Cordimancy

by Hardman, Daniel

  She gazed up at the ceiling for a long moment. Then she looked at him, winked, and tousled his hair. “In a while,” she said. “But not now. Boys and birds matter more, anyway.”

  19

  campfire ~ Malena

  “Have a whiff of this, girl,” said Paka. He grunted as he bent forward to lift a stick near his ankles. Malena noticed a tremor in his forearm as he rubbed greasy drippings on the bare wood, held it under the dog’s nose, and then tossed it toward the treeline beyond the campfire’s glow. Faint green arcs from startled naris rose from the site where it crashed.

  Hika dashed after the stick, and the crows feet at the corners of Paka’s eyes puckered in satisfaction. He turned back to the skewer of pigeon breasts roasting over the flame and rotated them a quarter turn.

  “Looks like Toril’s already out,” Paka observed, gazing beyond Malena to where a form stretched in the weeds.

  Malena blew steam off a cup of stewed nettles as she studied her husband. He looked exhausted. Dark creases rimmed his eyes; the firelight gave them a bruise-like appearance. Above the coarse stubble on his jaw, his cheek was scraped, his forehead sunburned. His head rested on his palm, which in turn perched on a jumble of buckskin; the other hand gripped his staff, stretched beside him in the dirt. She could see blisters on his fingers, ash beneath cracked fingernails.

  She lifted a strand of grass from his hair, reached for another near his collar, then caught herself and pulled back.

  “I wasn’t sure he’d get anything with that sling of his,” Shivi observed. “When we stopped I think he was swaying in the saddle.”

  Hika bounded back to the fire and dropped the stick at Paka’s feet. “Again?” the old man sighed softly. “I’ll bet you’d rather have a nibble...” With his left hand he lifted a morsel of meat into the firelight and showed it to the dog. Then he leaned forward to offer the treat, and his hand was suddenly empty.

  Malena blinked.

  The dog whined for a moment, then stepped forward to sniff the pocket of his poncho.

  Shivi snorted. “Not the best audience for your sleight of hand, Paka. The dog’s nose won’t be fooled.”

  “No?” Paka asked. Still using his left hand, he turned the pocket inside out to show that it was empty. Then he reached out to scratch the dog’s ears with his right hand, and when he leaned back, Malena saw the morsel balanced atop the dog’s head.

  Hika held still for a moment, her eyes following the old man as if seeking permission; detecting only approval, she executed a comical nod and snapped the bite out of mid air.

  “She’s hungry,” Malena observed.

  “A little, maybe. But that husband of yours hasn’t just had her sleepin’ on a cushion by the hearth; she knows the shepherd life. Hasha must have sent them out to work in the fields. She seems to take care of herself. I watched her catch a squirrel earlier today.” Paka flicked the stick back into the darkness, watched the dog dash away, and smiled softly. “I was just teasin’ to give her a bit of fun. She’s had little enough chance to be lighthearted lately. Same as the rest of us.”

  Malena swallowed. Once again she reached for the grass at Toril’s collar. Again she felt the urge to stop, but this time she ignored it. Perhaps she wasn’t ready for tenderness when Toril was awake—but here and now, cloaked by sleep, it felt safe. And overdue. She brushed his neck clean, then laid her hand on his shoulder and left it there for a long while.

  What had it cost this man of hers—this giver of daisies—to follow her into the wilderness? What had it cost him to heal her? He spoke so seldom, and when he did, he revealed little about his feelings.

  He was still upset about leaving Sotalio behind. That much was clear. But she had the sense that his silence was hurt rather than bitter, confused rather than vindictive.

  So different from the way her father handled anger…

  She flicked some dirt off his eyebrow and studied him, feeling her eyes blur.

  How could she give him the wife he clearly wanted?

  After a few moments Paka halfway gritted his teeth, lifted the arm he’d thrown with, and rolled his neck. “I’m getting’ creaky, Shivi. I know you’d never guess it in a man as virile as your husband, but there it is.” He waited for his wife’s reaction, a smile on his lips.

  Shivi snorted again. She’d been working a bundle of greenery with her deft fingers; now she laid stems aside and stood behind Paka to knead his shoulders. The old man’s eyes closed; he sighed.

  “Virile,” she murmured. “Hmm.”

  Paka’s smile broadened. Breezes played with treetops. The sound of water rushing over rocks in the creek down the hill carried through the night air.

  After a stretch of quiet, he opened his eyes, looked at Malena, and leaned forward to rotate the skewer again. “Shivi here has a magic touch,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Always has. Between you and me, it’s been her fingers that do the master weavin’. I’m just her sidekick.”

  He began to hum.

  After a few bars, Malena recognized the melody. It was a wry ballad about star-crossed lovers who attempt to rendezvous a dozen times, only succeeding in the sunset of their lives. She'd sung it herself, during her fosterage; now it felt more wistful than she remembered.

  Hika emerged from the darkness, panting, and dropped her stick. Paka rocked forward to retrieve it, found that his belly wouldn’t let him bend quite far enough, and grunted again as he tried to shuffle. Shivi rolled her eyes affectionately, picked it up and gave an underhanded toss, then lifted the bundle she’d been working on earlier.

  “Why did you come?” Malena asked. “You could have gone to Sotalio, like Toril planned. The priest did.”

  Shivi cocked her head. “Didn’t you want us here?”

  Malena considered this unexpected response. When she’d taken off on foot, on the northern road, she’d been too upset to think about much beyond the overwhelming need to do something, immediately, to rescue her sister and parents.

  She’d expected Toril to follow her. Maybe. Beyond that, she’d had no plan. Just a will to move.

  There had been no further argument—no words, even—when Toril caught her on the trail. He’d simply dismounted, handed her the reins, and walked ahead, in the same direction she’d been traveling, his lips tight.

  Malena had let him stumble onward for a hundred paces before she admitted to herself that they would make better time if they rode together. After some internal debate, she’d reined in beside him and offered a hand. It was a league of his chest at her back, his arm around her waist, and her heart pounding, before she even realized that the elderly couple had also followed her into the wilderness.

  As the lightest pair, the women were the best choice to double on a horse, so they’d stopped to shuffle riders. Scarcely a word was spoken—and the silence had grown more strained as the day wore on. Four riders and a dog advanced into the wilderness toward the northern border of Kelun holdings while the sun climbed and then descended again. Twice Toril had signaled a direction when the trail branched. Once the imprint of hooves had been obvious, but the other time the ground was rocky, and she’d been grateful for his silent nod; he seemed confident of whatever sign he was reading.

  Even when they’d found some outlaws dead, back in the meadow, Toril had communicated in silence. Malena had wanted to nudge her horse away from the triangle of pale bodies arranged around a firepit in the clearing, with wide pools of blood in the soil beneath their necks. Glimmers distorted the dirt around them—not the melancholy, harmless resonances of a slain kindler, but something roiling and sinister. Evil. She’d scanned their faces anyway, unable to avoid the question of whether these brutal features were among those that would haunt her nightmares from the stable.

  Toril had pulled up beside her, his knee and stirrup jostling her own, as she trembled. She hadn’t looked up, but out of the corner of her eye she’d noticed his heavy, brooding posture. When she spit on one of the men and pressed heels into her horse’s
ribs to move off, she’d seen him push the back of his hand across one cheek.

  Now she studied the tracks that firelight illuminated in the dust on Toril’s face, and thought about the gesture.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Malena answered Shivi’s question. “But I didn’t expect you to come.”

  “We’d be worthless in a fight,” Paka said. “That’s the truth. If it weren’t for the dog, I’d be afraid even to stay the night out in the middle of nowhere like this. Who knows what’s hidin’ in the trees? They say there are moon bears—barrens moon bears—in a few places.” He wiggled his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated shudder.

  “Nothing worse than whoever—whatever—worked that blood magic,” Shivi muttered. “I’d rather meet a bear any day.”

  “Those bandits deserved everything they got,” Malena snapped.

  “No argument,” Shivi nodded. “I won’t be shedding any tears on their behalf. But whoever killed them is even worse. Drinking blood to give your curse power? There’s a reason that’s taboo.”

  Malena bit back a reply about taboos the bandits had flouted, staring at her feet to avoid Shivi’s penetrating gaze.

  Paka cleared his throat. “How long would you guess those men had been dead? Since the black mist came to choke your life away?”

  The trio considered this.

  "I'm just wonderin’ who did that business with the three around the fire. I never heard of bandits co-opting any kind of a serious wizard, let alone someone deadly enough to try blood magic. Makes me think something else is going on. What kind of spell would it take to make a rakshasa coordinate an attack?"

  Finally Malena spoke again. “Toril was right, wasn’t he?” She felt her shoulders begin to shake. “We’re not going to be able to do anything, even if we can catch whoever has these children.” A sob burst from her throat. “How can we fight someone who’s got that kind of power?”

  She felt rather than saw Shivi walk around the fire and reach hands toward her arms.

  “I haven’t seen a... a sign of my parents all day,” Malena heard herself gasp. “What if I’m looking for them, or f-for my sister... in the wrong place? What if getting help from the clan was their only hope, and I’ve... I’ve...” Her words decayed into a wail.

  “Toril was right,” Shivi said evenly. “And so were you. So were you.” She tucked some hair back into Malena’s braid. “We didn’t have time to go for help. The children need us now. The priest will rally some support. Meanwhile, we’re doing the best we can, and I have faith that it will make a difference.”

  Malena continued to cry, but now she discerned a warmth spreading from Shivi’s fingertips into her shoulders; it curled around her arms and hands, flowed through her chest, and made her toes tingle. The sensation of warmth and safety brought more tears, but these felt cathartic, not hopeless. She leaned into the older woman’s arms.

  Her hiccups softened into a sniffle, and she wiped a sleeve across her cheeks.

  “You meant that literally, about the magic touch, didn’t you?” she whispered to Paka.

  A smile curled the white beard. “She’s a hand, Malena. One of the best. Before Toril burned his scroll, who do you think was keepin’ you alive?”

  Malena leaned back and searched Shivi’s face. The creases on her cheeks were deep. Her hair was the color of snow on granite, her features angular and not especially pretty. But such soft eyes! Such soft, moist eyes... She reached out and pulled the woman into a fierce hug.

  A twig snapped.

  All three of them flinched as a pair of eyes gleamed in the darkness.

  Hika trotted back into the circle of firelight, the stick protruding from her jaws. Paka leaned back and puffed, visibly relieved. He fanned his face theatrically, flipping the tip of his beard.

  “Like I said, Shivi and I can’t help much in a battle. I’m not one of your valiant warrior types.” He pulled a chunk of sizzling meat off the spit, seemed to notice just how hot it was, and began tossing it back and forth, blowing frantically on his fingertips. Hika’s nose bobbed and weaved as she watched the juggling act, her eyes riveted to the food.

  Malena felt her lips twitch. A part of her resented the humor, but another part was relieved at the innocuous distraction.

  When the baubling and exclamations subsided, Paka offered his wife the prize. “First bite, sweetheart?” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Shivi drew a small knife from her belt. “Perhaps I’ll just spit it again,” she said, her voice utterly matter-of-fact. She winked at Malena.

  “I saw that,” Paka said, his beard flexing as he smiled. “If you think you’ll be more coordinated, next time you get to cook!” He offered the spit with the remaining roasted flesh to Malena, and reached for a new shaft to begin more broiling.

  Malena had been wishing for salt as she downed the nettles. Now she discovered she was still ravenous—and hunger made the best sauce. Her mouth watered.

  “Just because I’m no swordsman...” Paka eventually offered, to break the busy silence.

  “Or bowman...” Shivi prompted.

  Paka waved with his age-spotted hands. “Or bowman. Or woodsman. Just because I’m not much good that way, doesn’t mean you don’t need me. We cordimancers have our uses. Maybe we can’t do anything fancy with a lip, or an eye, or an ear—but fat old hearts make great eaters of food, singers of songs, and kissers of cheeks. And we’re good with little ones.” He smiled at his wife. “Actually, Shivi’s mighty good with little ones, too. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

  Shivi nodded as she swallowed, but Malena noticed that her eyes were averted. The gesture conveyed an odd reticence.

  “We had four of our own, you know,” Paka continued. “I expect that experience might come in handy. If you figure out how to pull off a rescue, that is. That’s why we came.”

  “Thank you,” Malena said. She considered Shivi’s posture for a moment, then shifted her eyes to Toril, who had snored through the entire conversation. “It would be lonely without you.”

  Quiet swelled. Hika’s tail thumped a few times. Paka removed his sandals, rubbed swollen ankles, and groaned.

  Malena noticed. “Your feet bothering you?” she asked.

  Paka grunted. “It would be worse if I’d walked all day, but just danglin’ them in the stirrups made the blood pool, I think. Gettin’ old.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Malena said. She stood, brushed herself off, and trotted out of the firelight. Botany was one of the subjects she’d studied with her tutor; now her book learning could be useful. Bromavis sprouted at the edge of a clump of bracken nearby; she’d noticed it while she was gathering nettles.

  She returned with handfuls of the pungent fern and knelt in front of Paka.

  “Let me see those ankles,” she said. She crushed the fronds in her hands, felt sap ooze around her fingers as she worked the wetness into roughened heels and tendons.

  Paka exhaled in slow relief.

  “The warmth fades quickly,” she said. “But already you should have less ache.”

  He nodded. “Feels wonderful.”

  “Mole’s Wort?” Shivi asked.

  “Bromavis. Same family. More potent, and harder to find.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s a godsend,” Paka puffed. “Almost as good as a night of rest.”

  “It’ll take the swelling down, too. But I’m afraid you’ll have green feet in the morning.”

  Paka whistled; it was a child’s tune about frogs, and “green feet” was in the chorus. He winked when he saw her eyes open in recognition. “Bless you, child,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Bless you.”

  Malena smiled—the first glimmer of true pleasure she’d felt in days. She undid the kerchief that she’d been wearing around her forehead and used it to bind some of the crushed plant matter around one gnarled foot.

  “Keep this in place for an hour or so. Then switch to the other side.” She knotted the kerchief a second time and stood. “I’ll g
ather more so we can do the same tomorrow. It won’t be as potent when it’s not fresh, but it’ll still help.”

  Paka sighed again.

  Later, Malena stared into the flames, lost in thought. Ever since the stable, she’d been buffeted by a whirlwind of anger and fear. What had happened to the girl she wanted to be—the one who invited Kinora to fuss with her hair, who giggled with Tupa, who believed in smiles and laughter? Was that person truly dead, as she’d told Toril? Or was a part of her that sang in sunshine still hidden, somewhere in her darkened heart? Could she find it?

  She heard Shivi stir. Glowing orange was eclipsed by the old woman’s small form.

  “What is your favorite flower, child?” asked Shivi, stepping in front of her.

  “Huh?” asked Malena, flummoxed by the oddball question. She raised a hand to her forehead, wrinkled her nose, and then shrugged. “A daisy, I guess. I have some happy memories of daisies.”

  Shivi’s hand emerged from behind her back, and she stepped sideways to let firelight illuminate the spray of perfect daisies in her fist.

  “For you,” she said. “For Paka’s green feet and your happy memories.”

  Malena had thought the tears were finished. She blinked, felt twin trickles on her cheeks.

  “When did you... How...”

  “They’re actually sprigs of chickweed,” Shivi said. “I just wove a little magic to make them look like daisies." She smiled shyly. "A lip like Toril could convince you that mud looks like gold, but I have to start with something pretty close to the real thing to pull it off."

  Malena said nothing.

  “Master weaver...” Paka murmured, as he resumed his humming.

  20

  wolves ~ Malena

  Malena’s eyes jerked open. She lay frozen, her lungs still, hyperconscious of the thudding in her chest.

  Just jumpy, she thought, pressing a palm into her belly to blunt a pang of nausea. Same nerves that woke me up the first dozen times. She had been having a nightmare about her aunt giving birth while her home burned around her; feelings of doom and helplessness had been intense. Malena repeated the mantra that she’d used before. The bandits are far away. You’re safe. Nothing but crickets and wind and maybe a laal-panda or a porcupine or an owl. But as her mind engaged fully, the reassurance grew more hollow.