alert—something in the drink she’d given him?
The one making the new mixture poured it into a beaker and carried it to the seer, who drained it at once, making a face. She went over to the blocks of wood before the back table. A woman on each side helped her step up and then seat herself on the elevated chair. There were lights burning now, all through the room. The volur nodded.
The four women began to chant in a tongue Bern didn’t know. One of the lamps by the bed suddenly went out. Bern felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was seithr, magic, not just foretelling. The seer closed her eyes and gripped the arms of her heavy chair, as if afraid she might be carried off. One of the other women, still chanting, moved with a taper past Bern and relit the extinguished lamp. Returning, she paused by him for a moment. She squeezed his buttocks with one hand, saying nothing, not even looking at him. Then she rejoined the others in front of the elevated chair. Hergesture, casual and controlling, was exactly like a warrior’s with a serving girl passing his bench in a tavern.
Bern’s face reddened. He clenched his fists. But just then the seer spoke from her seat above them, her eyes still closed, hands clutching the chair arms, her voice high—greatly altered—but saying words he could understand.
THEY’D GIVEN HIM BACK his vest which was a blessing. The night felt even colder after the warmth inside. He walked slowly, eyes not yet adjusted to blackness, moving away from the compound lights through the trees on either side. He was concentrating: on finding his way, and on remembering exactly what the volur had told him. The instructions had been precise. Magic involved precision, it seemed. A narrow path to walk, ruin on either side, a single misstep away. He still felt the effects of the drink, a sharpening of perception. A part of him was aware that what he was doing now could be seen as mad, but it didn’t feel that way. He felt … protected.
He heard the horse before he saw it. Wolves might eat the moons, heralding the end of days and the death of gods, but they hadn’t found Halldr’s grey horse yet. Bern spoke softly, that the animal might know his voice as he approached. He rubbed Gyllir’s mane, untied the rope from the tree, led him back out into the field. The blue moon was high now, waning, the night past its deepest point, turning towards dawn. He would have to move quickly.
“What did she tell you to do?”
Bern wheeled. Sharpened perceptions or not, he hadn’t heard anyone approach. If he’d had a sword he’d have drawn it, but he didn’t even have a dagger. It was a woman’s voice, though, and he recognized it.
“What are you doing here?”
“Saving your life,” she said. “Perhaps. It may not be possible.”
She limped forward from the trees. He hadn’t heard her approach because she’d been waiting for him, he realized.
“What do you mean?”
“Answer my question. What did she tell you to do?”
Bern hesitated. Gyllir snorted, swung his head, restive now. “Do this, tell me that, stand here, go there,” Bern said. “Why do all of you enjoy giving orders so much?”
“I can leave,” the young woman said mildly. Though she was still hooded, he saw her shrug. “And I certainly haven’t ordered you to undress and get into bed for me.”
Bern went crimson. He was desperately glad of the darkness, suddenly. She waited. It was true, he thought, she could walk away and he’d be … exactly where he’d been a moment ago. He had no idea what she was doing here, but that ignorance was of a piece with everything else tonight. He could almost have found it amusing, if it hadn’t been so thickly trammelled in … woman things.
“She made a spell,” he said, finally, “up on that chair, in the blue cloak. For magic.”
“I know about the chair and cloak,” the girl said impatiently. “Where is she sending you?”
“Back to town. She’s made me
Carolyn McCray, Ben Hopkin
Orson Scott Card, Aaron Johnston