The Sah'niir Read online

  The marsh had become a swamp, and the summer storm brewing above them was certain to make the going worse - it had already started drizzling, and the air was already sticky and unpleasant. Even Eyila had removed her cloak, brightening the grey, lacklustre environment with her striking bronze skin and still curiously lush sash of leaves and phials. But there was nothing at all around them to see, and time dragged, every second punctuated by the rhythmic thump of hooves and what fleeting excitement manifested as a jolt of panic each time their horses faltered on the slippery ground.

  Anthis sighed deeply, watching the hypnotic sway of the bay's rump as it trudged along in front of him. "I've been staring at that horse's backside for so long I've forgotten what the other end looks like." He dragged his eyes towards the newest copse of paper-white trees to grace their path. "Where are we? I don't recognise anything."

  "We're not following any road," Garon replied. "Nestor isn't far. We'll be there in an hour."

  That hour passed twice as slowly. It was eventually eased by the discovery of a road which the horses visibly delighted at, trotting with a definite bounce in their steps even if it lay beneath three inches of water, and the old village eventually rose from the misty grey flood. Cloaks were reluctantly returned to shoulders, shielding them from the sweet, cooling rain, and as they drew close to the first of the quaint if shabby old buildings, Petra led Eyila on a branching path that veered away from the village towards one of a few denser clusters of trees.

  Rathen rode a little closer to Garon's mare. Eyeing the approaching building, he dropped his voice and pulled his hood lower. "Is this wise?"

  "Kienza was right. Things are too hectic right now for anyone to notice us, even in a village."

  "Even in a village just spitting distance from one very recently--"

  "Yes."

  The road emerged from the murky water as the ground began to rise, the village itself built upon a small hillock both higher and firmer than the surrounding marsh and out of reach even of its recent expansion.

  "We're being tracked," Anthis reminded him quietly as they passed the first outlying home.

  "Taliel was also right," Rathen replied. "He shouldn't know we're on horseback, no one will be looking for the tracks."

  "Unless she's told him."

  "She wouldn't do that. We can trust her."

  No one gave voice to their doubts. They passed a second building, and a third built closer, and just like that, they were in the village.

  "Regardless," Garon murmured, drawing his horse in at the hitching post beside what was presumably a herbalists' shop, "we need supplies and an ear to the ground, and Nestor is ideal."

  "You have a contact here?"

  He thought for a moment. "Kruuz is more likely. Even so, a small village relies on traders, and traders bring more than wares. And being in 'spitting distance' of Trinn, they'll absorb any and all gossip that passes through."

  Lifting Aria down from the saddle, for which he was scorned, Rathen considered him with a wary cock of his brow. "Gossip?"

  "It may be exaggerated, but it's usually born of truth. You just have to know what's worth following." He looked sternly across the three of them, then removed a pouch of coins from his saddlebag and handed them to Anthis who was slinging his beloved satchel over his shoulder. "We need supplies."

  "I know, I've got it."

  "Keep your head down." He looked to the others as the historian departed. "I'm going to see what I can learn. As for you two: don't wander, don't draw attention, don't--"

  "You've told us all of this before," Aria sighed.

  Garon rolled his eyes, turned, and walked away.

  "Come along, little one," Rathen chuckled, taking her small hand in his, and together they walked through the drizzle towards the centre of the village. But while he hid his face and felt his skin prickle nervously in the presence of other people, going about their business despite the weather, Aria stared up openly at their houses, awe clear upon her face. In recent months, she'd discovered that houses could be more than hollowed-out boulders. They could be cut from far larger stones, even into cliff faces, and they could also be made from far smaller rocks, stacked carefully into straight-sided structures. But while each example had captured her attention, here she seemed lost in enchantment. It was true that this village looked like something out of one of her many fairytale books, surrounding marsh excluded: its houses were slightly wonky, old and grey, their roofs a mixture of thatch and shale, and the walls of a few were being slowly enveloped in moss. But beyond the obvious features were the far finer details, ones almost impossible to see without the sharp sight and curiosity of youth - above all else, the impossibly fine engravings in the stones themselves. They were weathered and in many cases impossible to tell from careless masonry, but few of these stones had been cut by human hands. The engravings - those that had survived - were elven.

  Despite Nestor having stood for a few hundred years, Rathen suddenly understood where the ruins in the marsh had gone.

  Lost in a world of whimsy, when Aria spotted the little well at the centre of the square, enchanting in its ivy and storm-beaten grey stones, she all but dragged him towards it. It was from there, as he held her back from leaning over too far as she peered inside, that Rathen observed the village with the greatest of caution. Favouring his hearing, he appeared first to be admiring the well, then tending hidden damage to his boot on the bench beside it, but all the while he tuned into the conversations of passing villagers and the minutiae of their lives.

  He learned nothing at all, discounting "ooh, a storm'll hit soon, and mark my words, mark my words it'll be a beast."

  Just as the village had taken root upon the hillock, naturally so too had the trees. The thickets that surrounded the grove were more vibrant than those that speckled the rest of the swamp; their white, papery bark seemed brighter, their leaves lusher and broader, and they grew taller and tighter together, their seeds having tolerated close neighbours to take advantage of the good fortune they'd landed in. The inescapable moss that clung to every studding stone thrived just as well as the birch, and the rich, emerald cushions made the stunted forest seem almost cordial, if one could overlook the insects, humidity and heavy scent of damp wood.

  Eyila peered closely at one perfectly rounded green tuft. After a long moment, she poked at it with a careful bronze finger. It was firmer than it looked. She ran her touch lightly over the moss's bobbly surface, then pinched a piece and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, crushing the buds under gentle pressure. She sniffed the residue, then, tentatively, brushed it with her tongue. She spat immediately and considered the lingering taste.

  A small pouch appeared from beneath her cloak from which she withdrew a pinch of what looked like thick, dry grass. She ground it between her palms and it quickly turned to dust.

  Pinching and crushing another nub of moss, she rubbed it into the powder, mixing it as thoroughly as dye into clay. Then, as she had the first time, sniffed, tasted, spat and considered it again.

  Petra watched, brow furrowed, as she withdrew a small sickle-shaped knife and began zealously gathering full clusters of moss from the stones. "Dear healer," she said lightly, "you'll make yourself sick doing that."

  "You forget that my training goes beyond the use of magic." She extended one of the clusters towards her with a spirited grin. "Smell that?"

  "Damp?"

  "No, eresthal--...um...look." She tossed a piece towards her, where she stood watchfully between the trees. "Nutty and sour. It's found in plants with anthni--...it stops blood from clotting."

  "All right. And what is that?" Petra asked, tossing it back and gesturing towards the dry grass she was grinding between her palms again, her expression still screwed up against the sourness.

  "Noha root. Most plants I know with this ability are dry and activated through burning, but this...sponge thing is wet. But noha root has hot-drying properties - it's used as a dressing after searing a wound, but Liaha, my
teacher, once used it against a moist herb to dry it out almost immediately." She extended a piece of shrivelled moss.

  "Dry," Petra frowned in surprise. "And it will keep?"

  "It should," she grinned. "We'll find out. It's nice to finally find something of use in these forests of yours."

  "Besides fruit, nuts and game?"

  Her smile became lopsided. "Besides that, yes. I admit the sands are harder, but their medicinal plants are boundless."

  "Plants? Boundless?"

  Eyila's lips pursed and curled. Petra had come to decipher some degree of the tribal's unusual expressions. This was a playful snarl that often met her own sarcasm. Petra grinned.

  "Anyway, I have the feeling that I will soon need them."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "Because if things keep going as they are, Anthis will wind up with a few puncture wounds." Eyila sent the duelist a sidelong glance when she didn't respond, and found her expression tight and brooding. She looked back to the shrivelling moss, continuing to powder the most vivid, and settled herself lightly on the ground beside her. "Forgive me for saying so, but you behave like a child around Anthis." She saw Petra's head snap towards her, but she didn't look up. She fished out an empty pouch from beneath her cloak instead and began tucking away her prizes. She continued quite unapologetically. "Why do you seek confrontation with him? It does no one any good, especially yourself. You will exhaust your heart. If you hate him so, why do you let yourself get so worked up?" She didn't raise her eyes, though she felt Petra's burning upon her. They did little to unsettle her. "I think - in fact, I know - it's because you care. You fretted for him just as you did for Rathen while they were trapped in that place. Don't deny it. You're hurt, I understand that, especially after all you've told me of your father, and you're a fighter - you're aggressive and defensive in the face of anything that might try to knock you down. We've both lost our worlds at the hands of murderers. But they were not him. I know this, and so do you. And instead of transferring my...feelings onto him, I've tried to understand him and his motives."

  Finally, Eyila closed the pouch and looked up, meeting the bewildered outrage that consumed Petra's face. "I realise it may seem strange, but in understanding and then forgiving him and his ways - ways I do not believe he can help - I can find some kind of...what was the word? 'Catharsis'? You understand. But keeping me away from him because of your own mistrust is making it impossible. I appreciate your care, Petra, but in this case it is neither needed nor wanted."

  Petra turned away as she rose to her feet, and though Eyila recognised the purpose of the gesture, she ignored it. She rose and stepped around in front of her, back into her line of sight. "Perhaps you should try the same."

  "He," she growled through her teeth, her gaze shooting past, refusing even to brush her, "is a cultist. He may dress it in honour and integrity, but he kills for personal gain. I admire that you, of all people, can look past that - clearly you are a better person than I am - but it confounds me also. And I...am not ready."

  "Or are you simply unwilling?"

  Petra's eyes dragged heavily onto her, catching her sad smile before she turned away to gather more moss.

  Aria swung her legs playfully from her perch upon the well-side, her face turned up towards the sky, pattered by the endless drizzle. Her hood slipped down every few moments, which she quickly snatched back into place against anyone who might be watching her despite her cluelessly audacious presence, and she kept her humming to a minimum.

  But she was bored. Here was this pretty little village made from the strangest of stones, surrounded by mystery, consumed by moss, inhabited by goodness only knew what, and she was unable to wander it. Her lips drew into a pout and she sighed wearily. She hadn't even her father to talk to, though he sat on the worm-eaten bench right beside her. He was leafing through his notebook with a bitter twist to his lips. In fact he'd looked like that for most of the day. And he'd been moodier than usual, too. Several times he'd looked ready to throw the book into the dirty water and be done with it, but something kept his nose among the pages.

  Now, however, he just looked tired. He'd definitely over-worked his mind.

  She straightened. She recognised her duty - but in trying to enact it, what came out from her mouth was not what she'd intended. Not that she was sure what that was, but it was far too close to the source of his troubles than it was a song about a goat.

  "It didn't work," he replied with a drawn sigh, still staring sightlessly into the pages, "because I am a fool." She began immediately to dispute his claim, for which he smiled gratefully, but he was far from swayed. "Where Isabelle was concerned, I was directing it at a tangible vessel - a vessel you can see and touch. But the magic in the ruins has no vessel. I'd become so caught up in the details it needed to work that I'd walked right into the same obvious mistake I'd made the last time. And I don't have a clue how to get around it..."

  She pushed her sad frown aside and shuffled closer, attempting to reassure him with a smile, though his eyes were still drawn into the book. "You made Isabelle stop dancing. You made the Z--" her eyes widened and she glanced about them, dropping her voice lower. "You made it work. You did, Daddy, we all saw it."

  His shoulders fell with a deep, slow exhalation. He didn't look up, and this time her confidence didn't win a smile of any kind. If anything, his lips turned down further. She felt useless. But she didn't give in to it. Because he needed her.

  She looked back up into the rain instead, pondering the matter. Countless drops of water fell onto her skin, making her blink erratically to keep it out of her eyes, but she enjoyed the cooling sensation and so didn't shield her face against them. But when she finally brushed a myriad of big, round blobs of water from her skin with one wipe of her arm, an abstract thought began to form. "Perhaps," she said slowly, following the thought as it took on a life of its own, "it's like marbles. They bounce and roll away and scatter all over the floor. In a bag, you can pick them all up in one go - like the magic you put inside Isabelle to make her dance. But once they're loose, you have to pick them all up one at a time or you'll stand on them and fall."

  "Puddles!"

  Rathen jolted in shock and spun around in his seat. He'd forgotten that Anthis was sitting beside him, silently reading through one of his notebooks as he, like they, waited for Garon to return. But the young man seemed unaware of his fright and continued urgently with a deeply pensive frown.

  "You said the magic had gathered in puddles, not as one expanse, correct? What if your mistake was trying to draw all the magic up at once? The elves were all about context, so targeting a vessel - a body or a doll - is required to complete the spell, as you proved, to fill the missing part of the chain. But the elves were also extremely specific. They could have used this against an opposing faction, but they would have had to distinguish one faction from another, especially if they were intermingled. No doubt they had some elaborate way of doing this quickly enough for the weapon to be used to maximum effect without hindrance, but if we overlook that for the moment--"

  "You're saying I should be targeting the puddles of magic, specifically, not the magic as a whole."

  "...That's the jist of it, yes. One, three, five at a time; the lot when you've gotten a feel for it."

  Rathen nodded slowly, his lined face creasing deeper as he mulled the suggestion over. One eyebrow twitched in a decidedly acceding manner.

  "Oh!"

  Anthis and Rathen froze in fright at the sudden and shrill exclamation, while Aria spun to discover an older woman with grey streaked hair gazing back at her over the top of a jug with bright, enchanted eyes. "Oh, what a pretty lass you are!"

  Aria grinned, her cheeks immediately turning a vibrant crimson. "Thank you, missus..."

  "Oh but this rain! Whatever are you doing in this marsh in such weather? You don't live near - I would remember a face like yours."

  "We needed food," she smiled shyly, "we're travelling."

  "Oh," her wistful eyes bec
ame steeped in sorrow and her lower lip quivered like a bowstring. "Refugees, hey? Such sad, sad times. Where are you heading?"

  "West," Anthis replied, rising and turning as Aria pointed to the far southern end of the village. Rathen kept his head down; the historian was, to their fortune, surprisingly forgettable despite his reputation. "To White Heath."

  The dramatic woman's eyes became grave as they lifted to him, and the well wheel creaked mournfully as she worked it to lower her jug. "You'll be passing near Eddon, I wager. You should find another route, and not just for the sake of your youngster."

  "He's not my--"

  "Why?" He frowned, interrupting Aria's protest. "What's happened in Eddon?"

  "Well it's what almost happened, really. Bandits attempted to take the town a few nights past - I expect they were encouraged by the evacuations, decided they would be more likely to run away than stand firm. Well, they were chased off, thank the stars, but as sure as the sun rises, they'll be lurking around in the trees like ditchlings around an orphanage. It was surely by Vastal's grace alone that only one person was killed - a Kalosian, you know." Her eyes suddenly slighted in the greatest of suspicion, and her voice dropped in secrecy. "Out late, she was. Some suppose she was the one that let them in."

  Anthis frowned. "Then why did they kill her?"

  "Well she chose to work with bandits. What beyond trickery can anyone expect of them?" The wheel stuck as the sloshing jug hit the cross beam, and she dragged it towards herself with practised effort. "No, sir, I suggest you find another route."

  "Yes, thank you, truly. We will."

  The old woman nodded in satisfaction, either at his agreement or at the weight of her jug as she detached it from the hook, and after bidding them luck and farewell, she turned away to leave. "Oh," she threw back as she started off into the finally waning drizzle, "and keep an eye on the clouds! Mark my words, this storm will be terrible! Terrible!"