Children of the Shaman

Chapter 1

The steam coach with its terrible springing seemed to jolt over every bump and rut, rattling Annat's teeth. She was wedged between her aunt and the side of the coach, but the window was so smeared with mud she could not see out. It was getting dark, and it would soon be time to kindle the oil lamp that swung from the roof. They must be about an hour from Masalyar. Except for the old woman sitting opposite, whose droning voice and complaints had been a refrain for much of the journey, the three of them were the only passengers. Her brother Malchik was leaning in the corner on the opposite side of Aunt Yuste, sleeping or pretending to sleep. Annat wriggled uncomfortably in the leather seat, drawing a glance from her aunt.

"It'll be the end of our civilisation, you mark me," said the old woman. She was not from their village, and the coach had picked her up about half way to Masalyar.

"I wouldn't know. We are Wanderers," said Yuste, sounding out of patience. Annat focused on the old woman, waiting for her reaction.

"Are you so? Don't meet many of your kind out here. Most of 'em prefer to stay in the City."

Your kind. Annat put a fringe of her hair into her mouth. They always said that, the Doxoi. She did not need to ask if the old woman were a Doxan. All the country people believed, all the villages had their temple with its blue-gowned priest. Where she came from, her family had been the only Wanderers. It was different in the City. Her people. Her kind.

"My father has a farm in Sankt-Eglis - he's the village doctor there," said Yuste.

The old woman's mouth chewed on nothing, as she thought this over.

"I've heard of him. That would be the doctor Vasilyevich. His wife had twins, I heard. And that's not all I heard-"

"I'm one of the twins," said Yuste, with a fleeting smile, interrupting the old woman before she could divulge the rumour. Annat was disappointed.

"So you are," said the old woman, without embarrassment. "And these must be your children."

"Not mine. My brother's. I'm taking them to meet him."

Annat looked out of the blind window. She could see a faint reflection of her face, the delicate bones and pointed features, her eyes two brown shadows. They say I look like him. She knew that Malchik remembered their father, for he had been five years old when their father walked out of the family house, leaving them and their mother for ever. Malchik was cast in their mother's likeness, slender and fair, except for his strange, hazel eyes with their flecks of green. He had the height of a tall man, but his limbs were fine and delicate. Annat had always been the one who liked to climb trees or the cliff, to swim and run - but alone. She wondered what was in Malchik's mind as he dozed in the corner of the carriage. Though she had known him all her thirteen years, he was often an enigma to her. She was so different. If there was something in her mind, she said it. Perhaps that was another reason she had no friends of her own age.

"And is he a doctor too, their father? I've heard that many of your sort are doctors."

"Not a doctor. A healer."

The old woman's eyes were glass beads in the twilight.

"You mean a sorcerer," she snapped.

Yuste shook her head slowly. "No, I don't mean that," she said.

The old woman's lips became a sour purse. She said no more, but took some knitting from the heavy bag beside her and took to muttering over purls and plains. Yuste turned to Annat and gave her a secret, mischievous smile.

Tate was a shaman, as Annat was. He would teach her healing when they were together. Annat felt the faint crackle of power as she flexed her fingers. Sometimes it was good that people thought you were a sorcerer. They were afraid of you, and they respected you. Other times it was bad. They threw stones after you in the street, and talked under their breath of burning.