When the infant didn’t stop crying, Sadira asked her sister, “Shall I hold him?”
Rhayn turned around, moving the child out of sight. “Don’t comfort him,” the mother said. “It’ll be better if he learns to be brave.”
Though Sadira doubted that comforting a frightened infant would make him fainthearted as an adult, she deferred to her sister’s wishes. “Elves are hard parents,” she observed.
“The desert is a hard place,” answered Rhayn. “Though I see you must have also led a hard life—or been raised by a fool. Only a brave woman or a stupid one would have defied my father as you did.”
“At heart, Faenaeyon is spineless,” Sadira answered. “He’s no different than any other tyrant.”
“My father is no coward!” snapped Rhayn, her deep blue eyes burning with indignation. She studied Sadira for a moment, then the anger faded. “And he was not always a tyrant,” she said. “Once, he was a great chief who showered his warriors with silver and his enemies with blood.”
“If you say so,” Sadira answered, shrugging. “It means nothing to me.”
“You’re wrong,” said Rhayn. She took Sadira by the arm and led her toward Magnus, who had gone to chase down the sorceress’s kank. “Faenaeyon will overlook your defiance, for your powers are useful, and, in the end, you did what he wanted you to. But you’re also dangerous to him. When you threatened his fortune, you threatened his hold over the tribe. He won’t tolerate such a risk for long.”
Sadira studied Rhayn for several moments, wondering what had moved the elf to share this warning with her. Finally, the sorceress said, “My thanks. I’ll take my leave as soon as we find another caravan traveling toward Nibenay.” “Don’t be a fool!” Rhayn hissed. She glanced around to make sure they were out of earshot of the rest of the tribe. “Even if we see another caravan, Faenaeyon will never let you join it!”
Sadira scowled. “What are you saying?”
Rhayn shook her head. “Are you really so naive?” she asked. “You have become Faenaeyon’s sword. As long as you serve him well, he’ll take care to keep you sharp. But when you become so heavy that your edge is dangerous, he’ll shorten your blade or destroy you altogether. Don’t think that he’ll let you fall into someone else’s hands. There’s too great a danger, that you’ll be used against him someday.”
“I don’t believed that,” Sadira said. “He promised to take me to Nibenay, and so far he’s keeping that promise.”
“You shall see Nibenay,” Rhayn said. “Do not despair of that. But when you leave, it will be with the Sun Runners—or not at all.”
Rhayn paused to let Sadira consider the warning. After a few moments, she said, “There is an alternative.”
The sorceress raised a brow. “And what is that?”
“All Sun Runners remember when Faenaeyon was a great chief, and that’s why so many tolerate him now,” Rhayn said. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But there are those of us who are tired of living in fear and having every coin we earn stolen by him.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Sadira said.
“Nothing and everything,” answered Rhayn. “That’s the beauty of it. Even if we wished to see Faenaeyon hurt, which we don’t, we couldn’t kill him. Too many of the old warriors remember when he was young, and they would never stand for his assassination.”
“What do you want from me?” the sorceress asked, deciding to cut directly to the point.
“If you could incapacitate my father, the tribe would have to select a new leader,” Rhayn said.
“You, of course,” concluded Sadira.
“Perhaps.” Rhayn shrugged. “But the important thing is, there’ll be no trouble between those who support Faenaeyon and those who don’t.”
“Because you’ll blame me,” Sadira said. Over the last two days, she had begun to feel a certain fondness for Rhayn, and thought the same had been true for the elf. Now, it was clear that her sister had only been preparing her as a scapegoat.
“It will come to that only if someone figures out what you did,” Rhayn said, not even trying to deny the treachery in her plan. “Even then, you should be safe enough. You and I won’t make our move for a week, until we’re near Nibenay. By the time anyone realizes what happened, you’ll be in the city—free of us and Faenaeyon.”
Sadira studied the elf for a moment, then shook her head in disbelief. “You must take me for a fool,” she said.
“Not at all,” the elf said. “I know you to be a cunning woman—cunning enough to know that if you want to leave the Sun Runners alive, this is your only hope.”
“I’ll take my chances with Faenaeyon,” Sadira replied coldly.
“The mistake you’re making is a fatal one,” Rhayn hissed. She spun around and stalked off, her infant sobbing more loudly than ever.
As Rhayn left, Magnus came over, leading his kank and Sadira’s behind him. “You must delight in the danger,” the windsinger observed, watching Rhayn leave. “A stranger among lirrs does not usually give two of the beasts such good reasons to eat her.”
“I have faced worse elves,” Sadira replied. “But how do you know what passed between Rhayn and me?”
Magnus tilted his ears forward. “When someone speaks, I seldom miss a word,” he said, waving the huge appendages back and forth. “It’s a curse of my heritage.”
“Which is what?” she asked. When the windsinger did not answer, she pressed the question. “I’ve never met anyone like you. What, exactly are you?”
“An elf, of course,” the windsinger said, flattening his ears. He started walking, taking his mount and Sadira’s to join the rest of the tribe’s kanks.
“You don’t look like any elf I know,” Sadira said, following the windsinger.
“My appearance makes no difference. I’ve been with the Sun Runners all my life,” Magnus answered sharply. Then more gently, he said, “Faenaeyon found me near the Pristine Tower, then took me in and raised me at his fire.”
“The Pristine Tower!” Sadira gasped. “Could you take me there?”
“Not even if I wanted to. I was only a babe when Faenaeyon found me,” the windsinger said, shaking his head. “Besides, no matter what you’ve told Faenaeyon, you don’t want to go to that place.”
“Why not?” Sadira asked.
“Because it beset by New Beasts, creatures more horrid and vicious than those anywhere else on Athas.” He stopped walking and looked down his long muzzle at the sorceress. “You couldn’t survive a day in that place. No one could.”
“Apparently, you did,” Sadira observed. “And so did Faenaeyon.”
“When he was young, Faenaeyon did many impossible things,” Magnus said, resuming his stride. “And as for myself, the winds have always watched after me.”
Realizing that she would learn nothing of the Pristine Tower’s location from Magnus, Sadira switched the topic to something of more immediate interest. “If you were raised by Faenaeyon, then I doubt you’re part of Rhayn’s plan,” the sorceress said. “You could warn him of what she’s doing.”
“And why would you want me to do that?” asked Magnus.
“Because he’d never take my word over hers,” Sadira answered. “And I don’t want to get blamed if she tries something before we reach Nibenay.”
“Sorry,” Magnus said. “I intend to keep her secret. Faenaeyon was a great chief when he was younger, but Rhayn’s right about him now. It would be better for us all if you did as she asked.”
SEVEN
THE DANCING
GATE
“IS THAT NIBENAY?”
Sadira pointed at the plain below, to, where a distant city of minarets huddled in the shade of a rocky butte.
“Of course,” Faenaeyon answered, keeping his eyes focused on the hillside beneath his feet. He leaped over a spray of yellow cloudbrush, landing on a round boulder, then immediately launched himself toward a jumble of copper-colored stones. “Did I not promise to take you to t
he City of Spires?” he called.
“And now you have,” the sorceress confirmed. She kept her hands tightly clutched on her kank’s harness as it scuttled after her father’s running figure. “Your obligation has been met. You don’t have to escort me into the city.”
Faenaeyon stopped and looked at her. “You’ll need us to help you find a guide,” he said, a silver glint in his eye. “Besides, Nibenay is a good place for elves to do business.”
“I can take care—”
Sadira’s objection was interrupted by a wild scream from the hunters running ahead of the tribe.
“Tul’ks!”
Four terrified creatures sprang from the copse of silver-bristle and bounded down the hill. They were larger than half-giants and as gaunt as elves, with stooped shoulders and white skulls uncovered by any sort of flesh. The tul’ks had bulging eyes, toothless jaws, and a set of oblong cavities where their noses should have been. Each wore a shabby tunic of tanned leather, secured about their waists with snakeskin belts.
As they ran, the frightened man-beasts dragged their knuckles along the ground, using their gangling arms like an extra set of legs to keep themselves stumbling. The Sun Runner hunters set off in pursuit, gleefully nocking arrows as they leaped from boulder to boulder.
“Stop your warriors!” Sadira said.
Faenaeyon gave the sorceress a look of disdain. “Why?”
“Because it’s murder,” she replied. “The tul’ks have nothing to do with you.”
One of the hunters loosed and arrow that sank deep into a tul’k’s back. The man-beast stumbled and fell head over heels.
“They are beasts,” chief scoffed, grinning in amusement as he watched the injured tul’k regain his feet and try to flee.
“Beasts don’t wear clothes,” Sadira said. She thrust a hand into the satchel holding her spell components. “Call off your hunters, or I will.”
“As you wish,” Faenaeyon said. Turning toward the hunters, he boomed, “Let the tul’ks go!”
The elves came to a stop and looked back to Faenaeyon, their faces showing their confusion. “What did you say?” demanded one.
“He said to leave them alone,” Sadira called. “They’ve caused you no harm.”
The hunter looked from her back to Faenaeyon. “You want this?”
“I do,” Faenaeyon said. As the tul’ks disappeared into the brush, the chief turned to Sadira. “You really shouldn’t have stopped my hunters. By killing the tul’ks, we’re doing them a mercy.”
Sadira removed her hand from her satchel. “How can that be?”
“The tul’ks are descended from the Ruin Stalkers—a tribe of elves that disappeared three centuries ago.” He stepped closer, watching Sadira with a roguish grin on his lips. “Do you want to know how they became tul’ks?”
“Probably not,” the sorceress answered. “But tell me anyway.”
“The Pristine Tower,” Faenaeyon said. “They were searching for the treasures of the ancients.” He looked in the direction the tul’ks had fled, then added, “You saw for yourself what became of them.”
“What are you saying?” Sadira asked, suspicious of Faenaeyon’s story.
The chief shrugged. “The elders don’t claim to exactly know how it happened. The warriors might have fought between themselves, or they could have been attacked by a herd of wild erdlus,” he said. “Or maybe they just stumbled across a wasp’s nest. Whatever it was, everyone in the tribe was wounded, and they were changed into the beasts you saw.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you like,” Faenaeyon countered. “But if you go to the Pristine Tower, take care not to spill your blood. If you cut yourself, even if you scratch yourself, the magic of the place will change you into a beast more pitiful than the tul’ks. I’ve seen it happen.”
Sadira started to sneer at his claim, then remembered what the windsinger had told her about his origins. “Was that when you found Magnus?”
Faenaeyon’s eyes flashed, more in pain than anger. “Yes. What do you know about that?”
“Only what Magnus told me—that you found him there when he was a child.”
“He was a newborn baby,” the chief corrected.
“Tell me about it,” Sadira said. “Perhaps it’ll give me reason to heed your warning.”
Faenaeyon nodded. “When I was a young warrior, the Sand Dancers attacked us and stole my sister, Celba. By the time I recovered from my wounds and tracked them across the Ivory Plain, my sister had grown weary of being a slave-wife and fled into the desert. Her husband and four of his brothers went after her, so Celba fled to the one place they wouldn’t follow—the Pristine Tower. I found her pursuers camped in the lands just beyond the sight of the tower.”
“What did you do?” Sadira asked. She found herself more interested in Faenaeyon’s dedication to his sister than in what happened at the Pristine Tower. From the tale he had told so far, the chief did not sound like a man who would abandon a pregnant lover into slavery.
“I killed all five, of course,” Faenaeyon answered. “Then I followed Celba into the wild lands. What I didn’t know was that the Sand Dancers had gotten a child on her. When I found her, she was already giving birth.”
“So Magnus is your nephew?” Sadira gasped.
The chief nodded. “Yes, but Celba didn’t live to raise him. Because of the blood she had shed during labor, the magic of the tower changed her into a hideous, mindless beast. She tried to devour her child, and to save Magnus I killed her with my own sword.”
“And Magnus was wounded, which is why he’s—”
“Do you take my blade to be that slow?” Faenaeyon demanded crossly. “Magnus was born as he is.”
The chief fell silent and began a gentle trot toward Nibenay. Sadira spent a moment trying to reconcile the image she had always had of her father as a coward with the tale of bravery she had just heard. When she could not, she gave up and urged her mount after him.
As her kank came up behind Faenaeyon, she called, “If you’re telling me this because you want me to stay with the tribe, it won’t work.”
Faenaeyon slowed, allowing Sadira to guide her mount to his side. When he spoke, his voice was overly calm. “What makes you think I want you to stay?”
“Don’t you?” Sadira demanded.
The chief allowed a conniving smile to cross his lips, but did not take his eyes off the ground over which he ran. “We might come to an arrangement—”
“I doubt it,” the sorceress spat. “My talents are not for sale.”
Faenaeyon shrugged. “That’s unfortunate,” he sighed. “But it doesn’t change what you’ll find at the Pristine Tower. Truly, it would be better if you stayed with us.”
“Better for you, perhaps,” Sadira answered. “But I’ve promised to go there, and I will.”
“Only a fool would let her promise kill her,” Faenaeyon answered, shaking his head. “There’s a reason fear is stronger than duty.”
Sadira wanted to ask if he had forsaken her mother because he was frightened, but restrained herself. To do so would have been to reveal her true identity, and she still thought it wise not to trust her father with that particular secret.
Instead, she said, “Fear isn’t always stronger than duty, even for an elf. You must have been afraid when you went after Celba.”
“I was angry, not scared. No one steals from me!” Faenaeyon said, glancing at her with a frown. “If I had let them take my sister, they would have come back for my kanks and my silver.”
“I should have known,” Sadira said. If there was a bitterness in her voice, it was because she felt naive for thinking her father had ever acted out of noble motives. “You elves live only for yourselves.”
“Who else?” Faenaeyon asked. They reached the bottom of the hill and started across the flat plain, pushing their way through a thick growth of brittlebrush. “Life is too short to waste on illusions like duty and loyalty.”
“What about
love?” she asked. The sorceress was curious about Faenaeyon’s feelings for her mother, and how, if he knew Sadira’s true identity, he would feel about her. “Is that an illusion?”
“If so, it is a good one,” Faenaeyon said, grinning. The terrain here was less broken, so he could afford to look at Sadira more often. “I have loved many women.”
“Used them, perhaps, but you didn’t love them,” Sadira said acidly. She did not know whether she was more angered by the elf’s flippant use of the word love, or the implication that her mother had been one insignificant consort in a stream of many.
Faenaeyon frowned. “How would you know about my women?”
“If you feel no duty or loyalty to your women, you can’t love them,” Sadira countered, avoiding a direct answer to the question.
“Love is not bondage,” the chief scoffed.
“I know that as well as you,” Sadira countered. “But it’s not self-indulgence, either. Did you even care for all the women you took as lovers?”
“Of course,” the chief replied.
“Then prove it,” Sadira said.
“And how do you expect me to do that?”
“Nothing too difficult. Just name them,” Sadira replied, wondering what it would feel like to hear Faenaeyon speak her mother’s name—or to hear him forget it.
“All of them?”
Sadira nodded. “If you cared for them all.”
The chief shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly,” he said. “There’ve been too many.”
“I thought as much,” Sadira sneered. She tapped her kank’s antennae, urging it into a gallop.
Faenaeyon quickly caught up to her. “There’s no reason for haste,” he said, loping along at her side. “We’ll reach the city long before they close the gates for the night.”
“Good,” Sadira said, not slowing her mount.
They continued at that pace throughout the morning, eventually coming to a caravan track that led into the city. A spirited melody rose from the main gate and drifted out over the plains, welcoming the travelers to Nibenay. Many of the elves began to dance, trotting along the duty road in a heel-to-toe quickstep. Some of the warriors kept the beat by pounding the flats of their blades against a kank’s carapace. Even those fatigued by the morning’s hard run joined in the revelry and rocked their shoulders to and fro.
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