‘That is true. I have … changed.’
The woman darted out a hand, pointing to Kiska. ‘And does this one have something to do with that? Is she responsible?’
Tayschrenn moved to stand before Kiska. ‘She was — integral, yes.’
The sorceress held her arms wide. The black shifting cloths hung from them like cowls, spreading. ‘Then I believe you should remain.’
Darkness swallowed them. Blinded, Kiska hunched, holding her staff ready. An inhuman snarl burst around them, enraged and frustrated. It dwindled then snapped away into silence. The ground shifted beneath Kiska’s feet and she stumbled, almost falling. Then the absolute darkness brightened in stages to mere night, but not night as Kiska knew it. Brighter, with the moon larger and two other globes in the starry sky looking like child’s marbles. One tinted reddish, the other more bluish. To her relief Tayschrenn was still with her.
‘Where are we now?’
‘Closer.’
‘That sorceress … she is your enemy?’
Hands clasped behind his back once more, the mage set off through the tall grass surrounding them. Kiska struggled to catch up. A cool wind smelling of pine billowed her cloak and dried her face. ‘Enemy?’ Tayschrenn mused. ‘No, not as such. No, her hostility was directed against someone else, yes?’
‘The Enchantress.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is the Queen of Dreams to her?’
The mage laughed, startling her. The laughter was completely unguarded, open and uninflected. She’d never heard anything like it from him before. ‘What is she to …’ He laughed again, chuckling as if enjoying the sensation. ‘My dear Kiska. Who do you think held the title of Enchantress before your patron showed up? They are rivals. Bitter rivals. Ardata is ancient. The greatest power of her age. Eclipsed now in this time of Warrens and their mastery.’
‘I see. I didn’t know.’
‘No. And I didn’t expect that you should. But the mark of the Queen is upon you, so you ought to know now.’
Yes. Her ‘strings’. Kiska did not like the sound of that. She wondered whether they were knotted. She knew that she would do all she could to tear them off if that should be so.
‘So, just where are we?’ she asked.
‘This is Tellann. We should be safe here — for a time.’
‘Tellann? But that is Imass! How can we be here?’
The mage glanced at her, startled. ‘You keep surprising me with your knowledge of these things. Why is it you never pursued magery? You could have. Thyr, perhaps?’
Kiska shrugged off the suggestion, uncomfortable. ‘Too much effort.’ She slung her staff over her shoulders as she walked.
‘Too much effort? Yet you put yourself through rigorous physical training little different from torture …’
‘I prefer to act.’
‘You prefer to act,’ the mage echoed again, musing. ‘Impetuous still. Not wise.’
She shrugged beneath the staff, flexed her wrists, feeling the bones cracking. ‘That’s how it is.’
Ahead, a rumbling filled the plain. Beneath the night sky a darker cloud of dust approached from one side. As it closed Kiska heard animal snorting penetrating the din of countless hooves hammering the hardpan prairie. A herd thundered across their path. Great woolly front-heavy beasts, some boasting wicked-looking curved horns.
Movement brushed among the tall grass nearby and Kiska whipped her staff to the side to stand hunched, ready, staff levelled, facing two low eyes across a long narrow muzzle. She stared, fascinated, as those frost-blue eyes bored into her and through her. Then they released her, snapping aside as the beast dodged, loping off through the grass. She almost fell when the gaze abandoned her. She felt exhausted, her heart hammering as if she had been running all evening. Is this the fear of the prey in the face of the hunter? Or an invitation?
Tayschrenn’s gaze followed the wolf as it bounded after the herd. He murmured as if reciting: ‘And what are the gods but need writ large?’
‘What was that?’ Kiska asked, still panting. She pressed the back of a glove to her hot forehead.
‘Just some philosopher’s musings. The wolves, Kiska. The wolves. The gods are restless. They are charging now to their destiny, for that is their role. I sense in this a welcome. Come, let us follow. I recognize the old scent now and I accept. It is time for a long overdue reunion.’
He led the way on to the churned-up trail. Kiska followed, waving the dust and drifting chaff from her face.
Picker was on watch at the front of K’rul’s bar when a knock on the barricaded door made her jump, so startled that she dropped the crossbow. Spindle jerked up from where he napped on one of the benches. Glaring at him to say anything, just one thing, she picked up the weapon then peered out through the boards.
‘Who’re you?’ she called. A low voice murmured something. ‘Yeah, he’s here,’ Picker answered. She looked at Spindle. ‘Someone’s got a message for ya.’
He pushed through to peep. He was a tall fellow, lean, hooded. The evening light made his lined face look even more harsh. Spindle raised his crossbow. ‘What d’ya want?’
‘I have a message that I think is for the sapper here,’ he answered.
‘All’s we got is this fella,’ Picker said.
‘I’m trained!’
‘Barely,’ she grumbled beneath her breath.
‘What is it?’
‘The message is — you should consider the peculiar qualities of the white stone. That’s it. The qualities of the stone.’
Spindle raised a fist. ‘Yes! The stones! I knew it.’ He punched Picker’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re on to something, I’m sure!’
She gave him an angry stare then turned to the front. ‘Yeah? Who says … damn.’
‘What?’ Spindle looked: gone. He pushed himself from the barricade and heaved up the crossbow to his shoulder. ‘The stones,’ he murmured, musing. ‘I need to take another look.’
‘All buried now, ain’t they?’ Picker said.
Spindle snapped his fingers. ‘I bet there’s still some down by the mole. I’m gonna go.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ Duiker said from where he sat towards the back.
‘What? Why?’
‘You’re only partially trained,’ the old scholar muttered as he eased himself up.
‘You mean partially house-trained,’ Picker sneered. ‘Anyway — you’re not going anywhere.’
‘Why not?’
‘What if those Seguleh return? And us shorthanded?’
‘Faugh.’ Spindle waved that aside. ‘If they was going to come back they’d have done it already.’ He went for the door but stopped short, staring at the nailed boards and heaped benches. He glanced to Duiker. ‘I guess we’ll go out the back.’
Out on the streets Spindle felt naked armed only with his little pigsticker. He was grateful to Duiker, though, for remembering and stopping him at the door. They’d both set aside all their weapons — no sense risking a meeting with the Seguleh.
Nervous, Spindle rubbed his shirt as he walked the street. Anyway, he reflected, he was never entirely helpless. Always had his magics. Not that it ever amounted to much. What use was the ability to drive animals insane? It was just embarrassing, though it seemed to have helped now and then. Saved his life, if only by accident. Like that time the camp was attacked by riders and he raised his Warren, or whatever the Abyss it was, and all the animals went crazy.
Maybe, the thought just struck, it was chaos. Maybe that was the force he raised. Kind of a mental chaos. Now that sounded a lot more proper and menacing, that did. Not just Spindle, the guy who scares rats and cats. And goats and stoats. And horses and … Damn, what rhymes with horses?
At his side Duiker cleared his throat, hands hooked in his belt as he walked along. The late-afternoon sun shone golden on the walls of the taller buildings. Inns and cafes were doing a brisk early dinner trade with the curfew in force. ‘So what happened down south anyway?’ the old soldier asked.