Wintertide (12 page)

Perhaps some of his wares came from this same market.

She was leaving Rina’s that day when she saw the children skipping happily, clutching small bits of lace and ribbon the Tinker always gave them. The entire scene symbolized her problems with her divinations back then, a few short months ago.

She’d been grasping for answers without success, not even gaining the small scraps Rylan bestowed on the children. Then everything changed, for she returned home to find the vase on brightpinks on the floor. And the Assignation imprinted in the Book.

Everything had changed. The life she knew was gone. And her divinations, like the one late last night, now came with an almost urgent clarity.

She finished the last piece of nut bread on her plate, washing it down with the remains of her tea. There were several hours yet before sunset and first moonrise.

She called to Nixa. They had a Healer named Ciro to find.

Khamsin always gathered her herbs in the forest, as Tanta Bron taught her. But there were no forests within the walls of the city. A city Healer, she surmised, might well utilize the market for such a purpose.

Several vegetable sellers had strings of herbs drying on the walls of their booths, but, she found as she fingered and sniffed the brittle leaves, they were mostly for cooking.

“Moonpetal powder?” The farmer pulled at the skin of his leathery chin. “Healin’ stuff, that is. My wife grows ’em, but just for pretty.

“Try Crowson’s, back yonder about five rows. He’s got that blue awning atop his stall. Or maybe Fat Halba. She might know.”

She threaded her way back towards the booth with the blue awning. It was growing late and many merchants were starting to bring in their wares and lock their shutters. Farmer Crowson greeted her arrival with interest. Until it was clear her purpose was not the purchase of vegetables.

He shrugged off her questions and went back to keeping the flies off his cabbages.

“Crowson wouldn’t tell you e’en he did know.” Fat Halba stripped the bright green husks off a long ear of corn with swift professionalism. “Used to carry some moonpetal powder meself. Years ago, when me granny was alive. Not a Healer, no. But she knew some of that stuff. Now, them that carries it comes only once a month, during hearthmoon.”

It was another two weeks, Khamsin knew, before both moons would rise full into a hearthmoon. About the same time Rylan would return.

“But I hear tell there’s a small shop in the Old Quarter what stocks some stuff. In glass bottles. You might try there.” Fat Halba shifted her considerable weight on the stool and reached into the basket for another ear of corn. “Kin of yours needs healin’?”

“No. Actually I’m looking for a Healer called Ciro. I thought if I found where Healers bought…”

“Ciro?” Halba’s fingers stilled their movements, then started busily again. She ripped at the coarse husks.

“You know of him?”

“Ciro, you say? Thought you said Claro. Was a…baker named Claro. Years ago. Made a fine sweetcake, he did. No, don’t know no…what’d you say this name was?”

“Ciro.”

Halba sucked on her plump lips. “Sorry. Don’t know the name.”

“This herb shop in the Old Quarter, they might know?”

“They know the Healers in the city,” Halba replied. “Not much happens anywhere in the city what it don’t get talked about in the Old Quarter. Just,” and she looked Khamsin up and down, “just you don’t go pokin’ ’round there at night.”

“Thank you, no. I’ve no intentions of that. I’m having dinner with a dear friend tonight.” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she thought of returning to Rylan’s arms, in only a few short hours.

A man and a woman brushed by Khamsin, pushing their way into Fat Halba’s booth. “Still open, Halba?” The man’s voice boomed in the small space. “Good! That Upland corn you got there?”

Khamsin’s thanks were lost under the haggle of negotiations.

The market was almost deserted, shutters locked tightly in place for the approach of night. Nixa sauntered ahead. The translucent gold skin of a water-onion fluttered across the cat’s path and she pounced on it.

Torn bits of string littered the ground. The harsh bang of shutters punctuated the descending silence.

In the sky to the west, Khamsin saw the orange glow of the sunset over the high turrets of the city wall. She quickened her steps.

She felt it at the same time her cat did. A presence, a searing cold. She spun around. Nixa hissed, her fur prickling out from her small form.

A large black crow swooped out of the sky, screeching. Khamsin’s small hunting knife was already in her right hand.

“Ixari!” She whispered the name of her goddess for protection. Then a second crow landed. And a third. The trio pecked fiercely at something on the ground.

Still grasping her knife, Khamsin stepped closer.

A remnant of a crusty meat pie. The crows stabbed their beaks into the ground and fluttered their wings. One glanced at her briefly, his dark eyes glittering in challenge.

She sheathed her knife. “No, I don’t want your dinner.”
And you
, she told Nixa with a light touch of her mind,
stay away from them. They’re far too thin, and far too hungry, to be of interest to you.

Nixa gave herself a brief shake and trotted away.

Khamsin looked over the row of closed stalls. Had that searing cold she felt just been the ravenous need of the hungry birds? She felt nothing now.

Shaking her head with a small movement not unlike her cat’s, she resumed her pace. She passed under the arched market gate, leaving the crows and the puzzling sensation behind.

Shadows on the narrow streets were thicker now. Rylan was probably finishing his business and, within an hour or two, would return to the inn. Not enough time to launder and patch her one skirt and blouse; the ones ripped by the maddened Covemen.

And in spite of Rylan’s reassurances that he found her current attire quite charming, Khamsin wanted to present a more feminine picture. This would be their last night together for a fortnight.

A flash of pale green in an open doorway caught her eye. It was the entrance to a clothier’s shop. And the flash of color was a dress hanging limply over the back of a chair.

She stepped inside. The shopkeeper peered over thick spectacles at her.

She plucked at the boy’s trousers she wore. “My clothing trunk fell overboard. Had to borrow my cousin’s things. How much do you want for the dress?”

“It’s out of fashion,” the shopkeeper said. “Was about to use the material for something else. Some aprons, perhaps. But if you want it, as is, won’t cost you much.”

She gave him the two small coins he requested.

*

She heard the sounds of his boots on the stairs and rose from her seat by the open window. The night breezes, soft and tinged with a salty odor, ruffled the lace trim on her new dress. She smoothed her palms nervously over her skirt, then brought her hands back to her short hair.

The key scraped in the lock.

She wiggled her toes anxiously in her boots.

The tall figure stepped inside, his dark cloak swirling around him. He turned and the light of the candles glinted off the gold star in his ear. He looked somehow taller, more imposing. Almost regal, Khamsin thought. There was something in the strong set of his shoulders, in the tilt of his head. Her heart fluttered.

A slow smile formed under his mustache. “My Lady Khamsin.” The husky tones in his voice make her knees feel as if they were filled with jelly.

My Lord
, she almost replied, but caught herself. This was Rylan, the Tinker. Embarrassed at her fanciful imaginings, she dropped her gaze.

“It’s not very fancy, but…” She plucked at the skirt of her dress, then chanced a look at him again. “Do you like it?”

He shrugged out of his cape and tossed it onto the bed. “Beautiful.” He clasped her elbows and drew her against him.

She brought her mouth up to his hungrily. She never wanted to kiss anyone more than she wanted to kiss Rylan at that moment.

Finally she pulled back from him, a bit breathless, her knees still far from steady.

“Miss me?” he whispered in her ear.

She nodded into his shoulder.

“But you’ve been busy, I see.”

His large hand gently grasped her chin and tilted her face upwards. He kissed her nose. “A new dress. Nothing for Nixa?”

“She had a few crickets. And almost got into a fight with some crows.” The odd cold sensation still puzzled her.

Rylan brushed her cheek with his fingers. He frowned.

“They were after a piece of meat pie in the market,” she explained. “They thought we wanted some, too. It was nothing.”

Rylan looked at the cat, sitting on her haunches in the windowsill. “Best not to tangle with city crows, Mistress Cat. They don’t take kindly to sharing their meals.”

Khamsin laced her fingers through his. “We’re not from the city. And we’d be glad to share our meal with you.”

He chuckled. “Your kindness overwhelms me. Especially as I spied a wonderful roast and some thick stew in the kitchen below. Will you join me, my Lady?”

“With pleasure.”

He tucked Khamsin’s hand through the crook of his arm. She hesitated as he opened the door. “We’ll send a small plate up for Nixa?”

He looked over her head at the cat in the window. “Stew or roast?”

Nixa blinked twice.

“Ah. Roast it is then.”

Khamsin shot him a surprised glance. There was laughter in his eyes. There was no way he could hear Nixa’s immediate affirmative to the word and image of ‘roast.’ Rylan’s teasing response was nothing more than a lucky guess.

She never told him of her telepathic link to her cat. There would be time for many explanations when he returned, in two weeks. She hoped to have answers about the signs in her divinations, and her search for a Healer named Ciro by then.

But tonight was just for herself and Rylan. She wanted nothing of the past to intrude upon her future.

She awoke in the morning to the light touch of Rylan’s fingers on her face. She offered him a sleepy smile.

“Morning blessings.” It seemed odd, yet so right, to have him to next her.

“Morning blessings to you, love. And you,” he said, as Nixa nudged her nose against his hand.

“You’ll be leaving this morning, or…?”

“This morning.” He kissed her gently. “But we have time for tea.”

He was delaying his departure and Khamsin knew it. The thought warmed her. At the same time, she knew she had to let him know she’d be fine until he returned.

“I’ll probably go to the Old Quarter today,” she said as he bent over to retrieve his clothes from the floor.

He pulled on his pants. Khamsin rose from tangle of covers and drew the soft sheet against her chest.

“The Old Quarter?” He threaded his leather belt through the loops. “Why there?”

“I heard of a shop, an herbal shop, that carries Healer’s wares.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about Ciro, but so far the Healer’s name had elicited nothing but suspicious glances from everyone she spoke to. She didn’t want Rylan to worry; he’d seemed worried enough when she mentioned the black crows in the market last night.

“I’m not sure where the Old Quarter is,” she continued. “Is it far?”

“A bit north and west of this square. Ten maybe fifteen blocks. It’s an old section of the city.” He shook his head as if shaking off disturbing thoughts. “Some of it’s not as well kept as perhaps it should be.”

Halba had issued a similar warning.

“The herbal shop’s on Windward Lane. Not far from the Street of Dreams, if my memory serves me correctly.”

“I’m sure I’ll find it.” At the moment, finding her stockings were a more immediate concern. Her pants and tunic shirt were where she’d left them the night before. But her socks were no where to be found.

She glanced at Nixa, curled at the foot of the bed. The feline affected her most innocent look.

“Just don’t tarry there, love. It’s not a place I’d want you to visit after dark.”

“Oh, I won’t. Have you seen my socks?”

Five minutes later both socks were recovered from opposite corners of the room, where Nixa had hidden them during the night. Khamsin finished dressing and followed Rylan down the stairs for some tea and butter cakes. And for the next half hour, everything was fine. It was just a morning, like many mornings she hoped to share with him.

But then they were back in the room and he was knotting the strings of his satchel. An feeling of intense loss washed over her.

He kissed her, tasting of tea and sweet butter. She clung to him.

He folded her into his arms and pressed his mouth against her ear. “I will return to you,” he said softly.

She pulled back slightly and looked up at him. “Quickly?” It was a hope beyond hopes.

“As quickly as I can. Unless you change your mind and come…”

She lay her fingers on his mouth. “We both have things to do, things to settle. When you return, all that will be finished. And we’ll have all our time for ourselves.”

He nipped her fingers. “Such a wise woman!” he said as she drew them away.

She placed her hand over the amulet she gave him when they arrived in the city. It dangled from a silver chain around his neck. “Where you go, I go with you.”

“But do I go with you? Khamsin, promise me you won’t forget me. Promise me you believe in what we have.”

Khamsin stood on tiptoe and answered him with another kiss. It was a long, lingering kiss full of unspoken words. And all her promises.

Nixa seemed pleased. Her yellow eyes half-closed sleepily as Khamsin stroked her soft head. Together they watched the tall figure in the dark blue cloak move easily into the crowds meandering through Courten’s Square. Something in Khamsin longed to run down the creaking stairs after him, to grab his hand, to say she had changed her mind. She would go with him, wherever he had to go.