The Amber Enchantress

by Denning, Troy

  The thing moved forward on six bandy legs, scuttling across the rippled sands of the kank’s mind with surprising speed. It stopped at the base of a dune and dropped to its haunches, where it seemed to be waiting until a thought passed near enough to ambush.

  Deciding the time had come to show himself, Tithian pictured himself rising from the sands. The creature remained motionless, watching with no sign of fear or curiosity as the king emerged. First came his golden diadem, then his long tail of auburn hair, his hawk-nosed face, and finally his gaunt torso.

  “Who are you?” asked the creature, his nostrils flaring in suspicion.

  “The King of Tyr,” Tithian answered, straining to keep his body from being drawn back beneath the sands. “And you are the King of Nibenay?”

  The king-beast did not answer. Instead, he demanded, “You wish to speak with me, Usurper?”

  Tithian’s face hardened at the other’s derogatory tone. “We must discuss a matter that concerns both our cities.

  “I’ll judge what concerns Nibenay,” the sorcerer-king spat.

  “Of course,” Tithian allowed, “but I’m sure this matter will interest you. Have you heard of the Pristine Tower?”

  The sorcerer-king’s eyes darkened to fiery scarlet. He scuttled forward, his corpulent arms half-raised. “What do you know of the Tower?”

  Tithian sank a few inches into the sands. “Enough to realize the Dragon would not want someone to visit it.”

  “Anyone foolish enough to go there would never survive.”

  “This one might,” Tithian corrected. “She’s a powerful sorceress and is one of the people who killed Kalak.”

  “Sadira of Tyr,” the creature hissed.

  “You know her?” Tithian asked, surprised.

  “I know of her,” he answered. “Even if my spies did not inform me of what happens in Tyr, the caravan minstrels have made her name familiar to my slaves.” The sorcerer-king frowned thoughtfully. “You must kill the sorceress at once.”

  Noting that the Nibenese ruler had not even asked why Sadira was going to the tower, Tithian asked, “What will she discover at the Pristine Tower?”

  “In all likelihood, death—or something much worse,” the king-beast, answered. “But if she survives, she might find what she wants.” He gave Tithian a distrustful look, then asked, “She is searching for a way to deny the Dragon his levy, and he’ll call upon the rest of us to make up the difference.”

  “She is,” Tithian answered.

  “Then you must be certain she does not succeed,” the other said. “If she challenges him, the Dragon will take his wrath out on all of Tyr. That will leave one less city to supply him with his levy, and he’ll call upon the rest of us to make up the difference.”

  “Why does the Dragon need so many slaves?” Tithian pressed, determined to learn as much as he could from this conversation.

  “That is not for me to say, or you to ask. Unless you wish your reign to be a short one, do not concern yourself with such questions,” the Nibenese king warned. He pointed to a corpulent arm at Tithian. “Just kill the sorceress at once.”

  Realizing he had learned all he would from his counterpart, Tithian said, “If Sadira were in Tyr, I would have done it already—but she is in Nibenay.”

  The eyes of the sorcerer-king narrowed. “My son will see that she never leaves the city,” he said, his form shimmering as he brought the audience to an end. “But I will demand a dear price for this favor.”

  Sadira had never before seen anything like the man-beast clattering into the square. He seemed to be a part human and part cilops. From the knees down, he resembled a giant centipede, with a flat body divided into twelve segments. Each section was supported by a pair of slender legs ending in hooked claws. From the knees up, he was remotely human, with his torso swaddled in a silk sarami and a black skullcap covering his shaved head. He had tiny ears located at the base of his jaw, bulbous eyes resembling those of the cilops, and a muzzle with cavernous nostrils that flared every time he drew a breath.

  Sadira ducked into the sweltering darkness of the nearest alley and hoped the cilops-man would pass. She had no particular reason to hide from him, but she thought it wisest to avoid officials of the sorcerer-king—which this person obviously was. In front of him walked two half-giants, their loins swaddled in silken breechcloths and their arms cradling great clubs of blue agafari wood. Behind him came a pair of bare-breasted Nibenese templars, each wearing necklaces of colored beads and a yellow skirt decorated with a wide bejeweled belt.

  As the official passed in front of Sadira’s hiding place, his black eyes turned in her direction and seemed to linger on the place where she stood. The sorceress held her breath and did not move. Not even an elf’s eyes could penetrate the alley’s dark shadows while standing in the light of day, but Sadira was less sure about the man-beast’s other senses. Judging from his large muzzle and flaring nostrils, it certainly seemed possible that he could smell her—though her scent would only be one among a hundred odors from the squalid alley.

  After what seemed an interminable length of time, the official continued on. Sadira breathed a sigh of relief and waited, not wanting to step from her hiding place until the procession was out of sight.

  The sorceress had spent the night shivering in the city’s crowded alleys with other vagrants, then had gone to the Elven Market at dawn. She had to assume that her best chance of contacting the Veiled Alliance lay in that disreputable quarter, for it was there that sorcerers came to purchase snake tongues, glow worms, powered wychwood, and other ingredients vital to their magic. In Nibenay, as in most Athasian cities, the sorcerer-king jealously guarded the right to use magic, reserving the precious plant energy in his fields for himself and his agents. Therefore, magic components had to be smuggled into city and sold secretly—just the sort of sneaky work at which elves excelled. Unfortunately, Sadira had not managed to spy out any sorcerers. Therefore, she had decided to try her luck in Sage’s Square, where she had heard sorcerers sometimes came to hear wise men speak.

  Once the man-beast and his escorts were out of sight, Sadira slipped from the alley and entered the refreshing coolness of Sage’s square. It was surrounded on all sides by the city’s largest merchant emporiums, though the stately buildings were hardly visible through the grove of blue-barked agafari trees that dominated the plaza. More than fifty of the mighty hardwoods were scattered throughout the park, their gnarled roots sunken into circles of unpaved ground. Their trunks did not rise so much as flow into the air, marked as they were by deep creases and ribbonlike pleats that gave Sadira an impression of immeasurable age. A hundred feet above the ground, they spread their boughs out in great, sweeping fans, shading the entire square with a canopy of enormous turquoise leaves shaped like hearts.

  Marveling at the beauty of the trees, Sadira worked her way through the grove until she came to a small crowd. The mob was gathered around two old men seated on the gnarled roots of one of the trees, neither wearing anything more than a breechcloth of plain hemp. Both were impossibly thin, with haggard faces and limbs that seemed nothing but leathery skin draped over bones as thin as canes.

  “Only with an empty mind can you find your true self,” said the first sage. Despite his great age, he appeared to be as limber as an elf, for he had folded his ankles beneath his buttocks at an angle that most humans would have found impossible. “Looking into a head filled with thoughts is like looking at your reflection in the waves of an oasis pond. You may see a face, but mistake it for one of the moons.”

  There was a short silence while the second sage formulated his reply. Finally, he said, “The heart is more important than the mind. If it is unstained, the mind will be pure; there is no need to empty it.”

  Sadira ran her hand across her lips and chin as if pondering the sage’s words. If there were any members of Nibenay’s Veiled Alliance in the audience, they would recognize the gesture as a request to meet. Sooner or later, someone would approach her
to determine what she wanted.

  Sadira listened to the wise men continue their debate for several minutes. Finally, she repeated her gesture, this time pretending to scratch her nose, and left. As she stepped away, a thin youth wearing a sarami of green hemp bumped into her.

  “I thought you would never leave,” he said, bowing low and running his own hand over his lips.

  The young man stood a head shorter than the half-elf, with ginger-colored skin and warm-brown eyes. His features were gentle and boyish, with the thin line of a mustache creasing his upper lip. He took Sadira’s arm and led her toward a basin in the center of the grove, where a trickle of water spilled from the mouth of a stone mantis.

  “What do you need?” the youth asked.

  “Assistance,” Sadira answered, wasting no time in getting to the point. She had only a few moments before the boy left, for the less time they spent together the less dangerous the meeting was for both of them. “I’m looking for someplace called the Pristine Tower, located in the desert to the east. I need supplies, a guide if you can supply one, and silver.”

  “You ask a great deal,” the youth commented.

  “It’s in a good cause,” Sadira said. “The secret of the Dragon’s birth is hidden in the tower. I hope to uncover it.”

  “To what end?” the youth asked.

  “The Dragon has demanded a thousand lives from the city of Tyr. I’m trying to save those lives—and perhaps many more from Nibenay and the other cities of Athas.”

  The youth stopped and studied Sadira for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he said, “If that is truly your goal, I fear you are too late—at least this session.”

  “What do you mean?” Sadira asked.

  “Once each year, the king sends his son into the desert with a thousand slaves,” the boy said. “The prince and his retinue returned just a few days ago—without their charges, as always.”

  “He delivered the slaves to the Dragon?” Sadira asked.

  “We don’t know,” the youth answered. He shrugged, then began weaving his way through the trees. “Our spies have never returned from these journeys. Your explanation sounds as reasonable as any.”

  “Then I don’t have much time before the Dragon reaches Tyr,” Sadira said.

  “Perhaps four weeks,” the Nibenese agreed. “Gulg lies directly between the two cities, so the Dragon will certainly stop their first. It’s even possible that he will travel north to Urik or south to Balic before going to Tyr—”

  “I doubt it,” Sadira said. “I need your help now more than ever. Can I count on it?”

  “The decision is not mine,” the boy answered, turning to go. “But I will tell you this much. If my master believes you, I know he’ll help.”

  Sadira caught the boy by the arm. “Then please tell your master that it is Sadira of Tyr who needs assistance.”

  The young man’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Sadira?” he gasped. “The one who—”

  “Yes,” Sadira answered, touching her fingers to his lips. “And I’m very much in need of your help.”

  The youth bowed to her. “I have heard the minstrels sing of your bravery and your beauty, but never did I expect to meet you in person,” he said. “I wager you shall have all you need.”

  Sadira pulled the young man upright, blushing at his open adoration. “Please hurry,” she answered. “Where shall I meet you, and when?”

  “Call me Raka. We shall meet—”

  He stopped speaking, for the crowd had suddenly parted to allow a pair of half-giants through. Following close behind was the man-beast official Sadira had avoided earlier, his bulbous eyes sweeping the faces of everyone in the square.

  In a terrified whisper, Raka hissed, “Prince Dhojakt!”

  Sadira slipped her arm through the crook of Raka’s elbow, pulling him close and fawning at him. The surprised youth stumbled and nearly fell, but Sadira caught him. Running a long finger under his chin, she gave him a beguiling smile. “Relax, my young sweet. Soon, you will know the thirty-six positions of love.”

  “I will?”

  Dhojakt’s gaze reached the pair and stopped. He started toward them, his bulbous eyes fixed on Sadira’s amber hair. The sorceress’s heart began to pound fiercely, for the prince was clearly searching for someone, and she had the sinking feeling it might be her.

  The sorceress released Raka’s arm and pushed him away. “Sorry, little boy,” she said, flashing Prince Dhojakt a frankly wanton smile. “It seems I’ve found a deeper purse.”

  Without waiting to see how Raka would respond, she walked toward Dhojakt with a wildly exaggerated sway to her hips. “See something you like, Mighty One?”

  Scowling, the half-giants positioned themselves between her and their master. Dhojakt’s templars stepped forward to go after Raka, but Sadira’s maneuver had already bought the youth several seconds—enough time, the sorceress hoped, for him to fade into the grove.

  As the templars bustled past Sadira, the half-elf suggestively ran her eyes over the flabby torso of the nearest guard. Resisting the temptation to glance back and see if Raka had escaped, she laid a hand on the inside of the half-giant’s thigh and fixed her gaze on Dhojakt.

  The prince studied Sadira for several moments, his eyes never drifting from her face. Accustomed to dealing with all sorts of looks from men, the sorceress did not let the seductive smile leave her lips.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Where are you from?” the prince demanded. When he drew his corpulent lips back to speak, Sadira noticed that in the place of teeth, he had bony mandibles.

  “Tyr,” Sadira answered truthfully, realizing that her accent had probably already told him that much.

  “How did you arrive here?”

  “With an iron caravan.” The sorceress ran a hand up her hip. “I earned my passage. The captain was pleased.”

  “No doubt,” the prince sneered. He studied her for several moments more, his face vacant of any hint that he found her attractive or enticing. At last, he said, “You will come with me—Sadira of Tyr.”

  The sound of her name struck Sadira like a war-hammer. The sorceress immediately began to wonder how the prince had learned her identity, but could think of no reasonable answer. She knew that he had not used the Way to probe her mind, for Agis had practiced such invasions against her until she recognized them instinctively. Besides, it appeared that Dhojakt had been looking for her since that moment he entered the square and that could only mean she had been betrayed. The Sun Runners, of course, were the obvious suspects—save that Sadira had no reason to believe they knew her true identity.

  But now was not the time to wonder such things. Ignoring the knot of panic forming in her stomach, she asked, “Where are we going?” The sorceress neither denied nor confirmed her name, for she knew that even if the prince was unsure of his identification, he would insist on interrogating her.

  “To the Forbidden Palace,” the prince answered, motioning one of the half-giants forward. “You will follow Ghurs.”

  The sorceress obeyed. Dhojakt was no doubt prepared for her to flee. It would be wiser to save her energies until later, when she could hope to take him by surprise.

  Dhojakt’s templars returned a few moments later. Between them was a frightened youth of Raka’s age, also dressed in a sarami of green hemp. The boy threw himself to the ground at Sadira’s feet. “Tell them I was not with you!” he begged.

  Sadira glanced over her shoulder at the prince, preparing to summon the energy for a spell. The youth’s plea, however, had not provided the distraction the sorceress needed. Dhojakt’s eyes were fixed on her back, his thick lips twisted into a faintly amused sneer.

  The templars grabbed the young man’s shoulders and dragged him back to his feet. Keeping his eyes fixed on Sadira, the youth cried, “Please, say you do not know me!”

  Sadira looked away. “They wouldn’t believe me.”

  Although the sorceress suspected her words to be tr
ue, a pang of guilt shot through her breast. By doing as the youth asked, there was a slim chance she might have won his freedom. Unfortunately, if the templars realized they had captured the wrong person, they would probably resume their search for Raka. Sadira could not allow that to happen, for doing so would place Nibenay’s Veiled Alliance at risk. Instead, she would try to save the boy later, once Raka had had plenty of time to disappear.

  It did not appear Dhojakt would give her that chance. “We have no need of the youth,” he said.

  One of the templars pulled a dagger from her belt and raised it to strike.

  “No!” Sadira yelled, spinning around to face Dhojakt.

  The prince motioned the templar to stop. “Obviously, this boy is not of the Veiled Alliance, or he would never have allowed himself to be captured alive,” said Dhojakt. “Is there some other reason I should spare his life?”

  “Is there any cause to take it?”

  The prince smiled at her calmly. “I need no cause.”

  He nodded to the templar, signaling her to finish what she had begun.

  Though she had no doubt Dhojakt expected her to attack, the sorceress turned her palm downward. Before she could summon the energy for a spell, a tremendous sizzle echoed through the square. A woman’s voice screamed in agony, and the templar who had been preparing to kill the innocent youth fell to the ground. Her back was covered with a bubbling slime that had already dissolved the flesh clear to the bone.

  The prince raised a hand and pointed across the square, to where Raka was peering from behind the trunk of an agafari tree. “There’s the one we want,” Dhojakt said. “After him!”

  The uninjured templar and both half-giants obeyed the prince, sending astonished townsmen scurrying in all directions. Raka fled, and, closer to Sadira, so did the astonished youth who had been mistaken for the young sorcerer.