“Where are you headed?” Brede asks.
“A few folks might like to know that, questor.” Liedral’s voice carries a faint tone of amusement.
“Questor?”
“That’s the more polite term for those of you from Recluce.”
“The less polite terms being…?”
“We’ll not go into that.”
“We’re not exactly other traders.” Dorrin shifts his weight on the hard ground again.
“It’s really no secret. I’m one of the few that runs the northern triangle. Most times, I don’t come to Fairhaven, just to Vergren, but Freidr insisted that I come here, just to get a feel for it once.” Liedral frowns. “Once is enough, and I wasted too much time. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“You traveled all that alone?”
Liedral shrugs. “Bandits generally don’t like the cold, and dyes and spices aren’t the easiest to sell if you don’t have the contacts.” The trader’s eyes flicker to the bow and quiver hanging by the slit in the tent.
Dorrin’s eyes alight on the shortsword, nearly a match to the one worn by Kadara. “You’ve been taught in the Westwind style.”
Liedral laughs. “You definitely need a keeper, healer.”
Kadara shakes her head. Dorrin flushes.
“What about you?” pursues Brede.
The trader shrugs. “I get by. Profits don’t cover hiring guards. They did once, back generations, but not now, not unless you run with the wizards.”
“They control the trade through the roads?” Brede remains cross-legged.
Dorrin shifts his weight again, wondering how the bigger man can remain comfortable with his legs folded.
Liedral nods, then stands. “Tea should be ready. You first, healer.”
Dorrin extends his mug.
After pouring Dorrin’s and Kadara’s tea, the trader replaces the kettle, swings the swivel to the side of the fire, then retrieves a flask from the tent to pour the redberry into Brede’s cup. “There.”
“Thank you,” Dorrin says, looking straight into the hazel eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
The sounds of low voices drift from the other tents, punctuated by another oooo from the unseen dove.
“What is this northern triangle route you follow?” Kadara brushes a strand of red hair off her forehead, then sips from her mug.
“Usually the points of the triangle are Spidlaria, Vergren, and Tyrhavven. From Vergren I’ll make Rytel, then follow the old north road through Axalt and into Kleth. Then a barge down to Spidlaria. Dastral owes me a passage back to Tyrhavven. That’s where I pick up the dyes and spices. Take the river road back to Jellico. That’s back through Rytel twice, but both stops are short. Spend an eight-day or so putting the old warehouse in order—Freidr always lets things get out of hand—and then start all over again.”
“Why are you here?”
Liedral shakes her head. “Like I said, call it a pilgrimage. For Fairhaven, that is. There’s a market for spices, even here, and they don’t take that much space. But I really don’t like going farther than Vergren.”
Dorrin grins.
“Why is that funny?” asks Kadara.
“Oh, it’s not funny, but I should have figured that out.”
All three look at him.
He shrugs, embarrassed. “Chaos is hard on living things. Food comes from living things. It follows that they’d need spices, and that the White traders wouldn’t do as well.”
“If you say so…”
“He’s right,” observes Liedral. “I’d like to know more about why you feel that has to be.”
“It just follows,” mumbles Dorrin. “I mean…chaos is the destructive force…It breaks things down…especially living things. Spices preserve food, but they’re delicate…”
“What do you recommend?” asks Brede, his deep voice gentle. “For us?”
The soft-voiced trader turns. “No one here will hire you. They might in places to the northwest, like Diev, or some of the other cities in Spidlar. The wizards’ reach isn’t that tight there—or in southern Kyphros or Southwind.”
“Southwind’s a trifle far.” Kadara’s voice is edged.
“And you can’t afford a guard?” Brede finally shifts his weight, to Dorrin’s relief.
“Or two guards and a healer, much as I’d like to have all three of you?” Liedral smiles. “Hardly.”
“What about traveling with you?” asks Dorrin. “For some pittance…at least.”
The two others look at him.
“Well,” he explains, “if we have to get to Spidlar to get paying work, we might as well see about the least costly way to do it.”
“Perhaps a silver or two toward food—that’s the most I could go.”
“You trust us?” asks Brede thoughtfully.
“No. I trust the healer.”
Kadara and Brede again exchange glances. Liedral grins at Dorrin. Dorrin looks at the fire.
XXV
“There was a strange party in Fairhaven, two blades and a young healer…” ventures the apprentice.
“That sounds like Sarronynn,” snaps the sun-eyed man.
“But the healer also could feel the winds, according to Zerlat.”
“Where are they?”
The apprentice shrugs. “According to the standing orders—”
“Damn the standing orders! Does anyone know where they headed?”
The apprentice lets out a slow breath as she watches Jeslek’s eyes fade into the vague look that means his senses are somewhere else.
“Where?” demands the hard voice. Not all Jeslek’s senses are elsewhere.
“They headed toward the Easthorns.”
“What did they look like?”
The young woman purses her lips, ignoring the distant look on her master’s face. “The healer was thin, with curly red hair. One blade was a red-headed woman. She carried double swords, including a Westwind shortsword. The other blade was a man, pretty young, but big.”
“And no one thought such a group was strange?” Jeslek’s eyes are fully alive again. “Two blades, just to protect a poor young healer? Who knows just what that healer is? And just as we’re starting to tighten the noose on Recluce. Doesn’t anyone think?”
He is out the door from the tower room, and his feet echo on the stairs before the apprentice can answer his question.
The apprentice frowns, mumbling, “You’re not the High Wizard yet.” But she takes a deep breath and continues polishing the mirror on the table.
XXVI
Dorrin flicks the reins to keep Meriwhen abreast of the cart. Kadara and Brede ride ahead. The pack horse trails, harness tied to a ring on the cart.
“Why are all the Blacks so opposed to Fairhaven?” asks Liedral.
“Wouldn’t you be, after all the trouble it took to escape the Whites?” counters Dorrin. “Besides, living with chaos is rather…painful…if you deal with order.”
“Recluce seems rather…arbitrary…about defining chaos.”
Dorrin laughs, a short harsh sound. “They’re all so concerned about maintaining the pure Black way. Any change is considered chaos.” He brushes away a mosquito. “Even order changes, but they don’t see it.”
“What determines what is Black and what is White?” asks the trader.
“They hammer that out in lessons when you first start your schooling.”
“Who gives the lessons?”
“One of the Black mages.”
“Do they all teach the same lessons? What happens if one of these learned Black mages dies?”
“That doesn’t happen much in Recluce. His apprentices and the others know what he knows, for the most part.”
Liedral frowns. “People remember what they want to. You learn that as a trader. You know how to write, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Dorrin sighs. “I’ve been through my father’s library. Recluce has books and more books. At least, my father does.”
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“So…all of the White and Black magic is written down?”
“Not the White. Not even very much of…Actually, there’s not much at all on why things work, or how to do things—just the conditions.” Dorrin shakes his head. “Why are you interested in all of this?”
“I’m just interested, healer. I’m a trader. The more I know, the longer I’ll live.”
Dorrin glances at the smooth brow under the floppy hat, then toward his compatriots as they ride toward the rolling hills ahead.
“Why do you hide—”
“Because. I’d prefer you leave it that way. Do your friends know?”
“I haven’t said so, and neither have they. Kadara wouldn’t bring it up, and Brede is rather sharp, but he can keep his tongue. I don’t know.”
“Just think of me as a trader, all right?”
“Fine. If that’s the way you want it.” Dorrin wonders if being a woman is so restrictive in Candar. Of course, magistra Lortren has shown how the Whites had eventually brought down Westwind because of its feminine domination. But why did either sex have to dominate? It was all too clear that people fought over beliefs, but why? The fighting never changed anyone’s mind—unless you killed them. He looks toward the hills that separate them from Weevett, the small farm town that they had passed through only days before. Overhead, the sky is clear, although he feels as though a cloud masks the white-yellow sun. Looking back, he sees a black bird circling.
Then he looks forward toward Brede and Kadara, but they have also turned, as if aware of the nearing black wings. Kadara points to the bird.
“Vulcrow. The wizards watch through their eyes.” Liedral raises her voice.
Dorrin extends his senses on the breeze to hear what the two blades are saying.
“The vulcrow’s probably a spy for the wizards.” Brede fingers the hilt of the heavy blade.
“Wonderful,” snaps Kadara.
“You don’t know that they’re looking for us.” Brede doesn’t even turn from the road ahead. “Who would care about a young healer and two blades?”
“I don’t know. But things happen around Dorrin. They always have.”
Dorrin watches as the vulcrow’s circles widen toward them. Meriwhen whinnies, takes a sidestep, before Dorrin pats her neck. “Easy…easy…”
After unstrapping the bow, Liedral sets the quiver by the seat.
“What are you doing?” asks Dorrin.
“Getting ready to shoot a vulcrow.”
“But—”
“The damned wizards tell their traders. Besides, they don’t like to admit they use the birds.”
The dark bird flaps nearer, but the trader flicks the reins, and the cart squeals as one wheel lifts over a muddy hummock that has encroached onto the stone pavement. Liedral reins up the cart horse, extracts an arrow from the quiver, and draws the bow.
Dorrin’s senses reach skyward, stretching toward the whiteness around the ungainly flapping bird. The trader nocks the arrow, and as the shaft flies, Dorrin screams. “No!!!!”
Kadara and Brede turn, their movements trapped in the syrup of white-clouded and slowed time. Liedral’s mouth hangs open. The vulcrow’s wings freeze on the upstroke, pinions spread.
Sun-eyes appear in the sky, except they are not there, and the unseen eyes glare down upon the travelers. “SO…”
The white fog that Dorrin can feel but not see descends with the speed of lightning and the force of a gale. As the chill rips at him, tears at his thoughts, he thinks, “I am me…Me!”
The white storm tosses his thoughts aside like a leaf in a cyclone, and another kind of blackness descends.
Whhnnnnn…nnnun…
The sound of the mare rouses Dorrin.
“Wha…” His tongue thick, his head splitting, Dorrin finds his face buried in Meriwhen’s neck, the fingers of his left hand locked in her mane. Feeling like an insect narrowly escaped from a giant flyswatter, he loosens his fingers from Meriwhen’s mane. After straightening slowly in the saddle, he squints against the afternoon sun, barely above the clouds that cover the lower quarter of the western sky. Afternoon? Where are the others?
The cart and pack horse are less than a hundred cubits up the road, motionless. A dark figure is half-sprawled across the seat. Dorrin swallows, trying to moisten his mouth, then looks past the cart.
Several hundred cubits farther along the dusty road, Brede stands by the low stone wall, holding both horses. Kadara sprawls over the fence, retching.
Dorrin waves to Brede, points to the cart. There is nothing he can do for Kadara, and Brede is there. The trader remains motionless as Dorrin rides up to the cart and dismounts. His fingers brush her forehead, and his senses confirm that Liedral is beginning to wake. He transfers what little energy he can to her and opens his water bottle, moistening her lips.
“…never had that happen before.” She struggles upright.
“You never traveled with questors from Recluce before, either.” Dorrin offers her the water bottle.
Liedral takes a deep pull, then returns the bottle. “We need to get going. I don’t like being on the road at dark, wizards’ peace or not.”
“If this is peace, I’d rather not see war.” Dorrin replaces the bottle on the saddle, then remounts.
Liedral straps the bow and quiver back into place, checks the harness and the horse, then slips onto the cart seat. “Let’s go.”
“Was that your doing?” Brede reins up beside Dorrin, Kadara, still pale, following.
“No.”
“Then…why—”
“I don’t know. It was a White Wizard, and we were beneath his notice. I’d guess that he was showing how powerful he was.” Dorrin twists, smacking his neck in an attempt to squash the mosquito that has drawn blood. He rubs his neck, then wipes blood and mosquito off his hand.
“Sending a message?” Brede muses. “It could be, but why us?”
Four sets of eyes exchange glances.
“Let’s go,” Liedral finally snaps.
XXVII
“What were they?” asks the High Wizard. “You retreated…sought your study in haste.”
Jeslek shrugs. “Youngsters from Recluce. Like the guards said. But you never know, and I wanted to make sure. Some of the prophecies in the Book have come true.”
“I thought the superstitions of the Legend were beneath you.”
“One must know them to disregard them.”
“That’s a fitting proverb for you.”
“You wish to relinquish the amulet, as you promised?” asks Jeslek idly. “After all, I have demonstrated that…”
“I recall something about completing the job.”
“As you wish. It’s not something that can be done overnight, and the Book certainly doesn’t state that it will happen overnight.”
“It’s good to see that you are cultivating patience.” Sterol smiles. “What about the youngsters? Do you incinerate them or bury them under molten stone?”
“No. I’d rather have them spread the word. Two were blades. The other was barely worth calling a healer.” The thin man with the yellow-sun eyes takes a sip of water from the goblet. “Since they were no danger, I’d rather save my strength for other things.”
“Like the last half of the hills between Kyphros and Gallos?”
“That’s one thing. There were at least some hills on the route to the Easthorns. But the Gallosian side is too exposed.”
“I am sure the guards will appreciate your concerns.”
“Besides…we still have to think about the blockade of Recluce.”
“Ah, yes. The next step on your agenda.”
“You said that we needed to do something, I do recall.” Jeslek smiles politely.
“So I did. I suggested something less direct, however. Still, directness has a certain…flair.”
XXVIII
“Now—those are walls,” observes Brede, inclining his head toward the massive granite blocks that rise nearly seventy cubits above the river
plain on which the city of Jellico rests. The walls are a lighter and pinker gray than the clouds that shroud the sky. The wind moans and keeps blowing Dorrin’s hair across this forehead. As he pushes the too curly and far too long strands out of his eyes, he wishes he had cut it.
“Why do they need them?”
“They were originally built by one of the early viscounts to hold off Fairhaven,” Liedral responds dryly.
“Oh?”
“You will notice that there are no marks upon the walls, either.”
Dorrin shifts in his saddle as the stone road widens into a causeway that leads to the river bridge. Even from the bridge, the eastern gates are visible, swung open, and bound in heavy iron. The grooves for anchoring the gates and the stones in which they have been chiseled are swept clean. A half squad in gray-brown leathers, three men and three women, plus a single White guard, wait to inspect the travelers.
“Your occupation and reason for entering Jellico?” asks the White guard, his voice polite, emotionless.
“Liedral—I’m a trader here in Jellico. My warehouse is on the traders’ street off the great square. I’m returning from a trading journey.”
Looking over the parapet crenellations on the wall above, a crossbowman watches, his weapon resting on the granite.
“These your people?” asks the guard.
“Yes. The guards are mine. The healer is traveling with us for protection.”
The White guard pokes at several bags, taps a jug, frowns, and finally nods. Liedral flicks the reins, and guides the cart through the stone archway and into Jellico. The houses are tile-roofed, two-storied structures of fired brick with narrow fronts, pitched roofs, and heavy, iron-bound oak doors, closed against the cold spring wind.
The four pass less than a score of pedestrians as Liedral wheels the cart left, and then down a narrow street that leads toward the center of Jellico.
“There,” the trader states at last. The stone-walled building toward which Liedral points is three stories high, the width of three houses, with a high-pitched roof. The warehouse is a floor higher than the adjoining structures, a cooper’s shop toward the square and a silversmith’s toward the city gate. Toward the square are the grayed facades of even taller structures that appear to predate the warehouse, perhaps by centuries. The square is another hundred cubits down the narrow street.
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