Fold Thunder

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter Four

  Irwa shivered. The small fire provided little heat, and the wind that swept down out across the vast, rolling plains chilled her. She could taste rain on the wind, rain and an unseasonable cold that came from Greve Sindal, and all of it made her mouth purse in distaste. Traveling toward Codense meant traveling toward pagans. Greve Sindal, the newly acquired imperial province, was the least of the offenders, compared to Apsia or Mane or Elese..

  She shivered again. The sun had set hours ago, and the thin, scratched clouds made black patches against the stars. Irwa slid the bread and dried fruit back into her satchel; even as hungry as she was, she did not feel like eating. She had found few comforts along the way, avoiding the inns and way-houses that lined the great stone-paved highways of the empire.

  Too many people watched the roads, too many spies for the satraps, or if not for the satraps, then for the nobles—men and women both—who sought that position for themselves. The same men and women who, given a chance, would be happy to watch the Unseeing stumble, and even happier to help that stumble along.

  The alders where she made her camp, clustered together near the side of the highway as though huddling in the wind, offered only a small amount of cover, but the plains—in this area, empty even of farms—offered nothing better. Under the alders the ground was bare, aside from large flat stones that had been dragged there by previous travelers. Old tracks circled the fire pit. It was a place well frequented. Judging by the empty landscape, Irwa did not want to meet the men who would choose the alders over a way-house.

  Broad, flat paving stones, worn with weather and use, belied the state of the highway. It was well-maintained, true, like all the highways in the empire; an empire always had need of moving troops quickly. But the Codense Trail that Irwa traveled saw few soldiers and even fewer merchants. The highway ran in a great arc, first west from Amghar, coming close to the rich lands and cities of the coast, but never reaching them, before turning north and entering the steppes. The short, stubby grass that spread across the central plains of Jaecan looked like gray mold in the moonlight, covering a rotting corpse.

  Irwa hunkered down closer to the small fire, its heat lost as it whipped back and forth in the gusts of wind. A small fire, but to build it any bigger might invite visitors that she was ill-equipped to handle. I’m cold and it’s barely autumn, she thought. Have I even left An-Dabar?

  She drew a small box from her pack and opened it. A mirror sat inside, nestled on a makeshift bed of cloth for protection. Irwa drew out the mirror. It barely covered her palm. Around the edges ran thick gold filigree in wild, swooping curves that all but covered the silver frame. Lifting the mirror, still flat on her palm, to her mouth, she traced a cheiron—awa, all she could manage; it had been too long since she had forged a gateway. The gateway flickered open, sending faint rainbow shimmers along her fingers. She breathed a single word onto the mirror’s surface. Fog covered the glass, but instead of vanishing as another gust of wind rushed by, the fog deepened, thickening until the glass was a dull white. The filigree glowed, as though heated by some inner fire, until patches of the wire turned red and the air above the small mirror rippled.

  “Qathir Tohan,” she said.

  For a moment, nothing happened, and Irwa feared the enchantment had finally broken; it was temperamental even under the best conditions. The filigree went dark, and the fog began to move ever so slowly under the glass.

  “Shaik,” Irwa said.

  “I hear you, Priestess,” the Shaik’s voice shivered through her palm and up her arm to resonate in her head. “A moment, I am not quite ready for you.”

  “The enchantment is difficult to maintain,” Irwa said. “Please hurry, Shaik.”

  “But a moment, Priestess.”

  A part of her suspected the man made her wait just so he could use that tone of incredible patience. As though to spite the goosebumps on her arms, sweat beaded on Irwa’s brow and trickled, with maddening slowness, down her temple. Sacrifice, she thought, careful to keep from sending the thought. Sacrifice brings blessings, peace, harmony—

  “Priestess, where are you?”

  “Here, Shaik.”

  “No, Priestess,” the shaik said. “Where are you? How far have you traveled today? Are you still on the Codense Trail?”

  She flushed. “My apologies, Shaik. I am still on the Trail. I have traveled almost thirty miles today.” And the last ten were for Ishahb alone, she thought, looking at the blood-stained stockings hung over a cord she had strung between two branches.

  “Very good, Priestess. Ishahb is pleased at your sacrifice; as always, you show an incredible devotion to our cause.”

  “To Ishahb’s cause,” Irwa said.

  “Of course, Priestess. When did you last pass a way-house?”

  Irwa frowned. “Near sunset,” she said. Her arm holding the small mirror trembled. “Your time grows short, Shaik. My orders?”

  “You will wait there. What was the number of the way-house?”

  “The hundred and fifty seventh Codense,” she answered. He had instructed her to keep track of the way-houses. “I am to wait here? Shaik, bandits roam these lands, and I am a lone woman.”

  “I am coordinating aid for you, Priestess. A member of the Fourth Corner will arrive shortly. From this point on, you will not contact me. Your companion will direct your efforts now.”

  “What—” Irwa snapped, but the mirror suddenly went dark, and she was alone again. The Fourth Corner. She did not like to think of what that might mean. No one outside the order knew much about it, but from what she had heard, they were as close to heretics as the church contained. A fringe group of practitioners, pledging themselves and their art to Ishahb’s church, but always in secret. Irwa had heard stories of terrible rites performed in the name of her god. Not to mention assassinations, kidnappings. Things that had nothing to do with Ishahb, as far as Irwa was concerned.

  The shaik had promised that she would not be sent to the Fourth Corner, but Irwa did not know if she believed him. If a priest were discovered with a talent for the art, he was initiated into the Fourth Corner without delay—and without the priest having a say in it. And I would not put it past Qathir Tohan to see me as another piece to be bartered. An unpleasant thought. A thought tainted with the suspicion, the mistrust of her old life. A week of hard travel and little information had worn down her patience, and Irwa knew that the shaik had plans in motion. Plans, yes, but were they his, or Ishahb’s? That was the question.

  And so my faith begins to wane already, she thought. I swore I would serve Ishahb, that I would sacrifice whatever He asked. And now, when I am asked to do something hard, when He asks me to take a broken part of my life and use it for Him—when he gives me the opportunity to amend one of my many mistakes—I find myself questioning, doubting His chosen servants. Little wonder that my heart is grown still lately, that I do not feel His presence, if a week of inconvenience can uproot the plant of faith!

  Her heart and head hurt. Irwa mustered her dedication and sat straighter, breathed deeper. She took out a small piece of cheese again and nibbled on it, and then a piece of bread. The wind slowed. The heat from the fire filtered through her clothes and eased the ache of travel. The gray robe and tan cloak were already stained with travel, but, purchased with the shaik’s funds, they were still finer than her priestly robes, and they hid her identity. Irwa still wore the beaten copper sun around her neck, though. It had been her mother’s, and even hundreds of miles from home, Irwa did not like to think of what her mother would say if she saw her take off that necklace. She traced the outline of the disk through the cloth and thought of her family.

  When a pop from a burning log drew her back to reality, Irwa realized the fire had grown low, and the moon had almost reached its peak. Irwa moved to grab her blanket and heard the scrape of boot against stone. She froze.

  From between two of the alder trees, a slender figure emerged, slowly moving into the firelight with hands
stretched out. Empty hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but I didn’t want to call out until I saw who was camped here. The plains breed all sorts.” A woman’s voice.

  Irwa squinted, struggling to make out the features of the woman in the darkness, and not sure what to say. After a brief silence, the woman said, “My name is Maribah.”

  “Irwa.”

  A log flared, briefly enough for Irwa to see the other woman’s face. Pale skin, almost too pale to be Jaecan, but with large, dark eyes, and long, brown hair. And so young she could have been Irwa’s daughter.

  Maribah sat on one of the flat stones, hands wrapping around her knees. “Ishahb smiles on us, Irwa.” The girl traced an unknown cheiron in the air. Even from a distance Irwa felt the surge of heat, as though a furnace door had been opened for a heartbeat. The girl whispered a word that cracked the air, and the fire roared back to life, the flames dancing brightly over the ashes.

  “Fourth Corner,” Irwa said. She drew back instinctively and tried to cover it by reaching down for her blanket. Ishahb bless me, I could have figured out a hepistys to light the fire. In the light, Irwa was struck again by how young Maribah girl looked. She was pretty, although in a way that only emphasized her youth, and Irwa envied her long, beautiful hair. Irwa pulled her hand away from her own short, straggly hair. The Fourth Corner girl wore nothing out of the ordinary: a dark red cloak; a loose, beige dress that, even to Irwa’s inexperienced eye, was clearly long out of fashion; and simple travel boots. There was nothing immediately terrifying about Maribah.. And yet, something about her immediate recourse to magic, the almost-ease of speaking that hepistys, made Irwa shiver again. It was like seeing herself from twenty years ago.

  “Yes,” was all that the girl said. “I will set up a ward, and then, if you don’t mind, I will sleep. It was hard catching you, even using the wind to help.” She smiled, a sincere, guileless smile.

  The girl traced a different cheiron, and the superheated air washed over Irwa again. A gateway onto a different type of chaos. Maribah spoke the hepisteis under her breath as she moved around the copse of alders, arranging fallen branches and twigs to make a line around their camp. Irwa flushed, embarrassed that she had not set a ward. She had pushed away that part of her life for so long, now, that it no longer came naturally. She listened to the words the girl used, but the sound was foreign, and after a few moments Irwa gave up. When Maribah finished she unrolled a blanket from her pack and lay down. A few seconds later the fire went out with one last puff of heat and light. Irwa wrapped herself in her own blanket and lay down, keeping the fire between her and Maribah.

  Irwa struggled to find sleep, but it would not come. In the dark, it was hard to tell how much time passed, but eventually she heard Maribah rustling in her blanket.

  “Are you awake?” Irwa asked.

  “Yes,” Maribah said. She sat up, the outline of her body barely visible in the darkness. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Your ward will keep us safe, won’t it?” Irwa said. “The plains are dangerous.”

  “We will be safe,” Maribah said. Her voice held a confidence that echoed with the past to Irwa. “Rest easy.”

  “Why can’t you sleep?” Irwa asked.

  “It’s all so new,” Maribah said. “I haven’t traveled much outside of the abbey. A few times; once even by myself to Ghiynmar. A few other places with other members of the Fourth Corner. But out here—it’s so different. So open.”

  The words of a child; they reminded Irwa of the first time she had seen Ghiynmar. The massive buildings, covered in domes and spires painted a rainbow’s colors. Red brick side-by-side with marble and granite. The Sitan towering over the rest of the city, its gold-leaf domes like beaten lightning, and within, the court—the black, corrupted heart of the empire . . . Irwa jerked her mind away.

  “Do you know who we are to kill?” The words left Irwa’s mouth before she could stop them.

  Maribah said, “Lord Brech of House Ordin.” A hint of something in her voice. Pride?

  “Ishahb bless us,” Irwa whispered. She closed her eyes to block out the darkness. The imperial satrap of Greve Sindal. Ishahb, what are you asking me to do?