Chapter Sixteen

The villagers, in thanks, gave them food and water. They gave them a place to sleep in whatever huts remained whole. In a small hut near the center of the village, beside the stone well where water bubbled up from far below, Crysania slept. Lagan did without, his back propped up against the hut, watching. Kela and Jeril had a hut to themselves. Crysania had insisted, saying that they might well want the comforts of husband and wife this night. No one imagined they would do more than lie exhausted in each other's arms.

Tandar prowled the edges of the village, listening to the night, the ravens on the plain, the wind racing. He looked often to the sky, to where the watch of dragons had disappeared into the distance. Not even Firegold remained. Something had called them, the great gold had said that much, promising to return. Now, in the west, the sky hung dark and sullen. The stars seemed dulled, though no bank of clouds ran before the hot wind. In the north, as though the sun were rising where no dawn should be, the horizon gleamed. Not rosy, but orange.

Tandar growled. Something burned, something big, something wide. Everyone had seen it.

Beneath his feet, the ground seemed to rumble. Not as with an earthquake, not as with a storm. It rumbled, he imagined, to the sound of a thousand war machines on the roads, with horses, with the hordes of the Dark Queen marching to war.

The red moon rose. The silver was but a narrow paring in the sky. In Tandar's mind, a call sounded, soft, dangerous, insistent. It was the call of magic, the voice of the spell laid upon him so many long days ago. He made one more pass around the village. Lagan Innis sat awake outside Crysania's hut, his war axe across his knee. He scraped rhythmically with a whetstone borrowed from Jeril.

The tiger padded softly away, out into the high grass beyond the village. Groaning with weariness, he lay down, concealed. Water trickled somewhere not far off. A thin stream, by the sound of it. He closed his eyes and sank deep into his mind, letting the trance overtake him. When all the sounds of the night were gone from his notice, when even the rustle of grass against his own pelt went unfelt, he found himself once again upon the twilight plain of magic.

Dalamar!

Silence answered. The sky shimmered purple. Here stars seemed brighter, sharper. Nothing moved on the gray flat plain, not even light from the sky.

Dalamar!

Small, thin, a shape grew up from the ground, grew out from the sky itself.

I am here.

He was hooded, dark, his face barely seen, his eyes only small glints. He seemed to have less substance than the last time Tandar had called to him.

My lord, I have come as you require.

You stink of blood. You're liking this new shape of yours, aren't you? The power, the speed, the hunter-lust.

It was so, and Tandar didn't deny it. Sometimes he forgot to think of himself as Valin, and once, dreaming, he had seen himself not as a man but as this white tiger. He raised his head, sniffing along this strange plane as he would in the waking world.

Smoke. Terror. Fire. Blood. Sweat.

My lord, he said, his voice twisting wryly. You, too, stink of war. How are you liking that?

The image of the dark elf shivered. It might have been with laughter. Never mind me. Tell me what has happened to make you reek like this.

Tandar did. In spare images, he sent the mage mental pictures of what had taken place, the battle, the dying, the fires all around. And there is something else… something in the sky. The horizon looks strange, there in the north.

The dark elf came closer, walking along the twilight plain. His form grew more substantial, deeper somehow, stronger. Then it flickered, like a candle in the wind, bending a little this way and that.

Dalamar!

I am here. Can you feel it, sir mage? Can you feel…

His voice faded, the shape of him shrank as though—unthinkable!—as though Dalamar the Dark, the Master of the Tower of High Sorcery, could not hold the simple spell of mind-reach.

And then he was gone, the twilight plain empty.

Dalamar!

Nothing answered but the wind on the plains, the rustle of grass, a raven laughing high up and far away.

Tandar woke, shuddered. He rose, shaking himself, and looked to the north. It seemed the sky was on fire out there, far away. Cold fear washed over him. What could it mean? What lay out there, so vast and wide, that the burning of it would light up the sky?

Crysania woke at the first gray light, feeling as though she had not slept at all. She groped around for Tandar, but she didn't find him. She tried to remember whether she'd felt him near in the night, the heaviness of his body near hers, the sound of his animal breathing. She had not.

Tandar?

Near, Lady.

Have you spoken again with Dalamar?

I have, but not for long this time. His magic is working no better than anyone else's.

She nodded, a weary gesture. I take no comfort in that.

Take comfort in me, Lady. He moved closer, coming out of the shadows at the back of the hut. He lay down beside her, the length of him heavy against her body, his heart beating strongly against her. It was comfort, and she took it.

The wind shifted, bringing the sudden scent of roasting meat. Her stomach convulsed, growing with hunger. She rose to her feet, feeling her way with her hand on the wall. Her skin was sticky with sweat and grime; her clothing reeked of blood and smoke. She sighed, longing for the cool feel of linen sliding along her skin, the first splash of water from her washbasin.

Tandar, are the dragons back?

No, lady. We watch for them.

And the sky?

It burns.

Outside, she heard Lagan and Jeril speaking, their voices low and quiet. The song of the whetstone had long since ceased, yet it seemed to Crysania that she heard it still, scraping in her mind. She reached for her pack and felt through it for her comb. She untangled her long hair as best she could, with fingers and the teeth of the polished wooden comb. That done, she caught her hair back in a wooden clasp and brushed at her robe. Who would know her, what citizen of Palanthas used to seeing the Revered Daughter in her impeccably brushed robes, with her hair arranged perfectly, her hands still and white and calm?.

She ran her thumb along the broken nails of her left hand. No doubt, she thought, I stand in real need of a washing behind my ears, too.

Soft came a footstep at the door. The scent of a mage drifted into her hut, rose petals and spices and secret oils.

"Good morning, Kela."

"Lady, I've come to see if you need anything."

Crysania managed a grim laugh. "I need everything, but I will do with what I have. Is there water?"

Kela took the lady's hand and put it in the crook of her arm. "There is water, and the villagers have found some food out on the plain. They're roasting a springbuck. Come eat."

With Kela guiding, she went out the door. Lagan stood near, and he greeted her quietly.

"Did you sleep well, lady?"

Wind sighed in the grass, moaned down the sky. Somewhere nearby a child sobbed, a mother murmured soothing words that did not soothe.

Into Crysania's silence, the dwarf said, "Neither did I."

Kela stepped aside, leaving the two clerics in private.

After a moment, Lagan said, "It's not like I've ever imagined, lady, this business of war. You know…" He stopped, then forced himself on. "I have done a fair amount of translating in my day. Prayers, and before that, before the temple, some of the finest battle poetry a man can find. The songs of the Solamnics, the hymns to glory, their heart-wrenching hero songs. I've translated the chronicles of the minotaurs, even a fragment of one of the ancient texts of Istar that tell of their wars and their triumphs… ."

"And none of it looks like this, does it, Lagan?"

"No," he said, a man just discovering the difference between reality and the dreams of heroes. "No, none of it looks like this. Ah, Lady, but I am with you every step of this journey. You know that."

"I do," she said gently. "And you are thinking no one wants to get home from this quest more than you do."

He made a small sound of agreement.

She sighed. "Lagan, my friend, I think you're wrong about that. Someone else wants to get home at least as much as you do."

The good rich smell of roasting meat drifted between them. Fat sizzled, hissing into a fire. People spoke, voices low and weary.

"Who wants that more than I?" Lagan said.

"I do, my friend. Now"—she put her hand on his shoulder, asking him to guide—"let's go eat. Perhaps we'll feel better if our bellies are full."

The food was warm and good, the water cool from the deep well. They found shade beneath thatched roofs, and no better meal had they taken since leaving Palanthas. Tandar came to sit near them, his breath smelling of the blood of his own meal. And, gods be thanked, it wasn't until the end of their breakfast that the dragons returned.

"Come, lady," Jeril said, "Firegold awaits you on the plain."

Crysania accepted his arm and let him take her to the dragon, Tandar padding behind, Lagan, not so eager, following.

"Lady," Firegold said, her voice like thunder. "I have come to tell you that we dragons must be gone from here now, and in haste."

Crysania's heart sank. "But I thought you'd come to take us to the mountains."

"We cannot, Revered Daughter."

Silence fell all around her. She barely heard the breathing of her people and the hissing of the wind.

"Forgive me, lady. There is no longer time. We must go to the aid of the knights at the tower. The forces of Chaos will attack there soon. And—some of your people will have seen it—the Turbidus Ocean is on fire."

Crysania jerked her head up, looking north with her sightless eyes.

Firegold lifted her wings, gently stretching. Dust whirled up from the ground. "We have just learned. Fire springs from a vast rip in the ocean, out of which pour horrific creatures, born of Chaos. Fire dragons and shadow creatures, all of them created of fire and magic. Wights and daemon warriors." The dragon shook her head, the sound like thunder. "As I speak, Chaos's forces ride to assault the Tower of the High Clerist. Already they battle the dwarves in Thorbardin. Dalamar and other members of the conclave go to determine whether there is any way to fight these magical creatures."

"And you," she said, "you must go to fight these same creatures at the High Clerist's Tower."

"Yes, lady. We must."

And, she thought, if we hadn't stopped here, we would be well on our way, riding in the mountains… .

She closed her fingers round the medallion of Paladine, the silver-wrought dragon. This will have to be the only dragon we have, she thought, but it will be enough.

Even as she thought this, a tremor of doubt rippled through her. She had not dreamed of the god in several nights, and now this news of Chaos. All the more reason, she told herself, all the more reason to go on. And quickly.

"A dangerous journey, Firegold. I pray Paladine's blessings go with you."

She felt the air stir as the dragon bowed. "Thank you, my lady. On the way back, we saw your horses. They aren't far. Send your people to find them and you can travel as you were."

Beside her, Jeril muttered something to Lagan, who made a sound of assent. "We'll go, lady," the warrior said, "and we'll have them back in good time."

"Paladine be with you, Revered Daughter," the dragon said.

"As he will be with you, Firegold."

The dragon backed away before leaping skyward. Dust and grass blew about their faces as the other dragons followed her.

Crysania stood a long time silent, the wind blowing around her. Tandar stood nearby, and Kela, but it seemed to the Revered Daughter that she had never been so alone.

The plain smelled of dusk, of day's end and twilight coming, when Lagan and Jeril came back with the horses. The morning would see the return of their journey, their trek to the mountains and the stronghold of the Dark Queen. The companions went silently to their beds, no one wanting to think about what lay ahead. Tomorrow would be time enough for that.

Tandar patrolled the edge of the village, sniffing at the night air. Their silent watch, their faithful ward.

Crysania lay between waking and sleeping, listening to the tiger walking, thinking of all that had happened. To the east and west and south, the sky was dark. But to the north, it bled. Tandar had shown it to her reluctantly, a glow that seemed to be burning on the mountaintops. She tried to imagine the sea burning. Water boiling and hissing away to steam. She tried to imagine dragons of fire and could not.

In the darkness, half in dream, Crysania felt something move. Something touched her, sliding against the edge of her robe on the bedroll. The touch burned like fire, like one of the creatures Firegold had said was spilling from a wound in the earth. It was touching along her legs, feeling for something. Its fingers crawled on her skin, burning her through her robe.

She cried out, "No! Get away!" and her cry made no sound. She thrashed, trying to get away from the thing that reached with fiery fingers. The movement woke her, and at last a frightened cry erupted from her throat.

Questions filled the darkness outside the hut, Kela's voice, Lagan's, Jeril's.

Kela spoke a word of magic, and Crysania felt heat flare up in the small hut.

"What is it?" Jeril demanded. "Lady! Are you all right?"

Crysania sat up slowly, her fingers twisted in her bedding.

"Lady? What's wrong?" Lagan asked. He dropped to his knee beside her. She smelled the tang of his war axe.

Crysania reached out, found Tandar beside him. Her voice rough and ragged with fear, she said, "Someone was here. Something was—I thought someone was touching me while I slept."

Tandar growled, but Kela said gently, "No, lady I stood watch outside your door. No one came in. No one was here." She touched Crysania's shoulder. "I don't know why we're all not having nightmares these days."

Crysania nodded slowly but she shivered as her skin remembered something moving inside the folds of her robe, searching for the pocket in which she kept the Dragon Stones. She sniffed the air, trying to tell whether someone had come into the hut. Had she imagined it?

"Lady?" Lagan said, uneasy.

"I'm all right. Kela is right. I was dreaming."

But she hadn't been. She knew that though there was no way to explain it to the others. There was no scent of a stranger in her hut.

Her skin crawled, her heart ached.

The person who had been touching her was in the hut this moment, and that person was one of her own people.