“Well, sit and tell me,” Sayri suggested, taking her arm and leading her to a seat on the patio. “I will make tea.”
The old woman allowed herself to be seated, but placed her hand on Sayri’s arm before she could move away. “Say-ree, I hear news about Acha,” she said softly, using her pet name for Arad.
Sayri drifted onto the wooden bench opposite her. “Yes,” she breathed.
Ooji frowned again. “He not at garrison anymore,” she said.
“Where is he, Ooji Elder? I must go to him,” Sayri insisted.
Ooji shook her head. “Girl not go,” she said sadly. “Acha go south island. He make war on . . . on people there.”
“South island? Where is that? Is it far?” Sayri asked. Arad had gone to war? Sayri felt her stomach lurch as an image of him manifested in her imagination, surrounded by enemies and fighting for his life.
“It far, girl. Too far,” Ooji shook her head again. “And much too danger, men fighting there. You no choice, wait here with Ooji Elder.” She took Sayri’s hands in hers, squeezing her fingers tightly as if to not let her go. “Say-ree, you wait here with Ooji Elder.”
Sayri held the old woman’s eyes for a long moment; she saw concern and compassion there. Finally she pulled her hand free, stood and walked to the edge of the patio, looking out over the town. Slowly it was becoming more active, people and orey and wagons moving about on the hard dirt streets just lit by the dawn’s warming rays. The yellow-orange, blockish buildings still looked strange and harsh to her; she missed the grey stone and painted wood of Benn’s Harbour. Or better yet, the moss-covered thatched roofs of the Lower Valley. It had been so long since she had seen home.
She sighed, and closed her eyes, her back still to the old woman. “I can’t stay here, Ooji Elder,” she declared. Then she waited.
To her surprise, Ooji didn’t argue with her. Instead, Sayri jumped as she felt a hand on her elbow; the old woman had demonstrated again her ability to move silent as a cat, despite aging bones and stiffening muscles.
“You hear voice again,” Ooji said quietly, her eyes sparkling with amazement.
“Ooji Elder, do you know what a volcano is?” Sayri inquired tentatively.
Ooji frowned. “It big mountain shoot fire,” she replied. “Fire, and smoke, and dust that burn inside if you breathe. Very dangerous,” she added with a nod, as if passing final judgement.
Sayri swallowed. The old panic of her flight threatened to rise again; she forced it down. Not a victim.
“Ooji Elder, where is the volcano?”
The old woman stood there, her hand on Sayri’s arm. Her face was streaked with distress, as if she had already lost the young girl. Then she turned toward the house suddenly. “I make tea.”
“Ooji Elder?” Sayri called at her back. The old woman froze. “I have to go there. Where is the volcano? Please!” The last was a cry of desperation, more plea than demand.
Ooji sighed; her shoulders slumped. “It south island,” she answered sadly without looking back, then she continued into the house. After a few moments Sayri heard her begin grinding the tea leaves.
・
She had been left alone with her thoughts while Ooji went back to the village to collect supplies for her journey. Though they had seen no indication that warders were still seeking her out—some had even, at times, passed within shouting distance of the house and had seen her on the patio without reacting—they both still thought it best for her to keep a low profile until departing.
Sayri didn’t want to leave. She had become comfortable at the house with Ooji, and she felt as though her training was extremely valuable. She was more calm, now, more objective, and more thoughtful. She felt as if the world didn’t have quite so chaotic a hold on her anymore. She felt that somehow, inside herself at least, she was somewhat in control.
Not in control of the Voice, of course. That continued to be a complete enigma to her, and Ooji had no insight on it. When they performed exercises to test her spirit and will, the old woman was just as shocked as she was when the Voice stepped in to answer her questions, or guide her attention. They had even, after an intense morning during which Sayri’s focus was pushed to the limit, discovered that the Voice—Ooji sometimes called it her spirit guide, as well—could also direct her hand, to an extent. By focusing all her intention upon a target, she could throw a rock and hit it more accurately than seemed possible, almost as though she had been practicing the technique for years.
Sayri wondered in what other ways the Voice might help her, and she wanted to stay and continue her training with Ooji to find out. She wasn’t sure she could do so on her own effectively, or at all.
She wanted to ask Ooji to come with her, but she knew it was the wrong thing to do. She couldn’t put the old woman in danger for her own comfort and benefit.
Sayri watched the activity of the people in the town’s streets, their brownish clothing blending together so well as they moved that they seemed more an amorphous mass than a collection of individuals. Just like the swarm of bees, she wondered. For a moment, she considered what it might feel like if she was linked to all of them, like the swarm in her dream. Would all their many troubles would be resolved? Would it end fighting, end wars?
So many people, with all their lives and challenges and dangers . . . could each of them touch the Voice as well, with training? It seemed to her that they should be able to, but Ooji had assured her that it was not the case. She was different, somehow. She was special. Why?
Why am I different? she asked the Voice, but it remained silent.
Ooji came back well before noon, laden with several sacks of supplies. She stopped to kiss Sayri on the forehead, then went into the house and began cooking. Food didn’t last forever, she had told Sayri, but cooked it would last longer, and she could smoke meats that would stay for tendays.
With little knowledge of how to make her way to the southern islands, Sayri was dependent upon Ooji’s advice. The North Province lay in the far northeast of Somria, the old woman had explained, with the coast less than a tenday’s travel away by orey. Sayri had been shocked to hear that; the land seemed so dry and flat she could hardly imagine the sea nearby. It was good news, however. Caravans traveled regularly to the coast and back, mostly carrying fish, which represented the primary meat source in the local diet. It would be no difficulty, Ooji explained, to hire travel on one of the empty wagons heading back east, but it would be wise to avoid the attention of the military. They would circle about the town and await the caravans departing eastward outside the garrison, in the mid-afternoon.
Sayri carefully packed her belongings. She was sad to discover that she had few. Private items that were of personal value, of course; a small, carved, wooden statuette of a boxcat that Markel had made for her on her birthing day a few years before, a soft brown sprinter fur that had been her favourite when she was a child (it was looking ragged, she noticed), and her belt knife, which had proven the most important item of all in her travels. Turning the worn, chipped blade over in her hand, she couldn’t imagine how she might have survived without it. How would she have skinned her kills? Stripped twigs to start a fire? Dug a new hole into her belt to prevent her pants from falling down?
It was such a small thing, and yet so very vital to her. Sadly, she wondered if a day might come that she would look on the weapon as the only thing that had stayed with her.
The blade neatly snapped into the sheath she had made for it but, in contrast to the comfort it had given her through all those frightening days running from the warders, now it only made her sad.
Once she had her bag packed, Sayri went out onto the patio and waited for Ooji. The old woman didn’t disturb her there, staying busy in the kitchen until the supplies were ready. She brought them out to Sayri wrapped in a neat shoulder satchel, then darted back into the house to ready herself. The food was a heavy burden, more so than any load Sayri had carried traveling before, but it meant not living on the desperate edge
of starvation. With winter approaching, that was all the more important, though Sayri didn’t know what form the season would take here. Would it snow? Would it continue to be colder and colder at night, but still warm during the day?
She would soon find out.
Ooji came out shortly thereafter, a nondescript brownish robe worn over her regular clothing. She handed the same to Sayri, who pulled it over hers. The heavy cloth would make them less noticeable to warders, just in case anyone was watching for her. Ooji produced a brown hat and pulled it down well over Sayri’s honey-blond hair, covering her head below the ears. She smiled and, her eyes moistening slightly, quickly kissed Sayri’s forehead again, then walked off the patio and on to the trail.
The sun was nearly due south at midday, so that the Wall left a thick black shadow across the flat plain, above which Sayri could see the twisted limbs of the forest. Would the trees lose their leaves, she wondered? They were dry, tough-looking growths, but the leaves, small and teardrop-shaped, seemed too delicate to survive cold winter nights. She supposed she would likely never know; with any luck—or none at all—she would never see this place again.
The town of North Garrison had no specific boundary, but the houses on the outskirts, mostly belonging to herders, stopped abruptly as if they had agreed upon a town limit. Circling around them was easy enough, but staying out of sight on the limitless plain that extended past them was a nearly impossible task. They opted to stay reasonably close to the mud brick fences marking the back yards of the simple homes, and hoped they would not be subject to hostility from the denizens dwelling within.
It proved an unneeded concern; no one appeared to be present in the homes. Sayri imagined they were off herding their monstrous birds or shopping in the market; she asked Ooji, but the old woman only shook her head. She seemed distracted, and was scanning the terrain ahead intently. Sayri imagined it unlikely that warders would be looking for them in such a place, but she remained quiet—Ooji knew better, and she certainly appreciated the care the old woman was taking on her behalf. In any case, a breeze had come up from the east, blowing dust from the dry earth directly into their faces and making conversation difficult.
Finally, along the curved line of buildings marking the town’s edge, a collection of structures appeared extending eastward along a road. Long shadows stretched toward the dusty horizon, as if beckoning her onward. In some small way, Sayri felt as if it were correct that she was leaving again. Wasn’t it all she did anymore—leave? It wasn’t a happy thought.
The blockish mud brick buildings were all single-storied and occupied both sides of the road. They appeared to be storehouses; as she came closer, Sayri saw many wagons lined up before them, men hauling boxes and sacks from the buildings and throwing them into the wagons. It indeed appeared that finding transport would be little trouble; drivers were always looking for a way to earn a few more coins, as she had already well learned.
Ooji aimed for the last storehouse, and they circled around the back of it, away from the town with only the road in sight, vanishing far into the distance on the dirt plain to the east.
It was impossible to have expected that the wall facing the road would be hollow, with a shaded sitting area therein. It was equally impossible that they might have expected it to be occupied.
In retrospect, Sayri would wonder how Ooji—or, for that matter, she herself—would have failed to be on full alert. Both were fully capable of having sensed the presence of the man, and they had every reason to be looking out for trouble. Perhaps it had been the open road, so empty and serene, or the dust blowing into their eyes, that had distracted them for the moment that it took to stride fully into the guard post.
To Ooji’s credit, she didn’t even flinch or pause; she simply affected a short, apologetic bow for intruding, and turned away from the warder to take a wider path around his post. Sayri followed suit, for all appearances acting the part of the old woman’s doting granddaughter or aide.
The warder, however, did not disregard them as one would have hoped.
“You!” he said, rising from where he had been seated on a bench in the shade. “Come here.” The man was tall, with a shock of black hair curling tightly to his scalp. His eyes were slightly reddened as if he had been up all night, and his unshaven chin confirmed it. The armour he wore across his broad chest was dusty and scarred, as if he had just returned from a battle, and a curved, wicked-looking sword hung at his hip. He was scrutinizing Sayri.
Ooji turned toward him, bowing deeply again, motioning for Sayri to do so as well. “So sorry, honourable fight man,” she humbly groaned, exaggerating a limp. “I no see you there.” She paused a moment, in thought. Sayri hoped her mentor wasn’t planning the previous bluff of introducing the “ugly girl” she had along—her face wasn’t smeared in dirt, and she smelled only of the morning flowers she had gathered while waiting for Ooji to return. She wasn’t dressed prettily, to be sure, but she certainly didn’t expect him to find her repulsive.
“Maybe good master want look my wicha leaf? We still some left. Come girl, show good master what left from market,” she ordered Sayri, motioning her forward. “It not so dusty, you see.”
The warder wasn’t distracted with the offer of dirty, wilting leaves, however; he stepped past Ooji and approached Sayri. “Take off your hat, girl,” he ordered.
Involuntarily Sayri clutched at the hat, taking a step back.
“No, no,” Ooji said beseechingly, moving between them and facing the warder. “My granddaughter sick with balchees, you not see that. It poor girl, maybe when she—”
The warder brushed her aside effortlessly, and moved quickly forward. He seized the thick fabric of the cap from the top and ripped it away, taking a number of hairs with it. Sayri cried out as he drew the hat back, a number of long, blond hairs dangling from it.
The warder’s eyes widened as he saw her tussled golden locks tumbling over her shoulders, blown forward into her face by the wind at her back.
Ooji tried again to step between them, muttering some sort of excuse in an attempt at distraction—perhaps for Sayri to run—but even Sayri didn’t hear what she said. The warder’s eyes were locked on hers, and she saw understanding there.
He thrust Ooji aside hard, sending her tumbling to the dirt. With his other hand, he drew his blade, a long, curved, weapon, the exposed edge rippled with serrations. A smile curled one side of his wind-parched lips.
The wind in Sayri’s ears diminished. The storehouse faded into the distance. Instinctively, she reached for the Link. She drew it in, and placed it between herself and the warder. Then, she extended her hand and thrust out at him, as hard as she could.
The wind silenced abruptly. Everything . . . stopped. Ooji was frozen halfway to her feet. The warder’s sword was drawn back, suspended in the air above him; brownish teeth the colour of mud bricks on the wall behind him were just beginning to appear beneath his spreading lips.
Her breath was half into her chest. Stilled.
That person is not protected by wise means, she thought. You may be held responsible for damages. Are you sure you want to do this?
What? What did it mean?
Still. Stopped.
Are you sure you want to do this? she thought again.
“Yes!” she yelled out loud.
The wind came back in an instant, tossing her hair before her eyes. Her hand was out in front of her, a pace from the warder’s chest. Then, he was flying.
Like a leather doll carelessly tossed by a callous child, his body hurtled up and away from her, rotating limply in the air. He struck the wall near the roof; Sayri heard the impact as if a sack of grain had been dropped from the loft of a barn. Dust exploded from the wall where he struck upside down and, as he fell, she saw cracks dribbling dust from the bricks behind him.
His sword fell with him, the two twisting lifelessly on the way down. He landed face down with a dull clump, in a cloud of dust.
He hadn’t even let out a cry.
Sayri tried to swallow, but her throat was completely dry and stuck painfully. Ooji was staring at her with tiny, round eyes.
Finally Sayri gasped; she hadn’t breathed since everything . . . froze. She walked deliberately over to where the warder lay. He wasn’t moving. With shaking hands, she reached for his shoulder, and rolled him over.
His face was a mess of blood; she couldn’t locate his nose. One of his shoulders was out of place. His chest was bowed in on one side.
Ooji was still staring at her.
Sayri felt a ball in her throat. “I—” she began, a sort of plea to Ooji though she knew not for what. Then she shut her mouth before a sob tore the words from her. I killed him. I killed him with the Link.
Ooji finally seemed to realize where she was; she squatted down and took the hat from the warder’s outstretched hand, and shook it out. Then she walked over to Sayri and placed in on her head, pulling the sides down sharply and tucking her hair under.
Sayri was struggling to say something to her, but she didn’t know what. I killed him with the Link. What am I?
Ooji had her arms now. “Stop that,” she said sharply. “No time for. You got go now, ready girl?” She shook Sayri by the shoulders as if to wake her.
“Go?” Sayri asked. “But . . . what about him?” She held out a shaking finger to point at the dead guard.
“No, stupid girl,” Ooji said, shaking her head rapidly. “You think matter? No matter. They try take you, kill you—you go!”
Sayri just stared at her, tears blurring her vision. The panic must have been clear in her eyes, because Ooji’s expression softened, and she took the girl’s chin in her hand. “Listen me, Say-ree,” she added more quietly, soothingly. “You hear voice, tell go South Island. Trust voice. Trust spirit teach you where go. It okay.”
“Ooji Elder . . . but what about you?” Sayri asked. “What will you do about—” she motioned at the body in the dirt beside them.
“No worry, Say-ree. Ooji big head,” she said, tapping her temple with a finger. “Ooji say man fall from roof, not know why. What think, old woman kill big man and sword? No,” she shook her head, but she wasn’t smiling.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 39