“Why wouldn’t they knock?”
“They have no need, as yet. Have you fed the horses?”
“No, I was just—”
“See to that. The animals need to be fed before we break our fast.”
Rather than swords, Fallon spent most of her morning with books. She liked books, but with the woods so bright and clean from the rain, she’d rather have spent the morning outside learning to fight with a sword.
Still, she liked reading about the gods, the heroism, the betrayals, the battles, and the triumphs, even the romances.
He criticized her lack of knowledge and understanding of the spirituality of the Craft, its rituals.
She bristled. “We had to put food on the table, help our neighbors. My mother taught us what she could, what she knew.”
“And did well with what she knew. Did well with what she came to know. You must know more. You’ll take what your mother taught you, what I teach you, and what you come to know that’s already in you waiting.”
He paced the workshop in his soft boots as he spoke, then stopped, pointed one of his long fingers.
“Here’s a lesson, Fallon. Your spirit is yours as mine is mine. What you feel and know are yours and will never be a mirror exact of another’s. But respect for the spirit and the light, understanding of the dark, must be. And that’s shown in the tradition of ritual, in its words, its symbols, its tributes.
“Your power doesn’t come from a void, girl. There is a source for the light, for all we are, for the air we breathe, the earth we stand on. Life is a gift, even to a blade of grass, and must be honored. We have been given more, and must honor the gift and the giver.”
“When we tend the earth and what it grows, the animals, each other, aren’t we honoring?”
“Yes, but more is expected of some than to live an honorable life. Even a simple act can be a symbol. If I offer you my hand, and you take it, it’s more than a greeting. It’s a gesture of trust, perhaps agreement. My right hand to yours. The hands that hold the sword clasped together in that gesture of trust.”
She studied his hand—long like his fingers, and narrow of palm. Then looked up at his face. “Some people are left-handed.”
He had to smile, had to nod. “So they are. And there are those who would offer the gesture but not honor its symbol, in whichever hand they hold a sword. So you must learn to judge who to trust. And that is another lesson.”
He walked to a shelf, selected a crystal. “What is this?” he asked as he set it in front of her.
“It’s … ah … bloodstone.” She searched her mind. “It’s used in healing spells.”
“Even before my time soldiers would carry a bloodstone into battle to stop the bleeding from wounds.”
“If that’s all it took, there wouldn’t be so many dead soldiers.”
“Your pragmatism is warranted. It takes more than a stone, even a powerful one, and faith to heal. But a ritualized stone, or one used in ritual, one blessed and used in a spell or potion, may heal. That, too, takes faith as well as knowledge and skill.”
“My mother’s a healer.”
“She has that gift.”
“She … yeah, powdered bloodstone mixed with honey and, um, egg whites and rosemary oil.”
“Good. The stones are gifts and tools. You must learn how to clean them, charge them, use them. Take from what you see here, make a charm for a restful night, another for a clear mind, and a third for calming a jealous heart. Then you can do as you like until dusk.”
He turned toward the steps. “Don’t leave the wood,” he added. “Don’t wander far, and be back at dusk. No later.”
She poked around the room a bit. The charms he’d assigned were basic, hardly a challenge, but she wanted to do them perfectly—so to invite a challenge the next time. And she preferred making pouches.
She checked in one of the cupboards beside the fire, found cloth, ribbon, cord, chose what she wanted.
She moved to the other cupboard, and found it locked.
And thought that very interesting.
She lifted a hand—opening a lock wasn’t a challenge for her, either—then dropped it again. She’d been raised better. Maybe she could regret that at the moment, faced with a fascinating locked door, but it was simple fact.
Mallick was entitled to his privacy, just as she was.
So, some dried herbs from the jars. Anise, chamomile, lavender, cypress. And bits of crystals. Azurite, aquamarine, citrine, tiger’s-eye. Some black pepper, oil of bergamot, of rosemary.
She set out everything in three groups, wrote out simple spells for each on a length of white ribbon, and used a needle to carefully sew the cord through the material to form a pouch. She assembled each one, saying the words on the ribbon three times before adding the ribbon to the pouch, tying it three times.
When she took them downstairs, she didn’t see Mallick. Leaving them on the worktable, she got her jacket. Thrilled with the idea of freedom, of the hunt for the apple, she ran outside. She followed the stream for a while, but not the way they’d come, as she hadn’t seen an apple tree.
Still, it might not be an apple tree, she considered. That might be part of the trick.
She searched branches, spotted birds—sparrows, jays, cardinals, finches. A hawk’s nest, an owl’s roost. But no white bird.
She angled away from the stream into thicker trees. She saw tracks and scat of deer, bear, opossum. She saw signs of wild boar and told herself the next time she’d bring her bow. And Grace, she thought. Her horse would get bored after a few days in the stable.
She saw faeries out of the corners of her eyes, but they darted away when she turned. They would be shy yet, she decided, and needed time to get used to her. But she changed direction, following the bright glint of their light into deeper shadows where thick moss covering trees like coats turned those shadows soft, soft green.
In that green light a little pond spread in the deepest of blues with pale green pads floating on it. On one sat a fat frog, apparently dozing, while a dozen dragonflies darted and swooped on long, luminescent wings.
A faerie glade, she realized, as even the air felt happy and sweet.
She sat cross-legged beside the pool, her chin on her fist, and marveled at the glasslike clarity of the water. She could clearly see the bottom, the soft dirt dashed with tiny colored pebbles, the fish, gold and red swimming in the blue.
“It’s so pretty here.” Leaning forward, she dipped a finger in the pool. “It’s warm! Maybe you’ll let me swim here.”
She’d bring a gift next time, an offering, she decided.
It was so sheltered, not like the stream where she felt exposed when she took off her clothes to wash. Swimming here would be almost as good as—maybe better than—having a shower.
Content for the first time since she’d ridden away from home, she lay back, breathed in.
And saw the apple glinting gold on a high branch overhead.
“Oh my God! I found it.”
And the bird, too, she thought as she scrambled to her feet.
Not the dove she’d imagined, but an owl—the biggest she’d ever seen. It sat on the branch beside the apple, and looked down at her with hard eyes of dark gold.
Like Ethan, she could connect with animals, birds, insects, fish. So she tried charm first, smiled.
“Hello! You’re really handsome.”
The owl stared unblinkingly.
“I’m Fallon. I’m staying in a cottage only a mile or so from here. With Mallick. Maybe you know him.”
She heard the titter of faeries, ignored it for now. It wasn’t the words, she knew, but the tone, the intent, the images in her own mind.
When the image of herself holding the apple popped into it, the owl spread its great wings, wrapped them around the apple.
She pushed, just a little. She’d been forbidden to harm the owl, and she’d never cause harm to anything so magnificent, but she tried just a little push. Instead of flying off as she’d hoped, he ruffled his feathers and stared down with active dislike.