The Scorched Woman's Gift

A desperate post rider meets his cruel salvation on the road to Pitak…

Cerana prepares to face daylight. Art by Shay Plummer.

The Imperial Bard finishes yet another of his umpteenth bows, stepping back as the stomping crowd shifts and rustles. “Welcome our first Bard,” his voice booms, “from the northern city of ‘Ja Jacque — Faïdan Voor Rayk!”

The crowd roars its approval, and Emily Wink squeezes through a slim opening in front of her. She sees an elderly Bard, wrapped in stark white cloth with skin like polished leather, step onto the rostrum. Emily Wink realizes with a start this Bard is missing an arm.

With a voice of broken glass, Faïdan Voor Rayk begins his ballad…

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Garad was too thirsty to wonder how a bottle could have possibly appeared in the pitiless Steppes of Im’rar.

He crawled toward it, heeding not only his thirst but also a voice — wordless, though he could feel it like the first breath of a cooling breeze. The shimmering glass promised him something beyond survival.

Garad had ridden this far out hoping to dissuade his attackers from pursuing him. He knew horses. He knew his loyal mount could handle the rough terrain. He did not know the brigands would be desperate enough to follow him off the skeleton-marked road and into this vast and hellish wild.

The chase was folly, as was the whole journey. But he had to reach Pitak.

Garad lived a comfortable retirement appraising riders’ mounts. When the woman had approached him, she said the letter must be delivered from Pitak. She’d trust no other Courier Office, and no one had Garad’s experience in this part of the Steppes. He accepted her purse — a fortune to her, a pittance to him.

He saw her one last time, cut from ear to ear outside the tavern where he’d drunk away her coin. He’d ridden hard for Pitak the following dawn, passing one Atonement Post after another.

It was expected travelers passing the road markers would make an offering of water, bread, salt, or something of worth. He knew, from his time in the Courier Service, a maxim for those traversing the Steppes: “Give nothing to the earth, and it will take everything.”

But he wanted this unpleasant trip — his last ride — behind him.

When the brigands caught Garad, they beat him close to death. They took his horse, water, and boots. But he still had the letter inside of his vest, sewn into the fabric.

Garad finally reached the bottle. It was remarkably pristine for being half-submerged in dirt. He reached for it, and a searing pain shot through his ribs. He could not make out the contents through the opaque glass, but it felt light. Surely not worth the effort. And yet, Garad heard the voice again, borne along the winds heralding the coming of night.

He uncorked the bottle. Immediately, an eruption of fire thrust him twenty yards across the land. When his vision cleared, he saw the fire towering over him to touch the sky. Cowering down, Garad saw the bottle had shattered against the rocks. He watched in amazement as all the broken pieces floated toward each other, the blazing tower melting them into a single pool. The form of a woman, wreathed in flame, shimmered in its reflection.

She was unmistakable. It was the dead woman who had given him the letter.

The woman stepped out of the molten pool, singeing the dry ground beneath her feet. The column of fire flared down as she emerged, now the only light for miles around.

She beckoned to him, twirling her wrist.

Garad bent his head, watching as the molten glass formed a drill. He had heard tales of ethereal Uncannies haunting the Steppe. If not one of those, surely this was the shade of the woman he’d doomed, come to wreak her vengeance on him.

Surely, Garad thought, this was the end.

The living shard halted its burrowing with an earthy gasp. After a moment, the shard crawled out of the hole and into Garad’s hand. It formed the shape of a deep goblet, now full of cool water.

Garad did not think. He drank.

“My name is Cerana,” the once-wordless voice said through this woman. “I serve at your pleasure, Breaker.”

“Can you take me to Pitak?” spat Garad through gulps of water.

“Worry not, Breaker,” Cerana said. “We are bonded. You will have the salvation you seek.”

Garad drank the final drops of water. The goblet melted through his fingers, reforming into a compass needle. It spun briefly, then affixed to a direction and slithered forth like a snake.

“Come, Breaker,” she said as she followed the living shard.