Zulron paused only briefly, to cast a glance over his low-slung shoulder at the sentinel. “You see more clearly than the rest of your brethren.”
“And you speak Apelanese better than yours.”
“I’m not built for hunting. I rely on study and have learned much about your world.”
“This is disgusting.” Levy grimaced, carefully picking his path.
“Yes,” the oberdaza agreed. He walked through the guano as if it were a field of spring grass. “But these bats are my gatekeepers, and their soil, my moat.”
Soon the cave grew wide and the floor cleared of filth. In the center of the cavern was a domed oven built of carefully piled stones. Surrounding it were dozens of huge clay pots, bundles of browned leaves, and a vast pile of poorly stacked wood. On shelves carved from the stone walls rested hundreds of smaller ceramic jars and a variety of stones, crystals, and bowls.
Zulron reached into one of the pots and threw a handful of dust into the mouth of the oven. He thrust his torch at the base, and a fire roared to life, which he then fed with wood. When the oven was sated and he had finished lighting a number of oil lamps, he turned to Levy. “Let me see it.”
The doctor set his pack on the floor and withdrew the bundle of bloody rags. Zulron took the bandages and studied each, even holding them to his nose and sniffing. “And you say these belong to the hooded one among you? It’s his blood?”
“Yes.”
“How was he wounded?”
“I shot him with a crossbow.”
Zulron showed no surprise. “Did you not wish him dead? Or are you a poor hunter?”
“He moved.”
Zulron raised a dark brow. “He is quick?”
“Yes.”
“Sees well in the dark?”
“Yes.”
“And you came by ship, yes? How did he fare on the water?”
“Poorly—very sick for the first four days, I hear.”
“And his ears, are they pointed?”
“No. He has no elven features. This is why we need you to test the blood. You know the method?”
The oberdaza nodded.
Thranic felt a twinge of regret that this creature was so unworthy to Novron. He sensed a kinship of minds. “How long?”
Zulron rubbed the crusted bandages between his fingers. “Days with this. It is too old. If we had a fresh sample, it could be quick.”
“Getting blood from him is nearly impossible,” Levy grumbled.
“I will start the test with these, but I’ll also see what I can do to get fresh blood. He will need treatment soon.”
“Treatment?”
“The jungle does not abide the weak or the wounded for long. He will summon me or die.”
“How much gold will you want?” Thranic asked.
Zulron shook his head. “I have no need for gold.”
“What payment, then?”
“My reward will not come from you. I will reap my own reward, and it is no concern of yours.”
The Tenkin granted them the use of three sizable huts and Wesley divided his crew accordingly. The accommodations were surprisingly luxurious, subdivided by walls of wide woven ribbons that gave the impression of being inside a basket. Carpets of tight-threaded fibers inlaid with beautiful designs covered the floor. Peanut-shaped gourds hung from the rafters, burning oil that provided more than enough light.
Having convinced Wesley to linger in the village, Hadrian watched over Royce, who looked worse with each passing hour. Royce’s skin burned and sweat poured down his forehead even as he shivered beneath two layers of blankets.
“You need to get better, pal,” Hadrian told him. “Think of Gwen. Better yet, think what she’ll do to me if I come back without you.”
There was no reaction. Royce continued to shiver, his eyes closed.
“May enter?” a soft voice asked. Hadrian could see only the outline in the doorway, and for an instant he thought it was Gwen. “He grows worse, but you refused Zulron to see him.”
“Your oberdaza has been keeping close company with the man who nearly killed my friend. I don’t feel comfortable letting Zulron treat him.”
“Will allow me? Am not skilled like Zulron, but know some things.”
Hadrian nodded and waved her in.
“Am Fan Irlanu,” she said, dipping her head into the hut while, outside, two other women waited in the rain with covered baskets.
“I’m Hadrian Blackwater, and this is my friend Royce.”
She nodded, then knelt beside Royce and placed a hand to his forehead. “He has fever.”
She motioned for the oil lamp and Hadrian pulled it down, then helped her open Royce’s cloak and pull back his tunic to reveal the stained bandage, which she carefully removed. Irlanu grimaced as she peeled back the cloth and studied the wound.
She shook her head. “It is the shirlum-kath,” she said, pressing lightly on the skin around the wound, causing Royce to flinch in his sleep. “See here?” She scraped a long nail along the edge of the bloody wound and drew away a squirming parasite the size of a coarse hair. It twisted and curled on her fingertip. “They are eating him.”
Fan Irlanu waved to the women outside, who entered and deposited their baskets beside her. She spoke briefly in Tenkin, ordering them to fetch other items, which Hadrian was unfamiliar with, and the two dashed from the hut.
“Can you help him?”
The woman nodded as she took out a stone mortar and began crushing bits of what looked to be dirt, leaves, and nuts with a pestle. “They common here with open wounds. Left alone, shirlum-kath will devour him. He die soon without help. I make poison for the shirlum-kath.”
One of the women returned with a gourd and an earthen pot, in which Fan Irlanu mixed the contents of her mortar with oil, beating it until she had a thick, dark paste, which she spread over Royce’s wound, packing it into the puncture. They turned him over and did the same to the exit wound. Then she placed a single large foul-smelling leaf over each and together they wrapped him in fresh cloth. Royce barely woke during the procedure. Groggy and confused, he soon passed out once more.
Fan Irlanu covered Royce back up with the blankets and nodded approvingly. “He will get better now, I think. I brew drinks—more poison for shirlum-kath and a tea for strength. When he wakes, make him drink both, eh? Then he feel better much faster.”
Hadrian thanked her. As she left, he wondered why Royce always attracted beautiful women when he was near death.
When Royce woke the next morning, the fever was gone, and he was strong enough to curse. According to him, the draft Fan Irlanu had provided tasted worse than fermented cow dung, but he actually liked the tea. The following day, he was sitting up and eating. By the third, he was able to walk unassisted to the communal ostrium for his meals.
No one complained about the delay because the rain continued. Seeing Royce in the ostrium that morning, Grady winked and asked Hadrian if it might be possible for Royce to have a relapse.
“He is good?” Fan Irlanu asked, coming to them after the evening meal had concluded. Her movement was entrancingly graceful, her dress glistening like oil in the lamplight. All eyes followed her.
“No—but he’s feeling a lot better,” Hadrian replied. His mischievous grin left a puzzled expression on her face.
“My language is perhaps not—”
“I’m very good, thank you,” Royce told her. “Apparently I owe you my life.”
She shook her head. “Repay me by getting strong—ah, but I do have a favor to ask of your friend Hay-dree-on. Joqdan, warlord of the village, asks that he speak with you at the sarap.”
“Me?” Hadrian asked, looking across to where the man in the bone necklaces sat. “Is it all right if Royce joins us? I’d like to keep an eye on him.”
“But of course, if he is up to it.”
Hadrian helped Royce to his feet, and as the rest watched with envious stares, the two followed Fan Irlanu out of the ostrium. The sun had not yet set,
but for what little light the jungle permitted, it might just as well have. Oil lamps hung from branches, illuminating the path, decorating the village like a Summersrule festival. The rain still poured, so they left the lodge under the protection of palm branches. Hadrian knew sarap translated to “meeting place,” or “talking place.” In this case, it was a giant oudorro tree, from which, he had recently learned, the village took its name.
The tree was not as tall as it was round. Great green leaves thrived on many of its branches despite the center of the trunk’s being completely hollow. The space within provided shelter from the rain and was large enough for the four of them. A small ornately decorated fire pit dominated the center of the floor and glowed with red coals. Around this they took seats on luxurious pillows of silk and satin. The interior walls were painted with various ocher and umber dyes smeared into the wood, apparently by stained fingers. The images depicted men and animals—twisted shapes of strange visions. There were also mysterious symbols and swirling designs. Illuminated by the glowing coals, the interior of the tree was eerily talismanic, creating a sensation that left Hadrian on edge.
Joqdan was already there. He had not waited for a boy with the palms, and his bare head and chest were slick with rain. They all exchanged bows respectfully.
“Pleased am I,” Joqdan greeted them. “Mine speech …is, ah … not good as the learned. I warrior—do not speak to outsiders. You are”—he paused for a moment, thinking hard—“special. Am honored. Welcome you to Oudorro, Galenti. I …” He paused, thinking again, and quickly became frustrated and turned to Fan Irlanu.
“The warlord Joqdan regrets that language skills are not good enough to honor you, and he asks that I speak words,” Fan Irlanu told them as she removed her wet wrap. “He says that he saw you fight in the arena at Drogbon. He has never forgotten it. To have such a legend here is great honor. You do not wear the laurel, so he thinks you do not wish be recognized. He has asked you here to pay proper respect in private.”
Hadrian glanced briefly at Royce, who remained silent but attentive. “Thank you,” he told Joqdan. “And he’s right—I would prefer not to be recognized.”
“Joqdan begs permission to ask a question of the great Galenti. He would like to know why you left.”
Hadrian paused only a moment, then replied, “It was time to seek new battles.”
The warlord of Oudorro nodded as Fan Irlanu translated his words.
At that moment, something about Fan Irlanu caught Royce’s attention and he rapidly approached her. She did not move, although given the ominous manner of his advance, Hadrian guessed that most anyone else would have taken a step back.
“Where did you get that mark on your shoulder?” Royce asked, indicating a small swirling tattoo.
“That is the mark of a seer,” Zulron declared, startling all of them as he entered.
Unlike the other men of the village, Zulron wore a full robe. Made from a shimmering cloth, it was open enough for them to see his misshapen body, covered in strange tattoos. The one that spread across his face resembled the web of a spider.
“Fan Irlanu is a vision-walker,” he explained, staring admiringly at her. “It is a talent and a gift bestowed by Uber-lin upon those endowed with the hot blood of the Ghazel. Few are born each age, and she is very powerful. She can see the depths of a heart and the future of a nation.” He paused to run his fingers gingerly down the side of her cheek. “She can see all things except her own destiny.”
“You don’t suffer from a language barrier, I see,” Hadrian said.
Zulron smiled. “I am the oberdaza. I know the movement of the stars in the Ba Ran and the books of your world. All mysteries are revealed to me.”
“Is it true that you are a visionary?” Royce asked Fan Irlanu.
She nodded. “With the burning of the tulan leaves, I—”
“Give him a demonstration,” Zulron interrupted, causing her to look sharply at him. “Read this one’s future,” he said, gesturing toward Royce.
A puzzled look crossed her face, but she nodded.
Joqdan put a firm hand to Zulron’s shoulder and spun him around, but he spoke too quickly for Hadrian to understand. The two argued briefly, but all he caught was one word of Zulron’s reply: important.
When Zulron turned back, his eyes fell on Hadrian, who he openly studied. “So, you are the legendary Galenti.” He raised an eyebrow. “Looking at you, I would say Joqdan is mistaken, but I know Joqdan is never mistaken. Still, you don’t look like the Tiger of Mandalin. I’d thought you would be much bigger.” He turned abruptly back to Fan Irlanu. “The leaves, burn them.”
As Fan Irlanu moved to a stone box, Zulron asked them to take seats around the glowing coals of the fire ring.
Hadrian took Royce aside. “Perhaps we should go. I can’t say I like Mr. Witch Doctor’s attitude much. Seems like he’s up to something. The fact that he’s been spending time with Thranic doesn’t help.”
Royce glanced at Fan Irlanu. “No, I want to stay.”
“What’s all this about?”
“The tattoo—Gwen has the same one.”
Reluctantly, Hadrian sat.
Fan Irlanu returned with several large dry leaves. Even withered and brittle, they were a brilliant shade of red. She held them over the coals and muttered something while crushing the leaves and letting them fall onto the embers. Instantly a thick white smoke billowed. It did not rise, but pooled and drifted. Fan Irlanu used her hands to contain the smoke, wafting it, scooping it, swirling it into a cloud before her. Then she bent and breathed in the ashen mist. Repeatedly, she swept the smoke and inhaled deeply.
The last of the leaves burned away and the smoke faded. Fan Irlanu’s eyes closed and she began swaying on her knees, humming softly. After a few minutes, she reached out her hands.
“Touch her,” Zulron instructed Royce.
Royce hesitated briefly. He looked at her the way Hadrian had seen him eye an elaborate lock. The greater the potential treasure behind the door, the more tension showed in Royce’s eyes, and at that moment he looked as if Fan Irlanu might hold the secret to a fortune. He reached out his fingers. At his touch, she took hold of him.
There was a pause, and then Fan Irlanu began to moan and finally shake her head, slowly at first but faster and faster the longer she held on. Her mouth opened and she groaned the way one might in a nightmare, struggling to speak but unable to form words. She jerked, her eyes shifting wildly under closed lids, her voice louder but saying nothing distinguishable.
Joqdan’s face was awash with concern, making Hadrian wonder if something was wrong. Fan Irlanu continued to struggle. Joqdan started to move, but a quick glare from Zulron held him back. At last, the woman screamed and collapsed on the pillows.
“Leave her alone!” Zulron shouted in Tenkin.
Joqdan ignored him, rushing to her side. Fan Irlanu lay on the ground thrashing. She cried out and then became still.
Joqdan clutched her, whispering in her ear. He held her head and placed a hand near her mouth to feel for breath. “You’ve killed her!” he shouted at Zulron. Without another word, he lifted the seer in his arms and ran out into the rain.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Hadrian asked.
“Your friend is not human,” the oberdaza declared. Zulron stepped up to face Royce. “Why are you here?”
“We’re part of the crew of the Emerald Storm, on our way to deliver a message to the Palace of the Four Winds,” Hadrian answered for him.
Zulron did not take his eyes off Royce. “For three thousand years the ancient legends have told of the Day of Reckoning, when the shadow from the north will descend to wash over our lands.”
Derning, Grady, Poe, and Bulard entered. “What’s going on?” Derning asked. “We heard a woman scream and saw the big guy carrying her away.”
“There was an accident,” Hadrian explained.
Both Derning and Grady immediately looked at Royce.
“We don’
t know what happened to her,” Hadrian continued. “She was doing a kind of spiritual demonstration—reading Royce’s fortune or something—and she collapsed.”
“She collapsed?” Derning said.
“She was breathing tulan leaf smoke. Maybe it was a bad batch.”
Zulron ignored their conversation and continued to glare at Royce. “The Ghazel legend, preserved by oral memory from the time of the first Ghazel-Da-Ra, tells of death and destruction, revenge unleashed, the Old Ones coming again. I have seen the signs myself. I watch the stars and know. To the north, there have been rumblings. Estramnadon is active, and Avempartha has been opened. Now here is an elf in my village, where one has never walked before.”
“An elf?” Derning asked, puzzled.
“That is what killed Fan Irlanu,” Zulron told them. “Or at the very least has driven her insane.”
“What?” Hadrian exclaimed.
“It’s not possible to use the sight on an elf. The lack of a soul offers up only infinity. For her it was like walking off a bottomless cliff. If she lives, she will never be the same.”
“You’re the village healer. Shouldn’t you be trying to help her?”
“He wants her dead.” Royce finally spoke. Then, looking at Zulron, he added, “You knew.”
“What did he know?” Bulard asked, tense but fascinated. Grady and Derning also leaned forward.
“You knew I was elven, didn’t you? But you told her—no, coerced her—to do a reading,” Royce said.
Outside, there were sounds of commotion, running feet and raised voices. Hadrian heard Wesley saying something over the heated shouts of Tenkins.
“Why did you want her dead?”
“I did nothing. You are the one that killed her. And killing a member of the village, especially a seer, is an unpardonable crime. The punishment is death.” Zulron gave a smile before stepping outside.
The rest of them followed to find a gathering crowd.
“There he is!” Thranic shouted the moment Royce stepped out of the tree. He pointed and said, “There’s your elf! I warned you about him.”
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