Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (98 page)

“I told you to call me Kerrion, Shelim.”

“No one can hear us, Ment… Kerrion.”

“You do not know that. There is no way to stop a seeing of us in the mirror.”

“Who would do that?” he asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

“The same people who made this book, I shouldn’t wonder. I found it in Duren’s tent during your challenge. I think he was an outclanner.”

Shelim remembered Darnath’s words concerning his old mentor. He said that Duren needed a beaded tunic, a mirror, and an apprentice to look like a shaman, but he didn’t
act
like one. He had tried to think why the man should give that impression, but he hadn’t been able to think of one. If Kerrion was right, it hadn’t been just an impression but had instead been reality.

“But it’s just a book. It’s different than the ones I’ve seen, but it’s still just a book.”

“Yes, just a book, but look with your other sight, and it’s much more.”

Shelim did as he was bid. The first surprise was that the book was even visible here… sort of. It looked like a glowing bundle of light made of thin strands woven together in a complicated pattern. The second surprise was a strand vanishing into the distance connecting the bundle to something far away. There was no sense of direction in this place, but he guessed it went southwest toward Protectorate.

He released his magic and nodded at Kerrion’s raised eyebrow. “It’s a magic book, but what did he use it for?”

“For writing in. Here, you read it.”

Shelim turned the pages reading a few lines then moving on. The words were very small to save space, but he could read them well enough. It was a story like his father’s books, but instead of being about such fanciful creatures as dragons, this one was about life in the clan. It was interesting, but he noted some strange parts. Duren had been careful to note down the exact number of people in each tribe, and especially the numbers of shamen.

“He was trying to learn our strength. What does wizard mean?”

“It’s what the Hasians call a shaman who is very strong, but not as strong as a sorcerer.”

“It says Larn is a wizard, and we are both masters, but I know we aren’t the same strength.”

Kerri smirked. “The sorcerers believe there are seven strengths, but that is pure foolishness. If a shaman lives long enough, there is no end to how strong he may become. They believe the strengths go by colours. The colours go white, brown, green, yellow, blue, red, and finally black. Black is the highest. According to them, we are both blue. I prefer the different coloured beads we wear instead… don’t you?”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t like wearing blue all the time. I wonder what colour Darnath is… I suppose he’s in here somewhere. So, Duren wasn’t a shaman, but a Hasian pretending to be one?”

Kerrion made a face then shrugged. “Perhaps that is so, but what concerns me is that there may be more of our brothers writing in these books. You saw the string of light?”

“It goes into Protectorate does it not?”

“I believe a shaman in Protectorate can read whatever is written in this book using the string. If that
is
so, then our enemies know how many warriors and shamen we have. They know our strength,” Kerrion said grimly.

“That is bad news, Mentor. Attacking by stealth is what the warriors do best. The Hasians will know this. They will not be surprised—we must warn the chiefs.”

“We cannot do that. If they learn that some of our brothers are their enemies, they may count us
all
as enemies. We must find who among our brothers are writing in these books and stop them ourselves.”

“More challenges,” Shelim said unhappily remembering his near escape.

“Yes,” Kerrion said sadly. “The prophecy speaks of it, as it did of your battle, though I did not understand. We cannot allow the Hasians among us to tell their friends about the Lost Ones. Our numbers will increase by many thousands of warriors very soon, and perhaps they will still be surprised.”

The next Gathering was more than three seasons away and that was far too long to wait, he decided. He needed to find the Hasian shamen among his brothers quickly.

“You met the strongest of our brothers at your ceremony, Shelim. You should go to Larn first. Tell him what we know of Duren, and show him this book. Larn can pass the word while you find Dragon Clan.”

Shelim nodded. Dragon Clan, being the largest, had the greatest number of shamen. “I’ll take Darnath with me. He knew Duren better than anyone and he
is
my apprentice now.”

“I wish I could come with you, my boy, but I can’t leave the clan without a shaman.”

“I understand.”

Shelim left a little later with the book in hand. He had a lot to do before he left in the morning. Firstly, he said good-bye to his mother and father. When his father asked where he was going, he guiltily told him that he had messages to deliver for Kerrion. He didn’t think Tomik believed him, and was relieved when his father didn’t question him further. Secondly, he found Darnath and told him they were going on a little trip, and that he should get his supplies in order. Lastly, he gathered his own things ready for the morning.

The next day dawned dull and overcast with the prospect of rain. It seemed a fitting day to be leaving friends and family. Shelim pulled his tent down with Tomik’s help. He didn’t want to be slowed by a cart, so he helped his father stow it with Kerrion’s tent.

They were ready to ride before most of the clan had stirred, but there were a few of the people walking about. Shelim noticed Betsia walking by wearing the tunic and leggings of a clan warrior. She looked very good to his eyes. She had settled in and seemed to like the traditional life. He was surprised after the fuss she had made, but not as surprised as she herself was.

When Betsia saw him watching, she raised her hand in greeting and wandered over. “Where are you two off to?”

“Kerrion has some messages he wants delivered. I probably won’t be back for a season or more. Will you miss me?” he said and grinned.

Darnath laughed.

Betsia scowled and drew her blade. “No I will not! Come down from that horse and try to take my sword from me this time,” she said waving it about.

Shelim laughed at her antics. He did like her, even if she played the clown sometimes. Challenging a shaman was without honour, but she was only playing… he thought she was anyway.

“I can’t put off Kerrion’s messages because you want to play, Betsia. Some other time perhaps,” he said and rode away laughing.

“I’ll show
you
how to play!” Betsia shouted at his back.

That might be fun.

Horse Clan’s range was far to the north. Shelim knew he would encounter other tribes on his way to Larn and would use the opportunity to kill two bison with one spear so to speak. A tribe would be unlucky indeed not to have a Shaman among them, so he planned to ask for word of Horse Clan at his first opportunity, and at the same time pass Kerrion’s message to his brothers.

“I was right about Duren?” Darnath said as they rode side by side.

“Hmmm. It’s strange to think that some of our brothers are outclanners, but he seems to have been just that. I wonder how he did it. Surely someone would have noticed something.”

“We didn’t. So why expect a warrior to notice?”

“Good point,” he said with a nod.

He was worried about what he would have to do if he found an outclanner shaman. He had his shield spell now, but luck had played a much larger role in his victory that he cared to think about. He couldn’t afford to rely upon luck in the future. Kerrion had been fascinated with the idea of a magical shield, and said that no other shaman he knew could make one. He had only reluctantly shown Kerrion how he made the spell because of how dangerous it was. He remembered his desperation at losing control of it too well to be easy about using it again, even as a demonstration, but to his vast relief nothing had gone wrong. Holding it was easy. It only became difficult when the shield absorbed too much magic.

Just as he had tried to copy Duren’s shield, Kerrion had tried to copy his. The result had been the same. Instead of a shield, the old man had received the mother of all headaches. Shelim had feared for his mentor’s life when Kerrion collapsed, but he woke as good as new after a healing. Neither of them knew why copying the spell didn’t work, but Kerrion said that he would practise over the seasons ahead.

Many days went by with Shelim spending his time in the saddle teaching Darnath the uses of magic. The apprentice alternated his time between listening to his mentor’s words, and putting his lessons into practise. As there was no one to see, he made Darnath light and extinguish the campfire with magic. It was good practise, without which Duren might have defeated him. Shelim was well aware that they might be fighting with magic before this journey was done, so it became Darnath’s chore each night to build the campfire with magic, and each morning to put it out. He even scattered the ashes with blasts of magic-conjured air that could easily be used to knock an enemy from his feet.

Most evenings, they spent on their backs watching the stars and talking about their families. Shelim spoke of his parents, and how it was that his father had seen the white bison. Darnath told the story of his great grandfather’s journey to Pura—the great stone city in the east—and how he came to be the first warrior ever to see a smoking mountain.

“There is a smoking mountain there?” he asked doubtfully. “Truly?”

“Not there. There are islands, far across the Sea of Despair, called the Socotra Isles. My great grandfather’s ship was attacked by raiders from there and was captured. He slew many, and would have dived overboard to drown rather than be taken prisoner, but the chief of the raiders was impressed with his skill. They say he offered my grandfather his freedom, if he would stay with the chief for two summers and teach him The Way.”

“And he agreed?”

“It was better than drowning,” Darnath said a little defensively. “Anyway, he agreed to teach the chief. He saw many strange things in that land. There are smoking mountains, and rivers of hot water. There are places where the ground is yellow like the sun.”

“Sounds like a fever dream to me,” he snorted.

“It’s true, I swear it.”

“I would like to see that, but if it means going on a boat—”

“Ship, big boats are called ships.”

“—I would rather stay here.”

Shelim used his mirror every morning as Kerrion had taught him to do. While Darnath put out the campfire and packed away their supplies, he would sit cross-legged with his mirror in his lap looking for danger ahead. The first indication that they were no longer alone occurred during one such session. He recognised the scouts for what they were—warriors of Jaralk, but decided not to announce his knowledge just yet. Jaralk was a tribe owing its descent to Eagle Clan, and Eagle Clan was friendly with most others. He was unconcerned by their presence and expected them to fade away sometime later in the day.

But they didn’t.

Finally, out of patience and trying to sound like Kerrion, Shelim shouted, “I think that’s enough practise for today, don’t you?” A moment after his shout died away, four warriors stood and encircled them.

“I am Anwa of the Jaralk,” the strongest of the four said.

“Greetings Anwa of the Jaralk. I am Shelim, shaman of the Night Wind, and this is my apprentice, Darnath.”

Anwa blinked in surprise. Shelim didn’t look old enough to have an apprentice. “Greetings shaman. Where do you ride?”

“To Larn of Horse Clan. Have you knowledge of where they may be found?”

“Many days north, Shelim. As always, Horse Clan is closer to the Lost than any other.”

That could be taken two ways. As far as he knew, Eagle and Horse Clans were friendly, but news travelled slowly. If there was a feud, he would not normally hear of it until the Gathering. Anwa might just be commenting on Horse Clan’s choice of range. The cities of the Lost were far to the northwest and not directly north from here.

“So then, I must journey on. Tell me Anwa, has the Jaralk a shaman?”

“Yes, we are fortunate. The Jaralk has two of them
and
an apprentice.”

Jaralk was fortunate indeed, though Anwa didn’t sound like he thought so. Shelim tried not to smile but it was hard. Not long ago, he might have thought the same as Anwa. No warrior thought highly of a shaman, not until they needed healing at least.

“You are fortunate indeed, Anwa. It must be comforting to know that when you are hurt, or when your wife is heavy with child, there are three shamen ready to help.”

Anwa flushed, and his comrades laughed at his embarrassment.

“He has you Anwa!” one of his comrades called out.

Anwa laughed with the others and agreed. “You are right honoured, Shelim. My wife
is
with child, and it is comforting to know that a shaman is near.”

He was surprised at the apology so easily obtained, but he quickly realised that Anwa was concerned for his wife. It was likely that she was pregnant with her first child then, and Anwa was worried for her safety.

“We will escort you to the tribe,” Anwa said.

“Thank you.”

It was mid-day when they joined Anwa’s tribe. After caring for their horses, they followed him to the chief’s tent.

“Petya, we have guests,” Anwa announced. “This is Shelim and his apprentice Darnath.”

Petya was an ageing man, but he seemed hale and hearty. He was sitting on his rugs drinking tea. They had interrupted his meal.

“A shaman and his apprentice, you say?” Petya said looking sceptical. “You have done well. I’ll take care of our guests.”

Anwa left the tent and Petya studied his guests. Petya’s surprise was understandable. Shelim wished he looked older, it would make certain things easier. Every time someone heard that Darnath was his apprentice, he would come across this reaction.

“I have heard it said that a shaman named Shelim challenged his mentor and killed him. Would you be that one, Shelim? Before you answer, know this: we have no room for such as would kill his own teacher.”