The Crosser's Maze (The Heroes of Spira Book 2)

by Dorian Hart

  So, what now? It had been a long time since he had slept, and it would be easy enough to drift off, here in this womb of bedrock. His eyes were already closed, and he had no way to open them, sheathed in such an unyielding bed. Here he was safe. Here he was home.

  When he woke an indeterminate time later, nothing had changed. Logically he knew that his muscles should ache, that his body ought to be in some kind of rebellion against its unusual disposition, but instead he felt refreshed, energized, and reluctant to be anywhere else. And yet, he had to leave. There was still a job to do. He reached his mind out to the rock.

  “I need to find my friends. Any chance you know where to find ’em? Six humans, just like me.”

  One living being is much like any other.

  “Then how ’bout this? Is there any place close by where there’s an uncommon number a’ livin’ beings, all clustered together?”

  This, the rock knew. It shared with Kibi its sense of two such places, great and ongoing vibrations seeping down from the surface. Both were close by the stone’s reckoning, though who knew how the earth itself accounted distance? One was likely the Kivian encampment; there had been hundreds if not thousands of tents. But the other? A city? Perhaps even Djaw itself?

  Having no obvious reason to pick one over the other, he decided he’d wait until he was aboveground and choose whichever took him most clearly east, that being where Morningstar had dreamt the Crosser’s Maze was.

  Now he needed to rise to the surface. This was much like the favor he had asked of the wall encircling the Kivian arch. He envisioned what he desired of the rock: a tunnel, sloping gently, leading to the surface. The rock agreed unusually quickly; if he didn’t know better, he’d have said he detected deference in its slow, solid thoughts. His skin-tight igneous cocoon retreated from his upper body, and for a moment its withdrawal left him bereft, as though an old family blanket had slipped from his bed to the floor. But the feeling passed, and then his legs were free, and he felt rather than saw a wide space open up before him.

  Kibi took a tentative step forward into the darkness and found the ground rising in front of him, a gradual incline. Step by step, hands held out on instinct, he rose up through the ground. After several minutes the grade of his tunnel lessened, and there was an unmistakable lightening ahead. A minute more and he walked out of a gap in the side of a rocky hill. Knee-high weeds brushed his trousers, cricket song and moonlight filled the night air, and, though the air was fresh and clean, Kibi gasped and coughed, as if the air were difficult to breathe. Behind him his tunnel closed with a distant rumble; Kibi turned and placed his palm against the hill with a pang of regret, but he knew the rock was satisfied. The hillside preferred itself solid through.

  He was awake enough to travel, but without the sun to guide him Kibi wasn’t sure of the direction. How long had it been since he had eaten? With little else to do, he sat down with his back to the granite hillside and pulled some strips of salted beef and a hunk of cheese from his pack.

  “You know what?” he told the crickets. “My life is a strange, strange thing.”

  * * *

  The farmhouse was built in peculiar fashion, not of stone or brick or wooden planks, but of cut round logs stacked and sealed with tarry pitch. A thread of smoke snaked out of the chimney, probably from a cook fire. The windows had painted wooden shutters folded back to let in the afternoon air. In the field in front of the house, a middle-aged woman and two teenaged boys harvested root vegetables.

  They had seemingly marked his approach, but the arrival of a stranger was not sufficient cause for them to pause in their work. Only when Kibi had come to within twenty feet or so—the edge of the field, as he didn’t want to tread on their crops—did the woman straighten up and stare at him, hands on her hips, her eyes guarded, wary. She wore a stained skirt and a rough brown blouse. Her wrinkled face had been browned by the sun. The boys, clearly her sons, and both strapping lads a head taller than he was, drifted over to stand by her side. They didn’t smile either.

  Kibi never did like talking to strangers. They’d want to know things about him that weren’t their business, and he had no desire to pry into other folks’ lives. But Abernathy’s magical summons had forced him into the close company of seven entirely unfamiliar people, giving him more practice at being social than he had ever imagined or wanted. Not that he was entirely comfortable even now, striking up a conversation with these farmers, but lost and alone in a foreign land, what choice did he have?

  “Good afternoon!” he called out. “Beautiful day, ain’t it?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I suppose so. Doesn’t give you the right to trespass though.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Kibi. “Didn’t mean to trespass. It’s just that I ain’t got no idea where I am or how to get where I’m goin’.

  “And where exactly are you going? If you’re headed to Bederen to fight, you’ve been walking in the wrong direction.”

  Kibi had a feeling he’d heard the word Bederen before but couldn’t begin to place it.

  “I ain’t really a fightin’ man,” he said. “The place I’m lookin’ for is a city called Djaw. You heard of it?”

  One of the sons gave a snort. The farmwoman raised an eyebrow. “You’re heading for Djaw? On foot, cross country, just that pack on your back?” She shook her head. “You got a funny accent and funny clothes. Where are you from, stranger?”

  She’d never believe the truth of it. I just hopped through a magical archway on the other side of the Uncrossable Sea.

  “No place you’ve ever heard of,” he said. “It’s a long, long way off. But I promise I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble. Is Djaw far from here?”

  “I reckon so. Haven’t been there myself, of course, but Djaw is hundreds of miles away, south aways and east. You’d have to cross all of Dir Tolia and most of the Plains of the White Sun.”

  Hundreds of miles? Kibi’s heart sank. They were in such a terrible hurry, thinking that a single day one way or the other might be the difference between success and failure in their quest. It would take him weeks to get to Djaw, and that wasn’t even his ultimate destination.

  “How ’bout a jungle? Might need to go there afterward.”

  The woman stared at him as though he was daft. One of her sons leaned down and whispered in her ear, something that made her chuckle. “Yeah, I suppose,” she said. Then she looked at Kibi. “You thirsty? Hungry? You look like you’ve been out in the sun all day. Some water will do you good.”

  Yes, he was powerful thirsty, come to think of it, and it could save him the water in his skins.

  “I’d be much obliged, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Estrell. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Kibilhathur, but Kibi’ll do.”

  “Follow me, Kibi. Wes, Lark, you two keep working. I can handle our guest.”

  She didn’t bring him into the house, but led him instead to a water pump sunk into the ground around the side, rising from a patch of churned mud. Kibi rummaged in his pack while they walked, looking for his battered tin cup.

  “Why do you want to go all the way to Djaw?” asked Estrell as Kibi took a long drink.

  Kibi didn’t like telling lies, but answering any of her questions with the full truth would be a fool’s game. “I was hopin’ to meet some friends there.”

  Estrell watched him closely as he refilled his cup and drained it a second time. Was she still trying to figure out where he had come from? Maybe he could divert her attention.

  “Why’d you think I was goin’ to fight in Bederen?” he asked.

  “Lots of folks have been headed that way these past few months,” said Estrell. “They sent out a call for warriors throughout Tev and Dir Tolia; sounds like they’re gearing up for war with Delfir, and the Bederen are calling for people to honor the old alliance.”

  Dang, but this was all a mite confusing. “I thought I was in Kivia,” he ventured.

  Estrell gave him that
look again, as though he wasn’t right in the head. “Of course you’re in Kivia. Where else would you be?”

  “So that’s the name a’ your country?”

  She shook her head. “Kibi, didn’t your parents teach you anything about the world you live on? The country you and I are standing in is Tev. Kivia is everything, the whole world, or at least every part that matters.”

  She pointed to the south-east. “That way is Dir Tolia, and beyond that, far as I know, are the Jewels of the Plains. To the north is Bederen, our old ally from my great-grand-pappy’s time, and north-west is Delfir, where they worship the fire god Nifi.”

  Ah. Kibi definitely remembered the name Nifi. “Them fire-buggers are invadin’ my kingdom,” he said without thinking.

  Estrell narrowed her eyes. “The only countries bordering Delfir are Bederen and Tev.”

  Oops. “Oh. Well, you see, I’m from the other side a’ Delfir. Only just escaped the damn place to get this far.”

  “I thought Delfir went all the way to the ocean.”

  “I’m from a little island kingdom off the coast. Like I said, I’m sure you never heard of it. But I reckon it don’t matter none now. I gotta get to Djaw.”

  Estrell shrugged. “Your business, I suppose.”

  Kibi was thankful she didn’t seem interested in digging further. “I heard there might be a larger city close by. Mind pointin’ me to it? You’ve been kind enough to give me a drink, and I don’t want to take up any more a’ your time.”

  “Not sure I’d call it ‘close by,’ but if you don’t mind full days on your feet, you could get to Trev-Lyndyn inside of a week.” She waved a hand toward the south. “Head across the footpath that way, and you’ll find the road inside of an hour. Turn right and you’ll get to the village of Mav by early tomorrow. Turn left and the road will take you to Trev-Lyndyn, the biggest city I’ve ever been to. Sits on the border with Dir Tolia. You’ll find hostels along the way, and some waymarkets if your food runs low. I can send you off with a jar of dried peaches and a loaf of bread, if you’d like.”

  “I wouldn’t say no, and that’s uncommonly kind. I can pay for ’em, a’ course.” He handed her a silver coin.

  She stared at it, then shook her head. “Doubt the merchants in Mav would accept a foreign coin like that; when you get to Trev-Lyndyn, find a moneychanger who can give you some miracs. And there’s no need to pay me for a bit of food. You look like the sort that could use all the help he can get.”

  You ain’t wrong about that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Boss, it smells funny.

  Aravia sniffed and wrinkled her nose. Pewter, perched on her shoulder, was correct. She smelled some of the usual odors of Chargish cities and towns: leather and sewage, herbs and smoke. But layered atop those were odd alchemical smells, the scents of exotic spices, strange metallic tangs borne on the breeze. They all mixed together into something unmistakably foreign. She wondered if her sense of smell had inexplicably sharpened; some of the odors were so unusual that she couldn’t imagine anything with which to compare them.

  They had wandered through the city of Trev-Lyndyn for an hour, following an unspoken agreement that a bit of exploration would be wise before deciding exactly what to do next. Ozella’s magical ear-cuffs fulfilled their purpose admirably; they could both speak to and be understood by the locals with whom they conversed. The potency of enchantment responsible for such a thing astounded Aravia, but they were crafted by the famous Parthol Runecarver, probably the most accomplished wizard ever to don a robe.

  Trev-Lyndyn was a lively hub of trade, sprawled out across both sides of the Tev-Bilin River that separated the countries of Tev and Dir Tolia. Technically the city was governed by neither, an arrangement supported wholeheartedly by both countries. One of the merchants Aravia had spoken with outside the walls had called the place “a beautiful battleground of commerce.” The marketplaces were so numerous that they often spilled one into another, giving the impression that the entire city was little more than a single enormous bazaar. River barges unloaded their wares onto an endless row of piers while swarms of teamsters hauled the goods up ramps and stairs cut into the banks. The overwhelming majority of people had dark olive skin and wore airy bright-colored clothing that puffed and billowed around their arms and legs. It gave the place the feel of a carnival, but Aravia understood it was she and her friends who would draw attention.

  Tor stopped in front of a row of market stalls selling meat pies. An old woman stacked her savories on a tiered wooden tray.

  Tor pointed. “How much for six of those?”

  “One mirac two.”

  “What’s a mirac?”

  Aravia sighed. The merchant opened her mouth, obviously uncertain how to answer such a ridiculous question.

  “We’ve traveled a long way,” Dranko cut in. “All of our coins are foreign. We’re still looking for a moneychanger.”

  “Oh.” The meat-pie seller stared a bit at Dranko’s goblinoid features, but moved on quickly. She pointed over Dranko’s shoulder. “Silver Street is where you’ll find exchangers and pawnbrokers. Try there.”

  Grey Wolf blew out a long breath. His face had a perpetual look of exasperation. “Right. Silver Street. We’ll need a way to pay for lodging tonight. We could all use a night in real beds, and an inn seems like the best place to find out where Djaw is and how long it will take to get there. Follow me.”

  An unusual number of dogs prowled the streets, which made Aravia slightly uncomfortable, though she couldn’t say exactly why. One of these came up and sniffed her, then yelped for no obvious reason and backed away, tail between its legs.

  That’s right! Show some respect, mangy mutt!

  “Pewter, really.”

  The people are looking at us funny, too.

  Aravia reached up and scratched Pewter behind the ear. “Of course they are. We look different, we dress differently, and half of us are armed.”

  You’re also the only person with a cat on her shoulder, but that makes you look cultured.

  The streets of Trev-Lyndyn were narrow, the buildings tall, and the cobblestones well-laid and even. Horses were even rarer than in Charagan, but here and there older children pulled tiny wheeled carts carrying passengers. These weaved adroitly through the press of townsfolk, the clickety-clack of the wheels rising and falling as they passed. Aravia caught Tor looking hopefully at them, probably wishing for a chance to ride one.

  It’s not so different than Tal Hae. Same sky, same sun, same clouds. More rats, though.

  Aravia shuddered at Pewter’s observation. “I hadn’t noticed.” She loathed rats. Her parents’ cartwright shop had been next door to a grocer, and the furry little monsters had always been roaming about the neighborhood. As a girl, she had fancied that they would follow her through the streets when she ran her errands.

  As if summoned by Pewter’s remark, a large mangy rat poked its head out from beneath a makeshift stall selling oblong yellow fruits. Pewter dug his claws into her shoulder and hissed at it, sending the rat scurrying back beneath the stall.

  To reach Silver Street, Horn’s Company had to cross the Tev-Bilin, a wide, slow river that flowed through the center of the city, spanned in many places by high-arching stone bridges. Aravia looked down over the railing; a crew of shirtless, well-muscled men poled a flat barrel-laden barge beneath the bridge.

  Admiring the view?

  “Hush.”

  Dranko dropped something over the railing; it splashed into the water beside the barge. She considered asking what it was, but Dranko looked as though he was trying to be surreptitious, so she declined to comment.

  Silver Street was not far beyond the bridge. It was a wider and straighter street than most, its shops better maintained, its signboards more freshly painted. They passed jewelry stores, pawn shops, goldsmiths, stationers, and glassblowers, but after a few minutes they came upon a store whose sign read “Numismatica,” and which displayed some painted coins. Aravia was impr
essed—Ozella’s ear-cuffs didn’t just translate spoken language; they worked on written words as well! Her estimation of Parthol Runecarver’s talent rose another notch. And to think that the archmagi had entrusted a dozen such artifacts to her and her companions. It brought her a moment of profound humility, which, like most emotions, she was unused to feeling.

  The numismatist’s shop was small, clean, and well-lit, though full of the smells of metal polish and oil from the lamps on the walls. The left-hand wall was lined with display cases of the sort one usually found only in jewelry shops—tilted silk-lined shelves behind plates of polished glass.

  A skinny old woman sat at a tiny desk behind the displays, her gray hair done up in a bun. She wore a strange framework over her eyes that held a series of loupes on little hinged arms. The woman was peering through the lenses at a small coin, but looked up at the sound of the door creaking open. She showed no sign of alarm at a half-dozen armed foreigners entering her shop.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” said Grey Wolf. “We’d like to exchange some of our own local coins for miracs. Do you offer services as a moneychanger?”

  “We’re from a very distant country,” added Tor.

  She removed her loupes and set them down carefully on the desk. “I can see that. I’m unfamiliar with your accents, and I’ve seen travelers from all over Kivia. Where are you from?”

  “We’re from beyond the southern wastes,” said Dranko.

  The old woman tilted her head like an owl. “You weren’t born in Seresef or Ocir, I can see that. Where else is there south of the wastes?”

  “Does it matter?” Grey Wolf plunked down a small pouch onto the counter. “Will you trade these for your local currency?”

  The woman looked carefully at Grey Wolf but didn’t pick up the pouch. “It takes time for me to assess proper value. I seldom see customers in such a hurry, and when I do, it doesn’t often reflect well upon them. You’re not in any trouble, are you?” She smiled thinly. “Because if you are, there are…other establishments that cater toward that kind of immediate need.”