Griffin's Fate

Chapter Five

On the eighth day the Vales reached Treoghul. 'Unfortunate name, nice place' Cara had neatly scribbled on their map. And it was very nice. The tujini rolled into a square paved with rosy bricks. A massive tree ruled the center of Treoghul, rounded on top like a bell. In its shade a multicolored town had spread out, like a patchwork quilt at a spring picnic. Grampi might have known what kind of tree it was, and he would have loved to sit under this beast and smell the treasures of the food stalls on the breeze.

A cascade of colorful streamers dangled from the tree's low branches. It was like looking up into a rainbow during a spring shower. Ken batted the ribbons as he passed on his exploratory stroll. But some of the branches went the wrong way, diving back down into the earth. He didn't know if these living archways were natural, manmade, or even feymade, but the locals wove through them in a sort of vibrant dance. They only smiled at him gawking up at their grandmother tree and went about their business.

After a week of rolling through scruffy stone-colored villages, Treoghul was a wonderful stop. But Ken had stuffed himself on runny cheese pastries and left his Mum waiting long enough.

"Your turn," he said, hoisting himself back into the tujini. His Mum ruffled his hair and slipped out into the flowing dance. She'd be gone at least an hour in the market. And he counted three taverns just in his line-of-sight. The Pub Rules said there'd be mages here. Now was the safest time to try a little something.

Ken cinched down all the flaps and double tied the knots. It left him shrouded in near darkness, but a lamp would draw attention. It had been week since Cleda and Ken couldn't forget that wild glint he'd watched hatch in Tovil's eyes. And the pirate's roguish smile, when Ken had called him a god.

And in all that time, whatever kind Ken had tucked away had been quiet. Perfectly well-behaved. Or like Cara had said, he might not even have It anymore. He could have used it all up.

And if that were true, they could change course. Forego Melvary. Go north, and give the Capitol at least a look. Cara had surely drawn that extra dot on their map on purpose, to leave him a glimmer of hope.

But the thought of It being truly gone made him just a bit sad, which surprised him.

Ken set his jaw and nodded to himself. And to It, if It was listening. He needed to know.

Conjuring was what people called it, wasn't it? Making things out of thin air. He needed something small, harmless. His gaze settled on a spot of red in his Mum's sewing basket. Ken leaned over and plucked out a spool of scarlet thread. He remembered when she'd dyed it with madder root. Brewing the plant in their kitchen had made whole house smell like mud. But it was a pretty red. He contemplated the object in the dim light, rolling it around in his palm. The silk strands glistened and the nicks and scratches in the maple bobbin felt homey. He'd grown up with this. It was like an old friend.

Ken sat cross-legged in his sealed fabric box, with the muffled market noise at his back. He drowned them out and studied the bobbin and thread so long folks would have said he was moony. At last he set down the original and held out a shaky hand. He pressed his eyelids together and concentrated.

A few slow breaths later, a light weight rested in his palm.

Ken opened his eyes and a surprised gurgle came out of his throat. It bubbled into a tiny laugh and he clamped his hand over his mouth. He'd thought something into existence. Some might call that rather godlike. Though his enthusiasm cooled quickly. He looked at the red spool on the floor and the copy in his hand. He wasn't sure how making forgeries would help him as a musician. Not an upstanding one, anyway.

And it hadn't felt special. It hadn't felt like anything. No warmth or tingling in his fingers. No flashes of light. He knew the pretty scarlet thing between his fingers wasn't real, and with that thought it wafted away like smoke.

So that was how the game worked.

He scanned his canvas cave for more things to practice. Something a bit bigger. They'd bought an iron poker on the road, when they'd learned campfires needed a lot of tending. He lifted the cold, sooty rod of metal and turned it all around.

This time was a lot harder. The poker wasn't a childhood friend. But he scrunched up his face and mind and got something close. Ken held up his handiwork and brandished it like a toy sword. The poker swished through the air like real metal when he put his shoulder into it. But then he swung his arm wide and it struck the side of his Mum's trunk.

And whatever the poker was, It wasn't made of metal.

The copy evaporated and Ken doubled over with a gasp. A sharp sting reverberated through all of his long bones. The pain and nausea passed, just as the back flap began to rustle.

"Kupru?" His Mum tugged at the cloth. "Why is this closed?"

He fumbled the knots and revealed his Mum's sweaty, puzzled face. Her arms were full of purchases. He was quick to help her unload.

"S...Sorry, I was...daydreaming."

She scanned him top to bottom, skeptical. The red silk caught her attention just as it had his, and she lifted it from the floor.

"Still there?" she asked. His eyes went wide and then he looked down, embarrassed. He nodded.

"Mhm." She slid by in the aisle and dropped the spool back into its home. She turned and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Good to check. Come on." She patted his arm briskly. "Time to go."

***

Across the square and unknown to the Vales, a commotion had started in one of the taverns. A young woman with reed-straight blonde hair was bathed in afternoon sun from a dirty bay window. She'd dropped to her knees in a room of empty tables, over a pile of broken dishes and food scraps. Her tray had been very full. She hastily scooped up the pieces and pulled her skirt out of a congealing pool of leek soup.

"Stupid dress," she hissed under her breath.

"Lucell!"

The tavern-keeper's wife stormed out of the kitchen at the sound of breaking money. Dishes weren't cheap. Swollen, wet washbasin hands closed on the young woman's shoulders. Lucell's gaze went to the water droplets on the old crone's knuckles. She rolled her gray eyes at something mildly ironic. She had known the song of water magic, once. Her employer thrust her face forward into the mess, like a lapdog who'd soiled the carpet.

"You foolish girl! What was it this time? Voices in yer head?"

"No ma'am," the wispy woman said quickly, brushing back her long hair to save it from the soup on the floor. Her steely eyes were set firmly somewhere else and an icy rigidness grew at the back of her voice. "I just tripped."

The old woman looked her over sourly then let her go and stormed into the kitchen. A broom and pan clattered on the floor before the mess.

"See that you don't miss any shards."

"Yes, ma'am."

Once alone, the maid called Lucell stood and shook out the last of the pain ringing in her bones. It had been ages since she'd felt an echo. She discretely unlatched the front door and poked her stubby nose out into the world. Her objective gaze fell upon the brown and tan tujini. She leaned in the tavern's doorway and pulled a leather journal from her grease-stained apron. The wrinkled hag who'd employed her never had believed she could read and write. Luce watched the pair in the cart roll by at a safe distance and scribbled her tidy notes. When finished she snapped the cover closed, then pulled the apron over her head and balled it up. She tossed it on the pile of broken pottery and walked out under the grandmother tree. With any luck, it would be for the last time.