Now is when we die, Planchet thought.
Favaronas was certain no one had penetrated as far into Inath-Wakenti in untold centuries. All around, the landscape was as untouched as the gardens in a painting. Each footfall broke a crust of mold undisturbed for ages, which meant he, and even the light-footed Robien, left a plain trail. Their quarry, Faeterus, had left no footprints at all. Even so, Robien followed him. Favaronas couldn’t see the slightest evidence of a trail, but the strange Kagonesti went steadily ahead, never faltering, as if connected to his quarry by a string. Robien moved through darkness and daylight with equal speed.
They passed through orchards of fig and crabapple, but no fruit grew on the trees or lay rotted on the ground. With no bees to pollinate them, the trees could bloom but not bear fruit.
They left the level valley floor behind, entering the rising ground on the eastern side of Inath-Wakenti. The land began to slope up, and Robien pulled ahead of his weaker comrade. Periodically, Favaronas leaned against a handy boulder to rest. His body left a dark sweat stain on the pale stone.
Above, the slopes of Mount Rakaris were plainly visible. Its sides were terraced, the lowest step some five hundred feet above the valley floor. From what Favaronas had told him, and from the direction of Faeterus’s trail, Robien had deduced that it was Faeterus’s goal.
The tracker had told Favaronas a bit about his quarry—how Faeterus had been royal mage to several Khurish khans and had been responsible for calling up the sand beast that wreaked such havoc among the Lioness’s warriors in the valley. Favaronas began to fear what would happen if the magician succeeded in reaching the mountain slope. If Faeterus deduced the meaning of the stones and tapped the hidden forces of the valley, their lives likely would go the way of all animal life in Inath-Wakenti.
“Hello, my friend.”
Favaronas jerked. He slid off the boulder and landed on his rear with a jolt that snapped his teeth together. The shabby mage stood over him.
“You don’t seem glad to see me,” Faeterus said mildly.
“No, it’s—I’m just not accustomed to climbing mountains.” The hood turned, looking ahead. “Your companion does not have that problem. Who is he?” The frightened archivist didn’t answer, and the hood swung back to face him. Faeterus repeated the question more forcefully.
“Robien,” Favaronas whispered. “A bounty hunter hired by Sahim-Khan.”
Faeterus set down his shoulder sack. When the bag touched the ground, it began to squirm. Favaronas inched away from it.
“I’ll deal with the bounty hunter,” Faeterus said. “I do wonder how he was able to track me. Does he use any unusual implements, an amulet perhaps, a special jewel, a wand?” The archivist shook his head. He did not mention Robien’s oddly colored spectacles.
The mage shrugged. “No matter. I shall find out after.”
Favaronas did not ask what he meant. He feared Faeterus would answer.
The mage knelt by the leather sack, which was still moving. “I, too, brought provisions into this bloodless valley. But my victuals must be fresh.”
He unfastened the clasp and withdrew a large mourning dove from the sack. As he brought the bird, headfirst, toward the front of his hood, Favaronas swallowed hard and looked away. Unfortunately, he still heard the awful crunch. The headless, bloodless bird landed between his feet. Favaronas jerked them back, wrapping his arms around his up-drawn knees.
“I thought we were to be colleagues,” Faeterus said with icy sarcasm. The archivist’s gaze never lifted. “For your treachery, I should serve you as I did this bird. But I won’t. The culmination of my grand design requires a chronicler. Sorry specimen though you may be, you’re the only chronicler I’m likely to find.”
Several small stones trickled down the slope, rolling past the boulder where Favaronas cowered. Faeterus was instantly alert.
“Say nothing of seeing me. A chronicler can write as well with only a single hand or eye.”
The mage disappeared. His drably robed figure blurred into nothing, and his footprints smoothed away. The headless dove, even the blood spattered around it, vanished as completely as had the mage.
Robien came down the hillside at an easy lope, stopping at the spot where Faeterus had stood. Seeing Favaronas shivering by the boulder, Robien asked if he were ill.
“The pace is too swift,” Favaronas stammered, hoping his voice did not betray him. “I had to rest.”
Robien extended a hand. “Come. I want to reach the first plateau by sunset.”
As he drew the frightened Favaronas to his feet, Robien raised one black eyebrow. “Your hand is cold, yet you’re covered in sweat. What ails you, scholar?”
Favaronas longed to tell Robien all, but Faeterus’s threats still rang in his ears. He forced a weak smile and laid a hand on his stomach. “Too many roots and nuts.”
The one thing that hadn’t vanished when Faeterus disappeared was the mage’s walking stick. Robien picked up the thick tree branch and offered it to Favaronas.
“This is just the right length. Perhaps it’ll help you make the climb.”
The archivist tried to decline, but Robien insisted, so he took the stick and resumed his uphill slog. After a short time, he became aware Robien wasn’t following. In fact, the bounty hunter was squatting on his haunches, studying the ground by the boulder. Favaronas imagined that telltale traces of Faeterus’s presence stood out like beacons to the wily tracker.
Head down, Favaronas plodded silently up the hill.
Thunder rolled over Khuri-Khan and caused the sandstone buildings to vibrate. The sound was so rare, Khurs all over the city paused and looked skyward. Rain hadn’t fallen in Khuri-Khan in many months.
In the windy plaza atop the Khuri yl Nor, the royal palace, Prince Shobbat found the sound not amazing, but painful and frightening. His nerves seemed to worsen with each passing day. Loud noises oppressed him, bright lights burned through his closed eyelids, and everyday smells sent him into unexpected paroxysms of disgust or delight. Four days earlier, he’d had to quit a meeting early because the smell of roasting lamb made him ill.
The meeting had been a vital one, a secret rendezvous with three of the outlawed priests of Torghan. The Torghanists had long hated Sahim for his tyranny, for his lack of reverence to their god, and for the foreign laddad taint he had allowed into Khur.
The priests offered to put seven hundred fanatics in the streets of Khuri-Khan whenever Shobbat should need them. They would set fires and storm the souks as required. The riot would form the first stage of Shobbat’s plan to bring down his father, Sahim-Khan. When the city garrison marched out to quell the disturbances, Shobbat would admit a special cadre of Torghanists into the palace. Every member of the cadre was a trained assassin who had volunteered to kill Shobbat’s father.
Shobbat and the priests were discussing how best to appease the bloodthirstiness of the fierce warriors—perhaps the cadre should draw lots to determine who would have the honor of killing Sahim?—when the aroma of roasting lamb had come to Shobbat’s nose from the tavern below. A hairbreadth from vomiting, the prince fled, leaving the astonished priests wondering at his sincerity and his sanity.
Shobbat wanted his father dead. His sincerity, as the sages say, was perfect. As for his sanity, even the prince himself was no longer sure.
Worse than the sensitivities to light, smell, and sound were the strange waking visions. Colors would become brighter and brighter, until they seemed to vibrate of their own accord. Every candle flame, fire, and torch wore a rainbow aura. People and animals trailed visible clouds of scent, which wafted behind them as they walked or swirled around them as breezes blew. Without warning, any of his senses could become agonizingly intense.