Map’s Edge

by David Hair

  She went to go, but Sir Elgus blocked her departure, dropping to one knee. ‘My sons did wrong and I humbly apologise. I am your servant, Mistress Zarelda.’

  ‘Uh . . . thank you,’ she stammered, and hurried away, before stopping and calling, ‘About kragging time,’ over her shoulder. Raythe signed to Jesco and Vidar that all was well and he motioned for Elgus to sit.

  They had a couple of ryes, and spoke of the daily goings-on of the expedition, a subtle reminder to each other that they needed to cooperate to make this work. Elgus told him that Osvard and Poel were recovering, and extremely penitent, which Raythe doubted, and they talked through the provisioning, which needed to get tighter.

  Finally, Elgus brought up the praxis, and more particularly, the revelation of two more practitioners. ‘You’ve got two sorceresses on your hands, Raythe. As I understand it, until they’re fully trained, they’re a danger to us all.’

  ‘It’ll work out,’ Raythe replied. ‘You keep your sons under control, I’ll worry about them.’

  Elgus frowned. ‘So does the praxis run in the blood?’

  ‘Not really. In theory, anyone can use magic. But it takes a certain intellect and attitude to master it: complete conviction in your ability, a capacity to visualise that verges on a waking dream, a facility with language, to communicate with the spirits in their language, and an understanding of how nature functions – animal, vegetable and mineral. Not many folk can handle all of that.’

  ‘But you and your daughter both have it? Surely that’s blood?’

  ‘Zarelda thinks like me,’ he told Elgus. ‘Magic’s something she’s aspired to all her life and she knows she can do it because I can. She’ll master it in no time. And Kemara’s had some training – her control isn’t perfect, but we’ll remedy that.’

  Better he believes that, than the truth.

  ‘She’s a sharp-tongued bitch,’ Elgus muttered, before raising a placating hand. ‘I’m not saying what happened was her fault – but there’s folks wondering why a sorceress would pretend to just be a healer.’

  ‘In Teshveld I was doing exactly the same,’ Raythe pointed out.

  ‘But since then, you’ve been using your talents to help us. What’s she been doing?’

  ‘Saving lives. Healing people.’

  The Pelarian knight grumbled, then shrugged. ‘Well, maybe now she’s known, she’ll do more. Isn’t there some kind of thing where two sorcerers are more powerful when they work together?’

  Elgus clearly had a brain behind that brawny exterior. Perhaps he was still plotting, but hopefully this talk had changed his thinking.

  ‘You mean the meld,’ Raythe said. ‘It’s true that in the Arcanus Academia, we’re paired at an early age, if we’re compatible. A strong meld partnership can do much more than either sorcerer on their own. If I can forge a meld with either Zarelda or Kemara, it’ll be well worth the effort.’

  Though I’ve not melded with anyone since Luc Mandaryke and I fell out . . .

  ‘So what’s next, Raythe?’ he asked. ‘When do we reach Verdessa?’

  Raythe signalled to Vidar and Jesco to rejoin them, then said, ‘We’re a few days from the Bay of Shardak. Gospodoi’s ship passed it on the way west. The bay is hemmed in with mountains, but it’s completely iced over, according to the journal, so we’ll be able to drive our wagons right across into Verdessa.’

  ‘Where we run the risk of imperial patrols,’ Elgus commented.

  ‘True. But the river we seek is this side of the imperial garrison at Rodonoi, in the foothills of the mountains. The imperials don’t know we’re coming and with luck, they won’t know we passed.’

  Elgus toasted that, then turned to Vidar. ‘Are you a genuine bearskin, big man?’

  Vidar’s smile faded. ‘I am.’

  The knight whistled softly. ‘Had one in my company for a while. But the rage took him during a scrap with imperial cavalry and he wouldn’t – nay, couldn’t – run. Killed a dozen of the bastards before he went down, mind.’

  Vidar looked away into the gloom. ‘There’s a beast in every man. It’s how we control it that defines who we are and what we become.’

  Elgus sighed. ‘A lesson I hope my sons will learn. Look, I’d better get back to my men. It’s been good to talk,’ he added, offering Raythe his hand.

  They rose and clasped hands. ‘Your son Banno is courting my daughter,’ Raythe noted. ‘I don’t mind the friendship, but it’s to go no further.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the boy,’ Elgus said. He nodded his shaggy head to Jesco and Vidar. ‘Gentlemen.’

  As they watched him go, Raythe thought, I still don’t trust you, but I reckon you’ll keep the peace, for now.

  6

  Sickness

  Mater Varahana lifted her head and hands to heaven and made the Hand of Gerda over her congregation, feeling a sense of serenity and oneness; that always surprised her.

  Then she scanned the gathering: she normally had sixty to seventy people at the morning service, but today there were only forty, and most of them looked worried. She didn’t know why that was and their anxiety was beginning to infect her. She knew all of their life stories by now, felt their needs as her own.

  Kneeling in the front were her six Sisters of Gerda, anonymous in their shapeless cowled habits. The ethos of the Sisterhood was to vanish into servitude: names were rarely used and every Sister was expected to be able to perform any task they were called upon to do. To Varahana it was a kind of madness.

  But then, isn’t that what religion is? Mass self-delusion, willing yourself to believe the impossible in the face of all reason, because you’re scared that otherwise, your life has no more purpose than that of an ant. Yet, here I am, passing down the fairy-tales . . .

  Then she chided herself, because she was wool-gathering while her congregation waited for words of encouragement and inspiration. So she snapped into the present and began, ‘Dear Brethren, we gather as always on this beautiful morning’ – in truth, it was dreary, grey and foreboding, but she’d been preaching of late about the virtues of seeing beauty in all things – ‘to contemplate the gift of a new day. Life is eternally renewing, and . . .’

  Her voice trailed away as Carroda Layle appeared at the edge of the gathering, a pleading look on her face.

  ‘Mater,’ she called, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, truly, but please come – my Shana, she’s so sick—’

  This caused a stir, with the more self-righteous harrumphing over having their worship interrupted, while others burst out, ‘She’s not the only one, Mater.’

  As if to emphasise the point, Lew Fulter bent over and vomited into the grass.

  Varahana gestured at her Sisters to rise and hurried to Carroda. ‘What’s the matter with your daughter?’ she asked, as her congregation crowded in to hear the news.

  Carroda, a farmer’s wife who’d argued strenuously against joining this ‘mad trek into nowhere’, seized her hands. ‘Shana’s been sick all night.’

  ‘So’s me boy,’ Ardo Myle put in, flapping his hands excitedly. ‘Me missus is with him now.’

  ‘Has anyone told Raythe Vyre?’ Varahana asked, extricating herself with some difficulty from Carroda’s sweaty grip.

  ‘ ’is Lordship’s off first light with the scouts,’ someone replied.

  ‘An’ Rhamp’s closed off his camp,’ Lew’s brother Tawyn put in. ‘Reckon them’s sick too.’

  ‘Raythe needs to know,’ Varahana said firmly. ‘Someone find him. Carroda, take me to Shana.’

  ‘But what if ye get sick too?’ Tawyn demanded. ‘We can’t risk ye, Mater.’

  ‘Gerda will protect me,’ Varahana stated, though she believed no such thing. ‘Carroda, show me. Everyone else – a little privacy, please?’

  That helped keep the wall of people back a few paces as Carroda dragged her to her family’s wagon. Carroda’s husband gave her a dirty look, as if the illness was Deo’s fault, but Varahana ignored him as she ducked under the awning they had fash
ioned from a blanket to create more living space.

  The stink of sickness inside was stomach-turning, but Varahana knew how to keep nausea at bay, even when others lost their fight. Shana, a ghostly-faced girl clinging to a battered doll, was whimpering dazedly, her eyes unfocused. Her skin was cold, but dripping sweat, her pulse rapid and weak, despite her slow, shallow breathing. Vomit crusted the front of her nightdress and blanket, her arms were bruised and her sinuses were blocked and swollen. There was no one symptom that confirmed the identity of the ailment – and nothing fatal, she hoped most devoutly.

  ‘Shana?’ she called, but the girl didn’t react. She tapped her cheek, then pinched it, gently first, then harder, but she got no reaction other than a faint twitch of the eyeballs; it was as if the girl were trapped inside but unable to make anything work.

  What is this?

  All the while Carroda hovered, her habitual sour face despairing. ‘She’s a healthy girl,’ she hissed. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘It’s too soon to say,’ Varahana replied. ‘Has Mistress Kemara seen her?’

  ‘We looked for her, but she weren’t in her camp, nor at yer service.’

  ‘I expect she’s seeing other patients. Keep Shana warm, despite the sweating. Her body’s ability to regulate temperature is awry. I’m going to see if anyone else has the same symptoms.’

  Carroda seized her shoulder. ‘Mater, won’t you say a prayer, to keep her safe?’

  It’s knowledge that’ll save her, not prayers, Varahana managed not to say. ‘Of course,’ she said, schooling her voice into calm. She recited a prayer and although Carroda wept, the rote words seemed to help her, if not the girl.

  Varahana checked first on Lew Fulter’s boy and was unsurprised to find the symptoms were the same. ‘Keep him warm and hydrated,’ she recommended, then moved on from wagon to wagon, finding the same thing, over and over. At the fifth, she found Kemara Solus, administering a herbal steam treatment to unblock a young boy’s nose.

  The healer looked up. ‘You spoken to Vyre?’ she asked, her brusque tone no doubt the result of the exhaustion written across her face.

  ‘Not yet.’ Varahana blessed the boy, then pulled Kemara aside. ‘When did you learn of this?’

  ‘About midnight – I haven’t stopped, I’ve just been going from case to case. There are no bites or cuts that I can see, they’ve not been eating the same foods, there’s no one person who everyone’s had contact with . . . I’m wondering about contaminated water, maybe?’

  ‘Have you seen anything like this before?’

  Kemara screwed up her face. ‘That’s the problem. As well as the respiratory problems and the nausea, there’s a lot of bruising too, although I can’t see what anyone’s been bashing themselves against. There’s nothing that identifies this sickness positively, and too many things it could be.’

  ‘That’s just what I’ve been thinking, too,’ Varahana admitted, and they both sagged a little.

  ‘Is Vyre going to be any use in this?’ Kemara asked, her expression sceptical.

  ‘I’ve never heard Raythe claim that the praxis can heal sickness. I’ve seen him use it to seal wounds and the like, but the humours that cause illness are usually too small to deal with that way.’

  Kemara sighed. ‘Then it’s up to us. I’ve been trying to stop the vomiting and clear their airways, but nothing’s really working. If anything, it’s getting worse. If we can’t find a way to treat this disease, whatever it is, people are going to start dying.’

  *

  Raythe trotted back into camp, already briefed by Jesco, who’d found him. They went straight to the central fire, where the villagers and farmers had gathered. Varahana, their main spokesperson, was waiting with Elgus Rhamp and one of his advisors, the scar-faced man known as Crowfoot. The preserved bird claw that gave him his nickname hung round his throat.

  ‘Sir Elgus, is your camp similarly afflicted?’ Raythe asked, as he drew the knight and the priestess aside.

  ‘Aye,’ Rhamp growled.

  Good, you’ll be in no position to try anything while we’re weak, then, Raythe found himself thinking, possibly uncharitably. Aloud, he asked, ‘How many cases?’

  ‘About one in four, same as the rest of the camp, I gather.’ The Pelarian knight glowered at Kemara as she strode to join them. ‘Healer can’t find cause nor cure.’

  ‘But I’m working on it, rather than standing around griping,’ Kemara replied. ‘Lord Vyre, is there anything a praxis-mage can tell us about this?’

  ‘I wish there was. I can’t manipulate what I can’t see, as I’m sure Varahana’s explained. But there are things I can do, like using heat to dry up certain fluids. But you’ve both got the knowledge; I’ve just got the tools.’

  ‘I’d have thought ye’d be more use, to be frank,’ Elgus grumbled.

  ‘Give me a line of fighting men or a wall to break down and I’ll gladly show you what I can do,’ Raythe answered tersely. Intimidating Rhamp remained his number one priority.

  Elgus raised a placating hand. ‘Sorry, Raythe. My worry’s doin’ the talking. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Raythe lied. ‘Kemara; set me to work.’

  *

  Varahana left Kemara and Raythe plotting possible remedies for the congestion. That’s just treating the symptoms, she decided. What’s causing it?

  That thought stayed with her, although it wasn’t until late afternoon, after another round of blessings and prayers, that she was able to act on it. She put on a shapeless robe and cloak and slipped out, leaving her six Sisters to lead the next round of prayers. Following Kemara’s comments on the possibilities of a bad spring, she went to the stream, where even now, women were filling up water containers. She peered over their shoulders and tasted the water – it was very cold but there was nothing out of the ordinary that she could taste. She wondered if she should ask Raythe to forbid drinking there, just in case, but without any evidence, that felt premature.

  A group of Rhamp’s men were watching, and she heard some ribald comments about the proclivities of bald priestesses – it never ceased to amaze her that even in a crisis, people could remain completely mule-headed – but then Tami appeared and berated them until they left. Varahana thanked her, then pulled off her boots and hung them by the laces around her neck before she headed upstream, wincing at the cold of the thigh-deep water and pushing against an increasingly strong current as the banks, tangled with weed and shrouded by the leaning pines, closed in.

  She continued a hundred yards upstream, through a series of gentle bends, pools and shallows, seeking clues. A rotting animal carcase might have explained things, but she couldn’t find anything, nor any dangerous plants, and frequent sips of the water revealed nothing untoward.

  The small river was frigid, despite the warmth of the day, and her legs soon went numb with the cold, despite the effort of moving against the flow. Needing respite, she waded towards the bank, where a small patch of flat mossy gravel worn smooth by the water was bathed in a patch of late sunlight.

  She was about to step onto dry ground when she paused, because there were clear signs of something having trampled and churned the muddy gravel, although no clear boot or footprint remained. She bent and peered, finding smears in the mud, as if something had been dragged, but there was no blood, just those marks in the mud.

  A hunter, using a branch to obscure his tracks?

  She immediately began to feel uneasy. The low hills, dotted with scrub and windswept pines, provided ample cover for a stalker, and the shadows were lengthening. Every time she turned around, the sense of being watched grew.

  Then her gaze caught on something in the water and she frowned. A trail of dark fluid had suddenly erupted through the silt and begun diffusing into the stream. She took a glass phial from her pouch and held it over the pin-hole through which the fluid was still emerging until it filled up with a greenish liquid.

  Emerald green . . . from beneath the riverbed . . .


  It reminded her of something, some obscure lecture, or maybe something she’d read too many years ago, before she was forced into the Church. She held it to her nose and sniffed, but there was little odour, just a faintly unpleasant tang to the scent.

  What is it I’m trying to remember?

  She had no laboratory to test it out here, nor reference material to research. And she was half a mile from camp and would be losing the light in a couple of hours’ time. If this wasn’t the answer, walking it back to camp to puzzle over it would be wasting valuable time.

  Much though it went against her training, sometimes you just had to trust to fortune. So after another look over her shoulder, still unable to shake the feeling of being watched, she took a tentative sip . . .

  Bitter, herbal . . . unpleasant. And not anything she recognised.

  She stoppered the remainder in the phial and contemplated the tingling on her tongue, the only notable lingering property of the fluid.

  Then it hit her – both the taste, and the answer.

  She went to speak, just to vocalise her anguish, but her tongue went numb a moment before she lost all feeling in her mouth. She should never have tasted the fluid—

  ‘Oh . . . no . . .’ she mumbled, swaying as the ground seemed to shift beneath her. She went to cry out but her throat had locked up, even as her sinuses blocked, bile rose in her throat and her strength went. Her knees gave way as the ground tilted and slammed into her face. Feeling no pain, she tried to roll over, only managing to get into a foetal position before her muscles locked. Sound distorted and her sight dimmed to a wavering blur; her gorge filled, she convulsed and started vomiting, the foulness pooling before her mouth.

  And from beneath the riverbed, where the fluid had erupted, a dozen shapes began to writhe up through the gravel, and skeletal hands burst through . . .

  The fluid gripped her throat and she felt her airways clog. She couldn’t move her legs, but her fingers had some life left: she desperately thrust them down her throat to make herself vomit again, even as the dark shapes clawed their way out of the riverbed. Then her stomach contents, green and foul, burst from her mouth. She tried to rise as more shapes rose around her, hissing voices and slime-covered shadows running with water closed in.