They stopped for a brief rest break at midday. Netando’s retainers quickly erected a few large canopies, so that the travelers might have a break from the incessant drizzle. At least the surrounding mountains now offered a partial shield against the wind. Ursti’s men made doubly sure of the oilskin covers over his wagons, beneath which precious spices and perfume stuffs huddled in their wax-sealed caskets, aromas dampened by the fog.
Soon they were moving again, and as if to mark the event, rain began in earnest. Kamala kept one sorcerous ear attuned to the movement of distant groundwater, and at one point suggested Netando lead the caravan to higher ground. He obeyed her without question. It was an odd feeling of power, to direct the lives of men so casually. But it was also tiring to need to be so perpetually alert to everything around her, not only the possible movements of men in the distance but the fall of rain, the shifting of mud . . . after hours of travel she had to fight to keep her focus.
She almost missed the light when it appeared.
At first she blinked, not quite sure what she had seen. The rain was a silver curtain ahead of her, which made it hard to pick out details of anything more than a few yards away. But it seemed to her that there was something in the road ahead of them, not so much a solid construct as . . . well, light. A strange light, that seemed to come from nowhere, and cast no shadows.
She hesitated a moment, then banged on the side of the carriage to alert Netando. “Stop the horses,” she said. The driver looked over at her, startled, but he wouldn’t stop the carriage until his master commanded it. “Stop them!” she cried, loudly enough to carry clearly even in the rain-drenched air.
Netando opened the shutters and leaned out to look at her. Either his respect for her powers was very high, or perhaps it was the expression on her face that moved him to urgency. He called out some words in an unknown tongue and his driver reined up the horses suddenly, nearly throwing Kamala from her seat. The black-skinned guards did the same, as the order passed through their ranks like a wave. Ursti’s men followed suit, wooden wheels churning up mud as the ponderous wagons ground to a halt.
“What is it?” Netando asked her.
“I am not sure yet.” Eyes still fixed on the strange light ahead of them, she climbed down from her perch. The ground beneath her feet was the consistency of swamp muck, making her reflect upon the fact that this was yet another good day not to be wearing women’s clothing. Carefully she wended her way to the front of the line, all her senses focused upon a place some ten yards beyond the lead riders. Their horses stamped nervously as she passed them by, sensing something was wrong, but not sure how to deal with it.
By the time she reached the place where the ground was alight, she had figured out that the others could not see what she did. That should not have been a surprise to her, really. Since her earliest days she had been gifted with the Sight, and even before she had begun to study sorcery with Ethanus, she had been able to see traces of power where witches and Magisters had practiced their arts.
She was looking at such traces now.
The muddy ground glowed with power. The trees surrounding were marked by it also, as if some phosphorescent moss had sheathed their trunks. Even the leaves overhead glistened with something more luminous than raindrops, though it was hard to make out details through the omnipresent mist. Clearly some kind of spell had been cast in this place, probably upon the ground itself, though it had later saturated much of the surrounding plant life as well. Who would do such a thing in the middle of nowhere? What was its purpose?
Hesitantly—aware that the guards were all watching her now—she reached out a hand into the affected area. The power was warm to her touch, and tasted of witchery. Otherwise it had no effect upon her. Perhaps some kind of alarm would be raised when someone entered it? She took a step forward, all her sorcerous senses alert, ready to strike down any outgoing power before it could reach its destination. But there was no response. The mud beneath her feet felt just like the mud near Netando’s carriage. The rain was the same. Whatever spells had been woven here had clearly served their purpose long ago; no active power remained that should be of any concern to those she was protecting.
She took another few minutes to inspect the place thoroughly, warning the morati not to follow her—Netando had come up to the front of the line now, with Ursti scurrying close behind—but she could find no cause for concern. The affected area apparently continued on for another hundred yards or so and then ended, as suddenly and inexplicably as it had begun. Nowhere along the length of that distance was any active power triggered by her presence. In fact, as far as she could tell, there was no threat of any kind in the immediate vicinity, including that of bandits. Netando’s fears about this stretch of road had clearly been unfounded. The caravan would be safe until nightfall, when the walls of another hostel would shelter it, and in the morning they would put both the rain and this treacherous passage behind them.
She turned back to the company and gave them a reassuring nod. The guards—who had watched her exploring nothing for quite some time now—did not look very reassured. She caught Talesin’s eye—he was watching her with frank fascination—and then, as she exited the enchanted area, Netando’s own.
“Old witchery,” she told him. She reached up a hand to wave the company on—
And froze.
“What is it?” Ursti asked. “What’s wrong?”
There was power glowing faintly along her own skin. It was a subtle thing that even a Magister’s eyes might have missed, but Kamala had grown up with the Sight and could not mistake it.
It is nothing to worry about, an inner voice whispered.
Whatever that strange enchantment was that had seemed so inert when she inspected it, it had left its mark upon her. But how? For a moment the question concerned her, and then . . . then all worry faded from her mind, and a strange but compelling conviction took its place. This was nothing to worry about. Really. It was no more than the whispering vestige of a spell long since depleted, incapable of doing any damage to current travelers.
“Kovan?” It was Netando. He sounded worried. He shouldn’t be worried. Everything was exactly as it should be. She would tell him that.
She stared at her hand for a moment, blinking hard. Alien power. What had Ethanus taught her? Any time you see evidence that a foreign power has touched you, cleanse yourself immediately. Even if you do not feel the need. Make it so fixed a habit that no reason or emotion can dissuade you. The best spells will always include a component to effect your judgment.
It was not needed, she told herself. There was nothing wrong.
“Kovan? Is something amiss?” Netando was coming toward her now. She waved him back. Still staring at her hand.
Do it even if you do not feel the need, Ethanus had taught her.
He knew sorcery better than she did, she told herself. And more important, he knew her.
Make it a fixed habit.
Closing her eyes, she drew forth power from her soul—which in turn was drawn from her consort’s soul, in some distant, unnamed place—and let it flow outward through her flesh, driving out the vestiges of this foreign power. It did not work as easily as she had expected. The spell had affixed itself to her like a second skin and did not wish to be dislodged. In another time and place that might have alarmed her—and she knew in the back of her mind that it would have alarmed Ethanus, had he been witness to it—but still she was sure the power was not malevolent, merely . . . tenacious. She exerted more effort, but still the foreign power held true. You are upset over nothing, an inner voice chided. It will fade in time on its own. You saw for yourself it has no current purpose.
But she knew what Ethanus would say to that—When you doubt the need the most it is when the need is greatest —and so she persisted. In the end she had to send a wave of power surging down her limbs that burned so fiercely in her flesh it was visible even to the morati. Her eyes half-open now, she could see the morati company standing slack-jawed
as they watched her, her arms extended as if to welcome them, sorcerous flames lapping at her skin, seemingly unaffected by the rain now pouring down upon her.
Then at last she was done. Cleansed. Thoughts that a moment ago had seemed impossible raced through her head with sudden clarity. She let her own power fade.
She looked at Netando. His eyes, too, were wide with wonder, even perhaps fear. Considering how many strange things he must have seen in his travels, it was an odd sort of compliment to her power.
“There is a spell upon this place,” she said. “Any who pass through it will be blinded to danger, no matter what form it takes.” Most certainly not inert, she thought. How could I have been fooled so easily? “The purpose of such a thing is obvious, yes?”
Netando nodded shortly. “So you think there is a reception committee waiting on the opposite side?”
She thought she knew the answer to that, but tested it anyway, casting her power in a net around the affected area, rather than through it. “No,” she said at last. “Not right there. They will want to be farther on down the road, so that the whole of a caravan can pass through this area without any chance of detecting them. After that, even the most obvious signs of trouble would be missed, and as for the effect of this witchery upon warriors . . .” She shrugged suggestively.
Ursti’s expression was a dark and terrible thing. Netando cursed under his breath.
“Too late to turn aside,” the spice merchant said. “We’re well past any place where the road divides.”
Netando nodded, and studied the rising slopes on both sides of them. They were steep and rocky, and now covered with patches of slippery mud as well. “The horses and men can flank this area, with effort.” He looked at Kamala. “How far does the enchantment extend?”
“About a hundred paces forward. Half that in width, I would judge. Add a bit more to be on the safe side.”
“The wagons cannot climb that hill,” Ursti pointed out.
“Can you banish it?” Netando asked. “Or, how do they say . . . unweave it?”
Kamala hesitated. As a Magister she could. A witch, however, would not admit to such capacity. The cost of such a cleansing would be high, too high, measured in whole days of life, even weeks, rather than minutes. Netando would know that. Any man with a brain would know that.
“I cannot,” she lied. “It is too deeply entrenched. I am sorry.”
Netando nodded again.
“The wagons must go straight through,” Ursti said. “The horses should as well; they will not like the ground in this condition.”
“Both those things require men to guide them,” Netando pointed out.
“I can protect a few men,” Kamala said. “Not the whole company, but a few.”
Netando studied the road ahead with narrowed eyes. For all he knew the place was utterly devoid of power, and Kamala was just playing them all for fools. Except he would not think anything like that. The spell she had cast upon him did not allow for him to doubt her.
I was almost entrapped by such a spell myself. The thought was chilling. For the first time now she understood the purpose of lessons Ethanus had drilled into her that had seemed like wasted effort at the time. In a world where sorcery so easily reshaped the world, one’s own mind might be turned to an enemy’s purpose. No Magister would do that to another—it was against their Law—but witches were not bound by any such contract.
“Very well,” Netando said at last. “The guards will go around on foot. The rest will stay on the road. It won’t hurt the horses to be less afraid of danger . . . nothing depends upon their judgment.” To the scouts he said, “Fan out, and see to the high ground. There will be an ambush waiting for us beyond this, probably not far down the road. I want to find them before they find us.”
The drivers were not all that happy about that plan, but they followed their masters’ orders. Some muttered prayers or fingered protective amulets while Kamala wove her own spells about them. They were even less happy about entering an enchanted area. Kamala mused dryly that she should have made her spells less than perfect, so that the power in the place would calm their nerves.
“You understand what this implies,” she said quietly to Netando, as he stood beside her to oversee the operation.
He looked at her, eyebrow raised.
“They may have a witch present.”
She saw him grind his teeth slowly as he digested that new piece of information. “I did not bring you here to enjoin battle,” he said finally, “but rather to avoid it.”
She said nothing.
At the end of the column of guards came Talesin. His face was a pasty white and his hands trembled where he held the reins. It looked like whatever fragile strength had sustained him thus far was finally waning. Just make it through this day, she thought to him. I will take you aside tonight and heal you, I promise. Forgive me that it was not yesterday.
How strange it was, to care if someone lived or died. Even before her apprenticeship she had not invested much energy in caring about people. It hurt too much when they left her. The last time she had truly mourned a death was when her brother died, and even back then her tears had been mixed with rage at all the people and things that had caused it. This was a quieter feeling. Haunting. Unfamiliar.
You cannot afford to care for any morati. You know that.
She saw him struggle up the muddy slope, his stubborn pride refusing to let him accept any aid along the way. And then he was lost to her sight in the mists, and she had to climb the slope as well, and for a while that took all her attention.
The crest of the ridge was more solid than its flank, thank the gods. Andovan stopped there for a moment, bent over double as he struggled to catch his breath. He had felt reasonably good that morning, after his long night’s sleep, and that made it doubly frustrating that now his strength was leaving him again. Just when it looked like they might be heading into a fight, too. Not good at all.
When he thought he could stand upright without passing out he joined the others once more. Netando’s guards had been sent ahead to clear out trouble before the caravan got there. Ursti’s men had remained behind in case some secondary assault targeted the wagons. Andovan could probably have stayed with the latter group if he’d asked—he hadn’t signed on as warrior, after all—but that meant letting Lianna see how utterly enfeebled he had become.
No, he thought dryly, much better to march into battle in such a state.
Damn the Aurelius pride!
He’d been all right that morning. He’d even felt somewhat optimistic about the journey when they first started out. The Wasting gave him good days and bad days, and this had promised to be one of the good ones.
But then when they had stopped so that Lianna could inspect the road the strength had run out of his veins like ale from a punctured keg, until it was all he could do to stand upright. He didn’t want her to see him like that. So instead he was clambering up this rocky, muddy slope, to a place where he could slink through a rain-drenched forest to sneak up on well-armed brigands who might or might not have a witch with them. Much, much better choice.
You’re an idiot, Andovan, you know that?
Lianna had located the brigands with her witchery, and had used Netando’s maps of the region to show the captain of the guard where they were likely to be hiding. He in turn had sketched out various avenues of approach based upon what little they could observe of the terrain from their vantage point. His plan was for a force to come up behind the outlaws and engage them, in the hopes that their rear was unguarded. If they chose to withdraw to safety, it would most likely be along a narrow trail leading south from their current position, in which case a second team would pick them off as they fled.
Which all sounded very well and good, but when you added a witch into the equation just about anything could happen.
Including the fact that he might leave his allies to flounder, Andovan reminded himself. The difference between a witch and a Magister was that th
e former had to expend a portion of his own life essence for every single spell. How likely was it that the same person who had set up the enchantment on the road would be crouching in the rain now, ready to trade a few more days of his life for another handful of foreign coins? If it was Andovan, he’d be relaxing in a tavern in Sankara right now with what he’d been paid for the first enchantment, not crouching in the mud tempting fate.
They asked him to follow along the crest of the ridge and seek out any sentries that had been assigned to the highest watch points. He was fortunate and there were none to be found. He did not want to admit to the other men that he no longer had strength enough to take down a single man, though he feared that was the truth. But the gods, for once, were merciful to him, and it was one of the black Durbana that located the brigands’ sentries and dispatched them. The killing was swift and silent; any signs of disturbance that might otherwise have been noticed were swallowed up by the wind and the rain.
Watching Netando’s men at work, Andovan began to wonder if their master was simply the wandering merchant he appeared to be, or whether this whole expedition had been staged to draw out the thieves of the region so they could be dealt with for once and for all. That would also explain Ursti’s men, who were so perfectly outfitted to remain with the caravan and make it look unprotected. They had not had need of such a ruse with Lianna along, since she was able to pinpoint the enemy’s position, but without her they would have needed such tricks to draw the enemy to them.
Feast of Souls Page 41
