Dorn knew he was confronting some form of irony now. He despised enchantments … all forms of magic that had distorted his art and its practice in the world. He was in the Otherworld, and his arrival here might have been what saved him the night of Manaia. Enchantments had saved his life. Then again, enchantments had imperiled his life in the first place.
He had awakened in the night, sweating, after a dream of that abyss. As at Manaia, it seemed to call out for him. Dorn Arrin wasn’t sure how much he feared death, but nothingness … that was something else again.
So here he was. In a place across the boundary between worlds.
Would Etherell Lyr have laughed at this turn of things? He enjoyed dramatic ironies rather more than Dorn did. On the other hand, Dorn couldn’t know at this point how much of the Etherell he knew was a disguise. When he allowed his mind to linger too close to this thought, he felt equal parts pain and shame.
There was no shame in being lied to, surely. Why, then, was he ashamed? He could berate himself for gullibility, but really, Etherell had had all of them fooled. If Elissan Diar had made him his second-in-command, he must surely still believe Etherell was what he claimed, the son of an aristocratic family.
Dorn had a great deal of time to think as he and Julien Imara made their way down the slope for the better part of a day. He was glad to stay behind her—the mark of the Seer on her rounded young face unnerved him more than he wanted to let on. The poor girl, after all. He had thoughts about what Valanir Ocune had done, not all of them complimentary. And now with what she’d delivered to him—what she’d seen—that was more responsibility than anyone of her age ought to have. Or perhaps, anyone at all. “We need to get out of here and tell the Court Poet,” she’d said, after he’d explicated the politics of the matter as he saw them. He had been touched by the dawning horror in her eyes as she absorbed the implications. The downfall of an ally, the ascendance of someone like Elissan Diar.
A clear danger to the Court Poet.
There was beauty to the unevenness of the slope, Dorn thought early in the day, when the sun made dimpled shadows beside each arc in the grass. Bright, emerald green and its twin shadow, repeated unceasingly into the gold bar of the horizon.
He would have liked to share that—the view, and the metaphor—with Etherell Lyr. A mindset from which he must extricate himself, and quickly. It was, at the very least, embarrassing.
Bending his head to the winds, Dorn thought he could understand the source of his shame (which was not the same as embarrassment). People saw me, and wanted me, his friend had said, his profile turned to moonlight. Dorn could still see it.
People saw their desires in Etherell Lyr. Not who he was.
And what if Dorn was no better, in his heart, than the lord’s guests who had seen and taken what they wanted? Telling themselves that acquiescence meant desire, that skill meant sensuality. He felt ill, to see himself that way. But to confront the truth … he had committed himself to that. You couldn’t choose where it took you.
I would feel nothing.
Many confused thoughts, but they all led to shame, and a hurt that seemed to creep up on him unawares, and constantly.
He was lost battling these thoughts by the time they reached the falls. Dimly he was aware that Julien was stalking on the wet stones like a lynx after prey, not an image he’d have hitherto associated with the timorous girl. The mark made a tracery of silver around her eye. He wondered if she was aware of it.
“Come,” she said at last, reaching out with a smile that he thought jarringly confident, as if she wore someone else’s face. She was indicating a fissure in the rock beside the falls. Dorn looked closer, realized it was not merely a fissure. It widened and extended deep into the wall.
“A cave,” he said. “Why…”
“I don’t know. Come on.”
* * *
DEEP in the cave, someone was singing. There were words, but in a language she didn’t know. The voice sad and lost. Julien moved nearer to Dorn as they stepped into the dark. She wished they had a candle or torch. Sun from outside fell on walls which looked creased, like folded cloth.
To him she murmured, “This must be why we’re here.” He said nothing, only appeared thoughtful. She kept up the pace as best she could on the uneven footing. Her mind went to the boys who had vanished: they had found themselves in a cave with a luminous, unearthly woman. A woman who had sent them on quests. But if that was why they had come to this place, Julien thought, best get on with it. At least she was not in danger of falling into a tragic passion for the woman; and neither, as best she could gauge, was Dorn Arrin.
Water had collected at the bottom of the cave. There was no way to walk through it without soaking their shoes. Submerged in the water were sharp rocks that threatened to tear their soles. Julien nearly slipped and fell on the first of these, which taught her the imperative to slow her pace, to step with extreme care. Dorn seemed to have little trouble; possibly he had a talent for balance.
An odd thought for her to have, as if she assessed his qualities. As if she expected to make use of him, take advantage of his skills for some purpose. Something Valanir Ocune might have done. (Had he made use of her? She didn’t want to think of that. It seemed disloyal—both to him and to herself. For different reasons.)
The singing drew her on. It was music utterly strange, its chaotic form not like anything she had studied. It would have been nearly impossible to mold it to the requirements of a harp. Yet what she found herself thinking of now was home, and her sister, and the grove of olive trees that sheltered the lower windows. Leaves like silver, murmuring at the touch of the wind. That faint song had been the bedrock of her life. She’d thought it would never end; that even when she went away, she could always someday return to it.
She’d treated her childhood like a doll that could be put on a shelf and taken down again, at will. Instead of what it was: a leaf already browning when she’d set it down.
“Feel that.” Dorn was beside her. Something wistful in his face. “That wind.”
A bit of wind stirred both their hair. “So?” It came out shorter than she liked. She didn’t know how to disengage from this melancholy. The song conveyed a loss that was alien, yet still her own.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “There’s no one here. No one singing.”
“You scorn enchantments…”
“It’s true,” he said. “But I’m not entirely a fool. I can accept that we are in an enchanted place. But it seems to me we are alone in this cave. I think you’ll see.”
They were in a place like a narrow hall; the light that knifed from the entrance flared out to the sides, edged the creased walls in ochre shades. As they advanced deeper, the light died away. In time, the hall expanded: they had reached what looked like an antechamber. Now the light grew again, turning the water beneath them green. She saw a narrow aperture near the ceiling of the cave, spilling sunlight. Hanging beside it a spiderweb that trembled in the wind.
The wind. The spiderweb moved in time to the melody, back, forth, thrilling like the wings of a hummingbird.
He was right. No one was singing—there was no one here. She’d taken them on a wrong turn. A dead end.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her shoulders drooped. “You were right. I was … headstrong.”
“Don’t be silly.” He gripped her shoulder a moment, as if she were one of his comrades. “You are guided by something. I’m sure of that. Just because there’s no one here…”
She wiped at her eyes covertly—she hoped, before he could see it. It had been a long night, she supposed, and an endless time after. “You are kind,” she said. Her voice pitched low, as if in reverence of the song that continued on the wind. Though she knew now what it was, still it affected her. “You always were. I had a thought about you, earlier…”
“Oh?”
She was beginning to gather strength again. Perhaps her mistake had not been so egregious. There was music here, after all. “You
called me someone with ideals, in contrast to you,” she said. “But that’s not right. You want to devote your life to music … without enchantments. With no reward but the work itself. Dorn Arrin.” She met his eye. It was a pity, really, that she liked him. It was more pointless even than usual. “You may be in possession of some ideals, yourself.”
He laughed. “I was afraid you’d notice that.” He bent his head; there were tricky stones ahead. Casually he said, “Not many have noticed what you are, have they, Julien Imara? Your intelligence … and your courage. I thought I might at least do that. Since you saved my life.” He smiled again, a more genuine, open smile than she’d ever seen from him. She thought it was like the light that broke through the aperture. How silly you are, she told herself.
“We should go back, I guess,” he said. “See if that mark of yours does more than lead us into a hole in the earth. You’re sure it doesn’t want us dead, by any chance?”
She laughed, too. But only a moment, for that was when she saw, over his shoulder, the glitter of eyes. “Dorn.”
He spun, somehow without losing his footing on the stones. The figure that emerged into the light was slight. A face etched with sorrow. A woman.
It may have been Julien’s imagination but she could have sworn that in that moment the music changed. Something in it now made her think not of sunlight on the olive groves of home, but of other things. Dreams she’d had that she forgot by morning, yet remained still in her bones.
The woman spoke. “I am to be your guide.” A voice with a rich undercurrent. Like a singer. She was long and lithe. When she moved, seemed to glide above the water and jagged rocks.
That gliding movement, more than anything, struck Julien as unnatural. She shivered. “Guides of the Path … are not of the living,” she murmured. It was not quite a question.
The woman simply looked at her with eyes like turquoise stones.
CHAPTER
21
“I THINK … I have to go home,” she said.
Lin had told Eldakar everything. He knew about Tarik’s ties to Ramadus; about the mark on Rihab’s shoulder blade. He knew about Ned. A brutal search was on for all three; she would be powerless to protect Ned if he was found. Eldakar did not want to kill him, but there was honor to consider. A king’s honor, in particular, could not be compromised.
None of the queen’s servants had held up to questioning—whatever that meant; Lin did not want to think about it. There were ways in the Tower of Glass to obtain information, perhaps painlessly? She hoped so. The drugged servant girl with whom Rihab had changed places knew least of all. When she awoke and was told what had happened, so intense was her terror, her flailing panic, that she’d had to be drugged again. She had most likely been chosen for her size, a superficial resemblance.
Lin’s prayer to Kiara, all through that day, was that Ned was well on his way to where he could vanish. She recoiled from the thought—what would she tell Rianna? But it was the best outcome she could imagine.
She had not had time to absorb what he had done. She was angry, but she blamed herself. At the same time, his actions shocked her. She’d imagined his loyalty to her was absolute. But even Ned had his underside of weakness. Rihab Bet-Sorr, already a deceiver of kings, had found it.
In daylight, Eldakar’s rooms should have shone with all the splendor of which the Zahra was capable. But today they were dark. Gold-embroidered brocade shut out the sun. Lin understood. Though he could not afford time to grieve, the king was in mourning. Would possibly want to avoid a view of the gardens. She and Eldakar sat on cushions on the floor. Every so often she would run her hand through the soft carpeting that was close, as if for comfort.
The eyes he turned to her were devoid of ill feeling or guile, as if it was not her own man who’d betrayed him. That was the kind of man he was, she knew, and was humbled by it. Upon first learning of Ned’s actions, and confessing them to Eldakar, she’d fallen to her knees. She knew it was her place to offer whatever restitution she could. He asked that she send some of her own guards to join the search party; a modest request, for appearances only. It gave her the appearance of making things right. Even now, he thought of what was best for her.
No wonder Yusuf Evrayad had despaired of his eldest son.
“Have you news of your brother?” Lin asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “He may be dead. The Magicians are trying to find out more. Meanwhile … what I most dreaded is coming to pass. We mass what is left of our men to advance north. It will leave us exposed here, but I don’t see another way.”
“There is another way. For both of you.”
It was Zahir, standing over them as if he’d always been there. Lin startled, but Eldakar did not react. Either surprise was not an emotion he could currently muster, or he was used to his First Magician making unexpected appearances. Both seemed equally likely.
Zahir sat on a cushion across from them. He turned to Eldakar. “What we’ve learned from Lin’s friend is valuable. We now know—or have reason to believe—that the Fire Dancers are not our attackers. That means whoever is attacking us may also pose a danger to the Fire Dancers.”
Lin came to it quickly, and saw Eldakar did as well. “Allies,” he said, musing. “If such a thing can be imagined.”
“Rihab was most likely their spy,” said Zahir. He touched his friend’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I believe she cared for you. I suspect that at the end … it was hard for her, too.”
“We’ll never know,” said Eldakar, in a tone that discouraged discussion. “So you’re suggesting we ally ourselves with the Fire Dancers against this—shadow from the west. If we can get that close to them. So far no one has been able to penetrate their camp and live to tell of it.”
Lin, meanwhile, was thinking hard. “I can’t go home,” she realized. “Not without help. This magic most likely comes from the Academy, given its location. From Seers. I’d be walking into an ambush.” Damn Valanir. He had known something was happening in the Academy; had thought to protect her. The consequence was the opposite—now she faced something utterly unknown.
But in thinking of him she could feel only sadness rather than anger. It was touching that he’d acted for her protection. Wrongheaded as it had been.
Eldakar smiled, a mirthless twist of the mouth. “I see where this is going,” he said. “You both propose to leave me.”
“Keep massing your troops … slowly,” said Lin. “That is my opinion. Give the appearance of readying for war. Meantime I will go north in secret. I’ll have words with this Renegade.”
He looked stern, as if she were a wayward cousin or sister. “You think to succeed where no one else has?”
Lin felt her lips curl in a grin. A touch of Edrien in it, though that was known only to her. “I am generally good at convincing people not to kill me,” she said. “If still they do … you’ll have lost nothing.”
“That is untrue in all sorts of ways,” said Eldakar. “In any case, I doubt Zahir will let you go alone.”
“Someone must represent your interests,” Zahir said to Eldakar. “Someone acquainted with magic, who has a chance of surviving theirs. And … two of us increases our chance of success.”
“In case one of you dies,” said the king.
“Come here.” Zahir had stood, reached down. Eldakar allowed himself to be drawn to his feet. They held each other a long time. Eldakar was inert at first, as if he were asleep. But at the last his arms tightened around his friend’s shoulders, hands closed into fists against his back. Eyes shut, for a moment, in a manner that made Lin look away.
When they drew apart, Zahir spoke again. His voice was hoarse. “You know why I have to go.”
“I know.” Eldakar glanced around them. “These walls, the height of this mountain … they appear to protect us, but I know they do not. My father’s legacy … it can all be destroyed in an instant.”
Lin bowed her head. There was no gainsaying the truth of it.
“I do my
utmost to serve you,” said Zahir. He knelt in the carpet before the other man, as if for a blessing.
The king traced his friend’s face with his fingers. “Come back to me.” He turned to Lin. “Both of you.”
* * *
THE landscape had changed too quickly, as if they’d stepped into a painting. It wasn’t possible, Julien thought, for that lush green to give way, without transition, to sands like folded gold and no green at all. A sky the color of amber and bare of clouds. Before, in the lands above the waterfall, sunlight had been a pale thing, nearly blue. White was what it became now, savage as an attacker.
The woman glided over the sands, her legs barely moving. She seemed not to feel the heat. Loose brown draped her, a simple dress, belted with blue linen. Cliffs of gold and red stone arose on every side. At their lightest, they matched the sky. They were jagged, dimpled with shadows made sharp and black by the sun.
Dorn said, “Wait.” He seemed to hesitate. They still did not have a name for the woman. He was shielding his eyes.
She turned. Waited for him to speak.
“We won’t survive this,” he said. “Maybe you don’t require water or shade. We do. We don’t have enough water, or protective clothes. We’ll die out here.”
Julien felt her eyes become round. She hadn’t thought of any of that.
But the woman shrugged. “We do not travel in the conventional way. You can die here, if we are set upon by bandits or djinn. But not from dehydration or hunger—I am forbidden from allowing that.”
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