Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [6]
The bag that held her augury stones shifted, as if the ancient bones within stirred of their own accord. She reached in, drew out a handful of the engraved stones, and cast them to the floor.
They landed in a precise circle around the young man. Instantly he was surrounded with translucent, rapidly shifting images, too many and too fleeting for Zofia to perceive them all. The one that seized her attention was a raven with golden eyes, wearing about its neck an ancient amulet, a rune-carved dagger of dull, weathered gold.
"The Windwalker," she said aloud, and heard the power that filled her words like strong winds passing through winter trees- the power of Sight. "You will find the Windwalker. She will bind and break, heal and destroy. You will bring her to Rashemen, and she will bring you home."
The images around Fyodor faded, and the witch's summoned power receded like a departing storm.
"The Windwalker," Zofia repeated in her own voice, speaking to the puzzlement on her grandson's face. "It is an ancient artifact of our people. You must find it and return it to me."
The warrior responded with a bleak smile. He lifted the black weapon, gripped the blade and drew his hand along it, then showed her his unmarked palm.
"I have been declared nydeshka, a blunt sword. By Rashemaar law, I am a dead man."
"That excuses you from obeying the Othlor?" she demanded tartly. "If I say you will go, you will go."
Fyodor's lips thinned. "I accept our customs and tradition. Any berserker who cannot control his rage has earned death," he said evenly, "but what dishonorable thing have I done, Grandmother, that you condemn me to exile?"
"Consider it darjemma, then," she said, naming the journey all Rashemaar youth took in early adulthood.
"No youth has gone on darjemma since the Tuigan invaded. Would you have me abandon Rashemen while she is under attack?"
"Have I not said so?"
He acknowledged the command with a nod. For a long moment, however, he waged a silent battle against pride.
"I am willing to die," he said at last, speaking his plea with quiet dignity, "but let me die at home. Do not condemn my spirit to walk lands it cannot know, like the fallen Tuigan."
That startled her, for she thought none but witches perceived these unquiet exiles. "You can see these ghosts?"
He hesitated. "Sometimes, yes. From the corner of my eye. When I look straight upon them, they are not there, and when I speak to them, they do not answer."
These words described with distressing accuracy the situation with the spirits, as well. So Fyodor had the Sight, Zofia noted. That was no great wonder, seeing that men of their clan were counted among the vremyonni-the Old Ones, the rare magically gifted males who crafted weapons of magic and fashioned new spells. Zofia considered telling Fyodor of the state of Rashemen's magic but decided that he had burdens enough to bear.
"I will enchant your weapon so that the blade will cut, but only those who are not of Rashemen," she said. "So armed, you have as good a chance as any man of completing your task and returning to Rashemen with honor."
"And if I fall?"
"I will send a Moon Hunter to find you and bring you home," she suggested. "I promise you, by the word of an Othlor witch and by the power of Mother Rashemen, that whatever comes of your quest, your bones will rest beneath the skies of your homeland. Will that content you?"
Despite his situation, Fyodor's winter-blue eyes brightened with the wonder of those whose deepest joy was the hearing and telling of tales. "Moon Hunters truly exist? I had thought them to be legends! Do you truly know such a creature?"
"Have I not said so?"
He pondered this marvel for a moment, then he let out a long breath and shoved one hand through his dark hair. The smile he gave her was wry and far too old for his years.
"These are strange times, indeed! A blunt sword is sent on a witch's quest, and a Moon Hunter stalks a dead man. What is this about, Grandmother? Truly about?"
"I cannot tell you," she said with total honesty.
His regarded her for a long moment. "With