CHAPTER THREE
9 Aryth
On the fourth day after their skirmish with Tariic’s soldiers, Ekhaas began recognizing landmarks. Not in the way that she knew landmarks across a vast swathe of the continent of Khorvaire-from the ramshackle streets of Rhukaan Draal to the towers of Sharn to the dangerous wilds of southern Droaam-but in a much more familiar way. There in the distance was the white mountain Gim Juura. Closer, the weathered remains of a slim spire stood against the sky, the ruins of Bran’aa, where ancient seers had watched the stars in the Age of Dhakaan. Closer still, the steep depths of the valley they skirted, a cursed place where the ancestors of her clan had once trapped and slaughtered raiding rivals during the Desperate Times that had come after the fall of the great empire.
A sense of ease and belonging rose inside her. She sat up a little straighter in her saddle. “We’re in Kech Volaar territory.”
Geth roused himself from a weary doze, opening one eye to look around. “How much longer until we reach Volaar Draal?”
“Just after noon.”
“Are there patrols?” asked Tenquis.
A hawk burst up from the trees on the hillside above them and flew southwest. Ekhaas bent her lips in a smile and flicked her ears. “Yes. We’ll be expected.”
The territory claimed by the Kech Volaar was not large. With every valley slope they crossed and every mountain flank they rode around, Ekhaas’s sense of familiarity increased. Kech Volaar was one of the smallest of the clans that held true to the traditions and glories of Dhakaan. Other Dhakaani clans, like the militaristic Kech Shaarat might try to defend larger territories, but the strength and wealth of her clan was in the ancient lore preserved in its vaults and in the stories of its duur’kala. Kech Volaar, meant “Word Bearers,” and Ekhaas had never imagined a life that did not center around the venerated heritage of Dhakaan.
Never, a small part of her said, until now.
It was difficult to believe that only a week ago she’d been watching Dagii of Mur Talaan command an army against Valenar raiders in defense of Darguun. The gray-eyed young warlord’s cunning tactics, combined with Chetiin’s timely rallying of the wolf-riding cousins of his clan and her own songs of inspiration, had turned what might have been a massacre of dar into a rout of the elves. It had been a triumph for Darguun.
And flush with triumph and the excitement of battle, Ekhaas and Dagii had faced each other and expressed the love and respect that had grown between them, exchanging endearments of taarka’nu-wolf woman-and ruuska’te-tiger man.
He’d replaced some of her love for her clan. Every familiar place she saw reminded her that he wasn’t there with her. He had a sense of muut and atcha, the twin imperatives of duty and honor that held dar society together, that would have impressed even an elder of the Dhakaani clans.
It had impressed her. Her ears drooped a little at the thought of him.
The last time she had seen Dagii, the light of intelligence and honor in his eyes had been dimmed by the fanaticism inspired by the Rod of Kings. That betrayal hadn’t been his fault-only the influence of Aram, the Sword of Heroes, and the shield of Ashi’s powerful dragonmark could have offered protection from the rod’s power-but it still struck her like a knife in the belly.
“Dagii will be fine,” said Chetiin from beside her. Ekhaas’s ears rose again as she gave the old goblin a sharp stare. Chetiin gave her back a thin smile, his head with its cobweb-fine hair bobbing slightly in time with Marrow’s loping gait.
“It’s not a difficult guess,” he said. “Among the clans of the Silent Folk, death has its own language. You have the look of mourning someone who is absent rather than someone who is dead. Dagii is the only one I know who fits that description. But don’t worry about him. Tariic has more to gain by keeping him close than by imprisoning or killing him. After his triumph over the Gan’duur rebels and victory in the Battle of Zarrthec, Dagii is a hero to the people.”
“Legends are full of lords and kings who set aside inconvenient heroes.”
Chetiin bent his neck in acknowledgment. “I will not argue legend with a duur’kala. But don’t give up on Dagii. The absent return more readily than the dead.”
As the sun reached its zenith, they emerged onto a stone-paved road winding up into the mountains. The road showed its age in worn stones and moss, but Ekhaas knew that it was even older than it seemed. Even the oldest stone was a replacement for a stone that had been there before, the newest a replacement for a replacement for a replacement. When Volaar Draal had first been established, there had been no road. The early Kech Volaar had hidden themselves away alongside the lore that they guarded, but as the clan had grown stronger, hiding had given way to display of their heritage.
They rounded the final bend in the road, and Volaar Draal was revealed.
Geth’s wide animal eyes opened even wider. Tenquis reined in his horse so sharply, it almost reared up. Even Chetiin’s eyebrows rose and he signaled Marrow to pause for a moment. Ekhaas’s chest felt tight as pride rose up in her. “Volaar Draal,” she said. “In the human tongue, the ‘City of the Word’. Called Niianu Raat, Mother of Stories, among its children and Skai Duur, the Great Dirge, among those who have tried to seize it.”
Beyond its final bend, the road entered a steep-sided valley cradled in the arms of the mountains. Ancient stories told how, when the Kech Volaar had first come, the valley had risen to a sheer wall of naked rock, and a cleft in the wall had been the only opening into the refuge of the Word Bearers. But that cleft had become a great gate and the wall of rock transformed, carved away as if Volaar Draal had waited within the mountain since the birth of the world for the hands that would reveal it.
Four mighty spires stood above the valley like the blades of massive swords, edges turned to meet whoever or whatever came against them. The bulk of the city lay within the mountain, the precious vaults deep below it, but this was the face that Volaar Draal presented to the world. From slits within the walls, archers could command the area before the spires. Hidden behind sliding panels of stone, powerful ballistae and catapults could sweep the entire valley. Master strategists had a hand in creating the stronghold of the clan, but the lore of Dhakaan had guided the masons who brought it forth from the rock. As harsh and functional as the spires were, there was a cruel majesty in their proportions. Volaar Draal was like a warrior defending himself in battle with a heavy blade-enemies who attacked the City of the Word were promised death beneath its walls.
“Horns of Ohr Kaluun,” said Tenquis. “It’s incredible.” He glanced at Ekhaas. “Daashor constructed this.”
Ekhaas saw a thin smile flicker across Geth’s face. “You must be feeling better,” the shifter said. “You’re talking about daashor again.”
“You think I would come to Volaar Draal and not ask about them?” Tenquis asked. He looked back to Ekhaas. “You promised me tales of the daashor in payment for crafting the false Rod of Kings. While we’re looking for a way to stop Tariic and the rod, I’d be happy to take whatever lore about the daashor that’s stored in the vaults.”
Ekhaas’s ears flicked. The daashor had been the artificers of the Empire of Dhakaan-and more. Wizard-smiths of astounding ability, they had forged wonders that were the stuff of legend even before Dhakaan’s fall. The Sword of Heroes and the Rod of Kings were the creations of just one daashor, the legendary Taruuzh. In many ways, the daashor were the counterparts of the duur’kala. The magical music of the dirge-singers manifested almost entirely in women of the goblin races; the craft of the wizard-smiths in men. Ultimately, music had proved more lasting than craft-the traditions of the duur’kala had survived the Desperate Times, while the lore of the daashor had faded away, scattered in crumbling tomes and ancient carvings that the dirge-singers could not access. Some knowledge persisted, handed down among masons and smiths, but such magic was less than the shadow of what the daashor had practiced.
Until he had agreed to help them, Tenquis’s life had been devoted to the rediscovery of the lost lore. Who knew? Perhaps a modern artificer, even one who was not a dar, could find more meaning in the ancient writings than a duur’kala could. But… “The vaults are vast, Tenquis. The Kech Volaar have been collecting the lore and artifacts of Dhakaan for thousands of years. The archivists who tend the vaults maintain a list-the Register-of
