Passages

by Passages (epub)

  :Mind your manners. You stand before one of the Kal’enedral.:

  The voice in Petril’s mind—the voice he’d been longing to hear—stunned him for a moment. :Bryn?:

  :Of course. Pay my words heed. Not only could this woman likely beat me in a race—if she so desired—she could gut you and skin you before you had a chance to blink.:

  As Petril was digesting that not-so-tasty bit of information (more like putrid fish than sugar cakes), Mira greeted the shaman and his companion.

  “Thank you for inviting us. We came as quickly as we could. If there is an issue—”

  The shaman held up his hand. “No issues or problems. D’shayna and I simply wanted to express our gratitude in person.”

  “Why?” Petril blurted before he could stop himself. That feeling was back, the itching so intense he wanted to strip off his skin and throw it in the fire.

  Only there was no fire—

  :And you might miss your hide,: Bryn noted. :Humans look rather silly without their hides.:

  :Da said that kinda thing’s a figger of speech. Not meant ta be serious.: Though the feeling wasn’t as intense—now that Bryn was talking to him again.

  :I do understand—about the figurativeness of speech. Another bit of human silliness. And I’m talking to you so you calm down. You are wound up tighter than a corkscrew still in the pod.:

  :I thought ye was mad at me fer something—:

  :Nonsense. Mira explained it to you. Now hush, or you’ll miss what’s coming.:

  Miss what’s coming? Petril blinked, refocusing on the shaman standing directly before him. Hadn’t the man been by the door only a moment ago?

  For some reason, the shaman looked amused. Mira cleared her throat. “Aren’t you going to answer the shaman’s question?”

  Face flushed with heat, Petril glanced helplessly at Mira.

  “The shaman wants to give you a gift,” she said as though explaining a game to a child. “What is it you would like?”

  “This isn’t a gift of geegaws and pretties,” the Kal’enedral said abruptly. “The true question is—what do you need?”

  The hair on the back of Petril’s neck tightened as the shaman nodded. The old man’s blue eyes were cold as ice chips, mirroring the look in the Kal’enedral’s eyes.

  By the grace of the Old Sturgeon what could they mean? His birthday had already passed. Why should they give him a gift? Something he needed, not wanted?

  Suddenly the old shaman reached forward and pressed a gnarled finger against Petril’s forehead.

  :Don’t move,: Bryn warned.

  Petril couldn’t have moved if the room had been set ablaze. His feet were frozen in place while the rest of him . . . the rest of him felt like it was on display for the entire world to see. His deepest, darkest secrets revealed, his jealousies and desires—

  The shaman blinked and dropped his hand. He glanced back at the Kal’enedral. “This one is more than he seems.”

  Petril had “keeled over” just after he’d turned seven—at least, that’s what Da called it. Mum said he fainted. All he could remember was things got dark before everything went black . . .

  Just like they were doing now—which meant he was about to keel over . . . or someone had turned out a light.

  :Breathe,: Bryn ordered.

  Petril struggled to pull air past the fear clutching his throat.

  D’shayna inclined her head. The room felt icier than Lake Evendim during a winter freeze. “We would speak alone.”

  Petril’s heart squeezed as the pair slipped through the archway into the room beyond. What had the shaman seen? He frantically thought back through everything that had happened since coming to Kata’shin’a’in. Had he broken some law? Offended a high-ranking citizen?

  :Peace,: Bryn ordered. The Companion almost sounded . . . excited. :Calm yourself. If you had done something wrong, you’d be facing whoever keeps the order around here.:

  Mira put a hand on Petril’s shoulder. “Bryn’s right. Wait until you learn what’s on their minds before letting your mind run wild.”

  He had time for two deep breaths and one round of “Bluegills swimming, one by one, hurrah, hurrah” before the shaman and the Kal’enedral slipped back into the room. Petril scrubbed sweaty palms against his thighs, forcing himself not to panic.

  Likely time ta get meself home after we leave here. All this adventurin’s got me guts in a tangle—

  “You’ve got the boy half scared out of his wits,” Mira said as the two surrounded Petril. “Mind telling us what’s going on?”

  Her voice was quiet, but Petril could hear concern in her words. He took heart in knowing that Bryn wouldn’t be far off should they need him.

  “You have a Gift,” the shaman said. He spoke in a way that included them all, though his icy gaze remained on Petril.

  Petril swallowed hard. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember saying—or doing—anything that might be offensive. He’d been too overwhelmed. “I kin unnerstand animals. Not talk to ’em, not really. I kin feel what they’re feeling. Feel when they’re scared, in pain . . .” His head hurt just thinking about the abuse Bella had taken—blows to the head, the poison coursing through her system . . .

  “Do you know why the Kal’enedral dress in black?” D’shayna asked. She remained in the shadows beneath the archway.

  Petril’s heart stuttered, then sank like a poorly thrown stone across water. “Yer on a blood feud.”

  “Kendira, the mare you call Bella, has been in my family since she was born,” D’shayna said. “When she was stolen, my clan sent out a search party. That party was ambushed. The entire group—seven in all—were killed. Their deaths were not . . . honorable.”

  She paused, and the shaman took up the story. “D’shayna was away at the time. She came home immediately upon finding out what had happened.”

  “I pledged blood feud,” D’shayna continued, “and began hunting down those who murdered my clansmen.”

  “Only the murderer had already been apprehended and was awaiting trial in Haven?” Mira guessed. She nodded at Petril. “Lord Fancy Pants.”

  Petril felt his eyes widen. He glanced at the Kal’enedral. “He murdered all your friends?”

  D’shayna gave a curt nod. “My blood sister among them.”

  “I’m sorry,” Petril blurted. “I—”

  The Kal’enedral held up a hand. “It is no fault of yours. Thanks to you, Kendira is safely home, as is her babe.”

  “Which brings us to why we are here,” the shaman said. “D’shayna wanted to grant you a boon. Something that might possibly help you as you have helped her.” He paused. “We have decided to offer you a choice.”

  The room went still, so still Petril could hear his heart pounding. He had done something wrong. He knew he was overreacting, knew they wouldn’t possibly kill him . . . would they?

  He studied the Kal’enedral half hidden in shadow and tried to swallow his fear. “Fear’ll send ye ta the deeps quicker than lightnin’ if’n ye let it,” his da always said. “Set yer mind on somethin’ ye can do, rather than sweatin’ what ye cain’t. If’n yer still breathin’, set yer mind on that.”

  Petril focused on his breathing—

  “My reading revealed something I had not expected,” the shaman said. “Your Gift has only partially manifested. Typically, these Gifts mature on their own, at whatever rate the body/mind/spirit chooses. Your Gift, however, has been ‘caged,’ for lack of a better term. There is a possibility that the entrapment was done by another human—a shaman, perhaps—but I have a strong sense you may have done this to yourself.”

  Petril’s stomach rolled, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “What . . . meself . . . why?”

  The shaman shrugged. “That is for you to find out. The cage is rather strong. Not too strong to br
eak—if you so choose.”

  “Think long and hard on this, youngling.” D’shayna moved out of the shadows, farther into the room. “If you did indeed cage your own Gift, there must have been a good reason.”

  It made no sense, Petril realized. Why would he lock away something that could help him . . . become . . . what he’d always wanted?

  The room spun in crazy circles, and his head started to pound.

  Mira put an arm around his shoulders. “Will you give him some time to think? This is a lot for a boy his age to process.”

  Both the shaman and D’shayna nodded.

  “You have until morning. I’ve been called to perform a . . .” The shaman wrinkled his nose, “ceremony. While I would rather remain here, I cannot deny my service to others.”

  Petril stared at the man . . . and found himself wondering what kind of horns were on the shaman’s headdress.

  “We’ll return in the morning, then,” Mira said. She gently turned Petril toward the door. “I think a bit of food and a good night’s sleep—”

  “Best not make a hasty decision,” D’shayna agreed. “I always find a good night’s sleep—if it can be had—puts perspective on the problems at hand. Experience has taught me that no gift comes without a price. When I pledged myself to the Star-Eyed, she required sacrifice. Being Kal’enedral is a great privilege and a heavy burden. Your decision will be no less impactful, I believe. Think long and sleep well.”

  Petril managed to nod as Mira herded him out the door. “Thank you,” he called back over his shoulder.

  Whatever had just happened?

  One day he’d been dreaming of magic and heroes and how he would one day save the world, and now . . .

  If’n me Gift was uncaged . . .

  If his Gift was uncaged, he could be that hero.

  Why had his Gift been caged? Who could have done such a thing?

  Could I have really done it meself?

  He rejected the thought almost as soon as it formed. Such a thing wasn’t possible. He didn’t even know how to handle—how to use—the abilities he had. Putting them in a cage was . . . impossible.

  Wasn’t it?

  Petril stumbled on a loose stone, feeling like the Old Sturgeon himself, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, caught somewhere between a boy and a man.

  He had a decision to make, a decision that could change his life.

  He could either stay the boy he was, doing what little he could to help where help was needed.

  Or he could shoulder responsibility. Become the hero he always dreamed he could be.

  What ’bout the cage? Wha—

  A scream split the air somewhere behind him. Petril’s heart leaped like a startled rabbit, and the spit dried in his mouth. He spun, hand going to the knife he’d kept at his hip since leaving home, a man’s knife given by his da—

  And instantly felt like a full-blown fool.

  A handful of urchins scampered past, splashing through puddles and throwing what looked like moldy bread at each other with shrieks and screams. He watched them with a fierce yearning that made his eyes burn.

  He missed being home, chasing his sisters, helping his ma. He even missed being teased by his older brothers.

  He missed being a boy—

  “You can always say no.”

  Petril shrugged, not wanting to look at the woman behind him. She always seemed to know what was going on in his head, no matter she claimed no such Gift.

  “The world needs fisherfolk and farmers,” Herald Mira continued. “Not everyone is cut out to be a warrior or a shaman, a Healer or a Herald.”

  His heart skipped a beat. Were it only that simple.

  He’d always imagined himself doing this fantastic thing or that. He’d spent his days dreaming—fighting off bandits and pirates or becoming a spy for the King’s court or maybe even becoming a Herald, as improbable as that had always seemed.

  No matter who or what he dreamed of being, he was someone who helped others, who saved lives, who could possibly even save the whole world one day.

  For as long as he could remember, Petril had wanted to be a hero.

  Then Bella and Sunfish had come along and he’d saved them. Twice.

  And discovered that being a hero wasn’t all light and glory. It was dirty and painful and scary as being caught on the lake during a lightning storm.

  He thought about D’shayna, about her clothing, black as the darkest shadow . . .

  And found himself staring into another puddle.

  The reflection in this puddle was sharper than if he’d been looking in a mirror. Not only could he make out the narrow shape of his face and his hooked nose.

  He could see the indecision in his eyes.

  See the fear.

  Who knew what setting his gift free would do to him? Wasn’t it already bad enough he could feel pain that wasn’t his? He remembered the rage Bella had felt when she’d been trapped and beaten by Lord Fancy Pants. The anguish and fear for her young foal . . .

  Petril gulped. There were times when he wished someone would take it all away so he wouldn’t feel what the creatures around him felt.

  How could he stand even more?

  Staring at that puddle, studying his reflection, feeling like a two-year-old deprived of his mum’s pasties . . .

  The reflection blurred and suddenly—even though she was nowhere nearby—he was looking into Bella’s round eyes. Huge, intelligent, knowing.

  He had helped Bella when she’d needed it most. Brought her safely home—along with her babe.

  And that felt . . . good.

  Better’n all his mum’s pasties and all the sugar cakes in Valdemar.

  It hadn’t been easy. It hadn’t been fun.

  It had been worthwhile.

  A shadow flicked across his puddle, darkening the shimmering water until all reflections were gone.

  There was no one to save this time. No boggle to fight, no Lord Fancy Pants to beat.

  No one to tell him which path to choose.

  When the shadow lifted and the reflection returned, Petril saw only his young eyes looking back over his hooked nose.

  Eyes that no longer held indecision.

  He knew what he had to do.

  He called to Mira, turned around, and led the way back to the shaman’s door.

  * * *

  * * *

  The shaman had insisted they wait until morning. Both D’shayna and Mira (and Bryn) had agreed.

  “Too easy to act on a whim,” the shaman said.

  So Petril waited and waited and waited. He didn’t sleep, not much anyway. Morning found him just as determined as the previous evening.

  That determination stayed with him all the way through the Old City to the shaman’s.

  Now he sat on one of the cushions, hands folded in his lap, incense sucking the air from the room. Candles lit the room just enough that he could make out faces but not a lot of detail. Not that he paid much attention to detail—except for one.

  Fear. Suffocating, paralyzing fear.

  Petril clamped his teeth together so tight his jaws ached. He wanted to ask if the process or ceremony or whatever the shaman did was going to hurt. Did he need to cut himself and share blood with another? Would he get a headache like the one he’d had after cleansing Bella of the poison given her by Lord Fancy Pants?

  He wanted Bryn’s reassurance, but the Companion had gone silent again. Mira said Petril needed to do this on his own. His eyes burned, his chest felt like a giant sturgeon was sitting on him, and his stomach was a churning cauldron.

  He couldn’t do this. They were asking too much.

  He was asking too much.

  Of himself . . .

  Ye always wanted ta be a hero, he reminded himself. Saving the world and such. Sto
p being such a baby ’fore anythin’s even happened.

  He opened eyes he hadn’t realized were shut, studied the Kal’enedral standing across the room, quiet as a shadow, calm and clear as his reflection had been the evening before. When he’d made his decision.

  Shadows and reflections.

  D’shayna had told him a little of what it meant to be Swordsworn, what she’d gone through, what she had to give up.

  A sacrifice made by a select few. An honor above all others.

  Tain’t easy bein’ a hero, son, Da once said when Petril complained about wanting to be a hero. He knew for a fact Da was right about that. It wasn’t easy being a hero, going above and beyond.

  Wasn’t easy being Swordsworn or a shaman or even a Herald (according to Mira).

  Land the fish or sail fer home. Da never demanded his sons do what he told them to do. He did demand they make a decision. Make yer decision ’fore life makes it for you.

  “I’m ready,” Petril said, surprising himself. He could tell by the look on Mira’s face he’d caught her off guard.

  Everything would change after this, he knew that. But he was ready for that change. He grinned and straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t sailing for home, not yet, anyway.

  Time ta land tha fish.

  * * *

  * * *

  All it took was the shaman’s touch to uncage his Gift . . .

  . . . Leaving Petril feeling as though he’d been caught in a rocky landslide, bruised and battered and wishing everyone would just shut up and leave him alone.

  He didn’t remember walking back to the inn and falling into bed.

  It took a full day of sleep after the uncaging to realize there had been no landslide, and the bruises weren’t real. His pounding head kept getting worse, though.

  Thousands of voices yammering at him.

  Emotions of all kinds pelting him from every direction, emotional hailstones in a never-ending storm.

  A storm he’d experienced before.

  Flashes of memory surged through the voices, emotion mingling with emotion, voices so mixed he couldn’t tell what was here.