The Silver Sorceress (The Raveling Book 2)

by Alec Hutson

  A sword. She needed to get him a weapon before they encountered their pursuers. Cho Lin approached the smithy, which was just a forge under a patchwork roof festooned with hanging horseshoes. A shape was curled up beside the anvil, snoring loudly. Cho Lin cleared her throat and an older man with a bristly gray beard jerked awake.

  “Eh? Customers?” he slurred, stumbling to his feet. Even from a dozen paces away Cho Lin could smell the sour alcohol, and she wrinkled her nose.

  “Smith,” she said, “I need a sword.”

  The old man blinked at her with rheumy, bloodshot eyes. “A Shan? God’s blood, I must be dreaming.”

  Cho Lin gave him her most imperious stare. “No dream. Do you have a sword?”

  The old man swallowed. “Mostly I just have horseshoes and a bit of tack…” His gaze traveled around his smithy and the random bits of metal stacked in haphazard piles. “Wait,” he said, and reached down to pull an old sword out from among the mess. He held it up, studying it critically. “Yeah, that’s a sword. Looks like it even has a bit of an edge to it. Now I remember; some fella had to sell it to me a while back to settle some debt over there.” He nodded in the direction of the tavern. “You can have it for a silver.”

  Cho Lin sensed that the price was extortionate, but it seemed foolish to haggle. She dug in her pouch for a silver and held it out for the smith. He snatched it from her with filthy fingers, his eyes wide. “I hope this ain’t a dream!” he chortled, biting down on the coin before slipping it into a stained pocket. He passed her the sword and she received it gingerly, careful to avoid touching his hand.

  Cho Lin returned to the inn and found a seat at a rough-hewn table outside. She leaned the unbalanced hunk of iron the smith had claimed was a sword against a chair, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself to ward away the chill. What madness. Was she truly willing to fight a regiment of soldiers for this man? Even if he knew where the Betrayers could be found? She loosened her butterfly swords in their sheaths, her fingers tracing the ivory carvings set in their handles. What if she leapt on her horse and started riding east on her own? What did she owe Jan?

  Cho Lin sighed, knowing she would stay. Staring down the empty road they had traveled, concentrating on that hazy point where it vanished among the distant trees, she felt herself falling towards the Nothing. Her surroundings faded, the cool strength flowering inside her, waiting to be seized when she needed it.

  Cho Lin gradually returned to herself when she felt a presence beside her. Jan came over to the table and sat, pointing at the sword she’d just bought. His hair was wet, and it seemed a layer of grime had been removed, though his clothes were still filthy. He smelled noticeably better.

  “Is that for me?”

  She nodded.

  He picked it up, testing its balance and then laying it down on the table. “I suppose it will do. Should we be off?”

  Cho Lin nodded in the direction of the road, and Jan twisted around. A lone rider was approaching the inn dressed in rich scarlet robes, which seemed to be an odd choice of garment for a solitary traveler. Beneath her cloak her hand tightened on her sword’s hilt.

  When he grew closer she saw that the rider was young, with an almost boyish face, though his black hair was marred by a streak of gray. A twisting silver hunting horn hung around his neck. He caught them staring and waved jauntily.

  “Who?” Cho Lin asked, glancing at Jan.

  He shook his head slightly. “I’ve never seen him before, that I can remember. But those are magister robes. He’s one of the queen’s sorcerers.”

  A sorcerer. Cho Lin felt a little shiver of uncertainty. Those trained by Red Fang feared no other warriors in the world—but the Nothing offered no protection against sorcery. She would have to strike quickly and ruthlessly.

  Jan must have felt her tense because he held up his hand, as if to ask for patience. “Wait. Let’s see what he says.”

  The magister awkwardly dismounted when he reached the inn and spent a moment brushing the travel dust from his robes. Then he rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Winter is here, eh? Excuse me. I’ll return in a moment.”

  He pushed through the door to the tavern, calling out for the innkeep. Cho Lin and Jan glanced at each other. He certainly didn’t seem threatening, but Cho Lin also didn’t take her hand from her sword.

  The magister returned a moment later carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and three wooden cups in the other. He looked almost giddy as he set down the cups, brandishing the bottle in front of them.

  “Firewine from Gryx, and nearly a decade old! See that mark, the boar’s head? That’s a very good winery. Fortune turns her face to us today, it seems.”

  The magister slipped into a chair across from Cho Lin as he worked to open the bottle. After straining fruitlessly for a moment, he frowned and placed his finger on the cork, whispering under his breath. With a hiss the cork popped out, and he beamed.

  “A handy trick,” he said, winking at them as he stood again to pour a measure of the dark wine into each of the cups.

  “Who are you?” Cho Lin asked in bewilderment.

  The magister stood and gave a quick bow before sitting again. “My apologies. My name is Vhelan ri Vhalus, a magister in the court of Cein d’Kara. And you are?”

  “You know who I am,” Jan said, crossing his arms.

  “I do,” said Vhelan, taking a quick sip of his wine. “Ah, delicious. Yes, indeed I do. I’m sure you’ve realized I’m here to return you to Herath.” He turned to Cho Lin. “But I have to admit my curiosity about your liberator and companion. Nel soon, my lady.”

  Cho Lin arched an eyebrow. “You speak my language?”

  The magister waved her question away. “Oh, no. That’s the extent of it, I’m afraid. I once knew how to tell a girl that she is beautiful, but I’ve forgotten. Unfortunately.” Vhelan flashed what Cho Lin assumed he thought was a charming smile, and then took another swallow of wine.

  Cho Lin left her own cup untouched, remembering her evening with Bai Hua, and she noticed Jan had done the same. “My name is Cho Lin. I am the first daughter of Cho Yuan, and sister to Cho Jun, both mandarins of the Jade Court.”

  Vhelan’s fingers tapped out a quick pattern on the table, and from his expression it seemed like he was trying to understand something.

  “A Shan noblewoman!” he said, spreading his arms to indicate the dilapidated buildings. “My apologies that we meet in such a rustic environment. The queen would have welcomed you to Saltstone with a feast, if she had known you were in the city.”

  “I did not wish to call upon your queen.”

  Vhelan chuckled. “Apparently! Instead, you abducted her guest –”

  “Prisoner,” Jan interjected.

  “Unwilling guest, let us say, and fled the city.”

  The young magister’s face held no hint of guile. It was as if he was enjoying a carefree afternoon at a winehouse with his friends.

  Cho Lin didn’t trust him.

  “Something was stolen from Shan. Something very dangerous. This man knows where it is and has promised to take me to it.”

  “May I know what?”

  “No.”

  Vhelan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was sorry for the conversation’s sudden turn. “Well, then I must insist you both return with me to Saltstone.”

  Cho Lin held his gaze without blinking. “No.”

  Vhelan’s expression became pained. “Ah. Are you sure? I have only to blow this,” he touched the horn around his neck, “and dozens of rangers will be here in the time it takes to gallop over that rise.” He turned to Jan. “Her Majesty is still angry with you, though I think she was softening. She has a fiery temper, yes, but it tends to burn fierce for a short time and then vanish—well, perhaps it smolders for a while still, but I do think the chains would have come off soon, at least.”
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  “I’m not going back to that chamber. You will have to kill me first.”

  “And you, Lady Cho? Would you also die for his freedom?”

  Cho Lin reached down to pluck at the Nothing inside her, feeling the coiling strength ready to flood her body. “I am a warrior of Red Fang Mountain. If you try and take my companion many of your soldiers will find their deaths. As will you. I could kill you before you put down your wine.”

  The magister’s calm demeanor wavered. There was a trickle of unease in his eyes as he carefully set his cup on the table. “You trained at Red Fang?”

  Cho Lin nodded. “And I am no Tainted Sword. I came here to fulfill the wishes of my brother and the warlocks of Tsai Yin. To hinder me would anger many of Shan’s great people. This man and his knowledge are more important than you realize.”

  “Then come back with me and explain your mission to the queen.”

  “No. I cannot take that risk.”

  The friendliness was gone from the magister’s face now. “You risk death by refusing to return to Saltstone.”

  “You have already decided not to stop us by force,” Cho Lin said with calm authority. “If you cannot convince us to follow you to Saltstone, you will allow us to leave.”

  “So certain?” Vhelan said sharply, his hand going to the silver horn.

  Cho Lin prepared herself to lunge across the table and bury her butterfly sword in his neck.

  Then Vhelan sighed, his hand drifting from the horn to his wine cup, and she relaxed. He stroked its wooden stem, seeming to stare at something far away. “She will be wroth,” he finally said softly.

  Jan’s eyes widened as he realized Cho Lin had been correct. “You would let us go?” he asked incredulously.

  Something of his old attitude returned, and the magister crooked a smile. “The queen commanded I return with you in chains or on a bier. But I’ve known her for many years, and she would come to regret ending your story like this, cut down outside a nameless little town. Also, I would not wish to risk the wrath of Shan without understanding what is truly happening here.” Vhelan made a dismissive gesture. “Go. And be quick about it, as the next hunter she sends after you might not be so merciful.”

  Cho Lin stood, inclining her head towards the magister.

  Vhelan accepted the thanks by raising his cup to her. “I hope you do meet my queen. I think she would like you.”

  Jan snatched his sword from the table. “Farewell, magister. Tell her I hope she can someday forgive me.”

  “I will, sorcerer. Truly, I do not think you two will always be at odds. A drink for that day.” Vhelan drained his cup and set it loudly on the table. “Ah. Now if you will excuse me, I plan on finishing this bottle before the captain waiting in the woods gets tired of standing around and comes down to see why I haven’t given the signal yet.”

  Jan nodded at the magister and went over to where their horses were hitched. Cho Lin followed him, her hands finally leaving the handles of her butterfly swords.

  As he unlooped the reins Jan bent closer to her, still keeping his voice low. “How did you know he would let us leave?”

  Cho Lin allowed herself a slight smile. “I grew up in the Jade Court and was tutored by the most clever of consorts in the art of reading others. A man like that is an open book.”

  Jan paused, giving her an appraising look. “And what about me?”

  She said nothing as she swung herself up into her saddle.

  “The grass is whispering.”

  Demian had thought Alyanna was asleep, and those words—the first she had spoken since they left the catacombs beneath Menekar and fled the city—jerked him from his own reverie. He’d been staring out at that thin dark smudge where the white plains met the arcing blue sky, the hinge upon which the world seemed to open.

  “Weaver?”

  The frail shape hunched in front of him on his horse lifted its cowled head slightly.

  “Listen.”

  So Demian did. He heard the hissing of the long white grass as it brushed against his horse’s belly, intimately close. Or perhaps she meant the sound of the wind as it rippled the endless plains, making the grass sway as if a great creature undulated in its depths?

  “What does it say, Weaver?” he asked gently, but Alyanna slumped forward again, ignoring his question.

  Was she simply imagining something that was not there, still delirious from her ordeal?

  Let her rest and recover her strength… whatever of her old strength could be recovered.

  Some things had changed forever. The heat radiating from her made his skin prickle, though it did not affect the links of his armor or the fastenings on his horse’s barding. It was a warmth that only he as a sorcerer could feel. The searing light of Ama, leaking from a woman who had once been the greatest sorceress of her age.

  Such an affront made his stomach churn with anger. He wanted to murder every one of those pious fools who had dared lay hands on her. Stripping Alyanna of her sorcery was akin to cutting off the hands of the finest painter in the world or mutilating the face of the most beautiful woman. To do such a thing to one so supremely talented made the crime incalculably worse.

  It had been meant to kill her, he knew. A final punishment and degradation worse than death. To feel, in her final moments, the sorcery that had infused her and defined her drain away and be replaced by this horrible light. A few children survived the ceremony to rise again as Pure—cut by the mendicants while strapped to the Radiant Altar—but Demian had never heard of an adult emerging alive from the Cleansing.

  What had she become?

  That night, with the moon only a faint sliver, the plains were transformed into a calm black sea. There were no hills or buildings to infringe upon the sky, so the stars spread in dazzling abundance to every horizon. Here and there patches of witch weed grew among the grass, softly glowing with a spectral radiance. Demian avoided these—he had seen eyes flashing in the dark near these oases of light, and he suspected the white lions of the plains had learned to lie in wait for those foolish enough to think the witch weed offered a refuge from the night’s dangers.

  He would have ridden through the darkness without stopping if he could. Alyanna was not heavy, but she was an extra burden his horse was not accustomed to carrying. He wondered if his mount thought him mad—they had gone from Menekar to Herath, across much of the known world, and then immediately turned around and retraced their journey. Now, after only a few short weeks in the city, they seemed to be doing the same thing again.

  He patted his horse’s flank as he swung down into the waist-high grass. She had been a good mount and had long ago overcome the skittishness all animals felt in Malazinischel’s presence.

  His sorcery still unsettled her, though.

  “Calm, girl,” he whispered, tangling his fingers in her mane to try and give her some measure of comfort. Then he concentrated, summoning a shimmering bubble that encompassed them all. He heard Alyanna stir from where she slumped and reached out with his other hand to keep her from sliding off the horse.

  “What are you doing?” she murmured, shielding her face with her arms, as if the mere presence of his ward made her uncomfortable.

  Which it probably did.

  “Setting up a camp,” Demian replied as he brought a wave of magical force crashing down from above. The sorcery broke against his ward and slid away, but the plains around them had no such protection and for a hundred paces in every direction the grass was instantly flattened. He felt his horse tremble at the sound of the invisible avalanche, and Alyanna gave a little strangled cry. Demian had no idea what that would feel like to her, but he imagined it was not pleasant.

  Still, there were very good reasons for doing this, and one of them became apparent when with another flicker of sorcery he conjured forth his wizardlight. Like a second moon the light drifted above them, ba
thing the space he had carved from the high grasses, and in response something lifted from the devastation not far from where they stood, long and sleek and white. The serpent reared back and flared its ridged hood, as if trying to intimidate whatever had brought the sky crashing down on it. Just the segment it had lifted from the ground stood nearly as tall as a man, and Demian was glad he had not accidentally blundered into the creature as it lay coiled in the grass.

  He speared it with a lance of sorcery, severing its head.

  Dispersing his ward, Demian began gathering the crushed grass into a large mound, hacking at it with Malazinischel when the roots proved tenacious. Then, using his sorcery, he churned the earth in a circle around the piled grass, wide enough that no sparks could leap across the ring and ignite a larger blaze. The bulwark complete, he took a flask from his saddlebag and splashed some oil on the mound, then summoned a roiling ball of flame and tossed it into the fire pit he had just built.

  At least they would be warm tonight. He held out his arms, enjoying the rolling waves of heat as the first fiery tongues licked the air, then cast a glance over his shoulder at the twisting length of the decapitated snake. He wondered what charred plains serpent tasted like.

  Tough and sinewy, it turned out, and more than a little bitter. Still, eating something hot and greasy was a welcome change from the salted meat and hardtack they’d choked down for their midday meal. It was also good to supplement the provisions they had, as what was in his saddlebags would have to last them until they passed out of the plains.

  Demian was thankful Alyanna was eating, picking out nuggets of flaky white snake flesh from the chunk he’d grilled for her. Her movements were slow and deliberate, but Demian sensed that she wanted to devour what was in front of her; it was wise on her part not to, as despite how ravenous she must be her stomach would surely rebel if she began to gorge. Her glowing eyes were staring into the fire as if she could see something in the burning grass.