by Troy Denning
"Pity," said the elf, pulling off his burnoose. Beneath it, he wore a wide belt from which hung several heavy purses, a sheath containing a steel dagger, and his breech-cloth. "In my tribe there is a windsinger who has healing powers. Perhaps I should have sent him over first."
"But that wouldn't have been prudent business," Sadira finished for him.
"I didn't realize your situation was so desperate," the elf said, shrugging.
He stepped toward her, holding his huge burnoose by the sleeves and shaking it out. Unsure of his intentions, Sadira reached for her satchel. Her tormentor quickly moved to stop her, placing a huge foot on the sack.
"Why so afraid?" he asked, his lip turned up in a sneer that he may or may not have intended to be a smile. With exaggerated gentility, he placed the burnoose over her shoulders, covering the skin that was left exposed by her own tattered cape, and pulling the hood up over her head. "We must keep the sun off. You will live longer."
"So I can bring your tribe across the canyon?"
"We only want to help, little one." The elf cast a sad glance across the chasm. "Of course, I could do much more if my people were with us."
The sorceress studied the elf for several moments. His sinewy body was fairly laced with knife scars, and there were other, more gruesome blemishes. If he had survived so many injuries, she suspected, the elf was telling the truth about his healer.
Even knowing that, however, Sadira hesitated to strike a deal. The enchantment she would have to employ was a complicated one that demanded more energy than she could summon without destroying another swath of land, and she was not sure she was prepared to commit such an act again. Her mentor had often chastised her for stretching her powers of sorcery to their limits, but until the fight with Nok, Sadira had never resorted to an intentional and massive degradation of the land.
Though the sorceress believed she had been justified in saving herself then, the present issue was less clear. Nok had been an imminent danger, but the threat now was not as immediate. If she resorted to defiler magic to save herself from eventual death, would she use it out of simple convenience the next time?
Yet, her only other choice was to die. Considering the difficulties and hardships she would undergo during the search for the Pristine Tower, and the dim likelihood of surviving without her magical cane, it might be best to accept her fate now. But if she did, a thousand Tyrian citizens would die with her, and a thousand more each time the Dragon returned. Tyr would be no different than it had been during Kalak's reign.
Sadira could not let that happen.
She met the elf's gaze. "What will you do if I can't bring your tribe across?"
The elf pointed westward. "A path descends into the Canyon of Guthay from both sides," he said. "It is only three days' run, but the beasts that live in the bottom have a taste for our kanks."
Remembering the foul smell her mount had emitted upon being wounded, Sadira made a sour face. "Nothing could eat a kank."
"Every creature is food for some other," the elf said. "That is the law of the desert."
Satisfied that there was no way to bring the windsinger across the chasm without casting her spell, Sadira decided to strike the best bargain she could in return for her service. "Your healer will look after me until I am well."
"Done," the elf said.
Sadira held up her hand. "You will supply me with plenty of food and water."
He nodded. "Of course—we are good hosts."
"And you'll escort me to the Pristine Tower."
The elf studied her for several moments. Finally, he said, "You are cunning. I like that."
Sadira scowled at the flattery. "What is your answer? Will you take me there or not?"
"No, of course not," said the elf, grinning smugly. "We both know that if I agree to such a thing, you cannot trust me to keep any other promise."
A terrible thought occurred to Sadira. "Why not?" she demanded. "The tower's real, isn't it?"
"It's real enough," the elf answered, raising a peaked eyebrow at Sadira's question. "But only a fool—"
"Then you must take me there," Sadira interrupted, breathing easier. "Unless you prefer to risk your kanks in the chasm."
"I would drive my kanks off the canyon rim before willingly coming within sight of the Pristine Tower," countered the elf. "Why does one of such beauty wish to visit it?"
"That's my business," Sadira answered. "Why are you so afraid of it?"
"If you don't know, you have no business going there," the elf replied evasively. He looked across the chasm to his waiting tribe. "But I'll take you to Nibenay. With luck and enough silver, you'll find a guide there."
Sadira nodded, convinced that she would strike no better bargain with the elf. "I'll need my spellbook," she said, motioning at her satchel. "And a couple of hours of quiet."
"In that case, we'd better cover your wounds," the elf said, ripping a pair of strips from the hem of Sadira's tattered cape.
By the time the sun had begun to descend toward the jagged peaks in the west, Sadira was ready to cast her spell. Whispering in a parched voice, she told the elf to have his tribe line up near the rim of the canyon. They should be ready to move quickly when she gave the word.
After the elf had relayed her instructions, Sadira turned her palm toward the ground. Before summoning the energy she needed, however, she turned to him and said, "After I finish, there'll be nothing but ash and rock on this hillside. If the desecration angers your tribe, I trust they'll be wise enough not to show it."
"The desert is vast, and there is plenty of forage elsewhere," he replied. "Besides, my tribe understands sorcery. My own daughter dabbles in the art."
"Good," Sadira said. "I'd hate to do to you what I did to the halflings."
The elf narrowed his eyes. "Among friends, there is no need for threats."
"Among friends, I wouldn't make them."
Sadira spread her fingers and summoned the energy she needed. The hillside was quickly covered with withered, blackened cacti. Not wishing to see the damage she caused, the sorceress closed her eyes and focused her thoughts only on drawing every last bit of energy from the ground. When she had cast the spell to destroy Nok's bridge, she had been too angry and frightened to notice her emotions. This time, she had no such insulation. She just felt dirty.
At last, the flow ceased. Sadira was at once exhausted and invigorated, her body prickling with stolen life-force. She opened her eyes and pointed her finger at the far side of the canyon, speaking the words of the spell. In front of the elf tribe, a dark circle appeared in the emptiness over the canyon.
"Tell them to jump," Sadira gasped. She backed away from the canyon rim and collapsed to her haunches, clutching her satchel to her breast. Her vision was swimming with black dots, and she felt as though she might retch at any moment.
"How do I know this isn't a trick?" the elf demanded.
Sadira looked up and waved her hand at the blackened scarp. "Do you think I would have done this just to kill a few elves?" she rasped. "The portal won't last long. Tell them to jump!"
The elf did as she asked and the first warrior stepped into the black circle. When he appeared on Sadira's side of the canyon, a great cheer rose from the rest of the tribe. Within moments, they were driving their reluctant kanks into the black circle, then, as the terrified beasts emerged on the other side of the abyss, chasing them up the scarp. The elf came and stood next to Sadira, who watched the procession through drooping eyelids, too exhausted to ask which was the windsinger.
Some time later, the sorceress felt her satchel being pulled from her arms. Her eyes popped open and Sadira found herself staring at a tall woman with close-cropped red hair. The elf was strikingly beautiful, with a regal nose, pouting mouth, and almond-shaped eyes as deep and brilliant as sapphires. Cords of sinuous muscle covered her long legs and lanky arms, and the waist of her slender body was unbelievably thin and wasplike.
Standing next to her was a massive creature of one
of the New Races. He had two legs and two arms, but there ended his resemblance to anything faintly elven. His knobby hide was mottled and faintly reptilian in appearance. Before Sadira's eyes, it was changing from the rusty red hue of the sands across the valley to the inky black pigment of the defiled lands. The man-beast's limbs were as thick and round as faro trees, and knotted with wide bands of muscle. For feet, he had huge pads with three bulbous toes, each sporting an ivory-white claw. His hands were his largest single feature, with four bolelike fingers and a stumpy thumb.
The thing's face was all muzzle, his enormous smiling mouth filled top and bottom with needlelike teeth. His eyes were set on opposite sides of his head, so that they could look straight ahead or to opposite sides as he chose. Directly behind these giant orbs were a pair of eloquent ears, triangular in shape and currently turned to the sides in an expression of solace.
"I am the windsinger Magnus," he said, speaking in a surprisingly gentle voice. He waved a cumbersome hand at the elven woman next to him. "This is Rhayn, daughter to Chief Faenaeyon."
"Faenaeyon!" Sadira croaked, searching for the tall elf whom she had first brought across.
Magnus's ears turned forward in curiosity. "I assumed you two had introduced yourselves," he said.
"My father's name means something to you?" demanded Rhayn, studying Sadira's face more closely.
The sorceress shook her head. "I've heard the name before, but it was probably someone else."
"Unlikely," said Rhayn. "Elves are named for the first interesting thing they do after learning to run. In our tongue, Faenaeyon means 'faster than the lion.' How many children do you suppose survive to bear such a name?"
"Not many," Sadira conceded. As she realized that she had probably just met the father who had abandoned her into slavery, the sorceress had a sinking feeling in her stomach.
"So, what have you heard about Faenaeyon?" Rhayn asked.
"Before sorcery was permitted in Tyr, he was known as someone who sold spell ingredients," Sadira said, deciding it would be wiser to keep her secret.
"That would describe half the elves in the city," Rhayn said.
When Sadira offered no further explanation, the elf gave Magnus a doubting look, then took a large waterskin off her lean shoulder and passed it to Sadira. From the vessel's lack of seams and bulbous shape, the sorceress guessed it had once been the stomach or bladder of some desert beast. She opened the neck and drank deeply of the rank water, hardly able to take her eyes off her father's face.
Sadira was surprised at the emotions she felt. To be sure, there was anger and hatred. A large part of her wanted to strike him down and, after revealing her identity, leave him in the scorching sun to die alone and maimed. Another part of her, less murderous but just as vindictive, wanted to tell him how she and her mother had suffered over the years, and, by blinding and deafening him, inflict some measure of agony in return for that they had endured.
The third aspect of Sadira's feelings confused her the most. Part of her didn't hate her father at all. Deep inside, she was amazed to see him standing before her. Until now, he had always been a distant abstraction, an enigma whose thoughtless cruelty had caused her a lifetime of pain. Now Sadira was merely curious about him. She wanted to know what kind of a man he was, and whether he had ever tried to find out what had happened to Barakah and his unborn child.
After several moments of allowing the tepid water from Rhayn's waterskin run to down her throat, Sadira finally removed the neck from her mouth. "My thanks," she said, handing it back to the woman who, she realized, was her half-sister.
Magnus kneeled at the sorceress's side. "Allow me to see to these wounds before we resume the run."
As the windsinger's thick fingers began fumbling at the bandages on the sorceress's arm, Faenaeyon opened her satchel and began to look through it.
Sadira was on her feet immediately, the palm of her good hand facing the ground and ready to draw the energy for a spell. "Close it!" she demanded.
Cringing, Rhayn stepped away from Sadira's side. "Don't try to stop him," she warned, half-whispering. "It's not worth it."
"Put my satchel down!" Sadira insisted, stepping toward her father.
The elf continued to paw through the sack, hardly looking up. "Why? Are you hiding something from me?"
"We had an agreement," Sadira said. "I told you what would happen if you didn't honor it."
Faenaeyon pulled her purse from the satchel. "I said my tribe would take you to Nibenay," he sneered. "I didn't say how much I'd charge."
He tossed Sadira's satchel at her feet, then turned away with her coin purse still in his hand. The sorceress started after her father, already drawing the power for the spell that would kill him.
Magnus wrapped a huge arm around Sadira's waist and lifted her off the ground, at the same time closing his fist around her hand. "Are you as mad as he is?"
SIX
Silver Spring Oasis
Faenaeyon strode into the lush field, using his bone sword to beat a swath through thickets of tart-smelling ashbrush. When he closed to within fifty paces of the mud-brick fort, he stopped. "Toramund!" he boomed. "What have you done to me?"
An armored elf leaned out of the gate tower. Though the distance was too great to see him well, Sadira could tell that he wore a leather helmet with a nose guard and broad cheek plates. In his hand, he held a curved sword with a blade of kank-shell.
"Take your Sun Runners and be gone, Faenaeyon," he yelled back. "All ye'll get from the Silver Spring is a belly full of arrows."
To give weight to Toramund's words, the elves standing along the walls flexed their bows, each pointing an arrow at Faenaeyon's chest. The Sun Runners, men and women alike, responded by nocking their own arrows. Sadira guessed that Toramund had about fifty elves on the walls, while her father had at least twice that number outside the fort.
Despite the looming threat of battle, Faenaeyon showed no sign of backing off. Instead, he ran a contemptuous gaze over the enemy warriors, as if challenging them to fire at him.
The sorceress turned to Magnus, who was mounted on a kank at her side. Since she had joined the Sun Runners, the windsinger had been her constant companion, healing her wounds and watching after her safety. "What's all this about?"
"Silver," the windsinger answered, focusing his black orbs on the small fort. It had obviously just been erected, for none of the mud bricks showed any sign of erosion and the highest rows were still black with dampness. "The Silver Hands claim this spring as their own and demand a silver coin from anyone who wishes to water his beasts here."
Sadira grimaced. It had been only a few days since she had helped the Sun Runners across the Canyon of Guthay, but already she could imagine how Faenaeyon would respond to such an outrageous price. "What happened the last time you were here?"
"There are more Sun Runners than Silver Hands," Magnus answered, twitching his ears.
"So you watered without paying," Sadira concluded.
"No," answered Rhayn, giving the half-elf a sheepish grin. "We robbed them."
Rhayn stood on the opposite side of Sadira's kank, near the leg that had been wounded by the halfling spear. The elf's skin glistened with sweat from the morning run, and a lanky infant dozed in a sling on her back. Although the child was Rhayn's, Sadira did not know who had fathered him—or his four older siblings. The elf woman treated more than a dozen men as a city woman might her husband, despite the fact that many of them made camp with meeker women who seemed half slave and half wife.
"Apparently the Silver Hands have decided to build a fort rather than suffer the indignity of another robbery," said Magnus, his ears turned forward in a thoughtful manner. "Rather far-sighted, don't you think?"
Back in the ashbrush field, Faenaeyon stopped glaring at the enemy warriors and returned his attention to their chief. "Open your gates, Toramund," he yelled. "My warriors and beasts thirst for your water, and my purses hunger for your coins."
Faenaeyon grabbed t
he purse he had taken from Sadira, the lightest of the five on his belt, and shook it for emphasis. A few Sun Runners laughed at his boldness, but many others cast nervous glances at each other.
"Does he want to start a fight?" asked Sadira. "Why doesn't he strike a deal?"
"Elves are too smart for that," Rhayn answered, looking at Sadira as though she were a child.
"Elven tribes know better than to trust each other," Magnus explained more patiently. "It's the great downfall of our otherwise noble race."
Sadira wanted to ask what was noble about an elf, but thought better of it and held her tongue.
After a short pause, Toramund responded to Faenaeyon's threat. "Take your rabble and be gone, before I lose patience!"
"Your goatyard won't save you," Faenaeyon countered. "I have a sorceress who can change bricks to dust with fewer words than I have already spoken."
"Rhayn? That trollop daughter of yours couldn't conjure light from a burning torch," Toramund scoffed.
Toramund reached into the depths of his tower and pulled forward a gray-haired man with a long beard. "Bademyr will make short work of Rhayn—and of your windsinger besides."
Faenaeyon's laugh echoed off the fortress walls, rolling back toward his own warriors in cruel waves. "It is not my daughter that I speak of—though you shall soon apologize to her," he cried. With a dramatic flare, he faced Sadira and said, "Destroy the fort, Lorelei."
"No," Sadira replied.
Her response brought a disbelieving murmur from the Sun Runners, and several warriors turned to stare with gaping mouths at the sorceress.
When Sadira made no move to cast a spell, Toramund mocked, "Your new sorceress must be powerful indeed, if you cannot control her. I'm 90 scared that I've made water in my boots. Perhaps you would like to drink that, Sun Runner?"
Faenaeyon paid the insult no attention. Instead, he glared at Sadira, his lips curled into an angry frown. He did not speak or move, but the mad light in his eyes made the message plain.