Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Castio rose to his feet somewhat unsteadily, but with great dignity. “Who are you?”

  Talis stared owlishly at the woman who stood there. The light was behind her, but there was something familiar …

  “Thia!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here,” the other woman said calmly, surveying them all with dark eyes that held both amusement and apprehension. “I beg pardon, Denno, I heard … noises, and I thought I should see what was going on. Here, let me help you up.”

  Advancing into the room, Thia began trying to extricate Denno from his chair. Recovering themselves, Castio and Talis hastened to help her. With all three of them working together, they soon had the stocky printer restored to an upright position.

  Castio regarded Thia. The intrusion had obviously sobered him up considerably. “This woman works for you, Denno?”

  “Aye, she does,” Denno said. “She’s a good sort, her name is Thia. Comes from up north. You’re in early, girl.”

  Thia smiled at him and shook her head, amused. “Actually, I’m not. You must have lost track of time. ’Tis morning, Denno. Time to open the shop.” She turned to look at Castio.

  “You must be Rufen Castio. I’ve read your writings.”

  Castio was obviously taken aback, but nodded and took her hand, bowed politely. “You have? They aren’t generally … available.”

  “Yes. Denno has some of them upstairs in the flat, and when I mind little Damris, I read while she’s sleeping.”

  Castio raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? He has my writings right out in the open?”

  Thia shook her head. “Not at all. He hides them under the baby’s clean nappies.”

  Denno’s eyes widened. “That’s right,” he said. “I did. I should have realized …”

  Talis had been studying Thia’s expression, and, slowly, she relaxed, then smiled. “We have naught to fear from Thia,” she said. “She’d never betray us.”

  The young woman with the ash-colored hair nodded. “I like what you wrote about freedom for all,” she said, carefully not looking at Talis. “One of my friends is a slave. If you truly believe freedom is for all people, I would like to join your Cause.”

  Castio nodded slowly. “That might be a good thing. Poor Denno has been working too hard, printing all of our broadsides.”

  “I know,” Thia agreed. “I can always tell when he’s been up all night, working for you. Little Damris is not a colicky babe,” she added, with a smile at her employer.

  Denno chuckled shamefacedly. “Rufen, seems to me we can trust her. She’s been working here for nigh on two months now, and she’s held her tongue about what we do.”

  Talis barely heard this last exchange. It’s not fair! she thought. Sacrificing my chance to work with the Cause, all because of Eregard! Her mind filled with the memory of the song he’d sung to her, and its haunting refrain.

  And you’ll never touch the free part of me …

  “Damn it,” she muttered, not realizing she was speaking aloud until the others turned to look at her. “Sorry, nothing,”

  she said hastily. “Just … thinking. I had a decision to make, and it seems that I’ve made it.”

  Thia looked at her but said nothing.

  This is going too slowly, Eregard thought, rubbing the file steadily against one side of his slave collar. It’s going to take hours more than I figured.

  He was crouched in the shadows behind the henhouse that flanked the inn’s stableyard, hidden from sight behind a stack of half-rotted old boards. The file had scored his hands so badly that he’d had to wrap rags around his fingers as he filed, and his neck burned where he’d managed to score it during the attempt.

  The slave auction was tomorrow, and he had to have the accursed collar filed off by then, otherwise his whole plan was wrecked. He forced himself to file in short, even strokes.

  Don’t panic, he told himself. You’ll think of something.

  “Talis! Clo!” It was a man’s voice, shouting, and there was an edge of panic in it that made Eregard’s file stroke halt. Jezzil? Can it be?

  “Talis! Clo!” The breathless shout was more distant now, coming from the direction of the stables. Eregard heard running feet. What’s going on?

  “Master Jezzil!” It was Clo’s voice. Eregard inched forward, peering around the edge of the outbuilding. “What is it?”

  “Talis, where is Talis?” Jezzil’s Chonao accent was much thicker than usual.

  Eregard could see them now. Jezzil stood in the courtyard, his face pale and sweating, his hair rumpled and a smudge on his cheek. He had obviously been running.

  “She’s—”

  The front door of the inn banged, and then Eregard heard Talis before he saw her, walking with quick, firm strides.

  “I’m here, Jezzil. What’s wrong?”

  Jezzil took a deep breath, obviously struggling for control.

  “It’s Thia. She didn’t come home from the print shop.

  Denno said she left after closing …”

  Eregard stiffened. Thia?

  “Well, perhaps she went to do some shopping—” Clo began.

  “No!” he shouted, then forced himself to lower his voice.

  “Please, you must help me. When she didn’t come home, I went out and asked along her route—and a boy remembered her. He said she was there, passing an alley, and then she wasn’t. Someone must have grabbed her. The lad saw a wagon leave the alley, and there was something in the wagon bed that moved. He’d covered her with a blanket, but the lad was sure.”

  Eregard’s heart was pounding. Thia had told him a little about her life in Amaran. He sensed that she’d left many things—dark things—unsaid.

  “Kidnapped?” Talis sounded skeptical. “Who could possibly want—”

  “You don’t understand. The priests, they will never let her live, if they find her. It must have been one of the priests!

  She knew they’d search for her!” Jezzil’s face twisted.

  “They’ll kill her. We have to find her.”

  “But—”

  “You’re the only people I know here that I trust to help,”

  Jezzil said. “Please, help me find her! They’ll be heading north!”

  Eregard didn’t think about his bleeding hand, his scored

  neck, and the half-filed collar. He found himself on his feet, running toward Jezzil. “I’ll help,” he called out. “I’m not much good as a fighter, but I can shoot a pistol.”

  Talis stared at him, then, suddenly, she was nodding.

  “We’ll help, too. Clo, go saddle the horses.”

  The Chosen

  He drove the wagon carefully, scrutinizing the ground ahead of him, hands clenched around the reins. He was not used to driving a two-horse team, especially over rough ground.

  When he was younger he’d learned to ride, because the temples sent missionaries out into other lands to educate the heathens about Boq’urak’s might and power. But riding, he’d discovered quickly, was quite different from driving. The only means of communication with the team was through his voice or the reins, and a team was far less maneuverable than a ridden horse. Now, as a driver, he had to handle the brake on downslopes and plan his path, lest the wagon overturn or overrun the team.

  When first he’d left the city, he headed due west, away from the main caravan trail, traveling across the isthmus that linked Kata to Severez. He hadn’t gone far enough to glimpse the western arm of the sea, though. Instead he’d turned northwest, heading into Severez, but staying well off the main caravan trail.

  Far to the north he thought he could make out a bruise-colored shadow that hinted at the high ranges dividing Severez and Amavav. But his eyes weren’t as good as they had been when he was younger, so he couldn’t be sure.

  The land surrounding him was empty of habitation. The soil was mostly clay, covered with scrub brush and stunted trees. Outcroppings of stone thrust ochre fingers toward the sky. Ravines occasionally split t
he land, forcing him to de-tour to find a crossing that would accommodate the wagon.

  He glanced to his left, gauging the position of the sun. It would be full dark in a handful of hours.

  The horses had slowed to a jog. Leaning forward on the narrow seat, he slapped the reins against their backs. “Get up! Hah!” Reluctantly, they lengthened stride, until they were moving at a real trot. They were growing tired; they’d been moving steadily for several hours, with only brief moments to rest. He knew they couldn’t go much farther without water and grazing.

  Hearing a faint noise, he turned on the narrow seat to look behind him. The rough gray sacking stirred, then subsided, and he thought he heard a faint moan of distress.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, knowing she probably couldn’t hear him. “I am. But I had to do this. I’m doing it for both of us.”

  For a moment he thought about what he must do that very night, after sunset, but then resolutely pushed the thought away. Concentrate on the task at hand.

  He urged the tired horses onward, resisting the urge to glance behind him. He didn’t believe anyone had seen him.

  And even if anyone had, why should they concern themselves with the fate of a young woman from a foreign land, friendless and alone?

  He glanced at the sun, gauging its position in the sky, and the thought struck him that Thia would never see another sunrise. Resolutely, Varn fought down the thought. He was Boq’urak’s servant, and he was doing as his god bade.

  He remembered the first time Boq’urak had spoken to him, in that icy mountain pass south of Verang. She is Mine.

  He’d been on the trail now for months, keeping his eyes open, reverting to his role of being a missionary, bringing the truth to unbelievers in Amavav, Severez, and finally to Kata. Weeks would go by and he would hear nothing, but each time he’d thought the trail was lost forever, someone, somewhere, would remember the quiet girl with the big dark eyes and the unworldly air.

  Tracing her to Q’Kal had been easy, compared to locating her inside the city. Just as Varn had considered giving up, wondering if the other priests were right and he was bereft of his sanity, he’d seen her. Just a glimpse. She looked different in secular clothing. He’d never seen her with hair.

  Yet he had known her: her walk, the way she tilted her head, the way she held herself. He’d followed her for two days, discovering where she lived, where she worked, memorizing the route she used to go back and forth. And then he’d made his plans.

  Another faint moan reached his ears. Resolutely, Master Varn did not look around, only clucked to the team, urging them to even greater speed. Night was drawing nigh. It was nearly time for the god to claim His Chosen One.

  Jezzil was sweating, and only part of it was the warmth of the afternoon. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve as they jogged along. Remember, it’s almost summer. This land is warmer than home.

  He looked about him, studying the landscape, warrior-fashion, forcing himself to concentrate on it, analyzing it as he’d been taught. He couldn’t afford to let himself think about what might be happening to Thia. If he thought about that, he would be no good to her.

  This could be a good land for ambushes, rough and barren as it is. It was certainly very different from his homeland. Ktavao was a land of steppes, mountains, and grassy plains. North and east of Ktavao was, of course, the Great Waste, but it was death to go there for more than just a handful of days. No humans lived there.

  He couldn’t imagine people living here, either. It was desolate, though not quite lifeless. Scrub brush dotted the

  ground, and there were strange outcroppings of naked stone.

  Giant cracks in the ground showed where flood channels ran, though most were dried to scarred mud under the sun’s relentless assault. Jezzil looked up at one of the rocks as they rode past. Red stone, it thrust upward like a giant’s finger pointing at the sky.

  For a moment Jezzil found himself thinking about giants, buried in the earth, thrusting their bloody fingers up into the air, unable to break free before suffocating. The thought of suffocation led him to visions of Thia, lying bound in the back of a wagon, heading for who knew what terrible rendezvous …

  Stop that, he ordered himself, wiping sweat from his forehead again.

  “Turn here,” Talis, who was riding point, called out. She turned in her saddle to glance back at them, pointing down.

  “The wagon tracks are heading northwest now.”

  Jezzil squeezed Falar with the muscles of his left leg, and the mare obediently turned right, following Talis’s bay. He was very glad that he’d asked her for help. The wagon tracks were easy to follow now as they led deeper and deeper into the desolate no-man’s-land that lay north of the Katan border, but in the beginning the jumble of tracks leaving the city gates had made their task seem impossible.

  Talis and Clo had spent time with the city gatekeepers, showing the bored men the glint of coin and questioning them about who had left the city that day. The coins had caused one of them to stroke his chin, frowning, and then recall a two-horse team pulling a small wagon, driven by a silent man with piercing dark eyes. Although the driver had his hood drawn up, the gatekeeper remembered that his head had been shaven. Like that of a priest. Had he been hauling anything? Well, yes, but not very much. Just a few odds and ends, a big bundle of wood and one old gray sack tossed in the back of the wagon bed.

  After they moved away from the gates, Talis had slowly walked among the tracks, looking for one set that matched her criteria: a lightly loaded wagon with a two-horse team.

  She’d cast about like a hunting dog as the precious minutes crawled by, while every nerve and sinew in Jezzil’s body screamed to leap into action. Falar caught his tension and began dancing in place, neck arched. It was only when she went up into a low rear, a battle movement designed to protect her rider, that Jezzil had exerted iron control, forcing himself into warrior mode. From that moment on he had sat as quietly as an equestrian statue, watching Talis, only his eyes moving.

  Finally Talis examined one set of tracks, and then looked up. “This is our best candidate, and over here is our second best. I think we should follow these for a mile, see what happens.”

  Jezzil nodded, and they’d followed the Katan woman’s lead. Nobody was particularly surprised when the wagon tracks quickly diverged from the flow of traffic and headed off to the west. As Talis put it, “I suppose it’s natural that a kidnapper should want privacy.”

  It’s certainly private out here, Jezzil thought, feeling a sick wash of fear for Thia. Where is he taking her? And why?

  Eregard urged his mount until he caught up and rode beside the Chonao warrior. “We’re heading more to the north now,” he said. “Any idea where he might be taking her?”

  Jezzil glanced over at him, thinking that the slave would probably prove a handicap during a chase or a fight. He was an indifferent horseman; instead of sitting up straight, he slouched in the saddle, spine curved, heels bouncing against his mount’s sides. But so far he’d kept up with the others, and his eyes were intent and steady on the trail they followed.

  “I think he is heading for Amaran,” Jezzil replied grimly.

  “Amaran?” There was a catch in Eregard’s voice. “Why there?”

  “That’s where Thia is from. She escaped from there. She didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” Eregard said. “But she told me she was running from those who meant her harm.”

  Jezzil nodded. “True enough. And now it seems that they’ve found her. She told me once that the priests would

  never stop looking for her. The guard at the gate remembered a man whose head was shaven. Sounds like a priest.”

  Eregard’s brow furrowed. “But if he’s heading for Amaran, why would he take this route? The caravan road is much faster and more direct. I’ve seen maps of this land.”

  Jezzil gave him a quick, surprised glance. “You can read?”

  “Yes.”

  As Jezzil continued to
stare intently at Eregard, the slave hunched his shoulders, as if expecting a blow. The Chonao regarded him, noting a smear of dried blood on the neck of his tunic. “What happened to you?” Jezzil asked. “Your neck. You’re wounded.”

  Eregard shook his head, not replying, only tucking his chin down, hunching his shoulders even more. Jezzil tightened the muscles of his right leg slightly, and Falar sidepassed until they were riding so close to each other that their legs brushed.

  The Chonao leaned over in his saddle, eyes narrowed, staring at the slave’s neck. “What—” He broke off as he took in the scorings on Eregard’s collar. “File marks,” he said slowly. “Go ahead, sit up straight. You look like a turtle, hunched like that.”

  Eregard raised a shaking hand to his abraded neck.

  “Please …” he mumbled. “Please don’t tell her—she hasn’t noticed. I’ll wrap something around it.”

  “I won’t tell her,” Jezzil said. “But I suspect she’ll notice at some point.”

  “Mistress Talis is going to sell me,” Eregard said. “If she does, I’ll lose every chance to be free.”

  Jezzil nodded. “I know. Thia asked me if we had saved enough money to buy you. She wanted to set you free. But we don’t have nearly enough saved.”

  Eregard gave him a quick, incredulous glance. “She wanted to do that? For me? She’s—” He shook his head. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Thia knows what it is like to be enslaved,” Jezzil said.

  Eregard nodded. “You can see it in her eyes.” He took a deep breath. “If we find her—”

  “When, ” Jezzil corrected sharply.

  “Yes, when we find her, if you and Thia can use your influence with Talis to persuade her to set me free, I could …

  I could see that Thia was protected. I could take her home with me. Nobody would dare touch her. I swear it.”

  Jezzil gave him a surprised glance. “Where is your home?”