Wintertide (8 page)

Only days? The aching in her body felt as if it had been there for weeks. Though through her herbal balms and the Tinker’s gentle touch, most of the pain had subsided.

It was replaced, however, with a new and more disturbing sensation. One she suspected was tied directly to the man that lay sleeping, just out of her reach.

Gratitude, she advised herself. She drifted back to sleep again, the warmth of the blanket soaking into her shoulders. She was grateful. That was all.

*

When she was strong enough to walk the Tinker followed her to Bronya’s cave, though she forbade him entry. She hadn’t been back since the day Cirrus was attacked, and Tavis and Rina were killed. Her oldest and strongest memories still lay inside and she stood on the worn rag-rug in front of the empty hearth for some moments, trembling. She couldn’t yet face her old bed, or Bronya’s curtained alcove.

Then slowly, methodically, she gathered up her belongings, and her memories. Tanta Bron’s embroidered shawl and curtain. A set of carved spoons. Other items she’d never needed in Tavis’s well-stocked house. She rolled much inside of the braided rug. That had always been Nixa’s favorite sleeping spot.

The Tinker didn’t question her need for solitude but waited outside, taking the small bundles from her as she exited and wisely leaving to her the sheathed sword she carried in her right hand. In exchange, she sat quietly on the backboard of his red cart while he snipped and trimmed her hair ’til, at least to her hand, it felt better. He rummaged around inside a large trunk, disturbing a sleeping Nixa. He produced an oval looking-glass, which he offered to her without comment.

She took it, equally without comment and appraised her reflection. The swelling on her face had subsided and, save for a small purplish bruise on her cheek, the beating she received at the hands of the Covemen was now just a bad memory. Her new haircut fell wispily to the middle of her neck, framing her face, just brushing the tops of her eyebrows. It made her already large eyes appear even larger and she wrinkled her nose.

“I look like a ten-year old boy in a dress.” Her comment was wistful. She wondered why she suddenly was concerned over her appearance. It never mattered much before.

“I can take care of that, too.” The Tinker produced a worn, but clean shirt with full sleeves and bib-front, along with a vest and matching chamois breeches. “It’d be safer, if you intend to travel.”

“I do.” She accepted the clothing and returned to the cave.

Minutes later, she reappeared barefoot and stockings in hand. “We forgot one thing.”

The Tinker pointed to a woven basket at the front of the cart. “Find what fits and they’re yours.”

She pulled on a pair of mid-calf high boots. “How can I thank you?”

“You already have, m’Lady.” He smiled, adding: “You healed my horse and fed and entertained me.”

“You saved my life. Surely that far outweighs one meal and some herbal balms.”

“Perhaps.” He hoisted the basket back into the front of the cart. “Where will you go now?”

Khamsin started to gather her belongings, shoving her short hunting knife and then the sword through the loops on her belt. She hesitated and her eyes wandered in the direction of the village. Tendrils of dark smoke curled over the treetops.

“I don’t know. I could return to the village. Perhaps there’s some way I could help…” The image of Tavis’s lifeless body came to her mind and her throat constricted. Surely, someone had cut him down, had buried him and the others. “Blessing rites…”

“Were said. A journeying priest, I believe.” He reached out and touched her shoulder briefly. “It’s all been taken care of. You needn’t go back.”

“But the survivors would want to rebuild. I could help.”

“They’ve left. The village is deserted.”

This news startled her. “You’re sure?”

“I traveled there on a few afternoons while you slept. There’s nothing for you to go back to. And even if there were, I would advise against it.”

Enar and Gilby were probably some of the survivors. Khamsin hadn’t forgotten their hate, their anger.

“There’s nothing there for you to go back to,” the Tinker repeated.

Khamsin picked up Nixa, stroked the cat’s soft head. The village of Cirrus Cove, and the cave in the foothills, were the only home she’d ever known. Where else could she possibly go?

And then the omens in the mage circle swam before her eyes. A journey. She had been directed to start a journey.

“I’ll go to the City, to Noviiya perhaps,” she said, surprised at the conviction in her voice. But the words felt right even as she said them. The Temples of Ixari and Merkara were there. She could spend time in prayer and meditation.

She released Nixa and the cat jumped nimbly into the Tinker’s cart. “Yes, to the City. My learning here is finished, that much I know, that much I found out, that day that...” Her voice drifted off into a whisper.

“I’m headed there myself, if you care for company.”

“I can’t burden you any longer. You’ve been far too kind. To be honest, what I seek is dangerous.”

“So I noticed.” He touched the bruise on her cheek. His fingers were warm, gentle. She fought the desire to rest her face against his hand.

“But still, I’m going that way and as your cat has no qualms about accepting my offer, I suggest you take her advice and do the same.”

Khamsin sighed and allowed her bundles to be taken from her. “I’ll repay you. Somehow.”

“Can you cook? Well, yes, of course you can. I’ve had your stew. Very fine.” He pursed his lips and blew a short whistle as Khamsin climbed into the cart beside him. The gray mare started into a trot. “Get tired of eating my own cooking, you know. That’s why I sell pots and pans. Never make it in this world as an innkeeper.”

He slapped at the reins and Khamsin was sure she glimpsed a mischievous smile underneath his mustache.

For two days they traveled northward on the seacoast road, leaving Cirrus Cove far behind. They crossed the Fohn River. The road rose sharply into a rocky hillside. The soft gold of the dunes disappeared into the harsher grays and browns of the uneven landscape. The pines here were thicker, their bark a deep brownish-black. Their needles were coarser, unlike the silken foliage of those that grew in the coveside meadows.

Khamsin had never traveled North. She went South only once with Tavis to the village of Dram, shortly after they were married. That had been a two day hard ride from Cirrus Cove. There had never been the need to leave her birthplace before.

She commented on the starker landscape when they stopped for the second night, noticing that the Tinker had trouble finding a plot of ground free of rocks and stones for his bedroll. Her own bedroll was in small space under the tent-like awning that extended from the side of his cart. She felt guilty of depriving him of the more comfortable lodgings.

He waved away her concern with an air of indifference and concentrated on building a small fire.

She hadn’t told him what she was running from or why, nor had he asked. That plagued her mind as she peeled the thick outer skin from the wild potatoes she discovered growing in abundance near the campsite of the previous night. He seemed satisfied just to have someone to talk to. And talk he did about all manner of things he saw or heard in his travels to the various towns and villages that dotted the countryside. Yet she couldn’t believe he was totally without curiosity as to herself.

But what if he viewed her as the Covemen and Tavis had? Long ago she had hardened herself to other’s criticisms; even her husband’s disapproval was taken in stride. But the Tinker was somehow different. She didn’t know how she’d handle his viewing her as a creature to be feared, suspected. A woman-child linked to the powerful Sorcerer by command of an Assignation.

An assignation that never took place.

The last thought so startled Khamsin that she dropped the potato she was peeling into the small pot, splashing herself with water.

She was eighteen years old now, eighteen. The dreaded seventeenth year had passed and though it brought much pain and suffering, the contact, the crucial contact, had never been made. Though he must have tried—she thought of the old man by the sailmaker’s, the young gallant in the candle shop, perhaps even those faceless riders in the raid—he hadn’t claimed her! Even during her enchantment of the sword she hadn’t felt his presence as she had many times before. She was free. Whatever her life portended, it wouldn’t involve the whims of the Sorcerer.

Oh, and there was so much to do now! With an increased energy, she finished peeling the last of the vegetables and, plopping them into the pot, and placed them over the fire.

The Tinker looked up from the wineskin he was mending as she tugged at one of her small bundles stuffed into the back of his cart.

“Need something, m’Lady?”

“No, no, that’s all right. I can manage, thank you.” She rummaged
around the deep canvas bag ‘til her hand found the hard binding of the Book. “I’ve something to attend to. I won’t be gone long.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she slipped into the shadows of the tall pines. The Tinker smiled, then returned to his wineskin.

Her short hunting knife trembled as she scratched the lines of the mage circle into a mossy patch of earth. With a breathless intensity, she voiced her incantations. Then she bowed her head, closed her eyes and waited for the feeling of weightlessness to come over her as she descended into a light trance. She chose three stones from the small pouch she wore around her waist and touched them to her forehead, lips and throat before casting them into the rough circle.

Nine times she threw the stones and nine times the answer came back, without variation. She’d crossed a milestone in her life and now must expand her knowledge, increase her sphere of experience. And all signs led her to the City.

The exultation she felt at the clarity of the symbols in the dust and the strength emanating from her circle overrode even the dull, painful ache she carried in her heart since she’d left Cirrus Cove. Had she more time, had supper not been boiling away and the Tinker not been aware of her absence she might pursue her investigations, requesting specifics. Where should she go in the City and whom should she see? Was there still danger? The rapidity and ease with which the few answers came back to her restored her faith in her powers that, for over a year, had lagged and been vague. Still they were yet a few days ride from the bustling trade center built on the North Cliffs, overlooking the sea. There was time for her to divine other information later.

For now, the aroma of potatoes and leeks wafted in the air. She whispered the spell that would un-enchant the small patch of moss and rose, never bothering to look back to see if the ground recovered its formerly unbroken surface. As indeed it did.

The Tinker stirred the potatoes with a long-handled wooden spoon. She bent over the pot, sniffing appreciatively.

“Smells good.”

“Better than I ever made it.”

“You survived well enough on your own cooking before now.”

He plucked at the front of his shirt. “I was on the verge of emaciation until you took over.”

Khamsin’s laughter hid the slight flush on her cheeks. She remembered the feel of his strong, hard body against hers, when she was weak and trembling. There was nothing emaciated about the man at all.

They finished the meal with light conversation dotted with stretches of comfortable silence. At last, when the fire reduced itself to a pale orange glow, Khamsin sighed and leaned back against the wheel of the cart, stretching her legs out before her.

“You seem contented, m’Lady.” His voice was soft but carried easily over the night sounds of crickets.

She couldn’t see his face in the darkness but the earring in his ear reflected the dim light of the glowing coals. She didn’t need to see his face anyway. She knew every line by heart. The sight of him that first morning after the burning of the village etched him indelibly into her mind.

“Things are better, yes,” she replied, ignoring the direction her thoughts again traveled. She was a widow, she reminded herself. A widow, and when the Tinker touched her it was only to heal her wounds. Her outer wounds. Not the tear in her heart.

“They were bad.” His words held no judgment, nor pity.

“Could have been much worse.”

“That is true of most things.”

Then they were silent for awhile. The sound of the wind playing through the leaves around them was the only interruption to their thoughts. Khamsin’s drifted back to Cirrus Cove, to what she had been and what she could become. She thought of Tanta Bron, practicing her herbals and spells and marveled that the old woman never chose to further her own education in the occult. She seemed content to live her days out in the cave. Khamsin knew now that even if the raid on the village hadn’t happened, she would have left Cirrus Cove before Wintertide. With or without her husband. But her reasons, then, would have been different.

“Haven’t you wondered, Tinker, why I was willing to leave my home?”

She heard the rustle of clothing as he stirred and could envision his now-familiar noncommittal shrug in the dark.

“Besides the obvious, you mean, with the destruction of the village and the death of your husband?”

The words still carried pain, though not as much. “Yes.”

“Did you love him?”

His question caught her by surprise. She didn’t reply.

“Your husband, Lady Khamsin. Did you love him?”

“Tavis was my friend,” she said finally. “So I suppose I did love him.”

“As a friend.”

“Yes.”

“But not as a lover.”

“Tinker, I…” Though she knew the answer, it was difficult to voice, even in the dark.

“I know. It’s not my place to ask such things. But it matters, you see.”

“Why?” For a moment, her heart inexplicably skipped a beat.

He cleared his throat. “For one, it would help me understand why you left Cirrus.”

She forgot that was her original question to him and so felt obliged to answer it.