The intricacies of Khurish relations did not interest Breetan. She asked the Khur whether he’d seen any elves.
“Who wants to know, Neraka?”
Apparently her accent was clear enough, even if her garb was that of a western rover.
“I am Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily. I seek a laddad wanted for crimes committed against my Order.”
“Your law means nothing here.” Two more rocks thunked into place. “This is a land of hard edges, where right and wrong are always clear—even if men and women choose not to see them.”
Breetan drew a purse from her belt and tossed it at his feet. The rattle of coins within was unmistakable. “Perhaps steel will encourage a change in your philosophy. The laddads are in the valley, yes?”
“Whether one or one hundred, it is only laddad.”
He went back to work on the grave, and Breetan gave up on amiable persuasion. She leveled her crossbow at his right thigh. “Whether whole or lame, you will answer me, Khur,” she said, mocking his elaborate manner of speech.
He pushed himself to his feet and doffed his hat. His eyes were grey. None of the nomads she’d encountered thus far had such odd, pale eyes.
“The laddad went into the valley twenty days ago,” he said.
Jeralund appeared atop the dune. He gestured for the young knight to join him. Breetan lowered the heavy repeating bow. From all she knew, the Khurs always had been willing friends of Neraka. And they had little love for the elves.
“Work hard, old man,” she said. “And keep the purse. You earned it.”
She cantered up the long slope and disappeared over the crest.
Wapah shook his head. He’d learned long ago not to bandy words with fools or killers. Still less should one waste wisdom on killers who were also fools. He put his hat back on and resumed piling stones on Adala’s grave. When his hand, seeking a stone, touched the purse instead, he picked it up. The velvet bag was heavy. He dropped it into a hollow between two rocks, and covered it with more stones.
After saying the proper prayers, begging Torghan to accept the soul of Adala Fahim, he was done and a great emptiness chilled his soul. He had thought balance would be restored when the laddad found their valley. Adala’s death, unwelcome though it was, also had redressed the hard edge of justice. The arrival of the nemosh (the “over-the-mountain people”) threatened to upset the balance again. Trouble would continue unless the laddad were very watchful.
Wapah felt no guilt for misleading the nemosh woman. Many laddad had gone into the valley, just as he had said. Of course, some had come out again, so where her quarry might be, only Those on High could know.
A final glance at the cairn and Wapah turned away. His horse, waiting in a nearby hollow, came when he whistled.
He put the mountains at his back. He wanted to see the ocean. For four nights, be had dreamt about walking on the beach with the ceaseless waves lapping at his feet. Such recurring dreams were sent by Those on High, and the message of that one was clear. He would not return to the desert, but would abide by the ocean till the end of his days. The sea would wash his bones. His soul would dwell evermore among the righteous.
A mile away Jeralund and Breetan rode into the narrow pass, eyeing the peaks rearing up on either side. It was, as Jeralund pointed out, an excellent place for an ambush. He wondered why the elves weren’t defending it.
“They don’t expect anyone to follow them in here,” she said. “Khurish nomads are superstitious savages, and our armies are far away.”
Nonetheless, it offended both soldiers’ tactical sense to ride openly into territory held by an enemy. Jeralund was a soldier of wide experience. He said they should hug the eastern side of the pass. They’d be in shadow in the morning and could travel during the coolest part of the day. They would watch the line of sunlight advance, and when their position was about to be exposed, they could rest and await sunset before resuming their trek.
Breetan found his reasoning sound. They rode to the eastern side of the pass. When the terrain grew rough, they dismounted and led their horses along a track barely wide enough for a goat. No sooner had they gained the first prominence than a squadron of cavalry came trotting down the pass. The Nerakans pulled their horses behind the cover of a large boulder and watched the patrol go by. Jeralund counted forty mounted elves.
He whispered, “Those aren’t foresters or town elves, lady.”
Breetan’s assumption was proved incorrect. Gilthas, the exiled elf king, had fled with more than civilian refugees. The pass was patrolled.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, blithely dismissing the elf cavalry. “If the Scarecrow were in a crystal tower in Silvanost, I’d still get him!”
The sergeant made no reply. A dozen times on their journey, she would have been lost without him to set her straight. Breetan Everride was brave and tenacious, but far too arrogant and inflexible for her own good.
The mounted elves divided into three groups, each riding off in a different direction. When the rumble of hooves faded, the Nerakans moved out again. Jeralund judged they had about three hours before sunlight hit them. By then they would be two thousand feet higher up, and well inside the wall of mountains that guarded Inath-Wakenti.
Chapter 9
Kerian reckoned the flight to Khuri-Khan would take about ten hours. Departing Inath-Wakenti an hour or two after sunrise would put her in the Khurish capital after dark, which would be advantageous to her stealthy mission. Her leaving was not meant to be a secret, but neither did she announce it. Hamaramis knew and Taranath was told just before she left. The Speaker’s many councilors were not informed.
Gilthas would not be seeing her off. He’d passed a restless night, only consenting to swallow a sleeping draft when he realized his anxiety was keeping Kerian awake and hovering nearby. Afterward he slept deeply. The draft was a mild one, but Truthanar said all the Speaker’s energy was engaged in fighting the disease inside him. He had none to spare to turn over or even dream.
After assembling her scant baggage for the trip, she conferred with Truthanar. He met her outside the Speaker’s tent.
“I will make all possible speed,” she said. “You must keep the Speaker with us until I return.”
“Of course, lady. The human priestess is a skilled healer, I hear.”
His tone carried more than a hint of wounded pride. He had worked tirelessly to help Gilthas, and Kerian had no wish to shame him. Many were the nights he’d sat awake by his patient, trying to ease Gilthas’s suffering. He had few medicines or common comforts at his disposal, and little expertise fighting an ordinarily human disease such as consumption. Yet he had persisted with art and courage, as befit a member of his ancient fraternity.
“Do not feel slighted,” she said. “No one could have served the Speaker better. He has asked me to bring the holy lady to counter the curse hanging over Inath-Wakenti, not to replace you as his physician. But if she can—”
“Lady, if she can make the Speaker well again, I shall be the first to bless her efforts.” It was a difficult admission for a proud Silvanesti.
“Keep him well, Truthanar. Tie him to his pallet if you must, but keep him well until I return.”
Taking leave of him, Kerian went outside the elves’ hastily erected barricade to the open ground where Eagle Eye awaited her. She secured her few bags to his saddle. Her baggage comprised an assortment of weapons, a tiny hoard of gold and steel to smooth the way in Khuri-Khan, and a little food for Eagle Eye. Hamaramis had urged her to take rations for herself, but she refused. With food so scarce, she would eat in Khuri-Khan.