by Dora Machado
At least the damn prophecy gave her a little working room. “Your people must stay here for the moment. First and foremost, you must protect the stone at the Dome of the Going. Do you understand?”
“The stone will be protected, on the Wisdom we swear.”
“The Hounds, they must continue to do whatever it is that they do. No changes.”
“No changes.” The keeper nodded. “The defectors won't suspect us.”
To the Hounds, the defectors included everybody in the Goodlands. What a mess.
“What else will you have us do?” the keeper asked.
Sariah was thinking fast. “There will be need for food and supplies, so the harvests must be kept and the herds must be tended to. There will be some who will recklessly want to follow me to the Goodlands. They must be kept back.”
“Done. Do you wish for us to deepen our recognizance of the Goodlands?”
“Recognizance?” Dear Meliahs. “No changes, remember?”
“But we have always patrolled the foot of the Bastions.”
An idea occurred to her. “If you must continue your patrols, then strive to make friends.”
“Friends?”
“We'll need all the allies we can find when the time comes. We must seed goodwill among all we encounter.”
“Even the armed ones?”
“I'll be the first to admit that making friends with the Shield is not easy,” Sariah said. “Keep them away as you must, but try to refrain from slaughter.”
The keeper scratched his head. “I thought our mandate was to spill their blood.”
“Not at the moment.”
“Strategy, aye. We understand it.”
“You must learn from friends and enemies. Learn about their customs, their beliefs, their concerns.”
“What else?” the keeper said. “What else can we do for the guide?”
“That's a lot, keeper.”
“We're capable of more.”
“I know, but—”
“Targamon.” Delis interrupted. “Send messengers there.”
Meliahs grant her patience. “I said you should go, Delis.”
The keeper jumped at the chance. “We can be your envoys. Nobody will run swifter or surer than us.”
“My donnis, the Hounds can run your messages and I can stay with you. They can journey to Targamon. They can report back to you faster than I ever could. They can also take your message to Metelaus.”
Metelaus. Meliahs only knew what he would make of her message. But what else could she do? How long had it been since Kael had purchased her atonement from the executioners? Over five months. The journey had been grueling, the end wasn't yet in sight, and less than three months remained before the deadline. Who knew how much farther she would have to go? What guarantees did she have that she could return to face the executioners in time?
“It's the right decision, my donnis. The Hounds can be trusted with your messages and I can come with you. You won't have to travel alone and unarmed.”
“Alone and unarmed?” the keeper croaked. “Not the guide. Never. We'll carry your messages and escort you wherever you go. How many do you require? Ten thousand perhaps?”
Ten thousand?
Horatio Maliver was snorting like the damn pig he was. Why didn't she just leave him behind? She didn't need him and he wasn't telling the truth, that much she knew. He was probably lying about the stones he claimed he had. Then why was she considering letting him come? Was it because putrid as his soul was, he had helped them escape the Guild once? Was it because after wising his life's tale she pitied him? Because she wanted to know if he had changed? Maybe. But she had other reasons as well.
Safer is the rabid wolf tied to your leash than the faithful mastiff stalking you freely in the bushes. Vargas's notoriously fierce Wisdom surfaced spontaneously from the depths of her mind. She didn't like having Horatio close by, but there was no better way of watching him than through her own two eyes. She had reasons to suspect his every action, his every thought.
He had come here, risked his life, for an important purpose. Sariah needed to discover what it was, because ignorance was the lure of tragedy, and even the slightest glimpse of deceit was an omen for destruction down the road. He was most likely a deadly trap. Without knowing why Horatio Maliver needed her, Sariah risked walking into that trap in the worst possible way—without warning or recourse.
“We could provide ten times ten thousand if you'd like,” the keeper was saying. “We could flood the Goodlands with Hounds if you wish it so.”
“I travel in secrecy,” Sariah said. “My inquiries are discreet. I don't need a hundred thousand Hounds to terrify everybody in sight.”
“Then you need a fast team, quiet and fierce. Twenty pairs of claws can massacre a hundred Shield. We did it at—”
“I really don't want to know.” A headache was beginning to gather behind Sariah's eyes.
“It's a good idea, my donnis. We can manage, if they dress like proper Goodlanders. We can pretend we're merchants, like when we went to Alabara.”
“Remember the trouble that got us into?”
“I'm just saying, my donnis. I welcome a fist and a blade if it makes you safe.”
“Fine. If it gets us off these cliffs and on our way, let's have them and be done with it.” Damn if they didn't gang up against her with the slightest ease.
The keeper was already giving orders and sending messages to the domes. It was as if they had always been packed and ready. In less than an hour, a group of fully equipped men and women without their Hound disguises materialized at the cliffs. The keeper took his gear from one of them and strapped his pack on his back.
“You?” Sariah was surprised. “But what about your family?”
“They'll be proud that I go with you. Some come with me.” He slapped the man standing next to him on the shoulder. “My brother, Torkel.”
“The goddess's greetings,” Torkel said. “For you we die.”
She flashed Torkel a tremulous smile and followed Jol, who was painstakingly reviewing the others in his outfit. “Listen, keeper. I don't want you or your brother to die.”
“To die for the guide will be the greatest honor.”
“You'll hate this trip. You'll hate me. I'll be bossy. There won't be any Wisdom allowed, no blood licking or self-mutilation. You'll have to do what I say.”
“What's obedience but faithfulness to the truth?” the keeper said. “What is faithfulness but loyal following? Do you forget, wiser? You drank my blood. I'm your keeper. I must come. Because if you die, who but me will drink your blood?”
Thirty-one
THE DISTANT HOWLING stopped at the night's darkest hour. Wedged between Delis and Horatio, Sariah sat up on her blanket and waited anxiously for the keeper's return. She figured she had a good hour before he came back. It was amazing how the Hounds managed to communicate using their ferocious howling. The terrible sound carried for great distances. Messenger teams established relay positions across extended territories, conveying important if abbreviated news faster than any runner. That's how she kept abreast of her messengers’ progress. A fortnight had passed since she left the Bastions. Despite the awful weather and the Shield, the messengers had to be very close to Targamon.
The communication system had its drawbacks. No details could be properly conveyed, and the howling, as brief as possible, couldn't take place near their camp for fear of attracting attention and revealing their location. She had tried to go with the keeper, but he wouldn't have it and neither would Delis. Inasmuch as they accepted her authority on most everything, when it came to her safety, those two stuck together like love bugs.
Sariah lay back down on her blanket, but she was listening for the keeper's return. What news would he bring tonight? She didn't know what she feared worse—knowing or not knowing Kael's fate. And poor little Mia. Had she found a way to cope with the legacy's separation effects? Sariah dared to hope, mostly because the thought of her inadvertent
ly hurting the child made her ill. They were putting more leagues between her and the farm every day. Sariah looked up at the beam streaking the sky like an omen. She had no choice. Although she was fairly sure of her destination, she couldn't chance making a mistake.
Delis got up and walked to the nearby woods. Almost immediately, Horatio Maliver rolled over to her blankets. His warm breath tickled Sariah's ear.
“My little wiser can't sleep?”
“I'm not your little wiser, and my sleep is my business.”
“Cranky, aren't we?” Horatio snuggled closer. “I don't blame you. It's damn cold. Arron's Shield is everywhere we go. People in the Goodlands are in a state of panic. That so-called road is nothing more than a neck-breaking deer track.”
“Stop whining and go to sleep.” She didn't want to have an argument with him. Neither Delis nor the Hounds purported a liking for Horatio Maliver. One of these days his antics were going to get him killed before she could learn his true purpose.
“Do you ever regret us?” he asked.
“There was never an us.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Every time I see your face.”
That would have sent any dog yelping with its tail between its legs. Not Horatio Maliver. She almost screamed when she felt his hand on her thigh.
“Take. Your. Hand. Off me.”
Horatio whispered. “Are you sure?”
“Very.”
“I don't regret it.” He deliberately ignored her warning. “The road is long, the night is cold. Loneliness is a sad condition, my little wiser, easy to cure, even now.” His hand froze on her belly. “The rot burn me. Are you pregnant?”
In one swift movement she had him flat on his back with her knife at his throat. “Don't you dare touch me again. Ever.”
“You are pregnant.”
Rage was easy to call on Horatio Maliver. All it took was a palm to his throat and a quick, short stone wrath strike. It left him gagging, whimpering and slobbering like a dog choking on a bone.
She hissed in his ear. “If you say a word to anybody, I swear I'll kill you.”
Delis was just returning from the woods when Sariah stomped by her.
“My donnis, what happened?”
Sariah walked away, ignoring Horatio's strangulated squeals and the scent of urine rising from his blankets. She took some consolation from Delis's delighted chortles.
“As you suspected, there was trouble at Targamon Farm,” the keeper reported.
“What kind of trouble?” Sariah asked. “The Shield? The rot?”
“Sickness.”
“Sickness?” Sariah's belly went to ice. “What kind of sickness?”
“I can't tell from the howls. Many died.”
Her throat bunged like a knotted rope.
“But not the man you asked about. Or the girl. They live.”
Thank Meliahs. She had met the keeper just outside their camp, on a slight rise overlooking the forest. Sariah's hands were cold as ice blocks. She had dreaded the news. At least they were alive. The sickness must have been bad to delay Kael for so many weeks.
“Is he coming?”
The keeper shrugged. “The howls request assistance from the Bastions.”
“What kind of assistance?”
“Supplies. Medicines. The usual.”
“Will you help them?”
“You did say we must make friends, didn't you?”
Sariah nodded because she couldn't speak. Kael, Mia, Malord, her friends, the people she cared about most were trapped in disease-ravaged Targamon and she wasn't there to help them.
“If they can't get out to get their own supplies—”
“A quarantine is in place.”
A quarantine. Of course. That's what was keeping Kael away and without choice. It was only then that the thought occurred to her. “Is he sick?”
“Who?”
“The man from Ars, Kael. The one I sent for.”
“The howls didn't say.”
Sariah squeezed her head between her hands. Now what? Another fortnight left to follow the beam or do as her heart was telling her and run like a madwoman to Targamon? She didn't care that thousands of Arron's Shield warriors were between here and there, or that a quarantine was in place. She would find a way to get through. But what about her search? She didn't think she could afford the time or the leagues that a return to Targamon required. The beam wouldn't last forever. The executioners wouldn't hesitate to take over Ars. The bracelet wouldn't wait to kill her. And what about the baby? Could the disease ravaging the farm hurt the baby too?
“Are you feeling unwell?”
Aye. She was feeling very unwell at the moment, bad enough to want to howl at the top of her lungs like the Hounds, sad enough to crawl into a hole and cry. “I'm fine.”
“Do you want some of my blood?”
“No, nay, no. Thank you, but no. I need to think. Go. You've had a hard night. There's some stone-heated tea I made for you and your men. Get some rest.”
“Won't you come with us?”
“I need to think.” She dreaded the prospect of imposing logic on her ragged emotions. “You can watch me from the camp. I'm not thirty steps from the lot of you.”
The keeper conceded. Sariah sat on a rock and forced herself to take long, even breaths. Quarantine. The word scared her worse than the rot. At least the Shield would leave Targamon alone for the moment. They wouldn't risk contagion. But if a quarantine was in place, there was nothing she could do for Kael and her friends. If she went, and insisted on gaining entry, she would be endangering the child she carried and imperiling her search.
What would Kael do?
No way out but forward. Get it done, protect the baby, find the tale, finish it, that's what he would say. It wasn't as if she was being reckless. On the contrary, she wasn't alone. She had Delis and the Hounds to assist her, a fierce, tidy outfit, capable of handling most contingencies. With the baby growing, now more than ever she had to think beyond the stones and to the future. She glanced down at her bracelet. The outline of the fisted hand caught her eye. Strength's link had landed on top. She had to be strong. And fast. Time was passing too quickly.
Going to Targamon made as much sense as diving headfirst into a rot pit. If she wanted to be with Kael and her friends, if she wanted to bring her child safely into a kinder world, she had to end this dangerous search once and for all. Along with the journey's hardships, fueling the baby's protective weave tested her strength. The more the baby grew, the harder it would be to keep up such protection. It was best if she moved on swiftly to finish her business.
She was in dire need of a plan. They would be waiting for her. They would be ready. How would she gain access to the place chosen by the beam when everybody else knew too? She wagered that the sages in all their wisdom didn't think of that small detail. Or had they?
She rummaged through her pocket looking for the memory stone where she had imprinted the tale of her latest wising. Perhaps she had missed something, a clue that would better her chances. She pulled the memory stone from her pocket, together with the amplifying stone she always carried and the larger bursting stones she kept there just in case. She spied another stone among the others, a small white pebble she didn't recall putting there.
It wasn't one of hers, she was sure. She tapped the stone and sensed a peculiar wising, a unique, almost imperceptible vibration that came at equal intervals. What by Meliahs’ rot pits was this stone doing in her pocket?
Horatio Maliver. His amorous advances had had a double purpose, to test her resolve and, most importantly, to put a tracer stone on her. She had heard about those. The Guild councilors used it to track their leases when they went on wising-trading missions away from the keep. Only they knew how to make tracking stones. That narrowed her field of suspects. Who was Horatio Maliver working for?
She tossed the little stone in the air and caught it on the way down. She had been right to suspect Horatio's reappearance. The
man was a walking justification for murder. Was the tracking stone's wising somehow anchored to Horatio Maliver? Probably. She was suddenly very glad she had decided to keep Horatio with her. Horatio himself was most likely being tracked by whoever tracked her. His tracking stone could be anywhere, hidden among his belongings, sown into his clothing, even lodged in his body, smuggled in his food or forced down his gullet with or without his notice. Horatio's abrupt disappearance or a sudden separation from Sariah's path would tip off her stalker. Even now, when she knew all that, it wasn't time to get rid of him. He was an advantage she wasn't willing to relinquish just yet.
Her coin was on Grimly. He had to be working for the Prime Hand. Horatio couldn't be bought with promises for coin or power. That's all Arron had to offer. Mistress Grimly, on the other hand, knew how to make a hard bargain. A shrewd and experienced player, she knew people bent at complex angles. She had the skills to figure out Horatio's needs and use them as leverage to obtain her own ends. Besides, the past couldn't be ignored. Horatio and Grimly had been allies before the breaking of the wall. They had worked well together. They had made a formidable foe.
Sariah considered the little white stone in her hand. It was newly chiseled. The gouges were fresh and the ridges were sharp. She sighed. She needed to know. She took a quick lick, a touch of tongue to stone. Salt. Pepper. Cumin. Mustard. She smiled. The stone had been recently harvested from the keep's underground stores, a group of caves used to store valuable spices, a place she knew well from her errands as a Guild pledge. With the Guild split and Arron locked out of the keep, only Mistress Grimly had access to those stores.
Sariah returned the white stone to her pocket. Whoever was set on finding her would do so—at her convenience. If Horatio Maliver was working for Grimly, he was more than a traitor, more than a lying, cold bastard. He had become her best opportunity.
The wind that chilled Sariah was ice's purest breath. It cut through her mantle as if she wasn't wearing every garment she owned at the moment. Even her eyeballs felt frozen. For as long as Sariah could remember, the chill had never punished the Goodlands with cold as bitter and unrelenting as this.
