by Alec Hutson
“It looks like Senacus has seen something,” Keilan said, squinting into the haze. Up ahead the paladin had stopped and was waiting for them.
Keilan kicked his horse into a canter. As if to show how well she had recovered, Nel’s horse soon passed him, plumes of red dust rising in her wake. Senacus hunched in his saddle as he watched them approach, his white cloak and armor smeared with grime.
“What is it?” Keilan asked. Senacus pointed further ahead, where a rocky spur from the nearby hills encroached upon the road.
“There’s shelter there from the dust,” Senacus said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “But others have realized this as well.”
Keilan peered into the shadows gathered in the lee of the stony outcropping. There might have been shapes there, but he couldn’t make them out clearly. “Are those wagons?”
Senacus nodded. “Aye. But they’re not merchants. I see a firebird painted on the side of one wagon, a two-headed snake on another.”
“Kindred,” Nel muttered. “They’re not likely to share their camp.”
“They might,” Keilan said. “I know a girl in the Scholia, an apprentice like me, whose mother was Kindred. She taught me something about her people. They’re wary folk, but for good reason.” The Kindred were a wandering people, traders and tinkers, grudgingly welcomed in most towns for the goods and news they brought, but also watched with suspicion. Common stories had the Kindred stealing away babes and beautiful maids and practicing dark and wild magics deep in the forests, far outside the boundaries of civilized lands. Tamryl had insisted to Keilan that these tales had less than a shred of truth to them, and if any young women had run away to join a Kindred caravan they had done so of their own free will and were most often fleeing an abusive father or husband.
“The Kindred do not welcome the Pure,” Senacus said, wiping at the red dust coating his white-scale cuirass. “Ancient disagreements. They dislike outsiders invading their privacy, and the faithful of Ama must seek out sorcery everywhere.”
“So you’ll camp here while Keilan and I enjoy some Kindred hospitality?” Nel asked.
Senacus shrugged. “I do not fear the night. Do as you will.”
“No,” Keilan said, patting the flank of his horse as it whickered uneasily, spooked by a sudden gust of stinging wind. “You still have that amulet that hides your light. Take off your armor and join us.”
The wind strengthened even further, shrieking like a banshee as it whipped the paladin’s cloak out behind him. Keilan hunkered lower on his horse until it had abated, fervently hoping the Kindred would allow them to share their fire.
“There’s wisdom in your words,” the paladin said with a sigh, and swung down from his horse.
By the time Senacus had stowed away his scale armor and the distinctive white-metal blade of the Pure, the sun had nearly completed its descent behind the western hills, casting the Iron Road into shadow. Up ahead Keilan could see the glimmer of light from within the circled wagons, and the campfire throwing twisting shapes upon the rocky cliff face rising up beside the Kindred encampment.
Nel and Keilan also slid from their saddles, and together they approached on foot, leading their horses. In a stark land known to be a home for bandits, Nel had said it was best to present themselves as unthreatening as possible, and Keilan agreed. He would prefer not to see arrows come flying out of the gathering dark.
To his surprise, they had nearly made it to the camp before a man moved out from behind the edge of a wagon, his hands resting on the hilts of a pair of scimitars. He was young, and wore a vest cinched by a sash that left his upper chest bare, despite the evening’s chill.
“Hold, and come no further,” he commanded in the common tongue, his words thickened by a strange accent. “Who goes there?”
“Travelers,” Nel said. They had decided she should be the one to speak. “We were caught out on the road as night began to fall. May we share your fire?”
The Kindred guard stroked the hilts of his swords and studied them carefully, his gaze lingering on Senacus. “No. I suggest you continue on your way. These are dangerous lands we pass through.”
Keilan took a step forward and the man tensed, half-drawing one of his scimitars. “Wait,” Keilan said, holding up his hands to show that they were empty. He cleared his throat. “Rhevis gan,” he said, hoping he’d gotten the intonation correct.
The man hesitated, and then released his sword. “You… you know our tongue.”
“Just a little. I have a friend among the Kindred. She taught me those words, in case I ever needed your people’s help.”
“And who is she?”
“Tamryl Devangine, daughter of Melika the healer.”
The man crossed his arms across his bare chest, bowing low to them. “That name is known to us. I am Feren, son of Haveril. Enter our camp and be welcome.”
They followed the man as he threaded his way between the brightly painted Kindred wagons. Scenes from epic stories unfurled along their sides, some tales Keilan knew, others he did not. In one, a blazing firebird lifted from the remnants of a shattered sun while a white dragon, coiled into the shape of a moon, watched from above. The next showed a giant with tree-trunk legs stooping to accept a bouquet of wildflowers from a small girl with blossoms in her hair. The Kindred were renowned as master storytellers, able to craft pictures with their retellings that were just as vivid as illustrations in a book.
Within the circled wagons a few dozen men and women were gathered around the fire, holding out skewers threaded with meat. The men were garbed in some variation of the open vest and billowy pants Feren was wearing, and the women wore long, loose, flowing dresses. Colorful ribbons were twined in the hair of many of the younger women—Keilan remembered Tamryl had said this meant they were unmarried, but old enough to wed.
Every face turned towards them as they emerged from between the wagons.
“Bej anak ven anak, Feren?” asked a seated older man, his curiosity evident in his voice and face.
“Mahal, Therin. Chasol yishan ven teris. Tamen gerdao Melika du tressen Tamryl.”
The older man shrugged and stood, wiping his hands on his pants. He also crossed his arms and bowed towards them, as Feren had done. “Greetings, travelers, and be welcome. Share our fire and meat. I am Therin, and this is my family. Any friend of Tamryl, daughter of Melika, is a friend of mine.”
A few of the Kindred shifted to make space for them around the fire, and Feren gestured for them to sit. No sooner had Keilan settled himself than a pretty girl with bright blue ribbons in her dark hair handed him a skewer, smiling shyly. Keilan ducked his head in thanks, feeling his cheeks start to burn, and the girls seated beside the one who had given him the skewer elbowed their friend and burst out in giggles.
To hide his embarrassment, Keilan bit down on the steaming meat. His mouth flooded with the taste of spiced lamb, perfectly cooked, and he had to restrain himself from going back for another taste before he’d swallowed what he was chewing.
“Thank you,” Nel said, accepting her own skewer. “We will remember this kindness.”
Therin waved her words away. “It’s good you’ve come. I was just thinking the mood this evening is too dour. We needed a reason to celebrate something.” He cleared his throat. “Nevis gala ven mok terath fir mes atuan,” he said loudly, and at once all conversation stopped and attention turned to Therin.
“Nevis gala ven mok terath fir mes atuan,” the shouted response came from the rest of the Kindred.
“What does that mean?” Keilan asked Feren, who had crouched beside him.
“When the night is long and cold, burn bright to scare the darkness,” he replied around his own mouthful of lamb. “Unfortunately, I have to scare the darkness in another way.” He clapped Keilan on the shoulder. “Enjoy the song and dance. I must return to my post.”
“Thank you,
” Keilan said as Feren tossed his empty skewer on the ground and stood.
“My pleasure,” he said, then smiled, gesturing with his chin towards the Kindred girls. “It seems you have some admirers.”
Keilan swallowed and risked a glance across the fire. The girl who had given him the skewer was staring at him through the flames, twining the blue ribbon in her hair around her finger as her friends whispered in her ears.
Perhaps Feren needed some help guarding the camp.
Keilan was just about to slink away from the fire and the attention of the Kindred girls when he noticed a fiddle had appeared in the hands of Therin. A small cheer went up as he started in on a skittering melody that began slow but soon was dashing like a rabbit running for cover, faster and faster and faster… until it stopped abruptly.
“Tella tella tella, mock mock mock!” yelled all the Kindred as one, then they clapped three times loudly in unison, and a moment later the fiddle resumed its frenzied racing.
A woman with curly black hair bereft of ribbons bounced to her feet and took a step back from the fire. Laughter and more cheers followed as she stamped her boots and spun, her long frilled dress flaring. She raised her hands to the sky and shook her arms and bells sewn into her sleeves rang in time to her kicking feet. Another woman with streaks of gray in her hair joined the first, and they twirled around each other, the hems of their dresses nearly touching. When the fiddle player lifted his bow they stopped instantly, and the cry came again from the other Kindred:
“Tella tella tella, mock mock mock!”
The dancing continued, different women rising to their feet to replace the ones who grew tired. Keilan soon found himself clapping along with the others and chanting every time Therin paused his playing. He lost himself as the night swirled and the music carried him away from this desolate road beside the red wastes.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, enjoying the spectacle and the fresh skewers pressed into his hands every time he finished the one he held, when he noticed an odd tingling had begun in the back of his head. Surprised, Keilan pushed himself back from the fire, wondering if what he felt could be true. He knew this feeling. But here? Now? He climbed to his feet, glancing at the shadowy wagons and the darkness beyond them. Somewhere out there…
He saw movement, and a flicker of light. Many small shapes. Keilan slipped around the edge of the wagons, the prickling in his skull growing stronger. A circle of children—perhaps seven or eight—were crouched around an old man who was sitting cross-legged. His face was lined, with only a few wispy strands of hair still clinging to his head, but his eyes were bright and lively as he coaxed a small fire to life from a few twigs and clumps of dried grass. The children—none of whom seemed older than ten—shrieked in excitement as the old man began to move his fingers and mumble under his breath. Keilan couldn’t hear what he was saying, but to his astonishment he could see what the old man was doing. Around his fluttering fingers strands of something were gathering, twisting with the rise and fall of his muttered incantations.
The old man was doing sorcery, and Keilan could see it!
A trembling tongue of flame reached from the tiny fire, as if pushed by a wind Keilan could not feel. It did not flicker, but kept its shape, and what looked like fingers unclenched from a small hand—then, with visible effort, a man no more than a span high made of rippling flame stepped from the fire. It turned its empty head to regard the giants looming above, then danced a quick jig in time to Therin’s skirling fiddle. The children laughed and clapped their hands, and the old man smiled. Beneath the dancing fire-creature the scrub was blackening, sending up thin tendrils of smoke. With a last wave at the Kindred children the sorcerer’s creation leapt back into the diminished fire and then vanished as the flames rose higher again.
Keilan’s heart was beating wildly. He had seen how the old man had done that, how he had lashed the sorcery together to animate the flames. He wanted to try… could he do the same thing? He…
Keilan glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Senacus vanishing into the night.
Oh, no.
He caught up with the paladin where they had tied their horses to a post near one of the wagons at the edge of the encampment. His hand was grasping something wedged inside his bedroll, and as Keilan moved closer he saw that it was the hilt of his white metal sword.
“Senacus,” he said, stepping out of the shadows.
The Pure did not turn around. “Keilan. You felt it as well.”
“Yes. What are you doing?”
The paladin pulled his sword half-free, the faint moonlight running like quicksilver along the naked blade. “What must be done.”
Keilan stepped forward and grasped Senacus’s arm. “What do you mean?”
The paladin shook himself free. “That man is a sorcerer. I have pledged my life to protect the world from his kind.”
“He is performing for children!”
“You said you saw what sorcerers had done in the past,” Senacus snapped back. “They brought down a doom that nearly consumed everything. If we choose to spare one sorcerer, we risk it happening again. You think that man is innocent, but I have seen other men who were thought to be innocent, and what they were capable of doing would chill your blood. The lure of using power against those who do not have it is too strong for anyone to resist.”
Keilan grabbed the paladin again, more roughly this time. He pulled hard, and Senacus stumbled slightly, finally turning to face him. “I am a sorcerer! Are you going to kill me?”
Senacus flinched as if struck. He released his sword’s hilt and his hand fell on Keilan’s arm. “You are a boy. You can still be Cleansed, and Ama can decide if you should be spared to rise again.”
“And if I resist you? If I refuse to come to Menekar after all this is finished? Will you strike me down?”
Senacus’s jaw clenched, and his grip on Keilan’s arm tightened.
Keilan ignored the pain and stared fiercely back at the paladin. “If that is what you plan on doing, kill me now. I will never be Cleansed. Never.”
Something shivered in the paladin’s face. He was silent for a long moment. “I won’t kill you, Keilan,” he finally said softly. “Even if the High Seneschal commands it.”
“Then let the old man live,” Keilan pressed. “He is just a grandfather entertaining his family. Will you murder all the Kindred here? They will surely fight to protect him. They have shared their fire and their food.”
The paladin’s shoulders slumped. Moving slowly, he unlooped his horse’s reins from the wooden post where it had been tied up. Without turning back to Keilan he started leading his horse away, into the darkness.
“Where are you going?” Keilan cried after him.
“I will meet you on the road tomorrow. Sleep well,” he said over his shoulder, then continued on, and was quickly swallowed by the night.
Lady Willa ri Numil grimaced as her carriage trundled along the broken streets, pain shivering up her spine with every jarring bounce. She shifted, trying to find a slightly more comfortable spot among the mound of plush cushions, but it was hopeless. Was the driver making a game of hitting every hole in the street?
She leaned forward, rapping with her ebonwood cane on the panel across from where she sat, and a moment later it slid open.
“Yes, Lady Numil?” Her driver’s voice sounded strained, like he was expecting her complaints.
“Are you trying to shake me to pieces in here, Havrid?”
“No, my lady. My deepest apologies. The roads in this part of the Salt are nearly as bad as in the Warrens. I don’t think they’ve been repaired in a hundred years.”
With an annoyed sigh she sank back into the cushions… and then was thrown forward again as the carriage lurched like one of its wheels had nearly fallen off.
Agony erupted in her lower back, and she h
issed in pain, her grip on her cane white-knuckled. Why had the gods made aging so terrible? You’d think after putting up with this mess of a world they’d created for seven decades they’d allow her to live out her twilight years in comfort. But no. Every day was a constant litany of aches and chills and cramps, punctuated by the occasional bout of intense pain.
Finally, her carriage shuddered to a halt. The door swung open, and she was poised to leap out of the carriage, surprising the constable standing outside. What was his name? Ah, Benwise. Handsome boy, if a bit simple.
“Lady Numil!” he exclaimed, hurrying to take hold of her arm.
“Constable,” she replied, letting him help her down. Gods, it felt good to have the ground beneath her feet.
The smell was worse out here, though. This section of the Salt was mostly uninhabited, just rows of huge warehouses where the merchants and trading houses stored their goods. Because of the lack of people, it made a perfect area to dispose of various unsavory things, such as the offal from the nearby fish market that wasn’t even wanted as bait, or refuse that was too rank for more populated neighborhoods.
Not that there weren’t a few denizens who called this district home. In the fading light Willa saw a shadow recede deeper into one of the alleys between the warehouses. They were probably confused about what a gilded carriage from the Bright was doing down here, on the insalubrious side of the docks.
She was a bit confused herself. “Constable,” she said, continuing to steady herself on his arm as he guided her towards one of the looming warehouses, “why exactly did you call me down here so late? Your message was a bit cryptic.”