Scions of Nexus

by Gregory Mattix

  “I thank you for your aid, Master Kennitt,” Mira replied sweetly. She knew the gruff ranger wasn’t truly irritated though he might sound as though he were. “The Weave wills as it does, and we are departing precisely the time we should be.”

  Kennitt grunted in amusement. “So you say, miss. Just Kennitt, none of that ‘Master’ shite, if you please.”

  “Fair enough, if you call me Mira.”

  The ranger caught her eye and nodded. “As you say.”

  The owl stared at her a long moment, bobbing along on Kennitt’s free shoulder, and she could have sworn it squinted at her knowingly before it hooted softly and rotated its head to the front again.

  “Whisper seems to approve of you,” Kennitt remarked. “Not that she has much sense about people.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Mira could picture the magnificent owl soaring silently on the night air, swooping down to snatch her unsuspecting prey with ease.

  Kennitt glanced over at Whisper and snorted softly. “Don’t let that compliment go to your head.”

  Mira grinned at the two. “How do you mean to find this young man I seek? Master Dagun says you can find him.”

  “It’s not gonna be easy—I won’t lie. But Whisper has a good set of eyes, don’t you, girl?” He stroked the owl’s feathered breast. “We’ll ask around where we can and hope for some good old-fashioned luck. How many young lads around a score of summers can there be in southern Ketania?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  Mira raised her eyebrows at that but made no reply. I truly wish I could see the Weave—would be much easier, were that the case. Of course, the Weave didn’t succumb to her wishes, and she was resigned to walking what promised to be a long road ahead.

  Chapter 11

  “Have a good time at the festival,” Wyat said. “Don’t drink too much or get in any fights.”

  Taren nodded in agreement. “We’ll be careful, Uncle.”

  He could barely contain his excitement about going to the Midsummer Festival. He looked forward to the variety of foods and wines, the exotic goods on sale by traveling merchants, and also the minstrels and other performers who would be in attendance—and the girls, of course. Lots of pretty girls would be at the festival in search of a partner to dance with beneath the maypole. Elyas had been pestering Taren for quite a while that it was past time he lay with a girl and became a man in that regard. Taren would’ve been content to just observe the pretty lasses. The thought of having to dance and embarrassing himself in front of the whole town made him nervous. Perhaps there’ll be a magician or two at the festival. I can find enough ways to entertain myself and skip the dance altogether.

  “Don’t worry, Father. We’re old enough to take care of ourselves,” Elyas replied with an eye roll. “And if we do get in any fights, I’ll be able to handle it—for the both of us.” He clapped Taren on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

  Wyat shook his head but couldn’t conceal a grin. “Son, I used to think the same about myself for a long time—until I got my arse kicked by a group of big barbarian bastards in a bar brawl. They were thoroughly drunk and quick to anger. Tough whoresons those were… taught me a valuable lesson that day.”

  “We’ll be sure to avoid any drunken barbarians if we happen across any.” Taren hid a smile. Normally, he would’ve been eager to listen to a tale of his uncle’s exploits, even if a lecture came with this one, but the festival’s lure was greater than that of an old warrior’s past battles. Taren straightened his best tunic, freshly washed, and stepped out the door.

  Elyas followed right on his heels. “Balor’s balls, the old man never lets up,” he complained, uttering one of his father’s favorite oaths. “I’ll have seen twenty summers in a couple weeks—I’m a man grown and can take care of myself. I should’ve joined the army by now, which I would’ve, had it not been for Ma passing away. I think the old man must be lonely.” The two of them walked down the trail away from the farmstead. They were meeting up with Vonn and Erwan as usual for a ride into town.

  “Of course he’s lonely, facing the prospect of losing a wife and son both in one year—one to consumption, the other to the army.”

  “Aye. And what of you? You’ve seen seventeen summers yourself. What will you do for a trade? You aren’t much good with a sword, but I reckon you could be a decent archer in the army.”

  Taren shrugged, not wanting to argue with Elyas, who was enamored with the idea of soldiering. The last thing Taren wanted was to be a soldier. “Perhaps I’ll seek out my mother.” The desire to travel to the bizarre city of Nexus that Wyat and his other uncle, Arron, told so many stories about had always been in his blood and, after the loss of Aunt Shenai, had become an even more powerful lure. However, his mother wasn’t even on the same plane, and reaching a portal would be a daunting journey lasting a month or longer.

  Elyas looked at him curiously, perhaps with some longing of his own to put the simple life behind and travel the planes as his father had. “There’s plenty of adventure to find right here in Easilon. To start with, you can help fight these Nebaran bastards that are itching for conflict.”

  “You don’t think all the talk of war is mere rumor? I hear the emperor is old and infirm—certainly in no condition to prosecute a war.”

  “Bah, not like that matters. The generals are the ones who run the war. Doubtless, he’s got plenty of sons and grandsons chomping at the bit to prove themselves with deeds and seeking to take his place on the throne. I reckon the only thing that matters to old men like that is leaving a legacy for themselves. What better than conqueror of Ketania?”

  Taren thought on that and realized Elyas likely had a good point about the political situation in Nebara. The empire was almost certainly in the midst of some form of power struggle. The Nebarans were legendary for their courtly intrigue and ruthless political machinations. Assassination was reputedly a lucrative business in Orialan.

  Thank the gods that’s nothing we’ll ever have to worry about in this quiet corner of Easilon.

  He turned his thoughts back to the excitement of the festival and thought nothing more about war.

  ***

  Taren watched wide-eyed as the flame-tosser sent burning brands spinning through the air. After he had drunk a couple cups of wine, the night had taken on a pleasantly dreamy quality, growing soft around the fringes. The juggler kept three brands aloft then added another then one more until five of the flaming sticks were in the air. With great dexterity, the performer caught and then sent each in turn twirling back into the air, the flames cutting bright ribbons of light through the deepening dusk. A drummer pounded out a quickening beat as the flame-tosser juggled them faster and faster until he seemed to be holding a blazing ring of fire.

  The drummer’s beats reached a crescendo, and the flame-tosser suddenly plucked the brands from the air one by one until he held them all in his right hand. Once consolidated, the slim sticks burned brightly like a torch. The juggler then dropped to one knee and tilted his head back. With a flourish, he stuck the flaming brands into his mouth, to the gasps of the crowd. The flaming sticks went down his throat, and he closed his mouth and pulled them free, extinguished and smoking.

  The crowd applauded and shouted in appreciation. The flame-tosser opened his mouth and belched loudly, puffing a large smoke ring, to the delighted laughter of the young children. His face took on a distressed look, and he rubbed at his stomach as if afflicted with a bellyache. The drummer resumed the beat, letting the applause build, then the flame-tosser lunged forward dramatically toward a couple young girls in the front row and belched a large cloud of flame above their heads.

  The girls shrieked, and the crowd applauded even harder.

  “Thank you, thank you! Have a wonderful evening, folks!” the flame-tosser cried.

  He and his assistant on the drum bowed low. Spectators dropped coins into the brightly colored hats they held out.

  Taren tossed them a few coppers, a big smile on his face
. I suppose I should check on Elyas and make sure he hasn’t gotten himself in trouble. His cousin and two friends had gone their own way an hour earlier, to the Melted Candle, as was the norm.

  He turned quickly and bumped into a pretty red-haired girl of about his own age. She wore a sage-colored wool dress that set off her large green eyes, and freckles dusted her nose and cheeks. The girl’s eyes went wide, and she stumbled from the collision.

  “Oh, my apologies, miss.” He reached out and gently grasped the girl’s elbow to steady her. “I ought to watch where I’m going,” he said, embarrassed.

  She too looked flustered, but her lips curved into a ready smile when their eyes met. “I should watch closer as well. I was quite caught up in the show. Wasn’t it marvelous?”

  “Indeed it was. Surely, he must swallow some strong spirits to breathe fire like that even though I didn’t see him quaff any. I do wonder how he avoids getting burned by the fire, though.”

  “Magic. What other explanation is there?”

  “Surely not,” Taren said dismissively. “He likely drinks a concoction beforehand to protect his mouth and throat from the fire.”

  “Don’t you believe in magic?” The girl’s voice dripped with disapproval, and she crossed her arms over her chest, studying him intently, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

  So fierce did she look of a sudden, that Taren got the impression a wrong answer could earn him a punch in the face. “Ah, well sure I do. I just don’t think a juggler at a country fair would have true magic, that’s all.”

  “So it is beneath a magic user to perform at a country fair?” Her bright green eyes twinkled, and her lips quirked.

  He found it hard to look away from such beauty. “No, of course not,” he stammered, feeling his face growing red. “I, uh, shouldn’t have brought it up…”

  The girl burst into laughter, not helping Taren’s embarrassment any. Before he could say anything else, the girl seized his arm, slipping her own arm though his and tugging him in a random direction.

  “I’m just having fun with you. I’m Yethri, by the way.”

  He tried to ignore the curve of her hip brushing against him and the clean scent of her curly hair as she tossed her head. “Um, I’m Taren.”

  “Well met, Taren.” They walked down the lane away from the juggler. He didn’t know where she was leading him but didn’t really care, content to simply enjoy the company. “Would you like to see some real magic?”

  He looked at her, eyes wide. “Are you a mage?”

  Yethri’s face fell a bit. “Nay, I haven’t the touch. My grandma is a seeress, though. Will you come and have her read your fortune?”

  “Sure.”

  They strolled through the crowds for a few minutes, and Taren smelled some roasting almonds at one of the stalls. Once drizzled with a sugary glaze, they were delicious treats. He stopped and purchased a small bundle. He offered some to Yethri, and she popped a couple in her mouth, favoring him with a captivating smile.

  “So are you from Swanford, Taren?” Yethri led him down the lane.

  Taren finished eating a mouthful of almonds, delighting in the sweet, crunchy treats. “From a farm a short ways out of town. And you?”

  “We go wherever the wind takes us. Grandma and I travel across the southern and central parts of Ketania, stopping at different festivals during the season. Not northern, though. Too cold—Grandma doesn’t like it—says her joints get too sore. We usually winter around Carran. You don’t seem much like a farm boy.”

  “Oh? And what’s a farm boy supposed to be like?”

  “I don’t know… tanned skin, straw in his hair, simple way of talking.” She giggled.

  “Ah, well sorry to disappoint. I made sure to use a brush to remove all the straw before I came to town. I do like to read and learn as much as I can about the world around me.”

  “You can read?”

  “Yes. My uncle taught me the basics although he struggles sometimes with the big words.” Taren smiled, feeling his pulse race when Yethri met his eyes and smiled in return. “My friend Gradnik here in town helped me learn more. He loans me books quite often that he acquires in his travels. Wish I could travel the realms… Perhaps one of these days, I’ll ask Gradnik if he could use any company on his next journey.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  Taren shrugged. “Well, I’ve been helping my uncle out on the farm. It’s been tough on him since Aunt Shenai passed. My cousin Elyas is getting ready to join the army, so there’ll be even more work to do once he leaves.”

  “No matter where you are, there’ll always be work to be done. At some point, you should let the gods guide you where they will. Mayhap Grandma’s fortunetelling will give you a kick in the rear to get going on an adventure.” She winked at him then tugged firmly on his arm, abruptly changing directions to avoid a pair of stumbling drunks supporting a nearly comatose companion between them.

  They walked for a bit through the market. Tents were set up with vendors selling unusual wares from all over Ketania, but all that went by in a blur, thoroughly eclipsed by the beautiful girl walking beside him. They did stop for a few moments at a crowd of mostly mothers and children to watch a puppeteer’s marionette show. The kids laughed and squealed in delight at the puppets’ antics on the enclosed stage.

  The crowd thinned out as they moved on, and Yethri led him to a wooden covered wagon at the edge of the market, parked beneath the boughs of a big oak tree. The wagon was a bright mint-green hue and gaily decorated with streamers of various colors. An old woman sat near the rear door in a chair, a kettle heating water over a small fire. A banner hung over the back of the wagon read, Mistress Hetsatsa, Fortuneteller. 1 Silver.

  “Grandma! I’ve found a boy who wants a reading. This is Taren.” Yethri squeezed his arm, urging him forward.

  The old woman looked up to regard him with clear eyes set in a wrinkled face. “Do you now, lad? My dear Yethri can be quite convincing,” she added with a kindly smile.

  Is this all just an act to get me to buy a fortunetelling? He glanced over at Yethri, who giggled and squeezed his arm against her side. “She is indeed convincing, but I’m always interested in seeing some magic.”

  Mistress Hetsatsa regarded him intently. “I warn you, lad, these are no parlor tricks. I can trace my lineage back three hundred years to the shamans of the northern tribes. The spirits rarely tell us what we want to hear but instead what we need to.”

  “Even better, for I am interested in true magic, not charlatans.” Taren’s smile faltered at her intense gaze. He looked away, noting the banner again, and realized belatedly he didn’t have a silver piece, merely eight coppers remaining, only enough for a few more drinks. “I’m sorry, I just realized I don’t have a silver piece.”

  “We can make an exception, right, Grandma?” Yethri asked, green eyes pleading. “Taren is a gentleman—he can escort me to the maypole dance later this evening. That chivalrous deed could be his payment.”

  “No, I don’t expect… Well, of course, I’d be delighted to keep you company, I mean,” Taren stammered. “I can pay you some coppers, ma’am.” Taren shook his remaining coppers from his purse and handed them to Hetsatsa.

  She stared at Taren then looked sharply at Yethri. After a moment, she cackled. “I do believe my granddaughter fancies you, lad.”

  Yethri blushed furiously, and Taren stood there uncomfortably for a moment, both pleased and embarrassed.

  “Come inside, then. And put your coin purse away, lest one of the shiny bits catches a crow’s eye and the little thief swoops down and snatches it away.” Hetsatsa rose unsteadily from her chair.

  Taren stepped forward and extended his arm, and Hetsatsa clutched it with a clawlike hand to steady herself. She nodded thanks.

  “Prepare my tea, will you dear?” she asked Yethri.

  The young woman agreed, taking the pot off the fire and opening a small satchel of herbs beside the old woman’s chair.

  Taren h
elped the seeress up three wooden steps into the back of the cramped wagon. Incense filled the air, and a number of unlit candles ringed a small round table. Two chairs sat across from each other. Trunks and baskets and stacks of garments were all piled against the walls. Shelves were lined with an assortment of baubles and trinkets. To the rear of the space was a canvas curtain pulled shut over the sleeping compartment.

  Hetsatsa sat in one of the chairs and beckoned Taren to sit across from her. A moment later, Yethri climbed inside with a steaming mug of tea, the scent pungent with herbs Taren was unfamiliar with. The young woman took a taper and lit the small candles ringing the table.

  “Place your hands upon the table, like so.” Hetsatsa rested her hands, palms upward. Her skin was wrinkled and leathery, as if shrunken too tight across the protruding blue veins.

  The old woman took a sip of the tea and grunted in approval then tipped it back and drained the entire cup in one swallow. She looked down at the table, studying her hands. After long moments of silence, Taren glanced questioningly at Yethri, who sat on one of the trunks beside the door.

  Yethri smiled faintly and held up a finger to her lips.

  Taren looked back at Hetsatsa and was alarmed to see her eyes suddenly pop open, but the brown orbs looked faded and distant, as if covered with a thin sheet of frost. Whatever she was seeing was something far away, perhaps in the lands of her ancestors far to the north, or even something not of that world. Her hands snaked out and snatched Taren’s like the pinching claws of a bird. The edges of the tiny room seemed to recede until lost in shadow, and all that remained was the illumination of the candles and the seeress’s awful, frosty gaze pinning Taren in place.

  Hetsatsa stared blankly into his eyes a long moment, then she gasped. “Who are you who seeks out the counsel of the spirits? You are birthed of no mortal woman.” Her alien voice was the rasp of a disused hinge, raising goose bumps on Taren’s arms. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, she continued, her claws digging painfully into his hands. “A grim future awaits you, thaumaturge, one filled with much anguish and strife. In your hands rests the power to break the world… or clutch the broken pieces together as the tides of war seek to sluice it all away into chaos. The path you tread is perilous… one small misstep, and all could fall to ruin. Death and tragedy shall follow close upon your heels, vultures eager to feast upon the fallen. Of those who you love best, one will die willingly, another a sacrifice unwilling, the last seduced by evil.” Glimpses of the seeress’s words flashed through his mind in an instant, much too swiftly to actually discern any meaning, but he saw flames and bloody swords and the tramp of steel-shod boots over corpses. A cold sweat trickled down his back as the words and images threatened to bury him in a stifling cloud of dread and darkness.