Shaiara’s eyes narrowed, and she tucked the scarf that covered her mouth and nose against the blowing sand a little tighter into her headband. Suddenly, she did not want to be recognized as anything but one of the Nalzandar. Not as herself. Not as Shaiara. She did not know why in the front of her mind, but in the back of her mind, the instinct of the hunter was warning her.
The nearer she drew to the oasis, the less she liked what she saw. Too much grass, and the trees were in bloom, all out of season.
Then—long before she was ready to see it—she saw the verdancy of the oasis itself. A garden, a haven from the sun. Young trees. Moisture softening the air. And it was all too soon, she was nowhere near to the wellhead, and even if she had been, that well could not possibly be producing the amount of water it took to tend growth like this.
That was bad enough. Worse was the sheer number of people; all of them were Isvaieni, of course, but—this was not the day of the gathering of the Clans. . . .
She dismounted, and continued on foot, leading the two shotors. Listening. Observing.
There was roast goat over every fire—and sheep, too—as if this were a great feast-day. Jars of date-wine uncorked at midday, and strong kaffeyeh brewing in open pans. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw a great pool of open water in the distance, surrounded by tall trees and greenery. She stopped and drew a deep breath. The very air was wet.
Unnatural.
People spoke to her as she passed, but there were things that were notably absent from the brief exchanges. Though they recognized that she was Nalzandar by her robes, they were not, and they could see from the pack-shotor that she led that she had come here to trade. Yet no one tried to draw her into any casual conversations, there were no friendly interchanges. It was as if all the world had suddenly become Nalzandar, and that was not right.
Instead, and she was glad she had left her scarf over her face when she first heard this, there was much talk, with gleaming eyes and absolute sincerity, of how the Balance was out of true and all the world was rushing headlong to destruction and war.
Now if there was ever a people in the world that understood the Balance, it was the Nalzandar. They more than lived by the Balance, they kept the Balance, and it was only by careful observation of the Balance that they were able to survive in the harsh depths of the Isvai. These people, these folk who looked like her own, were speaking utter madness.
Worse still, it was clear, the further into the center of the oasis that Shaiara came, that they were preparing for war. That alone would have shocked her senseless, had she not already been beyond shock. War? There had been no war in the world since the time of the Great Flowering. With whom would they make war? The Peoples of the North kept to their places in the Great Cold, beyond the Armen Plains; the city-dwellers kept to their cities at the edge of the Madiran; and the peoples of the Isvai had no energy to spend on anything but survival.
She tethered her shotors in the picket lines, and, taking one of the hides as a sample, went to find a trading-partner for what she had brought. Her mouth was set in a hard, grim line beneath her scarf as she walked through the sprawling camp, hearing nothing but talk of the glory of the battle to come. It took her far longer than it ordinarily would have to find anyone interested in trading at all—though trade was as necessary as water in the deep desert—and when she did, Shaiara made the most perfunctory of bargains, letting the feneric-skins go with only the bare minimum of haggling. And it was another indication of how very out-of-true things were that the one with whom she bargained did not think it odd that she cut the bargaining short, and did not stay to accept either the customary meal that closed a trade or even a cup of kaffeyeh.
Her buyer came and collected his purchase, and she loaded her shotor with the robes and cloaks for which she had traded, lashing the pack down tightly. Her business at Sapthiruk Oasis was concluded, but even though her skin crawled and her heart demanded urgently that she leave this place, Shaiara dared not. Not until she had found out everything there was to learn. Not until she knew what was the cause of this madness.
She was a hunter, a Hunter’s Hunter, one of the most skilled of her tribe. The Master-hunters of other tribes were as babes to the hunters of her people. Those other hunters read tracks on the sand. Her people read tracks on the wind. And she could read the fading memory of tracks.
Those other hunters forgot to use their skills once back among the tents. Shaiara never forgot and she used them now.
She kept the skin around her eyes relaxed, so as not to reveal her tension or her inner thoughts. She changed the folds of her robes, so she did not look—now—as if she were Nalzandar. She walked with purpose, as if she had a place to be and knew exactly where it was, even though she had no idea of what she was looking for. And she never walked alone. Always she moved with a small group; not so near as to make them pause to look at her and recognize her as a stranger, but near enough to seem a part of them.
She examined everything while seeming to look at nothing; listened to everything while appearing to be paying heed only to the conversation of those she was “with.”
Finally she came to the shores of the strange unnatural pool of water at the heart of Sapthiruk Oasis, and there, sitting beneath a tent-awning and surrounded by a large crowd of spellbound listeners, she found the source of the madness, wrapped in robes of morning blue. And in a way, she had almost expected to find this man here, yet it was a shock, a mental blow that left her with the sense of having the ground drop out from under her.
Because she knew this man, both by reputation and by sight. This was one of the most respected and honored Wildmages to be found among the tribes.
This was Bisochim.
But the words coming from his mouth were a blasphemy against everything that the Wildmages stood for.
She worked her way through to the front of the crowd—carefully—and stood and listened, knowing she would have no second chance at this. She must learn everything she could. She could not have come at a more opportune time for this; Bisochim sat among the tribal leaders of half-a-dozen tribes—strong, wise, prudent men; men who had led their tribes safely through all the dangers the Isvai could offer since before Shaiara had first seen the light of day. He smiled upon them as she had never seen him smile before—though he had come, twice, to the tents of the Nalzandar Isvaieni—bending all the power of his mind on them, laying out the impossible before them in such sweet and reasoned words that they were nodding in agreement like children. But Shaiara, who was under no such pressure of regard, could see it as impossible even as the others were seduced.
“The Balance of the world is out of true,” said Bisochim. “It has been since the Great Flowering, and has been tipping more and more ever since, and now the Wild Magic is attempting to restore that Balance—here, in the Isvai, where the Balance has always been kept purely. But there are always those who would seek to be enemies of the True Balance, the proper Balance as it was in ancient times, and even now those forces are gathering a great army in a place of darkness and cold, to invade our homeland and destroy our one hope of success, and freedom. They would place all the free people of the desert into chains more heinous than those we had escaped a thousand years ago. But together we can withstand them. I have prepared a place for you, where we all may go, to await the day when we may scour them from the desert sands as the Sand-wind scours, and the True Balance will triumph once more!”
The trouble was, without Bisochim’s attention on her, Shaiara knew very well that all of this was specious, if not deceptive. The Balance was not out of true. The Great Flowering had restored it, not destroyed it. Bisochim spoke of the world as if it were all now one thing or the other, and Shaiara knew that it was not. There was illness, injury, men still oppressed and persecuted their fellows—yet there was joy, and love, and the freedom of life between Sand and Star to balance those things.
How could a Wildmage—of all people—speak so?
Then Bisochim flattered hi
s visitors. He told them how they were the only creatures in the world who could possibly hear the truth in his words—not the city-dwellers, and still less the Peoples of the North. And it was for that reason that they, and only they, were in danger and must defend themselves when the time came. They must set aside the small differences between tribe and tribe. They must all gather together, in the name of the True Balance, though the road would be as long and as hard for them as it had once been for Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy and the Blessed Saint Idalia. They had but to trust in him, for he knew the way of the True Balance, and he would lead them to victory.
And even as Shaiara listened, and knew that what he was saying was utter madness, his words began to sound . . . reasonable.
And that was when she knew that she had heard enough.
She eased out of the respectful crowd around Bisochim and made her way back to the picket line. There she took her shotors and rode, as hard and as fast as she had ever pushed a shotor, back to the tents of her people.
Kamar was waiting before her tent, to take her shotor’s lead-rope and to welcome her home. He was her father’s brother, and he had been the first to say that she must follow Darak as the leader of the Nalzandar. He knew instantly that all was not well with her, and his smile of greeting turned to a frown of astonishment, even as the rest of the Nalzandar began to come forth from their tents.
As her shotor knelt, she flung herself from its back into the silent welcome of her tribe. But what she had to tell them turned welcome into astonishment.
“Strike the tents,” she said abruptly. “We are leaving.”
“Why?” Kamar demanded, speaking for them all.
“There is an infection of madness, and it is being spread by Bisochim. He is a Wildmage no more. I think—” She hesitated, and then simply told the truth. “I think he has been Shadow-touched. He is taking the tribes to war.” She gritted her teeth. “But it is a war we will have no part of. Pack the tents. I am taking us to where not even our own people will find us. Unless we want to be found, or unless the Wild Magic grants them a miracle.”
And I do not think it will, for I think the Wild Magic has no part in this.
HE was dreaming.
Normally Harrier didn’t remember his dreams at all after he’d had them, much less while he was having them. But right now he knew, just as clearly as if he were back in school hearing his lessons, that he was asleep and dreaming, and that none of this was really happening.
Yet in another way, he knew that it was.
He was faintly indignant that the first dream he’d ever actually managed to notice was so, well, boring. All he was doing was standing in a cave. And while he’d never actually been in a cave before, he’d seen a lot of pictures of caves during his school years. When Tiercel had been twelve, he’d spent three entire moonturns completely obsessed with caves. Harrier had learned more about caves than he ever wanted to know then. This was definitely a cave.
It was certainly the largest cave that Harrier could imagine seeing. The cavern he was standing in was as large as the Great Temple of the Light back home. Pale stone icicles hung from the ceiling and rose up from the floor, and the curved walls were banded in all the colors of the sunset. In the distance, he could hear water rushing.
Caves were supposed to be dark, though this one wasn’t. Maybe Tiercel was lighting it, Harrier thought vaguely. Harrier was somehow certain that Tiercel was here with him, even though he couldn’t see him anywhere.
There was something important about this particular cave, too, although he couldn’t imagine what it could be. Elves didn’t live in caves, he didn’t think, and the only important thing right now was getting to the Land of the Elves. Besides, none of this could be something important for him. He was only along on this journey because he was keeping Tiercel out of trouble. That was why he’d come with Tiercel in the first place. Even after everything they’d found out, well, it wasn’t as if he were a High Mage or having visions or anything. He was the son of the Harbormaster of Armethalieh. He was supposed to be at home right now starting his Apprenticeship, not off on the other side of the world trying to understand something that even Wildmages couldn’t explain.
But here he was, in this cave. Well, not actually in the cave. Dreaming about being in a cave, for some reason.
And somebody was calling him. . . .
Eleven
The Caves of Imrathalion
HARRIER WAS AWAKENED early the next morning by a loud argument in the room next door, and by the time he was fully awake, he’d forgotten entirely about his dream.
THE horse-market in Ysterialpoerin was larger than the one in Sentarshadeen, bustling and filled with color and smells. They’d been to the edge of it yesterday, when they’d found long-term stabling for the mule and their horses, but the market itself was enormous and they hadn’t spent much time here. Now they were back to seek out a farrier and a place to sell the mule—and to decide what, if anything, they would want to buy in the way of new saddles and packs.
The horse-market was filled with the smell of horses, of course, but also with the smell of grain, hay, and other feeds, of liniments and medicines, of leather and leather-dressings. Every possible item that could be used on, with, or around a horse was sold in the Ysterialpoerin horse-market, from saddles to plows to every kind of cart and carriage imaginable. Tiercel told him that farming was centralized here in the Dragon’s Tail and that was why this horse-market was larger than the last one they’d seen; Harrier told Tiercel that he didn’t care.
It seemed to Harrier that the horses came in nearly as many shapes and sizes as the carriages did. He’d seen only a small part of the Sentarshadeen horse-market, since he and Tiercel had only been looking for riding horses there, and besides, they had come too early to see the big farm-horses offered for sale.
Here, though, they were offered year-round, and they didn’t come in just one size. There were as many different size and shapes of draft-horse as there were carriages: some simply looked like giant saddle-horses, while others were as heavy-boned and ponderous as oxen.
But the variety of the draft-horses paled in comparison to that of the ponies. Ponies seemed to come in as many different varieties, bred for as many different purposes, as, well, dogs. The pack and cart and riding ponies were easy enough to recognize. Harrier had to stop and ask, though, about another breed, and was told that they were pump and winch ponies, bred to provide the power for farm machinery. They were smaller than Thunder had been, and so massively muscled they were as wide as they were tall.
“This could all be done by magic,” Tiercel said, looking at the line of stolid, patient little creatures. “Then you wouldn’t have to breed animals to do it.”
“Or by wishing,” Harrier said, grabbing his arm and pulling him away. “Then nobody would have to do it.”
IT took them most of the morning to find out where in the market mules were bought and sold, then to go back to the stabling where their animals were kept and bring their animal into the market. When they located someone who was willing to buy a mule from two students from nowhere in particular, it was already after noon.
The bargaining didn’t go well. Harrier was sure they were cheated on the price they got for the mule, especially since they ended up selling the beast for a lot less than they’d had to pay to get it back in Thunder Grass, but Harrier told himself that if they’d managed to rent a mule they would have been out the same amount of money—or more—and still not had a mule to show for it afterward, and he tried to be content with that.
Tiercel—of course—didn’t care. Harrier suspected he would have been glad to give the mule away just to be rid of it. Harrier had almost managed to forget how single-minded Tiercel could be once he’d settled on a course of action. Even if it was a really stupid one.
Of course Tiercel wanted to get through Pelashia’s Veil before winter set in. But a few more days in Ysterialpoerin wouldn’t matter one way or the other. And frankly, Harrier was st
arting to have doubts about the wisdom of Tiercel’s plan. Large doubts.
Yes, Roneida had told Tiercel to seek out the Elves because they could tell him how to control his High Mage powers (and possibly keep him from, oh, dying) and also because they might be able to tell them—in plain language—what Tiercel’s visions meant and what to do about them. And it was pretty clear that nobody else either would or could do that. But they’d come more than a few hundred leagues to get this far, and that had been the soft and easy part of the journey, through settled and civilized lands. Windalorianan was the edge of the world. Beyond its outskirts was nothing but wilderness—mountain wilderness at that, and the two of them would be heading into it right at the beginning of winter. With monsters chasing them. It really didn’t matter if Tiercel said that these monsters didn’t want to kill him; Harrier wasn’t convinced. Tiercel always thought the best of everyone.
And even if Tiercel was right about the monsters (at least the ones like the one in the alleyway last night, and the bear, and the Red Rider), there were still the Creatures of the Dark to worry about. What if they ran into more Goblins? Or something else from before the Flowering? Or for that matter, nothing more unworldly than a starving pack of wolves?
The two of them would be dead.
Yes, going to Windalorianan—and beyond Windalorianan—was going to end up, one way or the other, with both of them dead. Harrier was pretty sure of that. And he had no idea how far past Windalorianan the Elven Lands were. No one did.
The annoying thing was that he was also pretty sure that even if he told Tiercel all of these things, Tiercel would nod, and look thoughtful, and agree that he was right. And say that he ought to turn back for Armethalieh, and Tiercel would go on without him.
And Harrier just couldn’t imagine himself doing that.
AS they were leaving the farrier’s shop—just as Harrier had suspected, the farrier could not fit their horses into his schedule any sooner than three days from now—Tiercel still jittered with nervous energy to the point that Harrier was tempted to simply knock him senseless.
The Enduring Flame Trilogy 001 - The Phoenix Unchained Page 25
