“Very well.” It was doubtful that sleep would be so easily forthcoming. “Let me escort you back.”
“That will not be necessary.” She did not want him touching her.
“You will be safer. This may not be an isolated incident.”
As before, there could be only one outcome. Conceding defeat, she nodded and gave him her hand.
“You have… have my gratitude as… as well,” Faunon commented as the Tezerenee was about to lead her out. “How fortunate that you were so nearby.”
Meaning that Lochivan had either been spying on them or had been waiting for Sharissa to leave the wagon. The Tezerenee glanced her way, but did not return the elf’s comment. He did, however, lead the slim woman out of the wagon much more swiftly than necessary.
Outside, several Tezerenee were still moving about. Two moved to clean the debris that had once been the door. Sharissa looked for signs of the sentries’ bodies, but they had already been cleared away. She felt some pity for them, but not quite as much as she would have for the elves their kind had slaughtered weeks ago. Much of what the Tezerenee suffered they had brought upon themselves.
Only two days from the citadel and this had occurred. As she and Lochivan walked away from the carnage in silence, Sharissa wondered what the coming days had planned.
Somehow, she felt it would only be worse.
XIII
“She sleeps, Sire.”
“Good.” They stood in his tent, the three of them. He used the tent as his base of operations, which was why he felt justified in having it when the rest of his warriors slept outside. The patriarch was only partly clad in armor, it having taken him longer than normal to dress. He found it a bit disturbing, but laid aside that minor annoyance in the face of the outrageous incident with the abomination.
Reegan, fully clad and more than a little angry at the loss of sleep, asked, “What did you do with its carcass, Lochivan?”
His brother, still kneeling, replied, “It is being buried discreetly. Father, the monster is none other than one of our own. Reegan, you know of Ivor?”
“It was Ivor?”
One of our own, the Lord Tezerenee wondered. They have struck down one of our own in the very midst of my camp and despite my precautions! The entire area had been carefully laced with defensive spells. He had always eschewed such things in the past, preferring to rely on the readiness of him and his people, but of late he had not moved as swiftly as before and his clan appeared more hesitant than they had during their first days here.
“Three other men died. All adopted outsiders.”
A small loss, but a loss nonetheless. Some of the other Vraad who had joined his clan would be growing nervous. The patriarch needed things to stay on course in order to assuage their fears. The expedition would have to be more alert than they had been.
“What happened to him? What sort of change?”
Lochivan bowed his head. “I do not know. It was suggested that the Seekers might have done this.”
“Suggested by whom? The elf?” Reegan sneered. “Of course he’d blame them! He’s covering for his-”
“Reegan, be silent!” The patriarch tugged at his beard and mulled over the possibilities. “If it was the elf or his friends, I imagine they could do just as well if he were rescued. They would not leave him to our mercy. Tell me, Lochivan, does he seem like the suicidal sort?”
“He’s a warrior, father, and willing to risk himself, but I think this would be asking too much from him. His death would serve no purpose.”
From out of the corner of his eye, Barakas saw his eldest building himself up for another tirade. The patriarch turned in time to stall the outburst. Reegan frowned, but remained silent.
“Ask those who knew Ivor better if he has acted differently of late.” A thought occurred to the Lord Tezerenee. “He was a member of the first expedition?”
“Yes, sire.”
Could it be that Ivor had discovered or touched something he should not have? Did some trap lie in wait for the Tezerenee? Barakas thought of the box and its unwilling occupant. He had been wise to bring along the dweller from that emptiness that Dru Zeree had called the Void. Taking the caverns might not be so simple after all.
“What do you intend, Father?” Reegan dared to ask. “We will continue on at the same pace. Losses are always to be expected. More may fall before this is ended. Even one of you may succumb.”
Reegan and Lochivan shared an expression of anxiety. It did not occur to the patriarch that he himself might succumb. He was the clan, after all.
“Let it be known tomorrow that Ivor and the others died honorably. Ivor especially. You are both dismissed.”
His sons bowed and quickly departed, no doubt first intending to alert their siblings as to what had been discussed before obeying his other commands. Barakas, meanwhile, forewent removing his half-worn armor for a time, instead continuing to ponder the incident that had claimed the lives of the warriors and almost that of Sharissa Zeree, too. In a sense, he almost envied Ivor one thing. The hapless warrior had come closer than anyone to truly knowing the glory of the dragon that was the clan’s totem. His only trouble was that he had not had the will to master whatever spell had affected him.
Had it been himself, the patriarch decided, he would have turned the transformation to his own desires. He had the will that Ivor had lacked. He, lord of the Tezerenee, would have become the living symbol of the clan.
Barakas started to scratch himself, but, realizing what he was doing, forced his hand down. In the past few days, the rash and dry skin had begun to recede. Soon, he would be rid of the irritation. The more it was fought, the less it became.
It was, as he had preached so often, merely a matter of will.
They talked and talked, yet what they struggled to say escaped his ears. Most were difficult to focus upon after a time, as if the more he tried to define their features the more murky they became.
Gerrod could only stare at them, caught up in some inexplicable spell of fascination that would not allow him to turn from them and search for the way out of this madhouse. Every move that the warlock succeeded in making toward that effort only brought him to new and equally disturbing visages.
“Dragon’s blood!” he whispered for what was either the first or the hundredth time-Gerrod could no longer keep track. He barely knew himself anymore, much less what happened around him. A drake could have stalked him at its leisure, taking him as he stood there like a fool. Yet, it was impossible to pull away.
With a mixture of fear and childlike awe, Gerrod stretched a tentative hand forward and touched one that most resembled him.
A difference he could sense but not see spread throughout the room. Something began to tug on his cloak, but, caught up in his dreaming, the warlock barely even noted it. He heard a faint sound that might have been a summons or merely the wind, an insignificant noise that Gerrod quickly forgot.
The hood of his cloak was pulled down over his eyes.
Gerrod struggled, seeking to return to his gazing even though a part of him knew the danger of that. He could not remove the blinding hood, however, for powerful arms caught him as a pincer might have, preventing him from even raising a hand in his defense.
The siren whispering of the faces in the crystal was overwhelmed by excited hooting in his ears. He was dragged backward by one or more powerful forms.
The whispering ceased. The compulsion to stare at his twisted reflections dwindled away to near nothing.
His captor released him. Gerrod fought for breath that had been denied him for some time, although he had not realized it until now. The warlock turned around and faced the one who had dragged him free.
It was the apparent leader of the Quel. The armadillolike creature looked at the Vraad with what seemed to be open concern.
