Magic's Genesis- The Grey Read online

  MAGIC’S GENESIS: THE GREY

  Book 1 of the 30 Stones Saga

  Rosaire Bushey

  ONE

  Death was creeping in.

  The violent winter trapped the island town of Thrushton. Isolated from the mainland, an unexpected early freeze caught most of the boats still in the water and the ice crushed their fragile wooden hulls, and the early onset of winter did not relent.

  With the cold came sickness, and the rutted dirt streets were practically deserted. Those who braved the cold moved quickly and the fires were kept stoked for as long as those inside the crude wooden houses could find the strength to lift fuel to the fire. Soon, however, sickness became plague and Wynter watched from the window of his small shop where lengths of wood lay cradled in vices and bundles of goose feathers waited to be shaped and fastened to straight wooden roads tipped with steel. The bowyer wasn’t carving, shaping, or fletching today, however, he sat by the small window and counted the victims as the smoke faded and disappeared from chimneys up and down the street. For days Wynter stayed in his shop with his son, Sol, making arrows and leaving full quivers outside the door for those who could still move and hunt.

  Several days before, when people first showed signs of sickness, Wynter’s wife, Ellaster, begged him to take their son and hide in the shop. Wynter provisioned his home and his shop to get through two weeks and kissed his wife and said a tender goodbye to his newborn daughter, imploring the nursemaid to spare no fuel to keep the home warm. He would leave wood, food and water at the door if the weather didn’t break. But after nearly a week, the weather was as cold as ever, so when the smoke faded from his own home, Wynter wrapped himself in a long hunter green cloak, thick brown leather gloves lined with fur, and a woolen scarf which he wrapped around his nose and face.

  “Sol, stay here, I’ll be back soon. I’m going to check on your mother.” Wynter wanted Sol to come, so he could cheer his mother, but he was still young, having just passed his eighth year, and in the shop, he was safe. There was food and it was warm and Wynter did not want to risk his son becoming sick. The older man lifted a pack of food and a small bundle of wood and told Sol he would be back within the hour.

  The draft coming through the thick maple door to his shop was nothing compared to the fury of the wind that caught his eyes and made them water in seconds. Burying his chin to his chest, Wynter fought against the gale that whipped up bits of dirt and debris along with the snow and ice. It was unlike any weather he had ever seen in nearly a decade on the island. Every year winter was difficult, and every year people died of exposure, hunger, or sickness, but usually they were very young or very old. This year death took no heed of circumstance and claimed everyone with equal measure.

  On the street Wynter passed prone bodies half buried with snow gathering in drifts with the wind. Giving them a wide berth, he could see some with swollen bearing signs of sickness and plague that Wynter had seen in other places as a younger man. A few of the bodies were nearly naked despite the cold, dressed only in light linen tunics or bedclothes, a sure sign they suffered from exposure before they died, convinced they were hot and sweaty, even as their bodies froze to death.

  Wynter shivered and pulled his thick oiled leather coat tighter around his neck. The bodies were the last straw; he would check on his wife and daughter and bring back more supplies later that day and then he and Sol would pack their belongings, and against all sense, traverse the ice. Crossing to the mainland tempted death. Staying on the island assured it.

  The lake surrounding Thrushton was enormous, extending hundreds of miles to the south and several miles east to west. It would take hours of slow and careful walking to make it to the ferry shack on the northeastern corner of the lake.

  Staring at his home, Wynter noted the door had shrunk from the cold, leaving a gap around it he could fit his finger in. As he lifted the latch, his heart raced as the battered door creaked open easily. Small, narrow drifts had creeped into the house along either side of the door, and underneath and it all scattered like dry leaves when the wind took hold of the door and Wynter was yanked inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the snow outside to the almost total darkness inside. The windows were covered, and the fire had died, but he stayed by the door, dropping a log on the floor and leaving the door open slightly so he could see clearly over the wrap that still covered his face. As his vision adjusted he saw his infant daughter lying motionless in his wife’s arms. The nurse-maid was in a chair near the cold, still fireplace, a chunk of wood on her lap, dried blood streaked down her face, and leaking from her eyes and mouth.

  Wynter started to move toward his wife and was startled when she held out her hand to stop him. Her hand, he saw, was covered with blistery, puss-filled mounds and her eyes were red, not from crying, but from the growths that had formed there. She was dressed and covered with blankets over her shoulders, but her pale face was tinged with a blue that belied the warmth of her coverings.

  “Wynter. Wynter, where is Sol?” she asked.

  “He’s fine. He’s in the shop with the door shut tight and a roaring fire.” He nodded toward his daughter and the old woman, “When…?”

  “This morning. Wynter, you need to do something for me.” Ellaster should have been shaking, her lips and voice quivering from the cold, dead air in the house, but she wasn’t. Her shallow breaths caused tiny, wispy, white tendrils of vapor to form with only enough strength to escape her lips. She lowered her hand to her lap and held up a knife. “I can’t do it myself,” she said. She nodded to a bow and quiver by the door. “You need to stay away. Do it quickly and then take Sol and leave.”

  “No, Ellaster, I won’t.”

  She pleaded with him and showed him the still form of their newborn daughter. A girl who didn’t even have a name.

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.” Ellaster’s words weren’t the weak cry for mercy Wynter had heard before. They were a cry for help, but Wynter shook his head against what she begged him to do.

  “Don’t make me do this myself,” she pleaded. “I don’t have the strength to do more than linger here and die … in time and in pain. Please, Wynter, help me. Let me rest with our daughter.” She stopped pleading only long enough to draw breath and cough up a mouthful of blood that barely moved along her clothing before freezing in place.

  Ellaster’s pleading continued, and his gaze drawn to her bloody lip and chin, he reached for the bow and fitted and arrow to the string, feeling as if he were watching someone else move his body. Her pleas continued and Wynter realized that what she asked was reasonable. It was the one thing he could do to prove his love and save his son. It was practical. It was necessary. “Do it. Please. I don’t want to die like this. It hurts. Our baby is gone. She needs me. Help me. I love you.”

  Sol pushed open the door as Wynter lowered his bow and he reacted only just in time to stop the boy from rushing to his mother’s side. “Sol, I …” but the words didn’t come. Sol glared at his father and fled from the house, running down the street away from his father’s shop and to the north, to the small bay where the ferries docked in summer. Wynter instinctively grabbed the quiver by the door, shouldered his bow and ran after his son, leaving the bodies of his daughter and wife lying on the bed in a pool of blood, a goose feather arrow still quivering in time with the last pulse of Ellaster’s heart.

  Wynter called to his son, but the wind blew the words back into his face. Sol reached the shoreline and he looked back once before lowering his head and starting across the lake leaving Wynter no choice but to follow. Had the journey been on land Wynter would have caught his son quickly, but on the ice Sol, who was light and ran with the nimbleness of you
th, gained ground on his father leaving only rhythmic clouds of breath as a trail.

  But light as he was, Sol’s grip on the ice was tenuous and every time Sol fell, Wynter paused, holding his breath and sending a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen that the ice would hold.

  Had this been a normal lake, the ice would be feet thick and easily crossed by men and beast. But the Great Lake was fed from an unknown underground source and the water’s warmth and odd currents caused the ice to vary greatly in thickness. Rarely was it solid enough for men and never for cattle or horses.

  Sol scrambled back to his feet and Wynter heard echoes of his sobs reach him on the wind. The heavier man lumbered on, carefully, slowly making his inexorable way across the expanse linking the island to the mainland.

  Wynter didn’t know how long he had been chasing Sol, with every fall or crack of the ice, time seemed to stand still. Wynter paused often when the ice shifted or cracked and moved more slowly each time. Sol’s cries had stopped, and the boy no longer looked behind him.

  After a punishing amount of time, Wynter started to think his son might make it to land. He was three-quarters of the way there, and as the lake got shallower, the ice was more solid, but the lake was very deep – even the shallows were close to shore, dropping off quickly into water far deeper than any man stood. But he was making good time and Wynter believed he would make it to land in a score of minutes if not sooner at the rate he continued to run. Believing this, Wynter slowed his gait, taking care of the ice so that he might join his son on land.

  The wind had died down and the lake was still which made the crack sound sharp and painfully loud when it came, like a tree the moment before it breaks its last connection and falls to the ground. When the sound reached Wynter’s ears, Sol’s arms were already flying up to the sky as his legs were swallowed by the lake. Before his scream died on the ice Wynter was sprinting to save his son.

  Closing the distance Wynter slipped and slammed onto the ice, causing a crack to spread several feet in all directions, small spots of water visible near his knee. Unheeding, he scrambled to his feet, propelled by the sight of a small hand, fingers splayed, slowly sinking into the water. Wynter ran several strides and dove toward the hole in the ice, sliding through the water brought to the surface by Sol’s collapse, and plunging his left arm into the blisteringly cold water. His arm went numb instantly. Even if he were touching Sol, he doubted he would have felt him. Withdrawing his arm Wynter stared into the water, and as the ripples ceased he thought he could see Sol’s face; the young boy’s eyes and mouth wide open staring straight up – accusing him of … everything.

  Slowly, carefully, on his hands and knees, Wynter wept, his tears turning quickly to ice as he began his journey to the mainland thinking only of his failure. He crawled toward shore with no feeling in his hands. His eyes were almost closed, eyelids frozen together from the tears and cold. He had failed to protect his daughter. He had failed to protect his wife. He had failed his son so miserably. Wynter vomited on the ice and lay next to the mound of bile, watching the steam rise, reminding him of the guts of an animal, or worse, laid out to the elements.

  Part of him wanted to lie there and die, but that was not his nature. He had seen death before and he knew the finality of it. There would be time for remorse later. He would have the rest of his life to deal with the guilt. In the end, it was the guilt that drove him to the shore. Death was too easy – he had to survive so he could live with the guilt. In that way, he might atone for his failures. But he had to survive.

  Dragging his bow, he moved forward and paused at every creak and shift in the ice. He spent agonizing breaths in perfect stillness, studying the surface, determining where the ice was thin and where it might hold him. He remained still until the curls of vapor marking his breath were steady before creeping forward again.

  Wynter stood only when he made the shore. The hole his son had fallen through was gone, replaced already by a thin layer of ice. He was wet and cold and needed to find warmth, but he stood and mourned for several minutes before his mind reached into his past, to part of his life he had thought buried, and resurrected it, pushing his feelings to the back of his mind and focusing on his task. It was a mental adjustment, he realized, that started when his wife asked him to end her suffering. Wynter’s past was never really buried, he knew, it was only waiting for a reason to reassert itself.

  On land, Wynter’s first action was to hunt – first for dry clothes and then for food, starting with the ferryman’s shack where he found empty bottles and flint and tinder to make a fire, and a small stove which he fueled with floor planks from rickety structure, and he ate some moldy food he found in the shack’s single cabinet. When he tried to sleep, he was haunted by images of his family and sleep would not come, so he lay awake replaying the events of the day over and over. He couldn’t close his eyes without the images of Sol’s outstretched hands and his wife’s pleading face to torment him. The next day he moved inland thinking perhaps to make his way to the sea, stow aboard a ship, perhaps become a pirate. He was disoriented, hungry, and sleep deprived, and sleeping in the woods on the second night, his haunting dreams gave way to a voice, “murderer. Killer. Murderer. Killer…”

  When Wynter awoke, he didn’t open his eyes. He was warm and could smell bacon and porridge. For a moment he thought he had succumbed to the cold and would end up like those in Thrushton, half-dressed and frozen on the streets. But he pried his eyes open, determined to meet his fate. He was in a small wooden house. It was plain, with dirt floors, and low ceilings, but it was well patched against the cold, and covering him were thick wool blankets that made his skin itch. Underneath the coverings it was so warm he was tempted to go back to sleep, but he listened to the snapping of dry wood on a fire and smelled the pine and smoke. The sounds of the woods were muted by the thick walls, and he could hear the whispered tones of voices conversing nearby. He flexed his hands, happy he had lost none of the feeling in his fingers. On a small stool nearby, he saw his clothes were clean and piled neatly, and his boots were underneath the stool, also clean. He lifted his head to help clear his thoughts and the voices became clearer. They belonged to several people, three at least, he thought, and their tone seemed like that of people whispering for the sake of being considerate. Despite the warmth and comfort, he was thankful for the voices and so he lifted himself up to get out of bed and relay his well wishes and thanks. As he hoisted himself up, a satisfying crack punctured the air as his elbow locked into position. The noise was almost immediately followed by the arrival of a large, bearded man with a wide grin and a mouth half full of grimy teeth and red gums.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re alright then, that was some scare you gave us, it sure was.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Wellsville and you’re darned lucky to be here as well. I don’t know where you come from, but someone’s looking after you. I’m Ned, by the way. Who’re you and where you from?”

  “Wynter. From Thrushton. How did I get here? Wellsville is miles away from the lake.”

  “Miles? I should say, more like days. I heard a noise last night and grabbed a big ole rusty spear, thinking maybe you was a bear or something as we could kill and eat. When I opened the door, there you were, lying like you’d crawled to the door, muttering something about Sol, and ice, and arrows. Figured you must have been near dead from the cold so I bundled you up and brought you in here by the fire. Got some breakfast on if you’re hungry.”

  Wynter was famished and he readily accepted the hand Ned offered to help him out of bed. He dressed quickly, relishing the feeling of clean, warm clothes, and then left his room, by moving a piece of cloth hung from the ceiling. He looked at Ned’s family and sat on a log bench by a crude cooking fire and rested his elbows on roughly sawn boards. His mouth watered at the food set before him. He ate the boiled fruit, cheese, bread, and bacon and then looked up sharply when he felt the family staring at him. “These here are my kids,
Will and Jesra and their mom, Eula, who’s cookin’ you’re tucking into. You sure are hungry Mister Wynter.”

  Wynter said nothing, but stared at the two children, each older by several years than Sol. The voice came to him as he looked at them, “Killer. Murderer.” Wynter thanked Ned and his wife and got up to be on his way, looking for his things and reaching for his bow and quiver in a corner.

  “Nah. You can’t go today,” Ned said. “You’ve slept half the morning; the weather is still storming and you’re still only half standin.’ Why don’t you get some proper rest and tomorrow you can get an early start and make best use of the light. We’ll lend you a pack with some food and you can be on your way.”

  It made sense. He had slept most of the day, but he didn’t feel rested. Wynter wasn’t sure he ever would be. But he looked at the fire and at Ned, nodded once and silently walked back to his blanket and drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

  His wife was waiting for him as he closed his eyes, staring at him. Their daughter wasn’t there, but Sol was, sitting on the edge of the bed in their cottage on the island; sitting where his daughter had been, still and lifeless. His wife and son looked at each other once before turning back to him. “You murdered your son,” said his wife. “I asked you to kill me and save Sol and instead you killed us both. What have you done? I only asked you to kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Stop the pain. Make it go away. Let me be with our daughter. Save your son. Please. I love you. Stop the pain…

  The dream was relentless. Wynter saw arrows fly from his bowstring and strike home into the chests and throats of dozens of people. He saw himself through the eyes of unknown people, collecting small packets of coins. He saw himself gutting dear and bear and watching others work with similar skill on those he had killed. Behind all the images, was the incessant voice of his wife, calling out for death to avenge his family. But he knew there was no vengeance unless it would be had on him. “Kill them, then. Kill all of them. You don’t care.”