Authors: Garon Whited
Another thing. It was important to me to find out who, exactly, was behind this unreasonable—as I saw it—desire to harm my person. The Church of this place? Or was it a private thing by some powerful individual with the appropriate connections and influence? Sure, the Church ran the Hand of Light, as they called it, but were they really the ones doing it? It would seem so… unless some other power was pushing for it. Or was it just the Hand, as a splinter of the Church? Or just the Cardinal of Telen—apparently the head of the Hand? Maybe it was a cabal of overzealous nitwits
within
the Hand? Did the kingdom know and approve? Were the wizards working the archway being paid, pushing the project, or just devout?
Lots of questions, no answers.
We walked back into the ruins; I was thoughtful, Bronze was placid. I dismounted and shoved a rock near the fire. I sat down and leaned back against it, noticed the fire was dying down. I sighed and got up again to gather some more wood. With the fire built back up, I dipped into my—our—supplies and ate. Then I decided on a nap.
“Bronze. Guard.”
Bronze nodded and walked out of the ruins.
“Smart horse,” I muttered, and drowsed.
I woke up to the sound of sobbing. It was very quiet, but persistent. I didn’t so much open my eyes as look out through slitted lids.
Utai was curled up in the blanket, still asleep; she was crying in her sleep. While I was greatly relieved to see it, I was also… I don’t know. I just don’t like it when women cry.
I got up and moved around the fire to her—adding some more wood as I went—and sat down near her. Placing her head in my lap, I smoothed her hair and let her weep. She calmed eventually and her breathing became regular. This pleased me enormously. It meant I hadn’t broken her emotions permanently.
Bronze looked in from one of the gaps in the ruined wall. I nodded. It nodded. Bronze resumed walking around.
Utai woke about mid-afternoon. She looked up at me, her head still in my lap, and her brows drew together.
“How much of last night was a dream?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you think happened?”
She sat up and related to me a fairly accurate account of what had transpired, up to her sleeping; I stopped her there.
“Anything after that was a dream,” I said. She sagged visibly in relief. “What?” I asked. “Lots of naughty dreams?”
She blushed. “A gentleman would not ask such a question.”
“Probably not. Hungry?”
“Yes.”
I reflected that I would have to get more food soon. Possibly a hunting trip this evening; I was running low on MREs and
tuva.
I handed her a packet of barbequed chicken and the canteen. She spitted the chicken on a sharp stick and warmed it; I don’t think she liked the idea of chemicals and water being used to heat something up. Well, it is a little strange to watch, first time you see it.
“So tell me more about the City of
Bones and this Eastrange,” I said.
“What would you know?”
“Anything.”
“The City of
Bones is a ruin from long ago, right on the world’s western edge. Nothing lives there, and the dust of ancient bones blows in the streets. It is an evil place, haunted, and home to all manner of unquiet ghosts. Great buildings stand as monuments to a civilization long-dead, cursed by the gods for arrogance. I have heard it is death to go there for any who are not already so.
“The Eastrange stretches north and south for a thousand leagues or more, from the Southern Sea to beyond the Kingdom’s northern border. Where it finally stops…” she shrugged. “Perhaps the
viksagi
know. I do not. The mountains have but a single true pass through to the great grasslands of the east and the barbarians that live there.”
“That’s helpful. What’s a viksagi?”
“Northern tribes. They are warlike and vicious and are always trying to invade.”
“Ubar mentioned grassland barbarians. The ones on the other side of the Eastrange?”
“They are half-naked brutes that ride wild horses. They kill and eat all who enter their land.”
“Go on.”
“Go on? About what? That is all I know.”
“Ever seen one?”
“An eastern barbarian? Yes. I was a small girl, then. It was kept in a cage, a captive of an eastern lord.”
I nodded. “Okay. So where are we going to say you’re from?”
“I do not know. I cannot be Utai if I am your wife; a
gata
will not marry an outsider.”
“Oh? I was really asking where you are from.”
“I was born in a wagon,” she replied, looking into the fire.
I changed the subject slightly. “‘Utai’ is a
gata
name?”
“Of course. Utai, Ubar, Ulegba, Uda, Uman—these are some of the names of my
gata
. Other
gata
have other names—Atar, Amel, Azar, and so on.”
“I did not know that. Thank you. So who will you be?”
“I have never thought on it. I am not certain of anything, today.”
I nodded. “I can understand that. I’ve seen my own life do a sudden flip a couple of times. It’s always disorienting. Let me know if I can help.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll try.”
She looked at me keenly. “Because you need me.”
“Because I like you. And yes, I need you too.”
She looked skeptical. “Very well.”
I drank from the canteen and Bronze came in, hooves leaving deep impressions in the dirt. I got up and stroked its nose as it nuzzled me.
“What manner of beast is that? It would seem a horse…” she trailed off. “I remember riding through the night upon it.”
“It
is
a horse. Well, more than a horse, but mainly a horse. And yes, we did.”
“Its color is unique,” she said, circling Bronze respectfully and looking. Bronze lifted its head and posed proudly.
“True enough,” I allowed. “It’s also very smart.”
“And a huge, strong-looking beast as well. Is she a magical creature?”
“It is now.”
“Now?” she asked, sounding startled.
“I’ve enchanted it.”
More thoroughly than you suspect, I think. Is there a word for “golem” in Rethven?
“I see,” she said, but I was willing to bet she didn’t. “She will bear us to the Eastrange?”
“Yes. And why do you call it a ‘she’?”
“She would seem a mare. Is he a gelding?”
Hmm.
“No, not a gelding. But her name is Bronze.”
Utai nodded. “A goodly name. It fits her color.”
I looked at the shadows as they lengthened, then finished dividing plunder from my gear between the backpack and the saddlebags. I kept the bulletproof vest on under my tunic and a pistol went into a belt holster in the small of my back. I considered the keys for a bit, wondering if I should keep them on me. There was power there, a lot of it, but they were also a little long for a pocket. I finally decided to put them in a saddlebag; most of my gear went into the saddlebags. I doubted anything was going to get lost. Bronze was turning out to be considerably more useful than I first anticipated. After all, what was going to happen? Someone was going to shoot my horse and steal my stuff?
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 8
TH
A
fter a brief bout of evening sickness, we mounted up and continued west. I was in front this time, to act as a windbreak for Utai. The plan is to hit another town—Kilda—so that anyone following will be sure which way we were headed. Then we’ll circle back and work our way eastward. When we reach the Eastrange, we’ll follow it southward until we find someplace congenial to settling down for a bit. Probably a city named Baret; at least, that’s Utai’s plan.
While Bronze kept to the road, Utai and I discussed our traveling and our history. I learned there were different types of magic-workers.
“You tell me that you have but little formal study,” she said. “Therefore, you are a wizard—” she used the term
hetu,
“—a wise man, a willworker who seeks to master his inner strengths.”
“What other types are there?”
“There are also the magicians.” The word she used was
hetaru.
I began to see the difference. “They are the ones who spend their lives in scholarship and study, learning the discipline of the arcane arts. Most start as wizards. There
is
a third type, the sorcerers—”
hekar,
“—but they are seldom sorcerers for long.”
“Why?”
“Sorcerers are those who deal with entities from beyond the world to gain magical powers. Usually, they have one or two special powers—the ability to kill with but a look, or some other singular ability. It varies. These never go to the Academy, although the most formidable sorcerers are those magicians whose lust for power grew too great.”
“Academy?”
“All magicians—all who would be called magicians—study at the Academy in Arondel. Until the Academy says you are a magician, you are only a wizard.”
A degree in magic. Interesting.
“Fair enough. So, are wizards all known to each other?”
“I should think not; most are wanderers. A very few will adopt a village or town and remain with it as their wizard. Individuals can often trace their magical lineage—
Del, pupil of Baror, pupil of Zamon, and so forth—back for several generations, but many know only the name of their master or former master. At least, that is what I have gathered from listening. I do not know for certain; I am not a wizard.”
“Sounds good, then. What do wizards usually do to earn their keep?”
“Cast spells.”
I restrained a sigh. “I
meant
, what sort of magic do they do?”
“They heal the sick and injured, if they can, and if there is no priest about who will do so. Wizards are paid in coin or trade; priests demand tithing and faith. Some wizards find lost things, or find special places, such as where to dig a well. Sometimes there are things that must be slain, and steel cannot do so. Then a wizard will be sought. Of course, there is often payment for taking on an apprentice; not a large one, usually, but it is something.”
The healing aspect bothered me. “The church and the wizards don’t get along?”
She hesitated, thinking.
“They do not fight with each other. A few wizards become magicians, in time, as their knowledge grows and their desire for power leads them to the Academy. I feel that the church cultivates the magicians as allies while discouraging wizardry, although I cannot prove this. I feel it is true, however, from much travel and many places.”
I was quiet and lost in thought for a while.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
TH
I
t has been several days since we started our circling around to the east. Tonight we came into view of the Eastrange.
Up close, the Eastrange reminds me of the
Rockies, but with a harsher, sharper look to them. I can see why popular superstition says they’re the wall at the eastern edge of the world! We reached their foothills before midnight—Bronze maintains a steady gallop at what I guess to be about forty or fifty miles an hour—and we turned southward, rising and falling over the rolling terrain. It had taken a bit of coaching to get Bronze to understand I did
not
want to be whacked in the face with branches, vines, or brambles; these things bother a metal horse not in the least. We were in good shape after that. Bronze stuck to more open areas and kept up to speed as well.
I wondered how Bronze saw. It was obviously not normal vision for a horse—and, equally obviously, not normal vision for a bronze statue. Has anyone ever studied how a golem’s vision works? Or has anyone ever cared? More mental notes of things to look into, someday.
We took a break around sunrise to let me get over my morning sickness. Hmm. Sunrise sickness? Morning sickness just sounds wrong, somehow.
At any rate, we rested for a bit. I made it a point in the mornings to build a fire and warm up thoroughly before dawn arrived. The transition is always worse when I’m chilled to the bone. After something to eat and a nap, we made some more distance in the daytime. By not taking the roads, we could avoid being spotted by random people and possibly tracked. Bronze was a fine-looking horse, and mildly conspicuous due to her coat—she was also looking more and more like a horse. There were even fine bristles, like fur, although she had a tendency to glint. If anyone actually touched her and discovered she was metal, she would be a
lot
more memorable. As it was, at a distance, she was just huge.
One of the other things I noticed about Bronze was her activity. I don’t think I’ve mentioned how we started campfires. When Bronze was active—running, for example—she built up a lot of heat. Utai complained that Bronze was hot to the touch after an evening of riding. When we piled wood for a campfire and started in on flint and tinder, Bronze came over and breathed a flame onto the kindling, lighting it thoroughly.
I wonder if I’ve conjured up a demon. I don’t
think
I have.
Anyway, we made some more distance that afternoon and encountered one of the small, outlying towns of the kingdom. The place was called Verthyn, Utai told me.
“And now I must be someone other than Utai,” she continued. “What will you have for the name of your wife?”
“I don’t know. Is Eric a name around here?”
“Yes. Eric would be found in a
gata,
however.”
“Pity. Very well—you name your husband, I will name my wife.”
She blinked at me and thought.
“You are Halar.”
“All right. Melissa?”
“I do not know that name.”
“Sandra? Kathy? Jennifer? Kellie?”
She shook her head.
“All right, maybe you should give me some names that you’ve heard.”
“Tiera,” she said, slowly. “Shada. Gemma. Leyet.”
“How about ‘Shada’? Any objection to that as your name?”
She shrugged. “No. It will serve well enough.”
“Great. Glad to have gotten that sorted out. Now, how does one introduce oneself as a traveling wizard?”
“You will need a staff.”
I looked around at the local forest. “Maple? Pine? Oak? Elm?”
“Oak would be ideal. Ash would also be acceptable.”
“Back in a second.”
I shaded my eyes from the sun and looked around. The terrain wasn’t thickly forested, but there were trees everywhere. I moved off into the woods, looking for something likely. It wasn’t long before I found an oak tree and checked around on the ground for a fallen branch. Not finding one, I regarded the tree, considering which limb would be best. I selected the one I liked, then climbed up to it. The survival knife has a saw-toothed back edge. I got this out.
A whispered voice in my left ear said, “Thou shalt not do that which I fear, I pray.”
I nearly fell out of the tree. I looked around, but saw no one.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
“No one.”
“Then who’s talking to me?”
There was a long pause.
“No one?” came the reply.
I shook my head. “Not buying it. Someone has to be talking for me to hear it.”
“Wouldst accept the oak speaks to thee?”
“Sure—if trees talked. Of course, it would be more believable if you’d said, ‘Would you believe that I am talking to you? I’m the tree.’”
The voice cursed softly. “I speak seldom to any.”
“It’s okay. Who are you, anyway? And what is it that you’re worried I might do?”
“Verily, I fear so for the safety of my tree.”
“Aha!” I said, snapping my fingers. “You’re a dryad!”
“Aye.”
“So why can’t I see you?”
“I shall not come to thee, for of human men I have heard much.”
I tried to look offended. “Oh? And what have you heard?”
“Thy kindnesses are of kisses, but thy hurts are of the heart. For beauty thou shalt lie and steal and take, and such I shall not endure.”
“I see,” I said. I couldn’t blame her. “Well, consider this. I need a staff. I’d much rather have an oak staff than anything else. If I needed to, I could probably cut down the whole tree just to get it. Or I could just whack off a limb. But not all men are as bad as you think. For example, I’m
not
going to hurt your tree! I’m going to climb down and leave it strictly alone—and leave you alone.” I climbed down as I spoke, then paused next to the tree.
“I’m sorry you have such a bad impression of humans,” I continued. “By and large, you’re probably wise to think as you do. But not
all
humans are the same. The tricky part is knowing which ones aren’t villains.”
“I have offended thee,” the whisper replied. “’Twas not my intent, but much do I fear thee.”
“It’s okay. We generally are an untrustworthy lot. Can you direct me to an oak or ash tree I
can
get a staff from?”
“Take one as given,” the voice replied. “You say thou’rt an untrustworthy lot, yet not all be villains. Thou ha
st proved most gentle, for thy kind, so accept a gift.”
The whole tree swayed, then turned; the trunk twisted to bring a branch over me. The branch bent down and the whole tree leaned toward me. The wood flowed under the bark, changing shape. In the space of a minute, the branch had thinned and lengthened at the tip, until a staff-sized piece of wood hung from the end like an odd fruit.
“Take it, with my blessing.”
I reached up and tugged; it parted easily. The wood tingled in my hands. I didn’t need to have nighteyes to see it was still alive. It felt like Firebrand, in a way—sleeping. But where Firebrand felt like fire and steel, this felt like earth and water, if that makes any sense.
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. “I really didn’t expect this.”
“I feared t’would be my only recourse to crush thy body ’twixt two great branches. It pleases me thou’rt not so much a brigand as others I have known.”
“I’m pretty happy about that, myself!” I replied, startled. I mentally kicked myself and reminded myself yet again that this was
not
the nice, safe world in which I had grown up. And even my world had some rather unpleasant possibilities still alive in it.
“Fare thee well, wizard.”
“Thank you—hey! How did you know I’m a wizard?”
“Why else seek a staff of oak or ash alone?” the voice replied, amused.
“I guess so. Thank you again.”
The leaves in the tree rustled without wind, like a chuckle, and I took that for a farewell. I went off a little way to sit down and unwind. I’ve never spoken with a dryad before. And the whole rearrangement of a limb to give me a staff…
I’m alive in the sunshine. I’m taking deep breaths. I’m calming and relaxing and trying just to go with the flow. Panic attacks are bad things. I don’t want one. If I think about it too hard, I’ll have one for certain. But if I roll with the changes, Zen-like, and simply accept that
this is not my world
…