Journey of Awakening

by Shawna Thomas

  Niku ignored his son’s sarcasm. “Of course, Cais. Take whom you need. But first, sit. Eat.”

  Cais hesitated long enough Niku considered his son might refuse him. After several heartbeats, Cais pulled out a cushion, taking a deep breath, to sit across from his father and brother.

  * * *

  Sara skewered the chunk of warthog on a fire-hardened stick and balanced it between two large rocks to cook over the open flames. The meat began to sizzle and a pleasant aroma filled the air. She’d made camp well away from the carcass; the scent of blood would draw scavengers for many wheels around. She hated to leave all that food but it would not exactly go to waste. Meat was hard to come by in the early spring. Animals were lean from slim winter pickings or emerging from hibernation hungry.

  Dusk stretched the shadows of the glen, quieting the forest save for the occasional chirp of a bird as it settled in for the night. She gazed through a canopy of darkened leaves to the emerging stars, alone, but not lonely; she’d gotten used to the solitude and it was a welcome change from the loud taverns and inns she’d slept in since leaving Yann’s house.

  She’d stopped at the smithy’s long enough to wait out a storm and deliver his child. As soon as there was a break in the weather, she’d consulted the map and determined she could make the next village five days north. Five days had turned to seven and Sara learned the map wasn’t as accurate as she’d like. With her supplies running low, she’d walked into the tavern, ordered whatever was in the cask behind the counter and proposed a deal to the barkeep. She’d share her earnings in exchange for lodging if he’d spread the word there was a healer in town. The barkeep had been quick to see the profit in the arrangement and sent his boy around to the neighboring farms.

  Before Sara had a chance to bite into a lump passing for bread, villagers braved the cold, lining up outside the inn, some merely out of curiosity but others with serious maladies. She did the best she could with the remedies she had, and closed the day with a reasonable profit, even after splitting her earnings with the owner. In the morning, she woke to a longer line of eager patients, most with poultry, small mammals or produce to barter for treatment. By day’s end, she was exhausted and her purse heavy after she’d exchanged livestock for coin and dried provisions from the inn’s stores. The owner asked her to stay, but her imagination provided plenty of images of the slaughter at Tyrol and other seaside towns. Her packs restocked, she headed out the next morning.

  When her supplies dwindled, or a winter storm loomed, she’d stop at the next settlement with an inn or tavern and set up shop to barter her services as she made her way slowly north. Only once had she been caught in the open during a blizzard. She thanked her grandfather for his sometimes harsh training methods and his frostbite remedy.

  As the days passed, snow diminished, water dripped freely from the trees and she’d even seen a few daffodils peeking through the snow. Winter was losing its grip on the land. Would spring have come to Shayner? Did that mean the southerners would attack the town? Come after her? Had they already found her trail?

  She no longer dreamed of the red man. Either the tricks Maelys had taught her worked, or he’d lost interest in her. Damn! That shouldn’t disappoint me at all... So why does it?

  Sara stirred the fiery coals with a stick, restless. Focus. North. She’d continue that way until something or someone changed her direction. But was she running toward something or running away? Sometimes she wasn’t sure if there was a difference. Either way, she kept moving. She pulled the stone from under her tunic. “A little direction wouldn’t be rejected. I need to find someone to teach me how to find the Siobani, since everyone I’ve asked tells me to keep my questions to myself.”

  She’d only discussed the stone with one other person besides Maelys and Nolwen, an old tavern keeper who had mentioned the old ways and appeared friendly—at least he had until she’d posed her question, then he’d looked at her like she’d lost leave of her senses. He’d laughed nervously, treating the question as though it was a joke.

  Night encroached upon her campfire, isolating her from the rest of the world and calling forth a different refrain from the forest. The hunt. She placed another stick on the fire.

  * * *

  Cais opened the door and stepped out into the night, breathing the cold air into his lungs and trying to calm his raging heart. How could his father be so blind? The Rabishi did not need a mediator; they needed a strong leader. As much as he loved his father, he knew Niku governed with the heart of a poet, not a warrior. And his brother, the waiting Akier? As long as he had his pielilo and a quiet place by the river, he was content to let their father, the Regent Akier, rule. But the lilting sounds of the pielilo would not feed the Rabishi people. Cais had seen the children’s hungry eyes. They’d used up all their winter stores and there was nothing to eat until the land warmed and even then, if they filled their bellies from summer’s plenty, how were they supposed to make it through the next winter?

  “It is unfortunate that your father does not have your insight.”

  Cais spun to see a man leaning against the wall of the house he just vacated. By the colorful clothing, the man was a trader. “What—”

  “Peace, friend. I could not help but overhear. Besides, it no secret that your father wishes to linger here and wait for a miracle.”

  “Miracles are scarce these days, but I will not speak of private matters with an outsider.”

  “No, my friend, miracles are made and belong to those not afraid to take a risk. And it is because I am an outsider, a tegosi, that I can clearly see what others are blind to.”

  Cais narrowed his eyes. A caravan of traders had arrived several days ago and even now camped a short distance from the village, even when it became clear the Rabishi had little to trade. Some said it was a good omen, a sign of prosperity to come. Cais had paid little attention to the small group; he’d had other things on his mind. It was unwise to be rude or show a lack of hospitality to a trader, yet Cais’s frustration was more than he could bear. “What is it to you, tegosi?” he snapped.

  The man shrugged. “I suppose I have a...soft spot for the underprivileged.” He stepped forward. “Please, Cais, I meant that with no disrespect.” The trader’s voice changed pitch, modulated, and Cais felt his anger melt away with his suspicion. “I have been among your people for a span of days. I’ve seen that you’ve been dealt such a blow that lesser people would have crumbled under and yet you are strong. As an outsider, I can also see that fate has played a trick on you, second-born son. You were given the gifts of leadership, yet Akier will always be outside your grasp as long as your brother lives.”

  “I wish no harm to come to my brother—”

  “Shh. And neither do I, but he is only a figurehead. To you, the greater challenge is given. The fate of your people rests on your shoulders. Only you can save them.”

  Cais felt something twist in his chest. Yes, he’d known that all along. It had been foolishness to try to change his father’s mind. His father was a poet and his brother a singer of song; the Rabishi needed a leader.

  “You are the leader your people need, even if you do not keep the glory for their salvation.”

  “I care nothing for glory. My people will starve unless I do something.”

  The trader placed one hand around Cais’s shoulders. “Yes, you must do something. Now, I realize I’m an outsider, but have you considered...?”

 
Chapter Nine

  Dust rose in small puffs around her feet. Sara gazed through hazy sunshine toward trees silhouetted against the horizon. Sweat trickled down her back. According to the trader’s map, there should be a town pressed against the forest. She squinted at the writing next to the dot on the map. Wood carvings? She smiled. The traders had neglected to put town names on the map. Throughout the spring and summer, she’d passed through many towns including leather, pots and a small town not even on the map she’d dubbed poultry for all the chickens running freely around the dusty streets.

  She shrugged, rolling the map and then securing it in her pack. At least she knew where to find carvings. Of what, she had no idea, but she hoped the carvers needed a healer; her supplies were running low. She’d had to veer off her northbound course to skirt a large finger of the mountain and now walked east across what must once have been a lake—a dry bed with small vegetation and a few wildflowers competing for the soil’s moisture. The terrain was a welcome break from towering forests and filtered light. Late-summer grasses encroached on the twin narrow trails, which ran toward the distant forest. She swung the pack over her shoulder. Her muscles ached in protest.

  Without turning, she knew the sun neared setting, its rays almost perpendicular to the narrow road. “Damn.” She didn’t want to be caught in the open at nightfall, not this close to a town, not as tired as she was. The most dangerous animals in the wilds walked on two legs.

  Her steps slowed as a faint jingling sounded behind her. The noise graduated to a cacophony of clangs and bongs. She’d heard that sound once before in Shayner. A peddler. They didn’t follow the traders, who worked fiercely guarded routes from thaw to first frost, but kept to the smaller towns, selling their goods locally. This one was probably headed toward the famous wood carvings nestled in the forest before her. Perhaps she would make it off the open plain by nightfall after all if she could catch a ride with the peddler. She had to admit to a certain curiosity—her father was, after all, a peddler. Sara observed telltale dust in the distance then continued her trek, knowing the wagon would catch up soon.

  * * *

  “Whoa.” The wagon stopped but the dissonance lasted a few moments longer. She watched as an old man eyed her, perhaps puzzling over what kind of woman would walk alone along a deserted road. She’d seen the look often.

  “Good day, sir.” Sara brought a hand to shield her eyes against the setting sun. The face under the bangs might once have been handsome, but the small features were lost in a web of wrinkled flesh.

  “And good day to you.” The peddler touched a brimless hat. He pursed his lips, still studying her, then his craggy face shifted and rearranged into something resembling a smile. He peered at the sky, frowned and nodded. “A long way to the next town, longer after dark. You could ride up here with me, but...” The man sniffed.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “I don’t ride with strangers.”

  “I see.”

  “But I couldn’t in good conscience leave a woman out on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere.” He tapped his bottom lip with his finger. “Only one way to rectify that predicament that I can see. I’m Zeynel.”

  “I’m Sara. Nice to meet you.” She was more than half-tempted to keep walking despite her weariness. She did not need a crazy peddler in her life.

  “Now we’re not strangers.” He patted the seat next to him with a weathered hand and a silver ring in the shape of a knotted rope shone for an instant in the half light.

  Sara examined the man’s leather boots, so thin she could see his toes wriggling. Peddling must not be profitable business.

  “Are you coming, or have you decided you need the exercise?”

  Sara caught a gleam in his eyes: a mixture of intelligence and merriment.

  Oh why not? She leaped up beside Zeynel and eased the pack from her shoulders. Sara rescued her cloak from the leather sack and fastened it at her throat. Adjusting her sword, Sara settled on the hard wooden bench.

  Zeynel stared at her sword’s handle, which poked through her cloak, but only leaned back, his eyelids drooping.

  After a moment, when the cart did not move, Sara glanced from the reins, loose over the footboard, to Zeynel. The peddler sat motionless, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. His eyes closed. She heard a faint humming sound. Sara considered the darkening sky. Of all the peddlers in the world, I had to hitch a ride with one who falls asleep at odd times.

  Sara cleared her throat, but still Zeynel sat motionless. The hum deepened, became almost a melody, but in a deep bass she felt in her bones. Sara moved her hand to cover Ilydearta. It wasn’t the stone...or was it?

  Zeynel reached for the reins as though the previous moments hadn’t happened.

  The mare lunged forward, and the sounds of pots, pans and various tools clanging together left a wake of sound trailing behind them. “She’s very sensible and particular...Thalami.”

  “The mare?”

  Zeynel half opened one eye and nodded. “Her name is Thalami.”

  Sara stifled a sigh. She’d humor the eccentric old man. A ride was a ride. “What does Thalami mean?”

  “North Wind.”

  “I see...”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Um...”

  “Ever seen the North Wind?”

  A brief flare of irritation melted into weariness. “No. I haven’t.”

  The peddler stared at her, his expression amused.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Just curious. What business brings you out here, in the middle of nowhere, and alone to boot?”

  “Same as you. I wander, peddling my wares. I’m a healer.”

  “I see.” Zeynel nodded.

  “No, you don’t,” Sara retorted, a smile tugging her lips.

  “Good point.” Zeynel huffed.

  Sara closed her eyes, letting her body sway with the cart’s motion. Zeynel might be an eccentric old man, but she didn’t think he was dangerous. Thalami slowed down and then stopped. She opened her eyes. Over the sound of the quieted cart, Sara heard hooves pounding against dry soil. The sun, lingering on the horizon behind them, highlighted three horsemen racing across the plains. Bandits.

  As the riders approached, she darted a glance toward Zeynel, who had resumed his humming, eyes closed. Really? Asleep now? It was amazing the old man was still alive.

  The bandits rode into the fading light, revealing their position and limiting their own vision. Amateurs.

  The humming stopped.

  Reaching into her pack, Sara produced a water bag and took a long swallow to soothe her suddenly dry throat. Just ride on past. Please. So far she’d managed to avoid any conflict. She entered a town, did her business but otherwise kept to herself. It looked like that streak was at an end. Oh well, it’s a season of firsts. That’s it, Sara, stay cocky and maybe you won’t realize you’re scared.

  The men split as they neared. One reined his horse on the middle of the road; the other two flanked the wagon. Great.

  “Just hand over the coin and we won’t hurt ya.” A man with yellow hair spoke, revealing matching-colored teeth.

  Zeynel didn’t move. Could he be really asleep? Sara stood, surveying the group. From their dust-colored tunics to their mud-splattered boots, everything about them spoke of neglect. “I think you gentleman should look for sport elsewhere.”

  A stunned expression passed over the yellow-haired man’s face. Then a smile revealed his yellow teeth again. “What have we here?”

  “I hate repeating myself. Leave us alone. You’re not getting a single coin.” Sara took a deep breath, relieved to hear her nerves were not reflected in her voice.

  “And are ya goin’ to stop us, or will the old guy?” The man looked to his companions and dismounted. “
Men, I think we is gonna have some fun.”

  Fun? Now she was annoyed. If she’d been the same wide-eyed girl who washed up on the beach, their swagger might have intimidated her, but she’d seen plenty of swagger since then. Most of it without anything to back it up. “Men who won’t do an honest day’s work really irritate me.” Sara didn’t take her gaze from the ruffians as they approached the wagon. She waited until the leader drew closer, then jumped, kicking him in the face. The sound of snapping cartilage echoed in the dusky field.

  Landing on her feet near the wagon, she watched shock then anger move across his features. He sat in the dirt for a moment, blood trailing down his neck. If her angle had been different, she could have killed him. It had been a warning shot.

  Adrenaline shot through her system, quickening her heart. Sara adjusted the swords at her back, making sure they were easily accessible. “I suggest you men leave now.”

  “Draw your sword.” The leader’s hand and crushed nose muffled his voice.

  Sara removed the practice weapon from its sheath.

  “A stick? You gonna fight with a stick? She ain’t even got a real sword.”

  Sara gazed at the dark-haired man who spoke, but her attention was on the third man. His eye was keen, movements supple. He, at least, was no amateur. “I don’t intend to kill you. Let’s leave my real sword in its scabbard...for now.”

  “Git her.” Anger burned from the leader’s eyes.

  Sara sidestepped the dark-haired man’s charge, bringing the wooden sword down on his right arm. She heard the snap of bone as she spun and hit the backs of his knees, felling the bandit. His scream echoed as she turned to the other two.

  Blood running freely down his face, the leader charged. Sara blocked his blow and then twisted until his wrist snapped. With a kick to his chest, Sara sent him backward, and he landed in a groaning heap. In her periphery, she saw the third bandit approach. He didn’t lunge but neared with caution. “You could leave,” she said.