When they reached the top of the hill, Granny crossed the weed-choked court of the ruined temple to a small alcove in the west wall. “Make yourself comfortable,” the old woman said. “We may be here a long time.”
Marithana nodded and sat down on one end of a broken pillar. Outside the temple, the street was quiet, as though the residents sensed that this was not a night to wander far from the safety of their homes. The only sounds that penetrated the ruins were the distant noises of the vendors down in the Two-Copper Bazaar and the periodic drone of the conch trumpets from the tower of the Black Priests on Temple Hill. The evening thickened into night. A hot, stifling haze clouded the stars. The Sea of Luck seemed black and lusterless, reflecting none of the lights that shone with defiant cheerfulness from the harbor boats.
A scraping noise near the entrance to the courtyard made Marithana jump. She heard the sound of something heavy being dragged, followed by the soft hiss of people whispering. Light flashed from a shielded lantern. Then a firm female voice said, “Far enough. Stay there, until I have set wards about us.”
Several dark, robed shapes stood at the temple entrance. Beside them lay two large bundles. The first was long and narrow, with pieces of wood poking out of one end, while the other was a lumpy mound. One figure stepped away from the others and began muttering and gesturing. Granny sniffed and started forward; then the figure threw up its arms and shouted.
Light flared and died where the outer wall of the temple had once been. Marithana’s dark-adjusted eyes were momentarily blinded. She blinked, and realized that she could no longer hear the distant night-noises of Liavek.
“It is done,” the firm voice said. “No one outside this place shall see or hear us until our task is done. Prepare the altar and the sacrifice.”
“Just a moment,” Granny said loudly.
As one, the three nomads turned. The first was a formidable grey-haired woman who could only be Ellishar, the Ka’Riatha of the nomads. Beside her stood a dark-haired woman of perhaps sixteen. The third nomad was a man with the same short, wiry build as Tsoranyl.
“Who dares interfere with the Ka’Riatha of the S’Rians?” bellowed the younger woman.
“Silence, child,” Ellishar said. “I can defend myself.”
“Not unless you remember the rest of your spells a good deal better than that last one,” Granny said. “Two of your passes were wrong, and at least one of the key phrases was backwards. It’s sheer luck that you got any results at all, and the spell will never stand the strain of Shissora’s arrival. Assuming, of course, that you get that far.”
“Who are you?” Ellishar demanded. “And by what right do you interfere?”
“It’s my job. Even if it weren’t, anyone with sense would try to stop the summoning of Shissora. Aside from killing all of you, he’s likely to destroy most of Liavek.”
“Liavek!” The nomad woman spat. “Why should I care for the conquerors of S’Rian?”
“Rikiki’s nuts, woman, have you no sense? Half the people in Liavek have S’Rian blood. More than that among the nobility, provided one goes back far enough. Even the Levar is in the direct line from Nevriath. Liavek is S’Rian now.”
“Who are you?” Ellishar demanded again.
“Tenarel Ka’Riatha.”
“Impossible! Never in any generation since our exile has the one chosen to be Ka’Riatha come from outside the clan.”
Granny frowned suddenly. “You choose a new Ka’Riatha every generation? That’s absurd. There’s no continuity.”
“I am the twenty-seventh Ka’Riatha in direct line from Shelar Ka’Riatha who came with us from S’Rian!”
Granny sniffed. “Shelar was barely half-trained, and with that many people handing down information she likely didn’t understand in the first place, it’s no wonder you’ve gotten muddled.”
Ellishar gestured to her companions. “We have wasted enough time. Deal with these impostors while I prepare the altar.”
The two nomads nodded and started forward. Granny shifted her grip on her cane, and Marithana stepped sideways to give her room. The young nomad woman made for Granny, drawing a scimitar as she came. Granny grinned, twisted her wrist, and pulled a gleaming sword from the shaft of her cane.
The second nomad pulled out a dagger and came directly for Marithana. As she backed away, she heard the clash of Granny’s sword against the scimitar. Marithana kept her eyes on her own opponent, carefully weaving a small spell to press against the arteries in the man’s throat. She had developed the spell years before when her work took her to the less savory parts of Rat’s Alley. It required precision, rather than power, and was therefore most useful at close range.
The nomad collapsed two paces from Marithana. She bent and took the knife from his limp hand. She made sure he would stay unconscious, then rose to see how Granny was doing. She was just in time to see a twist of Granny’s sword-stick send the nomad woman’s scimitar spinning into the darkness. A moment later, the nomad fell, run through the right side. Marithana turned to look at Ellishar, and froze.
While they had been fighting, the nomads’ Ka’Riatha had erected an altar. It was the shape of a low, narrow table, supported by panels at each end. On top of the altar lay the unconscious form of Tsoranyl. He was gagged, and bound in place with heavy cords, and the cloth that had wrapped him was draped over the altar at his feet. When had they taken him, and how had they managed to do it without disturbing the wards?
Ellishar stood beside the altar, eyes closed and arms upraised, chanting in a low monotone. Green light coalesced about her hands, growing deeper and brighter with every passing moment, reaching slowly toward the altar top. A drop of it touched Tsoranyl, and the bound man writhed and gurgled.
Fury swept over Marithana. She’d barely finished putting that man back together, and now his recovery would be set back weeks. She started forward. Granny cursed under her breath, then muttered a word and gestured. Marithana paused as silver light flared all around the edge of the courtyard, just inside the boundary of the spell the nomad woman had cast earlier. “There,” Granny said. “Liavek will be safe, at least. Do what you can for your patient.” She stepped forward, raised her own arms, and began to chant.
Marithana needed no urging, but following Granny’s instruction was not easy. Walking into the magic-charged area around the altar was like walking against the tide through chest-deep water. She had to fight for every step, every inch. She shut out the sound of the chanting and focused her thoughts, her magic, and her luck on the man bound to the altar. Slowly, she forced herself forward.
She reached the altar at last and crouched, panting, at its foot. Green light shone with fierce intensity above her, but at least Ellishar seemed unaware of her presence. The sweet, sick odor of decay hung heavy in the air, almost enough to make her gag despite her training and experience.
Angrily, Marithana raised the knife she had taken from the nomad and slashed at the cords binding Tsoranyl to the altar. The bonds parted, and she reached with her other hand to pull him from the altar top, just as another drop of green light fell from Ellishar’s hands. It struck Marithana’s left arm just above the elbow.
It burned like acid. Marithana screamed and pulled Tsoranyl from the altar with one convulsive jerk. Her mind was a haze of pain, and for a moment she could only lie beside the altar and whimper. Instinctively, she reached for the amulet that held her magic. Her birth luck responded, attacking and healing the damage just as it had healed the sores on Tsoranyl when Marithana had first been called to treat him.
The pain receded, and she could think again. Above her, the chanting continued. She knew she should drag herself and Tsoranyl away from the battle, but she did not have the strength. She would have to do her work here. She pulled a tiny flask from the pouch at her belt and took a cautious sip, then forced the rest between Tsoranyl’s lips.
His moaning dwindled as the drug took effect. Marithana sighed and made a rapid evaluation of her patient. A gash on th
e side of his head had matted his hair with blood, and one arm was broken; Tsoranyl had apparently struggled against his kidnappers. Small burns dotted his skin, and at the center of each was an evil-smelling green sore. They were larger and more numerous than the ones she had found on Tsoranyl when his landlord first called her, but easily recognizable as the same. Marithana scowled. She took a deep breath, shut out the monotonous chanting, and began.
The healing was harder than any she had ever done, harder than she had imagined possible. She could not heal one sore and rest before going on to the next; she had to fight constantly. She lost all sense of time and place. She could feel currents of power around her, and realized that some of them were tied to the illness of her patient. She stretched her own power even further, and began to cut those links.
The air grew heavy with power. Shissora must be almost ready to appear, thought Marithana. She tried to work faster, to detach both herself and Tsoranyl from the raging battle before the god arrived. She was aware of Granny and Ellishar now, as the two poles about which the sea of magic surged and eddied. Between them, looming invisibly above the altar, was the web through which Shissora’s power flowed. Hurriedly, Marithana broke the last of the magical links between Tsoranyl and the web.
The summoning spell shivered and began to collapse. Marithana felt a swell of relief; Granny had succeeded in stopping Shissora! Then she stifled an exclamation. Tsoranyl had been the pathway for Shissora’s power. By cutting the ties between the summoning spell and her patient, Marithana had cut off the outlet for Ellishar’s magic. The power, intended to summon a god, was rebounding in an uncontrollable wave onto the woman who had created it.
Ellishar’s hands moved in swift, choppy gestures as she tried to channel the backlash, but her face betrayed her terror. Marithana threw all that remained of her own resources into aiding the frightened woman before her.
It was, if possible, even harder than the healing had been. The power was like a disease or a poison or a fever burning through every part of Ellishar’s body at once. At first Marithana tried to drain it off, but the uncontrolled power almost swept her away. She abandoned that approach and concentrated instead on minimizing the physical damage, strengthening the body’s natural defenses and struggling to keep the fever below the danger point.
Suddenly, it was over. Marithana fell back against the altar with a gasp. The distant sounds of the city had returned, and there was a cool, damp breeze from the harbor. The protective spells surrounding the hilltop had dissipated, and the fever-weather had broken. Marithana was almost too tired to care.
Something nudged her. She turned her head and saw the end of Granny’s cane. “I might have known,” Marithana muttered.
“How is he?” Granny said. She looked tired, and for the first time since Marithana had met her, she leaned on her cane as if she needed it.
“Not too bad,” Marithana replied wearily. “The hard part is over. I still need to set his arm and bandage his head.” She pulled herself to her feet, using the altar as support. “What happened to that other one?” she asked, not very lucidly.
“Thanks to you, she’ll live to make trouble. If she still wants to.”
“I’m a physician. I couldn’t let her die.”
“I’m not interested in Ellishar’s death. Quite the contrary.”
“Then why didn’t you do something when the spell collapsed?”
“I had my hands full trying to protect myself, and Liavek.”
Marithana looked at her. Granny sighed. “And I assumed she had taken precautions. By the time I realized she hadn’t, I was too late to do anything.”
Marithana nodded wearily and raised her head to look around. The male nomad stood by Ellishar. The Ka’Riatha opened her eyes and said something Marithana could not hear. The nomad argued briefly, then sheathed his dagger. Marithana sighed in relief and knelt to begin treating the nomad woman Granny had wounded.
A moment later, Ellishar came forward. She, too, looked tired and worn. She stopped a few feet in front of Granny and placed both palms against her forehead in the gesture of extreme respect. “You are truly the Ka’Riatha.”
“You’d have done better to see it sooner,” Granny said tartly.
“You will help us retrieve the rabbit?”
“And start a war in the waste? Or stir up Tichen again? Certainly not!”
The nomad woman looked startled, then angry. “But the clans are starving! You are the Guardian of S’Rian. You must help us!”
“I expect to. But not by fishing up that blasted rabbit. I’ve better things to do with my time.”
Ellishar looked baffled. Marithana tied the last makeshift bandage in place and looked up. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside? My patients need rest and shelter, and the sooner the better.”
Granny turned. “You’re through with them?”
“For now. I can’t set Tsoranyl’s arm until I have a better place to work.”
Granny looked at Ellishar. The nomad nodded, and in a few minutes the two women had converted the altar into a crude litter. Marithana supervised loading Tsoranyl onto the litter. They started slowly across the hilltop toward Granny’s house, the male nomad supporting his injured companion while Marithana and Ellishar carried the litter. Marithana’s arm still hurt and she was bone-weary, but underneath it all was a glow of satisfaction that even the pain and weariness could not smother. She had successfully completed the most difficult healing she had ever attempted, Tsoranyl was out of danger, and Liavek was as safe as it ever was. Marithana smiled. She was beginning to sound like Granny.
• • •
Granny rarely had so much company all at once. The cats had a hard time deciding whether to ignore the proceedings with an aloof and injured dignity or to keep a wary and fascinated eye on such unusual goings-on. When everyone had found a seat, and the healer was busy tending her patients, Granny turned to Ellishar and said, with deceptive mildness, “Explanations are in order.”
Ellishar looked briefly insulted, as if she was unaccustomed to being asked for reasons or explanations. She probably was, and that was half her problem. Granny waited, and after a moment Ellishar bowed her head and began.
The story was, in its essence, the same one they had already heard from Tsoranyl: drought in the Waste, changing life from merely precarious to barely sustainable; a desperate plan to retrieve the legendary jade rabbit; when that failed, an even more desperate and unlikely plan to force the sea folk to recover it. They had taken Tsoranyl on the street below the hill. Finding out exactly what he had been doing there, outside all the carefully erected wards, would have to wait until he had recovered enough to tell them himself, but Granny was sure it was either a misplaced sense of responsibility or plain old curiosity. From what little she’d seen of the young nomad, she’d bet on the sense of responsibility.
“So,” Granny said when the woman ran down at last, “instead of calling on Welenen the Rain-Bringer to end the drought, which was your proper job—”
“I called on Welenen with every ritual I know!” Ellishar said indignantly.
“Including the Oyarnuin Protocol?” Granny said, ignoring the angry muttering of the woman’s entourage.
“How do you know—” Ellishar broke off. “The Oyarnuin Protocol was unsuitable,” she declared.
“Why? It’s slow and not very dramatic, but it’s the most reliable way of getting Welenen’s attention. Unless that wasn’t really what you were after.”
Ellishar’s expression told Granny that she’d struck home.
“Mistakes are one thing,” Granny said when it became clear that Ellishar was not going to answer. “Deliberately misusing your position is quite another.”
On the back windowsill, the gray tabby kitten perked up her ears, then jumped down and walked toward the center of the room.
“The Ka’Riatha would never do such a thing!” the nomad girl with the sword wound said, but Granny could hear doubt underneath the outrage in her v
oice.
“No?” Granny said. “You’ve had drought in the Waste for a good two years now, but instead of calling on the gods to end it, your so-called Ka’Riatha brought half a clan’s worth of fighters off to Liavek to steal a magic talisman. Which, had you been successful, would no doubt have remained in her keeping.”
A black tom with a ragged ear came out of the shadows to join a fat tortoiseshell under the loom. The nomads looked at each other, and cast sidelong glances at Ellishar, but not even the fierce young girl attempted to deny Granny’s assertion. Ellishar opened her mouth, then thought better of whatever she had intended to say.
“And when Tichen and Ka Zhir heard of the sudden fertility of your part of the Waste and sent people to investigate—which they surely would—you would have become famous as the one who’d recovered and controlled Nevriath’s rabbit, and never mind that you’d stolen it from the Zhir, who’d actually found the thing.”
Three more cats poked their noses around the edge of the back door, then trotted briskly inside to take up places under chairs and beside Marithana and her patient.
“That would have been more than bad enough, but you refused to abandon your plans when they went awry. Instead, you proposed to call up Shissora, in direct violation of every purpose a Ka’Riatha has. And to do it, you knowingly injured one of S’Rian blood, set a curse upon him, and attempted to sacrifice him in a ritual that’s been proscribed for more than twelve centuries.
“Have I got any of that wrong?”
Ellishar pressed her lips together. The cats drew closer, making a circle around the nomad Ka’Riatha. Granny waited. “What I did was for the good of S’Rian,” Ellishar said at last.
Granny snorted. “You shirked your duty, threatened the S’Rians of Liavek, abused your power, and damaged one of your own,” she said implacably. “You are no wizard, you are no S’Rian, and you are no Ka’Riatha, now nor ever again. I say it, I, Tenarel Ka’Riatha, who am all three, in the sight of the gods and the clans.”
The cats wailed; an instant later, Ellishar’s shriek blended with theirs. On the far side of the room, the nomad girl staggered, then regained her balance, her eyes wide and tear-filled.
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