Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  Oona scuttled to the fireplace. A small iron caldron hung over the cold ashes. She lifted it with both hands, half bent with the effort. “You sit down over there in the chair. I'll be right back.” She disappeared through another door in the shack's rear wall. When she reappeared a few minutes later, she wiped her hands on her skirts, brushed the bundle of cloth off one of the stools, and carried it to the table. “I told you now, sit down. There'll be some stew warm in a little bit. When it's hot like this, I keep a fire going out back so it doesn't get so warm inside. How about some water? No wine or milk, I'm afraid."

  Frost took the chair and nodded. She leaned on her elbows as the old woman leaped up and went to a shelf, took down two earthen mugs, and ladled water into them from a bucket on the floor. She set one in front of her guest and drank from the other, taking careful, almost shy sips.

  She watched the old woman and smiled inwardly. Oona was a jewel, one of the few people she truly called friend. They saw each other very rarely, but those were moments she treasured. She drank from her cup. The water was cool and sweet. “You've put something in it,” she said, nodding.

  Oona smiled. “Juice from some roots that grow near here,” she admitted. “It keeps the water fresher so I don't have to go to the stream as often."

  “Very good.” Frost took another long drink. “Better than wine or milk."

  Oona's smile widened. “Oh, the stew!” she said suddenly, and jumped up. She snatched a couple of earthen bowls from another shelf and went through the back door again. She returned with the bowls steaming. Frost stirred the contents of hers with a wooden spoon and blew on it. Chunks of meat in a rich broth. She could smell the herbs.

  “Found the rabbit last night in one of my snares,” Oona said proudly. She took a bite and chewed noisily. Oona still had her own teeth and never minded letting others know it. “Now, what brings you so far from the capital? Some trouble in Shadamas I don't know about?"

  Frost swallowed. “Nothing happens in Shadamas you don't know about, you old keyhole-peeker.” She took another bite. The stew was delicious, better than anything she could remember eating in Mirashai, for all those snobbish palace cooks.

  She told the entire story, leaving nothing out. She couldn't have lied to Oona anyway. The old woman had the true-sight, the ability to see through lies or illusions, that rarest of all gifts that came only with age and wisdom.

  “Then you're going to stay a few days,” Oona announced. “Word will spread to Kord'Ala pretty quickly, if they haven't heard already. But knowing those lazy, overfed garrison toads, it'll be days before they spread the word this way."

  That was one of the things she most appreciated about Oona: the old woman possessed a healthy disrespect for authority, learned from age and experience. She smiled and touched the rough, work-hardened hands. “Thanks, I hoped you'd let me stay awhile. I have to figure out what to do now, and I thought you might be able to help."

  “Thogrin's mysterious ally?” Oona scratched her chin. “No help there, I'm afraid. I know of no wizards in these parts. Korkyrans don't go in for that sort of thing much. Even we few healers are a despised lot. They come to us when there's sickness and treat us like dogs the rest of the time. Take now”—her eyes hardened suddenly—“this poor child I'm treating in the village. Got the root-fever bad, he has. Only his father's half convinced I'm the cause, for he and I had some harsh words recently.” She sighed, and her eyes softened again. “If it wasn't that the child's such a sweet one, and he sneaks me hill-flowers now and then, I'd let the whole lot of them rot."

  “Not true,” Frost said gently. “You're a healer."

  Oona shrugged, rose, and went back to work in her garden.

  For two days Frost wandered the hills around Oona's small shack, searching her mind for some clue she might have overlooked, some hint that would tell her how to find Aki. Was Lord Rholf involved, or had his assassin merely chosen a coincident time to try for her life? Should she return to Rholaroth to find an answer? What if he was not involved? Rholf had never trafficked in sorcery before; Rholarothans had an extreme fear of things arcane. Then she would have wasted time. Days, weeks would pass, and she would be no closer to Aki.

  She returned to the shack to take meals with Oona and to help with a few chores. She swept the floor, nearly choking on the cloud of dust she raised. She cleaned the shelves and carefully replaced each of Oona's mysterious jars. The old woman kept lots of herbs and other things Frost didn't know or recognize. She swept the ashes from the cold fireplace.

  And all the while, her mind worked. Not Rholf, she was sure. Thogrin held the answers, and the figure in black robes who so smugly leaned on Thogrin's throne. But who was he, and was he a wizard? She felt sure of it. The fire, or whatever it was, that had scorched Aki's chamber had certainly been magical. And she had sensed something when that darkly hooded stare had reached across the palace's reception hall to meet hers.

  She returned to the hills at night to count the stars and think some more. But the second night her thoughts were endless puzzles, circles that left her dizzy until she collapsed and lay back on the cool grass. She closed her eyes and opened them. The stars moved across the sky. Even the wind seemed to whisper Aki.

  She didn't know how long she lay there, but suddenly she sat bolt upright. “You live too much in the mind!” she cursed herself, and slammed a fist into the earth. “Now act! Or count Aki damned and go marry a farmer!"

  She got up and ran all the way back to the shack, threw open the door so it rattled the entire wall. The old woman was curled up asleep on her pallet in the dark corner.

  “Oona!” she called. “Oona, wake up!"

  The old healer stirred, rubbed her eyes, and peered uncertainly into the face that leaned so close in the gloom. “What?” she mumbled. “What is it?"

  “I need clothes,” Frost said. “Old clothes, anything you might have lying around. I need them now."

  Oona sat up. “Why, child?"

  “I'm going to Kord'Ala. I've got be outside the walls before sunrise. Don't dally.” She bent down to help the old woman to her feet, cursing the darkness. She was overused to palace ways, where there was always a torch or lamp close at hand. Out here, when the sun was gone so was the light. She cursed again, but not so loud that Oona could hear.

  Oona protested, but she moved to an old trunk, opened it, and began to rummage. “You can't go there. They'll be watching for you by now. All the big cities will and many of the smaller towns. They have a garrison, you know."

  Frost held up the things Oona passed her, trying her best to see the garments that would make her disguise. “I know,” she said. “That's why I need these. They'll be looking for someone else, not a farmer's wife or a beggar."

  She began to strip off her own clothes. The back door opened and shut. Oona had gone out and returned with a small brand from the fires she kept going out back. With that light she found a stump of candle and set it on the table. The tiny flame set shadows dancing on the walls and ceiling as they moved around. Oona returned the brand to the outside fires.

  “Don't like to do that inside,” she said, closing the door again. “Afraid the place might burn down. Poor as it is, it's mine.” She rapped her knuckles on the doorframe. The walls vibrated in response.

  Frost smiled her appreciation as she tugged on another skirt, the third, and tied them all around her waist with a length of cord. Ages since she'd worn such things, and they felt strange. She pulled a tunic over her head, plain homespun that reached nearly to mid-thigh, and belted that with another cord. She rolled the sleeves halfway up her arms.

  “Make, sure you never touch that,” Frost warned, pointing to Demonfang as she spread her weapons on the table. She couldn't take them with her; they'd make her too conspicuous. At last, she thought herself ready. She smoothed her skirts and patted back her hair. “Well?” she said, turning to Oona.

  The old woman frowned, shook her head.

  Too clean. Frost decided. She went outsi
de, rubbed dirt on her face, in her hair. She rolled on the ground. Unused to the skirts, she tangled her legs, rose, tripped and fell, rose again. “Well, now?” she asked again, back inside.

  “No good at all,” the healer announced. “You're too healthy for a beggar, not lean or haggard enough. It shows."

  “A farmer's wife, then."

  “Not humble enough, not broken down from the work. That shows, too, in your bearing and in your walk; worse ... in your eyes!"

  Exasperated, Frost threw up her arms.

  “Wait.” Oona carried the candle stump to the trunk where she'd stored the clothes and bent over it, digging. When she straightened up she tossed something.

  Frost caught it, curious. She sobered at once, recognizing the feel of silk with leather bindings. She motioned for the candle and sat down at the table. Oona brought the light and sat opposite her.

  Yes, white silk and a thrice-wrapped leather binding. She looked across into the old woman's eyes as she untied the bundle. Dark shadows, a trick of the light, swallowed Oona's face. Her old hands rested quietly by the candle.

  When the silk was removed a pile of cards spilled out. Frost turned one of them over, gazed at the crowned half skull that peered back at her. She turned another and another.

  “A Descroiyo?” She leaned forward. The candle flame was hot on her cheeks. “You want me to be a Descroiyo?"

  Oona leaned closer, too, until the shadows no longer hid her face. “What better?” she whispered. “No one seeks a fortune-teller but the bored or the desperate. And you are familiar with the cards. You know their ways."

  “They won't work for me, you know that."

  “You know their meanings. You can lie about the rest, make up stories.” She shrugged, and her sigh set the flame to flickering. “All anyone wants to hear is how rich they're going to be, when they will marry, or how many women they'll make love to. You can handle that."

  Frost thought about it. Yes, it was good. The Descroiyos occupied a special position in this land of the One God. No one believed in their power to tell the future, but most were afraid to disbelieve it. Hence, they came and went as they pleased, scorned but left alone. A good disguise, she decided. She gathered up the cards, retied them in the white silk, and placed them in a pouch that Oona gave her. She kissed the old woman.

  “One more thing,” Oona said. She went to the fireplace and reached up into the chimney. She came back, her finger smudged with soot.

  “Bend down here.” Frost obeyed and Oona made a dark crescent moon on her brow. “That's the sign,” she said. “Everyone will know what you are."

  Frost thanked the old woman and went outside. Ashur was nowhere in sight. She never tied or hobbled him but let the unicorn wander, munching grass or whatever he pleased.

  “Do you call him?” Oona asked from the doorway.

  Frost looked out toward the clustered silhouettes of hills. They rose, unevenly breaking the starry skyline. “No need,” she answered. “He knows I need him now."

  The sound of hooves followed her words, a racing clip-clop in the night. “Look for his eyes,” she said to Oona.

  Two points of flame, small and far away, appeared in the direction of the hills. The thunder of hooves swelled on the breeze. The flames drew nearer, nearer, the thunder louder. The earth trembled faintly beneath their feet.

  “I see him!” Oona gasped.

  The flames danced furiously, part of the black shape that sped toward them. Frost smiled at the note in the old woman's voice. “Ashur,” she whispered, half in awe herself.

  The unicorn stopped its headlong rush several safe paces away, kicking up dust, came forward, and nuzzled Frost's hand. The long spike on its brow slid past her arm. The twin fires that served him for eyes cast pools of light about them, yet gave off no heat.

  Oona crept closer, passed her hand near one of the flames, then through it. She stared at her palm. “When I saw him that first time you came,” she said, “I thought I'd gone mad. What is he, child?"

  “Magic,” she answered simply, making no effort to hide the near rapture she felt when she and Ashur were together. “More than that, I don't need or want to know.” She gathered her skirts over one arm and leaped onto the unicorn's broad back.

  “No saddle?” said Oona.

  “Not this time,” she answered, and dropped her skirts. They spilled all around her and hung down Ashur's flanks. She grasped the thick and lustrous mane. “I'm not taking him into Kord'Ala. He can wander the hills while I do my work."

  “You may need to depart quickly,” Oona cautioned.

  “He'll be near if I need him,” Frost assured her. “I should return tonight or early tomorrow."

  She waved to Oona and sped off toward Kord'Ala. Before the eastern sky flushed pink with the sun's dawning, she slid from Ashur's back, sent the unicorn away, and squatted in the dusty road to wait. At sunrise the gates of the city opened wide. She rose, brushed her skirts and pulled her long hair close about her face, then started inside. A pair of guards quietly watched her approach. She said nothing but gave each a hard, haughty look, making sure they saw the crescent charcoal marking she wore.

  “Fortune, sir?” she said to one.

  He spat and took a step away.

  “You?” she asked the other.

  He shook his head.

  She looked inquiringly at each once more, then laughed and left them, swirling her skirts.

  Oona trudged through the door, bent and weary. On her arm she carried a basket filled with jars and bits of dried herbs. A bit of cloth tied around her head kept the hair from falling in her eyes. She closed the door softly. Her feet scraped the old wood as she shuffled across the floor and set her basket in a corner. She sighed audibly and straightened, massaging a hip with one hand.

  “Oona?"

  The old woman jumped at the sound of her name and turned. Her wide eyes shone in the darkness. “Samidar?"

  Frost lifted the earthen jar with which she'd hidden the small candlelight and leaned back in her seat at the table. “I got back hours ago. Where've you been?"

  Oona took a seat opposite her and leaned on elbows. Then her head sank slowly into her hands. After a long moment she looked up again. “The boy in the village, remember?"

  Frost nodded.

  “He's worse, burning with root-fever.” Exasperation filled her voice. Frost reached out and stroked her old friend's hair in sympathy. Oona sat up. “I've done everything I can think of!” she cried. “Nothing works."

  “The father still blames you?"

  Oona got up and paced the floor. “He's in a high rage for sure.” Suddenly Oona noticed the cards that were spread across the table. She sat down again and drew a breath. “How did you fare in Kord'Ala?"

  Frost couldn't hold back a frown. “I'm a wanted fugitive, but we knew that much,” she answered. “Thogrin's offered my weight in silver to the man who finds me. Other than that...” She shrugged and got up, went to a small bundle that rested on the trunk where Oona kept her clothes. “I did turn a few cards, enough for coins to buy that new candle and a new paring knife and shawl for you.” She held up the thin wrap.

  Oona's face brightened. She pushed back her stool and rose excitedly. “Oh, child!” she exclaimed, grasping the shawl in her old fingers, carrying it toward the light to examine the delicate embroidery. “No one's bought me anything in years! It's beautiful!” She turned suddenly and threw her arms around her younger guest.

  Frost felt awkward as the old woman hugged her. She'd never been much for letting others touch her, and she could feel scarlet heat rising in her cheeks. The hug was nearly a wrestling grip; her arms were pinned. Opponents had tried to grip her like that to throw her down or squeeze the breath from her. She inhaled deeply, feeling the old woman's breasts against her own. Well, for friendship's sake, she could endure.

  Finally, Oona released her. “Did you say a knife? I have a good knife already, over in my basket."

  Frost moved to the trunk again
and leaned on it. The bundle minus the shawl lay close at hand. “Well, actually I needed it for something; I'm done with it now, and it's yours."

  Oona's eyes narrowed. “Was there trouble?"

  She picked up the bundle and began slowly unwrapping. The knife was hidden under the first layer. She set it on the trunk. “No, not trouble.” She continued unwrapping. “Do you keep zimort in any of those jars, and any sisamy?"

  Oona's face screwed up suspiciously. In the candle's dim light, her eyes appeared to darken and shrink far back into her head. “There's zimort, but no sisamy,” she answered.

  “Hellebore can substitute, you must have that?"

  The old woman nodded slowly.

  Frost finished her unwrapping but held the cloth so that whatever was within remained concealed. “I have no answers, Oona.” She spoke softly, slowly, but with intensity, locking the aged healer's gaze with her own. “I found none in Kord'Ala and none in the cards.” She indicated the display on the table. “They don't work for me; you know my curse. Aki is still missing. If I'm going to find her, I've got to get back into Mirashai.” She hesitated, knowing the gravity of what she was about to ask. “You're the only one who can help me do that, Oona."

  She brushed away the cloth and held up her prize.

  Oona gasped and stumbled back. “You don't realize what you're asking.” She stared, pale even in the candlelight. Then fear vanished, replaced with dark suspicion. Oona drew up to her full height, eyes glittering, angry, accusing. “How did you get that?"

  Frost kept her voice calm. “They hanged him at dusk outside the city gate."

  “Who's they?” Oona demanded.

  “The garrison, some soldiers at Kord'Ala.” She was getting angry despite herself. She didn't like Oona's tone. Her voice dropped a note. There was an edge to it when she said, “I didn't murder him."

  Oona sighed. She came closer and peered at the severed hand her guest held up. “No, he'd have to be hanged."