by Barb Hendee
To the south was another clearing, smaller than the village space, where weathered planks, erect stones, and debarked wood shafts sprouted from the ground. Some bore garlands of wilted flowers. Leesil noticed a glitter of light through the tree branches, where a lantern hung from a tall pole.
When one of their own died, these backwoods peasants bought oil before food. They starved to keep lanterns burning for as many nights as possible, in fear of unseen things the recently deceased might attract.
It was all far too familiar, and a shudder of revulsion and shame assaulted Leesil. Around him was the living inspiration for the game that he and Magiere had used to prey upon villages for so many years.
Hunter of the dead.
He'd never imagined Magiere as one of those they'd swindled and cheated. When he glanced at her walking beside him, studying her pale and smooth profile, she looked out of place. It seemed impossible that she'd grown up in this murky world soiled with damp and ignorance. Muddied below the ankle, her boots were sturdy for wear and soundly cobbled. Her black breeches and wool cloak were travel-marred but a far cry from the threadbare clothing of the villagers. She'd pushed back her cloak, sheathed falchion in plain sight for all—perhaps as a subtle warning.
Eyes peered from doorways and windows. A few people in the open stared warily at this trio of trespassers.
Up the road out of the village's west end loomed a squat keep upon a rise lifting out of the surrounding forest. Even at a distance, its dark profile looked worn and ill-kept, like the village. Its upper rim was uneven, perhaps with broken stones, leaving gaps like missing teeth. Leesil felt the chill air sink into his bones as two more thoughts settled upon him.
Magiere's mother had died in mat place.
And Magiere had grown up beneath its shadow.
A crack of wood made Leesil jump. He spun halfway around, his hands slipping up opposing sleeves ready to draw his stilettos.
A bearded man in a soiled cap stopped splitting wood and cradled his ax as the strangers passed by. Whispers and mutters grew as more peasants returned from the fields they worked nearby in forest clearings or stepped from cottage doors. Some seemed frightened, while others were openly cold to the point of anger. Half of them carried hoes and spades.
"Night spawn!" an old woman hissed in Droevinkan, and then spat on the ground. in Magiere's path.
Chap growled back at the woman, fur rising on his neck as his step quickened. Leesil brushed his fingertips across the dog's head, and Chap slowed to stay behind him.
Magiere wasn't a stranger here, and was even less welcome than they were.
Leesil forced all somber thoughts from his mind. His punching blades were packed on the mule, and stilettos wouldn't do well against this many opponents. To protect Magiere, he'd have to be fast—and vicious enough to make fear his better weapon.
"Magiere, what is wrong?" asked Wynn. "What did that woman say, and why are they looking at you this way?"
"Stay close, " Magiere answered, then whispered to Leesil. "None of your charm. It won't work this time. "
Obviously, he thought. Two men approached, and before Magiere could argue, Leesil stepped in front of her.
He assumed the one in front was a village leader. Perhaps sixty or so years but still muscular, he had disheveled gray hair, and a few days' growth of beard. The wrinkled bags beneath his eyes made Leesil think of fungus lumps on a gnarled tree. Little distinguished him from the rest of those present, but his companion's face trapped Leesil's gaze.
He was in his late forties, unwashed hair hanging around his angular features and stubbled jaw—but only half stub-bled. One side of his face was a mass of scars up to his eye, as if a torch head had been pressed to his cheek and jaw. The injury made one side of his mouth twist into a permanent grimace, and a wisp of madness flickered in his hazel eyes.
Leesil slipped his hands behind his back, out of sight, and opened one wrist sheath's strap to let a stiletto drop into his palm.
Chap's growl returned, and the closest of the mob pulled back.
"Greetings, Yoan, " Magiere said to the elder, and then gave the scarred man a nod. "And Adryan... I've come to see my aunt. "
Her flat tone puzzled Leesil but not enough to distract him from studying the positions of all around them and any avenues through the crowd. Before Yoan answered, the one called Adryan stepped closer.
"You're not welcome here, you misbegotten coshmarul!"
he spat out. "You're nothing but darkness, and we've enough of that already. "
Magiere had always been quick to return threats in kind. When no response came from her, Leesil turned slightly without losing sight of the two men. Magiere was calm as she stared at her accuser.
Adryan took another step, this time too quickly, and Leesil lunged at him. By the time Adryan's eyes fully widened, Leesil held the flat of his stiletto tip against the man's throat. Gasps and shouts rose among the villagers as most retreated, even those who were crudely armed. Leesil guessed the last thing they truly wanted was a fight with armed strangers.
"I don't care for your manners, " he said to Adryan.
Yoan clenched his teeth and glared at Magiere, casting all blame her way. Adryan's surprise faded as he looked back at Leesil.
"And I don't care for the company you keep. "
Leesil remained poised, trying to keep track of all movement around him, but he didn't start as Magiere's hand settled on his shoulder from behind.
"Leesil, don't, " she whispered.
Before he could argue, a shout carried over the mob's murmur.
"Magiere?"
A plump woman in a faded purple dress pushed through the villagers, swatting and shoving them aside. Gray-streaked black hair was pulled into a braid, much like Magiere often wore. Her deeply lined, round face cast her expression in a perpetual state of ire, and from the way her neighbors stepped aside, it was likely a true enough state. At the sight of Magiere, she stopped with one hand covering her mouth. First disbelief and then joy fought her dour expression.
"Oh, my girl. Is it you?"
Leesil barely heard Magiere's shallow-breathed response. "Aunt Bieja. "
"She cannot stay, " Yoan said. "You know that. "
The plump woman closed on Yoan with crossed arms. "And where'd you be without her? Whose coin paid for that new ox... and that steel plow blade you all been sharing since last year? You can chew on my wide leathery backside, you grizzled boar!"
Leesil blinked, too bewildered to smile over the tasteless retort. Magiere had been sending money home? He shoved Adryan back but kept the stiletto held out in warning.
Aunt Bieja slipped past him and wrapped Magiere in a fleshy hug. Magiere stiffened, but her aunt kept murmuring, "My girl, my girl, " and Magiere's arms finally clasped the woman in return.
Leesil watched in silence, losing track of Adryan and the village mob for a blink. Chap ceased growling and watched, with perked ears. Wynn glanced about worriedly, and Leesil remembered she couldn't understand much of the Droevinkan being spoken. He sighed through a smile and nodded once to reassure her, then stepped closer to Magiere.
"If this is your aunt, can she cook?" he asked. "I'm sick to death of biscuits and jerky. "
Bieja turned to assess him, and joy vanished into suspicion.
"My companions, " Magiere said. "This is Leesil and Wynn. "
"The four-footed beggar is Chap, " Leesil added. "Don't let him near the cook pot. "
Glancing at each of them in turn, Aunt Bieja smiled again at Magiere, cheeks pulling back to reveal deep dimples.
"They're all welcome, but I still can't believe you're here. " As she led Magiere away by the arm, she shouted back to Yoan. "I'm taking my niece home! Have someone see to their ponies... instead of standing about like witless hogs. "
Leesil helped Wynn pull their belongings off the pack mule, and then Bieja led them off between two huts. No one tried to stop them. The thought of hot food and a roof to keep off the forest's drip improved
Leesil's mood, but not so much that he didn't glance back.
Yoan put a hand on his scarred companion's shoulder, but Adryan jerked free to shamble away. Leesil saw Adryan's wisp-mad eyes watching them before the man slipped from sight through the village.
IWelstiel awoke from the black coils of his dream patron, his thoughts upon Magiere. There was no need to scry for where she had gone. Then he realized he lay upon a bed and, across the room, Chane gathered their belongings, his gray rat crawling in and out of the pack as if playing a game. Finding shelter from daylight became more difficult the deeper they traveled into Droevinka. Abandoned shrines and empty barns or sheds were not common, as the people here tore down anything unused for fuel or other pressing needs. Several times they came dangerously close to being caught by the dawn. As much as Welstiel detested burrowing beneath the forest's rotting mulch for protection from daylight, he preferred to avoid inns, as well. Anyone who slept all day drew attention.
On this evening, however, Welstiel awoke in a bed.
He loathed speaking to these peasants, but as the previous dawn had become a real threat, they'd chanced upon a small village. Chane proved his worth, introducing them as merchants who had traveled all night in a foolish rush to reach their destination. Professed exhaustion, offered coins, and his broken use of the Droevinkan language made his story more convincing. Chane did not use many words, but his manner won peasants over in a way that Welstiel would have found difficult to achieve. There were moments when Chane's sly nature reminded Welstiel of Leesil.
"Are you awake?" Chane asked.
"Yes. The bed was a pleasant change, " he answered, sitting up on its edge. "I did not have the chance to thank you for your quick thinking. I manage well with the citizens of Bela, but the people here do not seem to trust me. "
Chane continued with his packing.
"It's those white patches in your hair, and your skin is paler than mine. You act too much the noble, and you appear too much the superstitious hearth story told to frighten children. I look the part of a young, struggling merchant. "
This was certainly true.
Welstiel noticed that Chane hadn't finished dressing yet. He wore breeches, but his shirt lay on the bed. The skin on his arms was smooth over long muscles, but his bare back and shoulders were covered with a mass of scars. White crisscross marks, so deep they appeared layered, reached from his lower back up to his neck.
"What happened?" Welstiel asked.
"Hmmm?"
"Your back. Our kind should heal of such things. "
Chane glanced absently over his shoulder. "My father. Our bodies heal of injuries only after we're turned. This happened before. "
Welstiel studied the layers of scars. Lines that crossed created lumps where previously healed wounds had been newly split open at later times. These had been inflicted over a period of years.
"Your father did that to you?" he asked.
Chane ignored the question.
"The horses are ready. " He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. "The villagers are in from the fields, and we should leave soon. "
Welstiel arose, unsettled yet again by his failing sense of time. "How long has the sun been down?"
"Not long. "
Welstiel stepped outside. Chane followed, giving thanks and farewells to the peasants lingering near the common house. Once again, they mounted and rode into the night, side by side.
"I was able to buy some grain for the horses, " Chane said. "Our supply was low. "
Welstiel nodded, the image of Chane's back lingering for an instant in his thoughts. He did not wish to know of Chane's past any more than he wished to share his own. What mattered was their present course.
Wet trees bordered the road leading into the dark, and in that null black ahead, his mind drifted to the abandoned life he had spent in this land. Droevinka had not changed, nor had the people who lived here. Nor his distaste for this place.
"It is time we spoke more candidly, " Chane said calmly, as if commenting on the weather.
"Pardon?"
"You were talking in your sleep again. "
Welstiel heard nothing from the forest, not an owl or even a squirrel skittering through a tree. He and Chane were alone. He had no response—or not one he was willing to share. Communing with his dream patron took up more and more of his dormant hours, leaving him drained during their night travel, yet revealing less of use concerning what he sought or how to find it.
"Why are we heading east?" Chane asked, reining in his horse. "I have followed you without question, but you said Magiere would turn north, and that was many days back. So why are we heading deeper into Droevinka?"
Welstiel had no intention of discussing his plans, yet Chane had proved useful. Welstiel reined in his horse.
"I believe she has gone to her home village, searching for her past, " he said. "Then she will continue on the path I spoke of. "
"Her past?"
"She has only recently discovered her nature and little beyond that. I believe she seeks to find out why she exists... perhaps even her unknown parentage. "
"Then she doesn't know who sired her?" Chane asked. "And will she find those answers?"
"No. "
A half-truth, but the best answer to give. Chane's curiosity had to be diverted, and Welstiel needed to retain control. Chane took something from his cloak pocket and turned it slowly in his gloved hand. Soft glimmers of light escaped his fingers.
"What is that?" Welstiel asked.
Chane opened his hand, revealing a small crystal that produced a dim glow. His voice became strangely soft.
"A simple cold lamp crystal... made by the sages. "
Welstiel urged his mount onward, and he heard Chane following behind.
There had been three mugs at the inn outside Bela, with their remnants of tea and mint, and then there was the young sage called Wynn. How distraught she'd been when she had learned Chane was one of the Noble Dead. And Chane, for a sadistic monster, showed a penchant for the companionship of sages.
Perhaps there was already something that Chane found diverting.
* * *
Magiere ducked her head and stepped through the low doorway of Aunt Bieja's hut. She felt a chilling familiarity. So little had changed.
The one room was dimly lit by a small fire crackling in the stone pit set into the right sod-and-timber wall. Over the flames hung a blackened pot on an iron swing arm. The rough table and stools before the hearth were exactly as she remembered, though in place of the candle was a small tin lantern with a cracked glass. Below the front window was the same low bench, but now accompanied by an old spinning wheel, its wood dark with years of use. Pots and cooking implements hung on the far wall beyond the fire. Canvas curtains were nailed to rafters as a partition for Aunt Bieja's bed. In youth, Magiere had always slept on a mat near the fire.
"Looks much the same, " she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
"Well, you don't... you and that sword. " Aunt Bieja patted Magiere's cheek before heading for the shelves across the room. "I'd part with a copper chit or two just to see old Yoan falter again at the sight of you. "
She chuckled and pulled out two squat candles, lit them from the lantern, and set them on ledges in the wall to spread more light.
Chap, Wynn, and Leesil stepped around Magiere and into the tiny room. Leesil's hand slipped briefly across her back as he passed. She longed to be home again, but her home in Miiska, not here.
Adryan had called her coshmarul, an old-tongue word for an unseen spirit that sat upon the sleeping and unaware to crush the life from them. The hut's dark walls were suddenly too close for Magiere, this one room smaller than she remembered. Chemestuk was the coshmarul of her childhood, and it had been waiting for her to come back within its reach.
She'd been perhaps five or six years old when the pain began.
Aunt Bieja had told her of Adryan's hopes concerning her mother, before Magelia had been taken to the keep. When sh
e was a child, Magiere wondered at the burn upon Adryan's face that few would speak of. Never knowing her mother, and not yet old enough to understand why the villagers shunned her, it was easy then to imagine Magelia as someone much like her aunt. Only taller and more graceful.
Late one day, Magiere had wandered from the field, in which Aunt Bieja settled to hoeing, and clambered toward the village graveyard. She'd snatched up wildflowers along the way, for mothers always liked flowers. Most children shied away from the graveyard, but Magiere had no fear of the dead, as yet. Why should she, when her mother was called "the best of people" and she was dead?
It had taken a while to reach her mother's marker under a tall tree. All its lower branches had been pruned away, and the higher ones spread wide in a roof overhead. It was like sitting in her mother's house. A quiet place away from everyone who shouted or made ugly faces at her.
Magiere heard the scrape of footsteps as someone walked nearby with big feet. At first, he lingered out of sight, beyond the clearing's edge. She glimpsed a muslin shirt, gray breeches, and brown boots as the man strolled beyond the trees. Maybe someone else was visiting his dead mother's house, and that was a good thing to do. The boots stopped, and a hand parted the branches. Magiere scooted closer to her mother's marker at the sight of the visitor's scars.
Adryan stepped halfway through the branches and then paused to watch her. Magiere tried to ignore him, tucking more flowers around her mother's marker.
"Come looking for your mother, little thing?" Adryan asked, one hand gripping the branch he'd pulled aside.
It was a friendly question, and why not? Adryan, even with his frightening scars, would have married her mother. Magiere smiled a little at him, for it wasn't often that anyone but Aunt Bieja spoke with her instead of at her.
"I know where she is, " Magiere replied, as if the question were just a teasing one. "She's right here, in her house. "
The skin around Adryan's eyes wrinkled like his scars.
"No, you haven't found her... yet, " he said, and his words sharpened like those of the other villagers. "I can send you to her. That's where you belong. "
