“It sticks in my craw to think of that child in the hands of those monsters,” Kolost stated, his dark eyes shadowed with anger.
“Mine, too,” said Wolfram. “Not to mention the Sovereign Stone.”
“Yes, the Sovereign Stone, of course,” Kolost agreed, almost as an afterthought. He looked back at the tent, his brow furrowed.
Wolfram regarded Kolost with amazement. The clan chief continued to astonish and impress him. Any other clan leader’s first thought would have been of the valuable jewel, not the orphan child.
“Well, girl, we’d best be off, before you start a riot,” Wolfram stated. “We’re walking,” he added with emphasis, thinking he detected by the gleam in her eye that she was planning to shift into her dragon form on the spot.
Ranessa looked sullen, and he knew he’d guessed right. “I don’t like this place,” she said, casting a disparaging glance around through the tangles of untidy hair. “And I don’t like these people. And I don’t like being a dwarf,” she added accusingly, as if it was Wolfram’s fault. “You are all so…so short.”
Kolost fell into step beside them. “You’re going after the beast-men, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Wolfram said.
“The trail will be cold now. How will you even know where to start looking?”
Wolfram shrugged. He was busy keeping an eye on Ranessa.
“It seems hopeless,” said Kolost. “Still, the Wolf walks with you. The Wolf will show you the way.”
At the edge of the plaza, Kolost came to a halt. “I wish I could come with you, but I am needed here. In my absence, Sword Clan and Red Clan have started a war. I’m going to have to go knock a few heads together.”
“Good luck,” said Wolfram.
“You, too,” said Kolost.
As they separated, each man said silently to the other, “You’re going to need it.”
The Vrykyl, Caladwar, had been an elf when he was alive. He would have agreed with Ranessa, in that he found wearing the guise of a dwarf to be tedious in the extreme. To an elf fond of licentious living, the self-denying lifestyle of the Unhorsed was incredibly dull. Caladwar came to hate the dwarves so much that he couldn’t even take pleasure in killing one, for that meant he’d have to crawl into the dwarf’s skin and be filled with a flood of depressing memories. Caladwar feared he was going to have to go on being a dwarf for the rest of his undead life, but, fortunately for him, the dwarven Dominion Lord turned up, and Caladwar was able to secure the information his master had been so desperate to acquire.
It was not the appearance of the dragon that had sent Caladwar running off. Caladwar had been a member of the Wyred before he turned to the Void. He held a high opinion of his own prowess in magic—an opinion that was not unjustified. Caladwar could have fought the young and inexperienced dragon, and probably defeated it. Caladwar wasn’t interested in fighting dragons, however. He wanted only to get out of this horrible dwarf skin and back into his own. He left the plaza because he was eager to relay the information to his lord, and then leave this godsforsaken place.
Dagnarus had sent Caladwar to Saumel to secure the dwarven portion of the Sovereign Stone. Caladwar had arrived only to discover that someone had beaten him to it. He’d reported that to his lord, who had been furious and ordered Caladwar to remain in Saumel until he found out the identity of the thief.
Caladwar had tried casting his own fire-scry, hoping to use his magic to reveal the culprit. His plans were thwarted by the Void, which was supposed to be their ally, a fact that Caladwar found extremely perplexing. Someone out there was challenging Dagnarus for mastery of the Void. And now Caladwar knew who.
Reaching his dwelling place, Caladwar placed his hand on the Blood-knife and sent forth an urgent summons to Dagnarus.
The Lord of the Void was not quite as prompt to answer as he had been before he became the ruler of Vinnengael, and Caladwar fumed in impatience. He reminded himself that Dagnarus was in the public eye, surrounded by people most of the day and well into the night.
“Be quick,” Dagnarus said, his voice coming suddenly and unexpectedly. “I don’t have much time. What have you discovered?”
“I know who stole the dwarven Sovereign Stone, my lord,” said Caladwar smugly.
“You had better, or I would not thank you for bothering me,” Dagnarus returned coolly. “Dispense with the dramatics and tell me.”
“The thief is K’let, my lord.”
Silence as empty as the Void met his words. When the silence continued unbroken, Caladwar grew worried. He needed to obtain permission to leave the dwarven city, and he’d not yet received it.
“My lord?” he questioned. “Are you there?”
“Are you certain?” Dagnarus demanded.
“I am, my lord. A dwarven Dominion Lord performed a fire-scry in the tent where the dwarves kept the Stone. I could not see the vision, but he and another dwarf spoke of it afterward. The Stone was taken by three taan warriors and a half-taan slave. You would have found this amusing, my lord. The taan were not aware that the magic of the Stone would punish them for touching it, and so they—”
“I find none of this amusing.” Dagnarus cut him short. “Tell me this—do these taan have the Sovereign Stone?”
“They left with it in their possession,” said Caladwar.
“By K’let’s command?”
“The taan spoke of K’let often. But how could K’let know the whereabouts of the Stone?”
“Side by side we fought many times,” said Dagnarus, quietly, remembering. “I saved his life. He saved my dream of conquest. We were different races, yet of one mind. Of all the Vrykyl I ever created, he alone understood me. I forgave his defiance, because it is what I would have done myself. I could not forgive his rebellion. I would have taken care of his people. He should have trusted me…”
In other words, Caladwar thought, Dagnarus himself had told K’let how to find the dwarven part of the Sovereign Stone. If Dagnarus had not told K’let directly, he’d been careless of his thoughts, and the cunning K’let had read them through the Blood-knife.
“Yes, Caladwar, this is my fault,” said Dagnarus, and Caladwar cringed.
“My lord, I did not mean—”
“Enough,” Dagnarus said. “This may yet work to my advantage. The Stone means nothing to K’let. He cannot make use of it. He cannot even touch it. He has taken the Stone because he knows I will come for it. And so I shall. And so I shall…”
“What are your orders for me, my lord?”
Please let them be far away from here, Caladwar pleaded silently.
“You will return to Tromek and assist Valura and the Shield in his war against the Divine.”
“Yes, my lord! Thank you, my lord. I will leave at once.”
Caladwar was halfway out the door, the Blood-knife still clutched in his hand, when his lord’s parting thoughts came to the Vrykyl’s mind. Caladwar tried not to hear, for he was fearful that Dagnarus might change his mind and order him to remain in Saumel. The Vrykyl could not very well help hearing, however. He realized, with a sigh of relief, that the Lord of the Void was not speaking to him, but to the rebel.
“You have made a mistake, K’let,” Dagnarus said, and his calm was more frightening than his rage. “I would have overlooked much from you, but not this.”
Hastily, Caladwar thrust the Blood-knife back into its sheath. He took care not to touch it again until he was safely out of dwarven lands and on his way back to Tromek.
Wolfram and Ranessa spent three days flying around and about the southern tip of the Dwarven Spine Mountains, searching for the trail left by the taan. Three months had passed and the trail was as cold as yesterday’s porridge. But all Wolfram needed was a campsite or the remnants of a fire. Once he found that, he could determine by his scrying if the fire had been built by the taan, and from that he would know which direction they were headed. Find one fire and it would be easier, so he reasoned, to find the next.
He figured, l
ogically, that the taan would travel to the west. They had come from the west, from Dunkarga. The taan were still fighting in the west, in Karnu. The taan would naturally head back in that direction with their prize. If Wolfram had known of the taan’s fear of water, he would have not wasted his time searching along the shores of the river. He did not know, however, and so he assumed that they had crossed over by boat. He and Ranessa spent several days gliding slowly up and down the riverbanks, searching for the remnants of a campfire. They found several, but each time he did the scrying, he saw only parties of dwarves.
Ranessa thought the search boring. She complained during the day, sulked through the night. She threatened every hour or so to return to the monastery, with or without Wolfram.
The third night, after another day of searching that turned up nothing, he and Ranessa sat around their own fire.
“I want to talk to you,” she said abruptly. “We’ve wasted another whole day flying up and down this blasted river, and I’m sick to death of it.”
“You didn’t have to change out of your dragon form to tell me that,” said Wolfram, poking the fire. “Why do you bother?”
“Because we’re going to have an argument,” said Ranessa, her dark eyes glinting.
Wolfram snorted. “We’re always having arguments, girl! What’s that got to do with shifting your form to a human?”
“Because,” Ranessa said loftily, “dragons don’t argue with the likes of you. It’s demeaning.”
Wolfram heaved a sigh. “I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get any sleep until you’ve had your say.”
“No,” said Ranessa.
“Very well, girl. Get on with it.”
“Two days ago, you’d never heard of this dwarf child,” stated Ranessa. “No one cared for her before this happened. I don’t see why you should start caring about her now. No one cared about that blasted Stone, either, for that matter.”
“I’m doing this for that very reason,” said Wolfram.
He muttered the ritual prayer over the night fire, began to bank the coals.
“For what reason?”
“For the reason you said. That no one cared about her.” Wolfram stood up, wiping his hands. He looked at Ranessa, looked at her hard and intently. “You of all people should understand that.”
He walked off to his bedroll. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he saw her still standing there, staring after him. Wolfram drifted off to sleep with a warm glow. He’d finally managed to have the last word.
The next morning, Ranessa was gone.
Wolfram searched the area around their campsite, but there was no sign of Ranessa in any form—human or dragon. He told himself that she was hunting; her dragon form required an enormous amount of meat, and she often left to go after deer or mountain goat. Depending on her mood, she would sometimes bring him back a haunch to roast.
The nagging thought persisted that this time she’d carried through on her threat. He’d made her angry enough last night that she’d left without him. He wandered about the shoreline of the river, wondering bleakly what he would do. With her, the quest had been just short of hopeless. Without her…
“I’ll go on,” Wolfram said to his reflection that wavered in the water at his feet. “I’ve committed myself. It will take years, maybe. The rest of my life.”
He smiled ruefully. “I’ll be like Lord Gustav and his mad quest. They’ll be singing songs of me next.”
A shadow glided over him, the shadow of vast wings. Wolfram looked up in joy and relief. Ranessa flew above him, wheeling about him in tight circles.
“You’re looking in the wrong place!” she called down to him. “The taan traveled north of here. Far north. They crossed the Arven River near New Vinnengael.”
Wolfram gaped at her. “How do you know?”
“What?” Ranessa bent her head. “I can’t hear you.”
“How do you know?” he bawled.
“Oh,” she said. “I asked.”
“Asked what?” Wolfram demanded. “Asked who?” He waved his arms to indicate the vast and empty wilderness. “There’s no one around here to ask!” Ranessa muttered something.
“What did you say?” he shouted.
“If you must know, I asked a seagull.”
“Come down here!” Wolfram commanded, pointing at the ground. “I’m losing my voice!”
Ranessa circled down slowly. Finding a clear place to land, she settled down on the sun-warmed rocks.
“I thought you said you asked a seagull,” said Wolfram, coming over to stand near her snout.
“I did,” said Ranessa. “I asked a seagull if he had seen any of these taan, and he told me all about them. It’s been the talk of the bird community for months,” she added disparagingly. “They have so little to occupy their tiny minds.”
“I didn’t know you could talk to seagulls,” Wolfram said, amazed.
“Well, I can,” said Ranessa. She didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.
“Is that something all dragons can do?”
“I suppose so. Look, now that we know their direction, shouldn’t we be going?”
“Just a moment,” said Wolfram. “Do you mean to say that during this time we’ve been flying hither and yon, searching for the trail of these taan, all you had to do was ask a passing bird?”
Ranessa stared straight ahead.
“Girl,” said Wolfram, in exasperation, “why didn’t you?”
Ranessa glanced down at her nose at him. “Talking to birds is just so…pecwae.”
“Pecwae?”
“Yes, pecwae. Are you coming?” she demanded irritably.
“I’m coming,” said Wolfram. He climbed up on her back, careful to keep his chuckle to himself.
THE VOYAGE OF THE ORKEN SHIP CARRYING SHADAMEHR AND HIS companions was idyllic, a journey of bright sunshine and rushing winds and foaming water. The ship sailed rapidly, thanks to the remarkably fine weather and the magical talents of Quai-ghai, ship’s shaman, and Griffith, ship’s passenger. One used her magic to calm the waters. The other used his magic to summon the winds. The ship sped through the Sea of Sagquanno, rounded the Cape of Bad Omens safely, and entered the Sea of Orkas in record time.
Captain Kal-Gah was impressed. He’d never realized how valuable an elf who worked Air magic could be. Taking Griffith aside, the captain offered him a permanent job as Ship’s Second Shaman. Griffith expressed his appreciation and honor, but was forced to refuse.
“Since the Wyred paid for my training,” he explained, “they would not look kindly upon me selling my skills in magic to anyone else.”
Captain Kal-Gah understood. He offered to cut the Wyred in for a small share of the takings, if that would make them happy.
Griffith said he was afraid that it wouldn’t.
Captain Kal-Gah did not give up on his scheme, however. Orks have long been prejudiced against the magic of other races, considering that any orken shaman who uses magic other than the magic of water is the next best thing to a traitor. Captain Kal-Gah began to think that this was narrow-minded of his people, and he hinted broadly to a shocked Quai-ghai that she should broaden her horizons.
While Griffith spent his time with Quai-ghai, learning Water magic spells, Damra was relaxing for the first time in her life. Lulled by the beauty of the sea and the knowledge that she was cut off from the world and that no one could make demands of her, she passed her days in quiet, spiritual meditation and reflection. At night, she found comfort in her husband’s arms.
Shadamehr spent the voyage improving his knowledge of the art of sailing. He was already familiar with navigation, having learned that on a previous voyage. Now he was intent upon learning all he could about the ship. He climbed up the rigging and descended into the hold. He burned all the skin off his palms sliding down a rope and nearly broke his neck in a fall from a mast. Fortunately, he landed in the water. The orks were able to fish him out. He came dripping wet on board, laughing and claiming that he’d enjoyed the swim.
<
br /> Seeing that he was serious in his study, the orks were glad to teach him. They said he was lucky, for there had not been a bad omen since he came on board.
Shadamehr didn’t feel lucky, or even very content. For some inexplicable reason, Alise was not happy, and he couldn’t understand why. He went out of his way to play the perfect lover, but romantic words brought sarcastic responses and his melting looks caused her eyes to raise to the heavens. She was by turns snappish and sharp-tongued or silent and aloof. Sometimes, he would catch her regarding him with a look of sadness that was mingled with frustration.
“I don’t understand women,” Shadamehr complained plaintively to Griffith. “I’m trying to be what she wants me to be, and yet she will have none of me. Which rhymes, by the way.”
“Are you?” Griffith returned. “Or are you trying to be what you want her to want you to be?”
Thinking gloomily that he would never understand elves either, Shadamehr went back to the rigging.
The ship left the Sea of Orkas, turning north to sail up the Straits. One day—the day after the day the orks hauled Shadamehr out of the sea—he was standing at the railing, practicing with the sextant, when Alise walked up and stood beside him.
She had been avoiding him as if he’d adopted the orken habit of slathering himself all over in fish oil and he was surprised to see her, surprised and pleased.
“So, where are we?” she asked.
“By my calculations, somewhere north of Tromek,” Shadamehr replied blithely.
Alise looked at him in astonishment, and he saw the ghost of a smile play on her lips. The smile vanished swiftly, however, and she turned her gaze back out to sea.
“You’re working very hard at enjoying yourself,” she remarked. “So hard you nearly broke your fool neck.”
“If it comes to that,” Shadamehr replied. “You’re working very hard at not enjoying yourself. Alise, we have to settle this between us—”
She gazed out over the sun-sparkled waves. “It is settled. I don’t want you to love me. I want things to go back to the way they were between us. As if nothing had happened.”
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