The Amber Enchantress

by Denning, Troy

  Before the sorceress had come to fully realize how angry she was at Rhayn for attacking the youth, she found all of her wrath fading away in the dulcet harmony of the healer’s song. There was no room in her heart except for the emotions that the music demanded of her; sympathy for the young man’s pain, and the desire to bear some of his suffering.

  The song ended too soon. Sadira rolled the heavy keg over to Magnus and Rhayn. The windsinger kneeled on the ground, the injured elf’s limp body cradled in one massive arm. To plug the hole in Gaefal’s back, he had used the shred of cloth the young warrior had ripped from Sadira’s collar.

  “What’s wrong?” Sadira asked. “Can’t you heal him?”

  The windsinger fixed his orbs on her face and slowly shook his head. “Even the winds of mist cannot bring man back from the dead.” He glanced up at Rhayn, who was staring at the boy with an expression of disbelief and horror. “ ’You have gone too far,” he said reproachfully.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him, but we couldn’t let him return to camp and tell on us,” Rhayn whispered. She ripped her eyes from the youth’s face and studied the area. There were no onlookers, for wise pedestrians in this part of the city made it a point not to interfere in others’ business. Nevertheless, the three companions were quite noticeable. In avoiding the area, the passersby had created a conspicuous circle of emptiness around the body.

  “We’d better leave,” Rhayn said. “Sooner or later, a templar will come.”

  Magnus nodded and laid the body down on the street. He gave Rhayn’s dagger back to her, then took the cask and started to leave.

  “What about Gaefal?” Sadira asked, unable to believe Rhayn and the windsinger would leave the body lying in the street.

  “We can’t take him back to camp,” Rhayn answered. With that, she turned to follow Magnus toward the center of the market.

  Sadira stood over the body a while longer, wondering what courtesies Sun Runners normally showed their dead. Finally, she decided that, given what she knew of elves so far, it might well be customary to let them lie where they fell. She turned and went after her two companions.

  When she caught up, Sadira said, “Rhayn, I want no part of helping you become chief if it means murdering innocent people.”

  Rhayn stopped and spun on the sorceress. “What does a defiler care about one elf’s death?”

  Hoping her eyes did not show how much Rhayn’s question had hurt, Sadira retorted, “I may be a defiler, but I have never killed one of my own.”

  Rhayn grabbed Sadira by the arm. “You are not a Sun Runner,” she hissed. “It doesn’t matter to you whether one of us dies or we all do. You’ll take the wine to my father.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Sadira countered.

  “Would you really want the Veiled Alliance to discover that the legendary Sadira of Tyr is a defiler?” Rhayn asked, releasing the sorceress’s arm. “And to believe that she would betray them to the king of Nibenay?”

  “It would be a simple thing for me to kill you,” Sadira warned. “I should probably do that anyway, considering what you are saying.”

  “And would that not make you a murderer, too?” Rhayn asked. The elf studied Sadira for several moments, then gave her a conciliatory smile. “Let us do what we must and be done with each other,” she said. “There is no reason for empty threats.”

  “My threat is not empty,” Sadira said. “I’ll help you with Faenaeyon, but only so long as it suits me to stay with the Sun Runners—and provided there are no more murders.”

  “Then we are agreed,” Rhayn said. “As long as we both do what we have promised, neither of us need worry about the threats of the other.”

  TEN

  SWEET WINE

  SADIRA ROLLED THE CASK TOWARD THE DARK ARCHWAY, followed closely by Magnus and Rhayn. They were entering the moldering tower where the Sun Runners had made camp. The building’s ancient foundations had settled badly, and it seemed to the sorceress that the derelict structure remained upright only because it stood propped against the walls in one corner of the Elven Market.

  Before crossing the threshold, the sorceress stopped and braced herself against the heavy barrel as if resting. Without raising her head, she whispered, “Won’t Faenaeyon wonder how I could push this thing through the Elven Market?”

  “Not as much as he’d wonder why we’re carrying it for you,” hissed Rhayn. The elf gave Sadira a rough shove, then barked, “Go on!”

  With a great heave, the sorceress pushed the cask across the threshold. The shadows were thick with the musty smell of kank offal, and the constant tick-tick of nipping pinchers echoed off the stone walls. As Sadira’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that the round tower’s first floor consisted of a single arcade. Most of the stilted pillars now teetered on the edge of collapse, and half of the double-tiered arches lay broken and scattered in the dust.

  “Welcome back, my sweet,” said Faenaeyon, speaking from the shelter of the darkness. “How nice to see you again.”

  To Sadira’s surprise the chief did not sound angry. “I wish I could say the same,” she answered suspiciously.

  The sorceress peered into the gloom and saw Faenaeyon leaning against one of the unsteady pillars. He stepped away from it and came toward her. Without acknowledging either Magnus or Rhayn, he pointed a finger at the wine cask. “What have you there?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Sadira said. “And by searching for me, you have accomplished little except wasting your tribe’s time. I don’t have your silver.”

  Faenaeyon’s eyes flashed in irritation, but he did not let the smile leave his lips. “Of course not,” he answered. “And even if you did, you could not repay me for the ten coins it cost to bribe the gate-sergeant.”

  “Then what do you want with me?”

  “I only wish to offer you a place to stay,” the chief answered, waving a hand toward the curving staircase that ran up the tower’s outside wall. “Nibenay is a dangerous place.”

  “So I have learned,” Sadira said, rolling the cask toward the stairwell.

  Although Faenaeyon’s lack of hostility surprised her, Sadira did not believe for an instant that he viewed her as anything but a prisoner. His politeness only meant he wanted her to help recover the coins he had lost—and probably many more. If she did not respond to his courtesy, the sorceress knew, Faenaeyon would be fully prepared to resort to more direct means to enforce her cooperation.

  Sadira reached the stairs and stooped down to pick up the cask.

  “Let me help you with that,” Faenaeyon said, moving down to take the keg.

  Following the advice Rhayn had given her not to yield the wine readily, Sadira pushed the elf away. “If I am truly a guest, then you’ll leave me to my wine.”

  Faenaeyon glanced at Rhayn and Magnus with an amused smirk, then gestured toward the stairs. “If that is what you wish,” he said.

  With a grunt, Sadira picked up the cask. Although she was not weak woman, she managed to climb only a dozen stairs before her arms grew so fatigued that they began to tremble. She stopped and rested the keg on a step.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry that for you?” Faenaeyon asked, coming up the stairs behind her.

  The sorceress blocked his way.

  “Perhaps Magnus, then?” he suggested.

  “I can do it,” Sadira snapped.

  The chief scowled and backed away from the sorceress, growling, “What’s wrong? Do you think we’re going to steal it?

  “Yes,” Sadira answered frankly.

  Faenaeyon smiled broadly and deceitfully. “And risk our friendship?”

  “I’m your prisoner, not your friend,” Sadira said. “If we were friends, you’d return the purse you took from me.”

  “That was business,” Faenaeyon said sharply. “As was your little deception at the Dancing Gate.”

  Sadira lifted the cask and struggled up more steps, beginning to fear her father truly had no intention of stealing the keg
from her. After another half-dozen stairs, Sadira had to put cask down again. This time, she gave up trying to carry the heavy load and settled for rolling it up the steps one by one. Faenaeyon hovered a few feet behind, peering over the sorceress’s shoulder, ready to catch the barrel if she happened to let it slip.

  By the time she reached the second story, Sadira’s breath was coming in heavy gasps.

  “Welcome back to the camp of the Sun Runners,” said Huyar.

  The black-haired elf stood in a short passageway that led to a jagged arrow loop overlooking the streets outside the Elven Market. The flushed yellow light of the afternoon sky streamed in behind him, so that the sorceress could hardly separate his craggy features from the edges of the window-slit.

  To the other side of the landing, the room opened into what had once been the foyer of someone’s official chambers. Several stone benches hung from the walls, flanking the battered remains of a decorative fountain. At the back of the small parlor, an arched doorway opened into a much larger compartment, though the floor had long since collapsed into the arcade below.

  Ignoring Huyar, Sadira rolled the cask toward the next set of stairs. As soon as there was space, Faenaeyon slipped past her and snatched the barrel.

  “This is too heavy for you,” he said, lifting the barrel as though it were empty.

  Though she was relieved Faenaeyon had finally taken the wine, Sadira found herself vaguely disappointed that Rhayn had been so right about their father’s gluttony. “So much for friendship,” she said.

  “Friends share, do they not?”

  Slipping the keg under one arm, the chief used his steel dagger to pry the stopper from the tap hole, then sheathed the weapon and hefted the cask high over his head. The fruity wine sloshed from the opening and went down his throat in a red stream.

  Rhayn and Magnus stepped from the first stairway and crossed to the second set of stairs, which led to the tower’s third story. They did not tarry long enough to cast even a single glance in the chief’s direction.

  At last, Faenaeyon lowered the cask and closed his mouth. Though only a few seconds had passed since he started to drink, his eyes were already glazed. “Too sweet, but powerful,” he said, holding the wine toward the sorceress. “Have some.”

  Sadira’s heart leaped into her throat. From the speed with which the drug was taking effect, the sorceress feared she would not be able to sneak away and drink the antidote before falling into a stupor.

  “Come,” said Faenaeyon, squinting as though he were having trouble seeing Sadira.

  Huyar pushed the sorceress forward. “Do not insult the chief by making him ask again,” he said. “He does not often share his wine.”

  Faenaeyon tilted the cask, spilling a stream of poisoned wine over the sorceress’s face. She stepped away. “I prefer to drink from a mug,” she spat, using the sleeve of her tattered smock to wipe the red fluid from her lips.

  Her comment drew laughter from both Faenaeyon and Huyar, then the chief waved his son toward the stairs. “Fetch her one,” he said, “and be quick about it. My thirst is great, and I would not forgive myself if I finished all this wine before you returned with a mug for our guest.”

  Huyar hesitated to do as commanded. “Be careful,” he said. “She may try to flee.”

  “If I wanted to escape, do you really think I would have allowed Rhayn and Magnus to bring me here?” Sadira demanded in an imperious tone. “I have cause of my own for returning to the Sun Runners.”

  Huyar narrowed his eyes. “What cause?”

  “My reasons are not for you to know,” Sadira answered, looking away. “Now fetch me a mug, while some of my wine remains.”

  “I’m not your servant,” Huyar spat. Nevertheless, he stepped into the stairwell.

  As the warrior climbed out of sight, Faenaeyon chuckled. “You should be more careful of Huyar’s feelings,” he said. “Someday, he’ll be chief.”

  “I won’t be with the Sun Runners that long,” Sadira answered sharply.

  “Don’t be so sure,” slurred the chief.

  “What do you mean by that?” Sadira demanded in a sharp voice.

  “Nothing at all,” Faenaeyon answered. “Just that life can be as surprising as it is short.”

  “I suppose that’s so—especially for elves,” the sorceress said. Under the pretense of looking out on the street below, she stepped into the arrow loop and turned her back to her father. The sorceress pretended to be interested in the pedestrians below, watching them swish along the lane in their bright saramis. Upon hearing Faenaeyon begin to gulp down more wine, she glanced over her shoulder to be sure his attention was entirely consumed by his drinking.

  Sadira found the chief with his head tipped back and the cask braced against his chin, wine rushing down his throat in a steady stream. She removed the antidote from her satchel and dabbed two generous drops onto her tongue.

  The sorceress had barely slipped the bone vial back into its hiding place where Faenaeyon let a loud belch escape his lips. “The only thing I like more than wine is silver,” he pronounced, setting the cask on the floor with a bang.

  Sadira turned away from the arrow slit. Faenaeyon had slumped down beside a bench and wrapped one massive arm around the cask. “Why are you so fond of silver?” she asked. “After all, you can’t drink it.”

  “A chief needs silver,” Faenaeyon declared, his face grimly serious. “It’s the measure of his power and of his warriors’ respect for him.”

  Sadira shook her head at this superficial definition of leadership. “That’s not true,” she said, sitting on the bench at his side. “I’ve heard the warriors speak of you. They talk about your feats of bravery and your skill as a warrior—not how much silver there is in your purses.”

  Faenaeyon looked at her, his head cocked in surprise. “Truly?” he asked, his speech slight slurred.

  Sadira nodded. “I’ve heard it said that when Faenaeyon was young, nothing was impossible for him.”

  “That was so,” Faenaeyon said, a wistful light in his gray eyes. “Nothing in the desert ran as fast as I did, and even the falcons had reason to fear my arrows.” The chief stared into the air a moment longer, then the happiness slowly faded from his eyes. “And what do they say now?”

  He seemed unable to look at Sadira as he asked the question.

  “Nothing you could not change,” she answered, ignoring for the moment that soon he would be beyond changing anything. “They say you claim for your own too much of what they’ve earned.”

  Almost unconsciously, Faenaeyon’s fingers played over the hilt of his steel dagger. He nodded sadly, and Sadira wondered if Rhayn and Magnus might be acting prematurely in moving to replace him.

  Her doubts came to a quick end. Faenaeyon jerked his hand away from his dagger and shoved her off the bench. “What do you know of our ways?” he demanded. “You’re not a Sun Runner—you’re not even an elf!”

  “You don’t have to be an elf to know what makes a good chief—or a bad one, either,” Sadira countered, picking herself up off the floor.

  “Our friendship goes only so far,” Faenaeyon warned, a cold light glimmering in his steely eyes. “Do not speak to me in such a manner.”

  “In what manner?” asked Huyar, stepping from the stairwell. In his hand, he held a grimy soapstone mug. “What has this woman said to anger you, my chief?”

  “Only the truth,” Sadira answered, keeping her eyes fixed on Faenaeyon.

  Smirking at Sadira’s recklessness, Huyar extended his empty hand to take the sorceress away. “I’ll make certain she doesn’t bother you.”

  Sadira jerked away. “If you touch me, it’ll be the last time.” Her reaction was deliberately extreme. She did not know how much longer she would need to stay with the Sun Runners and she wanted to make it clear that her visit was on her own terms.

  Huyar flung his mug aside and moved to grab Sadira with both hands. Faenaeyon was on his feet and between them more quickly than Rikus could have be
en.

  “She might make good on her threat, and I don’t want to have to avenge your death,” the chief said, speaking with a drink-thick tongue. “I’ve got plans for this woman.”

  Faenaeyon pushed Huyar toward the discarded mug. “Now hand me that cup,” he said. “I promised this woman some wine.”

  Huyar did as his father commanded, and held the mug while Faenaeyon filled it. Then, with a final glare at Sadira, the warrior handed the vessel to her and stalked back up the stairs.

  As soon as Huyar had ascended the stairs, Sadira asked, “What plans?”

  Faenaeyon gave her a muddle-headed frown. “Huh?”

  “You told Huyar you had plans for me,” the sorceress said. “What are they?”

  “Oh, those,” the chief answered. “Don’t worry. We’ll earn lots of silver, and you can keep your share—after you repay what you cost me at the gate.”

  The sorceress did not tell her father so, but she had plans of her own. Tomorrow she would return briefly to Sage’s Square to see if she could find Raka—or at least discover whether or not he had escaped Dhojakt’s servants. If that failed, she would return to the camp of the Sun Runners, and use it as a base for trying to reestablish contact with the Veiled Alliance.

  Sadira spent the rest of the afternoon watching Faenaeyon drink. It was impossible to tell how much of the chief’s growing torpor was due to the bard’s poison and how much to the wine itself, but it hardly mattered. He sank steadily into a stupor, growing less and less aware of the world around him. Occasionally, he remembered to offer the sorceress more to drink, but she rarely accepted. Not eager to test the limits of the antidote, the half-elf sipped only enough of the fruity liquid to make her father believe she was enjoying it as much as he. Finally, Faenaeyon slumped down against the wall, his long legs splayed before him and red wine dribbling off his pointed chin. Sadira put her mug aside and stopped drinking altogether.

  Soon, the sky outside faded to dusky purple. The Sun Runners began returning to camp in small groups, usually carrying with them some small prize they had stolen from an unwitting victim. Upon reaching the second story, they looked more than a little surprised to see Sadira sitting on a bench near Faenaeyon’s snoring form, but no one spoke to her. Instead, counting themselves lucky to have returned while their chief was oblivious to the world and could not claim their stolen goods, they snuck past as quietly as possible.