by C S Marks
Nelwyn was now becoming concerned. What could he have to say that could not be said in front of Elraen? Perhaps he wanted to warn the Company of something dire; she knew that he was not always comfortable speaking his mind. She looked into his eyes, trying to read them, and saw no malice there, though they were clouded by drink. He swayed a bit as he stood before her, and she knew that his wits were likely clouded as well. She would do as he asked, hear what he had to say, and then suggest that he find a shady spot and sleep until he regained his sensibilities.
“Very well,” she said, turning back to Elraen. “I will return in a little while. Do not try to follow me, and do not be concerned. Why don’t you eat the last of the honey-cakes?”
Elraen shook her head, her wide eyes fearful. Nelwyn was so accustomed to this behavior that she barely took notice, yet now, to her surprise, Elraen actually spoke to her in earnest. “Do not go with him. He will have nothing to say that you wish to hear. Beware the voice of the Spider!”
Her warning was evident, but Nelwyn discounted it, for Elraen had always been distrustful of Sajid. “Don’t worry. I will come back soon, and I will be wary. Remain here, and finish the honey-cakes. When I return, I will tell you a tale to gladden your heart.”
Elraen wrapped her arms around her knees, and began to rock slowly back and forth, her face drawn into an expression of pain. When Nelwyn and Sajid had left the shelter she began to weep, for she knew that nothing good would come of it.
Sajid was now alone with Nelwyn; he had taken her to the green glade surrounding the central well. No one disturbed them, for the people were at the festival, and the Ballali were involved with their afternoon prayers.
Nelwyn regarded Sajid with some suspicion as she sat before him. Why did he need to bring me to this place? Why not simply move outside the shelter, where Elraen cannot hear?
Without any further entreaty, he began. “Nelwyn…I…I know that you and Galador are fond of one another, and rightly so. He is a fine companion, handsome and strong, yet I sense that he has grown distant from you of late.”
His drunkenness had slurred his speech somewhat, but there was no mistaking his tone, and Nelwyn recoiled as she now knew that Gaelen and Galador were right—he was enamored of her. She shuddered at the very thought, yet she would still spare his feelings if she could. “Sajid, Galador and I have not grown distant. You are mistaken. Please, do not say any more...it will bring nothing but pain.”
Sajid did not appear to hear her, but drew uncomfortably close, gazing into her eyes. “Of course, you would deny it, yet the pain in your heart is evident. Please, lovely woodland flower, let me fill the emptiness within. I have loved you from the first, and I will protect you from all dangers. Let me take you into the desert and show you the true wonders of our land, and of my heart.”
She saw his resolve waver—no doubt he had read the dismay in her eyes. His gaze flickered left and right as he tried to think of something…anything to convince her. “I have heard Galador speak of Elraen. He desires her in his heart, and takes her to himself when you are unaware. Did you not know it? His love is false! I will never treat you with such disregard. May I be forever blinded and my hands wither if I should ever look with desire upon another.”
The image of Sajid, blind and with withered hands, disgusted Nelwyn. In addition, she was shocked and angered at his suggestion that Galador’s love was false. “Do not say any more, please! You are obviously desperate to speak so of Galador, and your drink has unbalanced you.” She turned away from him, color rising in her face. “Do not speak to me again…ever.”
He grabbed her shoulders and turned her back to face him, not gently. “You dare not turn from me,” he said, “for I will not suffer your scorn. There are those here in the Settlement that would as soon see you and your companions dead. I can protect you from them. Only say that you will love me, if just for this one night, and you and they will be forever safe. Is it such a price to pay?”
He attempted to pull her to him then, an unhealthy lust glowing in his eyes, but he was unsteady and she easily rebuffed him. She broke free of his grasp, furious, and drew her blade without thinking.
“Get back, Cuidag, or taste of your own death! You dare to imagine that I could ever, ever love one such as you? You threaten me and my friends, thinking that will win my heart? Gaelen was right about you. Nothing you can say to me now will allow me to trust you again. I am truly sorry for you, for you are pitiable, but I will waste no more time being civil to one who would speak falsely of my beloved and threaten my friends. How wrongly you interpreted the courtesy I have shown you! You will never have me…you disgust me! I would die by my own hand first.”
Sajid obviously realized that all had gone as wrong as it could have, that he had no chance, and that he had misjudged her. He needed to salvage what he could, and try to placate her, for it now seemed that she would bring the wrath of the Company on his head. His expression changed to the familiar pathetic cringing.
“Please forgive me…I…I didn’t know what I was saying. It was the drink. My thoughts were muddled…I didn’t mean what I was saying. All is becoming clearer now…I didn’t mean it. Please believe me…I would never harm you.”
Nelwyn stared at him in disbelief. She did not truly understand the nature of men and drink. Did liquor so rob them of their judgment that they would lose all sense of reality, or had the drink simply caused Sajid to reveal what was truly in his heart? One thing was certain—there had been no mistaking the menace in his voice.
“You dare to suggest that you should be forgiven for attacking my beloved and threatening my friends because of drink? It was your choice to drink. Don’t expect to be forgiven for your despicable words, for they can never be undone.”
“I know,” whined Sajid, “and I deserve some of your scorn. Yet I also deserve your pity, for I truly love you.” He noted the look of revulsion on her face, and despaired. “Am I so vile that you would tear my heart so? Was there never any hope for our love?”
Nelwyn laughed at him in disbelief. “You’re vile and deluded to think that I could ever love one such as you. You know nothing of me or my people if you do. Get from my sight, Sajid, and never again speak to me directly, for I will not answer. The one gift I will bestow on your scaly head is my promise that I will not tell the others of this…regrettable incident. Galador would most likely drag you out into the desert and leave you there if he knew of it, and he’d have Gaelen’s help. They have already seen you for what you are, and now I see it, too.”
Sajid did not know how to react. He had doomed himself from the moment he falsely accused Galador. He reverted to his fawning, cringing self, bowing before her. “I know…I know you’re right. You are indeed fair and just, to spare me from death because of my drunken stupidity. I pray that I may repay you one day. You have shown me my place.”
She sensed his humiliation, and she knew enough to recognize that he might indeed be dangerous, for she had wounded him. Yet he would not meet her gaze, denying her the chance to read the darkness in his eyes. If she had done so, she would have been unsettled enough to gather the Company and leave the Sandstone at once. As it was, she would suggest to Galador and Rogond that they acquire a new guide, knowing that she would receive no argument from Gaelen or Elraen on that score.
“Remember what I told you. Never speak to me again,” she said, looking down on the top of his bowed head. Then she was gone.
Sajid remained in the glade, weeping with humiliation and loss. In truth, it was far from the first time he had suffered such scorn, but it still stung his heart. He truly did not know where to turn, for he had expected a very different outcome. Not only had she spurned him, she had laughed at him!
Though he had vowed to take her out into the desert and send her into darkness, he could not have done so, for his pride had been shattered. Still, for a while, Sajid held hope in his heart. Perhaps Nelwyn would come around; perhaps in time he could try again. He could wait a long time, gathering strength, and Gal
ador would not remain watchful forever. Perhaps he could arrange a mishap that would take Galador from Nelwyn, and he would still be waiting to comfort her with open arms.
Unfortunately, he would soon realize that she had meant every word. She would not speak directly to him, nor would she acknowledge his presence. Though she was not obvious about it, he could feel her cold disdain whenever he drew near her. He took to watching her from the shadows, aching for her, knowing that he could never have her. His frustration grew and festered.
As the days passed, his thoughts would turn. If he could not have Nelwyn, no one would. He both desired her and grew to hate her, and his hatred gave rise to thoughts of vengeance. She led me on…she is no different from any of the others; haughty and proud, thinking herself superior. She needs to be taught a lesson. He sat once again in the glade by the well, remembering her shocked, revolted expression, nursing his wounded pride. This is exactly why they should all be covered up and taught their proper place in the world, so they cannot tempt and humiliate us!
When the plan came to him, his small, black heart was gladdened. Should it succeed, Nelwyn would suffer unimaginable hardship and degradation. Sajid would not need to worry about reprisal from her friends, either—not if all went as expected. He had work to do. Tomorrow he would go and seek out those who would aid him. Then he would make sure that the Company was driven from the Sandstone with no chance of acquiring another guide. They would be forced to endure him for just a bit longer, and then he would gain his revenge. Who knows? There might even be considerable profit in it. He now wore a sinister smile quite unlike the ingratiating, false one he normally displayed, and the true nature of Cuidag the Spider was revealed.
His dark thoughts were soon woven together into a well-conceived plan, like the strands of a web.
Chapter 9: CUIDAG’s WEB
Rogond spent as much time as he could in conversation with any who might aid him in the search for Hallagond, and he learned a number of interesting things. Hallagond would no doubt be traveling in disguise, for to do otherwise would place him at a potentially lethal disadvantage. Rogond knew of the enmity between certain tribes of Ravani-folk and the men of the North, but he had not realized how deep this enmity ran, nor the peril that he would risk in traveling these lands openly. He had now taken to wearing garb of the Ravani, and had grown his own beard to hide his northern features. His brother would have done the same.
Elves, Rogond was told, did not exist in the southlands. He had inquired as to whether any might be found, hoping to cheer Gaelen and Nelwyn, but he came away with a sense that their identity would need to be concealed at all cost. Known as “Avinashi” (Immortal Ones), Elves were portrayed as beautiful-yet-evil beings who would lure the unwary in an attempt to claim their very souls. Rogond did not doubt the origin of these tales; many sutherlings had lost their lives at the hands of the Elves when they had dared make war to the north in ancient times.
It would be much safer and simpler to employ a translator who did not know of the existence of Gaelen, Elraen, Nelwyn, or Galador. Besides, Rogond was reluctant to rely too heavily on Sajid, who had a habit of disappearing whenever he pleased.
Fima soon located and compensated a translator, a pleasant young fellow named Rashid. The dwarf had become well known since the wagering incident at the horse-yards, and as Rogond beheld some of the venomous looks thrown at Fima’s back, he wondered whether his friend should have hired a bodyguard rather than a translator.
Fortunately, there was a code of conduct among the sutherlings, whose beliefs warned against the evils of gambling. Losses from wagering were assumed to be one’s own fault. No retribution would be taken against the winner, for to do so would bring shame. Instead, those who had lost their wealth would need to be content in the knowledge that Fima had, by winning, doomed his own soul to the depths of evil deeds, and the inevitable punishment that would one day find him. Though they would much rather have tied Fima to a stake atop an anthill, it was better than nothing.
Because Hallagond had effectively disguised himself, and not been known by his given name in many years, Rogond learned almost nothing of him. Just as he was wondering whether the quest had been in vain, Fima bustled up to him in the market-place.
“Rogond, my friend, I believe we may have found someone who can be of aid. Rashid is with him already.”
They made their way to the market, and the palatial stall of a wine-seller known as Harsha, of the city of Castalan. Rogond entered the tent to behold a richly dressed older man seated on a pile of cushions. Apparently his wines were of excellent quality and in high demand, for he was obviously prosperous.
A haze of blue smoke clouded the tent, and Rogond noticed a water-pipe on the floor, as well as several small clay vessels from which the sweet smoke emanated. It stung his eyes for a moment, and he blinked rapidly, knowing that he would need to be on his guard. He feared the smoke would muddle his wits, but in a few moments he did not seem to care.
Harsha gestured for Rogond to sit as he opened a bottle of fine wine, pouring some for himself and his guests. It was excellent, and Rogond complimented his host on its quality. Harsha was pleased, and for the next several minutes he gave Rogond more information than he had been able to gather in many days.
“I am only in the Sandstone on account of the Festival, expecting to do a brisk trade. My caravans often travel far and wide; in fact, my agents buy, sell, and trade wines as far north as Tal-ailean, though I have never gone so far. Yet I am well aware of the goings-on in the northern lands, and am quite familiar with the existence of Elves, although, to my knowledge, I have never met one.
What is undoubtedly of greater interest to you is the tall, grey-eyed man I met with in my home settlement near Castalan. He was traveling with a group of thieves and brigands, a well-known band led by two brothers, supposedly Fomorians, named Azok and Azori. Their gang included criminals of many races—some sutherlings, at least one easterner, and several Corsairs.”
Rogond knew something of the Corsairs. A varied folk, not truly a race, they were defined by their location and their profession. They lived in and around the southwestern coasts of Alterra, and they were shipwrights and sailors of renown. Fómor was their capital city, hence they were also known as Fómorians.
“What can you tell me of the Corsairs?” said Rogond. “I’ve heard many uncharitable opinions of them.”
“That isn’t surprising,” said Harsha, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. “Pirates and brigands, living in lawlessness and squalor, and no right-minded folk venture near them if they can help it. Some of them look like you—certain families descended originally from northern outcasts, and they retained some of their stature and stamina. Most of the ones I have dealt with possess a sly, cunning sort of intelligence that is sometimes remarkable. I can say very little else of good about them, except for their unrivaled seamanship.”
“I can trace my family directly back to Syrus the Mariner,” said Rogond with some pride.
“Really?” said Harsha, his eyes wide. “If you run afoul of the Corsairs, tell them that. They might just respect you enough to let you keep all your body parts attached.”
Harsha was an observant fellow with an eye for detail. He provided Rogond with a thorough description of the grey-eyed man, including the scar on the back of his hand, his missing earlobe, and the designs inscribed upon his arms. Harsha had seen Elven script before, and knew it as Avinashi.
“His name was given as Al-amand. That name, in our tongue, means ‘The Forsaken.’ Does this have meaning to you?”
Rogond nodded slowly. It would make sense, for his brother had forsaken his home and his heritage, perhaps even his honor. The scar was of significance to Rogond, although he had not known of the missing earlobe. When he drew back his hood so that Harsha could get a proper look at him, the older man’s eyes grew wide, and then he smiled.
“There is no doubt that you are brothers. You have the same eyes, though there was more of pain and betr
ayal behind your brother’s gaze. He only wore bravado on the outside…inside, I sensed he was troubled by shame and doubt.” Harsha shook his head. “A pity, for he had a strong mind and heart upon a time. Now he is lost. You have a task before you...if he wanted to be found, he would not travel with Corsairs.”
“You see much for a wine-vendor,” growled Fima, yet Rogond knew Harsha’s words made sense.
Harsha smiled at Fima. “When you have lived the sort of life I have, you learn to read people and see what is in their hearts. This is a talent I have long possessed. It is one of the reasons I am so prosperous—I am very difficult to deceive.” He laughed good-naturedly. “You, on the other hand, have obviously not acquired this ability. How in the name of your fathers did you find yourself guided by one such as Sajid? I cannot imagine his words to you. Did you rescue him from some terrible fate, staked to an anthill, no doubt? His treachery is well-known to many here. It is to your credit that he has not betrayed you already.”
Rogond’s face reddened slightly. Harsha was indeed perceptive—the circumstances under which Sajid had joined them were almost exactly as he had just described.
“I see that I’m right,” continued Harsha. “Do not be ashamed. Your kind heart has saddled you with Sajid, but that is easily remedied. I will give you the name of one who will agree to guide you if the price is right. Your kind heart, once lost, will be difficult to regain. Guard it well, for it will soon be tested. I will favor you with a gift of some of my wine as well, for I would improve your estimation of me and my folk. When you drink of it, remember that not all sutherlings are like Sajid.”
“Never had I thought so, Honored Host,” said Rogond. “Your gift is much appreciated, but I do not know how to reciprocate. I must confess to being unaware of proper custom in this matter. How may I repay your generosity?”
“No payment is asked or desired, my friend,” said Harsha. “You will find the wine in your tent when you return there. But I do have some advice to be given at our parting. See if you cannot restrain your women-folk, as they are quite the topic of discussion here in the Sandstone.” He shook his head in mild disgust. “People here are so…provincial! If you come to my home you will not find it so. You are ever welcome in the house of Harsha, as are your fair friends.” He looked knowingly at Rogond, who realized that Harsha was well aware of the nature of his immortal companions.