Chapter 3

She spent two days in the cave kneeling over the mage circle, searching for wisdom in the ancient etchings. She sifted through compounds made of flax and feathers and seeds, recognizing patterns. She ate very little and slept almost not at all.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, as she trudged down the rut-filled dusty road back towards the village, that her lack of sleep and food caught up with her. She knew of a small spring off to the side, where wild berries grew through the rocks. She grabbed a few handfuls, rinsing them in the cool water.

Then she splashed the dust from her face and arms.

A flash of color to her left caught her eye. Brightpinks, growing with wild abandon. She plucked a handful, sat on a large fallen log and started to twine a chain. And for a moment, she was a child again, carefree, with only her chores and her cat to consider.

But she was no longer a carefree child. And her cat waited for her, at the edge of the dusty road. She tucked the unfinished chain in her apron pocket and pushed herself to her feet.

Nixa, whose interest in the occult was none at all and who had a natural ability to fend for herself, had fared much better over the past two days. She pranced happily alongside her mistress as they returned to the road. To the cat, the days at the cave were a grand adventure in the forest and nothing more.

Khamsin shoved the long sleeves of her blouse up over her elbows. She regretted she hadn’t thought to dampen a cloth at the spring. There was no wind from the sea and the earth under her feet baked in the summer sun. If only the cool winds common to late summer would appear again. She daily asked Ixari for blessings in that regard. The humidity was unbearable; her thin blouse clung to her damp form and her skirts caught heavily between her bare legs. She thought again of the days when she ran about the forest in boy’s breeches and a light vest.

There were spells in her Book created to alter the weather, but they were to be performed only by a temple priest or a priestess. She was a Healer, a benefactress for her village. She aided or advised; she didn’t alter. A Healer, as Tavis had reminded her, could question the Gods but not countermand them.

The symbols she sought within the circle were for these purposes only. Though the knowledge she gained this time in Bronya’s cave weighed as heavily on her mind as the oppressive weather. It was a cloudy knowledge, unlike the clear blue of the sky overhead. Everything pointed to the necessity of her continuing her training but nothing explained why. As Tavis had said, why weren’t her herbals sufficient?

But they weren’t, and she wondered why Tavis didn’t accept her need to continue learning. She - and Tanta Bron - thought that he would.

Again and again, the symbols for knowledge and experience appeared in her divinations and less and less, the symbols of benedictions and healing. She understood that some of this knowledge would come as a result of a journey, though by land or by water was not made clear. For when she consulted the circle for specifics, the answers were again vague.

It was as if there were a power struggle being waged amongst the deities themselves and Khamsin’s queries only served as a further irritation. She was beginning to suspect that there was more than just the powers of the Sorcerer to fear.

But a tired mind easily finds misinterpretations. So she headed for home seeking, if not knowledge, then comfort and rest.

The narrow road wound around a grove of old trees. Khamsin’s tracks cut even wider as she stepped aside to avoid a fresh deposit of dung. Nixa sniffed at the manure warily, identifying it for herself and Khamsin as horse . That meant there was a traveler up ahead with a small cart, judging from the marks in dust on the road as well. She yearned to ask for a ride.

She caught up with the horse cart sooner than expected. The rider, tall and dark-haired, had dismounted and walked slowly. Khamsin recognized the mottled gray mare and the red-stenciled cart as belonging to the Tinker. It was laden with pots and pans and odd pieces of cloth and lace.

She hailed him by his name, which was his title and the same for all of those who plied the trade.

"Ho, Tinker!"

The man stopped and turned, his lean face registering surprise.

"Lady Khamsin! And what brings you out for a walk on this beastly afternoon?" He ran his hand wearily through his dark hair, pulling it away from where it clung to the dampness of his face and the back of his neck. His jacket and vest were absent and his linen shirt was partially unlaced.

"Just on my way home." She drew up next to him. The gray mare whinnied and shook her head.

Khamsin touched the animal’s neck and her mind registered the pain.

"You have trouble?" She noticed a slight swelling on the mare’s front leg.

The Tinker nodded. The small gold star in his left ear glinted in the late afternoon sun. "She picked up a stone. When she went to put her weight on it, twisted something. I pulled up immediately but I’m afraid the damage is done."

Khamsin cleared her mind of her troublesome thoughts and bent down to touch the mare’s leg.

"It’s just a slight muscle pull. Nothing serious, fortunately." She reached for the bag of oiled, crushed berries at her waist. She applied a small amount of the salve to the affected area. "There now, sweet one, this should feel better very soon."

"You dropped this," the Tinker said, kneeling down to retrieve a tumble of pink at his feet.

Khamsin patted her apron pocket. The brightpink chain must have fallen out when she reached for the bag of berry salve.

"It’s nothing. Just a silly…"

"Lover’s chain?" He grinned back at her. "But it’s not finished. It won’t work unless you finish it." He twisted the stem on the end, deftly forming a loop.

"You do that well. You must have had lots of practice."

"But not patience. I’ve yet to finish one. But maybe this time, with your help, I’ll succeed."

They walked slowly, so as not to strain the mare further. Nixa elected to ride in the overstuffed cart, settling her sleek form comfortably on top of a bolt of bright muslin. She kept pace to the Tinker’s shortened stride, looking now and then at his hands as they twisted the long green stems.

He was taller than Tavis, she noted, for the top of her head reached her husband’s chin. Walking beside the Tinker, her height barely reached the man’s shoulder.

"Lady Khamsin, the village has had a prosperous summer, I trust?"

"We’ve been fortunate," she replied.

"There’s not been good news elsewhere, I’m afraid. Though I’m pleased your village has done well." He handed her the chain, with three more blossoms added.

She took it and fished out another brightpink from her pocket. "We heard there was a raid…?"

"Two. Hill Raiders came into Bright’s Cove and Wallow’s since Summertide."

She suppressed a shudder. "Isn’t that unusual?"

"There are many unusual things in the Land right now. You know of the plague in Dram?"

"No! Tavis gets most of his metal from their mines." Alarm showed in her eyes. The Tinker slowed, touching her lightly on the arm.

"There was nothing you could’ve done. It came and went so quickly. There wasn’t even enough time to send for a Healer."

She gazed back up into eyes as pale as the mist from the moons. "But I should’ve felt, should’ve heard something!" She thought back to unnatural gaps in her divinations.

"Perhaps there was nothing to tell."

"But there would have been a need . At least if I couldn’t heal, there’s always the offerings to Ixari, for safe passage through Tarkir’s realm. I should have known. I should have been there." A knot of emotion caught in her voice. She looked down at her hands. The brightpinks were trembling.

The Tinker squeezed her arm in compassion. She slowed her pace, stopping when he turned to her.

"You have so much to give, my Lady Khamsin," he said softly. "You want so badly to offer blessings.

Yet I fear so few offer blessings to you in return."

"The villagers have not been unkind," she protested.

"But have they been welcoming? No, don’t answer. You see only their needs, even at the expense of your own."

He grasped her wrist lightly and took the brightpinks from her fingers. He draped the short chain around her wrist and wove the end stems into place. Then he raised her fingers to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a light kiss. "I offer you my blessing, then. Will you accept that, in place of your worries?"

His unexpected kindness touched a deep, lonely place inside Khamsin. Something warm sparkled inside her and for a moment, it was if all the Land stood still, waiting for her answer.

"Thank you kindly. And your blessing is welcome, and accepted."

The breeze ruffled through the trees again and the Land settled back within itself with a sigh.

Khamsin spotted her husband standing in the wide door of the smithy, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He seemed not the least bit surprised to find her in the company of the traveling Tinker. He grunted a short greeting to both of them, then turned his attention immediately to the lame mare.

Khamsin stroked the animal’s soft nose as Tavis inspected the damaged hoof. "Nothing to worry overmuch about," he said, and set about repairing the broken shoe.

Only later when the Tinker agreed with much gratitude to join them for dinner, did Khamsin notice Tavis showing more than a polite interest in the stranger. And only, it seemed, because of the news he brought about the troubles in the South.

"That explains much." He wiped the crust of Rina’s freshly baked bread around the inside of his dinner bowl. "Seems we’ve been luckier than most, right here."

"Legends often say that the village of a Healer is a village of luck," the Tinker replied and in the waning evening light, his gaze caught Khamsin’s. She again saw the gentle acceptance he’d shown her earlier.

And felt his smile before it appeared.

"Won’t catch the Covemen or the villagers here saying that." Tavis let his ale mug slip to the table with a bang.

Khamsin jumped, not sure if she were more startled by the noise or the bitterness she heard for the first time in her husband’s words. It was such a sharp contrast to the Tinker’s.

"People often don’t say what they feel," the Tinker replied smoothly as Khamsin stood quickly to mop up the splattered ale with her napkin.

She chanced a look at Tavis, but his mug was raised, hiding his face. His broad fingers grasped the handle tightly. Puzzled, she glanced at the Tinker. He, too, wore a strange expression. His earlier nonchalance was gone, his brow furrowed in irritation. She felt a stab of anxiety and then he brought his gaze to hers, and his expression changed.

A warm breeze touched her cheek, the fragrance of the moonpetals sweet in the evening air.

She stepped to the window and pulled back the curtains, needing to put some space between herself and the emotions misting across the table. She breathed deeply of the flowers’ scent. A wave of calmness passed over her.

When she turned, the tension at the table was gone.

Tavis raised his empty mug. "More of this ale, Khamsin?"

"Of course." She hurried to the kitchen.

The deep rumbling of the men’s voices followed her. Talk was of horses and trade. She returned with a full pitcher, which Tavis took from her. He filled the Tinker’s mug and his own, once again the affable lord of his own manor.

Khamsin sat and, while the men debated the bloodlines of various horses, peeled an apple she brought from the kitchen. She listened halfheartedly but watched with more interest.

The Tinker was so different from any of the Covemen she knew. And it was not just the fluidity of his conversations, the timbre of his voice or his acceptance of her as a Healer.

Yet he was also familiar. He, or one of his trade, had always been in the village, bearing trinkets from far-off lands. Or equally as interesting stories. Perhaps that’s what it was that she found so curious about the man. The Covemen were so much like the Cove but the Tinker was a little bit of every place he had been.

She glanced at her husband as he rummaged in his pockets for his tobacco pouch. The Tinker was older than Tavis, though not by much. Perhaps five or six years. And his general appearance was similar to the men of her village and other Cove towns. But Tavis’ hair was dark brown. The Tinker’s hair and mustache were black, glossy black, like the color of a moonless night.

Tavis offered the Tinker a pipe but he declined, and pulled a thin cigar from an inside pocket of his suede vest. This he held out to the smith. Tavis accepted it, sniffing the mahogany-colored tobacco appreciatively.

"Don’t find this quality often around here. You’ve been to the City, then?"

The Tinker nodded as he lit his own cigar.

"You have a name? You know me as Tavis."

The Tinker took a few short puffs, releasing a billowing cloud of pungent blue smoke from his mouth. He leaned back in his chair. "I have more names than I care to remember. And most of them can’t be repeated in polite company." A wry smile accompanied his words.

Tavis chuckled. "Well?"

"Rylan. The name’s Rylan. Rylan the Tinker. It’s as good as any, for now."

Khamsin picked up the empty pitcher and stood, expecting her husband to bring the meal and the visit to a close. It was late. She hadn’t seen him in three days and they had parted with harsh words between them. Even so, she assumed he would be as anxious to hear about her findings as she was about the telling of them. Therefore she was caught off-guard when her husband seemed reluctant to let their guest depart.

"Then tell me, Rylan. Do you play cards?"

She shot a confused glance in Tavis’ direction. But he avoided her eyes, instead reaching for the dog-eared deck of playing cards on the small table behind him.

"Of course I play," she heard the Tinker reply. "For what is life, but a game?"

Suddenly, she felt alone and discarded. She cleared the dishes from the table and fed the scraps to Nixa while the men played cards. The fire in the kitchen hearth softened to an orange glow, but still the men played on. Their laughter and gruff voices followed her as she walked down the short hallway at the back of the house. And went to bed that night, alone.

The morning after the Tinker’s visit, Khamsin sat Tavis down in the main room and made him listen to what she’d learned in her two days at the cave, knowing by the reaction on his wide face that he didn’t like what he heard.

"This is not for the likes of a Healer." He didn’t look at her but ruffled the dog-eared deck of cards through his fingers. He hadn’t even looked at her over their tea that morning. Khamsin sighed.

"I can’t be sure of that."

"Because you say these signs aren’t clear. As if something’s disturbing them. Something powerful."

"Yes, but…"

"It’s too dangerous." He slanted a glance at her then looked away. "You don’t know what may come of this. Best to stop asking these questions. Best to do nothing at all."

She folded her hands tightly in her lap as if doing so could contain her growing anger. "And then what, Tavis? More raids? More plagues? Are you asking me just to ignore everything I’ve been taught and let that happen?"

"Yes! That’s exactly what I’m asking."

"But if I could prevent it, if I could give warning…"

"We’ve not asked for your help, have we?" He tossed the cards into a basket under the window with a quick thrust, then pushed himself to his feet and glared down at her. "You’re not to go back there, Khamsin, do you hear me? You’re not to go back to the cave."

But that’s my home, she almost said and was startled by her own thought. Bronya’s cave was not her home anymore. This house, Tavis’s house, was her home.

"Promise me you won’t go back! And promise me you won’t be using that book of yours anymore, except for aches and pains and healin’ stuff."

She unclenched her fists and shoved them under her apron. "I won’t go back," she told him as she carefully crossed her fingers. "And I will use the book and my stones only for healing. I promise."

She kept her promise for three days. But by the fourth she could no longer fight the call of the stones.

The headaches and inexplicable chills wearied her resolve. She felt the Powers shifting, felt magic burrowing out of the very bones of the Land. So she slipped out of their bed in the wee hours of the morning while her husband snored heavily in his sleep. Sitting cross-legged on the pantry floor, with the Book propped before her, she slowly resumed her practice of her spells and incantations. Pitchers and goblets danced gaily around the stone floor of the kitchen, much to Nixa’s amusement. Whiskers twitching, she stalked the prancing tableware.

But that was child’s play and Khamsin knew it. She also knew she couldn’t further her skills without returning to the cave. Only there did she have the solitude so necessary for her concentration. And only there did she have a real mage circle carved deeply into the rocky earth, its runes aged and timeworn.

The chalk-scribed symbols on her kitchen floor were not the same.

She and Tavis stumbled upon more disagreements. For the fourth time in as many days Tavis stormed out of the kitchen in a foul mood, slamming the door behind him. Her early morning sessions made her more tired than usual and perhaps also a bit more touchy. And the decreasing supply of metals from Dram put Tavis into a bind with some of the Covemen.

He snapped at her when she didn’t respond to his questions at once. And when she did he was critical of her answers, even of the way she answered. He jumped nervously if she walked into his forge and once accused her of following him; then later, of avoiding him.

He sat up late most nights, smoking his pipe, staring at the hearth fire. And some nights he came to bed not at all.

Khamsin accepted they were both under a strain. The approach of her eighteenth birthday didn’t help matters at all. She studied the faces of the villagers now as she walked daily to Rina’s, or to the market for fish. The old man in his long, black cape never reappeared. Twice she thought she sensed a discomforting scrutiny but when she turned, no one was there.

The day before Reverence she stopped at the candlemakers, seeking an Honorsbane votive as an offering. A well-dressed man, his fair hair pulled neatly back at the nape of his neck, held the rough-hewn door for her as she entered, sketched a bow. His behavior, so gallant, so out of place in Cirrus Cove, was almost comical. Save for the chill that ran through her when he touched her arm.

"Perhaps you can assist me, Lady? I seek Mirtad the Tailor."

Mirtad? The name was unfamiliar, especially to her shaken senses. And a tailor? Here? But then her memory thawed. Mirtad. Didn’t Gilby the Oarsman have a cousin, a tailor named Mirtad? From Flume?

She directed the stranger to Gilby’s lodgings and, calmer now, busied herself among the scented candles.

Then two days before her birthday it was as if a dam broke. Tavis called her into his smithy early that afternoon, pulling her away from slicing beans. Wiping her hands on her apron, she followed, barely able to keep up with his long stride.

It was there, gleaming and bright and about the size of the long ladle. Her sword, forged to perfection.

Her hands flew to her mouth then out to the silver object, touching it gently, almost reverently. It felt smooth to her touch, yet open. She could enchant it. He followed her instructions to the letter.

"Oh, Tav." There were tears of joy in her eyes.

He draped one arm across her shoulders. "Pretty proud of myself, too, if you don’t mind me saying so."

He made love to her that night for the first time in many months. Though she would have been content just to hold him, treasuring him truly as one of the finest friends she had ever had.

The morning, however, brought dark clouds on the horizon and an argument in the kitchen.

"But I won’t be going back to learn anything," she pleaded for the fifth time. "It’s just that I can’t do the proper incantations for the sword anyplace else!"

Tavis glared at her over his breakfast. "No. I won’t hear of it any more."

"But…!"

"Khamsin!" He slammed a heavy fist down on the table, rattling the mug and pitcher. "I will not tolerate any witch working!"

"Witch working!" She rose to her feet. Nixa dashed across the kitchen and out the back door. "How dare you call it witch working! I’m a Healer, as was Tanta and…"

"But Tanta is not my wife!"

"You knew what I was before you married me."

"I knew you were a Healer. Not a Witch. I would never have agreed to marry a Witch. Not even to honor a life debt."

Khamsin felt his admission as if he slapped her. She knew Tanta Bron had saved Tavis’s life many years ago. But that she’d used that to coerce the smith to marry her shook her deeply.

She started to reply but he stood, his wide hands splayed on the table and towered over her.

"A Healer doesn’t meddle with such things as concern the Gods. She heals, tends with her herbs. She offers charms and benedictions. I’ve watched Bronya, remember. I knew her longer than you. She didn’t do as you do."

"We’re all different." Khamsin’s voice was quieter now. "Tanta Bron practiced as she felt best. Some things she could do better, some things I can. That’s all."

"Is it?" The burly man turned swiftly.

"Then why did you make me the sword?" She called out to him at he headed for the half-open door.

He stopped, hand on the latch and turned a cold face to her. "Damned if I know." And he stomped heavily down the back steps.

When he returned for his midday meal, Khamsin, Nixa and the sword were gone.