Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 5
Cymric took three or four sips from the pitcher. Encouraged by the refreshment, he drank until his stomach sent up a gurgle and a ripple of nausea. He was trying to decide between going back to the bed and curling up in the sunbeam by the door when he heard two firm, loud knocks followed by a third, more tentative one at the door. Cymric huffed, shook a shower of drops from his hair, then opened the door.
Sunlight danced and reflected from the hundreds of rings in Leandra’s armor as though it were woven from rainbows and ice instead of crystal chain. Reflections also flared from the pommel of her sword, and sparks of sunlight played along loose strands of her hair. She stood in the doorway, left arm bent and up, hand curled around the doorframe, the light framing, accentuating, the darkness of her eyes. She was a strong, lovely vision, for which Cymric decided to hate her at least until noon.
“Sorry if I woke you. I heard sounds from your room. I thought you might be up.”
“That was me retching, a sound very few people take to mean ‘good morning, won’t you please come in.’.” “Foolish when drunk, nasty when hung over?”
“Oh, this has nothing to do with a hangover. I accidentally dumped a pitcher of water on myself. After yesterday, I’m just a little testy when wet.”
“Ale and whitewater don’t mix. Especially if you’re not used to it. I’ve ordered breakfast for us.”
“Thank you so much, but nothing for me.”
Leandra dropped her hand from the doorframe, and began to tap the pommel of her sword. Her expression remained soft, but something about the tapping made Cymric decidedly nervous. She was looking past him, out the window, then slowly returned her gaze to him. Cymric countered with as much of his foul mood as he could get his face to show, but Leandra’s only response was one of her quick-tic smiles.
“I thought we made a deal last night.”
“My impressions of last night are less certain.”
“If we have a deal, get your gear together. And if you plan to eat, better hurry; the cinnamon things are going fast. Then again, if we haven’t got a deal, I wish you good times while waiting for the Marrek trade to arrive.” Leandra clicked her heels together, bowing curtly before turning to leave. Cymric leaned his head against the door as she strode down the hall. It was not until one of her boots had thumped hollowly on the first step that Cymric called out to her. She paused, turning to face him.
“I don’t remember all of last night, but I remember your saying something about needing a wizard and the truth.” Leandra nodded, then creaked back up the stair to face him. She stood staring for a moment, and Cymric decided he must look almost as bad as he felt. She took a few steps forward.
“Truth is ... truth is the wizard you want to hire was mauled by that thing in the well. It left no physical marks, but it tore through me. I’m not in traveling shape. Not for another couple of days, that is.”
Leandra shifted her weight, looked across the hallway for a few heartbeats, then back at Cymric. “My truth is that I am in grave need of a wizard’s help. I don’t know how much time I can spare. My instinct says not much. If I could shake some healing salves out of Mayor Drofin, would you be willing to travel?”
Cymric thought. Healing salves sounded very appealing. Traveling today did not. Unraveling ancient texts for a tidy profit sounded good. Waiting for the Marrek trade to resume did not.
“How far are we going?”
‘“First stop, Corthy. Four days’ walk. Five, if we take it easy. I’m willing to take it easy.”
“Done.” Cymric extended his hand. Leandra gripped it, smiling for longer than Cymric had seen until now.
“One request, and then I shall become your humble wizard. Could you ask the kitchen to send my breakfast up? I’d like to rest as much as possible before we leave.” “Consider it done.” Leandra turned to leave, again pausing on the first step down. Cymric caught that tic-smile of hers even before she’d turned back to face him.
“Better get some clothes on before somebody comes, though. Wizards are more impressive when wearing their robes.” Cymric snorted. Leandra shook her head. “Nothing personal. Your feat in the well earned you a few coins of reputation. No need to spend it on the giggling gossip of the kitchen help.” She disappeared down the stairs as Cymric turned the advice over in his mind.
Cymric descended in boots and robe made fresh by a new illusion, which also helped hide his surly mood. He must have just missed the last cinnamon roll, but the bread had been good. The pepper sausage, on the other hand, wasn’t doing his digestion any favors.
Waiting for him were Leandra, Mayor Drofin, and the tavern-keeper. The mayor wore a shiny new kimono, but the tavem-keep had on the same dirty smock and greasy clothes from yesterday. Mayor Drofin thanked Cymric in a speech that wasn’t too long and misused only a few words. The tavern-keeper handed him an ale skin, and said that Leandra had the bread and cheese. Cymric slipped the skin into his pack, noting that Leandra’s was bigger and better stuffed than his. As they were leaving, Cymric decided to make it a dramatic exit by casting another flame flash— and this time it did look like a sylph. The image even managed to blow a clumsy kiss to the mayor, who looked as though he might turn the experience into a week’s worth of preening.
Following the path that led from town out toward the river, Cymric and Leandra were on their way. The late morning sun had warmed the ground, and flying insects swarmed around them in a feverish buzz. Then the breeze brought up the smell of water even before they caught sight of the river. They were descending toward a spot marked by wagon ruts when a thought caught Cymric up short. He waved Leandra to a halt. Moving his staff like some oversized needle, Cymric mimicked the motion of the thread of his spell. A moment later, he was looking into astral space, the river become a friendly swirl of brown, white, and green. There was no sign of the spiritcatcher. Leandra looked at him questioningly.
“I spotted something unusual in the river when I came down here yesterday,” he said. “But it seems to have left during the night.”
“An ‘unusual’ I should know about?”
Cymric shrugged the question away, not ready to admit that he hadn’t killed the creature in the well. “Did you get those salves from the mayor?” was all he said.
Leandra drew two glass vials from a side pouch of her backpack, then handed them to Cymric. “I have one more.”
Cymric nodded. He opened one vial, which immediately released a powerful scent of roses and revealed a salve that was dear rather than the blush color Cymric would have expected. He wriggled one arm out of his robe and began to smooth the salve over his upper back. The initial sensation was cool and surprisingly grainy. As he worked the salve around his shoulder blade, the salve warmed and the grains disappeared. That should help . . . unless the mayor obtained the salve from a magician like me.
He knew that Leandra was watching him closely, but he caught only glimpses of her over his shoulder. Then he stuffed his arm back into his sleeve and turned to her with a bright smile. Leandra wasn’t smiling back.
“You haven’t a single mark on you.”
Cymric’s smile narrowed, but did not falter. “I told you so as much this morning. The creature didn’t injure my flesh, though the pain is physical enough.”
Leandra bent to snatch up a five-petaled wildflower, took a sniff, then sent it into the river with a quick toss. Blue petals spun downstream, bouncing off the moss-covered rocks lining the shallows. The drone of insects and the burble of the water defined the silence between wizard and swordmaster before Leandra finally spoke again.
“I need to trust you, but I can’t. I need you to show me tilings I cannot see. But I don’t think you’re telling me everything you know. Yet I can’t always tell when you’re not talking straight.”
Cymric pursed his lips, rubbed them back and forth. He looked at Leandra, flinched at her gaze, then made himself look back.
“My sword lady, are you telling me everything?”
“No, because I don’t think I can take that chance. Not until I sense that you’re willing to do the same.”
“I see. Is this farewell then? We shall always have the whitewater to remember each other by.” Cymric bowed low, staff held down by his side, keeping his gaze on Leandra. She crossed her arms.
“Do you always walk away from problems like this?” “No. Sometimes I solve them. Sometimes the problems walk away from me.”
“Well, I’m not walking away. I still need a wizard. You still need money.”
Cymric stood and reached over and behind his back to scratch. The salve must be working, for now he was starting to itch. The insect buzz seemed uncomfortably close and loud. He sighed.
“So, what do you suggest?”
“We travel to Corthy. When we get there, you let me know whether you’re willing to be completely honest with me. And you can start with what it was you saw by the river.”
“And if I do?”
“I tell you what you need to know.”
“And if I choose to keep my own counsel, we part ways?”
Leandra nodded, and Cymric did the same to show his acceptance. The few days to Corthy would give him a chance to determine whether the necklace would be worth any risks of traveling with Leandra. Without further discussion, the two resumed walking along the river in the same direction as the water.
It was some time that afternoon when they caught sight of a rafter. The man’s wild red hair framed a broad face that was matched by equally broad shoulders and arms twice the size of Leandra’s. His raft was piled with crates overflowing with linens and the smell of cheap toiletries. He was on his way back upstream with the load, and perfectly willing to ferry the two across the river for a copper apiece. The fare was cheap; the man wanted conversation more than coin. Had they seen ogres along the river? Heard of the horrible goings-on in Havel? The scandal about Prince Gustav and some woman of the Outriggers Guild? Ever thought about purchasing a fine linen nightshirt?
Leandra said little, watching the river instead. Cymric stepped in to fill the gap, telling of his encounter with the well creature in Twin Chin. When he seemed to hesitate at the ending, Leandra looked over sharply. Damn! thought Cymric, then finished with a rousing tale of a fight in which he managed to banish the creature with a powerful and rare spell. The rafter’s face radiated astonishment. Other villages are going to hear this tale, Cymric thought with some satisfaction, but decided not to check Leandra’s reaction. The rafter let them off with a wave and a small vial of his best bath freshener, which Cymric slid into his pack. He tried to match the rafter’s enthusiastic wave, then hurried after Leandra. The set of her shoulders made him decide it might be wiser right now to follow a few paces behind.
Soon they came to a well-worn trail that Leandra said led to Corthy. After perhaps a quarter of an hour along the trail, she stopped to scan the area, then pointed to a wooded rise.
“We can camp on the other side of the rise. From there we can keep an eye on the trail.”
Cymric’s injuries had tired him. Though a few good hours of daylight still remained, he was glad for the chance to rest. Leandra took a couple of long strides, leaving Cymric to scuttle through the tall, young grass as well as his long robes and short wind would allow. But Leandra continued to outdistance him.
“Are you hoping to arrive far enough ahead of me to eat your evening meal alone?” he shouted in annoyance.
Leandra stopped and stood staring at the rise. When Cymric caught up, she slowly turned to face him, her arms crossed.
“This is a good place to camp. Maybe other folks thought the same. Maybe folks are still up there. I thought I’d check it out first. Give you a little time for spells if things go bad.”
Cymric threw up his arms in exasperation, “A really good idea. Too bad mind-reading isn’t in my contract.”
Leandra drew her sword, pointing its tip up the rise. “Shall we go together? The noise we’ve made should have alerted anyone already up there.”
“Certainly. It’s not polite to keep one’s host waiting.” They trudged up the hill together, caution slowing them as they neared the crest of the rise. Then they stopped, Leandra glancing over at Cymric. The wizard took a deep breath, exhaled, then grinned. Thumping his staff for emphasis, Cymric strode over the crest.
6
Cymric saw the campsite first. Stumps from six trees surrounded the firepit in the center of the clearing. Wood was stacked, the logs and kindling in two different piles and separated by an old axe. The ashes in the pit were cold. The camp looked as though it saw frequent use, but was currently unoccupied. A rasping whoosh told Cymric that the swordmaster had sheathed her sword.
He laid his staff on the ground, then shimmied out of his pack. Leandra watched, the tic-smile flashing occasionally. The pack hit the soft ground with a thud.
“Nice to see travelers around here have road manners,” Leandra said, pointing to the axe and the piles of wood. She slipped off her bigger pack one shoulder at a time, then laid it soundlessly on the ground. Kneeling down, she began to rummage in a side pouch. Finding whatever it was she’d been looking for, she pulled it out and tossed it to Cymric. As it flew, he saw that it was a flint and steel.
“Would you please start a fire?” Leandra asked. “I must perform my ritual.” She’d already gone a few steps back up the rise before calling out over her shoulder, “I’ll chop wood to replace what you use. No need to strain your wiz-ardly wrists.”
Cymric snorted. He looked down at the flint. A flint and steel? His disdainful look caught only Leandra’s back as he walked over to the logs. He selected one that looked recently cut, then added an older, drier log. He struggled back with the wood, wondering if smaller loads might not be more in order for an injured wizard. He made three more trips, one log at a time. The last log had just thudded into place in the pit when a booming laugh rang out over the camp.
Leandra’s laugh startled him, but he enjoyed the sensation. The laugh filled him with warmth as well as some confidence. It made Cymric remember a swallow of hot rum on a cold night and some kind words from his master about his student’s problems with thread-weaving. A little more perspiration, a little less sophistication, that’s all it takes, lad.
Cymric went to join Leandra up the rise, and found her in a low crouch, sword held over her head with both hands. The late-aftemoon light caught the edge of the sword near the tip as Leandra parried a blow from an imaginary attacker, shifting her weight to spring up in counterattack. She used light and dark to her advantage, sunlight gleaming off her blade for feints, shadow concealing her actual attacks. Her moves were rapid, her blade impossibly quick. Cymric could sense the magic in her; it flowed between her and the blade, then back again. The pattern of swordmaster molded and used the magic within Leandra. It wasn’t a magic as intricate as Cymric’s matrices and spells, but Leandra’s had a flow, a power-in-motion that Cymric’s did not.
By her moves, it seemed to him that Leandra was fighting and reacting to more than one foe. One foe delivered a clumsy overhead attack, another delivering a head-blow from behind that Leandra deflected just in time, while a third was downed by a savage cut across the legs. The longer she fought, the faster and more intricate her moves became. During one complicated maneuver, Cymric thought he saw Leandra outline a pattern, like the pattern of a spell. Her sword flashed in and out of the sunlight. The pattern was briefly defined by reflected light surrounded by shadow, as if dozens of stars winked and rippled across a dark pool. Cymric couldn’t quite catch the pattern, for it disappeared as Leandra skewered another imaginary opponent In a whirl she was on to the next foe.
The spectacle fascinated him, but he found watching it just a little fatiguing. His own injury reminded him that physical action also had its price. He walked back down to camp, then sat down cross-legged, staff across his lap. Turning his senses inward, Cymric focused on a spell pattern, tracing it with mental fingers, envisioning the areas of the pattern. The first white gossamer thread looped over and under, then held. The second attached in a zigzag, but grayed as Cymric worked it. Another thread held. The last thread coiled around lines of the pattern, drawing energy from astral space to strengthen and reinforce the pattern. The weaving complete, Cymric cast his spell. A gentle, refreshing wave suffused his body.
He lay down to give the magic time to help his body’s own healing powers. Resting like this felt so good, even with that small rock under his shoulder blade. Cymric closed his eyes, attentive to his breathing. He played at separating and identifying the smells from the camp. Ash was easy, with log and grass not far behind, and Cymric might even have detected foxglove.
A twinge told him it was time. He concentrated. The rush of energy started in his chest, then spiraled out. Magic knitted broken bits of his body together again—not into a seamless whole, but better. He smiled, stretching his repaired body. Jabs of pain told him he still had a bit to go“Nice fire.”
His eyes snapped open to see Leandra wipe sweat from her forehead, then shake her head. Cymric cursed himself as she walked over to the pile of kindling. She rebuilt the fire, thudding logs into place with special emphasis. Then she added the kindling, all the while muttering complaints about the uselessness of wizards. Cymric junked the relax spell, tried to reattune another in its place. His first attempt failed. His next succeeded, and he smiled as the pattern slid into place.
“Just going to lie there?” Leandra looked at him incredulously, then bent to retrieve the flint and steel still resting undisturbed where it had landed.
