The Exile and the Sorcerer

by Jane Fletcher

  “If it makes you happier, I could tell you that you’re about to go on a difficult journey and to expect health problems towards the middle of next month, possibly with your eyes. But I think my original advice was better. It’s certainly easier to act on, wouldn’t you say?” The sorcerer drained her glass and stood. “Before I go, do you want to try again and see if you can ask me your original question?”

  “Er, no. Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “True. I have.”

  The woman swept out of the tavern. The door swung closed behind her. In the hush that followed, Tevi looked around. The two men identified by the sorcerer appeared extremely uneasy. Judging by the looks they were receiving, it was obvious that everyone knew they had been pointed out.

  Tevi picked up her drink and walked towards them, hoping it was not just the sorcerer’s idea of a joke. Both men were in their early twenties. The taller of the two had a round face and unruly fair hair that fell over his forehead. His companion was dark, with angular, boyish features. Their eyes, edgy and distrusting, fastened on the tattoos on the backs of Tevi’s hands as she sat down.

  “Well met, fellow citizens.”

  “Well met,” they replied in disjointed uncertainty.

  “The sorcerer thought you might be able to offer me a job. My name’s Tevi, by the way.”

  The fair-haired one answered cautiously. “My name’s Harrick, and this is my partner, Rorg. We’re traders from Rizen.” His companion nodded sharply.

  “Are you looking to hire people?” Tevi asked.

  “Um...yes. But we’re mainly after guides and mule drivers. Though I suppose a scout might be useful—if that’s what you are.”

  “No. I’m just an ordinary warrior.”

  Harrick’s wariness was fading into confusion. “Then I can’t see we’d have much need of you. Bandits are rare in the mountains, even in good weather. They aren’t going to be about in conditions like these.”

  “We’ll be lucky to get anyone,” Rorg interjected. Like his companion, he spoke in the clipped accent of the eastern Protectorate.

  “Look, I keep telling you, it will be all right,” Harrick shot at his partner with unconcealed anger.

  “You’ve said that before.” Rorg scowled.

  Tevi realised she had stepped into an ongoing argument. “You have a problem?”

  Rorg merely shrugged, retreating into a mood of sullen despair.

  Harrick turned to Tevi. “We’re planning on going over the old pass, but Rorg has some doubts.”

  “The old pass? Is that different from the current one?”

  “Oh, yes. The new Langhope Pass was made sixty years back. Three sorcerers and a couple hundred dwarves did the work. Before that, the old route ran farther to the north—an old pack trail, twisting all over the place. The new pass just blasted its way straight up one side and down the other. They even knocked a couple of tunnels through bits that got in the way. You can drive two wagons abreast the whole way.”

  “Except when it’s neck-deep in snow.”

  The interruption from Rorg was met by an angry glare. Eventually, Harrick went on. “We were held up on our way to Treviston. By the time we got here, the Langhope Pass was closed, and it may not reopen for months. We’re on a tight schedule and low budget, and can’t afford to wait ‘til spring. We only got our loan from the guild last year.”

  Tevi remembered Verron’s remarks about young traders overreaching themselves. “You think the older route may be passable?”

  “Yes. On foot. It always was, according to Rorg’s grandmothers. They used to cover this route in the days before the new pass.”

  “If you can believe the old fools,” Rorg mumbled.

  “And why not? The old pass isn’t so high, and it’s sheltered from the northwest wind all the way,” Harrick snapped angrily.

  “So that’s your plan?” Tevi tried to ease the tension.

  “Yes. We’re going to sell the wagons and transfer the load to mules. Not right now, but according to the weather witch, there should be a clear patch in another twenty days. If we can get a team together we’ll be setting off then.” He frowned at Tevi. “We’re looking for guides and muleteers. The only unskilled labour we’re going to need is the brute strength to dig our way out of snowdrifts, and that’s not going to be your field.”

  Tevi looked at the table. It was about ten feet long, made from solid timber, probably weighing more than she did. She raised her eyes to meet Harrick’s and placed one hand on the underside of the table. With a smile, she lifted it a foot into the air. People sitting at either end called out in surprise.

  “When you discuss the contract with the guild master, it would be better not to use the word ‘unskilled.’ You could say you wanted me to fight off starving wolf packs and the like. The mercenaries are very keen to be seen as professionals.”

  The two young traders stared at Tevi in astonishment. Even Rorg was shaken from his bitter cynicism. He peered at her hand under the table and then sat upright again.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got a couple of friends? We could forget the mules.”

  Chapter Nine—Nightmares

  Either Rorg’s scepticism of his grandmothers was well founded, or the old women had been tougher in their youth than they’d been given credit for. The journey over the old pass was a nightmare.

  On the day they left Treviston, Tevi began to have second thoughts at the sight of ice-scoured crags overhanging the trail, but she brushed away the doubts. Ahead of her went the others in the team, mounted on hill ponies. Apart from Harrick and Rorg, there were two muleteers, a local guide, and nineteen very unhappy mules.

  It was not long before Tevi was wishing that she had turned around and headed straight back to the comforts of the Treviston guildhall. For the first two days, the route wove its way into the mountains. The track hugged the southern side of a long winding valley that was comparatively sheltered and free from snowdrifts. However, the temperature was bitterly cold, firewood was scarce, and the damp found its way into everything. The track then rose along a steep-sided ravine that acted like a wind tunnel, hurling walls of sleet in their faces. At the top, they were met by a trackless expanse of moor under a leaden sky.

  This was when Tevi fully came to realise that Harrick had been obliged to employ anybody he could get. The guide, Lerwill, had less idea of direction than anyone else in the party. After two hours of his dithering, Tevi was left wondering how he normally found his way home from the tavern.

  The wind whipped them with freezing blasts as Lerwill looked around in confusion. “It wasn’t like this last time I was here,” he muttered.

  Tevi shouted to be heard over the wind. “Let me guess. There wasn’t any of this white fluffy stuff about.”

  Lerwill pouted sullenly and pointed to a long ridge cresting in a triple peak. “That’s Langhope Rigg. The new pass goes to the south of it, which means...” His hand shifted to gesture in a vague northeasterly direction. “We need to go that way.” He scowled at Tevi as if daring her to dispute his words.

  They set off across the snow-covered upland. The mules were miserable and made no attempt to hide it. The same could be said for the muleteers. Tevi pulled her hood forward to shield her face from the wind and wished she could place more confidence in the guide. Listening to Ricard’s stories by the fire suddenly seemed like an extremely enjoyable way of spending time.

  *

  Over the following days Tevi learnt a lot about mules. She also learnt that although adversity often brings people closer together, this was not necessarily the case. Harrick cursed the weather, the muleteers cursed the mules, Rorg cursed his grandmothers, and Lerwill fell into a sulk and cursed everyone. It was mainly due to Tevi that they found their way across the moor and back onto the trail. Thereafter, the route got worse as it passed through the heart of the mountains.

  The muleteers, Jansk and Orpin, were a couple barely out of their teens whose relationship fluctuate
d between vicious argument and passionate reconciliation. Orpin had the same wiry build and stubbornness as his mules. Jansk was a solid young woman with a short temper. Neither appeared overly endowed with brains. Throughout the early part of the journey, the pair quarrelled incessantly. For some reason, both chose to confide in Tevi. She heard more intimate details about their relationship than she had any wish to know and soon ran out of sympathy for the tales of jealousy, selfishness, and spite, but neither muleteer picked up on hints that she did not want to listen.

  As far as she could judge, Tevi spent her twentieth birthday carrying the cargo over a rock fall while Jansk and Orpin took the mules around a detour judged too dangerous for the animals when laden. The voices of the muleteers were audible long after they had disappeared from sight.

  “Why are you wearing that old hat again?”

  “It keeps my ears warm.”

  “It makes you look stupid.”

  “You’re only saying that ‘cause Lonny gave it to me.”

  “I didn’t know who gave it to you.”

  “Yes, you did. You were there.”

  To Tevi’s relief, the voices faded, leaving her to work in peace—apart from the unhelpful advice from Harrick, Rorg’s sarcastic interjections, and Lerwill’s muttering. That night, she crawled into her bedding cold and exhausted. Her fingers were chafed, and a wrenched ankle was throbbing.

  Jansk crept over. “Do you know what he said to me?” Her voice was a whine.

  Tevi peered from under her blanket. Tears were in Jansk’s eyes. Knowing the woman, they were more likely due to frustration than grief.

  “Who?” A silly question, Tevi realised, even as she spoke.

  “Orpin. The dog sucker.”

  Tevi had heard Jansk use the phrase on several occasions. She had not tried to find out its derivation, though several possibilities occurred to her. From Jansk’s tone, it was not a term of endearment.

  Go away. I can’t be bothered. The words were on Tevi’s lips, but instead she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I told you...Orpin.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “He won’t let us name our first child after my father. He said Pa’s an evil old toad.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Not yet. But after all my Pa’s done for us...can you believe it?”

  Tevi buried her head under the blanket. She could not believe any of it.

  By the next night, the mule drivers had got over their quarrel. Ignoring the rest of the team, they sat by the fire, staring into each other’s eyes. Kisses grew ever more passionate, and hands disappeared under the layers of clothing, accompanied by giggles. Tevi found the display acutely embarrassing. On the islands, people used the cover of darkness and did not make love brazenly in the firelight. She tried to distract herself by talking to Lerwill, but his eyes were glazed and his speech slurred. What words she could distinguish carried little sense. Harrick gestured for her to leave the guide. She slid across to where the traders were sitting.

  “What’s wrong with Lerwill?”

  “Opium,” Harrick whispered.

  “He’s an addict?” Tevi had heard of the drug during her travels with Verron and Marith—even seen users sprawled blank-eyed outside taverns and brothels—but had never made the connection with the guide’s erratic behaviour.

  “Sort of. He promised not to take any on the journey, but he can’t seem to function without it. I let him have a little to see if it helps.”

  “Bloody stupid idea to try this route without a decent guide,” Rorg muttered.

  “It’s all due to your grandmothers’ stories,” Harrick snapped back.

  “I told you not to believe the senile old liars.”

  “And it was your fault we were late getting to Treviston.”

  “Oh, not that one again!”

  The two traders swung into their bitterest argument to date. Both were soon trying to get Tevi to side with them.

  “Tevi, can you believe the crap we’re hearing?”

  “He’s the one talking out of his arse, isn’t he, Tevi?”

  Tevi had no intention of being drawn in. With an excuse, she left the fireside and went to where the ponies were hobbled. Her own mount snorted in the darkness and nuzzled against her. She hugged the pony’s neck, burying her face in the mane. “You and me. We’re the only sane ones here,” Tevi whispered, although she wondered if confiding in an animal might prejudice her own case.

  The next day, the trail rounded a sheer-sided mountain before dropping into a thickly wooded valley. They were now on the eastern side of Whitfell Spur, and the air was noticeably warmer. That night, they camped under pine trees. For the first time since entering the mountains, firewood was not in short supply.

  The trail continued its steady descent for another two days. On the morning of the sixteenth day after leaving Treviston, they reached the head of a wide valley. Fields, roads and villages were spread out below. The party made their way eagerly down the hillside, encouraged by the thought of a dry bed and food other than trail rations.

  At midday, they passed beneath the remains of an old castle perched on a spur of rock. Heavy ramparts linked two towers, one tall, one short. All were built of dark grey granite and dotted with black arrow slits. Tevi looked up.

  She turned to Rorg. “Who lives in the castle?”

  “Nobody, as far as I know.”

  “Why is it here?”

  “It goes back to when this was the main route over the Spur. A small garrison was stationed here. Since the new pass was built, this valley has become a backwater, and the soldiers have gone. They now patrol the new pass.”

  “The castle seems in good shape.”

  “Perhaps the locals are keeping up the maintenance, just in case.”

  The road took them on through the bare winter farmlands until, with enormous relief, the party entered the largest village, a mile and a half below the castle. The difficult part was over. Three days’ easy travel would get them to Rizen. Harrick was as keen as anyone to rest and arranged accommodation with the local reeve, a thin middle-aged woman who led the handful of surprised villagers that came out to greet them.

  *

  The villagers used their arrival as an excuse for an impromptu party. Visitors from outside were cause for excitement, especially during the winter isolation. Everyone from miles around squeezed into the hall in the centre of the village. However, their curiosity was confined to the local area, and the main interest was Harrick, Rorg, and their news from Rizen. Once it was learnt that Tevi came from “far distant lands” she was ignored, apart from the customary band of children entranced by her mercenary tattoos.

  A barrel of beer was opened, and someone played a fiddle, although the space was too cramped for dancing. From what Tevi could see, the hall doubled as a hay barn and shearing shed. It would also be their accommodation that night. Tevi lifted her eyes to the rafters and smiled. The thought of sleeping on dry hay with a roof over her head was bliss.

  As the evening progressed, the children were sent to bed, and the crowd began to disperse. The reeve, Sergo, was one of the few villagers with any interest in the wider world. She had just engaged Tevi in talk about Lyremouth when the door opened and a grim-faced man stepped in. He made straight for the reeve, who stopped mid-sentence at the sight of the newcomer’s face.

  “You’ve found more victims?” Sergo sounded frightened.

  “Two sheep. Up by the north falls.” The man jerked his head.

  “Spring’s on the way. It won’t stay around much longer, surely?”

  “So you say, but I reckon it depends on who called it here, and why.” The man crossed his arms on his chest belligerently while a circle of villagers formed. Voices in the rest of the barn were muted.

  “Nobody has called it.” Sergo’s tone did not match her confident words. “It’s just that the bad winter has forced the thing down the Spur from the high Barrodens.”

  “Or her, up at the
castle, has called on another pet.”

  Sergo looked at him in dismay.

  In the resulting silence, Tevi asked, “What’s been called here?”

  “A basilisk.” The man snapped the answer.

  “What’s a basilisk?”

  “A monster from the wildlands. It’s got this third eye in the centre of its forehead. It locks eyes with its prey and drains the life out. Turns the body to stone and the eyes become like jewels.”

  “Has it killed anyone?”

  “Not yet. So far, it’s just taken a dozen sheep,” Sergo said weakly.

  “But it’s going to get someone soon. Mark my words, we’ve got to do something.” The man glared at the reeve.

  “Nobody here can deal with it. You need magic. But it will go soon. I know it will.” Yet Sergo sounded as if she did not truly believe her own words.

  “Can’t you call in a sorcerer to help you?” Tevi asked, remembering the one in Treviston. After the journey she’d had, Tevi would happily have directed a hundred basilisks in the woman’s direction.

  “There’s one too many in these parts as it is,” someone in the crowd muttered.

  “Most likely her behind it,” a second voice added.

  Others agreed.

  The angry man faced Tevi. “We’ve got a Coven sorcerer, black amulet and everything. We never used to have one. We got by with a simple witch, a healer who could turn her hand to a bit of rain calling. Nothing much happens around here; we don’t need anyone fancy. But when old Colly died, we got a sorcerer sent here. If I could, I’d slit her throat.” His face twisted in hatred. “She’s evil, and I tell you, the basilisk is her doing.” The last sentence was spat at the reeve. Then the man spun on his heel and stalked towards the door.

  Sergo called after the departing figure. “The Coven know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t send her here if she was corrupt or dangerous.”

  “If you believed that, you’d go and ask her to help.” The man tossed the words over his shoulder and left.

  Nobody else challenged the reeve’s assertion to her face, but there was plenty of muttering. A short while later, Tevi found herself seated on a rickety bench next to a plump elderly woman who was noisily sipping a mug of beer.