The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  When she reached the edge of the corral she leapt, and Morgin found himself flying with her over their heads as they all dropped to the ground beneath him. She landed cleanly on the other side, and didn’t slow down as she raced through the Benesh’ere camp, leaving a trail of amazed whitefaces behind them. She cleared the edge of the camp and broke out onto the open road, charged down it several hundred paces, and only then did she allow him to pull her to a stop. He reined her in, and turned her about to look back at the whiteface camp in the distance.

  You’re free now, she spluttered. They cannot catch me unless I allow them to.

  Morgin looked down the road. There’d been no visible reaction yet from the Benesh’ere, no posse of angry whitefaces riding out to catch the Elhiyne. He could turn, ride on, and there was no doubt Mortiss was right. He could easily reach the Gods Road, and cross the Ulbb going north, or the Augis going south, and no whiteface could follow. And then he’d finally be free to throw off the debt collar, free to find the Unnamed King and his true name, though he still had no idea how he would do that. But he had obligations back in that camp, debts that must be paid, responsibilities that must be met before he might go on.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not free.”

  He turned her toward the Benesh’ere camp and nudged her forward.

  She neighed, You have grown, I see, and learned a thing or two.

  He rode back to the Benesh’ere camp at an easy trot. One of the sentries at the perimeter of the camp waved at him and called, “Eh, Elhiyne, you decided to return.”

  Morgin called back to him, “Of course,” though there had been no of course about it. It had been a conscious decision, carefully thought out, though he couldn’t be certain it had been the right decision.

  A commotion in the middle of the camp drew his attention as he rode toward it. Blesset sat astride a mount, snapping orders at other riders to hurry, organizing a posse to come after him. The horses sensed her anger, making them skittish and difficult to control, difficult to mount. But as Mortiss trotted toward them casually, the frantic activity about Blesset slowly came to a stop as they all gaped at Morgin. Blesset, her back to Morgin, didn’t notice him until he was almost upon her. But as the silence among them grew and the frantic activity came to a standstill, she looked over her shoulder, saw Morgin, and that seemed to calm her. She grinned, not a nice grin.

  She reined her horse about slowly until she could face him squarely. “For a bit there I thought you might deprive me of my justice. At least you have some honor, though it’s not much, and quite hard to find.”

  ~~~

  Valso sat upon his throne indifferently, his little demon flying snake on a perch on his left, while Carsaris, standing at his right hand, watched the Kull lieutenant march the length of the throne room, his heavy black cloak fluttering behind him, his helmet tucked under one arm. The halfman stopped the required twelve paces short of the throne’s dais, dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Valso waved a hand in a bored gesture of acknowledgement. “You said you had important information for me.”

  The halfman grumbled, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Then rise and speak.”

  The halfman stood, lifted his head, and seeing his face for the first time Carsaris realized he was seething with anger. Valso saw it too.

  “Six twelves of us rode south for the spring sport, Your Majesty.”

  “Ah, yes!” Valso said. “I believe the whitefaces call it the March. Was the hunting good?”

  The Kull shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. We lost more than forty, while we killed just over twenty of the whitefaces, and gutted only four.”

  “Why such poor results? Was it just a bad year?”

  “No, Your Majesty. It was as if . . . the whitefaces . . . sometimes they seemed to know we were going to attack before we attacked; only a dozen heartbeats, but enough to give them a slight advantage, enough to save a life or two.”

  Valso leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, his interest obviously peaked. “That would seem to imply they had the advantage of some sort of magic. Some prescience, perhaps? But the Benesh’ere don’t tolerate magic. Is it possible they’ve relented and hired some witch to aid them?”

  The Kull shook his head again. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, but we don’t think so. There was one among them whose fighting style we thought familiar. And he was shorter than any Benesh’ere I’ve ever seen, though a bit taller than average among normal men.”

  Valso considered the halfman’s words carefully. “Perhaps a twoname traveling among them, a wizard who chose to aid them.”

  The halfman shrugged. “Again, Your Majesty, we think not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The one I speak of, he fought with more than a blade; he fought with shadows.”

  Valso remained seated, staring at the halfman, so still he appeared to not even breathe. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter, startling the little snake. “I knew it. Yes, I knew it. That Elhiyne was never one to deprive me of good sport. We still have a merry chase ahead of us, and I’ll have the pleasure of seeing him watch everything he values destroyed little by little. I was so disappointed that he might have died cleanly in the jaws of the skree.”

  The little snake took to the air and hovered overhead. “Ssshall I hunt him down and kill him, Your Majesssty?”

  Valso shook his head. “No, Bayellgae. I have other plans for him.”

  The halfman took a step forward, a breach of etiquette, but forgivable under the circumstances. “I can organize the guard, Your Majesty? Have them prepare to ride out after him?”

  Valso stood, and began pacing back and forth on the dais. “No. No. Not yet. That will be a task for your leader.”

  “Our leader, Your Majesty?”

  Valso stopped pacing and looked pointedly at the halfman. “Yes, lieutenant. You’ll soon have your captain back.”

  Ever so slowly, the halfman’s lips broadened into a grin that sent a chill up Carsaris’ spine.

  ~~~

  Standing in the Penda courtyard by their mounts, JohnEngine met Brandon’s eyes and they shared an uneasy look. The Council had ended badly, with Elhiyne and Penda almost declaring war over perceived slights and insults. At least, now that he knew where ErrinCastle’s true feelings lay, he saw how the young Penda lord’s actions were always aimed at calming the situation. JohnEngine did not question in the slightest that, had it not been for the three of them working in unison, the Council could have ended in open war. The three of them had even met once at the tavern in the village, met openly so no one could propagate rumors of a clandestine rendezvous. They’d all had to sup at the trough of paranoia far too much lately.

  BlakeDown and Olivia emerged from the castle proper, followed by Wylow and PaulStaff, then ErrinCastle. BlakeDown escorted Olivia to her carriage, both of them beaming and smiling. One had to know them both quite well to see the animosity hidden beneath the pleasant demeanor.

  ErrinCastle approached JohnEngine as a stable hand brought him a mount. “I’m riding with you,” he said. “At least until you’re clear of the crowds.”

  BlakeDown helped Olivia up into the carriage. They both paused and said some pretty words. Then BlakeDown turned to Brandon and said, “I bid you farewell.” He turned without saying more and marched back into the castle.

  ErrinCastle, Brandon, JohnEngine and the rest of the Elhiyne retinue mounted up. Brandon’s horse neighed with nervousness, perhaps sensing that of its master. ErrinCastle and JohnEngine joined him at the head of the column, and they spurred their horses into an easy trot.

  Brandon turned to ErrinCastle and asked, “It’s so bad that you need to escort us?”

  ErrinCastle grimaced. “I think it wise to be cautious. While I think there might be no difficulty without me, I know there will be none with me.”

  Crowds of Penda peasants and retainers lined the road out of the castle and through the village. But they didn’t cheer as they had upon the arriv
al of the Elhiyne contingent. They stood mute and silent, and JohnEngine felt their animosity radiating like the heat from a fiery red brand.

  ErrinCastle rode with them for a league past the village and the crowds. But there he reined in his mount and the column stopped. “I will continue to try to abate this schism that is growing like a cancer between our clans. You have my word on that. Do I have yours?”

  JohnEngine nodded and said, “Aye. You have mine.”

  Brandon said, “And mine.”

  And there they parted.

  Once alone, the two of them riding at the head of the Elhiyne column, Brandon spoke, his eyes still locked on the road ahead of them. “I fear we will fail.”

  Chapter 12: The Freedom to Die

  Rhianne’s sense of the blade had grown more acute in the past few days, and there was no doubt it had come physically closer to Norlakton. She couldn’t point in a specific direction, for it felt as if the sword had taken up residence in her own soul, and waited there biding its time. And as to distance, she couldn’t count off some specific length, couldn’t say if it was closer than a hundred paces or farther than ten leagues. But for a certainty it had come closer, and that frightened her.

  She’d gained some understanding of its vague and poorly defined desires. It wanted freedom; it wanted to be released, to be free of the fires—though she had no idea what that meant—and she could not allow that, would not allow that. At least its demands had recently tempered in some way, as if it had found some sort of peace or contentment; perhaps she had just grown stronger at resisting it, or simply ignoring it. With that slight lessening of its constant need, it required less of her power to resist it and she’d found herself a little more clear-headed each day. But then, any gain she’d made had been lost when it had come physically closer. She did not think it coincidental that its nearness coincided with the arrival of the Benesh’ere at the Lake of Sorrows.

  With their arrival, Norlakton had transformed from a sleepy hamlet into a bustling hive of activity. The tall white-skinned Benesh’ere walked or rode about everywhere, wearing their dune-colored robes with the large hoods splayed out tent-like by the broad-brimmed straw hats they wore beneath them. They came to town and met with some of the miners, apparently trading for iron and coke; she’d never heard of coke, learned it was some derivative of coal, much like charcoal came from wood. Interestingly enough, she learned they also traded for bow staves.

  “They’re quite picky about their staves,” the innkeeper told her. “Got to be cut from just the right part of the yew, and then dried for at least two years. Got to be cut the right way, and dried the right way, and the gods help anyone fool enough to try to shape it. Them whitefaces just want a simple stave, and they’ll shape it themselves. But they make a longbow can shoot an arrow near three hundred paces.”

  Rhianne worked through the afternoon preparing her herbs and potions, the blade hovering ever at the edge of her consciousness, an invasion of her soul she knew not how to banish. It occurred to her she should not banish it, that maybe it needed someone to control it, though the gods forbid it should be her. But with Morgin dead—

  At the thought of Morgin, an unbidden tear touched her eye.

  “Is something amiss, mistress?” Braunye asked.

  “No,” she lied, wiping away the tear with her sleeve. But then she realized she owed Braunye a small bit of the truth. “There was someone . . . once . . . but he’s dead, and it still hurts when I think of him.”

  Braunye tried to comfort her, and she thought perhaps it had been a mistake to tell her even that much.

  That afternoon Fat John sent one of his sons to summon her to the inn. They’d brought one of the miners down from the mines with a crushed finger, and for something serious like that they always brought them to the inn. She had far more room to work there if she needed her full surgical skills. With so much experience, she was becoming quite adept at surgical procedures, though that day she failed to save the finger. But while working on the poor fellow, three Benesh’ere entered the inn’s common room, paused and looked briefly at her, their faces hidden by the shadows of their hoods. Then they conversed quietly at some length with the innkeeper. She finished sewing up the stub of the man’s finger just as the Benesh’ere departed.

  As she packed up her small surgical kit, Fat John hovered over her protectively. And then he said, “You know, now them whitefaces are here, we’ll have them witches from Inetka and Elhiyne snooping around. They’ll probably want to talk to you.”

  A knot formed in the pit of her stomach, and she must have blanched, for the innkeeper asked. “Why does that frighten you?”

  She lied. “Those women are truly powerful, and a common hedge witch like me is wise to avoid their notice.”

  She’d become quite adept at lying, though the look on Fat John’s face made her wonder if she had so easily fooled him.

  ~~~

  The smiths had given Morgin his own tent, one of the small desert tents only large enough to accommodate about two people. It seemed to be a symbolic gesture on their part, some sort of recognition that he belonged among the men who worked steel, though he knew better than to believe it meant they considered him one of them. He would always be the outsider here, and not just because of the color of his skin.

  A whiteface’s tent was his abode, whether it be a large pavilion-like affair like those of the tribe’s leaders, or just a few strips of canvas sewn together to make a small lean-to. It was a sanctum into which no one ventured without specific permission. Beyond providing a place in which to sleep out of the weather—the Forge Hall was much too hot for a good night’s sleep—the tent was also a place in which he could store his meager possessions: a blanket, a spare change of clothing, one of those woven straw hats, a water skin, a small pack with a few strips of cratl jerky, a knife and some other trail implements, and the blade that haunted his soul during every waking and sleeping moment.

  The smiths had pitched Morgin’s tent among their own, though his was by far the smallest, which was appropriate for a single man living alone. At that thought, a string in his heart twanged painfully, and he tried not to think of Rhianne dying in the jaws of the skree. One more debt for which, someday, he would extract payment from Valso.

  After a day assisting the smiths at the forges, a clear, cool evening had settled over the whiteface camp. Morgin ate dinner with the smiths and their families, a communal affair in which all shared happily. Then he and the men sat about a fire and he listened to their banter while they shared a crock of weak ale.

  Morgin retired to his tent and arranged his few possessions carefully, and then rearranged them. He had so little he could have just tossed them in one corner of his tent. But he felt at ease in the small tent in a way he didn’t feel among the whitefaces. Perhaps he now thought of the tent as a home, his home. While arranging and rearranging his possessions, his mind had really been focused on his future. He needed to mend the rift with Blesset. Interestingly enough, Jerst seemed less bloodthirsty than his daughter, and Morgin wondered if the father might be more amenable to reconciliation than the daughter.

  “Elhiyne.”

  Morgin recognized Toke’s voice, and he’d left the tent flap pulled back so when he turned he saw the whiteface standing in the light of the half-moon. The demon ElkenSkul hovered beside him.

  As Morgin crawled out of his tent, the whiteface sat down on the ground, so Morgin sat down facing him.

  Toke said, “You’ve come a long way, plainface. A tent of your own, and all.”

  Morgin shrugged. “I guess the smiths find some value in my help.”

  Toke turned to the demon and said, “He’s modest. Is his modesty real, or feigned?”

  Toke cocked an ear, as if listening to a response from the demon. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, yes. We’re all fools that way. And you and I, friend, perhaps more than most.”

  To Morgin, Toke said, “The demon thinks your modesty is real. It says you do
n’t yet know your true nature, that you’re foolish that way.”

  Morgin thought that, for once, Toke wasn’t mocking him. “And I don’t know my true name either, do I?”

  Toke frowned and gave Morgin a dubious look. “And why would you say that? You were properly named by the demon, weren’t you?”

  “Was I properly named?” Morgin asked. “Or was my grandmother mislead? I know my name is not AethonLaw, because I cannot claim it in a dream, nor in the demon’s presence. And Morgin is merely a moniker, a label by which I can be called. No, I saw the demon’s deceit. I saw the extra marks it placed in the sand the instant after my grandmother looked away. I saw her obliterate the symbol before she noticed those extra marks. But I saw them; me, only me. Only I knew those extra marks existed, and now the demon has shown them to you. Why? Why you?”

  Toke flashed his teeth in a broad grin. “I am merely a messenger, Elhiyne. You need to find your true name, for you can’t defeat your enemy without it. And if you do not defeat your enemy, the exile of the Benesh’ere will be as nothing compared to the slavery of the entire Mortal Plane.”

  Morgin leaned forward and snarled angrily, “Then stop playing games. Stop taunting me with riddles and tell me my damn name.”