Meredith Mansfield, Author

As we near release day next Tuesday, here’s another scene from WAR OF MAGIC.

Vatar’s concentration was shattered by an angry shriek. He jerked and his hammer landed a hand span away from where he intended, on an empty part of the anvil instead of where it would help shape the spear point he was working on.

He dropped the hammer, which missed his foot by less distance than it had missed the hot metal, left the unfinished spear on the anvil, and ran out of his workshop. The cry had been Savara’s, no question. It wasn’t fear, but Vatar didn’t think he’d ever heard his daughter that angry. What could have happened?

The squeal was not repeated, but he followed Savara’s voice to the far side of the barn. There was a disused corner of the yard there, in a wedge between the barn and the fence that divided their farm from the neighbor’s. Once, Theklan had used it to hide from lessons and chores. Then it had been used for some experiments into the properties of Vatar’s magical shield. That was back when he’d still been hiding what he was even here in Caere, where magic was accepted. Most recently, it had been the first place Thekila had seen him take the form of an eagle and measured him for his flight training harness. He hadn’t thought the twins were quite old enough to want such a hideaway, yet.

Something struck the side of the barn just as Vatar turned the corner and he ducked instinctively. A small stone rattled down the barn wall. Another stone, presumably better aimed, struck a small heap of black feathers not far from Savara’s feet. Zavar stood at a little distance, watching the boy on the other side of the fence with clenched fists.

“Stop it!” Savara yelled. “You’re hurting it.”

“That’s the idea,” said the other boy. He looked to be about ten to Vatar. “Actually,” he said as he readied another rock, “the real point is to kill them.”

Savara bent and scooped up the injured bird, cradling it to her chest. “You’re horrible.”

Vatar winced. The bird was badly injured, likely dying, but that didn’t mean it still couldn’t deliver a vicious bite. And ravens had powerful beaks.

“Why?” the boy demanded. “They eat our crops. We have to drive them off.”

Savara glared at him. “He was off. He’s on our side. And I won’t let you kill him.”

The boy shrugged. “If I don’t, he’ll just come back when I’m not there to drive him off.”

Vatar stepped forward. “We have no right to tell you how to defend your own fields—ever. But if you throw one more rock across that fence, I’ll be having words with your father.”

The boy took one look at Vatar and ran back across the field toward his farmhouse. Zavar bent to pick up one of the rocks, but at a look from Vatar he dropped it again, putting his hands behind his back.

“He’s a mean boy,” Savara said, watching his retreat.

Vatar agreed, but he didn’t say so. He glanced back to the Dardani-style whirligigs he’d made to defend Thekila’s vegetable garden from the birds by frightening them off. Of course, the Raven was one of the Dardani’s protective spirits. No one wanted to kill a raven unless it was absolutely necessary, especially not the members of the Raven Clan, who would have to undergo a month of purges to expiate the guilt of such an act. Good thing he wasn’t Raven Clan, because he was going to have to wring that poor bird’s neck, to end its suffering.

Vatar knelt down in front of Savara, so that his eyes were nearly on her level, and held out his hands. “Savara, that bird is dying. Give it to me and I’ll make sure it doesn’t suffer any more than it already has.”

Savara twisted away so that her hands, holding the injured bird, were as far away from her father as she could get them and still look Vatar in the eye. “No. He’s not going to die. I saved him.”

Vatar drew in a deep breath. “Savara, birds have very delicate bones. He’s certainly got a broken wing. He’ll never fly again. Probably other injuries, too. He’ll die anyway. This way is easier for him.”

“No.” Savara stamped her foot. “I won’t let him die.”

Vatar shook his head, searching for an argument that would persuade a tender-hearted five year old. He blinked and stared at her hands. Something was happening, something that looked and felt like . . . magic.

After a moment, the bird started struggling against Savara’s grip and she opened her hands. The raven righted itself on her open palms and flew away. Zavar watched it go.

“Savara, what did you do?” Vatar asked in a shocked whisper.

The little girl shrugged her shoulders. “I fixed him.”

Vatar swallowed hard and forced himself to smile. “Well, then. That must have taken a lot of energy. Maybe you’d better head to the kitchen and see if Thekila has a snack for you.”

Savara grinned and ran off toward the house, two steps ahead of her twin.

Vatar sat back on his heels and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He should contact Boreala. His half-sister was a Healer, she’d know better than he did what Savara had just done. And then . . . and then what? Surely Savara was too young to begin training.

He turned to watch the children as they ran up the two steps to the kitchen door. Vatar blinked, suddenly aware that the impulse to follow them with his eyes had not been his. Taleus?

She’s so like my Calpe.

That sent a shiver down Vatar’s spine. But . . . Savara had inherited her mother’s coloring. Her hair was more tawny than her mother’s golden blonde and she had gotten her grey eyes from Vatar, but she didn’t look anything like the images of Calpe he’d seen. What do you mean? I don’t think she even looks very Fasallon.

Oh, not in looks, Taleus answered. It’s just . . . that’s exactly what Calpe would have done. There was a long pause. And that’s not a very common Talent.

Vatar could almost feel Taleus thinking. What?

Remember when I told you that, for as long as I’ve been with you you’ve never encountered anyone who could undo what Calpe did to lock away our descendants’ Talents? All but yours, that is.

Yes. Vatar answered.

I may have been mistaken, Taleus said.

Vatar stared at the door where his children had disappeared into the house. Savara?