It could be a trap, he cautioned himself. The gods know there is danger in this. . there is danger. .
Yet he followed with a strange, fascination as the path weaved sinuously through the standing crys shy;tals. Leaning low, face pressed against the horse's withers, he read the dark sand with a skill born of centuries in the hunt. When the slowly rising sun gave him direction, it revealed the footprints again, a thin path stalking over the salt flats, the steps wider and wider apart.
Had he looked up from this close, intent scrutiny, he might have seen the Plainsman's form reflected in the mirroring crystal-the wounded man lying in the salt flats, his ruddy beard matted with the last swallow from his now-empty waterskin.
He might have found Fordus, helped the Prophet to safety.
But in his oblivion, Stormlight passed near the wounded commander, who stared at him blearily, resentfully, through the maze of crystals.
She's running now, Stormlight thought, rising in the saddle, his thoughts focused on the strange, fem shy;inine tracks.
But running to what? Or from what?
Now it seemed that the woman's foot had expanded, widened, kept changing, the toes fusing and splaying.
Stormlight leaned against the warm neck of the horse and let forth a slow, uneasy breath. It was a clawed creature he followed now, an enormous thing that had trampled a path over the salt flats, crushing rock and crystal in its heedless journey. All of his instincts told him to leave well enough alone, that the danger he had only suspected when he took up the trail was close to him now, a rumbling just at the edge of his hearing, an acrid smell beneath the smoke of a distant campfire.
The fires of the rebels. The monster was headed toward the Red Plateau, toward his drowsing, battle-dazed people.
With a click of his tongue and a shrill whistle, Stormlight spurred his horse through the black flats, longing for Fordus's speed, for the speed of the wind or a comet.
You are too late, a deep, denying voice told him, its cold, resonant words mingling with his thoughts until Stormlight could not tell whether it was the voice he heard or the bleak suggestions of his own worst imaginings.
'No!' Stormlight shouted. Suddenly the trail ended before him, the monstrous tracks vanished into unruffled black salt. Alarmed, confused, the elf wheeled the horse in a wide frantic circle and retraced his path. In the heart of the last track, in the very center of the enormous, splayed claw, a man's booted footprint lay in the dark sand as though he had stepped in that spot only, dropped from the sky or born from the swirling earth.
Stormlight reined in his horse. The human print was like a deep embedded thought of the clawed thing, like a glyph drawn in a time of dreams and dragons. Out of the monstrous print, boot prints led-the heavy steps of a man walking resolutely toward the rebel camps.
Cautiously, with his horse slowed to a walk, the Plainsman followed.
Tired and dirty, Larken watched the last of the flames lick the black rubble of the pyre.
Children, the old, and the flower of Plainsmen manhood had been put to the Istarian swords. Inno shy;cent and defenseless or ill-prepared and rash, they had fallen before the enemy like sacrificial offerings. Their deaths were even more monstrous because of the dishonor involved-the cavalry ambush that savaged graybeard and infant alike.
In the brilliant dawn, there was no way to mask the night's slaughter. The Istarian cavalry had left over a hundred rebels dead. Now, as the funeral fires themselves died and smoldered, it was the bard's duty to sing the Song of Passing, a farewell to all the departed, from the youngest to the wizened old. Each of the dead would be remembered in a verse, a line, a phrase of the song, so that none left the world unheralded. Larken's song would proba shy;bly continue through the next night.
And longer still, if the augurers found no water.
Already miserably fatigued, Larken struck the drum once, twice, and waited for words and music to come to mind. The drumhead mottled and dark shy;ened in her hand, as though it, too, was mourning.
When no song came, Northstar sat down beside Larken, draping his arm consolingly over his cousin's shoulders.
Tamex approached them, smoke curling over the black silk of his robe.
Larken gave the dark stranger a sidelong glance. Though she had nothing for the dead, words that would attend Tamex's deeds and the music that would exalt his glory suddenly flooded her mind.
The bard felt unsettled, troubled by the strange, unbidden music. The melody was simple-a Plains shy;man ballad from her deepest childhood-with the first lines about the dark man and the mystery and the desert night. Still, some part of her refused to give voice to them.
Her drumming was soft and tentative as she hov shy;ered like a hawk between singing and silence.
Then a cry arose from the Plainsmen, and a dozen or so ragged children rushed toward a solitary rider emerging from the Tears of Mishakal.
It took Larken a moment to realize that the rider was Stormlight.
The elf leapt from the saddle and, with a swift and relentless stride, made his way through the group of children and past the smoldering campfires, brush shy;ing by Gormion and Aeleth as though the bandits were mist or high grass. Taking Larken's drum hand firmly and gently in his grasp, he guided her away from the fireside, away from her startled listeners, and when the two of them had passed out of earshot from the rest of the rebels, he spoke to her fervently, whispering through clenched teeth.
'Whatever you do, singer, whatever the magic you wield by drum and song, I command your silence now!'
Command? Larken signed, bristling at the elf's rough words. Take your hand from me, Stormlight!
Her gestures snapped sharp and final in the air between them. Slipping his grasp, the bard stalked off toward the Red Plateau.
Stormlight caught up with her. Overhead, Lucas soared out of the black salt flats.
'I know the power of your song,' the elf insisted.
'How it raises up and it casts down …'
'Stop!' Larken shouted, but Stormlight contin shy;ued, never hearing her.
'You were set to sing the glories of Tamex-this new and sudden hero. I could see it. But think of this before you sing. Whose bard have you been through the long months of exile and wandering and rebel shy;lion? And who is it you love?'
I know, Larken admitted, this time signing more evenly. Fordus is still our commander.
'And Tamex,' Stormlight added, 'is not who he seems to be!'
Larken shot the elf a searching glance. Something deeper than knowing, deeper even than song, told her that Stormlight spoke the truth, and that she knew it too well.
Tell me who he is, Stormlight, she gestured.
Then the hawk screamed above her, and all eyes lifted to the Red Plateau.
Fordus stood on the great height, overlooking the campsite and the ruin it had become.
He had climbed out of the salt flats and made the arduous ascent of the Red Plateau, his swollen foot still throbbing and aflame with the springjaw's poi shy;son. Twice more he had stumbled, his strong fingers scrabbling on the plateau's heights, as the desert reeled below him, a breathtaking distance into a black, crystalline void.
Let it go. . let it go. . you are weary, the desert seemed to say. The hard rock and the razored crystal beckoned to him-and for a brief, dizzy moment he listened, leaning out into the silent air, his iron grip slackening.
But he thought he heard a drum, distant and faint in the blurred encampment, and despite his groggi-ness and the deafening pulse of his blood, he had kept his balance.
Now he raised his arms to the heavens and shouted to the sunstruck sky, to the solitary reeling hawk, to the sea of uplifted faces now gathered in the black rubble below.
'I have returned from the desert. From the heart of the desert I have returned.'
A dark man-someone new to the camp, and menacing-sneered at him. 'Where were you when Istar
