Kellanved's Reach

The tall swaths of grasses parted, revealing a handsome Dal Hon woman, her thick black hair bunched in woven braids. Bright silk ribbons held gold coins, shells and precious stones tied among the braids; vest and trousers were of untanned hide. She thrust an arm forward and the grasses shifted to lash the girl’s hands behind her back.

Crouching, the woman set to starting a fire. ‘Who sent you?’ she asked as she worked.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ the girl gasped. ‘I … I am just a slave.’

The woman barked a laugh. ‘A slave who is a talent of Thyr? Unlikely.’ Once a small fire of grass was alight, she rose and disappeared into the dark. Alone, the girl let her head fall back, and cursed under her breath.

A short time later the woman returned, a load of dead branches in her arms. These she set down next to the diminishing fire. ‘Regardless,’ she suddenly began again, ‘whoever it was is cruel and thoughtless – sending a child to spy among the tribes. Think about that.’

‘I am just a—’

Snarling again, the woman snapped a hand and the grasses lashed themselves across the girl’s mouth. ‘I am not interested in your lies,’ the woman ground out. ‘I want only the truth. And the fire will reveal it – if only in your cracked and whitened bones.’

Once the fire became high enough the woman dragged the girl towards it until her bare feet touched its edge. The girl struggled, but the thick grasses roped her from her neck to her ankles. ‘Who sent you!’ the woman yelled and gestured again, pushing the soles of her captive’s feet up against the embers.

The girl screamed behind the gag of twisted grass and passed out.

When she came to, blinking, she saw the woman sitting cross-legged in the flickering light of the fire, a set of thin slats, or cards, arrayed on the ground before her. Seeing her awake, the woman indicated the cards. ‘Not what I was expecting. I assumed the Queen of Life would be high – involved. But she is in the far left arcade, detached.’ She tapped the deck of remaining cards to her lips. ‘You do not work for the Enchantress.’

‘I don’t work … for anyone,’ the girl murmured. ‘I’m just … a slave …’

The woman sighed and shook her head. She rose, took hold of the girl again, and thrust her feet into the fire once more. ‘Who do you work for?’ she shouted.

The girl screamed anew until her voice cracked and then she mewled, pleading wordlessly, sobbing, until unconsciousness took her again.

When she awoke the second time she found the woman, a Dal Hon witch, seated again, the wooden slats arrayed before her anew. The woman picked up a card and held it up to her. ‘This one keeps emerging. Over and over again, with each reading. Do you know which one it is?’

The girl just shook her head, her hair matted to her face and head with sweat and dirt.

‘The new one,’ the witch told her. ‘This meddler. Shadow – or Shadow House, as some would have it.’ She regarded the girl narrowly. ‘What is Shadow to you?’

The girl looked to the night sky, tears running from the corners of her eyes. ‘He pays,’ she finally stammered, her voice a thin whisper. ‘Pays for information.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘Anything. Everything.’

The witch stood over the girl. ‘Such as? What have you found? Anything?’

But the girl continued to look up, a smile slowly growing on her lips.

The woman spun, scanning the starry sky. ‘Someone is coming.’ She eyed the girl. ‘How could anyone have found you so quickly?’

The girl just smiled, and with a growl the woman gestured again, and the twisted grass ropes tightened round the girl’s neck. She gagged, thrashing, her face darkening.

The fire burst into a gyre of rising embers and flaming branches that flew, swirling, to engulf the woman, who roared her rage, ducking, and covering her face.

When the searing heat had passed she bashed her hands over her hair and leathers to put out any fires, then glared about. She stood in a widening circle of scorched ground, the grasses burning in a ring around her – alone. She pressed her fists to her chin and screamed her rage.

*

Two figures lay smoking in a landscape of sand and rock under a dull pewter sky. One, a lad, rose and shook the other, a girl.

‘Janelle!’ the lad called. ‘Speak to me.’

‘You took your time, Janul,’ she whispered, smiling. ‘Where were you?’

‘The west. I know a healer. Come.’

She looked down to the blackened oozing meat that used to be her feet. ‘I cannot walk.’

‘I will carry you.’ He picked her up in his arms. ‘It is not far. As these things go.’

When she did not answer he peered down to see that she’d passed out. He hurried onward.

After walking across the dusty landscape for a time, the lad Janul made a gesture and with a burst of dry dusty air he emerged into darkness and a rainstorm. He squinted into the lashing rain. Nearby, waves struck the coast in a strong slow beat. He walked on until a weak yellow light grew ahead. It resolved into a lantern under the eaves of a rude hut of greyed slats and thatch. He pushed open the door.