Johan halted as if poleaxed. Before him, silhouetted against a flaming desert sunset, wavered a mirage-or a vision.
A beautiful woman in blue layered robes, with startling black hair and golden skin, stood with one small hand poised as if to ask a stranger a question.
Hideous in red skin and black stripes and horns like a dragon's, Johan squinted to make the vision freeze, but the woman rippled and shimmered like smoke on water.
Not wishing to appear ignorant, he stated, "I know you!"
"Perhaps." The vision didn't argue. The woman's eyes slanted upward at the comers. A foreigner to Jamuraa. "I am Shauku. I reside in the west."
"You have a library in a palace." Johan nodded like an angry bull. "Hundreds of volumes collected from the far corners of Dominaria. I read of it long ago but only now recalled."
The woman nodded. Johan could clearly see a chipped rock on the horizon through her head. "It's true. All you might wish to learn would lie at your fingertips, were you here."
"Knowledge of the catfolk?" blurted Johan, and could have bitten his tongue for giving up a secret.
"Catfolk? Talking tigers, do you mean? Yes, they are chronicled. A thick book is bound in orange-black hide. Everything to know of cat warriors lies therein."
"Such a book exists?" Johan jerked forward as if yanked on a leash. "To see that-"
He stopped himself rather than reveal a desire, a weakness, but anything that could give him power over the cat warriors he wanted. They were his personal curse conjured by the spirits of the sky, he was sure.
Shauku gestured with a ghostly hand, and from the desert sands seemed to spring the sketchy outlines of a massive palace that just as quickly blew away on the breeze.
She trilled, "My abode is not far for one who can shift body and essence through the planes."
Johan didn't answer, for he could not. To shift, to conjure a spell that whisked one's self immeasurable distances in an eye blink, was a power denied him. Shifting was the first step toward true planeswalking, a feat of true sorcerers who'd grasped the most fundamental secrets of the cosmos. Johan had striven for years to shift but had always failed. So had every other mage in Jamuraa, he knew, even the hated Hazezon Tamar. Perhaps no one in Dominaria could shift. In ancient times drenched in magic, wizards had snapped their fingers and flown to the stars, but it seemed the Ice Ages had first frozen and then diluted all magics. A curse on the current generation, Johan feared.
Lacking an answer, Johan lied. "I'd need an entourage to pay proper respect at your court. It's too much bother to shift weaklings, a strain upon them. I'll come over land."
A smile creased the woman's ghostly cheeks. "I understand. We shall prepare for your visit. It's been too long since so distinguished a guest graced our halls. Until then."
Shauku tipped her chin or perhaps blew an imaginary kiss. Johan wasn't sure, because her visage had already faded. He was left squinting at a chipped rock framed by molten sun.
"Shauku," he muttered. "The ageless librarian, guardian of all the wisdom accumulated by men. Yes, there I must go! And see? I embarked westward before even knowing my journey! No one is more clever than Johan except Johan!"
Pausing, Johan noted his surroundings for the first time. The sun dropped below the western horizon. A cool breeze blew against his right ear, a wind from the north, as always. Already he spoke in imperious tones.
"Very well. We must send word to Tirras for lackeys. Make ready to journey. We strike west! Toward knowledge and greater conquest!"
The far-roaming scouts limped into the town hall just after dawn. Jedit flopped on the floor like an overfed housecat and instantly nodded off.
For a while, people stared at the tiger-man, plainly awed. He sprawled on the floor like a colorful rug, more than seven feet long from toes to nose, with an armspan a fathom wide and a chest like a hogshead barrel. The striped tail, big as a king cobra, stirred and squirmed, never resting. The cat bore scars and scabs from combat that would have killed a man. Ferocious bites marred his muzzle, neck, and shoulder. Some wept fluid, some were swollen and infected and already in danger of breeding maggots. The gruesome burn down his back continued down one leg, and to scorched skin had been added sunburn and rash. All four paws bore bloody scabs from sharp desert shale. He was ticked and dinged and scratched in a dozen other places. Yet despite the homey purring noises, Jedit Ojanen looked deadly as a dozing dragon, and people lowered their voices rather than wake him.
Nursing wounds, yawns, and tankards of beer lounged Adira's Circle of Seven. The governor of Bryce, Hazezon Tamar, was not present, for he roomed in other quarters when forced to visit Palmyra.
Adira sent Virgil to fetch him, adding, "Insist that Haz come right away, for he's been bred to luxury. If he's hurried at his toilet and denied his morning figs and wine, he'll be grumpy, and that's always a treat. On your way back, fetch a leech to heal our cat friend here. Or a horse doctor. Your choice."
Exhausted and parched, Sister Wilemina accepted a mug of beer and drained it, then another, before she could talk. Laying her cloak and bow on the table, she shucked her boots. Murdoch massaged her blistered feet. The druid Jasmine Boreal flung off a poncho, slugged half a jug of wine, laid her head on a table, and slept.
Rasping, the archer explained, "We tracked Johan into the Western Wastes. Feet of the efreet, but that tiger sets a fierce pace! We jogged leagues with him, dropping and sniffing every long bowshot. Johan's spoor went straight west. Cursed queer, that. We kept expecting he'd veer north, but he never did. Where he's bound we can't imagine, nor how he survives without water and sunshade. Those rocks would bake a basilisk! After a while, Master Stripes and his hot temper cooled some, and those wounds of his must have ached! They'd cripple a war-horse! Jasmine and I pleaded to turn back. Finally he did, though I'll not deny his courage. He left blood in every footprint. Paw-print. Oh, I hope never again to see such a blighted land! May I eat? Please?"
"Of course. Do." Adira had ordered a sturdy repast because the day promised to be busy. Gracing the table were bacon, cold cock, flat bread, dates, honeyed yogurt, goat cheese, and more. Wilemina wolfed while Adira summed up her crew's state.
"We found Badger in an alley, kicking like a beached grouper and half-blind, but he'll live. The Keepers tend his burns. Heath, our favorite fifth wheel, arrived by packet boat late yesterday, just in time to miss the fun. The marketplace is a shambles. The dead we buried. I attended their gravesides since I'm mayor of this illustrious rat hole. Jasmine and Whistledove and Murdoch have proved official Seveners, so I suppose they'll want higher pay."
Adira Strongheart sipped beer and wiped foam off her upper lip. Staring at the wall, she dandled one booted foot, and finally said, "West? Why would Johan run west and not north toward Tirras? I should think he'd head home to flay his subjects and eat babies. But west? A hundred leagues or more of nothing…"
"That's our biggest setback in brawling with Johan," said the sensible Simone. "You can't outguess a madman."
"Johan's not mad."
Everyone startled as Jedit Ojanen uncoiled from the floor, evidently refreshed by his nap. Scabs on bums and wounds cracked and wept anew, but he scarcely noticed. "That shaman's canny as a wounded fox, but he's not mad."