The quote from the bard Sevastithanas broke the gloomy moment. Planchet moved to refill their cups, and Favaronas recounted the later history of the Inath-Wakenti.
A kingpriest of Istar had received a prophecy, warning of a coming disaster. The only place on the entire continent that would not be changed by the catastrophe was the Valley of the Blue Sands, since where the gods once walked, nature held no sway. The Kingpriest sent an expedition to the valley; it was never heard from again. Later, dwarf prospectors from Thoradin found the valley and set up a mining operation. The project yielded rich placer deposits of silver, but was so bedeviled by accidents and serious injuries that the miners abandoned it after less than a year. During the bakali breeding migration in the days of the old Ergoth Empire, a band of human tribesmen stumbled on the valley and escaped marauding lizard-men by hiding there. For a time the humans flourished, sending trading parties to Istar and Silvanesti, but after a few years the trade diminished, then died out altogether.
The last mention of the valley in the temple archives was from a Knight of Solamnia who wandered through after the Cataclysm. He reported the valley untouched by the upheaval.
“And?” the Lioness prompted, when Favaronas paused to take a drink.
And nothing, lady,” he replied, shrugging one shoulder. “That’s the only information contained in that entry.”
Since that time, he told them, the rise of the desert nomads had choked off contact with the Vale of Silence. Nomads who lived in the region regarded it as a forbidden place, while the rest of the tribes gradually forgot about it or, like the city. dwelling Khurs, relegated it to the realm of fable.
The oil lamps on the low table sputtered as their fuel ran low. Favaronas had finished his story, but added a final warning: “The temple annals are couched in the most vague and circuitous terms, Great Speaker, and required much interpolation and extrapolation on my part.”
Gilthas was nodding thoughtfully. Kerian leaned close and nudged his cheek with her nose. “Well?” she said. “Do
He smiled in his gentle, slightly sad way. “Of course. Master Favaronas, too. Our people must have a sanctuary. The Inath-Wakenti maybe the place.”
The archivist already had agreed to the journey, but when the Speaker asked Sithelbathan if he would like to go as well, the Silvanesti mapmaker quickly declined.
“Afraid of ghosts?” the Lioness teased.
The spare, neatly dressed elf drew his robe close around his neck. “Yes, lady,” he said. “I am.”
Chapter 4
Water in a stone jug stays cool, even in the heat of day. If the jug is carved properly, of fine-grained soapstone with thick walls at the top and thinner walls near the bottom, water inside will stay as cool as the moment it was drawn from the well. Cool water is the first requirement for good bread. Not an easy requirement to meet in a desert. The east wind which rolled in from the distant sea hit the Pillars of Heaven (known to foreigners as the Khalkist Mountains) and dumped its snow on the peaks and its rain on the lower slopes. Purged of moisture, the wind then spread across the western desert, taking its dry heat to every corner of the land. Between the heat, blown sand, and flies, finding cool water and making bread for the family was no chore for the faint of heart.
Adala Fahim lifted the heavy soapstone jug and poured its contents into a brass bowl. Quickly, she stirred the water into the dry mixture of flour, salt, and soda. She never measured, except by eye. Twelve circuits of the wide, flat bowl with a wooden paddle and the dough was done. A shallow groove had been worn into the metal where her spoon circled. For thirty-two years she’d made bread in exactly the same way. For thirty-two years it had come out right, despite wind, weather, or war.
She spat on the iron griddle to test its temperature. At the right heat, a water drop danced in circles, growing smaller with every circuit until it vanished. When the griddle was ready, she poured a dollop of oil onto it. The oil ran to the edges, sheening the black surface. In the bowl, the dough was puffed up and bubbling from the soda. She tore off a piece, rolled it into a ball between her smooth brown palms, and laid it on the griddle. Sizzling, it flattened into a small round loaf.
Black shadows fell over Adala, cutting off the distant view of the gray mountains, but she didn’t look up. The first loaf was the most important. How it baked told her whether the fire needed to be hotter or cooler.
The three men standing over her were nomads in the prime of life, men of the Weya-Lu tribe. Although none had gray eyes, they were of the Leaping Spider clan and Wapah’s cousins.
“Wapah is back,” said the one in the middle.
“I’ll make an extra portion,” Adala said, her attention still F on the cooking loaf. She gave it a quick flip with her fingers. F Other women used knives to turn their bread. Not Adala.
One wrong stab and the frying dough would deflate; the loaf would be flat and tough as sandal leather.
“He has important news, Weyadan.” Her title meant “Mother of the Weya-Lu.” “Do you know who he was hired to guide from the city to the desert and back?”
She shrugged one shoulder, busy rolling a new ball of dough.
“Shobbat, son of Sahim Zacca-Khur!”
In quick succession, four new balls of dough hit the griddle, replacing the first, now done. “So the prince of Khur finally left the shaded halls of the city to visit the land of his ancestors. What is that to us?” she said.
“He went to the Oracle. The Hidden One.”
The men were certain this news would bring Adala to her feet, dusting the flour from her hands. It did not. She removed the four freshly baked loaves from the griddle and put down four more.
“Weyadan, please,” entreated the nomad.
“And so I will. When the bread is done.”
It took some time to cook forty loaves. Although the men shifted their feet impatiently once or twice, none complained.
When at last the baking was done, Adala left her fifth daughter, Chisi, to clean the bowl and griddle. Hitching U her black robes, the leader of the Weya-LU left the shade of her tent and made for Wapah’s dwelling across the stony ravine. it was just past noon, the hottest part of the day, and few nomads were moving about. Even the desert hounds the Weya-Lu were so adept at breeding were still, sleeping in whatever spots of shade they could find.
Adala entered Wapah’s family tent and gave the customary greeting: “Those on High stand by us.”
Wapah returned it. “And by you, Mother of the Weya-Lu.”
He was seated facing the door. Other men of the clan formed a ring, their backs against the walls of the tent. Several of them had the gray eyes that stood out so boldly against swarthy faces and dark or tawny beards. Adala was the only woman present.
“I rejoice to see you,” she said. “I hear you have a tale to tell.”
“As grave as a plague, as loud as thunder. Take your ease.”
She sat in the center of the male circle. As wife of the clan chief, Adala could not be touched by any man save her husband. Since Kasamir di Kyre had perished years before while fighting in the pay of the Knights of Neraka, she had become Weyadan, literally mother to everyone in the Weya L tribe. She was just past her fortieth year, younger than some of her ostensible children.
Wapah began his tale. With the same patience she’d learned listening to her sons when they were toddlers, Adala let the colorful torrent of words wash over her and focused on the important bits of information scattered throughout.
Prince Shobbat’s men had come to the Grand Souks, looking for someone to guide their master on a journey through the desert. Wapah was selected because the gods knew him to be a humble man, a generous man, a man in whom the blood of endless generations of Weya-Lu flowed in a mighty, endless circle-
Adala frowned, closing her eyes to concentrate harder.
