Books in the Kalie’s Journey Series:
Daughter of the Goddess Lands
Shadow of the Horsemen
Keepers of the Ancient Wisdom
Oathbreaker’s Daughter (short stand-alone, set in the same universe)
In the Balance (Short story collection; title story in set in Kalie’s universe)
Other books by Sandra Saidak:
The Seal Queen
Praise for the Kalie’s Journey Trilogy:
Book 1 Daughter of the Goddess Lands:
A masterful epic journey about trauma, healing, love, hate, and the loss of a prehistoric world we can never find again. Debut author Sandra Saidak mesmerizes with clear vivid prose and heartfelt emotion.—Valerie Frankel, author of From Girl to Goddess: The Heroine’s Journey in Myth and Legend.
Not every author can find a way to tell a new and challenging story, or should I say stories, since our heroine Kalie is a storyteller herself. So many novels follow the same tired formulas, with the same happy (and boring) endings…But Kalie is neither a warrior princess waving a sword or a beautiful seductress dressed in shimmering gowns. Instead she's someone who must overcome her own terrors, even as she finds herself assuming the role of a reluctant heroine.—Sam Barone, author of The Eskkar series.
Book 2 Shadow of the Horsemen
The story of Kalie continues in Shadow of the Horsemen, and what a story! This book is full of feeling. I returned to it every chance I got, and when I wasn't reading, I found myself wondering what was happening. The first book was good, but Saidak really comes into her writing in this second book. The world is vibrant and the characters are fully three dimensional - even the most minor character was someone I felt like I could actually talk to. Please tell me there will be a third book!—Marlene Dotterer, author of Moon Over Donamorgh
Keepers of the Ancient Wisdom
(Kalie's Journey Book 3)
by
Sandra Saidak
Uffington Horse Press San Jose, CA
Text Copyright © 2014 Sandra Saidak
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Donji Cullenbine
Dramatis Personae:
People of Aahk who followed Kalie and Riyik west:
Warriors:
Borik
Garm
Durak
Zanal
Malor
Yanal
Garak
Women:
Brenia
Tarella
Darva
Danika
Sarika
Agafa
Varena
Saela
Katya
Children:
Yarik
Barak
Sirak
Myla
Liara
Healers of Green Bower:
Shula
Andor
Laissa
Galla
Josan
Jaleen (a merchant)
Survivors of Kalie’s mission from Book 1:
Larren
Alessa
Kestra
People of Stonebridge:
Nara – Senior priestess
Ilara -- Priestess
Orin—Senior priest
Bodon--Priest
Janak--Smith
Sarella--Midwife
Ranal--Hunter
Taran—Varena’s suitor
Noris—Varena’s suitor
Martel—Brenia’s suitor
Nyssa—Martel’s sister
Jula—Basketweaver
Minda—Jula’s daughter
Casim—Wandering storyteller
Ruleen—Leader of those opposed to fighting
Analie— Warrior-in-training
Ladoka—Warrior-in-training
Kariik’s people:
Warriors:
Lornak
Kelvin
Hysaak
Artev
Alrik
Charnak
Women:
Elka
Tilka
Kara
Gallia
Miona
Otera’s followers:
Malana
Lanara
Valeska
Derona
Erobia
Danarie
Griva
Trisa
Map
Prologue
Varlas, king of the Wolf tribe, stood on a low hill and surveyed the burning tents and broken bodies of the tribe he had just defeated. He heard the screams of their women as his warriors took their pleasure, and watched while his own women took his flocks to the greatest prize he had won this day: a tiny stream flowing with fresh water. That stream—the only water within a two day ride—meant life for his tribe. For a few more days, at least.
A scattering of snow mocked him. He needed water for his people, not more drought. Brown and brittle grass chafed their legs and arms in the strangely dry winter. The land was dying. And from ancient tales of similar disasters, Varlas knew that if they didn’t move west, and take the water and grass that still remained, their flocks, and their horses, and then finally the people would die as well.
But the western steppes were drying, too. Not as badly as here; there would be water and grazing for their animals in the spring—once they had taken the land from the tribes who called it home. Varlas looked upon the prize he had just won, and cursed the demons who swallowed the water from the land. Demons who dared to prevent a king from enjoying the fairest of the women and many skins of kumis and all the other treasures that were now rightfully his.
Because this victory was not as his others had been. As Varlas proudly watched his oldest son, fresh from his first battle, thrusting into a comely girl no older than thirteen, and probably a virgin, judging from her strangled sobs, he knew she would have to be left behind with all the others. There was no food to spare for new slaves. Their weakened animals could not carry any treasure beyond food and water. To be brought so low, after all his father and grandfather had paid in blood and courage to earn this tribe the name of Wolves of the Gods stung deeply, and was an insult to the gods themselves.
So Varlas, mightiest king of the grasslands, would do what none before had done: he would take his people and leave the steppes.
Everyone had heard the tales of the land to the west, where the water never ran dry, and where food and gold were said to be as plentiful as grass was on the steppes. The western tribes raided there, but none had stayed, and for good reason. It was also a land to fear, filled with mists that swallowed horses, and forests where a man could go days without ever seeing the sun. Automatically, Varlas looked up at the bright winter sun, the clean lines where endless brown grass met endless blue sky. To leave the land of their ancestors was unthinkable. But to stay meant death.
And there would be rewards for warriors who rose to such a challenge. They would be masters of a land no one else possessed, and few would dare try to take. Varlas knew about the dirt-eaters: strange men, if they could be called men at all. They lived by grubbing in the earth like worms, too weak and cowardly to fight as warriors and take what they wanted. Some even said that women ruled them. Varlas snorted. If that were true, this strange land was his for the taking. But he also knew that only a fool believed every wild tale that he heard.
Varlas watched his two wives watering their flocks. One had been his boyhood love, and had given him five children, including his firstborn son. The other was young and enticing, and made him long for his bed in the middle of the day, though she had given him only a daughter so far. The slaves, bent low beneath the weight of the full water bags
they carried, had dwindled to only three. The others were dead, along with Varlas’s favorite concubine.
In the west, he would give both his wives the life they deserved. Slaves, to see that his queen spent her last years in comfort, while he covered his younger wife in jewels and furs. Over time, there would be more wives, and sons to make him the envy of all men. And many barbarian slave girls, eager to please him. Or they would meet the fate of all who displeased the King of Wolves.
His fears calmed at last, Varlas went to his tent where the daughters of the former master of this land awaited him. He was a king, and to ignore the prizes allotted to him would anger the gods. And he would need their favor if the daring course he had set his tribe upon was to succeed.
Chapter 1
The people stood in a tight, fearful group beside the river and gazed at the trees on the other side. Behind them was nothing but an expanse of withered brown grass, stretching unbroken to the eastern horizon. Kalie turned back to the river, and then glanced at the sun sinking behind the distant hills beyond.
“We will make camp here,” she said, turning to address the group of nearly seventy men, women and children. “Tomorrow, we will find a fording spot and cross into the Land of the Goddess. There, we will be safe.”
Not everyone seemed convinced, but they began to go about the work of setting up camp, for that was something everyone—whether they had been a warrior, a slave or a wife in the tribe of Aahk—knew how to do. Camp consisted of a small fire, a good supply of driftwood and dried dung to keep it going, and enough flat ground for everyone to roll into their blankets and sleep in relative comfort.
The smell of roasting meat—from one of their last goats, Kalie knew—made her mouth water, while at the same time made her smile. Riyik, once a nomad warrior, now Kalie’s lover and life-mate, was turning the meat on a spit. He was cooking! Something no warrior of Aahk would even consider doing when there were women around, and now it was, well, perhaps not natural, but he did it. And it smelled delicious.
“So this is…what is the word?” Garm asked, pointing to the dense stand of trees across the river.
“A forest,” Kalie answered, supplying the word that did not exist in the nomad’s tongue.
“And big water? Is called river?”
“Yes!” Kalie was pleased that so many were learning her language. Of course, with some words, they had no choice. No one from the grasslands had seen a body of water so long and wide that it appeared endless, and would never dry in summer.
Two young women stood beside Kalie, staring into the bright water, which now reflected the setting sun like a flame. “It is like blood,” said one of them, spreading the fingers of her right hand in the sign against evil. The other woman only shook, too frightened to speak.
“Not blood,” said Kalie. “It is the birth-waters of the Goddess. When we cross this river tomorrow, we will be born again into a new world. A world of hope and joy. A land where we will all cast off our fetters.”
The women, both junior wives in their old lives, seemed offended by Kalie’s terms but neither spoke. They had, after all, chosen to come with her.
Kalie turned back to the camp where most of the women were busy unpacking the horses, filling their nearly empty water skins from the river, and adding what little they could to the goat meat for their supper. The few provisions they had been able take with them when they fled the land of Aahk—hard cheese, curds and grain—were long gone. They had foraged what they could, but this far from home, the horsewomen recognized little that was edible. Only their diminishing flocks of sheep and goats would feed them until they reached a village where the animals could be traded for the vegetables, fruit and grain of Kalie’s childhood.
“You there,” Danica called to one of the women. “Come help with sick ones.” While most of the women set to work easily, some of the former slaves tended to stand still, looking around with interest, but doing nothing when they stopped for the night. It’s not that they’re lazy, Kalie thought. It’s that they have no initiative. They’re not used to working without someone yelling orders—usually delivered with slaps and kicks. Fortunately, Danica, who had been the daughter, then wife, and finally mother of chiefs, was very good at delegating.
Kalie went to help Sarika, who was making a meaty broth for those who were ill. Her greatest worry was for Agafa who had once been a proud and beautiful dancer; the prized possession of a chief. When Agafa had grown too old to please her master, his spiteful new wife had convinced the chief to cast Agafa into the shadows rather than selling her. Essentially a death sentence, it meant she had no home; no place in the tribe. As she reached old age—a time that would have guaranteed her a respected place in the Goddess Lands to the west—Agafa was forced to depend on the compassion of people who had none, and hunger and exposure had taken their toll.
Now as Agafa collapsed shaking into the blanket spread for her, she was aided by two of the most compassionate people Kalie had met—in this or any other land—who were also the best healers in the party. Sarika, once Danica’s slave, had appointed herself Agafa’s chief caregiver, helping her walk during the day and plying her with potions at night. Brenia, Kalie’s sister-by-marriage, assisted Sarika, and worked to keep Agafa’s spirits up, as she walked beside her with a quiet grace that never failed to impress Kalie.
Others requiring healing included one of the men who had a cut that had begun to fester, and two of the children who had picked up fevers. The others, to everyone’s amazement, suffered from nothing more than weariness and fear. And that, Kalie thought as she returned to the riverbank and gazed longingly at the maze of beautiful, familiar trees, just across the river, would soon be remedied.
Larren waddled over to where Kalie stood, toes nearly touching the water. Kalie smiled at the only other person here who could look at a forest and see home instead of an alien landscape.
“I told you your baby would be born free, in our homeland,” Kalie said.
“We’re not there yet,” said Larren, placing a hand on her huge belly. For a moment, she glared down at the bulk before her. Then her gaze softened and she smiled. “How much longer?” Kalie asked, trying not to show her nervousness.
“At least a moonspan. Don’t worry; I won’t have it on the trail. You were good enough to keep me from killing this baby and myself when I lost hope. I can at least return the favor by not making our escape any more exciting than it already is.” Larren sighed and rubbed her back as they walked. “I just wish Alessa was here.”
“So do I,” said Kalie, thinking of the gifted healer who had set out with them on their mission to defeat the horsemen, more than a year ago. Alessa had refused to leave their enemies, still convinced she could somehow turn them into friends. Kalie gagged as if she had tasted something sour, and then turned her thoughts back to the pregnant woman beside her. “Sarika and Brenia are both skilled healers.”
Larren nodded. “They have been very helpful. And very kind. Strange that all that time I was Itaak’s slave, his hateful wife…two of the cruelest beasts ever to foul the body of the Goddess…all that time, there were people like Brenia and Sarika, living in the same camp; the same stinking tents. And I never knew it.”
Kalie had no answer to that, so she squeezed Larren’s hand.
“Is it the same forest we crossed on our way to the steppes?” Larren asked. “I remember crossing several streams, and at least one river. I just don’t know if it was this one.”
Kalie nodded. She was equally uncertain. Normally, this would not be a concern. But winter was fast approaching, and more important to Kalie, she had promised herself that Agafa would live to see the lands of the Goddess. Turning her back on the river, Kalie went to sit with the sick woman. Sarika was adding the last of the honey to willow bark tea for the children with fevers, while Brenia, kept Agafa propped up as she coughed, wiping blood and phlegm from her mouth. Kalie picked up one of Brenia’s jars of salves and began rubbing Agafa’s feet with the sweet-smelling mi
xture.
When the coughing subsided, Agafa winked at Kalie. “That feels good, but I’ll die in your land, not a stone’s throw away on the wrong side of the river. So don’t start anointing my body yet!” She tried to look fierce, but was nearly purring with pleasure at Kalie’s ministrations.
“We prefer to use such arts for the living, rather than the dead,” said Kalie.
“Such sensible people,” said Agafa. “Another thing I think I’m going to like about your home.”
Brenia massaged Agafa’s hands while Kalie finished with her feet. They worked in companionable silence until Agafa fell asleep. Then Brenia and Kalie went to find their collection of children. Yarik, Riyik’s three-year-old son by his late wife, was now Kalie’s step-son, but he still felt closer to his aunt Brenia, who had raised him since his mother’s death. Kalie had come to love Yarik, whose club foot she had been treating, nearly as much as Varena, the child she had adopted while still living as a slave in Maalke’s tent.
Kalie looked at the young woman who walked about the camp, seeing to final chores, and reassuring those who still feared the noisy flowing water—and nearly everything else they saw. Varena had been an unwanted, half-starved slave girl when Kalie had met her barely over a year ago. Now she walked tall and proud among those who had once been her masters, her unbound hair blowing golden and free behind her.
And then, Kalie thought as she settled Yarik in his blankets beside his cousin Barak, there was Brenia. Married to a cruel and selfish warrior since she was fifteen, Brenia had been pregnant many times in the eighteen years of her marriage. But as her husband never tired of reminding her, only one had survived, and that one had not even arrived until Brenia was nearly thirty—an age when most women of the steppes were old and dried out. Yet Kalie considered Brenia to be one of the most beautiful women she knew, her skin still clear and white, and her long red hair no longer hidden by a veil. But Brenia carried her beauty more in her quiet dignity, graceful stride and kind heart.
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