Spirit of Shehaios: Shaihen Heritage Book 3

By S.A. Rule

Spirit of Shehaios
A story of love.

“...Alsareth knew very well that human beings were capable of unspeakable atrocities, but those things she would not seek. She had decided before she joined her father in Qivor that her world would contain good things. She would seek out good things, and strive to add to them. From such aspirations magic is created.”

When the Emperor appointed Caras ti’ Leath Governor of Qivor, Caras knew he was taking on an epic challenge. The deep and bitter feud between the merescaii and the ascaii tribes of Qivor had already destroyed Lord High Magician Kierce.

But Caras does not face the battle alone. He is armed with the heritage Kierce bequeathed him - Sheldo, the minstrel; Aruath, the priest; and Caras’s own daughter, Alsareth.

The firstborn child of a Shaihen Holder and a Shaihen healer, Alsareth is heir to all the insights and power which set the Shaihen Magician apart.

She is also a passionate young woman with an eye for a strong and dashing warrior.

When Qintal, son of the merescaii warrior chieftain, returns to Qivor seeking vengeance on the Empire of the Sacred Union and their Shaihen allies - principally, her father - life begins to get very complicated for Alsareth an’ Caras.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.A. Rule
• Release date: May 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458137814

S.A. Rule

Sue Rule lives in Kent, in south east England. As well as being an author, she is a songwriter and musician: one quarter of local family folk group Pig’s Ear. http://www.pigs-sty.comShe has been writing bits of the fictional history of Shehaios since she first dreamed up the world and its rather prosaic magic in the early 1970’s. The intervening years spent learning and perfecting her craft have culminated in the “Shaihen Heritage” series. The series grows out of Sue’s love of history and folklore, and tracks the fictional history of an imagined world which is not unlike our own. One or two little accidents of evolutionary history make all the difference – there are dragons in the mountains, and in every generation of the Shaihen people there is one individual with the gifts of a Magician.http://www.shehaios.co.ukShaihen Heritage Book 1: Cloak of Magic published 2006Shaihen Heritage Book 2: Staff of Power published 2009Shaihen Heritage Book 3: Spirit of Shehaios published 2011

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Shaihen Heritage: Book 3

Spirit of Shehaios

A Novel by S.A. Rule

© S.A. Rule 2011.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Ben Scruton © Ben Scruton

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The Shaihen Heritage Series

Magic – The way it seems

Shaihen Heritage Book 1: Cloak of Magic.

A Story of Deception.

Somewhere along the line where human nature meets human imagination, myths are created. Somewhere in that space lives the spirit that created and sustains Shehaios, the Fair Land, the home of the free.

Paperback edition pub by Authors on Line ISBN 978 075521 030 5.

Smashwords edition https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/2919

Magic – The power it holds

Shaihen Heritage Book 2: Staff of Power

A Story of Passion

With the power of the Shaihen Magician compromised, the great battle between the proud and fearless tribes of the north and the great Empire of the south begins.

Paperback edition pub by Authors on Line ISBN 978 075521 264 4.

Smashwords edition https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/18616

Magic – What it is

Shaihen Heritage Book 3: Spirit of Shehaios

A Story of Love

Alsareth an’ Caras is a young woman with an eye for a strong and dashing warrior. But as the firstborn child of a Shaihen Holder and a Shaihen healer, she is also heir to all the insights and power which set the Shaihen Magician apart.

Paperback edition pub by Authors on Line ISBN 978 075521 320 7

The Shaihen Heritage series is available from www.shehaios.co.uk.

Also from Authors On Line www.authorsonline.co.uk,

RedCap Books www.redcapbooks.co.uk,

Smashwords (ebooks) www.smashwords.com,

Amazon and selected bookshops.

SPIRIT OF SHEHAIOS

Prologue: The Fall of Qivor

At the age of eighteen, Qintal an’ Santami watched his dreams die.

Neither his face nor his demeanour betrayed what he felt as the show trial of his king, the great hope of his people, unfolded before his eyes. Qintal had been brought up a merescaii warrior and nobleman. Displays of emotion were forbidden. But he felt as if he was watching his own life drawing to an end below the city walls.

Less than two days before, Qintal had been among the remnant of the merescaii forces gathered in the capital city of Qivor to hear King Bordred’s rallying speech. It had moved, inspired and energised him. It had seemed impossible that such a warrior, such an epitome of passion and courage, could be stopped. But the outcome of the Imperial trial was a foregone conclusion. Once the Empire’s troops had Bordred within their grasp, he was a dead man.

Qintal stood by his father’s side watching from the parlous safety of Qivor as the Imperial soldiers laying siege to the merescaii’s last stronghold threw up a makeshift platform, beyond the range of the defenders’ missiles, but in plain view of the city walls. A broad canvas awning was erected over the platform giving it the appearance of a rather grand room, incongruously dumped in a field below the walls of Qivor City.

Gradually, the pavilion filled with Imperial troops. Qintal saw the victorious Imperial General, Hiren an’ Driezi, take his seat in the centre, his arrival greeted by a full-throated cheer from his men. He watched as the tall, distinctive figure of the merescaii King was brought, bareheaded and humbled, in chains before his judge.

If his father had not expressly prohibited him from joining Bordred’s army, Qintal would already have taken up arms in the rebels’ cause. He would have been among those who followed the king to the bloody field a few miles north of the city where most of the merescaii nobility now lay dead.

The confrontation between Bordred’s merescaii warriors and Hiren’s Imperial troops had been less a battle than a rout. Yet, at eighteen, Qintal was inclined to feel it would have been better to have died that way than live to witness that cause, so fervently held, so heroically championed, extinguished in the ignominy of a sham trial and a summary execution.

He was conscious of a flurry of messages and visitors coming to his father, voices raised in argument and decisions being made. He burned with impatience to do something — anything — to stop this monstrous injustice unfolding before his eyes, but he forced himself to wait until the messengers had been dealt with and dismissed. He couldn’t hear what Santami had said to them, but it surely meant something. He knew Santami had not supported Bordred’s actions, but he could not believe his father was prepared to stand by and watch the cold-blooded murder of the merescaii king.

Eventually, he could contain his impatience no longer.

Tell me what to do! he burst out. Father, tell me how to stop this, and I’ll do it!

We will do nothing, stated Santami. You will do nothing, Qintal. You will watch. You will witness what the Imperial general wishes us to witness, and you will learn from it what makes a leader of warriors successful. Pick your time, your place, and your fights wisely.

Qintal clenched his fist and turned away, struggling to control himself. His first and over-riding duty was to obey his father. Never had it been so hard.

He watched with outward impassiveness as an Imperial sword beheaded the merescaii king. He watched the merchants of Qivor city carry the merescaii’s surrender to the Imperial general.

Only as he watched Hiren’s army march through the city gates into Qivor did the ice in his veins begin to distil crystals of hatred. But his loathing was less for the invaders from the southern empire than for those of his own kind who should have been allies of Bordred’s rebellion. Shaihens were men of North Caiivorian stock like the merescaii. They fought under the leadership of one of their own people, Caras of Oreath. Yet it was Shaihen troops in the Imperial army who had captured the merescaii leader and betrayed him to his Imperial foe.

Qintal could respect an enemy who proved superior. The son of a distinguished merescaii household could find only contempt for a traitor, and this was a betrayal he would never forget, nor imagine he could ever forgive.

Chapter 1

The Exile

The painted stones rolled across the bar-room table. Qintal watched them settle with a rising sense of triumph, as they came to rest displaying the images of a bird, representing liberty, and a sword — representing truth.

Fortune favours the brave, conceded his opponent, as Qintal smugly swept his winnings from the table. I thought that was a mad move to make. Gambling everything on the roll of the stones.

Qintal shrugged. When a man has nothing to lose, my lord…

Hah! You’re looking at a man with nothing left to lose, said Jascal morosely.

Qintal smiled wryly. Allow me the images of freedom, at least. I’m still the prisoner and you’re still the Emperor’s son.

You’d hardly know it, the way his-fucking-Greatness treats me.

With some savagery, Jascal snatched up the twelve carved stones which formed the playing pieces of the game all across the known world. He was a disappointed man, and a poor loser, but the truth of the matter was that the wealth they were gambling with had very little meaning to either of them.

The prize for Qintal was simply being there. He glanced around the low, fetid drinking booth outside the city gates of the Imperial capital of Vordeith and reflected on the different scents of freedom. After almost a year as a hostage of the Imperial victors — albeit in very comfortable captivity — he revelled in being, for a short time, once more his own master. The only questions asked of the exotic individuals from every corner of the Empire crammed into this ramshackle establishment concerned the size of his purse. Qintal felt alive again. His ears seemed sharper; he noticed things; suspected more, trusted less.

Jascal was the last person he trusted, even though it was thanks to Jascal that he was here. Jascal an’ Hiren had his pick of Vordeith’s company to gamble away his evening. There was undoubtedly a reason he had risked his father’s wrath by spiriting Qintal away from the luxurious confines of the airy Vordeithan villa in which he was held under house arrest. Few people were willing to risk the wrath of an Emperor who had been placed on the Imperial throne by the army in which he had distinguished himself by his ruthless effectiveness in the field. Jascal must have spent many times what he had lost playing twelve stones bribing Qintal’s personal guards. Qintal was looking forward to finding out why. He relished the prospect of a challenge.

The loss of a game has nothing to do with the cost, said Jascal, recasting the stones. A man should not play if he can’t afford to lose. The anger of losing is the anger of failure, and that’s an anger that drives you to play again, to win back what you lost.

His grey eyes shot Qintal an expectant look from a pallid face aged by debauchery. Qintal played his opening move and deliberately ignored the unspoken implications of Jascal’s comments.

You aren’t here, Jascal continued in an undertone. No one knows who you are, and no one cares.

They know who you are, said Qintal.

Jascal made a dismissive gesture. I am here every other night. A drunk and a gambler falls under little suspicion of harbouring real ambition. Or, at least, the ability to achieve it. My people understand how to protect both my person and my privacy. What you say here remains between you and me alone. He smiled. Tell me I judge you right. If the chance for vengeance presented itself, I am sure you would seize it.

It isn’t so simple. It was my father’s loss, not mine. The reason I’m here is to ensure that he doesn’t pursue vengeance. I am a hostage.

That’s the reason you came here.

And the reason I remain here. I am bound by my father’s word.

Really?

Were I to escape, my father would pay the penalty. I have little choice but to stay.

I’m offering you one.

You want to buy my freedom, Jascal? It’s more than your father can afford. I can’t see you matching the revenues of the north.

Is it more than you can afford?

Qintal frowned, uncomprehendingly. Jascal leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. It was my father who defeated your people. My father who had your King executed. My father who is your enemy. Whereas I am your friend. If I were to give you the opportunity for the vengeance you desire, what would you be willing to offer me in return?

What do you want?

"If the revenues of the north were secure, I would have no need of a hostage to keep my Imperial crown."

I understand your ambitions, Lord Jascal. I’m less clear what part I have to play in realising them.

My father likes you, said Jascal, with more than a hint of jealousy. Ask him for an audience, and he’ll grant it to you.

Qintal grimaced. I don’t know about liking me. He hardly knows who I am.

Don’t you believe it, snorted Jascal. If I’ve heard ‘why can’t you be more like Qintal an’ Santami?’ once I’ve heard it a thousand times.

Qintal smiled faintly to himself as he placed a stone bearing the image of a rock, representing power, on the playing grid.

You have my attention, Lord Jascal. Tell me more.

Santami was the only one of the merescaii nobility Hiren spared in his comprehensive reprisals for Bordred’s rebellion. Hiren had brought Santami’s son in captivity to Vordeith to ensure his father paid the hefty tribute the newly elevated Emperor demanded in return for allowing Santami to continue to live and govern his own lands. Qintal did not like the deal any more than he had liked the surrender of Qivor, but he would no more think of betraying his father than his father would think of betraying him. Jascal’s behaviour towards his father, the Emperor, sickened and revolted the young merescaii. But he kept his counsel and listened with apparent enthusiasm to Jascal’s plan.

It was hardly a subtle one. Qintal was to request an audience with Emperor Hiren. Jascal would supply the weapon and — so he promised — an escape route along which Qintal could flee the scene of his crime. When the hue and cry had died down and Jascal had secured his position, he would discover the culprit and declare him banished to Qivor — by which time, Qintal would, in theory at least, be half way back to his home city anyway.

It seemed to Qintal a lot of unnecessary fuss for Jascal, who could just as easily convict and execute his father’s killer in a grief-stricken fit of righteous indignation.

Nevertheless, he went along with Jascal’s plan, which got considerably further than he anticipated it would. To the point where he stood alone in the Emperor’s presence, with a dagger concealed beneath his sleeve.

He could have done it. He could have taken his revenge.

Qintal considered his conqueror. Hiren an’ Driezi had seen more than seventy summers, but he was still a powerful figure of a man. His left eye was permanently closed by a puckered scar which ran from his eyebrow to his chin, a trophy of one of his many skirmishes. His remaining eye met Qintal’s gaze squarely. It regarded him from the face of a warrior, a man worthy of any merescaii’s respect.

Well? he prompted. You had a request to make of me, Qintal an’ Santami?

Qintal drew the dagger from its place of concealment and saw Hiren’s face visibly change colour. The Emperor drew himself up in readiness for a fight, his flint-grey eye glaring at his adversary. Wordlessly, Qintal lowered his head, and sank to his knees, offering up the dagger in surrender.

Emperor Hiren an’ Driezi studied the young man in front of him, somewhat nonplussed. Qintal was an archetypal merescaii; tall, dark-haired, with eyes like points of jet. His face was lean, strong and clean-shaven, and his hair cropped close on top, clearly displaying the tattooed stripes across his forehead. A long tight plait of black hair hung down his back. His body was honed for strength and agility; an example of human beauty in anyone’s book, a son any man would be proud of. Had any one of Hiren’s living issue compared to Qintal, the Emperor suspected his thoughts would dwell more on dynastic succession than they did.

Hiren could not help his thoughts straying for a moment to his own firstborn son, long since dead on the battlefields of the Empire. No other child had quite replaced the boy born when the Emperor himself was still young and his wife had been young too, and unquestioning in her adoration. These days, he chose not to enquire which of the offspring he sponsored were actually his own. That was what living in Vordeith with an absent husband did for unquestioning adoration.

He took the dagger Qintal offered him, appalled to realise just how complacent he had become. The young merescaii could very easily have taken his revenge and slit the Emperor’s throat. You are getting old, Hiren an’ Driezi, the Emperor thought to himself. There should be a plan for the succession.

Where did you get it? he asked.

Lord Jascal, Qintal answered.

His idea? Or yours?

Qintal did not reply. Hiren shrugged. I hardly need to ask. Had it been your idea, I’d be dead. Jascal’s treachery came as no surprise to him. He should have realised the devious little bastard would attempt to exploit to his own advantage any admiration his father showed for anyone. He indicated to Qintal to stand up. I am in your debt, Lord Qintal, and I find myself wondering why. You are a man of breeding, a man of pride from a proud tradition — and yet you spare your enemy’s life, when you are invited, and equipped, to take your revenge on him.

I hope your Greatness will not be offended if I question his need to ask me why.

Humour me, said Hiren.

I have no wish to insult your family, your Greatness.

If you mean Jascal, I think he’s forfeited his claim to my name. As he will find.

For the first time, Qintal looked a little uneasy. What will become of Lord Jascal, your Greatness?

That need not concern you.

His ambition overreached his ability. He was misguided…

There’s ambition and there’s treason, interrupted Hiren, with some finality.

Qintal read the warning signs and let it drop. "I have the honour to be a merescaii warrior, your Greatness. No merescaii seeks defeat, but we respect an enemy who defeats our best on the field of battle, as Your Greatness did. I did not consider Lord Jascal’s actions indicated a man capable of holding the power he sought. Nor, indeed, worthy of it."

Unlike the man who has just forfeited his chance of freedom.

I thought it would have proved a poor and short-lived liberty.

Good answer, said Hiren. He turned his back on his hostage and stood contemplating the brilliant blue sky beyond the high arched windows of the lofty room, idly tapping the flat of the blade intended for his heart against the palm of his hand. I suppose I should at least acknowledge a debt to Jascal for bringing you to my attention. It was not enough to ignore you — some devil will soon enough find work for an idle sword and an able mind. Well. As things are, I’m told your father pays his taxes without prompting. The question is, would he pay them if you were not here? He turned back to Qintal. You were born to inherit land and title. You were born to rule, not to fritter away your time in luxury and indulgence. The reward I offer for your good judgement is the opportunity to rule as an agent of the Sacred Union.

In Qivor? said Qintal, before he could stop himself.

"I have an excellent Governor in Qivor and I’ve no mind to replace him. No, Qintal, I can’t give you power anywhere in the merescaii lands. But anywhere else."

There was a prolonged silence.

What will you require of me?

Your application in learning the ways of Imperial government. Your loyalty to the Army of the Sacred Union — and a readiness to give your life, if need be, in the service of this great Empire. It is no more, and no less, than the Sacred Union demands of me. Do you accept?

Qintal regarded him steadily, before dropping his head in deference. I accept gladly, your Greatness.

Watching him keenly, Hiren found his inability to read any indication of the young man’s thoughts from his dark eyes more than a little disconcerting. Not for the first time, the Emperor felt there was something about the northern caii tribes that he still failed to grasp.

Qintal?

Your Greatness?

Don’t make me regret it.

I shall endeavour not to disappoint your confidence in me, Your Greatness.

Qintal bowed gracefully. Hiren watched him retreat in the manner an Emperor should expect, backing out of the room, head lowered. He couldn’t help recalling that King Bordred had also spent a great deal of his life in Vordeithan society before leading the rebellion which ended with his execution below the walls of Qivor.

Chapter 2

The Priest

From the seminal work on the Tay-Aien faith, A History of the Northern Peoples by Aruath of Shehaios:

"It is a common misconception that the Book of Tay-Aien describes the doings of a god named Tay-Aien. The power of our Maker is not proscribed by anything as narrow and human as a name. The Book of Tay-Aien discusses the work of God in our world. A man who seeks to serve Him must study His work and use his talents to his best ability to further the work of God in the world. That is what I, flawed and human as I am, have always sought to do among my own people, the ascaii of northern Caiivor."

Alsa suspected trouble from the start. The glow of evening sunshine warming the marketplace in the far southern reaches of Qivor province could not dispel the aura of menace hanging over the crowd gathered to hear Aruath of Shehaios speak.

The group of men playing host to Aruath were clad in the brown robes of the Tay-Aien priesthood. The icon of a flame inside a circle, the symbolic representation of the Tay-Aien faith, billowed bravely from a standard at the front of the crowd. But the religious house of Tay-Aien in Qivor, like the community it served, was a house divided. The priests who ministered to the wealthy merescaii landowners of Qivor were not the ascetics of the House of Tay-Aien. Nor were the people amassed in the marketplace the sober, hardworking faithful who were prepared to listen to Aruath’s high-minded rhetoric.

Mob might not be too strong a term, thought Alsa, surveying the crowded field with misgiving. She scanned the audience both mentally and visually while Aruath prayed to his god. To some of the northern peoples of Caiivor, Aruath of Shehaios was a saint. To others, he was a sin-drenched heretic. The colour of this crowd’s thoughts did not suggest he was among friends today. All her senses fired back the same warning. Get him out of here. This was a lynch-mob in waiting.

The mental insight of the Shaihen magician had already passed to Alsareth an’ Caras when Lord High Magician Kierce bequeathed the cloak of Shaihen magic to Aruath an’ Girstan. Aruath’s relationship with Shaihen magic was serendipitous — he took from it only those elements that did not threaten his faith in the Book of Tay-Aien. That faith inspired him with reckless courage, and he had little idea how hard Alsa had to work to keep him alive among the warrior tribes of northern Caiivor.

Aruath stood up and straightened his robes. He smiled at Alsa’s worried face and gestured towards the knot of Tay-Aien priests, eying him up like a pack of hyenas.

Courage, Alsareth, he said. We are among friends.

Aruath, they’re not your friends, said Alsa. They’re waiting for you to condemn yourself out of your own mouth. That’s all. This is a trap. Don’t go through with it.

Where people are gathered to hear the word of God, I will speak the word of God, said Aruath. He squeezed Alsa’s arm in gentle reassurance, and walked out in front of the crowd.

A hubbub of unfriendly murmuring arose. Aruath raised his hands to request silence, but the muttering did not die down until one of the other priests reinforced his gesture.

When darkness overwhelms the light, let love light your way, declaimed Aruath, quoting words from the Book of Tay Aien. It is easier to condemn the sinner for his failing, but love finds a way to forgive — .

Pervert! shouted someone from the crowd.

It was the signal they were waiting for. A torrent of abuse erupted from the audience like a popped cork.

Aruath fell back in dismay. It was impossible to be heard above the din of condemnation. Alsa seized his arm as the missiles began to fly.

Run, she said. This way.

She dragged him away from the crowd beneath a hail of stones. At their back was the moat and walls of the castle; the marketplace was hemmed in on all other sides by the town which nestled beneath the castle’s protection. The broad road along which the stock and the merchants’ carts travelled to market was thronged with hostile locals. Alsa veered away from it, and dived down a narrow alley festooned with lines of washing strung from windows high above their heads. It descended steeply down flights of worn steps between two ranks of jumbled narrow buildings.

They could hear the crowd pursuing them.

What did I say? gasped Aruath. What…?

Just run! yelled Alsa. "For Tay-Aien’s sake, Aruath, just bloody run!"

They wove their way through the warren of lanes and alleys which snaked in a bewildering maze down the hillside. Alsa was conscious that Aruath was flagging. His breath was coming in sobbing gasps; but the mob was still hard on their heels. She had to find somewhere — someone — to hide him until the storm blew over.

She grabbed Aruath’s arm and yanked him sideways, pounding furiously on a closed door in the middle of a terrace of identical doors. It was opened, cautiously, by a young woman.

Sanctuary, gasped Alsa, dragging Aruath forwards to display the mark of Tay-Aien on his forehead. The woman’s eyes opened wide with astonishment.

Lord Aruath? she queried, incredulously.

Yes, Aruath managed to wheeze, for my sins…

The woman pulled the door open and ushered them rapidly inside.

We place you in danger, began Aruath, hanging back at the threshold, leaning on the doorframe as he hauled huge gulps of air into his lungs.

More so by dithering, said Alsa, manhandling him inside. He stumbled into a small workshop. The smell of leather mingled with the scent of cooking wafting down the narrow stairway at the back of the workshop. A murmur of childrens’ voices, and a man responding to them, reached them from the floor above. A half-finished boot upside down on a cobbler’s last told them the trade of the man whose protection they sought.

The mob are far enough behind not to have seen where we went, said Alsa. But Aruath is right, my Lady. We don’t want to endanger your family. Is there somewhere you can hide us for a few hours?

Out the back, said the woman, if you don’t mind sharing with the pig.

I have no objection to sharing with the pig, if the pig has no objection to sharing with me, replied Aruath.

She’s quite amenable. For a pig. The woman smiled, leading them through the tiny shop into an equally miniscule yard smelling of vegetable peelings and manure. Leaning up against the rear of the building was a low, ramshackle shed. A small brown sow raised her head as the strangers entered her residence.

Alsa fixed her attention briefly on the creature, and made a low snuffling sound. The sow subsided lazily onto her straw bedding once more, and paid them no further attention.

You must be the Lady Alsareth, said the cobbler’s wife, I’ve heard you have the Shaihen way with animals.

Alsa smiled. For my sins, she agreed, echoing Aruath’s humility.

No one shall know you are here, the woman continued. I’ll tell you when it’s safe for you to leave.

God bless you, my lady, said Aruath.

And you, Lord Aruath. You do His work.

Aruath sighed. I try. But sometimes...I fear what I do works as much against God’s purpose as in pursuit of it.

You speak for those who have no other voice, Lord Aruath. If I can support that work in any way, I’m glad to. Do you need anything?

Aruath shook his head. The less evidence that we were ever here the better.

What’s good enough for her is good enough for us, said Alsa, sitting down in the straw close to the dozing pig.

The woman hurried back into the house as they heard her husband’s voice demanding to know what was keeping her.

There are so many good souls in this world, said Aruath, subsiding into the straw with another gusty sigh. They sat in silence for a moment while they listened apprehensively to the muffled sound of shouts and footsteps in the street a few yards from their hiding place. The mob were evidently still in hot pursuit, but there was no indication that there was anything about the cobbler’s shop that was attracting their attention. Alsa began to relax.

Alsa, is it right to put these people in danger like this? asked her companion, anxiously.

They’re in no danger, Aruath, said Alsa. The mob will pass by without a second glance.

Supposing they don’t…?

They will. How many workshops like this were there in this street?

Aruath looked blank. They were far from Qivor City itself, a long way from any familiar territory. Neither of them had visited this place before, and the priest had been too busy trying to suck air into his lungs to pay much attention to his surroundings as he ran.

Alsa laughed. We’re in the middle of a whole warren of workshops and alleys, Aruath. Even if they guess we’ve taken refuge in one, they can’t possibly know which one. If they bother to check any they certainly won’t have the persistence to check them all. It isn’t the Imperial army chasing us.

How did you know which door to knock on, among so many? said Aruath.

I see our friends when you can’t. I’m sorry Aruath, but sometimes you need the help of a little magic.

Aruath frowned, and said nothing. Alsa’s alliance with the Tay-Aien priest worked happily as long as neither of them alluded to the differences between them. Alsa carefully absented herself from all Aruath’s religious observances, and Aruath was sparing in the magical assistance he would allow Alsa to give him.

You are bleeding, Brother, added Alsa gently. Some of the stones hit home before I got you away from there. Will you let me treat you?

It’s nothing, muttered Aruath.

Let me be the judge of that. It’s only what any skilled healer would do.

Since Aruath offered no further argument, Alsa produced a clean strip of linen from the pocket at her belt. She dipped it in the pig’s water trough, and gently wiped the blood from Aruath’s head. He was conscious only of her cleaning the wound, as any attentive friend might do. The deep and serious wound below the flow of blood she healed without telling him.

The others were less serious, and in places where he would have noticed. She left them alone, tending his injuries in more conventional ways while they waited for the sounds of pursuit to fade.

I knew I came a stranger here, Aruath reflected as the sounds of the mob grew more distant. I knew they may reject my message. But I had no idea they would be so hostile. They wouldn’t even let me speak.

Alsa sighed. They didn’t need to hear you speak. They’d already made up their minds. That chasing us? She shivered slightly. That’s fear. Hatred. She laid her hand on the torn sleeve of Aruath’s robe where a ragged gash showed on his elbow, the result