"Elaine, your magic seeks to control you. You must control it."
"I don't know how."
"You must learn, or perish. There is no other choice."
"Why am I so cold?"
"Because it's the bloody middle of winter," Tereza said.
Gersalius held up a hand. "No interruptions." Neither he nor Elaine looked to see what the woman thought of such an abrupt order.
"Your magic takes shape from two things, outside forces, like the fire or light of your visions, and your own body. It is trying to feed on the warmth of your flesh. Don't let it."
"I don't understand." The cold was growing worse. It was not the winter air. The cold was coming from inside her. She could feel it like an icy wind through her belly.
"Can you find the source of the cold?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"Explore it, Elaine. Tell me what it feels like."
She tried. She reached for the cold with something like a hand, with something that traced the cold wind back, back, deep inside her, farther and deeper than her frail body was wide. There, at what felt like the cold, dark center of her being, was something like a cave. She had no words for what it was, but she was human and needed words. So it became a cave, and with the word, the thought: It was a cave. A cavern of ice that had been built one crystalline layer atop another until it was like a great mirrored room. Each facet of ice glinted with reflected light. But there was no light. AH was darkness.
No, there was light, but it was not reflected. It was in the ice, a flickering light that ran through the crystals like a fish through swift water. She turned and, with something other than eyes, saw blue and violet, purple, the liquid pink of sunset, and somehow it was Elaine. It was her power, as much hers as her own face.
"It is you, Elaine, your power, but you have let it run wild. It has built its own home, found its own way to freedom like water eating through the ground. It has chosen cold as its home, its brick. Heat is its mortar. There is nothing wrong with using fire, light as a catalyst for magic, but you must understand what you do, and why. You must reach for the flame to fuel your magic, not have the magic use your hand to feed it. Do you understand?"
She could still feel her body standing in the wind-bitten cold, but it was not as immediate, as important as that darting light inside the ice.
"Elaine, answer me."
There the light had stopped. She could almost reach it.
"Elaine!" The voice cut across her mind like a whip. She jerked and staggered. She was suddenly staring at the wizard's upturned face. The ice and flickering light inside was gone. She stood swaying in the winter night, frightened, but no longer unnaturally cold.
"Your power has been too long left to its own devices, Elaine. It is a destructive thing, now, a hungry untamed child left too long in the dark. It has made its own world. It will take a long time to reclaim it completely. But it can be done, for tonight you must feed it, consciously."
"How?"
"Reach for the fire, Elaine, or reach for some reflected light. Reach for whatever would send you visions."
She extended a hand. The air was bitter against her bare skin.
The lantern flickered in a sudden gust of wind. Snow swirled, sparkling like silver dust, in the.light. She felt the tug of a vision, a need to hold the light. But it wasn't just a vision; it was her magic, and it needed to be fed.
Her hand slowly turned, palm upward. The light and shadows trembled around her like struck gold. It was as if the light drew a shaking breath and bent toward her palm. It folded downward into the skin of her hand like water going down a drain. The light leaked away into her skin. It sucked downward into that cold, iciness, and the cavern filled with life, warmth, and the ice sucked it down greedily.
The lantern went out in a sputtering rush of sparks. They were left in darkness. The only light was the cold gleam of stars. But, strangely, that was enough. Everything seemed to flicker and glow with a faint edge of silver light.
"Look at the body, Elaine."
She did.
The man lay on the frozen ground. His face was no longer ordinary. There was some spark left, not of life, but of what he had been. He had been a man who laughed often and was often afraid. What need had driven him out in the darkest part of the year?
The question gave the answer-love. He loved his remaining family, his people, his village. She saw the recent loss of his daughter like a shadow across his still face.
How did she know all this? How could she be so certain?
"Do not question yourself, Elaine. You will spoil it if you do."
She tried not to, but it was hard. Hard to stand there and stare at the flickering light that traced the corpse and gave up all the man's secrets. She knew him in that instant as no one else had, not even his family, perhaps not even himself. She saw him stripped and pure before her, faults bare to her magic, but strengths there, too. His bravery, his kindness, his fear. Over all was fear. He had traveled far to die in such terror.
It was not fair. Fairness is for children and fools. That soft, sure voice was in her head, Gersalius's voice inside her head.
The flickering light on the body was the reflected gleam of Pegin Tallyrand's life. A good life, well loved, generous with what little he had. He would be missed by many. The light shuddered, stumbling as if it had feet to be tripped. The light circled round a small lump in the man's cloak. It was not a pocket, but something affixed to the lining, sewn in.
Elaine half-fell to her knees, hand reaching for that stumbling light. Her fingertips hesitated, hovering just over the cloth. There was a flash so bright it dazzled the eyes. A smell of burned cloth, and Elaine held a small piece of carved bone in her hand.
It was the finger joint of a human hand, carved and painted with runes she did not know. The light was gone. Everything was gone. She knelt on the frozen ground with the bone on the palm of her hand. The bone gleamed like a ghost in the dark. The silver glow was gone, and the starlight too faint to see by.
Gersalius leaned forward, peering at her hand. His eyes glowed in the dark. Tiny pinpricks of flame burned in his face, green to her violet, but it was the same kind of magic. Had her own eyes glowed just moments before? Elaine glanced up at Tereza. She stood silent and unreadable in the dark. Elaine did not ask if her eyes had glowed with violet flames; she was not ready to hear if the answer were yes.
"Very interesting," Gersalius said.
"What is it?"
"What did your magic tell you?"
"It wasn't part of the man. He didn't know he carried it."
"Very good, what else?"
She thought it would be hard to recall what the light had shone, now that the light was gone, but it wasn't. It was easy, as if each moment were carved behind her eyelids where she could never forget it.
"It was a spell. A piece of death sewn into his cloak. It was dormant, waiting, until he touched the great tree."
"Why did the tree set the spell off?"
She thought about that for a moment, rolling it round in the remembered light. "Its power was death. It had to wait for something dead to come along."
"And the great tree was dead, killed by lightning."
"Yes," she said softly.
"Would a dead body have triggered the spell?" he asked.
"Yes."
"The spell animated the dead with a terrible purpose. What was that purpose, Elaine?"
"It wanted Pegin dead."
"It?"
"The maker of the spell wanted him dead."
"Why?"
Her hand closed over the piece of bone. "The spell's creator didn't want Pegin to bring help. He, or she, fears Jonathan, fears the mage-finder."
"How do you know that?"
"The bone reeks of fear."
"Could that not be the fear of the hand from which the bone came?"