The Shadowed Path (16 page)

He looked up at Renden. “That’s a
damashqi
blade,” he said, a hint of wonder coloring his words. “I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one before.”

Once again, Renden met his gaze for an instant longer than normal, and Jonmarc felt... something. He looked away, back to the knife. “They’re all beautiful,” Jonmarc said, “but the
damashqi
is amazing.”

Renden smiled, though he looked puzzled by something. “Thank you,” the
vayash moru
replied. He looked to Trent. “The
damashqi
is a gift, for you, to thank you for the trade you do with our village. Use it in good health.”

Trent handled the blade respectfully, admiring the workmanship. “That’s quite a gift. Thank you.”

Renden turned his attention to Jonmarc. “I see you’ve done work in a forge yourself,” he added with a nod toward the tell-tale white scars on Jonmarc’s hands and arms.

“My father was a smith,” Jonmarc replied. “I worked with him until I apprenticed in the next village over.” It was the truth, as far as it went. He didn’t need to mention the circumstances that had caused the untimely deaths of his father and his new master, as well as the rest of his family, his wife, and their village.

Renden nodded. “I worked for my father as well, though I suspect that was a while longer ago.” He gestured toward the blades. “Go ahead. Handle them.” He chuckled. “You look like you know your way around a sword. I doubt you’ll lose a finger.”

Jonmarc picked up one of the swords and weighed it in his hands. As he expected, it was expertly forged and perfectly balanced. “What do the markings mean?” he asked.

Renden’s smile faded. “Just a bit of magic I put into all my swords,” he replied. “A prayer to Istra that the blade never be used on the innocent.” His gaze rose toward one wall of the forge, and Jonmarc turned to look in that direction.

The metal sculpture of a woman sat in a small shrine constructed against one of the forge walls. The woman was tall and beautiful, yet the expression on her face was grief-stricken and fierce. Her cloak billowed around her, and behind it crouched desperate figures who clung to the woman and her cloak.

“Did you make that?” Jonmarc asked, his voice hushed. Part of him was in awe of the skill required to forge the sculpture, but another part, to his surprise, reacted on a visceral level to the image. It was the first time he had ever seen that Aspect of the goddess portrayed, yet it seemed as if, somehow, he had always known her.

“You’re familiar with the Dark Lady?” Renden asked.

“A little,” Jonmarc replied, unable to tear his gaze away from the expression on the statue’s face. “Everyone knows the faces of the Lady.” The Sacred Lady of the Winter Kingdoms was a goddess with eight Aspects: Mother, Childe, Lover, Whore, Crone, Warrior, and two more forbidding presences: Nameless, the Formless One, and Istra, the Dark Lady, patron of the outcast, the damned... and the
vayash moru
.

“Beautiful work, Renden,” Trent said, breaking the mood. “Linton will be happy with the swords. Where’s Eli?”

Renden turned back toward Trent. “Eli went to fetch the silver pieces he made for you, and to bring the others. They’ve got the supplies you wanted.”

Jonmarc managed to look away from the shrine and glanced around the forge. His attention was caught by a pile of leather gear set to one side. Every blacksmith wore a leather apron and protective leather gloves that covered the wrist and part of the forearm. These gloves were longer, and Jonmarc realized they would meet the long sleeves of Renden’s leather shirt.

“It must get hot, if you wear all that to work the forge,” he said, thinking of how often he had stripped off his shirt when he had helped his father with tasks other than striking the hot iron.

“Heat and cold don’t bother me,” Renden replied. “But I don’t want to catch fire.”

Jonmarc’s face reddened. He’d heard the stories about how
vayash moru
could be destroyed with flame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” He looked up. “If it’s so dangerous, why do you still work the forge?”

Renden’s eyes grew sad. “The forge and the flame never change,” he replied. “If you’re like me, people come and go too quickly. The forge remains.”

His answer chilled Jonmarc despite the warmth of the nearby furnace. In the months since his family was murdered and he had fled his home, he had taken consolation in the simple constants of the forge, the glow of the flames, the rhythm of the hammer on iron, the smell of the coals and the hiss of steam. It was a sentiment he understood all too well.

“Would you like to see the silver now that my brother has bored you with his iron?” The voice made Trent and Jonmarc jump, as the speaker seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Vayash moru
speed and stealth would take some getting used to, Jonmarc thought as his heart pounded.

The man Jonmarc guessed to be Eli sauntered into the forge, looking pleased with himself for startling them. Eli had Renden’s dark hair and angular features, but he was younger in appearance, looking little older than Jonmarc.

Trent shook Eli’s hand. “Good to see you. Eli. Silver treating you well?”

Eli smiled. “Always.”

Jonmarc looked confused. “I didn’t think
vayash moru
could work silver, or even touch it,” he said.

Eli looked his way, and met his gaze. The same odd prickle tingled at the back of Jonmarc’s neck, and the same strange feeling of pressure in his temples. He blinked, and forced himself to return the stare levelly. “Interesting,” Eli replied, looking away from Jonmarc and giving Renden a meaningful glance Jonmarc could not decode.

“One of many legends about our kind that aren’t true,” Eli replied. “Fortunately for me. I think the Nargi priests started that rumor, because they wanted to make their people think we couldn’t touch the objects sacred to the Crone.” He gave a derisive snort. “The only things dangerous to us were the priests themselves.”

Unlike in Margolan, where King Bricen was tolerant, even protective of the
vayash moru
, Nargi’s Crone priests were known to hunt and kill
vayash moru
—and mages, or so Jonmarc had heard. He and Trent followed Eli out of the forge while Renden began packing up the swords.

The previously empty open space in the middle of the small gathering of houses now bustled with activity by moonlight. One man was unloading the box of pig iron, handling the heavy weight single-handedly without apparent strain. Jonmarc had helped to lift that box, and knew just how heavy it was. Two other men hoisted large boxes of produce onto their shoulders, balancing them as if they were empty, and carrying them to Trent’s wagon to replace the pig iron. Over to one side, two women were unwrapping a cloth bundle that revealed delicate jewelry, while a woman and a man set out beautifully-crafted pottery for Trent’s examination.

“Is everyone in the village
vayash moru
?” Jonmarc asked Trent in a low voice.

Renden heard him, and laughed. “No. Eli and I live here with our great-grandchildren, and other relatives. The craftspeople you see here come from all around. They are
vayash moru
, but they don’t live here.” He gestured toward the horizon. “We’re scattered all through these parts, and up into the mountains. It’s safer that way.”

“You’ve been busy,” Trent remarked, eyeing the wares. “Linton’s going to be very happy.”

Eli shrugged. “We don’t see a lot of caravans, and even fewer like to trade with us. Tell Linton we appreciate his partnership.”

Trent chuckled. “Linton appreciates the extra coin your workmanship brings to the caravan,” he replied. “You know that to Maynard, gold is the most sincere compliment.”

“We’re grateful for the pig iron,” Eli said. “The nearest miners don’t like to trade with us, and the next nearest mine is several days away, which makes it difficult to move the iron by night.”

While Eli and Trent talked, Jonmarc began to move around the small green, eyeing the wares. The
vayash moru
craftsmen watched him with curiosity, saying nothing but giving him a nod in greeting. After the strange reaction from Eli and Renden, Jonmarc avoided making eye contact.

He paused at the jewelry-maker’s display. “I’ve seen these designs before,” he murmured, looking at the delicate pieces.

The woman snorted. “I doubt it,” she replied. “Not unless you’re a whole lot older than you look.”

“I’ve seen these in the old tombs,” Jonmarc said, fascinated by the workmanship. “Up in the mountain caves.”

The woman eyed him. “What’s a mortal doing in the caves of the dead?”

Jonmarc realized that his comment might have given offense. “I used to go exploring when I was a boy. I swear, I meant no disrespect.” He felt it wise to leave it unmentioned that in hard times, to feed his family, he had stolen some of those grave goods and sold them for a small profit to Linton. And he remembered the
vayash moru
he had met on the road, who had wanted a very specific old piece of jewelry from the caves, a talisman that had brought Jonmarc nothing but grief.

“Dangerous places for the living,” she replied. “I’d stay away from there if I were you. Some of the old pieces had magic.”

Indeed they did. Deadly magic
. Jonmarc thought. “Your jewelry is beautiful,” he said, deciding a change of subject was best. “Did you copy the old styles?”

The woman laughed, rocking back on her heels. “No, sonny. I didn’t copy them. I made them then, just like I make them now. Might even have made some of the pieces you saw in those tombs. Sooner or later, everything goes to the grave.”

Shaken by her answer, Jonmarc was just starting to turn back to Trent when he heard his friend talking with Renden.

“... is he a mage?” Renden asked.

“Jonmarc? Not to my knowledge,” Trent replied. “Why?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc could see Renden shrug. “He has an unusual resistance to compulsion,” the
vayash moru
said. “Very unusual.”

Trent chuckled. “So you can’t bargain him down on price the way you do with me?”

Renden rolled his eyes. “You and I have an agreement. I don’t compel you, or Linton. But it’s best to know about someone new, especially when you bring them among us. I had to try. The result was... interesting.”

They moved off then, and Jonmarc could not hear them, though he wondered whether the other
vayash moru
could catch every word of the hushed conversation. He was full of questions, but knew they would have to wait until the night’s business was concluded.

After a few moments, Trent left Renden and motioned for Jonmarc to join him as they slowly circled past the wares of the artisans. True to his promise, Eli’s silverwork rivaled his brother’s for sheer skill. Rings, necklaces, earrings, belt buckles, pins, and chalices glimmered in the light of Trent’s lantern, necessary for mortal vision to inspect the intricacies of design.

“I can’t take everything this trip,” Trent said apologetically, “and I still need to buy from the others, but I can take these pieces,” he said, gesturing toward the items he wanted. “We’ll be back through here in a while—I’ll stop in and see if you’ve got anything left for me.”

As Eli began to wrap up the chosen items, Trent continued around the circle, occasionally asking Jonmarc’s advice as he selected jewelry, pottery, and produce. Along the way, he chatted with the artists, complimented them on their work, and jokingly flirted with the old women. One of the
vayash moru
came behind them, carefully wrapping the items for shipment and placing them in wooden crates. Jonmarc hoped that he and Trent could move the crates when it came time to unload.

“A good night’s work, don’t you agree?” Trent said as he withdrew his coin purse from inside his shirt and counted out a tidy sum of gold and silver to cover what the pig iron didn’t bring in trade. He placed the coins in Renden’s hand. “I’ll leave it to you to divide it up among everyone.”

Renden nodded. “A very good night,” he agreed. “We’re rather self-sufficient, but we do have some need to trade with the villagers, and coin comes in handy for what we can’t make ourselves.”

Within a few minutes, the other
vayash moru
had packed up their goods and vanished from the village green. Renden walked back with them to the cart. With the box of pig iron gone, there was plenty of room for their purchases. “Give Linton my thanks,” he said, shaking Trent’s hand, and then extending his hand to Jonmarc. For a moment, Jonmarc met Renden’s gaze, and he waited to feel whatever the ‘compulsion’ was that Renden had spoken of, but nothing happened. Renden gave a languid blink and a nod.

“Safe travels,” Renden said. “And may the Dark Lady bless your path,” he added, making the sign of the Lady in warding.

Neither Jonmarc nor Trent spoke until they were well away from the village. Finally, Jonmarc got up the nerve to ask his question.

“I know you said not to meet their gaze,” Jonmarc said. “I’m sorry—I forgot and did it anyway, and both Renden and Eli seemed to react... oddly. I hope I didn’t give offense.”

Trent frowned, never taking his eyes from the road. “I didn’t warn you to keep you from offending them; it was for your own protection. Making eye contact can give a
vayash moru
who’s so inclined some measure of power over you.”

“Is that what Renden meant by ‘compulsion’?”

Trent nodded. “I’ve heard it varies by individual, both for the mortal and for the
vayash moru
.”

“Have you ever felt the compulsion yourself?” Jonmarc asked. He was thinking about the pale stranger he had met on the road, the man whose bargain had changed his life.

“Yes. Before I knew better, I fell under the compulsion of a
vayash moru
trader in another village, and nearly ended up giving him all my money.” Trent grimaced. “One of the other
vayash moru
stepped in and ended it, so I got my money back, with a warning and advice on how to keep it from happening again.”

“What did it feel like?” Jonmarc pressed.

Trent thought for a moment. “Do you know how it is when you’ve had some ale and one of your friends suggests you go do something and, at the time, it seems like a good idea, but when you sober up you realize it really wasn’t too smart?”