Cazan and Queneh had reached Jarau, one of the region’s few permanent settlements, late the next afternoon. Cazan rounded a bend in the path and finally got a good view of the town. They saw the town was located in a low and wide valley with a pale blue river meandering through the middle. They saw farmsteads dotting the flat and fertile land of the valley. The reason Jarau existed was because of its location, the land could support a permanent population. The permanence of the town made it a popular trading destination, several roads converged in Jarau and met in a bustling market place near the center of town. The two walked down the path and towards town, past the quiet farmsteads where laborers tended freshly plowed fields and herds of sheep grazed in grassy meadows. Traders and their caravans, finally free to travel after the passes thawed out, crowded the roads into town. They camped outside of the walls, their bright tents rivaling the blanket of blooming wildflowers in the meadows.
Cazan and Queneh finally made it through the gates flanked by earthen walls and protected by guards in thick cloth armor who waved them through. The fortifications were crude but more than sufficient to handle the odd raid of bandits that threatened the relatively isolated town. Cazan knew that no conquering army would be dumb enough to travel this far into the mountains.
Towards the center of town were the weavers, they gathered in a large plaza, protected from the sun by the trees that lined the square. They took advantage of the ample light of day to ply their craft, and they used the trees to anchor their backstrap looms as they worked quickly to form intricately patterned fabrics. As Cazan watched, they could swear they saw the air wavering with the magic that surrounded the women. The scars in their fingers itched as if responding to the energy that thrummed in the air like a plucked bowstring.
The weavers were one of the reasons they came to Quacha Ra in the first place. The land was famous for the women who mastered weaving magic into the very clothing they wore. Cazan had hoped that they could learn from the practice, to find a way to practice their magic in a way that didn’t involve their current methods. Traditional magecraft practiced in the lowlands never suited Cazan well as they had grown up on the northern steppes, far from any of the established academies that dotted the continent. They learned their own way of practicing magic.
Unfortunately that involved blood.
And unfortunately that was considered unethical at best and extremely illegal at worst.
Despite their best attempts to explain that they were using their own blood to work their magic, to imbue their arrows with spells, most heard “I used my own blood” and only focused on the blood part. It was only by Venera’s intervention that Cazan avoided being locked away in a tower for the rest of their days and they preferred to keep it that way. Quacha Ra not only provided a perfect opportunity to study a new way of performing magic, none of the Provosts’ tracking mages dared venture into an area where they had dubious jurisdiction.
One of the weavers looked up and saw they had an audience, she approached Cazan and Queneh, and her gaze snapped to Cazan’s poncho. Without a word she reached out and took the fabric in her hand and looked over it with a sharp eye.
“This is decent work.”
Cazan studied the woman for a moment, she was older than them and dressed in finer wear than the others in the plaza. She carried an air of authority about her, it was in the way she stood – chest out, chin tilted up ever so slightly. Despite her being shorter than Cazan, they still felt as if she towered over them.
“It’s Queneh’s,” Cazan said and gestured to their student, feeling a bit of pride even though they most certainly did not teach Queneh to weave. She had learned that from her own tribe.
Queneh beamed at the woman who had now turned to look at her, “I don’t recognize the magic on this.”
Queneh’s face fell and Cazan spoke up, “Queneh’s skills are unique.”
They had no idea if that made the situation any better, the woman’s face was unreadable as she turned her attention back to the poncho, “So Queneh, what does it do?”
“Well it’s supposed to slow the wearer’s fall. I made it for Cazan in case they fell off another mountain.”
Cazan felt heat rise to their cheeks, “I didn’t exactly fall off the mountain. I slipped on a patch of ice.”
“And tumbled down the side of the mountain,” Queneh said.
“Yes but that’s not really falling off the mountain, that’s more making an uncontrolled descent …”
The woman cleared her throat, “As I said, this is decent work. Do you have a teacher?”
Queneh beamed and looked up to Cazan, “Cazan’s my teacher.”
Cazan rubbed the back of their head, “I’ve been teaching Queneh for about a year now. She certainly didn’t learn weaving from me.”
Despite how awkward they still felt about being referred to Queneh’s teacher, they did feel warmth blossom in their chest at how proud Queneh sounded when she said it. They didn’t feel like they providing any good instruction to the girl but she apparently thought so.
“I learned to weave from Maestra Asira,” Queneh said.
The woman’s eyes lit up, “Ah, Asira – how is she doing these days?”
“I haven’t seen her in a year,” Queneh said, “But when I left she was doing well … though her knees were bothering her.”
The women’s lips twitched into a smile, “It doesn’t matter what levels of greatness we attain – knee problems afflict us all in the end.”
“Don’t I know it,” Cazan muttered under their breath.
“So tell me,” the woman said, “Do you have a place to stay?”
“No,” Cazan answered, “We were going to go to the inn and see if there were any beds available.”
The woman tsked, “Nonsense! Any friend of Asira’s a friend of mine, you may stay with me and my husband.”
“It’s kind of you to offer,” Cazan said, “But I wouldn’t want to impose…”
“You’re not imposing on anything,” the woman replied, “In fact, I’d like to see Queneh’s skills for myself and judging by your bow: I’m sure we can find a way for you to earn your keep.”
By the time they had reached the woman, Imi’s, house Cazan had learned that she was, indeed, an important person. More specifically the matriarch of the ruling family in Jarau – her husband being the p’atha or guardian of the community. As they approached the house, Cazan heard a hauntingly familiar voice call out to them.
“Cazan?”
They turned around to see a man only slightly younger than they were. He wasn’t dressed in the elegant robes and jewelry most mages in the lowlands wore but the light armor he wore still was well crafted and expensive. His brown eyes lit up as Cazan turned to face him, “I knew it was you. I’d know that scent from anywhere.”
He approached Cazan, lowering his voice so only they could hear, “The stench of blood hasn’t left you, I assume you haven’t given up your practice yet then.”
“And I see you haven’t given up the chase, Rovald,” Cazan said back. Their hand went to the knife on their belt, gripping the hilt but not yet drawing the knife. They hoped to avoid any public confrontation with the man who had doggedly chased them for months after the Provosts were informed of their practices.
They narrowed their eyes, “Queen Venera would be disappointed to hear the Provosts have decided to continue their pursuit of me despite her pardon.”
Rovald sneered down at Cazan, “While I’d love to drag you back to the Provosts in chains – you’re not my quarry. I don’t even work for them anymore as I’ve found freelancing a much more … lucrative … endeavor.”
“So instead of being the Provosts’ dog, you’ve become a hound for hire then,” Cazan said, “I can’t say I’m shocked. It suits you.”
“It certainly has allowed me more freedom in my targets,” Rovald said, “And more leeway in how I can treat them as I bring them to justice.”
He paused, seemingly in thought, and then said: “Though a mage like yourself would certainly fetch a good price.”
A cold finger of fear traced itself down Cazan’s spine.
“Slavery? Is that what you’re into now, Rovald?” Cazan asked, “… Actually no, still not surprised that that’s what you’d stoop to.”
Rovald shrugged, “My targets are criminals. As far as I’m concerned, a man who murdered his family is worthy of only two things: the gallows or the quarries And he’s much more useful in the quarries than feeding the ravens.”
“Ah yes, and I’m sure you only consider murder a crime,” Cazan said.
“Of course not,” he replied, “I consider you a criminal. Though, since you helped me once, I’ll kindly leave you be.”
Cazan scowled, “I wouldn’t linger in town for long. I doubt the people here would take kindly to having your kind around.”
“I’d say the same to you.”
Rovald left with a flourish of his bright blue cloak. Cazan shook their head, how Rovald was one of the Provosts’ best hounds was a mystery to them. The man was about as conspicuous as a thunderstorm.
“Who was that?”
Cazan, for a brief moment, had forgotten they had an audience. Queneh and Imi had approached them. They hoped that Queneh hadn’t heard the exchange — she didn’t know how Cazan practiced their magic and they’d like to keep it that way for now.
“Someone I knew from many years ago,” Cazan said.
‘And someone I hope to never see again.’
Queneh’s face lit up, “Did you know him from your time fighting for the queen?”
Cazan looked away from the teen, staring down the road in the direction Rovald had walked, “Sure…”
‘Let’s go with that.’
If Queneh was hoping for any more elaboration: she was going to be disappointed. Cazan was silent as they followed Imi to the house, deep in thought and not much wanting to answer Queneh’s now constant stream of questions about the man. Queneh seemed to get the point after a while and grew quiet as well.
Cazan had noticed and guilt gripped their heart, and it was just another emotion to the storm that had been growing in their mind. Anger, regret, fear … the old feelings had resurfaced with Rovald’s reemergence. They only hoped that Rovald would make good on his promise to leave them alone.
Imi had seemingly caught onto Cazan’s change in mood as well. Once they were in the house, she pulled them aside, “So who was that man really?”
“Someone who used to catch fugitives for the Provosts — the leaders of the lowland mage academies. He’s apparently gone independent now,” Cazan said.
Imi narrowed her eyes, “And you’re one such fugitive.”
Cazan mentally slapped themself upside the head, ‘Damn it why did I say that?’
“Not really?” Cazan replied with a weak shrug.
Imi didn’t look convinced at all, “Did you lead him here?”
“No,” Cazan said, “Look, my situation is a bit complicated – I’m not running from the law but I’m not-,”
“I don’t care,” Imi said, “If you are any threat to my family or this town, I will bury you so deep that even that ‘hound’ can’t sniff you out.”
“Technically that wouldn’t need to be that deep.”
This time Cazan did smack their forehead into their palm as the words slipped out and Imi’s scowl deepened.
“Sorry. Sorry. I know what you mean.”
They took a breath, “A week, please, could you just let us stay for a week? We won’t even have to stay here, we can find an inn…”
Imi put a hand up and Cazan stopped talking.
“I invited you into my house because of Queneh’s connection to Asira. She’s kin as far as I’m concerned. You, however, are not … but at least here I can keep an eye on you,” Imi glared at Cazan.
Cazan nodded, shrinking slightly under the woman’s gaze.
Dinner was a tense affair.
Well it was tense for Cazan at least. Queneh seemed to be having a good time talking to Imi’s daughters and grandchildren. Imi’s husband and sons were out of the house, attending to an emergency in one of the outlying communities. From what Cazan could gather: an outlying farmstead had been hit by rockslide of some kind caused by the quake. Imi’s husband had gone to personally watch over the recovery efforts and Imi was left in charge of Jarau for the time being.
Cazan ate quietly, they could swear they felt Imi’s gaze boring into them – despite every time they risked a furtive glance: Imi was directing her attention elsewhere. They knew Queneh would hate them for this but they resolved to leave as soon as possible. Not only because of Imi’s distrust but because Rovald’s appearance had genuinely scared them. What was he doing so deep in the mountains? Was he after a target or was he simply looking for trouble? They didn’t want to stay to find out.