“Mala, I am fine,” Drakis said. “Are you ready for the road?”
She stepped back, still smiling at him. “Three days’ rest in a mud cave seems to have been quite enough. I’ve got my pack and, thanks to these gnomes, far better shoes for the journey.”
She turned in front of him, raising her foot. Drakis laughed at the sight of the soft leather boots with their hard soles-indeed, perfect for the road but entirely incongruous with the rest of her tattered clothing.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, a note of caution coloring her words.
“They are, indeed, perfect,” Drakis laughed, letting go of his anxiety and fear seemingly for the first time in ages. It felt good to laugh again. “How is the Lyric today-or perhaps I should ask ‘who’ is the Lyric today?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mala teased. “But one word of caution-duck right after you ask.”
They were two days out from the third mud city. The trail of Hak’kaarin gnomes stretched across the savanna in a seemingly endless procession. The line heading northward, in which Drakis and his companions marched on the left side of the trail, was matched in kind by a second endless procession heading back the way they had come on the right side.
Drakis smiled as he marched along. There was something soothing in the rhythm of his strides, the wide sky above him, and the warmth of the sun on his face. Mala and the Lyric-now claiming to be Sheen-rhaq, Warrior-Queen of the Manticores-were both riding on a large wagon being pulled by scores of gnomes. . an honor he had declined. Ethis was arguing once more with RuuKag behind the wagon while Belag tried to broker some peace between them. Ahead of him, Drakis could see Jugar marching alongside the gnomes and decided he could use the sound of the fool’s prattle in his ears. He quickened his pace and shortly, as they crossed a shallow river, caught up with the dwarf.
“We are making good time,” Drakis said, gazing northward. “We’ll make the next mud city before nightfall. The Chief of the Day tells me that it’s the farthest north of the Hak’kaarin settlements. He also says that they often trade with humans there-actual free humans from the forests bordering the shore.”
The dwarf’s gaze remained downcast as he stumped along in silence.
Drakis walked alongside Jugar for a few moments as the silence stretched on.
“What? No long description of the wonderful customs of free humans in the wild?” Drakis chided. “No half-forgotten epic poem that will last us until sunset in its recital? No made-up facts about an ancient civilization from the past that is going to resurrect dragons from our nightmares and save us all?”
The dwarf looked away as he marched.
“Well, isn’t that my fate,” Drakis said, shaking his head. “As long as I’ve known you, I couldn’t get you to shut up, and the one time I want to talk to you, you lose your tongue!”
Jugar turned his head and glared at the human. “We do have a need to talk, my boy! But not so close to so many ears!”
The dwarf gave Drakis a great shove, pushing him into the tall grass bordering the trail and following in his wake.
“You dwarven fool,” Drakis exclaimed, “what are you up to now?”
“It’s time for you to be quiet and do as I say,” Jugar said with menace in his voice. “Keep walking and keep the trail in sight. The grass is taller than I am and will keep my words between us alone.”
“But I still don’t. .”
“Keep walking!” Jugar snapped. “Don’t look at me, look at the trail.”
“What’s this, dwarf,” Drakis said as he walked through the rustling grass. “What new game are you playing?”
“No game,” Jugar replied, “but we are the ones who are being played. See this?”
Drakis glanced down. “In your hand? That round ball of mud with some grass stuck in it?”
“It’s a good deal more than that, lad,” Jugar explained, “although it’s certainly meant to appear as innocent as you suggest. Only someone familiar with the magic involved would know its true purpose.”
“And I suppose that someone would be you,” Drakis said.
The dwarf spoke with pride. “I know a thing or two about magic.”
Drakis nodded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. .”
“Soon enough, my boy,” Jugar interrupted. “But we must speak of this first. This, lad, is a beacon stone.”
“A beacon stone?” Drakis urged. He’d never had such trouble getting the dwarf to talk before. “What is a ‘beacon stone?’ ”
“It’s a device of the Iblisi,” Jugar replied. “It is used by the Inquisitors to find anyone who drops them along the way. They have many uses, but it would seem they are now being used to track us. Wait! Did you hear something?”
Drakis stopped. “You mean beyond the marching feet of several thousand gnomes? No, I don’t hear anything-and just what are you suggesting? That the Iblisi are still following us-all the way across the Vestasian Savanna?”
“More than that,” Jugar said. “That they are still following us is now certain. . but what we did not know before is that one of our trusted number is also helping them to do so.”
CHAPTER 35
Preceding Reputations
The sun was setting by the time they reached the entrances to the mud city. Drakis wished as he forced his tired legs up the long sloping tunnel into the city that the Hak’kaarin would take the trouble to put different names to their settlements so that he could at least keep track of where they had been. For a time crossing the savanna he had occasion to wonder if the gnomes were somehow magically leading them back each night to the same mud city. A different name would have helped him at least feel some sense of progress. As it was, however, the Hak’kaarin’s rather odd view of physical possessions-they didn’t believe in them-led to an inability to distinguish any Hak’kaarin thing from another. They simply took whatever hovel-hole was unoccupied at the time in whatever mud city they found themselves, shared in the communal food, and worked at whatever job was needful at the time, and then, bidden by some inner impulse Drakis could only guess at, they would leave one mud city and make an arduous journey to the next. Some patterns in this chaotic life occasionally emerged; not all the gnomes were skilled at everything, and sometimes groups of them would gather who shared the same skills to teach each other what they had learned on their last pilgrimage. Yet such gatherings never seemed to last for very long and would dissolve just as quickly as they formed.
As to his own inner voices-the musical demons that seemed to torment his mind-they were making him increasingly uncomfortable on the road. Ever since the dwarf had told him that there was a traitor among them, he had not been able to shake the feeling that the sooner they left the beaten paths of the Hak’kaarin, the safer they would be. At least they would be in the wilderness again, and it might be easier to spot trouble as it approached and possibly catch this informer in the act of placing one of these beacon stones.
As to who that traitor might be, that was a painful thought that revolved in the music of his torment in every monotonous moment of walking whenever they moved between the mud cities.
manticore fanatic lunatic. .
Breaks with a crystalline sin. .
Never forgiven. . ever deceiving. .
Belag had evinced a near reverential attitude toward Drakis since the fall of House Timuran that was nothing short of fanatical, and yet there was something inside that fanaticism that Drakis did not and could not trust. He suspected that anyone so deeply committed to a single idea or person was probably likely to react just as strongly the other way if he felt betrayed in that commitment.
Lion-man hiding from shadows past. .
Fleeing from lands he once loved. .
Longing for lost homes. . Longing for dead tombs. .
Then there was RuuKag, a manticore whom he never liked even before his memories came flooding back. He had fought the group at every step, but recently he seemed more anxious than any of them to cross this savanna
. He never explained himself either way, and his distrust seemed to breed it in everyone else.
Shifting the shapes of allegiances. .
Nebulous is his own heart. .
Constantly changing. . Soul rearranging. .
Ethis was demonstrably not only a manipulative and deceptive creature at his heart but now appeared to be highly trained for it. Drakis still shuddered to think of how the chimerian had appeared to him in the form of Mala.
Hope of a past now a memory. .
Love that was all just a game. .
Where does her heart lie? When does her tongue lie?
Then there was Mala herself, of course. Things had improved with her, and recently she had become almost cheerful. Her face was tanned now by their long day journeys between mud cities, and there was an almost robust health to her that was, he had to admit, an improvement over her former self. Yet he knew resentment still smoldered beneath the surface like banked coals waiting to burst again into hot hatred. Their bargain in the faery kingdom to pretend their painful past did not exist had only buried it shallowly.
Everyone else but the girl herself. .
Who is the woman within?
Masking her faces. . and her dark places. .
He had considered the Lyric, who was unquestionably insane and changed her personality as easily and as often as anyone else might change their mind. She could be the traitor among them and not even remember it from day to day. That, he thought, would be worst of all since she was the least accountable of any of them, and Drakis felt certain he would have to kill whoever it turned out to be.
Jesters all hide in the light and sound. .
Plain in the face of our doom. .
Watch for the fool. . Laughter is cruel. .
Finally, he had to admit that it could even be the dwarf, who had pointed all this out to him in the first place. The conniving little fool might have thought himself in danger of being caught and tipped his hand as a bluff just to throw suspicion off himself. The only thing Drakis was sure about regarding the dwarf was that he couldn’t be sure about anything.
So he would journey through the day, receding more and more into the cycle of his siren song. Sometimes Mala would walk with him, chattering away about some innocuous memory she had of her life in the Timuran House or some previous House she had been a part of and only recently remembered. Such recollections studiously avoided the darker memories and were occasionally expurgated as she spoke-her voice stuttering slightly and stopping altogether only to restart on a completely different topic-light and breezy once more. Sometimes Belag would journey with him, speaking sonorously of the legends of the manticores regarding the afterlife, or Ethis would join him, respecting the human’s silence with his own. Occasionally the dwarf would accompany him, rattling off some nonsense story he remembered that the shape of a bush they passed or some figure in a cloud above them brought to his memory.
But all along the way, the names of his companions would circle through his mind and soon merged with the cycle of the music-that dreadful music-that called to him and ran always in the back of his mind.
Nine notes. . Seven notes. . Five notes. . Five. .
Jugar, Lyric, Belag. .
The smiles of each beguiling. .
Whose is the false heart? Who plays the false part?
Ethis, Mala, RuuKag. .
They swear their oath is telling. .
One is more than willing. .
All your lives they’re selling. .
Jugar, Lyric, Belag. . Ethis, Mala, RuuKag. .
The smiles of each beguiling. .
“Drakis-ki?”
Drakis shook himself. He had nearly fallen asleep on his feet. His eyes were trying to focus on the short figure before him. Drakis thought that he had never seen this particular gnome before but could not be entirely sure. The only thing he was certain of was the orange vest and floppy hat that signified the gnome’s august position in the mud city. Since which gnome was the Chief of the Day changed seemingly on a whim and each mud city had its own chief who was just as apt to pick up and wander to the next mud city as any other gnome, the only way to tell who was in charge was by which gnome wore this bizarre outfit. “Yes. . uh, Chief of the Day. . what is it?”
“Drakis-ki,” the gnome bowed deeply as he repeated the name with respect. “You honor us with the stories of your people. We thank the gods of the sky that you have come among us to brighten our thoughts and dreams.”
“Yes, thank you,” Drakis spoke through a yawn. “I’m sorry, Chief of the Day. . is there something you want?”
“Drakis-ki,” the gnome bowed once more. “I have a story to tell you!”
“Ah,” Drakis nodded, closing his eyes as he continued to trudge up the ramp. “Thank you, Chief of the Day. I would love to hear your story and I am certain that it is a really great story but. .”
“It is! It is a great story,” The Chief of the Day responded, enthusiastically following along next to the human. “It is the story of a human like yourself, a great warrior woman who journeys from the coastal forests, who moves in silence and shadow. She comes from a human tribe that is lost to the knowledge of the world and remains hidden from the knowledge of all except the Hak’kaarin! And most remarkable of all, in her story she is searching for you, Drakis!”
Drakis stopped and rubbed his eyes, not entirely certain of what he had just heard. “A human woman-and she’s looking for me? Where did you hear such a tale?”
“Oh, of course,” the Chief of the Day nodded with sage understanding. “My poor skills in the telling of the story would diminish it, and I will not do such a fine tale this injustice. Would it not be better if Drakis-ki heard it from its source?”
Drakis look at the gnome with a frown, his awareness sharpening as the words sank into his tired mind. “It would. Is this storyteller near? I may have some questions. .”
“Not near,” The Chief of the Day shook his head. “Here. The woman herself is here.”
“What? Here?” Drakis blurted out.
“What is it?” Mala asked, concerned at the look on Drakis’ face. She and the Lyric were walking up the ramp toward Drakis with Belag, RuuKag, Jugar and Ethis behind them.
Drakis did not answer her but continued speaking to the orange-clad gnome. “She’s here? Where?”
The gnome grinned with all his wide-spaced teeth. “Why, Drakis-ki! She is there behind you!”
Drakis turned at once, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.
Above him, at the top of the ramp, stood a tall, slender woman the likes of whom Drakis had never seen before. Her skin was a deep black-as deep a black as the middle of the night and as smooth and unblemished as pure silk. Her thick, black hair was pulled back from the high forehead of her oval face and gathered into an explosion of curls at the back of her head. Her large, brown eyes gazed at him above her pronounced cheekbones, their eyelids shuttered languidly in disdain. Her lips were thick and plump around her smallish mouth-drawn slightly up at one corner as though being amused by some secret thought. She stood with casual confidence, the long fingers of her right hand resting on her hip as her head tipped upward slightly atop her long, slender neck.
“So,” the woman spoke in a deep, husky voice, “this is what a prophecy looks like.”
“Who are you?” Drakis asked, his eyes narrowing.
The Chief of the Day, still standing behind Drakis, thought that was his cue for a formal introduction. “Oh, I sorrow over my lack of honor! Drakis-ki. . I present to you Urulani-ku, Warrior of the Sondau!”
“Urulani will do,” she replied with an amused smile. “I suppose Drakis will do for you. . or do you have some rather more exalted title you prefer as the living fulfillment of a legend.”
“How do you know who he is?” Mala demanded, moving smoothly to Drakis’ right side and wrapping her arm around his. Drakis muttered a curse; she was holding his sword arm.
“How do I know who he is?” Urulani said
through a hearty chuckle. She stepped toward them down the ramp, her athletic figure moving with ease. She wore an outer vest of cured leather over a loose, sleeveless shirt of homespun cloth. Drakis noted that she wore soft buckskin breeches laced tightly up both legs as well as matching boots that made no sound as she stepped. “How is it possible not to know of Drakis-the bolter from House Timuran-who is the professed harbinger of doom and salvation now sprung to life? It’s a story that’s being told and retold all across the Vestasian Savanna by every Hak’kaarin gnome with a tongue and, it now seems, by every Dje’kaarin opportunist looking to find you and turn you in for more Rhonas coin than they can possibly carry.”
Urulani stopped just in front of Drakis, her eyes fixed coolly on him though her words were aimed at Mala. “No, I tell you, little slave princess, I’d be surprised if there were a blade of grass or a stone under all the sky from the Southern Mountains to the Nordesian Coast that doesn’t know who this Drakis is by now.”
Drakis could hear Belag’s low growl rising behind him.
Urulani looked up at the manticorian warrior. “I’m not your problem, big cat. In fact, I’m here to help you all, so you might think again before you decide you’d like to try and eat me.”
Drakis drew in a breath to speak, but Mala interrupted, gripping Drakis’ arm tighter and pulling him possessively toward her. “I don’t see how you can possibly help us.”
Urulani turned her gaze on Mala for the first time and took her in through a long stare before she replied. “You may have weathered a bit on the road, princess, but your little cherry tan and cracked lips don’t hide you. I see that the Rhonas pigs still prefer to stock their households with cloud-white, dainty human slaves who can blend in so invisibly into their marble walls.” She turned her look back to Drakis. “Until that fashion changes, the Imperial hunters have no need to bother with us. We’re ‘the Forgotten Ones’ and we prefer to keep it that way. As long as we’re forgotten. . well, you’ll have a chance.”
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