Wintertide (5 page)

“Then those people could be in danger. I may be who he seeks, but since when have the Powers worried about the innocents when they’ve carved their trails of destruction? The raids, the poisoned harvests. It’s been said that there were one or two who displeased the Gods yet scores perished. No, I have to go back to the cave, take up my studies and pray that Ixari will send some guidance this time.”

“Studies?” Tavis frowned.

“There are other things I must learn, ways to sharpen my mind and my senses, divinations to…”

“No. I forbid it.” Tavis wiped his hand over his face, then turned from her. “There’s nothing more to discuss. Nothing.” His voice was gruff. He pushed himself abruptly to his feet and strode for the kitchen door, slamming it as he headed back to the smithy.

*

She left that night, taking a small pack and some fruit with her. With Nixa in tow, she set out into the humid darkness for the foothills of the mountains, and her first home.

Tavis stood in the doorway, empty pipe still in hand. He watched as she slipped away into the shadows towards something as foreign and fearful to a mere smith as Hell itself. And he began to hate those powers that were the very essence of Khamsin.

She spent two days in the cave kneeling over the mage circle, searching for wisdom in the ancient etchings. She sifted through compounds made of flax and feathers and seeds, recognizing patterns. She ate very little and slept almost not at all.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, as she trudged down the rut-filled dusty road back towards the village, that her lack of sleep and food caught up with her. She knew of a small spring off to the side, where wild berries grew through the rocks. She grabbed a few handfuls, rinsing them in the cool water. Then she splashed the dust from her face and arms.

A flash of color to her left caught her eye. Brightpinks, growing with wild abandon. She plucked a handful, sat on a large fallen log and started to twine a chain. And for a moment, she was a child again, carefree, with only her chores and her cat to consider.

But she was no longer a carefree child. And her cat waited for her, at the edge of the dusty road. She tucked the unfinished chain in her apron pocket and pushed herself to her feet.

Nixa, whose interest in the occult was none at all and who had a natural ability to fend for herself, had fared much better over the past two days. She pranced happily alongside her mistress as they returned to the road. To the cat, the days at the cave were a grand adventure in the forest and nothing more.

Khamsin shoved the long sleeves of her blouse up over her elbows. She regretted she hadn’t thought to dampen a cloth at the spring. There was no wind from the sea and the earth under her feet baked in the summer sun. If only the cool winds common to late summer would appear again. She daily asked Ixari for blessings in that regard. The humidity was unbearable; her thin blouse clung to her damp form and her skirts caught heavily between her bare legs. She thought again of the days when she ran about the forest in boy’s breeches and a light vest.

There were spells in her Book created to alter the weather, but they were to be performed only by a temple priest or a priestess. She was a Healer, a benefactress for her village. She aided or advised; she didn’t alter. A Healer, as Tavis had reminded her, could question the Gods but not countermand them.

The symbols she sought within the circle were for these purposes only. Though the knowledge she gained this time in Bronya’s cave weighed as heavily on her mind as the oppressive weather. It was a cloudy knowledge, unlike the clear blue of the sky overhead. Everything pointed to the necessity of her continuing her training but nothing explained why. As Tavis had said, why weren’t her herbals sufficient?

But they weren’t, and she wondered why Tavis didn’t accept her need to continue learning. She—and Tanta Bron—thought that he would.

Again and again, the symbols for knowledge and experience appeared in her divinations and less and less, the symbols of benedictions and healing. She understood that some of this knowledge would come as a result of a journey, though by land or by water was not made clear. For when she consulted the circle for specifics, the answers were again vague.

It was as if there were a power struggle being waged amongst the deities themselves and Khamsin’s queries only served as a further irritation. She was beginning to suspect that there was more than just the powers of the Sorcerer to fear.

But a tired mind easily finds misinterpretations. So she headed for home seeking, if not knowledge, then comfort and rest.

The narrow road wound around a grove of old trees. Khamsin’s tracks cut even wider as she stepped aside to avoid a fresh deposit of dung. Nixa sniffed at the manure warily, identifying it for herself and Khamsin as
horse
. That meant there was a traveler up ahead with a small cart, judging from the marks in dust on the road as well. She yearned to ask for a ride.

She caught up with the horse cart sooner than expected. The rider, tall and dark-haired, had dismounted and walked slowly. Khamsin recognized the mottled gray mare and the red-stenciled cart as belonging to the Tinker. It was laden with pots and pans and odd pieces of cloth and lace.

She hailed him by his name, which was his title and the same for all of those who plied the trade.

“Ho, Tinker!”

The man stopped and turned, his lean face registering surprise.

“Lady Khamsin! And what brings you out for a walk on this beastly afternoon?” He ran his hand wearily through his dark hair, pulling it away from where it clung to the dampness of his face and the back of his neck. His jacket and vest were absent and his linen shirt was partially unlaced.

“Just on my way home.” She drew up next to him. The gray mare whinnied and shook her head. Khamsin touched the animal’s neck and her mind registered the pain.

“You have trouble?” She noticed a slight swelling on the mare’s front leg.

The Tinker nodded. The small gold star in his left ear glinted in the late afternoon sun. “She picked up a stone. When she went to put her weight on it, twisted something. I pulled up immediately but I’m afraid the damage is done.”

Khamsin cleared her mind of her troublesome thoughts and bent down to touch the mare’s leg.

“It’s just a slight muscle pull. Nothing serious, fortunately.” She reached for the bag of oiled, crushed berries at her waist. She applied a small amount of the salve to the affected area. “There now, sweet one, this should feel better very soon.”

“You dropped this,” the Tinker said, kneeling down to retrieve a tumble of pink at his feet.

Khamsin patted her apron pocket. The brightpink chain must have fallen out when she reached for the bag of berry salve.

“It’s nothing. Just a silly…”

“Lover’s chain?” He grinned back at her. “But it’s not finished. It won’t work unless you finish it.” He twisted the stem on the end, deftly forming a loop.

“You do that well. You must have had lots of practice.”

“But not patience. I’ve yet to finish one. But maybe this time, with your help, I’ll succeed.”

They walked slowly, so as not to strain the mare further. Nixa elected to ride in the overstuffed cart, settling her sleek form comfortably on top of a bolt of bright muslin. Khamsin kept pace to the Tinker’s shortened stride, looking now and then at his hands as they twisted the long green stems.

He was taller than Tavis, she noted, for the top of her head reached her husband’s chin. Walking beside the Tinker, her height barely reached the man’s shoulder.

“Lady Khamsin, the village has had a prosperous summer, I trust?”

“We’ve been fortunate,” she replied.

“There’s not been good news elsewhere, I’m afraid. Though I’m pleased your village has done well.” He handed her the chain, with three more blossoms added.

She took it and fished out another brightpink from her pocket. “We heard there was a raid…?”

“Two. Hill Raiders came into Bright’s Cove and Wallow’s since Summertide.”

She suppressed a shudder. “Isn’t that unusual?”

“There are many unusual things in the Land right now. You know of the plague in Dram?”

“No! Tavis gets most of his metal from their mines.” Alarm showed in her eyes. The Tinker slowed, touching her lightly on the arm.

“There was nothing you could’ve done. It came and went so quickly. There wasn’t even enough time to send for a Healer.”

She gazed back up into eyes as pale as the mist from the moons. “But I should’ve felt, should’ve heard something!” She thought back to unnatural gaps in her divinations.

“Perhaps there was nothing to tell.”

“But there would have been a
need
. At least if I couldn’t heal, there’s always the offerings to Ixari, for safe passage through Tarkir’s realm. I should have known. I should have been there.” A knot of emotion caught in her voice. She looked down at her hands. The brightpinks were trembling.

The Tinker squeezed her arm in compassion. She slowed her pace, stopping when he turned to her.

“You have so much to give, my Lady Khamsin,” he said softly. “You want so badly to offer blessings. Yet I fear so few offer blessings to you in return.”

“The villagers have not been unkind,” she protested.

“But have they been welcoming? No, don’t answer. You see only their needs, even at the expense of your own.”

He grasped her wrist lightly and took the brightpinks from her fingers. He draped the short chain around her wrist and wove the end stems into place. Then he raised her fingers to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a light kiss. “I offer you my blessing, then. Will you accept that, in place of your worries?”

His unexpected kindness touched a deep, lonely place inside Khamsin. Something warm sparkled inside her and for a moment, it was if all the Land stood still, waiting for her answer.

“Thank you kindly. And your blessing is welcome, and accepted.”

The breeze ruffled through the trees again and the Land settled back within itself with a sigh.

*

Khamsin spotted her husband standing in the wide door of the smithy, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He seemed not the least bit surprised to find her in the company of the traveling Tinker. He grunted a short greeting to both of them, then turned his attention immediately to the lame mare.

Khamsin stroked the animal’s soft nose as Tavis inspected the damaged hoof. “Nothing to worry overmuch about,” he said, and set about repairing the broken shoe.

Only later when the Tinker agreed with much gratitude to join them for dinner, did Khamsin notice Tavis showing more than a polite interest in the stranger. And only, it seemed, because of the news he brought about the troubles in the South.

“That explains much.” He wiped the crust of Rina’s freshly baked bread around the inside of his dinner bowl. “Seems we’ve been luckier than most, right here.”

“Legends often say that the village of a Healer is a village of luck,” the Tinker replied and in the waning evening light, his gaze caught Khamsin’s. She again saw the gentle acceptance he’d shown her earlier. And felt his smile before it appeared.

“Won’t catch the Covemen or the villagers here saying that.” Tavis let his ale mug slip to the table with a bang.

Khamsin jumped, not sure if she were more startled by the noise or the bitterness she heard for the first time in her husband’s words. It was such a sharp contrast to the Tinker’s.

“People often don’t say what they feel,” the Tinker replied smoothly as Khamsin stood quickly to mop up the splattered ale with her napkin.

She chanced a look at Tavis, but his mug was raised, hiding his face. His broad fingers grasped the handle tightly. Puzzled, she glanced at the Tinker. He, too, wore a strange expression. His earlier nonchalance was gone, his brow furrowed in irritation. She felt a stab of anxiety and then he brought his gaze to hers, and his expression changed.

A warm breeze touched her cheek, the fragrance of the moonpetals sweet in the evening air.

She stepped to the window and pulled back the curtains, needing to put some space between herself and the emotions misting across the table. She breathed deeply of the flowers’ scent. A wave of calmness passed over her.

When she turned, the tension at the table was gone.

Tavis raised his empty mug. “More of this ale, Khamsin?”

“Of course.” She hurried to the kitchen.

The deep rumbling of the men’s voices followed her. Talk was of horses and trade. She returned with a full pitcher, which Tavis took from her. He filled the Tinker’s mug and his own, once again the affable lord of his own manor.

Khamsin sat and, while the men debated the bloodlines of various horses, peeled an apple she brought from the kitchen. She listened halfheartedly but watched with more interest.

The Tinker was so different from any of the Covemen she knew. And it was not just the fluidity of his conversations, the timbre of his voice or his acceptance of her as a Healer.

Yet he was also familiar. He, or one of his trade, had always been in the village, bearing trinkets from far-off lands. Or equally as interesting stories. Perhaps that’s what it was that she found so curious about the man. The Covemen were so much like the Cove but the Tinker was a little bit of every place he had been.

She glanced at her husband as he rummaged in his pockets for his tobacco pouch. The Tinker was older than Tavis, though not by much. Perhaps five or six years. And his general appearance was similar to the men of her village and other Cove towns. But Tavis’ hair was dark brown. The Tinker’s hair and mustache were black, glossy black, like the color of a moonless night.

Tavis offered the Tinker a pipe but he declined, and pulled a thin cigar from an inside pocket of his suede vest. This he held out to the smith. Tavis accepted it, sniffing the mahogany-colored tobacco appreciatively.

“Don’t find this quality often around here. You’ve been to the City, then?”

The Tinker nodded as he lit his own cigar.