The Spirit Gate Read Free Page A

clothed herself in
bright village garb while her mind, her soul, wore widow’s black.
    This was an anniversary of sorts, Kassia realized. This was
her third spring without Shurik, without her family. Three years, and she still
mourned. She squeezed her eyes closed and thanked Itugen and Mat that she yet
had Beyla. Had she lost him, too . . .
    Anger welled in the reaches of her heart—a rising swirl of
furious pain. She tore the green scarf from her head and flung it to the
stonework at her feet, leaving it behind her to flutter in the capricious
breezes off the Pavla Yeva.
    oOo
    The marketplace at the edge of the village was aswarm this
late in the morning with vendors and patrons from Dalibor and beyond. Increasingly,
landed folk from the lower foothills and high meadowlands of Teschen province
joined the dwellers of Dalibor, old and new, to do their spring shopping. Tabor
was four or five days’ journey, Ratibor nearly as far to the southeast; they made do with the
simple goods offered by Dalibor. Though these days, to be sure, those goods
were not as simple as they once had been. The ascent to the royal throne of the
Zelimirids had done more than ease tension between Tabor and the provinces, it
had caused a reversal of fortune that had begun in the capital and trickled
like fresh spring water throughout the once-forsaken land.
    Prosperity of any color gave the citizens of Dalibor reason
for optimism, however guarded. That, in turn, made them believe they could afford
tolerance. It was because of Kiril Zelimir and his successor, Michal, that
Kassia could now walk through this marketplace, head uncovered, and cause only
a minimal stir. Minimal, if she could make herself believe the hostile stares
and startled glances did not bruise, or the frankly curious regard of the
well-dressed newcomers did not embarrass.
    Wending her way among the colorful stalls, some of which
were permanent now, she concentrated on the scents of the day—fish and fruit,
incense and spice, young pine and sun-basted stone. Her goal was the booth of
one Ursel Trava who owned roughly one third of the cottages in lower Dalibor.
If she was to find a home for herself and Beyla, it was to Ursel Trava she must
go. She heard his voice before she saw the booth where he sold goods of dubious
origin. Big, loud, gruff—it
became him. It was a voice well-suited to growling out amounts—the voice of lock
gears.
    Kassia slipped between two young men, who eyed her with the
rapt gaze of fish-hawks, and stood just within the doorway of Trava’s booth. It was one of
the few permanent structures here. Built of whole tree trunks, bark-peeled and
polished (and taken, no doubt, from the lower fringes of Lorant’s wood), it sported a
roof of hewn beams and red cloth. It was bought, Kassia knew, with the anguish
of those who’d
lost their poor little houses to Trava after the flood. He’d traded goods for the
houses—cloth for
clothing, planting grain, farming implements, even fishing boats. Now about a
quarter of the residents of old Dalibor paid rent on cottages they had once
owned.
    Hiding her disgust, Kassia placed herself at Trava’s right hand, waiting
for him to finish haggling with a woman who was trying to purchase some
gardening tools. He paid Kassia no heed until the woman, grudgingly satisfied
with her purchases, collected them and hauled them away in a handcart. When she
had gone, Trava pulled a bag from around his waist and put her money into it,
counting the coins out one at a time, listening to each one fall as if the
sound bespelled him.
    When the last coin had fallen, he sighed deeply from his
bear’s chest. “So, Mistress Telek.
You are without your scarf today. Have you lost it? Perhaps I can sell you a
new one.” He had yet to look directly at her.
    “I
have no need of a scarf, Mister Trava. I have need of a house.”
    He cinched up the bag and returned it to his belt. “A house? I thought you
lived with Kovar.”
    “My
sister is