“Minor dweomers,” the wizard explained. “We cannot simply cease with our spellcasting, else we’ll never retrieve our skills when the Weave repairs.”
“If,” Ashelia corrected.
Addadearber conceded the point with a shrug. “And if it does not, we must adapt to whatever magic remains, or evolves. I employ my spells every day, and often. As magic shifts, I will watch and I will learn, while my less courageous colleagues will find themselves far behind me.”
“And Addadearber will take over the world!” Ashelia said, grinning widely. “Or Icewind Dale, at the least. Are ye worthy o’ that kingdom, wizard?”
“What ill have I done to deserve it?” Addadearber replied.
“My fingers are freezing. I can barely hold the thing!” Lathan complained, swinging the axe at the end of one arm.
“I’ll take it,” Spragan was quick to reply, but all he received in answer was a scowl.
“I’m older. You just collect the kindli-” Lathan stopped short, confused when he glanced to his left to see that Spragan was no longer beside him on the trail, that the trail itself was no longer the same as he remembered. He stood beside a stand of birch, but didn’t remember passing it. “Spragan?”
No answer.
Lathan looked all around, and the ground behind seemed strangely unfamiliar, though he had just crossed. When he turned back to look ahead, he saw a copse of thick trees crowded in front of him, with no sign of the trail.
“Spragan!” he called more loudly. He moved off quickly in one direction for a short bit then back the other way, then back the way he had come.
“Spragan!”
“What?” his younger friend answered from right beside him, so suddenly Lathan nearly swung the axe at him.
“What’s the matter?” Spragan asked.
Lathan shook his head. “Let’s get done and get out of here.”
Spragan looked at him as though he had no idea what Lathan might be talking about, but he shrugged and indicated a nearby hillside where several older trees had shed their branches. “Kindling,” he announced, and started away.
Lathan took a deep breath and berated himself for showing such irrational cowardice in front of the younger boy. He took up the axe with grim determination, sighted a nearby young elm, and decided that a bit of exercise and axe-swinging might be just what he needed to settle his nerves.
He hoisted the axe in both his hands, wringing the cold out of them, as he strode purposefully toward his goal. As he neared, he glanced back to make sure that Spragan remained in sight.
He couldn’t see his friend. He couldn’t even seem to locate the hillside Spragan had indicated, though he hadn’t traveled more than a dozen steps.
Lathan gripped the axe more tightly.
Spragan suffered no such reservations or uneasy feelings. He danced through the thick underbrush and among the many wildflowers, gathering twigs and small branches. It had been a long day and he was hungry. He licked his lips repeatedly, almost tasting the trout in anticipation.
He bent down to a shrub and picked up an old, dry, long-dead branch, eyes widening as he thought his job might be done with but one catch. He propped the branch against a tree and kicked at its center, breaking it in half, then bent to retrieve one of the pieces so he could break it again.
He froze halfway down, seeing that he was not alone.
She smiled at him as only a young girl could, bright and beaming, and with a shake of her head that sent her long auburn hair dancing over her girlish shoulders. Her dress, too, caught his attention, for it seemed so out of place, inadequate against the chill winds of Icewind Dale. White and full of ruffles, it seemed more a gown fitting for a grand ball in Bryn Shander than something one would wear into the forest. Even the black cloak tied around her shoulders appeared more fashionable than warm.
“What are you doing out … Who are you?” Spragan sputtered.
The girl smiled and stared at him.
“Do you live here?”
She giggled and dashed behind a tree.
Spragan dropped the branch and rushed to follow her, but when he went around the tree, she was nowhere to be seen.
She was behind him! He sensed it without turning. Spragan jumped forward a step and whirled around.
It was her, but it wasn’t her, the girl before him was his age, at least.
And she took his breath away. She had to be the older sister of the child he’d just seen, with her bright smile, flowing reddish-brown hair, and blue eyes-so blue he seemed to sink right into them as he stared at her. But it wasn’t her older sister, Spragan sensed. It was the same girl, only older, and dressed the same. Confused, the poor young man reached for her arm.
His hand went right through her as she vanished, just faded to nothingness.
A young girl’s giggle had him spinning back around, and there she was, right there, and no older than eight.
And she was gone again. A woman’s laughter turned him once more, and she was as old as his mother, though still incredibly beautiful.
A young girl again. A teenager, like him. A child once more. A woman, no more a girl. An old crone … One after another they appeared to him, all around him, laughing-laughing at him! — and turning him this way and that. Poor Spragan jumped around, then tried to sprint away, stumbling down the hillside.
Singing filled the air around him, sweet and melancholy, and peppering him with a range of emotions. He tried to pick up speed, but stumbled again then caught himself fast against one tree and skidded to an abrupt halt as he used it to turn around.
And she was there, right in front of him, a woman again, perhaps twenty-five years of age. She wasn’t singing anymore, and wasn’t smiling, her face tight, her eyes intense. Spragan shrank back from her, but his legs wouldn’t heed his command to run.
The woman breathed deeply, her arms lifting to her sides, her form blurring suddenly as the air around her shimmered with some unknown energy. Her hair blew back and fluttered wildly, though there was no wind, and her layered gown did likewise as she rose up tall before him-no, not tall, he realized to his horror! She floated in the air! And purple flames erupted all around her, and her eyes rolled up into her head, showing only white.
Spragan gave a cry of horror and hot winds buffeted him and flung him to the ground.
“Who are you?” he cried, scrambling to his knees.
The wind came on more furiously, carrying twigs that nicked at him as they flew past, and sand that stung his eyes and reddened his face. He rose against the blow and turned.
She was still there, floating in the air, flames dancing around her, hair flying wildly.
Then she was a little girl again, but no less ominous-indeed more threatening as her eyes rolled back to show blue, and her mouth opened wide in a sinister hiss.
Spragan ran past her, and he was half-running and half-flying as the wind gripped him and rushed him along. He cried out and tried to duck, but too late. Even though he managed to lift an arm, it served as little defense as he smashed into a low branch and was thrown onto his back.
The ground below him reverberated with music, like a heartbeat, and the air hummed with the woman’s song.
Words flitted through poor Spragan’s mind: “ghost” … “banshee” … But whatever it was, whatever
But she was there at every turn, young or old, and terribly beautiful.
So terribly beautiful.
