She spotted Phaerille, her head wrap already tugged down, then moved to walk at the woman’s side as they strode past the sentries, all the antlioch following obediently in their wake. The hide flap of the first tent was already opening as they neared, revealing three young male Makali dressed in simple robes similar to what Saida and the other elves wore.
One nodded to her as he hurried past. She glanced over her shoulder, watching him as he placed a hand at an antlioch’s neck, then guided the creature off the path Saida and the others had taken. The other two young Makali guided two more antlioch, which was enough for the entire herd to follow.
“Saida,” Phaerille whispered, startling her. “We’re supposed to follow.” She pointed ahead.
Saida whipped around, following the aim of Phaerille’s finger to a male Makali, this one older and wearing a few pieces of armor like the sentries. He seemed to be waiting for them.
The other elves fidgeted uneasily behind her, and she wondered why they hadn’t just moved past while she wasn’t paying attention.
Malon reached her other side and leaned in near her shoulder. “Are you well enough to walk? A day in such heat can be dizzying.”
She nodded, though she was dizzy, and tired. Too tired to trudge through the sand and have a meeting with the Makali clan leaders, but she moved along anyway. Her throat ached, and the still-warm sand tugged at her boots.
Seeming to sense this, Phaerille took Saida’s arm and gave an encouraging smile, though she seemed just as worn. They walked on, each woman relying on the other to remain upright. Malon remained silent at her other side, his gaze on the Makali man leading them.
They walked down a path formed by tents on either side, some with open flaps revealing the Makali within either lounging, or enjoying their evening meal. Saida’s stomach was so empty it hurt, though she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know what foods caused the strange, pungent smells emanating from distant cookfires. The scent reminded her of the yearly visit from the human spice traders to Faerune. The elves purchased few seasonings, mainly just salt, and she had always wished she could procure some of the more exotic spices that would make their way to the Spice District in Galterra.
The Makali guiding them stopped before a tent so massive it could house their entire herd of antlioch, though she supposed its actual intent was to house the clan leaders. Torches like the ones circling the settlement blazed at either side of the closed flap.
“Only two will enter,” their guide said in the common tongue. “Others will be shown to the cookfire.”
Malon looked over to Saida. “That’s our cue. Do you have the circlet?”
She patted the small satchel slung over her shoulder. “I have it, but surely I won’t need it?”
“The Makali respect strength,” was all he said as their guide opened the tent flap, gesturing for them to venture inside.
Phaerille gave Saida’s arm an encouraging squeeze, then turned away to follow the other elves.
Malon pressed his hand into her lower back, urging her toward the candlelight within the tent, which she soon realized actually emanated from glass oil lamps. Her feet were given a reprieve from the sand as they landed upon a massive ornate rug, similar in design to the much smaller rug her mother had imported for their home.
Five Makali sat on plump pillows, the vibrant colors of the fabric echoing those of the rug. The Makali wore fine raw silk in varying shades, and jewels glittered at their fingers. It seemed everything she’d been led to believe was wrong. The Makali were far from primitive. Each of the five, three females and two males, wore silver vambraces just visible at the ends of their sleeves. All had closely cropped hair like the rest of their clan.
Saida jumped as the heavy hide flap thwapped shut behind her.
The oldest of the five Makali, a female with gray streaking her black hair, spoke in the common tongue. “Welcome, Moonfolk. We are pleased to entertain you. I trust your journey across the Helshone has been a pleasant one.”
The younger male Makali seated to her right grinned, and another female lifted a bejeweled hand to suppress a chuckle.
Malon placed a hand on Saida’s shoulder. “We survived, if that is what you mean.”
Another Makali laughed, and the air of formality within the tent dissipated.
The older female, who seemed the highest ranking given her position in the middle, smiled warmly at Saida. “A face as lovely as Cindra’s. It is no surprise to me that you are a priestess of the moon.”
Saida froze, resisting the urge to glance at Malon. As far as she knew, the Makali were without religion. Their myths consisted of wild beasts and wise-folk.
“Do not appear so surprised,” the Makali continued. “All know the goddess of the moon, though we may call her by a different name. Come here, child, and let me sense your power.”
Malon leaned close to her shoulder. “Urali is the wise woman of this clan. She possesses some earthen magic. Do not be afraid.”
Easier said than done, she thought. It wasn’t that she felt in immediate peril, but the way this woman, Urali, observed her felt far too intense. The other Makali had fallen silent, watching the exchange.
Saida walked across the rug toward Urali, stopping just out of reach.
Urali looked up at her from her perch on her pillow. “Such a tiny thing,” she observed. “Do you have the circlet?”
Saida gulped. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be here, discussing this with strangers. She shouldn’t be proving to them what shouldn’t even be possible.
“Saida,” Malon said from behind her, a hint of warning in his tone.
She reached a trembling hand into her bag. If she could prove to these people that she could use the circlet, would it enable them to return to Faerune? Was this the only way to protect her father, Elmerah, and everyone else from the emperor?
Her fingers went icy as she wrapped them around the circlet. She hadn’t touched it since unceremoniously snatching it from her brow and shoving it into the saddlebag.
She pulled it free, hearing whispers, not from inside the tent, but inside her head. She almost dropped the circlet to the rug.
Urali’s eyes widened, her jaw went slack. “Place the circlet upon your brow, girl.”
The whispers grew louder. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but there was a feeling of urgency. Urging her not to do as the Makali asked. Urging her to run from this tent and never look back.
Her boots seemed adhered to the rug, her body wracked with indecision. The whispers were overwhelming. Urali’s intent gaze made her feel ill. Saida’s eyes fluttered shut, her body swayed. She only realized she’d fallen when she lost her grip on the circlet. Then all went black.
* * *
A damp cloth on Saida’s brow woke her. The water was warm instead of cool, but it was at least cooler than the stuffy air surrounding her. She opened her eyes to see Phaerille leaning over her, her features conveying worry in the gentle lamplight.
Remembering what had happened, Saida’s breathing sped.
“Do not fret,” Phaerille soothed. “You are safe. It is just you and I here. Malon waits outside.”
Her body relaxed, then tensed again as the nausea hit her. She jolted upright, and Phaerille was just fast enough with the half-full pail of water to keep the carpet from being ruined.
Saida heaved until her throat was raw agony, then leaned back against her hands, finally able to breathe enough to take in her surroundings. They were in a tent much smaller than the one where they’d met with Urali, though it still boasted an intricately woven rug and a few pillows—more than she’d seen within the other tents when she’d walked past them.
She’d been lying on one such pillow. The pail Phaerille had been dipping the rag in looked like one used to water the antlioch.
She didn’t mention it. She’d simply been grateful for the care. And grateful that Malon had waited outside while she was incapacitated.
She wiped the sleeve of her loose
robe across her mouth, then glanced over her shoulder at the closed tent flap, noting the lack of light coming from outside. So sunrise was yet to come. At least she hadn’t lost too much time.
She turned back to Phaerille. “How late is it?”
Phaerille pushed her honey blonde hair—a bit matted with sweat—from her face. “Not long, priestess.”
“Saida, please, call me Saida.” Her thoughts rushed back to Urali, and to the circlet. She held a hand to her suddenly racing heart as her eyes searched the small tent for her satchel.
“Malon has the circlet,” Phaerille soothed. “He didn’t want to leave it unguarded with only me to protect it.”
“I thought you said he’s right outside.”
Phaerille shrugged. “He is. I simply assumed that was why he took it. Shall I fetch him?”
Saida grabbed her arm before she could rise. “No!” She lowered her voice. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
Phaerille nodded, sinking back to the ground. “Very well . . . Saida. Do you think yourself able to eat? You should try if you’re to have any strength tomorrow. The Makali meat is strange, too filled with spices, but it is edible. I did not have the courage to ask what animal it was before it was hunted.”
Saida laughed weakly. “I don’t blame you.” Those voices. Those urgent whispers. She could not shake them from her mind. They had wanted her to run.
“Please, lie back,” Phaerille instructed, misreading her expression.
She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. I will take food, if you don’t mind fetching it for me.”
“Very well, prie—I mean, Saida.”
Saida watched her go, hoping her departure would not mean Malon would come into the tent. She looked down at her legs, draped in the tan robe, wondering if they’d be able to support her. She didn’t know if it was the heat, the lack of food, or what had happened in that tent that had utterly drained her, but her body wanted nothing more than to fall back upon the soft pillow.
Unfortunately, her mind disagreed. She needed to retrieve the circlet. Perhaps if she touched it when she was alone, she’d be able to better make out the whispers. But that, would require speaking to Malon, and he might not leave her alone once she had it.
She pulled her legs underneath her and stood, swaying, then winced at a sharp pain in her skull. She closed her eyes and leaned her head into her hands for a moment, waiting for the tent to stop spinning.
She must have waited like that for a while, because when she finally lifted her head, Phaerille had returned with a thin wooden tray laden with an enormous hunk of meat and a small pile of cooked grains. Fruits and vegetables would have been easier on her raw stomach, but she supposed such things were rarities in the harsh landscape of the Helshone.
Looking at her disapprovingly, probably because she was standing, Phaerille made her way across the tent and placed the tray at Saida’s feet, then set a water skin beside it. “Please rest, Saida, at least until you’ve had something to eat.”
“Can you get the circlet from Malon for me?” she asked. “I promise I’ll be good and eat if you’ll fetch it for me. I feel uneasy with it out of reach.”
Phaerille studied her for a moment. “Very well.” She turned and strode back out of the tent.
Saida collapsed, then swung her legs to the side so she could rest on her hip and one hand. She looked down at the hunk of meat, colored a deep red with spice. There were no bones that she could see, and it was a rather large hunk, so it must have come from a sizable animal.
Hopefully not a scorpion.
She heard voices outside the tent, Phaerille speaking with Malon.
The tent flap opened, then shut behind Phaerille, her face bright red and her eyes downcast. “He says you can have it after you eat, and bathe. He doesn’t want you touching it while you are weakened. He fears it will be too much for you.”
Her eyes lifted to meet Saida’s, clearly anxious for her approval.
This poor woman, Saida thought. It could not be easy to answer to both Malon and herself when they were bound to be perpetually at odds. “It’s alright,” she soothed. “See?”
She tore off a strip of meat and stuffed it into her mouth. She chewed once, then her eyes went wide. She searched for a place to spit it out.
“You’ll get used to it!” Phaerille hurried across the tent, then knelt before her. “Please try to eat it, Saida. We wouldn’t want to insult the Makali.” She glanced around warily, as if some of the Makali lurked within the tent. She lowered her voice, “I’ve heard they kill with their bare hands. You saw the armor at their wrists and shins? They punch and kick, and fight with spears. Their limbs are the only areas they need the armor. Nothing breaks through their defenses.”
Saida chewed the densely spiced meat. It tasted almost rotten, but also made her tongue burn. She suspected ground fire peppers were part of the flavor.
Phaerille handed her the water skin. “It’s easier when you wash it down.”
Saida accepted the skin and took a gulp, finding Phaerille’s words rang true. Even so, her stomach revolted at the thought of forcing down another bite of meat, so she turned her attention to the grains. There was no utensil, but she found the small, off-white pellets were sticky enough on her fingers to eat a full glob at once.
The bite of grain was mercifully bland compared to the meat. She ate another bite, then drank more water. “How do you know so much about the Makali?”
Phaerille smiled, pleased with herself. “I’ve known we’d be traveling to the desert for a while. Fallshire has few books, but I found one on a traveling merchant’s cart.”
Saida nodded encouragingly. “You’re from Fallshire?”
She shook her head. “No, but a few of us camped nearby after Faerune fell.”
She said it so casually, Saida had to resist the urge to balk. “Were you within the city when it was attacked?”
Another shake of the head. “I’ve never been to the city. Only my mother was from Faerune. My father was a Valeroot hunter. They fell in love, and my mother left the city to be with him.”
Saida lifted her brows. It was not often one heard of Valeroot and Faerune elves falling in love.
Phaerille laughed. “Yes, it is an odd story, but you can imagine how I felt when I first met Malon. He wanted to unite all who had felt wronged by Faerune, and I wanted desperately to fit in somewhere. My pleasure escalated when I learned how many other elves he’d gathered.”
“But—” she stared at Phaerille, momentarily lost for words. Finally, her thoughts solidified. “There could not have been that many of you. Elves are rarely exiled from the city. A few choose to live in the neighboring villages, but they are welcome to come and go from the city.”
Phaerille pursed her lips, waiting for Saida to finish, then said, “You truly have no notion of how many have been wronged by the High Council, do you? Malon is right, you have lived a sheltered life.”
She shook her head slowly. This could not be true. Yes, the High Council was antiquated in many ways. Perhaps the lower social classes were not treated with as much respect as they should have been. But there couldn’t have been so many willing to watch the city fall.
Phaerille’s spirits seemed to sink. “Eat your food, priestess,” she said softly. “There is a natural spring nearby. I will stand guard while you bathe.”
With a deep breath, Saida scooped up more grain. It tasted even more bland than before, or perhaps it was just an effect of her mood. Could she really have been so blind to the plight of the lower classes? Phaerille, she understood. With a Valeroot elf for a father, she’d be looked down upon. But so many others?
She wanted to know all of their stories, beginning with the other elves in their party. What had their lives been like before Faerune fell? How much injustice had they truly endured? She needed to understand.
There were two sides to every coin, and she was finally realizing, she’d only ever seen the side facing the sun.
Elmerah
Her group kept a leisurely pace, intent on not wearing out their horses now that they were unlikely to be tracked.
Alluin rode at her side, and Celen and Isara rode ahead, seeming to have formed an odd companionship. At least, that’s what Elmerah told herself it was. Otherwise, Isara was avoiding her. She had noticed how the little sparrow—for now Celen had put the notion in her head that she was sparrow-like—had avoided her gaze the rest of the previous evening’s ride. And how she’d spoken little before they lay to rest for the night, each taking a turn at standing guard.
Now the morning had waned into midday, and Elmerah sensed unease amongst their ranks. Even Alluin seemed to be sulking. It was a rare occasion when she was the one in a better mood than everyone else.
She tugged at her uncomfortable coat sleeve, hastily sewn back into place. It wasn’t sitting quite right, and the new lightning-shaped mark beneath tingled from time to time. Alluin had tried to wash the blood from his sleeves when they’d reached another stream, but they were stained beyond repair. If she didn’t know better, she would think he’d been utterly frantic at the idea of losing her.
A sudden whiff of burnt demon flesh soured her mood. It still clung to her clothing and hair. She had killed a greater demon on her own, but Egrin was far more than a greater demon. While they still had many, many days of riding ahead, it might take that much time to come up with a plan. “So,” she said, her gaze not on anyone in particular, “not that it changes our mission, but does anyone have any insight on what it means that Egrin is the demon king?”
The Elven Apostate Page 9