Wintertide (2 page)

The Healer carefully patted the bags of herbs and medicines she wore around her waist, tied to the knotted string belt. More than the usual birthing herbs were needed with this one. Strong wards would be necessary, to keep him out. She couldn’t let him interfere.

Not yet. Not until the child knew of her powers and could choose her own destiny, as was her right, by Ixari, the Goddess of the Heavens. Merkara and Tarkir were not the only Powers in the Land.

The afternoon sun blazed overhead. It was warm for mid-autumn. But the Healer saw the clouds rolling in from the South. Heavy clouds, full of rain and wind and lightning.

The sea already churned as she entered the gates of the village. Strong winds whistled through the freshly thatched roofs around her. The boats in the cove strained at their moorings. The spray dampened her face and the air smelled of salt, and something else. She squinted into the wind, narrowing her gray brows, the lines on her face deepening. The smell, the scent came from the storm clouds.

The smell of magic, the scent of power.

She quickened her steps to the center of the village, to the Captain’s house with its white-shingled sides and heavy oak door.

The child, with hair as pale as the lightning that slashed the sky, was born at the height of the hurricane, a maelstrom from the south. The old woman cradled the infant in her arms. Gale winds buffeted about the house, screeching through the cracks in the timbers.

“She’s mine!” she cried into the hot, damp winds. She wrapped a garland of herbs and gemstones about the child’s small form.

She moved for the door. The white-haired Captain sprang from his chair by the hearth.

“You’re mad, Healer. Surely you can’t take the child out in this?”

“It’s either that or suffer the chance of this house being destroyed. There’s no wind that can level my cave.”

“Then go!” The Captain thrust his hand towards the door, his arm shaking. “And take this madness with you!”

He slammed the large oak door behind the hunched form. The Healer’s clothing darkened as it absorbed the slashing rain. Her head bent protectively over the small bundle she clutched to her breast, wrapped in a bolt of bright cloth that she had spent hours embroidering with the symbols of the deities.

The child neither cried nor whimpered, in spite of the harsh sounds and flashes of light. Her large eyes, now blue, now gray, now green, watched with intense curiosity at the events around her.

The Healer staggered into her cave and placed the child into the wooden cradle; its sides, too, decorated with the signs and symbols of her craft. She shivered and added wood to the fire, unaware that the storm outside had subsided.

“We are home, Khamsin,” she whispered to the sleeping child, whose small hand curled around the edge of the blanket. “He did not get you, this time.”

Orange tongues of flame licked at the stout logs on the hearth. But the fire was more for light than heat. The last warm breath of summer still drifted over the Land though it was a month into the autumn season.

The stone floor of the cave echoed a coolness drawn from the dark green forest. Khamsin folded a small rug into a cushion and decided that this was the perfect spot to finish the chain of brightpinks she’d started earlier.

She intertwined the long green stems, keeping the blossoms to the outside. It was a silly thing, a brightpink chain. Tanta Bron told her it had no real magic to offer. But the village girls thought otherwise. They made them every summer, to call their lovers to them.

“A flower bright I take to thee, a flower bright brings thee to me.” Khamsin recited the words softly as she carefully bent the slender stem in a half circle. “A flower bright…”

The sound of a wooden chair scraping against the floor stilled her whispered song. Quickly she thrust the half-formed chain under an edge of the rug. She turned as Tanta Bron drew back the embroidered curtain covering the archway to her bedchamber.

“Finished your chores, child?”

“Yes, Tanta.”

“But not your studies.” Bronya knelt in front of the young girl and placed a leather-bound book on the gray stone floor. “Now. Time grows short.”

A petulant frown creased Khamsin’s face.
Time grows short, time grows short, for what?
“But I’m so tired, Tanta Bron…”

“Tired? Chasing that cat all day in the woods again. That’s play. This is different.”

Khamsin opened the book with a resigned sigh. Its thin, dusty pages had a sweet, powdery odor. “It wasn’t all play. Nixa hears me now. Even when I’m not touching her.”

At the mention of her name, the gray cat curled in front of the large hearth blinked opened her golden eyes. A soft Nixa-tinged sensation filtered into Khamsin’s mind as their awareness linked briefly. She saw her own image from the cat’s viewpoint: a slender sixteen year old girl clad in boy’s tan breeches and white overshirt, sitting cross-legged on the floor. But it was Khamsin’s pale hair, in a long braid that reached past her waist, that caught the cat’s attention. She shook her head. The ribbons binding the end fluttered. Nixa’s playful interest rippled over her.

“And I can sometimes even see what she sees. Like now. She’s…”

“Visions of ribbons to play with won’t be able to protect you, when the time comes. Start here.” Bronya tapped her finger at the start of a series of dark slashes and curlicues in the middle of the page.

Khamsin squinted at the shapes. They shifted, becoming words in her mind. Though not really words. She knew words, letters Tavis taught her. She could write her own name and his. And simple sentences like “I will buy this horse for two pigs.”

But the rune signs in Healer’s Book didn’t pertain to such mundane things. They pertained to spells: incantations, callings and divinations. They had to be memorized, practiced over and over again until Khamsin could say them without hesitation. They had to be imbedded in her mind, inscribed on her soul.

“Now, this is…?” Bronya prompted.

“Ixari’s Third Blessing for Rain.” Khamsin closed her eyes, called the rune signs from memory. “
T’cai l’heira, Ixari…
” she said softly, remembering to touch her lips with the side of her index finger as she said the Goddess’s name. The rest of the odd-sounding words flowed easily. She’d recited this incantation many times before. Weather blessings were the least difficult. She knew Tanta Bron had her repeat them only to relax her mind.

More difficult ones followed. The spell to stop the flow of water in a stream. The spell to stop the flow of blood from a wound. The spell to make lifesweet from leaves and flowers, if no food can be found. The spell to make firestones, for warmth and protection.

“And the Supplications, child?”

Khamsin opened her eyes. Saying her Supplications signaled the lesson’s end. She wiggled her right foot. Her ankle was stiff from sitting cross-legged for so long.

“To Merkara, God of the Sea. And Ixari, Goddess of the Sky. For protection, I beseech you. For guidance, I entreat you. In all…” And she yawned, then grinned sheepishly at the Healer. “Sorry.”

Nixa yawned too, stretching her paws towards the fire.

“Finish, Khamsin.”

“In all things, mystic and mundane, in all realms and all planes. Let your powers now guide me. Your blessings, beside me. From harm you will hide me. I live in the light of your names.”

Bronya pulled herself to her feet. “Good.” She rummaged in the deep pockets of her long skirt. “I’ll place the warding stones. No, don’t turn around. Tell me first if they’re right.”

Khamsin closed her eyes again. A new image popped into her mind: Tanta Bron’s bent figure in her long blue and green skirts and blue shawl. Her dark hair, pulled so carefully and so tightly back into a bun early this morning, now unraveled in wispy strands.

No, Nixa
, Khamsin admonished gently.
You can’t help. That’s cheating.

“Do you sense the spell lines?”

“Ummm. Yes. But the Ladri stone’s in the wrong place.” She felt the discordant hum of the stones’ energy. “It’s too close to the Khal.”

“Then why didn’t you say the Khal was in the wrong place? I’ve told you time and time again. You
must
look for Tarkir’s stone before all others. Tarkir’s stone must be your power point for all wardings.

“Yes, ma’am I know, but…”

“No buts, Khamsin. Now, tell me again.”

A ripple of energy told Khamsin that Tanta Bron moved the warding stones.

“The Khal is centered in primary,” she said. “Ladri and Vedri are balanced. But Nevri is…” She tightened her mental focus slightly. “Nevri is in opposition to Ladri. Nevri must be reversed.”

There was a soft sound as Bronya turned the wardstone.

“Better?”

Bronya’s approval washed over Khamsin even before she answered. “Better!”

“Much better. Now, come, come. Up off the floor. We’ll have some moonpetal tea and then it’s off to bed with you.”

Khamsin snuggled under her blankets and breathed in the sweet aroma of the moonpetal tea still in the air. She heard soft snoring sounds filtering through the embroidered curtain covering Tanta Bron’s alcove.

The curtain across Khamsin’s own small alcove was open. She saw Nixa sitting in front of the fireplace, her small form outlined by the weak orange glow of the embers. The cat industriously washed her whiskers, pleased at having found a small piece of cheese on the table.

Behind Nixa, the folded rug was still where Khamsin left it. A tangle of brightpinks peeked out from under one corner.

At the mouth of the cave, where roughhewn timbers and large boulders laced to form her home’s front wall, Khamsin saw the flicker of the wardstones in the darkness.

Ladri. Vedri. Nevri. She touched each one with her mind. The wardstones responded, flaring briefly with a small spark.

Then she touched the Khal. Tarkir’s stone. The God of the Land and the Underworld. The most powerful of all the warding stones. The most powerful of all the Deities.

It pulsed a bright blue-white, startling Nixa. The cat scampered into Khamsin’s alcove and leaped onto the bed, turning around three times before settling into a fold in the blankets.

Khamsin pulled the cat up against her and with a small sigh, closed her eyes.

*

That winter Bronya took ill for the first time that Khamsin could remember. The old woman lay on her narrow featherbed for days. Her thin body trembled as the cold north winds shook the branches of the great pines outside, flinging clumps of crusted snow to the frozen ground. Her brittle cough echoed off the rocky walls. Khamsin kept the fire stoked until she could no longer stand the dry heat and sought solace at the entrance of the cave.

She was aware of Tavis’ approach even before Nixa bounded through the deep snow with the news.

She gathered her long, layered skirts about her and trudged out into the small clearing. Nixa trotted after her, sniffing the drifting snowflakes.

“Bronya said the compounds would be ready today. But a wagon repair kept me working late.” Tavis nodded to the slight figure silhouetted by the stark whiteness around her. The droplets of melting snow in his dark beard and tousled, curly brown hair glistened like gems in the light of the full moons overhead.

“I’ve everything in a box for you. Come inside, out of the cold.”

Khamsin took his cape and while he peeled off a bulky, woolen outer-tunic, poured a steaming cup of jasmine tea for the broad-shouldered young smith. She could tell he’d come straight from his forge. His wide face was still sweat-streaked in spite of the chill outside. She held the earthenware mug out to him. He accepted it gratefully and glanced at the slatted box on the table’s edge.

She touched the cloth pouches stacked inside. They contained blessing and warding herbs used by generations of smiths. “Three red for your forge fires, two blue for metals for the boats. Two yellow for horseshoes and cart metals.”

Tavis seemed surprised. “I thought with Bronya being ill…”

“Bronya didn’t make these. I did.” She didn’t try to keep the pride from her voice.

“You? You’re not a Healer.”

“I’ve been learning.”

Tavis fingered the pouches again and Khamsin reigned in her desire to defend her skills. Bronya’s dark eyes and, at one time, dark hair bespoke of her Raheiran heritage. Khamsin’s light coloring didn’t and she sensed the smith’s small tinge of dissatisfaction at his wares having been prepared by someone less than an ‘expert.’

“How is she?” He cautiously sipped at the sweet liquid, his bushy brows drawn into a frown.

“A little better.” Khamsin motioned him to the table then brought over a plate of sliced honey bread. At least Tavis had no qualms about accepting her baking. “And the more I can do of her work, the more she’s able to rest.”

“It’s good you’re able to help her, I suppose. With the simple things. Until she’s well again.”

“I hope to learn more than the simple things.”

“That’s not for the likes of you, Kammi.” There was a note of alarm in Tavis’s voice. “Clean and cook, as a daughter or a niece would, yes. But a Healer’s workings are not for ordinary folk like us.”

He patted her hand. “You look tired. Why don’t you think about bringing Bronya to the village, at least until First Thaw? My sister said she’d be glad to help.”

“No, really. But thank you.”

“It would be easier for you. With Mowrina’s help. And mine.”

Khamsin waved her hand towards the rows of shelves on the far wall. “Everything she needs, everything I need is here. All her herbs, her powders, her teas.” And her potions, her amulets and charms. And the warding stones. No, Khamsin knew, staying at Mowrina’s house wouldn’t be easier. Though the villagers were grateful for the lives Bronya had saved from the Hill Raiders, they still remembered the many who died. In the same way, they accepted Tanta Bron’s moonpetal tea for sleep and her brightmint salve for infection, but were openly mistrustful of her runestones and amulets. And equally as mistrustful of Khamsin and her cat. Tavis and his sister were the only friends she had in the village.