The Amber Enchantress

by Denning, Troy

  “But a gold coin!” Sadira said. “Where did you find it?”

  “I make a habit of saving things that might prove useful at crucial times,” Rhayn answered, walking toward her family’s fire-circle. “And now, I must ask you to give me something that you have been saving.”

  Rhayn touched her fingers to her lips and said nothing else until they reached their destination. All of her children were still at the wrestling match, so the two women were completely alone.

  “I’m not going to give you the antidote,” Sadira whispered, surmising what her long-sister wanted. “I don’t want Faenaeyon poisoned.”

  “Why not?” Rhayn demanded, opening a kank pack. “You’ve seen what he can be like, and I have no more coins. How will you bribe our chief when Huyar demands vengeance for Gaefal’s death?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sadira said. “Only Faenaeyon knows how to find the Pristine Tower.”

  “I’ll take you to Cleft Rock,” Rhayn said. “From what Magnus tells me, you can travel on alone from there.”

  The sorceress shook her head. “I’ll take my chances with Faenaeyon.”

  “What makes you think he’ll honor Huyar’s promise?” Rhayn demanded. She pulled out the wineskin that she and Magnus had filled from the poisoned cask.

  “Maybe he won’t, but why wouldn’t he at least take me as far as Cleft Rock?”

  “Because the tribe needs money, and that well is far from any city or caravan route where we can steal it,” Rhayn answered. “But don’t take my word for it. Tonight is when we make requests of the chief. Make yours and see what he says.”

  Sadira studied the elf for a long time, trying to imagine a reason she should not do as her sister suggested. When she could think of none, she nodded and turned to go. “I will.”

  Rhayn caught her shoulder. “You’ll need a gift,” the elf said, holding out the wineskin. “Take two cups, and put the antidote in one. If Faenaeyon agrees to take you, pour his wine into the one with the antidote.”

  The elf did not need to say what Sadira should do, if he refused. She and Rhayn prepared the gift, then the sorceress put a few drops of the antidote on her tongue—in case she found herself drinking from the cup without the antidote. They returned to the wrestling circle, Sadira carrying the wineskin over her shoulder and the two mugs in separate hands.

  When Faenaeyon saw the sisters, he motioned Rhayn to his side. “Daughter!” he said, giving her a mug of broy. “Come and drink with me.”

  The chief touched his cup to his daughter’s, then they both quaffed down the sour-smelling stuff as though it were water. When Faenaeyon lowered his flask again, Sadira stepped forward to make her request. Huyar cut her off and refilled his father’s cup from his own skin.

  “I’m sorry I lack a gold coin to give you, my chief,” said the elf.

  “So am I,” answered Faenaeyon, squinting at him drunkenly.

  “It pains me to see the chief of the Sun Runners with so few coins in his purse,” Huyar continued, giving Sadira a sidelong glance. “It’s a pity that the tribe’s new sorceress did not also think to free your coins when she rescued you from the Slave Market—or perhaps she did. Could it be that Rhayn has made a gift to you of your own coin?”

  “You know better than that, Huyar!” spat Rhayn. “You were with us when we escaped Nibenay. Did you see any of Faenaeyon’s purses?”

  “That doesn’t mean they weren’t there,” Huyar countered. “Sadira is a powerful sorceress. It would have been a small matter for her to conceal them.”

  Faenaeyon scowled at Sadira. “This is true,” he said, slurring his words heavily. “Did you steal my coins, woman?”

  “No!” Sadira snarled. “If Huyar had the sense of a drone, he’d know that you would not have been sent to the slave market with your purses hanging from you belt. By now, your coins lie in the vault of the sorcerer-king himself.” She glared at her rival, then added, “Perhaps he would like to go there and recover them for you?”

  Faenaeyon looked to Huyar. “Would you?”

  “What I would like to do and what is possible are different things,” said the warrior.

  “A good answer,” Faenaeyon laughed. He turned his attention to Sadira, who was still holding the cups and the wineskin. “Now, what have you?”

  “Wine,” Sadira answered.

  “Not as good as gold, but it will do,” Faenaeyon answered, reaching for the mug that contained the antidote.

  Sadira pulled it away. “First, I have a request.”

  Frowning, the chief withdrew his hand. “I trust it will not be too demanding.”

  “Just answer a question,” Sadira replied. “Do you intend to honor Huyar’s promise? The wine is my gift to you, as long as you answer truthfully.”

  Faenaeyon studied her with a doubtful scowl, then shrugged. “The Sun Runners have better places to go than the Pristine Tower,” he said, snatching the mug he had reached for earlier—the one with the antidote. “Now, give me my wine!”

  Sadira cursed under her breath, but smiled at Faenaeyon and filled the cup. Before he could drink, however, she said, “Didn’t you notice that I brought two mugs?”

  Faenaeyon scowled. “So?”

  “I thought you’d want to share your gift with your favorite daughter,” the sorceress said, gesturing at her sister. Rhayn scowled, unsure of which cup contained the antidote. Sadira smiled, hoping the gesture would reassure Rhayn, then asked, “Doesn’t a gold coin deserve a fine gift in return?”

  Faenaeyon smiled. “So it does,” he said, passing the mug to his daughter.

  Rhayn’s face went white, but she accepted the wine.

  Despite the festivities of the night before, the tribe was packed and ready to run by mid-morning. Sadira, who had sat up late studying her spellbook, was among the last to join the train. The sorceress rode one of her sister’s kanks, leading Magnus’s beast on her downwind side. The windsinger’s back was covered with a fresh coat of balm, and she still found its pungent smell grossly offensive.

  Sadira was glad that she had made Magnus tend her cilops’s bite before she saw to his arrow stings. His song that morning had been so effective that she considered herself healed. The only remaining sign of her injury was a slight tightness in the muscle. If she had waited until after she spread the salve over the windsinger’s back, however, she would still be in pain. The unguent had hardly touched his knobby hide before Magnus had grown so drowsy he could barely speak, much less sing.

  Sadira located Rhayn near the front of the tribe, her youngest infant slung on her back and the rest of her children mounted on kanks behind her. As the sorceress rode up to join her sister, she could not help yawning.

  “Why are you so tired?” Rhayn demanded.

  “I was up late,” Sadira answered, tapping the satchel where she kept her spell book. “I thought it wise to learn some special enchantments, in case Dhojakt comes after us.”

  “A wise precaution, but it is no excuse to be tired,” Rhayn countered. “I feel wonderful, and I did not sleep at all.”

  “Then how did you spend the night?”

  Rhayn gave her sister a wry smile. “Bolstering my support,” she said. “Today, the Sun Runners choose a new chief—though they may not realize what they’re doing.” She motioned for Sadira to dismount, then led the half-elf to a small gathering of warriors.

  As they merged with the group, Sadira saw Faenaeyon stretched out on the ground. The chief lay with his sunken eyes shielded by a coarse cloth, and his tongue half-protruding from between his lips. His skin was flaxen, and sweat ran off his face in tiny rivulets. The sorceress’s stomach felt queasy with guilt.

  If Rhayn felt any similar emotions, she did not show them. The elf strode directly over to Huyar and pointed at the chief’s sickly form. “What did you do to him?” she demanded. “Were you afraid he’d change his mind and make you keep your promise to Sadira?”

  Sadira bit her lip, amazed by her sister’s nerve. Rhayn’s audacity rem
inded the sorceress of Tithian—and that frightened her, more for the Sun Runners than for herself.

  Whatever Sadira’s misgivings, the attack served its purpose. Huyar was immediately on the defensive. “It wasn’t me,” he snapped, pointing at Sadira. “This is the second time she’s offered him wine, and it’s the second time he’s fallen sick.”

  Rhayn furrowed her brow thoughtfully, then glanced at Sadira as if considering the point. For a moment, the sorceress feared her sister intended to betray her, but the elf finally looked back to Huyar and shook her head. “Then how come I’m not sick?” she asked. “I drank as much wine as Faenaeyon.”

  When Huyar could not provide as answer, Rhayn pointed at Faenaeyon’s pallid face. “Whatever’s wrong, I don’t want to wait here until he recovers. We’re too close to Nibenay.”

  “Agreed,” said Huyar, his tone reasonable enough. “I thought we’d run south, toward the Altaruk trade routes.”

  “I say we keep your promise to Sadira,” Rhayn said. She pointed east.

  “Are you mad?” Huyar shrieked. “You heard what Faenaeyon said about the tower.”

  “We aren’t going to the Pristine Tower, just to the Cleft Rock well,” Rhayn answered. “From there, Sadira can find her own way.”

  “No,” said Huyar “There’s still the matter of my brother’s death.”

  “And Faenaeyon will pass judgment on that when he recovers—no doubt long before we reach the well,” said Rhayn.

  Huyar shook his head stubbornly. “I won’t allow it.”

  “It’s not for you to decide,” Rhayn replied.

  Grissi stepped over to the pair. “I’d say we’re at an impasse.” She stepped between the two and started dragging her heel through the dirt, scraping a faint line along the rocky ground. When she finished, she stepped over it and stood next to Rhayn.

  A swirling cloud of dust rose from the jumbled mass as the elves pushed and shoved back and forth across the line. Within a few moments, the line Grissi had drawn was completely erased, but there was no doubt about where it had been. The tribe stood divided into two nearly equal halves, with one part behind Rhayn and the other behind Huyar. Only Sadira, Magnus, and the young children had not joined one group or another. Between the two bands was a no-man’s land less than a yard wide, and both Huyar and Rhayn were busy counting the number of elves on their side of this border.

  As she studied the two groups, Sadira noticed that Huyar’s supporters were primarily older warriors who remembered Faenaeyon’s days as a great chief. Rhayn’s group included the women who traditionally supported her, but also nearly every young man in the tribe. Sadira was surprised to see so many of them on her sister’s side, for during the wrestling contests the day before, many had appeared to support Huyar’s champions. Apparently, Rhayn’s nocturnal efforts to bolster her support had been quite remarkable.

  Huyar and Rhayn finished counting at almost the same moment. They looked at one another with smug satisfaction.

  “It seems we will go south,” Huyar announced.

  “No, we will go east,” Rhayn countered, pointing at Sadira and then to Magnus. “You have forgotten two of our tribe.”

  Huyar’s face went white. “They don’t count!” he snapped. “Only members of the tribe old enough to run can choose.”

  “They are more than old enough,” Rhayn said. “And they are both Sun Runners—or have you forgotten that yesterday Faenaeyon named Sadira one of us?”

  “But they still can’t run,” said one of the men standing on Rhayn’s side. “Our customs are clear on this.”

  Many warriors from both halves of the tribe voiced their agreement on this point. Rather than risk losing the support of anyone on her side of the line, Rhayn nodded.

  Then she pointed at Faenaeyon. “He cannot run, either,” she said. “He does not count.”

  It was Huyar’s turn to yield. He did so graciously, saying, “That is fair. But now we each have the same number of warriors on our side. How are we to decide who will lead the tribe until Faenaeyon is better?”

  “A race?” suggested a woman in Rhayn’s group.

  “No, let them wrestle,” countered a man from Huyar’s.

  Rhayn shook her head and raised her arms to silence the crowd. “Its no secret that Huyar and I detest each other,” she said. “I say we settle this once and for all. A fight to the death.”

  By the astonished silence that fell over the tribe, it was clear that such contests were not common occurrences among the Sun Runners.

  Finally, one of the women on Rhayn’s side gasped, “Why would you do that?” Though Sadira could not see who had asked the question, she recognized the voice as belonging to Meredyd.

  Rhayn glanced in Sadira’s direction, then said, “I only suggest what is best for the Sun Runners.” She waved her hand at the two halves of the tribe. “As long as Huyar and I both remain, we will be divided as we are now. If one of us is gone, then so is the division.”

  Sadira realized that Rhayn was purposely giving her no choice except to use magic to guarantee victory. If Huyar won the fight, Rhayn’s corpse would not even be cold before Sadira was put to death for Gaefal’s murder. There was a heartless genius in her sister’s plan that reminded Sadira more and more of Tithian.

  After studying Rhayn for several moments, Huyar started to speak, but Sadira interrupted before he could accept the challenge. “Today, I run with the tribe,” she called, sliding off the kank. “That gives me a voice in choosing our leader, does it not?”

  “Yes,” called Grissi.

  “Only if she survives,” countered Esylk. “And not just one day—I say that when she can no longer run, her voice no longer counts!”

  “Agreed,” Sadira said, stepping to Rhayn’s side of the line. “Let’s go. I must reach Cleft Rock as soon as possible.”

  FIFTEEN

  CLEFT ROCK

  SADIRA THOUGHT SHE AND GRISSI WOULD NEVER stop running. Each breath carried with it a searing wave of pain, and with every jarring step a dull ache rolled through her head. Hours ago, she had lost the feeling in her blistering feet, and she barely noticed as her numb legs carried her over the rocky ground.

  “Keep running,” said Grissi, effortlessly trotting at the sorceress’s side. “We don’t have far to go.”

  Had she not been so fatigued, Sadira would have hit the elf. Grissi had said the same thing four evenings in a row, after the rest of the tribe had disappeared into the desert and left them to plod along by themselves.

  “Don’t,” Sadira croaked. “You’ve told me that too many times before.”

  Even the sorceress did not recognize her own voice, for her throat was so swollen with thirst that she could hardly draw air down it.

  “No, really,” Grissi said, pointing at the horizon. “Can’t you see them?”

  Sadira lifted her eyes from the orange dust beneath her feet and glanced ahead. Her shadow lay next to Grissi’s, swimming over the broken ground like an oasis eel. The purple hues of dusk were just creeping up from between the rocks, while scattered across the plain were a handful of sword-length blades of grass that the kanks had neglected to crop on the way past. On the horizon, a strange, spider web grid of violet lines covered a gentle, dome-shaped knoll, but Sadira could see no sign of the tribe.

  “Just a few more minutes and you can rest,” said Grissi.

  “If I don’t collapse on that hill,” Sadira gasped.

  This time, her words were barely recognizable. Grissi took the flattened waterskin off her shoulder, then unfastened the mouth and handed it to the half-elf. “Drink,” she said. “Your throat is closing up.”

  Sadira shot her companion an angry scowl, then accepted the skin and closed her lips around the mouth. Taking care to keep her chin down so her eyes could watch the ground, she tipped the skin up. The sorceress continued to breathe through her nose as a trickle of hot, stale water ran down her throat. Without breaking her pace, she kept the skin raised high while she drained the last few d
rops of precious liquid.

  Once the skin was empty, she thrust it back at Grissi. “You told me an hour ago we were out of water.” This time, her words were perfectly understandable.

  “Never drink your last swallow of water until you’re within sight of the next one,” said the elf, slinging the empty skin over her shoulder.

  Sadira peered again at the dark lines on the horizon. This time, it seemed she could make out the billowing crowns of hundreds of trees. “Thank the winds,” she gasped. “An oasis.”

  “Not just any oasis. It’s Cleft Rock,” Grissi said, pointing toward the top of the knoll. “See?”

  Sadira squinted at the distant trees. “No,” she said. “What am I looking for?”

  “A split rock,” Grissi said. “I’ll never understand how city people go through life half blind.”

  Sadira ignored this last comment, for the feeling was returning to her legs. Forgetting the throbbing ache in her back, she sped up to twice her previous pace. The exertion made her temples pound as though someone were driving a rockpick through them, but the sorceress did not slow down.

  Soon, Sadira could see the elven camp. The warriors were scattered about the summit, gathered in dark clusters and preparing their evening meals. The children had already taken the kanks out to graze and were driving the beasts back up the hillside to tether them for the night.

  “I must be getting faster,” Sadira observed. “Half the tribe’s usually asleep by the time I catch up.”

  Grissi shook her head. “You’re no faster than before,” she said. “But today, we did not run so far.”

  At last, the two women reached the bottom of the rise. As they climbed the slope, they had fight their way through a network of troughs filled with billowing chiffon trees and thickets of spongy yellow fungus. The channels had apparently been dug by some intelligent race, for they were arranged in a series of concentric rings and were the same depth and width. Occasionally, a narrow ditch ran from one channel down to another, giving the place its weblike appearance.