by Jason Denzel
Then, abruptly as it came, the image vanished and Shevia gasped and leaned forward, trying to catch her trembling breath.
If any of this seemed strange to the High Mystics, none of them showed it. The only reaction they showed was to calmly turn to Ehzeeth. The laghart master appeared no more agitated than the others, although his slitted eyes narrowed slightly and his tongue snapped the air and hovered there, its forked tip wavering.
“A vvvelttten,” Ehzeeth said.
“The fay are crossing the veil faster and sooner than we expected,” Michaela said.
“We must help them if we can,” said her brother, Angelos.
“There are several veltens on Moth,” Yarina said to Ehzeeth. “Can you tell which one these people belong to?”
Ehzeeth shook his scaled head. “I do notttt know enoughhh of the cussstom here to identifffy their communittty.”
“I can ask Vlenar,” Pomella said. “I’ll describe what they were wearing and ask him if he knows where they might live. As a laghart ranger from Moth, he would know best.”
“They live in the eastern shadow of the iron mountains,” Shevia said. Her voice was hoarse, but it was her own again. She eased herself to an upright position, back straight, and tucked back a strand of her long black hair behind her ear. As she did so, she looked at Pomella. “The fay came from the mountains, and attacked them.”
Iron.
A sudden memory rushed to Pomella. The mountain shakes and the moon is wrong. Fear the iron and awake the Mystic song.
Her memory was from a dream she’d had, seven years ago, on the slopes of MagDoon, which was part of the Ironlow mountain range, which Shevia undoubtedly referred to now.
In that dream, a little girl had appeared to her, and given her a warning she hadn’t understood. A girl with lavender eyes.
“Pomella?” Yarina asked.
Pomella ripped her gaze from Shevia. “Yes, sorry, Mistress.”
“There is a velten in an eastern valley of the Ironlow Mountains,” Yarina said. “Go there, and ensure the fay are settled and the lagharts are safe, then return home at once. Take no more than three days if you can.”
“Surely she should not go alone,” Ollfur said. “An entire community was attacked.”
“Take the ranger you mentioned with you,” Willwhite said. “There could be danger, so it will be good to have one of his kind with you.”
“She will need more assistance than one ranger can provide,” Michaela said. “Especially if whatever attacked the lagharts still lingers.”
Yarina pursed her lips. It struck Pomella as unusual for the High Mystic to express even the slightest outward sign of distress.
“There is nobody to spare,” Yarina said.
“I will go,” said Shevia in a quiet voice.
“You are needed here,” Bhairatonix said, his voice cold.
“I can join her after the other Mystics have been distributed across the island,” Shevia said, not looking at her master.
“You will do as you are told,” Bhairatonix said.
Yarina broke the tension. “Thank you, Shevia, for your offer. I will send Vivianna to go with Pomella. They have worked together for years. I had planned to keep her here at Kelt Apar to help manage affairs, but Master Ollfur is correct that this need is very great.”
“Well then, it looks like you have your assignment, Pomella,” said Ollfur with a smile. The light from the room’s lone window shone off his bald head.
Pomella stood and bowed to the High Mystics. “Yes, Masters. I won’t disappoint you.” She flicked her gaze toward Shevia, who had her hands folded in her lap and eyes downcast.
The smoke within the glass sphere cleared just enough at that moment for her to see a palm-sized silver moth fluttering within. It leaped toward the glass and bounced back before hovering in the center. A wave of sadness for the moth came over her. What was the glass, and why was the moth trapped within it?
As she descended the stairs, Pomella caught one final look at Shevia, who peered up at her. Pomella found herself wondering more about the girl and the moth, and wishing she had more answers than questions.
TWELVE
FINDING BITH YAB
Five Years Before Crow Tallin
Sim’s breath misted in front of him as he and Rochella entered the mountain village. The cluster of thatch-roofed homes looked nothing like the great city of Yin-Aab they’d recently visited but looked identical to every other frozen homestead they’d been to here in the mountains over the past several months.
Snow drifted around him and the virga ranger, signaling an earlier than expected arrival of winter. It seemed to Sim that each season since he and Rochella had left Moth two years ago seemed off schedule. It was as though they had rushed through the rainy months, skipped over summer and autumn, and barreled right into winter. Up here, in the highlands of Qin, where snow never melted and stony peaks scraped the sky, it seemed as though the world wanted to sleep.
A handful of villagers noticed their approach and shied back into their homes. It had been the same in the previous villages. Visitors were rare, rarely bringing good omens. The locals only trusted the regular merchants who came seasonally, and it was plain to all of them that Sim and Rochella didn’t carry goods to barter. They seemed to know that the two rangers would only bring trouble, or worse.
Sim pulled his scarf up over his nose and mouth. He slowed his pace ever so slightly, letting Rochella take the lead. He didn’t like to be around people. Not while his plague rashes were visible on his skin. Rochella assured him that after this long he probably wasn’t nearly as contagious as he feared, but Sim still felt more comfortable with his face covered.
The rashes were a major reason they’d come to Qin, which was about as far away from Moth as one could get and still be on dry land. After being thrown off the Eyestrom two years ago, they’d drifted for six days before landing on the rocky Continental shore. Sim had no idea what became of the ship or its crew and passengers. They could’ve died of the plague for all he knew.
After their inglorious arrival at the Continent, the plan changed. According to Rochella, every ranger needed a task, a path to follow that served the will of the Myst. The task they gave themselves was to find a Mystic who would sympathize with them, seek to understand Sim’s ailment, and possibly cure it.
There wasn’t any doubt in Sim’s mind that he was infected with the Coughing Plague. The rashes still grew and spread, and although they faded after a time, they would give way to new ones. But beyond those unsightly blemishes, he had no other symptoms. Hormin, the teenager who had jumped ship with them, hadn’t fared so well. Sim had cradled him as he died four days after joining them on the boat. He and Rochella had done their best to save him, but even with Rochella’s advanced knowledge of herbs and medicine, they were powerless to stop the plague. Sim shed a couple of tears when they let Hormin’s body go into the water. The last glimpse of him sinking into the water—just a boy, younger than Sim—promised to stay locked in Sim’s mind forever. Not because Sim had been close to him, but because he knew that somehow he’d caused that death.
During their travels across the Continent, they’d heard rumors that perhaps one of the Mystics of Qin could cure any disease. Their search had taken them to the capital, where they’d learned of a scarred Mystic named Bith Yab living in one of the highland villages.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Sim murmured from behind his scarf.
Rochella glared at him, giving him his answer.
Sim shrugged in apology. He should’ve known better. Rochella always knew where she was going. In the years he’d known her, she’d never gotten lost and always found what she sought. Early in their time together, during the week they’d drifted at sea, Sim had asked her how she could be so certain where to go.
“When you’ve been lost enough times,” she’d said, staring eastward across the waves toward the Continent, “you learn to find yourself. Know where you are in your own contex
t and you’ll never be lost.”
It made as little sense now as it had then. Sim had learned to trust her, and that was enough.
Rochella unslung her hunting bow and handed it to him. “I’ll handle this,” she said. Sim nodded, glad to let her walk forward without him.
“Hello!” Rochella called to the quiet village. Then she called out a greeting in Qina, a language Sim couldn’t speak but recognized as the same one she’d used in all the other villages.
Silence answered her. The last of the villagers had scuttled into their homes. The buildings were erected from stone and wood, each carefully supporting a steeply sloped roof meant to accommodate heavy drifts of snow. Nearby, a wooly ox with massive horns groaned at them from behind a pen that was far too small for it.
The sound carried out of the otherwise-quiet village, and echoed across the towering mountains surrounding them. Sim felt eyes watching him, coming from both inside the homes and the mountains themselves, questioning why he and Rochella intruded.
Rochella made her way to the largest home and knocked on the door. The biggest house usually belonged to the person in charge.
“No,” said a voice behind Sim.
Without thinking, Sim dropped his walking stick and Rochella’s bow. His hands flew to his belt knife, which he brandished in a defensive stance. Rochella had taught him to favor small weapons. Speed and utility mattered to rangers. They weren’t soldiers marching in an army. A sword was great, but not if you had to haul it across a massive land filled with mountain ranges. The sword Sim had brought from Moth was long gone away, left aboard the Eyestrom.
The voice that had spoken belonged to a young woman around Sim’s age. She was short, light-brown skinned, with black hair cut to a commoner’s length. She wore leather and fur clothing, decorated with beads. Dark eyes stared at him with wide-open fear. Her hand trembled.
“No,” she repeated, and pointed toward Rochella.
Sim didn’t lower his knife. “No what?”
The girl shook her head, confused. Then Sim remembered they didn’t speak the same language.
“Rochella!” Sim called, not taking his eyes off the girl. He knew better than to trust her. In a similar remote village in Keffra last year, they’d been attacked by a group of children, who threw rocks at them when they saw Rochella’s striped skin.
Rochella approached and eased his knife down. “You’re frightening the poor girl.” She smiled to reassure the girl and spoke to her in Qina. The quick, clipped-sounding words rushed by, and Sim wondered how anybody could keep up.
The girl flicked her gaze between Sim and Rochella but finally relaxed. Sim realized it must’ve taken her a great deal of courage to approach them. She began speaking, even faster than Rochella. As she did so, the ranger’s face hardened. Rochella’s hand drifted to her own knife, still resting on her hip.
“She says the Mystic we seek isn’t here,” Rochella said. “He was taken, eight days ago, by a demon. The village has been living in fear ever since.”
Sim darted his gaze around the village, suddenly alert, as if expecting something terrible to jump out from behind one of the stone huts. The girl continued her story, while Rochella listened.
As the two women talked, Sim approached the large house Rochella had knocked at and pushed the door open. There was no lock because remote communities like this saw no need for such things. Or so they’d believed.
Sim eased into a cluttered house, and wondered why, after eight days, the villagers hadn’t cleaned it up. There was clear indication of a struggle, but no blood that Sim could see. The owner’s possessions lay scattered about, and a few simple wooden pieces of furniture were toppled, but that was the extent of the destruction.
Sim let Rochella’s training take over. He used all of his senses to learn what he could. His gaze swept over every corner of the room, while he listened and sniffed the air. The Mystic they sought had lived here. Nobody else was likely to have such a collection of books like the ones that lined the wall on shelves, or a cushion for sitting and meditating by the window.
Sim heard footsteps, and turned to see Rochella and the girl approaching.
“What did you learn?” he asked.
“Bith Yab was attacked at night, and dragged screaming from this house,” Rochella said.
“It may have been night, but he was awake,” Sim said.
Rochella cocked an eyebrow at him. “How do you know?”
“Because his bed isn’t disturbed.”
Rochella nodded. “Something very dangerous took him.”
Hilash’s and Hormin’s dead faces stared at Sim from the depths of an ocean of memory. “We need to find him,” Sim said in a quiet voice. “He’s the only lead we have for finding a cure.”
The girl from the village waited in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold.
Rochella stood a long minute, then stared through the western wall of the house. Her eyes had a faraway look. Sim recognized that look. It usually meant she’d come to a decision, and there’d be no going back once it was made. Without breaking her gaze from the wall, she spoke to the girl in Qina. The girl nodded and ran off.
“What’s our plan?”
“Swiko is bringing us food and other supplies. We hunt.”
Sim nodded. That was all he needed. He moved to exit the house, but Rochella stopped him. She leaned in and breathed into his ear. “The Mystics of the highlands are powerful. Whatever it was that took Bith Yab is unlike anything you’ve faced.” She paused. “More than anything I’ve faced.”
“Do you know what it is?” Sim whispered back.
“Not yet, but I sense it,” Rochella said, “like a hound sniffing prey. Whatever it is, the girl was right. It is not normal, and I cannot say more with any certainty.”
When they emerged to the center of the small community, the girl, Swiko, and some others had come out. Three of the village women offered food. A little boy and girl were sent to top off the rangers’ waterskins. Last, an old man limped forward. He had the longest beard Sim had ever seen, dangling down to his shins. He wasn’t ancient, as far as Sim could tell, but nonetheless old, perhaps in his sixties. Sim was terrible with estimating ages. The man carried two walking sticks, and offered them to him.
Sim bowed in thanks but shook his head in polite decline. “We already have walking sticks,” he said.
Rochella nudged him. “Not like those.”
The old man gripped one of the staves with two hands, and twisted. Immediately the lower two-thirds of the staff fell away, revealing a long, slightly curved blade. “Onkai,” the old man said, grinning through crooked teeth.
Sim had never heard of an onkai before but could immediately see their utility. He bowed lower than before. “Thank you,” he said, and accepted the staves. He handed one to Rochella, who bowed in thanks as well.
Sufficiently equipped, Sim and Rochella walked westward through the far end of the village. Just as they found the trail leading deeper into the mountains, Sim heard running footsteps coming from behind them. He and Rochella turned as Swiko caught up to them.
The girl smiled at Sim with an expression he instantly recognized as something more than friendliness. A part of him felt suddenly awkward, but the more focused part, perhaps the ranger in him, guarded his emotions and kept his face blank.
Swiko said something quick to Rochella, then reached for Sim’s hand. He snatched it away. He didn’t like people touching him anymore. Swiko flinched at his recoil but reached out again anyway, more slowly this time. Carefully she handed him a wad of rags.
Sim examined the strange gift. It was a cotton doll, wrapped in course canvas, resembling a woman sitting with her legs crisscrossed. A stream of pure white hair flowed from her head. Sim touched the hair with his fingers and his eyes widened.
“Silk,” Swiko said, emphasizing the word as best she could with her thick accent.
“Yah, silk, I suppose,” Sim mused. He’d never felt it before. Back home, only merch
ant-scholars and the nobility were allowed to own such fine fabric. He didn’t know if that law applied here as well. “Thank you.”
He allowed himself to favor Swiko with a smile, and she returned it, radiant. She directed some more words to him that he couldn’t understand. Then she gave him a knowing look, touched his shoulder with her hand, and walked back toward the village.
“She said Sitting Mother should go with you,” Rochella said. “And that she’ll await our return.”
Sim watched Swiko for a moment, then looked at the doll. “It’s not much of a Saint.”
Rochella considered him for a long moment. Sim could see she was debating how to respond. Finally, she shook her head. “You have a lot to learn, Thudfoot. Come on. No more talking. Let’s hunt.”
* * *
It took three days for Sim to actually see evidence that they were chasing something real. As always, he simply trusted Rochella, never questioning her ability to somehow know the proper way. On this occasion, it was the scattered remains of a cook fire that convinced him they were most likely chasing a person.
Rochella held her hands over the charred ash. “No heat. We’re still days behind. But we’re getting closer.”
Sim looked at the surrounding evergreen forest, packed with snow. He resisted the urge to comment that of course the embers would be cold up here in the wintery mountains. By the Saints, he was perpetually cold.
Cold, and hungry, although food wasn’t something he worried about much. They always found it. Sim set traps exactly where Rochella suggested, and always, without fail, there was game caught when he went to check it.
“Something else happened here,” Rochella said, looking at the ground surrounding the remains of the campfire. She stood and carefully stepped backward, eyes scanning the ground.
Sim tried to follow her gaze, and sure enough, he soon saw unusual swirling patterns in the ground. There were footprints, too, but that was to be expected near a campfire. But there was something more. Wide, sweeping arcs traced across the snow and dirt. When he looked carefully, Sim could see fallen pine needles in the snow all pointed in the same direction, as if they’d been swept that way.
