Wintertide (4 page)

“And you and Tav?”

“When the Gods say it’s my time to have children, I’m sure I will.”

But the Gods had told her very little since her marriage to Tavis, though she’d dutifully kept up with her supplications, even the basic divinations, while her husband worked at his forge. Without them, she had no way of knowing what blessings were needed by the harvest and crops, what weather awaited the Covemen.

Khamsin walked slowly back through the village, Rina’s basket on her arm. She smiled absently at the village children who darted out of her way, then stopped and stared at her with curious eyes.

Weather and harvest blessings weren’t her problem. No, it was in her personal life that the Gods gave her very little guidance at all.

She watched the children scurry off after a brightly decorated cart jostling on its way out of the village. It was the Tinker’s cart; its pace just quick enough to be out of the reach of the children’s hands. They lunged and jumped, laughing as they tried to grab some bright piece of cloth or string of braided belts from the merchandise piled in the back.

In the same way, Khamsin felt much of what she needed to know about her life now evaded her, in spite of all the divinations that Bronya had taught her. Answers dangled just out of her reach, with something or someone preventing her from gaining the knowledge.

But what could be so powerful as to interfere with the workings of the Deities themselves?

The sky darkened as a large, black cloud crossed in front of the sun. In spite of the intense heat of the late summer’s day, Khamsin shivered, and was still shivering when the cloud cleared.

She had just passed the sail maker’s shop when a figure loomed out in front of her.

“Aye, Lady. A kindly word, if I may.” The old man’s voice was slurred, and he smelled as strongly of fish as he did of rum.

Khamsin stepped back, clutching the basket to her chest. She knew all of the Covemen and many of the traveling merchants. This man was unfamiliar and his long, dark cloak concealed whatever profession his manner of clothing might have revealed.

“You’re seeking someone, sir?” Her voice was steadier than her rapidly beating heart.

His laugh was low and cruel. “That I am, Lady. That I am.”

“If you’re a sailor, then Donal inside is the one to help you.” She nodded to the sail maker’s closed door. “The Captain’s not yet returned…”

“I seek no man.” A scarred hand darted out from beneath the folds of his cloak, missed her arm by inches as she twisted away. “Just a pretty girl for a good time.”

“Sir !I…”

“Khamsin?”

She turned and almost stumbled into Aric’s arms as he exited through the sail maker’s door. A coil of rope was draped over one shoulder and he placed himself between Khamsin and the old man.

“Khamsin?” he asked again, but when he turned the old man was already scurrying away. “Did the old drunk harm you?”

Khamsin shook her head hurriedly. “No. Just startled me.”

Her brother-in-law motioned to the sagging pile of stained sails and tangled nets next to the shop. “He was probably sleeping off a bottle or two. You must’ve startled him.”

She let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, forced a smile. “He probably knew these vegetables came from Rina’s garden and wanted his share.”

Aric laughed good-naturedly. “Shall I walk you to your door?”

“These are my vegetables. Your wife has more waiting for you at home,” she teased from over her shoulder as she walked away.

By the time she reached her front steps, she’d dismissed her fearful misgivings about the old man as nothing more than an instinctual reaction to a very bad smell. Rotting fish and sour rum!

She pulled the latch on the front door and walked to the pantry in the rear of the house. She placed Rina’s offerings on the shelf. She could hear the sound of Tavis’ anvil ringing with a steady rhythm. In a sudden wave of compassion, she left her meal preparations for the moment and drew a pitcher of cool, fresh water from the well.

Tavis greeted his wife’s appearance in his smithy with a wide smile. He wiped a soot-blackened arm across his sweat-bathed forehead.

“Ah, you’re a real love.” He gulped at the water then took the pitcher and dumped the remainder of the contents over his head.

Khamsin laughed ’til her sides ached. “Oh, Tav!” She reached behind him for a clean cloth and threw it playfully in his face.

He mopped his brow. Then he twisted the long cloth between his large hands, snapped it out in her direction like a whip. It caught the edge of her skirt.

She placed her hands on her hips, her eyes sparkling. “And I felt sorry for you because you were so hot and tired!”

“But I was, little Kammi!” He held his arms out to her. “The sight of your sweet face was enough to restore me back to full strength!”

She pointed to the metal rods left glowing in the fire. “Then I’d best be leaving you to your work. Strong as you are, you’ll be finished in no time. And I’ve beans to prepare.”

The clanging of his hammer followed her as she crossed the small back yard. She finished emptying the basket, leaving it on a chair by the front door. She’d ask Tav to take it back to Rina tomorrow.

The thin curtains fluttered languidly in the front windows, wafting as high as the tabletop as an occasional offshore gust blew through the village. Khamsin noticed the overturned vase on the table, the brightpinks scattered across the table and onto the bare, wooden floor. No wonder she hadn’t seen Nixa in her favorite spot on the back stoop. The gray feline had been up to her usual mischief. Khamsin knelt down to retrieve the last of the blossoms and her eyes came to rest on the locked doors of her cupboard.

They were open. The lock swung in its hinges with an unnatural, mechanical rhythm. Soundlessly.

She stared, a cry strangling in her throat.

Slowly, she crawled across the floor until she sat in front of the cupboard. It radiated…something. She held her hands out before her, palms open. The glow of the enchantment flooded painfully into her mind. She gasped out loud, feeling the intense emanations of power. And whatever it was that touched the lock was no longer even there.

With shaking hands, she eased the doors back, careful to avoid the spell-charged metal. Bronya’s Book was moved forward on the shelf. It lay open.

She closed her eyes and whispered a small protective spell. In her skirt pocket she found the four amulets she needed by touch. She put them on the floor by her knees.

Then carefully she reached into the cupboard and grasped the edges of the leather-bound volume with the tips of her fingers. Slowly, she pulled it off the shelf. She lay it on the floor then moved the amulets to surround it.

She cleared her mind again, leaned forward and scanned the runes. Her breath quickened as she read the ancient words.

It was the spell of an Assignation, an unalterable command for a meeting. The incantation was usually copied onto a parchment. It was forbidden to write in the Book itself.

But someone had. Someone had inserted the symbols that Bronya taught her to be her
real name
. The name that
he
would call her by.

She was called to an Assignation. And the assignation was commanded by the Sorcerer.

*

When Tavis stomped his heavy boots on the steps of the back porch and didn’t smell the pungent aroma of vegetable stew, he suspected something was wrong. Even Nixa, usually looking for handouts at meal time, was missing. Perhaps a fevered child in the village requiring his wife’s specials teas. Though out of habit they sought out the smith first. The villagers’ fear of Khamsin was still strong enough that they disliked dealing directly with her.

Nothing prepared him for the sight that met his eyes as he crossed into the wide living room in search of a pipe to help pass the time ’til Khamsin returned. The small form kneeling, trance-like, in front of the cupboard seemed barely aware of his approach.

He hesitated before touching her. Something about the open cupboard, and its contents, revolted him. Something about her unnatural stillness chilled his blood.

“K-Kammi?” he said finally, stuttering her name.

The name wafted in the moist evening breeze that filtered through the gauze curtains, lifting the tendrils of hair that clung to her damp face. She stirred but didn’t turn to face him.

He glanced at the open book; gibberish to him. Then his eyes caught the movement of the lock. No natural force was causing the metal to sway evenly, rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth. Khamsin’s gaze followed the movement.

Tavis snatched the empty vase from the table behind him. He threw it with all his might against the open doors of the cupboard. The ceramic piece shattered with an earsplitting crash.

The lock stopped moving.

“Kammi?”

She turned in his arms, her eyes blinking rapidly. “Tavis? Oh, Tavis!” She clung to him, trembling.

*

He knew the tea was not as pungent as Kammi would have made it. He was a smith. The kitchen was not his domain. But the hot liquid seemed to have the desired effect in spite of its lack of flavor. Her hands stopped shaking and some of the sparkle returned to his wife’s eyes.

Nixa, too, had returned. She wove anxiously in and out of her mistress’s ankles as Khamsin and Tavis sat in the high-backed chairs at the kitchen table.

He patted her hand. Things seemed to be getting back to normal. He wanted things to be normal. “It was probably nothing. A prank.”

“No, it
was
something. Not a prank.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. An Assignation is not a prank.”

“An Assignation? Isn’t that like a spell?”

“It’s not like a spell, Tavis. It is a spell. A calling.”

Her certainty disturbed him and offended him at the same time. “You do healing work, Kammi. You tend to the sick and birth babes. Healing work isn’t assignations. Bronya never talked of those things, and she was a true Healer. Spells are for the priests or their witches.”

“Tanta Bron did talk of those things. She warned us this might happen.”

He remembered sitting in the ailing Healer’s small alcove. She’d clutched his hand, whispered her fears about Kammi’s seventeenth year. He thought perhaps the raiders would return, claim the girl as one of their own. He hadn’t considered the threat might entail magic.

“You must be wrong. She’d not have asked me to keep you safe from spells or witch-workings. If that was the danger she saw, she’d have sent you to Noviiya, to the temple priests there.”

“I’m certain that was the danger she saw. She and I talked not long before she died about what needed to be done, if an Assignation was placed on my name.”

His eyes narrowed. The chill returned to his blood. “What needs to be done?”

“We talked about a sword. She said to ask you to make me a sword.”

“A sword?” He laughed harshly. “Do you intend to defend the village from pranksters by yourself? You used to play make believe all the time with my old wooden one.”

“More than make believe. Your father taught me quite well…”

“Aye, he did.” He smiled. “I’m not saying you would trip over your feet. Father said you were strong for your size. Graceful. But a sword? Khamsin!”

“It’s a different kind of sword. It must be small enough that I can wield it properly.”

“I can do that. But…”

“And forged under my direction. For the metal must be able to hold incantations. The hilt must have amulets embedded in specific order. Rune signs must be inscribed, then forged into the metal.”

Tavis sat back in his chair and pulled on his beard. This sounded less and less like healing and more and more like witch-working. The word sat cold and ugly in his mind.

But if it had been Bronya’s idea? Bronya had saved his life, brought him back from a high fever when he was a small child.

“Bronya drew a sketch. With instructions,” Khamsin persisted.

Well, if Bronya had designed it, perhaps he should consider it.

She brought him the sketch, unrolling it across the table, securing one end with her mug. He sucked on his tea and studied it. The curling symbols on the page told him nothing. But the carefully drawn diagrams of the sword did.

He shook his head wearily, knowing what the task required. And knowing he couldn’t refuse her.

But there was more.

“If there’s to be an Assignation then let it be at my command, not his.”

Tavis almost dropped his mug. “Surely, you’re not in a position to dictate to some Wizard!”

She hesitated. “The Assignation comes from the Sorcerer.”

“No! You must be wrong.” Tavis’s fingers clutched the mug tightly.

“I know what I saw written in the Book.” Her voice was soft, almost apologetic.

“You’re wrong. We’ve no means here to stop the Sorcerer. You misread. You’re not a Healer, like Bronya. Those runes are hard to read. It must’ve said something else.” He repeated his excuses as if the very act of speaking could dissolve the spell.

She lay one hand on top of the sketch. “Doesn’t this tell you what I read is true?”

The arcane runesigns seemed to glow against the parchment. For the first time since the Hill Raiders attacked his village, Tavis the Smith was afraid.

“Kammi…” There was a pleading tone in his voice. “What if we leave? In two more months you’ll be eighteen. Seventeenth year, Tanta Bron said. If the contact isn’t made during your seventeenth year, this Assignation would end. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, it’s true,” she admitted slowly. “But he’s already tried to contact me. Perhaps even claim me.”

“He tried to claim you? You saw him? Why didn’t you say…”

“I saw an old man, earlier today. An old drunk. That may be all he truly was. Or he might’ve been more. But in any case, I do know that he’s come here to our village, to our house. The writing in the Book is proof of that.”

The thought of a being as powerful as the Sorcerer in his house made Tavis’s stomach clench. “We’ll move. To Dram.”