Darkvision

by Bruce R Cordell

  “We’d better find shelter before it gets here,” Kiril told Thormud as she pointed toward the approaching storm.

  “Mmm.”

  “Damn it.”

  Kiril yelled ahead, “Monolith, Thormud’s still not himself. Don’t expect any direction from him, if you’re waiting for it.”

  The deep voice of the elemental noble resonated back, “Why should I? I am the guide, not he.”

  “All right, rock head, if you’re so smart, maybe you should think about that approaching wind devil. We won’t survive its outskirts, let alone the column at the center.”

  The elemental stalked down the empty path, but one of its stone arms rose and pointed ahead. Kiril followed the direction of his gesture and saw a tiny cavern mouth, perhaps five hundred paces distant, gaping from the side of the empty stream bed.

  She shrugged, saying nothing. Truth was, she was slightly embarrassed she hadn’t descried the cave mouth herself. She was an elf, after all, and had a reputation to maintain.

  The storm stifled the sun as they reached the aperture. They moved through a baleful twilight stained with bloody light. The cave opened out of the flat, eroded face of an ancient riverbank. The cave’s sides were crumbled into heaps of crusted dust, but Kiril immediately noticed a suspiciously clean avenue down the center of the cavern floor. More suspicious yet—the flickering illumination of lantern light emerging from what should have been a lonely, black hole.

  Someone lived in the cave—perhaps several someones.

  Prince Monolith reached out and touched the rock above the cave entrance. He held the position briefly, then stepped to the side of the cave entrance and ceased all movement.

  “Not coming in?”

  He replied, “I doubt I would fit. Plus, I might frighten the natives.”

  “What kind of natives?” asked Kiril.

  “Environs as harsh as Raurin are extreme, but mortal flesh, for all its frailty, is surprisingly adaptable. The rock has led me to a colony of dervishes, despite an enchantment of misdirection attempting to lead me astray. But I have a closer association with the world than most.”

  “I hope they’re friendly.”

  “Enter and ask for shelter. I have observed that cultures perched on the edge of wastelands often prize hospitality above all other values.”

  The storm was sweeping down upon them and beginning to sting Kiril with windblown grit. “I don’t see what choice I have.”

  Monolith stood silent as stone.

  The elf wrestled Thormud down from his seat and bodily carried him into the cave entrance. She’d worry about their equipment and supplies, still lashed to the destrier’s back, later. Xet fluttered around unhelpfully.

  The lantern hung from the ceiling some thirty feet down the cavern’s throat, rusted and battered, but burning a half-full reservoir of oil that smelled pleasantly of cloves. The lantern light revealed the edge of a chamber that widened gradually toward a great wooden gate blocking the mouth of a deeper tunnel. The floor was worn smooth, as if by vanished waters … or by years of busy feet. Dust from the storm outside began to swirl across the stone surface. She set Thormud down with his back against the cavern wall.

  With the storm howling at the cave mouth, Kiril pounded on the wooden gate, carved with abstract designs.

  After a short wait, too brief for Kiril to consider pounding a second time, a small panel high on the door slid open. An amber glow and tinkling music streamed from the grilled opening.

  “Hello?” said Kiril.

  A man’s voice replied from the other side of the door. “What do you want?” The language was Elvish, with something like a Yuirwood accent, but more liquid.

  Kiril was too surprised by the language and what it implied to immediately respond.

  “Well,” said the voice again, in its strangely accented Elvish, “I can see you are not djinn; perhaps you were chased by a djinn to the safety of our doorstep?”

  “Perhaps,” said Kiril, not actually sure what the voice was asking her. “A storm came, and we saw the cave. We hoped it would give shelter—we didn’t know we’d find someone living here.”

  “No? You weren’t looking for the hidden city of Al Qahera or its people? But only those of elf blood could hope to locate Al Qahera—it is an ancient enchantment we preserve.”

  “I am an elf, that’s true, but I hail from the north, from …” she almost said Stardeep, but finally said, “from the Yuirwood forest. I am not of the Al Qaheran clan. Elves hidden in the Yuirwood call themselves ‘people of the star.’ But I am not really part of their society any longer, either. I am a traveler.”

  “You’ve traveled far, and to one of the most inhospitable places in the world. I see no children with you, just a mountain carver. Are you carrying contraband?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes oathless smugglers make haddrum runs between Huorm and the oasis towns.”

  “I don’t know what haddrum is, but, no, we’re not carrying dangerous substances, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s a long story. I’d be happy to tell you if you let us in. My friend here is sick.”

  “Mmmm, hmm, yes, so I see,” said the voice, and paused. “Very well. I’m a good judge of character, so I tell my sons and daughters.” The sound of a bolt being drawn back momentarily drowned out the sound of the blowing sand. “Be welcome in Al Qahera! Bring with you no deceit, and you shall find none here.”

  The great carved door swung wide, and standing in its gap was an elf wearing a long, heavy gown of spun white cloth, over which he wore a larger, looser garment stitched with intricate script Kiril didn’t recognize. His face, while certainly that of an elf, was strangely weathered. Despite his fey blood, his skin marked him as one who’d spent a lifetime in the sun.

  “My name,” said the man, “is Essam. Enter.” He moved to the side and gestured inward. Behind him Kiril saw the heart of the dervish community of Al Qahera.

  The entrance, wide as it was, opened onto a far larger and deeper plaza, enclosed on all sides by stone balconies, galleries, and square tunnels leading to hidden rooms. The entire plaza was brilliantly lit by hundreds of clove oil lanterns. Great bronze plaques with calligraphic script hung from every surface that didn’t sport a tapestry of intricate weave. A beautiful mosaic design was laid out in tiles that paved the entire floor of the plaza. A high-walled stone well protruded from the plaza’s center. From where she stood at the entrance, Kiril scented the cool tang of deep water.

  People moved everywhere—men, women, and children. All were elves, and all were weathered like Essam. The adults wore flowing, colorful gowns, but the children wore loose pants and simple tunics.

  One edge of the wide plaza, which was well over a hundred paces in diameter, hosted a bazaar with several semipermanent stands. The elves of Al Qahera were thickly gathered there. But the appearance of strangers had apparently distracted the Qaherans from the merits of their transactions. Everyone in the subterranean, lanternlit plaza looked in her direction.

  Essam clapped his hands and yelled, “Call the healer—we have visitors, and one is ill. Come! Do not stare, my friends—we shall have time to make their acquaintance when our visitors have rested and washed away the burdens of their journey.” Essam paused and smiled openly at Kiril. “Perhaps we might hope for a story from our guests, describing how they found themselves on our porch, running before a gowaan storm.”

  Several children rushed forward, curious, along with a young elf woman in a blue caftan, hardly older than a child herself. She nodded at Kiril and said, “My name is Fadheela. You and your friend can stay in our guestroom. My father is a healer.”

  Kiril blinked, taking in the comfort of the round chamber. A covering stitched with desert stars hung from the ceiling. Soft sheepskin lay across the floor. A fire in a tiny side alcove burned away the subterranean chill. No smoke lingered in the room—the fireplace was apparently well vented. Ki
ril wondered briefly how fresh air was drawn in, then shrugged. The elves of Al Qahera had obviously worked it out.

  “I do feel much better, Kiril,” said Thormud in an irritated tone. The dwarf sat propped up on the small bed, his back against a wooden headboard carved with still more elaborate designs. “I’d like to go down to the plaza tonight to talk with the Qaherans.”

  “You heard Fadheela’s father. You’ve caught some sort of dolor, and you need bed rest if you want to shake it off.”

  “But …”

  “Tonight, you sleep.”

  The geomancer sighed. “Perhaps that would be best. I am strangely fatigued.”

  Kiril didn’t tell the dwarf the entire diagnosis. Fadheela’s father felt that the dwarf might be suffering from some sort of magical curse. It was a potential explanation for Thormud’s lack of response to the healer’s spell of purification.

  “Damn right, it’s for the best. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything that happens. Maybe they know something about what we’re looking for. Maybe they’ve seen something strange out in the desert.”

  The dwarf nodded but was already blinking his eyes. He fell asleep a moment later.

  Kiril pulled up his blanket, strapped Angul to her belt, and departed the small chamber.

  Fadheela waited for her in the foyer of the apartment, one of many similar apartments on both sides, above, and below. The best apartments faced the central plaza of Al Qahera, and as a healer, Fadheela’s father enjoyed some privilege.

  “How is your friend?” Fadheela asked.

  “Better. He’s asleep. Maybe I’ll take him something to eat later.”

  “Good—that sounds good!” Fadheela clapped happily, then reached forward to grasp one of Kiril’s hands. The swordswoman, out of surprise, allowed the desert elf to complete the motion without losing a limb.

  Fadheela said, “Come with me, then. Everyone’s down in the plaza. You’ll just love meeting everyone, I promise!” The girl pulled, and Kiril consciously forced herself not to resist the tug out of the apartment. They walked onto the wide balcony two stories above the tiled floor of the central courtyard and looked down.

  Since she’d rested in Fadheela’s rooms, answered her father’s questions, and washed off several days of travel, the lamps in the courtyard had been turned down, dousing the corners of the chamber in warm shadow. A large bonfire blazed in a stone-lined firepit. Kiril traced the smoke as it rose up past their balcony and floated up a few more stories before exiting through a large cavity in the ceiling.

  The odor of something succulent roasting over the flames pulled her gaze back down to the fire, where young Qaherans slowly turned several spits. Others were setting up large plank tables and stools. A group of elves tuned up flutes, sitars, drums, and other instruments. Well over a hundred people gathered in the plaza—and perhaps double that number.

  “What’s all this?” Kiril asked, an anxious note creeping into her voice.

  Her enthusiastic guide smiled and said, “We do this every night—don’t worry, you needn’t fear being singled out.”

  Kiril nodded, still suspicious.

  Fadheela pulled her along the balcony toward a stairway that spiraled down to the plaza, and whispered as they neared the bottom, “But your presence is unique, and we’d all love to hear something of your journey!”

  Kiril muttered, “Blood, I’m sure you would.”

  Essam met them at the bottom of the stairs.

  “How is your stout friend? In Mas’ud’s able hands he must be doing better, yes?”

  “Much better,” Kiril assured him. No need to discuss curses in polite company, she thought.

  “How joyous!” her host enthused. “Now come, I’ve reserved a place of honor for you by the fire. It is always cold down here in Al Qahera, despite the desert above, and you’ll be glad to sit close.”

  Kiril just nodded. She drew most of the eyes in the plaza as Essam and Fadheela led her through the throng. Her neck and cheeks warmed. She did not enjoy being the center of attention.

  They made their way to several stools near the fire, as Essam promised. She dropped onto her stool immediately, then saw that everyone else remained standing. She yearned for a pull from her flask. With steely determination, she kept her hands at her sides, but the flush of embarrassment blossomed visibly across her checks.

  The Qaherans bowed their heads in a moment of silence. Once concluded, the stillness was shattered by laughter, loud cheers, a cacophony of instruments, and a few songs. Various spirited discussions picked up where they’d left off before the hush. Most everyone sat down at the tables, Kiril was relieved to see.

  And so the evening progressed. Portions of burned meat, burned vegetables, and burned fungus were pulled off the spits and sent circulating around the tables. “Burned” was apparently the preferred style of cooking in Al Qahera. Between courses came musical interludes, stories, and acts of skill that included a knife juggler and a puppeteer. Large jugs of water were sent around, cold and fresh, apparently just pulled up from the central well. To Kiril’s jaded throat, the water went down like the finest Sildëyuir vintage. It wasn’t long before she found herself listening happily to the music, hanging on the words of the storytellers, and laughing uproariously at several extemporaneous acts put on by the desert dwellers.

  Essam turned to her and said loudly, “Tell us a story, Kiril!” She stood up, and with uncharacteristic openness, began to relate to the elves of Al Qahera the story of her most recent trip with her employer, Thormud Horn.

  Kiril spoke in generalities, without specifying what worried the geomancer so much that he had initiated a trip into the desert. Kiril wasn’t even completely clear on what they were chasing. She glossed over certain details, such as Prince Monolith joining them. She didn’t want to explain that an earth elemental lord was camped out in front of the dervish community.

  When she reached the point in her travelogue where Thormud determined that the true nexus of their quest lay in the Raurin desert, her listeners’ interest intensified.

  Essam cleared his throat and interrupted Kiril. “Forgive me, but please allow me to ask—what is the nature of this evil that lies out in our desert?”

  Kiril shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. Thormud called it a ‘splinter’ that infected the earth. It has something to do with the purple crystal—every threat we’ve faced has borne a purple crystal.”

  Exclamations broke out among her audience.

  “What is it? What do you know?” demanded Kiril.

  Essam calmed the Qaherans’ outburst and told her, “Perhaps we know something of the thing you seek in the deep desert. It is new, and it is dangerous. We call it the Storm Spike.”

  The vengeance taker, wizard, and Datharathi fugitive disembarked at Huorm.

  Eined scanned the docks for agents hired by her family, but saw nothing suspicious. To hide her identity, she tied her blue sash around her head like a great scarf.

  “We’d best keep an eye out, anyway,” Eined cautioned, her voice uncertain.

  “Datharathi agents aren’t as ubiquitous as you’d feared,” suggested Ususi.

  “Perhaps,” allowed Eined.

  Iahn led them into the city. They located a horse breeder willing to rent a secondhand travel coach. It was a crude, dirty version of the custom coach the wizard had left behind in Vaelan, but Ususi supposed it would serve.

  As the sun reached its zenith, the coach pulled out of Huorm’s north gate. A little-used dirt road led north, toward rolling foothills crowned by the Dustwalls. A broader road led east and west. They turned west, directly toward the lone spire of Adama’s Tooth, easily visible among the lower foothills as a lone peak, strangely tall and slender.

  Ususi drove, using her magically summoned steeds to pull the coach. Iahn sat on the bench at her side. Eined rode inside the carriage, hidden from casual observers. No need to tempt Datharathi sympathizers or sycophants with glimpses of a lone family member traveling without her nor
mal retinue.

  The wizard drove at a brisk pace, but not so swiftly as to draw attention. Outside the city, carriages were rare. Foot traffic ruled the road, though most folk moved to the side rather than face down an oncoming horse and wagon. After traveling a quarter of the afternoon, Eined called from a side window, “There! Take that road!”

  The main road, heading west, veered to the north. Eined pointed to the south, to a narrow, slightly overgrown trail. Eined’s head poked fully out of the carriage window as she said, “That leads directly to Adama’s Tooth. It used to be the route for low-grade ores to be transported out of the mines below the peak, before Shaddon moved in permanently and established an air link.”

  “What kind of traffic are we likely to see on it?” Iahn asked.

  “Hardly any. Shaddon’s got Adama’s Tooth sewn up pretty tight. Housing and meals are provided internally, and outside supplies are brought in from Vaelan via airship.”

  Iahn nodded, satisfied. Ususi turned the carriage down the narrow track. The vengeance taker noted a few stares from nearby travelers, but nothing beyond typical curiosity.

  The new trail, despite being narrow, was in excellent condition, and they practically raced down it. The thin spire of Adama’s Tooth grew to become the dominant feature of the surrounding landscape. Sunlight failed as they drove into the shadow of the slender mountain.

  “Why is it called Adama’s Tooth?” asked Iahn, leaning over to direct his question into the open carriage window. “Was Adama some ancient hero of your people?”

  “No. The Adama is what passes for religion around here.”

  “Truly?”

  Instead of replying, Eined opened the side door of the still moving carriage, climbed the side ladder, and seated herself behind Iahn and Ususi.

  “Now that we’re so close to Adama’s Tooth, it’s probably better if I can see what’s coming. There—we want to turn right here.” The woman pointed toward an even narrower path off the trail they’d been following. “It looks steep now, and it’ll get steeper. I hope your summoned steed is up to it, or we’ll be walking before we get to the top.”