by Dave Gross
“Every door is open to a healer,” I said. “I have not yet thanked you for healing Radovan. At present I am bereft of my usual resources, but upon my return to Caliphas, I shall have a suitable reward sent—”
She waved away my promise and shook her head.
“You could use it to help your people.”
She shook her head firmly, reminding me of a very old joke about Ustalavs. When a Chelish peasant finds his cow dead, he prays that Aroden grants him another cow. When an Ustalavic peasant finds his cow dead, he prays that Pharasma kills his neighbor’s cow. The national tendency toward gruff self-sufficiency can seem mean-hearted to outsiders, but I find something admirable in it.
“Why then do you help us?” I asked. “Is it because you once knew a Pathfinder?”
She signed no and kept her eyes on the road ahead, although we could see precious little of it in the mist.
“Is it for Radovan?” I asked.
She said nothing, but I noted the tightening of her jaw.
“Surely you must realize that by challenging Malena as you did, you offered the distinct impression—Ah!”
She punched me in the arm, a blow surprising not only for its suddenness but for its power. I had to clutch the lantern-post to prevent myself from tumbling onto the road and under the wheels. My first thought was that she had gone mad. In Cheliax or even in Kavapesta or Caliphas, a woman of her station would have been flogged for an assault on a person of my station. My second thought was the realization that she had probably never set foot inside a city or upon the grounds of a manor house. No doubt she had her own ideas of whom she could strike with impunity.
Even so, a count of Cheliax is not to be cowed by a single thump by a hedge witch. I shifted into a more defensible position on the seat and said, “What will you do if he returns the knife to you?”
I must confess that I flinched slightly when she shrugged, but she did not resume her assault upon my person. The ghost of a smile played at her lips, and I realized her secret. I had watched Radovan take the knife and fold it into a burlap sack in the wagon.
“He doesn’t have the knife, does he?”
She attempted to make an enigma of her smile, but it was then that I noticed the tattoo on the inside of her right wrist. I craned my head over to see her left wrist. As I’d suspected, there was an identical tattoo.
“Show me,” I asked.
She peered around to see whether anyone else was looking. No one was in sight. She flicked her wrist like a prestidigitator, but rather than a scarf or a playing card, a starknife appeared in her hand. I had been watching her wrist, so I caught the glimmer of stardust as the weapon appeared. With another snap of her wrist, the starknife vanished.
“Clever,” I said. “Radovan can offer the knife neither to you nor to Malena, and so she may not impose upon his attentions until the next moon and yet you need not fear he will accept your proposal.”
Azra smiled like a master criminal whose plot could not be proven, even though her adversary had guessed it.
“I wonder,” I mused, “at the moment you threw that knife, which of those conditions was principal in your mind?”
She turned a wrathful face toward me, and I clung to the lantern-post.
Our progression across Amaans continued for three more days, most of that time through obscuring mist and light rain. When we paused to rest, the Sczarni drew near but did not join us, instead forming a circle around their magic bag to share the food they had stolen or hunted. Not for the first time, I prayed that Radovan could maintain control over them. They were cutthroats at best, monsters at worst, and it was impossible to anticipate their behavior without understanding more clearly why they followed him. I wanted to know much more about their legend of the Prince of Wolves, but I sensed it was too soon after Dragos’s death to intrude upon their privacy.
Radovan had used the phantom steed to impress the Sczarni, even though they had to have seen me conjure it for him each day. I suppressed the urge to conjure it for myself, reestablishing my proper place in the hierarchy. If for a while Radovan were the one to whom the servants bowed, the first to receive a meal, the one exempted from the village chores, well, I could bear it. For a while.
It required more patience to practice my diplomacy on Azra, but gradually she became more responsive to my inquiries about the county, and I in turn limited my observations about her personal motivations. When I shared with her my youthful worship of Desna, she nodded approvingly, and eventually I learned more about her dual loyalties to Lady Luck and the Lady of Graves. She considered herself a cleric of both goddesses, yet her use of the starknives suggested an especial affinity to Desna. Pharasma’s spheres of influence were universal: fate, prophecy, birth, and death. On the other hand, Desna was a goddess most often worshiped by individualists of all stripes, including, not coincidentally, Pathfinders. Considering those things Radovan had shared with me about her, I realized at last why the Sczarni held Azra in such esteem.
“Was it your father or mother who came from the Sczarni?”
She turned wide eyes upon me, surprised at my elementary deduction. I raised a palm for truce, but she did not strike me. Instead, she drew a deep breath and signed, Father.
Gradually I pressed the inquiry while we traveled, and a trifle at a time, she shared her story with me. Through a succession of signs and amendments to my questions, she signed that her father had been a Sczarni tinker, which I understood to mean he was a highwayman on the road and a confidence man in the village. Her mother was one of undoubtedly many village girls who had succumbed to his charms, yet for some reason he had returned upon the news that he had gotten her with child. His wanderer’s heart did not let him linger long, however, and he had left behind the wagon as an inheritance for Azra when he abandoned her mother, an incident whose similarity to my legacy of the red carriage did not escape me.
She told me little else of her life, for when my questions touched upon the reason for her leaving her home to travel among the villages of Amaans, healing the sick and injured who in return supplied her with subsistence, a cool calm settled over her, and she would respond no more. Whatever impelled her to adopt this life, I gathered, it was not dedication to charity alone.
She signed, Why do you go back?
She saw that I did not understand her question.
You found the Pathfinder, she signed. Why go back?
That was a fair question, and I surprised myself by hesitating to respond. Perhaps I did not know the answer. Yes, the search for lost knowledge is a principal cause of our Society, and I felt an obligation to complete the search my colleague had begun. But it had become a more personal issue since someone had caused the deaths of my servants upon the Senir Bridge. The more I pondered the question, the more I believed two forces had worked against us that night, and the Sczarni werewolves had been only one of them. More galling was Casomir’s attempt to manipulate me, especially his theft of my memory. What I wanted—“revenge” is such a tawdry term, but only fools believe they can have justice. Even acknowledging my own resentment, I knew it was not what I most desired.
“I want to know what has been hidden,” I told Azra. “And I want to know why.”
She frowned at me and shook her head, but not as if she failed to understand. Her eyes were filled with pity.
The village of freaks seemed even more miserable than it had appeared during our brief previous visit. Apart from any fear of the site’s curse, the Sczarni seemed perfectly rational in refusing to enter, and even brave Arnisant sneezed at the first scent of the place. Our arrival was not met with the joyous welcome Radovan had described receiving earlier, although the pathetic beings that shambled out of their hovels to greet us smiled and bobbed their malformed heads to each of us in turn. Their clothes were the same color as the mud upon which their hovels squatted, and I would have bet one of my best farms that one could not find a lump of soap within the weird fence that ringed the village.
I was glad
that Azra and Radovan had agreed that this visit would also be brief. They wished to enlist Tudor as a guide through the mountains of Virlych. Knowing the lad was both easily frightened and, to be kind, of limited intellect, I was dubious of their plan. Upon learning that none of the Sczarni had ever ventured into the mountains, nor had Azra traveled farther west than this wretched village, I saw no alternative but that we take advantage of whatever familiarity with the region Tudor might be able to share with us. Arnisant endorsed our selection by nuzzling the big lad’s hands, although I suspect the reason for that had more to do with Tudor’s failure to wash them regularly.
We left Azra’s wagon and outfitted Luminita to carry tools and a week’s provisions for four, expecting the Sczarni could supplement our stock by hunting. That seemed a viable plan until we returned to their camp outside the accursed village and found their numbers reduced by half. Cezar, Malena, Sandu, and Tatiana remained, but Fane, Milosh, Cosmina, and Baba had assumed their bestial forms and departed. One of them was still visible in the distance, a dark gray wolf loping north at an easy pace.
“What is this?” I said. “Find out, Radovan.”
He joined the remaining Sczarni for a quiet conference. Beside me, Azra tugged at my sleeve.
Do not command him in front of wolves, she signed.
I opened my mouth to protest, but she was correct. No matter how much it rankled to pretend a subservient status to my own employee, demonstrating our true hierarchy would only invite further challenges.
Radovan returned. He sent Tudor to check Luminita’s pack and spoke quietly enough that only Azra and I could hear him.
“Apparently,” he said, “they left while I was in the village because they didn’t want to go to Virlych.”
“That is a good sign,” I said.
“You think so?” said Radovan. “We’re going for a hike in a place that scares off werewolves.”
“I meant it is a good sign that the Sczarni do not wish to choose between breaking their taboos and disobeying your commands,” I explained. “It means they respect you.”
“Or fear me.”
“There is little difference to a people as violent as the Sczarni,” I said. Glancing at Azra, I added, “No offense intended.”
Azra ignored my amendment and pretended not to notice Radovan’s raised eyebrow. I made a mental note that the two of them were not as well acquainted as I had assumed. In the future, I would be more circumspect in references to Azra’s background.
“So we’re going with those who’re left?” said Radovan.
I was surprised he asked. “Of course,” I said. “I have not come this far to give up at the foot of the mountains.”
He nodded, but I could tell he had misgivings.
“One other thing,” I said. “When we are in the company of the Sczarni, I shall pretend to defer to you rather than risk further confusion among—well, let us call them ‘your people.’”
“Yeah?” he said in a familiar tone of skepticism. He knew there was a second clause.
“Yet I trust that you shall not forget the true nature of our relationship.”
“Of course,” he said. “I got it, boss.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Now, then, it is time you commanded us to follow a path west by northwest, as well as Tudor’s familiarity with the terrain allows.”
Tudor proved such an apt guide and scout that I began to suspect he was an idiot savant. When Radovan first sent the giant boy to scale a ridge and report what he could see of the other side, I feared the lad would require rescue, thus wasting the rest of our day’s efforts. Not only did he return in half the time I had estimated, he also described what he had seen with such accuracy that upon seeing the area myself, I could not recall a cartographer of twenty years’ experience who could have duplicated his feat. Even aside from his uncanny aptitude for dead reckoning, Tudor had the singular virtue of tirelessly bearing a pack rivaling the weight of those Luminita bore. If not for his deplorable personal hygiene, I might have considered educating Tudor in the basic tenants of the Pathfinder Society and enlisting his service on a regular basis.
Rising to Tudor’s unspoken challenge, the Sczarni adopted their lupine forms and scouted ahead in two pairs. Soon after, two of them returned suddenly, their hackles raised by the sight of one of the region’s lightning phantoms. I had previously observed the phenomena only from a great distance and wished to observe them more closely, but no enticement could persuade the werewolves to return us to the site. A couple of astonished looks from both Radovan and Azra reminded me that curiosity is best served with a measure of prudence, and so I relented.
There were other wonders to behold. We passed the remains of a face carved into the mountainside ages earlier. Only a single eye bordered by a shattered cheek and brow remained, but dark shapes moved within the hollow pupil. Consulting my map, I saw that the eye was fixed on a point southeast, toward the Gardens of Lead. Behind it, to the northwest lay the lost city of Casnoriva, and farther still in that direction stood dread Gallowspire, the bastion and prison of the Whispering Tyrant.
Contrary to the rumors that no living thing resided within the borders of Virlych, we spied game trails. Cezar noted, however, that we had found no fresh spoor, only an occasional mess of bones and skin. We saw no more signs of migrating geese, but I spotted a lone scavenger wheeling over something dead or dying to the southwest. The Sczarni scouted shorter distances each time they went out, and Arnisant remained close beside me.
As night fell, the fog rose from the foot of the mountains while the heavy belly of the sky loomed above our heads. The light of our campfire cast a jaundiced ring in the narrow limbo between the vast obscurities. What little we said before sleep we spoke in whispers, and we sat our watches in silence.
Late on the second night, after I had retired from a restless watch with Cezar, Sandu shook my leg until I stirred. He lifted a finger to his lips for silence and moved along to wake Azra. Ten paces from the fire, Radovan and Malena knelt and pointed toward a dim light less than a mile distant. Taking Galdana’s blade in hand, I joined them. We watched to see whether the intruding light flickered, indicating that someone had passed before it.
“There,” said Malena. I followed the direction of her finger to see the partial outline of a pair of horses tethered not far from the fire. Beside them, the tiny silhouette of a man slapped his arms against the cool night air and paced to stay awake during his watch.
“Who else is mad enough to travel here?” said Radovan.
“Apart from the lingering dead?” I asked.
“You’re frightening the women, boss,” he said. Azra struck him in the shoulder, but it was a light, soundless blow that put a faint smile on his lips.
“Grave robbers,” I said. “Cultists, necromancers, treasure seekers, the truly mad, if Desna smiles.”
“You’re frightening the men, now,” he said. “What if Desna laughs at us?”
“Then those are paladins from Lastwall, and they have seen our fire as we have seen theirs.”
Seven hundred years ago, the surviving members of the Shining Crusade founded the nation of Lastwall to maintain vigil over the ruins of Gallowspire, where the Whispering Tyrant fell, and the battle-plains of Belkzen, where his defeated orc legions had fled. Despite the final sacrifice of their great general, the crusaders were wise enough to know that the lich had merely been contained, not destroyed, and his legions had been scattered, not annihilated. Ever since, the peerless cavalry of Lastwall patrolled both the frontiers of Belkzen and the wastes of Virlych. They had a reputation for impatience with those who trespassed these lands.
Radovan asked, “Do we run?”
“That would be pointless,” I said. “Even if we turned to flee directly back into Amaans, they would overtake—”
Before I could complete the thought, a chorus of drawn swords sang out and a dozen brilliant lights blazed up around our camp. After a moment’s blindness, I saw every member of our party cast
in stark lines of trembling black and incandescent white. Surrounding us, just inside the ring of illumination, stood eight armed soldiers.
Arnisant barked a late alarm, but his surprise spoke volumes about the intruders’ stealth. A hand sign was insufficient to calm the hound, and I had to repeat myself to make him sit and stay by my side.
“Drop your weapons,” demanded one of the soldiers. He spoke Taldane with a light Varisian accent.
“Sneaky sons of bitches,” grumbled Radovan. We had both been fooled by the decoy at the campfire, but Radovan took such things personally. A few years spent in noble society, where every compliment is a scheme and every courtesy a lie, and he would learn to take it in stride.
The Sczarni looked to Radovan for a cue. Wisely, he did not turn to me, but everyone saw me gently lay Count Galdana’s sword at my feet. Radovan nodded, and the Sczarni threw their knives to the ground.
“I know what we agreed,” whispered Radovan. “But I think you’d better take this one, boss.”
An armored man on an enormous pewter-colored stallion rode through the ring of soldiers. Like his soldiers, he wore the shield of Lastwall on his tabard, but upon his shoulder I recognized the insignia of his rank. Two more mounted soldiers came up behind him.
To the captain’s left was a wizard wearing one of those absurd chinstrap beards with whiskers so erect that he appeared to have been struck by lightning. He wore a ring on every finger and clutched a basilisk-hide tome adorned with a dozen little pockets on the cover, each marked with a rune indicating the material component of a spell, most of which I recognized.
On the captain’s right was an armored woman with the sword of Iomedae embossed in gold upon her steel breastplate. She looked tiny beside the men, but her eyes radiated the calm assurance of an adept paladin or cleric of her goddess.
“Captain,” I said, offering a military bow. “I am Count Varian Jeggare.”