A Distant Magic Read online

  Not exactly an enthusiastic belief in his chances for success. "I know the risk." He glanced at each of the priests in turn. "If I do not survive, I do not want you to feel guilt for what I choose of my own free will."

  The tense atmosphere eased a little. At a gesture from Adia, the younger priest began ringing a crudely made metal bell with a deep, hollow tone. The other priestess started to shake a rattle made of a dried gourd while the older priest chanted low in a foreign tongue. Nikolai had identified him as Omar, who had been freed from a corsair galley. The man had been deeply grateful to regain his freedom and a new home. He had settled down into farming, but he'd never mentioned that he was a priest.

  The crude music was strangely compelling, and Nikolai found himself swaying to the beat, his mind drifting and unfocused as he breathed the acrid smoke. Adia also began chanting, her voice deep and powerful. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sensed movements and realized that the small beings had again been drawn by the music. The night before, he'd found them disconcerting. Today they seemed…natural.

  As the rhythms echoed from the stone walls of the cave, Adia opened her medicine bag and poured a collection of objects on the ground. There were stones, pebbles, feathers, and stranger things Nikolai couldn't identify. He narrowed his eyes and realized that all of them glowed with magic, some brighter than others.

  The last object Adia produced was a polished, Y-shaped stick about fifteen inches long. It burned with violet fire.

  Still chanting, she clasped the stick and held it upright. Omar grasped the wood above her grip, and the stick immediately soared upward, as if propelled by unseen hands. It twisted about before diving toward the ground. The descent slowed, and the stick touched a pebble in the middle of the collection of medicine objects.

  Adia nodded and set the pebble aside, then said a phrase that sent the stick soaring up again. After another whirl, the stick came down and tapped a small knuckle bone. It joined the pebble. The ritual repeated half a dozen more times. Nikolai noted that the objects chosen were those that shone the most brightly with magic.

  The acrid smoke made him dizzy, and he had no sense of how much time was passing. Minutes? Hours? Eventually the stick no longer moved when Adia spoke to it. Omar let go, and Adia bowed respectfully to the stick before stashing it back in her bag. The bell and rattle slowed, then stopped, and the cave was once more silent.

  She scooped up the objects selected and placed them in a small leather pouch with painted symbols on the side. After producing a needle and thread from her bag, she carefully sewed the pouch shut and attached it to a leather thong. Then she approached Nikolai and placed the thong around his neck. "For protection."

  She stepped back. "The time has come for your first test. It will be a journey of pain, but it is not too late to withdraw. Think carefully, Captain. You have accomplished much on the seas and here in Santola. To attempt initiation is to risk losing all."

  Her voice triggered eerie images of doom and disaster. He had a brief, horrifying vision of himself trapped and helpless in the midst of screaming demons. For the first time, he felt the visceral recognition that he really might die if he continued. He did have a good life, valuable work. Why throw it away?

  Because he would never forgive himself if he had a chance to work toward slavery's end and was too much a coward to try. He had risked danger many times. The danger of the unknown was more fearsome than any blade or cannon, but the stakes were so high it was worth the risk. "I wish to go forward."

  She inclined her head, expression troubled. "Very well."

  Omar stepped forward, a dagger in his hand. "Be still." He rolled Nikolai's left sleeve up to his elbow, then made a quick slash in his forearm.

  Nikolai flinched but said nothing even when Omar rubbed a harsh, stinging liquid into the cut. The older man stepped away. "For protection against fire."

  Fire? The four priests moved into a formation around Nikolai. Even underground, he sensed that they were taking the four compass points. Then Omar said in a deep, booming voice, "Learn the fire!" He swept his hands up and blue flames exploded from the earth, surrounding Nikolai.

  He gasped in panic as his clothes, his hair, his flesh, were consumed by the flames. Unable to bear the pain, he stumbled from the blazing circle—and found himself in a strange, sun-blistered land.

  Jean was finishing a letter to her brother and his wife when her hand jerked, spattering ink across the page. Nikolai was in danger. Though she had known initiation was dangerous, she hadn't expected him to be threatened so quickly. Nor did she expect the danger to be so hard to define.

  She laid down her quill, careful not to spatter more ink, and closed her eyes.

  She had been connected to him since they met, but now that connection was gone. He had vanished from her internal awareness. Heart pounding, she searched for him with increasing desperation.

  Nothing.

  She forced herself to calm down before she fell into shrieking pieces. He was undergoing a magical initiation, surrounded by African priests, and it was certainly possible that the ritual might cut him off from her questing magic.

  Adia had believed that Nikolai had a good chance of surviving. And if she was wrong and Nikolai was dead—well, the priests would bring the news to Santola soon enough.

  Since there was no longer a connection between Jean and Nikolai, it wasn't even possible to send him any of her energy. There was nothing she could do but try the oldest magic of all.

  Locking her hands and closing her eyes, she prayed that somewhere, the damned man was alive and well.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  Stunned, Nikolai scanned the sun-drenched plain that extended in all directions. The cave and the priests had vanished. A burning sun scorched a land that was flat and covered with bleached golden grasses. The few scattered trees were oddly shaped, the limbs stretching out rather like umbrellas.

  Except for the pouch around his neck, he was naked. He saw the last blue flames flicker out on his forearm. He had felt himself burning, yet there was no damage to his skin or hair. Was he really in a different place, or was this some kind of dream? He felt real enough. The cut Omar had made on his arm still stung.

  The wind sighed across the plains, a breath of coolness on his bare body to mitigate the fierce sun. What the devil was he doing here? What task was he supposed to accomplish?

  He felt painfully exposed and wished he had a weapon and clothing, in that order. And a place to take cover, but the harsh landscape offered no shelter.

  What should he do?

  In a strange land, look for water. He had learned that while working as a slave on the North African salt caravans, which traveled through the most desolate lands on earth. He was already thirsty in the heat, so he consulted his intuition about water. His ability to find water had saved him and his companions on his last trip to the salt mines.

  There, to his left. Some distance away, but reachable before thirst and the sun would bring him down.

  Before he left, he should mark this spot in case it was the only gateway that could take him back to his own time and place. Assuming he would be able to return at all. When Adia had spoken of other worlds, he had thought of them as dreams or metaphors, but this scorching land was acutely real. Now it was his home—Santola, the Justice, Jean—that seemed to be a dream.

  He tore up the grass around his feet, then piled what stones he could find on the bare patch. While seeking stones, he found the bleached bones of an antelope that had been picked clean by predators. He thrust several longer bones into the piled rocks, then mentally marked the location. His sense of direction was another ability that had served him well on the trackless seas. He hoped it would hold true even in this strange world.

  Having done what he could to mark his place of arrival, he started to walk to the west. As a child and a slave he'd usually gone barefoot, and his feet had been tough as elephant hide. Years of wearing boots had softened them.

  No m
atter. He'd learned early to ignore discomfort, and that skill he had retained. As he walked, he studied the plain, thinking it looked like what he'd heard of East Africa. Though he'd never been there, a fellow caravan slave named Rafiki had described his native land, and these plains and trees fit the description. Omar was also from East Africa, if he recalled correctly. Might the elders have sent him to a different place in the world Nikolai knew, or was this some other reality?

  He fretted about the questions for a while, then dismissed them since he didn't know enough to find answers. Think less. Tonight when he saw the stars he should know if this was his world or another.

  A huge antelope with curled horns thundered up from behind him. As it bolted past, he thought, "Kudu." How did he know that name? He glanced back and saw a dozen tall, lean black men running toward him—and they all carried spears.

  After an instinctive rush of fear at his helplessness, Nikolai realized that the newcomers were hunters pursuing the kudu. Rafiki had described this ancient way of hunting. A group would run down a beast during the hottest part of the day and kill when the prey could run no more.

  The hunters didn't appear surprised or hostile at seeing him. They simply continued to draw nearer and nearer. Most were naked or clothed only in loincloths, though they carried spears in their hands and hide bags slung over their backs. Their black skin glistened with sweat, yet they ran easily, without strain.

  The group of runners swept past him. The nearest, a youth of perhaps twenty, called a greeting, his teeth flashing white against his dark face. He threw one of the two spears he carried in a sideways toss as if they were playing ball. Nikolai pulled the spear from the air. The weapon was balanced and natural in his hand. Guessing that this was part of his mission, he turned and began to run with the group.

  Soon the long, loping stride of the hunters felt as natural as the weight of the spear in his hand. Though his feet were sore and his breathing labored, he was able to keep up. He welcomed the burn of his muscles as he stretched them to the limit. A sea captain didn't have much opportunity to run.

  They were heading in the direction of the water he'd sensed. His awareness of it grew stronger. They passed over a slight rise and looked down on a watering hole edged with shrubs, a scattering of umbrella trees, and several birds and small beasts drinking. In the center of the water was the dark snout of a submerged hippopotamus.

  At the approach of the humans, the birds took flight with loud cries, great wings beating while the small beasts darted into the under-growth. The kudu ran past the watering hole, its gait faltering. Too tired to run farther, it folded to its knees and collapsed in the rutted ground beside the water.

  The hunters closed in, and the leaders killed the kudu with brisk efficiency. Three of the group pulled stone knives from their leather pouches and began to skin the carcass. The other hunters gathered fuel, either wood or dried dung. When it was stacked into a pile for burning, several of them glanced at Nikolai.

  Without words, he realized that it was his job to light the fire. But how? He had no tinder box, no flint. Perhaps he was the priest of this group and should be able to summon fire? Omar had said he must learn fire.

  He knelt by the stacked fuel and held both hands above it. Jean's Guardians would visualize flames, thinking the fire into existence. Since he knew no other technique, he tried that. His palms heated up, but no flame appeared.

  What if he added the heat of the blazing African sun? He did that, imagining the fierce sun joining with the essence of fire, concentrating till sweat dripped from his face.

  Flames flared between his hands, setting the fuel alight. His companions made noises of approval and slung a haunch of the kudu over the fire. As the meat browned and fat dripped into the fire, Nikolai found he could barely wait to eat. How long had it been since he'd had a decent meal? The bread and tea that morning hardly counted.

  While the haunch cooked, the young hunter who had given Nikolai a spear walked around the watering hole, scanning the ground. Halfway around he stopped and dug into the earth. Then he returned with tubers that he buried in the coals. He made a laughing remark that Nikolai almost understood. He also realized that the boy's name was Sefu, though he didn't know how he knew.

  The rest of the meat was dressed and packaged. Again, without knowing how, he realized that in the morning two of the hunters would carry it back to their village, along with the hide and horns and whatever else was useful from the kill.

  The sun was setting by the time the meal was ready. Never had meat tasted better. Nikolai and the hunters ate their fill amid much laughing and talking. Though he didn't know the language, he found that he had a general sense of the conversation. He was accepted as part of the group, though set a little apart because he could do magic.

  When it was full dark, several of the hunters produced small, flat drums from their bags, and they began drumming. The others rose to dance around the fire. It was a hunter's dance, mimicking the movements of the antelope—a way of honoring the beast that had been sacrificed. The rhythms pounded through Nikolai, the drumming and dancing inextricably linked. He wanted to participate, but he didn't know how.

  One of the drummers rose and tossed his small drum to Nikolai, then joined the dance. Startled, Nikolai caught the instrument. The tautly stretched head was warm where the drummer's hands had pounded, and it called to him.

  He tentatively began to slap his open hands on the drum, trying to match the rhythms of the others. His companions laughed and called encouragement. He kept the beat very simple, and soon his drumming was in harmony with the rest of the ensemble. They were joined as one, twined together with the dancers as one rejoicing entity.

  The dancers suddenly broke from their movement and bent before the drummers to pound the earth, honoring them. After a last flourish, the drummers stopped and handed over their instruments and the two groups changed places.

  Nikolai felt awkward as he joined the dancers. He'd done little dancing in his life, and his body didn't understand the movements of the kudu dance. He was clumsy, sticklike, a European surrounded by Africans.

  Sefu touched Nikolai's arm, saying without words that clumsiness didn't matter. A warm relaxation spread through him, and he stopped worrying how he looked to others. He let the drumming thrum through blood and bone, opening himself to the movement of the dance, and he became one with the group.

  Despite his lighter skin, his ignorance of the language or even of where he was, he felt that he was part of this life. The dance ended and the hunters lay down to sleep, except for one who sat up with his spear to watch over the camp.

  Nikolai held a palm to the fire. Burn low but steady through the night. Then he lay back on a thin pile of grasses, tired to the bone and ready for rest.

  He had just enough energy left to study the stars. Maddeningly, they were similar to the sky he knew, yet not identical, and not because he might be farther south than he'd ever sailed. The stars were not quite the same. Perhaps this was another world, one that lay close to his own, but was slightly removed.

  Don't think. He closed his eyes and slept.

  As the days and nights passed, Nikolai fell into the rhythm of life with the hunting band. They called themselves the Dahana, The People. For the first time in his life, he felt that he truly belonged somewhere. He was not a mixed-blood Maltese, not black or Arab or European. He was one of The People, not only accepted but honored for his magical abilities. They called him Nikai.

  After two handfuls of days, they returned to their village. There was a feast to welcome the hunters home. Nikolai's drumming was improving, and he enjoyed learning new dances. These were the African roots he had never known, and he gloried in the ancient traditions of life lived in harmony with nature. Vital force was in all creation, connecting all that lived.

  He had found a missing part of himself.

  His hunting group traveled in search of game about half the time. The rest of the time they relaxed in the village with friends
and families. As memories of his old life drifted away, Nikolai practiced his mastery of fire. He found he could call it in carefully measured amounts, lighting a cook fire or raising a great bonfire for the tribe's dancing.

  He also learned how to store fire in a stick so that saying a brief magical word would cause it to burn for some minutes. Such a fire stick could be used by anyone, which made it a valuable gift. He was much praised for the invention, for now other hunting groups could easily carry fire with them.

  He vaguely remembered someone he'd known in the past who could call fire—a woman. Ah, that was Adia, a priestess who could call violet fire. But her name quickly slipped away again. As did the name of the woman who had hair like fire…

  He practiced drumming and spear throwing, and humbly asked an elder for lessons in playing the flute made from a twisting kudu horn. He'd always enjoyed music, but never learned how to make it. The lessons were a delight, both for the music and the elder's shy, pretty daughter, who watched him with special warmth. Soon he was smiling back and thinking it was past time to take a wife. But there was no rush.

  The days drifted by, placid and satisfying. For the first time in his life, he was content, though he could no longer remember why he'd been discontented.

  After many handfuls of days had passed, his group of a dozen hunters left the village to make a trading journey to a town that lay at the fork of two rivers. Sefu explained that many peoples visited Timtu and that great wonders could be seen there.

  Nikai and the hunters ran for three days, moving from the grassy savanna to a harsher, drier landscape. Over time, the sun had darkened his skin so that he looked more like his hunting brothers, for which he was glad. He did not want to be a man apart.

  The hunters took turns carrying their trade goods until they reached Timtu in late morning of the fourth day. The square mud buildings teased a distant memory. He had visited a town like this long ago, in his dream life. Why had he done so, and where was it? He couldn't remember.