The Spirit Stone

by Katharine Kerr

  Lord Mirryn did indeed know the meaning of tattoos that featured Westfolk letters. ‘Horsekin,’ he said. ‘The Horsekin put those all over themselves.’

  ‘But this fellow was human,’ Neb said. ‘Or at least, he looked human, except for the tattoos.’

  ‘Well, they’ve been taking slaves for centuries, haven’t they? I’d imagine that the women have little choice about whose bed they warm.’ Mirryn wrinkled his freckled nose in disgust. ‘Savages, they are, the Horsekin.’

  ‘They are all of that,’ Neb said. ‘Though to be fair, our ancestors weren’t much better, or so my father told me once, when it came to bondwomen.’

  ‘Well, maybe so. You know, I think we’d better tell Lord Oth up in Cengarn about this. A Horsekin half-breed in Bel’s priesthood? He’s most likely a spy or suchlike.’

  ‘True spoken, my lord. I’ll go get my pen and ink. Lord Oth probably can’t smoke him out till the gwerbret returns, but he should be warned. Though you know what’s odd? I never saw this fellow in the temple when I went there with the prince and Gwerbret Ridvar. I was looking for him, too, because I wanted to thank him.’

  ‘That is odd. Maybe he wasn’t a real priest of Bel at all. I suppose if you shaved your head and put on that tunic they wear, who would argue with you about it? Giving a priest trouble is a good way to get the god he serves angry with you.’

  ‘You’re quite right. Challenging him would be too risky. If it turned out he was genuine—’ Neb shuddered to finish the point.

  It was several days before Neb saw the raven mazrak again. Neb worked all morning in the sunny herb garden until his shirt was soaked through with sweat and he felt dizzy from the lack of moving air. He hauled up a bucket of water from the well and poured it over himself, then hauled up another and used the tin cup chained to the bucket to scoop up a good long drink. Once his head cleared, he climbed up the ladder to the catwalk near the top of the dun wall, where the Red Wolf pennant flapped, promising a breeze. Neb breathed in the cleaner air, then sat down on the catwalk and leaned back against the cool stone wall.

  Down below he noticed Branna, walking across the ward with Horza the woodcutter. Branna held a big sack of the sort in which she stored carded wool. Horza was carrying an odd contraption—a dwarven straked wheel mounted on a very short axle supported on four little legs. He’d added wooden pegs to the wheel’s rim as well. They disappeared into his workshop with Branna talking all the while. For a moment Neb wondered what they were doing; then he remembered Branna talking about making a device she called her wool-spinner.

  The idea held little interest for him. He leaned back, glancing up, and saw the raven mazrak, drifting in a circle high above the dun. Slowly, keeping his back to the stones of the wall, Neb slithered up rather than stood. The raven completed his circle and began another. Neb slid his hand into his pocket and very slowly, standing in shadow, pulled out his leather sling, then froze. The raven finished his second drifting circle and began a third. Equally slowly Neb reached into his other pocket and pulled out a smooth round stone. All at once the raven croaked in alarm. Rather than flying off, he merely climbed higher, out of the sling’s range, and began another circle. Neb had the sudden odd feeling that he’d heard the raven speak, then realized that he was perceiving an attempt to reach him with thought alone. He put the sling and stone back into his pockets. The raven dropped down lower again.

  ‘Do you want to parley?’ Neb called out.

  The raven croaked, then began to lose height, circling and following the line of the dun wall. In a flurry of wings he landed on a crenel, swaying and flapping until he got his balance. Intelligence peered out of his round eyes, an abnormal—for a raven—brown. With a clack of beak, he spoke or tried to speak. He could only manage a series of croaks and clicks that sounded, faintly, like words.

  ‘I can’t understand you,’ Neb said.

  The raven tried again, his beak working hard as he formed a few ungrammatical Deverrian words, ‘ihr yhdoh een anavod ki.’ Or at least, as far as Neb could tell, he might have said, ‘I know you.’

  ‘I know you, too,’ Neb said. ‘You called yourself Tirn, last time we met.’

  Neb was merely guessing, but his guess hit home. The raven bobbed his head in acknowledgement and spoke again, a few words that seemed to say, ‘my name is—’ What the name might have been, Neb couldn’t decipher.

  From down in the ward a woman’s voice shrieked in anger. Neb glanced down to see Branna, a stone in her hand. Before he could call out to her, she swung around in a half-circle and let the stone fly. The raven squawked and leapt into the air, flapping hard to gain height. The stone sailed just under his feet. A second stone followed but fell short.

  ‘Branna, stop it!’ Neb yelled. ‘He’s trying to parley.’

  Too late—the raven was flying away as fast as his huge wings could take him. Neb watched until his form dwindled to a black speck against the sky, then climbed down the ladder to the ward. Branna was waiting for him with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Parley, indeed!’ she snapped. ‘He was probably going to try ensorceling you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Neb considered for a moment. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Well, was he that priest you told me about?’

  ‘He was Tirn, all right. Here, did anyone else see him on the wall?’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s so beastly hot today, everyone’s inside.’

  ‘Good. You know, you could well be right about his wanting to ensorcel me, but truly, I could have sworn he just wanted to talk. I couldn’t understand him very well. It’s the beak, I suppose. It must be blasted hard to form words.’

  ‘It must be, indeed. But—’

  ‘He walked miles and miles out of his way to see me and Clae to safety. Why would he harm me now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Branna hesitated, her anger gone. ‘I suppose it was stupid of me, then, to lob stones at him. But when I saw him, I don’t know what came over me. You traitor! I thought. And I was so angry I couldn’t think.’

  ‘Here! Did you truly think I would betray you?’

  ‘Not you! Him. He was the traitor. Whoever he was.’ She let her words trail away into a puzzled silence.

  ‘So! You knew him in our other When. I hope to every god you dream about this tonight.’

  Unfortunately, when she woke the next morning, Branna had no dreams of past lives to report. As Dallandra had warned her earlier, now that her mind had actively engaged with studying the dweomer, those easy memories had stopped rising.

  When the messengers Mirryn sent to Cengarn returned, an answer from Lord Oth came with them. He was sending men to the temple of Bel to inquire about the tattooed priest, but he doubted if Govvin would co-operate. ‘Govvin the Stubborn’, he called the head priest of the temple, and Neb could only agree. Still, he supposed, the gesture would have some effect. If naught else, it would put Govvin and Tirn, if Tirn still dwelled in that temple, on notice that the gwerbret’s men were watching them.

  ‘Those Lijik women are savages,’ Laz said. ‘I swear, she would have dashed my brains out with those rocks.’

  ‘What brains?’ Sidro snapped. ‘I can’t believe you actually landed on an enemy wall like that. Why?’

  ‘I wanted to talk with young Neb, of course.’

  ‘But the Lijik men are vicious killers.’

  ‘The women are, too, apparently. Neb himself is not the murderous sort, but that girl!’ Laz shuddered and lifted his arms with a little shake, as if he were remembering spreading raven wings. ‘She has a good eye, too. She barely missed me.’

  ‘My heart aches for you,’ Sidro said in Deverrian, ‘you dolt!’

  ‘My humble thanks,’ Laz said in the same, then switched back to their own tongue. ‘Oh, very well! It was stupid.’

  They were sitting at the table in their cabin, where they’d been eating cold spoon bread and a sort of porridge made from barley and old gravy. When young Vek had brought them a bowlful, Sidro had decided that
it would be better not to ask too many questions about the contents. On the table between them lay a red-brown pottery plate, stolen from some farm family, a crude pottery stoup, and a wood-handled kitchen knife, Laz’s entire store of dinnerware.

  ‘Why did you want to talk to this Neb person?’

  ‘I’m not sure, really.’ Laz got up, stretching his back. ‘I rather liked him when I travelled with him in the Slavers’ Country.’ He stood and stretched his arms behind him. ‘I’m tired. Even with the astral gates, it’s a long way to fly.’ Laz flopped onto the mattress and settled himself on his side. ‘Aren’t you going to come lie down and comfort me? I’ve been gone for an entire day, after all.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Sidro stayed on her tree stump, on the far side of the table from the bed. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

  ‘Ah.’ Laz sat up. ‘You’re vexed with me.’

  ‘How perceptive you are.’

  With a sigh he got up and joined her at the table. ‘What have I done now?’ he said.

  ‘Going off without telling me. Flying when the dragon’s nearby. Landing on that Lijik rakzan’s wall. How reckless are you, Laz? Or were you lying about the dragon?’

  ‘I was most assuredly not lying about the dragon, or dragons to be precise. The mated pair are both out here in the Northlands, though fortunately the little ones seem to have stayed at home in their nest or whatever it is dragons have. I flew over the forest so I could duck into the trees if I saw them.’

  ‘What good would the trees—’

  ‘Sisi, the wyrms are huge, at least thirty feet long, I’d say. How are they going to fly into a forest? They couldn’t wedge themselves between the trees. Besides, the forest reeks of animal smells. Dragon noses are keen, but nothing like ours. They’d have a hard time smelling out a single person. An army of Gel da’ Thae, yes. One me, no.’

  ‘Very well. I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am. What else is vexing your soul?’

  ‘I want to know where you got the white crystal pyramid.’

  ‘I found it in the ruins of Rinbaladelan.’

  ‘Do you really think I’ll believe that? Laz, I am so tired of your lying to me.’

  ‘No, it’s true. Rinbaladelan, Sisi. I’ve been there.’

  Before she could answer, they heard shouting outside, the deep voices of Horsekin men, and a high-pitched scream that sounded as if it might come from a human throat. Someone pounded on the cabin door.

  ‘Laz, get out here!’ Pir called out. ‘A thief’s been prowling around our horses.’

  With her thoughts full of dragons, Sidro felt her heart flutter in her chest, but when she followed Laz out, she saw a young Lijik man kneeling on the ground between two of the spearmen. Pir stood nearby, his horse-mane of hair glittering with charms in the bright sun. The Lijik man’s clothes were filthy and torn, his hair so matted with dirt and leaves that its colour was impossible to discern, his face smeared with mud and discoloured with bruises. He trembled as he looked this way and that, but when he saw Sidro he broke into a grin.

  ‘Priestess,’ he whispered in Deverrian. ‘Blessed Sidro.’

  She’d heard his voice before, Sidro realized. She stepped forward and peered into his face. His eyes were pale blue and again, familiar.

  ‘You do come from Lord Honelg’s dun,’ she said in the same language. ‘Be you one of his riders?’

  ‘I was. My name’s Bren. I’m the last left alive. My lord had given me leave to visit my father, you see, so I was out of the dun when the siege began.’

  ‘Siege? What—’

  ‘The gwerbret found out we worshipped our goddess. He called us traitors. Holy one, he took our dun. Everyone’s dead but me.’

  Sidro could find the air neither to speak nor breathe for a long moment. She laid a shaking hand over her heart to steady both.

  ‘Worse news yet,’ Bren continued. ‘He’s marching on Zakh Gral. It was the gerthddyn that told him. They’ve gathered an army.’

  Behind her Laz squawked raven-like in cold rage. He pushed past her, drawing his knife. With a yell, Bren tried to draw his own knife and stand up in the same motion, but Pir stopped him with a well-placed kick to his chest that sprawled him in the dirt. Bren moaned and coughed, scrambled to his knees, then reached out to her with both arms.

  ‘Holy one! Don’t let them kill me! I’ve got more to tell you.’

  Knife held low but wicked in his fist, Laz strode forward, his gaze fixed on Bren’s face. Sidro stepped in front of him and grabbed his right arm. She had the sudden definite sensation that someone was standing directly behind her—one of the men, she supposed—but she refused to break concentration.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ she snarled.

  Laz froze, then slowly raised his head and looked at her, his mouth half-open from sheer surprise. Sidro dug her fingernails so hard into his arm that blood welled. He flinched but never made a sound.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Sidro repeated. ‘By all the holy gods of our people, Laz, leave him alone!’

  She caught his gaze and held it, then released her grip on his arm. He shrugged, sheathed the knife, and stepped back. Pir was watching her, she realized, with a faint trace of a smile. ‘Pir, feed this man.’ She pointed at the kneeling rider. ‘He doesn’t speak a word of our language, and as long as no one tells him who we are, he’ll think we worship Alshandra like he does. He’s no threat.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’ Pir glanced at Laz. ‘I’m going to do what she told me.’

  ‘Please do,’ Laz said with another shrug. He hesitated a moment, then turned on his heel and strode into the cabin.

  Who stood behind her? She spun around and saw no one, saw in fact that the nearest onlooker stood a good ten feet away. Vek, however, had dropped to his knees, bowed his head, and stretched out both arms in her direction. The hair on the back of her neck rose.

  ‘Who did you see, Vek?’ Sidro said.

  ‘Kanz,’ he whispered without looking up. ‘She came to you and overshadowed you, holy one.’

  Sidro wanted to scream at him, ‘Never call me that again.’ Bren was looking up at her in awe, his eyes full of tears. For his life’s sake, she supposed, she had best let the others think her a true priestess. She laid a hand on his filthy head.

  ‘May Alshandra protect you always,’ she said in Deverrian, then spoke in the Horsekin tongue. ‘All of you, listen! No matter what Laz says or does, keep this man safe.’

  The gathered outlaws nodded, murmured their agreement, and bowed to her in a ripple of respect. Feeling like the worst fraud in the world, Sidro turned away and followed Laz inside.

  By then she was shaking so hard with rage that she could barely speak. Laz put his hands on his hips and watched her. His mouth twitched on the verge of a smile that only infuriated her more. On his right arm the cuts from her fingernails looked like crescent moons tattooed in red.

  ‘That’s what you didn’t want me to know, isn’t it?’ Sidro found her voice at last. ‘You told me Zakh Gral was safe, but you were lying.’

  ‘I don’t see any reason to deny it. Now.’

  ‘You want them destroyed, don’t you?’ She paused to gulp for breath. ‘You lied to me because you didn’t want them warned.’

  ‘That’s exactly right.’ Laz grinned at her. ‘I want that stinking fortress and its preposterous shrine reduced to rubble. It’s bad enough that the holy fools have taken over my city and infected Braemel. I don’t want them spreading their madness any further.’

  Sidro grabbed the kitchen knife from the table and threw it at him. He dodged with a quick laugh, then sprang forward as she picked up the red-brown plate.

  ‘No no no.’ Laz grabbed her wrist with one hand and the plate with the other. ‘Pottery’s a rare thing out here in the woods. If you hit me with it, you could break it.’

  For a moment she struggled, but he twisted her wrist so hard that she yelped and let go of her improvised weapon. He set it down on the tab
le. As soon as she felt his grip relax on her wrist she pulled her hand free. For a moment she pretended to calm herself, then dashed around him and ran for the door. He came after, grabbed her by the arms from behind, and dragged her to a stop.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Surely you’re not going to try to warn the fortress.’

  ‘Let me go, you filthy depraved sorcerer!’

  ‘Shan’t.’ He began to walk backwards, hauling her with him away from the door. ‘I can’t deny that I’m both depraved and a sorcerer, but I’m quite clean, at least in summer.’

  She kicked backwards and caught him on the shin with her much-calloused heel. He squawked, but his grip on her arms stayed strong.

  ‘Think!’ he snapped. ‘How are you going to get back, Sisi? Do you know precisely where you are? Can you find your way back to Alshandra’s road?’

  ‘I’ve got to try.’

  ‘Even though you’ll likely wander in the forest till you starve? Or worse yet, what about the silver wyrm? You’ll have to leave the forest to reach Zakh Gral. We may not know why he hates you, but he undeniably does, and what if he’s waiting for you? Snap snap! No more Sisi.’

  Sidro felt herself go limp, sincerely this time. Laz released her and stepped back. She turned to face him and began rubbing her aching arms.

  ‘It’s Lakanza,’ Sidro said. ‘She’s been so good to me. How can I just let her die?’

  ‘Do you think the army’s going to kill an old woman? If she were a man, now, or a young woman, who knows what they’d do to her, but Lijik warriors have a sentimental streak when it comes to crones.’

  Sidro considered him. He set his hands on his hips, cocked his head to one side, and looked straight at her, so openly that she knew he was telling the truth for a change.

  ‘They might not kill her on purpose, perhaps,’ Sidro said. ‘But in a battle—’

  ‘Well, there you have a point.’ Laz paused for a smirk. ‘But I thought all of your holy fools were eager to die for Alshandra. What’s that you call it? Witnessing?’

  ‘Just that. But now that I know—’ Sidro caught herself on the verge of an admission she hated to make.