by Kristi Lea
Joral did not break eye contact with the man to glance down to the Chieftess, realizing that doing so would destroy any illusion he had managed to create of control and power. The tension in the room tightened like a bowstring tightly stretched over a stiff branch as the warriors realized the slight to their Chieftess. Joral just hoped that, if loosed, that the point of the warrior's collective anger would not be directed at his own back.
“What kind of bad news brings you among the Segra during our time of celebration?” asked Joral. He walked a fine line speaking on behalf of the tribe. But, insult to his mother or no, he sensed his actions could give them the advantage. Few who underestimated the Chieftess in battle lived to regret their mistake.
“We come on behalf of King Zabewa--”
Mother laughed deep and throaty, her mirth slicing through the tension in the room like a fire-hardened spear. “Zabewa is no king.”
The necklace man raised an eyebrow at her. “Zabewa rules the Frozen Lands and the Shores of Caleia. He is king and liege to more men than all tribes of the Segra combined.”
Joral tried to recall the geography lessons from his days with a tutor. The Frozen Lands consisted of the edges of the great Glacier and the rocky steppes at its base. The population there was sparse but hardened by the extreme weather. Mercenaries from the Frozen Lands were known to be some of the fiercest around. Fierce and self-serving and loyal to none but themselves.
The Shores of Caleia, however, were only a few weeks hard ride from his father's own keep and boasted rich soils. They were controlled by mainly merchant families who traded with other nations by sea. If Caleia had fallen, and to a warrior band from the Frozen Lands, that was a serious threat to the Southern lords who sold timber and metalwork and minerals to the shipbuilders and trade routes.
“What does your King Zabewa want with the Segra?”
From the corner of his eye, Joral caught the ripple of tent as a trio of Waki entered on silent feet, bearing pitchers of water and trays of spiced bread and nuts. Illista, Nunzi with the red apron, and one other. He had to ignore the small women workers. Had to resist the urge to look for the ghostly image that had floated over Illista earlier.
“We are seeking a dangerous fugitive who has, regrettably, escaped from Zabewa.”
Joral frowned. “There are few strangers among the Segra people. What sort of man is this fugitive?”
The man with the shell necklace smiled baring crooked teeth. “Not a man. The woman I seek is a witch. She practices an evil magic, and has murdered one of Zabewa's sons with her sorcery.”
Joral thought he heard a tiny hitch in the breath the Waki woman who stood near his elbow pouring water into cups, but he dared not turn to look at her. The breath noise was so faint that he could have imagined it. Across the tent, he spied Illista setting a basket of the hospitality offerings onto a table near the visitors. Thankfully, she wore only one face now. The Waki finished their tasks and left the tent as quietly as they had entered.
“That is a grave charge. No strange women, witches or otherwise, have visited the tribe in in the recent months. Travel is hard in this season. Perhaps you should search to the south?”
The man shifted his stance making the shells around his neck clack. “Ah. To the King’s frustration, we have searched the South. And the East. And the far shores. For over three years, we have sought our witch. The nation who helps us to secure her would earn Zabewa’s gratitude.”
Chieftess made a small noise of annoyance, earning a quick glare from the man with the shell necklace.
Joral replied, “We are a close knit nation. Strangers do not pass through here unnoticed. Trails can go very cold in three years. We wish you luck in your search. Please, refresh yourselves. We will send someone with fodder for your horses as you continue on your way.”
The man considered Joral, his small dark eyes unreadable. He fingered one of the shells on his necklace. A faint sound echoed through the tent like the water rushing over rocks, undulating to and fro across Joral's hearing.
The far end of the tent burst open and the sound died as suddenly as it had begun. Zuke strode in, a thick staff of petrified wood supporting his weaker leg. His voice boomed out making him appear taller than normal “Your tricks are not wanted here, Mulavi. Mine is the only magic in this encampment, and I assure you, despite my infirmity, my manhood is fully intact. I am not the witch you seek.”
The man with the necklace turned with a sneer. Zuke and the necklace man, Mulavi, stared at each other for a long time. Finally Mulavi's laughter barked across the tent.
“So this is where the great Zuke has been hiding these long months. Words of your disappearance had reached us even hundreds of leagues from here.”
Zuke's face remained impassive. “You heard wrong. If I had wished to disappear, you would not have found me here among my friends. You must pardon my Segra friends for their impatience this evening, but the moon is high and we break camp at dawn. We have a wedding to prepare for.”
“It seems my men and I have arrived at an inconvenient time. We will take our leave. If you find my witch, be sure to guard her closely. And remember, King Zabewa will pay handsomely for her return. Even here on these desolate plains, a little gold could buy any manner of luxuries. Silks. Spices.” Mulavi took a swallow from the cup in his hand and grimaced. “Clean water.”
With a parting stare for Joral and the other tribesman, one full of portent and implied threat, he gestured to his men and strode from the tent.
At a silent signal from one of the guards by the tent entrance, the group of warriors relaxed, knowing that their visitors were far from earshot. Joral took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before turning to face his mother and Chieftess.
She waved him to the ground and he joined the other warriors in a circle with his mother at the head. “You did well, Joral-son.”
He bowed his head, surprised at his mother’s words. She gave praise like the skies gave rain. Scarce and stingy of late. “Thank you, Vaturi-mother.”
She straightened her shoulders and addressed the group. “I knew the warrior Zabewa once, during the Plains War of my youth. He was ruthless, reckless, and a fearsome fighter. But he could be charming, when he chose. For such a man to rise to such power is grave news for us.”
Joral watched her face as she spoke. Her deeply bronzed skin bespoke of her time in the saddle, and the lithe muscles of her physique showed her continued activity. Only the traces of gray at her temples and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes revealed her true age.
She was beautiful and strong and so very different from Lady Ralein. If threatened, his stepmother would have cowered in the highest tower in the keep, surrounded by maids and sewing endless tapestries and wailing her offerings to the gods aloud.
Joral had always wondered what kind of a mother would abandon her child to be raised by another. Now that he finally knew Vaturi, he could not imagine her coddling a baby. The pain of that rejection still stung, but he respected the larger caring she had for the tribe as a whole. Every member was a part of her family.
“Should we send word to Lord Ralein about Zabewa and Mulavi?” he asked.
She considered him. “To what end? Do you wish to aid the quest for the fugitives?”
He shook his head. “I could not care less about the women he seeks. But we..they..the Southern Lords, that is..deal heavily in information. It is to our advantage to be known for sharing what we know with them. It will help make us allies, should we need them.”
“Marrying one of their sons to the daughter of a Chief will not?”
Joral gulped. “It might. But that will only help so much. It was common knowledge that I am not one of his legitimate sons, and that I am youngest. Birth order and parentage matter much.”
“As they do here among the Segra.” His mother’s voice was quieter now, but harder. “You are my first son. My only son. You will be Chief of the Ken-Segra. Your wisdom in dealing with the Southern Lords is very valuable to us, and we shal
l listen to your council as to how to make them our allies.”
Joral nodded.
“A cold wind blows of late, and the rains do not come. The Segra fight among ourselves for rights to the sacred waters that we all share. With this news of Zabewa, I fear that worse is coming. Much worse.”
Chapter 6 Joral pushed aside the flap to Zuke's tent. He longed for sleep, but a pair of Waki boys were busy stowing his few belongings for the predawn departure. He could not bear to ignore them, as he was supposed to, and he would not embarrass them by trying to speak to them.
As he stepped into the tent, the familiar scents of spices and incense from home soothed his frayed nerves. The few sturdy pieces of Southern furniture that Zuke had dared take from Lord Ralein's castle beckoned him with their metal work and sturdy wood frames and patterns of his father's homeland.
Illista and Zuke sat huddled together over a bundle near the fire. Illista still wore the working dress and apron from her service in the Chieftess's tent, her shoulder-length hair tied by a simple thong over a plump neck.
She glanced up and saw him studying her. The firelight glinted off her eyes. Unreadable. Unfathomable. There was something different about her, something that he needed no hallucination to see. There was a vulnerability to her manner, a skittishness, like a dog that had been kicked too many times and only wished to disappear into the corner and be forgotten.
The thought of someone terrorizing the small servant girl made his fists and his teeth and his gut clench.
“Don't just stand there gaping.” Zuke tossed the words over his shoulder without so much as a glance at Joral's face.
In two quick strides, Joral was kneeling beside the bundle at Zuke's feet. It was the other Waki girl from his mother's tent, but pale and motionless. “What happened?”
Illista stared at him wide-eyed and shook her head.
Zuke picked up one of the girl's wrists and held it for a long moment, then tucked it back underneath a blanket and shook his head. “Have Zabewa's hunters left camp?”
Joral's blood ran cold and he stared from Illista's dazed expression to Zuke's closed one. “Did one of them harm the girl? Is it poison again?”
Zuke opened his mouth and then closed it again.
“Tell me.”
“We were leaving the Chieftess's tent after serving. Quarie..” Illista's voice trailed off and ended in a hiccup that sounded perilously close to a sob.
“She collapsed.” Zuke finished for her. “When I left the tent, I brought her back here. She has not improved, and nothing we can do will wake her from this state.”
Joral took Illista by the shoulders and was surprised at the solidity of the muscle he felt there. For all their softness and vulnerability, these Waki were solid as mahogany underneath. “Did someone hurt her? You can tell me the truth.”
She stared at him, her eyes boring peepholes into his honor. He stiffened his shoulders under her scrutiny. Finally she shook her head. “No one touched her, my lord.”
Joral held her by the arms for another moment and searched her face for any hint of shame or untruth. Or a hint of his silver spirit. He saw nothing but determination and fear.
Zuke used his staff to push himself to standing and motioned for Joral to do the same. “Sleep now, Illista. We will tell Nunzi that the prince requested a second assistant and have your things brought over. Stay here tonight and watch over her.”
Illista nodded and lay down next to the other girl. She looped an arm over the other girl's lifeless waist and buried her face into the still arm.
Zuke led Joral a few steps back and spoke in a whisper meant for Joral's ears alone. “The girl is Illista's sister. Her collapse coincided with Mulavi's incantation. I had to leave her in the dirt outside the tent while I confronted him. But even breaking the enchantment has not helped the girl.”
“What kind of magic did he use? And why was no one else affected?”
Juke shook his head. “The relic he wears around his neck summons the power of the oceans. I saw something similar to it, years ago on one of my first travels. The master I studied with said it came from one of the southernmost shores. What Mulavi is doing wearing it here, I don’t know.”
“What do we do?”
Zuke smiled a weary smile that was nonetheless infused with mischief. “You, my friend, shall pack my tent since my new assistants are incapacitated. I shall meditate on how a creature born in the far northern mountains could be vulnerable to the power of an ocean she has never seen.”
***
Illista bumped along in the back of the medicine man's tall wagon, clutching her travel pack in her lap, supremely aware of the curiosity of the other score of Waki travelling on foot or pulled in the Segra's grass sleds. She never made eye contact with the other workers, but she knew they watched.
She did feel the occasional glance from the Segra. Many of them pretended to study the design of the wooden wagon and its great wheels, marvels of woodwork and metal. But she knew that the sight of her squat form clinging to the ledge at the back was raising eyebrows.
Let them wonder. Zuke's foreign eccentricities were known throughout the camp. He made a very loud scene of insisting to Nunzi that she and Quarie ride in his wagon instead of following on foot. Declared that he required his assistants close at hand. Nunzi had no choice but to agree quietly.
It was heavenly to travel in a wagon instead of on foot. The magic man's mountain-bred horse had neighed once when Zuke placed Quarie on board, and again as Illista had climbed in after, but was otherwise calm. The Segra's mounts were never calm around the sisters. They had walked for three years of migrations.
Through the night, Illista slept only fitfully at Quarie's side. By then, much of the tribe had begun their march toward the morning light. Zuke took down his own tent faster than she would have guessed possible and loaded it with surprising agility.
He was a strange one. She had seen him favor his twisted legs like an old man, and she had seen him perform feats of strength like a warrior. Perhaps he purposefully misled others about his true self. She could well understand the advantage.
She had not heard Joral leave Zuke's tent overnight and had not seen him this morning. Not that she should have expected to. The Chieftess and her son always rode towards the front of the column, surrounded by the warriors. They would scout ahead for game and for suitable camping. On a normal seasonal progression, if the hunters spotted healthy herds of game, then the tribe would stop for days to hunt, roast, and dry meat.
But this trip was to meet the Xan Segra at the sacred lake at the edge of their territory. This trip was to celebrate Joral's wedding.
The wagon hit another rut and threw her against the boards. Illista righted herself and made sure that Quarie's head was still protected from the jostling by the cushions and furs. Their pace had lagged throughout the morning, and they were now behind most of the column of travelers, even behind the heavily laden kitchen wagons with their dishware and cooking tools.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus her thoughts on the lake, now miles behind them. She had not realized how thoroughly the water had seeped into her consciousness until the distance began to grow and its ever-present song began to fade. The waters sounded sad today, their singing muted and haunting in its melancholy, and she knew it was not directed solely at her. The waters were sacred to the Segra, but the Segra were sacred to the waters too.
“Whoa.” Zuke slowed the wagon to a halt, and Illista chanced a peek ahead of them to see why they were stopping.
A trio of horses whinnied and stamped their hooves up ahead. On the largest of the three sat a familiar golden-brown haired man. Illista's heart leapt in her chest at the sight of Joral silhouetted against the pale blue sky, the cold morning sunshine glinting off of his hair and the gleaming metal ornaments of his saddle. Above one shoulder was the wood of his Ken Segra longbow, and strapped to his belt was his Southern sword.
She thought his gaze flicked to hers, thought his
eyes crinkled just a bit as he recognized her. She thought a great many foolish things these past few days and ducked her head back down behind the driver’s seat lest the other two warriors notice her.
“I was worried about you at the end of the caravan all alone,” said Joral.
Zuke snorted. “I can defend myself.”
“The Xan Segra are our allies, magic man, but you are a foreigner. Your camp holds many treasures that may prove irresistible to some who do not know better.” Illista recognized the voice as belonging to a respected elder of the tribe. He spoke each word carefully, slowly, as though Zuke were simple.
Zuke shifted his stance in his seat, drooping his shoulders and rounding his back just a bit. “I apologize for my tardiness at breaking camp this morning. I did not mean to inconvenience anyone. I am honored to have such an important escort. Shall we get moving and catch up to the rest of the tribe?”
Illista hunkered down among the trunks and packages in the back of the wagon and lowered her eyes as they passed the two Ken Segra warriors. The men fell in far enough back that she could see them exchanging a few, brief words, but couldn’t hear what they were.
They were nearing the high plains now, where the native grasses soared double the height of a man. The wagon drove through a makeshift road created by the advancing procession before it, but the way narrowed as the effort to carve a path squeezed man, beast, and Waki into tight formation.
“How is she?”
The words startled her and her pack tumbled from her hands to the floor of the cart and slid between two of the boxes.
The low rumble of Joral's laughter danced across her shoulders and slid down her spine. “My apologies, Illista. I don't mean to laugh. But you seem to have a habit of dropping things.”
She ignored him and knelt to pick up her bag. One strap had caught on a sharp metal corner and she tugged hard to release it. He kept pace beside the cart, his horse as unperturbed by her otherness as Zuke's seemed to be. Only when she had the satchel settled back in her lap and her fingers tightly laced through the straps did she chance a glance at him.