Through the general chorus of assent, the woman said, “No! These are sacred tools. I will not let you use them for gambling.”
“Then read for me, eh?”
“You are disrespectful. Him—I will read for him,” she said, and pointed right at Cob.
The whole drunken crowd turned to stare at him. “When’d he get here?” one fellow muttered.
“Uh…” Cob said. It felt like his feet had been nailed to the ground. “I was jus’ watchin’. I don’t have any money.”
“These men demand entertainment, so they will pay for it,” the old woman said sternly. With a roll of his eyes, the argumentative fellow nodded and beckoned Cob forward, and though Cob dearly wished to be elsewhere, he let himself be pushed toward the rug, gritting his teeth the whole way. Toivo trotted after, unconcerned by the crowd.
Once on the rug, he hunched his shoulders defensively and stared at the old woman and her cards as if either might bite him. “What’s with the stick, boy?” said one of the men, and Cob pulled stick and bundle into his lap protectively.
“It’s a stick. Y’got a problem with sticks?” he grumbled.
The men laughed, but the old woman only raised her wild brows and shuffled the cards. She had a face like a pitted hatchet-blade protruding from her cloud of steel-wool hair, and her dress was dull grey, bizarrely simple for an Illanite. Her eyes, sharp and inscrutable, never left Cob’s face. Overall, she was much more what Cob had expected of a witch.
“Here,” she said, holding out the deck. “Cut six times, then hand them back.”
Cob took the cards gingerly. They were woodcut-printed, carefully colored—better than Maevor’s, where the only color was red to mark the Fire and Wood suits. He wondered what something like this cost. Deft enough with them, he cut as instructed, and the old woman nodded her somber approval as she took them back. A moment’s regard, then she said, “You are a young man still, with more future than past. I will read the Six Gates for you.”
Cob nodded, clueless, and watched as she placed one card face-up in front of her, then six cards in a rough circle around it, face-down. The eighth card she placed across the first, also face-down.
“This card is the petitioner,” the old woman said, tapping a long nail on the first card. The picture was turned toward Cob, showing animals cleverly camouflaged in the bushes behind six slim tree-trunks. “It represents you as you are now. Reversed, the Six of Staves. Normally a card of secrecy, of hiding, but in this state, one of emergence—a tentative entry into life. Into danger.
“Not a bad start,” she added, then waved her hand over the cards of the circle.
“These are the Six Gates that stand in your future. In our lives, we must choose to either pass through each Gate or to walk away. They may come in any order, and you may not realize you have made the choice until long after it has happened, but you will not forget it.
“First is the Gate of Ambition—the Gate of Fire.” She turned over the upper right card to show its picture: a knight kneeling over a fallen enemy, sword raised to strike, with a battle ongoing in the background. Eight other swords littered the ground.
The old woman pursed her lips and said slowly, “The Nine of Swords. This denotes moral hesitation, or perhaps a job left undone. Whatever form your Gate of Fire may take, it will demand that you either act or walk away. No more indecision. An important moment, to be sure.”
Frowning, Cob eyed the card. He knew that each suit had a story, and for Swords it was the tale of the fall of the Knights of Law, betrayed from within. He did not look forward to seeing any part of it come true in his own life.
Not that it hasn’t already.
“Across from it, tempering it, is the Gate of Wisdom, the Gate of Water,” said the old woman, turning the lower left card over. This one was brown and vivid green, depicting a bark-skinned woman garbed in lilies and moss who offered cupped hands toward an old traveler. The orb of a Queen card showed in one corner.
“The Wildwood, the Queen of Staves,” the old woman said. “A new view of the world will offer itself to you like a thorned gift. The water of the Wildwood is not to be drunk lightly, for it is transformative stuff. You will not be the man you once were.”
Cob nodded dubiously. He did not like the sound of ‘thorned gift’.
“Third, the Metal Gate, the Gate of Conflict.” She flipped the lower right card to show a reversed scene: a jail cell from the outside, with ropy vines tearing the bars from the window while small birds and climbing lizards helped pull a young man free. The old woman gnawed her lip for a moment, then tapped the card with a long nail. “A Wood card for the Metal gate, quite oppositional. And reversed at that. Normally the Seven of Staves represents a release from bondage or commitment, an escape, but this indicates a continued connection—though not a wise one. Languishment in service to a dead hope. That this is the Gate of Conflict tells me that you will know how much this connection restrains you, but may be powerless to sever it, no matter the harm it does. But as it is Wood against Metal, you may have a chance.”
“Sounds like my wife,” said one of the men behind Cob. The others chuckled drunkenly. Cob grimaced, trying not to think what the card might mean for his pilgrimage plans.
Sparing a glower for the men, the old woman turned over the fourth card, upper right. “The Gate of Wood, balancing your Gate of Metal. Ah, I begin to sense a theme.” She smiled at Cob in a motherly way, tapping the image of a wounded man struggling through thickly thorned woods. The shield of a Knight card emblazoned the corner. “Knight of Staves, the Wayfarer. Quite a few staves so far.”
Cob clutched his stick absently. Not my fault having something to beat people with makes me feel better.
“Aside from that,” the woman continued, “this is the Gate of Growth, and it may well hold the key to the rest of your gates, young man. The Wayfarer has suffered, in body and in heart, and been driven into the wilderness. Yet he persists in his journey though he knows not where the path leads—or if it shall ever emerge from the dark forest. It is a good card, a card of perseverance and determination, though such things can also mire a man ever more deeply in trouble.”
“Y’sure this is supposed to be in the future?” Cob mumbled.
“Oh yes. You have far to go.”
“Pikin’ terrific.”
“Here now, don’t be swearing at a lady,” said one of the drunkards with laughter in his voice. He clapped Cob on the shoulder, and Cob barely refrained from hitting him with the stick. “All these readings are doom and gloom, it ain’t her fault. Half the cards are people killing each other.”
The old woman huffed. “The pictures are not the—“
“Yeah, cups is all about that girl poisoning her man,” said another.
Slapping a hand down on the deck, the old woman declared, “The pictures are not pertinent to the reading! Now be quiet so I can continue!”
The men subsided, still chuckling amongst themselves, and with a heavy exhale the old woman looked back to the cards. Turning over the one at the bottom, she said, “The Gate of Want, of Earth.”
It was another reversed card, showing a man and a woman standing on a white shore by a dark sea, a goblet clasped between their intertwined fingers. The banner of a Herald showed in the corner.
“See, a bloody cup!” chortled one of the men. The old woman favored him with a venomous look, and he lapsed into awkward silence.
Returning her gaze to the cards, the woman said, “The Gate of Want holds both desire and greed, but to see this here, reversed, is interesting. This means separation. The Lovers, the Herald of Cups…not necessarily a romance but possibly a friendship, a familial bond, a sense of belonging. This card asks you to break that bond, but it is a strange Gate to find it behind. Perhaps you will feel that you have been too loved…?”
Cob snorted, and the old woman shook her head in bewilderment. “All I can say is that it will be clear when it occurs. Now, our last Gate.”
She turned over t
he topmost card. “The Gate of Release, of Air. This is where I would expect a card of severance. And here we have the One of Candles.” As simple as its name, the picture showed a single candle in an arched, open window, the night beyond it starless. She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “This is not the Beacon, which calls you to a path, nor is it the Light which sheds hope over a scarred landscape. It is a lonely glow, unanswered by stars. It might be a conviction, or a person, or an object—something shunned by the outside world. This Gate asks you to choose between containing and freeing it.”
“And all of these…I might not know ‘em when they happen?” Cob said, looking among the spread of cards. He was not much taken with this fortune-telling. It seemed awfully vague.
“No, you are not likely to see the Gate before you,” said the old woman, regarding the cards herself. “But with so many staves in evidence... The suit of Wood is about metamorphosis, whether for good or ill, and while many people encounter Gates that merely adjust their path, you may one day look back and no longer recognize yourself. The Wildwood, the Wayfarer, and the stark choices of the others… You have a long and branching road ahead.”
Cob frowned, privately doubting it. The only branching he could see was either to reach the Imperial Palace or to get caught, and that was not a choice.
“How ‘bout that card?” he said, pointing to the one she had overlaid on the central petitioner card.
“Ah yes, the Fate. The end result of all your striving.” She hovered bony fingers over it as she fixed him with a surprisingly clear stare. “With all the trouble you seem to be facing, I can only imagine—“
“Slavery. As for all conscription-dodgers,” said a voice from behind Cob. A distinctly sober voice.
Cob was already rising as the word ‘slavery’ registered, but a strong hand clamped on the back of his neck and forced his head down. Around him and his accoster, the drunk men scattered with guttural oaths. “Don’t even think of fleeing,” sneered the man who held him. “You won’t get five st—“
The blunt end of the stick hit something solid and Cob heard the man grunt, felt his grip slacken. He lunged forward, barely avoiding the old woman, and let the stick slide from its back-thrusted position under his arm to his hand. Glancing back, he saw his accoster doubled over, clutching his solar plexus. Three more plain-clothed recruiters approached from beyond the man, hard-faced. Without those expressions and the swords they were drawing from under coats and ponchos, they would have looked like any other ale-seeking Illanites.
“Give up, boy,” said the burliest of them, circling around the rug where the old woman was swiftly gathering her cards. Cob’s lunge had put him in a corner between a wall and the jut of the tavern’s porch; even as he grabbed the railing to swing up, the other two recruiters were rushing forward, and he smacked one with Ammala’s bundle but had it wrenched from his grip by the second. Stick in hand, he tumbled over the rail and lurched for the tavern door only to have it slammed in his face.
The burly man set one foot on the tavern step and leveled his blade at Cob. “In the name of the Empire, you are under arrest for-- Stop!”
But Cob was already bolting across the porch, and vaulted the opposite rail before any of them got near. His feet hit the dust and he shot into a sprint, all that instinct toward flight taking over.
He barely heard them shout behind him. The blood pounded in his ears like his heels in the dirt. Shouldn’t have come out, he thought. The street, which had been all but bare when he sat down, was sparsely populated now—workers and tradesmen heading home from their duties as the sun sank further—but they all cleared out of his way when they saw him coming. As if this was normal. As if they would do anything to avoid getting involved.
He glanced back once. The recruiters were still chasing. Six of them now, blades catching the light. Ahead, a man who looked like a drunk straightened up from a wall and reached under his poncho, revealing a sword hilt. Cob veered away, glad for the width of the road but not so glad for its flat straightness.
The alleys.
With the new pursuer right on his tail, he jammed one heel forward and flung himself sideways, twisting into a tight turn without slowing. The tendons in his legs twinged and he skimmed the alley wall with his shoulder but heard the man stumble in his wake, heard the chuff of hidden chainmail and a vitriolic curse. The sky closed up over his head, leaving only slits of light to show the way.
The next street was empty; he could not remember if it was where he had left Jasper or somewhere else. He shot across and into the opposite alley, not daring to linger as the only figure. A stitch crimped his side, telling him he should not be doing this so soon—that a few days of normal food was not enough to put him back on good footing. He ignored it and all the little sparkles that danced in the corners of his vision. Another empty street, another glance back—
He struck someone with enough force to slam them both to earth and tumble them through the dirt, the sky wheeling drunkenly above. Rolling off, Cob gasped raggedly and scrambled to his feet, tasting air like saw-blades in his lungs. The other man heaved up with less grace and more spitting.
“Watch where you’re going, you ass!” the man snapped.
Despite his situation, Cob stared for a moment, thinking, Weshker? A Corvishman for sure, with a shock of red hair and bright black eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Where his fallen campmate would have been already laughing, bruised or not, this Corvishman wore a vicious sneer.
“Sorry, I—“
“Go on then, run,” the Corvishman said harshly.
At that word, the fear came like a great black wave to wipe all else away. No city, no recruiters, just darkness surging around him, and something high above in the midnight sky, a circling fleck of white—
He bolted.
*****
The plain-clothed recruiters came out of the alley onto an empty street and paused, panting, at the center of the road where the running tracks intersected a wide scuffling mark. They regarded it for a moment in silence.
On their side was a single trail of boot-prints. From the other side exited a set of split-hoofed tracks like those of Ten-Sky horses. No other prints marked the road.
“What now? Follow?” rasped one of the men.
Another, shaking his head slowly, said, “No. Barracks. This is for the Imperials.”
*****
By the tavern, the old woman rolled up her rug and stood carefully, grimacing at the creak in her back. The drunkards had scattered, and soon the sun would be down and the night-trade would begin. The mercenaries would open the doors across the road and the evening-ladies and lads would pull back their curtains.
She did not like to linger for such scenes.
The dog that had followed the boy was still here as if guarding her, with the boy’s bundle clutched in its shaggy jaws. It kept perking an ear as if waiting for her to say something. The gleam in its animal eyes was sharper than she would have expected—sharper than some of the men whose fortunes she told.
She considered it, then looked to the deck of cards in her hand. The dog looked too. She had swept them up quickly, but knew by touch that they had not left their order. Balancing the rug across her shoulder, she pulled them one-by-one off the top. The boy’s six Gates…
Then the seventh card, the one that had covered the boy’s petitioner card. The one she had not yet turned, that showed the future beyond the Gates.
With the spread still in mind, she turned it face-up and blinked, then smiled an odd smile and flipped it to show the waiting dog.
“An interesting reading indeed,” she told it as it stared with undoglike interest. “All of those staves, and now the Crown.”
The dog looked a moment longer, both tattered ears perked, then bent its forepaws deeply as if bowing. She inclined her head to it in return. With a cheery wave of its tail, it then bounded off as if dismissed, back the way the boy had come.
Shaking her head, the old woman straightened the rug and tuc
ked the cards away. It was time to go home.
Chapter 7 – Shadowland
Cob thought, Jasper’s gonna kill me.
He did not know how long it had taken his mind to clear. Fear-sweat soaked his clothes and he was sure he stank of it. The panic had come on so fast that he hardly remembered what had happened. The cards, the recruiters, the Corvishman. Then nothing.
He had a horrible headache now, like a vise clamped across his brow. With a groan, he slid down the brick wall and squinted up at the sky. He was in another alley, empty laundry-lines strung above him like stitches in the darkening air. A few early stars were out, though to the west the sun still hovered unseen, casting bands of orange and red between the black shapes of buildings.
Nothing about the place told him where he was. His legs still felt unhinged; he did not want to get up and peek around the corner, did not want to be chased again. He still had his stick and canteen, but nothing else.
He checked his wrist, remembering Jasper’s bronze band, but it too was gone.
“That didn’t jus’ fall off,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeve like it might have magically migrated to his bicep. But no, it was gone. Just…vanished.
He rocked his head back against the wall and blew out a sigh. Jasper really would kill him. Well, probably just yell at him, but it angered him that he could not even remember where he might have—
Wait. The Corvishman.
Grimacing, he sat up a bit. The Corvish were all thieves and bandits, kleptomaniacs; as much as he hated to think ill of the dead, he had worked with Weshker long enough to know it as truth. Weshker had stolen weapons because he liked sharp implements in a gleeful, boyish way, but from the bitter stories the other slaves told—and the way most would rather have spat on Weshker than talked to him—Cob gathered that the Corvish were not to be trusted with anything. And now the armlet was missing after he happened to run into one on the street.
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 15
