Dave Smeds - The Sorcery Within

"Ah. The traders' best. My uncles used to speak of it. It used to be more plentiful, before the tributes became so small." Esidio inhaled another sip. "How is it these days?"

"There is talk again that Azurajen will try to build a fort in Zyraii lands."

"More work for you."

"More than I care for. But at the moment, the tribes still hold the trade routes. I worry most what will occur in the next generation." His face suddenly became pensive.

"You have found your question," Esidio said presently.

"Yes," Joren said firmly. "I have. Are you ready?"

"At your convenience."

Joren chose his words carefully. "What may I do to help this new child of mine deal with the threat of the traders, that I would not ordinarily think to do?"

"Even if it's a girl?"

Joren paused. "Yes. Even then."

Esidio set down his mug. "It is a worthy question. The T'lil's taste in war-leaders is improving. What was the name of that last fellow?"

"Storith."

"Yes. Rash sort. Made me glad to have been of the Alyr." Standing and dusting himself off, he pointed to Joren's just-emptied mug. "You can use that to masturbate into if you'd like."

"I beg your pardon?!"

Esidio chuckled. "This is no casual procedure. If the topic had concerned yourself, I would have asked for your blood. If about your enemies, your spit. Since it deals with your offspring…"

"I see." Joren passed the mug from hand to hand. "I don't have to do this in front of you, do I?"

"Of course not. I'll start my preparations here. Come back when you're done. My only requirement is that it be fresh."

"All right." Joren picked himself up and left before he could doubt the situation too much.

When he returned, a bitter taint filled the air. Esidio was leaning over a tiny brazier from which thick, viscous smoke coiled. Tendrils vanished up the priest's nostrils, never seeming to be exhaled. His eyes were half-closed, showing only the whites. Over the fire another pot warmed, a small one filled with green liquid.

Esidio's back straightened as he heard Joren's feet scuffle on the granite. His hand reached for the mug.

"Quickly, before it cools."

Joren gave him the mug. Esidio inverted it over the pot, letting the semen drip out. It dissolved immediately, leaving no trace, though the consistencies of the fluids had seemed so disparate. Soon after the mixture became as transparent as water.

"Good. The question can be answered," Esidio announced. "This will only take a moment. Please don't speak."

Joren chose a spot a dozen paces away, where his back could rest against stone, and waited. Esidio already acted as if nothing existed but the clear liquid into which he stared, lids drooping again, but this time more naturally. The brazier continued to smoke, surrounding the vicinity with more of its noxious fumes. Esidio was unperturbed, but Joren blew away traces that wandered his way. Soon the coals consumed whatever substance had been placed upon them, and the air began to clear. The priest was still except for the subtle signs of his lung action, and the more obvious, rhythmic tremor each time his heart beat.

Then, abruptly, he picked up the pot and dumped it on the ground.

Joren nearly bit his tongue to keep from asking what was wrong.

Esidio sighed very deeply, and Joren noticed beads of sweat on his forehead. The priest didn't answer, only crawled deep into his storage niche. Joren heard a heavy lid being lifted and set down. Soon Esidio crawled out carrying a scroll, its finely wrought container incongruous among the Zee-no-ken's humble possessions. He opened the roll and searched, all the while ignoring Joren. Finally he stopped at a specific passage and recited from it.

They, of dragonkiller's blood

Will the Eastern Deserts wander

In search of ancient weapons

Against an ancient enemy

"Esidio?" Joren asked softly.

He seemed calmer. He closed the scroll and said solemnly, "I must end my hermitage and return to Setan." Then, more confidently, he looked at Joren and said, "And you must prepare yourself for a lifetime of challenges. This," he said as he held up the parchment, "is my copy of the prophecies of Shahera, the greatest master of the Sight ever to have lived. She foretold the waning of the Calinin Empire, for which she was executed."

"What does this have to do with my question?"

"Everything. Yours was that question which I, like all my kind, wait for – in dread or longing, depending on the circumstances. One never knows when it will arrive. Today the Sight reached out and showed me strands of time and chance that may affect the life and history of half the continent. I saw the Zyraii that may be; I saw the Zyraii that would have been had you not asked me to make this augury."

"All in a few moments?"

"Yes. And I will live with it for the rest of my days. I can't reveal more to you. You are too near the crux of events, and the cloth is still in the loom. We both have our parts to play – you will be the one who acts, without knowing the outcome; I will know the outcome, but do nothing. Each with one exception."

"What is my exception?"

"The answer to your question: See that your son is taught the High Speech of the Calinin. He must be ready when the prophecy of Shahera is fulfilled." His voice lowered. "As must I be."

"The High Speech?" Joren repeated, mystified.

Esidio stood, holding the scroll and gazing in the direction of Setan, turning his back to Joren. "Go, my friend. We will hear of each other again, though we shall not meet. Remember what I have said, but tell no man save your child."

Joren was already far away, the priest's instructions etched absently like an ancient childhood lesson. Your son. Like Esidio, he had been answered more completely than he had anticipated. The journey out of the hills was short.

ASLONAL AND HIS COMPANIONwatched, the riders wheeled and charged toward the target again. The westerner, as usual, seized the lead, her cowl flapping wildly, spilling some of her dark tresses. She let go of the reins, guiding the oeikani with her knees, and reached toward her quiver. In one motion she pulled an arrow free, cocked it back, and fired. The bundle of hide jerked on its pole as the arrow struck. The other archers were only a moment behind. The bundle spun and flopped, bristling like a pin cushion from this and previous passes. The ground nearby was littered with spent shafts, both those that had missed and those that had been flung free by subsequent impacts. The target nearly shredded, the riders pulled up, dismounted, and began to sort their arrows from the rest.

"Impressive," Lonal's companion said, nodding toward the stranger. They watched as she tucked her hair back into her cowl. The clan of T'krt had been joined by the T'lan and the Ena during the past day, and formal wear was necessary. In fact, Lonal and Ulnam, war-leader of the Ena, had never seen each other's faces, though Lonal was betrothed to marry Ulnam's daughter when she came of age. "Is the other one that good?"

"Possibly, but Tebec doesn't show off like that."

"Four hits out of ten," Ulnam added. "He must have started young."

"No," Lonal said. "Actually, Yetem tells me that in his country, they only use the long bow. It is forest country. They hunt large animals, which they approach in stealth, and need the extra power to bring them down. Not like us, who have to hit, from oeikani-back, the small creatures that scurry from rock to rock. He neglected to learn the bow until he arrived here; those in his land required too much upper-body strength."

"He does have narrow shoulders for a warrior," Ulnam admitted.

"Where they come from, it is the men who have teats and nurse the babies after the women give birth," Lonal said gravely.