Tournament of Witches Page 3

Eben sighed. His wits told him one thing, but his warrior’s pride said something else. Not listening to his wits was almost always a mistake.

  Despite this wise thought, Eben thrust up his hand, splashing the mead into Harful’s face. Next moment, he twisted and ducked. His foot lashed out, connecting hard with Harful’s knee. Eben hoped the kick might tear a tendon or crush bone, but he had grown soft these past months, neglected his fighting practice.

  Still, the knee snapped straight and Harful roared in pain, stumbling backward, his mead-splashed face contorted. Immediately, the two klarnmates grabbed Eben, each getting hold of an arm.

  “Leave him! He’s mine!” Harful snarled, a knife whipping from his belt.

  “Stop it! Stop at once!” The barkeeper lifted a heavy cudgel over his head. “Take it outside, if you please. We’ll have no damages here.” Two of his waiters, stocky Fleevaners, were pushing through the crowd to add force to his request.

  “Yes! Bring him out to the alley.” Harful told his mates. “We’ll soon make an end of one lying Iruk.”

  Mixed with his panic as they hustled him toward the back of the tavern, a stray thought ran through Eben’s mind: At least this isn’t boring.

  Three

  The alley was five paces across, cobblestones dusted with snow. The windows of the tavern kitchen and the rooms overhead cast a dull illumination. The air was frigid, a steady breeze coming up from the ice-laden harbor. The tavern noise, restored to a jovial babble, sounded faintly from inside.

  Set free by the two warriors, Eben drew his hunting knife and watched Harful walk toward him. Mind racing, he calculated his chances. Harful was somewhat drunk, though a long way from stumbling. He was taller than Eben and much heavier—a bulky, hardened warrior. In duels with sword or knife, Eben’s skill lay in speed and agility. But he had seldom handled weapons these past six months and knew himself to be woefully out of shape.

  He crouched, pointed his knife, grinning.

  Harful wasted no time, stalking forward, stabbing at Eben’s face. Eben tilted just enough, nearly losing an ear, and thrust at his opponent’s arm. But he was off balance. The blade scraped a sleeve but failed to even pierce the fur. Eben spun out of reach, crouched again.

  Harful came on, swinging this time. Eben ducked low and took a gamble. He lunged, wrapped his arms around Harful’s leg and lifted sideways. Harful, his reflexes not at their best, slipped, toppled, and fell sprawling on his back. Eben also stumbled, but managed to land on top of the bigger man. He pinned Harful’s knife arm down with the weight of both legs and brought his point up to Harful’s neck.

  “Yield.” Eben hissed.

  Suddenly Harful’s mates joined the fray. One of them kicked Eben over onto his back. The other warrior held Eben down while Harful righted himself and crawled over beside him.

  Now it was Harful’s knife point poking under Eben’s chin.

  “So!” he crowed. “Now I will free the world of one Iruk cheat!”

  The point pressed closer.

  Why didn’t I listen to my wits? Eben wondered.

  The tapered point of an Iruk hunting sword slid before Harful’s eyes. The knife drew back from Eben’s throat.

  “That was not a fair fight,” a woman’s voice said.

  Eben’s eyes rolled up. Brinda, one of the women from Lonn’s klarn, stood with her sword held firmly at Harful’s nose. A glance to the side showed Karrol, Brinda’s sister, pointing sword and spear to hold the other two men at bay.

  

  Dressed in a quilted robe, her white-blond hair in disarray, Amlina descended the steps to the great room. Glyssa, Lonn, and Kizier watched her from the dining table. Draven stared moodily from a chair at the fireplace.

  Amlina lowered her eyes, avoiding their gazes.

  None of her friends spoke as Amlina walked to the hearth and lifted the lid from a cauldron. She took a bowl from the mantel and used a ladle to serve out some stew. She hadn’t eaten all day, keeping to her room, claiming she was meditating. She felt no hunger now, but knew she must eat in the hope of regaining her strength.

  Crossing to the table, she could feel their emotions—worry, fear, perhaps a sullen anger. Amlina hated herself for causing them to suffer. When she was seated, it was Kizier, the normally quiet scholar, who broke the silence.

  “Amlina, we must talk.”

  “I am listening, my friend.” She raised the spoon to her lips. The venison broth was hot and savory. Her stomach cringed.

  “We cannot go on like this.” Draven had stalked over to stand at her shoulder. “You cannot go on like this. You are destroying yourself.”

  Amlina set down the spoon. Lonn and Kizier stared at her solemnly, Glyssa with love and deep worry. She dared not even look at Draven, opening herself to his grief would be unbearable.

  “I am not destroying myself.” Her voice faltered. “I am coping as best I can.”

  Draven gripped her wrist, yanked up her arm so the loose sleeve dropped, showing her skin. “This is how you are coping? By bleeding away your life’s blood?”

  Amlina’s cheeks burned with shame. “So you know.”

  “How could I not know?” Draven raved, jerking her wrist harder. “I share your room, your bed. Do you think me so stupid? A witless barbarian?”

  “Steady.” Lonn told him.

  With a growl of frustration, Draven released her and stamped back to the hearth. Leaning an arm on the mantel, he stared into the fire.

  “All of us know how you are suffering,” Glyssa said softly. “We want to help you. There must be a way.”

  Amlina stared blankly. “I have tried everything I know to do.”

  Kizier had stood and walked over to a writing table near the fireplace. He returned carrying a large book bound in leather and iron. Draven followed him and sat down beside Amlina.

  “I have conferred with Buroof,” she said.

  “So have we,” Kizier answered. “I think you need to hear his perspective on this matter.”

  Setting the book on the table, he opened the cover. A cloud of light rose from the parchment. “Buroof, I, Kizier, summon you.”

  Once Buroof had been human, a scholar of vast learning. Long ago, his mind had been captured and bound into the book by a sorcerer. For nearly three thousand years, Buroof’s mind had continued to live, absorbing knowledge from every mage, sorcerer, and witch who possessed the book.

  “I am here,” a hollow voice answered.

  “With me is Amlina,” Kizier said, “and also our Iruk friends.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “I want you to repeat what you told us earlier, concerning techniques of healing those who suffer imbalance and unnatural hungers caused by residues of blood magic.”

  Buroof heaved a sign.“Really, it is most annoying to constantly be required to repeat myself.”

  “Nevertheless,” Kizier answered patiently.

  “Oh, very well. The most extensive records are of course from ancient Nyssan, among both the Nagaree and the cities of the Far East. In both places, the practices of blood magic were common, and often the hungers you term “unnatural” resulted. Of course they were not then deemed unnatural, merely appetites to be satisfied. However, there were treatments devised for when these appetites became unmanageable. Typically this involved a circle of practitioners drawing both blood and a measure of life essence, thus restoring physical and psychic balance.”

  “Drawing blood and energy to restore the balance,” Amlina said. “I’ve consulted Buroof too, and this is exactly what I’ve been attempting.”

  “Obviously without success,” Lonn stated bluntly.

  “What about the records from Larthang,” Kizier prompted the book.

  “Yes,” Buroof answered. “Before the Time of the World’s Madness, blood magic was also practiced in Larthang, though to a much lesser degree. It was already condemned by many as nefarious. History tells of certain formulations that were devised to cure blood mages by transmuting their unbalanced energies,
turning them into power aligned to principles of right practice as defined by philosophies of the time.”

  Amlina eyed Kizier skeptically. “Are you suggesting I should sail to Larthang?”

  “Isn’t that what you always intended?” Glyssa asked her gently.

  Amlina fretted, raking a hand through her hair. “Yes, but that would mean…” Her voice trailed off. It would mean going back, not in triumph as she has always hoped, but as a tainted witch, a pitiful failure, throwing herself on the mercy of the House of the Deepmind, the establishment of high witches—they who had scorned her long ago.

  “How do I even know they could help me?” she said. “Just because certain practices existed in the remote past …”

  “It seems your most likely place to find a cure,” Kizier insisted. “And isn’t it said that all magic that was ever practiced in the House of the Deepmind abides there, in the very foundation stones and the ground below?”

  “Yes, so it is said,” Amlina answered. “But even if that is not merely a poetic conceit, finding a witch able and willing to raise such ancient designs for my benefit …”

  “…Seems your best hope of finding a cure,” Kizier insisted. “Besides, you can’t hide here forever. I know you’ve woven concealments, but sooner or later one powerful mage or another will penetrate them and discover the Cloak.”

  “I believe this is all stupendously obvious,” Buroof interjected. “In my opinion, Amlina, you should sail to Larthang immediately and deliver the Cloak and the Scrolls of Eglemarde to the House of the Deepmind. I’d prefer that you also present myself, as a gift to them. Frankly, I am enormously bored with the lot of you, and would welcome a chance to converse with wiser, more engaging minds. In fact—” Kizier closed the book cutting off Buroof’s developing tirade.

  “There you have it.” Glyssa smiled. “Even our kind and courteous friend Buroof sees this as your wisest course.”

  Amlina regarded her sullenly, then glanced around at the others, her gaze coming to rest of Draven. The pain and love she read in his face melted her resistance.

  “Perhaps you are right,” she murmured. “Would you—would all of you sail with me?”

  Before they could answer, a buzzing sounded above, at a corner of the ceiling. Between the timber beams a ball of light appeared, growing as it drifted down. A figure coalesced in the light, a small black-haired lady lifted by the blur of bee wings.

  

  “How did you find me in that alley, mates?” Eben asked. “Not that I am not excessively happy that you did.”

  Karrol snorted. “You mean, behind a tavern, in over your head in some stupid brawl? It seemed an obvious place to look.”

  Eben and Brinda both laughed.

  The three Iruks soaked together in a wide tub of steaming water. They had walked to this bath house several streets from the harbor immediately after leaving the Sea Lion—deeming it wise to put some distance between themselves and Harful’s crew. Of course, Eben had insisted on stopping along the way at one of his favorite wine shops to purchase several bottles of mead.

  Now he passed one to Karrol, who took a long swallow.

  She was tall for an Iruk woman, and strongly built. Brinda, her sister, was leaner, though both had muscular physiques that made Eben glance regretfully at his own thin limbs and soft belly.

  “We just landed at sunset,” Brinda explained. “We were going to bathe first, then buy some dinner. But something made us stop at the Sea Lion.”

  “It might have been the klarn-soul,” Karrol added. “It had that feeling.”

  A klarn was more than the crew of a hunting boat. It had a group soul, formed by all of the members. That group soul bound them together and gave them strength.

  Eben scratched his head. “You mean from Lonn’s klarn?” They had disbanded the klarn months ago, after settling in at the farmhouse.

  “Of course,” Karrol said. “What else could I mean?”

  “But I thought you two joined a new klarn.”

  “Oh, that’s over,” Karrol replied.

  “Right.” One side of Brinda’s mouth twisted up. “Karrol couldn’t get along with Tallvis the leader. We split with them after just one hunt.”

  “He was always barking at me.” Karrol waved a hand dismissively. “And if you questioned his decisions the slightest little bit, he took it as an insult. Highly unreasonable. It was all I could do to not throw him out of the boat.”

  Eben was laughing again. “That is something I can easily imagine.”

  Karrol shook her head. “Lonn never acted that way. I miss our old klarn. We were all good mates.”

  “That we were,” Eben agreed.

  “I miss it too,” Brinda admitted.

  “And I do think the klarn-soul led us to find you tonight,” Karrol added. “It draws us together. Maybe it’s because of Glyssa. Maybe it’s due to Amlina’s magic, or all the adventures we shared. But I can’t imagine another bond ever being so strong.”

  The three of them sat quietly in the rising steam.

  Perhaps Karrol was right about the klarn-soul, Eben thought. Certainly, sitting with these two former mates, he felt happier and more relaxed than he had in months.

  “So what are your plans now?” he asked.

  Brinda answered. “We thought of going up to the farmstead, to visit with Glyssa and Lonn.”

  “They’re still up there, aren’t they?” Karrol said.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “We, uh,” Karrol hesitated. “We thought they might want to form a klarn with us again. You’d be welcome too, of course.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that would work. Draven and Glyssa at least will want to stay with Amlina.”

  “Amlina hasn’t sailed back to Larthang yet?” Karrol asked.

  “I’m nearly certain she hasn’t.”

  “Why not?” Karrol said. “What is she waiting for?”

  “She’s been … indisposed.”

  “Well, fine.” Karrol frowned. After a moment, she peered at Brinda. “Maybe we could reform the klarn and sail with her.”

  Brinda shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  Eben stared at them both, a quiver of excitement moving in him. Maybe it was the klarn-soul after all. They had sailed to the Tathian Islands and Gwales in the north, to Near and Far Nyssan in the east. Larthang on the western continent was the only remote part of the world they had not visited together.

  “You know,” he said. “I have to admit, that idea sounds both ridiculous and appealing.”

  “Ha!” Karrol playfully poked his ribs. “You’ll need to regain some muscle if you’re coming with us. Honestly, you’re a scrawny mess.”

  Four

  As the winged creature drifted down from the ceiling, Amlina jumped to her feet. So did Lonn and Draven, who rushed to grab spears and hunting swords from a rack by the front door. They were back in a moment, weapons ready.

  “No!” Glyssa raised a hand to ward off any attack. “She means no harm, I think.”

  In her time studying under Amlina, Glyssa’s witchsight had grown keen. But Amlina herself was not so sure.

  The intruder, now clearly revealed as a woman with insect wings, wore a sheer white gown, leggings, and slippers. Her hair was long and black, her face thin and angular with a bronze tone, not much different from the Iruk skin color. Hovering in the air, glancing from face to face, she spoke in Low-Tathian in a soft, unsteady voice.

  “These are Iruks. And this one”— she gestured toward Kizier—“is a man of the Tathian Isles, perhaps? But you, lady”—staring now at Amlina—“I do believe are Larthangan?”

  “That is so.” Amlina stood rigid. “And you are a drell.”

  She had seen the winged people before, of course, when she lived in Minhang and studied at the Academy of the Deepmind. Always it was from a distance, at public events and ceremonies. A small delegation of drells lived at the court of the Tuan, and others made occasional visits to the capital. The drells were among th
e sentient races spawned in the Age of World’s Madness, a time of chaos brought on by the unrestrained use of magic. Now the drells lived in a forest of giant trees that formed the border between Larthang and the southern land of Zindu.

  A smile spread on the winged lady’s mouth “Indeed. I am a drell.” Her wings grew still and she settled onto the floor, bells tinkling on the pointed toes of her slippers.

  “What a lovely creature,” Glyssa said, then asked Amlina. “What is a drell?”

  Draven and Lonn had lowered their weapons, but still watched the winged woman suspiciously. Kizier’s expression was one of intent, thoughtful curiosity.

  The drell’s eyes were on Amlina. “I am named Trippany. May we speak?” she asked in Larthangan.

  Amlina relaxed into her chair and gestured to the bench beside her. “Of course. Be seated if you wish. But speak in Tathian please, so the others will understand.”

  Trippany frowned and remained standing. “Better if we talk privately.”

  Amlina shook her head. “There is nothing you cannot say in front of my mates.”

  She used the Iruk word meaning “members of my klarn.” The drell’s expression was puzzled as she glanced at the others.

  “Very well,” she said, returning to the Tathian tongue. “I am an envoy from the House of the Deepmind in the city of Minhang. I seek the Cloak of the Two Winds. Do you know where it might be found?”

  Now everyone stared at Amlina, faces tense. She forced a calm smile. “I do indeed. The Cloak is in my possession.”

  “Oh, at last!” Trippany’s body slumped with relief, to the point where her balance faltered. Her wings fluttered briefly to restore her footing. “Then you are the witch who confiscated the Cloak from the Archimage of Tallyba. And these are your Iruk crew, as the stories told.”

  “Some of the crew,” Amlina answered.

  Trippany’s eyes shifted again, resting on the weapons still held by Draven and Lonn. Her nerve seemed to falter, but she set her shoulders and spoke with what firmness she could gather.

  “I have been charged to return the Cloak of the Two Winds to the House of the Deepmind, from whence it was stolen long ago. Will you give it to me, so I may restore it to its rightful owners?”