one of the Fools—freethinking Drakes who travel the world in search of knowledge.”
The young Drake nodded. “The deal is struck. It is done.”
I shivered and sniffed the air … There was a scent rising above the trance sage, something deep and resinous, like labdanum and woodsy Iber vanilla.
Magic.
Drake magic.
Gyda’s eyes met mine. She smelled the magic as well. I took her arm, and she leaned against me.
The young Drake made a sweeping motion with his hand, and his red cloak swirled. “We will now read the sand and stars for you. Come.” With a quick jerk of his wrists, he unrolled a large circular carpet. “Stand here, at one end.”
We stepped up, our toes meeting the edge. I was close enough to the young Drake that our hips touched. He smelled of sunshine and frankincense and magic.
It was a beautiful carpet, intricately woven with small, perfect threads of white, orange, black, and blue. It depicted four dark male silhouettes standing among tall white dunes, blue sky with an orange sun.
The image felt strangely familiar, as if I’d seen it long ago, as a child.
One of the white-haired Drakes reached forward and took Stefan’s knife from its sheath. Stefan’s eyebrows rose. I’d learned that this was considered rude among the Bards, equivalent to touching a person’s hair without her permission, or stroking her cheek.
The Drake began to whisper words in a tongue I didn’t recognize. His voice started out soft, reminiscent of the Elsh accent purr, but ended husky and guttural, like Vorse from the Far North, past the Skals.
The mystic pushed up the sleeve of his tunic and slashed the skin of his inner forearm with Stefan’s blade, a thin, straight cut. He held out his hand and made a fist.
The blood began to drip onto the carpet. Slowly. Very slowly. Each bead seemed to take longer, and move slower, than the one before.
We all watched, entranced.
“It’s lovely,” I whispered. “Like glistening red beads.”
“Yes,” Ink said. “Like vivid imp apples in the autumn.”
The blood splashed onto woven thread. Drop, drop, drop.
My mind began to float, thoughts drifting in and out with each glisten, each splash of blood. I blinked and put my hand to my forehead.
“Too much trance sage,” Gyda whispered with a shake of her head. “Too much reverie potion.”
Drop, drop, drop …
It began to rain stars.
They fell from the roof of the tent, softly, slowly, bigger than snowflakes, as yellow as the sun. I reached out my hand, and the stars settled onto my palm, numerous rays ending in thin, narrow points.
Madoc put out his hand as well, fingers splayed. “They are as light as leaves,” he said, “but as silky as a butterfly’s wing.”
Stefan and Gyda simply laughed with delight.
The stars fell, on and on, ethereal waves of them, until we were covered, stars in our hair, stars in our cloaks, stars on our skin, stars in our thoughts.
The young Drake took a step back and handed the knife to one of the older Drakes. The white-haired mystic began to whisper in the same shushing, guttural tones. He pushed back his sleeve, revealing a strong, tanned arm—
A flash of blade across brown skin—
His blood dripped down, drop by drop, slowly, beautifully …
The stars switched to sand. Soft, fine, white grains began to mist down from the corners of the tent’s ceiling.
It rained sand as it had rained stars, though the gentle deluge was just beyond our reach. Small dunes began to form in the corners of the tent, and still it came down. I stretched out my arm and let it blanket the ends of my fingers, as tender as a lover’s kiss.
The young Drake pursed his lips and blew.
The sand and stars whirled up into a great cloud, a churning wave of white and gold. It spun a few feet above our heads and then flew out into the night, disappearing into the dark.
Of all the sights at the Night Wild, this was the most magical, the most stunning.
The young Drake picked up a carved wooden staff from where it leaned against the tent frame. He pointed his staff at the carpet. “Now we can truly begin. Gather around.”
Five items stood on the carpet: a soapstone carving of a tree, a wooden statue of a bear, a metal arrow, a pin in the shape of a small red bird, and a black twisted juniper branch.
The Drake moved his staff to the soapstone tree. “You must travel from here to the Brocee Leon Forest.” The staff switched