The water met Makenna halfway. She was in it up to her knees before the thought struck her—what was she going to do? She couldn’t fight. Then the scream rose, a terrible, wavering shriek, and her mother’s body flashed down, wreathed with chains, her face mindless with terror, like an animal caught in a trap.
A tremendous splash and a swirl of bubbles cut off the sound.
Makenna was swimming then, hearing the feet tramping overhead, not caring anymore if they heard her.
When she reached the end of the dock the water was still, and she stared helplessly at its softly heaving surface.
What could she do? She could dive for her mother, but the water was deep here. Even if she reached her, she had no way to break or unfasten the chain. And no swimmer could haul up that weight.
The desire to scream rose in her, to scream and scream and go on screaming until the world was blotted out by the sound. It took all her will to suppress it.
Screaming was useless. Her mother was dead.
She moaned, clinging to the rough wood pillar that supported the dock. Then some instinct for survival stirred and, though she clung there, drifting in the light wash of the waves for a long time, she made no further sound.
Makenna shuddered, pulling herself out of the past, and went to the wheel, that twisted the screw, that lifted the sluice gate. It took all her strength, but once she got it turning, it spun easily.
The dike shivered under her feet with the violence of the current surging beneath it. Only when the screw reached the top of its length and jammed did she look down at the water shooting out, rushing through the ditches, already swamping the low end of the fields and covering the base of the pump. The sight gave her intense satisfaction, and she realized that, for the first time that day, she felt no desire to cry.
Looking carefully at the thick wooden screw, she decided the saw would be quickest. She set the blade as low as she could, where the screw vanished into the gate mechanism. At first, the saw jerked and buckled, but she struggled on, and soon each thrust bit deeper into the wood. When the saw broke through, she twisted the top part of the screw free and threw it into the pond, which was deepening rapidly at the base of the dike. It already stretched over several fields. Makenna could no longer see the water spurting in, but the surface beneath her feet roiled furiously. Good, the gate was underwater. With the screw cut, they wouldn’t be able to get it closed for days…maybe never.
Makenna looked back at the sleeping village. When the lake reclaimed its own, most of those houses would be under water, destroying the food stored in their cellars. The rooftops would be the only dry places.
The water would rise gradually. Only a few might drown. But fields under water would grow no crops, and much of the livestock that made it to shore would escape. They would all be left with nothing. All would suffer. All would grieve. The thought warmed the chilled place inside her, and Makenna smiled.
“May the Dark One devour the lot of you,” she whispered. It was the worst curse she knew. She wished she knew the Dark One’s name, so she could call on him with real effect.
Makenna turned and dragged her sack of spell books along the dike toward the highland. She wanted to be a long way off by sunrise.
M
akenna drifted north. She wasn’t sure why she chose that direction, but she wanted to leave her old life behind, and the deep woods and soft, rolling hills were completely different from the flat, open land she’d known. Her mother had traveled in her youth. She’d told Makenna that staying in one place, in a village where you knew folks, and they knew you, was safer.
At first Makenna’s grief for her mother felt like tearing claws, and she cried herself to sleep each night. But after the first few days, the difficulties of survival occupied more and more of her attention.
She stole food from the villages she passed. Soon she grew bolder and acquired better clothes, a knife, a bedroll, and a big oilcloth sheet she could hang when it rained.
She felt no guilt—the empty goblin bowls told her that the villagers she robbed had fallen in with the priests’ demands. Makenna wondered what the goblins did, with no more table scraps set out for them. Thinking of the mischief they could make, she almost felt sorry for the villagers. Almost.
Makenna took care never to be seen, and she moved on quickly, never robbing any village twice. And one of the first things she did was to twist some stolen bronze wire into a hiding charm so no one could find her with magic. It took her more than a dozen attempts to set the magic into the bronze, and she wept again for her mother, who had so easily made these charms for poachers.
In the beginning Makenna had intended to live by trapping small game. Krick and Rolan, near her own age, had taught her how to set snares in the days when they’d run wild together. When they’d been…when they had pretended to be her friends. But the first time her wire captured a squirrel, the sight of its frantic struggles made something twist inside her. She couldn’t kill it. She soon discovered that she couldn’t kill anything in a trap, although she had no qualms about eating the meat she stole.
As the weeks passed into months, Makenna began to look for snares in the forest around the villages. If they were empty, she sprung them. If there were animals in them, she set them free. Sometimes her spell of calming failed and she was clawed or bitten, but freeing trapped creatures became something that she had to do.
As the first gold touched the leaves, she realized it was nearly harvest month and that she had had a birthday a few months back. She was twelve now. It didn’t seem to matter. Birthdays were a part of humanity, and she hardly considered herself human anymore.
But harvest would soon be followed by winter. She’d need better gear, perhaps even a permanent shelter. She began to look for an area where she might stay. It had to be within raiding distance of at least three villages, but not so close to any of them that she was likely to be discovered.
She traveled almost another week. The sun was sinking behind the hills when she came across a barn that looked promising. The blackened ruins of a farmhouse nearby explained why it had been abandoned, but the barn looked strong and in good repair. The people who owned the well-tended orchards that surrounded it probably stored things there, but the harvest was past; they might not go near it till spring.
Makenna couldn’t see anyone among the trees now, but she knew better than to take chances. She found a clump of bushes from which she could watch, and waited for moonrise.
It was several hours after darkness had fallen, and the moon was high above the trees before she moved, slowly and carefully, toward the darkened barn. The trails she’d found in the grass seemed to indicate that the farmhouse had been moved downstream a bit and behind a hill—out of sight, but not necessarily out of hearing. Makenna had seen no sign of a dog, either, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one, so she had the well-chewed bone she used as an essential object for her calming charm ready to hand.
There was no lock on the door, just a big latch, which probably meant they stored nothing of value here. Good. But the door’s great iron hinges moved with the silence of grease and use, which meant they opened this door a lot. Bad. Or at least, a puzzle. The barn was dark, only a few small windows catching the moonlight. The old straw on the floor would substitute for sawdust. Makenna knelt and charmed fire into the wick of one of her stolen candles. The spell was coming easier, now that she worked it every night for campfires.
The light revealed the barn’s plain plank walls. No animals moved restlessly in the stalls at the coming of light; only their scents lingered in the cool air. They must have moved the livestock to be nearer to the new house. The stalls held the tools of farm and harvest: baskets for gathering, which were cheap enough, but also steel tools, saws for cutting dead wood, hoes, and shovels. And at the far end was a cider press, and in the stalls near it, dozens of new barrels, their strapping gleaming in the candlelight. Makenna scowled. Either folk around here were more honest than any she’d ever known, or she was missing something. Could she have tripped some magical alarm without sensing it? But magical wards were usually harder to come by, and more expensive, than a dog—more expensive than a cider press and the new barrels warranted.
She was reaching out with her other senses, letting her eyes stray, when she saw it—just a glimpse of a long-nosed brown face, about the size of a small melon, peering down from one of the eaves. It was gone in an instant, but Makenna jumped back, tripped over a bump in the straw-covered floor, and fell.
This barn was far from unguarded.
Her heart started to pound. “I didn’t take anything,” she said rapidly. “I didn’t hurt anything. I’m leaving now, and I’ve done you and yours no harm. All right?”
The silence stretched. The back of Makenna’s neck prickled. The goblin doubtless knew every move she’d made, but she still held out her hands to show they were empty as she fled from the barn.
She was free of the farmyard and deep into the orchard before she began to relax. Wild goblins were pesty, but her mother had told her that nothing guarded a farm better than a loyal one. She was lucky she’d seen him before she’d taken something. Besides, if these folk still had their goblins, likely they’d let their hedgewitches live as well.
The tension in her neck and shoulders eased slowly. She was almost to the edge of the orchard, and no alarm had sounded. It was all right. With the unthinking gesture of someone who had been raised around apple trees, she reached up, picked an apple, and bit into it.
A flurry of movement in the leaves proclaimed her mistake.
“I’m sorry!” she cried. But goblins didn’t care about sorry.
A shrill whistle sounded in the tree above her. A clatter of metal, loud enough to carry to any number of farms, sounded from the barn. Followed by the distant baying of dogs.
Makenna dropped the apple and ran.
Drying her soaked boots by the fire, Makenna cursed her carelessness. “But you think no more about picking an apple in harvest than about scratching an itch!”
She’d begun talking to herself more and more often lately. Not that she wanted anyone to talk to. She wondered if it was just her imagination, that feeling that the rustling canopy above her was listening. It had taken most of the night, climbing trees and wading for miles up shallow creeks, to lose the dogs. Makenna banked her fire and went to bed.
It was just after noon when she finally wakened, stretched, and pulled on her boots. The exertions of the previous night had made her hungry, and she walked quickly to the tree where she’d hung her gear. She was reaching for the lowest branch when she noticed both her sacks lying on the ground.
After being robbed by several animals, Makenna had learned to climb a tree and lower her food sack on a rope so it dangled in the air, safe from the clever paws of raccoons and other creatures.
“Dung!” She reached the sacks in two long strides. The spell books were there, the food was gone. But how? Had something chewed through the rope?
She pulled the rope through the fallen leaves and one glance at the end told her everything. Not chewed—cut. Goblin work. She should probably be grateful they hadn’t taken the spell books and hidden them out of pure mischief—but she wasn’t grateful.
Anger burning through her veins, Makenna packed her gear and set off. There was no point in staying. Once the goblins got a grudge against you, it lasted till you appeased them. She had no milk to offer and they’d stolen all her food, so she had no choice but to flee.
They chose to follow her.
By the third day of the goblins’ pursuit, Makenna was near weeping with weariness and frustration.
She could keep from starving by eating what she stole on the spot, but she couldn’t store any food unless she kept it in her pockets. She’d tried clutching her food sack in her arms as she slept—and wakened to the sight of a scrawny, long-nosed lady, about two feet high, dragging her spell books away. She’d raced to recover them and returned to find her food sack gone. The empty bag fell over her head later that day, and by the time she tore it off, there was nothing to be seen. The woods echoed with shrieks of goblin laughter.
She combed the spell books for a charm to keep the goblins off, but aside from dozens of bits of useless lore and rumor, all she found was a note in a strange hand that said only the priests’ magic was strong enough to affect goblins, whose magic was innate.
Since the priests tried to keep magic out of the hands of any who weren’t priests, Makenna’s mother and grandmother had collected their lore from many different sources, but Makenna had never heard of innate magic before. Did that mean they didn’t have to study to bend the natural world to their wishes? Some humans had magic, some did not, and those chosen for priests were chosen, Makenna’s mother had claimed, solely because they had more magic than others. But even the priests, who needed no essential objects, no complex rituals, had to spend years learning to wield their magic.
Makenna was beginning to believe that her mother was right that magic was part of the nature of the world itself, not something handed out by gods. It was heresy, of course. But Makenna had no more dealings with gods now than she’d ever had, and the spells that hid her tracks or settled the mud in ditches where she dipped her water jug were coming easier to her. But there were still days when she couldn’t bring a spell to life, no matter how hard she tried.
Makenna knew her magic was weak, even for a hedgewitch. She barely remembered the day the priests’ chooser had come to the village, to test the latest generation of children for magical ability. But she remembered the old man’s nasal voice, passing his judgment. “Her holiness is not sufficient.”
“It’s all right, Makennie,” her mother had soothed her. “The priests do priestly things, but we hedgewitches, we do well enough without their help. We do fine.”
Still Makenna had heard her weeping in the night and known she had wanted her daughter to be chosen, to have possessed magic that was strong enough for real teaching, real knowledge. Ardis had never again, by word, look or deed, let Makenna see her disappointment.
The goblins’ persecution continued. If they couldn’t get Makenna’s food, they stole bits and pieces of her other gear. Which they left, teasingly, in place of her food when they stole it later. The first time they did this, she swore and stamped her foot. It lit on a sharp stone, and as she hopped about, clutching her sore foot and cursing, she could hear them snickering.
The only way she could keep everything was to stay awake all the time—and in the past few days she had fallen asleep more and more often. She was almost certain they were casting spells on her—if she realized it in time, she could fight the wave of drowsiness. But more often she simply woke, lying across the trail with a crick in her back and another piece of gear missing.
Makenna fought back a tired sob. This couldn’t go on. Much as she hated the idea, she had to set a trap.
That night she crept into a blacksmith’s shop to steal what she needed. The moon wasn’t up yet, but the glowing coals in the forge gave her enough light to search. Goblins, with their clever fingers and sharp copper knives, were almost impossible to trap, but they couldn’t abide the touch of iron or steel. One of the scraps of lore in her books speculated that that was because iron and steel were man-made things, not found in nature, but no one seemed to know for certain.
It took awhile to find the things she needed, and she stole a net as well. Walking back to camp, she was smiling for the first time in days.
It was a good thing she slept lightly. The thrashing snap of the bent branch that primed her hidden snare wasn’t loud, and only someone dozing in all her clothes could have reached the moon-shadowed grove in time, for the small creature bent over his bound ankles had his fingers in the wire, pulling it loose. In a moment he’d be gone! Makenna raced toward him and tripped over the bent sapling of the trap she’d left in plain sight.
The young tree whipped upright in a storm of thrashing leaves, taking the net and food sack with it. Makenna fell, rolled, got her feet beneath her, and sprang into a flying dive. Her outstretched hands fell on the goblin just as he slipped free of the wire. “Got you!”
She tightened her grip against his wiggling and dragged him forward till she could sit up and look at him.
He was thin as a scarecrow, about two and a half feet tall, and the lines and bones of his face were long and sharp. The elbows of his rough jacket and the knees of his britches were neatly patched, but his hair straggled into his eyes. Dark, angry eyes.
Even though Makenna had set the deceptive double trap—one snare in plain sight, the other hidden as well as she could hide it—she hadn’t really believed it would work. Now that she had her hands on one of her tormentors, she had no idea what to do with him.
“How could you undo the wire on your ankle?” she asked. “I thought goblinkind couldn’t touch steel or iron.”
“Well, I can. Not that it’s any of your business.” He gritted his small sharp teeth and a gleam came into his eyes. He glanced down at Makenna’s unprotected wrist.