He spoke to her directly. “Matty—”
She looked up, biting her lip, and he realized at once that she was already crying.
“Will you make sure our chickens are fed while I’m gone?” he asked. Whatever he’d been about to say wasn’t as important as the tears running down her face. “And water the garden, and—”
He ran out of things to say. The enormity of the fact that he was actually leaving choked him.
He’d been planning this for over two weeks, ever since his mom had said that she was going, and it still hadn’t seemed real until right now. He almost wanted to cry himself, but not with everyone watching.
Matty nodded, made a small, miserable noise, and pulled her apron up to cover her face.
“Right, then,” said Oliver. He hefted his pack. It was heavy, mostly from his dog-eared copies of the Encyclopedia of Common Magic and 101 Esoteric Home Recipes and his mother’s smallest copper cooking pot. He had a little money, and a little food, and three spells.
He hoped it would be enough.
“Be careful, Oliver,” said Vezzo. “There’s bad ground between here and there.”
Oliver wanted to say, Then why aren’t you coming with me? But he didn’t, because he knew why. He was the wizard. He was what they had.
But he didn’t quite trust himself to speak, so he turned away and started down the road. The armadillo trotted at his heels, like a small armored dog.
He looked back a few times, hoping that someone would dart out and say, “I’ll come with you!” or “This is a mistake, come back!” but they didn’t, and they vanished quickly, as if ashamed. Only Vezzo stayed in place, watching him go. He waved whenever Oliver looked back, and the third time, Oliver relented and lifted a hand in return, so that it would feel a little less like going into exile.
2
Oliver got half an hour down the road, brooding.
What had come over everyone? One day they’d been his neighbors, the people he grew up with, and then this morning they’d been…
He groped for a word inside his head. Strange. Irrational. Scary.
When Harold and Vezzo had shown up at the door and demanded that he go to the Rainblades, he’d tried to explain that he was going anyway, and it was like they hadn’t even heard him.
It was the drought of course, but there had been droughts before, and people didn’t get scary like this.
It must have been the clouds.
A week ago, the drought should have broken. The sky had filled up with thick clouds with dark blue-grey bottoms, and everyone had waited, because that meant rain. The village was almost silent with anticipation. You could have heard a raindrop fall anywhere in a five-mile radius, as people held their breath.
Except it hadn’t.
The clouds had hung over the fields for most of a day, and then they had moved on, blown eastward by winds that herded and chided and chivvied them along. The edges of the clouds shredded into grey rags, and the sky behind them was hard and mercilessly blue.
The villagers could have handled lack of rain. Oliver was pretty sure that it was the hope of rain, snatched away, that had driven them over the edge.
He wondered if it had been like this when his predecessor had gone off to bring the rain back. Everybody talked about it like it had been a heroic act, but what if the old man had been sent off by farmers acting strangely too?
This was an unsettling thought.
And they never say how he did it, either. Just ‘brought back the rain’ and some talk about the Cloud Herders. What if it’s a spell? What will I do if I get to the Rainblades and I’m not good enough to do it and the Cloud Herders won’t give me the time of day?
He was worrying at this idea in his head when the armadillo tripped him.
Oliver yelped, arms windmilling, and only just managed to catch himself by hopping sideways on one foot.
“What was that for?” he asked irritably, glaring at his familiar.
The armadillo made an expansive gesture with a clawed paw. Oliver looked around.
There was nothing there. The fields stretched out in all directions, parched and tan. The town was visible as a large, mud-colored blotch behind him. The sky was a hard, brittle blue. It looked as if you could break your knuckles on it.
“What?”
“It’s hot,” said the armadillo. “Drink something.”
“Oh.” Now that Oliver thought about it, he was pretty thirsty. His head ached from more than brooding, and there was sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. He reached for the leather bottle hanging from his belt. “I hadn’t thought of it.”
“It’s not good stomping along mad and forgetting to take care of yourself,” said the armadillo.
“I’m not mad,” said Oliver. “I mean, I was going to go anyway, but… well. Okay, I’m a little mad. Mostly at Harold.” He sat down and took a drink of water, then stared at the open mouth of the bottle without really seeing it. “I just… what happened? They were acting like they were bewitched or something.”
“They weren’t,” said the armadillo. “I mean, if you want my professional opinion.”
“I know,” said Oliver. “I didn’t sneeze at all. If somebody’d bespelled them, my nose would be running like a sieve. It’s just… I don’t know.” He rubbed his knuckles over his forehead.
He sat there for a few minutes, in the red darkness behind his eyes. After a bit, a long, scaly head thrust nonchalantly under his hand. Oliver scratched behind his familiar’s ears. He was still a little angry, but he had to stick the anger somewhere in the back of his head so he didn’t snap at people like the armadillo, who didn’t deserve it.
Of course, that assumed there would be more people between here and the Rainblades.
A thought occurred to him. “Um. Armadillo?”
“Yes?”
“How do we get to the Rainblades? I mean, I see them now, but if there’s someone we’re supposed to talk to, or a road we’re supposed to take…”
“Didn’t your predecessor tell you?”
“Well, I’m sure he meant to.” Oliver felt bad implying that the village’s previous mage, that sweet old man, had shirked his duties. “But—err—well, his mind wandered a bit toward the end, and—”
“He was madder than a drunken mayfly,” said the armadillo grimly. “He forgot that, too, huh?”
“I’m sure he meant to tell me.” Oliver was determined to stand up for the old mage. He’d been extremely kind to a snot-nosed little kid who had magic coming off him in poltergeist fits, and Oliver had never forgotten that kindness, even when the old man had gone a bit barmy and had taken to wearing his underwear on his head.
“Three spells.” The armadillo scuffled at the ground. “Three spells, and whatever you picked up from his ramblings. A child trained by a senile old man. It’s a travesty. Still, I suppose you’re what we’ve got.”
Oliver reminded himself that he was not going to snap at the armadillo.
“Fortunately, in this case, my mother gave me a detailed description of the journey. I should be able to find the way.” He paused, gazing at the distant shadow of the Rainblades. “I think.”