The Amber Enchantress

by Denning, Troy

  A little after dark, a boy descended the stairs with a wedge of faro bread and a skin of broy. “Rhayn thought you might be hungry,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Sadira replied, accepting the food from him.

  The boy glanced at the half-empty cask at Faenaeyon’s side and licked his lips. “How’s the wine?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” Sadira answered, giving him a sidelong glance. “Why don’t you try some—unless you think Faenaeyon would object?”

  “I’m not that thirsty,” he answered, retreating to the arrow loop.

  There, he took up his position as a sentry. Sure that the youth had come to watch her as well as the lane outside, Sadira finished her meal. To be sure the young guard did not get any ideas about sneaking a few swallows of wine from her mug, the sorceress drank the last of it, then lay down on the bench and covered herself with a cape. Within a few moments, she was fast asleep, for it had been a trying day and she needed rest.

  Sadira woke to the sound of scurrying feet. The room was still as black as obsidian, but her elven vision enabled her see the last of a long line of warriors descending to the ground floor. Behind them came Rhayn and Magnus, who stopped in Sadira’s room.

  “What’s happening?” Sadira asked, quickly sitting upright.

  “Huyar and some friends are going to look for his brother,” Rhayn explained casually. “The foolish boy has not returned yet.”

  “Gaefal?”

  Sadira mouthed the dead elf’s name quietly, for the young sentry that had come down earlier still stood at his station. Rhayn nodded, and Magnus went over to the arrow loop.

  “I’ll take over,” the windsinger said to the sentry.

  The youth nodded eagerly, then started for the steps leading into the street. Rhayn caught him by the sleeve and redirected him upstairs. “One boy lost tonight is enough,” she said. “Go and get some sleep.”

  Once the young warrior had reluctantly obeyed, Magnus produced an empty waterskin from beneath his tunic. He handed it to Rhayn, then picked up the cask and opened the tap hole.

  “What’s that for?” Sadira asked.

  “I doubt we’ll need this, but it’s best to be prepared,” said Rhayn.

  The elf held the skin steady while Magnus filled it. Once that was done, the windsinger smashed the cask at the chief’s side.

  “If anyone asks, Faenaeyon dropped it himself,” Rhayn said, sealing the skin in her hands. “Now, go back to sleep.”

  “Keep a close eye on that wine,” Sadira said. “Someone mighty try to sneak a gulp.”

  “Not from my satchels,” said Rhayn, going back upstairs.

  This time it took Sadira much longer to doze off. At last she slept, only to dream of murder and betrayal.

  ELEVEN

  SUDDEN

  DEPARTURE

  SADIRA FELT SOMEONE PULL AWAY THE CAPE SHE HAD been using as a blanket, then a rough hand began tugging at her smock. She opened her eyes to see Huyar bending over her, a crumpled wad of blood-soaked blue cloth clutched in his hand. Behind him stood a dozen elves, the green rays of dawn streaming over their shoulders. Two of the warriors held Gaefal’s lifeless body suspended between them.

  “What are you doing?” Sadira demanded, trying to sit up.

  Huyar forced her back to the bench, then grabbed her smock and held the cloth next to it. The smell of stale blood came to the sorceress’s nostrils.

  A cold knot of dread formed in Sadira’s stomach. “Get off me!” she yelled, pushing the elf’s hand away.

  “It’s the same color!” Huyar screamed, thrusting the blood-crusted rag into Sadira’s face.

  “So what?” demanded Magnus. He forced his way through the elves behind Huyar and plucked the enraged warrior off Sadira. “Leave her alone.”

  “I found this cloth in the wound that killed my brother,” Huyar explained, holding the rag up for Magnus to see.

  Sadira grabbed her satchel and stood, fearing she might need her magic to defend herself.

  Without putting Huyar down, the windsinger took the rag, and held it up in front of one of his black eyes. “This cloth’s so blood-stained it’s impossible to say what color it is.”

  “There’s blue around the edges,” Huyar said. He pointed at Sadira’s smock. “The same blue she wears now.”

  “I’ve seen a thousand tunics that color,” Magnus said dismissively.

  The windsinger started to slip the bloody cloth into his pocket, but Huyar snatched it back and stepped toward Sadira.

  “Then let us see if this matches the shape of her torn collar,” he said, unwadding the cloth.

  “It does,” Sadira answered, realizing she would only arouse suspicion by trying to keep Huyar from checking the rip. “I was passing by the Bard’s Quarter when I saw that youth stagger from the gate,” she said, pointing at Gaefal. “I stopped and bandaged his wound, but he died anyway.”

  “Rhayn and I found her not too far from there,” Magnus said, his snaggle-toothed snout creased by what may have been an approving grin.

  “I’m only sorry I didn’t recognize him as a Sun Runner,” Sadira added. “I would have told you about him sooner.”

  “What do you suppose Gaefal was doing in the Bard’s Quarter?” Magnus asked, at last releasing Huyar. “Hasn’t Faenaeyon always warned us to leave the bards alone?”

  The windsinger’s ploy almost worked. The warriors began discussing the reasons the youth might have had for entering such a dangerous place. Even Huyar fell into a thoughtful silence.

  Unfortunately, the warrior reached the wrong conclusion. “There’s only one reason Gaefal would have disobeyed his chief,” the warrior said, glaring at Sadira. “He was chasing you, so you killed him.”

  “You don’t know that to be true,” said Magnus.

  “I don’t know it to be false,” Huyar answered, stepping toward Sadira and reaching for his dagger. “And I won’t take Lorelei’s word for it.”

  Magnus grasped the elf’s wrist and prevented him from drawing the weapon.

  Sadira tugged on the empty sheath at her waist. “Have you ever seen a knife in my belt?” she asked. “I lost my dagger before I helped the Sun Runners get across the Canyon of Guthay. If I killed your brother, what did I use?”

  “You’re a sorceress,” countered the elf. “You could have used magic.”

  “True, but that looks like a knife wound to me,” said Rhayn, stepping out of the stairway. “Why do you insist on blaming Sadira?”

  “Sadira?” Huyar repeated, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our guest,” Rhayn explained. “Just before we captured her, Magnus overheard her talking to a boy from the Veiled Alliance. Her real name is Sadira—Sadira of Tyr.

  Sadira cursed under her breath. She knew Rhayn was trying to keep Huyar off-balance and save her life, but the sorceress would have preferred it to be done without revealing her identity to the rest of the tribe.

  Huyar stared at Sadira in shock, and a buzz of astonishment ran through the warriors gathered behind him. “You are Faenaeyon’s daughter—the one who killed Kalak?”

  “I am the daughter of Barakah of Tyr and your chief,” Sadira allowed, glancing pensively at her slumbering father. “Though, after abandoning me into slavery, I’m not certain Faenaeyon has the right to claim me as daughter.”

  “What Faenaeyon claims is his,” Huyar answered. “But that gives me no cause to believe you. Perhaps your friend from the Veiled Alliance had a dagger.”

  Back in Tyr, no Templar of the King’s Justice would have accepted the elf’s logic, but it was becoming increasingly clear to the sorceress that Huyar was not looking for the truth so much as a scapegoat.

  “I didn’t kill your brother, but I can see there’s no use telling you that,” Sadira said, slipping a hand into her satchel. “So attack me now, or let the matter drop.”

  “I’m no fool,” Huyar said, casting an uneasy glance toward the sorceress’s concealed hand. “But I won’t let my brother’s
death go unavenged.”

  “No one’s asking you to,” said Rhayn. “But it’s not for you to say who should be punished. Faenaeyon is chief—or have you forgotten?”

  “I have not forgotten,” Huyar said. He motioned at one of the elves standing over Gaefal’s dead body. “Wake the chief, Jeila.”

  The warrior, a woman with tangled brown hair and three bone rings piercing one nostril, scowled at Huyar’s back. Nevertheless, she went to the chief’s side and, placing a cautionary hand over his dagger hilt, shook him by the shoulders. “Faenaeyon,” she said softly. “We need you.”

  The chief uttered an indignant growl, and his eyelids rose to reveal a pair of glazed pupils. He struggled to focus on the woman’s face, and for a moment it appeared he might overcome his stupor. Then he let out a loud groan, as though in terrible pain, and his pointed chin dropped back to his chest. His glassy eyes remained open and vacant.

  “He’s still drunk,” Jeila reported.

  Huyar shook his head and went to his father’s side. “I don’t think so,” he said, placing a hand under the chief’s shirt.

  “Is he dead?” asked another warrior.

  “No, but he’s sick. His heart barely beats, and his skin is as cold as night,” Huyar answered. Taking his hand away from his father, the elf looked at Sadira. “I wonder how many other tragedies your return to the Sun Runners will bring?”

  “I’m not responsible for Faenaeyon’s gluttony, if that’s what you mean,” Sadira retorted. “He stole the wine from me—or have you forgotten?”

  “Huyar, say what you mean or be quiet,” added Rhayn. “Only a coward implies what he is afraid to speak outright.”

  “She’s right,” agreed Magnus. “Sadira is Faenaeyon’s guest, and you’d do well to remember that.”

  At first, Sadira thought the two were defending her because of the help she provided, but a better explanation occurred to her. They were trying to undercut Huyar’s influence with the rest of the tribe, so that it would be easier for Rhayn to maneuver herself into position as the new chief.

  After glaring at Rhayn for a time, Huyar hissed, “I’m no coward. As for Faenaeyon’s ‘guest’, she has cast an enchantment on him.”

  “For what purpose, Huyar?” Sadira demanded, taking her defense into her own hands.

  Huyar came toward her and did not stop until he was within few inches of her face. “Yesterday, did you not tell me that you had reasons of your own for returning to us?”

  “I said that,” Sadira conceded.

  “I think you came back to enchant Faenaeyon,” Huyar concluded. “To force us to take you to the Pristine Tower.”

  Rhayn cast a sidelong glance at the chief’s torpid form. “Whatever’s wrong with Faenaeyon, he isn’t enchanted.” she said. “If you had any sense, you’d know that.”

  “What would you know?” countered the warrior.” You’re no more than a trickster.”

  “I’m skilled enough to put you into your place.” spat Rhayn. Not that I’d need magic to do it.”

  Huyar stepped toward his long-sister, fists clenched in rage. Magus slipped between the two, conveniently preventing Rhayn from having to make good on a threat. “We’re members of the same tribe!” he growled. “Act like it!”

  Though Magnus pretended to be speaking to both of them, his black eyes were turned only toward Huyar.

  Before Huyar could respond, a young warrior rushed into the chamber from the room above. “Templars are coming!”

  Huyar motioned at the warriors standing by Gaefal’s body. “Stall them, and see to the kanks,” he said. As they rushed down the stairs, the elf looked to Sadira and snarled, “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn you’ve brought this upon us, too.”

  “We should be getting the tribe out of this tower, not worrying about why the templars are here,” Rhayn said, rushing up the stairway. “Let’s go.”

  Huyar threw his brother’s body over his shoulder, than ran up the stairs after her.

  “Where are they going?” Sadira asked. “We’ll be trapped.”

  Magnus shook his head. “Elves can always run,” he said, starting to follow the other two Sun Runners.

  “Wait!” Jeila called. “I can’t get Faenaeyon to stand. We’ll have to carry—”

  A resonant thump shook the tower, interrupting the woman in midsentence. This noise was followed by a moment of eerie silence, then cries of injured elves began to ring out from the floor below. Magnus rushed for the stairway.

  “I’ll see if I can help,” he said. “Take Faenaeyon up to the others.”

  The windsinger had barely reached the threshold when the hum of a dozen bowstrings sounded from the stairs below. Magnus threw an arm up to protect his eyes, then grunted as a flight of arrows ticked into his thick hide. To Sadira’s surprise, he did not fall. Instead, he slapped the shafts off his body, screaming madly—as a normal man might after being stung by a swarm of wasps.

  The sorceress went to Jeila’s side and slung one of Faenaeyon’s arms over her shoulder. As they dragged the chief’s limp form across the floor, the windsinger roared in anger. Sadira saw the tip of an agafari spear glance off his knobby elbow, then he plucked a shrieking templar off the floor and hurled her down the stairway. She crashed into a file of women that had been following close behind, and they all went tumbling down the steps. Magnus opened his great mouth and began a deep-toned ballad of war, making Sadira’s heart pound and stirring the bloodlust in her spirit.

  A deafening blast silenced the windsinger, sending his huge form sailing into the air. He crashed into the opposite side of the chamber and slammed his skull into the wall, then dropped to the floor amid a clatter of loosened stones. Despite the charred circle in the middle of his chest, Magnus shook his head to clear it, then braced his massive arms by his sides. Gathering his legs beneath him, he slowly pushed himself upward.

  The windsinger was about halfway to his feet when his knees buckled. He crashed back to the floor and did not move, his chin resting on his chest and the black in his eyes fading to gray.

  Once again, Nibenese voices and the slap of sandals on stone echoed from the stairway. Jeila slipped Faenaeyon’s arm off her shoulder. “Come,” she said, pulling the steel dirk from the chief’s belt. “We must give the tribe time to escape.” She handed her own dagger, made of a simple bone, to the sorceress.

  Sadira let the dagger drop to the floor. “Hold them for just a moment,” she said, reaching for her spell ingredients. “I have better way.”

  Jeila nodded and leaped to the stairway. She dodged a wild slash from the first templar’s obsidian sword, then sliced open the arm holding it. The elf kicked her attacker back into the stairwell and, with her free hand, snatched up the falling sword.

  As Jeila fought against the next pair of templars, Sadira shaped a lump of clear paraffin into a small cube. After summoning the energy for a spell, she tossed the wax over Jeila’s shoulder and spoke her incantation. The paraffin burst into a fine mist and spread through the entire stairwell. An instant later, it congealed into a transparent gel and engulfed the templars.

  The Nibenese women tried in vain to free themselves, their arms and legs straining against the viscous mass in slow motion. Jeila stepped away and watched in amusement as the templars’ faces turned purple with suffocation.

  Wasting no time on such frivolities, Sadira went to Magnus’s side and cast another spell. When the massive windsinger rose off the floor, she took him by the arm and tugged him to the stairway.

  As she started up the steps, Sadira called “Jeila, bring Faenaeyon and hurry! That plug won’t stop our enemies forever.”

  The elf slipped the dagger and sword into her belt, then grabbed the heavy chief under the shoulders and dragged him after Sadira. By the time they had ascended halfway up the stairway, both women were out of breath. Even though Magnus was floating in the air, it was no easy matter for a woman of Sadira’s size to pull that much bulk up the steep pitch.

  As they neared th
e top of the stairs, they heard a confused babble of elven voices coming from the room above. Jeila stopped and looked toward the noise. “Half the tribe should be gone now,” she panted. “Something’s wrong.”

  “We won’t find out what until we get there,” Sadira gasped, continuing to climb.

  As Jeila moved to follow, the clatter of claws on stone came from the bottom of the stairwell. Summoning the last of her strength, Sadira dragged Magnus upward at a run.

  Jeila did not follow. Instead, she laid Faenaeyon down and began to descend. “I’ll hold them below. You get help and come back for Faenaeyon,” she said, drawing her sword and dagger.

  “No!” Sadira yelled, stopping on the highest step. “It doesn’t sound like the templars.”

  Her warning came too late. Dhojakt’s head peered around the bend. Sadira’s jaw fell open in astonishment, for he was covered with sticky slime from the crown of his black skull-cap to the bottom of his round chin. From the looks of it, he had forced his way through her magical mire with his strength alone—something not even a giant could have done.

  Sadira shoved Magnus over the threshold, then began preparations for another spell. At the same time, Jeila launched herself at Dhojakt, slashing her sword at his neck and thrusting her dagger at his dark eyes.

  The prince did not even bother to block the attacks. Instead, he simply turned his face away from the dagger and allowed the sword to strike his neck. Without causing even the tiniest wound in Dhojakt’s skin, the obsidian blade shattered into dozens of chips. The steel dagger fared little better, glancing off his cheekbone and opening a small scratch beneath the eye.

  Jeila landed just ahead of the prince, her eyes as wide as saucers. She raised the dagger to attack again, but Dhojakt’s arm shot out and three of his fingers pierced through her throat. The dirk slipped from her grasp, and she clutched at the prince’s arm. He casually tossed the elf over his shoulder and scurried up the stairs.