Bone Doll's Twin

Iya pulled off her straw wayfarer's hat and fanned herself with it as her horse labored up the rocky trail toward Afra. The sun stood at noon, blazing against the cloudless blue. It was only the first week of Gorathin, far too early for it to be this hot. It seemed the drought was going to last another season. Snow still glistened on the peaks overhead, however. Now and then a plume of wind-blown white gusted out against the stark blue of the sky, creating the tantalizing illusion of coolness, while down here in the narrow pass no breeze stirred. Anywhere else Iya might have conjured up a bit of wind, but no magic was allowed within a day's ride of Afra. Ahead of her, Arkoniel swayed in his saddle like a shabby, long-legged stork. The young wizard's linen tunic was sweated through down the back and stained drab with a week's worth of road dust. He never complained; his only concession to the heat was the sacrifice of the patchy black beard he'd cultivating since he turned one and twenty last Erain. Poor boy, Iya thought fondly; the newly shaven skin was already badly sunburnt. Their destination, the Oracle at Afra, lay at the very heart of Skala's mountainous spine and was a grueling ride any time of year. Iya had made the long pilgrimage twice before, but never in summer. The walls of the pass pressed close to the trail here, and centuries of seekers had left their names and supplications to Illior Lightbearer scratched into the dark stone. Some had simply scratched the god's thin crescent moon; these lined the trail like countless tilting smiles. Arkoniel had left one of his own earlier that morning to commemorate his first visit. Iya's horse stumbled and the reason for their journey bumped hard against her thigh. Inside the worn leather bag slung from her saddle horn, smothered in elaborate wrappings and magic, was a lopsided bowl crudely fashioned of burnt clay. There was nothing remarkable about it, except for the fierce aura of malevolence it gave off when not hidden away. More than once over the years she'd imagined throwing it over a cliff or into a river; in reality, she could no more have done that than cut off her own arm. She was the Guardian; the contents of that bag had been her charge for over a century. Unless the Oracle can tell me otherwise. Fixing her thin, greying hair into a knot on top of her head, she fanned again at her sweaty neck. Arkoniel turned in the saddle and regarded her with concern. His unruly black curls dripped sweat beneath the wilted brim of his hat. "You're red in the face. We should stop and rest again." "No, we're nearly there." "Then have some more water, at least. And put your hat back on!" "You make me feel old. I'm only two hundred and thirty, you know." "Two hundred and thirty-two," he corrected with a wry grin. It was an old game between them. She pulled a sour face. "Just wait until you're in your third age, my boy. It gets harder to keep track." The truth was, hard riding did tire her more than it had back in her early hundreds, although she wasn't about to admit it. She took a long pull from her waterskin and flexed her shoulders. "You've been quiet today. Do you have a query yet?" "I think so. I hope the Oracle finds it worthy." Such earnestness made Iya smile. This journey was merely another lesson as far as Arkoniel knew. She'd told him nothing of her true quest. The leather bag bumped against her thigh like a nagging child. Forgive me, Agazhar, she thought, knowing her long-dead teacher, the first Guardian, would not have approved. TheFlewelling, Lynn is the author of 'Bone Doll's Twin', published 2001 under ISBN 9780553577235 and ISBN 0553577239.