Map’s Edge

by David Hair

  ‘Are they going to chase us?’ Jesco purred. ‘Won’t that be fun.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Raythe said, pretty certain they would but hoping to reassure Zar. ‘Stand back everyone. I’ve got work to do.’

  Jesco ushered Zar, Vidar and Kemara to a safe distance, allowing Raythe the space to focus.

  The caravan of seventy wagons, one third of which contained their stores, had left the imperial roadway leading into the east a mile back. There’d been little sign of their passage on the well-travelled, hard-packed surface, but here on the little-used Ghost Road their passing was clear. He’d asked some of the hunters to ensure that there was no tell-tale debris left behind, but the land itself marked their direction. That had to change.

  He marked out a sign on the turf – Terra, for earth – then, calling Cognatus to him, began his spell. The white cat became the parrot, which flew into his chest and they became one being. His vision blurred, then sharpened into beautiful intensity.

  He ran through the words and symbols he needed.

  Cognatus was energy and he was the channel: their bond made magic real.

  It was the same spell he’d used to conceal the mass grave back at his abandoned hut, but done larger: a powerful but subtle ripple of energy, slowly expended and with little to show for the exertion until at the very end, when a rush of wind blew in from the north and rustled through the trampled grass in a rippling wave that swept for miles back along their route.

  When it was gone, the ground had been restored to pristine wilderness, without a hint that even a single hoof or wheel had once been imprinted there. Dung pats had been swallowed by the swathe and not a blade of grass was broken. Then he sent a second pulse that swept away any trace of magical energies.

  He’d kept it all as discreet as possible; with luck, there were no sorcerers nearby who would have sensed what he did, but it took its toll and he sagged, barely able to hold himself up and feeling like someone had just sucked the marrow from his bones. Jesco appeared and propped a shoulder under his arm. He’d done this several times already and each time was like being bled by a hundred leeches.

  ‘Well done, Boss,’ Jesco murmured. ‘Let me carry you off to your boudoir.’

  ‘Just the saddle will do,’ he mumbled. Looking at Kemara he asked, ‘How much of that did you see?’

  She hesitated, then said, ‘I saw your familiar enter you. I sometimes see him with you – and other times I’ve seen wild spirits, especially near streams and old boneyards. But I told you, I failed the tests.’

  ‘Cauterising should have blinded you to seeing spirits.’

  ‘So I understand,’ she snapped, ‘but the people who dealt with me weren’t the most diligent.’

  That rang true: only one in ten with the potential ever amounted to much, and too often graduated sorcerers had little interest in fostering the gift in others. ‘If they didn’t completely seal your gift, you might still develop a useful talent,’ he told her, thinking to give her hope. ‘Some people are late developers.’

  ‘And some have no desire to meddle with nature,’ she replied.

  ‘Come on, everybody wants to be a sorcerer.’

  ‘No they don’t. I’ll stick to healing. Someone has to in this expedition, now that you’re too busy.’ She tossed her head and stalked away.

  ‘You’d have to be really unwell to ask her for help,’ Vidar grumbled.

  ‘Actually, she’s fine with her patients,’ Jesco replied. ‘It’s just Raythe she’s grumpy around.’

  Failed sorceress, poorly cauterised, bitter. ‘I imagine she’s had a hard life,’ Raythe mused. ‘It’s tough for those who fail the tests: from having the world at their feet, suddenly no one wants to know them. I probably remind her of all she’s lost.’

  He put Kemara’s problems aside for now; he had three hundred others to worry about. ‘Let’s get going.’ He pushed off from Jesco’s shoulder and went to Zar, who was staring out over Teshveld with a faraway expression.

  ‘Time to move on.’ he said. ‘You ready for an adventure?’

  ‘Teshveld was a shithole, but I wanted to go home, not further into the wilds.’

  ‘We have no home, not until the Mandarykes fall,’ he told her yet again. ‘To have any chance of that, we have to do this.’

  When I return to Otravia, it’s going to be at the head of an army. We’ll find this istariol and use it to break the Mandaryke cabal and restore freedom and justice. He gazed down the slope at the train of wagons and carts, each person drawn by the hope of something better.

  I hope they all get to fulfil those dreams – and that mine don’t cost them everything.

  4

  Feral

  If there were ghosts on the Ghost Road, Kemara saw none, though there were plenty of grave markers. Every few miles there’d be a dozen or more, the final resting places of the prisoners of war and slaves who’d laboured here long ago, before the old Magnians had abandoned their dream of linking their empire from the furthest north to the deepest south. They’d never settled here; the soil was too thin and the weather too bleak, nothing but a desolate sea of trees. Only a few trappers braved the harsh terrain to collect the furs so beloved by the Bolgravian nobility.

  Despite this, she found her own spirits were lifting. As they wound through the mist-wreathed forest, the dark, brooding beauty of the sea of pines spoke to her, for all that it was an eerie place. The road appeared to have some property that kept the creeping undergrowth at bay, but it didn’t appear to deter the wildlife. The sea was out of earshot, but birdsong filled the air and the wind sang in the treetops. For Kemara, whose eyes were open to the spirit world, there were other glimpses too, of birds and beasts that weren’t really there, and sometimes tiny shaggy goat-footed men or graceful water nymphs, glimpsed behind a branch or beneath the surface of a stream, watching her curiously as she went by.

  It pained her to see them, for she would invariably start to reflect on all she’d lost.

  But there was plenty going on in the newly formed travelling community to distract her. The first few days were awkward and fractious, with disputes breaking out between drivers over precedence in the order of march or the rate of travel, while others were already lamenting – loudly – the necessities they’d foolishly left behind, and demanding that others share.

  Arbitration fell to Raythe Vyre, Elgus Rhamp and Mater Varahana, but Kemara heard all about it. Almost everyone called by the healer’s cart at some point of the day, seeking lotions, potions or advice. Fourteen of the wives were pregnant and those approaching term were anxious that the travel would induce the babes to come too early. She soon grew short of sleep and patience too, and often napped in the back of the cart whenever she had a moment, leaving her sure-footed mule to find her own way.

  She’d not even realised how deeply she’d fallen asleep until she was jolted awake by someone shaking her shoulder and calling her name.

  ‘Mistress Solus?’ a young voice repeated, drawing her from the depths of a lurid dream, ‘Mistress Healer?’

  Kemara struggled awake, breaking through into a gentle light filtered through green leaves, and found Zar Vyre hovering over her. The cart had come to a stop off the track and Beca the mule had her head down and was grazing furiously. She could see the rest of the caravan a hundred yards ahead, scattered across a clearing.

  ‘Uh . . . guess I am now,’ she yawned. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We’ve reached a river, so we’re setting camp early. We can finally wash,’ Zar added, in a fervently thankful voice.

  ‘Praise be.’ Kemara eyed the coltish girl and asked, ‘What’s Zar short for? Zara? Zarette?’

  ‘Zarelda.’

  ‘That means “Warrior Woman” in Old Otravian, doesn’t it?’ Kemara looked her over. ‘How can I help you?’

  The girl looked around to ensure they were alone before leaning close and, though there was no one near, murmuring, ‘I’m having really bad headaches and I’m seeing stars, like someone
hit me. And I’m feeling really sick, you know?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She fixed the girl with a stare. ‘Are you pregnant?’

  ‘No – No!’ Zar looked appalled. ‘I’ve never even . . . um . . .’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Kemara considered her for a moment, then said slowly, ‘I’ve heard you say you want to be a sorcerer like your father . . . well, this is how it starts – although don’t go getting too excited, because it’s not the only possibility.’

  The warning was too late, for Zar’s eyes were already widening until they were round as saucers. ‘It’s actually happening? Finally? Oh, oh—’

  Clearly there were no other possibilities as far as she was concerned. She burst into tears, hugged Kemara, then danced a jig.

  ‘I’m sure it’s exciting,’ Kemara remarked drily, ‘but maybe best keep it quiet until we know for sure, yes?’

  The girl looked about to burst with excitement, but she said dutifully, ‘I won’t tell a soul, promise – apart from my father.’ And she bounded off like a deer towards her father’s wagon.

  Gerda protect her, Kemara thought, crossing fists over her chest. Please don’t put her through what I endured.

  *

  Every wagon rolling towards their unknown destination was a world of its own. A true metaphor for life, Raythe decided as he watched them rattle by. Life is transitory, and so are we. Each unit was separate, unique, an individual or a family with their possessions pared down to bare necessities, but each had their own personal flourish. The blacksmith Lynd Borger was hauling his anvil and bellows, as well as his wife and seven children. Gravis Tavernier’s wagon had been kitted out as an inn on wheels, while Kemara’s cart was also her apothecary. Some travelled with friends or like-minded souls; others kept themselves to themselves, as if the caravan was merely coincidental to their own journey. And yet all were part of the greater whole.

  Raythe’s own mid-sized wagon was sparsely packed; what few mementos of their old life back in Otravia he’d brought were carefully concealed. At night he slept beneath the wagon, with Zar tucked up in the back, the old loft curtains giving her a little privacy. He barely saw her during the evenings now; she barrelled around the campsites with the others of her age, eager to be accepted. She’d never really had friends before, so it was nice to see her beginning to blossom.

  But she’s also beginning to develop the praxis. One way or another, her life’s about to change completely.

  Even though both he and her mother were sorcerers, and despite Zar’s unwavering certainty, the chance of her developing such powers had still been against the odds. Even now, until she manifested and gained a familiar, it was just potential. But Cognatus was now watching her avidly, as were other spirits, wisps of energy that took form as tiny animals or diminutive human forms, invisible to anyone except him – and maybe Kemara.

  During the day, he left Zar in charge of the wagon, while he rode up and down the lines, ensuring all was well and learning names and faces. The order of march had swiftly been established: Sir Elgus Rhamp’s outriders cantered ahead on their war-bred steeds like they owned the land, but they ensured the river-crossings were passable and although most of Rhamp’s mercenaries were young and arrogant, seeing manual labour as beneath them, sometimes they would even lower themselves to clear the frequent falls of tree or rocks blocking the way. They followed orders grudgingly and got into fights at the drop of a hat, particularly after yet another night flocking about Gravis’ wagons, carousing with the tavern women until they fell over. They’d already drained half of the innkeeper’s beer and now refused to let anyone else near. Most of the disputes in the caravan concerned their behaviour.

  The second group were the villagers and farmers who’d left land and homes behind to follow Raythe’s mad dream. Mater Varahana spoke fluently about faith and togetherness and the ordinary folk, all pious, hardworking followers of Deo and Gerda, who’d wound up at the edge of the map following dreams that life had continually crushed, rallied around her. They were banding together increasingly to protect their womenfolk from Rhamp’s predatory men; Raythe had noticed that at the priestess’ suggestion, they had started ringing their wagons in the evening to look after their wives and daughters.

  Not a stupid decision, he admitted, unhappy that there was so little he could do about the mercenaries right now.

  The third group were the hunters and trappers, around forty of them, most of them single. Solitary men by nature, they loosely followed a hunter by the name of Cal Foaley, whom Vidar was cultivating. Some were dangerous, damaged men, and even Rhamp’s mercenaries recognised that they weren’t to be messed around with.

  All told, he had around three hundred people, two-thirds of them grown men, with around sixty wives and as many children. At times, when Raythe was trying to conceal their trail, or deal with disputes, it felt like there were far too many of them, but when he worried about what they might face on the road, they looked pitifully few. Privacy was negligible and arguments were constant as the new community tried to learn how to live together. He swiftly got sick of having to calm everyone down, but if he could keep a volatile group of refugees, many with their own epic tales of trauma and despair, from each other’s throats, the effort would be worthwhile.

  By the end of the first week, they’d covered a hundred miles, helped by the Ghost Road easing their passage and thanks to the spells to stop overgrowth laid down by the ancient Magnian sorcerers who’d helped build it.

  One hundred miles – but we’re still hundreds of miles from Verdessa and it’ll be high summer by the time we arrive . . . if we can keep together. I guess that’s my job.

  *

  ‘Mistress Kemara?’

  This time it was Mater Varahana’s voice dragging Kemara out of the deepest slumber.

  The last few days had been exhausting, for she’d been inundated by the sick and the injured. She rolled over, saw that the sun was barely above the horizon, the air was cold and the dew still thick on the ground. The wind moaned through the pines covering the inland flank; the west was open grasslands extending to the coastal ranges some twenty miles distant.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously; being woken by others always brought back bad memories.

  ‘Bess Shapple’s having abdominal pains,’ the priestess told her. ‘She’s asking for you.’

  ‘Aren’t they responding to prayer?’ Kemara asked, stifling a yawn and sitting up.

  ‘Hilarious,’ Varahana said dourly. ‘She’s frightened she’s losing her baby.’

  That killed all levity and though Kemara’s tiredness remained, sleepiness vanished. She sat up, struggled to her feet and dragged her bedroll into the back of her cart before hauling on her boots and grabbing her bag and a shawl. She turned to the priestess and said curtly, ‘I’m ready. Lead the way.’

  They hurried through the waking camp as the earliest risers rekindled cooking flames, or stumbled into the bushes to perform their ablutions. They’d been two weeks on the road and covered nearly two hundred miles, according to Raythe Vyre’s estimation, but the Ghost Road would end soon and travel would become harder.

  Ronno Shapple, a paunchy trapper with a mane of grey curls, hurried to meet them. Seizing her hand, he babbled, ‘Bess is cramping, she can’t hold down food – I’m worried—’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Kemara cut him off. ‘I’ll look after her; you keep the gawkers away.’ She made her way into the canvas tent where Bess lay groaning beneath a blanket, sweaty despite the chill in the air. Half a dozen women swarming around her parted as Kemara swept in.

  ‘Bess, what’s up?’ she said, dropping beside the bedroll and taking the woman’s hand.

  ‘She’s got—’ Jayne Ruelle began, but Kemara was shaking her head.

  ‘I’ll hear from Bess, please,’ she said crisply. They undoubtedly meant well, but none had anything like formal medical training. ‘Everyone out except Nella.’

  Nella Baird, a solid farmer’s wife, took some relish in orderin
g the rest away, before muttering, ‘Silly bints.’

  ‘Fresh water, please, Nella,’ Kemara ordered, more to buy herself a moment’s peace than for real need. Once she’d gone, she gave Bess an encouraging smile. ‘Now, what’s the matter?’

  Bess, a blunt-faced woman with a lived-in air, gave her an exhausted look, laced with fear. ‘Somethin’ ain’t right inside,’ she groaned. ‘It’s like birthin’, but I’m months away. An’ somethin’s wrong in my back. I keep getting these shootin’ pains like knives down my thighs, then numbness, and I can’t move. I’m scared I’ll end up a cripple.’

  Kemara kept her demeanour positive as she asked a few questions and moved her arms and legs, trying to gauge how much movement the woman had. After a few more questions, Kemara had the trapper’s wife hike up her skirts and they joked about cold hands as she probed the woman’s swollen belly and her genitals. When she pressed her ear to her belly, she could sense a heartbeat, rapid and weak, but not unduly so. ‘She’s a little lively, for sure, Bess. No bleeding?’

  ‘None,’ Bess grunted. ‘I’d be bloody hysterical were it that.’

  ‘This is what, your third pregnancy?’

  ‘Fourth. Miscarried my first.’

  ‘Lots of women miscarry their first,’ Kemara reminded her. ‘It doesn’t mean you’ll lose this.’

  Nella returned and began to boil some water, while Kemara selected some soothing herbs. It’s likely just sciatica, and pinched nerves around a spinal disc, she thought, but she couldn’t be wholly sure, and the baby’s heartbeat was a little concerning. So she gave herself over to easing her patient’s pains, while outside, the usual morning routines were followed; cattle rounded up, horses and mules hitched to wagons and carts, while the children squalled about, blowing off steam before another day of being bumped around in cramped wagons.

  Then Raythe Vyre poked his head in. ‘A word, Mistress Kemara?’

  Kemara scowled as he withdrew, which made Bess chuckle, despite her discomfort. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’