hidden path. He will encounter a mouse in the morning who will show him the rest of the way. Be sure to leave the creature in peace and only harry the man faster toward the tower once night is falling. I'd have him here by tomorrow's sunset."

The bat snickers.
You grow impatient.

"That should be warning enough for you, Leatherwing. Your charm may not be proof against my temper."

But will your temper be proof against my charm?

"We shall see. . . ."

* * * * *

By morning the eagle has stooped to my tower and I have restored him to his natural size--I need him no longer, and his appetite is as gargantuan as he is. I fear for my woods were he to continue in such a state.

He stands at the edge of the parapet and glances at the forest below.
He comes.

"Well I know it, bird," I say. I feel you close.

And yet, you cry. Why does this not bring you joy? Or is it that you mourn my beauty now that I am diminished again?

"Bird, you are as beautiful as ever, so there is nothing to mourn."

But you are not as beautiful as I . . .

"Think you that I should be jealous? Who could be as lovely as you?" I ask. But my vanity is pricked and I call forth the semblance I wear in your dreams--tall and fair as dawn, kind-eyed and cherry-lipped.

Startled, the eagle cries out and bolts into the sky.

I feel your attention turn toward my tower and in the moment a thorn tears your sleeve, pricks your arm. . . . I gasp and feel the poison burn your flesh.

You must not die. You must not. Not yet. Not but by my hand. I cast a spell out to the thorn and take your wound to myself. Agony like wildfire rages through my body and brings me to my knees, but I must not cry out, since you will hear me and turn again, drawn to my aid. I could fly to you and end this, but that would not accomplish my goal, for the spell has a mind of its own and you must come to me of your own will, no matter the hardship, else my heart will be too weak and we both shall die.

I go below to my rooms in the tower to heal myself and prepare. I needn't stay above now that you are so close; I feel your presence as my own true north and know every step you take. I drink the draughts and cast the spells, cure my wounds, and lay the treasures of my love aside.

I know of your amazement in meeting the small ghost of a mouse. I feel the rush of wings as the bats drive you to the gate and through it to my path. Your fear and resolve wash through me as the gate vanishes and you must wind alone along the path to my tower. Your wonder ignites in my breast as you see the white stone walls rise before you at last.

I climb again to the tower's top, clad in my fair illusion, and walk awhile where you can see me before I descend again without acknowledging your presence. Elation leaps within you as it does in me and you rush to the wall that separates us.

I feel you press against the door, heart beating fast, flushed with yearning that warms me like a fire.

You break the lock with your sword and begin up the stairs. . . .

Round and round, rising up the interminable steps, your breath fast with excitement. I leave my chamber and return again to the roof, panting with you, rushing toward the light that you might see the sun one last time before you die.

You follow, drawn by the fleeting glimpse of my hem, my sleeve, my hair . . . always out of reach, tantalizing. Oh, how your heart beats, how it thrills, and I am entwined in love that binds like cutting wire.

Upon the roof of my tower I cast my circle wide and you ascend within it.

My back is turned, my illusion still intact. I feel your breath stop in your chest, feel your heart leap. You raise your hands to touch me, even from a distance drawn to me. My own breath comes short and wild.

You take a step, then two to bring us close. . . .

I slam the door and turn to you--my heart, my love, my life--as the sky begins to flare toward sunset. And in its changing light I am myself alone.

You stop short. Your confusion is like cold water.

"You are not she," you say.

I smile my bittersweet expression, for you are as beautiful and beloved as ever in my dreams and scrying. And you are here, drawn to your fate. "But I
am
she," I say, and let the face that you have loved take form across my own. I let it fall away to leave my own true face, dark where you are bright, a mirror of yourself. "And I am he. I am you, as you are me, heart of my heart."

You scowl and step back, filling us with your fear and horror. You draw your sword. "You are a sorcerer and mean me ill," you say.