All that was wiped away.
She understood now exactly how Drisker Arc had felt when he had found his cottage burned.
She was crying without realizing it, and she angrily wiped at her tears and turned away. She had to find out what had become of her parents. She had to discover where they were.
She returned to the pathway and followed it until it joined the rutted dirt roadway that led to Backing Fell. In something of a daze, distracted and confused, she walked to the village. At first, she saw no one. Then, as she drew nearer to the village proper, figures began to appear and she hailed them, waving her arms and calling out.
But one by one, they either turned away or disappeared inside their homes—not gradually, but in haste. No one responded. No one made any attempt at all to talk to her. It was as if the very sight of her were distasteful, as if she were diseased and they feared catching what she had. Even when she started down the main street of the village, its residents fled from her. People she had known for years! Every man, woman, and child she came within sight of vanished. Worse still, some were calling ahead to others farther on, giving warning. She could not hear the words, but she could certainly detect the tone of voice used.
Frantic. Fearful.
She would have understood better if it were Tavo they were fleeing. But she had never given them any cause to be afraid of her. She had never experienced anything but friendship before now.
Something was very wrong.
She continued on. Finally, when she was midway through the village, the blacksmith appeared in front of her. Herkolan Kielson was a great, burly man, his size and strength well suited for his work, and he blocked her way with such determination that she slowed in spite of herself.
“That’s close enough, Tarsha,” he said.
Herkolan Kielson had always been a friend, someone with whom she had joked and told stories. With whom she had shared an occasional glass of ale. He had never spoken a harsh word to her, never been anything but a friend. But he was a friend no longer.
She stopped. “What’s wrong, Herk?” she asked.
He shook his head, declining to answer. “You have to go. Leave Backing Fell and never come back. You’re no longer welcome here.”
She stared. “What have I done?”
“It is your brother who has committed the crime. But there is no place here for you, either. Your magic might be different, but the people of this village cannot afford to take that chance. Turn around now and walk back the way you came.”
She was suddenly frantic, her lavender eyes flashing with unexpected anger. “Where is my brother? Where are my parents? Tell me!”
He shook his head. “Gone. And never coming back. Now go!”
She stood her ground, furious. “Not until you tell me more.”
Suddenly she was aware of movement around her. Figures were gathering to either side—men with blades and axes and sharpened poles. Rudimentary weapons, but effective enough at close quarters. And they were drawing steadily nearer.
“Witch!” she heard someone say.
“Demon!” said another.
More epithets followed, vile names hissed and whispered. The faces of the men were dark and dangerous, their rage fueled by emotions she recognized all too well. She felt their fear and anger sweep over her.
“Go, Tarsha,” Herkolan Kielson urged. “Don’t let this go any further. There’s been enough bloodshed. Your brother has seen to that.”
Bloodshed? She felt a void open in the pit of her stomach.
“Leave now, Tarsha,” Herk repeated, his voice more insistent.
The magic of the wishsong was rising within her, coming to her defense. She knew what it could do. She knew that these townsmen, once her friends and neighbors, could be swept aside like leaves in a strong wind if she used it. She was tempted; she was furious with them for their obstinate behavior, their foolish refusal to speak.
But she realized what it would mean to strike back at them. It meant hurting them, perhaps badly. It meant treating them as enemies when they weren’t. It wasn’t the homecoming she was seeking. It wasn’t anything like what she had expected. She wanted answers, but she needed a better way to find them.
She nodded slowly. “All right. I’m going.”
She backed away until she was in the clear. A wall of unpleasant but familiar faces watched her. She stared back at them defiantly, and then she turned around and went back down the road.
* * *
—
She walked from the village in a daze, aware of eyes watching her from behind parted curtains and half-closed doors. She knew there were people everywhere making sure she was really gone before coming out into the open again. All of them afraid of her, believing for whatever reason she might harm them or their loved ones. People who had never before worried about her, had never been anything but welcoming.
This was Tavo’s doing. Herk had said as much, but she was afraid to consider what her brother might have done.
She was back out on the open roadway when she realized she had no idea where she was going. She had been told to leave, but she couldn’t. Not without knowing more than she did. How else was she going to discover what had happened to her parents? If she was to solve this mystery, she had to locate them. Had they been driven out? She thought they must have been, if the reaction of the townspeople was any indication. But it seemed so unreasonable. She could understand driving Tavo out, if his offense was severe enough. But not her parents, too.
There’s been enough bloodshed, Herkolan had said.
She slowed and looked back. Behind her, the streets of Backing Fell were empty. She turned around, determined to find out the truth. But she had taken only a few steps when she heard a voice hiss in warning. “Don’t do that, girl! Walk back the way you came in! I’ll tell you what you want to know once you do.”
The voice came from a cluster of bushes to her left, and she turned that way at once. “Who’s there?”
“Just do as I say. Get clear of the village. I’ll meet you down the road a way. Go!”
Tarsha did as she was told, walking until Backing Fell was out of sight. She continued to search for the owner of the voice but saw no one. She went a mile farther before an aged woman appeared—a scrawny, withered oldster with braided gray hair that hung to her waist and eyes that reflected a toughness that brought Tarsha up short.
“Over here!” the old woman snapped. “Get out of sight while we talk!”
Tarsha followed the woman into the trees, leaving the rutted dirt road behind. Neither spoke until the old woman turned, a hard, tight expression on her face.