Rylan frowned. “We’re dampened,” he reminded her, wiping his brow. “Both of us. I can’t sense the field lines, and neither can you.”
Xiana made a broad, flowing gesture. “But the earth can. There are things in the earth that are sensitive to the field lines. Sometimes the effects are profound. The Varigian Islands are a good example. They are a series of volcanoes that follow the contortion of a field line. Strange things happen there. Or the Sky Stones in Aeridor. Things like that are caused by interactions with the field.”
Looking out across the Desolation, Rylan wondered again where this place was in the world. And he wondered how much more of the world there was still out there, either unknown or ignored by people of the Kingdoms.
“Why haven’t I ever heard of those places?” he asked
Her hands flowing in the smooth gestures that were part of her language, Xiana explained, “Because the Curse cut off your people from the rest of the world. The societies with advanced magic were mostly destroyed, and their knowledge was lost. The weather patterns were so disturbed, the oceans were impassible. The southern hemisphere was completely cut off from the north.”
Ahead of them, the waystation sat, forlorn, in the lee of a sandstone bluff, cradled by a ring of tumbled boulders. The station was little more than a dilapidated shack made of ancient, splintering wood. A small paddock stood apart from it, its fence composed of rotten boards. Old, rusted nails protruded from long cracks in the wood. The fence didn’t look like it would hold against the slightest nudge from an animal. Next to the paddock, an old windmill creaked lonesomely.
Xiana climbed down from her mount. She gestured for Rylan to do the same, then opened the gate to the paddock and tied her mule to one of the wobbly fence posts. There, she unloaded her saddlebags, tossing them to the ground while Rylan stood watching her, his mule’s long tail twitching against his thigh.
He started unloading his own mount. When he was done, he turned the mule loose in the paddock and picked up his saddlebags, slinging them over a shoulder.
“What now?” he asked.
“We can’t bring the mules into the Desolation,” Xiana said, moving over to a low bin. She threw the cover back and pulled out an armload of hay. “There’s no water out there, and the terrain’s not suited to them. We’ll have to walk to Suheylu Ra.”
“Walk?” Rylan echoed, staring at her in disbelief.
“Walk,” she confirmed. She placed the hay in a feeding trough, then dusted her hands off on her trousers. “We’ll stay here tonight. In the morning, we’ll set off across the waste.”
They spent the night inside the small, decrepit structure, unrolling their bedrolls on the floor. The waystation creaked and groaned all night like a cranky old man, the sound of splitting wood waking Rylan up at least twice. In the morning, he woke to a breakfast of hard bread. After they ate, Xiana went out to the paddock and saddled the mules.
“I thought we couldn’t ride them?” Rylan asked, walking out to join her.
“We’re not going to,” she responded. “But we can’t leave them here either.”
She tied the animals’ reins to the pommels of their saddles, then opened the gate, sending the first mule off with a swat on the hindquarters. The mule bolted immediately for the cliffs, followed by the darker beast. Rylan watched them go, galloping back the way they had come toward the mountain trail.
“They’ll find their way back,” Xiana assured him. “They always do.”
Rylan lifted an eyebrow. “So how do we get back?”
Instead of answering, Xiana bent to retrieve her saddlebags from the ground. She handed him a scarf and strode for the gate, gesturing ahead. “You lead.”
“I can’t. I don’t know where I’m going,” Rylan reminded her. He wound the scarf around his head, scanning the rock-strewn plain with acute distrust. The air out there was a murky brown. It looked like the last place in the world he wanted to go.
Nevertheless, he started walking, Xiana coming along at his side with a smile on her face. He set his course for the horizon, his feet crunching on dry clots of dirt. Just as she’d said, there were no paths leading out from the waystation. He looked to her for confirmation that he was heading in the right direction. He didn’t get any.
“Have you ever been out here?” he asked.
“Yes. A while ago.”
“So you know the way? If we get lost?”
Keeping her gaze on the horizon, Xiana answered, “I don’t know the way. It changes as the field lines wander. The path I remember no longer exists.”
He frowned at the flat expanse ahead, at the heatwaves distorting the desert in front of them. “What are we going to do when I can’t find it?”
She wiped her arm across her brow. “Then we die of thirst.”
Vexed, he stopped asking questions. She wasn’t giving any logical answers, anyway, so it didn’t matter. They walked for another hour across the stone-splattered ground, until they crested a low hill made of dark, tumbled rocks. There, Rylan stopped and looked back the way they had come, discovering that the waystation and the cliffs above it were no longer visible, both lost behind the thick brown haze.
Looking down at the sharp rocks beneath his feet, Rylan realized they were standing atop a lava flow. It continued ahead for miles, in some places smothered by a thin veil of sand.
“How do I know which way to go?” he grumbled, staring out at the vastness of the lava flow. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Keep going,” she instructed. “You’ll know soon.”
He wondered how he would know but didn’t bother to ask. Her answers were becoming progressively more vague, and he suspected that was intentional. She knew something he didn’t and didn’t want to share that knowledge. Which was fine. He figured he could trust her not to lead them to her own death.
Rylan took a drink from his canteen, then passed it over to her. It was filled with water from the waystation’s well. The water was hot and gritty and tasted like dirt, but it did its job. She passed it back and he hung it from his shoulder. Setting his course for the horizon, Rylan started forward over the broken ground.
The lava flow wasn’t endless.
Rylan stopped at the margin of it, where the ragged dark rocks crumbled into a mottled landscape covered by water and a thick layer of mist. It took him a moment to realize that the water stretching before them was not a lake, at least not in the sense he was used to. The plain in front of them was an enormous salt flat pockmarked by thousands of green, shallow pools. The pools were irregular in shape and bordered by winding ribbons of white salt that turned bright ochre at the margins. Above the pools hung a thick miasma that stank terribly.
Choking, Rylan turned around and started back the way they had come.
Xiana stopped and didn’t follow him. “That’s not the way,” she said.
Rylan turned back to her, gesturing at the salt flat. “Well, that sure as hell’s not the way either. So where do we go?”
Xiana set her bags down on the rocks. “This is Puna Ajaru, the Scalding Sea. We must cross it in order to reach Suheylu Ra. You will need to find a path for us through the pools.”
“Through that?” Rylan looked out across the deadly sea of acrid mist. “We can’t even approach those pools. Don’t you smell that? That air would scorch our lungs before we took ten steps.”
He scanned the plain before them with three parts dismay and one part fascination. Strange, ochre-stained mounds of salt collected in knee-high peaks emitted a noxious steam that roved in clouds over the landscape. Many of the pools bubbled like boiling cauldrons, creating a thick, foaming froth.
Xiana squatted, one hand resting on the lava rock, and pointed ahead. “The pools are acid,” she said, confirming Rylan’s fears. “The fog comes from holes in the ground. A large volcano lives beneath us. These rocks are the volcano’s cooled blood, and the mist is its hot breath. The patterns of salt that ring the pools follow the lines of the magic field. We need to cross t
his plain. And the only way to do that is to follow the curve of the field lines as they wind through the acid.”
“We’ll die,” Rylan said. He shouldn’t have to tell her that. “The air will kill us long before the acid does.”
She stood and looked out over the plain, her face solemn. “This is the only way to Suheylu Ra. If you follow the lines of the magic field, the poison gases will not touch us. Puna Ajaru is only dangerous if you wander off the path.”
She was crazy, he decided. Either brutally insane or insanely brutal; he didn’t know which was worse. He stood for a moment gazing at the rocks, coolly considering his options. They were limited. He could refuse to go forward and insist they turn back. And if she didn’t listen, he could leave her there—just abandon her. Of course, that reasoning didn’t take into account the Word of Command. She could activate it whenever she wanted, for whatever reason. In the end, Xiana was in charge.
He heaved a defeated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “So how do we get across?”
Xiana gestured ahead. “The fumes collect in places where the magic field is weakest. We must avoid those places and travel in the direction of the field lines. The field has a certain pattern to it, like ripples spreading across a pond. The lines travel in peaks and troughs, and you can see them echoed in the paths around the pools.”
Exasperated, Rylan shrugged hugely. “How do I know what they look like?”
Xiana cracked a cynical grin and clapped him on the back. “Trial and error. So, are you ready to learn?”
Rylan glowered at her but didn’t bother with a reply.
“Then let’s go.” Hefting her bags, she started down the slope toward the pools.
With a frustrated grunt, Rylan stumbled after her. He was already choking on fumes by the time he stepped off the lava flow onto the salt flat. The gases were noxious, scalding his throat and making his eyes water. Xiana looked at him and smiled, waving him ahead.
“Which way do we go, Rylan?”
He aimed a glare at her in frustration. “Stay here.”
He moved forward carefully, his boots crunching on salt. He walked up to the edge of the first pool, then stopped, staring down at it. The water was a blurry yellow-green, the salt surrounding it white and crystalline, like snowflakes. Graceful ribbons of salt extended out into the pool in lacy tendrils. Bubbles oozed to the surface in three or four places, while a cone of salt next to him spat water and noxious steam.
Rylan held his arm over his mouth and coughed into his sleeve. He stood scanning the terrain for a pattern. But there was no pattern that he could find. The entire landscape looked entirely chaotic. Holding his breath, he picked his way forward around the margin of the nearest pool, until the ridge of salt he was walking on curved back in an S-shape.
The gases surrounding him became less dense.
“I think it’s this way,” he called back to Xiana. “But I’m not certain.”
She smiled eagerly and moved to follow him as he circled the edge of the next pool. Carefully, keeping a keen eye on his footing, he picked his way out into the dimpled surface of the salt flat. The further he went in, the more he realized Xiana had been right. The gases dispersed and then disappeared completely from their path. His eyes stopped watering, and he drew in a deep, grateful breath. As long as they stayed on the right path, the air was fine.
“See? You’re doing it.” Xiana smiled proudly, although Rylan doubted he was doing much more than trusting to luck.
He worked his way across a winding ledge between two pools. When he was halfway across, the salt gave way beneath his boot and he lost his balance. Arms pinwheeling, he plunged his foot into the acid pool to stop himself from falling bodily in.
Xiana caught hold of him and hauled him back upright, gasping, “Are you all right?”
Rylan reached a hand into his boot and felt around to make sure his sock was still dry. “It didn’t go through,” he said in relief.
Xiana heaved a heavy sigh and shook her head. “Be more careful.”
Rylan raised his eyebrows, but kept his mouth shut. He turned and started back across the narrow band of salt, working his way out further into the maze of pools. Ahead, the path forked around a broad expanse of gurgling water. He stopped, uncertain of which way to go. He took a guess, heading to the right until the air became caustic. Then he turned and worked his way back in the opposite direction, with the same result. Retreating to where he started from, he looked to Xiana for direction.
“Now what?”
She stared out across the wide, smoldering pool. Sweat beaded on her brow and ran down her face. “There has to be a way. One of these paths is the right one. What do your instincts tell you?”
“My instincts tell me to get the hell out of here.” He surveyed her face for a moment, weighing her expression. At last, he concluded, “You really don’t know the way, do you?”
She took a deep breath, biting her lip. “No.”
“No,” Rylan repeated. He swung his packs down off his shoulder and dropped them at his side. “Is this a sick joke? You got us in here and you’ve no idea how to get us out?”
Xiana drew herself up rigidly. “There’s a way through the pools, Rylan. You just need to find it.”
A strange noise, like the mournful cry of a dove, rose above the mist. Rylan glanced at Xiana in alarm. She’d heard it too; her eyes were wide and fearful, darting every which direction.
“What was that?” he asked.
She licked her lips. “The Lonesome Ghosts. If they find us here, they’ll kill us.”
24
Payden
Gil startled awake.
He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep. Blinking groggily, he rubbed his eyes then sat up, hands going to the papers spread out before him on the desk. He’d been reading them before he’d drifted off. He started sorting through the pages, putting them back in order, all except for one he left out intentionally: Quin’s notes on the talisman Thar’gon, an artifact that had once belonged to his father. It had been lost when the Well of Tears was destroyed, on the day his father died. It had fallen from his hand. Where it had ended up, Gil had no idea. All he knew was that if they had that weapon now, the war would be going very differently. Unfortunately, Quin’s notes contained no hints whatsoever as to where Thar’gon could be found.
Stretching, Gil looked around his new office. It had been Warden Dalton’s office only the day before. It might be someone else’s office tomorrow. But for now it was his, a good-sized room garbed in marshal décor, complete with mounted weapons, obsolete banners, and smoke-darkened tapestries. All eyesores, of course. Not that he cared.
He straightened the stack of papers and set them aside. He was about to reach for another stack when the sound of commotion in the hallway caught his attention. Before he could react, the door banged open and three large men with swords spilled into the room. He gaped in shock as the Sultan crossed the room in two great strides.
Leaning over the desk, Sayeed bellowed, “Where are your mages? They are supposed to be protecting the Waterfront!”
Gil leaned back in his chair to get away from the man. Forcing himself to speak calmly, he responded, “I have given you as many mages as I can spare, Your Majesty. You should have received that message.”
The Sultan grimaced and raised a trembling finger. Streaks of sweat dribbled down his cheeks, splashed wetly on the desk. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and had a glimmer of madness about them. Gil wondered how long it had been since the man had slept.
“There are only sixteen battlemages at the Waterfront!” the Sultan growled. “Surely, you have more than sixteen?”
Gil slid out of his chair and moved out from behind the desk. “Four days ago, I had forty-two battlemages. After last night, I’m down to twenty-four. That leaves me sixteen to deploy along the Waterfront and only eight to ward the Lyceum.”
Sayeed made a growling noise, his lips curling back from his teeth. He spun away, striking a hand
out at the air. “The Waterfront cannot be held with only sixteen battlemages!”
Gil took a deep breath, striving for composure. Then he forced the most apologetic smile he could muster. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. We’re not abandoning the Lyceum.”
The Sultan barked a guttural string of Malikari at the soldiers who had entered with him. He took a step toward the door, then turned back to glare at Gil, his face a patchwork of black filth and red anger.
“I told you—it is impossible to hold the Lyceum with the resources we have!”
Gil stabbed a glare at the two men standing behind the Sultan, who looked positioned to prevent his premature exit.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not asking you to spare any of your men. The Lyceum will protect itself.”
Sayeed crossed his arms over his chest. “You spread your numbers too thin. Without more battlemages, we will lose the Waterfront. And if that happens, we will lose the rest of the city! A strategic retreat from this district is the only option we have.” The man’s stare was iron-hard and unyielding.
Gil sighed. He couldn’t yield the Lyceum. But perhaps he could compromise. “I’ll give you two more battlemages,” he said. “But that’s it. No more.”
The Sultan’s eyes narrowed, and he blew out a frustrated breath. Bowing his head, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “You are just as stubborn as your father.”
The comment made Gil smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
With one last, resentful glare, the Sultan turned and stalked out of the room, his guards hastening to follow. Gil sagged against the wall in relief, looking down at his trembling hands. Sliding back into his chair, he glanced around the room, wondering if, by chance, Warden Dalton might have left a flask of whiskey behind. Dalton had always been fond of his drink, and now Gil knew why. Spotting a small decanter sitting on a shelf behind the desk, he lifted a hand toward it.
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