months this was the closest he'd ever come to finding Safar. First he'd retraced the route he'd taken in the vision, finally coming to the desert spring where he'd seen Safar's reflection. His plan had been to have his scouts follow Safar's trail to the main Kyranian encampment. But his old nemesis had been too canny, using both physical and magical tricks to obscure his passage. Several times his hopes were raised when he'd caught the scent of the great dream horse he'd ridden in the vision. It was the amulet that made this possible, heightening his powers to pick up the stallion's musk. Then some spell of Safar's would interfere and the scent would be gone, his hopes dashed.
It was then that Kalasariz had showed up with Old Sheesan in tow and the witch had presented him with the scrap of cloth she said would put him on the trail again. Iraj had his doubts-the dirty old hag was hardly a figure to inspire confidence-but he'd given her the chance and now he was vastly pleased with himself for doing so. Using the cloth and her witchy powers-which even Fari had grudgingly admitted were 'most remarkable … for a human!' — she'd picked up Safar's trail and carried it many miles forward until Safar confounded them again with another trick.
The trick, however, proved to be flawed. Iraj had merely scoured the area in a twenty mile radius and this time luck was with him, not Safar, and his scouts had stumbled on the ravine.
Yes, Old Sheesan had proved her value. In his wolfen state it was difficult for Iraj to think deeply. Even so, he felt an sense of affection for her and even … trust? That was strange! Iraj had only trusted one man in his life-Safar. And look what that had gotten him! Still, every once in awhile, when the witch was in repose, he caught a glimpse of that remarkable creature he'd seen for an instant when they'd first met.
Who was this woman who called herself Old Sheesan? Was she a beautiful woman hiding behind an ugly facade? Or a filthy old hag through and through … and the glimpsed visions of beauty a product of his imagination?
Just then he heard a voice whisper in his ear, low, and musical and full of seductive promise:
He jolted around, but only saw the witch sniffing at the scrap from Safar's tunic, beaked nose twitching.
She lifted her head, cackling triumphantly. 'This is his place, yes it be, Majesty,' she chortled in voice totally unlike the whisper he'd heard. 'Lord Timura slept here, ate here and he left it not long ago. The scent's that strong, it is. Not more'n two weeks gone, is Old Sheesan's guess, Majesty.'
Iraj concentrated, transforming fully into his wolfen state. He strained to catch Safar's spoor, but he didn't have the witch's powerful magic nose, with a long lifetime of experience to separate and interpret what she sniffed.
Suddenly the amulet glowed, so hot it nearly scorched his chest and he growled with delight at the pain, pressing it tighter against his wolfish hide to feel all the more.
Then Iraj caught the spoor of the great dream horse and he lifted his head and howled with delight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Once out of the wilderness the Kyranians dared the main caravan tracks for the first time since they'd fled the Valley of the Clouds. They were amazed at the pace they could maintain, averaging nearly thirty miles each day-a distance a trained army would covet. What's more, they were able to command the entire length of that thirty miles. With scouts ranging far ahead and behind their control was extended even farther-a hundred miles or more.
It was Safar's practice to alternate between both scouting parties when they were on the road, seeing little of Palimak and the rest of his family during that time. Sometimes he found himself too far away from the caravan to rejoin it at night and would miss seeing them altogether for days at a time.
He regretted this, particularly when it came to Palimak whose boyish experiments with magic could be worrisome. He'd learned, however, that even a wizard couldn't be all places at all times so he locked the feeling away with all the other regrets that make up a life.
Thanks to Khysmet, he was at least enjoying these lonely but necessary missions more than in the past. It was not only a joy-and sometimes a breath-taking thrill-to ride him, but the stallion was remarkable company as well. Like an old friend, Khysmet knew all his moods and how to deal with them. When Safar became absorbed in thought, usually about what might await him in Caluz, the horse took control of the journey. Uncannily guessing the route Safar intended and becoming extra wary, sensing that Safar's mind was far away from present dangers.
Once when Safar was digging into Asper's book for a spell he could use in a swamp he became so absorbed in the demon wizard's theories he forgot where he was. When he became aware again he was startled to find himself on the other side of the swamp. Somehow Khysmet had found the way even though it was riddled with pits of quicksand deep enough to swallow a team of oxen, wagon and all.
Khysmet also proved to be a bit of a practical joker and Safar had to be wary when he squatted by a stream to drink, lest Khysmet butt him into the creek. When Safar came up out of the water sputtering and swearing Khysmet would rear back, snorting and pawing the air in delight.
There was also a strange kind of magic emanating from Khysmet. Oh, he couldn't suddenly sprout wings and fly, or scratch out a spell with his hooves like a witch's goatish Favorite. But on a long run, just when Safar felt he could no longer go on, he'd feel a sudden surge of energy and purpose radiating from Khysmet and then he could continue on for as long as it took to achieve his goal. As for the stallion, Safar had yet to see his limits.
There was the smell of the earth in Khysmet's magic: tall plains grasses golden in the sun; swarms of bees and locusts swooping this way and that, all of a single mind though there were thousands of them; small birds darting through the insect clouds to feed; and sharp-eyed hawks and eagles floating above it all, watching for their chance.
Safar strayed so far away from the others that Leiria admonished him, saying it was his duty as their leader to keep himself safe. Safar knew she was right, but despite several promises to stay close he kept forgetting and giving Khysmet his head and then there was no telling how many miles he might travel before he remembered his last promise.
One day she swore she'd stay with him herself and she brought along a spare horse so she could switch back and forth to keep them both fresh. By nightfall she'd worn out both animals and herself and it was all she could do to prop herself up to eat when dinner was ready.
Safar had gone to some trouble for her, catching a brace of pheasants and roasting them over the fire with wild herbs to sweeten the flesh.
She sighed, saying, 'This is when I miss palace life. All those servants to tend your every need. If we were in Zanzair right now, I'd snap my fingers and order up strong wine and a good massage and then I'd have them carry my poor boneless body to the bed, where'd they'd tuck me in for the night.'
'I can help you with the wine,' Safar said, popping the stopper off a flask and pouring her a cup. He handed it to her, grinning. 'I'd best not offer my services as a masseur. Not if we want to remain just friends, that is.'
Leiria laughed. 'A lot of good it would do you,' she said. 'I'm so tired you'd be sleeping with a corpse.'
'There's nights when that wouldn't stop me,' Safar joked, 'and let's just say this is one of those nights.'
Leiria gave him a look. 'You don't want to start something you can't finish, Safar Timura,' she said. 'So don't tease a woman who still has delicate feelings for you.'
'I know that, my dear, dear Leiria,' Safar replied. 'It's only how I'm feeling tonight, which I can't help.'
Leiria yawned, sleep suddenly very hard to resist. 'We need to find you a woman, Safar,' she said. 'We need to…' and she fell asleep in midsentence.
Safar watched her for awhile, admiring her clear strong features and inviting figure. He thought of the days- and nights-when they were lovers, then the memories became too disturbing and he rolled up in his blanket and tried to follow her into sleep. He drifted for a time, thinking of nothing, then he heard Khysmet nicker, soft, not in alarm, but calling, calling…
…And Safar was astride Khysmet, riding through a soft wood full of trailing ferns and sweet mosses. The air was misty, almost raining. They came upon a small glen filled with wildflowers and nourished by a musical
