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Authors: Laurie J. Marks
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understand.”
“A person has come into Shaftal, and the land seems to cry out to me, demanding that I pay heed.”
Norina gazed into the cornfield. “Is it an earth elemental? The one we have been waiting for?”
This possibility had not even occurred to Karis, and she cried out in surprise, “And if it is, what then?”
Norina said, quite calmly, “All this will come to an end.”
“And the end of our friendship, too.”
Norina turned sharply to the raven, then. “Is that what you think?”
“You will have more important concerns.”
“I will always be your friend,” Norina said. And, because she was a Truthken, Karis almost believed her. “So is it the one we are waiting for?” Norina asked.
“I don’t think it is an earth witch. If it were, then surely I would understand what is happening better than I do. I feel an urgency, a danger, an impulse to intervene. Perhaps this person has been broken.”
“And you want to go find this person.”
Karis didn’t have to reply. Norina knew her well enough.
“Whatever calls you,” Norina said, “You must not let it call you out of hiding, or you will find there the hand of the Sainnites, stretching out to grab you by the throat.”
Karis could not speak. Norina said, “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“This presence—it makes you restive.” Norina got down off the rail. “Don’t do anything foolish. I’ll be there in a few days.”
Karis’s spirit broke loose of the raven. When she came to herself, she lay once again in her bed, with the light of sunrise in her face.
By the time Norina ended her visit, she had reluctantly agreed to try to find the person whose presence haunted Karis. Autumn harvest began and was finished. The rains soon commenced, the days rapidly grew short, autumn began to turn to winter, and still Karis was haunted by nagging, inarticulate worry.
One day, she stayed later than usual at the smithy, and shadows barred the roadway as she walked to the tavern. There, she ate her pigeon pie in haste, and still could have left before sunset if not for the baked apple that appeared before her. “Did I ask for this?” she resentfully inquired of no one.
Someone—she did not know who—said, “Karis, you are getting thin.”
The apple was a gift then, and so she had to eat it, and even to pretend that she appreciated it. As she ate and smiled politely, she felt the sun go down like a shutter slamming shut. A woman wrapped in sheepskin came in, and everyone shouted at her to close the door. “It’s going to snow,” somebody muttered, in a voice that spoke of shoveling the paths and carrying the wood and sharpening the runners on the sleigh.
Karis’s plate was empty. She left the tavern without saying good-by or uttering a word of thanks, and realized it too late, halfway out of town. Would they all forgive her one more time? Could she still depend on them? The presence in the land, which before had lured her into untoward expectation, had now begun to constantly distract her: not by its demand for her notice, but by its steady retreat. Half her attention constantly sought after it, worrying. With her attention so divided, she was forgetting to eat, losing track of time, forgetting common courtesy, making mistakes that could well be the death of her.
“I can’t continue,” she said. No one answered. The cold had driven everyone indoors. The wind carried frost-rimed leaves into shadowed places, and in the west stars had appeared. Karis tried to sing to them, forgetting for a moment that the smoke drug had destroyed her voice years ago.
She left the cobblestones behind and wandered through the icy mud of the wagon ruts, weaving like a drunk on her trembling legs. Will I even make it home? she asked herself, for the hill seemed to go up forever. And then home stood before her, a thatched cottage with a lamp flame in the window. A black thing dropped down from the treetops and struck her shoulder like a blow. She
“A person has come into Shaftal, and the land seems to cry out to me, demanding that I pay heed.”
Norina gazed into the cornfield. “Is it an earth elemental? The one we have been waiting for?”
This possibility had not even occurred to Karis, and she cried out in surprise, “And if it is, what then?”
Norina said, quite calmly, “All this will come to an end.”
“And the end of our friendship, too.”
Norina turned sharply to the raven, then. “Is that what you think?”
“You will have more important concerns.”
“I will always be your friend,” Norina said. And, because she was a Truthken, Karis almost believed her. “So is it the one we are waiting for?” Norina asked.
“I don’t think it is an earth witch. If it were, then surely I would understand what is happening better than I do. I feel an urgency, a danger, an impulse to intervene. Perhaps this person has been broken.”
“And you want to go find this person.”
Karis didn’t have to reply. Norina knew her well enough.
“Whatever calls you,” Norina said, “You must not let it call you out of hiding, or you will find there the hand of the Sainnites, stretching out to grab you by the throat.”
Karis could not speak. Norina said, “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“This presence—it makes you restive.” Norina got down off the rail. “Don’t do anything foolish. I’ll be there in a few days.”
Karis’s spirit broke loose of the raven. When she came to herself, she lay once again in her bed, with the light of sunrise in her face.
By the time Norina ended her visit, she had reluctantly agreed to try to find the person whose presence haunted Karis. Autumn harvest began and was finished. The rains soon commenced, the days rapidly grew short, autumn began to turn to winter, and still Karis was haunted by nagging, inarticulate worry.
One day, she stayed later than usual at the smithy, and shadows barred the roadway as she walked to the tavern. There, she ate her pigeon pie in haste, and still could have left before sunset if not for the baked apple that appeared before her. “Did I ask for this?” she resentfully inquired of no one.
Someone—she did not know who—said, “Karis, you are getting thin.”
The apple was a gift then, and so she had to eat it, and even to pretend that she appreciated it. As she ate and smiled politely, she felt the sun go down like a shutter slamming shut. A woman wrapped in sheepskin came in, and everyone shouted at her to close the door. “It’s going to snow,” somebody muttered, in a voice that spoke of shoveling the paths and carrying the wood and sharpening the runners on the sleigh.
Karis’s plate was empty. She left the tavern without saying good-by or uttering a word of thanks, and realized it too late, halfway out of town. Would they all forgive her one more time? Could she still depend on them? The presence in the land, which before had lured her into untoward expectation, had now begun to constantly distract her: not by its demand for her notice, but by its steady retreat. Half her attention constantly sought after it, worrying. With her attention so divided, she was forgetting to eat, losing track of time, forgetting common courtesy, making mistakes that could well be the death of her.
“I can’t continue,” she said. No one answered. The cold had driven everyone indoors. The wind carried frost-rimed leaves into shadowed places, and in the west stars had appeared. Karis tried to sing to them, forgetting for a moment that the smoke drug had destroyed her voice years ago.
She left the cobblestones behind and wandered through the icy mud of the wagon ruts, weaving like a drunk on her trembling legs. Will I even make it home? she asked herself, for the hill seemed to go up forever. And then home stood before her, a thatched cottage with a lamp flame in the window. A black thing dropped down from the treetops and struck her shoulder like a blow. She
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