by DAVID B. COE
"Thank you," she said softly.
"You're welcome, good lady."
She looked around the cabin. "What happened to me?"
"I don't know. I saw you on the road leading into our village. You were already hurt. You made a noise, and then you fell down. My father and I brought you here."
"And where is here?"
"This is Pritt's home. He's our healer."
A faint smile touched her lips. "I meant what village."
D'Abjan felt his face color. "My pardon. This is Greenrill."
She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. "I don't know that name." After a moment she lifted a hand to her head again, and touched the bruise gingerly. "I take it we're waiting for your healer to come."
"No, good lady. He's already seen you." He lifted up the poultice that had been on her wound. "He prepared this."
"But you look Qirsi," she said.
"We are, good lady."
"So then, your healer has refused to tend to me."
Again he felt his face turning red. Why should it fall to him to explain this, when he had just been asking himself the same question? Was this Qirsar's way of punishing him? Was the god testing his faith by making him explain to this woman what it meant to be Y'Qatt?
"It's not our way to use magic, good lady. We are Y'Qatt. We… we believe that the god did not intend for us to use any of our powers."
She watched him with a strange expression-something akin to anger flashed in her dark eyes, and though she said nothing, D'Abjan felt compelled to explain more.
"The more power we use the shorter our lives," he said. "Our V'Tol-that's what we call our magic-it isn't supposed to be used. It's part of our life." He knew he wasn't explaining it well, but still he didn't stop. "We find other ways. We can shape wood with magic, but we use tools instead. We can light fires, but we use a tinder and flint instead. We can heal with magic, but we use herbs and poultices instead." He held up the poultice again, and then the wet cloth he'd been holding to her head. "We haven't neglected you, good lady. We've done our best."
"But without magic."
"Yes." He nodded. "Without magic."
"And what if your herbs and your cloth hadn't helped me?"
He just gaped at her, not knowing how to answer, afraid even to try. For several moments, neither of them spoke, and D'Abjan found himself glancing toward the door, wishing Pritt would return.
"But they did help me, didn't they?" she finally said, smiling at him. He grinned, his relief as welcome as sleep after a long day of work.
"Yes, good lady."
She closed her eyes for a short time, before suddenly opening them again. "Where are my things?"
"Just over there, good lady," D'Abjan said, pointing to her baskets and carry sack, which sat by the wall near the door.
"Ah, good. Good." She closed her eyes again. "What's your name, boy?" she asked.
"D'Abjan, my lady."
"I'm Licaldi."
"Do you live near here?" he asked.
"I told you, I don't know where here is. But I've lived in the highlands all my life." She opened one eye and looked at him. "I'm Mettai." He felt his eyes widen.
"You know what that means?"
D'Abjan nodded. He did know, or at least he thought he did. His father had explained to him once about blood magic and the Eandi conjurers and witches who wielded it. He'd listened as he would to a legend told beside a fire during the Festival Moon, but for a long time he'd wondered if such people truly existed. As he'd grown older he'd come to understand that there was truth to the stories, but until now, he'd never met an Eandi sorcerer.
"You fear me now," she said softly, smiling slightly.
"No, good lady. Forgive me. I merely… I've never met one of your people before."
"Are we Mettai that odd then? Are Eandi sorcerers any stranger from Qirsi who forswear their magic?"
Before he could answer, the door opened, and Pritt stepped into the house.
"Ah!" he said, seeing that her eyes were open. "You're awake! Excellent!"
"This is the healer," D'Abjan said. "Pritt, this is Licaldi."
"Licaldi, is it?" he asked, crossing to the bed. He glanced at D'Abjan, who stood and got out of the healer's way. Pritt sat and examined her wound. "How are you feeling, Licaldi?"
"A bit dizzy," she said. "And my head aches."
"I imagine. Do you remember what happened?"
"No, I-" She stopped, staring at him. "Yes. Yes, I do. There was a man. No, wait. Two men. One in front of me on the road. The other behind me. They took my gold and they hit me with… with something."
"A rock, I'd say, from the look of the wound."
She shook her head, looking like she might cry. "I don't remember. I just know that they took my gold. I've been traveling through the highlands, selling my baskets, living off what I could earn from the trades I made. Now I've nothing again." Her eyes met Pritt's. "I can't pay you, healer. Even without your magic, you've been kind and you've helped me. But I have no gold for you."
Pritt shrugged. "That's all right."
Her face brightened. "But I still have my baskets." She sat up straighter. "Bring me one of those baskets, D'Abjan," she said, motioning for him to hurry.
The healer offered an indulgent smile, even as he shook his head. "Really, there's no need."
D'Abjan carried one of the large baskets to the pallet and laid it on Licaldi's lap. She removed the blanket and started looking through the smaller baskets as if trying to decide which one to give the healer.
Pritt stared at them. "You made all of these?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, not bothering to look up.
D'Abjan stood beside Pritt, also gazing at the treasures in her basket. "They're beautiful."
"Thank you, boy. You can have one, as well. Take it home to your mother and father, and tell them that you earned it with your kindness and good manners."
He smiled. "Yes, good lady." After looking over the baskets for a few moments, D'Abjan selected a deep, oval-shaped one with a braided handle. The rushes from which it had been woven were dyed green and blue-his mother's favorite colors.
"A fine choice," Licaldi said. She looked up at the healer. "And you, healer?"
Pritt shrugged slightly, but then reached for a shallow round basket that had no handle. "This will hold my healing herbs," he said. "And each day I use it, I'll think of you, kind madam."
"You're too kind, healer."
She pushed herself out of the bed and stood.
"What are you doing?" Pritt asked, a frown on his face.
"I have to be on my way. My gold is gone. I can't tarry here earning nothing. I'll stop at your marketplace, and then I'll be on my way."
"But your injury!" the healer said. "You shouldn't be standing, much less wandering the land on your own. At least stay the night. If you're feeling well enough, you can be on your way in the morning."
She smiled at him, as if he were a child and she an indulgent parent. "But, healer, I'm feeling well enough now."
Looking at her, D'Abjan realized that she did look well. Her color had returned, the haze of pain had lifted from her dark eyes, even the swelling at her temple appeared to have gone down. It almost seemed that the god himself had reached down and mended her wound, as if he were determined to prove to D'Abjan that the healer's poultice was enough, and that there was no need to resort to magic.
"Well, I can't keep you here against your will," Pritt told her sourly. "But I fear you're making a terrible mistake."
"I appreciate your concern, healer. If I do myself injury by leaving your care too soon, I'll have no one to blame but myself. You've been clear with your warnings."
"At least let me place a bandage on the wound."
She inclined her head. "I'd be grateful."
It took Pritt only a few moments to bandage her head, and soon the woman was on her way toward the marketplace, her carry sack on her back, one of the great baskets under each arm.
<
br /> "She's an odd woman," D'Abjan said, standing in the healer's doorway, watching her go.
"She's a fool," the healer muttered. "You'd best get back to your father, boy. Don't forget your basket."
He retrieved his basket from beside the pallet and started back toward Laryn's woodshop. The walk took him through the marketplace and before long he spotted Licaldi. She stood in the middle of the lane, her large baskets resting on the ground as she bartered with at least six peddlers. D'Abjan tried to catch her eye, but she was too intent on her bargaining to notice him. He hurried on, confident that before day's end she would recoup a good deal of the gold she had lost to the road brigands. Within a few days, everyone in Greenrill would have one of the woman's baskets.
As he walked, he couldn't help thinking that by bringing that woman to Greenrill, by allowing D'Abjan to find her as he emerged from the forest, the god had taught him something. Without using magic at all, the healer had saved the old woman's life. More, he had done it with ease. D'Abjan couldn't imagine that magic would work any faster than had the herbs and cold cloth. Surely not all healers could succeed so quickly, but Pritt had been honing his craft for years. And perhaps that was what the god had meant to show him. Of course D'Abjan couldn't expect to be a master craftsman after only three years as his father's apprentice, and yes, right now his magic worked quicker and with greater precision than did his hands. But with time and practice, he could learn to work wood as his father did. Finally he understood why his people refused to squander their V'Tol in order to save time or avoid work. To do so was to reward laziness and ignore the value of mastering a skill.
"I understand, Qirsar," he whispered. And he knew that he had gone to his clearing in the forest for the last time.
It was late when he reached the house. Sunlight angled sharply across the lane, and the air had begun to grow cool. Even from the road, he could hear his father sweeping the floors, a chore Laryn usually left for D'Abjan.
"Want me to finish?" the boy asked as he stepped inside.
"I'm almost done," Laryn said. He didn't sound angry, but neither was there any warmth in his voice. No doubt he was still annoyed with D'Abjan for staying with the healer.
"I'll stay late tomorrow," the boy said. "I'll finish the arm for Madli's chair."
"I did it myself," his father said.
"Then I'll start something new, anything that you want me to work on."
Laryn stopped sweeping and looked at him, his eyes narrowed slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What's this about?"
D'Abjan couldn't help smiling, too. "Nothing. I just… I'm ready to work harder. That's all."
His father held his gaze for several moments, then nodded. "All right then." He glanced at the basket. "What's that?"
"The woman made it. That's what she had in those big baskets. Smaller ones like this. Beautiful ones. She gave one to me and one to Pritt."
"So, she's doing better."
"Much. She's left the healer's house. I passed her in the marketplace trading with several peddlers."
The smile faded from his father's face. "You're not serious." "Pritt couldn't believe it either."
"He feared she was going to die. He made it sound as though she would. And instead she's already left his cabin?"
"He's a very fine healer."
Laryn stared at the floor. "Yes, or…"
"Or what?"
His father shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing." He took the basket from D'Abjan and examined it closely. "She does good work. And your mother will like the colors."
"I know. That's why I chose that one."
Laryn put away the broom and together father and son walked around to the front of the house. As soon as they stepped outside, D'Abjan caught the scent of the evening meal his mother was cooking. It occurred to him then that he hadn't eaten since morning. His stomach grumbled loudly, drawing a grin from his father.
His mother had prepared stewed lamb and herb bread, his favorites, and that night he ate until he was sated and happy.
It wasn't until he was getting into bed that D'Abjan began to feel ill.
Once she was away from the village she reclaimed her cart and steered it as far from Greenrill as daylight would allow. As darkness fell, she made a fire by the wash. Then she removed the bandage and threw it into the flames.
Conjuring the wound had been but a small matter; fooling the Y'Qatt healer had been laughably easy. A real Qirsi healer would have known that her injury was feigned as soon as he or she used magic to heal it. But the Y'Qatt relied on his eyes and his hands, his herbs and his false faith. Whatever qualities he thought to gain by eschewing the use of magic, wisdom and insight were not among them.
The boy had been kind. It was regrettable that he had to die as well. He was as much a victim of the Y'Qatt as she-no doubt his faith had been forced upon him, drummed into his mind until he could recite it by rote. But there was no avoiding it. That was why she had given him a basket. Let the illness come to him early; let him die before the worst of it. For die they would. All of them.
It would be a long night; she looked forward to it. First she would
hear the moans of the Y'Qatt, the cries of fear and suffering. Is it the pestilence that has come? they would ask each other. Is it Murnia's pox? Then the fires would begin. Winds would keen, sweeping dense mists through the village. Homes would crumble in the face of shaping power unleashed. Dogs would howl at the incomprehensible thoughts conveyed to them by those with language of beasts. Then at last, silence would settle over the village as over a tomb.
And she would move on, toward the next Y'Qatt settlement.
Chapter 5
KIRAYDE
Besh was lying in bed when finally it came to him. Since seeing that daybook of Sy1pa's, he had been able to think of nothing else. All through dinner, as the young ones played and laughed, and Mihas asked him question after question about the old woman's hut, he could barely keep his thoughts clear enough to respond. Elica finally asked him if he was well, apparently fearing that his long day in the woman's home had left him fevered.
He felt fine, though. It was just that journal. Why did it bother him so? No, not bother. That was the wrong word. It occupied his thoughts, to the exclusion of nearly all else. But why?
Sitting outside on Sirj's stump, as water dripped from the branches overhead and the sky above him began to clear, he tried to recall all he could of Sylpa. He'd known the woman when he was still a child, and had liked her very much. True, she was forever linked to Lici in his mind, but somehow he had managed to hold on to his fondness for her. Sylpa had been a formidable woman and quite beautiful, even after her hair turned white and the lines on her face deepened. Her eyes, large and dark green, had always seemed to be dancing with humor, even when the rest of her face looked solemn. And her laugh-full, unrestrained, loud enough to carry from one end of the marketplace to the other; even after she became eldest of the village and began to carry the cares of all Kirayde on her shoulders, she always kept that laugh.
She never married or had children of her own, but there were rumors, tales told in whispers and with sympathy, of a great love affair that ended in tragedy. According to these stories, Sylpa had loved a boy from Kirayde who left the village to seek his fortune, only to be killed in a flood along Maifor's Wash in Tordjanne. Heartbroken, Sylpa had vowed never to love again. No one remembered the boy's name, and even as a youth, Besh had questioned the verity of the tale. Then again, how else could he explain the fact that this strong, beautiful, kind woman lived alone at the edge of the village?
But there was nothing in the woman's history, or Besh's own, that would explain why the mere sight of her journal should affect him so. He'd never loved Sylpa himself-he'd been far too young. And though he liked her, they had never been close. So why?
Only now, lying in his bed, in the dark and quiet of Elica and Sirj's house, did he finally understand. It wasn't Sylpa who beckoned to him from those journ
al pages. It was Lici.
1119. That had been the date of that first entry he'd seen when glancing through the volume. Nearly one hundred years ago. Lici had come to the village well after that-probably forty years after. Of course Sylpa would have written about the girl's arrival in Kirayde. She was eldest at the time. And then she had taken the child in, and cared for her as if she were Sylpa's own. How could she have not written about her? It seemed quite likely that Lici's history was in that daybook. All of it, or at least as much as Sylpa had managed to get out of the girl. It might well contain the truth about whatever had befallen her prior to her arrival in Kirayde, leaving her alone in the world. It might explain the woman's strange manner and her stubborn silence.
He doubted that the journal would shed much light on where Lici was now, but it might tell Besh enough to help him piece together the rest of her story.
But just as the other villagers had no claim on Lici's gold, he had no right to read the daybook. True, he was an elder of the village, but that was all the more reason for him to leave the journal where it was. It fell to him, as well as to Pyav, Tashya, and the rest, to set an example for the other villagers. On the other hand, hadn't the people of Kirayde charged the elders with finding out what had become of the old woman? Mightn't the journal help him do just that?
Besh smiled in the darkness and shook his head.
"No, old man," he whispered. "If you're going to do this, don't lie to yourself about the reason."
The truth was Lici had fascinated him since the moment he saw her. At first, he had confused that fascination with love, but even later, when he realized that he wanted nothing to do with her, when he had started a family with Ema and had begun to warn his own children away from the woman, he remained enthralled by her. She had always been beautiful as well as strange. Or perhaps it was because her arrival in the village had come within a turn or two of his birth, forever linking them in the minds of others who had been alive at the time. Whatever the reason, the fascination had never really gone away. Here he was, a man in his sixteenth four, and still thoughts of the woman kept him awake in his bed. Besh couldn't help but laugh at himself.