Now he lay face down in the dust, parched and aching and close to death. They had left him here for the local tribesmen to find. But no one had come. Starke knew he had little time left.
He lifted his head and again began to crawl toward the distant line of hills where surely he would find water. Each spurt of effort brought him a few more short paces, but each time it took him a little longer to get up again. The air swam with heat, filling his eyes with illusion. That couldn’t be Aniyeh stooping over him, unless she had come to witness his death.
Starke awoke with nostrils wrinkling at the fetor of beasts and unwashed clothing. He rested on something soft, and his mouth no longer cracked with thirst. Opening his eyes the merest slit, he saw that he lay within a rough tent whose hide panels dimmed the sun’s glare to a soothing twilight. Nearby, a figure sat with crossed legs on a mound of skins and worked at something unseen in his hands. Now Starke could hear bleating outside, and he guessed that this was the home of a goatherd.
The man looked up and set aside whatever he had been working on. He came over and laid a hand on Starke’s brow, muttering softly in words Starke could not understand. He reached aside and then brought a damp cloth to Starke’s mouth.
Starke drew at the water greedily, even though the fabric was not the cleanest. He tried to speak, but his dehydrated throat wouldn’t allow much more than a croak. “Where…?”
The other shook his head and motioned silence. Again he spoke in alien words, but Starke understood well enough that he was being ordered to lie still. That was fine with him. He closed his eyes again.
* * *
—
Weeks passed in the company of the goatherd, who Starke learned was named Jumok of the Cheetah warclan. Slowly Starke attained a halting grasp of the Zhalfirin tongue as the two traveled along the goatherd’s circuit, moving the flock from one vanishing water hole to the next. Once the rains came, Jumok returned to the clan’s central village to celebrate the annual harvest festival and, later, to observe the rites of passage.
During those conversations, Starke learned about Sidar Kondo of the Triangle, supreme leader of the warclans, whose son Vuel was to undergo the rite of passage this year. He learned also of Kondo’s adopted son, Gerrard, a pale-skinned youth from some northern clime, who was Vuel’s closest companion and widely seen as a rival for the old man’s affection.
Starke knew the name of Vuel. They had impressed it on him before sending him here. This one has potential, the voices hissed, a great gift for destruction. He is an excellent candidate.
And who better qualified than you to seek him out? Aniyeh’s voice snarled in his mind.
* * *
—
Starke’s memories yielded to the present when the council finally broke up with a general agreement to take the war to Volrath. It seemed that Gerrard had been persuaded by this talk of a portal and was planning to take Weatherlight there now to investigate. Starke stirred himself, trying to argue against this action. “It will delay our arrival at Volrath’s stronghold,” he said. “Every moment that you take away from this goal means that much more torment for your comrades and less opportunity to infiltrate unnoticed.”
“The portal is the only way we can leave this world,” replied Gerrard. “That’s assuming it works. We need to know that first.”
“If it doesn’t work, will that change your plans?” Starke countered. “Will you abandon your search then?”
Gerrard’s face darkened. The fresh scar stood out just above the narrow line of his beard. “We will save our people and recover the Legacy. But if we can do so and get out of here safely, then that’s our best course of action. We’re going to the portal, and that’s final.”
Starke sighed, but he knew he couldn’t overpower Gerrard’s will any more than he could his masters’.
He felt the touch of eyes, and looked up to see that accursed Oracle appraising him again across the table. Clearly she knew him, though they had never met in the flesh. How much did she know, was the question. And what would she do with that knowledge? Starke again felt himself at a disadvantage.
Well, he’d get the better of this bargain, he thought.
Later Starke paced the courtyard outside Eladamri’s council hall as the delegates drifted from the meeting. Scattered lanterns dimly lit the elven village. No other light broke Skyshroud’s close night. There were no stars, no moon in this sky of leaves. Not many steps away, Gerrard and the Oracle were conversing quietly. What was she telling him? Starke fingered the edge of his dagger, hidden in the folds of his cloak.
Gerrard made a slight bow to the Oracle, then departed for the night with his companions. The Oracle, too, retreated to her billet. Starke, seeing an opportunity, casually approached the door.
A quiet welcome from within responded to his gentle knock. The Oracle looked up from her prayer mat as Starke entered.
“Good evening, Revered One.” Starke painted an appropriately respectful look on his features.
“Good evening to you as well, child.” The Oracle’s eyes crinkled in a concerned smile. “I see how fear sharpens you.”
So perceptive, thought Starke with an inner sneer. I guess that’s why you’re the Oracle. But outwardly he only nodded. “Yes. This attack on Volrath is dangerous. And I don’t like wasting time.” He edged a little closer.
“We all shrink from the evincar, yet we also thirst to destroy him. We must have patience. Rash moves play into our enemy’s hands.”
Starke was confused. The Oracle appeared genuinely interested in him. She seemed not to recognize him at all now. Again, she smiled warmly. “We will overcome, child. You must have faith.”
Then she closed her eyes, just for a moment. Her eyes opened again and, glinting, fixed Starke. “Trading in hearts earns poor profit.”
He recoiled as though from a blow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I say what I see. The listener understands.”
Starke covered his apprehension with a mocking chuckle. “I guess that message was meant for some other listener, then. It certainly didn’t make any sense to me.”
“It seems bad business takes a toll.”
“Stop that!” Had she really heard his thoughts? “You might call yourself an oracle, but you don’t know anything about me. Maybe I’m just annoyed by presumptuous old women.”
“Or perhaps you are troubled by bad bargains. When the market is soft, is it not wise to consider a change in commodity?”
“What do you know of business? Leave me alone!”
“If you insist. But think about this: disaster may drive up a price in the short term, but success means continuing prosperity.”
Starke was close enough. His knife blade could end it all now, still that croaking voice so it would never call him out, never taunt him again. A quick cut, the body into the swamps—perhaps they’d think the merfolk did it.
Yet he hesitated. Those words had struck close to home. He shaped his mouth to make an answer, but nothing would come.
“Wise one!” A man’s voice penetrated the doorway from the darkness, followed by the tall form of one of the Oracle’s guard. “You should not be alone, Mistress.”
“My guard,” sighed the Oracle, with a tired smile toward Starke. “I choose not their duty, but duty chooses me.”
Starke mumbled something, bowed, and backed away awkwardly from her quarters while the guardsman took up his post. The opportunity was gone. Had he lost his touch entirely? He’d been very good, once. After all, that was how he got into this.
* * *
—
Cloud-dark skies and sultry air heralded the onset of the rains. Jumok turned his charges to the east and the distant hills where the village lay. By now Starke had convinced the man of his friendship, and on their arrival he was welcomed into the home of Jumok’s family. But they were far from his thoughts
as the time of Vuel’s passage approached.
How to trap the destiny of the sidar’s son? He hadn’t much time to find a way to open Rath’s dark doorway for Vuel.
In pidgin Zhalfirin, Starke asked all he met about the rite of passage and what it entailed. The villagers were remarkably patient and willing to offer any information—the trusting simpletons. They told him that the child must survive alone a dangerous test of both physical and spiritual strength.
Everyone knew that Vuel’s successful passage would ensure his leadership of the warclans. So, reasoned Starke, interfering with that inheritance might be just the thing to direct Vuel’s thoughts toward a different destiny. There must be some way to turn the encounter to his fearsome masters’ purposes.
Weakening the candidate so that he would fail, without destroying that valuable property, would be best. Perhaps a drug would do, in quantities sufficient to disorient but not to seriously harm. Introducing the drug would be a problem, though, since Starke had found out that candidates underwent purification and fasting in the week preceding the rite. However, the opening ceremonies of every such rite were identical and included songs, prayers, dances, and ritual body painting.
This last presented a possibility. Getting someone to consume poison wasn’t as easy as the storytellers would have you believe, but paint—who would suspect that medium? And who would notice, in the midst of the general merrymaking?
Starke had some familiarity with drugs and poisons. He’d learned not to be too fussy in accepting commissions, or to ask too many questions about the destination. A couple of simple herbal preparations could serve his purpose, if such things existed in this world.
Conveniently, the clan’s mundungu, its healer and chief shaman, had been one of those most eager to teach the newcomer of their ways. The fool would never think twice about an innocent request to learn more of how the paint was made. Even a conversation about treating the sick would give Starke the opportunity to peruse some of the shaman’s materials.
It was just that easy. While the old hedge wizard prattled on about his healing herbs, Starke took careful note of the less salubrious ingredients within the workspace. Yes, there was bitterleaf, and thoughtsease too. Both could be prepared for absorption through the skin. It remained only to obtain a quantity of the herbs, and to somehow introduce them into the paints.
But that, too, was simple, for no one here thought to lock their doors against thieves. They wouldn’t last five minutes on Rath, thought Starke, where even the dirt is an enemy. It was child’s play to sneak into the workshop in the dying hour, that time of night when souls’ ties were weakest, and gather a few of the precious leaves and roots. And another “tutorial” while the mundungu mixed his paints offered Starke the opportunity he needed.
This wasn’t so different from his commission for the il-Kor client. A pinch of powder, never seen again, and a tidy profit—if only Aniyeh hadn’t interfered. Why had she reacted that way? She wasn’t involved. She could have kept quiet.
Starke cursed and shook his head violently. Old thoughts. Useless clutter. He had to keep his mind on the task. The rite of passage would take place in two days’ time.
* * *
—
Two days had passed since the war council’s conclusion. Weatherlight sailed over the eyeless Rootwater depths and into the empty lands beyond. Day and night passed in equal drear, until at last the ground began to crack like raw skin. Small hills, gullies, and boulder fields broke up the flat terrain. Before them, one extinct riverbed opened into a deeper cleft that twisted between walls of scabby stone.
“This must be the place,” murmured Gerrard absently as he stood at the ship’s bow.
“I must protest again this delay,” said Starke. “Volrath is strengthening his forces and growing more ambitious. Every minute makes us that much more vulnerable.”
“I know.” Gerrard’s voice held a tired edge. “But we have no other choice. We’re not turning back now.”
Rage flared in Starke. The arrogance of the man! His voice grew more insistent. “Have you even thought about how to operate this portal? It’s ancient, foreign magic. Can we afford to take the time to figure out its workings?”
“I’ll just have to worry about that when we get there. Complaining won’t make things any easier. We do have a wizard with us—Ertai.” Gerrard winced faintly as he indicated the fair-haired youth. “Maybe he can find the way to activate it.”
Ertai didn’t notice Gerrard’s expression; he stood straighter at the mention of his name. His eyes gleamed and he spoke up confidently. “Gerrard respects my talents. There is no device whose mysteries can elude me for long.”
“Bold words. We’ll see,” grumbled Starke.
“Meanwhile,” said Gerrard pointedly, “you might think of ways for us to approach the Stronghold safely. You are the expert, after all.”
Starke wondered if Gerrard knew just where his expertise lay.
* * *
—
Each year when the rains tapered, bringing a sort of springtime to the Jamuraan plains, the warclans repeated their timeless acknowledgment of life’s wheel. The harvest was past, and the young had come of age.
Dawn came early now, and there was a promise of warm weather as the ceremonial day began. The village was a-bustle even before the sun cracked the clouds; the smell of bread and roasting meats and sweet brew crept among the houses. There would be great feasting this day, after the trial of the sidar’s son, who would share in the celebration once he was a man.
Starke traveled about the public spaces, greeting friends with an open smile but searching every unknown face for the one he sought. When he spotted the tall, dark youth with the haughty bearing, he did not need to ask the stranger’s name. Vuel caught Starke’s gaze and regarded him for a cold second before turning away, leaving Starke to feel like a grubby child wandering about a banquet. Indignation burned behind the il-Vec’s outward smile.
The chieftain’s son continued toward the sacred enclosure. At his side strode his pale half-brother. The two youths conversed in whispers, smiling and sometimes laughing quietly, sharing an easy intimacy. Starke noted an old scar across the back of Gerrard’s hand and another, its mate, on Vuel’s.
The time of the ritual had come. Vuel stepped into the circle of the clansfolk and presented himself to the war chiefs and the mundungu. He stood proudly before the ceremonial fire, naked but for a knife bound at his waist. The ritual words were spoken and the sacred symbols painted across his body.
A drum began a slow pulse. The crowd began to sway and chant in unison with the mundungu’s recitation. A ram’s horn blatted, a stone-filled reed rattled. Flutes ululated while the drum’s throb grew more insistent. The people danced and shouted. Vuel turned in their midst, arms upraised, singing the ancient words so many had uttered before him. His eyes closed and he swayed with the ecstasy of the rite.
The mundungu spoke one sharp syllable.
Sudden silence. All eyes were on the youth, whose bright eyes met those of the shaman pronouncing the form of the trial. Starke could not make out all the words, but the gestures conveyed the message. The mundungu turned and pointed to a jagged spire of stone perhaps a mile distant. He returned his gaze to Vuel and spoke words of closing.
The sidar’s son made the ritual response, then held his arms out with steel hooks bound tightly to his wrists, Vuel thrust his hands into the fire. After a second of anguish, he pulled them back and raised them briefly over his head. Then he set forth resolutely toward the spire. Behind the youth came the mundungu, then the chieftains, then Gerrard. The rest of the clansfolk followed at a distance, maintaining a silence at once reverential and tense.
Vuel came to the tumbled rocks at the crag’s foot and without hesitation drove a climbing hook into the rock face. He pulled himself up and clawed with the other. The pale scar on his dark hand gleamed in the af
ternoon sun, and Starke saw Gerrard glance at the matching mark on his own hand before turning his eyes upward.
Vuel was climbing quickly now, eager in his quest to seek the holy vision. His paint-limned skin was slick with sweat. He reached again….
Something was wrong. The hand hung in midair, and Vuel shook his head like a goat plagued by flies. Kondo’s hands clenched helplessly, and worried glances flashed between the other chiefs. The crowd drew a collective gasp, but Starke smiled inwardly. The drug was taking effect.
Vuel’s head drooped for a moment, then lifted weakly. The hook flailed weakly at the cliff face and missed. His footing gave. Vuel fell.
Kondo turned away his eyes. Someone sobbed audibly. The youth tumbled, hundreds of feet up, death certain. Starke’s stomach gaped with terror. No! I need you alive!
One hook somehow caught an outcropping, bringing Vuel’s headlong plunge to a momentary halt. But it was precarious indeed—the dazed youth dangled two hundred feet above the ground.
Kondo looked up again, anguish on his face. He could not do a thing. The youth had to survive the passage on his own or die in the process. Tears tracked his cheeks, but he kept his eyes on his son. Many others turned away.
Starke too could not take his eyes off the drama. He wasn’t about to risk his own hide, but this was going all wrong. Come on, he urged silently, you’ve got to make it. He was sweating almost as much as the sidar’s son.
Suddenly a figure appeared on a ledge, just above Vuel’s flailing arm. Gerrard stretched out his scarred hand to his imperiled half-brother. How had he got there without help? But there was no time to wonder. Starke watched anxiously as Vuel shouted something to Gerrard and drew back his free hand. He rocked dangerously, and the hook slipped from the outcropping. Gerrard cried out and grabbed at Vuel’s wrist, pulling him onto the rock.
The crowd gasped again, but this time in sorrow rather than fear. Sidar Kondo’s face fell. He hung his head, turned, and slowly walked away. The others followed suit.
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