Fire and Sword (13 page)

She had been to the large foundry in Kendra, controlled by the Theurgia of Fire, and though their construction was impressive, the heat it produced was nowhere near as intense as that produced by these primitive Chett furnaces.

She noticed a Chett who crouched near the furnace mouth but seemed to take no part in the activity around her. Her face and throat and small breasts glimmered with sweat, and her eyes were shut tight in concentration. Jenrosa watched more closely, and saw the Chett’s lips moving.

She is a magicker,
Jenrosa thought with surprise. She knew the Chetts had shamans, practitioners of magic looked down upon by the masters of the Theurgia, but this woman was more than a mere shaman, Jenrosa was sure.

Just then Jenrosa was politely hustled out of the way by two men pulling a hand-drawn cart. They quickly unloaded empty molds by the furnace, then loaded up again with filled ones. They left, panting with the effort of pulling so much weight. Jenrosa returned to her position to watch the Chett magicker, but there was a man there now, his lips moving in a silent chant. Jenrosa looked up, saw the first magicker standing to one side and stretching her muscles. The woman glanced around and saw Jenrosa staring at her.

“It is hot work,” she said, smiling.

“You were performing magic,” Jenrosa said.

“Oh, yes,” the woman said, and walked over to where there was some snow. She picked up handfuls of it and rubbed them over her face and chest.

Jenrosa approached her diffidently. “I did not know any of the Chett could do that.”

The woman looked at her strangely. “Why should we not be able to?”

“You have no Theurgia.”

The woman nodded genially. “Truth. Does that matter?”

Jenrosa did not know what to say. She had always believed that magic occurred because the Theurgia existed to organize and practice it; magic could not exist without the combined weight of knowledge accrued—painstakingly slowly—over centuries. Anything else was illusion or simple shamanism, that minor magic that could be gathered from the natural world.

The woman looked around for her shirt and poncho and quickly dressed, and then, before Jenrosa could react, reached out for Jenrosa’s hands and studied each carefully. “Ah, I see you have some ability.”

“I was only a student.”

The woman looked surprised. “I sense a great deal more than that.” She looked carefully at Jenrosa’s face, her large brown eyes gentle, unblinking. “Truth, I sense something very great in you.”

Without knowing why, Jenrosa admitted: “I can work magic across disciplines.”

“Disciplines?”

“I was able to perform magic from several theurgia: fire, air, water ...”

“This was special?”

“Yes. In Kendra.”

The woman laughed and shook her head. “Not on the Oceans of Grass. Imagine learning to crawl, but not to walk or run or climb. This is a mystery to me.”

“Are you a teacher?”

The woman shrugged. “Lasthear is many things,” she said. “I am rider, warrior, mother, magicker and sometimes, only sometimes, a teacher.”

“Are there many like you?” Jenrosa asked, surprised.

“Every clan has at least one magicker; some have two or more. I am a good one, many will tell you, but no Truespeaker.”

“A Truespeaker? Like Gudon’s mother?”

“Gudon of Korigan’s clan?” Jenrosa nodded. “Yes, she was the Chetts’ last Truespeaker. Alas, a Truespeaker is rare, maybe one every two or three generations among all the Chett. They are honored by every clan. Gudon’s mother taught me when I was young. Since she died, none have come to claim her place.”

“Lasthear, could you teach me?”

It was Lasthear’s turn to be surprised. “I would like to teach you, but you are with Korigan.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“I am Ocean clan. It would not be proper for me to teach you. You should find a magicker in the White Wolf clan.”

“But the Truespeaker taught you, and she was of the White Wolf clan.”

“The Truespeaker belongs to no clan, no matter which one she is born into.”

“Oh.”

“I know there are good magickers riding with Korigan,” Lasthear said.

“I have two, in fact,” said a voice behind them. Jenrosa turned to see Korigan herself. For a moment she could not help feeling envious of the queen’s noble and athletic frame, not to mention her beautiful Chett face.

“The weapon-making goes well,” Lasthear said.

“I can see,” the queen said, but did not seem interested in what was happening at the furnace. She joined them, smiling easily at Jenrosa. “Could we talk?”

“Of course.”

“You must excuse me,” Lasthear said diplomatically. “I am tired and must rest before it is my turn again to sing to the fire.”

Korigan nodded and Lasthear withdrew. Jenrosa looked after her with some regret. She wished they could have continued their discussion.

Korigan put an arm through Jenrosa’s and started walking toward the lake. The still blue waters seemed like the sky turned upside down, and the reflections of clouds scudded across its surface.

“What is it you wish to talk about?” Jenrosa asked.

Korigan hesitated, then said: “About Lynan.”

“Lynan?”

“I think he has demonstrated a great deal of maturity for one so young.”

“You mean by agreeing with you on matters of strategy?”

“Perhaps,” Korigan said uneasily. “I was thinking more of the way he handled his responsibilities as a leader.”

“Essential qualities for a future king.”

Korigan stopped suddenly. “Are you making fun of me?”

“I don’t even understand you; how can I make fun of you?”

“My motives are clear enough.”

“Are they? I know you want Lynan to be king of Grenda Lear. But why should you risk the whole of the Chett nation on such an unlikely horse? The Oceans of Grass are practically inviolate.”

“They weren’t once. You are too young to remember the Slaver War.”

“You’ve banded together since then. The mercenaries aren’t a threat to your people.”

“You underestimate the ability of the mercenary captains to learn and adapt just as we have.”

Jenrosa nodded, conceding the point. “But this is about more than Rendle and his ilk, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is about you and your crown.”

“I cannot pretended that Lynan has not made my position among my people more secure.”

“But it isn’t enough, is it?”

“Not for the Chetts. Ever since we came under the sway of the throne of Grenda Lear over a hundred years ago, we have paid obeisance to distant monarchs. It has cost us nothing. Now it may cost us a great deal.”

“Because you support Lynan?”

“Of course, but there are other factors. If Grenda Lear is unstable, then Haxus may try and bring us under its influence, and its king sits much closer to our territory. Or what if Hume secedes from the kingdom? Where can they expand? Not south into Chandra—Kendra would never allow that. North into Haxus? No, they are too small, and would fall to Haxus instead. They can only expand west, into the Oceans of Grass.”

“But why push Lynan to be king?”

“Because I know that Hume is pushing the throne for increased trade benefits. Now that Areava needs all the support she can get, she is likely to give way to those demands.”

“What has that to do with Lynan?”

“Hume can only increase its trade two ways. The first is at the expense of those trading rights given to its greatest rival, Chandra. Areava won’t do that because she also needs King Tomar’s support.”

“What’s the second way?”

“Areava can give Hume control over the Algonka Pass, the only link between the east and west of this continent for most of its length. As far as anyone in the east is concerned, ownership of the pass would give Hume symbolic control over the Oceans of Grass.”

And suddenly Jenrosa understood. “But King Lynan would support you against Hume.”

Korigan nodded. “We don’t want possession of the pass. We want it to remain a free caravan route, belonging to no king or queen. That way trade continues to flourish between east and west.”

“For someone isolated in the Oceans of Grass, you have a very good grasp of kingdom politics.”

“Don’t make Kumul’s mistake of thinking we are nothing but nomad barbarians.” Jenrosa opened her mouth to object, but Korigan held up her hand to stop her. “You know it is true. I can see it in everything Kumul says, in the way he looks at me and other Chetts. Most in the east look down on us as being little more than herders and horse warriors and potential slaves; Kumul may be more generous than that, but we are still barbarians to him.

“We may not have great cities or palaces, Jenrosa, but that does not mean we are stupid and ignorant.”

“No. No it does not.”

“I see you have some influence with Kumul.”

Jenrosa looked up sharply. “Meaning?”

“You and Kumul are more than friends.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Jenrosa demanded.

Korigan smiled ruefully. “You are in
my
kingdom now, Jenrosa Alucar. Nothing happens here without my knowing about it. But I did not spy on you. Your relationship with Kumul of the Red Shields is common knowledge among my people. Although I cannot say if Lynan is aware of it, I think not.”

“It is none of your business.”

“In and of itself, no. But I am concerned what effect it might have on Lynan if he learns that you and Kumul are in love with each other.”

Jenrosa blushed, making her sandy hair stand out even more than it usually did among the Chetts. “Who said anything about love?”

“I will speak of it if you won’t. I don’t think Lynan is in love with you, but am I right in suggesting he once thought he was in love with you?”

“That’s something you should ask him.”

“But I’m asking you.”

“Perhaps he once thought that.”

“The fact that he may no longer think that will not stop him being jealous of Kumul. Losing love is one thing, but losing it to another is a hard blow.”

“I can’t change the way Kumul and I have ... grown ... to feel about each other.”

“Will you tell Lynan, then?”

Jenrosa moved away from Korigan. “I told you, this is no one else’s business.”

“I wish it were so,” Korigan called after her, but Jenrosa did not answer.

Away from the lake village, real winter had hold. Cattle huddled together, their heads bowed against the cold southerlies. A band of ten mounted Chetts huddled in the lee of a shallow hill wishing they were back in their huts or around one of the hundreds of campfires. They were from different clans and did not talk to each other. Kumul stayed apart from them, seemingly impervious to the weather.

“You have no armor to speak of,” he was saying to them. “What you call spears are nothing more than javelins. Your horses are well trained but don’t ride well close together. You’re not cavalry.”

Some of the Chetts looked defiantly at him.

“I repeat, you are
not
cavalry.” Kumul bit the words out. “You see that single arrow tree three hundred paces north?”

The Chetts looked over their shoulders. One or two nodded.

“Take your mounts there and back here.”

“Is that all?” one of the Chetts asked.

“Keep them to a walk.”

Six minutes later the group were back, still cold. Their mounts looked even less happy.

“Now do it again, at a fast walk.”

A little less than six minutes later they were back again.

While the Chetts looked as miserable as ever, and even more confused, the horses seemed more aware of the world around them.

“Now do the distance at a trot. When you get back, do it at a canter, then a gallop.”

By the time they had finished the three runs, both mounts and riders were warmer; the exercise had also piqued their interest.

“Again,” Kumul told them. “At a fast walk. Line abreast, and no more than three paces between each of you.”

This time, Kumul watched them carefully. He had never seen anyone sit on a horse more naturally than a Chett, and the bond between a Chett and his mare seemed almost telepathic to him, but Chetts rode together with less discipline and grace.

“You had trouble keeping the distance close,” he told them when they got back.

“It got crowded,” one of the Chetts said.

“Get used to it. This time keep the same distance, but move at a trot.”

The result was even more disorganized. Kumul made them do it at a fast walk again, and this time the mares and riders managed to reach the arrow tree in something like a dressed line. He then told them to do it at the canter. A mess.

“Now again, but slow to a trot.”

Better, and by now the Chetts were getting the idea behind the changing pace and constant distance. Their mounts were getting used to working close to other horses.

“Let’s try it at a gallop!” one of the Chetts said excitedly.

“Not yet,” Kumul said firmly. “That’s enough for the day.”

“But we’re just getting started!” the same Chett complained.

Kumul could not help grinning at them. He liked their enthusiasm. He knew they would need it in the days and weeks to come.

“I said that was enough for the day. Back here tomorrow, same time.”

The Chetts nodded and drifted away.

“Now the saber is an interesting weapon,” Ager said, “and useful from the back of a horse. But when you’re on foot, there are better weapons.”

The group of Chetts gathered before him watched and listened with keen interest. As with Kumul’s group, they were from more than one clan. News of the crookback’s victory over Katan had spread like a grass fire, and they wanted to learn how he did it. They were also curious about what was inside the sack he was carrying.

“But Chetts do not fight on foot,” one of them said.

“Not yet,” Ager said under his breath, then out loud: “The lessons you learn from me will be useful if you fight standing, riding, crouching, or crawling.” He pointed to the Chett who had spoken. “What’s your name?”

“Orlma.”

“Come here, Orlma.”

The Chett looked nervously at his fellows but did as asked. Ager dropped his sack and pulled out two wooden swords, one shaped like a saber and the other shorter and broader in comparison.