Many Words

“If he sees as much as he claims,” Hrothgar said.

Alfhilde perched Jakob on her shoulder and swatted Hrothgar’s knee with her newly-freed hand. “He knew where to wait for us, didn’t he?” She sat back against the rock wall, taking Jakob in her arms and rocking him gently. “Not to say I haven’t had my doubts. In the army, it always seemed like they lost their foresight whenever it would have been best to have.”

“I could be on to something, then.”

Alfhilde snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She yawned. “Sif,” she said.

Sif looked up, fighting off the urge to claim she wasn’t listening. She thought her expression might have given her away, but Alfhilde went on without saying anything about it.

“Would you care to sit with us? Falthejn Arnarsson seems busy.

The diviner sat statue-like, barely even breathing.

Sif looked between Falthejn and Alfhilde. The diviner didn’t object, or even move, so she grabbed her bedroll and stepped delicately around him. She sat a long step short of Alfhilde and Hrothgar. “Thank you.”

Alfhilde’s mouth turned up into a grin. “You’re very welcome.” She took a moment to arrange her face into something more neutral, which turned out to be a friendly smile. “How are you finding the journey?”

“My feet hurt,” Sif replied.

Sif watched him for a few minutes. He sat in his circle and closed his eyes, and as far as she could see, did nothing. She guessed looking with her mind would tell a different story, but she didn’t really need to know, and Falthejn’s warning still rang in her ears. At least now she could sit here, a few yards away, without feeling like ants were crawling under her skin. She shivered at the thought.

She turned her mind elsewhere, leaning back against the cliff and getting as comfortable as she could, under the circumstances. Across the camp, Hrothgar Hrafnssen and Alfhilde—Sif grasped for her patronym without success—spoke to each other. Sif listened to them.

“I forget how close the city is to places like this,” Alfhilde said. She shifted Jakob to her other shoulder and patted him on the back. “It’s beautiful.”

“Less beautiful if you’re hauling a tree up a mountain,” Hrothgar observed. Jakob burped, and Hrothgar’s tone softened. Sif glanced sidelong, and blinked in surprise. Hrothgar was smiling. “I see it too. The way the hills catch the light is a sight to behold.”

“I’m glad I could see it one last time.”

Hrothgar’s voice lost its levity. “Do you think it’s that bad?”

Alfhilde was quiet for a moment. “I think it is,” she replied. “We were no less surprised by the dweorgr—did Syderskogholm fall then? Our armies haven’t lost in the field since the wars of the jotnar, and the magiker fought harder, back in those days. Our Arnarsson puts on a brave face, but I think he knows it too.” She paused, then smiled tightly. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

“Life as a magiker is often short and violent either way.” Falthejn cocked his head. “I suppose you’re familiar with life being difficult, though.”

Sif nodded, growing quiet. A minute passed before she spoke again. “What if I joined?”

“A guild?” Falthejn said. He hadn’t expected the seed he’d planted to sprout so soon.

“Yes. I don’t have much to look forward to, do I? Life as a street thief is short and violent, too.” There was a hitch in her voice as she said the word ‘thief’, but she soldiered on. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“I suspect that the doors of many of the guilds would be open to you,” Falthejn said. “This is not a choice you should make lightly, though. If you dedicate your life to magic, you dedicate it to war. I would think carefully, if I were you, on whether I would want that.”

She tilted her head. “Why did you join?”

“A fair question,” said Falthejn, “but one for another time.” He motioned to his preparations. “I should get to work.”

“I saw…” she trailed off, blinking against the light of the setting sun. “I saw the world.” She sat back, and her voice grew softer. “It was beautiful.”

Falthejn smiled and left her to her thoughts for a few minutes. “Now, your mind can show you the true nature of things. On the other hand, it knows how magic looks, and how to ignore it. It shouldn’t bother you nearly as much.”

“Can I see it again?” Sif asked.

“You can,” Falthejn confirmed. “You don’t even need my help. The trick isn’t feeling magic. Most people can tell it’s there, if it’s loud enough. The trick is making sense of it. That said, think before you go looking. The more you see of magic, the easier it becomes for you to work your will on it. If you do that, you risk breaking the fabric of things, or drawing the eye of things not to be named, or bringing a magiker-hunter down on your head.”

“A magiker-hunter?”

“Those the guilds of the magiker entrust with the task of finding those who would use magic carelessly. They offer a choice: join or die.”

“That’s not much of a choice,” Sif observed.

Falthejn nodded gravely. “That is the greatest risk that we who weave magic face. When we draw near to that point, the world does not work as it should. You may find yourself violently ill, or floating above the ground, or perhaps catching fire. It is difficult to push the boundaries to breaking. To my understanding, it has happened twice—once before the war with the dweorgr, and once ten years from now.” He paused, realizing he’d slipped into the formal voice. “Sorry. I get a little energetic when I speak of such things. Few realize the true danger.”

“I get it,” Sif said, eyes wide. Utmost sincerity sounded in her voice. “Is that why we don’t just burn down the whole south to stop the ontr?”

Falthejn nodded. “The buzzing you hear,” he continued, “is magic. The world longs to be its proper shape, and groans against the stress.”

“Do you hear it?”

“I learned to ignore it. I can show you how.”

Sif nodded fervently.

“It isn’t hard,” Falthejn said. “Your mind perceives, but doesn’t know how to show you. I show you once, and your mind will see the order of things.”

“I don’t understand.”

Falthejn sat, and waved for her to sit across from him. “You will. Close your eyes. Take deep breaths.”

Sif sat. Falthejn made a fist and placed his thumb against her forehead. She gasped. He took his finger away. Words could not describe it; perhaps aelfish had the words, but norrmanssprak did not. It was as though Sif had been blind her whole life, and then somebody had told her to open her eyes. He touched her forehead again, and her eyes snapped open.

“Falthejn,” Sif said. The diviner opened his eyes. Sif stood a long pace away, holding out the carved stick at arm’s length. He took it, and she stepped back. “Will it work?”

He turned it over in his hands. “Yes, it should be fine. Thank you.” He gave her a close look. “Are you alright?”

She crossed her arms in front of her, looking down and to one side, and waved a hand vaguely. “It’s like there’s something buzzing in my head.”

Falthejn raised an eyebrow. Sif had been near magical workings for some time now, but it wouldn’t have bothered most of the untrained. The girl did seem of the quiet, mindful persuasion, though, and the guilds were stuffed with her sort. At the least, he’d have to teach her how to ignore it. If his preparations bothered her, the feel of power flowing by once he got started would sweep her away. He pushed his supplies aside and stepped carefully out of his circle. “Now is as good a time as any, I suppose.”

“For what?” Sif said, following him to the very edge of the sheltering overhang.

“To answer your question about magic—or how we use it. Do you remember the example?”

The girl held out her arm and used her fingers to frame part of her sleeve.

“Right. Now, squeeze it.”

She did. The fabric bunched between her fingers. Her brow arrayed itself similarly as she thought. “This is the foundation of the world. So you.. change the shape of that, and that changes things in the world?”

“Well done. Now, suppose you were to stretch your sleeve even further—beyond the strength of the cloth.”

“It would tear.” She blinked. “You could tear the world?”

He turned downslope—no sense going toward the road and revealing their hideaway—and headed for a patch of undergrowth, clinging precariously to the hillside in a patch of sunlight the trees had not yet colonized. Bright yellow blossoms drew his eyes to a tall grasslike plant, the flowers atop tall blades, while other stems, bending toward the ground, bore five-pointed seed pods. Falthejn stripped a handful of the latter and headed back up the hill.

When he returned the scattering of wood shavings around Sif’s legs had grown thicker. She had cut a deep, narrow vee into one side of the stick, and was working on the other. Falthejn grabbed a handful of pine needles as he sat, placing them and the starseed on his fire-cloth. Opening each of the cloth bags from his pack in turn, he sniffed at them, putting all but one away and producing a piece of chalk from his pack. Slowly and precisely, he drew a circle around himself and the fire-cloth. He stood, eyed the circle, erased a section with the heel of his palm, and redrew it. He repeated the process several times more, until, finally satisfied, he stepped gingerly inside. He sat at one side of the circle and centered the cloth opposite himself. He drew intricate symbols all around it, erasing and trying again whenever his work didn’t meet his standard.

After a while, he sat up, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He could feel the hum of power in the air already. This would do.