Wintertide (17 page)

“Because I believe he knows that Kiasidira could also be a powerful ally. You understand that Lucial and Melande represent one side. He represents the other. Of course, he’s the more powerful. Firstborn, he always would be. But perhaps they’re wearing him down. He’s reaching three-hundred and fifty or so, you know. Began to feel a bit peaked myself at that age.”

“So all this, all this death is about possession of the Orb?” She didn’t try to hide the note of anguish in her voice.

“And power. Isn’t that what they’re all about, child? Power. Really, I could guess this is nothing more than a common case of sibling rivalry. Except that the siblings are anything but common.”

The thought of sorcerers and demigods having tantrums like petulant children could almost be an amusing one to Khamsin, were the situation not so serious. And now, so personal.

“But if he seeks an alliance, as you say, then why not do so openly? With you, Ciro, or with us?”

“He and I have met, on occasion,” Ciro admitted. At Khamsin’s interested glance, he continued. “But understand that I represent the Temple of Ixari. He is Tarkir’s son.”

Khamsin frowned. Ixari and Tarkir were husband and wife. Why would Tarkir’s son not view Ciro as an ally?

“He is Tarkir’s son,” Ciro explained, seeing her confusion. “But he isn’t Ixari’s.”

The Gods, too, had their bastards.

“I was raised to pray to Merkara and Ixari,” Khamsin noted, answering her own earlier question. “My circles, like yours, carry their symbols.”

“Perhaps that’s what kept the Assignation from occurring.”

Khamsin had a fleeting vision of a peak-faced, white-haired man in gold-embroidered black robes suddenly appearing within her circle, a claw-like hand held out towards her; thin lips parting into a sneer. Would she ally herself with that? She shuddered.

“But that’s only a supposition.” Ciro nodded. “Hopefully, you’ll learn more as you approach Traakhal. The Land, I would imagine, fairly bubbles with intrigue there.”

“When?” It was the question she dreaded.

“Ah, now that’s one of the few things I do know for certain. Before Wintertide. Yes, it must be before Wintertide, though why I don’t know. Only that the timing is important. That gives you a little more than a month, Khamsin. And you have a ways to travel. I recommend you prepare to leave Noviiya sometime in the next two days.”

She was stunned. “Two days?” She glanced around the attic. “But what will I need, what do I take with me? How?”

“Easy, easy, child. All this I’ll tell you before you go.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

He looked sad. “Oh, but for the adventure of it! And to be in the company of a lovely young lass, again. Truly I would if I could. But it’s not written that way.

“No, it’s you, alone. Nixa, though, would not be considered an interference.” And he scratched the gray cat’s ears whose eyes were now as wide as her mistress’.

Khamsin unrolled the long, brittle chart Ciro handed her and shook her head. There was no making easy sense of this! She followed a few of the lineages and tried to match the names and the towns.

The chart represented the genealogy of the Hill Raiders. There were three main tribes: the Magrisi, the Fav’lhir and the Khalar. These tribe names long ago became synonymous with great regions of the Land upon which they staked their claim.

The Fav’lhir originated to the south, centering upon a small town there known as ‘Favon.’ The Magrisi ruled the plains southeast of the Khal. It was Magrisi tribesmen, with their red-bordered leather vests, that had ridden into Cirrus Cove eighteen years ago at Wintertide.

The Khalar had the largest land-hold. Their campsites, called ‘Nests,’ were sprinkled throughout Darkling Forest, west of Noviiya and through the mountains surrounding Traakhal-Armin. And, as their name implied, the Khal. The Kemmons within the Khalar held the hills and forests from Browner’s Grove to the Black Swamp. And there was no doubt as to their allegiance to the Sorcerer.

However, as often happens through generations, bloodlines become mixed.

“Interfamily feuds sparked dissension and dissatisfaction.” Ciro paced in front of the long table as he proceeded with his lecture, sounding more like a learned professor than an ancient wizard. His knobby fingers stabbed the air as he made each point. “Further rivalry among the Hill people created factions. From the Fav’lhir came Kemmon-Fav. You may find them often carousing with their stockier cousins from the Mid-Lands, the Magrisi. And from the Magrisi we now have Kemmon-Magri, who are known to ride with the Khalar.”

In truth, only an expert could distinguish one tribe from another and even Ciro, after studying all the Land had to offer for four hundred and fifty years, admitted he had trouble telling the lesser Kemmons apart. A red-edged vest, he warned Khamsin, whose chin was now propped tiredly against one hand, was no longer irrefutable proof of a Magrisi lineage.

She hoped to ride west from Noviiya and attach herself to a Khalar tribe, disguising herself as a traveling young mercenary. It was not unusual for a poor farmer with too many sons to send off his youngest as such. Inlanders didn’t have the prejudices against the Hill people that the Covemen did.

“But how can I hope to be accepted when I can’t even tell the Fav’lhir from the Kemmon-Magri?”

“Since I don’t recommend your traveling south that shouldn’t be something to worry about.” Ciro poured himself another glass of wine, holding it up before the candle to inspect its clarity before continuing. “The Fav’lhir rarely ride north of Flume. Have no great liking for the Black Swamp, you see. Not that I know anyone who does. And this far north, it should only be the Khalar and their Kemmons in the hills. Maybe the Magrisi.”

That was three too many, as far as Khamsin was concerned.

“But your ability to differentiate lineage concerns me less than your final lessons. Come, Khamsin. Let’s try it again.” He waved her over to the far corner of the cluttered attic.

Khamsin waited until Ciro closed his eyes before starting with the spell. It was a protective warding, a shielding of her identity.

It was the same form of incantation that Ciro had used in changing himself into the simple-minded dog in the Bell Tower. Only Khamsin didn’t yet have his shape-shifting abilities.

“Not to worry,” Ciro advised on the subject. “Only picked up that little trick myself in the past hundred years.”

Still, the shielding was the more important part of the two. Khamsin felt the old mage’s mind probing hers. She moved around the attic, constructing a mental ‘wall.’ She watched Ciro’s face for his reaction.

Good. She could see his confusion. He had lost her.

“Excellent, child,” he said, turning to where he believed she was. But she wasn’t. He craned his neck around in the other direction until her voice, directly in front of him, made him jump and almost spill his wine.

“Here!”

“My, my, young lady. Well done. Let me see. You shielded then dematerialized, am I right?”

“On the money!”

“Good, good. Well, still would feel better if you could make yourself into a hawk or something. Would do away with this nasty business of the Khalar. Would also save time.” He sighed. “But, over the years I have learned that one must work with what one has.”

They practiced the spell a few more times. The final test came that night with an appearance by Khamsin before a local Healer who, Ciro informed her, was the most talented of all the supposed Healers in the city. And he was still more of a trickster and a thief than a mage.

Khamsin stood before the greasy-faced man with fabricated questions regarding an offer of marriage. Should she or shouldn’t she? The Healer surveyed Khamsin’s plain green dress that did little to hide her slender waist and full breasts. Then turned his quick scrutiny to the face framed by her dark scarf.

She eavesdropped on his mental appraisal. And was flattered at his belief that where this ‘little lady’ was concerned, there would be no lack of ardent suitors.

He tossed his stones over a small, tabletop mage circle and, seeing nothing unusual, proceeded to give her some very general advice.

She thanked him with more enthusiasm than the situation called for, her elation coming from the fact that she knew she was successful in her deception. Even the powers within the circle had not known her for what she was.

It was just after midnight when she reappeared in Ciro’s attic and threw the borrowed scarf across the back of a nearby chair. She pulled the dress over her head. The last time she wore it was to dinner with Rylan. She pushed the memory, and the ache, away. The clothes she would wear tomorrow, a pair of dark brown trousers, white, high-collared shirt and thick over-tunic, lay on the low table at the foot of her bed. It was a standard outfit for an Inlander.

There was just one other thing to be attended to. She donned her bed robe and sat on the edge of the table before Ciro, closing her eyes as the sound of scissors snipping filled her ears.

*

Khamsin left Noviiya before dawn the next morning. Her steps took her through the Old Quarter into the center of the city, where the cobblestone streets were lined on either side with identical, two story row houses; their walls made of a gray stucco the same color as Nixa’s fur. Candlelight flickered through closed windows, an occasional door slammed, a voice called out in the early morning stillness. A dog barked. The smell of the sea was prevalent and a damp, cold mist clung to her face. Even when the sun rose to its full height she knew it would not get much warmer. The Land had already crossed the threshold into winter.

She passed through the back end of Courten’s Square, sniffing at the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting down the alley. The memory touched off a small spark of pain. Rylan the Tinker never returned for her. She hoped it was her warnings about her ties to the Sorcerer and not the invasion of Browner’s Grove by the Hill Raiders that had prevented him from doing so. She could accept his rejection far easier than she could accept his death.

She paused for a moment and gazed up at the window of the room that had been theirs. It was closed now, locked. In the same way, she let herself shut the portals of her heart.

The Market was empty at this hour. The ramshackle wooden stalls were lined up in uneven rows, filling the large square plot just steps from the West Gate. Within the hour, however, it would be jammed with farmers and vendors and journeymen, hawking their wares, squabbling with customers over prices. Nixa sniffed at a forlorn-looking half-rotten head of lettuce and declaring it unfit even to swat at, trotted back to her mistress’ side.

At the West Gate they saw Ciro with the reins of a unimpressive brown horse in his hands. Khamsin threw her small satchel over the horses’ back and adjusted her sword on her belt before hoisting herself on top of the beast.

“This is Cinnabar,” Ciro told her. Khamsin stroked the glossy head and found an intelligent mind within. “He will do well by you.”

She accepted her cat from Ciro’s hands and settled the feline in front of her. Cinnabar seemed to mind not at all.

“Ciro…” And there was suddenly a sad look on her face. She held her hands out to the old Wizard, who clasped them in both of his. “There’ll be much to tell when I return.”

He smiled. “Be worth a good bottle of wine or two, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

“Blessings of the Gods upon you, little Khamsin of Cirrus Cove.”

“And forever upon you, m’Lord. Forever upon you.”

She dug her heels into Cinnabar’s lean sides and galloped into the diminishing darkness, tears streaming down her face.

*

She rode for two days through the thick forest that covered the land west of Noviiya. There were more pines here and less leaf-bearing trees, so the forest floor was clear of the clutter of dead leaves found in the wooded regions to the south. When she stopped for the night, it was to rest on a bed of pine needles, their aroma fragrant and pleasant.

The road west was wide and well-traveled. There were several small inlander villages within a two days’ ride of the city and she passed farmers’ carts and family wagons as she rode, nodding politely in greeting as was custom. She watched young people on their way to Noviiya for the winter, now that Last Harvest was through and the parties of Fool’s Eve behind them. Noviiya meant schooling for the children of the wealthier land owners; shop and store apprenticeships for the poorer ones. They would return right after First Thaw.

Khamsin prayed silently that she would be with them.

The morning of the third day was cold and overcast with a white sky hinting at frost. She longed for a mug of something warm to drink and when the main road appeared to split at a crossing, she choose the narrower path that led to a nearby village.

It was a village unlike Cirrus Cove, for where Cirrus had been a straight line of houses and shops bordering the shoreline, this small inland village was laid out in a square with nothing at the center but a large pine. She dismounted and led Cinnabar to a watering trough. He ducked his long head into the rough hewn wooden trench. Nixa balanced pertly on one side and lapped delicately at the water.

Her hands on her hips, Khamsin scrutinized the buildings for a tavern or inn.

“You in need, lad?” It was an old woman, her eyes milky with age. She wore a heavy dark woolen dress and short shawl and carried a small covered basket in her hand.

“Just of something warm to drink, Tanta.”

“Young ’un to be out on your own.”

“Had to be.”

The woman nodded understandingly. “No tavern here nor the likes of one for many miles ’round. But Mistress Elsy at that house at yonder corner might have a bit of bread and some hot tea, if you’ve small coin.”

Khamsin thanked the old woman and headed for the corner house with the wooden fence in the front. The weathered gate creaked as she opened it and she followed the stone path to the back. There was no one in sight but a young girl about ten or eleven years of age, her auburn hair braided and hanging halfway down her back. She sat on the stump of a tree, shelling nuts.