How much had changed in just a day.
How much would change if they all managed to get a good night’s sleep?
* * *
* * *
Two hours past sunrise, Teig opened her eyes, feeling refreshed and satisfied for the first time in weeks. Outside, the sun blazed, and birdsong filled the air. Birdsong, which could only mean warmer weather was on its way.
From downstairs came Gwenline’s voice, lifted in happy song, and joined by a dozen others more joyful than even the birds. Teig dressed with an enthusiasm she hadn’t known in days, and headed downstairs.
On the second floor, at the far end of the hallway, Belton nodded to her from where he stood guard outside room eight. He looked confident and strong. She grinned back at him.
Maybe her future was not in a white uniform but in a blue one. Suddenly it seemed a fine choice. Even better than being Chosen.
Shadows and Reflections
Louisa Swann
Petril stared at his reflection in a puddle as a cloud scuttled across the sun’s face, casting an icy shadow across the landscape, chasing after clouds piled high in the east over—or perhaps beyond—the Dhorisha Plains. He straightened his shoulders, determined to ignore the nagging at the back of his mind. Nagging that turned to an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Something was about to happen. He had no idea where or when or who would be involved. Only this feeling that wouldn’t let him be.
Overnight rain had left everything sparkling and clean smelling, though that likely wouldn’t last long. Midsummer was close, and the days had been growing hotter by the minute. Puddles were rapidly turning to mud. Soon, they would be dust.
Once upon a time, he would have leaped high in the air, coming down in the puddle with both feet, scattering the scant bit of water in all directions with a goodly amount landing on him.
Once upon a time, he’d been a boy with nothing more to worry about than how to beg off fishing with his da—
Homesickness washed over him as violently as a summer storm. Petril ached to stand on the shores of Lake Evendim again, shivering from the spray flung from heaving waves as overhead a screeching gull danced on the wind. He even missed the stink of freshly gutted bluegill.
He could almost hear his little sister singing her favorite song: “Bluegills swimming, one by one, hurrah, hurrah . . .”
Easy peasy, bluegill breezy. Petril snorted and wrinkled his nose at the boy scowling back at him from the shriveling puddle. Lake Evendim was a far piece down the road, almost as distant as the boy he’d been last time he’d hummed that tune. Hard to believe nigh on a year had passed since he’d left home.
He scuffed at the puddle with his boot toe. His reflection, along with the brightly colored reflections of the tents surrounding him—reds and blues, oranges and greens, and some colors he’d never even seen before—blurred and blended in a riotous rainbow before settling back into the cone-shaped merchant tents that made up most of Kata’shin’a’in.
A woman dressed almost as gaudily as the tents tsked at him as she stepped delicately around the puddle and melded with the crowd.
There were folks everywhere, shoppers and merchants alike, and no one seemed inclined to linger. The air contained a trace of the rain that had fallen overnight, the springlike freshness chased away by the number of folks shopping or plying their various trades.
Closer to the beast market, with its horses and goats and sheep, the ground had been muddied by churning hooves, and the air reeked of animal musk and leather instead of rain. Made sense that the leatherworkers would be near the live animals, though he thought it rather insensitive. No one seemed to care what the animals themselves thought about the arrangement.
Petril cared. He could feel the animals’ confusion. Their pain and fear clouded his mind as one drew closer to the beast market. Fortunately, their business had been outside the market, and they hadn’t stayed long.
Toward the city center, the beast stench was replaced with the smells of various linens and rugs and the tantalizing aroma of sausages and meat pies as food vendors prepared for the midday rush. Everywhere merchants and vendors strove to outdo each other, voices rising and falling, some in cadence, some not, as they struggled to attract prospective shoppers.
No one paid much attention to a nine-year-old boy.
Which left him time to think.
Da always said Petril thought too much. Ya spend too much time in yer own head. And this was one of those times. No matter he’d just turned nine; he didn’t feel like a nine-year-old.
He felt . . . ancient. Like a flower that stood too long in the sun without rain. Dried up. Ready to blow away.
Tha ain’t it, he realized. More like a fisher waiting fer his boat ta sink . . .
“Bryn says it’s time to stop wallowing in your own tears.” Mira’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Why don’t he tell me so hisself?” Petril demanded. He knew he sounded like a frustrated kiddie, but he couldn’t stop the words. “Why don’t tha ’orse talk ta me anymore? What’d I do ta anger him like?”
“Anger him?” Mira raised an eyebrow. “Boy, he’s not mad at you. He just doesn’t feel it’s his place to Mindspeak anyone but me—unless it’s an emergency, of course. Some feel Mindspeaking is an invasion of privacy.”
“But he talked ta me afore—” Petril pressed his lips together, refusing to say more. The relationship between Companion and Herald was special; he knew that. So why did he expect to be included in the Companion’s conversations?
Why did he expect . . . more?
The answer was as pure as it was simple. Petril was jealous. Bryn had spoken directly to him the first time they’d met. Had made Petril feel . . . special.
And now—now, he was just a kiddie again. Nothing special about him.
Ye ken tha’s not right. Ye gotta way with critters.
He’d always had an affinity for animals. Back home, the village goats and dogs, the wild animals of the lake and forest, all were his friends. And then he’d found Bella and her foal—
“Thanks again for bringing Bella home.”
Startled, Petril glanced up.
And immediately wished he were someplace else.
The girl in front of him stood nearly as tall as he, though she was a year or two younger (or so he’d been told), with hair the color of raven wings, golden skin, and piercing blue eyes.
Shin’a’in.
He forced a smile and nodded. “Home’s where she needed ta be, her ’n the babe.”
He blushed at his words—the stable boys in Haven hadn’t hesitated to point out how rough and “uncivilized” his speech was; this Shin’a’in girl (Tari) had scarcely a hint of an accent.
And (kinda like shoving urchin spines in an open wound) he’d been told the girl could ride like she’d been born on a horse, a skill he longed to possess.
Petril fought the jealous burn in his belly, struggling not to think about how Bella—his Bella—had cozied up to the girl the moment the horse had seen her. Sunfish had taken a mite longer, but a few words and a gentle touch, and both colt and mare were acting like Tari was the one who had rescued them from the kidnappers and brought them home.
Of course, Bella had been kidnapped from the herd belonging to Tari’s clan, he reminded himself. Sunfish had been born shortly after the kidnapping. Not surprising that Bella was happy to see Tari.
’Tweren’t Tari’s fault, he reminded himself. Nor was it her fault his mood was fouler than an Evaendim winter storm.
He forced his smile into a grin and pointed at a nearby vendor selling sugar cakes. “Herald Mina here were just ’bout to get us some food, right, Herald?”
“That’s right. We were about to grab some sugar cakes,” Herald Mira said after a long moment. “Would you care to join us?”
Tari broke into a smile that made th
e sun fade in comparison. She nodded. “Sharana has the best cakes in Kata’shin’a’in. Come on!”
Mira ruffled his hair as Petril hurried after the Shin’a’in girl, and he gave her a quick grin. He and Mira, along with Bryn, Bella, and Sunfish, had climbed mountains, forded rivers, and somehow found their way through the Pelagiris Forest to Kata’shin’a’in. After all that time together, Mira felt more like a sister than a traveling companion. And just like his eight brothers—and one sister—Mira never passed up a chance to give him grief.
He’d pay for this bit of generosity later. He was sure of it.
Tari wove between tents that erupted from the rolling grassy plains like great fish leaping for bugs, glancing back now and again to make sure they followed.
Petril had been surprised to discover the great city of Kata’shin’a’in was more a forest of merchant tents than actual buildings; what buildings there were seemed older than sand. He and Mira had wound their way between so many different tents that morning, Petril had begun to wonder if he could find his way back to the inn. After the wild bluegill run Tari was leading them on, he was certain to be lost—
The tantalizing aroma of fried cakes—their surfaces coated with sugar—overpowered the other smells, banishing all thought from his head. Tari beckoned to them just before disappearing inside a tent striped with yellows and golds.
Petril followed her inside, struggling not to huff and puff like the overweight beaver he’d once spotted trying to drag a tree back to its dam. He stopped a few steps inside the tent and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior.
A woman wearing a faded blue tunic over her voluminous skirts stood behind a counter laden with what his mum would call “goodies” of all types.
Petril swallowed hard as his mouth began to water at the sight—and smell—of fruit pasties and muffins and buns . . . all dominated by that most enticing of all—the sweet sugar cakes . . .
“Three, please,” Tari was saying. “Mother will be in later to pick up supplies. She said to get whatever I wanted, and she’d pay for it when she arrived.”
The woman nodded, filled three parchment bags with the sugared cakes, and handed them to Tari with a smile. “Looking forward to seeing your mum. Been too long.”
Tari thanked her as she handed Mira and Petril each a bag.
Mira started to frown—an expression Petril was all too familiar with—but faster than he could blink, the frown smoothed into a smile. “Many thanks,” she said, accepting her bag with a slight bow. “Bryn also sends his thanks. He loves sugar cakes almost as much as he loves pasties.”
Tari immediately turned back to the woman and ordered one more bag “For the Herald’s Companion.”
Petril couldn’t help but notice Bryn’s bag was larger—and fuller—than the others.
Without warning, the tents, the clothing, even the sugar cakes—all seemed so foreign. He felt like a bluegill flopping about on dry land, struggling to survive in a land that held little resemblance to what he was used to. He’d learned to sail almost before he could walk, but there were no boats here on the plains. He had no way to fit in with these people, to prove his worth—to the Herald or the Shin’a’in.
Or himself.
Yes, he’d rescued Bella and her babe from Lord Fancy Pants—twice—but he’d only started riding during the journey to Kata’shin’a’in—after Herald Mira asked if he wanted to finish what he’d started and escort the pair back home. Bella had graciously allowed him to ride and he’d made it all the way from Haven without falling off, but he still felt clumsy as a baby squirrel trying to climb its first tree . . .
Mira’s face went blank in a manner that indicated she was communicating with Bryn. A moment later, her brow wrinkled.
“It appears we’ve been ‘summoned’,” she said, tucking the tops of both bags into her belt. “If you’ll excuse us.” She bowed her head gracefully toward Tari. “Petril here is rather popular today.”
Petril shrugged, trying not to show his confusion. The Shin’a’in girl bowed her head gracefully and gave him another brilliant smile.
“I know Bella and Sunfish would love to see you again,” she said. “You’re welcome to stop by the tent whenever you wish. We’ll be around for a few more days.”
Instead of making him feel better, the invitation sent him deeper into the void he’d been trying to escape. Petril nodded stiffly and followed Mira from the tent.
“We’ll stop by the inn first to change,” Mira said without looking back. “Put on your best clothes. We are about to meet some Very Important People.”
Petril swallowed hard, but didn’t ask any questions. He knew Mira would tell him what he needed to know when he needed to know it. She rarely offered information just for the sake of chatting. At first, he’d thought it part of her Herald training, but had learned that particular habit was more of a leftover from her childhood than part of her Herald teachings.
The inn they were staying at had to be older than Time—or so he reasoned. The stone was pitted and crumbling, and the beams were pocked with holes. True, the inn was clean enough, and the folks running it were kind. But he got the chills just walking down the hall, and he hadn’t been able to sleep a single night since their arrival. He wasn’t certain if he expected spirits or demons (likely spirits, demons would scare everyone silly, and the whole place would feel . . . different) to pop in at any moment, but something was there.
That nagging itch that told him something was about to happen screamed like an osprey diving on its prey as Petril dodged a man dressed in bright orange and green.
Folks ’round ’ere need ta look where they’re going, he grumped.
And immediately felt shame wash over him. No reason for him to be in such a sour mood. They’d had a good morning. Herald Mira had a whole list of things to get for folks back in Valdemar, and he’d helped her make plenty of good deals. New saddles had been bought, along with so much tack it made his head spin. Mira had arranged for the lot to be delivered to Haven, so they wouldn’t have to worry about hauling it all back with them.
So why had that warning itch become a full-blown infestation? He hadn’t felt this squirmy since he’d played in a bed of nettles when he was still in diddies!
They arrived at the inn faster than he expected. “Wash up enough to be presentable, then dress in clean clothes and meet me downstairs,” Mira instructed. “No dawdling. Not wise to keep a shaman waiting.”
Shaman?
Sweat trickled down Petril’s ribs despite the chill that wrapped him in icy arms. He bit his lip, trying to figure out why a shaman would want to see him? Everyone wanted to see the Heralds and their Companions, but he was only a fisherboy. No one wanted to see a fisherboy.
The coppery taste of blood spread through his mouth as he slipped into his room, splashed icy water on his face, and traded his faded tunic for one a little less worn. They’d been on the road so long he didn’t have any truly clean clothes left.
He explained as much to Mira when she met him downstairs. Her Herald Whites looked fresh out of the laundry, their very whiteness putting his forest green tunic to shame.
“It’ll do,” Mira said and beckoned for him to follow.
Instead of heading back through the merchant tents, the Herald led the way deeper into the city proper. “Bryn says this is the oldest part of what locals call the Old City.”
The area was definitely old. Tall, narrow walls rose on either side of them, blocking the view of anything beyond their immediate area. The dirt road was hard as stone, and the air smelled of dust and . . . old stuff. Not the sweet, rotten stench of death, but . . . old. Even though it wasn’t long after midday, the shadowy road was dim enough he had to squint at the road so he didn’t step in refuse—or worse.
A singsong voice rose off to one side. Petril stopped, drawn to the chanting.
Mira raised an arm. “Keep
moving,” she whispered. “There’s nothing here but a bunch of dried-up religions.”
Petril raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest. Mira wasn’t much for religion. Every time someone brought it up, the Herald either left the room or changed the subject.
They paused in front of a heavy wooden door set deep into a wall on their left. Mira lifted the iron knocker and let it fall once.
Goose pimples rose on Petril’s arms as a deep, gong-like sound echoed behind the door. Less than a heartbeat later, the door swung open, surprisingly silent considering the thick timbers it was made of.
Two figures waited just beyond the opening. The shaman, identified by his headdress, and a woman. Judging by the wrinkles around his eyes, the shaman had seen more summers than Petril’s da. He was dressed in a tunic decorated with elaborate stitching and tiny beads and wore a headdress with tiny horns.
The woman had the same raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and golden skin as Tari. But this was a full-grown Shin’a’in woman, not a girl. Taller than Mira by at least two hands. She was slim, but Petril got the feeling that slimness was deceiving. She could likely outrun a horse if she so desired.
“Welcome,” the shaman said, his voice deep, but not grating. “Please come in.”
The room was sparsely furnished. Sitting pillows had been scattered here and there, and tapestries decorated each of the walls. An archway opened to the left, likely leading to the rest of the residence, or whatever the building was used for. Incense—smelling of summer flowers and something that made Petril slightly dizzy—curled and squiggled up the walls from small tables, one against each of the room’s four walls, while someone chanted in the distance.
“So, this is the boy who brought Kendira home,” the Shin’a’in woman said.
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