With those thoughts in her head, she settled in and extinguished the candle. Perhaps when the harvest was over, they could arrange to meet in person. Somewhere safe. In the town. In the market. Rotiaqua still kept a secret stash of merchants’ garb but had been unable to sneak away as she did when younger. Perhaps she simply needed to try harder.
With dreams of what that meeting would be like, Rotiaqua drifted off to sleep.
“Rotiaqua?” a voice called to her, waking her.
She sat up. It was the middle of the night. Who was it? She glanced around the room. It was dark and there was no one there. She felt the tug of magic. Had something happened to Zhimosom? She let the magic grow until it became an indistinct face in a globe of smoke. She leaned in and peered at it, but she could not make it out. “Zhimosom?” she asked.
The figure in the smoke drew back. “It’s Sulrad.”
She rubbed her eyes. “You woke me.”
“I’m sorry. I only just learned how to use my magic to reach you. It’s been so long since we spoke.”
She blinked. Sulrad? She had thought him dead. It had been ages since they spoke. She had created the hole in the castle shields so he could contact her. That was how Zhimosom had reached her, but Sulrad had been gone for ages. She could not even recall how long it had been. “I truly thought you were dead this time. Where have you been? Why haven’t you contacted me?”
“I’m still in Amedon. I’ve been collared. It suppresses my magic. I’ve only just discovered how to defeat the spell.”
“Why did they do that?” Was that why she had been unable to contact him? Was it some form of discipline? Had he done something wrong?
“To help me learn.” Sulrad’s words sounded insincere.
“You’ve grown,” she said. “You’re a man now.” She rubbed her chin.
“How have you been? Are you safe? Hale and hearty? You are not in the same room as before,” Sulrad said.
“No. I am in the castle now. My father has asked me to come home. He has great plans for me, he says.”
“In Frostan?” he asked.
“Yes. You know Frostan?”
“I grew up not far from there.”
“You know my father?”
“No. I rarely left the farm, and when I did, it was only to visit the market and return home quickly.”
“That’s for the best. My father hates wizards. He puts them to death. He would burn you if he caught you. It’s best you stay in Amedon. He has an amulet that lets him control a wizard.” She leaned forward, trying to get a better look at him. “You look different.”
“You said I’ve grown.”
“No. That’s not it. Your magic. It feels different somehow.”
“It’s probably the collar.” Sulrad reached up and touched it.
Something about the collar made her uncomfortable. No. It wasn’t the collar. It was Sulrad. What had he been up to since they last spoke? His magic came through the connection. She had always sensed it, at least in some small part. It had changed. It was as if he employed magic that was not his alone. His power was a blend of different flavors, if that was the way to describe it. Not clean. Not pure. Not at all like Zhimosom’s.
She paused. She was comparing the only two wizards she had met. One was young and hard-working, with clear and strong magic. The other was grown into a man now, but something felt off. It gave her an uneasy feeling in her stomach to think about what had caused such a thing.
“Your magic. It’s muddled. Mixed. I didn’t see it before, but now I do. It’s not pure.”
“How would you know?” he asked.
“I’ve met other wizards.”
“I thought I was the only one you were able to contact this way.”
“You were. Now there is another.” She flinched. She’d not meant to bring up Zhimosom, but the words were out there now. No way to take them back.
“This Zhimosom you spoke of?”
“He’s a wizard. Young,” she said. “Only recently come into his powers. But his magic is different from yours. It’s pure. You’re—” She paused, searching for the proper word. “Not.”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” he reassured her. “It’s probably just the collar.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” She felt a strong urge to cut the contact, to separate herself from him, but she couldn’t simply dismiss him. She glanced off to the side, pretending that someone was there, then turned back to him. “I have to go.”
“Wait. I still have so much to ask you.” Sulrad rose and stepped closer to the fire. For an instant, Rotiaqua thought he was going to step through it and into her room. She panicked. Said the first thing that came to her mind. “Odray will see you. I promised her I wouldn’t do magic. Not here. Not in the castle.”
She waved her hand in the air.
The image vanished.
She sat back, breathing hard.
Why did he disturb her so?
She longed to contact Zhimosom and discuss this with him, but he had been firm. He would be rising before the sun and needed his sleep. In this, at least for now, she was alone.
10
Harvest season approached, and Zhimosom reflected on the changes the summer had made. His magic was growing stronger. He had made a friend of the girl in the fire and they spoke on a regular basis. He still hid the contact from Zheet, but he was confident his father knew what he was up to and simply looked the other way. But on this day, the fields were ready and their labor was in demand. The tall stalks were laden with heavy golden heads, their light brown tassels sticking straight up in the air, rippling in tune to the slightest breeze. Fair weather held out and there had been no rain for most of the moon. Harvest season was well underway. Everyone around labored to get the wheat in before the rain came and made the fields a muddy mess. Zheet had made arrangements for the two of them to assist in the harvest, and Zhimosom was eager to get to it. He rose before the sun and prepared the morning meal while Zheet slept. It was the least he could do. Zheet worked hard. Harder than Zhimosom. This morning, Zhimosom and Zheet were helping the neighboring farmer, bending their backs to the hard work that was the culmination of the summer growing season. Zhimosom had just finished his midday meal and was putting a new edge on his scythe with the sharpening stone.
He drew the stone along the edge of the blade from the shaft to the point, careful to hold it at just the right angle to create the sharpest edge he could. He wished he’d been able to afford a better blade, perhaps one made from a broken sword. One of those would hold an edge better than this rusty old thing, and it would make the harvest go that much easier.
He imagined a blade made of the sparkling sky iron that was used to make the best swords. He visualized his own blade taking such an edge, that it would glide effortlessly through the golden stalks. If only ...
“Zhim!” Zheet stood at the edge of the field where they’d labored. “Get back to work.”
Zhimosom jumped up, pocketed the stone, and ran after his father. He swung the scythe back and attacked the fragile golden stalks, cutting them as close to the ground as he could. The trick was in the rhythm. Swing the scythe back and forth and it took almost no effort. Fight with the tool and he’d be exhausted in no time.
The blade swept through the stalks of wheat as if they were made of butter. It sliced them cleanly almost at ground level, leaving nice neat shocks of grain, and short, prickly stubble that looked like an old man three days after a clean shave. Zhimosom swung the scythe again, imagining the blade sparkling in the sun like the sword of some knight. It seemed to slip through the grain with greater ease as the day wore on and the sheaves stacked up.
Early in the afternoon, a shrill whistle wafted across the field. Zhimosom searched for the source. The sheaves of tied wheat stood tall like soldiers on parade, marking a long, straight column all the way to the road. The women and girls worked behind the men, gathering the shocks into bundles and tying them tight to keep the wheat off the ground so it wo
uldn’t spoil if the rains came before it was all packed into the barns.
The cart trundled through the field. A lethargic ox pulled it slowly along, as several young boys picked the sheaves up and stacked them on the cart as it lumbered through the field, leaving dark tracks in the golden stubble.
A pair of horses in fancy harness, pulling an over-sized four-wheeled wagon, plodded up the road. The wagon was half full of wheat, the golden sheaves straining at the wooden stays.
The driver reined the horses to a stop beside one of the carts that had just exited the field. Curious, Zhimosom headed toward them, but Zheet grabbed his arm and stopped the boy.
“Stay right here, son.” Zheet turned his back on the wagon and tugged on Zhimosom’s arm, urging him to do the same.
“What’s going on?” Zhimosom looked over his shoulder at the wagon. The man who had dismounted was talking to the one who guided the cart.
“That’s the baron’s man, here to collect his due.”
“But there’s hardly enough wheat to feed the townsfolk all winter. Why does he have to take his due before we have enough to eat?”
“That’s the way it is, son. The baron owns the land. We only get to live on it so long as we give him the first third of every harvest.”
“Why does he own the land?”
“His father owned the land before him and his father before him, all the way back. It’s always been that way, and it always will be. Just stay out of it.”
A sharp whistle called again. Zhimosom looked over his shoulder. The baron’s man was pointing at him.
“What should I do?” Zhimosom turned to his father.
“Ignore him. Pretend you didn’t hear anything. Keep looking away.”
Zhimosom saw the man striding toward him and turned his head away from the road. A tingle made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He turned just in time to see the driver of the wagon stop and draw his whip.
The pain of the whip burned the back of his legs. He clenched his teeth and bit down hard to stifle a scream. He turned slowly, aching, wanting nothing more than to drop to the ground and cry out in pain.
“When your betters call, you come running. You understand me, boy?” The man coiled the whip.
“Yes, sir.” Zhimosom bowed his head.
“Get up in that wagon and stack those sheaves – neatly.” The driver pointed out how the sheaves were arranged in overlapping rows. “See how the first load was put down? Follow that pattern. You think you can do that?”
“Yes, sir.” Zhimosom climbed into the wagon. The men offloaded the cart that had been used to collect them, and the sheaves of wheat came sailing over the stays. Zhimosom caught them and stacked them carefully in the alternating patterns he’d been shown. It was hard work. The breeze had died and the afternoon sun was hot. Sweat made the chaff stick to him as if it were paste. The pain in his legs grew worse as he worked, making the job even more unpleasant.
Soon the cart was empty and the baron’s man jumped up on the seat to examine Zhimosom’s work. “You do nice work, boy. Yes, you do.” He motioned Zhimosom to sit. “You stay on the wagon; I have another farm that should fill her up, and I can use a hand like you.”
The baron’s man gave a snap on the reins and the wagon started off, bouncing along the dusty dirt road. Zhimosom looked back at Zheet standing in the field. His father would have to finish without his help, and Zhimosom was in for a long, hard day and an even longer walk back to home after he was done.
11
The baron’s man worked Zhimosom until the boy was ready to drop. He finished filling the wagon just before sunset, when the driver abandoned him without so much as a word. Zhimosom approached farmer Falk, whose wheat had been taken, and begged a place to sleep. He could not make it home before it grew too dark to be out on the road.
“Be gone, you thieving rogue,” Falk said.
“Please, kind sir. You know my father, Zheet. We live a few farms down the lane. I was taken from the field and pressed into service. You can see the baron’s man cares not for me. He has abandoned me here without a way home ere the night falls.”
Zhimosom had seen small children scurrying about the farm. He knew the farmer could not count on them for much help yet. He looked around until he spied a broken section of fence that had been hastily repaired.
He pointed to the sagging rails that were in peril of falling apart at the insistent nudging of the pair of underfed sheep. “I will repair your fence if you will but feed and shelter me for the night.”
The farmer glanced at the fence and back to Zhimosom, tapping his foot on the rocky ground. “You look strong enough to swing an axe. We don’t have enough meat to go around, but I can offer you bread and some cheese.” He looked down his nose at Zhimosom. “Mind you, not a lot of cheese. We don’t have much of that to spare either.”
Zhimosom bowed his head. “I am grateful for whatever you can spare me. I’ll fix your fence in the morning and then I’ll be on my way.”
The farmer nodded and Zhimosom followed him inside.
“This is Issula,” Falk said, introducing his bondmate. He gestured to the oldest daughter. “My daughter Ewora and the rest of the brood.”
The children swirled around him, asking questions and talking incessantly, as children do, while Issula prepared the evening meal.
“Children, please let our guest have a moment’s peace and quiet.” Issula shepherded the smaller children onto the bench across from Zhimosom and served them their dinner on well-worn wooden plates. They quieted down as they dug into their meager stew.
Ewora spread a threadbare cloth on the table in front of Zhimosom and deposited several pieces of heavy dark bread and a lump of hard white cheese on it. “Sorry for the setting. We don’t often get company.” She averted her eyes as she spoke.
“I’m just grateful for the shelter and a meal. The baron’s man plucked me from the field and pressed me into service this afternoon. I wasn’t sure when I’d be going home or even if I’d be going home.”
Issula clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Those men are bad. They take more than’s their due and don’t mind that we’ve nothing to feed our children.”
“We do all right,” Falk interrupted. “I’ve heard tales of some folk driven off the land and into the cities where they get pressed into working for the rich folk until they tire out and die. We’re fine here. There’s enough land to feed the family and sometimes even a little extra to get something nice.”
The next morning, Zhimosom repaired the fence and was ready to start the long walk home, when a pair of men on horseback rode up the dusty lane and into the yard. One was a knight and the other his squire. The squire held a staff with strange colors on it. These were not the baron’s men.
As they drew close, Zhimosom saw that the knight’s armor was stained, dirty, and battered. It had a sword slash across the front that should have cost the wearer his life. The knight was dirty and looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a moon. These men must have been in a battle recently.
He reined in his horse. When he caught sight of Zhimosom, he leaped to the ground and handed the reins over without looking directly at the boy. “Water my horse and feed her. I’ve had a long ride and she’s tired.”
“You.” He pointed at Falk. “We need a meal – a good meal. I’m hungry.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we are poor. We barely have enough to feed the family. I have nothing to offer you save bread and cheese.”
The knight scanned the farm, laying eyes on the pen that sheltered the sheep. Most farms had one or two of them, as their milk was used to make cheese, and their wool to make winter clothes.
The knight drew his sword and stabbed the closest sheep in the neck. A bright crimson spurt erupted. The sheep faltered, stumbled, and bleated out its death throes, splattering blood on the freshly repaired fence.
Zhimosom saw Farmer Falk ball his hands into fists, but the farmer stood there, silent.
“There, no
w you have meat. Get to work.” The knight wiped the blood from his sword on the wool of the sheep and sheathed the blade. “Do you have any ale?”
“No, sir, we have water. Only water, sir.”
“Fetch some for me and my squire.” The knight turned and strode arrogantly off to the house.
Zhimosom led the horses to the watering trough and tied them. He lowered the bucket into the well and filled the trough.
The horses drank thirstily.
He rubbed the knight’s horse down and stroked its neck as the animals drank their fill. He didn’t know much about horses, but he could tell these had been ill-treated. They were thin from lack of food and had the skittishness of animals that had constantly been overtaxed. The knight was in for trouble if he didn’t take better care of these horses.
Zhimosom drew another bucket of water and hauled it to the house. Issula stood over the table, slicing chunks of meat from the haunch that Falk cut from the murdered sheep. After that, he left to dress the animal and butcher it properly, trying to salvage something for his family.
Issula cried silently as she cut the meat into pieces. She threaded them onto green branches that had been stripped of their bark, and handed them to Ewora, who placed them over the open flame. The smaller children cowered silently in the corner.
Zhimosom set the bucket of water on the table and ladled out a cup for each of the men. He set one in front of the knight and the other in front of his squire.
The knight looked up at him. “Do you know who I am?”
“No, sire.” Zhimosom kept his eyes lowered, as he’d been cautioned. Zheet had very little to do with the nobility or city folk, but he’d taught Zhimosom how to behave should he ever come into contact with them.
Zhimosom must have been a little too slow.
“I’m Sir Draveri. Knighted by King Omrik himself. I’ve come from the war, boy.” He slapped his hand on the table. “I’ve been out in the field protecting the likes of you, and I demand a little respect and gratitude for my efforts. That’s not too much to ask. Is it?”
The Sorceress: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Origins Book 3) Page 5
