Tiercel had been sure that would upset Harrier—make him yell, and demand that everybody attend and take responsibility for their own survival. Harrier had just shrugged and gone on talking to whoever showed up in the evening as if they were the whole conclave of Ummarai. When he noticed that, Tiercel noticed something else, too. Harrier never started out by telling people his own plans. He started out by stating the problem, then said: “Tell me what you would do.” Sometimes everyone in the tent would agree. Sometimes they argued with each other. Sometimes Harrier would agree with someone—or everyone, if they all agreed with each other. Sometimes not. But Tiercel had the uncomfortable feeling that Harrier only asked the question so he could hear what the Wild Magic was going to say. He remembered the sound of Harrier’s voice the night he’d cried: “I am magic!” There’d been anger there—and despair. If all of Harrier’s year-mates had gotten together to choose the boy least likely to become a Wildmage—or, in fact, become anything requiring deep thought—it would probably have been Harrier Gillain.
Harrier should have been the High Mage. He likes things he can understand—charts and tables and graphs. He would have liked the High Magick, Tiercel thought sadly. But the High Magick led directly to needing a source for spell energy, and . . . Harrier spending the rest of his life (short though it would have been) bound to another living creature as tightly as Dragon and Mage were bound in the Dragonbond? No. Just . . . no. Harrier valued his freedom more than he valued anything else. That was one of the reasons the Wild Magic was driving him crazy.
At least some of the Ummarai came to the meetings unfailingly. Liapha and Ogmazad and Fannas and Omuta were there every evening—and Shaiara and Ciniran both attended, of course. And Zanattar came—though not Kataduk—but after the first day or two it was usually just the nine of them—eleven if Bisochim and Saravasse attended. Some nights Saravasse came and Bisochim didn’t. Everybody thought that was strange except Harrier and Tiercel.
“WHAT I still can’t figure out is why Ahairan doesn’t just, you know, kill us all and then go off and hide for a century or two,” Harrier said crossly. The evening’s gathering had begun.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Tiercel said. He supposed it wasn’t a real question—he didn’t think Harrier actually wanted Ahairan to kill them all and hide—but it was something that had puzzled him for a while. If she did what Harrier had suggested, she’d win. So why wasn’t she doing it? “I think I know. At least, I have a theory.”
“About why she’s being stupid?” Harrier demanded. He sounded so irritated that Tiercel simply grinned at him.
“Sure. Because she is.” Everyone in the tent stared at him then, with varying expressions of disbelief.
“But . . . the Endarkened are filled with evil intelligence,” Ciniran said slowly. “The Book of the Light says so.”
“Yes,” Tiercel answered, nodding. “But Ahairan isn’t Endarkened. And she’s . . . new. The Book of the Light tells us that the Endarkened were immortal. They could be killed, but if they weren’t killed, they lived forever. And Ahairan isn’t an Endarkened. She’s Dark, but not Endarkened. She’s something else—something that can make things that could—eventually—become more like the Endarkened The Book of the Light speaks about. And what I think is that Demons are powerful—we all know that—but not necessarily smart. After they live for a few thousand years, they have a lot of experience, so they seem smart. But Ahairan hasn’t lived for a few thousand years. Not in a body, anyway.”
“She’s making mistakes,” Harrier said slowly, after he’d thought about what Tiercel had said.
“I think so,” Tiercel said. “I hope so.”
The rest of the meeting was a discussion of whether—and if so, when—to slaughter some of their spare shotors for meat. With their additional losses—and the constant ruthless winnowing of things they did not need to carry with them—the Isvaieni were now leading more than three hundred shotors that were under neither pack nor saddle. At the moment that was to their advantage—those fresher animals were used by the night and midday patrols—but there was also the question of whether it would be more efficient to let Saravasse feed on the shotors, or continue to feed her on sheep and goats.
“It would take fewer animals to stuff that belly if we stuffed it with shotors,” Liapha said musingly.
“A shotor can go without water longer—much longer—than a goat or a sheep,” Zanattar answered.
“Yeah, you’d know,” Harrier said, though without any particular heat. “My best guess is that right now we’re something like a fortnight away from Sapthiruk Oasis. We can decide then, because we’ll be spending several days there.”
The others nodded, taking Harrier’s decision without argument. Everyone knew about Harrier’s hopes of replenishing their supplies at Sapthiruk by making anything grow there that possibly could. They were holding back a number of precious supplies—not only grain, but whole dried fruits—in hopes of turning Sapthiruk not only into a garden, but a garden warded with the strongest spells Bisochim could cast.
Tiercel knew he shouldn’t be thinking about stopping. All he should be thinking about was getting to Armethalieh. But it had been more than two moonturns since he’d arrived at Telinchechitl to discover he was too late, and ever since, he’d been traveling through the desert at a breakneck pace—little food, less sleep, and constant fighting. And now, he’d finally become aware of something that had been true all along—that his link to Ahairan hadn’t ended when she’d gotten free. Now that he knew, he hated the thought of sleeping. Which dreams were his, and which were thoughts stolen from a Demon’s mind? He’d spent several days quietly, despairingly, angry at Harrier for Harrier’s continuing unshakable trust in his un Taintedness, and then he’d simply . . . stopped. Harrier had two choices. He could believe that Tiercel’s dreams of Ahairan’s mind were nothing different than his visions had been all along . . . or he could believe that they meant that Tiercel was Tainted, and either kill Tiercel himself or ask someone to do it for him. And Tiercel knew that Harrier had never flinched away from doing something he didn’t want to do if it was something he thought he had to do. He’d accepted the Three Books because he thought he had to, hadn’t he?
And Tiercel knew that Knight-Mages were supposed to be, well . . . Knights. Warriors. Soldiers, like in the Time of Kellen. And he remembered standing in the ditch outside of Tarnatha’Iteru, watching Harrier try to wash the blood of the men he’d killed out of his clothes and off his skin, and Tiercel knew that being a warrior was the last thing in the world Harrier wanted to be. So he thought back to the sennight he’d spent sleeping in the Temple of the Light back in Sentarshadeen, and he recited The “Litany of the Light” to himself morning and night, and he did his best to believe that any glimpses he had of Ahairan’s thoughts meant nothing more than his visions ever had.
Once they’d finished taking roast shotor off the menu for the next fortnight or so, Tiercel was sure they were done. Today had been a good day—so far. Nobody was dead, and when that was the case, these evening meetings were usually brief. There wasn’t a lot of strategy involved when your entire plan involved running away as fast as possible from an enemy who could actually kill you any time she wanted to. Then Zanattar cleared his throat. “I would speak, Harrier.”
“Yeah, go ahead, what,” Harrier said. He sounded bored and distracted—Tiercel thought that Harrier was probably actually so tired he no longer even noticed his own exhaustion. They all were. He thought of all the Flowering Fair plays he’d been to: The Temptation of Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy at the Hands of Anigrel the Black by The Mock Perulan was a Rolfort family favorite, and went on for stanza after stanza about all the temptations Anigrel offered Kellen to turn to the Dark.
Came to Kellen, Kellen’s brother
Dark false sibling, Serpent’s shadow
Nursed upon Endarkened ichor
Anigrel the Black came seeking
Wooing his Enchanted twin whose hands the Swo
rd of Light must
grasp—
Then did the Endarkened offer Every prize that Kellen cherished
Father’s love and mother’s honor
Happiness and jeweled crown
Meant to turn the Doom of Serpents from the path his feet must seek—
Tiercel was pretty sure by now that all it probably would have really taken was half-a-dozen moonturns of forced retreat across the Isvai without a supply train to make Kellen consider Anigrel’s offer really seriously, and Anigrel wouldn’t even have had to throw in the silver armor or the golden saddle or the white warhorse—just a square meal and a sennight of uninterrupted sleep. It would have been utterly unbearable if the children were still with them—the young children, Tiercel corrected himself. They’d all thought they wouldn’t be facing anything worse in the Isvai than Ahairan’s attacks, when they were back in the Barahileth. It would have been utterly intolerable for the Isvaieni to be fighting Ahairan while watching their children starve before their eyes.
“When we have reached Sapthiruk, it is in my mind to go among the ranks of those Young Hunters who yet remain among us, to see which of them possess a bold heart,” Zanattar said. “One rider—two at most—with spare shotors led behind them to carry water and shelter from the sun . . . such might travel north more swiftly than the Isvaieni in their multitude.”
“And do you have any reason to think they wouldn’t be Shambler-bait the moment they were out of our sight?” Harrier snapped irritably.
“Were there an auspicious Foretelling to say it was so. And if spells could be set about them to hide them from the Demon’s sight,” Zanattar said mildly.
Harrier glanced toward him, and Tiercel knew that he hoped for answers Tiercel simply didn’t have. He shrugged unhappily.
Harrier sighed, shaking his head. “If spells could be ‘set about’ us to hide us from the Demon’s sight, a lot more of us would still be alive, Zanattar. We’re not at Sapthiruk yet. Maybe.”
“WHAT do you really think?” Tiercel asked Harrier a few minutes later. The evening’s formal discussion was over, but no matter how few hours there were to sleep in, neither of them was quite ready for bed. Tiercel, because he hated sleeping at all now. Harrier because . . . well, riding all day left you worn out and with cramped and aching muscles both. And if Tiercel had to guess, he’d be guessing that Harrier was trying to tire himself out enough to actually sleep. If Harrier had worried about things before he’d taken express responsibility for the surviving Isvaieni, it was probably nothing to what he was doing now. At least—between the night patrols and the Sandwinds—they had a little almost-safe area just beyond the outer ring of the tents where they could walk, if they wanted to. Harrier usually did.
“I don’t know,” Harrier answered. “What’s Ahairan thinking these days?”
Tiercel should have expected the question. Part of him had been expecting it ever since Harrier had called his link to Ahairan “lucky.” He’d known from that moment that Harrier could only see the link in terms of something he could use. And it was true that they needed any possible advantage they could get. Any warning of an attack, any knowledge of where Sandwalkers or atish’ban-jarrari were, or what direction the next army of Shamblers were coming from—and when—would be more than just an advantage. It could save lives. Despite all that, Harrier’s quick response—turning his own question back at him with the casual demand for information that Tiercel had been dreading—infuriated him. Harrier didn’t seem to notice, or care, that now—when Tiercel was straining to listen for Ahairan’s mind—he was doing what he’d spent moonturns doing when he was trying to sense Ancaladar’s. It was as if Ahairan had killed Ancaladar all over again, and nobody knew it but him. Worse: that she’d somehow taken Ancaladar’s place in their Bond, and all Harrier cared about was making that connection stronger.
“Why ask me?” Tiercel snapped.
“I could ask Bisochim, but he isn’t the one who told me the Barantar rode south a sennight and a half ago,” Harrier responded instantly, and Tiercel could tell by the way Harrier was shaking his head that he was trying to hold on to his temper. He was tired. They were all tired—and that was so much of the problem, because when you were this tired, you made mistakes, and they couldn’t afford to. “And I’m not even blaming you—I really don’t, Tyr—for saying we should ride back and save them, because you’d have said that whether there was an Ahairan or not. But there is an Ahairan. You’ve been having visions about her for more than a year. You didn’t stop just because she stopped being where she was and came here. I need to know.”
“High Mages don’t,” Tiercel said. “Have visions.” He’d done a lot of reading when they reached Karahelanderialigor and he’d had all the books Jermayan had collected on the High Magick to consult. Dreams, visions, prophecy, foretelling, scrying . . . there was none of that in the spells of the High Magick. The closest thing he’d ever found were spells for Seeing At A Distance. Did any of that really matter? Or did he just want to keep arguing with Harrier in the hope that Harrier would say he didn’t have to dig inside his mind for whatever Ahairan might have left there?
“I don’t care,” Harrier said simply. “I don’t care if you think you’re a High Mage or the High Magistrate. You have visions.”
Don’t make me do this, Tiercel thought miserably into the silence that followed. He clenched his teeth to keep from saying the words aloud, and winced when sand squeaked between them. There was always sand here in the Isvai, especially now that they had a Sandwind every evening. What would he do if he did say them, and Harrier ordered him—or worse, if Harrier simply begged? He didn’t think he could stand either one. “I hate this,” he said quietly. “All of it.”
“Most of it,” Harrier answered, and Tiercel glanced at him in surprise. “If you hate all of it, you hate Simera, and seeing the caves of Imrathalion, and seeing Karahelanderialigor and the Elves,” Harrier said.
“And Ancaladar,” Tiercel whispered. The pain of losing Ancaladar never got any less, but having known him . . . that part would always have been joy.
Harrier nodded slowly. “Kareta said he isn’t dead,” he said quietly. “It makes no difference to you now, and it won’t make any difference to him once you die. I’m sorry. But if you know anything that will help, we need to know.”
Tiercel sighed, and turned around in a circle, staring up at the sky. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, absently feeling how the ever-present dust had worked its way into the weave of even the tough boiled wool. The Nalzindar weren’t weavers—his original cloak had been the one he’d salvaged from a tent at Tarnatha’Iteru, so it had belonged to some Lanzanur. He couldn’t quite remember where he’d lost it—he thought he’d still had it when they’d all arrived at Telinchechitl—but the one he was wearing now had been part of the store of goods given to Shaiara by Liapha. Neither the Lanzanur nor the Kadyastar were cloth-weavers, though, and the Binrazan had woven rugs, not cloth. He was trying to remember which of the tribes was primarily known for its clothmaking—was it the Aduzza? the Muranasi?—when he realized he was just stalling to keep from answering.
“I wish I could say,” he said at last. “She’s north of us right now. I think. She moves around a lot.” And now that he knew about the link, Tiercel was paying closer attention to it, but it wasn’t even like listening to someone talk in a language he didn’t know. It was more like listening to a rock think. Or a tree. Or fire. Assuming rocks or trees or fire wanted you dead.
“But she never leaves the desert. I wonder why?” Harrier said.
Tiercel just groaned, even though he knew that Harrier wasn’t asking him. It was a question it would be nice to have an answer to anyway: no matter how inhuman and inexperienced Ahairan was, Bisochim had told her a lot of things before he’d realized her true nature. She had to know there were more Wildmages than just the two here in the desert. And Saravasse had said that he could be useful to Ahairan as well—so presumably anybody born with the ancien
t MageGift, whether or not it was trained, was someone Ahairan could also use to help her spawn a new race of Demons.
She could kill them all and hide—and she wasn’t.
She could go find someone else to use to begin populating the world with Demons right now—and she wasn’t.
“Har,” Tiercel said, “Do you suppose there are two Demons here and we just don’t know it?”
“Do I want to know why you’re asking me that?” Harrier asked after a long pause.
“It would explain why Ahairan is acting so funny.”
“I thought you said it’s because she’s stupid,” Harrier said.
“Do you think that’s a good enough reason?” Tiercel asked.
“Oh—Eternal Light that strengthened the Blessed Saint Idalia in her quest to free the world from the yoke of Darkness and Sand and Star deliver me—let me count the reasons why I think so. One: you said so. Two: no, I think ‘one’ pretty much covers it. But to go back to your previous question—which was stupid, by the way—Bisochim summoned her. Bisochim hasn’t mentioned a second Demon. I think he would have noticed.”
“What if he didn’t?” Tiercel insisted.
“Then there’s nothing we can do about it anyway, so I’m not going to worry about it. Whoever kills Ahairan can kill this other Demon too. Problem solved.”
Tiercel was startled into a snort of almost-laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of Harrier’s casual assumption that somebody who could kill one Demon might as well kill two while they were at it. He quickly sobered again, remembering the question he’d started to ask at the beginning of their conversation. “Are you going to let Zanattar send someone north when we reach Sapthiruk?”
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