The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

  Sorrow filled Toria and despite her revulsion, she reached out to lay a hand on the sleeping man’s chest. “Is there nothing that can be done for such as these?”

  Bronwyn nodded her approval. “There is no healing to be found within the use of our gift, but there are some who have recovered from such brokenness. It takes time and love—and an abundance of both.”

  Toria nodded. “What of him? Will anyone be able to heal him?”

  Bronwyn’s expression closed. “He has already been tried and convicted, Toria Deel. This man’s fate has been determined. It’s not our place to interfere.”

  “His name is Eofot.”

  Anger brought heat to her skin until she burned with it, at the waste of life, at her own inability to heal it, but most of all at whatever circumstance had taken Eofot and broken him.

  Toria replayed the memory and a hundred more like it, searching for some knowledge or lore that might help her. A touch brought her out of her mind, and she opened her eyes to see the horizon swallowing the light of the sun.

  In the midst of the small rectangle that defined their camp, men and women, dressed in black, their faces smeared with lampblack or mud came stumbling into the waning day, their eyes covered in heavy swaths of cloth.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant,” Toria said. “Has she killed any besides those who have come from the forest?”

  The lieutenant shook his head in a way that told Toria she’d asked the wrong question. “No.”

  On her left, Fess might have sighed in relief.

  “How many of those who come from the forest are women?” Toria asked.

  The lieutenant’s face tightened. “Nearly half.”

  She pointed at a figure emerging from the blackened tent, a figure owning a heart-shaped face, visible despite the cloth and mud. “How many women from the forest has she killed?”

  The lieutenant stiffened. “None. She has left them for the others.”

  “Come, Fess, and bring Wag with you. Let us renew our acquaintance. Lelwin is waiting for us.”

  “Lelwin?” The lieutenant’s mouth twisted around the word, giving it an unfamiliar sound. “You mean Brekana?”

  Sorrow, but not surprise, washed through her. She forced a nod. “Yes. I mean her.”

  Chapter 38

  A little over a week out from Erimos, Dukasti held up his hand and they pulled to a stop, the horses champing and huffing. The sun still stood well above the horizon. Pellin had long since stopped bothering to mop his brow. The cloth allotted for the purpose was sodden past the point of usefulness.

  Dukasti dismounted with a signal, and a score of southern warriors followed suit, their crescents—the half-moon blade affixed to a bar of iron—clanking at their side. “We will rest here, Eldest,” he said. “Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, we will endeavor to make the journey to the border of the true desert, the Maveth, where Igesia awaits.”

  “Can we not journey a bit more today?” Mark asked. “We still have hours of daylight left.”

  Dukasti smiled. During their journey Pellin had watched his counterpart develop an affinity for the urchin, not only for his insights, but for the unwavering commitment he exhibited for Elieve’s care. “Igesia dwells in Oasi,” he said. “It is one of the few spots of respite on the border of the corruption, but there are no more between here and there. The ride can be accomplished with twelve hours of hard riding, no less. The desert is not a place to spend the night, unless you wish to freeze to death.”

  “Freeze?” Mark laughed. “I feel like butter that’s been left next to the oven.”

  Dukasti nodded. “Oasi lies beyond a stretch of tens of miles of nothing but sand. No river or stream, no plants or animals, make their home there. The air cannot hold the heat, and when the sun goes down, any who are caught unaware succumb to the dry and cold.” He beckoned. “Come. The hospitality of the sandmen is proverbial here, and my brother Karam will be expecting us. I sent a bird ahead.”

  They surrendered their horses, and Dukasti led them to a long low building in the shape of a cross. Arched hallways tapered toward the center of the roof and focused the breeze, but even so, the force of the southern sun struck Pellin like a physical blow. They passed through a doorway into a room whose roof was latticed to provide shade and permit air to circulate.

  Instead of chairs, large cushions surrounded low tables, but few merchants or traders were in attendance. A southerner, his azure eyes bright against the deep charcoal of his skin appeared out of a side room and made for Dukasti. “Brother! It is good to see you.”

  Dukasti’s lips parted into a rare smile. “Karam, it is good to see you as well.”

  Karam’s smile deepened, but he shrugged. “Yes and no. The only time I see you is when you are on your way to Oasi, and that only happens when there is trouble.”

  Dukasti’s expression turned stricken. “I came to visit you on your naming day, did I not?”

  This earned him a shake of the head. “That was five years ago, brother.” Turning serious, he eyed Pellin and the rest of their company. “I have a hard time believing dire circumstances could arise from such as these. Surely the light of Aer shines upon them.” His eyes narrowed when he noticed Elieve. “Though this one carries a tale worth hearing.”

  Dukasti shook his head. “Some tales are for the bearer only.” To Pellin he said, “My brother Karam holds a unique blend of talents that provide insights that others cannot see. Even he doesn’t know how he does it. He’s probably a sorcerer.”

  “Nonsense,” Karam said, “I merely watch and listen. The heart speaks what the spirit yearns to utter, even if the mind and mouth do not partake.”

  Pellin nodded. “I know of one such—a reeve, as chance would have it.”

  Karam tapped Dukasti on the chest with the back of his hand. “There, you see? There is no need for magic. Come, make yourselves comfortable, and I will have Tanvi bring you date wine and figs for your refreshment while we prepare dinner.”

  A moment later a girl entered, eyes wide, carrying a broad tray with a pitcher of wine, cups, and figs. As she passed by, Elieve reached out and touched the shimmering half-sleeved shirt and wrapping cloth the girl wore. “Pretty,” she breathed.

  The girl smiled, showing her resemblance to her father. “Do you like it?”

  Elieve nodded, her eyes wide and earnest.

  “This is the sari my father gave me on my seventeenth naming day,” Tanvi said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Elieve nodded, touching the shimmering cloth again.

  Tanvi straightened and eyed Elieve with a speculative look. “Dinner will be some time coming. Among my people it is traditional to dress for the meal as a way to honor guests. Would you like to wear a sari for your dinner?”

  Elieve’s eyes went wide and she nodded.

  Tanvi laughed. “Come. I seldom get the chance to spend time with girls my own age.”

  Elieve stood, but when Mark released her hand, her face turned stricken and she hesitated. “Go,” Mark smiled. “Tanvi is a friend.”

  Hesitantly—with stops and starts like a child taking their first steps, and looking back over her shoulder for reassurance—Elieve moved away. But she gained confidence as she went, and by the time she left the room, she and Tanvi were running as they held hands and laughter trailed behind them.

  “An important moment?” Dukasti asked as he watched Mark.

  “I think so,” Pellin said. “This is the first time Elieve has been out of Mark’s sight since we found her.”

  “Tanvi is the only daughter of my brother,” Dukasti said.

  Pellin nodded. Dukasti’s implication was painfully clear. “Elieve’s vault has yet to open, and it is still three hours until sunset. Both of the girls are safe. However, I can send Allta to watch over them, if you wish.”

  “No. As Tanvi has hinted, without girls of her own age around, living on the edge of the desert has been hard for her.”

  Pellin leaned forward. “Tell me, Dukasti, have any of
the southern Vigil ever succeeded in breaking a vault without also breaking its bearer?” A desperate hope flared in his chest.

  But his guide shook his head. “I am new to the Vigil, but nothing I’ve read in our library hints at such, and very few attempt the desert. From what Igesia and the rest of our Vigil have told me, the northern Vigil contends with far more incidents of the evil than we.” Pellin assumed he’d done a poor job of hiding his dismay, because Dukasti amended his assessment. “But Igesia is far older and wiser than I, Eldest, and he says things from the depths of his contemplation that are hard for me to understand.”

  They talked of inconsequential matters for perhaps another hour, during which time Mark grew progressively restless. As he made to rise from the cushions, Tanvi and Elieve finally entered.

  “I’m sorry for taking so long,” Tanvi said, “but I thought it would be rude not to offer Elieve the opportunity to bathe. The crossing to our oasis is a grim undertaking.” She laughed a sparkling sound and stepped aside to give the men an unobstructed view of Elieve.

  Her rich brown hair had been pulled back with a brooch to expose the delicate curve of her neck, and twin gaersum stones rested on her forehead and in the hollow of her throat. A sari of deep shimmering blue caught a half-sleeved shirt of the same color at her waist, and a skirt the color of night flared to show sandals decorated with polished stones.

  Pellin smiled. “I’ve lived for a very long time, Tanvi, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen two young women more beautiful.”

  At his side, Mark didn’t speak. He gazed at Elieve, drinking in the sight of her, a young man in the desert desperate to quench his thirst.

  “You like it?” Elieve asked him.

  He nodded, and she came forward to take his hand.

  Dukasti rose, a smile on his face and held his hands out to both Tanvi and Elieve. “You are rare flowers in the desert, startling in your beauty.”

  Both girls laughed and reached out to take his hands. Mark bolted upright, his protest plain on his face, but Pellin waved him back and watched as Dukasti’s eyes dilated, the smile on his face never wavering. An instant later he released Tanvi’s hand to hold Elieve’s for a moment longer. He stepped back, beaming. “Perhaps, Tanvi, you have something within your chests that would be suitable for Elieve to wear for the crossing tomorrow. The sari is not suited for the harshness of the desert.”

  After the girls departed, he turned to Pellin. “I meant no offense, Eldest, but thought it best to verify the girl’s state before we made the journey.” Turning to Mark, he bowed until his torso ran parallel to the ground. “It is rare to see such strength of commitment in any, but especially in one so young. Tell me, Eldest,” he said turning back to Pellin, “have you had him tested for the gift of devotion?”

  Mark’s laughter filled the room. “Gifted? Me? I don’t think so, watchful one. If you’ve truly delved me, then you know I am an urchin. The streets have been my home for as long as I can remember, and if anyone had bothered to put their hand on me in blessing, I doubt I would have lived there.”

  Dukasti nodded, pursing his lips. “But blessing is not the only means by which a gift may be passed.” He pointed to the door the girls had used to exit the room. “The gift of devotion is the most difficult to test, but it often calls to its own.”

  Pellin knew this, had known it for centuries, but it took Mark a moment to catch Dukasti’s inference. “You mean my gift is the reason I’ve taken care of Elieve?” His mouth tightened in disapproval. “I didn’t have any choice in the matter?”

  Mark’s anger deepened with Dukasti’s chuckle, but the southern Vigil member held up a hand. “Far from it, apprentice. You chose, and then your gift of devotion came to your aid, strengthening your will to undertake a difficult task.” He pointed to Pellin. “I have delved your Eldest as well. I saw how you ran back into danger when you were pursued by those the forest had claimed. You were armed with nothing more than a torch and your wits. You pride yourself on knowing when a bluff or con might succeed and when the odds are too great. Tell me, young Mark, what would make you undertake such a foolish gamble? You should have died.”

  “I . . .” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

  Dukasti smiled. “I do, and I am humbled by your strength of commitment.”

  “But it’s not really me,” Mark said. “It’s the gift doing the work.”

  Pellin smiled, raising his hand for their attention. “Mark, my treasured apprentice, the gift doesn’t decide; it only enables the bearer to do what the bearer wishes. It provides the strength of the spirit to allow the mind and body to go beyond what they would normally do.”

  They set out for Oasi the next morning, before the sun had cleared the horizon, but the soldiers did not accompany them. “Igesia permits no one to come any closer to the Maveth Desert unless their circumstances require it. The soldiers will stay here to prevent others from following.” He exhaled a deep breath that misted in the morning air. “We must ride quickly. If we cover enough ground while the horses are fresh then our trip will succeed.”

  “And if we do not?” Allta asked. “The Eldest’s safety is in my care.”

  Dukasti shrugged. “If the Eldest wishes to meet with Igesia, then we must brave the crossing. Igesia will not leave his contemplation of the desert.”

  They rode the horses at a fast trot that ate up the miles, following Dukasti on his trail through the sand. The sun rose throughout the ride, and Pellin removed the layers of clothing that had kept him warm until only his long-sleeved shirt and linen breeches remained. “How do you know our route?” he asked during one of their stops to water the horses.

  The southerner nodded. “In truth, Eldest, one can only know the approximate direction. Oasi lies almost due south of my brother’s hospitality. I correct as we go, based on our elapsed time and the position of the sun.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to map a trail or place signs?” Mark asked.

  Dukasti nodded. “I’ve often wished for as much, but the sandstorms have the power to change the landscape, and we desire to keep Oasi as isolated from those who would challenge the desert as possible.”

  Pellin nodded his agreement. “But Oasi is surely small enough to miss, even if you have plotted your course well.”

  Dukasti pointed to the extra horse tied behind his own, the one that carried water for them all. “The pack horse carries tar-soaked wood. When we have traveled the correct time and distance, we will stop and light a signal fire. The properties of the desert that so often kill can be used to guide us to Igesia. As the desert grows hotter, the air becomes more still, until the only wind will be that of our passage. The thick black smoke of our fire will rise straight to the heavens. As one of the Vigil, I have a scrying stone that is twin to Igesia’s. He will guide us in to the last oasis.”

  “I see a wall,” Elieve said behind them.

  Pellin smiled in preparation for laughter. The girl’s childlike observations throughout their ride had served to distract him from the heat, but Dukasti didn’t laugh. He spun, scattering sand around his feet to stare in the direction of Elieve’s point. Horror etched his face.

  “Ride!” he screamed, running toward his horse. “We must make Oasi before the storm.”

  Hands clamped Pellin’s shoulders, and the world pitched as Allta threw him into his saddle before doing the same with Elieve. Dukasti had already thundered off to the south, plumes rising from the hooves of his horse. Pellin turned in his saddle and gaped.

  A wall of swirling brown malevolence a thousand feet high came at them from the northwest, still distant, but even now Pellin could see billows within the storm, ugly swells as it ate up the ground. In panic, he dug his heels into the sides of his horse, too sharply. His mount reared, threatening to pitch him from the saddle. His cloak fluttered with the motion, and a glint of green caught the light as his scrying stone tumbled free to drop end over end to the ground.

  Then the world pitched as his horse shied. Pellin
slid from its back, searching. Dukasti, looking back and seeing him, screamed. “We must ride, Eldest!”

  “The stone,” he screamed in panic. Nothing but sand and rock showed beneath his feet. “I dropped the stone.”

  They circled, searching as the wind blew grit across his vision. “What color is it?” Dukasti asked.

  “Green,” he said, “like the palest sea.” He looked up. “Aer, have mercy. How long will it take the storm to reach us?”

  Dukasti turned to face the menacing wall, shaking his head. “I’m a child of the coast, Eldest. I don’t know. But if we cannot make the protection of Oasi before the storm hits, the sand will flay the skin from our hides.”

  Chapter 39

  Fear put a hand around Pellin’s chest and squeezed, keeping him from drawing a breath, as though the storm had already hit. Dared he leave the stone?

  “Pretty,” Elieve said, slipping out of her saddle, wandering from Mark to Pellin’s side.

  Growling, he spun, but his remonstrance died on his lips. Elieve pointed to a stretch of soft sand and thrust her hand toward its surface. When she raised it, she held a shard of light green in her fist.

  Pellin took the stone. “Aer be praised,” he said, blessing and prayer and relief mingling together. “Thank you, Elieve.” He looked at the wall, still distant but looming, growing. “Hurry.”

  Dukasti mounted and rode, his own scrying stone, blue, held against his ear, working desperately to guide his horse with one hand. The initial burst of fear that had propelled the horses as they galloped across the dunes had begun to fade. Already they were showing signs of tiring. Pellin darted a glance back at the oncoming storm.

  The wall raced toward them, looming over their party as it came boiling out of the northwest. Bits of grit and dirt filled the air, and he coughed. Dukasti stopped, reining in his horse with a curse and screaming above the sound of the storm. “I can barely hear him, Eldest.” He flung an arm in the direction they’d been riding. “Igesia sees the storm in the distance, but the smoke from any fire he lights will be lost.”