And then he stabbed.
11
The Horde Undammed
Hard as ice,
Soft as steam,
Soothing mist,
Quiet stream;
Till surge and tide,
And typhoon’s breath,
Give gentle brine
An edge of death.
“ You can’t be serious!” Belynda declared, aghast.
“Lower your voice!” Miradel urged, her own tone a rasping whisper. “And yes, I have never been more serious in my life!”
“You want me to send you to the Fifth Circle, to the Deathlord’s world?” the elven sage-ambassador shook her head. “That would be tantamount to murder!” She turned away, shaking her head, drawing a few glances from the other druids and sages gathered along the casting pools beside the lake. The Hour of Darken was imminent, and they had gathered here for the mass teleportation that Natac had requested.
But Miradel had a different idea and had just broached it to her elven friend. Now she continued her efforts at persuasion. “No-it is the best hope we have!”
Shandira had been watching the exchange in silence, but now she queried Belynda. “Why do you argue? Does not Miradel’s plan make sense?”
“Make sense?” The sage-ambassador’s elven serenity had already wavered, was in danger of cracking altogether. “That depends: if your goal is to waste your lives, throw them away to no effect, for no benefit, well, then Miradel’s plan has distinct advantages.”
“Please!” The druid was shocked and nonplussed at her friend’s sarcasm. “You have to try to understand!”
“Explain it to me, then,” Belynda demanded, her eyes narrowed.
“I think that the goddess may be wrong about the Deathlord, Karlath-Fayd. She seems to think there is nothing we can learn, nothing we can do against him! But I believe-at least, I hope-that by doing some reconnaissance, spying on him, we may find the weakness that allows us to defeat his army.”
“What makes you think the Worldweaver is mistaken? Isn’t the very idea rather blasphemous?” The elfwoman’s eyes were narrowed, her expression stubborn, but at least she was listening.
Miradel shook her head. “I don’t believe so. If I can bring her information, I am certain she will be grateful for the knowledge. As to why I think she is wrong, it is a little thing, but proof to me: long ago she told me that no one could survive in the presence of the Deathlord, because his very gaze would be enough to turn that person into ashes. Yet more recently, when I raised the issue again, she claimed that his gaze was enough to render a person into a stone statue. It is clear that she doesn’t know what effects, if any, might be engendered by a journey into the Deathlord’s presence. I intend to learn.”
“By sacrificing yourself or this novice druid to his whim? Either stone or ash is a terrible enough fate!”
“But she is just guessing!” Miradel retorted.
“I am willing to try,” Shandira said quickly. “Indeed, this is a sacrifice I prefer to the other task that has been explained to me.”
Belynda shook her head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you are almost certainly doomed if you go to Loamar. I cannot be a party to that fate!”
“But you must help us,” Miradel pressed. “It is our best, not our only, chance. When the great teleporting is done at Darken, when the druids are sent to the Swansleep River, you can simply send us to a different location.”
“Even if I consent to do this, and supposing that you do enter the citadel of Karlath-Fayd and learn something of use, how do you propose to return here with that knowledge?”
“There, too, I will need your help,” said Miradel quietly. “You will have to seek me periodically in your Globe of Seeing-perhaps you could look twice each day, as the Hour of Darken commences and the Lighten Hour begins. Those times will be the same throughout the circles, though much colder and darker on Loamar than they are here. If we have learned what we seek and are ready to return here, we will await your sighting around some swirling current of water, so that you can bring us out with a teleport spell.”
“I tell you, I don’t like this,” Belynda repeated, but there was a sense of resignation in her voice. “Though I begin to understand your glimmer of hope. You have thought about this carefully, I see.” She looked at Shandira. “You understand that you will probably perish in this quest?”
“I am prepared for whatever might happen. I have made peace with my Savior and within myself,” the tall woman replied with great dignity.
“Very well,” the sage-ambassador acquiesced, turning back to Miradel. “But what about Natac?”
For the first time she felt the tug of regret, but she pushed it out of her mind. “He risks his life every day in this war. He and I must both accept the same imperilment.”
“Have you made your preparations? Provisions? Weapons?”
Miradel nodded, indicating the two backpacks they had brought with them. “Enough food for five or six days. Also, I have a knife, and Shandira her stave. Though I do not think weapons will decide the success or failure of this mission: we are going there to learn, not to fight.”
The notes of a flute trilled along the lakeshore, and the druids started moving toward the pools, the ten circular wells of water that had been carved into the bedrock of the shore. The teleportation spell required a focus of swirling water, both at the beginning and the destination of the magical transport. A hundred miles away, on the banks of the Swansleep River, elven warriors had prepared an equal number of eddies to serve as destinations. The druids would be sent, ten at a time, until all hundred had made the journey.
“I presume you have spotted an appropriate destination?” Belynda said.
“Yes, I have viewed Loamar through the Tapestry. There is a great waterfall that spills from the front of the citadel, down a thousand feet of cliff. At the base it has hollowed out a great bowl in the rock, and the water swirls violently there before flowing onward. There is a flat shelf of rock nearby. All I ask is that you send us there and let us proceed on foot.”
“Very well.” Belynda’s Globe, the crystal sphere that allowed her to view any place in the first Six Circles, rested on a pillow on one of the stone benches, covered with a velvet cloth. She pulled the cloth away and peered close at the glass. Miradel could see a vague glow, pearly light growing pleasantly bright within the ball, though she could make out no details. The image shifted and wavered, light fading and then growing to sudden sparkles, until it blinked out as quickly as if someone had shuttered a lamp.
“I see the place,” the sage-ambassador said. “The water will work for the spell, though I beg you again to reconsider! What a barren, awful place it is!”
“I know,” Miradel said. “But we have to go there.”
“Then, my friend, I can only wish you the best of luck. I will check twice each day, seeking you, hoping to bring you back. But remember, you must stand close to a swirl of water for my spell to bring you out.”
“I remember,” the druid said. “I am grateful, too.” She gestured to the shore, now etched in the growing swell of daylight. “Now, good women, it is time for us to go.”
Natac had walked the bank of the Swansleep River for more than ten miles and was dismayed at the low
