The Gypsy by Megan Lindholm

Author:Megan Lindholm
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-04-27T16:00:00+00:00

AUTUMN DAY, AROUND NOON

Most of his money was gone before ten When he smiled, and took out his knife.

"All right," he said, "we'll just try once again.

But this time, we'll play for your life."

The fog still rested on the city like a coachman's blanket and the Gypsy decided that there was something at work beyond the capricious ways of the weather. Yet he smelled nothing of evil in it, nor of good for that matter.

So then. What could lead him to the Wolf, and at the right time? What could lead him to his brothers?

His hands twitched, and he thought he could remember a time when he would have been able to leam such a thing easily, and perhaps another time when he would simply have known. He felt a slight desire to escape, to run away, to walk by paths that only he knew. The desire wasn't strong, but it was familiar. He knew, then, that he had not only felt it before, but had acted upon it. He had turned away and run, and His head hurt. He took out the piece of paper which he understood at last, and crumpled it up and threw it away. To dear his head, he breathed deeply of the fog. Even as he did so, he heard the sirenthe siren that had followed him for all this time, and seemed to warn of danger impending rather than to call him toward it.

He turned in the opposite direction and began walking. The fog swirled before him, making patterns that amused him although he knewJbzew they were meaningless. What an odd thing to know, he thought.

Are there patterns in the fog that do have meaning?

Then he nodded to himself. Yes. This is the magic of the day, and this is a day of magic. He reached out bis hands, to take hold of the power that floated in the air around him, and "Yow must do this no more. . .

Use the skills of another world in this one."

Very well, then. But this world must have its own power and skills. He could find and use them, and he would, because he was He wasNo.'

He gathered his memories as a child gathers spilled marbles. No distractions, not now, when he had, perhaps, the chance to do something.

He was here, in the city, in the forest of walls, the ocean of lights, the wilderness of sounds, meadows of currents and tides of forces beyond the imaginings of the old gods. Light? Moving, twin beams stabbing through the streets, eyes to peer and a voice to warn Walls? Endless, one leading to another, all of them high and eternal and shimmering. Sound? The siren was gone now, but something rumbled under his feet and music came from nowhere and everywhere, and it was the voice of the Beast. And the streets which linked them, forming a mosaic as intricate as the veins on an oak leaf, each different, each the same.

Pick one.

Light, then, to guide him through the eternal day.

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