“You won’t die here,” Kiran whispered, willing the words to be truth. “You’ll see Cara and Melly again. Use that stubbornness of yours. All you have to do is hold to life until I return.”
Out in the gorge, a quarter moon rode high in the night sky. Not enough light to make travel easy, but enough to differentiate between thorns and stone. About to retrace his route up the gorge, Kiran halted, his gaze caught by the outlines of the cliffs against the stars. Farther down the gorge, the clifflines grew ragged, the canyon broadening. If he could ascend to the rim and spark his firestones on the sandstone plateau above, his magefire would be visible for miles. The clanfolk couldn’t possibly miss it, wherever they were hunting.
He hadn’t Dev’s skill with climbing, but he wasn’t a complete novice any longer. If he could find a break in the cliffs, he could scramble up to the plateau.
Kiran hastened through a nightscape of subdued grays and shadows. His exhausted muscles burned and twinges of nausea cramped his stomach, but he didn’t slow. Strange to think that only a few hours ago he’d been mired in an agony of fear and uncertainty. Now all he felt was grim, implacable determination.
He slithered down a series of ledges littered with stray chunks of stone, and found himself at a junction of canyons. A steep-walled slot met with the gorge, which broadened as it meandered eastward. A tantalizingly short distance away, the angle of the cliffs eased, the canyon rims sinking to the starry horizon. Yet immediately ahead, a moonlit garden of forbiddingly large boulders blocked easy travel.
His other choice was the slot canyon, which cut northward. Possibly a better direction for Kiran to remain in the godspeaker’s territory, but he’d never be able to ascend cliffs that sheer.
He should find a path through the boulders and climb the gentler slopes beyond. Kiran hurried forward, only to halt in surprise. Faint through his barriers, a spidersilk thread of earth-power coiled in languid loops beneath the boulder garden. Oh, the irony, to find a current so easily—but something was odd about the current’s flow, something…
A chill wisp of power brushed his barriers, the taste of it both dissonant and horribly familiar. Kiran’s heart jolted. The night air was abruptly cold on his skin, the faintest sounds loud in his ears. Were those whispers he heard?
Ahead in the boulders, shadows shifted and crept forward. A patch of paler rock resolved into an ice-white, eerily beautiful face.
I thought I felt you, child, a sly voice breathed in Kiran’s head, as if his barriers meant nothing. Playing with our fire…did you forget that channels run both ways?
Kiran stumbled backward, terror bright in his veins. His sense of time and place shredded away; he was a child again, caught in a nightmare, an old, helpless panic rising to blot away his reason.
An inhuman, fanged grin split the pale face. A white hand beckoned, the gesture languid and mocking.
Kiran ran. Not back the way he had come, but up the sheer-walled, winding slot canyon. In a blind, headlong rush, he tripped over ledges and bruised his shins on boulders. Amid the roar of panic in his head, one thought remained: he must not lead the demon back toward Dev.
He didn’t expect to escape. He’d seen the blurred speed of the demon in the mountains. Yet no pallid, subtly scaled hands gripped him; no silver-sweet laughter pierced the air. Kiran’s breath came in racking gasps. His legs burned and grew leaden, slowing his headlong flight. He threw a wild glance over his shoulder. Nothing behind him but rock and sand and cliffs, innocently empty in the light of the moon shining straight down into the slot. But the twisting course of the canyon meant he couldn’t see far.
Kiran stumbled to a halt. He strained his inner senses.
Nothing. No hint of magic or mocking whispers teased at his barriers. The canyon was utterly still and silent around him. Had he imagined the encounter? A hallucination, brought on by exhaustion and drug withdrawal? Yet the fear lingered, clamoring that he should run again, farther, faster. Kiran struggled to set it aside and think rationally.
He must risk returning to the junction of canyons. Yes, if the demon were real, it could be waiting to ambush him. But what good did it do him to cower here like a trapped animal? He’d never be able to climb out of this slot, and the clanfolk would have to be right on top of him to spot a magefire. With Dev’s life in the balance, he must return to where he might reach the plateau.
Fear yammered at Kiran that retracing his steps was a disastrous idea. Anything was better than risking a demon’s attention. But Kiran forced his reluctant legs to move—only to freeze again, listening.
A soft scrape, as of a foot on stone. Coming from farther up the slot canyon, not down. Kiran sensed no chill taint of demons—but so faint he could barely feel it, a dim pulse of life. A nathahlen was approaching.
One of the godspeaker’s clan? A rill of hope lightened his heart, yet the fear still surging through his veins urged him to caution. Kiran glanced around, seeking shelter. There—a huddle of rocks against the canyon wall. Kiran crept over to the rockpile and backed into a crevice.
The glimmer of life brightened. A dark figure separated from the shadows, slinking around a bend in the canyon. When the nathahlen dodged around a swordplant into the moon’s faint light, Kiran got a better look.
A woman. Tall and broad-hipped, with skin as dark as the shadows, her equally black hair bound into multiple tight knots like stubby spikes. Sulanian by ancestry, then. Plenty of the godspeaker’s clan had appeared to have blood other than Varkevian—the godspeaker foremost among them—but Kiran didn’t remember any Sulanian-dark faces in the crowd.
A long knife glinted silver in the woman’s hand, and a bulging pouch was slung over her back. She prowled along with soft-footed confidence, stopping often to listen, her head turning to search the shadows.
Did she carry water in that pouch, or even healing charms? If she was alone, and he could but touch her—
A sharp whisper arrowed through the air. “Ohe, Zadikah!”
The woman whirled, her knife coming up.
A stocky man loped around the bend into the moonlight. Metal banded his wrists—charms, but of what type, Kiran didn’t know. The light was too dim to see any runes, and he felt no ripples of activated magic.
The man spoke swift and low in gutturally accented Varkevian. Zadikah lowered her knife and said something too soft for Kiran to hear, pointing down the canyon.
The man’s accent was strikingly similar to that of the godspeaker and her kin. A clansman at last? Kiran eased forward, ready to step out of the crevice and demand the man take him to the godspeaker.
“Didn’t I say to speak only in a tongue I can understand?” Another nathahlen woman, this one skeleton-thin and scarcely taller than a child, jogged down the canyon to join the clansman. Her topknot of curls was gray in the moonlight, and what little Kiran could see of her face was deeply lined, but she moved with a fluid grace that belied her apparent age. She wore charms not only on wrists and forearms but attached to braided cords strapped over her chest, so many that Kiran was surprised her bony frame wasn’t stooped under the weight. “You desert dwellers have far too many dialects. I haven’t the time to learn them all.”
Kiran hesitated, uncertain. He’d read that an entirely different form of Varkevian was spoken in the great cities of the south, particularly by pure-born members of the oldest families. The elderly woman’s air of casual command and her wealth of charms suggested she might be some scion of a ranking house. In which case, if she were skulking about the desert in the company of a clansman, she was likely gathering allies for one of the covert schemes the great houses employed against each other. One in which she might take exception to witnesses.
The urgency of his concern for Dev tempted Kiran to step forward anyway—surely one of the old woman’s multitude of charms was useful for healing!—yet he could hear Dev warning him: Only an idiot blunders headlong into a game before he knows the players. Scout the situation first, glean what information you can, and then make
your move.
Zadikah said to the old woman, “I thought you considered Kennish a bastardized, inelegant means of communication.” Her accent was far lighter than the clansman’s.
“We’re hardly engaged in elegant business, are we?” The old woman patted the clansman’s muscled arm. “I use the tools that come to hand, no matter how crude.”
The clansman snorted and said to Zadikah, “She’s still mad over my little joke with the scorpions.”
The old woman flicked a hand at him and demanded of Zadikah, “What are you doing wandering the canyon? The moon has already passed the horns of Amaris. Were we not to meet at the eagle-talon rock?”
Zadikah said, “I was on my way to you when I heard noises like someone running. Might just have been a pair of ringtails getting in a scrap, but I thought it best to be certain.”
The clansman’s teeth showed white in a wolfish smile. “Ringtails? Pah. More likely some clumsy hothead of a black-dagger scrambling for cover lest he get caught scouting off his own ground. We should make sure no roaches can scurry off carrying tales.” He slid a knife from beneath his vest. The blade was as long and wickedly sharp as Zadikah’s.
Kiran tensed, dismayed. During his headlong flight up the canyon, he’d been too panicked to think of keeping to stone. If Zadikah and the clansman discovered tracks, they’d know they weren’t alone in the canyon. In his current condition, Kiran couldn’t risk taking ikilhia from multiple attackers.
“No need for hunting, Bayyan.” The old woman reached out to prick a fingertip on the clansman’s bared blade. She touched her bloodied finger to an amulet near her collarbone, and her mouth moved in a silent word.
A wave of magic surged outward from the charm, surprisingly strong. Kiran’s amulet heated in warning. The magic parted smoothly around him, seeking onward through the canyon without even a ripple of disturbance.
After a moment, the old woman shook her head. “Nobody else but you two within this canyon. We’ll have our privacy.”
Kiran let out a nervous breath as his amulet cooled. Now he truly dared not reveal himself—at least, not without some insanely clever lie about his identity. No ordinary nathahlen would possess a concealment charm capable of foiling such a powerful seeking spell.
Zadikah and Bayyan sheathed their knives, Bayyan with an air of disappointment. He said, “I tell you, something’s got the Shaikar-lovers whipped into a frenzy. Before the sun set, I spotted an entire hunt pack crawling over the Dragonclaw cracks, armed to the teeth.” He turned to Zadikah. “You tell the black-daggers that if we snake-eaters find them trespassing on our lands, they’ll be the sorrier for it.”
The confirmation that Kiran had reached another clan’s territory would have been so welcome mere hours ago. Now it made him want to pound his head against the rock. Then again, Bayyan’s clan might also be familiar with whatever poison had caused Dev’s illness. Perhaps Kiran could bargain with Bayyan without any need for threats or casting. But what would induce the man to help him? The few carcabon stones remaining in Dev’s pack didn’t feel like much incentive. Yet they might serve, if he could somehow get Bayyan alone.
Zadikah said, “My kin-tie is severed. I no longer speak to the black-daggers.”
“You may not, but your lover does,” the old woman said. “Teo patches them up the same as he does all who seek his aid, no? Healers hear much. When you return home tonight, find out from him what’s got the black-daggers so riled. I don’t want any surprises so close to the day of action.”
Zadikah knew a healer who was close enough to reach before dawn? Kiran leaned forward, all other considerations swept away by a rush of hope.
Zadikah bent her head in acceptance, and the old woman grunted in satisfaction. “Now. You bring good news, I trust?”
“I do.” Zadikah slung the pouch off her back and pulled out a fat cylindrical object. A rolled sheaf of papers? Kiran squinted, wishing the moon was full.
Zadikah offered the roll to the old woman. “Your scholar friend was indeed grateful for my aid in his escape. His hatred for the house of Zhan-davi burns hot and his memory is excellent. He drew for us maps detailing every room in the Khalat, marked with all he knows of their contents and occupants.”
The old woman eagerly snatched the roll of maps. Bayyan said something jubilant in his guttural dialect.
Dev had told Kiran of the Khalat. A citadel perched on the summit of a sheer-sided butte at the heart of Prosul Akheba, home to the ruling house and the collegium of Seranthine scholars. Kiran couldn’t help wondering what the trio sought there, but it mattered little.
Zadikah was his focus now. Kiran would wait for her to finish scheming, and when she set off to rejoin her healer lover, Kiran would follow. With the desert so barren of life, he didn’t need to keep her in sight. He could hang back and track the faint pulse of her ikilhia. Once well clear of the slot, he’d close the distance, play the desperate prospector so grateful to have stumbled across her, and offer their remaining carcabon stones in exchange for her help, all without arousing suspicion. If he were truly lucky…ah, but he shouldn’t get his hopes up. The Alathians were masters of herbalism. What chance that a simple desert healer could replicate their drug?
The old woman said, “Excellent work, Zadikah. Only one problem remains. I’ve secured charms powerful enough to breach the Khalat’s wards and gain our warriors access, but the charms must be triggered from inside the ward patterns. You know the city and the Zhan-davi best of us all. How might we accomplish this?”
Not a covert scheme, but a covert preparation for war. The black-dagger trader had said the Akhebans were jumpy. Clearly they had good reason to be.
“I know a way.” Zadikah didn’t sound pleased about it; her words were heavy with resignation.
The old woman made an impatient gesture. “Tell me.”
Zadikah said, “Before Teo left the city for the desert, he worked some years in the Seranthine collegium. He speaks of that time only rarely, but I know that he did the collegium’s matria a great favor. I don’t know what the favor was, but she is grateful for it still. She sends Teo a letter every year inquiring after his health and inviting him to visit her in the Khalat, should he ever return to Prosul Akheba.”
Bayyan said, “So Teo could accept the invitation, get inside, and trigger the charms. But Zadikah, I thought you said he would never help us—that he refuses to take part in anything that might bring harm to others, even to end the cruelty of the Zhan-davi.”
Try as he might to suppress it, hope had become fire in Kiran’s heart. Teo was a collegium-trained healer who eschewed violence? He could not ask for a better chance. To think he could both save Dev and escape making the choice he so dreaded…oh, please, let it be true.
When Zadikah spoke, her voice was choked and dark. “Teo would never help us knowingly. But he knows how I’ve always longed to see the Seranthines’ great library. I could convince him to take me within the Khalat on the pretext of asking the matria to give me a day’s writ of access. Once inside, I will trigger the charms.”
Zadikah meant to betray her lover’s trust, did she? Kiran remembered all too well the soul-searing anguish of learning his mage-family’s lies. If he succeeded in gaining Teo’s help, he would tell the man the truth of Zadikah’s intent. He couldn’t save Teo from the pain of it, but at least he could spare Teo from being used against his will.
“Ah!” The old woman clasped her hands and bowed to Zadikah. “Daughter of my heart, you exceed my every expectation.”
Bayyan stood rock-still. He said quietly to Zadikah, “And after?”
Zadikah bowed her head. “He will not forgive my use of him. My heart withers already to lose him—but how can I let that turn me aside? Our friends are being murdered for daring to speak truth, their families cast out to die in the desert. Pain of the heart is as nothing to their suffering.”
Kiran twitched, unwillingly reminded of his decision in Ninavel to betray Dev’s trust and reveal their clandestine c
onversations to Ruslan, knowing it would likely mean the child Melly’s death. He’d thought it the only way to ensure Ninavel’s survival; that preventing thousands of deaths outweighed the cost to a child he’d never met. Yet when he’d seen Dev’s sick horror at the realization of his treachery and heard Melly’s shrieks as Ruslan hurt her—it hadn’t felt like the right decision at all. He wanted to shout at Zadikah, Find another way, one that will not stain your soul!
The old woman touched Zadikah’s arm. “You speak wisely. If I had the magic to soar up the cliffs of the Khalat or an army to lay siege to the gates, I would use them and spare you this. But your sacrifice will bring victory, and that is no small reward.”
Kiran’s fists clenched. Zadikah might believe she was doing the right thing, but the old woman was a coldblooded manipulator, he was certain of it.
Bayyan still hadn’t moved, his shoulders a rigid line; Kiran wondered if the man saw what he did. But Bayyan said only, “If you’re certain, Zadi.”
Zadikah stepped back from them and bowed, deep and formal. “I’m certain. I’ll send a message with anything I learn of the black-daggers’ hunt, and signal you again when Teo and I begin our journey.”
“If Bayyan’s snake-eaters can provide all he promises me, we’ll be ready and waiting,” the old woman said. “Go in the light of Shaikar’s ever-burning flame, Zadikah. Every man, woman, and child who lives because of you will bless your name.”
She and Bayyan hurried back up the canyon and disappeared around the bend. Zadikah headed for the slot’s mouth, walking with a smooth, sliding gait that made no noise on the stone. Kiran waited until he could barely sense the spark of her ikilhia through his barriers. The other two, he could no longer feel at all. Cautiously, he eased out of the crevice.
He blinked away the memory of shadows moving in the boulders, that sinister, beckoning hand. If the vision had been real, the demon would have pursued him. He would not let fear keep him from this chance.
The Labyrinth of Flame Page 7