The Amber Enchantress

by Denning, Troy

  Sensing the time had come for her to escape as well, Sadira began to draw the energy for the spell. Dhojakt’s claws clattered across the cobblestones, and he was beside her almost instantly.

  “Don’t,” the prince advised, his corpulent lips drawn back and his bony mouthparts dripping venom. “Before you die, my father wishes to hear how you learned of the Pristine Tower.”

  “You know where I’m going?” Sadira gasped. Despite her shock, the sorceress did not cut off the flow of energy rising into her body.

  “You have been warned,” Dhojakt snapped. He reached out to grasp Sadira, at the same time lowering his gruesome mouth to her neck.

  The sorceress leaped back. Her feet had barely touched the ground when a golden flare shot from the darkness of a distant alley. The streak blasted into the prince’s temple, exploding into a ball of blazing embers that would have reduced a half-giant’s head to a lump of charred bone.

  The spell did not even scorch Dhojakt. The prince shook his head as though dazzled by the light, then scowled at the tunnel from which he had been attacked.

  The attack stunned Sadira more than it had Dhojakt. It did not seem unusual that another member of the Veiled Alliance had been secretly watching her exchange with Raka, but the sorceress could hardly believe the unseen wizard had moved so quickly to defend her. The Tyrian Alliance would not have extended such protection to a stranger.

  Nevertheless, Sadira was determined not to waste the bravery of the Nibenese. Judging from how easily the prince had resisted the previous spell thrown at him, the sorceress knew it would be futile to use magic to injure him. Instead, she could only hope to keep him detained long enough for her and her saviors to flee.

  Dhojakt grasped her wrist and started toward the alley. “You shall pay for your brazenness!” he yelled.

  Sadira plucked a thread from her robe. She laid the strand across his arm, simultaneously uttering an incantation. The filament lengthened, wrapping itself around Dhojakt hundreds of times in the span of a single instant. From the head to the last segment of his centipedelike body, the prince was swaddled in a mesh of constricting fibers.

  The sorceress pulled free and ran toward her rescuer’s tunnel. She was only a few yards from her goal when she heard Dhojakt’s voice. “Do you really think you’ll escape Nibenay when I’m looking for you?”

  Sadira looked over her shoulder. The prince was still entwined, but he had curled himself into a ball. With the claws of his many legs, he was furiously ripping apart the strands of her magical net—strands that should have been impervious to cutting or tearing for another hour.

  “In the name of Ral!” she gasped. “Is there no magic that will stop you?”

  NINE

  THE BARD’S

  QUARTER

  SADIRA FLED INTO THE ALLEY, LEAVING DHOJAKT IN the square. Once she had gained the sheltering darkness of the tunnel she paused and called into the shadows.

  “I owe you my life. Where to now?”

  No one replied. From behind the sorceress came the sound of more clattering. She glanced back and saw that Dhojakt had freed his hands. He was pulling the magical mesh off his torso as if it were ordinary rope. He kept his nose turned in her direction, his nostrils flaring as he tested the air for her scent.

  The sorceress moved deeper into the tunnel. “Hello?”

  When her only answer was the distant sound of running feet, Sadira decided to waste no more time looking for her rescuer. She rushed into the darkness, not waiting even the single moment it would take for her elven vision to become active. A few steps later, she came to a corner and saw light streaming in from the right.

  Sadira rushed around the corner and felt a huge, knobby hand grasp her by the wrist. A hulking form stepped away from the alley wall, silhouetting itself against the far end of the tunnel.

  “Magnus!” Sadira gasped.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” came the windsinger’s reply.

  A taller, more slender form stepped into view from the opposite wall. “You cost Faenaeyon a lot of silver, and he wants it back,” said Rhayn, brandishing a bone dagger. “He’s sent the whole tribe out to look for you.”

  Sadira casted a nervous glance back towards Sage’s Square. Of course, she saw nothing but darkness, which only made her more fearful of the threat that would soon be coming after her. “Faenaeyon’s not going to get his coins back, especially if we don’t get out of here.”

  Sadira started to move forward, but Magnus pulled her back. Rhayn pressed the dagger to the sorceress’s throat. “Not until we come to an agreement.”

  “You don’t understand!” Sadira objected. “Prince Dhojakt will be—”

  “I know all about Prince Dhojakt,” hissed Rhayn. “Who do you think saved you from him?”

  “You?” Sadira gasped.

  Rhayn nodded. “My spells may not be as powerful as yours, but they serve their purpose,” she said. “Now, as you pointed out just a moment ago, you owe me your life. I’ll settle for a favor that costs you a great deal less.”

  “What do you want?” Sadira asked, listening for any sign that Dhojakt had entered the other end of the tunnel.

  “Do you remember the matter we discussed at the Silver Spring?”

  “The overthrow of Faenaeyon,” Sadira responded.

  Rhayn nodded. “Will you help me, or would you rather return to the prince? Answer quickly—I doubt you have much time to think matters over.”

  “I’ll do it,” Sadira answered. “Assuming you’ll keep me hidden from Dhojakt until I can make other arrangements.”

  Rhayn did not take her dagger from the sorceress’s throat. “And you won’t change your mind just because Faenaeyon’s your father?”

  “How do you know that?” Sadira asked.

  Rhayn looked at Magnus, who wagged his large ears back and forth. “The same way we know why you’re so keen to go to the Pristine Tower,” the windsinger said. “You’ll do as Rhayn asks?”

  “Faenaeyon’s blood may run in my veins, but he’s no father to me,” Sadira said. “I’ll help you—if Dhojakt doesn’t kill us first.”

  Rhayn nodded to Magnus, and the windsinger led Sadira out of the tunnel at a trot. Rhayn lingered behind and removed a vial of green liquid from her shoulder satchel. She opened the top and poured the entire contents over the floor where the trio had been standing, then joined the other two.

  “Why’d you do that?” Sadira asked.

  “Dhojakt knows your smell,” explained the elf. “This will keep him from tracking you, and us.”

  With that, she motioned to Magnus, who led them through the city’s alley to a crumbling gateway opening into the Elven Market. This area of Nibenay had once been a vast palace. Its battered walls were still decorated with stone reliefs that depicted a jungle unlike anything Sadira had ever seen. On the ground, naked hunters armed with broad-tipped spears stalked all sorts of vicious animals, and sometimes even bare-breasted women, through a tangle of vines and blossoming trees. Above the warriors’ heads, lethargic snakes hung draped over low branches, and inert lizards clung to smooth stretches of bark. In the canopy of the jungle, flitting from one branch to another, were all manner of birds, magnificently plumed and so plump it seemed impossible they could fly.

  The reliefs could not have been a starker contrast to the pungent bazaar that now occupied the citadel’s outer ward. With a total disregard for order, dozens of elven tribes had pitched their hemp pavilions and lizard-skin marquees upon the courtyard. Wherever Sadira looked, leering elves were barking offers to sell everything from honey-boiled cactus to dwarven children.

  With Magnus’s immense bulk blazing a trail through the close-pressed throng, the trio steered their way through the mad bazaar as Sadira might the familiar halls of Agis’s mansion. Finally, they passed beneath another gate, this one leading to what had once been the palace’s inner courtyard, and the babble of the elven bazaar faded to a distant buzz.

  The grounds of this small ward wer
e so tightly packed with mud-brick shacks that Magnus could barely walk down the lane. On every second stoop sat a handsome man or comely woman, strumming dulcet notes on a lute or sitar, often accompanying the tune with the practiced voice of a vagabond troubadour.

  Despite the sweet sounds, Sadira had to fight to keep from retching as they moved deeper into the ward. The sour aroma of stale broy poured from every doorway, and amorphous piles of rubbish filled the sweltering air with the stench of human refuse.

  Magnus stopped in front of a small building decorated with human skulls and the skeleton of some six-legged rodent as large as a halfling. “This is the one.”

  “Watch Sadira,” Rhayn said.

  “Why are we here?” Sadira asked. “Isn’t this the Bard’s Quarter?”

  “Very observant,” Rhayn answered, stepping toward the door. “As for why we’re here, you’ll understand that soon enough.”

  Magnus took the sorceress’s arm in his hand, and held it in a firm grip. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Rhayn knows what she’s doing.”

  Despite the windsinger’s reassurances, Sadira kept a careful watch in both directions. Bards were notorious assassins, as well versed in the arts of killing as they were in singing and poetry. From the stories she had heard, they would not hesitate to murder someone for the sole purpose of testing a new technique.

  Rhayn returned just a few minutes later, accompanied by a peculiar-looking half-elf with skin as white as bone and a star tattooed over one eye. In his hands, the minstrel carried a small wine cask, which he placed at Magnus’s feet.

  “One goblet and your troubles will be gone,” he said, speaking to Rhayn.

  “And the antidote?” Rhayn demanded, holding out her hand.

  “The price was for the wine,” the bard said, turning away. “The antidote is extra.”

  Rhayn reached for her dagger, but Magnus caught her arm and shook his head.

  “A wise beast you have,” said the minstrel, slowly turning around to sneer at Rhayn. “Only a fool would try to best a bard at his own art.”

  “I’m no beast,” Magnus growled. “And Rhayn is no fool. The price she offered was for the antidote as well as the wine.”

  The bard glared at the windsinger, then switched to a brotherly smile. “Come now, my friend, we’re only talking about another silver.” He reached up to place an amicable hand on Magnus’s shoulder.

  The sudden switch from hostility to good will sent a cold shiver down Sadira’s spine. She turned one palm toward the ground and plunged the other into her satchel, searching for the pocket that contained her sulfur balls. “Touch him and there’ll be a scorched hole where you and your house once stood.”

  The bard quickly drew his hand away from the windsinger, and Sadira glimpsed a dark needle disappearing between two of his fingers.

  “Very observant,” the man said. He eyed the sorceress’s hands for a moment, then slowly withdrew a bone vial from his pocket. It was decorated with what appeared to be musical notes. “This is enough to protect twenty of your tribesman from the poison. Two drops before drinking will counteract any amount of wine, but you’ll need twice that dose if you wait until after the poison has taken effect.” He handed the vial to Rhayn, then passed an open palm over a closed fist. “Our business is done. You have nothing to fear if you do as I have explained.”

  With that, he went back into his house.

  Magnus turned to Sadira. “I think you’ve just saved my life. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” the sorceress answered, confident that she had. She raised an eyebrow at the cask by his feet. “I thought you were only going to disable Faenaeyon?”

  “Snakes have many kinds of venoms,” Rhayn answered, motioning for the windsinger to pick up the keg. “Not all are fatal.”

  As they started out of the quarter, Sadira asked, “And exactly what do you want me to do?”

  “Very little,” she said. Simply return to the tower with us. We’ll claim that we found you with this cask of wine—”

  “I told you before I won’t take the blame,” Sadira said. “That’s especially true now, since I don’t know how long I’ll need to hide with the Sun Runners.”

  “No one will blame you—or anyone else,” said Rhayn.

  “It’ll look like Faenaeyon drank himself into a stupor and never recovered.”

  “And you expect me to believe this poison will affect only your father?” Sadira asked.

  “It’ll have the same effect on anyone who drinks it, but Faenaeyon is as selfish with his wine as he is with his silver,” Rhayn said. She held up the small bottle of antidote. “Besides, that’s why I have this. If someone else sneaks a swallow, I’ll slip it to him before anyone realizes he’s been poisoned.”

  Sadira stopped and reached for the bone vial. “I’ll keep the antidote,” she said. “If you betray me, I’ll give it to Faenaeyon—and your plan will be for naught.”

  “You’ve nothing to fear,” Rhayn said, withdrawing the vial.

  Sadira continued to hold out her hand and did not move. “I agreed to help you and I will—but not because I’m a fool,” she said. “It suits me to stay with the Sun Runners for a time, but I won’t involve myself in your plot unless I have a safeguard.”

  “After what you did for Magnus, I would not let you come to harm,” said Rhayn.

  “Surely, you don’t expect me to believe that?”

  “If I were you, I suppose I wouldn’t,” Rhayn sighed. She handed the flask to Sadira. “But I warn you, if you try to betray us, the tribe will accept my word and Magnus’s over anything you say.”

  “Of course,” Sadira answered. She turned and briskly led the way out of the Bard’s Quarter, walking well ahead of her companions.

  As the sorceress stepped through the gate leading into the Elven Market, she bumped into a young elf coming around the corner. The young warrior’s jaw fell slack, and he stared at her as though looking at the king of Nibenay himself.

  “I beg your pardon,” Sadira said, moving to step around him.

  The elf grabbed the collar of the blue smock the sorceress was wearing, reaching for his dagger with the other hand. Sadira stomped on the arch of his foot and pulled away, leaving long strip of cloth in the astonished elf’s hand.

  “Leave me alone,” she warned.

  The elf pulled his dagger and cautiously limped toward her. “Who’d have thought I’d find you so close to camp?”

  The young warrior’s face, with its hooked nose and square jaw line, seemed only remotely familiar to Sadira. “Are you a Sun Runner?” she asked.

  “How many other tribes have you robbed?” the elf demanded. “Come with me. Faenaeyon wants to—”

  The youth stopped speaking in midsentence and peered over Sadira’s shoulder. “Magnus, Rhayn! What are you doing here?” he demanded. His gaze dropped to the heavy keg in the windsinger’s hand. “Where did you get that?”

  There followed an uncomfortable silence as Sadira waited for companions to respond. When both Magnus and Rhayn seemed too stunned to answer, Sadira did it for them. “As you can see,” she said, gesturing at her captors. “I’ve already been caught.”

  “With a cask from the Bard’s Quarter?” the youth demanded, pointing his dagger at the poisoned wine. “What fool did you intend to drink that?”

  This time, not even Sadira could think of reasonable answer. There was only one thing to do with a cask from the Bard’s Quarter, and the young warrior certainly seemed to realize what it was. Even if the sorceress claimed that the wine had been intended for someone else, Faenaeyon would never drink it now.

  Then Sadira thought of the antidote in her pocket. “There’s nothing wrong with this wine,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to share some with me?”

  The warrior scowled at her. “I’m no fool.”

  “This wine is not poisoned, Gaefal, if that is what you are thinking,” said Rhayn, picking up on Sadira’s tactic. “I’ll have some too.”

  “How
can you know this wine’s safe to drink?” the youth demanded.

  “Because she didn’t get it here,” said Magnus. “We saw her buy it from the Swift Wings.”

  “I saw no wine in the tent of the Swift Wings. And their camp is on the other side of the market,” Gaefal said, waving the cloth he had ripped from Sadira’s collar toward the far end of the courtyard. “Why let her come all the way to the Bard’s Quarter if you saw her back there?”

  As he realized the answer to his own question, the young warrior’s jaw dropped. “You’re lying,” he gasped, backing away. “I don’t know why, or what you’re up to, but you’re

  lying.”

  He turned and began to push his way into the crowd.

  “Gaefal, come back!” yelled Magnus.

  When the young warrior showed no sign of obeying, Rhayn pulled her dagger and threw it. The blade struck the boy squarely between the shoulder blades, sinking clear to the hilt. He cried out once, then sprawled face-first onto the cobblestones.

  A few astonished cries rose from the crowd, then people scurried away as fast as they could. In the Elven Market, someone died every day. If this time it happened to be an elf, it was more a cause for relief than concern.

  For a moment, the three stood outside the Bard’s Quarter in absolute silence, staring at the boy’s unmoving body. Finally, Magnus allowed the cask to slip from his thick fingers. “Rhayn!” he gasped. “In the name of the Silt Wind, what have you done?”

  “Stopped him from giving us away, that’s what,” the elf answered. She pushed the windsinger toward the youth’s inert body. “Now heal him, then we’ll decide what to do.”

  Sadira started to follow Magnus, but Rhayn pointed at the cask. “Don’t let that out of your sight,” she said. “Someone will steal it.”

  The sorceress began to object, but when she thought of what would happen to the hapless thief who stole the keg of poisoned wine, Sadira saw the wisdom of Rhayn’s command.

  The windsinger’s lyrical voice began to drift over the cobblestones, carried on a soft breeze. He was singing the same healing canticle he had used to mend Sadira’s wounds. It was a calm, melancholy tune with an undertone of hope and kindness, and Magnus rendered it beautifully.