Authors: Sevastian
“Don’t be afraid,” Sakwi said quietly, without taking his eyes from the guards. “It will take them a while to circle the camp. They don’t dare cut through. These refugees have nothing to lose.” He turned to her. “Go there,” he pointed to a thicket just beyond the fire, where several sparse bushes grew beneath a weeping tree. “Hide yourself.”
“There?” Kiara wondered aloud. “That couldn’t hide a rabbit.”
“I will hide you,” the healer replied, and something in his tone, his complete confidence, overcame her better instincts. Keeping low, Kiara dodged for the thicket and hunched down, one hand close to her sword and a dagger in the other.
The soldiers circled slowly, eyed in silent defiance by the refugees. Even from her hiding place, 265
Kiara sensed the tension rise, saw a deliberate movement among the stragglers that told her any action by the guards was likely to lead to a fight.
Sweet Chenne, don’t let these people die for me! She tensed as the guards came closer. Sakwi tended his fire, paying no heed to the newcomers. But Kiara sensed a change around her. The closer the guards drew to her hiding place, the thicker the bushes appeared, and the lower and denser the weeping fronds of the tree.
“You there,” one guard hailed Sakwi. The healer rose unhurriedly, stretched, and looked toward him blankly. “We’re looking for a woman, a fighter. She was injured. Have you seen her?”
Sakwi did not speak, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. The guard frowned. “I think we’ll just look around,” he said in a bullying voice, and took a step toward where Kiara hid.
Just then, a flock of bats rose in a flurry of wings, like a living dark cloud. Dozens of bats flew straight toward the guards. Cursing, the guards threw their arms up to shield their faces and backed off quickly, stumbling in their haste. They were still cursing when they reached their horses, and turned at a gallop into the night, swatting at an occasional low‐flying bat.
Kiara did not move until Sakwi motioned her to stand. She looked at her hiding place in wonder. It was, once more, a thin thicket of nearly leafless bushes and a spindly weeping tree, poor cover for a fox, let alone a fugitive. “You are a mage,” she said.
“A land mage,” Sakwi replied. “I will confess that I am not truly a healer,” he continued with a self‐conscious smile. “My magic does help me grow the herbs,” he went on, “but what I know, I have learned to doctor myself,” he said, and began coughing once more, so hard that a fleck of blood reddened his lips. He reached into his robe, withdrew a small folded square of paper, and shook a powder under his tongue. Within a few moments, the coughing subsided, and he looked up once more.
“Capsaicin and garlic,” he explained, tucking the empty paper away. “Stops bleeding in the lungs.
At least, for now.”
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“Thank you,” Kiara said. “I will leave you to your work,” she continued, “but one thing more. Can you tell me where we are, so that I can get my bearings from the map?”
Sakwi smiled, and looked at her with an unnerving gaze that seemed to see through her. “I can do better than that,” he said, and made a low, strange sound deep in his throat. From the darkness beyond the camp walked a dark gray fox, its head held high and bushy tail gliding behind it, unconcerned at the bustle of humanity or the fires of the camp. A pace from Kiara, the fox stopped.
“Here is your guide,” Sakwi said. “His name is quite unpronounceable for you, but you may think of him as Grayfoot.”
“You called him?” Kiara said in wonder, looking at the stately animal, which appeared amused at her interest.
Sakwi smiled. “It is part of my gift,” he said. “He knows the safest paths to the border. And he is the most cunning of his den, so he will not lead you into ambush or danger.”
Jae squawked in protest from where he perched nearby, and in response, Grayfoot made a little noise in the back of his throat. To Kiara’s amazement, the gyregon and the fox made several verbal exchanges, which ended with Jae resuming his preening, and Grayfoot looking quite pleased with himself.
“It’s almost as if they could…” she stammered.
“All things are possible, my lady,” the mage replied. “You can communicate with Grayfoot as you do with Jae,” Sakwi continued. “He understands you, and he can make himself understood to you. Trust him, and he will take you to the border.”
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Kiara was rapidly finding that there was much Tice had not prepared her for. She nodded, humbled that the fox was clearly taking the responsibility for communicating, given her limited skills.
“I understand,” she said finally. “Thank you,” she added, looking first to Sakwi and then glancing to Grayfoot, who inclined his head.
“This is going to take some getting used to,” she admitted sheepishly.
Sakwi nodded. “The Goddess chose your quest well, lady swordbearer. Now rest. You will be safe here tonight. In the morning, look for Grayfoot, and he will start you on your way.”
Kiara thanked him once more and then followed Jae back through the tangle of the camp to Lessel and Tadrie’s fire. She was touched to find that the grateful farmer had indeed saved her the best spot, closest to the fire, and made a bed of pine branches, covered with a ragged sheet.
None of them, not even the children, could be persuaded to exchange their places with her, but insisted that she take the spot of honor. Humbled by their gratitude, Kiara gracefully accepted their generosity, but lent her cloak to Lessel’s haggard wife to wrap around her two poorly clad youngest ones. Then before she could be the recipient of any further favors Kiara bedded down, and found that sleep came almost immediately.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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Tris swallowed hard. “I think that’s enough for one day.”
“There is very little time,” Alyzza replied. “We must make the most of it. Carina, bring us the scrying ball from my bag.”
Alyzza pressed the scrying ball into Tris’s hands. “Let’s see what you can do with this.”
Tris turned it. He remembered how accurate a ball like it was at the festival in Margolan, and how dark a future it foresaw. “But I don’t know how to scry,” he protested.
“You can learn,” Alyzza dismissed his hesitation. “Mages of any clan can scry, some better than others. Place the ball in front of you,” she instructed. “Clear your mind. Focus. Tell me what you see.”
Tris took a deep breath and did as Alyzza instructed. The scrying ball remained dark.
“It’s not working.”
“You’re not concentrating. Try again.”
Carina leaned forward, staring into the dark glass ball. Tris took another deep breath and closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the sounds of the caravan beyond the thin tent walls and the dull ache of his muscles from sword practice with Vahanian. Tris pictured the scrying ball in his mind, forcing out all other thoughts, and sought the silent place within himself. As he made his mental descent, the scrying ball in his mind began to glow, faintly at first, and then stronger, a pale yellow light. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes and found the glass ball in his hands glowing like the image in his mind.
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Suddenly the scrying ball flared like a captured ray of sunlight, and a tiny picture formed deep within the crystal. A stocky man in his late middle years appeared, his once‐dark hair peppered with gray. “My uncle,” he whispered. The image shifted, and Tris saw a woman whose resemblance to Bricen raised a lump in his throat. “My father’s sister,” he murmured. The scrying ball went dark.
Tris looked up at Alyzza questioningly, holding out the darkened glass ball. “What have I seen?”
He looked back at the scrying ball as if it would flare once more into life.
“A glimpse of time,” the fortune‐teller replied. “Much more than I expected. You do indeed have power,” she said, a hint of appreciation in her raspy voice. “You knew the figure?”
“My uncle,” Tris replied, setting the scrying ball down gently. “The one I’m traveling to meet.”
“Interesting,” Alyzza mused. “Most pupils are lucky if they can merely make the scrying ball glow on their first try. Some manage an image, but often it is too faint to make out. How is it that you not only call an image, but find kin on your first scrying?” she asked, leaning forward until her wrinkled face was only inches away from Tris’s own, and her ale‐tainted breath stung in his nostrils. “Very interesting. Try once more.”
Tris accepted the scrying ball again and let his hands slide over the smooth, warm surface. He shut his eyes and repeated the calming ritual, slipping into a light trance. He focused his thoughts on the glass ball and stretched out in the darkness.
Something touched his mind immediately. The unfamiliar presence jarred him, nearly causing him to drop the scrying ball. Unlike the warmth Tris had felt before, the presence that touched his mind was cold and malignant. Tris struggled to break the contact, dropping the scrying ball and scrambling backward. He felt the presence follow him. Alyzza lunged for him, wrapping him in arms both thin and strong.
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“You must break free, Tris!” Alyzza hissed. “Break the contact!”
Without warning, the presence was gone. A pounding headache took its place. As Alyzza released her hold on him, Tris sank back, one hand covering his eyes. Carina leaned over him worriedly. “What happened?” the healer asked. “Something else was looking for him,” the old witch replied. “Something evil and very strong.”
Carina touched Tris’s forehead, easing his pain. Tris’s eyes flickered open and he could see the concern in the healer’s face.
“Who looks for you, mageling?” Alyzza rasped. “And why is one so strongly gifted a hired caravan hand, I wonder?” she wondered, although by her tone, Tris knew she did not expect an answer.
“What was that?” Tris asked, his palm still pressed against his forehead.
“I do not know,” Alyzza said in the singsong tone that indicated her mind was elsewhere.
“Something strong, I think, yes. Something evil, very evil. Something knows you are missing and wishes to find you?” she asked. There was nothing of mirth in her toothless grin. “How to hide a mageling as he learns, that is the problem,” she mused. “Untrained, you are a danger to us all.
But It will be watching for your power. A problem,” she muttered. “No matter. You must be trained. We must proceed and hope for time.”
Tris looked from Carina to Alyzza. “Can ‘it’ destroy me?”
“Fie!” Alyzza hissed, “that is the least of your worries.” She looked past Tris as if seeing something in her memories. “It does not want to kill.
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First, it will consume. It will turn your power and use it for evil. If you are strong enough, you will kill the Master to end the pain but it will have twisted you by then.”
“There’s no one else to finish my task,” Tris said, staring at the darkened scrying ball. “I have to go on.”
“Yes, you must go on,” Alyzza hissed. “And I will help you as my poor skills allow. But you must find a proper teacher.”
“Where?”
“The Library at Westmarch,” Alyzza murmured. Tris glanced sharply at Carina as the healer started. “You will find what you seek there, if it still exists anywhere.”
“But how—”
“Enough!” Alyzza pronounced suddenly, and climbed to her feet. “I am tired. Tomorrow, when the supper fires are lit, come again. We will work another lesson.”
“What if… It… comes looking for me again?”
“Run,” the old woman hissed through broken teeth. “Run for your life.”
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At the edge of the forest, the night sounds surrounded Tris as he picked his way into the underbrush just beyond the camp. He settled onto a rock and started the pathway to trance. The night sounds grew louder as he concentrated on the pulse of the forest. He could hear the scrabbling of small creatures, the soft rustle of bat wings, the stirring of leaves. He stretched out his senses further, becoming aware of nearby creatures and of the rhythm of the breath of those that huddled deep within their nests and burrows. So far, so good.
Carina and Alyzza worked with him almost every night, improvising a shielding ritual that worked—most of the time—to keep out awareness of the constant cycle of birth and death in the world around him. As Tris gained control over sensing death, he grew better at screening out the endless procession of lost souls that sought him, some seeking rest, others merely attracted to his power like moths to a flame. By trial and error, he grew adept at simple banishing spells and long overdue “passing over” rituals. There seemed no end to the restless ghosts that sought his aid, and he knew he could not accommodate them all without driving himself to exhaustion.
This is what happens with no Summoner in more than five years. Since his grandmother’s death, there was no spirit mage in these parts to reconcile the living with the dead, seek the blessing of the departed or send the spirits on their way. Nor had there been any intercessor to set right old grievances that bound souls to this world, he thought. Thank the Goddess that not every soul needs help with the passage.
The dream had not come since the night he had sought out Carina, though its memory never left him and the plaintive sound of Kait’s voice echoed constantly in his thoughts. Carina and Alyzza were unwilling to try another scrying after the power that reached out for Tris during their last try. But Tris could not let it rest.
Tonight, he thought grimly, he would try once more to reach past whatever barrier held Kait prisoner, try again to bring Kait to him and end her suffering.
Out of habit, he raised a circle around him for the working. When the wardings were complete, he settled down onto a rock and closed his eyes, stretching out along the spirit plane.
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Kaity, are you there?
The image sprang to mind so quickly it jarred him. Kait’s face, pressed against the barrier, her cries deadened by a thick pane, desperation clear in her eyes.
Tris, help me!
Before Tris could respond, darkness fell around him, blotting out Kait’s face and silencing her cries. Though the darkness made no sound, Tris knew it immediately, recognized it as the silent evil that sought him at the scrying, and struggled to withdraw. Faster and faster the darkness swarmed after him, so that he could feel its chill and its malevolence. He was operating on sheer instinct, and he raced on, desperate to outpace the darkness on his heels, overwhelmed with a primitive terror that transcended words. His power felt wide open, his senses on high alert. Tris’s concentration was interrupted as a wood mouse raced past, pursued by a shrieking hawk. With a lurch, Tris felt the mouse’s spirit, its hurried pulse and the tiny spark of life that filled it.