mad-eyed
pumpkin."Still, perhaps we can make it back to Toth before the
Ollow's Eve party breaks up," he said."You think?"
Mallara shrugged. Now that the wind had died,
she could hear faint tootles and pipes of music from the village
below; music, and snatches of laughter and singing.
"That isn't the dance I came to see," she
said. She whispered a word, and caught her staff as it fell from a
hole in the air."And this night is far from done."
Burn flew out of his pumpkin's
grin."Mistress," he said, darting to hang over Mallara's right
shoulder."How many times did you say Master Wesseven held vigil in
this very spot?"
Mallara walked to the center of the Round and
planted her staff upright in the thick red mud.
"I didn't," she said.
"Eight times," said Burn."Eight Ollow's Eves
he spent on this very spot. Eight nights of watching and waiting.
And what did he see?"
Mallara said a Word, and a handful of light
sprang to life at the top of her staff, rose, and halted when
Mallara snapped her fingers.
The light lit the Round. Not noonday-bright,
but bright enough that Mallara could see her own shadow, and Burn's
faint blur in the air.
"Master Wesseven saw nothing," said Burn, in
reply to his own question."He tried every spell, every trick, every
conjuration he knew, and aside from the time the goat wandered up
behind him and ate his hat the great and terrible Master Wesseven
saw not a single dancing leg-bone."
Mallara spoke a Word. A writhing tangle of
lights, like firefly glows stretched into strings and hung in a
whipping wind, flared in her hands. She tossed the glows into the
damp air, and they spread out, darting to and fro among the
stones.
"I'm talking to myself again, aren't I?"
asked Burn.
Mallara spoke another Word, and caught her
glass wand as it appeared before her.
"Fine," said Burn."Mope all you want. Mope
through a jolly all-night back-country Ollow's Eve party. Mope when
your faithful assistant tries to cheer you up. Mope all night, for
all I care. Just don't mope when Old Bones doesn't show up, because
we both know you aren't really here to investigate legends of
dancing bones and ghostly pipers. You're here to stand in the mud
on a rainy Ollow's Eve and mope."
"Burn."
Burn buzzed away from Mallara's shoulder."The
Sorceress speaks," he said."What an honor. Pity, though. I've got
work to do. No time for idle pleasantries. Might be any number of
dire magical threats lurking among these freshly-carved yet
sinister vegetables."
And he was gone, buzzing like a hornet.
Mallara sighed. Her wand grew warm in her
hand, and she idly soothed it with a whispered Word and a gentle
squeeze.
A damp wind rose up, stirred the
pumpkin-candles, and quickly died. Mallara's tangle-spells returned
as the wind failed, and the spells whispered briefly of wet stones
and shadows and Burn's angry buzz.
But nothing else. No hint of ancient magic,
no taint of hidden haunts. Just rain and stones and grinning
candle-lit pumpkins.
And a lone moping Sorceress, thought Mallara.
He's right, she realized. I am moping.
It's all this Ollow's Eve business, she
decided. Pumpkins and parties and gifts in the night. Oh, I know
that there is no Winter King, no thinning of the veil between this
world and another, no moonlit tide of magic sweeping through the
night. I'm all grown up now, and I know all this, and all too
well.
Mallara sighed and shifted her feet and
nearly lost a boot to the mud. As she struggled to free it, the
music on the wind waxed louder, and Mallara recognized the tune
as"Hail, Hail the Winter King."
The words sprang unbidden to Mallara's mind,
and she shook her head and wrenched her boot from the mud. As a
child, I sang myself to sleep with that very song, many an Ollow's
Eve. How ironic, she thought -- my childish love for the kindly
Winter King led me to the study of magic, and he was the first to
fall to my newfound knowledge.
Pumpkins are just pumpkins, and better used
for pies.
"Burn," she said, after sending
pumpkin."Still, perhaps we can make it back to Toth before the
Ollow's Eve party breaks up," he said."You think?"
Mallara shrugged. Now that the wind had died,
she could hear faint tootles and pipes of music from the village
below; music, and snatches of laughter and singing.
"That isn't the dance I came to see," she
said. She whispered a word, and caught her staff as it fell from a
hole in the air."And this night is far from done."
Burn flew out of his pumpkin's
grin."Mistress," he said, darting to hang over Mallara's right
shoulder."How many times did you say Master Wesseven held vigil in
this very spot?"
Mallara walked to the center of the Round and
planted her staff upright in the thick red mud.
"I didn't," she said.
"Eight times," said Burn."Eight Ollow's Eves
he spent on this very spot. Eight nights of watching and waiting.
And what did he see?"
Mallara said a Word, and a handful of light
sprang to life at the top of her staff, rose, and halted when
Mallara snapped her fingers.
The light lit the Round. Not noonday-bright,
but bright enough that Mallara could see her own shadow, and Burn's
faint blur in the air.
"Master Wesseven saw nothing," said Burn, in
reply to his own question."He tried every spell, every trick, every
conjuration he knew, and aside from the time the goat wandered up
behind him and ate his hat the great and terrible Master Wesseven
saw not a single dancing leg-bone."
Mallara spoke a Word. A writhing tangle of
lights, like firefly glows stretched into strings and hung in a
whipping wind, flared in her hands. She tossed the glows into the
damp air, and they spread out, darting to and fro among the
stones.
"I'm talking to myself again, aren't I?"
asked Burn.
Mallara spoke another Word, and caught her
glass wand as it appeared before her.
"Fine," said Burn."Mope all you want. Mope
through a jolly all-night back-country Ollow's Eve party. Mope when
your faithful assistant tries to cheer you up. Mope all night, for
all I care. Just don't mope when Old Bones doesn't show up, because
we both know you aren't really here to investigate legends of
dancing bones and ghostly pipers. You're here to stand in the mud
on a rainy Ollow's Eve and mope."
"Burn."
Burn buzzed away from Mallara's shoulder."The
Sorceress speaks," he said."What an honor. Pity, though. I've got
work to do. No time for idle pleasantries. Might be any number of
dire magical threats lurking among these freshly-carved yet
sinister vegetables."
And he was gone, buzzing like a hornet.
Mallara sighed. Her wand grew warm in her
hand, and she idly soothed it with a whispered Word and a gentle
squeeze.
A damp wind rose up, stirred the
pumpkin-candles, and quickly died. Mallara's tangle-spells returned
as the wind failed, and the spells whispered briefly of wet stones
and shadows and Burn's angry buzz.
But nothing else. No hint of ancient magic,
no taint of hidden haunts. Just rain and stones and grinning
candle-lit pumpkins.
And a lone moping Sorceress, thought Mallara.
He's right, she realized. I am moping.
It's all this Ollow's Eve business, she
decided. Pumpkins and parties and gifts in the night. Oh, I know
that there is no Winter King, no thinning of the veil between this
world and another, no moonlit tide of magic sweeping through the
night. I'm all grown up now, and I know all this, and all too
well.
Mallara sighed and shifted her feet and
nearly lost a boot to the mud. As she struggled to free it, the
music on the wind waxed louder, and Mallara recognized the tune
as"Hail, Hail the Winter King."
The words sprang unbidden to Mallara's mind,
and she shook her head and wrenched her boot from the mud. As a
child, I sang myself to sleep with that very song, many an Ollow's
Eve. How ironic, she thought -- my childish love for the kindly
Winter King led me to the study of magic, and he was the first to
fall to my newfound knowledge.
Pumpkins are just pumpkins, and better used
for pies.
"Burn," she said, after sending
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