The Parched Sea

by Troy Denning

  A chorus of laughter rustled through the warriors, and Lander could tell that every one of them had endured similar experiences.

  Utaiba grinned sheepishly and laid a hand on Sa’ar’s shoulder. “We’ve forgotten your manners, my friend. Our guests must be fed.”

  Sa’ar scowled in embarrassment. “Accept my apologies,” he said. “All I have is a big buck that my arrow downed yesterday. My wives have spent the morning basting it with honey and spices, but I’m sure it cannot compare to camel’s blood.”

  Lander smiled, relieved that Ruha’s joke had lightened the atmosphere. He hoped the change of mood indicated that the cold reception did not mean the other sheikhs were opposing the agreement.

  Sa’ar stepped aside, waving Lander and Ruha toward his tent. “Save some for Kadumi. I’m sure his palate is less demanding than yours.”

  Lander stopped in his tracks, his hopeful mood deflated. “Kadumi won’t be coming.”

  Sa’ar’s face fell. “I was hoping you had decided to leave him with the camels for some reason.”

  “No,” Ruha said, stepping to Lander’s side. “He’s dead.”

  “What happened?” demanded Utaiba.

  “A Zhentarim assassin killed him,” Lander explained. “He died defending me.”

  Sa’ar frowned, as did Utaiba and several other sheikhs. “An assassin?” he demanded. “How could he follow you across the Shoal of Thirst?”

  “The Zhentarim can go wherever we can go,” Lander answered. “Don’t underestimate them.”

  “You would have seen him from miles away,” Sa’ar protested.

  “A party followed us for two days, then disappeared,” Ruha supplied. “Kadumi and I thought they had all turned back, but Lander kept glimpsing one who hadn’t. We didn’t believe him, and the assassin caught us at the Sister of Rains.”

  “Surely you posted a watch?” asked a sheikh Lander did not know. The man had a heavy brow line and a sour expression.

  “He used magic to make himself invisible,” Ruha replied.

  The sour-faced sheikh rolled his eyes. “Invisible,” he scoffed. “Were you attacked by an assassin or a djinn?”

  “The Zhentarim can do this, Sheikh Haushi,” Utaiba said. “Both Sa’ar and myself have seen it.”

  Haushi shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  Lander took the assassin’s ring from his pocket and slipped it on. When he disappeared before their very eyes, both the warriors and the sheikhs gasped and stepped away, automatically reaching for their weapons.

  The Harper removed the ring and held it up for the sheikhs to see. “Magic. With it, the Zhentarim can do many things you would think impossible.” The Harper turned to Sa’ar. “Kadumi’s death grieves us all,” he said, hoping to change the subject. “But Ruha and I have survived to bring magic to the Bedine. You conceded that we could only do this with the favor of the gods. Here we are. Will you honor your agreement?”

  Sa’ar avoided Lander’s gaze, looking toward Utaiba. “We didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “That does not change our agreement,” Ruha said.

  Lander was surprised at how hard the widow was pressing the issue. Before Kadumi’s death, she had seemed more interested in joining him in Sembia than in working to save her people. Now, she appeared positively determined to drive the Zhentarim out of Anauroch.

  It was Utaiba who finally answered Ruha. “As far as the Raz’hadi and the Mahwa are concerned, you have proven that the gods favor your magic,” the wiry sheikh said. “The other sheikhs are not yet convinced.”

  “No doubt because you did not bother to tell them of our agreement,” Ruha observed.

  “True,” Utaiba admitted.

  “We have convinced all the sheikhs to take the matter before the Mother of the Waters,” Sa’ar added defensively. “We will take you and your spellbook to the House of the Moon.”

  “We agreed to take Ruha’s magic only,” Haushi interrupted, pointing at the ring in Lander’s hand. “We said nothing of Zhentarim magic.”

  “The ring is not important. Do with it what you will,” Lander said, holding it out to Haushi.

  The sour-faced sheikh backed away as if the Harper were offering him the head of an asp. “I don’t want that thing!” he snapped, pointing at the lake. “Magic is for the gods!”

  “As you wish,” Lander said, spinning toward the lake and throwing the ring as hard as he could. It landed two hundred yards from shore with a barely perceptible splash. “Now let us go to the House of the Moon!”

  “You should eat first,” suggested Utaiba. “This could take some time.”

  “We will eat later,” Ruha said, casting a hungry look in the direction of the roasted gazelle.

  Lander also cast a longing glance at Sa’ar’s tent. As hungry as he was, it seemed more important to resolve the issue of whether or not Ruha’s magic would be accepted by the Bedine. “My stomach will wait,” he said. “The Zhentarim will not.”

  “Then, by all means, let’s go to the House of the Moon,” Sa’ar said, motioning toward the lakeshore.

  The sheikh led the way down to the lake. Two round boats, made by stretching camel hides over a wooden frame, lay beached on the shore. Sa’ar, Utaiba, Lander, Ruha, and two more sheikhs piled into one of the boats, and six sheikhs climbed into the other.

  Paddling toward the small island in the middle of the lake, Lander realized that the tribesmen were not very good boat-makers. Water poured through the stitches, and the awkward craft rode low and clumsy. The Bedine showed no sign of anxiety, but the Harper was glad when they reached the grassy shore of the small island. Had either of the boats foundered, he was sure he would have been the only one who could swim.

  The island was a small, grass-covered hill no more than a hundred yards across. The alabaster palace stood on top of the hill. Its three-quarter circle trapped At’ar’s light and cast it back with a silvery radiance that immediately struck Lander as unimaginably soft and peaceful. He could easily see why the Bedine had concluded Eldath inhabited the structure. If they were right, Lander hoped the goddess would favor them with a sign.

  While two sheikhs returned across the lake to fetch the five who had been left behind, Lander and Ruha followed the others to the palace. When they reached it, a warm shiver of exhilaration ran down the Harper’s spine. The building was made of a chalky, translucent desert rock cut so thin that he could see the shapes of a throne and chairs through it.

  The small company waited for a few others to cross the lake and join them, then entered the palace through a gracefully curved foyer. The short corridor had been carved from a single stone and shaped without any visible joints. It opened into a circular room, on the far side of which sat a huge throne gilded with hammered copper.

  To each side, the throne was flanked by a row of stout chairs of darkly colored wood. The marble floor was so black that, if the chairs and throne had not been sitting upon it, Lander would have sworn it was a bottomless pit. The ceiling was a single slab of translucent rock. Through it filtered a light that bathed the room in warm radiance.

  A tangible feeling of tranquility came over Lander, and he found himself bowing his head to Eldath. Simply entering the palace, it seemed to him, was worth missing the feast now languishing back in Sa’ar’s tent.

  “I’ve never seen anything so magnificent,” the Harper said. “Who built it?”

  The sheikhs shrugged.

  “The House of Moon is as old as the gods. It was here before the Scattering.”

  The words came from Ruha’s mouth, but the voice that spoke them did not belong to the widow. The sounds were almost a song, with a peaceful, soothing quality to them that Lander had never heard in any woman’s speech. The voice, which could only be described as higher than soprano, seemed to enter his head without passing through his ears.

  “Eldath?” Lander gasped. He did not know whether he was hearing the goddess’s voice or the effects of one of Ruha’s spells.

 
“What magic is this?” demanded Haushi.

  The widow glared at the astonished sheikh. “This is no magic,” she answered in the strange voice. She waved to the dark chairs, then sat in the copper-gilded throne herself. “There are sixteen chairs—fifteen for the sheikhs of the fifteen tribes that will fight the Zhentarim, one for the Harper who has risked his life to help you.”

  When the stunned sheikhs did not move, Ruha-Eldath said, “You do not have much time, Sheikhs. The Zhentarim have made an alliance with the Ju’ur Dai, and even now the traitors are leading the Zhentarim into the hills guarding Elah’zad. Do you intend to make a battle plan or to let the invaders defile the Sacred Grove?”

  The sharp words stunned the sheikhs and Lander into taking their seats, then Haushi asked, “What of Ruha’s magic?”

  As the sheikh spoke, Ruha’s chin sank to her chest and she slumped down in the chair. Lander stood and rushed to the widow’s side and found her breathing in quick, shallow gasps. He tried to wake her, but she had fallen into a deep slumber that could not be disturbed.

  “She seems to be sleeping,” Lander reported, though he could not say whether the sleep had been caused by the strain of serving as a goddess’s mouthpiece or by the effort required to cast some peculiar kind of magic he had never seen before.

  Sa’ar said, “We have seen a sign from Eldath. Now we must do as the goddess asks and turn our thoughts to defeating our enemies.”

  “How do we know the witch wasn’t using her magic to fool us?” demanded Haushi.

  “Ruha couldn’t have known about the Ju’ur Dai and the Zhentarim’s location,” Utaiba replied. “Then, too, there is the furniture in which we sit—sixteen chairs for sixteen men. I, for one, believe it was Eldath who spoke to us.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement, then Sa’ar said, “Lander, you know the Zhentarim best. What strategy do you suggest?”

  Returning to his chair, the Harper asked, “How many warriors do we have?”

  Utaiba was the first to answer. “The Raz’hadi have two hundred and fifty men who will die to drive the Zhentarim from our desert,” he said, proudly thumping himself on the chest.

  Sa’ar spoke next. “Over one hundred Bait Mahwa have already died fighting the Zhentarim, and two hundred more are ready to join their brothers.”

  A toothless sheikh wearing a black turban said, “We have one hundred and fifty warriors, all thirsting for the blood of the invaders.”

  Lander held up a hand. “I meant to ask, how many warriors do we have all together?”

  Utaiba and Sa’ar frowned, then Sa’ar said, “We are telling you. I have two hundred men.”

  “I have two hundred and fifty,” Utaiba added.

  “And we have one hundred and fifty,” repeated the toothless sheikh.

  “Go on,” Lander said, nodding to the next sheikh and starting to add figures in his head. Before they could hope to match the coordination of the Zhentarim army, the Harper realized, the Bedine would have to adjust their way of thinking.

  When the fifteen sheikhs had each listed the number of warriors in his tribe, Lander said, “We have a little less than three thousand warriors, about a thousand more than the Zhentarim. Is there any place we can get more?”

  Utaiba answered. “We have sent riders to all the khowwans within a fortnight’s journey,” he said, waving his hand in all directions. “Their allies have not been attacked, so they can see no good in fighting the Zhentarim. The only tribes we can count on are those gathered at this oasis.”

  “The others will change their minds when the asabis eat their sons and the Black Robes enslave their daughters,” Sa’ar growled.

  “No doubt,” Utaiba agreed. “But for now, these tribes are all we have. Perhaps more will join us later.”

  “Then I suggest you send your women and children to a safe place, along with a third of your warriors to protect them,” the Harper said. “If the Zhentarim realize that your families are unprotected, they will try to destroy them.”

  “We will send our tribes north together,” Sa’ar said. “If we perish, or if the Zhentarim follow them, they will scatter. At most, the invaders will capture only a few hostages.”

  The other sheikhs nodded their agreement, then Utaiba said, “We have made provisions for our families, but we still have not discussed the most important thing. What is the best way to attack the Zhentarim?” He looked to Lander, deferring to the Harper’s knowledge of the enemy.

  Lander considered the question for a moment, then said, “We’ll have about the same number of men as the Zhentarim, counting their asabis. We should attack during the day, when the reptile mercenaries are burrowed beneath the sand. That way, we’ll have a numerical advantage. With luck, we’ll destroy the enemy in a single battle.”

  Sa’ar smiled at the Harper. “We?” he said. “Are we to take it that you do not intend to be an observer in this battle?”

  Resting his eyes on the widow’s sleeping form, Lander shook his head. “Where Ruha goes, I go,” he said. “If I hadn’t talked her into staying, she’d probably be in Sembia by now.”

  To the Harper’s surprise, both Sa’ar and Utaiba greeted his comment with frowns, and the other sheikhs muttered in displeasure. It was Haushi, however, who voiced their concern. “What about the witch?”

  From the murmur that rustled through the room, the Harper knew he had spoken the question on the mind of many of the other sheikhs.

  “She’ll be coming with us, of course,” Lander said, glancing at Ruha’s inert form. “Providing she wakes up in time.”

  “Of course, we’ve all agreed to that now,” said a wizened little man with a scraggly beard. “But where will she sleep? In your khreima?”

  The question caught Lander off guard, and he had to pause for a moment to consider it. After reflecting on the interrogation the sheikhs’ had given him when he reported the news of Kadumi’s death, as well as the suspicious looks of the boys who had come to take care of their camels, Lander thought he understood the source of the trouble.

  Deciding to get right to the heart of the matter, he said, “If you think I had something to do with Kadumi’s death, I don’t see that I can do anything—”

  Sa’ar interrupted, saying, “What passed between you and Kadumi is not our affair. If you killed him, I’m sure that he deserved it.”

  “I didn’t kill him!” Lander said. “It was a Zhentarim assassin!”

  “Whatever,” Utaiba answered. “It doesn’t matter. Nobody here is related to the boy, so there’ll be no blood price.”

  Lander could only shake his head. He did not know whether he should be upset at having been accused of killing the boy—if that was what the sheikhs were implying—or at the casualness with which they were willing to dismiss the murder. To make matters worse, he realized that he did not have any idea of what was upsetting the sheikhs. “If nobody cares about Kadumi, what’s the matter?”

  Sa’ar pointed at Ruha, then at Lander. “Her,” the sheikh said, “and you.”

  “It’s wrong to bed a widow while her husband’s spirit is still restless,” said the toothless sheikh. “You’ll bring N’asr’s plague down on us.”

  Lander studied Ruha’s sleeping form. The sheikhs’ assumptions regarding what had passed between him and the widow upset him more than they should have—in part, he knew, because they had read so well what he felt in his heart. “How long does it take to calm a husband’s spirit?”

  “Two years,” answered Haushi. “If you sleep with her before then, you will curse us all.”

  The Harper rose and walked over to the copper-gilded throne. Standing opposite Ruha, he said, “Then I’ll wait.”

  “Have you bedded her yet?” Utaiba asked.

  Lander did not look away from the widow. “No.”

  “Then it is decided!” Sa’ar exclaimed, rising. He pulled his jambiya and stepped to the middle of the room. “Let us swear an akeud! Victory or defeat, let us find it together!”

  Th
e burly sheikh drew the blade across his palm, then held up his hand so the others could inspect the dripping wound. As the blood touched the floor, it vanished into the black marble.

  Fifteen

  When Ruha woke, all the khowwans had broken camp. The tents were gone, the fires out, and the waterskins filled. Guarded by a thousand warriors and clustered into fifteen tribal groups, the women and children were already riding northward along Elah’zad’s western ridge. In the dawn’s tawny light, their gray figures were mere shadows, but the widow could see by their slow pace and lethargic movements that they were not leaving cheerfully.

  On the eastern ridge, the scene was different. Two thousand warriors sat anxiously on their camels, their keffiyehs flapping in the cool morning breeze and their jocular voices echoing across the valley. The silhouettes of lances and spears danced against the yellow orb of the rising sun, and Ruha could tell that the prospect of battle had put the warriors in high spirits.

  Lander came and kneeled next to Ruha. “You’re awake,” he said, offering her some water. “Good. I thought I’d have to lash you to a camel.”

  Ruha declined the water, then looked around and saw that she lay on the grass next to the lake, covered by a sleeping carpet. Behind her, a half-dozen men were folding the khreima that, she assumed, had covered her until a few moments ago.

  “What happened?” Ruha asked. Her hand automatically rose to see if her veil needed adjustment. “The last thing I remember is walking into the House of the Moon.”

  “Let’s just say you and Eldath have a lot more in common than you realize,” Lander said, slipping a hand under her arm. “I’ll explain later. Right now, we’d better hurry. The sheikhs are riding on the Zhentarim, and if we don’t want to be left behind, we’d better hurry.”

  The Harper helped the bewildered widow to her feet, then led her up the hill to where a young warrior was holding their camels. They joined Sa’ar and Utaiba on the ridge, and within minutes the Bedine army was riding into the sun.