The Rogue

follow Achati’s. Even then, the gathering of temporary homes blended with the colour of the land. It looked like a tangle of cloth and poles.

“It’s hot up here,” Tayend said, riding up beside Dannyl. “If this is what winter is like, I’m glad we didn’t come in summer.”

“We must be about as far north as Lonmar,” Dannyl replied. “The difference between seasons there isn’t as great as it is in the south. Duna may be the same.”

He didn’t add that it was the end of the day, and the heat given off by the sun now hanging low in the sky would not be as strong as at midday. As in Lonmar, the air was dry, but here it had a different taste.

Ash, he thought. It blew into his face, finer than the sand that got into everything in Lonmar. I wonder if they have the same fierce dust storms.

The edge of the tents was a few hundred paces from the precipice. As the riders approached, the Duna stopped to stare at them. The guide called out the same greeting, then pulled his horse to a stop a dozen paces from the audience.

“These people have come to speak to the tribes,” he said, his voice lower and respectful. “Who has the Voice?”

Two of the men pointed toward a gap in the tents. The guide thanked them, then directed his mount into the opening, Achati, Dannyl and Tayend following. Every ten or so tents the guide repeated the question, and each time set off in the direction the Duna pointed in.

Soon they were surrounded by tents. Dannyl could not make out where the camp stopped. Some were tattered and well patched. Others looked newer. All were coated in grey dust. Of a similar size, they appeared to be occupied by extended families, from small children to wrinkled old men and women. Everyone in between was occupied in some task – cooking, sewing, weaving, carving, washing, mending tents – but all with slow, steady movements. Some stopped to watch the strangers pass. Others continued on as if visitors were of no interest.

A small crowd of children began following them. It rapidly swelled to a larger one, but although the children giggled, talked and pointed, they were not rowdy or noisy.

The sun had dipped close to the horizon by the time they found what they were searching for. Outside a tent no more extraordinary than the rest sat a ring of old men, cross-legged, on a blanket on the ground.

“These people have come to speak to the tribes,” he told them, pointing at Achati, Dannyl and Tayend. “They have questions to ask. Who has the Voice? Who can answer the questions?”

“We are the Voice today,” one of the old men answered. He stood up, his eyes moving from the guide, who was dismounting, to Achati, Dannyl and Tayend as they followed suit. “Who asks the questions?”

The guide turned and nodded to Achati. “Introduce yourselves,” he instructed quietly. “Only you, not your companions.”

Achati stepped forward. “I am Ashaki Achati,” he said. “Adviser to King Amakira and escort to … these men.”

Dannyl moved forward to stand beside him, then inclined his head in the Kyralian manner. “I am Ambassador Dannyl of the Magicians’ Guild of Kyralia.”

Tayend followed with a courtly bow. “I am Elyne Ambassador Tayend. An honour to meet you.”

The old man exchanged a look with his fellows, who nodded. They shuffled outward to widen the circle. “Sit,” he invited.

“We have brought gifts,” Achati said. He moved to his horse’s saddle-bags and removed a package, then returned and set it down in the middle of the circle.

“You know our customs,” the speaker observed. “And follow them.” The last was said with a hint of wry surprise. One of the other old men reached for the package and opened it. Inside were finely made knives, a box containing a glass lens, a roll of good-quality paper, and a writing set with pen and ink. The old men hummed with pleasure. From the way they handled the items it was clear they were familiar with their uses, despite the fact that they would not be easily obtainable in Duna. The speaker nodded.

“Ask your questions. Know that we may not answer at once. We may not answer at all.”

Achati looked at Dannyl and nodded. Dannyl ran through all the approaches he’d considered during the journey.

“Many years ago I began a task,” he began. “To write a history of magic. I have sought the answer to many questions, concerning both ancient and recent events, and …” he sighed, “the answers have led to more questions.”

A few of the old men smiled a little at that.

“The most puzzling discovery I made was that my people, many hundreds of years ago, possessed something called a storestone. It was kept in Arvice until a magician, through avarice or madness, stole it. The records of that time suggest that he used it, perhaps in a confrontation with his pursuers, perhaps by mistake, perhaps even deliberately, to create the wasteland that borders the mountains between Sachaka and Kyralia.”

The old men were all nodding. “We know of this wasteland,” the leader said.

“My questions are … what was this storestone? Do any more exist? Does the knowledge of how to make one still exist? If it does, how could any land defend itself against its use?”

The spokesman chuckled. “You have many questions.”

“Yes,” Dannyl agreed. “Should I limit them?”

“You may ask as many as you wish.”

“Ah, that’s good.” Dannyl smiled in gratitude. “I have a lot. Well, I mostly want to ask about magical gemstones. Not for the secrets of how to make them, of course. But they are a new kind of magic for me. What can they do? What are their limitations? A Duna tracker named Unh told me that the Traitors stole some of this knowledge from you. How much do they know?”

The old man looked at Achati. “That is a question you would like the answer to as well.”

Achati nodded. “Of course. But if you wish to speak to Dannyl alone, then I will leave.”

The old man’s eyebrows rose. He looked at each of his fellow tribesmen in turn. They made no signal that Dannyl could detect, but somehow they communicated their feelings to him. As he finished gazing at the last of them, he looked up at Dannyl.

“Are these all the questions you have?”

Dannyl nodded, then smiled wryly. “Unless the answers raise more questions.”

“We must discuss and decide what answers we may give you,” the man said. “And some questions can only be answered by a Keeper of the Lore, who may not agree to speak to you. There is a tent here for guests that you are welcome to sleep in, while you wait.”

Dannyl looked at Achati, who nodded. “We would be honoured – and very grateful,” Dannyl replied.

The old man called out, and a young man hurried out of a tent. “Gan will take you there,” said the spokesman, gesturing towards the newcomer.

Achati, Dannyl and Tayend climbed to their feet, and joined their guide as he followed the young man into the forest of tents.

The late-afternoon sun cast a cool light over the Guild gardens. Trees and hedges cast deep shadows, and it had taken Sonea a while to find a bench still in sunlight. Fortunately there were few magicians occupying the gardens, since the air still had a crisp winter chill to it. She could feel the cold of the wooden slats through the cloth of her robes.

It had been two days since she had spoken to Dorrien. The previous evening she had delayed her arrival at the hospice so that he was already gone by the time she arrived. It had been cowardly, she knew.

But I haven’t decided what to say to him. She knew that she should tell him she could not have a relationship with him other than friendship. But he’ll see the evasion in that. “Could not” was different to “would not”. He would want her to make it clear that she did not feel the same way about him as he had admitted he still did about her. And if I tell him that, he’ll pick up on my uncertainty and doubt.

When she considered the idea she felt a traitorous longing, but she was unsure about the source of that, too. Am I just craving company? Someone to come home to? Was she simply wanting physical contact?