Chapter 10

In early spring even a land-wise person could starve. By luck or intuition Zanja might have found a squirrel cache or a bee tree, but both luck and intuition had abandoned her. She discovered in the spongy wood of a decaying tree stump some finger-long accuser bug larvae, which she speared on a willow wand and roasted over a little fire of dry twigs. On a sloping hillside, uprooted saplings suspended over a wedge of boulders gave her a rough shelter. There she built a nest of twigs in which she curled under her coat as the stars began to come out.

It was early spring, the stars told her. She had traveled generally westward all day. Despite these assurances, she dreamed she was lost in a wilderness.

Long before sunrise, cold made further sleep impossible. She walked through darkness, stumbling over invisible obstacles of stone and wood, until the rising light of dawn showed her the way up a knoll of bare stone. The snowmelt-flooded river began to glow a pale pink as the half-light brightened to sunrise. Her fingers were so cold she used her teeth to untie her card pack’s leather binding.

“What has happened to me?” she asked.

She cast one of the four elements: a joyful, dancing woman who flung over her head an arc of water from a shell. The second card, the artisan, she lay over the first. The two cards together suggested elemental craft, or magic.

The river shone now like polished brass. The domains of the water element were music, mathematics, humor, weather, and time. Could time bend like a river, so that it might seem to flow backward, as the Corber had seemed to be flowing yesterday? Could Zanja have been captured in a backward-flowing current, so the Corber deposited her far in the past?

“Why?” she asked, a question so undirected she certainly deserved the vague reply the cards offered: the owl, the crosser of boundaries, which signified herself. Perhaps she had been brought into the past because of who or what she was. Perhaps she was required to cross the boundary between present and past for a purpose she did not yet know. Or perhaps the cards were as useless to her as all her other faculties seemed to have become. She rose stiffly up and continued her journey westward.

Two days later Zanja finally reached the bridge. Three days’ hard travel, on an empty stomach, under the open sky, had wearied her so she could scarcely climb the slope to the highway. The sky had been threatening since dawn, and now rain began to fall. She crossed over the swollen river.

Early twilight arrived on the back of the storm clouds. She walked in shadows and then in darkness, feet aching in wet boots, head hanging to keep the cold rain from striking her face, glancing up from time to time to look for a farmstead’s telltales: light, a side road, a fence. Yet she had been walking beside a stone wall for some time before she recognized it and realized that the trees beyond it were too orderly to be a woodland. She retraced her steps to a waterlogged wagon track and followed this muddy lane through the leafless apple orchard to the quagmire of a farmyard, around which houses and barns huddled in a dark mass. She was hard put to find a door on which to knock.

“Take shelter in the barn,” said the man who finally responded, and he shut the door again.

A cow lowed as Zanja entered the barn, then a lamb bleated. She spotted chickens in the rafters, vague shapes that disappeared entirely in shadow as she wrestled the big door shut. No one arrived with a light to help her get settled, and she had to feel around for a good long time in the darkness before she located the traditional shelf and pauper’s loaf, which was hard as stone and dry as sawdust. She found a tin cup also, hanging on a hook, so she made a cold porridge of bread soaked in rain water, and slept in a cold bed, in wet clothing, on damp straw. She awoke weary, ravenous, and aching with cold as the farmers arrived to feed the animals and milk the cow.

“Leave now,” said a burly man. He glowered to intimidate her.

“I’d gladly work for breakfast,” she said.

“Go back to your own kind.”

She donned her sodden coat and went out into the rain. But she did not trudge back to the road, and instead slogged through the muck to the door on which she had knocked the night before. This time she let herself in, found the way to the warm kitchen, and sat at the table. The people who were kneading bread, stirring porridge, and dressing children, stopped work in startlement. Zanja drew her dagger and lay it in front of her. “I will leave quietly after breakfast,” she said.

After the children had been hustled away and the burly man had been fetched from the barn, they eventually decided it would be easier to give her a bowl of porridge than it would be to fight her. A man who limped on a twisted leg wrapped some bread and ham in a rag with a couple of wizened apples and boiled turnips. The burly man kept his eyes on Zanja’s dagger as she wolfed down the porridge, accepted the stingy packet of food, and left. “We worked hard for that food!” someone muttered behind her.

The burly man followed her to the door. Out in the rain again, with the packet of food in her shirt to keep it from getting too wet, Zanja wanted to say something angry and bitter, but instead asked, “Isn’t Shaftal’s first law to treat all strangers as friends?”

His hostile expression became blank. “You think the law applies to you?”

“You think it doesn’t?” Getting no answer but the man’s unreadable expression, she asked, “How far to the crossroad of Hanishport Road? I’m going to the House of Lilterwess.”

“The House of Lilterwess!”

“The border tribes are under the G’deon’s protection, are they not?”

“Such things are not my concern.” He made as if to shut the door, but, possibly fearing she would not leave until her questions had been answered, added, “If you travel hard you’ll reach the crossroads today. But it’s another six days from there to the Shimasal Road.”

And it would rain without ceasing, he might have added, if he had intended to change his mind and offer her shelter after all, for people died in cold rain as easily as they died in snow. However, the man shut the door.

During the entire journey from the River Corber to the crossroads, and eastward along the Hanishport highway toward the next crossroads, Zanja was never invited to dry out by a fire, never offered a hot meal, and never given more than a sliver of meat. Sometimes there was not even a pauper’s loaf to eat, or clean straw to sleep on.

Arguing only increased people’s hostility, and Zanja could not bring herself to beg. She would have been more willing to steal, but these people kept as close an eye on their food stores as they did on their children. That some might never become comfortable with Zanja’s alien appearance was a fact she had long ago accepted. But this general lack of common courtesy affronted her. Seething, she trudged doggedly from one unfriendly kitchen to the next, through showers, downpours, and occasional sleet storms. This alien Shaftal was a land of closed doors and shuttered windows, through which she could force her way only by intimidation.

The first crossroad had been marked by a piece of hewn granite. But the second had a square pillar intricately decorated with stone leaves and flowers. It was inscribed with glyphs Zanja could scarcely identify, so ornately were they carved. The road south would return her to the River Corber, where if she were more desperate she might fling herself in the water in hope of being returned home. On the northern side of the pillar were inscribed the glyphs of the three elements that also signify the three orders—the Truthkens, the seers, and the healers—along with a fourth glyph that signified the Order of Paladins. Above this collection of symbols was carved Death-and-Life, the G’deon’s glyph.

It would soon be dark, and the air had turned chilly. Zanja had passed an inn not long ago. Possibly, the keepers of a highway inn would be better accustomed to strange-looking people than the farmers had been. But she felt an excitement as she ran her fingertips across the symbols carved in the pillar, an eagerness that was all the more intoxicating after ten days of anger, bewilderment, and misery. The House of Lilterwess had once been a gathering place for the powers of Shaftal, a place of excitement, ferment, and contention, to which the farm families proudly dispatched their most talented children to be raised by one of the orders. Zanja herself had been destined to serve there—but had never set eyes on the place.

She turned her steps to the north. Here the road was not made of the rough and uneven cobbles that for days had been bruising her feet and turning her ankles. Instead it was laid with finished stone, smooth as the floor of a fine house. Even the ditches were stone-lined, filled with water that flowed in silence. For a while Zanja walked swiftly, but as night fell and the clouds began to pelt her with tiny shards of ice, her pace slowed.

The wind picked up and dug cold fingers to her very bones.

“What shall I do?” she asked out loud, to force her sluggard mind to wakefulness. “Get out of the wind,” she advised. She peered ahead, shielding her eyes from the sleet, but could see nothing. The wind uttered a roar. She ducked behind a dark shape that she took to be a rock, but as she huddled against it with the wind whipping around her, she recognized it to be a wall of dressed stone that was so tightly fitted she couldn’t even feel the seams.

The House of Lilterwess had been renowned for its stonework. For the Sainnites to reduce it to rubble had required many months’ labor.

Hunched, hands jammed in wet pockets, shuddering so violently from cold she could scarcely walk, Zanja followed the wall, which marked a lane. She was too cold to talk to herself any more, but her inner voice droned a distant commentary on her own condition: the pain of the cold, the racking shudders, the dullness of her thoughts. She was going to die from the cold after all. But when she spotted a yellow light she could not think why it was significant, and she stumbled directly into the door above which it hung.

Someone on the inside looked out and exclaimed, “Name of the land!”

The door was opened by a young Paladin who took Zanja by the arm and pulled her inside, into a cramped guard room with a small stove that radiated a palpable heat. Then somehow Zanja was sitting in a chair, dripping water. The young woman hung her waterlogged coat on a hook and brought a steaming cup Zanja could scarcely hold for shivering. “Just sit there and warm up for a bit,” said the Paladin.

The young woman dried Zanja’s head and face with a linen towel and said fretfully, “You’ll never get warm in those wet clothes, but I have nothing for you to put on. Drink that tea—don’t just hold it.”

Zanja sipped from the heavy mug as the young doorkeeper mopped up the puddles. She had fresh, appealing features that were almost childish, though her hair was shorn and she wore undyed clothing woven of variegated black wool. She wore not even one earring.

“You’ve saved my life,” Zanja said, “but I’m even more grateful for your kindness. Are you a novice?”

The woman raised her face, surprised. “This is my fifth year. Most border people speak another language, don’t they?”

“Yes, but I am a fire blood with a gift for languages.”

“Oh! You must be a Speaker then.”

“No, I speak for no tribe. But I do need to talk to the G’deon.”

The young Paladin sat back on her heels, looking intrigued and discomforted. “But Tadwell—” she began.

She was interrupted by the entrance of another Paladin, an older woman with two earrings. “What’s this?” she asked sharply.

“This traveler has just arrived, half-dead with cold.”

“Could she communicate her business to you?”

“Yes, she is very well spoken. She is here to talk to Tadwell.”

The commander’s forehead creased. “What for?”

“It is my right, is it not?” said Zanja. “Is it necessary that I explain my reasons to you?”

Despite the novice’s assertion that Zanja could speak, the commander started with surprise. She turned to Zanja with her jaw set. “It is your Speaker’s business—”

“I am far from my tribe. I must speak for myself.”

She realized belatedly that she had imitated the commander’s tone, as if she were talking to a confused child. It took effort to erase the anger and sarcasm from her voice. “Pardon me, Madam Paladin. For many days I have been in dire straits, and except for this young woman, not one person has offered me kindness instead of insults.”

The commander cast a chiding glance at the young Paladin, as though her impulse to offer help to a traveler nearly dead with cold somehow indicated a character flaw.

Zanja said, “Madam Paladin, I was attacked by a rogue elemental. The G’deon must be told about this.”

“What?” exclaimed the commander. She turned to the novice. “Orna, fetch a Truthken.”

“I will not be in the same room with a Truthken!”

The novice, halfway to her feet, stared wide-eyed at Zanja.

“If you will just ask Tadwell—” Zanja said.

“The G’deon is not here to make that decision.” The commander turned away and said to the young Paladin, Orna, “This woman may stay one night only, in a room by the stable. Give her supper and breakfast and then expel her.”

Looking unhappy, Orna said in a muted voice, “Is seems wrong that she suffer because Tadwell is gone.”

“As she will not permit a Truthken to inquire into her virtue, we must assume that she has none. Sometimes the tribes exile their criminals.”

No matter how tired, injured, or crazy she might be, Zanja had always known when it was time to surrender. She unbuckled her belt so as to remove from it her sheathed dagger, which she offered to Orna. “Please guard the blade for me—it is my only treasure.”

The young Paladin might have never seen a weapon before, so surprised did she seem. Yet she said formally, “I accept this charge.” She took the blade and knotted the tie-fasts so the dagger could not easily be unsheathed, and tucked it into her belt rather than leave it here, where the commander might touch it. “I’ll show you to your room and fetch you some supper. Good evening, Commander.”

The senior Paladin said nothing. Apparently, at least one thing in Shaftal was as it was supposed to be: a novice need not display abject obedience, not even to her immediate superior.

Zanja followed Orna through the door, into the House of Lilterwess.

She found herself not in a hall, but in a roofed boulevard as cold here as it had been outdoors, but much drier. Black squares high in a wall suggested openings to the night, a necessary ventilation, Zanja supposed, in a building the size of a small town.

“This is the perimeter way,” said Orna. “It goes all the way to the stable, near the guest rooms.”

To be housed near the stables certainly indicated low status. “Will I at least have a fire?”

“Of course you’ll have a fire!”

They passed an occasional lamp hung over an ornate doorway, and by that faint light Zanja could glimpse the fine stonework, the soaring arches of the vaulted ceiling, the interior windows through which the breeze could blow. But most of the time they walked in near darkness, and she was so slow and limping that her guide had to stop and wait for her to catch up. “Should I fetch a healer for you?” she asked.

“I just need a few days of rest.”

The young woman gave her a guilt-stricken look.

Zanja said wearily, “Where must I go to find the G’deon?”

“Oh, he’s in Basdown again. I’m sure you’ve heard about the boundary disputes.”

“Basdown? To get there I must go through the Barrens, where there’s no shelter at all, not even a tree!”

“You could remain here and await him if you would talk to a Truthken.”

Should Zanja ignore her inexplicable aversion, to save herself from dying of exposure? She sighed. “If I start ignoring my own convictions, I’ll have nothing left. Even my self will be lost. It’s better to die.”

“If you’ve got nothing to hide—” the young Paladin began.

“There are other reasons than fear or shame for keeping something hidden.”

“What other reason could there be?”

“To avoid doing harm.”

Such a possibility seemed beyond Orna’s imagination, and she lapsed into silence.

Zanja’s nose told her they were drawing close to the stable, for even the best-maintained stable stinks in springtime. The Paladin showed her through a doorway, and they felt their way up a black, narrow flight of stairs. Standing in pitch darkness, Zanja could hear Orna’s hands rasping on wood, then a latch lifted and they entered a small, chilly room. The sound of rain had been muffled by stonework, but here it was suddenly loud. Orna said, “Oh, it’s turned to sleet. I love that sound. Ouch!” She had thumped into something. “I found the bed,” she said. “Why don’t you take off your wet clothes and get under the covers, while I fetch food and fuel for you?”

After she left, Zanja followed the sound of sleet on shutters to the window. She first had to remove a waxed cloth screen and then wrestle open latches that were stiff with rust, only to get a face full of sleet for her pains. She was looking out at a continuous wet rooftop, all angles, punctuated regularly by towers and dormers, rather like Watfield might look if all its rooftops were joined into one.

She could have climbed out and gone walking across the top of the city. Thoughtful, blinking ice from her eyelashes, Zanja gazed out into the rain.