Wild Magic

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Faan gazed at the blackened smoking wreck of the only home she could remember, her shoulders drooping, her eyes burning with tears that wouldn’t fall.

Reyna dropped his arm on her shoulders, hugged her against him. “I know,” he said.

For a moment she slumped against him, then she sighed and pulled away. “It’s not finished. Not yet.

Don’t do anything, Mamay, it’ll only make things worse. Tai, tell him.”

“D yo. Rey, we’ll take what ‘we can carry to the

Wood Bridge. Faan will follow in a few minutes.” Reyna stepped in front of Faan. “What is this?”

“God business. Got no choice, Rey.”

“Nayo.” He caught her by the shoulder, held her at arms length and examined her head to toe. “What’s going on, Fa? Where’ve you been? What happened to you?”

“Abeyhamal. Let me go.”

“Rey, don’t interfere. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Reyna dropped his hand. “So tell me, Tai, why does Faan look like she’s been dragged through a thorn patch?”

“She made a bargain, Rey. You have to let her keep it.”

“What bargain? What are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain later.” The Kassian nodded at the others crowded into the wynd. “In private.” She tapped his arm. “Nothing’s going to happen to her, Rey. I promise. Now. Wood Bridge, my friend. Hurry.”

Frightened but compelled, Faan walked into the middle of the Lane, Ailiki pacing at her side, Tai a step behind her.

The Cheoshim didn’t notice her at first; when one did, pointed and yelled obscenities at her, the rest of them left their triumphant jigging and moved to stand in a muttering crowd behind the Prophet.

Faan stopped and gazed in silence at Faharmoy, a thin waif with hair waxed into spikes, splotches of purple and green hairpaint rubbed and shabby, a soft black plait falling forward across her shoulder, her face was smeared with gray dust, her feet were bare and dirty, her skirt torn and littered with the dead weeds she’d run through.

Abruptly, towering over her, Abeyhamal stood in the lane, singing with the wind, insubstantial as a dream, translucent; HER bee-wings vibrated, creating a thin high descant to the alto hum of HER powersong; the ivory fimbo which SHE held in HER left hand glowed palely gold.

Aged by fasting and fervor, Faharmoy was gaunt and gray, his hair and beard uncombed, his hands eroded to dry skin stretched over bone.

Chumavayal rose behind him, towering dark and powerful, insubstantial as a dream, translucent, HIS eyes red as forged iron.

The Bee-eyed Woman sang HER buzzing song and danced in figure eights behind the slight form of HER champion.

The Old Man glared at the Honey Mother from molten eyes, one huge ropy hand holding the great Hammer; HE brought the Hammer up and over in a power-filled circle, struck the earth in front of Faan, the wind of the miss stirring the spikes on her head-green eye and blue eye, she watched HIM, unmoved.

Abeyhamal slammed the butt of HER fimbo on the earth, HER wings vibrating more rapidly, HER hum deepening and growing louder, driven by the force of HER anger and desire. SHE buzzed in place, wings vibrating, larynx vibrating, bee eyes on the black old man. Abruptly SHE flipped the fimbo up and over, held it away from HER body, parallel to the ground. SHE bent HER knees, turned HER feet out and hop-shuffled at a slant to Faan.-When SHE was even with the girl, SHE stopped, glided backward to HER starting point, HER feet moving, the rest of HER quite still, then SHE hop-shuffied at an opposite slant.

Chumavayal stamped the road till the shops and tenements shook with the force of HIS power and HIS fury, stamped with feet turned out, HIS elbows pointed. With

HIS left hand HE brought the Hammer curling up over HIS head; with HIS right HE snatched the Saber clipped at HIS side and brought it curling up over HIS head. HE clashed them together. Sparks flew like falling stars, vanishing before they touched the earth.

Abeyhamal whirled the fimbo over HER head; lightning jagged from the point, crashed into the Lane by Faharmoy’s feet, but none came close to touching him.

Chumavayal roared, HIS fiery breath enveloped Abeyhamal and, Faan without touching either. HER gossamer wings vibrated more furiously, sending the heat into the dry sterile clouds gathering over the city. He brought HIS sword down, held it across HIS chest, stamped • HIS feet to one side then the other, then slashed at HER, pulling yellow and crimson flame-tongues into high leaps from the smoldering coals where the Beehouse had been.

Abeyhamal caught the sword on HER fimbo, deflected it, brought the fimbo around to slash at Chumavayal’s hand, drawing a trickle of blood as the point touched HIM, blood that fell on Faharmoy, sank into him.

Chumavayal howled and made the Saber weave in complex curves, glittering red and white, sending beams of light flickering about Abeyhamal, never quite touching HER.

Abruptly the images vanished.

Faan stared at Faharmoy, he at her.

“We will meet again,” he said in his ruined voice. “Diyo,” she said. “We will meet.”