The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Is that right? She’s bought more land?” Dormael asked.

  “The business doubled year before last, and then again last year,” Allen said. “The Old Witch Herself thinks that it will double again next year.”

  Dormael uttered a short laugh. He and his brother had always referred to their mother as The Old Witch Herself. The familiar nick-name brought a smile to his face.

  “Do you remember why we used to call her that?” Dormael asked.

  “You don’t?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Remember when she would whip us, then chase out of the house—”

  “—yelling at us to go tell everyone that The Old Witch Herself had done it to us,” Dormael laughed. “That’s right. How could I have forgotten?”

  “Too much drinking, too much Shaman’s Leaf,” Allen smiled. “Looks like you’re getting fat, too. All that affects your mind.”

  “So she’s raking in money?” Dormael said.

  “That she is,” Allen replied. “Doesn’t know what to do with it all, either. She’s been getting orders all the way from Thardin, if you can believe it. Special delivery, summer firewine. It’s been going there for a few years, now. Isn’t that illegal?”

  “It’s illegal in Thardin,” Dormael said. “The last I heard, we’ve only outlawed trading with Rashardians and the Dannons. Not that they’d have anything to trade but rat skins and blood sacrifice.”

  “Whoever it is, they pay her well,” Allen shrugged. “She just keeps expanding. She holds that over pop’s head all the time, tells him that she’s ‘international’ now.”

  “What does he say?” Dormael asked, a smile coming to his face.

  “He grumbles about all the new hands needed to work the vineyard, the new equipment, how unmanageable the homestead is becoming…you know how he is. He does a few smithing jobs for people in town, but mostly he writes music and talks politics with anyone who will listen. Until the next raiding cycle comes along, anyway. Hasn’t been much work for a weaponsmith lately, but you know how it is. I’ve been trying to get the old man to meet some people from Tept, maybe hammer out a few weapons for the fighters, but he says he’s got no interest in letting his operation get out of control like mother’s. The old man should consider it, though. He makes good steel when he can be bothered to do it.”

  “He really does,” Dormael agreed.

  For the rest of the ride, Allen made light conversation with D’Jenn, and doted over Bethany. Dormael chewed on his anxiety at seeing his family again, and at the sudden decision he’d made to adopt the youngling. D’Jenn’s eyes bored into Dormael the entire ride, and even Shawna gave him strange, considering looks. If anyone had asked him to explain his sudden decision, he wouldn’t have been able to put it into words. In the moment, though, he had realized that there was no other way that things could have turned out. Dormael had never thought of himself as fatherly material, but someone had to look out for the girl—more specifically, someone who was Blessed.

  Then, there was the fact that he loved her. He had realized it at some point in the journey, but had kept it quiet, even when talking to himself. The two of them had settled into a pattern—in fact, all the companions had—and it seemed the most natural thing in the world. The thought of giving her up, even leaving her at the Conclave for training, clenched his heart like a fist.

  Let the others look at him like a fool. The only important thing was how Bethany had looked at him when he’d said it out loud. He listened to the tall tales that Allen told her the entire way back home, and couldn’t keep the smile from his face. She looked happy, and that made him happy, too. It soothed some of the anxiety he felt at seeing his family again.

  When they rode up to the lawn before the house, Dormael’s mother and father were already on the porch. There were people gathered nearby—cousins, friends of the family, distant relatives and close ones alike. Children ran and tumbled in the yard, and Dormael could already smell something wonderful being cooked from inside the house.

  Dormael’s mother was a portly woman with a striking head of red hair about three shades darker than Shawna’s. She let out a series of incoherent exclamations as she came down the stairs, gesturing for all of them to climb down and give her hugs. Dormael sighed and let her pull him into a tight embrace, but returned it with genuine warmth.

  “It’s good to see you, old woman,” he said.

  “Fuck yourself,” she laughed, wiping a tear from her cheek. The old bat was always crying about one thing or another. She pushed him away, then went on a tour of his companions, embracing every one of them in turn. She surprised Shawna by foregoing the traditional bow, and pulling her into a laughing hug. His mother had always been friendly to a fault.

  “I’m sure my sons have told you nothing about me,” she said, smiling as she held Shawna at an arm’s length. “I’m Yanette.”

  “Shawna,” the noblewoman replied, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Shawna Llewan.”

  “And who,” Yanette said, turning to Bethany, “is this lovely lady?”

  “This,” Allen said before Dormael could open his mouth, “is your new granddaughter.”

  Everyone froze.

  Yanette gave Allen a sharp look, and Allen shoved an accusatory finger in Dormael’s direction. She turned that look on Dormael, then back to Bethany, and then to Shawna. Shawna shook her head, holding her hands for peace, and the look got turned on D’Jenn. D’Jenn burst out laughing.

  “I’ve adopted her, ma,” Dormael said. “Her name is Bethany. She’s got Eindor’s Blessing.”

  Yanette gave him an astonished glance, then crouched down to Bethany’s level. Bethany was tentative, and looked to Dormael askance. He smiled and winked at her, his hands waving in the Hunter’s Tongue.

  It’s alright, little one.

  “Let me get a look at you,” Yanette said, taking Bethany’s face in her hands. “My granddaughter…my first granddaughter. Has anyone told you, child, that you’ve got eyes like a pair of emeralds? So green. Like the grass in the middle of summer. And Blessed, too? We’ve got so many wizards in the family, now.” She smiled then, tears coming to her eyes, and held the girl out at arm’s length. “Do you know what grandmothers do, child?”

  “No,” Bethany said.

  “They spoil you rotten,” Allen cut in. “Don’t listen to a thing The Old Witch Herself tells you, kid. Trust me.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Yanette said.

  “She trusts me already, ma. We’ve bonded now. You can’t corrupt her,” Allen said.

  “Did he tell you that gnomes live under the house, and that they crawl up out of the floorboards at night to pinch your toes?” Yanette asked, peering sideways at Bethany. The girl nodded.

  “Doubt the gnomes at your peril,” Allen said. “Let your toes get pinched, girl.”

  “What grandmothers do,” Yanette said, riding over Allen’s comments, “is feed you until you can barely eat. Then we feed you more.”

  Bethany smiled. “I think I like grandmothers.”

  Yanette laughed. “I like you, too.” She yelled over her shoulder, “Somebody get Judi down here—find my sister! She’ll want to meet little Bethany, too.”

  “Don’t go passing my granddaughter around before I see her,” Dormael’s father said, coming down the steps. Saul Harlun was a tall, lean man. He had close-cropped hair and a beard of the same length, both of them long gone to gray. He favored Bethany with a wide grin, and shook her hand. “You should know, before you get tossed between aunts and uncles, that grandfathers are the best. We tell lots of stories.”

  Bethany’s smile grew even wider.

  “I like stories, too,” she said.

  With that, the rest of the relatives closed in, and the lawn descended into shaking hands and chattering voices. Bethany was snatched away by Yanette and a veritable squad of women, all of them gushing over the girl. Children ran in their wake, all of them close to her age scrambling to make their introductions to
the new girl. Saul watched the tornado of family sweep out onto the lawn, then into the house, and turned back to Dormael.

  They clasped forearms, and Dormael’s father drew him into a hug.

  “Welcome home, son,” he said.

  “It’s good to see you, old man,” Dormael smiled. Things were always a bit awkward between Dormael and his father, but not so bad that he didn’t love the old codger. “You look terrible. Like you’ve got one foot in the grave already.”

  Saul laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “I can still kick the shit out of you, boy,” he said. “You and your brother forget—you’re both just imperfect shadows of me. I came first.”

  “Nothing imperfect about me,” Allen said. “That’s how I know you’re a liar, old man.”

  “I’ve been saving something for the day I had both you boys here at the same time,” Saul said, a smile on his face. “D’Jenn—you’re coming, too. All the better that you’re here to partake in this.”

  “Partake in what?” Dormael asked.

  “Come and see, boys,” Saul Harlun said. “And may the gods weep for you.”

  ***

  After Bethany had been stolen away by a mob of women and children, Shawna followed the men. She’d smiled at Dormael’s mother, but she had nothing in common with these women who ran the household, or raised children. Before any of this had started, she might have went along to play with the children, or something else her father would have thought proper. The last season had changed her on such a fundamental level that she couldn’t go back. Shawna’s life was now about the sword, about battle. Surrounded by those who had chosen family and home—had been given that choice, anyway—Shawna felt very out of place.

  No one said anything as Shawna followed them—Dormael, D’Jenn, Allen, and their father—around the side of the sprawling house, and to a backyard larger than her father’s pastures. Shawna looked around with awe, surprised at the wealth of Dormael’s family. If one judged wealth by the amount of land any one family owned, then his family was at least as rich as hers—maybe more so. The man spoke as if he came from the lowest class of society, yet his family owned more land than half the nobility in Cambrell.

  They made their way across browned grass, toward a long, low cabin tucked away by itself. The wood looked new, as if the thing had been built in the last season. Saul Harlun pushed open a door, and motioned everyone inside. The men ducked through the shadowed doorway, and Shawna slipped in after them.

  Her nose was assaulted with a pungent, earthy smell. Something about it made her mouth water, but made her want to sneeze at the same time. Shawna shuffled around in the darkness with everyone else, listening while Saul rustled around in the shadows.

  “Hold on, let me find the right…ah, here it is,” he said, throwing a lever.

  Shutters opened all along the walls of the cabin, letting in the afternoon sunlight. Down the center of the cabin ran a beam, with scores of tiny wooden arms extending from it. The arms themselves were bare, but beneath the arms sat rows of wooden crates, full of what looked like dried herbs—the source of the pungent smell.

  “You old bastard,” Dormael laughed. “I can’t believe you finally did it.”

  Saul had a huge smile on his face. “I got that friend of yours to bring me a bush. Jarek, the Mal.”

  Dormael smiled. “He would have, wouldn’t he?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re complaining, boy. The process isn’t much different from the tobacco your mother sends to you, either. Uses all the same equipment,” Saul said. “This is all from this past season, from the first test crop. Next planting, I’ve got a whole field of seed ready to toss out.”

  “You’re farming now?” Dormael asked.

  Saul shrugged. “We’re all farmers, boy—at least a little. In any case, I’m not doing the work myself. I’ll probably hire a troop of your worthless cousins to do the heavy lifting.”

  “Is this all curing, or is there something ready to smoke?” Dormael asked.

  “Did you think I’d drag you back here just to show you the process, my son?” Saul replied with a wink. He gestured to Allen, and the younger Harlun ran off to grab something. Shawna smiled at Saul as he regarded her.

  “Have you ever smoked the Shaman’s Leaf before, young woman?” Saul asked.

  “Is that what this is called?” Shawna said, gesturing around at the crates. “The Shaman’s Leaf?”

  “Aye,” Saul said, smiling around at the hut. “The Mals—our sister tribe to the southwest—smoke the Shaman’s Leaf before any important discussion. They have a story about the Leaf, even.”

  “What’s the story?” Shawna asked.

  Saul cleared his throat. “It’s said that after Evmir forged the world, he let the other gods come down to have a look. The gods walked over every part of Eldath, so that they could see his creation and give gifts to the world. The legend is that Devla fell so in love with the savannas of Tasha-Mal that she cried at the sight of it, and from her tears sprang the first sprigs of the Shaman’s Leaf.”

  “It’s a pretty story,” Shawna said. “I’ve never heard of the Shaman’s Leaf. Is this some sort of religious practice, then?”

  The men all laughed.

  At that moment, Allen came back with a long-stemmed pipe, packed with what Shawna assumed was the pungent Leaf. He handed it to Dormael, who shook his head and passed it to his father. Saul took the pipe, then gave all the boys in the room a withering look.

  “None of you thought to offer it to the lady first?” he said. “You’ve all been on the road too long.”

  He held the pipe out to her, and Shawna suddenly felt nailed to the spot. She’d never smoked anything before, whether it was tobacco, or anything else. She took the pipe in delicate hands, though, and put her mouth to the other end.

  “It’s going to make you cough, now,” Saul said. “Keep your head, and you’ll see why it’s worth the trouble.”

  “If you say so,” Shawna muttered. She nearly squealed with surprise when D’Jenn used his magic to light the pipe for her, but she didn’t shy away from taking a long pull. The smoke filled her mouth, and she sucked a quick breath into her lungs.

  She immediately regretted it.

  The men all laughed while she practically coughed her head off. Shawna heaved so long that spots appeared before her vision, and she had to hold the pipe out blindly and wait for someone to snatch it away. Hands patted her back, and helped her to straighten when she was done. She tried to hide her embarrassment at having descended into such a fit, but felt her face begin to redden all the same.

  “Why would anyone want to do that?” she breathed.

  “You’ll see, young lady,” Saul said, a wide grin cracking his weathered face in two. “You’ll see.”

  Shawna was heartened to see every one of the men have a coughing fit comparable to her own. The good-natured taunting put her in a pleasant mood, and by the time the pipe made its way back around to her, the afternoon light had taken on a hazy, comfortable quality. She smiled and declined another pull on the pipe, letting it go past her to Dormael’s brother.

  Allen eyed her sideways throughout the time he took to take his puff of the Shaman’s Leaf, then took one of her wrists gently in his hand. Shawna was a bit taken aback by the forwardness of his gesture, but no one else in the room had noticed, so she made herself relax. She had thought she’d grown used to Sevenlander customs, and their lack of recognizable decorum, on the road with Dormael and D’Jenn. Some things still caught her off-guard from time to time, though—such as being grabbed out of nowhere.

  “Jumpy?” Allen asked, pulling her sleeve up to reveal the Marks on her wrists. “I knew it. No one carries two swords without the Mark.”

  “Is that right?” Shawna asked, pulling her wrist away from his light grip.

  Allen smiled. “Aye. It’s easy to use a sword and an axe, say—a child can use an axe, you know. The motions are simple. A sword, though…for an off-hand, that requi
res a bit of skill. Or a set of balls like a horse, and I’m assuming you don’t have a pair of those.”

  “I do not,” Shawna said, a smile creeping its way onto her face. Any other time, she might have been irritated by such a bawdy joke at her expense, but now the irritation was itself something to laugh about. She felt relaxed, and warmed by the murmuring voices around her. “But you’re right. Most people who carry two swords are just wasting steel.”

  Allen looked at her sideways again. “Sheran style blades, too?” He nodded to himself, looking her over with an appraising eye. It wasn’t the same sort of appraising look she got from Dormael, though. Allen was studying her, sizing her up. “Very interesting choice. How long have you been Marked?”

  Shawna fixed him with a level gaze. “The answer to that question is only owed to someone with steel in their hands. Tradition, you understand.”

  “Tradition, eh?” Allen smiled, holding his hands up in surrender. “Very well. The sun is still shining out there. Let’s take advantage of it. How about a wager?”

  “You just want to challenge Shawna to a fight,” D’Jenn sighed. “You’ve been practically itching to do it since you realized she was a Blademaster.”

  “You’re a Blademaster?” Saul asked, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “Gods be damned. I think I’m in love, boys.”

  Dormael blew a long puff of smoke into the center of the room.

  “Leave her alone, brother. We’ve been on the road for weeks, and the sea before that. Besides—she’s never smoked the Leaf before.”

  All the eyes in the room turned on Shawna at once, and she could do nothing but laugh in the face of so many serious gazes. Something about the entire thing was just so damned funny, so ridiculous. She couldn’t stop laughing about it. Everyone else in the cabin felt the same way, and the pungent room filled with bubbling laughter.

  “He’s right,” D’Jenn said, after the fit had died down. “She’s not fighting anyone.”

  “How about you, big brother?” Allen asked, taking a pull. “The men will be having spear fights as soon as the meat starts roasting. What do you think? Do you remember how to use a spear?”