by Dawn Cook
“And this one says wolves meet here on the full of the moon to dance by its light.”
She glanced down. “It says ‘Good Fishing.’ Merchant.”
“Merchant!” he cried, putting a hand dramatically to his chest. “Oh, you’ve wounded me to the quick with that.” Grinning, he leaned closer. “Look.” A finger pointed. “Here’s where rakus go to learn to fly.”
“Give me that,” she exploded, lunging for the map.
“No you don’t.” Laughing, Strell scrambled out of reach. He rolled the map up, retied it with her mother’s ribbon, and tucked it away. Talon seemed to chuckle, settling to doze in the ash-scented warmth of the fire. Alissa gave them both a dark look and returned to her sewing. Any other response would give Strell the idea that it bothered her— which it did.
Apparently deeming she was sufficiently harassed for the evening, Strell took out his pipe and ran through a bit of “Taykell’s Adventure” to warm the wood up. The music mixed pleasantly with the dripping branches and the solitary, stalwart cricket. The poor thing sounded decidedly frantic, as if it, too, had noticed the morning frosts. Immediately Alissa softened, eagerly waiting for Strell’s next tune.
Strell could sing, too, though it was seldom he sent his resonant voice to shock her with its startling presence. It was obvious he was well-suited for his chosen profession, and she envied him for that. He had a pleasant life before him, confidently making his way wherever he chose. All she had was an inane but steadily growing desire to get her hands on a book. She had no idea what she was doing out here. Their situations were in sharp contrast, but she was oddly content.
The past month had been grand. She was beginning to feel that Strell saw her as a friend despite their different up-bringings. She had always been held at arm’s length by the villagers, and a friend was something she never had before or ever thought she would miss—until now.
Strell shifted to a slower-paced melody that Alissa recognized as the one he had been humming the last few days. When she had asked him about it yesterday, he’d muttered something about a new song and that he would stop if it bothered her. She made the mistake of telling him she didn’t mind. He had taken that as permission to hum it almost every waking moment.
It had a soothing sound, though, and she felt her restless anticipation ease as she listened to it dip and swoop. It was quickly becoming her favorite, as it seemed to capture the very essence of the mountains they were traveling through. Strell hit a sour note and hesitated, playing the phrase again. Giving a grunt of dissatisfaction, he switched to a light, quick-paced song.
A gasp of vexation slipped from Alissa as she recognized it. It was a child’s song regarding a spider in a rainstorm and the virtue of perseverance. Strell’s music bobbled as he struggled to keep from laughing at her. “No more music tonight?” he said innocently, setting his pipe down. “How about a story instead? Have you heard the one of the farm girl who couldn’t keep her sheep together?”
“Hush, Strell,” she warned, putting her eyes back on her needle.
“No really. It’s about this girl who—”
“I’ve heard it!” she exclaimed.
“Well, then . . .” He hesitated. “You tell one. How about the story you told me yesterday?”
“You mean about the raku who wanted to learn how to sail?”
Strell bobbed his head. “Yes. That one.”
She stared at him. “I’ve told it to you twice.”
“I’d never heard it until you told me. I’m not sure I have the nuances yet.”
Nuances? she thought is disbelief. “It’s just one of my papa’s silly stories,” she protested. “There’re no nuances to it.”
“Please?” he said, looking so wistful, Alissa sighed, wishing she had never suggested they exchange stories to make the nights pass faster. Secretly, though, she was pleased, and she settled herself to tell him again. As she reached to shift the fire back to light, a buzzing stirred the back of her skull, pulling her to a stiff alarm. It was Useless.
“Burn you to ash, Useless,” she cried as her sight began to fade. “I will not be dragged about like this!” But she didn’t know how to stop him, and she was pulled unwilling into the darkness. Deep in her thoughts, she sensed the first glittering crossed-loop already glowing. She hadn’t done it. As Alissa watched, the better part of her tracings came to life as pathways and channels filled with the cool, hissing energy. She struggled, but the pull was too great, and the tracings began to fade as the blackout took hold. How dare he do this to her again!
Refusing to let Useless think she would meekly accept his mandates, Alissa set her thoughts upon Strell and his question, gambling that was all there was to it. If she had to black out, she would learn something she wanted to know, no matter how frivolous it might seem. Alissa relaxed her grip and slid easily into the memory. Her last conscious thought was of Strell and how upset he would be that they wouldn’t get that early start he wanted.
From the vantage point of his wagon, Trook Hirdune polished his instrument, keeping a careful eye upon the chaos that was a foothills’ market. The sun was low, just beginning to burn away the fog, and he pulled his coat closed. He wasn’t used to the cold. A shiver took him, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the damp, or that his survival or eventual starvation would be decided today. Trook could smell hunger close. It was hiding under his wagon like a cur.
Anxious his trip this deep into the foothills might be for naught, he scanned the crowd for a scrap of blue. It was insufferably noisy with a month’s worth of commerce jammed into one day. Unlike most plainsmen, he didn’t mind rubbing elbows with the short, sweaty, down-to-earth farmers smelling of sheep and grain. If it weren’t for his new wife, he would be content to settle on the outskirts despite the low status it would confer upon him.
Trook ran a quick hand under his hat and through his hair in worry. It was thinning already. He was going to lose it all, just like his grandfather, he thought in a bittersweet sadness. May he rest at last. Trook tugged his hat lower, shading his scandalous blue eyes. They gave evidence that somewhere in his past was the blood of the mountain folk who now surrounded him. It was never admitted in pleasant company, but behind his back he knew it was gossiped that his nonconformity was at the root of his current misfortune.
A blue-robed figure broke through the throng to vanish behind a display of rugs. Trook started, feeling his chest tighten. A shaduf. Jumping to his feet, he hurriedly tucked his pipe into his belt, shouted to his unhappy wife that he would be back, and slipped over the side of the wagon. His height gave him a clear advantage, and he had no trouble tracking the hooded man over the shorter farmers. The streets were busy at this hour, and his fast, long-legged gait earned him angry stares as he hurried to catch up. Finally he was close enough to be heard, and he called, “Please wait. . . . Excuse me! I have a question.”
The figure turned. Trook blinked in surprise as their eyes met. It was a woman. A single finger beckoned, and he followed her to an abandoned wagon. The cart was covered, indicating its contents had already been sold.
Silently the shaduf regarded Trook. He couldn’t tell if she was a well-preserved old woman or a young woman prematurely worn down by a hard life. It was difficult to guess what was concealed under the robes she wore, but they lent a grace that was undeniably attractive. She wasn’t tall enough for a proper plainsmen or short enough to be from the hills, and her eyes were a neutral hazel. There was no way to know where she had originally come from, but this, too, was typical. She was a shaduf, and so belonged to both, and neither.
“You have a question?” she said, her voice giving no clue as to her age.
“Um—yes,” he stammered. “My name is Trook Hirdune. I’m a potter by trade.”
She inclined her head, but didn’t offer a name in return.
Ignoring this small lack of courtesy, Trook continued. “The plague that decimated my family has left me homeless,” he said with a practiced calm. “My wares will not sel
l. People distrust my clay, saying it may contain the seeds of a new sickness. I have had to abandon my home in search of a new one. If I wander much longer, the name Hirdune will be unknown. What I ask is simple.”
Trook took an uneasy breath. He had thought long about the wording of his question. Dealing with a shaduf was like dealing with a demon. They always spoke the truth, but often twisted the words so they were meaningless until looking through hindsight. By then it was too late. “Tell me,” he said, “where to settle in order to bring the name Hirdune back to greatness.”
“There’s one way to reach what you ask.” Her face was blank and her eyes unfocused. “But it’s not without grief.” As if blowing out a candle, her expression cleared, becoming greedy. “What can you pay me?”
“What do you want?” he countered. And this was the sticky part. All his possessions were on the wagon, and there wasn’t much: six weeks of food, the tools of his trade, and a woman who was willing to risk starvation for the chance he might regain the security his name once had. His worth was in his work. The only thing anyone might want was his instrument, and that he wouldn’t let go. The pipe had been in his family for centuries, passed down each generation to the child most skilled in the art of spinning clay. It served as a carrot to entice the young to practice the family craft; whoever held it had earned the legal right to guide the profits of the entire clan’s work. Trook had nothing else left of his vast inheritance besides his skill and the chartered status of his name. Nearly everything had been burned as a source of the plague.
The woman eyed Trook up and down, undoubtedly assessing what she could get out of him. With a cold, contemptuous look, she destroyed her graceful countenance. “You have nothing I want,” she snapped, turning in a whirl of skirts.
Now Trook knew she was young. An old woman couldn’t move that fast, or be that cruel. “Wait,” he cried desperately. “There must be something!”
She stopped and turned, considering him again. Smiling coyly, she swayed back. Trook wondered what had made her look so becoming at first. She was distasteful now. “You’ve nothing I want,” she repeated demurely from beneath half-closed eyes, “but if you promise . . .”
He took a distrusting step back.
“Such pretty eyes,” she murmured. “I’ll answer you, my handsome plainsman, but you must promise you will take my advice.” She ran a finger across and down his shoulder.
Trook stiffened at her touch, and the shaduf turned sullen.
“Do you want my help or not?” she demanded. “I have more important people to see.”
This wasn’t what he had expected. He had planned on taking her counsel. It would be as if he were getting something for nothing. If he had learned anything from his father, it was to be suspicious of a deal that was decidedly in your favor; there was something you overlooked. “You know where I should settle to make Hirdune pottery famous?” he asked again.
“I know where you should settle in order to bring the name Hirdune back to greatness,” she quoted, tapping her foot. “Well? Do you swear to take my guidance?”
Trook shifted uneasily. This woman wasn’t going to help him out of the kindness of her heart. Still, her advice was why he was here, and he didn’t have much choice. Her robes were so blue as to be almost black; her counsel would be the best he could get. He had to save his name. It was all he had left to keep the cur from his belly. Terribly uncomfortable, he said, “I swear it.”
“Oh, grand!” she said, her mouth twisting into a patronizing smile. “There’s a canyon a good two days’ walk north-east of here with a snowmelt-fed stream running the length of it. You will find water and clay for your work. Unless you settle there, the name Hirdune will soon fall below the basest of clay works.”
“Thank you,” Trook said, bowing his head to take his leave, which he was eager to do. This woman made him feel unclean.
“I’m not done yet,” she said with a snigger. “For my casting to remain unchanged, your youngest grandson can’t be allowed to remain among the family.”
Trook’s head came up. There it was, the ugly condition that had enticed her to drop her fee. It was unthinkable for a boy born to a chartered name to leave. Daughters generally left, but sons never, unless the wife-to-be came from a very wealthy house indeed.
“If he stays,” she simpered, delighting in the mischief she knew she was creating, “the name Hirdune will be lost, but if he leaves in time, Hirdune will never be forgotten.”
Not bothering to see his reaction, she turned and flounced away, seemingly confident he would do as she advised. Trook shook his head and watched her disappear into the crowd. How, he wondered, could he have mistaken her for a man?
As he stood in his dismayed quandary, the owner of the wagon returned, glaring until Trook noticed and left. Slowly he made his way through the crush, deep in thought. Why was his family’s success contingent upon his grandson leaving the Hirdune home, a grandson whose father had yet to be born? Even more worrisome was the shaduf waiving her fee. He would like to think the opportunity to make trouble was the sole reason, but it seemed unlikely. He had missed something, but for better or worse, he had committed himself and his youngest grandson. At least, he thought dryly, he knew he and his wife would have one child.
Trook swung aboard his wagon and lightly slapped the reins to get the placid horses moving. The rolling motion brought his pretty bride out from the back, where she had been hiding. She detested foothills people and had flatly refused to show her face. Evidently her curiosity was stronger than her dislike, and she blinked in the bright sun.
“Did he give you an answer then?” she said, clearly glad to be moving again.
“Yes, she did,” Trook replied, his eyes forward and his brow furrowed.
“She!” his wife exclaimed. “Fancy that.” There was a long pause. When it became apparent no more information would be volunteered, she cleared her throat. “What did she say?”
“She told me of a ravine.”
“Marvelous!” There was a pointed hesitation. “What did it cost?”
Trook was silent, guiding the patient beasts out of the market and into the open fields. “I have no idea,” he finally whispered, leaving his wife only slightly more confused than he.
15
Talon chittered as Alissa’s eyes rolled up and she collapsed into a painful-looking heap. “Easy, old one,” Strell said, reaching to ruffle the bird’s feathers. “I think she’s all right,” he said through a sigh. Curse that Useless. That early start he had planned was now looking highly improbable. Setting his pipe down, Strell stood, stretched, and blew in mild frustration.
He knelt before Alissa, taking her in his arms like a sleeping child to shift her to a more comfortable position. Her head thumped into his chest as he lurched to his feet, and Strell hesitated, noticing how Alissa’s hair was nothing like his sisters’. So straight and fair. The color of an autumn meadow. He breathed deep, his eyes going distant at the warm scent of lace flowers that clung to her. A sudden pang of grief took him, and he closed his eyes as his chest tightened. He was all alone. Everyone in his family was gone. Nothing could replace them. Nothing.
Refusing to acknowledge the lump in his throat, Strell settled Alissa on her bedroll and pulled her blanket up tight to her chin the way he knew she liked it. The small satchel she wore about her neck, the one she tried to hide from him, had fallen from behind her shirt. Strell eyed it, wondering if she would tell him what it was if he asked.
His old hat was caught under her, and he tugged it free, grunting in surprise as he looked it over. Alissa had worked decorative stitches in with the mending ones to make the appearance of a stalk of wheat running around the expanse of the rim. He had been thinking about asking if she wanted to trade back once she mended his old one, but he wouldn’t ask now. She had put so much work into it. He carefully set the hat down and put her needle and thread away. Satisfied, he looked at Talon for approval. The canny bird was staring at Alissa as if ready to attac
k.
Lunging to his pack, Strell frantically dug for the jesses. “Wolves! Where are they!” he swore. “What good are jesses if they aren’t on the bird? Alissa must have hidden them!”
“Aye,” came Alissa’s voice, full of dark irony. “What good are any preparations when they’re interfered with?”
Strell spun to take Talon forcibly, but the small bird was gone! “Where’s Talon?” he cried, finding Alissa sitting cross-legged upon her bed, her fingers steepled in a scholarly fashion. But it wasn’t Alissa; her eyes had gone ancient with an unguessed wisdom—it was Useless.
“I sent her away lest she harm herself,” Useless intoned. “She is in no danger. She listens to me. You however. . . .”
Never taking his eyes from Alissa, Strell stiffly sank down on his bedroll, not liking this at all. “What do you want?” he said belligerently.
“You’re closer to the Hold,” Useless said in disbelief. “I thought the plains instilled more honor than that. Putting your wants above the life of another is cowardly.”
Strell’s eyes narrowed, and he felt his anger trickle into something more enduring. The first time Useless had appeared, the shock left him afraid. The second time, Useless railed upon him, making him feel like an untutored drudge. Strell wasn’t afraid now, and he wouldn’t tolerate the man’s domineering attitude. “You think I haven’t tried?” he exclaimed. “Alissa does the first thing that comes into her head, and only the first thing. She won’t listen to me.”
“A little bit of a thing like this?” Useless mocked, gesturing dramatically to himself, or Alissa, rather. “You could just carry her out.”
“You haven’t done any better.” Strell adjusted his coat with a self-righteous huff. “Making her relive her father’s death was cruel. She doesn’t care about Bailic. Thinks he won’t know who she is until it’s too late. She wants her father’s book.”
“It’s my book,” Useless protested with an unexpected vehemence. “I only let him hold it! And what, by my sire’s ashes, does she want with the First Truth?” Then he sent Alissa’s eyes to close in a slow blink, shivering. “Does— does she know where it is?” he asked softly, making a poor show of concealing his eagerness.
