the ale. Bright colors flowed behind his closed eyes like the umbilicals of life one saw in the void between the planes of existence.
Travel in the void was dangerous, both physically and mentally. He’d known fledgling magicians who went insane and killed themselves after viewing unspeakable truths about themselves in the void.
He jerked awake and saw anew the arrangement of tents. The black, brown, and dusty green shelters clustered together with their backs to the more garish Rover tents. As in the rest of life, ordinary travelers had turned their backs on the Rovers.
The Rovers gathered their tents and sledges in a large circle around a common cook fire with smaller campfires before each flapping opening. A few of the round huts atop the sledges—bardos, he’d heard them called—had been pressed into service as small dwellings to complete the circle.
Lanciar smiled to himself. Zolltarn must reside in the largest purple tent with red-and-black trim.
Lanciar hunted for some sign of the statue of Krej in the vicinity of that tent. Surely Zolltarn would want to display his trophy.
The tin weasel with flaking gilt paint remained elusive.
A middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her hair directed a myriad of younger women who scurried about the big tent. She could only be the wife of the chieftain.
Three of the five young women—two still teenagers—bore the signs of pregnancy; one barely showing, one about midway along, the third about to pop. Zolltarn’s wives or daughters? The other two girls remained youthfully slim and unburdened with children.
“I doubt I’ll find my boy there.” He turned his attention to the next tent in line. Three women, three infants. His eyes focused more closely on this campfire. All three infants bore the dark hair common to Rovers—but then so did Rejiia. He dared not hope any child of his union with the witch would result in a blue-eyed blond of the true-blood of SeLenicca. Two of the infants toddled out of their mothers’ laps to play in the dirt. The third appeared the size of a child somewhere between three and six moons old. The proper age for Lanciar’s son.
He sent a tendril of silvery magic across the bridge and into the Rover encampment.
At that moment Rejiia walked through his magical thread, breaking the connection. She paused before the woman cradling the infant.
Lanciar cursed and tried again to listen to the conversation. He caught only a few words.
“I seek . . . wet nurse . . . Kestra. . . . told to ask . . . claim my son,” Rejiia commanded. She stood straight and tall, as regal as the queen she claimed to be.
The Rover woman laughed out loud. Lanciar heard her all the way across the rushing stream without magic. “Kestra, first daughter of Zolltarn, disappeared nearly twenty years ago. Have you not heard the legend of the missing girl and her miracle child? Rovers still seek them.”
“Simurgh shit on you! Where is my son?” Rejiia screamed and stamped her foot. Enough magic compulsion accompanied her words to threaten a kardiaquake.
Lanciar braced himself, but the land absorbed Rejiia’s frustration.
“If you gave us a child, Lady Sorcerer, then the child is ours. Now go back to your schemes and your politics. As for the child, if he did not die of disease or malnutrition or was not stoned by fearful gadjé, then he is lost to you forever.” The woman continued to smile, but her eyes narrowed and her muscles tightened in defense.
“Take me to Zolltarn! He cannot steal from me. I’ll have the statue of my father from him, now. And my son. The time has come to find a new wet nurse. Zolltarn owes me for his betrayal of the coven. He must not refuse. If he does, he will suffer the wrath of the coven!”
“Zolltarn can refuse anyone. Rovers have no fear of your coven. Zolltarn owes what he chooses to owe. Our debts are not always honored as gadjé sluts would. Go away, Lady Sorcerer. Run back to your broken coven.”
Bloody Simurgh’s
Travel in the void was dangerous, both physically and mentally. He’d known fledgling magicians who went insane and killed themselves after viewing unspeakable truths about themselves in the void.
He jerked awake and saw anew the arrangement of tents. The black, brown, and dusty green shelters clustered together with their backs to the more garish Rover tents. As in the rest of life, ordinary travelers had turned their backs on the Rovers.
The Rovers gathered their tents and sledges in a large circle around a common cook fire with smaller campfires before each flapping opening. A few of the round huts atop the sledges—bardos, he’d heard them called—had been pressed into service as small dwellings to complete the circle.
Lanciar smiled to himself. Zolltarn must reside in the largest purple tent with red-and-black trim.
Lanciar hunted for some sign of the statue of Krej in the vicinity of that tent. Surely Zolltarn would want to display his trophy.
The tin weasel with flaking gilt paint remained elusive.
A middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her hair directed a myriad of younger women who scurried about the big tent. She could only be the wife of the chieftain.
Three of the five young women—two still teenagers—bore the signs of pregnancy; one barely showing, one about midway along, the third about to pop. Zolltarn’s wives or daughters? The other two girls remained youthfully slim and unburdened with children.
“I doubt I’ll find my boy there.” He turned his attention to the next tent in line. Three women, three infants. His eyes focused more closely on this campfire. All three infants bore the dark hair common to Rovers—but then so did Rejiia. He dared not hope any child of his union with the witch would result in a blue-eyed blond of the true-blood of SeLenicca. Two of the infants toddled out of their mothers’ laps to play in the dirt. The third appeared the size of a child somewhere between three and six moons old. The proper age for Lanciar’s son.
He sent a tendril of silvery magic across the bridge and into the Rover encampment.
At that moment Rejiia walked through his magical thread, breaking the connection. She paused before the woman cradling the infant.
Lanciar cursed and tried again to listen to the conversation. He caught only a few words.
“I seek . . . wet nurse . . . Kestra. . . . told to ask . . . claim my son,” Rejiia commanded. She stood straight and tall, as regal as the queen she claimed to be.
The Rover woman laughed out loud. Lanciar heard her all the way across the rushing stream without magic. “Kestra, first daughter of Zolltarn, disappeared nearly twenty years ago. Have you not heard the legend of the missing girl and her miracle child? Rovers still seek them.”
“Simurgh shit on you! Where is my son?” Rejiia screamed and stamped her foot. Enough magic compulsion accompanied her words to threaten a kardiaquake.
Lanciar braced himself, but the land absorbed Rejiia’s frustration.
“If you gave us a child, Lady Sorcerer, then the child is ours. Now go back to your schemes and your politics. As for the child, if he did not die of disease or malnutrition or was not stoned by fearful gadjé, then he is lost to you forever.” The woman continued to smile, but her eyes narrowed and her muscles tightened in defense.
“Take me to Zolltarn! He cannot steal from me. I’ll have the statue of my father from him, now. And my son. The time has come to find a new wet nurse. Zolltarn owes me for his betrayal of the coven. He must not refuse. If he does, he will suffer the wrath of the coven!”
“Zolltarn can refuse anyone. Rovers have no fear of your coven. Zolltarn owes what he chooses to owe. Our debts are not always honored as gadjé sluts would. Go away, Lady Sorcerer. Run back to your broken coven.”
Bloody Simurgh’s
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