Wintertide (9 page)

“No, I didn’t love him, as you said, as a lover.”

“You’re sure?”

She caught a movement in the dim light as he leaned closer to her. “I’m sure. But…” and she hesitated, wondering if his questions uncovered yet another flaw in her character. That of a stingy, selfish wife. “But I never refused him. I did care about him.”

“I see.” He was quiet. When he spoke again, his voice carried a slight hesitation she never heard before. “Tell me. That is, have you ever been in love, Khamsin?”

She thought a long while. Love was something that grew over time, over a sharing of mutual experiences. It was deeper than just a physical attraction. She wondered if that was what was happening to her. But perhaps the Tinker was a symbol of strength and reassurance only because he was present at a particular place at a particular time. Her rescuer could’ve been anyone. Even a Hill Raider. Shaking that disturbing thought from her mind, she answered his question.

“No. I don’t believe so.”

“Well. You have much, then, to learn.”

She heard the smile return to his voice and she relaxed. It was so easy to talk to him, easy to voice things she wouldn’t have been able to say to herself, a week ago. “Even before... the raid, I had begun to wonder if I belonged in the village,” she told him, turning her thoughts to more practical matters. “You know I’m a Healer. I’ve also practiced the magic arts.” She waited for his reaction, wishing she could see his face.

“The villagers didn’t approve.”

“They didn’t understand. Perhaps if they had, they would’ve approved.” She tugged on a blade of grass poking through the rocky ground. “But that’s all past, now.”

“So you leave, seeking what?”

She sighed. “Knowledge. Experience. There was only so much Tanta Bron could teach me. And only so much I can learn on my own. It’s as if I’ve come as far as I can go by myself. New surroundings should provide increased knowledge.”

“That sounds like something from a book of prophecies.”

“It is.” She pulled up one knee and rested her elbow on it, toying with the short thickness of her hair.

“Why didn’t you leave Cirrus sooner?”

“Because... an Assignation was placed on my name. But since it never occurred, I’m now free.”

“An assignation?”

“I was claimed as a child. Though Tanta Bron—Bronya the Healer—raised me, it was with the knowledge that I’d been marked at birth. But there was a time limit: the assignation had to take place before my eighteenth birthday. I turned eighteen the day the village was raided.”

“Do you know who placed the claiming mark on you?”

Khamsin hesitated, the silence filled with the hollow cry of an owl. “The Sorcerer,” she admitted finally.

“That’s serious business.” The Tinker shifted position with a rustling of clothing. “And not one to be taken lightly.”

“I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m cautious about maintaining your company. For your sake, you understand. And that’s also why, though I view you as a friend, we must part when we reach the City.”

There was a spark from a tinderbox, then the sweet, heavy smell of tobacco as the Tinker lit a thin cigar. Khamsin could hear the hushed sound of the smoke as he blew it between his lips.

“To be honest, I’ve not thought much past tomorrow. Never do, you know. Learned a long time ago it doesn’t pay.” He twirled the cigar between his fingers for a moment. “But what I do know is this: we have an early start and a long ride ahead of us, if I’m to make it to Browner’s Grove. I have some business there that must be attended to. So, my friend Lady Khamsin, it’s my suggestion you take to your blankets and get some sleep.”

*

She didn’t accompany the Tinker into the small inland town of Browner’s Grove but remained on a grassy hillside by a winding stream with Nixa for company. The thatched roofs of the town were just barely visible in the distance. It was a clear autumn day; the sun, warm and with a pleasant light chill to the air. The leaves of the trees already turning the deeper shades of gold and orange. Only the pines remained green.

She walked along the stream, her light woolen cape open, Nixa tagging by her side. She carried the small satchel containing the Book and her amulets. In the few hours the Tinker would be absent she could accomplish much, if she set her mind to it.

But her mind wasn’t on her divinations at the moment, but rather on horseback, following the tall man down the rutted road to the town. She wondered what drew him there. Though he dragged the red cart behind she had the feeling his purpose in Browner’s Grove had little to do with his trade or his merchandise. Did he have family there? A wife and children, perhaps, who might not look with understanding at his traveling with a young widow?

If he had children, she mused, settling against the flat top of a large boulder, they might very well be closer in age to herself than she was to the Tinker. She asked his age, just in conversation, over their small dinner at the first campsite. And he replied, in his usual offhand way, that the last birthday he counted was number thirty-three. His children, if he had any, could have counted a dozen birthdays by now.

She refused to let herself speculate about his supposed wife.

But there she was being a nosy-body, as Rina would say. The thought of the curly-haired woman caused a painful tightness in her throat. She sighed raggedly, reminding herself of her purpose. Which wasn’t to pry into the Tinker’s private life. Tomorrow they should reach the City and then go their own ways. It would be best, for both of them.

She scraped a section of the rock free of litter with her short hunting knife and lay a handful of tinder on top. To this she added some roots from one of her medicine pouches, laying them carefully in specific spots. Then she took a small vial from another pouch and let two drops of an amber liquid fall into the center of the pile. She closed her eyes, murmured a few words and sharp popping sound heralded the start of her fire.

She read the patterns in the smoke as it spiraled upwards. Then with a sharp wave of her left hand, extinguished the blaze and looked for a message in the charred twigs and grasses.

For the first time, she saw the sign for revenge along with the symbols for power. And the symbol of the Dark God, Tarkir. She shuddered as the atrocities of the Hill Raiders came into mind.

So. That was the purpose of her education. It began to make sense now. It was remarked in the Cove towns that the Hill people were in league with the Sorcerer, currying favor with the Darker Powers. Had the Assignation been completed, had she been taken to the Sorcerer’s lair at Traakhal-Armin, then there would be no one to stand between Him and his quest for power.

For over three hundred years he had ruled, become stronger. Villages, cities, even kingdoms were said to fall under his hand.

He could command the beasts of the forest, the winds and the tides, all on a whim. The early thaw the year the Hill Raiders charged through Cirrus Cove at Wintertide could very well be his handiwork. As could the storm that preceded their latest attack. He could render men sightless with a look, speechless with a touch.

And he so feared one small babe born in the midst of a maelstrom that he placed an assignation on her, in his name.

But it was an empty threat, for he never called her, never appeared before her mage circle in his billowing black robes, embroidered, it was said, with threads spun of the finest white gold, forged with the blood of virgins.

But how could she, Khamsin, possibly hope to confront the tremendous powers of the Sorcerer? She was just a Healer, in truth, who dabbled in white magic. A few spells, here and there, and some incantations. She could never use her abilities to attack, only defend. As she did the day Enar, Turpin and Gilby grabbed her.

She passed her hand over the charred embers again and the answer came back, again. Knowledge. Experience.

But where was her teacher?

The City was called Noviiya. It was set on a high finger of land that jutted out into a churning sea; a sea darker blue than Khamsin had ever seen. White-frothed waves slammed against the bare escarpments while flocks of gray sea-fowl circled in the spray. Even the sky was darker, the clouds wispier.

Khamsin and the Tinker jostled their way up the wide road in their red cart. The late afternoon sun slipped behind a cloud, plunging the travelers into the shadow of the City. Khamsin shivered in spite of the cloak draped around her shoulders.

They passed underneath a large, arched gateway; one of three such gateways in the walled city. The one they used opened to the south; the two others, to the west and north. The great sea itself lay to the east.

*

Suddenly, Khamsin found herself in the center of a commotion. Chickens and pigeons squawked and cooed, children cried, and vendors called out praises of their wares along with damnations of their competitors. A thin brown dog darted in front of the cart, barking. The gray mare skittered.

“We should walk.” The Tinker offered her his hand as she stepped down from the high seat. He, like herself, wore a cloak, though his was a dark blue, while hers, a light tan. It fastened at his throat and trailed to mid-calf. Standing next to him, Khamsin was once again aware of his height. Though he moved with an easy grace, he could seem imposing. As they walked down the cobblestone street even the shifty-eyed gutter-thieves gave them wide berth.

The Tinker held Khamsin’s hand in one of his, the mare’s reins in the other, keeping a firm grip on both as if concerned that some unexpected occurrence would set them both to flying off in different directions. Even Nixa, a master at the art of the indifferent, sat upright on her basket, ears flicking warily, tail tapping a constant rhythm.

They followed a street that paralleled the progress of the high stone wall. It was ringed on both sides with colorfully decorated signs labeling the establishments as stables. Even a Cove-dweller like Khamsin understood why. In a city as congested as Noviiya, horses and carts stayed on the outskirts, for reasons of space as well as sanitation. Only the very wealthy were allowed to bring their steeds onto the main thoroughfares. And only if they paid for the services of a dung-keeper.

The Tinker stopped before the seventh stable, by Khamsin’s count, and led the gray mare inside. The animal seemed at ease with her surroundings, obviously having spent time here before. The stable hand, a young boy of perhaps fourteen, called her by a name: “Friya”, he crooned, stroking the soft nose before relieving her of the burden of the Tinker’s red cart.

Khamsin took the satchel the Tinker instructed her to pack the night before. It contained a change of clothing and her belongings. It, along with the sheathed sword strapped to her side, was all that she owned. The clothing was a gift, the Tinker insisted, but she pressed into his palm her favorite amulet for luck. He seemed touched by her offering and used its silver chain to thread it through his belt.

“It’s good-bye, then.” She ignored the lump forming in her throat and held her free hand out towards him. Nixa jumped down by her side.

The Tinker secured his merchandise in his cart. At her words he turned, facing her. He frowned.

“And where do you intend to go from here, m’Lady? LeCarra Street has some reasonable lodgings or if you wish, I could recommend a small inn at Courten’s Square. But then, those names mean nothing to you, do they?”

She let her hand drop as the realization came upon her that Noviiya wasn’t like her village, with its one main road and one small tavern. It was a city, a huge city with thousands of occupants. And she knew not a street nor a soul. Save for the one who stood before her.

“I’m aware that I’m at a disadvantage.” Her independent nature came to the fore. “But strangers have traveled through the city before and found their way. You must have had your first time here alone, too.”

“Ah, but it was a much smaller place then.” He reached for her hand and held it. “I don’t doubt that you’re well capable of finding your way. I’m sure many would offer assistance, as you have a face that has that effect on men. But I’ve been coming to Noviiya for so many years now that I feel that it’s almost my home. And it would please me greatly to show you some of the finer sights of the city.”

She blushed self-consciously at his words, withdrawing her hand from his. “The only men who would find me pleasing, Tinker, are those who have an affection for ten-year old boys!”

“Noviiya has its share of those, too.”

“It sounds like a very unusual place.”

“It is.” Ignoring her murmured protests, he grasped her satchel then his and threw both over his shoulder. “I suggest you carry your cat. There are also those in Noviiya who would consider her supper.”

As night approached, he led her straight to the small inn on Courten’s Square. Which wasn’t square at all but round with a small fountain in the center. The buildings that ringed it were made of the same gray stone as the wall around the city and reached up three stories high. Their facades were decorated with placards bearing the insignia of their trade. There was a candleshop, a carpenter’s shop, a small bakery and sign that read simply ‘Jarman and Son’. The inn was wedged in between the carpenter’s and the bakery. Like most of the other buildings, it seemed to be well-kept, but unimposing. Courten’s Square was not an affluent address but it wasn’t the slums, either.

The great room of the inn had a large hearth at one end. Long wooden tables filled the opposite side of the room. Several patrons lounged on the benches, sipping at froth-topped ale mugs. Khamsin could smell the tart aroma of bread baking and wondered if it came from the inn’s own kitchen or the bakery next door. It also reminded her that she’d had nothing to eat since sunrise.

The innkeeper was a short, potbellied man; balding, with a full-jowled face and bright blue eyes. His white brows were as bushy as Nixa’s whiskers, Khamsin noted as the Tinker strode towards the man leaning on the end of the small bar. Nixa heard her comment and disagreed. Her whiskers were bushier. And prettier.