CHAPTER NINE
The Endless Wastes
Jalan woke to the feeling of warmth. It came as a shock, for he couldn't remember when he'd last been warm. Not sinceAlmorel. Yes, that had been it. At Almorel there had been fire, warm food, a bed.
.. No dreams had come to him since Almorel. Before that, during the days when the first raiders had dragged him through Rashemen and into the Endless Wastes, nightmares had plagued him. Every night he relived the horror of High Horn. The shouting of the guards… the screaming… his mother's maidservant pulled from the wardrobe and shrieking as the pale man, laughing, slit her throat… blood pooling on the stone floor… the pale men, their eyes wild, blood speckling their skin, beating him down and dragging him outside … The nightmare continued. Jalan had always been a vivid dreamer.
His earliest memories were of dreams, and one in particular. For as long as he could remember, he'd dreamed of music, warm and bright, flowing like a breeze that smelled of blossoms. Since that night at High Horn he had not had the dream. Since Almorel he had not dreamed at all. But as conscious thought drifted away and sleep claimed him in that small hollow in the middle of the Endless Wastes, the dream came to him. Light flooded his mind. Always there had been the almost-voices of the song, a choir that sang beyond words, but now, as Jalan basked in the yellow warmth, he heard a voice, clear and distinct, though seeming to come from far away. What language it spoke Jalan did not know, but he understood the meaning within the words. Be not afraid. A tremor of fear passed through Jalan. Not the unreasoning terror the pale barbarians gave him. Not the cold dread of their leader. This was the fear of the unknown, the new, the fear and exhilaration a baby feels taking his first steps, or a bird feels when it first realizes that its fall has caught the wind and the wind is lifting it. It was a fear mixed with joy. It was a feeling Jalan had never known. His thoughts reached out to the presence, seeking the music, and as he did he heard again the voice within the music. The words were strange, melodic and deep, but their meaning was clear. Be not afraid. Gathering his courage, the little bird teetering on the edge of the nest, Jalan called out. Who are you? His voice seemed small, a tiny tinkling bell lost amid thunder. The song swelled, and the voice answered, I am Vyaidelon. The name meant nothing to Jalan, though he felt strangely comforted by it. Vyaidelon, Jalan said, savoring the name. It felt right. Maybe even familiar. Listen, Jalan, the voice sang. I don't want to go back! Even through the music and light and warmth, Jalan remembered the pale northerners, their huge wolves, and the dark thing, the dark malice, that led them. Be not afraid, Jalan, sang the voice. Listen to me. Who are you? You are a closed bud, Jalan, waiting for the sun to shine. I am the root of the tree, buried far away in the cold earth. What? It was all gibberish to Jalan. A bud? A root? The joy he'd felt at finding clarity within the song for the first time melted away to confusion. I don't understand! he called. You will. Be not afraid. Come to the Witness Tree. It is our only hope.
CHAPTER TEN
The Endless Wastes
One moment thick sleep bound Amira. Instant awareness slapped her awake. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Something pressed hard upon her mouth and nose, just shy of pain. She let out a small cry and struck out, but a hand caught her wrist.
'Shh!' A deep voice whispered.
Gyaidun. He brought his hand away, and she took a deep breath.
'We have company,' he said.
'What?' Amira sat up. 'Who?'
'Don't know. Durja heard them. They're sneaking in quiet. Your spells ready?'
Before sleep last night she'd spent a good while bent over the reeking fire and poring over her spellbook.
'Some,' she said, keeping her voice low. 'But I was preparing for a journey, not a fight.'
'You're in the Wastes, girl,' said Gyaidun. 'Always be ready for a fight. Start a fire. Be seen. And be ready.'
With that, he turned away. The sky was gathering what little light it could from the oncoming sun, but there were no clouds, and the air was thin. Darkness still held the land, and in the time it took Amira to sit up, Gyaidun had disappeared into the shadows. She heard one rustle-the big man passing through the grass-then nothing. She was alone.
'I am not a girl!' she whispered after him, but she had no idea if he heard or not.
Annoyed at being ordered about like a lowly apprentice, her every muscle stiff and sore from running all day yesterday, and more than a little frightened, Amira kicked away her blankets and stood. She didn't move, didn't even breathe, but strained her ears to catch every sound. Thunder muttered far off to the south, and she saw little flickers of light. The Lake of Mists and Firepeaks gathered thunderstorms this time of year like summer caravans gathered flies.
The slightest hint of a breeze whispered out of the north. She shuddered and only then realized how cold it was. As she bent to the firebed, hands trembling, her breath came out in a thick white fog.
Last night's fire had fallen to a bed of ash, but she could feel warmth coming off it. She took a stick from their small pile of kindling, stirred the ashes, and blew the coals into embers. She added a bit of dry grass, which smoked at once. She blew again, and tiny flames caught and grew. Adding larger twigs and finally several sticks-she would not touch the dried dung no matter what Gyaidun said-she soon had a healthy blaze going.
Light was finally beginning to gather in the grass and tussocks above the little gully, but Amira knew the first sliver of sun would not pass over the horizon for some time yet.
A caw shattered the silence. Amira looked up. Durja was circling the camp in low, erratic sweeps. Every third pass or so he let out a harsh cry.
Amira was about to bend down to add more fuel to the fire when a lump of shadow she'd taken for a tussock or bush moved. She froze, watching it. Whoever it was must have seen her watching, for after a moment it moved again, standing up. It was a man, much shorter than Gyaidun, but stocky with muscle. Another about an easy stone's throw to the man's left stood up, then another just behind them. They started walking toward her, other shapes rising from the grass and behind bushes.
She turned. Four others approached from the other side of the gully. Nine in all.
Where had Gyaidun gone? Damn the man. She knew she could probably manage all nine if she could keep them at a distance-and if none of them had bows. But their build and swagger told her they were Tuigan-she couldn't make out enough details to discern the tribe-and the Tuigan always had bows.
Amira retrieved her staff and climbed out of the gully on the east side, putting the wide gash in the earth between her and the four coming in from the west. They'd have to cross it to get at her, and if the sun peaked over the horizon in time, they'd be staring into the sun.
The men kept coming at an easy pace, not hurrying, obviously sizing her up. Tuigan were a superstitious lot, and even if these were nothing more than bandits outcast from their clans, even if they'd forsaken all vows of honor and hospitality, they'd still be wary of anything unknown. Especially a woman alone on the steppe. If she played this right, she might be able to scare them off.
The nearest was only a few dozen paces away.
Amira raised her staff and shouted, 'Stop!' in the Khassidi dialect.
The men stopped. They stood in stark silhouette against the brightening horizon. The two on the outside held bows with arrows on the strings. The three in the middle kept their hands on the swords sheathed at their waists.
'You are not Khassidi,' said the one in the middle.
'No.' She lowered her staff. 'I'm not.'
'We are not Khassidi.'
