The elf nodded, then sent two companions back to the kank herd. A short time later, they returned with a ceramic jug and gave it to the speaker. Sadira found it peculiar that they would carry something as precious as water in a vessel that could be so easily broken, but she quickly put her misgivings aside as she pondered the size of the jar. It was so big that the elf had to use both hands to carry it. Apparently, he intended to be sure she had plenty to drink.
“I’m ready!” he yelled.
Sadira prepared for her next spell, making a small loop out of a piece of leather string. This she tossed in the elf’s direction as she spoke her mystic phrase. The loop vanished, and the elf rose off the ground. Sadira went to the line and pulled, bringing him the across the chasm as though he weighed nothing at all.
The elf arrived, an overbearing grin on his face. He was a huge man, standing fully two heads taller than Sadira. The light burnoose covering his frame did not conceal his barreled chest, and the thick forearms extending from the sleeves of his robe were heavily muscled. His silver hair hung over his back in an unruly tail that left his sharp-tipped ears completely exposed. Even by the standards of his race, the elf’s features were singularly gaunt and keen, with high spiked brows, a nose as thin as a dagger blade, and a pointed chin. The sorceress wondered if he were ill, for his flesh was pallid and his gray eyes framed by dark circles of exhaustion.
As the elf stepped onto solid ground, a large purse of metal coins jingled under his robes. To Sadira, it sounded as though he were carrying a considerable fortune on his person. A distrustful light flashed in the elf’s eyes, and she realized that her expression had betrayed her astonishment. She quickly lowered her brow.
“Thanks for your aid,” she said, hoping her smile would not betray how ill-at-ease she felt in the elf’s presence.
He returned her gesture, though his smile seemed far from sincere. “My tribesmen are your servants,” he said, bowing so deeply that water sloshed from the jug’s mouth. The elf’s gray eyes bugged out. “By the sun, I am careless!”
He tried to catch what he had spilled by swinging the bottom of the vessel downward and shoving the mouth under the stream of falling liquid. The elf succeeded only in striking a stone, knocking a large hole in the jug and splashing its contents over the ground. Sadira leaped forward and scratched at the wet sand in a vain attempt to salvage a few gulps of water, succeeding only in scraping the skin from her knuckles. She looked up at the elf.
“You did that on purpose!” she rasped, barely able to squeeze the words from her aching throat.
The elf looked hurt. “Why would I do such a thing?” he asked. “Water is too precious. I might as well throw my silver into the canyon!” He waved his free arm at the chasm.
“You might as well throw yourself in,” Sadira commented sourly, snatching the jug from his hands. “I’m well versed in the ways of elves. You want something from me, and until you get it, you’ll keep having ‘accidents’ with the water I need.”
The elf frowned. “Is that any way to speak to your savior?”
“You haven’t saved me yet,” Sadira answered. She held the jug to her cracked lips and tipped her head back. A few dregs of water, drops clinging to the interior walls, trickled down her throat.
“But I shall,” the elf said. He went to the canyon edge. “We have plenty of water over there.”
“And how will you bring it over here?” Sadira asked, throwing the ruined jug into the abyss.
He gave her a gray-toothed grin. “Perhaps you could bring over one of my warriors?”
“And then another, and another, after that, until I’ve brought the whole tribe over,” Sadira concluded.
The elf nodded. “That would be kind of you.”
“Forget it,” Sadira said. “You’re the only one I had the strength to bring over today. If you hadn’t wasted the water, it might have been possible for me to bring the rest of tribe over tomorrow.”
“Come now, surely you can—”
“I can’t use that spell again until tomorrow,” Sadira said, twisting her cracked lips into a sardonic smile. “But as you can see, I’ll be dead before then.”
The elf’s grin vanished. “I’m trapped here?”
“Not at all,” Sadira said, gesturing across the chasm. “You’re free to leave when you like.”
The elf studied the sorceress with a mistrustful scowl, then stepped away from the rim and hopped into the air. When he dropped back to the ground, he smiled and wagged a long finger at her. “You are a brave woman to make jokes at a time like this,” he said, kneeling at her side. “Let me look at your wounds.”
Sadira allowed him to examine her shredded legs.
“These are not so bad,” he said, indicating the thorn wounds. He shifted his attention, to her arm. “But this …” He let the sentence trail off, shaking his head.
The elf suddenly reached up and, pushing away Sadira’s interfering hand, undid the belt she had tied around her arm. The whole limb erupted into agony as circulation returned to it, and blood began to ooze from its cuts. Screaming in pain, Sadira shoved her tormentor away.
“Give me my belt,” she commanded, holding out her hand.
“Your arm must have blood or it will die,” the elf responded. He rose and threw the leather strap into the canyon.
“What good is it to have a live arm, if I bleed to death in an hour?” Sadira demanded.
“What good is it to live an hour, if your arm will kill you in a week?” the elf countered. He studied the sorceress’s savaged arm for a while longer, then asked, “Are you sure you can’t bring just one more person over the canyon?”
“I’m sure,” Sadira lied. Despite her thirst and her injuries, the sorceress thought it wisest to complete her negotiations before using any more magic.
“Pity,” said the elf, pulling off his burnoose. Beneath it, he wore a wide belt from which hung several heavy purses, a sheath containing a steel dagger, and his breechcloth. “In my tribe there is a windsinger who has healing powers. Perhaps I should have sent him over first.”
“But that wouldn’t have been prudent business,” Sadira finished for him.
“I didn’t realize your situation was so desperate,” the elf said, shrugging.
He stepped toward her, holding his huge burnoose by the sleeves and shaking it out. Unsure of his intentions, Sadira reached for her satchel. Her tormentor quickly moved to stop her, placing a huge foot on the sack.
“Why so afraid?” he asked, his lip turned up in a sneer that he may or may not have intended to be a smile. With exaggerated gentility, he placed the burnoose over her shoulders, covering the skin that was left exposed by her own tattered cape, and pulling the hood up over her head. “We must keep the sun off. You will live longer.”
“So I can bring your tribe across the canyon?”
“We only want to help, little one.” The elf cast a sad glance across the chasm. “Of course, I could do much more if my people were with us.”
The sorceress studied the elf for several moments. His sinewy body was fairly laced with knife scars, and there were other, more gruesome blemishes. If he had survived so many injuries, she suspected, the elf was telling the truth about his healer.
Even knowing that, however, Sadira hesitated to strike a deal. The enchantment she would have to employ was a complicated one that demanded more energy than she could summon without destroying another swath of land, and she was not sure she was prepared to commit such an act again. Her mentor had often chastised her for stretching her powers or sorcery to their limits, but until the fight with Nok, Sadira had never resorted to an intentional and massive degradation of the land.
Though the sorceress believed she had been justified in saving herself then, the present issue was less clear. Nok had been an imminent danger, but the threat now was not immediate. If she resorted to defiler magic to save herself from eventual death, would she use it out of simple convenience the next time?
Yet, her onl
y other choice was to die. Considering the difficulties and hardships she would undergo during the search for the Pristine Tower, and the dim likelihood of surviving without her magical cane, it might be best to accept her fate now. But if she did, a thousand Tyrian citizens would die with her, and a thousand more each time the Dragon returned. Tyr would be no different than it had been during Kalak’s reign.
Sadira could not let that happen.
She met the elf’s gaze. “What will you do if I can’t bring your tribe across?”
The elf pointed westward. “A path descends into the Canyon of Guthay from both sides,” he said. “Its is only three days’ run, but the beasts that live in the bottom have a taste for our kanks.”
Remembering the foul smell her mount had emitted upon being wounded, Sadira made a sour face. “Nothing could eat a kank.”
“Every creature is food for some other,” the elf said. “That is the law of the desert.”
Satisfied that there was no way to bring the windsinger across the chasm without casting her spell, Sadira decided to strike the best bargain she could in return for her service. “Your healer will look after me until I am well.”
“Done,” the elf said.
Sadira held up her hand. “You will supply me with plenty of food and water.”
He nodded. “Of course—we are good hosts.”
“And you’ll escort me to the Pristine Tower.”
The elf studied for several moments. Finally, he said, “You are cunning. I like that.”
Sadira scowled at the flattery. “What is your answer? Will you take me there or not?”
“No, no, of course not,” said the elf grinning smugly. “We both know that if I agree to such a thing, you cannot trust me to keep any other promise.”
A terrible thought came occurred to Sadira. “Why not?” she demanded. “The tower’s real, isn’t it?”
“It’s real enough,” the elf answered, raising a peaked eyebrow at Sadira’s question. “But only a fool—”
“Then you must take me there,” Sadira interrupted, breathing easier. “Unless you prefer to risk your kanks in the chasm.”
“I would drive my kanks off the canyon rim before willingly coming within sight of the Pristine Tower,” countered the elf. “Why does one of such beauty wish to visit it?”
“That’s my business,” Sadira answered. “Why are you so afraid of it?”
“If you don’t know, you have no business going there,” the elf replied evasively. He looked across the chasm to his waiting tribe. “But I’ll take you to Nibenay. With luck and enough silver, you’ll find a guide there.”
Sadira nodded, convinced that she would strike no better bargin with the elf. “I’ll need my spellbook,” she said, motioning at her satchel. “And a couple of hours of quiet.”
“In that case, we’d better cover your wounds,” the elf said, ripping a pair of strips from the hem of Sadira’s tattered cape.
By the time the sun had begun to descend toward the jagged peaks in the west, Sadira was ready to cast her spell. Whispering in a parched voice, she told the elf to have his tribe line up near the rim of the canyon. They should be ready to move quickly when she gave the word.
After the elf had relayed her instructions, Sadira turned her palm toward the ground. Before summoning the energy she needed, however, she turned to him and said, “After I finish, there’ll be nothing but ash and rock on this hillside. If the desecration angers your tribe, I trust they’ll be wise enough not to show it.”
“The desert is vast, and there is plenty of forage elsewhere,” he replied. “Besides my tribe understands sorcery. My own daughter dabbles in the art.”
“Good,” Sadira said. “I’d hate to do to you what I did to the halflings.”
The elf narrowed his eyes, “Among friends, there is no need for threats.”
“Among friends, I wouldn’t make them.”
Sadira spread her fingers and summoned the energy she needed. The hillside was quickly covered with withered, blackened cacti. Not wishing to see the damage she caused, the sorceress closed her eyes and focused her thoughts on draining every last bit of energy from the ground. When she had cast the spell to destroy Nok’s bridge, she had been too angry and frightened to notice her emotions. This time, she had no such insulation; she just felt dirty.
At last, the flow ceased. Sadira was at once exhausted and invigorated, her body prickling with stolen life-force. She opened her eyes and pointed her finger at the far side of the canyon, speaking the words of the spell. In front of the elf tribe, a dark circle appeared in the emptiness over the canyon.
“Tell them to jump,” Sadira gasped. She backed away from the canyon rim and collapsed to her haunches, clutching her satchel to her breast. Her vision was swimming with black dots, and she felt as though she might retch at any moment.
“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” the elf demanded.
Sadira looked up and waved her hand at the blackened scarp. “Do you think I would have done this just to kill a few elves?” she rasped. “The portal won’t last long. Tell them to jump!”
The elf did as she asked and the first warrior stepped into the black circle. When he appeared on Sadira’s side of the canyon, a great cheer rose from the rest of the tribe. Within a few moments, they were driving their reluctant kanks into the black circle, then, as the terrified beasts emerged on the other side of the abyss, chasing them up the scarp. The elf came and stood next to Sadira, who watched the procession through drooping eyelids, too exhausted to ask which was the windsinger.
Some time later, the sorceress felt her satchel being pulled from her arms. Her eyes popped open and Sadira found herself staring at a tall woman with close-cropped red hair. The elf was strikingly beautiful, with a regal nose, pouting mouth, and almond-shaped eyes as deep and brilliant as sapphires. Cords of sinuous muscle covered her long legs and lanky arms, and the waist of her slender body was unbelievably thin and wasplike.
Standing next to her was a massive creature of one of the New Races. He had two legs and two arms, but there ended his resemblance to anything faintly elven. His knobby hide was mottled and faintly reptilian in appearance. Before Sadira’s eyes, it was changing from the rusty red hue of the sands across the valley to the inky black pigment of the defiled lands. The man-beast’s limbs were as thick and round as faro trees, and knotted with wide bands of muscle. For feet, he had huge pads with three bulbous toes, each sporting an ivory-white claw. His hands were his largest single feature, with four bolelike fingers and a stumpy thumb.
The thing’s face was all muzzle, his enormous smiling mouth filled top and bottom with needlelike teeth. His eyes were set on opposite sides of his head, so that they could look straight ahead or to opposite sides as he chose. Directly behind these giant orbs were a pair of eloquent ears, triangular in shape and currently turned to the sides in an expression of solace.
“I am the windsinger Magnus,” he said, speaking in a surprisingly gentle voice. He waved a cumbersome hand at the elven woman next to him. “This is Rhayn, daughter to Chief Faenaeyon.”
“Faenaeyon!” Sadira croaked, searching for the tall elf whom she had first brought across.
Magnus’s ears turned forward in curiosity. “I assumed you two had introduced yourselves,” he said.
“My father’s name means something to you?” demanded Rhayn, studying Sadira’s face more closely.
The sorceress shook her head. “I’ve heard the name before, but it was probably someone else.”
“Unlikely,” said Rhayn. “Elves are named for the first interesting thing they do after learning to run. In our tongue, Faenaeyon means ’faster than the lion.” How many children do you suppose survive to bear such a name?”
“Not many,” Sadira conceded. As she realized that she had probably just met the father who had abandoned her into slavery, the sorceress had a sinking feeling in her stomach.
“So, what have you heard about Faenaeyon?” Rhayn asked.
/> “Before sorcery was permitted in Tyr, he was known as someone who sold spell ingredients,” Sadira said, deciding it would be wiser to keep her secret.
“That would describe half the elves in the city,” Rhayn said.
When Sadira offered no further explanation, the elf gave Magnus a doubting look, then took a large waterskin off her lean shoulder and passed it to Sadira. From the vessel’s lack of seams and bulbous shape, the sorceress guessed it had once been the stomach or bladder of some desert beast. She opened the neck and drank deeply of the rank water, hardly able to take her eyes off her father’s face.
Sadira was surprised at the emotions she felt. To be sure, there was anger and hatred. A large part of her wanted to strike him down and, after revealing her identity, leave him in the scorching sun to die alone and maimed. Another part of her, less murderous but just as vindictive, wanted to tell him how she and her mother had suffered over the years, and, by blinding and deafening him, inflict some measure of agony in return for what they had endured.
That third aspect of Sadira’s feeling confused her the most. Part of her didn’t hate her father at all. Deep inside, she was amazed to see him standing before her. Until now, he had always been a distant abstraction, an enigma whose thoughtless cruelty had caused her a lifetime of pain. Now Sadira was merely curious about him. She wanted to know what kind of man he was, and whether he had ever tried to find out what had happened to Barakah and his unborn child.
After several moments of allowing the tepid water from Rhyan’s waterskins run to down her throat, Sadira finally removed the neck from her mouth. “My thanks,” she said, handing it back to the woman who, she realized, was her half-sister.
Magnus kneeled at the sorceress’s side. “Allow me to see these wounds before we resume the run.”
The Amber Enchantress Page 9
