Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  “I would never harm either of you,” Er’ril said fiercely. “This dream is ridiculous.”

  Flint approached the table, abandoning both the hearth and his bubbling stew. “So far his dream images do bear the truth, Er’ril. Maybe you were under the influence of some black spell.”

  Er’ril glowered but could not speak against it.

  But Moris did. “No, Joach’s dream is false. We can now put this matter safely aside.”

  “How so?” Flint asked.

  “Joach, tell us again how Er’ril locked you from the only means of escape from the tower.”

  Confused, Joach repeated this portion of his dream. “The plainsman held his sword against us, and then reached behind to key the door’s lock.” Suddenly, like a sun appearing from between storm clouds, Joach understood. “Sweet Mother, maybe the dream is false!”

  “What?” Flint asked, still in the dark.

  “Er’ril had two arms in my dream! One held the sword; the other locked the door. And it was no phantom arm, but flesh and bone!”

  “Two arms.” Flint’s tensed shoulders sagged. “Thank the Mother above! That detail is obviously false, so all of it must be. That’s the law of weaving.”

  Joach was still skeptical. “But are you sure?”

  Moris’ deep voice answered. “Not even the strongest magick can grow a new limb. And Flint is quite correct: A true weaving contains no false items.”

  “Then maybe I’m remembering it wrong,” Joach persisted. “Maybe in the dream, he had only one arm, but in the light of day, my mind changed this one minor detail.”

  Moris shook his head and stood. “That would be further proof that your dream was not prophetic,” he said. “A true weaving will lock into your memory, enduring forever.”

  Joach sighed and stared at the two determined Brothers. So the dream was just an ordinary nightmare. He turned toward Er’ril. The plainsman had remained silent during the entire exchange. His stoic features had developed a sick bent to them.

  Flint continued. “So if it was only a foul dream, I guess there is no need to bring the boy with us. He can stay and keep my livestock fed.”

  Er’ril spoke, his voice oddly strained. “No, the boy should come with us . . . as a precaution.”

  “Whatever for?” Moris asked. “He only had a bad dream dredged up from buried memories of his imprisonment on the island. Just old worries coming to a head.”

  “Nevertheless, he should come.” Er’ril shoved back from the table, clearly indicating the matter settled and the discussion ended.

  Before anyone could question him further, a piercing scream split through the ship.

  Joach flew up, staff in hand. “Elena!”

  3

  “TURN AROUND . . . SLOWLY,” the harsh voice behind Mycelle ordered.

  By now, the old healer had turned from her study of her laden shelves of medicines and balms. She had a bottle of some herb in hand. Mycelle had a hard time reading the expression on the ancient woman’s face; the healer’s missing eyes made her hard to fathom. Still, Mycelle caught a hint of amusement crinkling the corner of the woman’s thin lips.

  “Tikal,” she scolded, “leave the poor woman alone.”

  Mycelle slowly turned. No one stood behind her. She saw the tiny furred beast hanging from the door’s latch. His weight must have shut the door. But who spoke? Mycelle glanced around. No one else was here.

  Tikal climbed farther up the door, his large black eyes staring at her. “Touch your sword and die,” he said in that same gruff voice.

  Mycelle’s eyes grew wide.

  The old healer spoke up behind her. “Don’t mind him. Tikal doesn’t know what he’s saying. Just mimicking what he’s heard from the streets.”

  “How much for oranges?” Tikal continued, his voice changing to that of a shrill woman. “For these prices, I could buy three bushels!” The little creature clambered up to a swing hanging from the ceiling and hung upside down from his tail and one foot. He stared directly at Mycelle and in a child’s voice said, “I like horsies.”

  Mycelle blinked a few times at the odd creature, her heart still pounding from the scare. “What type of beast is that?”

  “A tamrink. A golden-maned tamrink, to be precise, from the jungles of Yrendl. His art of mimicry is one of the tamrink’s many talents, though I’d call it more a nuisance than a talent.”

  With a slight shake of her head, Mycelle turned to the woman.

  “My name is Mama Freda,” the old woman said, nodding in greeting. Though blind, she reached accurately to a short cane leaning against the wall and used it to march around her counter.

  “You mentioned something about my friends.”

  “Yes, they just arrived yesterday. They needed a healer.”

  Worry nestled into Mycelle’s chest. Who had been injured? “Do you know where my friends are lodging?”

  The old woman glanced over her shoulder, as if to study Mycelle’s expression. “Of course. Come.” Freda led the way to a back door and swung it open. A dark stairway led up.

  Tikal landed with a small thud behind Mycelle. “Tikal . . . Tikal . . . Tikal . . .” he chanted, racing ahead of them up the stairs.

  Mycelle studied the dark steps. She probed with her senses and felt nothing wrong. Still, she remembered her lack of proper caution before and voiced her previous worry. “Freda, please don’t take offense at my next words, but just how does a blind woman protect herself in as hard a town as Port Rawl?”

  Mama Freda turned to Mycelle with a snort. “Protect myself? I’m the only healer worth her salt here in Swamptown, and they all know it.” She waved the tip of her cane. “The whole town watches over my shop. Without me, who would heal their sword cuts or poisoned bellies? These folks may be hard and crude, but never think them stupid.” She glanced over her shoulder and seemed to be studying Mycelle again, as if judging her. “Besides, who said I was blind?”

  With those words, Mama Freda climbed the stairs. “Follow me.”

  Mycelle hesitated a breath, then obeyed. This strange woman knew more than she said. Doubt and wariness followed her up the stairs.

  At the top, they came upon a short hall with a few doors off the passage. As Mama Freda led the way toward the room farthest back, Mycelle eyed the other doorways. It would be easy to set up an ambush here. One of the doors was cracked open, and Mycelle got a peek of shelves stocked with crates and bushels. She caught a glimpse of a drying rack where stalks and leaves of various herbs were desiccating. The rich smell of spices and an earthy aroma from the room scented the hall. It was merely a storeroom and not worth further attention.

  Still, as Mycelle passed, her senses tingled with a brush of magick, raising the tiniest hairs on her arms. Not strong magick, but a touch of something elemental, something she had never felt before—and as a seeker who had crisscrossed through the many lands of Alasea, to come across a magick she could not identify slowed her footsteps. It scented of loam and deep-buried ore—coal perhaps.

  Mama Freda must have heard her boot heels faltering. “Come. Do not tarry.”

  Mycelle hurried to catch up. Many mysteries surrounded this woman, but for now, Mycelle had more urgent concerns.

  Reaching the last door, the old healer tapped the crown of her cane on the oaken frame—crack, crack, crack—clearly a signal to someone within.

  The tiny tamrink danced around the woman’s feet excitably. “Tikal . . . Oh, Tikal is a good puppy.”

  Mama Freda scooted the small beast aside with the tip of her cane. “He loves guests,” she said.

  Mycelle felt, more than heard, a stirring from the next room. She tensed her arms, ready to free her swords. As the door swung open, a rush of elemental magicks washed out, like a window opened on a whirlwind. The assault on her senses was so sudden that her knees almost buckled. A rush of wind, the rumble of storm clouds, the keening cry of a falcon. And mixed with these tastes was a lingering hint of granite and the low rumbling of grinding boulders. S
he recognized these torrents. Her legs regained their strength.

  In the doorway stood a familiar figure.

  “Mother?”

  “Tol’chuk!” Mycelle hurried past the old woman as she stepped aside. She hugged her son fiercely as Tikal clambered up the og’re’s leg as easily as up a tree trunk. “Thank the Mother, you’re safe,” she whispered to his chest. Mycelle could not get her arms fully around the thick torso of her son. He towered over her, even when slightly stooped in the usual og’re fashion. She raised her face to stare at him. So like his dead father, she thought. Same splayed nose and thick, overhanging brows, even the similar hint of fangs raising his upper lip a bit and a spiked ridge of fur that ran from the rocky crown of his head down in a small crest along his spine.

  Only his eyes, large golden orbs slitted like a cat’s, told of a heritage that was not og’re but si’lura, like his mother.

  Tol’chuk returned Mycelle’s affection with equal enthusiasm but broke their embrace sooner than she would have preferred. “You made it through the swamps,” he said. “How be Elena and Er’ril?”

  Wary of how much to reveal in Mama Freda’s presence, Mycelle spoke carefully. “My niece is fine. We all are. A few scratches and scars, but otherwise intact.”

  Tol’chuk’s voice grew grim. “I wish we had fared as well. Come inside.”

  Her son’s somber tones reminded her of her own duties. She probed with her own skills, sniffing after any taint in the room. Even under close scrutiny, the elemental magicks in the room felt pure, untainted by corruption. Still, she also sensed the pain in the room. She followed Tol’chuk into the chamber.

  The room surprised Mycelle. She had expected a dark gloomy cell but instead found a room, though windowless, shining cheerily with lamps and a small hearth glowing with coals. Adding to the sense of warmth and invitation, a thick wool rug covered the oak-planked floor. A pair of sturdy beds stood against either wall, and three pillowed chairs stood before the hearth.

  In one of the chairs, a familiar spindly fellow dressed in road-worn clothes pushed up to greet her. His features were pinched, and his lips thin and prone to frowning. Under mousy brown hair, his slitted amber eyes matched his twin brother’s. “Mogweed,” Mycelle said, seeking to change the man’s frown into something more hopeful. “Your brother Fardale is downstairs guarding my horse. He’ll be thrilled to see you safe.”

  The news did little to change the man’s expression. If anything, the shape-shifter’s expression grew more dour. “It will be good to see my brother again,” he said plainly.

  Mycelle raised questioning eyes toward Tol’chuk. The og’re drew his mother toward one of the two beds. “Don’t mind Mogweed,” he grumbled under his breath, trying his best to keep his voice quiet. “All of our hearts are heavy.”

  As she neared, she saw the bed was not empty, and her senses tingled stronger with the billowing scent of elemental wind magick. She knew who must lie in the bed—Meric, the elv’in lord. Still, as she reached his bedside, she failed to recognize him. Meric, his lanky frame half hidden by linen sheets, was not the man she had last seen in Shadowbrook. His chest was burned in thick swaths; the reek of charred flesh clung to him as tight as the medicinal wraps that bound his chest. His lips were swollen and cracked, his handsome silver hair burned to the scalp. Thankfully, he seemed to be resting, his eyes closed and his breathing regular and deep. Mycelle sensed that even these small blessings were only due to the skill in Mama Freda’s balms and elixirs.

  Mycelle could look at him no longer. “What happened?”

  “He was caught and tortured by one of the Dark Lord’s seekers.” Tol’chuk then continued to recount the events that led them here: Meric’s last-minute rescue by Tol’chuk from a foul d’warf lord and Mogweed’s outwitting of a pair of ill’guard twins in the great castle of the city. “We all escaped to the barges as the towers of the Keep crumbled and fell. But Meric sickened rapidly from his injuries. Though we saved him from corruption, we could not keep his tainted wounds from festering and growing foul. It be great luck that an innkeeper directed us to Mama Freda soon after we entered Port Rawl.”

  “I don’t think it was luck, Tol’chuk,” Mycelle mumbled, knowing that generosity was rare in the port city and often came with a price. The innkeep had probably feared contagion and had been glad to send the group off to a healer rather than risk his own inn with disease.

  “Luck or not, here we came.” Tol’chuk slipped a bit of biscuit to Tikal, who was searching through the og’re’s pockets. The tamrink swallowed it whole, then licked each finger clean.

  “Luck it was,” Mama Freda said. “The Sweet Mother herself must be watching over you all.” She took Tikal from the og’re’s shoulder and carried him to a chair, where she sat down. “It took an herb grown only in Yrendl—a rare supply I still cultivate—to break his fever. Another day and he’d have been dead for sure.”

  Tol’chuk nodded. “Already Meric fares much better.”

  Mycelle frowned. If the elv’in was better, she dreaded to think how Meric must have looked yesterday. She stared around the room. “And what of Kral? Where is he?” The mountain man was the only member of the group still unaccounted for.

  Mogweed answered. “He watches the north gate of the city for you. We did not know which gate you would enter Port Rawl through.”

  “He usually does not return until well after dark,” Tol’chuk added.

  “Ever since Shadowbrook,” Mogweed continued, “the big man has grown more and more restless. He is out almost every night, prowling, watching for signs of the enemy.”

  “Well, there was no need for him to search for me,” Mycelle said. “My skill at sensing elemental magick would have hunted you down. I thought that was clear.”

  Mogweed backed to the chair beside Mama Freda and sat down, a condescending smile on his lips. “Did you sense Meric from the street?” he asked. “Or even when you were in the shop downstairs?”

  Mycelle’s brows drew tight together. The shape-shifter’s words proved of concern. She had not felt even a whisper of Meric’s unique wind magick, not until the door to the room had opened. “How . . . ? I should have been able to . . .” Mycelle turned to Mama Freda.

  The old healer was smiling at her. “There is much you don’t know, young lady. In my jungle lands, where the land’s magick is as fertile as the forests themselves, we have learned ways to protect what is ours. I painted these walls long ago with an aromatic oil of banesroot. It hides my elemental skills from prying eyes.”

  Mycelle studied the oiled planks of the wall. She tried to send her senses beyond the room and failed. It was as if nothing existed beyond those four walls. “That must be why I never sensed Mama Freda’s presence when I was last through the city,” she muttered. “And how you’ve managed to escape the corrupting touch of the ill’guard up to now. You’ve created a safe haven.”

  Mama Freda snorted. “There’s no such thing as a safe haven in Port Rawl. Swamptown would never stand for it. But it is my home.”

  Mycelle grew suspicious. Every moment she spent with this old woman seemed to bring forth new discoveries—and Mycelle did not like it! She felt as if she were fighting on quicksand, and Mama Freda had the longer sword. “It was mighty generous of you to open your own home to my friends. But—”

  Mama Freda finished her thought. “—but generosity in Port Rawl never comes without a price.”

  Mycelle’s features grew stony.

  Mama Freda settled deeper in her seat and waved a hand to the last free chair. “If your face becomes any darker, I’ll need a lantern to see it. Sit . . . sit.”

  Mycelle remained standing and spoke bluntly. “Enough with this foolishness. Speak plain. You can’t possibly see my face. You have no eyes.”

  “What are eyes? I can see that speck of dried mud on your cheek and a tiny bit of hay caught in the hair above your left ear.”

  Mycelle’s fingers wandered to wipe the mud from her cheek and pick the hay from
her hair. “How?”

  Mama Freda tousled the golden mane of her pet and tickled him behind an ear. The tamrink batted at the teasing fingers, then settled in her lap and sucked at one of his toes. During all this time, Tikal’s eyes never left Mycelle’s face. “The tamrinks,” Mama Freda began, “have unique talents, other than mere mimicry. In our jungles, they travel in large groups—bonded families. They’re raised so intimately among one another that each becomes a part of the whole. What one tamrink hears, they all hear. What one tamrink sees, they all see. In a sense, the pack becomes one living creature, hearing all, seeing all.”

  “Sense bonded?” Mycelle asked, shocked. She had read of such a talent in texts kept by the Sisterhood.

  Mama Freda ignored Mycelle’s question. “I was born without eyes, and among my tribe such a deformity was considered an ill omen. To appease the gods, I was left as a babe in the jungle to die.”

  Mycelle’s horrified expression must have been noted.

  “Don’t fret, child,” Mama Freda said. “I remember little of that time. The first memory I truly had was of flying through the trees, seeing through the eyes of a huge female tamrink. She was swinging through the branches overhead, curious about the bawling naked creature near her nest.”

  “You?”

  She nodded. “Her band took me in and nursed me. With time, I became more firmly bonded to the tamrinks and saw through their many eyes.”

  “These creatures actually raised you?”

  Mama Freda laughed at such a preposterous thought. “No, I doubt I was with the group more than a single moon. One day, one of my tribe’s hunters found me near the tamrink’s nest and discovered that I was still alive. I was returned to the village and worshiped. They believed the jungle gods had marked me and kept me safe. So I grew among my own people, yet I never lost my bond to the tamrinks. Over time, I grew to be a skilled healer among the many tribes of Yrendl.” Mama Freda glanced away and her voice quieted. “But one day, our village was attacked by slavers. I think they were attracted by the rumors of a blind woman who could see. I was stolen, along with the baby tamrink I had been hand raising.”