Holly Lisle - Fire In The Mist

Fire in the Mist

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: A POX ON BRIGHT

Chapter 2: WATCHERS AT THE BRIDGE

Chapter 3: IN THE CITY OF FOGS AND BOGS

Chapter 4: THE SAVAGE, THE HEATHEN, AND EVIL AWAKENED

Chapter 5: NIGHT-BOGANS AND MYTHS REBORN

Chapter 6: WINGMOUNTS AND OTHER ODD PASSIONS

Chapter 7: A GASP BEFORE THE ROAR

Chapter 8: THE BELL

Chapter 9: THE PRICE OF HISTORY AND LIES

Chapter 10: WAR OF WIZARDRY AND SOUL

Chapter 11: AFTER

GLOSSARY OF ODD OR FOREIGN TERMS

MAPS

FIRE IN THE MIST

by Holly Lisle

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, N.Y. 10471

ISBN: 0-671-72132-1

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Cover art by Stephen Hickman

Map by Ellen Kostyk

First printing, August 1992

Distributed by

SIMON & SCHUSTER

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10020

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to my Mom and Dad,

who told me I could do anything I wanted—

and who meant it.

MAGE IN SHEPHERD'S CLOTHES

The attack was not wolf madness, but wolf boldness. They had come, had taken what they wanted

without challenge, and they had grown confident. Now they wanted her sheep.

Now they wanted her.

The pack leader, silver-tipped-black and immense, faced Faia and strode stiff-legged forward; head

down, ears flat back, pale, cold eyes gleaming. His lips drew back from yellowed teeth. He rumbled a

warning growl as he advanced.

She clutched her staff, and her belly tightened with fear. There was no time to reach for the slingshot and

the studded wolfshot. She made a quick thrust at the beast with her walking stick that caught him in the

teeth. He danced back, and crouched for a leap, his eyes fixed on her throat.

Lady, help me!

Faia drew the earth's energy, thinking it into her staff, thinking,Give the staff strength!

And somehow, she was outside of herself, and staring down at the massive black wolf and the tall, rangy

girl who faced him off with nothing but a brass-tipped walking stick.

At the same instant, she was inside herself, and the strength was there—earth-strength, Lady-strength,

confidence. Faia, stilled inside, deadly calm, swung the staff up as the wolf lunged and caught him across

the chest; the impact of his great weight flung her backward a staggered step. But light flowed from the

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staff around the wolf, blazing green fire. The wolf screamed, its voice for a moment disconcertingly

human. Then he crumpled to the ground and was still—unmarked, stone dead.

At the scream, the other wolves vanished into the forest, disappearing like the memories of shadows.

Chapter 1: A POX ON

BRIGHT

IN front of a fieldstone cottage, on a crisp spring morning, Risse Leyeadote and her leggy, dark-eyed

daughter, Faia, hugged each other goodbye.

Faia pulled away first and grinned. "I love you, Mama. I will see you soon."

"Such a hurry. My youngest daughter cannot wait to abandon me for the flocks and the fields."

"Oh, Mama—!"

Risse laughed, then held out a wrapped packet and a necklace. "Take these, Faiachin. I have more than

enough jerky here to get you to the first of the stay-stations, and I have finished the work on a special

amulet—added protection against wolves. And I am sending my love. You have yourerda ?"

Faia nodded.

"Wolfwards?"

Another nod.

"Knife? Herb bag? Matches? Needles?..."

Faia nodded at each item on her mother's list until finally she burst out laughing. "Mama!How many

years have I been taking the flock upland? I have everything I need. I will be fine, the sheep will be fine,

the dogs will be fine, and I will see you in late summer with a nice bunch of healthy lambs and fat ewes."

Her mother smiled wistfully. "I know, love. But it is a mother's job to worry. If I did not, who would?

Besides, I miss you when you are not here."

Faia's face grew serious for a minute. "I always miss you, too, Mama—but it will not be forever."

Her mother nodded. "Have you said your goodbyes to Rorin or Baward yet?"

Faia caught the conspiratorial inflection and winked. "To Rorin, yes. Last night. Baward is going to meet

me at the Haddar Pass pasture in about a month, and we are going to—ah, graze the flocks together for

a few days."

"Are you, now?" Her mother smiled a bit wistfully, remembering long summers in her own youth spent

"grazing the flocks" with one young shepherd or another. "Remember to use the alsinthe, then. Well, I'm

glad you aren't going to be up there alone the whole time. Really, Faia, there seem more wolves than

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usual this year. Do not forget to set the wolfwards. Not even once. Remember, Faljon says, 'Wolves

need not knock/at the door that's open.' "

Faia hugged her mother again, then whistled for the dogs. "I know, Mama. I know." She hung the

brightly colored chain of the silver-and-wolf-tooth amulet around her neck and tucked the jerky into one

of the pockets of her heavy green felterda . "Love you, mama."

"Love you, too, Faiachin," she heard her mother call when she was halfway down the slope to the

pasture.

Faiachin, Faia thought, and winced.Sometimes she still thinks I am five years old instead of

nineteen.

Chirp and Huss, black-and-white streaks of barking energy, were under the fence and hard at work

before she could even get across the stile. They needed little direction from her to pack the sheep into a

nice tight bunch and get them moving to the gate. Diana, the old yellow-eyed lead goat, knew the routine

too. She trotted up to Faia and stopped. Faia put the supply harness on her, and checked to make sure

the bags on either side were securely attached. The bags held emergency rations for Faia and the dogs

and coins for the stay-stations. They also made Faia's pack lighter, and she was grateful for that.

Faia scratched the goat behind the ears and tapped her once on the rump with her staff to hurry her to

her place at the front of the flock. That done, the flock, the dogs, and she moved onto the narrow

two-rut cart-path that would dwindle to a dent in the grass by the time they got to the highlands.

The sheep, their bellies already starting to swell with lambs, looked oddly naked after the shearing. They

trotted after Diana while Chirp and Huss ran vigorously at their heels, nipping and barking and otherwise

trying to demonstrate to Faia that they were the only reason the sheep were going anywhere. Faia

suspected a fair amount of the show at this point was just because the dogs were so damned glad to be

heading for the highlands again.

And as for her—

She started whistling. The tune was "Lady Send the Sunshine," but she thought up some words for the

chorus, and switched abruptly from whistling to raucous singing.

"No damned shearing

No more carding,

No more spinning

And no dyeing!

No more weaving

And no sewing—

Flocks must to the uplands go."

She liked it enough that she trilled it a few more times, getting louder and louder with each rendition, until

with her last chorus, she threw in some silly dance steps with her brass-tipped staff as her partner.

The trees that lined the lane arched over her head, blossoming or barely greening; spring smelled fresh

and earthy and new; and,Lady, it is good to be on my way and free!was the thought foremost in her

mind.

At the top of the first hill, the trees were cleared and she turned to look back at Bright nestled below

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her. At her own house, which lay nearest her point of view, a wisp of smoke rose from the chimney.

Further back, the smith's forge was already going at full blast, and she could just catch the steady "clink,

clink" of the smith's hammer on the anvil as it drifted across the distance. The littlest children played tag in

the cobblestoned street; their older sibs helped mothers and fathers with the serious work of readying the

plows and harnesses for ground-breaking and planting. She could see Nesta shoving round loaves of

bread into the tall stacks of ovens—an older relative of those loaves rested in her pack, along with some

cheese from Nesta's sister Gredla.

She smiled. Home, wonderful, home—where just at the moment, unfortunately, everybody was busy as

birds with nestlings. Thank the Lady for giving her the gift of tending; if it were not for that, she'd be home

doing the dull labor, like tilling or planting or pulling weeds, and some other lucky soul would be heading

for the hills for the summer. For, thanks to her magic with flocks and dogs, ahead for her lay the upland

pastures. There she could dally about and play her rede-flute and watch the stars and admire the

newborn lambs when they came. And cloudgaze nearly to her heart's content.

The flock trotted onward, and she blew Bright a smug little kiss and hurried after them.

* * *

Risse watched her youngest child depart and felt a special pang of maternal longing. Nineteen years old,

tall, strong, and beautiful, Faia was everything she could have hoped for in a daughter, and more. In spite

of Faia's heated arguments to the contrary, Risse was sure there would be special young men soon; not

the current casual lovers, but men Faia would want to have children with. And Faia's life would change,

as she had to accept responsibility for babies. She would have less time to wander in the hills, less time to

play with her dogs. Risse tired to imagine her daughter with children, and came up with a mental picture

of Faia with beautiful babies swaddled on her back as she bounded across an upland pasture after her

sheep. The older woman grinned. It was actually the only way she could imagine her youngest with

children.

She will be such a boon to the village—when she grows up and gets her father's wayfaring ways

out of her system.

There was more to Faia than stubbornness and independence and wanderlust, though, and Risse

worried about that, too.

She has more of the Lady's power than I have ever sensed before—even if it has not surfaced yet.

She's like a river—deep and quiet and unbelievably strong. I just wish she had more interest in

exploring her talent—the Lady does not give gifts in order for them to be wasted.

Risse shrugged her anxieties off. She was having plain old mother-worries compounded by the fact that

this was the last of her four children to grow up. Those worries, added to her "wolf-worries," were giving

her the worst case of jitters she'd ever had. Still, life was dangerous. She carried memories of packs of

wolves, sudden snow-squalls, avalanches, big mountain cats, and crumbling mountain paths from her own

summers spent with the sheep. The highlands posed threats even to smart, cautious, experienced

shepherds like her daughter. She hoped Faia did not run into more trouble than she could handle.

The amulet should help. I spent enough time and energy on it. If she finds out what it really does,

though...Faia's mother shook her head ruefully. Faia's independence was legendary in Bright.Faia asked

help from no one—never had, even as a tiny child, and, Risse figured, probably never would. So Risse

had done a thing she considered slightly sneaky. She made a link between her and her daughter, which

would let her know if Faia needed help without having to wait for Faia to ask.

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The amulet would do exactly what she'd told her daughter it would do. It would ward off all but the

boldest or most crazed of wolves, two- or four-legged. But it would also carry a distress message from

Faia to her mother, who could then summon help.There's a chance Faia will sense the link , Risse

thought. It wasn't likely. Faia rarely heard—or felt—anything that she didn't want to hear. Besides, it was

a chance Risse had to take. Her nerves screamed with the possibilities of disaster—wolves,her dreams

said—and the signs of wolves were heavier this year than they had been in a decade. She had an uneasy

feeling about them.

Risse had learned to trust her feelings.

Half an hour's walking made Faia think that the jerky in her pocket might be getting lonely for the

company of her stomach, so she pulled one of the leathery strips of meat out of her mother's packet and

began to introduce them. Diana had taken goatish interest in the tender, juicy leaves on the trees and

refused to lead the flock along the road, the sheep were already doing their mindless best to wander

everywhere but where Faia wanted them, and the dogs acted as if they suddenly remembered that these

trips to the uplands were not all play. Faia wanted to laugh, but Huss and Chirp would have thought that

she was laughing at them, and they would have acted hurt and betrayed for the rest of the day.

Lady forbid!Faia thought.They try to make me feel guilty often enough without me giving them a

reason. She decided to help them out a little. After all, Huss had just finished weaning a batch of

puppies—Not a one that went for less than ten-and-a-half, Faia thought cheerfully—and the girl

figured her dogs deserved a break.

She grounded herself and mentally reached into her center. Then she closed her eyes and visualized a

tunnel with high, blank walls to either side and a huge pasture of deep, luxuriant clover straight ahead.

She drew energy from the earth, and sent the verdant image to Diana and into the lentil-sized minds of the

sheep. They abruptly left off their munching and moved down the road, their purpose in life—the filling of

their insatiable bellies—given a new direction.

But in the time that her eyes had been closed, a stranger had appeared over the crest of the next hill,

riding toward her. His beast was a solid-looking bay with an excellent gait, well-formed and beautiful, but

white-footed. Faia spat surreptitiously to one side to avert the bad luck associated with white-footed

horses and studied the strange rider from under the brim of her hat.

The ill-fortune was all with the horse, she decided when she got a closer look at the odd pair. That was

the only way she could explain to her own satisfaction how such a scabby bit of human flesh could own

such an otherwise excellent animal.

For the rider was no match for his horse. The man was pale as skimmed milk, with gaunt cheeks so

pimpled Faia's face hurt in sympathy. His jerkin was well cut from expensive cloth, but flapped around

his skinny frame as if it were dressing up a stick man.

The man and horse edged along one side of the flock while Faia kept to the other.

"Care you—" he began to shout, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing. When it passed, he tried again.

"Care you to see the merchandise in my packs?"

Faia considered only an instant. His packs flapped almost as slackly as his jerkin—there was not likely

to be much of interest in either. "Thanks, no."

"The village—?"

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"You have almost arrived."

"My gratitude, then," he said as he drew even with her.

She stepped up the embankment to be out of the way of his horse, thinking uncharitably that such

homeliness really ought to stay at home, where innocent bystanders wouldn't have to see it.

She was glad when the dull thudding of horse's hooves on packed dirt faded into the distance. She went

back to her intervals of whistling and singing and jerky-munching.

Near twilight, she stopped again to water the flock and to rest and get a drink for herself. By her best

guess, she still had a torchmark of hard pushing to get to the first of the stay-stations. She was tired, and

sank gratefully to the grass by the side of the stream. Huss and Chirp, tongues lolling, flopped at her feet

as the sheep and Diana lined the stream. Both dogs grinned up at her, grateful for the break. They trotted

to her side and nuzzled her, and she split a piece of her jerky with them.

"We have gotten soft and lazy from too much sitting around the cottage during the winter, hey, kids?" she

asked them.

Their eyes seemed to assure her that this was truth.

She knelt on the bank upstream from the flock and cupped her hands to draw out some of the icy water,

when suddenly a low, mournful howl took up, echoed and reverberated down from higher ground. It was

followed by another, and yet another.

Wolves!Faia froze and concentrated, trying to determine their number and location.Wolves should not

be this close in, she worried.

They were not right around her, she decided after careful listening, but theywere within half a

daywalk—definitely too close for complacency. And there were a lot of them—maybe fifteen. The howls

were not their hunting cry—at least, not for the time being. They were merely talking, entertaining

themselves, engaging in evening wolfsong. That could easily change if they were hungry, and if they knew

there was a flock of sheep within striking distance.

To Faia's animals, it did not matter whether the wolves were presently hunting or not. The sheep were

already spooked, and the dogs stood rigid with hackles raised. Faia loosened her sling in her belt and

made sure her special spiked shot was ready in its pouch, just in case. She admired wolves, and would

not willingly harm one—but if it came to a contest between the wolves and her sheep or her dogs, she

would do her best to make sure the wolves were the ones who got hurt.

Mama was right about wolves being plentiful this year, I guess.

It began to seem that the trip would be less cloudgazing and more work than she had hoped.

She whistled the dogs back to work. Making the fork as soon as possible had become suddenly not a

matter of personal comfort but a matter of safety for herself and her beasts.

So much for making good time to the first stay-station,Faia grumped. What with the skittish sheep

bolting off the main trail into the scrub with every branch-crack and owl-hoot, she and her flock had

hiked long past the arrival of full dark before the familiar clearing finally appeared. Muscles whose

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existence she had forgotten throbbed, and a blister on her right heel reminded her that new boots were

best saved for short trips. As she and the flock made their way toward the corral, she noted sadly that

the windows of the stay-station were dark, which meant that she would have no human companionship

that night—and also that no earlier arrival would have the wolfwards already set. She and Chirp and

Huss struggled to get all the sheep packed into the grassy pen. Then, so bone-tired she wished she could

drop on the stones to sleep, she began to set the wolfwards.

From her pack she pulled eight wooden circles—already glyph-marked with a drop of wolf urine

painted with a wolf-hair brush—and laid these in a circle on the stone altar that sat just outside the fence

on the north edge of the circular corral. She set her knife across them, and brought out the round, shallow

stone bowl that was kept under the altar. She placed the bowl in the center of the circle, and crumbled a

handful of kwilpie leaves and sweet-smelling ress powder into it, then grounded and centered herself, and

visualized a circle of blazing blue that grew like a bubble from the altar. Her protective circle stretched to

encompass the whole of the corral plus the stay-station that lay at the exact south point of the circle. She

rested for a moment, gathering energy from the earth, then lit the leaves and powder with a quicklight.

The incense blazed brilliant green.

Softly she chanted:

"Lady of the Beasts, Tide Mother Woman,

Lady of the Earth, Virgin, Mother, Crone.

Lady, loan to me your eyes;

Loan to me your faeriefires

To watch and ward us while we sleep,

That flock and folk will safely keep

Until the night is done."

Faia finished her chant, and touched the point of the knife to the green fire, then to each round circle in

turn. As she did, there appeared above the circles small dots of green light, each no bigger than a robin's

egg. They held position two fingers' breadth over the center of the disks.

When each wolfward held its beacon of faeriefire, she bowed her head for a moment.

"Lady, thanks," she said, and the fire in the bowl guttered out. She picked up the wards, and following

the path of the Tide Mother around the corral, laid them out in the shape of the Lady's Wheel. Only when

this was done did she gather her things and head gratefully for the stay-station. Hot tea, a soft bed, and a

late rising; they all sounded awfully inviting.

She left the heavy wooden door unbarred. First, the wolfwards would warn her not only of wolves, but

also of the arrival of any other danger. Second, if the wolves were desperate or brazen enough to

challenge the wards, she would need to get through the door quickly. With that in mind, she also placed

her sling, her staff, and her wolfshot on the stand beside the door.

Huss and Chirp settled themselves on the stone step outside. Faia dug through the stockroom, found the

food kept there for shepherds' dogs, and put a bowl out for each of the two exhausted border collies.

They grinned at her and wagged their tails and ate like they had never seen food before.

"Poor pups," she snorted. "Faljon says, 'Best is the meal/earned by the brow.' You two should be

thankful for the hard work we did today."

Huss glanced up from the bowl and cocked an eyebrow with an expression that seemed to question the

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sanity of hard work, Faljon, and anyone who would quote such a ridiculous proverb.

Faia laughed and scratched her behind the ears. "Indeed. I wonder myself whether Faljon ever chased

idiot sheep across the hills or fought off wolves and mountain lions or tromped for leagues with

prickleburrs under hiserda —or whether perhaps he just sat in his cottage and thought of ways to tell the

rest of us how to do it."

"Still," she added, mostly to herself, "he is right about the food."

She rose and stretched and went back into the stay-station. From the storeroom, she took a packet of

tea, a small box of soup powder, and two little potatoes. She put a single copper fourth-coin in the box

on the storeroom door in exchange. When she had the fire in the fireplace going, and water heating for

tea and soup, she sprawled across one of the station's narrow bedframes and stared at the ceiling.

It is good to be on my way again,she thought.Sore muscles and all. Away from Bright, out from

under Mama's roof and Mama's worries, maybe I'll have a chance to think.

She had a lot to think about. Much as she loved her mother, her brothers and her sister, she had never

been so glad to leave Bright as she was this spring. All winter long, her relatives had hinted to her mother

that perhaps Risse would like to send her flock with one of their older children, since surely Faia would

not be heading into the hills with the sheepagain . When they asked, Risse had looked hopeful, and Faia

sullenly defiant.

Risse alternated between moments of understanding her youngest child's yearning for freedom, and

bouts of fury at what she perceived as lightmindedness. In the bad times, mother accused daughter of

dithering with her life, of doing what amused her instead of planning for her future, for work that would be

to the long-term good of the village. "You can't be a shepherd forever, Faia," she had said. You're a

woman, full of woman's magic. You could become a healer, learn with me, and take over for me when I

am too old and weak to continue. You could be better than I'll ever hope to be—"

Faia thought that she was quick enough with the healing lays, but she hated the idea of spending her time

picking and drying herbs, mixing decoctions and elixirs, and running from house to house to deliver

babies or tend the sick, dead, and dying.

Then there was Kasara, her sister, who, with a shuttle in her hand and her babes playing on sheepskin

rugs on the packed dirt floor, had offered to apprentice her little sister, and give her a room out from

under their mother's roof. But while Risse was gentle and thoughtful, Kasara was shrill and shrewish and

wanted an apprentice, Faia suspected, to double her output without significantly increasing her costs.

While Kasara had remarked that she liked the workmanship of Faia's keurn cloths, Faia doubted that

once in her sister's employ she would ever be judged good enough to earn her own master's shuttles.

Kasara would see to that.

The girls in Bright who were Faia's age now had babies and bondmates with whom they worked their

dowry fields. And as for unbonded young men—well, there now remained only Rorin and Baward in her

own age group. Either would be happy enough to form a public bond with her, but...

Faia rolled over on to her stomach and sighed. Butwhat ?

Faia did not want to be a weaver, nor a healer, nor a bondwife with babies.

When she closed her eyes, she could hear her father's voice as sharp and clear and wistful as the last

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time she had heard him, talking, as he had loved to do, about far-off places. "Faiachin, my little lambkin,"

he had said, "there is a world beyond these hills, flat as a table, full of odd folk with odd ways, and magic

such as your mind cannot imagine. Flatters have not the need to chase sheep in the hills, so they spend

their days playing at music and illusion and pretties for rich men and women." He had stared off toward

the unseen wonderland, and sighed. "Someday, littlest, I will take you to the Flatters' lands."

He would have, Faia believed, had he lived long enough. But her mother had loved an old man, whose

body wore out long before his spirit. He had given Faia his wanderlust, but had not survived to slake it.

Faia stared at the ceiling of the stay-station. She had no real wish to see the Flatterlands anymore, she

admitted to herself. Her dogs were her friends; her flock, riches; and the wondrous wild beauty of the

upland fells was the magic her father had spun for her in his tales of other lands. Her hills would satisfy

her—if only she could stay in them.

Though Faia heard the wolfsongs nightly during the week's travel to the high country, she never saw the

wolves. They were always a few valleys away, always hunting other game that did not carry the freight of

a human guardian. She stayed cautious—but her caution began to seem more a formality than dire

necessity.

In the highland pastures, spring flowers poked out of the edges of melting snowfields. The rocky hills

were alive with the chirruping squeals of busybody conies; otherwise the meadowland pastures were

idyllic. Faia kept the wolfwards replenished nightly, and spent a busy few days as the waxing of the Tide

Mother brought the majority of the lambs in a rush. For a while, it seemed she was running from sheep to

sheep, working tiny hooves free from a birth canal, calming a first-time mother, making sure that each

ewe was willing to nurse her own lamb or lambs, and lastly watching for signs of sickness in mothers or

newborns. Lambing went well. She lost only two newborns—and them to deformity—and one mother to

old age; and she tricked the mother of the deformed lambs into thinking the dead ewe's baby was hers by

rubbing both beasts down with skunkweed until they smelled to high heaven... except to each other.

After the peak of the full Tide Mother, the rhythms of her days settled down. She watched the clouds as

she had hoped to, sent the eerie melodies of her rede-flute whistling down the valleys by the light of the

stars, and danced in the high meadows for sheer love of the goodness of life. Her anguished arguments

with her mother receded into her memory, leaving only ghostly tracks at odd moments—the highlands

were their own balm. Mild weather and an abundance of small rodents kept the wolves politely at their

distance, and kept her and Huss and Chirp supplied with the occasional fresh cony or rabbit to

supplement their steady diet of jerky and shepherd's stew.

The Tide Mother, waxing when she left Bright, was waning when premonitions started.

From a sound sleep she woke, a scream caught in her throat.

Something is wrong!

Her heart pounded; she was drenched in sweat. She sat shivering in her bedroll in the gray light of

pre-dawn. She grounded herself and reinforced her shields, then sent out searching tendrils.

There was nothing nearby. Nothing. But the terror was as palpable while she was awake as it had been

in her dreams.

Where is this coming from?

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Holly Lisle - Fire In The Mist

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