Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And then they were out of the city, over open water—the Gulf of the East.

  “Go to the river,” Pender said, pointing ahead.

  “Hai,” Hakin said, obviously over his initial fear that Tarker might be able to catch them. “This is amazing!”

  “Are we high enough to escape the demon?” Zerra asked sardonically.

  “Oh, yes!” Hakin said. “This is wonderful! But where are we going?”

  “Tazmor,” Morvash said.

  “Where’s that?” Hakin asked.

  “North of Sardiron of the Waters.”

  “That far? Won’t it be cold?”

  Morvash shivered; he was already chilled, and they were still over the warm waters of the Gulf. “Yes, it will,” he said.

  “It may be,” Pender corrected him. “We will see.”

  “But I didn’t bring a coat!” Karitha moaned.

  “None of us did,” Morvash said.

  Hakin, who was at least wearing a workman’s vest, looked at Zerra, and Morvash followed his gaze, noticing for the first time that Zerra was wearing a coat, a brocade-trimmed one with fur at the cuffs and collar. She smirked, and pointed to the bundle behind her.

  “I came prepared,” she said. Then she turned to Pender. “You said go to the river. What river?”

  “The big river,” he said. “From the north.”

  “Oh, that one.” Zerra leaned, and the carpet suddenly veered to the left. Far below, a dark shoreline appeared alongside them.

  “How long will it take us to get there?” Morvash asked.

  “I don’t know,” Zerra said. “I don’t know how far it is.”

  “I went for almost three months, at all,” Pender said. His Ethsharitic seemed to have gotten worse again, Morvash thought. Perhaps it was from all the excitement of this very long day, or perhaps he was simply exhausted.

  “Well, we’re flying at least ten times as fast as a man can walk,” Zerra said, “so it shouldn’t be more than a sixnight and a half.” The carpet turned again; Morvash looked down and saw that they were leaving the Gulf, turning over a narrower body of water, where both shores were visible. He saw few buildings, but the land seemed to be divided up into roughly square patches—farmers’ fields, perhaps? It was hard to see in the dark; the lesser moon’s pink glow was not bright enough to illuminate much.

  “Ten times as fast as a man can walk,” Hakin said. “Karitha, how fast can Tarker run?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “He’s going to follow us.”

  “I know.”

  “I think we can stay ahead of him,” Zerra said. “At least for awhile.” She did not sound particularly concerned.

  “I hope so,” Morvash said. The water below had narrowed, and was clearly a river now, presumably the Great River. He had to strain to see any details. He decided to close his eyes for a moment, to rest them.

  And the next thing he knew the sun was bursting up over the eastern horizon and the carpet was descending toward a small village.

  “I want some breakfast and some rest,” Zerra explained, when she saw him raise his head. “I think all of you got at least a nap, but I couldn’t—I was flying the carpet. So we’ll stop here for awhile, and continue when I’m more awake.”

  “Oh,” Morvash said. That made sense. Then he frowned. “How will we pay for the food? I don’t think I brought any money.”

  “We have two wizards, a witch, a demonologist, and a prince,” Zerra said. “I think we can manage something.” Then she patted her bundle. “And I brought money, in any case.”

  And then the carpet settled to the ground, surrounded by staring villagers.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Darissa the Witch’s Apprentice

  27th of Leafcolor, YS 5238

  Darissa was shivering with cold as she looked around at the villagers. The bedsheet she wore was not meant for this sort of use; she had it wrapped around her so that one shoulder was bare, and the improvised skirt flapped open in the breeze.

  She could have used witchcraft to keep her warm, but that would use up energy and then she would need food and rest. She decided that at least for the moment, she preferred being cold to being tired and hungry.

  Not that she wasn’t tired and hungry, but she did not want to make it worse.

  “Can we get me some clothes?” she asked. She glanced at Marek. “And him, too?”

  “Of course,” Morvash said. He looked at Zerra, who had been moving her baggage off the carpet to one side.

  “Hello!” Zerra said to the villagers, ignoring her fellow wizard. “Is there an inn here, or someone who takes in lodgers?”

  “We don’t have an inn,” a woman replied.

  “Do you have a witch?” Darissa asked, hoping to appeal to sisterhood—the generic sisterhood of a fellow practitioner, not the organization called the Sisterhood, which she had not yet joined.

  “No,” the woman said.

  “Do you have food, and somewhere we could sleep?” Zerra asked. “We have money.”

  Darissa noticed a man on a crutch. “Or we may have other ways to pay,” she said. She could feel his pain from a dozen feet away; one of his feet was distorted and wrapped in fraying once-white rags.

  Zerra threw her an annoyed look, but Darissa paid no attention as she shuffled, shivering, to the injured man. She put a hand down toward his bandaged foot. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Cow stepped on it,” the man replied. “It’s broken.”

  Darissa forgot the cold and her indecent dress as she squatted down and put her hands on the bandages. He was right; the bone was broken, and it was healing incorrectly because no one had positioned the broken pieces properly. She could feel it, through cloth and skin, and she honestly wasn’t sure how much of that was coming through her fingertips and how much was witchcraft.

  “Hold on,” she said, “this is going to hurt.” She did try to block the pain, but she knew she would not stop it completely. She placed both hands on the foot, and twisted, using magic more than muscle.

  The partially-healed bone snapped, and then the pieces slid into place, aligning as they ought to, and Darissa poured warmth and healing magic into them. She could feel the hard tissues melt and flow together.

  She was only very vaguely aware that the man had let out a yelp of agony, and that other people were shouting, and moving around near her. Her entire attention was focused on the healing.

  Her vision began to dim, and she realized she had overextended herself. She looked up and saw Marek struggling to hold back two women who were trying to get at her; she saw the man’s expression shift from pain to astonishment; and then she fell over, exhausted.

  She was vaguely aware of more shouting, and arguing, and then she was picked up in strong arms and carried somewhere, and the next thing she knew she was sprawled on a small couch and someone was feeding her a wonderfully rich beef broth.

  “How did you do that?” someone asked, and she looked up from the wooden spoon to see the man with the broken foot sitting across from her on a sturdy chair.

  “I’m a witch,” she answered. Then she corrected herself, “Well, a witch’s apprentice.”

  “It feels better—is it healed?”

  “Only partly,” Darissa replied. “It will need a few sixnights, but it should be fine by Festival, at the latest. The way it was before it would never have healed properly; the bones were out of line.”

  “Keep eating,” Marek said, and Darissa realized that he was the one feeding her the bowl of broth. She obeyed.

  “You’ve earned us a meal and a place to rest for today,” he told her as the bowl emptied.

  “How are the others doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Marek said. “Zerra really do
es have money, and Morvash can do some magic tricks, so they should be fine.”

  Darissa glanced at their hosts and switched from Ethsharitic to Melithan to ask, “Is the demon still chasing us?”

  Marek spread his hands, the bowl in one and the spoon in the other. “Who knows?” he replied, also in Melithan. “Probably. Hakin said it could follow Karitha anywhere in the World.”

  “Then we don’t want to stay here very long; we’ll need to keep moving.”

  Marek frowned. “Karitha will need to keep moving; we don’t.”

  Darissa was too weary to think about that right away; instead she let her gaze wander around the room. Marek was perched on one end of the couch where she lay; the man with the broken foot was sitting opposite; and two women were standing off to one side. Darissa thought they were probably the two Marek had held off, but she was not certain.

  “I’m Arl Tagger’s son,” the injured man said, speaking Ethsharitic with a slightly peculiar accent. “This is my house. Thank you.”

  “Healing is part of my job,” Darissa said.

  “Still, thank you.”

  “I’m sorry I tried to stop you,” one of the women said. “I thought you meant to harm him.”

  Darissa shook her head. “Why would I do that?”

  The woman took a step back in confusion and did not reply.

  “I’m Bela,” the other woman said. “I’m Arl’s sister.”

  “Darissa.” She looked up. “This is Marek.” She had deliberately not given his title; she thought it was more likely to complicate matters than to improve the situation.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Bela said, “is that garment something you wear because you’re a healer?”

  “Or a witch?” the other woman added.

  “No,” Darissa said, with a wry grimace. “This is something I wear because my clothes were lost and the only things I could find to replace them were a bedsheet and a drapery cord.”

  “Oh. It…it doesn’t cover you well. Would you like something warmer?”

  “I would love something warmer!”

  “I don’t know how well it would fit, but I still have some clothes I outgrew when I was…well, I don’t know how old you are, but you’re smaller than I am and you look young.”

  “I’m seventeen…” Darissa began. She stopped and frowned. “Or maybe I’m not. My age is something of a complicated question right now.”

  “Let me get the clothes,” Bela said; then she scurried into a back room.

  “My name is Peretta,” the other woman said.

  “She’s my wife,” Arl explained.

  “Is there anything else you need?” Peretta asked.

  “Is there anything else you need healed?”

  Arl and Peretta exchanged glances. “Well, not us…”

  An hour later Darissa had treated a cow’s cracked hoof, healed several chickens of bumblefoot, assured a neighbor that she was healthy and her failure to produce children as yet was just bad luck and not barrenness, and cleaned out an old man’s excess of earwax. She was now wearing a sturdy old blue-and-white cotton tunic over a blue wool skirt, and over that a wonderfully warm sheepskin coat—Bela had outgrown the tunic, which fit Darissa surprisingly well, and the skirt, which was too long but could be taken up. The coat had belonged to someone named Rulura who had died recently, whose heirs had not yet divvied up her belongings. It was too big, but as far as Darissa was concerned that was just fine, given the chilly weather. The extra material could be wrapped around her for added warmth, and the stains and stretched-out seams didn’t matter.

  There were no boots to spare, but someone had found a battered pair of slippers that were better than nothing.

  Marek had been outfitted with Arl’s second-best leather work tunic, which fit him far better than Erdrik’s robe had, and a pair of badly-sewn doeskin breeches that Bela had made long ago for practice; Peretta had assured him that the fancy fabric of Erdrik’s robe would more than cover the cost of these garments. Alas, no slippers were found for him, let alone boots, but an old pair of sandals turned up, and strips of wool he could use to wrap his legs.

  With winter coming there was little food to spare—the cupboards and attics were almost full, but no one knew how much of that would be needed. Arl and Peretta were happy to provide a meal or two, and a stale loaf of bread for the journey, but no more than that.

  Marek and Darissa understood, and expressed their gratitude for that much, and for the clothing.

  During this time they had not seen any of the others—Morvash, Zerra, Hakin, Pender, or Karitha—beyond brief glimpses; it seemed that Zerra had bought the others a meal and somewhere to sleep.

  And now, with the witchcraft done and clothing acquired, Darissa and Marek settled onto Arl’s couch, near a warm hearth, while Peretta and Bela began preparations for a proper breakfast.

  “How long do you think we’ll be staying?” Darissa asked Marek in Melithan.

  “However long you need to regain your strength,” he replied.

  “No, I mean…” She hesitated. “Aren’t we going to Tazmor with the others?”

  “We don’t have to. We could go home.”

  Darissa could not reply to that immediately. There was too much to consider.

  Except for a brief trip to Trafoa, she had spent her entire life in Melitha and had been content to do so, up until she had suddenly found herself naked on the floor of a wizard’s house in Ethshar. She had been in Ethshar of the Spices, the largest, grandest city in the World, and she had spent the entire time locked up in a wizard’s house; she had only gotten a glimpse of the rest of the city when she flew away on a magic carpet.

  She had been traveling on a flying carpet! That was amazing. Those few hours felt more real than her forty years as a statue because she had been able to feel—feel the wind, the cold, the farbic beneath her. She had heard the wind and seen the stars and moons overhead, had smelled the night air and Marek’s flesh beside her.

  And now she was in some village somewhere along the Great River in the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, one that so far as she knew didn’t even have a name, trading healing for clothes and food.

  Her whole reality had transformed in an instant, without any warning, that night the siege of Eknera ended, and the idea of returning to her old life was tempting, but she knew it wasn’t possible. They had been gone for forty years; they could never really go home. Everything in Melitha must have changed by now.

  Besides, this was an adventure. Going home now meant giving up whatever Zerra and Morvash were doing. She knew they were looking for Erdrik, that the Wizards’ Guild had ordered them to find him and see what he was up to, and she was curious herself. Erdrik had not been turned to stone, but he had been trapped in a vault for eleven years, and when he was returned to his own home the first thing he had done was leave; what could be so important that he would go off to Tazmor immediately without even looking over what had become of his own house and city during his absence?

  And there was the man who had been looking for them. Who was he, and what did he want? What if he had gone back to Melitha and was waiting for them when they got there?

  “It’s been forty years,” she said at last. “We don’t know what we’d find there.”

  “But it’s still our home.”

  “Is it? We don’t know that! And besides, how would we get there?”

  “Walk.” Marek said. “Or take passage on a boat—the closest port to Melitha is Lumeth of the Coast, but from here we might do better with Perelia or Kushin. We won’t get lost; we can follow the river.”

  “We don’t have any money, Marek. We don’t have anything but these clothes we were just given. How could we pay for passage? Or if we walk, how could we feed ourselves?”

  He turned up a
palm. “You have your magic. I have my arms and a strong back. We won’t starve.”

  Darissa answered, “And if we meet assassins on the way?”

  “You have your magic,” Marek repeated with a smile. “I have my arms and a strong back.”

  Darissa shook her head. “I think we should talk to the wizards first, at the very least. Maybe one of them can tell us what’s become of Melitha.”

  “Morvash said he didn’t know.”

  “But we didn’t ask Zerra, and maybe one of them has magic that can find out.”

  Marek sighed. “All right,” he said.

  They ate breakfast, then napped, to be awakened in mid-afternoon by Morvash’s arrival.

  “We’re getting ready to go on north,” he said. “Do you two want to come with us, or stay here?” He hesitated, then added, “I’d like it if you joined us; a witch may be useful.”

  Marek looked at Darissa.

  “We’re coming,” she said. “What about the others?”

  Morvash glanced over his shoulder. “Well, Zerra and I are following orders, so we need to go on. Pender lives in Tazmor and is acting as our guide, so he’s coming—we’re taking him home. Karitha wants to stay with Zerra so the flying carpet can keep her out of the demon’s reach, and Hakin is worried that Tarker will be angry with him for helping Karitha, so they’re both coming. You two are the only ones we weren’t sure about—the assassin, or whoever it is looking for you, is probably still back in Ethshar, so you should be safe.”

  “It’s a long walk,” Darissa said. “If we come with you, can we get a ride to Melitha eventually?”

  Morvash frowned. “You’ll have to talk to Zerra about that.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  “Then join us at the carpet as soon as you can.”