Skull Gate (6 page)

He shook his head.

She looked inquiringly at each once more, then laughed and left them, swirling her skirts.

 

Oona trudged through the door, bent and weary. On her arm she carried a basket filled with jars and bits of dried herbs. A bit of cloth tied around her head kept the hair from falling in her eyes. She closed the door softly. Her feet scraped the old wood as she shuffled across the floor and set her basket in a corner. She sighed audibly and straightened, massaging a hip with one hand.

“Oona?"

The old woman jumped at the sound of her name and turned. Her wide eyes shone in the darkness. “Samidar?"

Frost lifted the earthen jar with which she'd hidden the small candlelight and leaned back in her seat at the table. “I got back hours ago. Where've you been?"

Oona took a seat opposite her and leaned on elbows. Then her head sank slowly into her hands. After a long moment she looked up again. “The boy in the village, remember?"

Frost nodded.

“He's worse, burning with root-fever.” Exasperation filled her voice. Frost reached out and stroked her old friend's hair in sympathy. Oona sat up. “I've done everything I can think of!” she cried. “Nothing works."

“The father still blames you?"

Oona got up and paced the floor. “He's in a high rage for sure.” Suddenly Oona noticed the cards that were spread across the table. She sat down again and drew a breath. “How did you fare in Kord'Ala?"

Frost couldn't hold back a frown. “I'm a wanted fugitive, but we knew that much,” she answered. “Thogrin's offered my weight in silver to the man who finds me. Other than that...” She shrugged and got up, went to a small bundle that rested on the trunk where Oona kept her clothes. “I did turn a few cards, enough for coins to buy that new candle and a new paring knife and shawl for you.” She held up the thin wrap.

Oona's face brightened. She pushed back her stool and rose excitedly. “Oh, child!” she exclaimed, grasping the shawl in her old fingers, carrying it toward the light to examine the delicate embroidery. “No one's bought me anything in years! It's beautiful!” She turned suddenly and threw her arms around her younger guest.

Frost felt awkward as the old woman hugged her. She'd never been much for letting others touch her, and she could feel scarlet heat rising in her cheeks. The hug was nearly a wrestling grip; her arms were pinned. Opponents had tried to grip her like that to throw her down or squeeze the breath from her. She inhaled deeply, feeling the old woman's breasts against her own. Well, for friendship's sake, she could endure.

Finally, Oona released her. “Did you say a knife? I have a good knife already, over in my basket."

Frost moved to the trunk again and leaned on it. The bundle minus the shawl lay close at hand. “Well, actually I needed it for something; I'm done with it now, and it's yours."

Oona's eyes narrowed. “Was there trouble?"

She picked up the bundle and began slowly unwrapping. The knife was hidden under the first layer. She set it on the trunk. “No, not trouble.” She continued unwrapping. “Do you keep zimort in any of those jars, and any sisamy?"

Oona's face screwed up suspiciously. In the candle's dim light, her eyes appeared to darken and shrink far back into her head. “There's zimort, but no sisamy,” she answered.

“Hellebore can substitute, you must have that?"

The old woman nodded slowly.

Frost finished her unwrapping but held the cloth so that whatever was within remained concealed. “I have no answers, Oona.” She spoke softly, slowly, but with intensity, locking the aged healer's gaze with her own. “I found none in Kord'Ala and none in the cards.” She indicated the display on the table. “They don't work for me; you know my curse. Aki is still missing. If I'm going to find her, I've got to get back into Mirashai.” She hesitated, knowing the gravity of what she was about to ask. “You're the only one who can help me do that, Oona."

She brushed away the cloth and held up her prize.

Oona gasped and stumbled back. “You don't realize what you're asking.” She stared, pale even in the candlelight. Then fear vanished, replaced with dark suspicion. Oona drew up to her full height, eyes glittering, angry, accusing. “How did you get that?"

Frost kept her voice calm. “They hanged him at dusk outside the city gate."

“Who's they?” Oona demanded.

“The garrison, some soldiers at Kord'Ala.” She was getting angry despite herself. She didn't like Oona's tone. Her voice dropped a note. There was an edge to it when she said, “I didn't murder him."

Oona sighed. She came closer and peered at the severed hand her guest held up. “No, he'd have to be hanged."

Frost was still petulant. “I had to go back and buy the knife. I didn't take one."

Oona seemed not to hear as she studied the hand. She showed no desire to touch it, though. “It's the left one, good.” She looked up suddenly, and her eyes gleamed. “He'd have to be guilty, though, or it won't work. Was he guilty?"

She chewed her lip. “We won't know until we try it."

“That could put you in a bad spot."

Frost said nothing. She laid the hand on the table and backed away from it. Grisly work, cutting off a man's hand with only a knife. Hours dead, there was still plenty of blood in that limb. She'd gotten it all over the skirts Oona had loaned her. That's why she'd thought to buy the shawl, to make up for it. She'd used the bloodiest skirt as the wrapping to carry it in.

“I could read the cards for you,” Oona said suddenly. “Maybe I can get answers to your questions."

She looked at Oona, knowing the reasons behind that offer. Oona was a healer. What she was asking of the old woman went far beyond that, though, deep into the realms of sorcery. A Hand of Glory was not an easy thing to make. She could direct, but Oona would have to do the actual work. Frost dared not touch it until after it was completed or the magic would be nullified. It might be already, since it was she who had done the cutting.

“Read,” she said, then.

Oona restacked the cards on the table, shuffled them, and dealt. When they were all laid out, she frowned, reshuffled, and spread them again. Frost pulled up a stool and watched, a dull hope throbbing in her chest. She did not want to make a Hand if there was another way.

“How did you learn the Descroiyo's art?” she whispered.

The old woman shrugged, gathered the cards, and reshuffled again. “How does one learn anything?” she answered cryptically. She touched the cards to her breast this time, then to her lips. She breathed on them. Then, one by one, she turned them up.

First card, the half skull crowned with gold; then, a rose with bloodied thorns.

“I can see!” Frost muttered tersely; she bent closer to see the casting. “I can see! Korkyra's monarch and that's the rose garden at the palace! But is it Aki or Thogrin, and is that Aki's blood?"

Oona said nothing but turned another card: the hermit, dark-robed and alone on a mountain.

“The dark-robed figure by the throne,” Frost cried excitedly, then scratched her chin. “Or maybe the intruder."

Oona looked up from the cards. Her hand paused with the next one drawn, but not turned. “Samidar, child..."

Frost smiled weakly and leaned away from the table. Oona waited a needless moment for emphasis, then returned Frost's smile and exposed the next cards.

A sword; a magic staff of power; the wheel of fortune; the three stars; the ring of fire. Oona grunted. The lovers; the demon. Oona stopped and stared. “They don't fit,” she said at last. She tapped the last exposed card. “This doesn't fit at all; the position is all wrong."

She swept the cards together and dealt them out again. Nine different ones, this time. Oona slammed her palm on the unfeeling wood and tried again.

“No,” she said at last, her voice heavy with resignation. “A pattern starts to form, but then it breaks down."

“Maybe because I've handled the cards?” Frost offered nervously.

Oona shook her head. “You can handle magical things. Ashur and Demonfang, for instance. You just can't make magic.” Her old eyes drew slowly to the hand still lying on a corner of the table. The flickering candlelight cast shadows of the upcurled fingers across the walls and ceiling. As the flame danced, the shadows seemed to beckon to them.

“I know
about
this thing you want”—she spoke slowly, her voice strangely muted—“but not how to make it."

“I'll guide you,” Frost answered with a shiver. “I've lost my witch-powers, but not my memory."

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

Frost leaned forward in the stirrups and rubbed her backside. She'd made good time, arriving in the middle of the night, though she couldn't tell it by the sky. The stars were hidden behind a dense curtain of gray clouds. Not even the moon peeked through. She lifted her hand, turned the palm in several directions. No wind, either.

Down below Mirashai lay, barely visible, seeming unchanged in the month she'd been gone. She'd ridden half the night, skirting Shadamas and all other towns to get here at this particular hour. Her work must be done between midnight and dawn. Certainly it was late enough. Her hand wandered to the cloth pouch that hung from her weapon belt. The outline of the contents showed through the thin material.

With a gasp, she jerked her hand away.

“No.” she whispered firmly, getting a mental grip on her reaction. “You know what it is; you helped make it; it can't hurt you.” But she had grown unused to arcane ways and the strains they sometimes demanded. Twice, Oona had nearly fainted at the instructions the younger woman had given her. From the beginning her old face had remained a pale, wrinkled mask of horror. Frost herself had had trouble keeping food down and had nearly quit the making. But once begun it could not be left unfinished.

She forced herself to touch the pouch again, to feel the outline of the thing inside. Soon she would have to hold it in her own hand. Best get used to it now.

When she was rested, she urged Ashur down the low ridge and out onto the broad plain that stretched all around the sleeping city. Her gaze combed the darkness, and she was alert for any movement. Nothing, just the quiet.

She looked up at the sky again. At least there was no moon to give her away to watching eyes. The clouds, so low and oppressive, hid everything.

Outside the city's wall stood a collection of the dirtiest inns and taverns Frost had ever seen, places that prostitutes and criminals of all nationalities called home; where ancient sailors too old to ride the waves anymore littered the streets with their drunken bodies; where wealthy men with enemies in high places bought quick solutions to their problems. Aki had tried to rid Mirashai of this cesspool and failed. So had her father and his father.

She touched the pouch at her side, then reconsidered.
Not yet
, she decided.
It must last
.

She passed the first tavern. The hand that had touched the pouch now shifted to her sword. She searched the windows and doorways as she rode by. No light, no noise, no faces peered out. She drew a breath and rode on. Two buildings stood clustered together. She watched them carefully, alert, ready.

No one stirred. It was late, yes, but would everyone be sleeping? She nudged Ashur on, releasing her sword long enough to wipe the sweat from her palm.

She might have sneaked in more quietly on foot, but she was going to need the unicorn's height.

The buildings were closer now, mostly dark. Here and there, a thin light flickered through cracked wooden shutters. She passed by as silently as possible.

A blast of laughter echoed from a tavern up ahead. She saw the door to the establishment push open. Quickly she turned her mount down a narrow alley and out of sight. She rode on through to the next street.

Someone stumbled toward her. She stopped. He stopped, too, and stared. A whimsical expression twisted his face. He lurched against a wall suddenly, sank to the ground, and closed his eyes.

She hesitated. Should she kill him and shut his mouth, too? He might awaken and talk, later. She rode closer, drawing the sword from its sheath. She leaned down and nudged the man with the point. He didn't stir. She nudged him again, gasped, and drew back to thrust, but he merely fell over on his side and started to snore.

She put her sword away and moved on.

The next street was lighted with a reddish glow. Frost looked up and down. Candles encased in lanterns of scarlet cloth and paper hung from every door. She heard strange, muffled sounds from the windows above her and blushed.
The nighttime is theirs
, she thought.
No one sleeps on this street
. She turned to seek another way.

At last she came to the great gate in the city's western wall. It was shut, as she knew it would be, and barred on the inside with a mighty beam. But above the gate four posts stuck out from the masonry. She had remembered those, too.

If she stood on Ashur's back and jumped, she could just reach those posts. But first she reached into her saddlebag and took out a length of rope. A slender log was tied to one end. She slid the coil over her shoulders. It made a clumsy burden, but she would manage.

She stood carefully on the saddle. It wouldn't require much of a jump. Her fingers were only inches from the post she'd chosen. She pushed off and grabbed.

The weighted end of the rope began to slide. The fibers stung her bare neck as the rope rushed downward, tightening the coils around her. She grabbed for it, clinging to the post with one hand. That lasted all of two heartbeats before her grip gave way on the rough wood.

Ashur sidestepped away. She landed hard, tangled in the rope, the log pressing painfully on her spine.

“Gods damn!” she muttered, and kicked the stupid length of wood before she picked it up again. She could have hooked a grappling iron in her belt if she'd had one, but it was cursed hard to stick a log in your pants! Instead of slinging it over her shoulder again and risking a repeated incident, she placed the log under her arm against her side and hastily wound the rope around herself, binding it in place. Uncomfortable, but she only had to tolerate it a few minutes.