The Wicked Heroine

By Jasmine Giacomo

The Cult of Dzur i'Oth wants its magical tome back. They can’t rule the world without it.

The only person who knows how to destroy the twisted tome is Meena, a testy heroine who accidentally inherited immortality from the tome’s pages centuries ago. Long turned to cynicism by the petty whims of mortals, she’s secretive and brusque, dragging her young companions into mortal danger without a second thought.

Yet the magical reach of the cult leader, the Hand of Power, is long. Even from the far side of the world, he causes chaos and death in order to retrieve the key to the tome’s magical prison.

A glorified librarian, a substitute prince and a secret-wielding swordsman must resolve their interpersonal conflicts in order to aid Meena in her quest. But when the Shanallar makes an unexpected sacrifice halfway to their goal, can they carry on without her? Or is the world doomed to enslavement at the hands of a magic-wielding madman?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jasmine Giacomo
• Release date: Jun 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452327563

Jasmine Giacomo

Jasmine Giacomo writes from Washington State, where she lives with her husband and two small children. She graduated last millennium with a B.A. in English Literature from a college built atop a volcano, where she began crafting her first novel-length stories.Though she's been writing since the age of four, she also enjoys geocaching, history, science and games, and holds a black belt in Danzan Ryu Jujitsu. She particularly enjoys reading and writing fight scenes.Jasmine has various short stories published in print and online, links to which can be found at Smashwords, B&N, Kobo, Sony, Apple, Amazon, and her blog. Become a fan of Jasmine on Facebook and get exclusive short fiction, sneak peeks at upcoming e-book releases, and an inside look into the indie author world.

Book preview

Maps

Prologue

Four hundred years ago

The woman on the galloping black horse threw a glance over her shoulder. Past the low, proliferous shrubbery of the rising plains, through the gentle steam of hidden hot springs, she saw the red dust cloud rising around the last bend in the road. Dark hair that had escaped her braid whipped across her eyes as she turned to look forward again. She spurred her mount, hoping for more speed.

Her companion, riding slightly behind her, shouted, Jacasta! I can delay them!

You know how long it would take them to kill you, Arisson. I couldn’t bear sensing that!

We’re beyond that now, Jacasta! Our queen has been assassinated; the very land itself is torn. There is far more at stake than just us. You know that!

Yes. She caught her breath, gasping, I know, but I don’t want to lose you now. We’ve come so far. So thrice-damned far!

We might not make it. The blond man looked back as the riders bearing down on them rounded the curve into sight. His mount pulled even with hers.

We have to! Fear tightened the cords in her neck. We’re almost there.

So are they. I will stop them, so you can succeed. Arisson lifted the reins and turned his shoulders, looking back again, ready to wheel his mount around on the narrow country road. His free hand flared with silvery light.

By your Oath, you will not! shouted the woman, command ringing in her voice. She glared at him, daring him to argue.

Arisson gritted his teeth silently and kept riding, clenching the light into nothingness. The faint thunder of the distant hooves behind them could be heard now; there were so many.

You know the power of the Oath, Arisson finally murmured. Yet you still want me at your side, Jacasta?

Yes, she responded, eyes grim. She might not be able to pass the Warding alone, let alone navigate the Crypt, or thread the Dragon’s Labyrinth.

You would hold our love more dear than the lives of all our people, at a time like this? Only the accusatory concern in his voice made his words discernable over the thudding of hooves and the horses’ snorting breaths.

Allgods damn, yes! she cried, tears springing to her eyes. I need you, Arisson. I can’t do this alone!

His hand slipped onto hers, gripping it tightly for a few moments. She had not noticed him urging his mount so close to hers. Their horses galloped along in perfect rhythm as he said, You can. And you know it. What’s in your saddlebag could destroy us all. What’s in your heart could save us. I believe in you. You can do this alone.

Eyes wide with sudden fear, she turned to him. Are you breaking our Oath?

~~~

In the end, their Oath was indeed broken, but not by Arisson.

Jacasta succeeded in binding the Dire Tome apart from the world. Yet, she alone survived the battle of magic and steel within the Heart of the Dragon. The bodies of Arisson and the Dzur i’Oth riders lay scattered across the stonework floor and the black marble dais.

Jacasta knelt alone in the blackness, raging her grief helplessly; it echoed off the distant, unseen walls, and her prayers could not escape to rise to the heavens. Kneeling beside her husband’s body, she drew her knife and hacked her long dark braid off as high as she could reach, and laid it across his chest.

My Oath has broken; I am not worthy, she muttered through bitter tears.

She interred Arisson’s body in an unused tomb among the dead monarchs of the land. She longed to remain, to mourn, yet she knew there were hundreds who still sought her, to regain what she had taken and hidden away.

They could not retrieve the book without her now. She dared not remain anywhere near this place, lest they take the key she possessed.

She re-emerged from the Green Dragon, walking toward the shadow-cloaked hills. Not to return to them, but to walk past them, and on beyond. Her broken, bitter voice trailed once more on the wind. "As Arisson has perished, so let Jacasta perish with him. My people can only be safe if I leave these shores. They are the only ones I could save, and they will never know of it.

Now, I am only the Shanallar.

Chapter One

Geret Branbrey Valan sat in the office of his uncle’s seneschal, cooling his heels until the seneschal decided to deal with him. He parked his tall frame in the green velvet armchair, carelessly propped his muddy boots on the matching footstool, and gave a world-weary sigh. This is always the dullest part, he thought. Waiting for the inevitably boring punishment. I go through all this trouble, and they can’t ever come up with something interesting in return. I’m not sure why I bother anymore.

But Geret had no intention of stopping; he always enjoyed the anticipation too much. His longish light brown hair was in his eyes again; he shook it out and let his gaze drift across the ancient, cobweb-cornered portraits hung on the maroon-and-white papered walls of the seneschal’s office. All boring people. Boring and dead. This whole place is so boring. Why isn’t anyone here into fun?

The corners of Geret’s mouth rose as he recalled the fun he’d just had. He’d had perfect execution and impeccable timing, gauging his performance for not only his victim, but several passing ladies of nobility. Their shrieks and following laughter had warmed his trickster’s heart immensely.

Geret’s brown eyes fell next on the seneschal’s desk. Rectangular, dark and scuffed, it proudly proclaimed the man as unimaginative as a dim-witted goat. Geret smirked and gave a short laugh. The desk was remarkably similar to another desk he recalled visiting quite often. Geret wondered if all seneschals were required to be boring and unimaginative, and had to use the same kind of desks. His last visit to that other desk was, in fact, irrevocably linked to his transfer of lodgings to where he lived today. Geret inhaled deeply, and with a smile, he thought back to his most glorious achievement to date.

~~~

It was high summer, and his father’s castle, along the Eastern March of Vint, had just received a shipment of rare ice from the Shatterglass River, high in the Ribbon Mountains. The ridges where the ice accumulated were so worn down, they looked like hills, and only their massive height let the ice remain frozen all year round.

That precious, temporary commodity was going to be wasted on a visit from the Magister and his son, Prince Addan. Little slivers of frozen heaven, wasted in good wine. Probably in everyday well water also, just to show off. And the weather was beastly hot. Geret knew something must be done about such a travesty.

He stole the seneschal’s key ring–again–and late at night he snuck into the ice chamber, deep under the castle. Once the door was open, he could feel the cold air rushing past his feet. His tiny lantern barely illuminated the mounds of sawdust that had been shoveled over the ice to slow its melting before it could be used. There were enough giant blocks of it that Geret imagined he could build a large fort out of them. He walked over to one of the nearest blocks and scraped away the sawdust in handfuls until he could feel the cold bite of the ice itself. He laid his palm on it, letting the frozen water numb his skin.

This ice had come all the way from the mountains. Far higher than his home here in the foothills, far away from all the people in the whole world. Up there where only snow and rock and sky existed. And maybe other, more mysterious things! Geret’s breathing quickened at the thought.

And then, before his hand became completely useless, Geret pulled out his chisel and hammer–also ‘borrowed’–and hacked the ice blocks into as many chunks as he could carry. He wrapped them each individually, with some of the sawdust packing, in linen cloths. Then he tied all the packaged chunks together in a huge swath of material that he lifted to his shoulder with care. Hefting the weight into a comfortable place, Geret staggered a bit under the load, but safely made his escape.

The next day, the Magister, his son, and several members of the Dictat were scheduled to arrive. Geret had a plan to greet them properly, Valan-style.

He made his preparations carefully, not finishing for another two hours, and not until he had also woken several of his father’s young wards and bribed them to assist him. Finally, he crawled tiredly into his bed, eagerly awaiting the morrow.

When the sun rose, mere hours after Geret had gone to sleep, its rays were already hot. Geret kept a close eye on the road up to the castle, knowing that the Magister’s entourage would not be showing up in any sudden manner; once he knew they were here, his final preparations could take place.

In the extreme heat of the day, a faint line of dust on the road proclaimed the Magister’s imminent arrival. Geret ducked into the stables. He heard the stable boys bustling around as they made sure they had clear access to the stalls for the visiting horses. He grabbed a few of his bundles and sidled out to the watering troughs just outside the stable entrance to the main castle courtyard, where he wiped off the sawdust with the linen wraps and set his prizes gingerly afloat. Then he hurried to the kitchens, where he barked a few orders at the already-busy serving girls, getting them to do his bidding instead of the cook’s.

In the minutes it took them to comply, he dashed across the courtyard, up to the second story of the outer bailey stairs, then onto the wall itself, where he would have an excellent view of the arriving guests as they rode in underneath him. The guards stationed there eyed him suspiciously, and with good reason, but even they could not have stopped his plan now.

The Magister and his entourage arrived in full pomp and style, wearing white cotton clothes to help combat the heat. As they stepped out below to be greeted in the great courtyard by Geret’s father, the serving girls brought out platters of wine for the honored guests and buckets of water for their liveried servants. Geret watched eagerly, anticipating the first drinks by the servants the most.

He was not disappointed. Their expressions of delight at discovering that their own water was chilled with precious ice could be heard even up here on the wall. Geret bounced excitedly on his toes and grabbed the wooden rail on the inner edge of the wall. The beginnings of a frown were likely starting on his father’s forehead, but he couldn’t tell from where he was.

The stable boys were escorting the tired horses a distance away and rubbing them down. Some of the horse boys that had come with the entourage went along to assist them. The next stop was the troughs, before the animals were led into the cool shade of the stables to get some sweet hay, and Geret watched with a grin as the visiting horse boys exclaimed in awe at the chill of even the horse-trough water. Such an amazing man Geret’s father was, to share his rare bounty of ice with not only his guests, and not only every last one of their servants, but the very horses that had brought them as well!

Geret’s father’s expression was now clear even at this distance. His entire body posture spoke volumes.

Geret couldn’t hold it in any longer; he fell to his knees, letting his laughter bubble out through his lips. He rested his forehead against the wooden handrail he still clutched, helpless with mirth. It was too much; he’d truly outdone himself this time, but it was not over yet. Bracing himself for the final act of his performance, knowing full well it would push his father too far, he stood and threw his arms wide and called out in a loud voice that echoed around the courtyard. Welcome, great Magister, honored members of the Dictat! Welcome, all you other hot, thirsty people, to my father’s generous castle! In order that you be fully refreshed from your journey, I have arranged for the sky to open and a cooling rain to fall upon you, even here in the blazing heat of summer! Geret tipped his head up toward the sky and bellowed at the top of his lungs, Sky! Give us rain!

For a second, nothing happened but some distant thuds. The entire population in the courtyard was staring up, either at Geret, or, more credulously, at the blue summer sky.

And then Geret caught the flash of the sun on drops of water. They fell all over the courtyard, on the people and the horses. And it was indeed a cooling rain. The people below jumped in surprise, and a few yelped. Others covered their heads with their arms and cringed, unsure what exactly was going on.

Geret was nearly beside himself with glee. It had worked! He lifted his fists into the air in triumph, and did not mind at all when one of his rooftop helpers catapulted the last bucketful of icy meltwater onto his head. It was a fitting finale to his amazing performance, and it made him whoop with pure joy.

Then the guards had grabbed his arms and dragged him to the seneschal’s office. His laughter, even then, muffled out the curses of his father in the courtyard below.

Geret had sat in the seneschal’s office for three hours, with a guard at the door, before the man had come in to see him. He hadn’t been allowed to see the guests, nor eat or drink at the feast with them, but he didn’t really mind. This had been much more memorable.

When the seneschal finally came in, he pushed Geret’s boots off his desk corner with a tired air and collapsed into his chair. Geret narrowed his eyes in fiendish pleasure. He knew he was likely responsible for the state of the seneschal’s balding and graying head. Served him right for being so strict all the time.

Geret lounged, awaiting the inevitably boring punishment. But the seneschal had not come to punish him, it turned out. The first words out of his mouth made Geret sit up straight in a panic, protesting that he didn’t deserve such a harsh handling, that it wasn’t fair at all.

~~~

In the end, Geret mused, it hadn’t been so bad, coming to live at the Magister’s palace in Highnave. What purpose the Magister had for him was becoming more clear as the weeks went by, but Geret didn’t understand why it was happening now. In truth, Geret was shocked that his performance that day hadn’t put the Magister off him entirely. He considered, with a thrill of glee, that his next expedition into the realms of the illegal should include spying on the Magister to find out. That would be putting his talents to a more practical use, as his tutors constantly urged him.

He knew what they were doing. They were trying to overfill his daily schedule, while encouraging him toward positive hobbies, so that he’d have no time for his own amusement. It was true, eventually he’d have to stop. He was at the cusp of manhood; he’d have to grow up and be responsible someday. Then Geret smiled, as he realized he’d been responsible for one practical joke or another for years.

Find your latest prank amusing, do you, Geret? the seneschal asked, startling Geret in his plush chair. He’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard the man come in.

Geret looked over at the seneschal. This one was tall and lean. His name was Ilvan Imorlar, and he still had a full head of short brown hair. Well, thought Geret with a wicked grin, there’s time enough to change that.

Yes, my lord, I do, Geret answered, effortlessly polite.

Naturally. You wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Imorlar sat down in his chair and aimed a level gaze at Geret. You’ve been in here three times now. That amounts to one prank every few weeks. Too much more of you, and I think you might collapse the entire nation from the inside out.

Geret merely grinned.

Imorlar leaned forward onto his elbows and looked directly into Geret’s eyes. You’re too smart for us, Geret. That’s your problem. In spite of all the classes and extracurricular activities we’re burdening you with, you still have time to churn out these ideas. And you lack a direction to churn them out to, so you play these pranks. Well, I have an idea.

Here it comes, thought Geret. The unimaginative part.

I want you to work for me.

Wait, what? Geret’s eyebrows rose. Didn’t see that coming, he admitted, grinning. Maybe I’ve judged this seneschal a bit hastily, after all.

Imorlar smiled. Good. Now, before I induct you into my ranks, he said with a disarming grin, you’ll need to pass a test. And no, it won’t involve playing a prank.

Despite himself, Geret was interested. He loved challenges, strategy and games, and he was physically quick and agile. Whatever the test, he was sure he was up to it. What do I need to do? he asked, realizing with amusement that he sounded as eager as a little boy with Low Solstice presents to open.

That’s part one of the test, now, isn’t it? Imorlar grinned.

But… Geret trailed off, thinking. Either a bit of effort would make it pretty clear what Imorlar wanted, or it would all be a trick to occupy Geret for a few days. But he thought Imorlar was smarter than that: to anger Geret was to wake up with pig intestines pulled up to one’s thighs like stockings and glued in place, as the seneschal knew quite well from Geret’s most recent prank on Lord Munder. The women Geret had gotten to walk by, just as the lord had burst from his guest rooms, had been both repulsed and highly amused, and they had been selected purely for their immense gossiping ability, so Geret knew that revenge would indeed be his by nightfall.

So, this was all probably legitimate. Geret squinted a bit, watching Imorlar watch him. Done, he said, and was relieved to see a genuine smile, not a crafty one, spread across Imorlar’s face.

Excellent. Consider your test begun. You have three days to discover what your test is and complete it, and then…well, then we will see what we can do. I have faith in you, Geret.

So do I, my lord, Geret returned, one cheek dimpling with a wicked grin.

Chapter Two

The cave lay snug and quiet, while a dim glow from the coals in the round fire pit coated the ceiling and walls with a sleepy warmth. The snow-laden wind could be heard thundering faintly outside. Fresh air circulated slowly through air holes about the cave, melting snow outside. The meltwater plopped from the tip of a stone corkscrew trough that was molded to the ceiling, falling down into a carved cistern in the back corner floor.

The smell of drying meat wafted throughout the room, as the suspended drying rack rotated slowly several feet above the fire pit, its motion generated by wooden fan-blades that turned gently in the coals’ thermal updrafts. Near the cave’s entrance, three curtains of patchworked skins were suspended at intervals between rods, top and bottom, with wool stuffing around the edges, creating dead air spaces that protected the cave’s warmth from the chill of winter. Beyond them, the great wooden door–thick, solid and circular–fit snugly into the cave’s mouth, its construction the work of an entire warm season. The sleeping woman on the bench near the fire rested easily beneath her light blanket.

A thud came at the door. The woman’s eyes moved beneath her lids, and for several seconds that single motion was the only indication she did not sleep. Then she rolled to her feet, a small blade appearing in her hand. Clad in her ankle-length linen garment, with a dark braid swinging down her back, she padded quickly toward the curtains and warily parted each pair in the center. She slipped through and closed each behind her before opening the next.

As she pushed aside the last curtain and approached the door, a freezing draft wafted over her bare feet. She stopped suddenly, seeing that a figure had opened her outer door and fallen motionless on the floor within. The wind swirled around them both, filling the cave’s entryway with its icy grip.

She moved quickly to the door and looked out into the last few feet of the cave’s mouth. There was one set of tracks, quickly being obliterated in the swirling wind. Since her porch had nothing else to tell her, the woman closed the door firmly, tucked the blade away, and bent over the still figure on her floor. The person was bundled heavily in furs and wool, and was face down.

Some idiot hunter? the hermit wondered. Worthwhile game was scarce above the tree line. She reached for the figure’s far shoulder and turned it over, pulling off a furred hood, wool cap and mask, to reveal the face of a young girl, pale blonde eyelashes nearly invisible against her cheeks. Surprised–when had she last been surprised?–the woman pulled the girl through the curtains to warm her up.

After depositing the youngster by the fire pit and making sure the entryway curtains were doing their job, she pulled the girl’s frozen clothing off, then wrapped her in a thick wool blanket. She saw that the fingers on her visitor’s right hand had been frostbitten.

The girl had worn a small pack under her outer coat; the woman shamelessly picked through it. Food and water, some rough drawings of random lines–or were they maps? Two small books, written in Versal, the common language of the many peoples inhabiting the continent of Cyrmant, at whose southern end her cave was located.

That amused her. Hardly anyone for dozens of miles in any direction could read or write, in Versal or anything else.

The brunette made sure the girl was resting comfortably, then lay down on her sleeping bench, positioned so that she could watch her for signs of stirring.

Those signs came several hours later, when the girl sighed and tried to rise, but found herself hampered by the thick blanket. The woman slipped over and assisted her in sitting, propping her back against a bundle of leathers against the cave wall.

How do you feel? the woman asked in Versal, finding her voice quite rusty and unfamiliar.

The girl looked around, taking in the trappings of the cave: the slowly rotating contraption over the fire pit; oddly constructed spheres made of reused metal; boxes and shelves–clearly handmade–yet holding well-cared-for supplies; and fabrics that might have once been sacking, dyed with natural colors and hanging against the walls like a poor woman’s tapestries. Other decorated hangings of reddish skins were interspersed with landscape carvings etched right into the walls.

The fantastic sight was unfamiliar, and the girl’s eyes turned toward the cave’s occupant: a woman perhaps twenty years older than herself, in good health, with dark brown hair that laced down her back in a thick braided rope. Her garment of old linen was clean and neatly patched. Dark green eyes, an odd color the girl had never seen before, gazed placidly back at her.

Where am I? the blonde visitor finally asked.

You are in my home. You stumbled against my door last night. Do you remember?

The young girl paused to recollect. Yes. I was… The girl’s voice, at first slow and contemplative, sped up as she recalled her situation the night before. …Searching for a woman. My quest. I’m looking for an old woman, or maybe two women: a teacher and her student. Her eyes flicked again around the room. Do you know if anyone like that lives nearby? Where are we on the mountain? I think I got lost in the dark last night.

The brunette eyed her visitor with concern. There’s no need for excitement. You need to eat and drink, then rest some more. Those fingers you’re clutching are frostbit, she said, indicating the girl’s right hand.

The young blonde looked down at her fingers in dismay. All four fingers were deathly white, reddening with blood flow only where they met her hand. Wisdom, no! she said, her voice a wail of despair. This is monumentally bad! Will they fall off? Can you save them?

The hermit moved closer and took the girl’s hand, examining the injured fingers. I am no physick, child.

The girl’s face paled as the gravity of her possible loss weighed on her. Swallowing nervously, she met the woman’s dark green eyes. Please?

Something in the girl’s face touched the hermit. First, she said, having made up her mind, tuck them inside your shirt. As the girl did so, pressing the frozen digits against her warm skin, the woman continued, Next, you need to eat. I have snow-weasel soup I can heat up; you must drink only its warm broth. We will see about solid food later.

Her visitor nodded acquiescence. She followed the brunette’s movements with her eyes as she fetched a pot from a hole in the wall. The girl realized she did not know the woman’s name, so she asked for it.

Call me Meena.

My name is Sanych elTiera. I’m a journeyman Archivist at the Temple of Knowledge, in Vint.

Meena continued her task of heating the soup, which had frozen in its pot, and did not reply.

I have come on a quest to locate the woman, or women, I spoke of earlier.

Silence.

It’s imperative that I locate her, or them. You’re sure you don’t know anyone like them around here?

Meena poked at the thawing soup as it dangled over the coals by a counterweight system.

Sanych pursed her lips. The hermit was not being very helpful. Another tack might bring about the information she sought. I see you’re using Belvar’s Principle to dry your meat. Where did you learn that?

Meena glanced up at the bladed contraption that was currently turning her meat strips above the coals. She turned speculative green eyes to Sanych.

Used to travel. Learned it from a ranger.

Belvar was a ranger, Sanych mentioned. One of his descendants might have taught you.

The woman didn’t look up from stirring.

Sanych pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose. And your water collection method. If I’m not mistaken, that’s patterned closely after the Yangul tribes of the Hollow Desert, about four thousand miles east of here. The sluices are carved around existing stalactites. Their upper holes let warmed cave air melt the snow, then drain it down into pools. Or in your case, your cistern. Very artistic. How did you learn that?

Like I said, used to travel. A pause. How do you know all that? You’re what, twelve?

I happen to be fifteen, the girl said, her voice prim. It’s the minimum age journeymen can leave on their Archivist quest. I had to wait eighteen weeks till my birthday. Eighteen whole weeks!

Meena stopped poking at the nearly-thawed soup and looked directly at Sanych. We’ve got some time ‘til you can get back out there; why don’t you tell me your quest while I fill you up and get you warm?

Sanych didn’t know what to make of this Meena. She was indeed a woman living on the mountain, but she was young and alone. She didn’t wear the Shanallar’s torc, and seemed rather thick. The facts didn’t fit. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to spin out her tale for a while.

The Temple of Knowledge, where I live, is just outside Highnave, the capital city of Vint. We don’t worship any of the gods of the neighboring nations; we preserve knowledge, in the form of books, scrolls, parchments, anything we can get our hands on. Our purpose is to preserve the written word, and to advise the Magister of Vint, our ruler. My mentor at the Temple says we’re like the Magister’s extended memory. I was taught from a very young age how to cross-reference information with other, possibly unrelated works. It sounds simple, but it’s a lot of hard work. My mentor says I have a gift, and he’s right. If I read a page once, I can remember anything on it.

Meena raised a skeptical eyebrow.

For example, Sanych continued, "I’ve been studying an old legend for my quest: the legend of the Shanallar. It dates back about four hundred years. The one book we have on the Shanallar’s exploits doesn’t even say if this person was male or female.

"I believe the Shanallar, mentioned in the Chronicle of the Fall of Aghas, is also the Great Sage of Hauma’poma, whose tale we have in three separate books. The one by Anoulus the Wise refers to the Great Sage as ‘she’. The most obvious clue that they’re the same person is that they both make reference to a bronze torc she wears, engraved with fantastic animals."

The hermit nodded, allowing Sanych to continue.

Now, Sanych said, in her best debating voice, "most learned men of the age have concluded that ‘Shanallar’ is a title in some unknown tongue, similar to counselor, priest, magician, or the like. But I found a clue in Away and Home, a book on the travels of a young lordling who was gone for twelve years. He returned home to find that no one believed his tales. In his book he makes reference to the ‘distant land of Shanal, shrouded in mist and flame’ with numerous exotic beasts and peoples.

Do you see? Tucking a blond strand of hair behind an ear, Sanych leaned forward to accept the heated broth from Meena’s hands, catching her breath and sipping a slow mouthful of the savory liquid from its baked clay bowl. The Shanallar is simply a woman from Shanal.

Sanych thought Meena took her astonishing conclusion rather well. The hermit raised an eyebrow in mild curiosity. Or perhaps boredom. The young journeyman set her bowl aside to use both hands for gesticulation.

"Most of the Masters in the Temple doubt my theory, but I’ll prove them wrong. I have all the facts; I’ve checked them. It’s what I do. They only doubt me because I’m young and I thought of it before they did. When I find the Shanallar, they’ll see I’m right.

I still haven’t been able to determine whether she’s a very aged woman, or a series of women who teach their successors and pass on the title, Sanych said. That’s why I’m not sure if I’m looking for an old crone, or a student and a teacher. But she, or they, must live in or near this valley.

Meena pursed her lips and decided to ask a question. What makes you think the Shanallar woman or women didn’t just die out a few generations back? You think bad luck only affects normal folk?

The Holy Witch. The girl’s eyes burned bright with belief.

Meena cocked her head to the side. Come again?

"Thirty-two years ago, far north in the country of Nen Thakka, there was a woman known as the Holy Witch. She came from nowhere and left to nowhere. And she wore a bronze torc. She had the power to heal wounds, like the Shanallar and the Great Sage. Her wisdom and foresight came just in time to prevent the country being embroiled in a civil war, and she saved the Queen from assassination by her own niece.

"The Holy Witch was named the Queen’s Champion and defeated the scheming princess in single combat. But she refrained from delivering the death blow, and then healed her. It was a masterful stroke of genius. The princess could not protest the defeat because the Holy Witch was not of royal blood and had no stake in the outcome, and her supporters could not avenge her as she had not been killed. There were riots anyway, but with the Holy Witch to advise her, the Nen Thakkan queen quickly arranged for peaceful settlement and married her niece off to a foreign king. They’ve traded civil war for international trade.

She has to be the Shanallar. And she was alive thirty-two years ago! Isn’t that exciting? the girl asked, leaning forward with sparkling eyes.

Meena wrinkled her brow. If you say so.

Sanych sighed, then continued. "The final step in the Shanallar’s journey is from the Canticle of Jorru. It says a mysterious woman in a blue hood gave Jorru shelter in her tent as he traveled through the Icecap Mountains, and when he woke in the morning, his usual joint pains were gone. She said she was retiring to the ‘snow of summer’. The valley just upwind of this mountainside is practically clogged with cotton trees, and the innkeeper at the last village told me it snows here all year round; cold in the winter and fluffy in the summer. He told me a few hermit folk live up here on the mountain. So here I am, looking for the Shanallar. I know she’s here." She nodded with emphasis.

You do seem to have a knack for remembering details, the hermit commented.

Sanych looked at Meena, a small ‘o’ of surprise shaping her mouth. She had just summed up her research for the last three seasons, and this cave woman could only comment on Sanych’s memorization skills?

Meena spoke again. You’ve told me you’re looking for this woman but not why you want her. Is your quest simply to prove she’s still alive?

No. The reason for my quest is twofold. And I’m sure you’d love another half an hour of critical details and rare facts. I can see you’re overwhelmed with the work I’ve done so far, Sanych said, eyes narrowed.

Meena smiled slightly and tilted her head in a way that might have indicated she appreciated Sanych’s spirit. Or it might have indicated she was imagining tossing Sanych out on her ear in the snow.

It’s vital that I find this woman, or women, the journeyman said. If you can direct me to her, you’ll have the gratitude of the Temple of Knowledge: no small thing. Meena gazed at Sanych as if waiting for more information. Sanych squeezed handfuls of her blanket in order to stop herself from yelling at the dense creature before her. She took a deep breath and said, You’ve lived here awhile, I can tell. Surely you know of an experienced woman who can heal other people of their injuries. That’s got to stand out, if nothing else does.

Meena leaned forward, lips parting in a gentle smile. And how are your fingers?

Sanych spoke quickly to get the question out of her way. They’re fine; they don’t even… Her eyes traveled to her fingers, pink and healthy. Then, after several moments, to Meena’s face. Oh.

Meena smirked.

Oh, Wisdom! Sanych breathed, wiggling her fingers and grinning widely. Her eyes darted around the room again as if seeing Meena’s contraptions for the first time. Even the soreness in my muscles is gone. I could hike the mountain again right now!

Most satisfying, said Meena, leaning back and looking smug.

What? asked Sanych, startled out of her excitement.

The clunk when everything fell into place in your head.

Sanych frowned, looking