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Authors: Gael Baudino
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recognized.”
Mika took the cloak and glanced at the gooseflesh on Miriam's arms. “Wait.” She turned and went into the house.
Miriam looked off toward the forest. She would be traveling around the southern end of Malvern in order to reach Saint Brigid, but she was not overly worried about venturing onto the isolated roads alone: ruffians and thieves avoided Malvern to a large extent, and there was not enough traffic upon the south roads to make brigandry a profitable venture.
Mika returned, a bundle under her arm. She shook it out. It was a thick cloak, sized for a young girl . . . or for a tiny healer woman. “Here,” she said, fastening it about Miriam. “It belonged to my Esther. She never got a chance to wear it, and . . . for some reason, I've kept it. I think . . . I think I kept it for you.”
The cloak was soft and warm. The two women embraced for a long time.
Then the road took Miriam away to the south and west. She knew without looking that Mika was standing in the road, watching after her for many minutes, watching even after she was out of sight.
Departures again. Always departures. There could be no returns. She was a piece of straw blown by the wind, always moving, the wind itself for the most part heedless of her presence. Just so much chaff, she was, to be consigned eventually to the flames.
She winced at the thought.
There were two houses along the way, small steadings surrounded by farmland, but she passed them by without incident. She spent the nights by herself, curled up on a pile of bracken near Esau, the blue cloak wrapped warmly about her. As she dozed off, she wondered what Mika was doing, remembered the warm house she had left, recalled the homely smells of fresh bread and dried herbs.
On the third day, there were signs that a village was ahead: a house or two sheltering in the eaves of the forest that, green and gold with spring, now bordered the road. She saw fields, and a stray cow looked at her with large brown eyes. She estimated that she would reach Saint Brigid by evening.
But toward noon, she heard a groan of pain from the forest, and she reined in her pony. White flame flickered along her spine. The sound had not come from very far away, no doubt just from the other side of the first ranks of trees. Prudence told her to go on, that the village was near, but prudence was fighting against the power, and there was no contest.
She bent her head for a moment. Another groan. The heat rose. “All right. All right. I'm coming,” she muttered bitterly. She dismounted and took Esau's bridle in her hand.
About ten yards into the trees, she came upon an unconscious man, his arm nearly torn off at the shoulder. From the look of his other wounds, she judged that he had been mauled by a bear. The fellow, though, looked as though he would have been a match for any bear: he was huge, dressed in hunter's garments of leather, strongly muscled, deeply tanned. But his hands were not those of a laboring man, and his weapons had a well-used look.
Blood was pouring from the stump of his arm, and Miriam's spine turned into molten iron. Dizzy, she let Esau's bridle fall and staggered forward. Kneeling beside the stranger, she took out her eating knife and cut away cloth and leather so that she could touch the wounds. He was badly hurt in other ways—ribs crushed, flesh cut and mangled by the bear's claws—but the arm was killing him. She felt the power rising, felt the familiar haze of heat and light.
“I don't want this,” she murmured, but the power was forcing her, taking her against her will once again. Sucking in a breath, she seized shoulder and arm and brought them together.
Then she was conscious only of the torrent of fire that ran through her being, and haw clenched to keep back the scream, she let the power that was her master do as it would.
Afterward, she sat back on her heels, drained, blinking at the trees, her thoughts scattered until called together by the movements of
Mika took the cloak and glanced at the gooseflesh on Miriam's arms. “Wait.” She turned and went into the house.
Miriam looked off toward the forest. She would be traveling around the southern end of Malvern in order to reach Saint Brigid, but she was not overly worried about venturing onto the isolated roads alone: ruffians and thieves avoided Malvern to a large extent, and there was not enough traffic upon the south roads to make brigandry a profitable venture.
Mika returned, a bundle under her arm. She shook it out. It was a thick cloak, sized for a young girl . . . or for a tiny healer woman. “Here,” she said, fastening it about Miriam. “It belonged to my Esther. She never got a chance to wear it, and . . . for some reason, I've kept it. I think . . . I think I kept it for you.”
The cloak was soft and warm. The two women embraced for a long time.
Then the road took Miriam away to the south and west. She knew without looking that Mika was standing in the road, watching after her for many minutes, watching even after she was out of sight.
Departures again. Always departures. There could be no returns. She was a piece of straw blown by the wind, always moving, the wind itself for the most part heedless of her presence. Just so much chaff, she was, to be consigned eventually to the flames.
She winced at the thought.
There were two houses along the way, small steadings surrounded by farmland, but she passed them by without incident. She spent the nights by herself, curled up on a pile of bracken near Esau, the blue cloak wrapped warmly about her. As she dozed off, she wondered what Mika was doing, remembered the warm house she had left, recalled the homely smells of fresh bread and dried herbs.
On the third day, there were signs that a village was ahead: a house or two sheltering in the eaves of the forest that, green and gold with spring, now bordered the road. She saw fields, and a stray cow looked at her with large brown eyes. She estimated that she would reach Saint Brigid by evening.
But toward noon, she heard a groan of pain from the forest, and she reined in her pony. White flame flickered along her spine. The sound had not come from very far away, no doubt just from the other side of the first ranks of trees. Prudence told her to go on, that the village was near, but prudence was fighting against the power, and there was no contest.
She bent her head for a moment. Another groan. The heat rose. “All right. All right. I'm coming,” she muttered bitterly. She dismounted and took Esau's bridle in her hand.
About ten yards into the trees, she came upon an unconscious man, his arm nearly torn off at the shoulder. From the look of his other wounds, she judged that he had been mauled by a bear. The fellow, though, looked as though he would have been a match for any bear: he was huge, dressed in hunter's garments of leather, strongly muscled, deeply tanned. But his hands were not those of a laboring man, and his weapons had a well-used look.
Blood was pouring from the stump of his arm, and Miriam's spine turned into molten iron. Dizzy, she let Esau's bridle fall and staggered forward. Kneeling beside the stranger, she took out her eating knife and cut away cloth and leather so that she could touch the wounds. He was badly hurt in other ways—ribs crushed, flesh cut and mangled by the bear's claws—but the arm was killing him. She felt the power rising, felt the familiar haze of heat and light.
“I don't want this,” she murmured, but the power was forcing her, taking her against her will once again. Sucking in a breath, she seized shoulder and arm and brought them together.
Then she was conscious only of the torrent of fire that ran through her being, and haw clenched to keep back the scream, she let the power that was her master do as it would.
Afterward, she sat back on her heels, drained, blinking at the trees, her thoughts scattered until called together by the movements of
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