She tried to picture her father's face, but lately the image of his lifeless body was all that could come to her mind. Shawna sighed and shook her head, banishing the thought. She could almost hear what Master Severin would have said to her, were he standing with her today.
You blame yourself. That is stupid, girl. Things happen in this world, that is something you cannot change. Life is not easy, but easy is for the weak. Get up. Get better—keep getting better.
She trudged over to the fire, where Dormael and D'Jenn were huddled by the small flame. Dormael offered her a cup of the tea with a wordless smile, and she accepted it in silence. The stuff was delicious, and it filled her limbs with a pleasant warmth that started to wash the cold out of her body.
“Do they teach you boys weapons at the Conclave?” she asked, breaking the silence of the morning.
“They teach the Warlocks,” Dormael nodded. “But it's optional for any wizard who wishes to learn. Lots of classes are that way at the Conclave.”
“But you know how to fight?” Shawna pressed.
“Aye, we can fight,” D'Jenn grunted. “Wouldn't last long out here if we couldn't.”
“Good. We should spar this morning. Just a friendly match to get the blood flowing,” she said.
Dormael and D'Jenn shared a glance, doubtless thinking that she was pushing herself too hard. She straightened her back and prepared to tell them in no uncertain terms that she was not their charge, and she knew what her body needed. She needed to practice. She could practically feel her edge dulling.
“I think that might not be a bad idea, actually,” D'Jenn nodded. “I wouldn't go at full speed, so to speak, but you're right. If you don't work it, you'll stiffen up around it.”
“Aye,” Dormael smiled. “It might be fun, facing a Blademaster. If you're too injured to win the match, I can go around telling everyone that I once defeated a Marked Blademaster in combat.”
Shawna felt a smile split her face, the arguments she had prepared leaving with a sigh. “Good. I'll let you know when I'm ready. It will only be a few minutes.”
She rose and returned to her belongings, rustling around until she located her waterskin. She took a long drink of the water, then tossed the skin back where she found it. Shawna needed to clear her mind, so she walked a small distance into the trees to prepare for the fight.
Her side still throbbed, there was no denying it. Every day since she had awakened, some nagging part of her mind had whispered to her that she may never fully recover from this injury. Shawna had never taken a hurt like this before, and she had no idea how things would end up. In every contest she had fought since earning her Mark, she had never taken more than a bruise or two.
Doubts crept into the edges of her thoughts. What if her body was never the same after this? What if she could never move the same, could never dance the blades the way she did before? What if the wound haunted her, and she had to worry about it for the rest of her days?
Shawna knew they were mostly irrational fears. She had met fighting men in her day who had taken worse wounds than hers, and had recovered to full strength. The doubts, though, were incessant.
Shawna stood as tall as she could, ignoring the twinge that came from her side as her midsection adjusted, and started to breathe. She stepped back into a lunging pose, and began to slowly move her body through the various poses of the exercise her Master had taught her—the Siyane. It was an ancient practice of the Kerallians, and the Masters on the island had adopted it some time during antiquity.
There were different forms of the Siyane for different levels of mastery. Shawna had long ago mastered the toughest forms, but she stuck to the beginner's poses. She didn't think her wound could allow her to stand on her hands, or to put too much of a demand on her abdomen. Pain still shot through her as she moved through the various poses, but the more she moved, the better she felt.
Once she was satisfied, she met Dormael and D'Jenn out in the snow. Dormael was smiling a lopsided grin at her, leaning on his quarterstaff, while D'Jenn ran his hands over his wicked morningstar. Morningstars were old weapons from an older time—at least, in her opinion. In terms of the final result—that of killing your enemies—there wasn't much of a difference. But braining your opponent to death was simply barbaric when compared to the elegant dance of a sword fight.
Sevenlanders cared little for elegance in her experience.
“How do you want to do this?” Dormael asked. “D'Jenn first, then once he wears you out, and you defeat him, I'll come in.”
D'Jenn laughed, but Shawna spoke up before he could reply.
“Both of you against me.”
Dormael and D'Jenn shared an incredulous look.
“At the same time?” D'Jenn asked.
“You might as well,” Shawna shrugged. “You can get the disappointment of defeat out of the way quicker, and support each other. Salve your wounded pride, and all of that. Just come whenever you're ready.” Shawna rolled her shoulders and put her hands to her swords. Her left side sent tiny shocks of pain in time with her heartbeat, but she took a few deep breaths and forced the sensation down.
D'Jenn moved into a crouch and shuffled to her right, getting distance from his cousin and trying to outflank her. She moved backward, forcing the two of them to chase her as they tried to close the net around her. Shawna watched the two of them in her peripheral vision, keeping her eyes sweeping back and forth in order to see where they were moving. As Dormael feinted toward her leg with his staff, she whipped her swords from their scabbards and stepped toward him.
He was good with his staff, which made him a difficult opponent to beat. Quarterstaffs, and some types of spears, were devastating weapons in the right hands. They were simple enough to use, and could strike twice for every one blow from a sword. Spears were one of the most common weapons for a reason.
Dormael's true weaknesses betrayed themselves in his footwork. Shawna's master had long ago instilled in her a simple truth—that the basis of any fight was where you moved, and why. The direction in which you stepped might spell the end of your engagement, and was the bedrock for some of the most damaging techniques. Dormael moved with grace, and had good instincts, but his missteps were like beacons to someone with Shawna's level of training. She picked him apart simply by moving toward him and fending off his strikes. Surprisingly enough, her wound wasn't bothering her at all.
She heard quickening footsteps crunching through the snow behind her, and could feel D'Jenn's presence growing along her spine. Shawna had expected his sooner, but D'Jenn was the more cautious one out of the two. Perhaps he had thought a bit before deciding to attack a Marked Blademaster from behind.
He hadn't thought long enough.
She danced to her left side, seeing D'Jenn just in time to bring up a parry. Shawna skipped out of his path and sent his attack wide, slipping out of the way like an eel. D'Jenn lost his balance and bowled face-first into the snow, taking a surprised Dormael to the ground with him.
“Oh, the run-up-and-hit-her-from-behind strategy,” Shawna sighed, tapping the side of her blade on her boot. “I hadn't expected that one. Really boys, I had an arrow through me just a week or so gone, and that's the best you can do? I'm starting to think that I should go it on my own.”
Dormael laughed, but D'Jenn only pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.
“Maybe we were going easy on you,” Dormael smiled.
“Maybe you just realized how terrible a mistake that was,” Shawna smiled back, gesturing at the two of them with her sword. “Tell me that's not all. I'm not even warm yet.”
The rest of the sparring match went much like the first part. She put Dormael down with two slices to the throat, a thrust through the ribs, and stopped counting the number of times she tripped him. D'Jenn was especially vulnerable to thrusts. The morningstar was not a weapon that lent itself to dancing back and forth with parry and riposte, and Shawna lured D'Jenn into that trap again and again. By the end of the match, everyone w
as winded, but laughing.
“Your magic is impressive,” Shawna smiled, taking a waterskin from Dormael, “but you boys really need to work on your weapons. It's a bit like fighting children.”
“It's not all that bad,” D'Jenn growled, taking the waterskin from Shawna with an irritated glance. “You're Marked. The best of the best. We have our own strengths.”
“Do you? I couldn't tell,” Shawna grinned.
Just then, Bethany appeared with a pair of sticks and attacked Dormael and D'Jenn with gusto. It took them a few moments to get her calmed down enough to see to her morning hygiene. She carried those sticks around for the rest of the day, though. For some reason, it put a huge smile on Shawna's face.
***
The snow continued for days.
Dormael shrugged deep into his cloak every day, allowing Bethany to snuggle close for heat. Once they had ridden through the tiny village, the forest thinned out. The wind took up its ceaseless blowing, and there was no way to keep the icy snow from billowing into the hood of his cloak.
The wind smelled more and more like the sea as they moved north, though the snow brought their progress to a crawl each day. Shawna assured them that the road was clear all the way to Borders, but that left them exposed to the elements. Every morning the road was covered with more snow, and their pace slowed as a result.
D'Jenn bristled at the weather. The deeper the snow fell in their path, the darker the scowl on his face. Doubtless he was worried that they would miss their departure window, and be forced to retreat somewhere overland and go into hiding. It would be an entire season until ships would sail east to west over the Stormy Sea again, and if there were no captains at the harbor in Borders, they would be out of luck until spring.
On the fourth day out from the village, Dormael felt his cousin's Kai whisper out into the world. Snow was plowed from their path, and their pace once again increased to what it had been before. Dormael would have protested that leaving a giant trail behind them was foolish, but there had been no signs of pursuit from the south. Besides—he no longer had to slog through deep snow.
They found a copse of trees near the road that provided a nice shelter for the evening, and pulled off to set up camp as the sky was growing dark. By the time they had a fire going, the clouds that had covered the sky from horizon to horizon cleared away, and the snow disappeared. The wind still whipped through the trees, but the appearance of the stars gave the night a magical quality.
Dormael could do without the cold, though.
They ate a rabbit that D'Jenn had caught earlier in the day, and Dormael took Bethany through her letters. Afterward, he taught another lesson to Bethany and Shawna on the Hunter's Tongue. When the lessons were over, he shared a pipe with his cousin and sought his blankets. The stars shone down on him as he closed his eyes.
***
Dormael stood on an endless expanse of waving, brown grass. Rolling hills surrounded him on all sides, but in the distance he could see a forbidding range of mountains. Clouds hung overhead, all roiling in an unnatural storm that made the sky seem as if it was warring against itself. Wind blew steadily from the west, and grass whispered around him.
It was neither warm, nor cool. He could feel no humidity on his skin, and no smells came to his nose. Around the edges of his vision, things twisted into his periphery and distorted. Anything in front of him, though, was so vivid that it seemed to punch into his eyes.
Suddenly a strange wave rippled through the world, and rushed through him. An immediate feeling of nausea overcame him, and he buckled to his knees in the high grass. He hadn't been ready for that, but he got the impression that the wave had originated from somewhere, as if the hills were the surface of a disturbed pond. He forced the feeling down and rose to his feet, blinking his eyes against the startling visuals that confronted him.
Taking a look around, he spotted a blot on the horizon. Something—a building of some sort—stood alone on a wide, high hill that overlooked the surrounding countryside. Dormael got the distinct impression that this was a religious site of some sort. Temples had traditionally been built upon high places, and all Solstice celebrations were celebrated at the highest point of land near any community—an attempt to get closer to the gods.
Dormael knew he was dreaming, and he had been taught as a young initiate to explore his dreams, and to trust them to a certain degree. Something was off about this particular dream, though. Dormael had never been to this place—if it was an actual place—and the strange visual effect was something he had never experienced. The wave, too, was new to him.
As if the thought had summoned the thing, another nauseating wave rippled through the grasslands, once again bringing Dormael to his knees. He dry retched for a few moments before forcing himself to his feet. He promised himself to be ready for it next time.
He turned toward the blot on the horizon and began to walk. He almost fell on his face as he stepped off, though. When his foot left the ground, the land blurred around him, and he found himself on another hill with the distant building much closer than before. It took Dormael a few tries to get used to the odd gait, but eventually he was moving toward the building in a surreal series of tentative, land-blurring hops.
What he found atop the hill was an ancient grotto. It had eight stone pillars that held up a circular slab, leaving the center open to the sky. Each of the pillars were thick, square things that were carved in the semblance of the gods. Dormael recognized elements of the style, but it was clearly an ancient rendering. He had seen similar drawings in books at the Conclave. Ancient ruins and old legends had always intrigued him as a boy, and even now he ran his fingers over the curves of the designs and marveled at the grotto.
Every one of the gods was represented here. Even Saarnok, the Lord of Bones and King of the Underworld, had a pillar carved in his honor. The worship of Saarnok was considered taboo in modern times, a thing whispered about in dark corners. Accusations of worshiping the Lord of Bones happened in small villages between suspicious neighbors, but not all accusations were untrue. This grotto must have been made during a time before the worship of Saarnok had moved underground.
Most of the priestly orders were separate these days, with different missions. The priests of Neesa, the Goddess of love and music, ministered to the poor and sick, and provided healing services. The Order of Bast, the God of justice, kept meticulous records of the laws of the land, and provided legal help where they were allowed to do so. Followers of Eindor, the God of Magic, were mostly wizards, though Eindor had an aspect of cleverness and trickery that many people admired.
This grotto was from a time before the Church had split and evolved into the modern organization. The simple stone carvings were enough to give Dormael that impression, but the presence of all the gods' representations together was just as damning. Where was this place, and how did this get into his dreams?
There was a pillar in the center of the circular stone floor, and atop it was a great bowl, also made of smooth stone. Crystal clear water filled the bowl almost to the rim, so still that Dormael almost hadn't realized that it was there. He approached the bowl with grim trepidation as a nameless fear came unbidden to his mind.
Another sudden wave rippled out, centered on the stone bowl, or the water inside of it. Dormael clenched his mind down in a quick defense and let the nausea roll through him, ignoring the sensation that it filled him with. The dream-wave passed him, and flew out through the surrounding hills in silence.
He was disappointed to find a sprig of bright green ivy sitting in the bowl, a few black berries sprouting from its side. It looked to have been cut from somewhere and left here as an offering, perhaps a prayer to the gods. The water was as still as glass.
“I knew you would come. It told me you would come,” said a voice from behind him.
Dormael spun, reaching instinctively for his magic, only to draw up short. Bethany stood behind him, hugging close to a pillar carved to represent Devla, the Goddess of nat
ure. She had a sheepish look on her face, as if he had just caught her at something mischievous.
“Bethany? Is that really you?” he asked. It could have been a representation of her, something his unconscious mind had cooked up.
“I've been here for a long time,” she nodded, glancing around at the grasslands with fear in her eyes. “It told me you would be here, but it left me here alone, and—”
“It's alright,” Dormael broke in, tousling the girl's hair and pulling her into a one-armed embrace. “What told you I would be here?”
“The fiega,” Bethany said. “It brought me here. Didn't it bring you here, too?”
Dormael's blood turned to pure ice.
Suddenly there was a flash of light from behind him, in the direction of the bowl. Dormael clutched Bethany to his side and placed himself between the bowl and the little girl, wiping his eyes against the afterimage that the light had left over his vision. Bethany screamed as something began to wriggle out of the bowl.
Tendrils of silver reached over the edge in sinuous, mindless hunger. The ivy rose over the edge of the bowl, its green strands quickly becoming quicksilver tendrils as the thing clutched to the side of the vessel. Rippling light ran over its surface, and the berries deepened into blazing gemstones of different colors, even as the silver reached them. Dormael readied his magic, Bethany clutching to his clothing.
The tendrils whipped toward them from the bowl, and Bethany screamed.
***
Dormael came awake like he’d been hibernating for years.
The smell of Sweetpenny wafted to his nose, and he rubbed his eyes as he sat up. The dream came rushing back to him all at once, and he searched around the camp in fear.
All was well. Bethany was still rolled up in her blankets, mouth agape in slumber. D'Jenn and Shawna were awake, huddled in close conversation near the fire. The pot of tea steamed on a spit in front of them. Dormael sighed and rose from his blankets.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 27
