Points of Departure

by Patricia C. Wrede

  She started down the hall, then paused and turned back to strengthen the warding spell that guarded her patient. After a moment’s thought, she added a second spell that would keep him sleeping soundly until she returned. It would keep him from getting any unfortunate ideas while she was away.

  • • •

  Wiln’s directions led Marithana to a small, neat house near the middle of the Street of Trees in Liavek’s Old Town. The walk to the door was lined with azaleas, and the yard seemed to be one giant herb garden. Behind the house, Marithana could see the grassy ruins of the ancient Temple of the Giants sprawled across the hilltop.

  Marithana’s knock was answered by an old woman. She leaned on a cane; its brass head was dull and discolored where it showed between her gnarled fingers, but the wood of the shaft looked new. Her white hair was braided close to her head, and her skin was dark and wrinkled. She looked at Marithana with bright, considering eyes.

  “Granny Karith?” Marithana said.

  “I’m called that, among other things.” The old woman studied Marithana for a moment more. “Come in and state your business.”

  Marithana followed her in, noting as she did that Granny Karith had no real need of the cane she carried. The room inside was large and airy. A plain wooden table and three chairs filled the nearer end of the room; the other half was occupied by a large floor loom, racks of threads, and other more esoteric weaving tools.

  Two of the chairs had cats sleeping on them; another cat was stalking out the rear door with a great show of injured dignity. Marithana wondered why a weaver would keep cats. All the ones she had ever known tended to jump at dangling strings. She did not think it a trait likely to endear them to anyone who worked with thread. But Granny apparently had no trouble; the loom held an almost-finished piece of cloth in a striking abstract design.

  Marithana moved nearer, drawn by the weaving. The background was a sandy color, with red and black threads scattered through it. A shade of cream the color of the walls of the Levar’s palace and a blue-green like the Sea of Luck in sunlight made a swirl of color against the sandy background. Here and there, a fuzzy spring green bounced into sight, formed a small swirl of its own, and disappeared again.

  Marithana reached out to touch the edge of the cloth. “A remarkable piece of work.”

  Granny looked at Marithana sharply. “Thank you.” She motioned Marithana to the chair unoccupied by cats. “Now, who are you and what brings you here?”

  “My name is Marithana Govan; I’m a physician. Thomorin Wiln, the apothecary, suggested I come to you.”

  “Hmmph. That young man is going to go too far one day. If he weren’t the only person in Liavek who dries his Golden Sun tea properly…”

  Marithana blinked at the description of Thomorin Wiln as “young man.” “You purchase tea from an apothecary?”

  “Only if he dries it well. Why did he send you?”

  “I am uncertain. But he said that if S’Rian were involved, I should come to you.”

  Granny’s gaze became, if possible, even sharper. “I suggest you begin at the beginning,” she said tartly. “I haven’t so much time that I can afford to waste it talking in circles all day.”

  Thomorin Wiln had also said that Granny Karith would not be polite. Coolly, Marithana described what little she knew. Granny’s expression grew steadily more thunderous as Marithana went on, but she did not speak until the tale was finished. Then she snorted. “Pack of idiots, the lot of ’em.”

  Marithana found herself wondering why she had come and what she had expected Thomorin’s friend to do. Now that her story was told, it seemed a flimsy reason indeed for such a visit. She started to rise, but Granny looked up and waved her back to her seat.

  “I’ll hear no apologies from you, young woman. It’s my own fault you’re here, and precious little good it’s done me so far. I think I shall have to go and see this patient of yours.”

  “How can it be your fault I’m here?” Marithana demanded.

  Granny waved at the loom. Marithana whirled and stared at the weaving again, drawing on her birth luck until she saw the power concealed in the patterned cloth. The threads of a subtle ritual spell drifted in the air around her. A spell of summoning. And she had never noticed! Swiftly, Marithana disentangled herself from the last of the compulsion. She schooled her face to show none of her anger and turned back to Granny. “I see that I owe you much,” she said politely.

  Granny’s eyes narrowed. Then, to Marithana’s surprise, she chuckled. “That remains to be seen,” the old woman said. “I’ll tell you more once I’ve looked at that patient of yours.” Granny moved toward the door.

  Marithana gritted her teeth and followed. “I don’t think—”

  “Nonsense. One way or another, I’ll see him, and you’ll be more comfortable if you’re there.” Granny turned and looked at the cat. “Keep an eye on things while I’m gone,” she said.

  The cat blinked sleepily and began washing its tail.

  • • •

  When they reached the rooming house, Granny swept up the stairs and past the landlord with one contemptuous glance and no explanations. Just inside the door of the sickroom, she paused and looked around. “Very neat,” she said approvingly.

  It was a moment before Marithana realized that Granny was referring to the warding spell. Trying not to feel like a child complimented by a teacher, Marithana went to the sick man’s bedside and withdrew the sleeping spell. His color was much better, his breathing was slow and even, and his forehead was cool. She nodded her satisfaction as his eyes opened.

  “Good evening,” Marithana said pleasantly. “I’ve brought you a visitor.”

  “I don’t want—” The man broke off, staring at Granny. “You’re S’Rian!” He paused, then added uncertainly, “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Granny said. “Who are you?”

  “Tsoranyl, Mekkara’s son,” the sick man said, and closed his mouth tightly.

  “And your clan?” Marithana prompted.

  “That is no affair of yours, Liavekan!” Tsoranyl snapped. “Nor is any of this. It is for true S’Rians alone.”

  Marithana found herself wishing, for the first time in years, that she had not stopped wearing the curved Tilandre honor-knife when she became a healer. She was about to retort when Granny snorted.

  “Pure S’Rian blood is practically impossible to find these days,” the old woman said dryly, and paused. “Except among the descendants of those who fled the city when the Liavekans came. Hardly a cause for pride, I’d say.”

  Tsoranyl flushed. “Our ancestors refused to cooperate with the destroyers of our city!”

  “They ran away,” Granny said firmly. “And good riddance. We’ve done quite well without them for the last six hundred and ninety-eight years.”

  “Who are you?” Tsoranyl demanded suddenly.

  “It’s about time you asked that,” Granny said. “I am Tenarel Ka’Riatha.”

  Tsoranyl’s eyes went wide. He tried to lunge at the old woman, but before he could push himself off the cot, Granny’s cane flicked out and pressed him back against the bedding. She held him there without apparent effort while he struggled and shouted. “Liar! There is only one Ka’Riatha!”

  “That’s certainly what I thought,” Granny said. “Calm down, or you’ll do yourself a mischief.”

  Tsoranyl stopped struggling against the cane, but he continued to glare. “You cannot be the Ka’Riatha!”

  “Tell it to Rikiki,” Granny snapped. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not, as long as you tell me what I want to know.”

  “You are of Liavek!” Tsoranyl insisted. “The Ka’Riatha has been of the tribes since the very beginning, when our ancestors were driven from S’Rian with blood and fire.”

  “Hmmph,” said Granny, momentarily diverted. “I suppose that means Vesharan’s first apprentice ran off with the rest of you. Not exactly a promising beginning.”

  Marithana looked at Granny.
“If you would explain just what you are arguing about, perhaps I could take an intelligent part in this discussion.”

  Granny chuckled. Tsoranyl transferred his glare from Granny to Marithana. “It is a matter of S’Rian,” he repeated.

  “Then you’d better tell me about it,” Granny said, and added a phrase in a language Marithana had never heard before. The room filled with a sense of ancient power.

  Tsoranyl’s eyes widened. Granny spoke again in a commanding tone.

  “No!” Tsoranyl said in the tone of someone desperate to deny something he knew to be true. “No, Ellishar is—You can’t be—”

  “Ellishar, is it?” Granny said. “Your Ka’Riatha, I take it? Ka’Riatha of the S’Rians of the Waste?” She smiled slightly; it was not a smile Marithana would have liked directed at her. “But you are in Liavek now, and in Liavek, I am Ka’Riatha, and matters of S’Rian are my province.”

  Abruptly, Tsoranyl’s resistance collapsed. “All right, Rikiki take you! What is it you wish to know?”

  “Start with what you’ve been up to and why, and what it has to do with that ridiculous jade rabbit.”

  “We came to Liavek in search of the rabbit. When the Zhir ship took it, fifty of us joined the crew of the Windsong in hope of recovering it. But we failed.”

  “Just what is this rabbit?” Marithana asked.

  “It’s the result of one of the worst ideas Nevriath the Unlucky ever had,” Granny replied, pursing her lips disapprovingly. “He bound his luck in the rabbit.”

  Marithana blinked. One of the first things any wizard learned was the difference between investing luck and binding it. Invested luck was available for the wizard to use for the next year, until it was reinvested on the wizard’s birthday; a wizard who bound his luck in an object lost his magic for good. Few were willing to pay such a price in order to create a permanently magical object. Most simply placed enchantments on objects, as Marithana had done to her rings. The enchantments lasted only until the wizard’s next birthday, but recasting the spells annually was a small price to pay, compared to giving up magic forever.

  “What does it do?”

  “It increases the fertility of the land,” Granny answered. “Of course, the fertility spell covers only a limited area, and can only be cast once each year. It also wears off over time. Not as much use as you’d think, if your population is growing.”

  “Nevriath was wise,” Tsoranyl objected. “He cared for his people, enough to give them green meadows and rich harvests no matter where we wandered.”

  “Nevriath was a fool,” Granny said. “And so are you. What did you expect to happen if you succeeded in retrieving the rabbit?”

  “The Great Waste would blossom! We would have again the prosperity that was stolen from us—”

  “You’d share this magic with other clans?” Marithana interrupted.

  “They are not S’Rian,” Tsoranyl said in the tone of a man pointing out the obvious. “What right have they to a share of it?”

  “Then you must be fond indeed of war,” Marithana told him. “For it would surely come, and quickly.”

  “So would the Tichenese,” Granny added acidly. “Magic on that scale is hard to hide, and Tichen still claims half the Waste as part of its Empire. Those wizards wouldn’t leave a trinket like the S’Rian rabbit in your hands for long.”

  “We fear no Tichenese!” Tsoranyl said, tossing his head. The gesture made him wince; he’d forgotten his wounded arm.

  Marithana frowned and leaned forward to check the bandages. Behind her, she heard Granny mutter, “Pack of idiots, the lot of you.”

  “The Ka’Riatha herself told us to seek the rabbit!” Tsoranyl said. “It was she who told us which ship would catch the thieves, so that we had no need to split our strength.”

  Granny snorted. “And how much good did it do you?”

  Tsoranyl turned his head away. Marithana looked inquiringly at Granny.

  “They lost the rabbit,” the old woman said.

  “Wasted! A whole year of its magic, wasted on a bare stretch of water, and the token itself sunk into the depths of the sea!”

  Marithana eyed her patient speculatively. “If the rabbit was lost,” she said slowly, “why are you still in Liavek?”

  Tsoranyl flushed; then the color drained from his face. He looked at Granny almost pleadingly. “You really are…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

  Granny did not answer, and after a moment Tsoranyl sighed and said dully, “After the rabbit was lost, most of us returned to the Waste. Some stayed on the Windsong. And a few of us stayed in Liavek, to find a way of recovering the rabbit.”

  “Stubborn young oysterheads,” Granny muttered.

  “We had to try,” Tsoranyl said. “It will be a year before it can be used again, but what is a year when we have been without it for so long?”

  “How many of you stayed to go rabbit hunting?”

  “Only four. But the Ka’Riatha was among us, so we had hope.”

  “Hope of getting the rabbit back from the bottom of the Sea of Luck?” Marithana said skeptically. “How?”

  “We thought to ask the sea folk for help.”

  “The Kil?”

  Tsoranyl nodded. “We found one of their traders in the Market. But their price was beyond our means. The rabbit lies in deep water.”

  “What did you do then?” Marithana prompted.

  The nomad looked down at the cot. “Ellishar and her apprentice began searching for a way to compel them.”

  “Unwise,” Granny said. “And unprincipled, but I suppose it was to be expected. Go on.”

  “Last Windday she called us together to say they had found what they sought.” Tsoranyl paused, then said in a low voice, “She will wake Shissora, the sea-snake, the plague-bringer, god of the dark and deadly storms, and call him, and he will harry the Kil until they do as we ask.”

  Marithana stared. Practically every foreign merchant and mercenary who came to Liavek brought his gods along with him; as a result, there were more religions in the city than a citizen could remember, let alone know much about. Shissora, however, had been worshipped in Liavek since ancient times, perhaps even since the days of S’Rian, and was therefore familiar to many Liavekans. He was a cruel, unpleasant god, and even his priests thought it best that he remain asleep. To even contemplate using his power as a weapon…Marithana found the idea revolting.

  Granny was gripping the head of her cane so tightly that her knuckles had turned the color of putty. “That is the worst idea I’ve heard in a hundred years,” she told Tsoranyl. “Possibly longer. But at least it’s the explanation I’ve been looking for.”

  “Explanation of what?” Marithana said.

  “The unpleasant atmosphere in Liavek lately. It’s the sort of thing that happens when people tamper with Shissora, even in small ways.” She looked at Tsoranyl. “You agreed to this idiocy?”

  “No!” Tsoranyl said. “Shissora has been the enemy of S’Rian for time past memory. It would be sacrilege to make a pact with him.”

  “Hmmph. More to the point, it’s stupid. Not to mention being contrary to everything a Ka’Riatha is supposed to do. Doesn’t that woman have any sense of the position she pretends to?”

  “I tried to tell her, but she would not listen,” Tsoranyl said. He looked away. “When I said I would stop them, they came after me to kill me. I broke free, but—” He waved his good hand at his wounded shoulder. “The rest, you know.”

  “When will your friends make this imbecilic attempt?” Granny asked.

  “Next Rainday.”

  “How can these people think to use Shissora?” Marithana burst out. “He is a god, not some petty wizard!”

  “I expect they’ve already tested that, in a small way,” Granny said, and looked pointedly at Tsoranyl.

  “That was what made him so sick?” Remembering the sores she had healed, and the slimy power of the spell she had sensed, Marithana could not deny what Granny was suggesting. Sh
e shivered. “What can we do?”

  “We start by strengthening your warding spells. They’re enough to stop most wizards, but Shissora is a god. Then—where can we find this Ka’Riatha of yours?”

  “I do not know. She will have moved since I…left.”

  “Then where is she planning to perform the ritual?”

  “Somewhere called the Temple of the Giants,” Tsoranyl replied. “Do you know of it?”

  Granny chuckled. “How convenient. And we have nearly a week to prepare. If you’re still interested,” she added, glancing at Marithana.

  “You would allow this half-breed to join in a ritual of the Ka’Riatha?” Tsoranyl said indignantly. “She is not even of the S’Rian clans!”

  “That’s my affair, not yours,” Granny snapped. She turned to Marithana. “Well?”

  “I’ll join you. But what are you going to do?”

  “Stop them, of course. Come along; I want your help with these warding spells.”

  • • •

  For the next four days, Marithana visited her patients as usual. Every evening, she walked up Mystery Hill to Granny’s, to see if the old woman needed assistance with her arcane preparations. More often than not, the answer was no, but occasionally Granny sent her on an errand. The old woman gave no explanation for any of her actions, and Marithana saw no sign that any other wizard had been to the neat little house. She began to wonder uneasily whether Granny expected the two of them to be enough to stop the S’Rian nomads.

  On Rainday evening, when they set out for their vigil atop Mystery Hill, Tsoranyl stayed behind. He had asked repeatedly to be allowed to accompany them, but Marithana refused to allow a half-healed patient to take part in such a chancy business. At last he subsided, muttering, and Marithana set off for Granny’s.

  The air was hot and still, and there was a heaviness about it that was disturbing. Fever-weather, Marithana’s teacher had called it, back when Marithana was learning to use her magic in the service of her trade. Despite the heat, she shivered.