Introduction : The shaman
“So you’re a shaman…”
It was hard to say who was looking down on the other: the man who had just spoken, his tone hard and assured, his gaze piercing on a tawny face framed by black hair, or the woman sitting on the skins in front of him, her eyes lost in a mass of wrinkles and dark circles, a testimony to the age that had sculpted her features into the image of a raven?
The old woman seemed to savor the silence for a long time, in this silent, face-to-face exchange, while the only sounds to pierce the night were those of a few sinister birds and the light crackle of the embers that, alone, lit up the canvas hut. Her blue-faded eyes, sunken in their sockets, twitched with a jerky movement, as she gauged the sturdy fellow in simply cut travel attire, but the price of which would have paid for the lives of a dozen pleasure slaves. At last she made up her mind; her voice, as if reflecting her face, croaked:
“And you, you’re a Loss Singer.”
The man raised an eyebrow, then smiled a barely visible smile. In an instant, he liked the woman in front of him:
“How can you tell, Sohora?”
The old woman resumed with a sinister laugh:
“And you, Jawaad, the Master Merchant, how can you say I’m a shaman, eh? Do you even know what that is?”
“Question against question,” remarked Jawaad, his tone impassive. “Do you really want to?”
The old woman pointed to one of the carved skins in front of her, inviting her to sit down:
“Isn’t that the way to start a conversation?”
***
Abba and Damas waited at the top of the wooded ridge that concealed from view the garden and the stilts surrounded by traps where the hut their boss had entered was set up. Ortentia, partially veiled by heavy rain clouds, shed little light on the darkness. Abba may have been a mighty Black colossus of the Fringes, with an outsized stature, but he didn’t like the night. To be exact, he had a superstitious fear of it, especially lost deep in the swamps of Argas. And the flippancy of his colleague’s pipe-pulling, sitting on a rotting stump with his hand over the hearth to hide the faint glow, annoyed him all the more. He hardly knew Damas, hired a few months earlier by Jawaad; a dry, slim man, not very tall, with long stringy black hair, sharp features and a disillusioned look about him. He would never confirm it, and rightly so, but rumors had it that he was of Jemmaï origin. He didn’t speak much, usually to make some mocking or cynical remark.
The giant stood with a mechanical crossbow slung over his shoulder. He preferred the weapon, however heavy, to the kind of noisy rifle favored by his partner. Pacing up and down the ridge, he grumbled again:
“And you don’t give a damn that we’re a stone’s throw from a witch’s house, in a cursed swamp, under a night that lures demons to come and dance with the living?!”
Damas raised his head, flashing a smile that barely concealed the fact that he was holding back a laugh at the question:
“That would be a hell of a lot of evil spells, wouldn’t it?”
Damas growled in reply. Even if he wasn’t hiding his fear well, the colossus had a deep, beastly tone of voice, enough to make even the most adventurous hesitate:
“I don’t know why Jawaad wanted to approach this bonesetter… and why in the middle of the night, by the High Lords?! He’d like to bring us the jinx that he wouldn’t have done it any other way!”
The Jemmai laughed uncontrollably:
“There are enough demons under the sky, walking on two legs, drinking wine and greedy for gold and women, that I don’t want to waste time believing that there are still others, coming from the abysses beneath the earth! I’ve seen the Rift up close, where the Church forbids anyone to enter. And do you know what? There wasn’t a single black demon with red eyes, spitting fire and ash. Not even the shadow of a trace in the darkest of nights. Just a deadly wasteland bent on killing anything that dared walk it.”
Damas’s tirade brought the giant to a screeching halt, and he stared at his acolyte in unabashed surprise:
“But you can talk?! Just because you say so doesn’t mean I’m going to believe you, but I’d come to the conclusion that you’re not as talkative as Jawaad and that I’m going to have to learn to make small talk on my own when we travel. I must say, I’m…”
“Wait!”
The colossus frowned and turned his head towards the bottom of the valley, on the other side of the witch’s hut:
“The birds… those damned night birds aren’t croaking anymore?!”
Damas shoved the mouth of his pipe into the soft ground with his foot and rose to his feet, like a feline on the hunt, clutching his long sniper rifle. He immediately lowered his voice:
“Because something disturbed them. Something that wants to be discreet and hasn’t succeeded. Something that threatens…”
Immediately, the black giant took on a stony complexion as he blanched; he murmured, his voice knotted:
“Demons?
Damascus nodded and pointed to the riverbank below. It took extraordinary eyes to see through the night from such a distance, and he, like many Jemmaï, was one of them. Only the blackest darkness could bother him:
“Not demons. Dogs and men on hunt.”
***
Jawaad accepted the wooden goblet handed to him by the old woman, sniffing the contents before drinking. It was a sweet infusion that, with much imagination, could have passed for a fragrant tea. But a complimentary drink could not be refused, and this was not alcohol, the exception to which the Master Merchant did not compromise: he never drank it. He stared at the shaman and nodded. It was her turn to start; she enjoyed it and added a bundle to the fire, which slowly came back to life:
“All shamans can know this, Jawaad. Like all Loss Singers, you vibrate. You all vibrate. From afar, in the dull ocean of Lossyan souls, you shimmer like little paper faros floating on the waves, buffeted by the winds. We can only see you.”
“But how?”
The old woman gave a toothless smile:
“You wouldn’t give up your secrets so easily, would you? What do you want with a shaman, you who think you know what we are?”
“You’ve learned, with one look, something known only to three people under the sky. Guessing why I’m looking for you can’t be that difficult, can it?”
The old woman gave another smile and nodded. It was a good answer and she played along:
-“You’re dying. Your Ambrose is talking to me; he’s longing for rest, he’s tired of the endless battle against the cancer that’s eating away at you. He has long ago lived far longer than life’s rules allow. Is that why? Yet there are very good physicians, capable of curing both humans and symbionts. You’re old, much older than me. As rich and powerful as you are, you’re going to die like everyone else.”
“I still have things to do that can’t be put off. I won’t give up and I won’t let time dictate. I know, and you’ve proved it, that you shamans understand symbiotes better than anyone.”
“Are you afraid to die?”
Jawaad smirked, lifting his dark gaze for a moment on the ageless woman. The fire was redrawing the relief of her wrinkles like crumpled parchment.
“This question is pointless. If my symbiote speaks to you, then it has told you what has given it its exceptional longevity, which I enjoy, but which is coming to an end…”
Sohora frowned and glared at the merchant at his remark, her eyes moving intently. A long, silent moment passed before she put on a puzzled pout, shakily pointing an arthritis-ridden finger at the merchant’s chest:
“What is this medallion of yours, whose strength has so profoundly changed the nature of your longevity symbiote?”
“An ancient artifact. It predates the Long-Winter and has already prolonged the lives of several wearers, all my ancestors.”
“But its strength is waning, and with it, your hope of living long enough to achieve your ends, right?”
“And you may know more about it than I do.”
“What makes you so sure? A wise and learned artifact hunter would be better advice than a shaman, don’t you think?”
“I’ve walked this path, old woman. I’ve learned all there is to learn…”
“And you’re still without answers, I understand. That crystal-loss thing around your neck, vibrating to the rhythm of the Song of Loss that inhabits you, eludes Lossyan reason. So the solution, however improbable, is obvious…”
“An earthling?”
Sohora stared at the Master Merchant, in a knowing exchange of glances that a spectator would have been hard-pressed to interpret. Silence fell again in the night, before the old shaman began to speak again:
“You’re going to find an earthling; a Loss Singer, powerful enough and strong enough for your medallion to vibrate in unison with her. Choose her docile, take her soul and instrumentalize her will. And then, let her earthbound logic find the solution you’ll never be able to think of.”
“Why a female?”
“Because women are always stronger, of course!”
Jawaad’s only response was an indecipherable smile.
***
“Jawaad!”
The Master Merchant emerged into the night, pushing aside the hut curtain. From the tone in which Abba had called him, he had no doubt it was an emergency. His two seconds were facing him, still out of breath and armed. Damas gave him an immediate explanation:
“Ten men, as many dogs and two riders on war griffins. They’ve been following our trail, but they’ve come for her.”
Abba commented, adjusting his heavy crossbow:
“That’s a lot of them; they’re already coming up the ridge.”
Jawaad turned his head to stare at the hut for a moment, before returning to his men. His gaze darkened until it was so black it seemed he’d stolen the night. Taking a deep breath, he let out a long, rumbling, almost inaudible sound. All the metal he was wearing turned a fleeting shade of blue:
“She’s given me all my answers, so let’s go pay my debt. There will be no survivors…”
