Come along. I’l show you where to work.” Which would be in the suite Varthlokkur used when he resided in Castle Krief.
“You’l get one servant. There’l be no touching.
Understand?”
“I gather that fierce temptation wil be set so as to test me.”
“You don’t want to fail.”
The sorcerer adopted his most blank expression.
“Let me know when you’re ready to start.”
“How soon do you need me?”
“Today, if you can.”
The sorcerer sighed and strove to keep up.
Chapter Six:
The fugitive walked the plain alone, striding purposeful y. The caravan job had not lasted. Despite peace looming there was little trade. No caravans were headed this way.
He glanced to his right. The riders stil paced him.
Occupying his
attention while others closed in? The plains tribes were not populous but were the reason caravans needed guards.
They would steal anything from anyone. Nobody was too poor not to be robbed.
He sensed no other presence, though. They must be keeping track til they could summon help.
There were two of them. They were cautious. They did not like the odds.
They must suspect that he was more dangerous than he looked.
He strode on, sling in hand in case he kicked up a hare or game bird. If those two tried nothing sooner he would visit them after dark.
He could use a good plains pony.
A grouse flushed. He did not react fast enough. His bul et fel short. He produced another stone and walked on. His homeland was only days away. He should decide where to go first.
He had to arrive as a wanderer, not as himself. He would go where rootless men gathered. There he could discover what he needed to know to cope with today’s kingdom.
The land grew more arid, the grass shorter and scruffier, soon revealing patches of dun earth. The grass sea was about to give way to mild desert. Not far ahead, though not yet visible, lay mountains which masked the heart of Hammad al Nakir.
The riders had to make a decision soon. Tomorrow he would reach country where they would not be welcome—
though they were not likely to be noticed. He considered what he would do in their position.
He would move in the middle of the night.
He moved as soon as it was dark. There was no moon.
Pitfal s seemed to multiply.
Despite al , he found the other camp before the riders left to find him. And rediscovered the quality of mercy.
They were boys, probably brothers, the eldest no more than fifteen. They were trying to work up their courage. Neither real y wanted to do anything but neither wanted the other to think he was a coward.
Haroun could not fol ow their dialect wel but did figure out that their main motive was a need to please their father, who was a hetman and wanted them to come home with proof that they had done something brave.
Haroun’s own people were nomadic in the main. They enjoyed similar traditions.
The boys final y worked themselves up. They didn’t have to take foolish chances. They could tel the truth when the old men asked about their efforts to count coup. For that was what this was. Not real y robbery but boys wanting to mark their transition into manhood.
Had an experienced warrior fol owed them? Probably not.
A guardian angel would stand out on the plain.
The essence of the rite of passage was that the candidates had to do for themselves.
He gave them ten minutes, then entered their camp. They were not fastidious. He placed a gold coin in each of their leather jacks, then readied their horses. One gentle spel kept the ponies quiet. He led them to the trace that passed as a road headed into the desert kingdom.
The vil ain who had given up those coins would not object to them passing on to boys who needed something good to happen.
Haroun wished he could be a fly buzzing round when they, absent their ponies, returned to their people carrying gold enough to buy a herd.
...
Varthlokkur had restrained his darker nature in order to spend an afternoon with the four strange children who constituted his makeshift family. Only Smyrena was his own get. Ethrian was his grandson.
Even to him it seemed odd to have a grandson so much older than his daughter. But it was a bizarre world. He had added a few bricks of strange himself.
Ethrian was a thin, dark youth. In his best moments he had haunted eyes. Madness was his relief from memories of being the Deliverer, a monster managed by a revenant evil that considered itself a god. The Deliverer used its armies of the dead to punish the wrong people for injuries he imagined had been done to him. The revenant had misled him.
Escaping had cost Ethrian love and sanity, a price not yet ful y paid. Some days he did nothing but lie curled in a bal . Others he sat and rocked, eyes vacant, an age and countless miles away. His mind held mil ennia of memories not his own. He was never sure what was then and what was now.
The wizard did what he could to keep the boy anchored.
He had no faith in the boy’s chances for recovery, yet did his best for Nepanthe’s sake. She would not concede any chance that Ethrian could not be saved
Smyrena could be a spooky little beast, normal one moment, possessed the next. She did not cry. She seemed too alert and attentive for an infant. She enjoyed the presence of the Unborn. Varthlokkur found that dreadful y unnatural. Radeachar was an instrument. It ought not to have friends.
He told himself that Smyrena would grow out of it.
Mist’s brats were disturbingly normal. Fathered by Nepanthe’s brother Valther back when Mist had entertained no hope of becoming Empress again, they were exotic hybrids, scary in their beauty. The girl was older. The boy was growing faster. Right now they looked like twins. They worked hard to maintain that pretense, though there was no need. There was no survival imperative here.
They did know who they were. Varthlokkur showed them their mother occasional y. He meant the look at their heritage as a caution, not a kindness. He wanted them to know that they could be in danger for no greater cause than being the children of that woman, however much they remained separated from the Dread Empire.
He lied to them, too. He told them their mother had left them with their aunt for their protection. He told them Mist had been dragged into Dread Empire politics unwil ingly and had been terrified of the risks to them.
Insofar as he recal ed, Mist had left them as hostages she was not concerned about losing.
His cynicism ran deep.
Seldom did he encounter anything that rendered him more sanguine.
Nepanthe joined him. She was cheerful. She went directly to Ethrian, petted and fussed. Varthlokkur and Smyrena both watched with a touch of jealousy.
...
