soon, and I won’t wait for you. And I expect you to do your share to sell my cantrips, by the way. None of these snide comments about quality and shoddy goods.”
The sun was just shy of being overhead by the time Vidor Druit and Arna Jadaren, accompanied by three seasoned guards, who had served the Druit household for a decade, and a pair of laden mules passed Jandi’s Oak. Over the years the way to Jadaren Hold had grown from a barely perceptible path to a wide road, capable of letting a small army pass. The long tongue of trees that once reached out from the branching of the Chondalwood and Thornwood had been pushed back, cleared for its wood and to allow the road to expand.
The great oak, so alien amid the other trees, was spared, and now grew flourishing and massive-trunked by itself, standing like a gigantic rooted guardian overlooking the road and the distant anthill of Jadaren Hold. Beneath the stretch of its branches was a small shrine, waist-high to a human, made of stacked lava stones. Before the shrine was a circle of similar stones, making a small fire pit that was now filled with cold black char.
“Wait,” called Arna, sliding off his horse. The horse, a short fat draft form, which Arna had tumbled off on a regular basis since the age of nine, snorted and rooted for grass at the stones at the side of the road.
“We’re late enough,” called Vidor.
Arna waved back in reply, but didn’t pause on his way up the slight slope to the shade of the oak above.
Under Jandi’s Oak it was very quiet, as it always was. Even when the road was busy, all sounds seemed to be muted to those who sat under its branches, and today, with the Druit party the only travelers nearby, the sole sound was the faint twitter of finches, invisible between the dark green leaves.
The black lava-rock shrine was little more than a simple pile of rocks, fitted together without mortar, and topped with a big geode that was broken open at one side, leaving a hollow area lined with a haze of tiny gray crystals. It was likely formed at the same time as the Giant’s Fist, in the same frenzy of volcanic activity that had made the black river of lava at the bottom of the valley.
Inside the crystal-lined hollow was a tiny figure, like a small doll, exquisitely braided out of dried grass stems or fine wooden fibers. Knotted around its neck was a length of green thread with three knots at the end. Arna ignored it and pulled out a small round of copper from an inner pocket of his jerkin. The tiny coin was pierced through, and a length of red string threaded it. Arna quickly tied a square knot in the middle of the string and laid it inside the geode, next to the straw figure.
From the road, Vidor gestured impatiently. Arna waved again, but he placed his hand on the rough bark that girdled the immense trunk of the tree, over a scar that looked as though it might have been a carved letter before age and growth had obscured it.
Briefly he bowed his head. “Guard my days, Jandi,” he breathed. The words felt strange. He hadn’t uttered them since he was a child, and he was a little embarrassed at saying them now. Jandi’s Oak had always been here, and it was a tradition for travelers to ask the protection of the nymph, or dryad, or whatever fey creature Jandi had been-if she had ever really existed.
It was also a tradition for the local folk to leave a tribute in the shape of small coins when they were about to embark on great journeys or changes of life. Girls from the local farms would leave their coppers, marked by a uniquely knotted or colored thread, to ask if they would marry their lovers, or leave their homes to find their fortunes, and were answered by the appearance of tiny works of intricate craftsmanship, designated with the same thread they had left with the coin, which were supposed to be signs from the spirits of the nearby forest.
Arna has his own theory about the coins and the figures. He imagined they were made not by spirits but by some reclusive forest dwellers, a race with clever hands and some small magic of concealment. Sometime long ago this method of barter-payment of small coins for their craft-had arisen, a way for folk who didn’t want to be found, yet who desired to sell their goods, to do trade. Somehow the idea that the small figures were a means of fortune- telling was born, and bandied about, and became for all intents and purposes the truth.
Yet he desired to make the gesture of leaving the coin, of asking Jandi’s protection. Coming events would be momentous, both for him and his House. He wouldn’t scruple to seek aid anywhere.
Returning to the road, he mounted his horse. The animal huffed indignantly at being pulled away from the sweet grass at the verge.
“When you’re quite ready, Master Arna,” said Vidor, wheeling his mount westward with an annoyed glance at his friend.
“I had to ask Jandi’s blessings on our enterprise,” replied Arna. “And with the quality of the goods in your packs, we’ll need all the help we can get.”
“You risk a beating for your insubordination,” said Vidor, raising a fist in mock rage. “And you’ll kindly remember that you’re here by my goodwill alone.”
“Forgive me, Master Druit,” said Arna, kneeing his horse until he caught up with Vidor. “I’ll make every effort to watch my tongue.”
Beneath Jandi’s Oak all was still, save for a whisper of wind along the grass that whirled and spiraled as no honest wind ought to do. And from the line of trees that over time and by human traffic had been hacked, burned, and driven farther and farther back, something patient and hungry watched the party as it disappeared into the dust of the road.
NONTHAL, TURMISH
1585 DR-YEAR OF THE BLOODIED MANACLES
Sanwar Beguine twisted a strand of long chestnut brown hair around his finger, letting it bite deep. He watched, fascinated, as his pinched skin grew red, then purple before he released the hair.
Four more hairs lay on an unmarked piece of paper on his desk. He put the one he had been playing with down and contemplated them. Each was at least the length of his forearm, from his elbow to the tip of his middle finger: thick hairs, almost coarse, that varied from the color of the very wood of his desk to pale amber. They were strong hairs, unbroken. He picked up his jeweler’s glass and examined them minutely. Under magnification, the substance of each hair looked like thick glass, with a clear core in the center. The ends of all five hairs had the tiny bulb that had rooted the hair in Kestrel’s scalp.
Vorsha had wept when she gave them to him the night before.
From a slot in his desk Sanwar pulled another length of clean, thick paper. He took three of Kestrel’s hairs, looped them neatly, and folded them securely inside the paper, making a tiny packet. He tucked this in a pocket inside his coat and returned to his contemplation of the other two.
It
He yanked at a tuft of his own hair, wincing. Examining the resultant hairs between his fingers, he selected the two that were longest and placed them next to Kestrel’s, flicking the rest off his fingers and onto the floor. His hairs were coarser and curlier than the girl’s and of a more uniform brown. He looked at them through the glass. The tints were similar, but then, his hair was the same color as his brother’s.
The simple-seeming construction of his desk hid many small drawers and compartments. Sanwar tapped an inset, smooth-headed wooden screw on the right side with his middle finger, giving three discreet, forceful taps. In response, a small, spring-loaded door opened on the side, revealing a small space just big enough to hold a rounded ceramic bowl, the size of a man’s cupped hand.
He placed the bowl on the flat surface of the desk, beside the paper that held Kestrel’s hairs and his own. The glaze on it was uncrazed, the green of corroded copper. The bowl was otherwise undecorated. Sanwar pulled a clean, soft cloth from his pocket and wiped the already-clean interior until not a speck of dust could possibly remain.
Quickly he coiled all four strands of hair into the bowl. Another compartment in the desk held small glass vials filled with various powders. He removed two-one filled with a yellowish white powder. The other contained a powder so dark it looked black, but when grains of it were exposed to the light, it proved to be a deep red.
Sanwar sprinkled a goodly amount of the light powder into the bowl, and a scant smatter of the red. He paused and took a deep breath.
