As the sun sank below the horizon and the wind grew cooler in the fading twilight, the companions took shelter on the lee side of a large boulder some distance from the road. Dormael and D’Jenn busied themselves with setting up the campsite, erecting shelters and taking care of the horses, while Shawna worked on the evening meal. Seylia only sat by the firepit, strumming idly on her guitar and making conversation. Dormael tried not to laugh—Seylia had never the type to set up her own campfire—but he could see the tension in Shawna’s jaw as she started putting food together. He came over to help her when he was done, but it didn’t help with the disapproval in her expression every time she looked Seylia’s way, or heard her voice.
The fire was crackling by the time they had eaten. The conversation was amiable, the mood surprisingly light as the two wizards lit their pipes and relaxed. Shawna was repairing her battle leathers, and Seylia was strumming idly on her guitar.
“Tell me another story,” Bethany asked Seylia, breaking a long silence.
“Another story? You haven’t had enough stories for today?” Seylia asked with a smile.
“No,” Bethany shrugged, her expression completely serious.
“What shall we tell you tonight, then? Any suggestions, Dormael?” Seylia asked, elbowing him from his half-doze.
“I think I know something sufficiently bloody,” he smiled. “Tell her the Song of Tirrin.”
“Good choice,” Seylia winked.
“What’s Tirrin?” Bethany asked, scooting closer to Seylia and leaning forward to listen.
“Not what, dear, but who,” D’Jenn explained, smoke pouring from his mouth in a slow cascade as he spoke. “Tirrin was a Farra-Jerran kansil—a chieftain—many years in the past. He died in the Gathan Mountains, on a raid against the Garthorin.” Dormael felt him whisper a bit of magic into the night, and forms appeared in the smoke, shifting vaguely back and forth.
“The Garthorin?” Bethany asked, staring into the smoke.
“Monsters that live in the mountains in the northernmost part of the Sevenlands,” D’Jenn said. He gestured, and hazy, monstrous forms began moving around in the smoke. “They’re strong, clever, and mad with hunger for human flesh.”
“They eat people?” the youngling asked, her eyes going wide.
“Aye, they do. If they catch you, they’ll gut you right on the spot and gobble you down like a piece of meat,” Dormael said, affecting a dramatic tone.
“And that, little one, is what happened to Tirrin,” Seylia said, jabbing a delicate finger at Bethany’s belly.
“They killed him?” Bethany asked in a near whisper. “They ate him?”
“Seylia can tell you the story,” Dormael said. “Just listen.”
Seylia winked at Bethany and began to play, plucking out a lilting, sad melody on her guitar. D’Jenn smiled and settled against his saddlebags, pulling his hood over his eyes. Dormael could feel his Kai whispering, though, evoking hazy images in the smoke that poured from his pipe. Bethany sat transfixed as Seylia began to sing.
“Cold winter winds blew, the ice formed anew
The day that Tirrin rode forth
With sword, shield, and lance and lover’s last glance
He made for the cold, barren north
Through low stunted tree and loose rocky scree
Tirrin and party rode past
Into the snow and no man would know
That this would be Tirrin’s last
Into the mouth of the storm he rode
Carrying his ring and his crown
Over the ice he met his foes
And they struck bold Tirrin down…”
Seylia sang in a light, silvery voice, going through the stanzas with the practiced ease of a professional. Bethany was entranced, swaying back and forth in time to the music, and staring deep into the warring figures that D’Jenn made dance for her in the smoke. Even Shawna listened in, though she kept her hands busy.
According to the legend, Tirrin had been a foolish Farra-Jerran kansil that had been voted into his position on his popularity. He had many friends among the clan leaders, and had won fame for his prowess as a warrior. Apparently his strengths didn’t translate into ruling the tribe.
The story went that Tirrin spent much of his time at sport, chasing women, and going on raids into the Garthorin territory. He had led many successful raids into the Gathan Mountains, but as the story went, the man had grown overconfident. Tirrin was supposed to have been obsessed with attaining personal glory.
Inevitably, his recklessness caught up with him. He organized the largest raid that Farra-Jerra had ever seen, and led it north into the mountains in order to wipe the Garthorin out. Legend had it that Tirrin went so far north that he found the home of the Garthorin, and it was there that he and his entire force were slaughtered.
When Tirrin’s expedition disappeared, he took his crown with him. The story was that he also had some sort of magical ring—an heirloom significant to the office of the kansil. For as long as anyone could remember, brave—and idiotic—adventurers had been traveling into the Gathan Mountains looking for Tirrin’s Lost Treasure. The ring was apparently priceless and powerful beyond measure, but Dormael suspected that it had never even existed. No one knew for certain, of course, because no one had ever found the remains of Tirrin’s expedition. Whether it was because no one had made it far enough to the north, to the mysterious home of the Garthorin, or because Tirrin was nothing more than a story, Dormael couldn’t say. To this day, peddlers tried to sell cheap trinkets dubbed ‘Tirrin’s Lost Treasure’ to anyone who was foolish enough to buy them. They were a favorite with children.
Dormael turned in to sleep earlier than normal. He enjoyed the company of his friends, but Seylia’s voice was lulling him to slumber like the song of some mythical creature. He made sure to lay his bedroll somewhere away from the others, to make a point about wishing to sleep alone. Dormael burrowed down into this blankets, and let the Song of Tirrin drag him into a deep sleep. He thought he felt Shawna’s eyes on him, but he was too tired to take a peek and find out.
The next few days went by with little comfort.
Seylia worked at being as condescending as possible to Shawna, and acted oblivious to the effects of her manner. Shawna, in answer to Seylia’s baiting, became ever more irritable as the days wore on. Fake smiles flew back and forth like arrows as the two women fenced, and Dormael could feel the tension resonating in his Kai.
For his part, Dormael made sure that he did nothing to draw either woman’s ire. D’Jenn shot him looks that said plainly where he thought to lay blame about the situation, though Dormael wasn’t sure how in the Six Hells he was supposed to do something about it. He was sure that it had less to do with him than D’Jenn thought, and if he hadn’t been part of the equation, the women would just find something else to drag between them—most likely Bethany.
The youngling was already being tossed between the two women like a ball in a village square. Shawna had taken to teaching Bethany a few basic things about fighting—like how to move her feet, and where to watch for danger. Seylia, by the third night out from Mistfall, would tempt the youngling away with lich tales and songs about princesses. Bethany was always given free reign to do as she pleased, so Shawna grinned and pretended as if the intrusions didn’t bother her. Dormael, however, could see her jaw working as she watched Seylia ride. Her expression was a thundercloud.
On the sixth night out from the city, they camped a good distance from the road near a sprawling field. After the meal was finished, Dormael and D’Jenn settled down to enjoy a pipe around the fire. Bethany finished her lessons and meditation, and Dormael spent a few moments enjoying the silence.
“Lady Shawna,” Seylia asked, “why do you carry such beastly weapons?”
Dormael braced himself.
“The reason I carry Sheran blades,” Shawna said, keeping her tone light, “is that they lend themselves to my style. They're light, elegant, and quick.” Shawna reached to he
r side and slid one of her blades from its sheath, letting the quicksilver steel catch the firelight. “They conceal a certain brutality, though. The blade is a bit wider toward the tip than other swords, which adds just enough weight to sever a limb clean from its socket—often on a single swing. A Sheran shortsword is so often underestimated by the careless, and the foolish. As I said—they suit me.”
Shawna pointed the sword across the fire at Seylia, letting the flames lick over the surface of the metal. The fire’s reflection sent shimmering patterns of light swimming along the blade’s length. She held the sword there for a moment before pulling it back and favoring Seylia with a cool smile.
Seylia smiled back. “A bow just seems like a weapon better suited to a lady, especially a noble one like yourself. The sword is just so…masculine. It must be terribly disappointing for your father.”
Seylia let out a titter, oblivious to the stillness that had seized the campsite.
Shawna’s gaze was sharp enough to cut out her heart.
“Let me inform you of something, you insufferable little harpy,” Shawna said. She got to her feet, eyes cool as she regarded the scandalized look on Seylia’s face. Her hand still gripped her sword in a way that made Dormael nervous, though he knew Shawna wouldn’t kill for such petty reasons. Still—it was best he do something to head this storm off before it could get started. He got to his feet.
“Shawna, listen—,” he began.
Shawna, eyes still locked to Seylia, punched him dead in the nose.
He stumbled back, surprised as his face exploded with pain. Tears filled his eyes, and he tasted blood in his mouth. She hadn’t hit him overly hard, but the girl was so good with her hands that it had landed in exactly the right spot.
Gods, the woman can throw a punch.
“I’ve been suffering your little snubs, your underhanded comments, your covert disdain since we left Mistfall,” Shawna continued, not even looking at Dormael. “I’ve ignored them—and not because I fear the repercussions of confronting you, but because some things are just beneath a lady with any sort of honor. I’m sure you don’t understand, but that’s irrelevant. There’s only one thing I want you to realize, Seylia, dear.”
Shawna whipped the blade of her sword so close to Seylia’s face that the woman started back.
“If this were Cambrell, I would be well within my rights to demand satisfaction for the dishonor you have shown me—do you understand?”
“Really, lady, this is unnecessary,” Seylia said, trying her best to laugh off the situation. Her eyes, though, were as wide as river stones. “It was only a jest.”
“Empty, honeyed words won’t save you if I decide to carve up your pretty face,” Shawna went on, delivering the threat in a flat, direct tone. “Any scar across that delicate skin would just ruin things for you, wouldn’t it? How would you get so many men to lie with you if you were ugly? Certainly you don’t want that.”
“Certainly.” Seylia’s tone was insolent, but she said nothing else.
Shawna held her gaze for a moment longer, then sheathed her sword. She shot Dormael a guarded look, then turned away and headed for her blankets. Everyone sat frozen in the wake of her departure, the fire crackling into the silence.
Seylia let out a nervous breath, then tried to cover it with a laugh. She looked around, as if to engender silent support, but found only the frustrated stares of the two wizards. Her mouth tightened, and she looked away.
“You could have tried to help,” Dormael grumbled, hitting D’Jenn in the shoulder.
“That little quarrel had nothing to do with me,” D’Jenn replied, giving him a flat look.
Dormael shook his head, and made to sit back against his saddle. Seylia came and squatted next to him, wincing at his nose. She pulled a handkerchief from her jacket and began to dab at the blood on his face.
“That was quite the performance,” she commented in a light tone. “A little barbaric, perhaps, but she made her point clear. I thought Cambrellian ladies were supposed to be poised and polite.”
Shawna either didn’t hear Seylia, or chose not to engage with her—a thing for which Dormael was thankful. He only grunted in answer, and let Seylia clean his face as the pain in his head became a slow throb. He lit his pipe again, and puffed blue smoke into the night air as he leaned back against his saddle, letting his eyes fill with the stars above. His face felt like it was slowly filling with a strange fluid made of needles. He wished, and not for the first time, that healing abilities with magic were much greater than what they were. The thought of having a swollen face for the entire wintry ride to Gameritus made him simmer in quiet anger.
It was a long time before he fell asleep.
***
Dormael stood on windswept hills.
Waving, sand-colored grass stretched out in all directions around him, rolling gently with the lay of the land. The sky was a roiling mass of dark gray clouds, as if a storm was happening in the heavens that never reached the ground. The wind whipped through his ears, though Dormael doubted there would be much to hear without it. This place, wherever it was supposed to be, was empty as far as he could see.
He had a moment of confusion, but he knew he was dreaming. His Blessing allowed him to dream lucidly—an ability that all wizards shared. He took a deep breath, and grounded his consciousness, sinking into the dream like a warm pond.
He had been here once before.
Dormael took a look around. He waved his hand through the waist-high grass, but it twisted away from his touch, as if it found his fingers repugnant. In the distance, toward what he felt was north, there were high, craggy mountains stretching all across the horizon. Their summits disappeared into the roiling haze of clouds above. Moving his head to look around left him disoriented, as if everything he saw rolled across his vision. It took him a moment to get used to the sensation.
This was the armlet’s dream. Dormael remembered the stormy skies, the rolling hills, and the wind. The last time he had been pulled into the artifact’s dream, Bethany had been there, too. A nauseating wave suddenly ripped through the very fabric of the dream, sending Dormael to his knees as it passed. He felt like sicking up in the grass, which still tried to twist away from his touch.
I should have remembered the gods-damned wave.
Grimacing, Dormael climbed to his feet and looked to the source of the violent disruption. He had a feeling that he knew what he’d find there. Steeling himself for the disorientation he knew he would feel, he turned and leaped toward the center of this strange landscape.
The hills rushed by in a series of blurry jumps, and before the dizziness could catch up with him, Dormael stopped in the shadow of an ancient stone temple. It was much as he remembered it—eight columns carved with archaic representations of the gods, all holding up a circular slab of stone. A bowl sat on a raised dais in the center of the old temple, perched beneath the opening to the sky. As Dormael looked up, he saw that the shrine was the center of the silent storm in the clouds, the roiling mass spinning over the old temple like a top. The fact that it made no sound sent shivers down Dormael’s spine.
“Ketha…”
The voice startled Dormael away from his perusal of the sky. He looked at the temple, and saw a form crouched in supplication before the altar, his fist on the ground. A long spear was stuck into the ground outside the temple, a large shield resting against it. Dormael crept forward, keeping his eyes firmly on the praying man. He wasn’t sure if the man would be able to see him or not, but he was damned sure that he hadn’t been there just seconds before. Dormael was half afraid the man would disappear if he looked away.
The stranger wore some sort of archaic leather-and-scale armor, of a style that Dormael didn’t recognize. He had a sword sheathed at his side, but it was definitely an older weapon. No quillons poked from the hilt, and it was shorter than most longswords. He was muttering something, a prayer that Dormael couldn’t quite hear.
With a start, he realized that the man was
speaking Old Vendon—the ancient language of the Sevenlands. Dormael had studied it at the Conclave, as all wizards were required to do, but it had been a while since he’d attempted to speak the dead tongue. He flexed his mental capacity, and bent his ear to the man’s prayer.
“Please,” he said, “hear my call. What am I to do? Where…where is your damned mercy? Where’s the justice?”
Dormael crept closer as he listened in, steadily moving toward the shrine. He moved around behind the man and shot a look at his eyes. The stranger was gazing at the stone floor of the ancient temple, though Dormael got the distinct impression that the man was unaware of his presence. This was a scene, then—something the armlet wanted him to see.
“My people are dying by the thousands,” the man went on. “Entire clans have fallen to the horde. The men are slaughtered, the women…well, why am I telling you, after all? You know what’s happening. You know!”
Dormael thought he saw something move in his periphery, but there was nothing there when he looked. The long grasses whipped in the wind, and the clouds roiled above. Dormael felt that there should have been thunder, but the only noise was the constant breeze. He peeked over the edge of the bowl and saw a sprig of ivy left in offering, ripe with black berries. The leaves were a vivid green against the washed-out stone of the bowl.
“Why have you allowed this to happen? Are we not your people, are we not…not worth more than chattel? I’ve mustered the tribes against the horde, I’ve done everything I could to stop them! I’ve given you a river of blood…why do you still turn your eyes from my people?” the man pleaded.
When Dormael turned his gaze back to the kneeling man, he almost fell over in surprise. Behind him stood a group of people, all arrayed in a semicircle around the old temple. A gray-robed man with eyes the color of the roiling sky scowled openly at the praying man’s back. The woman beside him had yellow hair that was alive in the wind, and she looked on with an expression of pity. Beside her stood a warrior, expression exultant and eyes full of righteous anger. A motherly woman looked on with sadness, and another young man with indifference. Dormael looked once again to the kneeling man to see if he had noticed the people behind him, but when he took his eyes from them, they disappeared.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 45