The Oracle's Queen (17 page)

So it would be harder than he thought, making his way in a place where no one liked or understood him. “If you will teach me to speak better, I will heal your ills and make good charms for you,” he said in his own language. He pointed over at one of Irman's women with a big belly. “I will play blessings for the child.”

The young woman glared at him, muttering something in her own tongue.

Irman growled something at her, then gave Mahti an apologetic look. “Don't mind Lia. She's from the towns and doesn't understand your folk the way we hill people do. I'll take your healing on my animals, if you swear to me by your moon goddess you mean no harm.”

“By the Mother, I swear I work only good,” Mahti promised, pressing a hand to his heart and gripping his oo'lu.

H
e stayed three days in the forest with Irman and his clan, practicing his Skalan and laughing at himself and his people who'd thought they knew the language. In return, he healed a spavined ox and played the worms out of
Irman's goats. It scared his hosts a little, when the witch marks showed on his skin as he called his power, but Irman let him heal a rotten tooth all the same, then asked him to play over his old wife, who had a lump in her belly.

The old woman lay shivering on a blanket under the moon, while her whole clan looked on with a mix of wonder and concern. Mahti gently felt the swelling and found it hot and angry. This called for a deep healing, like the one he'd done for Teolin.

He drew Irman aside and tried to explain about playing the spirit out of the body in order to work there without disturbing it.

The man rubbed his cheek where Mahti had driven out the bad tooth. At last he nodded. “You do what you can for her.”

Mahti settled down beside her and rested the end of the oo'lu near her hip. “You sleep now, woman,” he said, using his newly learned Skalan. “Good sleep. I make you not sick. You give me—” He didn't know the right word for it. He needed her agreement.

“I give you leave,” the woman whispered. “It won't hurt none, will it?”

“No pain,” he assured her.

He droned her to sleep and called her spirit up to bathe in the moonlight, then set to work exploring her abdomen. To his relief it was only an abscessed ovary. A bad one, to be sure, but he soon cooled the hot humors and drew them away. It would take a few days and some cleansing herbs to finish the job, but when he played her back and bade her open her eyes, she pressed a hand to her side and smiled.

“Oh yes, that's much easier! Irman, he is a good healer. Why do folks tell such tales of them?”

“We can make harm,” Mahti admitted. “Bad witches, too, but also those who fight the southlanders.” He gave the others an apologetic little bow. “Not friends, but those who kill us to take away our land.”

“Is it true, your people used to live all the way to the eastern sea?” one of Irman's grandsons asked.

Mahti nodded sadly. The old ones still sang of sacred places by that salt water—rock shrines and sacred springs and groves that had gone untended for generations. The Retha'noi still had their hills and mountain valleys because the Skalans didn't want them yet.

On the fourth morning he prepared to take his leave. He'd dreamed of Lhel again the night before and she was impatient for him to move on, but to the north again, not south.

Irman gave him food and clothes to help him move better along his journey. Their tunics and trousers fit closer than his loose shirt and leggings, and they weren't sewn with any charms. Mahti sewed some on the inside of the tunic, and kept his elk and bear tooth necklace and bracelets. He accepted a Skalan knife, too, and hid his own in a cloth bag with the food they'd given him.

“What about your horn?” Irman asked as Mahti fitted it into its cloth sling. Mahti just winked. It was easy enough to make people not see it if he chose.

“Now can I tell that I am Zengat?” he asked, grinning.

“Better than saying what you are, I guess,” Irman said. “Are you sure you have to do this ‘sojourn' of yours? You'd be better off heading home.”

“The goddess will help me.” He didn't tell him about Lhel. Southlanders didn't understand the dead.

He walked south until he was out of their sight, then turned north all that day and the next, and the forest grew thinner. He could see over the tops of the trees in places, to an endless expanse of flatland. It was green, and dotted with forests and lakes. He hurried on, anxious to see what it was like to walk in such a place, with the sky so wide overhead.

He went on like this for three days, when his feet brought him to a wide river. There were many villages and farms, and herds of cattle and horses.

He could not swim, so he waited for darkness to look for a way across the water. The moon rose full and white in a clear sky, so bright his shadow showed sharp and black on the dew-laden grass.

He had almost reached the river when he met a new group of southlanders. He'd just left the safety of a small wood and was striding across the moon-bright meadow when suddenly he heard voices. Three men ran out of the dark wood and made straight for him. Mahti dropped his traveling sack and pulled the oo'lu from its sling, holding it loosely in one hand.

The men came on, letting out cries that were probably intended to frighten him. Mahti's fingers tightened on the smooth wood of the oo'lu, but he was smiling.

The men drew swords as they came close. They smelled dirty and their clothes were ragged.

“You!” the tallest one hailed him roughly. “I can smell the food in your bag from here. Hand it over.”

“I need my food,” Mahti replied.

“Bilairy's balls, where you from, talking like you got a mouthful of stones?”

It took Mahti a moment to puzzle out what the man was asking. “Zengat.”

“Fuck me, a Zengat, way down here all by his self!” one of the others exclaimed, stepping closer.

“You not fight me,” Mahti warned. “I wish not to harm any.”

“Well ain't that sweet?” the tall one growled, closing in. “And what you going to ‘harm' us with? That walking stick? I don't see no sword on your belt, friend.”

Mahti cocked his head, curious. “You call me ‘friend' but voice and sword say ‘enemy.' Go away, you. I will go my own way in peace.”

They were almost close enough to strike. Mahti sighed. He'd given fair warning. Raising the oo'lu to his lips, he blew a catamount cry at them. His attackers sprang back in surprise, as he'd hoped.

“Balls, what were that?” the third one said. He sounded much younger than the other two.

“You go,” Mahti warned again. “I kill you if you don't.”

“That ain't no Zengat,” the leader growled. “We got us a filthy little hill witch here. That's one of them fancy bullroarers. Cut his throat before he gets up to mischief!”

Before they could attack Mahti began the drone of the bees. They stopped again, and this time they dropped their weapons and grabbed their heads in pain. The young one fell to his knees, screaming.

Mahti played louder, watching the other two fall writhing to the ground. The blood that burst from their ears and noses looked black in the moonlight. If they were innocent men, the magic would not hurt them so. Only the guilty with murder in their hearts and blood on their hands reacted like this. Mahti played on, louder and stronger until all three stopped thrashing and crying out and lay still in the grass. He changed to the song he'd used to lift the souls out of the bodies of Teolin and Irman's old wife, and played over the body of the leader. This time, however, he ended it with a sharp raven's croak that severed the thin thread of spirit that tethered the soul to the body. He did the same with the man in the hat, but let the boy live. He was young enough that perhaps this life hadn't been his choice.

The spirits of the two dead men flittered around the bodies like angry bats. Mahti left them to find whatever afterlife southlanders had and continued on his way without a backward glance.

T
he weather around the isthmus was always unpredictable, but even here, summer finally arrived with warmer days and softer winds. The coarse grass above the cliffs came to life, looking like a strip of green velvet stretched between the blue and silver seas on either side. Small flowers carpeted the waysides and even grew from the cracks in the stonework along the walls and in the courtyards.

Riding along the cliffs with Korin and the Companions, Lutha tried to find hope in the new season. Rumors still came thick and fast from the south, carried by the shaken warlords and nobles.

A sprawling encampment was slowly spreading over the flat ground before the fortress, nearly five thousand men in all. It wasn't only cavalry and foot, either. Fifteen stout ships under the command of Duke Morus of Black Stag Harbor rode at anchor in Cirna harbor. By all reports, Tobin had only the few that had survived the Plenimaran raid.

Korin found seasoned generals among the newcomers, including Morus, whom he'd declared admiral; Lord Nevus, the eldest son of Duke Solari; and eager, fierce Lord Ursaris of Raven Tor, said to have some of the finest horsemen in the northern territories. Ursaris had arrived only recently, but had quickly found a place of honor at the king's table. More than once, Lutha had seen the man speaking with Niryn and put it down to the wizard's influence. All the generals seemed to be cozy with the man.

At night the long tables in the great hall were filled
with grim-faced lords who drank Korin's health and swore by Sakor to take Ero back for her rightful king.

Passing these same men on the corridors or in the castle yards, however, Lutha caught snatches of muttered arguments and heated debates. It was no secret that the treasury at Ero had been lost. There was talk that their young king had not distinguished himself in battle. Many scoffed at that, but even Korin's defenders had begun to wonder why he still made no move to march against the pretender.

Men stopped talking and guiltily looked away when they saw Lutha's baldric, but he overheard enough to concern him. A few nobles had slipped away in the night, but most stayed, professing loyalty to the memory of Korin's father.

There were rumors aplenty about Tobin, or Tamír, as he was calling himself now, in addition to the reports brought back by Niryn's spies, but they were confused and hard to credit. But one rumor that did seem to run consistent was that the Oracle at Afra had sent her own priests to bless this changeling queen.

There was also talk of a huge golden tablet with a spell on it. One spy who actually saw the thing reported that it was the golden stele of Ghërilain, which had once stood in the Old Palace. This was immediately denounced by Niryn as a forgery. Everyone knew that the great tablet had been destroyed.

“Illiorans, treasonous priests and rogue wizards: that's who would foist a sham queen on you!” Niryn told any doubters. Each night at the feast table he found reason to rail against the rebel faction. “Traitors, all of them. And treason cannot be tolerated. Lowborn or highborn, they must be seen for what they are, a threat to the peace of Skala. Like snakes in long grass, they have lain in wait. Now they're slithering out to bite at what they think are weak heels.”

“What do you make of it, then, Lord Niryn?” a grizzled
lord named Tyman challenged one night as they sat drinking in the great hall. “Can a wizard change a boy into a girl?”

“Without the aid of a sharp knife and four strong men to hold him, you mean?” the wizard replied with a sly grin.

That got a good laugh from the assembly. Lutha was sitting by Caliel, though, and felt his friend shudder at the joke. He felt a bit sick himself.

Suddenly he felt eyes on him and looked up to see that cur Moriel watching him again, no doubt storing up things to tattle to his master later on. Lutha had had more than his usual ration of wine. With a snort of contempt, he threw his mazer at the nosy little whoreson's head. Moriel ducked it and scuttled away into the crowd.

“If you mean by magical means, however, then I must disappoint you,” Niryn went on. “There is no spell in Orëska magic that could do such a thing. It would take nothing short of necromancy to effect such a transformation.”

“Necromancy? In Skala?” Caliel asked dryly. “I thought you and your Harriers had rooted out that sort of thing long since. Don't tell me you missed a few?”

Niryn smiled down the table at him. “Necromancy is always a threat, my lord, and we must be vigilant against it.”

“But why would the Oracle's own priest throw in with necromancers?” Caliel persisted.

“We have no proof that this is so,” Niryn replied sharply. “When we march on Ero and capture these traitors, I'm certain you will find that it is all a tissue of lies.”

“If
we march,” someone down the table from Lutha muttered.

“An Illioran plot,” Korin muttered over the rim of his cup, his voice a bit slurred. “They hounded and cursed my father to his grave. They betrayed the city to the Plenimarans!”

“What?” exclaimed Ursaris.

Lutha exchanged a surprised look with Caliel. It was the first they'd heard of such a plot.

Korin nodded darkly. “I have my spies and my sources.”

Lutha and Caliel exchanged another discreet look at that; Lord Niryn was in charge of the king's spies, and all information came to Korin from him.

“All of you who were in the city—You saw their crescent marks appearing everywhere for months before the attack,” Korin went on, addressing the general company. “You heard them speaking treason against my father on every corner, saying he brought plague and famine on the land by wearing the crown. My father, with all his victories! The man who healed the land like a kind father after the ravages of his mad mother!” Korin brought his wine cup down hard on the table in front of him, so hard that the dregs splashed up the front of his tunic. His dark eyes flashed and his voice shook. “My father was a good man, a hero of Skala! Ariani was nothing but a child and the enemy was at the gates. Would you have had a child on the throne then? Where would we be now, eh?” He was on his feet now, nearly shouting. “And she turned out as mad as her mother, didn't she? And now Tobin?” He paused, chest heaving.