Rolling up the white sleeves of his robe, Vaananen rubbed off a patch of concealing potion on the inside
of his left wrist and focused on the red oak leaf tat shy;tooed there. He had hidden this mark from his com shy;rades for the six years he had served with the Kingpriest's clergy.
The red oak leaf. The druid's hand.
Vaananen focused, and the glyphs glowed and shimmered and then disappeared. Now, miles away, they would rest in the floor of the kanaji.
The rebels would find water now. They would also learn of the Istarian withdrawals.
Briskly, without ceremony, he crouched and raked over the smooth sand where the glyphs had been. The area once again matched the rest of the garden's surface.
From the rumors that swirled about the temple, through the corridors, towers, and the roseate Audi shy;ence Hall of the Kingpriest, Vaananen was certain that all his meticulously drawn symbols had done their distant work.
So it had been for years.
His heart had gone out to the eccentric, alien Plains shy;man lad who had found the ancient kanaji, the boy who searched for water. And so, through the first years of Fordus's Water Prophecy, Vaananen had guided the young man, and with druidic augury located the underground sources of water for the Que-Nara, informing Fordus through glyph and kanaji.
When, after the inexplicable dream a year ago, the Water Prophet became the War Prophet, and the rebellion against Istar began, the druid had begun to shroud even more information in the ancient sym shy;bols: the location of Istarian troops and their move shy;ments.
He also kept a constant warding spell upon the golden tore around Fordus's neck. This, too, was magic at a distance, and the druid's sleep was fitful and unsettled as his incantations protected the wan shy;dering Plainsman from the elements, the Istarians …
And from something else, far more grim and dark and powerful. Vaananen was not sure exactly what this larger menace was, but he had his suspicions.
Zeboim, perhaps. Or Hiddukel. Or an evil god even more powerful. Of one thing Vaananen was certain. He was safe, and so were the rebels he pro shy;tected, only as long as he was beneath Istarian notice.
So he stayed obscure and low, and helped Fordus quietly.
Obviously, the lad had a gift. He could discover both weather and tactics in the shimmering lines on the sand. And then the elf would translate Fordus's reverie, and the Plainsmen would travel, and Istar would fall to another desert defeat.
So it had been, and so it was.
With his finger he traced the next of the spirals inward, then sat back on his heels. Slowly, the sand began to boil and turn about the white stone.
Good, the druid thought. A sign from the present.
Suddenly, the white stone dulled and grayed, its brilliance transformed to a sick, fish-belly white, and the whirling sand sent out ripple after ripple, the white stone sinking slowly into the garden until it rested at the bottom of a widening coil of sand.
Then the stone itself began to bristle and swell. Vaananen watched in horrified fascination as the thing sprouted eight white, rootlike legs, which sud shy;denly began to twitch and wave …
Like the funnel trap of a springjaw, the druid thought, and felt the hair on his arms rise. Peace. Tis but a vision.
Yet despite himself, Vaananen shrank from the image. A human form appeared at the edge of the whirlpool, a wavering translucent shape like a mirage on the desert horizon. The apparition scrambled vainly.toward the top of the sandy whirlpool, the springjaw clambering after it, its smaller set of fangs clacking hungrily.
'Fordus!' Vaananen whispered, stepping forward in alarm. He knew that somewhere this was actually happening. The rebel was fighting with a monster. Here in his chamber, powerless to help, the druid could only watch and hope.
And breathe the warding over the distant tore.
At the edge of the eddying sand, the ghostly man clutched, grappled, slid back. The springjaw scrambled toward him, a dull light shining in its great green eye. Huge, sand-colored, and insectlike, it scrabbled at the bottom of a funneling pit, its ragged jaws opening like a crab's claw, like a Ner-akan mantrap.
Fordus lurched toward the lip of the pit and safety as the creature reared and plunged, its huge mandibles encircling his ankle, widening, arching …
'Watch the other eyes. .' Vaananen muttered, staring at the dull black orbs resting behind the false, brilliant eyes of the springjaw. The black eyes, the true ones, would signal the attack.
He breathed a prayer that Fordus would know this as well.
The great jaws hinged and wavered over the Plainsman's leg. Sliding down the sandy incline, Fordus snatched an axe from his belt, pivoted, and hurled the weapon solidly into the thorax of the attacking monster. The springjaw roared, staggered back, its black eyes rolling swiftly beneath the chiti-nous exoskeleton of the head.
'Now!' the druid cried, and thirty miles away, in the heart of the desert, the Prophet felt the tore at his neck quiver and draw him up. With a last burst of furious energy, Fordus set his other foot on the springjaw's head and pushed. Crying out as the swiftly closing jaw flayed the skin of his ankle, the Plainsman rolled clear of the trap, pulling himself onto level ground as the springjaw slid back into crumbling darkness. He sat on the edge of the sand funnel, thankful to be alive, clutching his wounded foot.
Which already was beginning to swell with the monster's poison.
Vaananen leaned forward, trying vainly to judge the severity of the wound. But the white sand whirled in the other direction, and slowly the stone rose to the surface of the garden. Innocent and mute, it lay where the druid had placed it, next to the red stone, where its shadow formed a soothing pattern on the manicured sand.
Vaananen exhaled. The vision was over. The sand was smooth, featureless again. He was alone and safe in his sparely appointed room, the shadows on the walls lengthening and deepening as the colored lamplight dwindled.
Vaananen raised his head at the soft sound on the windowsill. Vincus gracefully lowered himself into the room.
'What did you bring me?' the druid asked, smil shy;ing and turning to face his visitor.
The young man's dark hands flashed quickly, rac shy;ing through an array of ancient hand-signs.
'Of course you may sit,' Vaananen said, chuck shy;ling as he detected the smell of sour hay. 'And the pitcher of lemon-water on the table is for you.'
Vincus drank eagerly, then seated himself on the druid's cot. Swiftly his hands moved from sign to sign, like a mage's gestures before some momentous conjury.
'So they all mention this dissent among the rebels,' Vaananen mused. 'Mercenary, augurer, salt seller-same story.'
Vincus nodded.
Vaananen turned slowly back to the sand. 'But no more than a passing word?'
Vincus shook his head, then noticed the druid's back was to him. He shrugged and took another drink of the water.
'And what do you make of it, Vincus?' Vaananen asked, glancing over his shoulder.
The young man flashed three quick, dramatic signs in the lamplit air, and the druid laughed softly.
'Nor do I. But you have done your job. Now I must do mine.'
Vincus gestured at the water pitcher.
'Of course,' the druid replied. 'Have all you like. Then you should leave quickly, the same way, I think. Prayers are short in these times, and your master will expect you in his quarters.'
A scowl passed over the open face of the young man. Balandar, Vincus's master, was not unkind, and his library boasted the best collections among the Istarian clergy. But servitude was servitude, and it went hard to trade the freedom of the streets and the night for confinement and the slave collar-even if the collar was made of shining silver.
Vaananen turned away uncomfortably. In a moment Vincus would climb back through the win shy;dow and into the garden. He would reach Balan-dar's quarters in plenty of time to make the fire, pour wine from a rare and valuable stock for the ancient cleric, then set out his robes for the next morning. In an hour, old Balandar would be
