Free Gift of the Unmage by Alma Alexander Page A

moons when it is good to stay home,” Cheveyo said. “There is a Hunters Moon that stands for seeking, and a Harvest Moon that stands for achievement and success. And then there’s Tuani’ta. Crow Moon.” He indicated the pale orb in the sky with an economical little tilt to his head. “The moon under which everything is a rock to be tripped over. And, alas, I do not think that you are finding this aspect of our lore to be anything less than truth in these days.”
    “You’ve been spying on me,” Thea said accusingly.
    “I’ve been watching you,” Cheveyo said. “That is my duty. I may not know everything that you have tried to do, but I am aware of the attempts. No, I have not been spying on you—but I have been waiting for you to ask.”
    “Ask what?” Thea said. “You’re always telling me I am asking too many questions.”
    “Not so,” Cheveyo said. “If anything, you are not asking enough questions. What I have chided you about is that you ask the wrong sortof questions.”
    “But that’s going backward,” Thea said.
    Cheveyo raised an eyebrow at her in lieu of spoken word.
    “I have to keep backpedaling,” Thea said. “In order to figure out what to ask, I have to figure out how to phrase the question first.”
    “So what is the problem with that?” Cheveyo asked calmly, without giving the least impression that he was bothered by mention of pedals and the incongruity of the concept in his own world.
    “The problem is that if I knew precisely how to phrase the question so that it satisfies you, I’d pretty much know the answer to it already,” Thea said.
    “Yes?” Cheveyo said, his voice rising at the end, making the single word an eloquent question. So what is the problem with that?
    “I…,” Thea began, and then uncrossed her arms and flung them out in a gesture of pure frustration. “I don’t know how to say anything anymore!”
    “That is a temporary condition,” Cheveyo said. “You can blame the Crow Moon for that, if you like. It will pass, and when it does you will find that you have an entirely new clarity ofexpression.”
    “And I can answer all my own questions,” Thea said.
    “Perhaps,” Cheveyo said.
    “Then I can go home,” Thea said, her voice breaking on the last word, just a little.
    “Perhaps,” Cheveyo said, but there had been a pause before he had spoken, a barely noticeable one, but it had been there. Thea had heard it. She narrowed her eyes to stare at him, trying to read his expression, but as usual he was giving nothing away. Instead of making any further direct response, Cheveyo snapped his fingers, summoning his flame. “And perhaps we had better turn in. There are others in these hills after moonrise, and you have not learned their language.”
    As if in response to his brooding words, somewhere in the tumbled hills—far enough away for it not to be immediately threatening but close enough to make Thea shiver—a coyote sent a mournful echoing howl into the night.
    “Supper,” Cheveyo said, as if an afterthought, “is waiting.”
    He turned and began walking away, his guiding flame hovering on top of his staff as usual, making the customary assumption that Theawould follow.
    She hesitated for a moment, dividing a long speculative glance between the pale orb he called Crow Moon and the retreating flicker of the magic flame.
    “Someday,” she whispered, squaring her shoulders.
    A faint echo of the melody, her melody, came drifting out of the hills in the wake of the coyote’s call, as if in response to her words.
    Cheveyo gave her something the next day, a strange-looking contraption that Thea stared at in pure confusion.
    “What is it?” she asked, and then, after a moment’s thought, qualified her question. “What does it do? What am I supposed to make it do?”
    Cheveyo allowed himself a small smile of approval before he responded. “Weaving,” he said. “Perhaps you should try it with a skein of real thread before you reach out