Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  “I won’t,” he’d said.

  “That’s why I need to go to the Nomad Lands,” she’d explained. “To see a wizard.”

  She’d paused, fixed him with eyes so sincere and needful that he’d thought he might weep. “Will you come with me?”

  Alem had nodded. “Yes.”

  And then their conversation had been cut short upon Brasley’s return.

  Alem had not broached the subject again. But every time she closed her eyes to commune with the falcon, as she did now, Alem watched from the edge of his vision, hoping to glimpse a miracle, wanting to see what magic looked like.

  Her eyes popped open, and she sucked in a deep breath of cold air the way she always did when coming back, like her body was starting up again.

  “Klarissa’s people are still drawing them off to the south,” Rina said. “Even if they turned around right now and rode without stopping, it would take them three days to reach us.”

  “See?” Brasley said. “Stop worrying like an old hen. Every time you look over your shoulder, you make me nervous.”

  “Not nervous enough.” But Alem shrugged, tore his gaze away from the forest and mounted his own horse.

  They rode at a slow gallop, a steady pace but nothing that would tire the horses too quickly. The land unfolded before them, rolling gently, hills not very high and valleys not too deep. The trees remained infrequent and far from one another as if each of the gnarled, rough-barked things had staked out its own territory. The sun rose, the sky stretching cloudless and startlingly blue in every direction.

  They’d periodically slow the horses to a walk to let them rest, and it was during one of these periods that Alem reined in his mount suddenly and stopped. The others stopped too and looked back at him.

  “She said they’ve been drawn off to the south by the gypsies,” Brasley reminded him. “I thought we’d put this particular worry to rest.”

  “Just wait a minute, okay?”

  Brasley looked to Rina, who shrugged. He sighed and slouched in his saddle.

  They were in a wide, low area between two hills, the slopes very gradual. The three of them watched the prairie behind them for long minutes, and Alem was about to call it quits when a figure crested the hill in the distance, a lone rider on a large white horse.

  Alem shot a glance back at Brasley. “See? I knew we were being followed.”

  “Yes, your powers of clairvoyance are truly astounding. But that isn’t a Perranese column. It could be anyone. Or are we supposed to piss ourselves every time we see a lone rider in the distance?”

  But there was little heat in Brasley’s sarcasm. The three of them continued to watch the rider with mild trepidation. He’d reined in his horse and sat atop the squat hill looking down at them. He was cloaked completely in black, hood pulled forward to obscure his face. His appearance seemed ominous for no other reason than his sudden materialization out in the middle of the wilderness, and after so many days of pursuit by the Perranese, nerves were on edge. The rider watched them for another brief moment, then wheeled his mount around, heading back the way he’d come and disappearing down the other side of the hill.

  “Where’s he going?” Alem asked.

  “Three of us and only one of him,” Brasley said. “Maybe we made him nervous.”

  “We made him nervous?”

  “There’s always the chance he’s just another traveler.”

  “I’d feel better if we knew for sure,” Rina said.

  “The falcon?” Alem suggested.

  “He’s south, watching the Perranese,” Rina said. “I’ll call him back, but it will take time. I’m not sure I want to wait. That rider knows we’ve seen him now.”

  “Then what do we do?” Brasley asked.

  She turned her mount, kicked it lightly in the flanks and clicked her tongue, spurring the horse to a gallop. “We ride on.”

  * * *

  The sun sank, and the velvet night sky spread itself endlessly over the prairie, stars glittering bright, a tapestry cold and beautiful. In a dell near one of the gnarled trees, a small campfire glowed. Twenty yards away, another of the crooked trees grew uncharacteristically near the first.

  The dark-cloaked rider on the white steed paused to watch the flickering scene. The semi-circle of horses blocked most of the rider’s view of the small camp, but a single silhouette could be seen moving in front of the fire, and likely the other two were close. It was a cold night.

  The rider dismounted and left the horse behind. It was well-trained and wouldn’t wander. Sound traveled easily in the open grassland, and from beneath the dark overhanging limbs of the second tree it might be possible to overhear the conversation of the three travelers. This was the rider’s aim.

  Approaching the camp called for stealth, and the rider didn’t hurry. Careful steps. Not a sound.

  Once the rider was beneath the tree’s low limbs, Alem dropped from his hiding place, landing hard on the rider. He sensed Rina dropping from her spot a few feet away and Brasley running toward them from the campfire with a torch in his hand.

  “I’ve got him,” Alem shouted.

  He wrapped his arms around the rider, wrestling to get on top of him. He was slighter than he appeared within the billowing cloak, a small man. Alem climbed on top, and the figure beneath him uttered a high-pitched yelp.

  That didn’t sound right.

  Alem threw back the rider’s hood just as Brasley arrived with the torch, illuminating the scene.

  The rider was red haired, a light smattering of freckles across her nose, bright white skin and piercing green eyes.

  “Maurizan!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Maurizan sat hunched at the small fire, cupping a mug of weak herbal tea in both hands, cherishing the warmth.

  She confessed she’d been following them since their hasty departure from the gypsy camp, shivering under a thin blanket every night because she’d worried a fire would give her away. Long days in the saddle. She admitted she hadn’t expected them to cover so many miles each day. When the gypsies traveled it was by slow-moving wagon caravan. Her meals had been cold jerky and hard biscuits.

  “Following somebody without letting them see you is more difficult than I thought,” she said.

  “Better we discovered you now than in a month when we’re halfway across Helva,” Brasley said. “It’s only three days back to your mother. You can start at first light.”

  Alem frowned at Brasely but said nothing.

  “I don’t want to go back,” Maurizan said.

  Brasley shrugged. “Too bad.”

  Maurizan’s fierce eyes stabbed at Brasley. “If you send me away, I’ll just come back. I’ll follow you to the other side of the world. You’ll have to kill me to stop me.”

  Silence stretched into a long, awkward moment.

  “Why?” Alem asked quietly.

  “Because there’s nothing to go back to. My birthright was stolen.” Maurizan jerked her chin at Rina. “She knows what I’m talking about.”

  All eyes went to Rina.

  Rina’s head spun, eyes meeting Maurizan’s.

  Maurizan didn’t flinch from Rina’s stare. “My grandmother was given the Prime. As was my mother. I was meant to have it as well. And now I can’t. It was meant for me, and now I’ll never have it. I’ll never be anything but a little, stupid gypsy girl.”

  Alem and Brasley looked at one another, the question plain on their faces. The prime what?

  Rina turned away. So that was it. It was completely wrong and unfair. The idea that Rina had deprived Maurizan of anything was ludicrous. And yet …

  The wizard Weylan had died in the act of inking the Prime tattoo on Rina’s back. It would be easy for a young girl’s mind to twist this into an act of theft. If Maurizan had been set to receive the gift of the Prime from Weylan, and if Rina had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to snatch this gift out from under her … yes. It hadn’t been intentional; Rina hadn’t known … but she could understa
nd how Maurizan might feel fate had betrayed her.

  “What do you want?” Rina asked. “You know what’s happened can’t be undone.”

  “I want to come with you.” There was something bold in Maurizan’s voice. “Change is coming to Helva. My mother says we stand on the edge of great events. I want to be part of them. I want to be important. I was meant to do something important. You took that away from me. Mostly. But I can at least be near what is happening, witness it. I can’t be as important as I’d hoped, but I can do … something.”

  Rina looked away, crossed her arms.

  “Nonsense,” Brasley said. “Rina only just laid eyes on you a few days ago. She’s stolen nothing. You’re a delusional, spoiled little girl and—”

  “Brasley.” Alem’s voice was low but tight.

  Brasley held up his hands and backed away. “Fine. No harsh words. No hurt feelings. But she goes. We have enough to worry about. She goes in the morning.”

  “It’s not your decision,” Alem said.

  “It’s not yours either!” shouted Brasley.

  “It’s mine,” Rina said. “So everybody else shut up.”

  Alem turned back to the campfire, absently poked at the embers with a stick. Brasley threw up his hands and turned away. Only Maurizan held firm, her eye’s never leaving Rina’s.

  Rina held Maurizan’s gaze for a long moment. The campfire cracked and popped. Stars twinkled overhead.

  “She stays,” Rina said. “As long as she wants. It’s her choice.”

  Brasley sighed extravagantly. “Fantastic. How could this trip get worse?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The cold rain had been steady all day, and after they passed the inn, Brasley brought his horse alongside Rina’s and asked, “Is there any good reason we’re passing up a perfectly good, warm, dry place to sleep?”

  Rina glanced back at the inn. She thought about telling Brasley they were low on funds, but that wasn’t true. They were by no means wealthy, but they could certainly afford a couple of rooms. It was a small, shabby village and a small, shabby inn, so it wouldn’t be expensive. Unfortunately, it likely also wouldn’t be all that comfortable, although it certainly would be warm and dry.

  “We still have four hours of daylight.” She glanced at the sky; the rain clouds were so thick and dark that calling it daylight was being generous. Still, she’d felt driven ever since leaving the gypsy camp. She had to make it to the Nomad Lands, had to find Talbun. Every minute seemed a delay that put Klaar farther and farther out of her reach. The Perranese would dig in, and they would own the duchy, and they’d have a foothold in Helva.

  Then it will be the king’s problem, won’t it? That thought had a fleeting appeal. That she could go off, start a new life without looking back. Let somebody else handle the Perranese.

  But no. Like the people of Klaar, Rina was independent minded, but she was still a loyal subject.

  They’d crossed the grasslands in ten days, keeping west but also veering south, where they’d picked up a narrow road that made traveling a bit easier. The same gnarled trees dotted the landscape, but in clumps of twos and threes or even a dozen, and small farming villages had sprung up about a day from one another, the wide fields around each one barren for the winter, but she seemed to recall the locals grew some variety of grain. At least that’s what she remembered her father saying, and as always she felt something go tight in her chest when she thought of him.

  The rain had come before dawn’s light and hadn’t eased.

  A wave of fatigue rolled over her suddenly and she had the sharp feeling she should turn the horse back toward the inn. Just to be warm for a few hours. Just to sleep on something softer than the ground.

  No. They rode on, the village dwindling behind them, Brasley grumbling in the saddle.

  Rina glanced back, saw that Maurizan was riding close beside Alem; their heads leaned together in conversation. That had been the norm the past week, and Rina wondered if Alem was the real reason Maurizan had followed them. Her childish infatuation with the boy was obvious to everyone but Alem, a situation that irritated Rina for no good reason.

  That night a campfire proved impossible. Everything was soaked. Brasley kicked the small pile of wet kindling, scattering sticks and cursing under his breath. “So is everyone enjoying their riding holiday to the ass end of nowhere?”

  “Give it a rest, Brasley.” Rina kept her voice flat.

  Anger flashed briefly in Brasley’s eyes before he turned away.

  They all curled under wet blankets beneath a cluster of the gnarled trees about a hundred yards off the road where the land rose just enough to keep the rainwater from puddling around them. They awoke the next morning sore and cold and none of them in any better mood than Brasley. They climbed groaning into their saddles and headed off southwest again, the horses’ hooves splashing the mud of the wagon-rutted road.

  If they passed through a village big enough to have an inn, they’d stop, Rina decided. Everyone’s morale needed a boost. She regretted not stopping before. The wet, cold misery had sapped them all. Even a farmer’s barn would be welcome. Sleeping in the hay and the stink of horseshit, they would at least be dry.

  But as they day waned, there was still no sign of civilization. They resigned themselves to another night under wet blankets.

  In the failing light, Brasley’s horse stepped into a hole. It had been filled with water and he hadn’t seen it. The horse pitched forward, going down in front, and Brasley flew out of the saddle, landing with a cold splash in the mud. His horse sprang up again, trotting a few yards away, spooked but unhurt.

  “Damn it!” Brasley sat up and slapped the puddle next to him with open palm, splashing more muddy water. “This is ridiculous. We’ve been traveling in the cold and the wet and getting saddle sore, and for what?”

  Alem dismounted, offered Brasley a hand. “Come on, man. Get up. You’re just out of sorts.”

  Brasley slapped his hand away. “Out of sorts! Really. I can’t imagine why.” He stabbed a finger at Rina. “You know this is wrong. The king should have been told about the Perranese immediately. You’ve let your private obsession cloud your judgment, and you’re dragging us all along for the ride.”

  Rina sat in the saddle, shoulders slumped. She looked down at Brasley in the mud, her face blank. The only sound was the patter of rain. Brasley was right about one thing at least. They couldn’t go on like this.

  She dismounted and drew her rapier, the blade coming out of the scabbard with a metallic hiss loud enough to make Maurizan gasp behind her.

  “On one knee, Brasley.”

  He blinked up at her, suddenly less confident. “What—?”

  “Do it.”

  Brasley knelt in the mud, looking up at her, a mix of worry and curiosity on his face.

  “You’re an untitled, lesser son of a minor nobleman,” Rina said. “We have to do better than that if you’re going to be my envoy to the King of Helva.” She tapped his shoulder with the tip of her sword, tried to remember the words her father had used on such occasions. “Under the holy eyes of Dumo, as Duchess of Klaar and before these witnesses here present, I hereby name you Sir Brasley Hammish, bound now by oaths to protect and serve me and the Duchy of Klaar until such time as you are released from my service or death takes you.” She tapped the other shoulder. Okay, she’d paraphrased slightly, but the words were close enough. “Rise, Sir Brasley.”

  Brasley didn’t rise. He stared up at her. “Can you do that?”

  She shrugged. “I’m either a duchess or I’m not.”

  He rose slowly, one of his knees popping. The rain fell. “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “You were right,” Rina said. “The crown needs to be told about the Perranese. Likely they won’t be able to do anything until the spring thaw, but they still need to know. And somebody needs to speak up for Klaar at court. You’re a silver-tongued devil, so I guess that’s as close as we have to a diplomat.” Rina allowed a sli
ght smile to twitch at the corner of her mouth. “And anyway, you’re a huge pain in the ass. The sooner we get you back to clean sheets and fine living, the sooner you’ll stop bellyaching. I think life at court will agree with you better than life on the road.”

  He grinned. Sheepish. “Still, I’d feel better if I had a signed letter proclaiming my knighthood. Something with your signature and the Duke’s seal in wax.”

  Rina shrugged again. “I don’t have my father’s signet ring. Sorry. But a letter at least can be arranged.”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  “This is the court of the King of Helva. And you’re now a knight and the official representative of the Duchy of Klaar. You’ve got to strut in there as arrogant as a peacock and make them listen to you.” She smiled more warmly now. “I feel you’re the perfect man for the job.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tosh put the girls through their paces, or rather Tenni did while he watched. She, Prinn, and Darshia were nearly as good as Tosh now, which is to say far from master swordsmen, but good enough to keep alive on a battlefield until it was time to run away.

  They had to bring the girls down in shifts since there was only room in the cave for about a dozen of them to pair off and have room to spar. Tenni was putting them through some basic stances. When the next shift came down, Darshia would take charge.

  When it had been put to the girls that they would now learn swordsmanship, their reply had been surprisingly enthusiastic. Only two women had packed their things in the night and slipped away. Tosh had been surprised more hadn’t left. Perhaps the girls simply didn’t know what they were in for.

  Neither did Tosh, not really. Mother hadn’t deigned to say what her plan might be, only that it behooved oneself to be prepared. Tosh had reported frequently on the girls’ progress, and Mother had nodded quietly every time, tensely quiet, as if some secret scheme were coming to fruition.

  The cave below the Wounded Bird was thick with girl sweat. Tosh didn’t mind.

  The first shift ended, and the women went upstairs to bathe and then pleasure the slow trickle of Perranese warriors who patronized the brothel. Nobody in Klaar could quite understand why the bulk of the foreign garrison had been moved outside the walls when a perfectly good city was available to shelter them through the brutal winter. There had been three harsh blizzards since the arrival of the Perranese, but Klaar was still waiting for the big one, the storm that inevitably arrived each winter to punish anyone foolish enough to dwell in such climes.