Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  The picture sharpened, but it wasn’t perfectly still. It was good enough for his purposes.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Can you make the picture move now, toward say… the north?”

  “I’ll try, but this is hard work Mentor. I could sleep for a day.”

  “It is tiring in the beginning, but you’ll get used to it.”

  “I don’t know how you can do this every morning and still have enough energy for the day, Mentor.”

  Shelim didn’t answer; he was concentrating on the mirror. Where were they? Even on foot, they should have reached… there!

  “There are some people to the north of us, Mentor.”

  “Are there?” he said trying to sound surprised. “They must be riders from another clan.”

  “No… I don’t think so,” Darnath said leaning forward and squinting at the image. “Their clothes are strange, and they’re on foot. There are three… a family I think. I’ll try to move in closer.”

  A shaky picture formed. The mirror was so dark, Shelim could hardly pick out the three Lost Ones. He shook his head. Would Darnath ever match him with the mirror? It didn’t seem likely.

  “You can release it, Darnath. They’re definitely not clan, but they aren’t outclan either.” Tapping a finger against his lips, he pretended to think. “You know, I think they might be a family of Lost Ones.”

  Darnath gasped. “Lost Ones! What are they doing on the plain?”

  “I have no idea. Let’s ask.”

  They galloped north until they spotted the three people trudging through the grass. The Lost Ones looked tired and hungry. There was a man and two women—mother and daughter if his eyes weren’t deceiving him. All three had nothing but the clothes they stood in and their weapons. How they had come so far without horses was a mystery that he would love to solve.

  They slowed their horses so as not to frighten their guests. As it turned out, they needn’t have bothered. Both women wielded long knives and were ready to attack. The man held a clan bow already drawn, but it was obvious by his stance that he was unused to the weapon.

  “Stop there!” the man said using Shelim as his target. “We don’t want to kill you, but we will if we have to.”

  Darnath growled something under his breath.

  “I was about to say the same,” Shelim said in amusement. “Considering where you are, you would have done better asking for our mercy, don’t you think?”

  The younger of the two women took a step forward. Without taking her eyes from Shelim, she spoke over her shoulder to her companions. “I told you they were savages, father. We should have gone to Durena.”

  “Hush Betsia,” the man said.

  Shelim wondered how long the man was going to hold the bow drawn without tiring. He was obviously unused to the pull of a clan bow. He watched the man’s arm shake and readied himself to use his magic.

  “I would appreciate you aiming that elsewhere,” he said to the tiring man. “Otherwise I’ll have to take it from you.”

  Betsia spluttered in anger and waved her long knife at him.

  Darnath leaned in from the side to whisper. “What are you doing, Mentor? Just kill them and be done. It’s not honourable to play with them like this.”

  “Trust me. I divined them coming here.” Shelim turned his attention to the Lost Ones. “Drop your weapons, and I will escort you to the clan. You can ask Kadar for sanctuary… yes, I know you’re running, Lost Ones.”

  “I think we should do as he asks, Martia,” the man said.

  Martia nodded her agreement and dropped her weapon. The man did likewise with the bow, but Betsia took persuading.

  “I said drop the knife girl, are you hard of hearing?” Her squawk of outrage made him grin.

  “Who are you calling girl? I’m older than you are, boy!”

  “I called you girl because you’re acting like a child, not because of your age.”

  With lips pressed tight together, Betsia threw down her long knife and fumed. Shelim signalled Darnath to collect the weapons and then indicated to the Lost One’s they should walk ahead of the horses. They complied with his order without too much fuss, but of course, the girl—Betsia—argued. Shelim was already coming to expect it.

  They rode south and it was a slow boring trip at first, but it became more interesting when the man dropped back to Shelim’s side and introduced himself.

  “I am Farel, and your names are?”

  “I’m Shelim, my friend is Darnath.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Farel said.

  “Really?”

  Farel laughed. “You mustn’t mind Betsia. She takes after her mother. Impossible woman sometimes, but I wouldn’t change her… either of them. They saved my life back home.”

  “They are warriors.”

  Farel blinked. “What makes you say that?”

  “You just said they saved your life. They hold their weapons like warriors and know how to use them. I assumed you meant they had saved you by killing your enemy.”

  “Ah well, I suppose I did mean that. In Cantibria anyone who wishes may train with sword or bow, but none of us are truly warriors like the old days. We don’t hunt like the clans, or make war on each other. We are peaceful people… we were peaceful people,” Farel said sadly.

  “What changed?” Darnath said with interest.

  “The Hasians came.”

  Shelim’s face turned grim. So, it had started as Kerrion said it would. Farel and his family would be the first to bring the news of war, but he doubted they would be the last. The Hasians had been thwarted in the south last year, so they had taken Farel’s home intending to attack Deva from a different route. Unfortunately, the clans were in the middle.

  “—Lost Ones?” Farel said.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about the Hasians. What was the question?”

  “I was just wondering why you called us Lost Ones.”

  “We call people who leave the clan that.”

  “My grandfather didn’t leave, he was driven out!”

  Shelim shrugged. “Sometimes, if someone commits a crime, they join the Lost instead of facing challenge. Kerrion told me some of our young people have run away to the Lost because they wanted to see the ocean. I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to leave the land for the sea, but he says it’s true.”

  “So you think my grandfather was either a criminal or a child when he left the clans?”

  Shelim studied Farel and wondered why the man cared. Did it matter sixty or seventy summers later why a man left the clans to join the lost? Farel seemed to think so.

  “There is one other way a man might join the Lost.”

  “What way is that?”

  “If he was marked by the God to be a shaman, but refused his call.”

  Farel took a long look at Shelim. “How do you know so much? As Betsia said, you are only a child yourself.”

  “I know because I am a shaman.”

  They reached the clan as afternoon turned to evening, and caused an uproar. Farel and his family were looking around trying to make sense of all the new sights and sounds as people clamoured to know what was going on. It wasn’t yet time to make camp, but it looked as if they would make no further progress today. Kadar was nowhere in sight, and Shelim was grateful for the fact. He wondered what the chief would say about this when he found out.

  Kerrion solved one problem by shooing everyone away and telling them to make camp for the night. No one argued with a shaman, at least not in public. Everyone rushed off to unpack their tents and other belongings from the carts.

  Kerrion studied the three Lost Ones in silence for a brief moment before turning to his apprentice. “So Shelim, you have found us some strays.”

  “This is Farel and his wife Martia, Mentor. Their daughter is Betsia.”

  “Why didn’t you kill them?”

  Shelim ignored the shocked curse from Farel. “They are of the people, Mentor. Shamen protect the people… all the people. Is this
not so?”

  “It is my boy, but they are Lost Ones.”

  Shelim couldn’t tell if his mentor was pleased or not. He hadn’t asked a question, but he felt an answer was expected. What did his mentor want him to say? Did he mean the Lost were not of the people, or did he mean they were a special case?

  “They are Lost Ones,” he said slowly feeling his way toward the answer. “But can they not come home? Surely what is Lost may be found.”

  Kerrion nodded and smiled his approval of Shelim’s words. Was that the answer then? That the Lost were still of the people no matter where they lived? Did Kerrion expect them all to return? That was not the impression he’d received during their conversations. His mentor seemed more inclined to believe they would be truly lost, never to return, just as their name implied.

  Kerrion didn’t explain his words. He left Shelim to help Farel find a tent for his family. That turned out to be simple. It wasn’t long before the women came bearing presents of one sort or another, and Shelim was soon helping Farel set up an old tent good enough to use temporarily. Martia was overwhelmed with all the gifts from her new friends—the pile was growing by the moment, but Betsia was scowling. She was far from happy.

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “We had a nice house in Cantibria until the Hasians came. Now look at us! Living like savages, with savages!” Betsia said angrily.

  “Fool girl!” Shelim said loud enough for people to stop and stare. “You don’t have to live here. You can do what your great grandfather did and join the Lost. No one will force you to be sensible and live how the people should live. You can be a coward and join the Lost, or you could even become a renegade if you prefer. Of course, if we see you we’ll kill you, but some prefer not to leave… for a summer or two anyway.”

  “Oh? And what do they do then, boy?”

  “They die,” he said simply, and left her standing there.

  He made his way to Kerrion’s tent, but before ducking inside he looked back to see Betsia working on making her new home presentable. He grinned as he ducked into the tent, but it slipped from his face when he found Kadar already seated inside talking to Kerrion.

  “—harms us Kadar. Night Wind is small compared with Protectorate. If you would see the Night Wind prevail we need more warriors.”

  “More warriors, more warriors!” Kadar cried in mocking imitation of Kerrion. “You never stop, do you old man? We are at peace! Night Wind needs less warriors and more people willing to craft things for trade.”

  Shelim couldn’t let that stand. “You know I have been a shaman for only a short time, Kadar, but I was a good warrior wasn’t I?”

  Kadar turned to Shelim. “Yes very good, but I was pleased to see you become a shaman. The people need more healers and fewer warriors now. I would appreciate Kerrion more if he would leave the leadership of the clan to me, and spend his time healing the sick, which is what a shaman is supposed to do.”

  Shelim ignored Kadar’s slur to keep his thoughts on the problem at hand. “Thank you for saying that, Kadar, but if you agree I was a good warrior, would you then also agree that a good warrior must try to anticipate what his enemy will do in the future?”

  Kadar frowned. “Yes of course, but we have no enemies. Unless you count the feud with Horse Clan, and I don’t.”

  Shelim shook his head impatiently. “I have brought a family of the Lost into the clan. They are of the people, but are at war with the Hasians. One of their stone cities has been taken from them already. All three will be soon, I have seen it. Thousands of warriors will come to the clans from those cities over the seasons ahead. Who would you see gain strength from such numbers, Horse Clan or us?”

  That made Kadar stop and think. Shelim took the chance to glance at Kerrion, and received a tiny nod. He didn’t see what there was to think about. Night Wind was one of the smallest clans on the plain. They could welcome thousands of the Lost and still not rival the largest clan. Night Wind had two thousand warriors. That meant almost three quarters of the clan were warriors, which was why Kadar said they needed no more. Only half of Dragon Clan were warriors, but they still had five times as many as the Night Wind did.

  Kadar came to a decision. “Thank you for your council, shaman. I will tell the people to start making more tents.” He left then and Shelim slumped in relief.

  Kerrion pounded his apprentice’s shoulder. “Well done Shelim! You have reached him when I could not. Well done indeed!”

  Shelim blushed at the praise heaped upon him. “It was only because he still sees me as a child, mentor. A child cannot challenge his leadership so he didn’t feel threatened.”

  “You’re wrong about that. He saw a shaman giving good council, and he saw correctly.”

  His face heated even further from Kerrion’s praise. He didn’t know quite what to say. That is until Kerrion said it was his turn to make the tea.

  “I made it last time!” He protested but reached for his pouch.

  * * *

  “He will never be a shaman, eldest,” Duren said snidely. “Darnath can’t or won’t learn the lessons. All he does is wander about the camp complaining.”

  “Surely you’re exaggerating the problem,” Kerrion said. “Apprentices often have difficulties adjusting to a new way of life. Darnath will learn in time.”

  Shelim was almost bursting with his need to tell Duren what he thought of him—a shaman so disgusting as to try to force his own apprentice to flee to the Lost had no honour, none! Duren had come storming into Kerrion’s tent just a short while ago angrily denouncing Darnath as a useless incompetent. Why Shelim hadn’t divined this day he didn’t know. He normally had trouble stopping the dreams not the other way around. Although Kerrion was eldest, he couldn’t interfere with another shaman’s apprentice or that apprentice’s training. Shelim knew he was technically in the wrong by training Darnath, but he couldn’t make himself care. Something just wasn’t right about Duren. He had tried to see the man in the mirror any number of times, but for some reason the mirror refused to clear, it was like looking into a cloud. At first, he had thought it was a lack of practise on his part, but that wasn’t it. He could see everyone else perfectly.

  “Eldest,” Duren said. “I know you prefer to believe the best of everyone, but I must insist on my rights this time. I will not waste my teachings on one who should be with the Lost!”

  Kerrion’s shocked oath was drowned out as Shelim shouted, “You disgusting, outclanner! Darnath is worth ten of you!”

  “Be silent, Shelim” Kerrion roared.

  “I’m sorry, Mentor, but that—”

  “I said silence!”

  He swallowed fearfully at the look on Kerrion’s. What had he done? He was still an apprentice. To call another an outclanner was almost as bad as calling him a Lost One. Duren was silent, but strangely he was smiling. He might be willing to forgive… he lost his train of thought as Kerrion bowed to Duren. He touched his forehead to the ground as if bowing to a superior. It made Shelim sick to watch his mentor’s humiliation.

  “I most humbly apologise for my apprentice’s words, Duren. He will be suitably punished I assure you. It is your right to banish Darnath to the Lost, but I implore you to think carefully before doing so.”

  Shelim closed his eyes and groaned silently. Oh no, this was a complete disaster. He had played directly into Duren’s hands. Darnath was a Lost One now for sure and there was nothing anyone could—wait! There was one thing he could do.

  Duren was speaking, “—this course eldest. Darnath is of the Lost from this moment. I’m sorry, but our traditions dictate my actions. I have the right to banish one of the people if I think the situation warrants it, and I do.”

  Shelim sent a prayer winging its way to the God and took a calming breath. He spoke very clearly and precisely lest Duren try to wriggle out. “I Shelim, shaman of the Night Wind Clan, do call you vile outclanner not worthy to care for an apprentice! I challenge!”

  “I said be silent!
” Kerrion roared.

  “I’m sorry ment… Kerrion. Darnath is a good friend to me and the people. I will not allow his banishment to stand unchallenged. Please understand… please,” he begged.

  Kerrion slumped in defeat and nodded. It was anyone’s right to challenge. Shelim had never heard of two shamen challenging each other… perhaps it had never happened before, but whether it had or not the words had been spoken and there was no taking them back.

  Duren was grinning openly. “You young puppy, I spit on you and say we fight!”

  Kerrion nodded as the challenge was accepted. “So be it. Tomorrow two shaman will do battle with magic. The prophecy will not be denied it seems,” he said wearily.

  Duren left, and Shelim was hustled out a moment later. Kerrion refused to discuss the challenge, and was obviously hurt by his actions. He decided to leave his mentor alone for a while. He sought out Darnath and told him what had happened, but his apprentice wasn’t surprised. Looking into the distance at nothing Shelim could see, Darnath seemed calm… too calm.

  “So he finally did it. I’m a Lost One,” Darnath said in wonder. “I don’t feel any different. Shouldn’t I feel like an outclanner now?”

  Shelim wrinkled his nose. “Who knows what one of them feels like? You’re not a Lost One until I lose the challenge.”

  “You shouldn’t have challenged him, Mentor, but I thank you.”

  “Will you do something for me?” he said, and Darnath nodded. “Tell Kerrion everything that’s been going on. He was hurt when I disobeyed him. I would like him to think kindly of me.”

  “I’ll tell him Mentor. I’ll tell him everything about that disgusting pustule on a dog’s arse. Everything!”

  Shelim nodded.

  After his visit with Darnath, he returned to speak with Kerrion, but Kerrion refused to hear him. He watched in disbelief as his mentor moved all of his possessions out of the tent and secured the flap barring him from entering.

  The next day dawned bright and clear, but Shelim awoke in strange surroundings. His parents had made the tent for him when they thought he would be a warrior, but unknown to him they had changed the sigils since then. Instead of a tent with stitching showing a warrior riding to the hunt, it now had a shaman healing a child on one side.