Wintertide (6 page)

“You have a name? You know me as Tavis.”

The Tinker took a few short puffs, releasing a billowing cloud of pungent blue smoke from his mouth. He leaned back in his chair. “I have more names than I care to remember. And most of them can’t be repeated in polite company.” A wry smile accompanied his words.

Tavis chuckled. “Well?”

“Rylan. The name’s Rylan. Rylan the Tinker. It’s as good as any, for now.”

Khamsin picked up the empty pitcher and stood, expecting her husband to bring the meal and the visit to a close. It was late. She hadn’t seen him in three days and they had parted with harsh words between them. Even so, she assumed he would be as anxious to hear about her findings as she was about the telling of them. Therefore she was caught off-guard when her husband seemed reluctant to let their guest depart.

“Then tell me, Rylan. Do you play cards?”

She shot a confused glance in Tavis’ direction. But he avoided her eyes, instead reaching for the dog-eared deck of playing cards on the small table behind him.

“Of course I play,” she heard the Tinker reply. “For what is life, but a game?”

Suddenly, she felt alone and discarded. She cleared the dishes from the table and fed the scraps to Nixa while the men played cards. The fire in the kitchen hearth softened to an orange glow, but still the men played on. Their laughter and gruff voices followed her as she walked down the short hallway at the back of the house. And went to bed that night, alone.

*

The morning after the Tinker’s visit, Khamsin sat Tavis down in the main room and made him listen to what she’d learned in her two days at the cave, knowing by the reaction on his wide face that he didn’t like what he heard.

“This is not for the likes of a Healer.” He didn’t look at her but ruffled the dog-eared deck of cards through his fingers. He hadn’t even looked at her over their tea that morning. Khamsin sighed.

“I can’t be sure of that.”

“Because you say these signs aren’t clear. As if something’s disturbing them. Something powerful.”

“Yes, but…”

“It’s too dangerous.” He slanted a glance at her then looked away. “You don’t know what may come of this. Best to stop asking these questions. Best to do nothing at all.”

She folded her hands tightly in her lap as if doing so could contain her growing anger. “And then what, Tavis? More raids? More plagues? Are you asking me just to ignore everything I’ve been taught and let that happen?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

“But if I could prevent it, if I could give warning…”

“We’ve not asked for your help, have we?” He tossed the cards into a basket under the window with a quick thrust, then pushed himself to his feet and glared down at her. “You’re not to go back there, Khamsin, do you hear me? You’re not to go back to the cave.”

But that’s my home
, she almost said and was startled by her own thought. Bronya’s cave was not her home anymore. This house, Tavis’s house, was her home.

“Promise me you won’t go back! And promise me you won’t be using that book of yours anymore, except for aches and pains and healin’ stuff.”

She unclenched her fists and shoved them under her apron. “I won’t go back,” she told him as she carefully crossed her fingers. “And I will use the book and my stones only for healing. I promise.”

She kept her promise for three days. But by the fourth she could no longer fight the call of the stones. The headaches and inexplicable chills wearied her resolve. She felt the Powers shifting, felt magic burrowing out of the very bones of the Land. So she slipped out of their bed in the wee hours of the morning while her husband snored heavily in his sleep. Sitting cross-legged on the pantry floor, with the Book propped before her, she slowly resumed her practice of her spells and incantations. Pitchers and goblets danced gaily around the stone floor of the kitchen, much to Nixa’s amusement. Whiskers twitching, she stalked the prancing tableware.

But that was child’s play and Khamsin knew it. She also knew she couldn’t further her skills without returning to the cave. Only there did she have the solitude so necessary for her concentration. And only there did she have a real mage circle carved deeply into the rocky earth, its runes aged and timeworn. The chalk-scribed symbols on her kitchen floor were not the same.

She and Tavis stumbled upon more disagreements. For the fourth time in as many days Tavis stormed out of the kitchen in a foul mood, slamming the door behind him. Her early morning sessions made her more tired than usual and perhaps also a bit more touchy. And the decreasing supply of metals from Dram put Tavis into a bind with some of the Covemen.

He snapped at her when she didn’t respond to his questions at once. And when she did he was critical of her answers, even of the way she answered. He jumped nervously if she walked into his forge and once accused her of following him; then later, of avoiding him.

He sat up late most nights, smoking his pipe, staring at the hearth fire. And some nights he came to bed not at all.

Khamsin accepted they were both under a strain. The approach of her eighteenth birthday didn’t help matters at all. She studied the faces of the villagers now as she walked daily to Rina’s, or to the market for fish. The old man in his long, black cape never reappeared. Twice she thought she sensed a discomforting scrutiny but when she turned, no one was there.

The day before Reverence she stopped at the candlemakers, seeking an Honorsbane votive as an offering. A well-dressed man, his fair hair pulled neatly back at the nape of his neck, held the rough-hewn door for her as she entered, sketched a bow. His behavior, so gallant, so out of place in Cirrus Cove, was almost comical. Save for the chill that ran through her when he touched her arm.

“Perhaps you can assist me, Lady? I seek Mirtad the Tailor.”

Mirtad? The name was unfamiliar, especially to her shaken senses. And a tailor? Here? But then her memory thawed. Mirtad. Didn’t Gilby the Oarsman have a cousin, a tailor named Mirtad? From Flume? She directed the stranger to Gilby’s lodgings and, calmer now, busied herself among the scented candles.

Then two days before her birthday it was as if a dam broke. Tavis called her into his smithy early that afternoon, pulling her away from slicing beans. Wiping her hands on her apron, she followed, barely able to keep up with his long stride.

It was there, gleaming and bright and about the size of the long ladle. Her sword, forged to perfection. Her hands flew to her mouth then out to the silver object, touching it gently, almost reverently. It felt smooth to her touch, yet open. She could enchant it. He followed her instructions to the letter.

“Oh, Tav.” There were tears of joy in her eyes.

He draped one arm across her shoulders. “Pretty proud of myself, too, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

He made love to her that night for the first time in many months. Though she would have been content just to hold him, treasuring him truly as one of the finest friends she had ever had.

The morning, however, brought dark clouds on the horizon and an argument in the kitchen.

“But I won’t be going back to learn anything,” she pleaded for the fifth time. “It’s just that I can’t do the proper incantations for the sword anyplace else!”

Tavis glared at her over his breakfast. “No. I won’t hear of it any more.”

“But…!”

“Khamsin!” He slammed a heavy fist down on the table, rattling the mug and pitcher. “I will not tolerate any witch working!”

“Witch working!” She rose to her feet. Nixa dashed across the kitchen and out the back door. “How dare you call it witch working! I’m a Healer, as was Tanta and…”

“But Tanta is not my wife!”

“You knew what I was before you married me.”

“I knew you were a Healer. Not a Witch. I would never have agreed to marry a Witch. Not even to honor a life debt.”

Khamsin felt his admission as if he slapped her. She knew Tanta Bron had saved Tavis’s life many years ago. But that she’d used that to coerce the smith to marry her shook her deeply.

She started to reply but he stood, his wide hands splayed on the table and towered over her.

“A Healer doesn’t meddle with such things as concern the Gods. She heals, tends with her herbs. She offers charms and benedictions. I’ve watched Bronya, remember. I knew her longer than you. She didn’t do as you do.”

“We’re all different.” Khamsin’s voice was quieter now. “Tanta Bron practiced as she felt best. Some things she could do better, some things I can. That’s all.”

“Is it?” The burly man turned swiftly.

“Then why did you make me the sword?” She called out to him at he headed for the half-open door.

He stopped, hand on the latch and turned a cold face to her. “Damned if I know.” And he stomped heavily down the back steps.

When he returned for his midday meal, Khamsin, Nixa and the sword were gone.

She didn’t hear the howling of the winds or the hard tapping of the rain against the trees, so intent was Khamsin upon her incantations. She knelt before the ancient circle on the floor of Bronya’s cave. She couls sense a power in the stones beneath her. She could feel it in her blood. She was raised here and nurtured on it.

Nixa sat impassively on all four paws and watched the rain as cats often do. The twitching of her long tail was the only sign of her discomfort with the elements. Her large yellow eyes stared, now at the twirling wet leaves on the edge of the clearing, now back at her mistress, solemn and motionless as she had been since their arrival at the cave this afternoon. Finally, feigning boredom, she stretched out her front paws and yawned, letting her head come slowly down to rest against her own softness.

The storm died and the two moons rose full before Khamsin sat back with a sigh and ran her hands through her hair. It had been a lengthy preparation, an elaborate entry but she was there. She could feel it. The sword hung in midair before her as if suspended by invisible strings, as proof of her expertise. It was also a safe stopping place for she was tired. And tired minds could make mistakes.

She curled up onto her straw bed and felt the weight of Nixa against her as she found a comfortable place to share the night. Nixa never came to bed when Tavis was there.

Tavis. She left him in such turmoil. She hoped the short note tucked into his tobacco jar would suffice ’til she came home. He would have to understand that things such as these were things she had to do, just as he had to work with his anvil. A craftsman, he often called himself. A practitioner of an art. Well, she was a craftsman, too, and one whose skill only increased with knowledge.

She rose before the sun the next morning, disappointed to hear the light tapping of rain on the trees outside. She wished, only weeks before, for cooler weather. And now all they seemed to get was rain.

She let herself slip into a trance. She recited the incantations again, feeling her mind more in control that she ever felt it before. Her extra sessions in the kitchen pantry paid off. The ancient spells rolled off her tongue with an easy fluidity. The sword glowed with blue pulsations as the words were uttered, given life. Then there was a bright flash of light and she was finished. The spell for her sword was complete.

She looked around the large room for Nixa, feeling guilty at perhaps startling the little feline with all her pyrotechnics. Nixa had no mystical talents herself, no more than any average feline. It took Khamsin several years before the small cat willingly accepted their shared mental contact. And only lately was she willing to sit quietly by as Khamsin worked her mage circle and runes stones.

Seeing no sign of her cat, Khamsin stood a bit shakily and walked towards the entrance of the cave. The light outside was dim for mid-afternoon, which her inner sense told her it must be. She listened to the sounds of a distant storm. Thunder rumbled, though she saw no lighting.

But she did see a something gray slink and pause, slink and pause through the underbrush. Nixa, stalking…Khamsin lightly touched the cat’s mind. A cricket.

She shook her head, a small smile on her face and went back inside the cave. There was still one more thing she had to do.

She dusted off the mage circle and drew a new one, this time with her sword at the center. Bronya had been insistent about the creation of the sword. Khamsin felt sure part of the reason was that it would become a source of magic she could draw on.

Closing her eyes, she reached mentally for her warding stones —

—and a bolt of light flashed painfully into her mind.

She cried out. And in that brief moment of intense pain, she knew she was too late. More than a week too late. The tampering of her cupboard had been the first warning, the first sign. Others had followed, but she had kept her promise to Tavis and not returned to the cave, nor the powerful mage circle etched in its floor.

While she contented herself with twirling crockery, unspeakable
evil advanced towards the village.

She shot to her feet and ran for the entrance of the cave.

“Nixa!” she called, her voice filled with terror. The cat streaked
from the underbrush, already deeply shadowed by the dark sky overhead.

But it wasn’t a sky darkened by any natural storm. And the sounds that met Khamsin’s ears were not the rumblings of thunder nor the howl of the winds. But the crackling of burning timber and the screams of people in terror.

She stood frozen at the entrance. The sky was black with smoke, the air acrid. Then she bolted and ran wildly through the forest towards the village. Thorns and brambles tore at her skirts and ankles, searing her flesh. Branches, still wet from the morning’s light shower, whipped at her back. She stumbled, once, twice over half-buried boulders slippery with moss but continued onwards, her hands out before her, a strangled cry in her throat.

She burst out of the woods into the clearing just before the village. She slowed in her steps as the horror of the scene lay before her. Everywhere things burned, smoldering. Thatched roofs caved in, timbers jutting awkwardly through broken walls. She passed by an upended cart, nets trailing from beneath its shattered boards. Dead fish, with white, bloated bellies lay in a pool of watery blood.