Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  gateway? door?) to try and stop it, but they have not been heard of since departing. He calls it the Player, or, sometimes, the Meddler. How could such a thing be? But (name) would not lie to me … Two days now since I last heard from (name). The refugees say there was a terrible blast far to the east. The ones who were the closest to it are sick. Several died on the way. What should I— The text stopped.

  Khith turned the page, then forcing its hand to near steadiness, slowly turned the remaining pages in the journal.

  Empty.

  What did it all mean?

  Khith shook its head, hugging itself against the trembling that assailed it in growing waves. It was frightened, frightened the way it had been when it ran from the searchers and the jagowas. Ridiculous! it thought. They are the words of a person who has been dead for thousands of years. How could they have the power to frighten you?

  Still shivering, Khith carefully placed the three journals into its pack. Then it drew out its physician’s robe, to use for a blanket. Despite the warmth of the night, it could not stop trembling, and it took a major effort of will to stare at the torchlight and quench the flame.

  The warm, muffling darkness of the Sarsithe enclosed the Hthras like a comforting caress, but Khith lay curled around its pack, eyes wide open, unable to relax, knowing that tired as it was, it would not sleep. Somehow, in some way the scholar could not yet comprehend, what it had read held some personal meaning for it. The realization was becoming inescapable, no matter how preposterous it seemed. The words of that Ancient One had brought a premonition of trouble to come—trouble, and pain, and death. And, most of all, fear.

  Khith tried to dismiss the notion that it was experiencing a true foretelling. I cast no spell! I did not scry! But try as it would to dismiss the fear, it could not.

  All its adult life the scholar had pursued knowledge, but this was the first time something from the distant past had caused such a reaction. Why this terrible sense of foreboding? I did not even understand most of what I read! How can

  those old words seem like a foretelling of doom and death?

  How can what I read be a warning of trouble to come?

  Khith moaned and buried its face in its hands as it lay shivering in the warm jungle night. If only I had not found this outpost!

  As the caravan wound its way past the Galrai peninsula and continued south into the rolling hills and gentle valleys of Severez, Jezzil spent his nights on guard duty and his days sleeping in one of the wagons. During his free time he practiced with his weapons, went scouting on Falar, or joined the hunting parties that went out each morning. Fresh meat to add to the cook pots was always welcome, and helped allevi-ate the sameness of the fare served to the guards.

  The mountains lay behind them now, and the foothills they traversed grew gently rolling, with pleasant valleys lying between them. The threat of brigands abated as they traveled deeper into settled lands, for the King of Severez was not known for his leniency. The gibbets they passed were seldom empty of criminals, left to rot until the next execution, a grim caution to lawbreakers.

  To Jezzil, raised in Ktavao, where each landholder possessed vast sweeps of land for his herds and crops, the farms they passed seemed almost like miniatures built for children.

  But they were tidy and prosperous, and the winter cold had not killed off all the green. Many trees in this land remained green the year round, keeping their spicy, spiky “leaves.”

  For the first time since he’d embarked from Taenareth, Jezzil felt like a man instead of a walking corpse. He’d thought that his spirit was dead after his courage had failed him in the fortress, but as the days passed, he realized he was glad to be alive. Perhaps the gods still have a purpose for me, he thought as he rode Falar alongside Marzet’s wagons, looking out across the farms with their stone and shingle cottages.

  Part of his renewed interest in life was because, each night, she came to talk to him.

  Jezzil had left home when his two sisters were little more than babies. His mother and his aunts were the only women he’d ever known well. Until Sister Thia came into his life, young women had been a mystery to him, forbidden and a little frightening.

  But now he felt closer to his new friend than he ever had to anyone—even Barus.

  Only Thia understood what it was like to have been a member of a holy order and then to be abruptly deprived of the life one had chosen. Sometimes Jezzil thought it was even worse for her than it was for him. He still had his faith, while she had repudiated the god she had been raised to worship. Every evening when he went through his meditation rituals and prayers, he pitied her, deprived of all spiritual solace.

  Jezzil thought about Thia’s story, wondering what she had actually seen on that night she’d run away from the temple.

  A god, materializing on this mortal plane? It seemed preposterous. And yet the terror in Thia’s eyes told him that she’d seen something beyond his ken.

  Chonao males worshiped a number of deities, just as Chonao females had their own goddesses of hearth and home. The Pen Jav Dal were priests of the war god Arenar, and Jezzil had invoked that sacred name before every march, every fight, every scouting party. Yet he had never expected to actually see Arenar while still living. And now, thanks to his cowardice at Zajares’s fortress, he never would. When he died, Jezzil knew, he would be cast into the Darkness and Emptiness reserved for the most black-souled of sinners.

  Jezzil knew that he deserved that fate, but he was not eager to meet it any time soon. So he kept his blades and his warrior skills honed to sharpness.

  Several times the road passed through small farming villages, and the caravan masters stopped briefly to trade.

  Jezzil was fascinated by how different life was on this side of the Narrow Sea. Here in Severez, women walked boldly through towns, carrying their own money or items to barter.

  Many of the younger women went unveiled, this far south, and they spoke when they pleased.

  Jezzil was stationed to guard Shekk Marzet’s wagons while they traded with a small town that lay on the border between the northernmost reaches of Galrai and Severez.

  Coquillan nestled like a drowsy child in a cozy valley in the foothills. The caravan arrived there a little after dawn on market day, and already the town square bustled with vendors who had set up pushcarts and colorful awnings.

  Jezzil was pleased to be able to spend his time near the Shekk’s wagons, keeping a watchful eye on the townspeople as they eyed the wares spread out for them to view. Coquillan seemed a peaceful place. Except for the knives they wore on their belts, the men went unarmed. Still, Jezzil knew there were many ways to kill, and so he did not relax his vigilance.

  He saw Thia several times accompanying the old Shekk as he traded. Her dark eyes above her modesty veil met his briefly.

  After the noon hour the guard commander sent Jezzil’s relief to him, with the message that he was off-duty until his night watch. Jezzil glanced at the colorful marketplace, deciding that he’d like to go and explore.

  But as he started away from the wagons, he realized that he would rather not go alone. Squaring his shoulders, he turned back and approached Shekk Marzet’s personal traveling wagon. Thia, he saw, was outside, stirring something over a cooking fire. Jezzil walked up to her. She looked up at him, and he could tell by the way her dark eyes crinkled at the corners that she was smiling behind her veil.

  “I was going to the marketplace for a while,” he said.

  “Would you like to accompany me, and see the wares?”

  She hesitated, then glanced toward the wagons. “If the Shekk says I may; he may need me this afternoon.”

  But it seemed that Shekk Marzet, having eaten a hearty noon meal, had settled in for a nap. Thia came back within moments saying that she, too, was free for the afternoon.

  They walked into the town together. Jezzil had seen a number of such towns during his travels to reach Amavav, where he’d hired on with the caravan, but it was clear that much o
f this was new to Thia. Coquillan was prosperous enough to boast a cobbled main street. The stones were slick with spring mud, and the open sewer ran in a channel down the middle. But there were sidewalks, and raised stepping blocks so people could cross the road without treading in the slippery muck. Pigs and chickens seemed to wander at will, and horses stood hipshot at the hitching posts, drowsing until their owners chose to return. The tiny yards before the two-story brick and timbered houses and businesses were for the most part tidy and swept, and early spring flowers opened like tiny yellow trumpets in brightly painted window boxes. Some of the businesses boasted glass windows displaying their wares, and Thia tapped the glass admiringly, explaining that in Amaran, glass was produced only in small, thick panes.

  Jezzil smiled as he watched her exclaim with wonder and delight.

  She was particularly entranced by the printer’s shop and by several bound books displayed in the window. One was open, showing the printed pages.

  “Their scribes are so precise!” she murmured, astonished.

  “How could anyone write so small, so evenly? Every line is so straight, every letter the same, no matter how many times it is written.”

  “An invention from Pela,” Jezzil explained. “This is done by a machine, not a scribe.”

  She stared at him. “A machine?”

  “Yes. They can print whole volumes, and each is the same. They use lead letters that they can move around to print each page.”

  “How wonderful!” Thia said. “That way they could print the same page dozens of times. Why, they could make hundreds of scrolls!”

  “They bind the scrolls together, see? When they’re bound, they call them books,” Jezzil said. “We had some Pelanese texts in the library at our cloisters.”

  “Did you have these printers in Ktavao?” she asked.

  “No. The King of Pela, despite his shortcomings as a military leader, has been wise to encourage inventors in his land. Pela is ahead of Ktavao in many ways. They have many inventions that would prove useful to the Redai,”

  Jezzil said. “Their firearms are far superior to the ones I was taught to use. Easier and faster to load and fire, far more accurate, and their range is more than twice that of our muskets.”

  “Does the Redai know that Pela possesses such weaponry?” Thia asked.

  “I believe he must,” Jezzil said. “He has his spies, like any leader.”

  They continued down the street, heading for the town square. When they reached it, they saw the market ranged around the perimeter, with its colorful stalls and displays. A crowd was gathering in the center of the square.

  “What is it?” Thia asked.

  Jezzil shaded his eyes from the sun. “Some kind of show,”

  he replied. “Would you like to see?”

  Thia nodded, her black eyes bright with eager curiosity above her modesty veil. They walked across the square, then made their way through the gathering crowd to the small troupe of traveling entertainers who were setting up a makeshift stage and scenery in the center of the square.

  They stood in the second row back, watching the preparations curiously until the performance began.

  First there came a juggler, who kept daggers flying through the air from hand to hand, with nary a lost finger or even a cut. Thia made a soft exclamation of wonder in her own language. He learned closer to hear better. “What did you say?”

  She whispered back, “How does he do that? Is it a skill?

  Or magic?”

  Jezzil smiled. “A skill,” he said. “I have seen others do it.”

  The next performer was a man who proceeded to insert, first, a knife, then a sword, into his mouth and down his gul-let. Jezzil had never seen this done, and wondered if it was some kind of illusion. But since his discovery in Zajares’s fortress of his own ability to Cast, he’d discovered that magic had a certain feel to it—almost an unheard vibration, a tingle in the air. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stir and gave him gooseflesh on his arms.

  Several times the young warrior had been able to detect when someone was using folk conjury to heal, charm warts, or rid their crop of pests. Watching the sword-eater, he experienced no such tingle.

  But magic or no, the entertainer put on a good show, finishing up by extinguishing a flaming torch in his mouth. The crowd clapped and stamped their feet as they threw coins into the baskets arrayed before them.

  The next entertainment was a clown with a troupe of trained dogs that capered and jumped through hoops, barked on cue, and turned flips in the air. Thia’s eyes shone as she regarded their antics, and Jezzil heard her laugh.

  When the performance was finished, each of them tossed a coin into the basket before turning to walk through the marketplace. “You liked the clown,” Jezzil said. “And the dogs.”

  “Yes,” Thia said. “Where I was raised, little was funny or even amusing. The learned priests or the Mistress of Postulants would say that such a performance was frivolous, worldly, possibly even sinful. And yet, I found no harm in it.”

  “That is because there is none,” Jezzil said. “Since I …

  left … the Pen Jav Dal, I have realized that most people live the way these folk do. Religion is but one part—often a very small part—of their lives. They have their own gods and goddesses. The gods I was raised to worship—these people know nothing of them.”

  “Heathens,” Thia murmured, as though reciting an automatic response.

  “Perhaps,” Jezzil said. “But Thia, you do not worship my gods, nor I yours. What does that make us?”

  She paused in mid-step, then slowly looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and haunted. It was several moments before she spoke. “Exiles …” she whispered.

  Jezzil nodded. “As good a word as any.” He reached over

  and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “But I believe it is better to be two exiles together, rather than one exile alone.”

  She looked down, clearly at a loss for words, and Jezzil quickly changed the subject.

  Immersed in their conversation, they turned the corner and left the main street behind. The cobblestones beneath their feet gave way to ridges of dried, rutted mud, and the buildings grew seedier, less prosperous, the farther they proceeded.

  When a burst of raucous laughter broke out, Jezzil stopped what he’d been saying and turned. Thia was closest to the narrow walkway that edged the street, and she had to dodge out of the way quickly as the doors burst open and a big man hurtled out as though he’d been tossed by an angry bull.

  The man landed in the street before them, perilously close to the midden channel, belly down. They heard him gasp as his wind was knocked out. Moments later he wheezed, caught his breath, then rose to hands and knees, spitting out filth.

  Jezzil looked back at the door and saw that it was a tavern.

  As he watched, the door opened again, and a man and a woman appeared. He heard Thia catch her breath, and glanced down to see her staring uncomprehendingly at the other women.

  She was wearing a yellow gown so bright it was painful to the eyes in the afternoon sunlight. It had slipped off her shoulder, revealing half of a rounded breast. Her lips and cheeks were unnaturally red. As she opened her mouth to laugh, Jezzil saw that she was missing several teeth.

  The man who held her wrist was as slender and vicious as a stoat. He glared down at the burly man and snarled, “I told you, pay before you have your fun, or no deal! Now, do you want her or not?”

  The big man lurched to his feet, then stood looking sullenly at the woman and her procurer. Finally, he reached into his vest and took out a small pouch. Scowling, he hurled three coins at the pimp. “All right, but she better be worth it!” he warned.

  The woman tittered. “Oh, you’ll have no complaints, dearie. C’mon with me, now …” She held out a hand, and the burly man, wiping the slime from his face, took it and followed her back inside.

  The pimp gave Jezzil a measuring glance, then his gaze shifted to Thia. “Come to sell
me your skinny sister, boy?”

  he jeered. “If you haven’t, wait a few minutes. When Amalee’s done for the plowman, she’ll take you next.”

  Jezzil felt himself flushing scarlet. Turning to Thia, who was still standing there, uncomprehending, he took her arm and hurried her back up the street.

  “What? What was all that about?” she asked, trying to turn back to see.

  “Keep walking,” Jezzil said tightly. “Come on. I should never have brought you here. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  They headed back toward the caravan. When they left the cobblestones behind and were in sight of the merchants’ encampment, Thia abruptly stopped. “You must tell me what happened back there,” she said. “You understood what was happening. Everyone understood what was happening, except me. That woman, she was laughing at you, and at me.

  But not in the same way. Why? And I’m not wearing a slave collar. Why did that man speak of ‘buying’ me from you?”

  Jezzil could feel the heat in his face, and could not meet her eyes. He searched for words, but there were none.

  Thia reached out and took hold of his arm. He was surprised at the strength of her grasp. “Jezzil,” she said, her voice holding impatience, almost anger, something he’d never heard from her before. “Tell me. I have been shut away from the world, but now I am out in it, part of it, and I must learn its ways, lest I come to harm from ignorance. You are the only person who knows my secret. I have trusted you, and you have trusted me. Now tell me.”

  Jezzil took a deep breath, shook his head. “It is not easy to speak of such things,” he said, unable to meet her eyes. “We of the Chonao Brotherhood are told not to even think of them, and if we do, we must enact a penance on our flesh.”

  “I am no longer in the temple, and you no longer answer

  to your brothers,” she said, an edge in her voice. “We must survive. I must survive. Soon now I will be on my own. I need to learn.”

  “That woman …” Jezzil said. “She was … a whore.”

  “Whore …” Thia repeated the unfamiliar word softly.