“i thought I had gone over into the next life!” she said. When a mountain peak rushed out of the fog, she nearly was knocked into eternity.
The priestess handed the bottle back. The white scarf covering her head had been knocked askew. She straightened the scarf, tightening the knot that secured it at the nape of her neck, but tendrils of hair still streamed across her eyes. As she worked to tuck them away, she found herself regarding the Lioness’s shorn head with envy.
They were still miles away from the elves’ camp, descending in gentle stages through cool night air. The range ringing Inath-Wakenti bulked large before them. Sa’ida peered over Kerian’s shoulder at the rugged pinnacles. She had never seen mountains before.
Suddenly she trembled down the length of her frame and inhaled sharply.
“Shall I land?” Kerian asked, thinking the priestess was in need of a respite from the unaccustomed constant motion.
Sa’ida shuddered harder. “This place is saturated with power!” she gasped.
“What sort of power?”
“Not godly magic.” That was Sa’ida’s stock in trade. “Something wilder, very old, and very dark! It’s horrible! What a troubled place!”
Kerian made silent note of that. Trust Gilthas to pin his hopes on a sanctuary awash in ancient dark sorcery. She’d make certain Sa’ida shared her impressions with him. Perhaps the priestess’s opinion of the peril would carry more weight than hers had so far.
Sa’ida was muttering. Leaning close to Kerian’s ear, she said more loudly, “One power balances the other, but both are deteriorating. A war has raged here for untold centuries. Both sides are fading, but their power is still potent.” She scanned the shadowy horizons as if she could see the magical forces mustered like armies on a battlefield.
“The lines are blurred. I cannot tell one from the other.” She bent forward, resting her forehead against Kerian’s back. “Just sensing them makes my soul ache.”
Sympathizing with her pain, Kerian nevertheless kept Eagle Eye flying straight on to the center of the valley and the camp. However, when the distance to the mountains declined to a few hundred yards, the priestess’s trembling and complaints gave way to something stronger. She gripped Kerian’s cloak in both fists and jerked hard.
“Turn away! Turn away now. I cannot bear it!”
Immediately Kerian steered Eagle Eye into a wide right turn. Sa’ida was hunched against her, fingers gripping Kerian’s waist so hard the elf woman was certain they would leave bruises. The priestess’s breath came in short, sharp gasps as if she could barely drag the air into her lungs. Her breathing didn’t ease until they’d put a mile of clear air between them and the entrance to the valley.
“There is an ancient ward on this place. It is very strong,” she said. She didn’t know who had cast the confining spell, but was certain her goddess, the Divine Healer, had had nothing to do with it.
Kerian set Eagle Eye to flying In a large, slow circle while she pondered how to get the priestess into the valley. Despite the nomads’ superstitious insistence that it was taboo, nothing had interfered with the elves’ various comings and goings by horse, on foot, or on griffons. Sa’ida asked whether their sages had experienced any difficulties. Kerian was forced to admit that none among the exiles had Sa’ida’s level of expertise and sensitivity.
Frustration rose like bile in Kerian’s throat. She could tell by the stars that midnight had come and gone. Her goal was in sight, and every minute’s delay propelled Gilthas that much closer to death. Truthanar had done his best but there was little more he could try against the strange human disease. Kerian had snatched Sa’ida from the clutches of Nerakan agents and Torghanist fanatics, overcome the woman’s own resistance, and brought them across the length of the Khurish desert. And they couldn’t enter the valley!
Sa’ida pondered the situation as well. She suggested they land. The magical barrier was strong, evoking distress and panic, but it was a ward of very long standing. Perhaps its coverage was thinning or there were gaps in it. It might be less dangerous nearer the ground, for example. The priestess could cite precedents.
She broke off in midsentence, yelping in surprise. Kerian had directed Eagle Eye to descend. He put his head down and they sank rapidly. A hundred feet up, he flared out, flapping strongly until they were almost hovering, while Kerian quickly studied the terrain. To the left, she spied a rocky spit of level ground between the peaks and guided Eagle Eye to it.
On the ground wind whistled, setting their cloaks to flapping. Around them were nothing but stone crags, broken boulders, and drifts of pale gravel. They’d landed at a high elevation, above the tree line, and stood exposed to a constant column of cold wind. Far below, beneath the cloudless night sky, the desert lay like a pale tan sea. It stretched from horizon to horizon, west, south, and east. Wide dunes, broken here and there by the dark lines of dry wadis, rolled south toward Khuri-Khan.
“We can’t stay here,” Sa’ida muttered, giving up her vain attempts to hold her cloak closed against the strong wind. Kerian agreed.
The priestess sought the boundary of the archaic ward. Arms outstretched, palms held outward, she walked slowly forward. Her attention was so concentrated on her work, she lost track of her footing and slid awkwardly on the loose gravel. Kerian leaped forward, grabbing the back of her cloak. It was undignified, but it saved Sa’ida from a nasty tumble. As her racing heartbeat slowed, the priestess gave her a look of gratitude. More cautiously, she resumed the search.
Kerian knew exactly when Sa’ida found the boundary because she stiffened abruptly. She remained frozen in place for half a minute then turned back to Kerian with tears running down her face.
“Bring me the embroidered bag,” she said, still weeping.
In one of the priestess’s cloth bags, Kerian found a small pouch made of white muslin. She knew better than to open it, but as she hefted it, she felt within several small, hard objects, a few softer pieces, and a light substance that crackled beneath her fingers. The bag itself and its shoulder strap were covered with fine stitching in several shades of blue shot through here and there with silver. The Lioness was no needlewotker, but even to her untutored gaze, the workmanship was astonishing, the individual stitches so small and fine it was hard to discern one from another. There was something odd about the design itself, though. it seemed to mutate and alter while she looked at it. The intricate pattern of flowers and silver leaves wavered like a mirage in the desert, the stitches crawling across the muslin and rearranging themselves. They formed words but in no language the Lioness had ever known or seen. Once more the pattern shifted, the silver threads flshiiigbnightlY though only starlight fell upon them.
“Sosirah”
The priestess’s stern voice jerked Kerian out of her daze. She gave the bag to Sa’ida, then went to stand by Eagle Eye’s head. The griffon bent down to nuzzle her, trilling a worried note. She laid a reassuring hand on his neck.
Sa’ida clutched the bag to her chest with her right hand while holding her left hand high. Over the noise of the steady wind, Kerian heard her chanting. it sounded more like a recited list of words than a song or poem. Nothing happened for a time; then the wind ceased blowing.
Twenty yards away, dust still streamed around a wind- sculpted boulder. Above, clouds were driving over the peaks; below, the twisted trees were bent by the punishing air. Where the two women and the griffon stood, all was calm. Eagle Eye tossed his head and trumpeted loudly, sensing the unnaturalness of it.
Kerian led him across the stony ground, coming up behind the murmuring priestess. Was it a trick of the early-mornmg light or was there a faint luminescence around Sa’ida’s head? When Kerian looked directly at her, the glow vanished, but if she cast a glance to one side or the other, the priestess’s head was indeed enveloped in the palest of firefly babes.
The murmuring ceased, but Sa’ida did not move. Her eyes were squeezed shut.
Kerian had to call to her several times before the p
riestess replied. When she did, it was to ask about the wind. “The wind has died around us,” Kerian answered. Couldn’t the priestess feel that for herself?
“Very well. We can proceed.”
Sa’ida kept her eyes closed and held the bag hard against her chest with one hand. Effectively blind, she held out a hand to Kerian. The Lioness brought her to Eagle Eye’s side and boosted her onto the pillion. Cinching her into place, Kerian moved with unusual caution. It felt as though they were inside a delicate bubble, and if she moved too quickly or abruptly, the bubble would shatter, allowing the wind to bluster through once more.
Leaning close to Eagle Eye’s head, she whispered, “All right, old monster. Gently we go.”
Rather than driving them into the air with bounding leaps, Eagle Eye simply ran straight down the length of the spit and directly over the edge of the cliff. With powerful, deliberate wing beats, he arrested their plummet and sent them arrowing forward.
Kerian had to admit it was as smooth a takeoff as she’d ever felt. Of course her heart was in her throat and she was very glad Sa’ida’s eyes were still closed.
“Not too high,” the priestess whispered.
Kerian kept them just high enough so Eagle Eye’s wing- tips didn’t touch the ground on the downstroke. They edged upslope to the gray ridgeback. Normally topping a peak would expose them to strong drafts, but in their current protected state, Eagle Eye sailed over as softly as a dandelion seed. Not only had Sa’ida calmed the natural wind, her spell affected the breeze of their passage as well. The feathers lay flat on the griffon’s neck, and no breath of air stirred Kerian’s hair.
As Eagle Eye descended the far side of the ridge, Sa’ida slowly opened her clenched fingers, easing her grip on the spell bag. Her eyes opened. At once wind teased their ears and tugged at their clothes, the natural breeze of flight. Eagle Eye, relieved to be out of the unnatural calm, shook his head and chuffed a loud exhale.
Sa’ida sagged against Kerian, drained. The elf woman eased Eagle Eye into a climb. When they left the pass behind and entered the valley proper, they were flying a thousand feet above the ground. Kerian asked Sa’ida how she had defeated the ward.
“The ancient spellcasters made a mistake,” the priestess said, leaning close to Kerian’s ear so she didn’t have to shout. “They tied their barrier to the wind. As long as it blew, the ward remained in place. I had to make a hole in the wind, that’s all.”
If she’d had any doubts before, Kerian knew at that moment she’d brought the right person to Inath-Wakenti. Compassion and cleverness were rare among the wise folk the Lioness had known and even more rare among humans. Gilthas would be in good hands.
False dawn came. Sunrise was still an hour away and would be hidden behind the high eastern ridge for longer than that, but the sky began to blush with new light. More of the terrain was visible to Sa’ida. The meandering line of Lioness Creek flashed beneath them, and Kerian pointed out what few other features there were, dwelling especially on the scattered masses of snowy quartz: individual monoliths, long walls with pointless gaps, the incomprehensible groupings of gargantuan stone. Did the holy lady know their significance?
Sa’ida did not. Flying a thousand feet above them, no rhyme or reason to their arrangement was apparent. She suggested they might be the foundations of still larger structures of wood, which had decayed after so long. In the coastal districts of Khur, it was common to build on stone pilings.
Kerian shook her head. The monoliths were too large and erratically spaced to have been the foundation of any building. Sometimes hundreds of feet separated them. No wooden beam could span such a gap.
“It’s like the gods were playing dice,” the Lioness said.
They cast the huge white blocks into the valley then left theta where they lay.
“Maybe they were.”
Kerian glanced back, but Sa’ida’s lined, brown face betrayed no humor.
Several small, bright lights appeared on the ground ahead of them. Kerian tensed. Sa’ida wondered if they were the will-o’-the-wisps she’d mentioned. A few worried seconds later, the priestess felt her relax.
“They’re our campfires. Hold tight, Holy Mistress! We may arrive in time to discuss breakfast!”
This bit of irony was lost on Sa’ida, but she would understand soon enough. Food was so scarce in the valley many elves “discussed” meals rather than ate them.
Sa’ida held on as Eagle Eye lowered his head and dived toward the distant fires.
* * * * *
Robien the Tireless was once more on the trail but proceeding with greater caution. He’d had little respect for magic prior to Faeterus’s attack. Now, he knew to be more careful. The obvious trail left by the sorcerer also made him wary. Faeterus might be careless because he thought Robien dead, or he might be leading the hunter into fresh traps. Robien knew just how subtle such traps could be.
After his rescue by the elf warriors, he returned with them to their camp but slipped away unnoticed almost immediately. A party of explorers had found its way out of the tunnels, and the excitement over their return provided a perfect diversion. Although grateful to General Taranath and his warriors for their rescue, Robien was determined to get back on Faeterus’s trail. He intended not only to complete the commission he’d accepted from the khan, but to free Favaronas in the bargain. The scholar’s capture weighed on his conscience. He allowed himself a few hours’ sleep then resumed the chase.
He donned his yellow spectacles and surveyed the terrain ahead. Two sets of footprints were plainly visible, glowing faintly green even where the trail crossed rocks. The tracks ascended the slope in short, stuttering strides. They were two days old, but Robien would not rush. The day was young yet. It would be better to overtake the sorcerer at day’s end. Faeterus would be tired from the long climb, and the setting sun would be behind Robien and in his quarry’s eyes.
When he pocketed his spectacles again, he was taken aback to find himself surrounded by elves. At first he thought them the Speaker’s people, but then he saw they had no legs-long, tangled hair and tattered clothing, and no lower limbs at all.
Ghosts.
He did not fear the dead. He’d been many places and seen many things, and all the ghosts he’d heard of seemed to him sad creatures, deserving more pity than fear. He made straight for those who stood in his path. The spirits raised no hand against him, but when he drew abreast of them, his arms and legs began to tingle. The sensation was not pleasant. Taking heed of the obvious warning, he drew back a few steps.
“Stand aside,” be commanded.
The ghosts reacted not at all, only stood silent and immobile. He started forward again. The effect was stronger and sent him stumbling backward, hissing in pain.
The line of spirits extended as far as he could see to left and right. He could not go around them. His sword passed through the ghosts without hindrance. He sheathed it again, frustrated.
“I must get through,” he said, and charged.
The shock hurled him to the ground and left him badly dazed, although only for a moment. When his head cleared, he no longer lay on the ground. He was being carried. The spectral figures were far more substantial than when he’d first seen them. Four had lifted him, and the others streamed ahead and behind. Their progress was silent as the sunlight.
Half-formed legs passed through the grass without shifting it at all. The ghosts were insubstantial as smoke, yet their grips on him were solid enough.
The bizarre procession passed between standing stones, their white surfaces washed golden by the morning sun. Robien craned his head up to see forward. Thus far, he’d felt only bemusement. A hunter of long experience, he sensed no menace in the creatures-a great and aching sadness but no menace. When he saw where they were taking him, bemusement vanished and he tried to fight.
A white stone monolith hovered above the ground. Twenty feet in length, it floated as though anchored in the air. Beneath it, a hole gaped. A crowd of ghosts stoo
d around the hole, their empty eyes fixed on his approach. His limbs had gone numb and he had no strength. Attempts to shout met with the same lack of success.
Without a single word spoken, the ghosts dropped him into the hole. He fell eight or nine feet then hit bottom hard. His head swam but he had no trouble seeing the monolith descend, sealing him into the cold, black ground.
* * * * *
For all its evocative name, the Stair of Distant Vision was a great disappointment to Favaronas. The view was fine but hardly the revelation he had expected.
The Stair itself was a sizable tableland cut into the side of Mount Rakaris, semicircular in shape, a hundred yards wide at its outer edge and sixty yards deep at its apex. The payers covering its surface were set in alternating courses of dark blue slate and creamy feldspar. Ten-foot obelisks rose up on its left and right edges. Those also alternated between dark basalt and alabaster. Additional obelisks dotted its surface, and Favaronas saw no obvious pattern to their arrangement.
From that vantage point, Inath-Wakenti resembled a long, wide bowl, bound on all sides by steep mountains. The regularity of its boundaries suggested the work of unnatural forces. The edge between the valley floor and the mountains was perfectly defined. Here and there, time and erosion had softened the line, but for the most part, the boundary looked as if it had been drawn by a god’s hand. The monoliths poked up among the trees and brush, their shape and stark whiteness reminding the archivist of tombstones.
A huge circular feature in the center of the valley puzzled Favaronas. He mistook it for a lake, but Faeterus said it was a huge disk made of wedges of white granite. The sorcerer called it the Tympanum meaning “drum”. What its purpose was, he would not say.
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