The Spirit Gate Read online

  She wandered aimlessly for a while, making an effort to think, but doing very little thinking. At length, she found herself back down by the river, standing on a little stone jetty that thrust into the broad stream to shield the village fishing boats from the current. Her eyes went where they would, and they would go across the river to the dark tangle of dead trees and brush that almost hid the ruins of lost Dalibor.

  There had been cottages among those trees once, not that long ago. She had lived in one of them with her husband, Shurik, and Beyla. From where she stood, she could just catch a glimpse of a broken wall. Stone—that would have been her parent’s house. Her house, and Shurik’s, had been made of wood. It was gone, washed away along with her father, her husband . . . her life.

  The river smelled gently green and sang sweetly, yet it was easy—too easy—for Kassia to bring back the terror and fury of that night three years ago, when the storms had reached their peak, when the Pavla Yeva, swollen and enraged, had swarmed her banks and over-run the lower reaches of Dalibor.

  Because both mother and daughter were shai. That’s what the villagers had said. Because of them, the river had escaped its banks. Because of that, Mat had taken their men.

  It was true in a sense; Jedrus Telek and Shurik Cheslaf had died because they lived on the northern bank of the Pavla Yeva and they had lived there because their women were shai. Since that night Kassia had lived more or less in hiding—her hair covered along with her burgeoning shai senses, her magics bottled up to be dispensed only in the most mundane or secret of ways, she clothed herself in bright village garb while her mind, her soul, wore widow’s black.

  This was an anniversary of sorts, Kassia realized. This was her third spring without Shurik, without her family. Three years, and she still mourned. She squeezed her eyes closed and thanked Itugen and Mat that she yet had Beyla. Had she lost him, too . . .

  Anger welled in the reaches of her heart—a rising swirl of furious pain. She tore the green scarf from her head and flung it to the stonework at her feet, leaving it behind her to flutter in the capricious breezes off the Pavla Yeva.

  oOo

  The marketplace at the edge of the village was aswarm this late in the morning with vendors and patrons from Dalibor and beyond. Increasingly, landed folk from the lower foothills and high meadowlands of Teschen province joined the dwellers of Dalibor, old and new, to do their spring shopping. Tabor was four or five days’ journey, Ratibor nearly as far to the southeast; they made do with the simple goods offered by Dalibor. Though these days, to be sure, those goods were not as simple as they once had been. The ascent to the royal throne of the Zelimirids had done more than ease tension between Tabor and the provinces, it had caused a reversal of fortune that had begun in the capital and trickled like fresh spring water throughout the once-forsaken land.

  Prosperity of any color gave the citizens of Dalibor reason for optimism, however guarded. That, in turn, made them believe they could afford tolerance. It was because of Kiril Zelimir and his successor, Michal, that Kassia could now walk through this marketplace, head uncovered, and cause only a minimal stir. Minimal, if she could make herself believe the hostile stares and startled glances did not bruise, or the frankly curious regard of the well-dressed newcomers did not embarrass.

  Wending her way among the colorful stalls, some of which were permanent now, she concentrated on the scents of the day—fish and fruit, incense and spice, young pine and sun-basted stone. Her goal was the booth of one Ursel Trava who owned roughly one third of the cottages in lower Dalibor. If she was to find a home for herself and Beyla, it was to Ursel Trava she must go. She heard his voice before she saw the booth where he sold goods of dubious origin. Big, loud, gruff—it became him. It was a voice well-suited to growling out amounts—the voice of lock gears.

  Kassia slipped between two young men, who eyed her with the rapt gaze of fish-hawks, and stood just within the doorway of Trava’s booth. It was one of the few permanent structures here. Built of whole tree trunks, bark-peeled and polished (and taken, no doubt, from the lower fringes of Lorant’s wood), it sported a roof of hewn beams and red cloth. It was bought, Kassia knew, with the anguish of those who’d lost their poor little houses to Trava after the flood. He’d traded goods for the houses—cloth for clothing, planting grain, farming implements, even fishing boats. Now about a quarter of the residents of old Dalibor paid rent on cottages they had once owned.

  Hiding her disgust, Kassia placed herself at Trava’s right hand, waiting for him to finish haggling with a woman who was trying to purchase some gardening tools. He paid Kassia no heed until the woman, grudgingly satisfied with her purchases, collected them and hauled them away in a handcart. When she had gone, Trava pulled a bag from around his waist and put her money into it, counting the coins out one at a time, listening to each one fall as if the sound bespelled him.

  When the last coin had fallen, he sighed deeply from his bear’s chest. “So, Mistress Telek. You are without your scarf today. Have you lost it? Perhaps I can sell you a new one.” He had yet to look directly at her.

  “I have no need of a scarf, Mister Trava. I have need of a house.”

  He cinched up the bag and returned it to his belt. “A house? I thought you lived with Kovar.”

  “My sister is expecting another child. There’ll be no room for my son and me. I need to rent a cottage.”

  “So. Kovar finally got rid of you, did he? A thing he’d been wanting since the day you all moved in, to hear him talk.”

  Kassia ignored him. “One room will do nicely. Near the river.”

  Now he did look at her—a brief, flicking glance through glittering black eyes. “I would think, Mistress Telek, you would dislike the river as much as it seems to dislike you.”

  “I love the river, Mister Trava. It reminds me of my home and family. Do you have any houses for let?”

  He nodded. “Some. Near the river they’re cheap, too. Not many are willing to live along there now.” He turned to face her, his eyes assessing. “You have money?”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty rega. Paid every fourth Matek.”

  “Twenty rega for a one-room cottage by the river?”

  “A fair price I think . . . for you.”

  Kassia’s hands, tightened into fists, struggled with the reins of a temper threatening to bolt. “For me?”

  Trava shrugged his huge shoulders. “It’s possible, you know, that after you’ve lived in the place, no one else will let it. There’s still ill-will here for you shai and not a few who think you’re a jinx. So, I think twenty’s fair. What will you do to make a living? It can’t be easy trying to peddle herbals to people who’re afraid you might poison them.”

  Kassia bristled, fists clenching. “What matter what I do for a living, sir, if I pay my rent on the day?”

  “None, I suppose.” He cocked his head to one side, reminding her of a foraging bear sizing up a bee hive. “Though for you, Little Mistress, I think there could be most lucrative work. Even down by the river.” He glanced over her head, making her turn to see where his eyes traveled. Behind her, at the booth’s carved and painted arch, the two young men she had parted to enter still watched her, though they pretended to study plows and handcarts. “These up-towners seem to find you most interesting. Perhaps they’ve heard rumors of the shai and have never seen one . . . or touched one.”

  Face crimson with fury and embarrassment, Kassia whipped her head around to face Trava again. “If I rent a cottage from you, I will pay with money honorably earned.”

  “Ah, well, honor! Honor has no price . . . it is worthless. You are alone in Dalibor, Mistress. You need . . . protection.” He pursed his thick lips looked her swiftly up and down. “Perhaps we could enter a partnership of sorts. There might not be any need for you to pay rent at all, in a manner of speaking. I’ve no wife, as you know—”

  In two breaths he had gone from suggesting she turn whore to implying he might marry her. Kassia threw back h
er head and laughed, the sound cascading out to catch the ears of everyone within hearing. She laughed till her eyes watered and her ribs hurt.

  Ursel Trava blinked at her from beneath his mahogany thatch and tugged at his beard. “What? What? Why do you laugh? I’m serious. You could have a fine house then—my house. You should count yourself fortunate to have such an offer.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Kassia covered her mouth and squinted up at him through tear-dazzled eyes. She had no reply to him, save her laughter. She shook her head and turned away.

  “You need a husband, Kassia Telek!” he growled at her back. “You need a man!”

  No, she thought, when at last she could think. But I do need work. Because I do not have twenty rega for a cottage, even by the river.

  oOo

  It did not surprise her to find, when she left the marketplace, that the two young men followed her. It did not surprise her, but it angered her. They were finely dressed, both of them, and wore the bright little felt caps and matching leggings that were rumored to be the fashion in Tabor. Kassia was not afraid of them, for she could sense from them no ill intent. Still, their crude interest made her uneasy, and when she was in the lane that led from the market into the village proper, they caught her up, splitting one to each side.

  “You’re one of the White Mothers, aren’t you?” said the one with the red cap.

  “We’ve heard stories about you,” said the other. His cap and leggings were blue.

  She didn’t answer them, but kept walking, eyes straight ahead.

  “I heard you tell that merchant you needed a place to live. We could give you money if you would . . . well . . .” Licking his lips, he glanced across Kassia at his companion and she thought she would like to brain them both. “We’d like you to divine for us.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks, looking from one to the other. “You want me to tell your fortunes?”

  Red Cap nodded vigorously. “We’re up for our Aspirant’s exams at Lorant, you see. And we’d like to know . . . if we’ll become Mateu or . . .”

  “Or only priests,” finished Blue.

  “We’ve heard White Mothers can see the future. You are a White Mother, aren’t you?” His eyes were on her crown of silvery hair.

  Kassia smiled. It was an insincere smile, but it would have to do. “Yes. I am. And I would be happy to divine your fortunes . . . for a small fee, of course. Let’s say . . . one alka each.”

  “Only one?” Blue Cap seemed relieved.

  Mentally kicking herself for not asking a higher price, Kassia nodded. “One alka, since you’re such fine young gentlemen. But when you tell your friends about me—and you will tell your friends about me . . .” She gave them each a certain look to emphasize the point, hoping they would think she spelled them. “Don’t mention the price. I give it to you so cheaply as a favor.”

  “Where do we go?” asked Blue Cap. “Do you have a hut or a cave?”

  Kassia snorted delicately. “We go to the bakery.”

  Bemused, they followed her there, and she told their fortunes (or as much as she could see of them) and let them buy her turkaffee and a meat pocket pie. When they had gone, happily considering to what province and town they would go when they had become full-fledged priests, Mistress Devora, the baker, joined Kassia at one end of the trestle table.

  “Fortune-telling, eh?” the baker mused, looking at Kassia’s handful of coins. “Do you think you saw the truth? Maybe they’ll be Mateu, after all.”

  Kassia laughed, wiping pie crumbs from the corners of her mouth. “If they had a speck of the Mateu’s gift, they wouldn’t have needed me to divine their fortunes. They’d have seen themselves in their vestments, clear as stars in Mat’s sky. They’ll be priests. Though one of them won’t be one for long. There’s a scandal in that one’s future.”

  “You didn’t tell him that.”

  “He asked only if he’d become a priest or a Mateu. I told him. Besides, who pays to hear ill-fortune?” She rattled the coins in her hand. “I wonder, Devora—if I go up-town, do you think many of those folk would pay to have their fortunes told?”

  The older woman gave a chuff of disdain. “No doubt they would. But you waste your talent, Kassia. It wasn’t that long ago the voice of prophecy was silent among the shai. I remember how it was with your mama. She was a dammed-up river for years—unable to do much more than prepare herbals and foretell the weather.”

  While I do not even that much. Kassia sobered. “I remember. I also remember that the people of Dalibor blamed her for that, thinking she cheated them.”

  “Not all.”

  “Not all. But most. Even when Itugen smiled again, and her gift for divination returned, they refused to trust her, saying she dealt with malevolent spirits.”

  Devora shrugged broad, rounded shoulders. “That was their loss. They’d have known of the flood if they’d listened to Jasia; she spoke to them of water and darkness.”

  “Ah, but the Mateu didn’t. The Mateu spoke only of blessed rain falling from the sky.”

  “The Mateu see only with their eyes—and with half-closed eyes at that.” The baker’s own eyes slid sideways to Kassia’s face. “You’ve read the kites over Lorant. They seek applicants for initiation.”

  “Beyla’s too young yet.”

  “Beyla? Who said I was speaking of Beyla? What about Kassia?”

  Kassia shot a startled glance at her friend’s round face. “What? You can’t be serious. I’m a widow. I have a child.”

  “And so?”

  “And so . . . I’m not the sort that usually—”

  “And so?”

  “Devora, I’m shai!” Kassia thumped her chest.

  “So much the better. That means you have exactly what the Mateu pray daily to find in their Initiates. You should go up there.”

  Kassia stood. “It’s a ridiculous idea!”

  “Are you calling me ridiculous? See if I give you any more free bread!” Devora reached out and laid a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder as she moved to leave. “Perhaps, Kassia Telek, you should cast your own fortune. It may lead you to Lorant.”

  Head shaking in exasperation, Kassia pocketed her two alkas and headed back to the marketplace to earn more.

  Chapter Two — Augur

  Kassia spent the entire afternoon in the marketplace, flaunting her pale, bright hair, trying to look mysterious to those who did not know her, trying to look less than silly to those who did. From shy to brazen, from terrified to bored, she plied her new trade with mixed results. The strangers were easy enough to deal with once she got past the initial bout of nerves. They purchased her divinations freely—most amused, a few eager or fretful. It was the familiar faces that galled her; the angry, the scandalized, the disapproving, the smug, the pitying. Underlying her anger was a buzz of unease; in the moments when she allowed her self to think about what it meant to be in a public market hawking her shai talent, she felt as if she would like to wriggle out of her skin and find something else to cover her soul.

  Once she looked up to find a Mateu staring at her from beneath his finely embroidered cowl, disapprovingly, she was certain, and twice her prospective clients insulted her by mistaking what she was offering to sell. In either case, it made her want to go home, but there was no home, there was only Asenka’s house, where she and Beyla were only half welcome—where they would be even less welcome when Blaz Kovar heard what his sister-in-law was doing in the marketplace. So she stayed, feeling more ambivalent with every coin that crossed her palm. Every time a client murmured, “Thank you, White Mother,” satisfaction and discomfiture hit her in quick turns. Still, she smiled and bid them welcome and good fortune and took their money.

  As to that, she soon found that not all were willing to be so generous as the two would-be priests. Even the most regally appointed of her customers refused to pay more than a half rega for her service. Most balked at that, haggling with her over every rez and pitar. Still, the day passed in a blu
r of faces, leaving Kassia with the impression that she had divined every fortune in Dalibor.

  The Sun was kissing the tops of the charred hills west of town when she finally remembered that her family’s washing yet hung on the drying lines by the river. Grimacing, because after all, Blaz would be sure to take her tardiness as a sign of irresponsibility, she pocketed the last of her earnings, hiked up her skirts and headed for the riverside drying plaza.

  It was all but dark when she got down the last of the washing; it was absolutely dark and quite cold when she got back to Asenka’s and trundled the handcart up onto the porch. Entering the house, she found the family seated around the kitchen table beginning the evening meal. Warmth from the hearth molded itself to her cheeks, making her skin tingle. Blaz, in the midst of saying the blessing over the food, shot her a quelling glance. She froze where she stood, the laundry basket an inadequate shield, and waited until he’d finished to continue to the circular hearth.

  “Where have you been?” Blaz asked her back.

  She set the basket down and composed herself by wiping her hands carefully on her overskirt. “At market.”

  “I see no goods, though I can’t imagine you’d have the money to buy any.”

  She turned. “I wasn’t shopping. I was . . . doing what I could about finding a place to live.”

  Beyla glanced up at that, his dark eyes wide. “Are we leaving, mama? Are we going to live somewhere else?”

  Kassia smiled, falsely, and moved to sit beside her son at the crowded table. “Your aunt Asenka is going to have a baby. We need to find our own place to live so there’ll be room here for it.”

  “Where will we live, then? Will I have my own room?”

  Kassia glanced at Blaz. “I don’t know where we’ll live just yet, Beyla. But I talked to Mister Trava about a little cottage by the river.”

  “That took you all afternoon?” asked Blaz. “Asenka could have used your help here. You left your boy for her to watch and no fresh bedding to set up.”