Journey Of Thieves (Book 5) (3 page)

By the time we reached the end of the walk, many of the villagers had gathered to meet us, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

Above their low murmuring, a voice broke through the crowd. “Who are you strangers, and what is it you want?”

The question came from a big fellow, whose height and shock of fiery red hair reminded me briefly of my friend Dradac back home. But there was nothing friendly about the way this man eyed us or the way he held the thick staff in his hand as if it would take very little provocation for him to attack us.

Before we could respond, another voice called out, “Calm yourself, Tomas. Let us give them a chance to speak before we determine them to be our enemies.”

The throng parted to reveal the speaker, a stooped old man with a shining, bald head and milky white eyes that stared sightlessly ahead. He rested his hand on the shoulder of a small boy, who steered him expertly through the gathering until he stood before us.

He said, “I apologize for my friend’s unenthusiastic greeting. Visitors from the outside are not often seen or encouraged. I am Calder, the elected head of Swiftsfell.”

His courteous smile was fixed on a point directly before him.

Hadrian stepped into that empty space. “I greet you, master Calder. I am Hadrian, a priest of the Light, and these are my companions, Ilan of Dimmingwood and Terrac… also of Dimmingwood.”

I wondered if his hesitation was because he had almost named Terrac as an Iron Fist in the service of Praetor Tarius but had changed his mind at the last instant. The Praetor of Ellesus would not be a popular man here, and neither would anyone known to be one of his soldiers.

If the village head, Calder, took note of Hadrian’s slip, he said nothing of it, instead remarking, “A priest of the Light, you say? I am surprised an Honored One would visit our little village.”

Hadrian nodded. “My interest in your community is purely scholarly. I am compiling a history of magic and magical races in the region. It is the first such book of its kind, and if I wish to do it full justice, the work will require me to travel the full breadth of the provinces. But it would not be complete without the inclusion of the largest magicker community in Cros.”

Calder looked cautious. “Then you come here seeking information for your book?”

“Only whatever the inhabitants here are willing to share,” Hadrian reassured. “I merely wish to interview anyone open to talking with me and answering a few questions. Naturally, I will not record anyone’s names or the exact location of this village. I have every respect for the privacy of your community.”

Calder’s forehead furrowed. “I am not sure this is something I should allow. We in Swiftsfell work hard at secluding ourselves from the outside and, as you have seen with our invisible bridge, have set certain safeguards to maintain our privacy. We would prefer to avoid unwanted attention.”

Hadrian asked, “Are such precautions truly necessary? I thought Cros had a more tolerant praetor than ours, one more lenient toward magickers?”

“That is true. But not all persecution comes sanctioned by praetors. There are other sources of danger.” The village head looked as if he would say more but then thought better of it. “However, your endeavor sounds like a worthy one, and if any members of the community are willing to take part, it is not for me to forbid it. And I sense that you are not quite a stranger to our kind, are you?”

“I am not,” Hadrian agreed. “I was born with the gift of natural magic, as was one of my companions here.”

I was glad when he did not single me out or go into detail. The loss of my powers was not a thing I was eager to share with strangers. As it was, this Calder could probably sense the flicker of what had once been in me.

Thankfully, he did not pursue the subject. “I will not deny your party permission to stay in Swiftsfell for a few days. We will need to discuss boundaries for your mission to ensure the safety of our people is not compromised. But this is not the time or place for such a discussion. I invite you and your companions to be guests in my home. Perhaps we may clarify matters over dinner.”

I had been following the conversation up to this point, but now I was distracted by a face in the crowd. A petite old woman had stationed herself at the front of the onlookers and was studying me with a strange look of fascination. As if unable to contain herself any longer, she pushed forward now.

“Ada ,” she burst out. “Ada, it is you!”

I blinked. The woman was looking directly at me, but I kept silent, half expecting someone else to step forward in answer to her question.

When I did not respond, she came closer until she stood right before me. For a brief moment I thought she was going to reach out and touch me. The dazed look in her eyes, as if she could not believe what she was seeing, was unnerving. Unconsciously, I stepped back from her.

At my motion, the light in her eyes died, the expression of confused hope being replaced by resignation and disappointment.

“Oh,” she said dully. “You are not she.”

“No,” I agreed. “I am Ilan.”

She recovered herself briskly. “But you bear a resemblance to her, so I am not a mad old fool for thinking it. Do you know Ada?”

My heart beat a little faster. “That was the name of my mother.”

Her eyes lit up. “Then your Ada and mine are one and the same—and how like her you are! It is no wonder I was confused.”

Instantly I was intrigued. I had never met any friends of my mother, and it was startling to find one here where I had least expected it.

“You knew my mother?” I asked. “When? What can you tell me about her?”

“It would be better to ask what you can tell me,” she countered. “For I have not seen her this past decade.”

I swallowed. “I am sorry to tell you she is dead.”

The woman’s eyes reflected pain. “That I have long known. But I would like to hear of how she died and of the life she lived since I last saw her. And in return, perhaps I can answer your questions as well.”

“Ilan,” Terrac cut in. “Calder is leading the way.”

He was right. The village head and Hadrian were departing together, and if Terrac and I did not hurry, we were in danger of being left behind.

I made up my mind quickly. “You go on with Hadrian, and I will find the both of you later,” I said. “I need another moment here.”

I could see he was displeased at the separation, but turning back to the old woman, I did not give him the chance to protest.

“Is there someplace we could talk privately?” I asked.

She nodded her silver head. “Of course. Come with me.”

From the outside, the old woman’s house was the same as all the others. Again it occurred to me that these cliff homes looked vaguely like mud-wasp nests turned on their sides. The sheer face of the cliff formed their backs, and their outer walls were a mixture of timber and dark clay constructed into tunnellike shapes. Each was stacked directly over the next in connected rows. Swaying rope bridges ran between each cluster of homes, joining them like a great hive.

Inside, my host’s home was unlike anything I had ever encountered. Long and narrow, the rooms were like passages, each leading into the next with no central room or entryway to connect them. But that hardly mattered because there were few rooms anyway. She apparently had little need of space, which was as well, because the overall feeling of her house was of a cramped but cozy atmosphere.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked. Without awaiting an answer, she went to the fireplace, a small niche carved out of the inner rock wall, and fetched a kettle from over the low flames.

She moved with surprising ease for a woman of her years, and I mentally adjusted my first impression of her from elderly to a bit past middle-aged. Like myself and many of Swiftsfell’s inhabitants, she bore evidence of Skeltai ancestry, and the silverness of her hair combined with the heavy lines of her face made her age difficult to guess.

I took a seat on a bench near the fire. On such a warm day, the proximity of the flames was mildly uncomfortable, but every other surface I might have sat on seemed occupied by baskets and blankets and various kinds of clutter I could not identify. My bench was rickety and roughly put together, like all the other furnishings in the room. The floor was scattered with rushes as a primitive replacement for rugs. The mud-dobbed outer walls were hung with big woven mats, presumably as an extra layer of insulation during the winter months.

It took me a moment to take all this in as my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of the windowless space. The fireplace cast a little light around the room, but a cooler source of illumination was the series of lamps resting on tabletops and other surfaces. The bluish color from the lamps made me wonder if they were lit by some means less natural than ordinary flame. This was, after all, a place where magic could be used freely and openly.

My thoughts returned to my host when she passed a warm cup into my hand. The scent of the steaming
skeil
was reassuring. The drink, at least, was familiar.

“Now,” she said, seating herself on a nearby stool. “Let us introduce ourselves properly. My name is Myria. I did not catch yours.”

It seemed strange to be introducing ourselves so formally, after our excited initial meeting. But perhaps neither of us knew quite how to act toward the other.

“Ilan of Dimmingwood. That’s the forest that covers half the province of Ellesus.”

“And what is it that brings you to Swiftsfell, Ilan of Dimmingwood?”

“Nothing more than you already know,” I said, trying to contain my impatience. On the way to her home, I had tried to ask her what she knew about my mother, but this Myria seemed suddenly distracted. Still, I forced myself to be polite. Demanding answers would get me nowhere.

So I explained, “As my friend Hadrian was telling the head of your village, he is compiling a book. It is a history of magic and a study of magically gifted races.”

She appeared dissatisfied with my explanation. “I did not ask for your friends’ motives in coming here but yours. I believe your province is a fair distance from the mountains of Cros. Something must have compelled you to make the journey.”

I hesitated, but there seemed no danger in speaking frankly to this stranger. We were not back home, where I had to cloak certain aspects of my past. “I had reasons for wanting to put my province behind me. I was recently pressed into the service of a man I count my enemy. I cannot escape my duties indefinitely for, when a year has passed, I’ve promised to return. But until then, I accompany the wandering priest on his travels. And where I go, Terrac goes.”

“Because he is in love with you?”

“Because the Praetor of our province does not trust me to keep my word. He sent Terrac to ensure that I do not forget my promises.”

I didn’t tell her how that troubled me. I liked to think that I, and not the Praetor, owned the greater part of Terrac’s loyalty, but the truth was that I had never really pressed him to choose between us.

Myria’s thoughts followed a different direction than mine. “So you travel where your priest friend does. You did not come to Swiftsfell on your own account?”

“Why should I do that?”

She lifted a silver eyebrow. “When I realized whose kin you were, I thought you might have visited in search of your past. Looking for your mother’s people, perhaps.”

At last we were heading in the right direction. I said, “I do not remember my mother ever speaking of friends or family from her past. I had no cause to suppose any existed, let alone that they should be found in Swiftsfell. I’m sorry to say she did not mention you.”

“I understand.” Refilling my drink, she changed the subject. “And how did you lose your magical abilities?”

I started, nearly sloshing my hot beverage onto my hand. “How did you—”

But then I realized I shouldn’t be surprised. Just as I used to feel the presence or absence of magic in others, so must other magickers sense it in me. To this woman, the power that had recently abandoned me was probably as evident as smoke curling from a newly snuffed candle.

“My magic was burned out.”

It sounded abrupt, but I found myself unexpectedly sensitive on the subject. Her question felt awkwardly personal. If I were missing an arm, would she be tactless enough ask how I had lost that?

If she noticed my reaction, her expression was unapologetic. “Many a young, untrained magicker has overextended herself and destroyed her skill beyond hope of healing.”

“I was not untrained. Hadrian has mentored me these past three years. I was simply in a position where I had to make a choice. Push my magic past safe limits or allow a friend to die. I took the risk, and I don’t regret it.”

It was true. If I hadn’t sacrificed my magic to defend Terrac against a Skeltai shaman, he would be dead now. His life was worth the cost.

“I am glad you were loyal to your friend,” said Myria. “But a lifetime separated from your natural gift is a high price to pay.”

I feigned a casualness I did not feel. “What’s done is done. I would rather not dwell on it.”

“It may be that you are right.” Myria tilted her silver head to one side and tapped a slender finger against her chin thoughtfully. “But sometimes what we think is done is not really over at all.”

She hesitated, then appeared to come to a sudden decision. “Come with me, young Ilan. There’s something I’d like to show you. It’s a test, of sorts.”

I was baffled. “What kind of a test?”

Instead of answering, she vacated her seat by the fire and gestured me to follow as she crossed the room to draw back a thin curtain. The chamber beyond was scarcely worthy of the name. It was more of an alcove, with just space enough for a clothes chest and a hammock slung along the wall.

She beckoned me to a shelf that held an assortment of mismatched odds and ends. Broken shells, bits of jewelry, framed miniatures, and a carved wooden box of the kind often used to hold small mementoes.

She lifted the memento box down from the shelf. It was small, not much bigger than the hand that held it, but she handled it carefully as though its contents were great.