“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m a wanderer. Other places call to me. I could never be happy seeing the same land, the same faces, for the rest of my life.”
Amero recalled how he’d once bemoaned that very fact of his own life in Yala-tene. Having nearly lost it all had made him realize just how precious those same faces and this place were to him.
“As for joining Karada.. Beramun said, her voice trailing off.
Amero saw her hand had come up to touch a spot high on her chest. “Beramun,” he said, gently pulling her hand away, “you saved us all by finding my sister. Whatever Duranix may think, you’re no tool of Sthenn.”
He took his leave of her. The walk back to Yala-tene was pleasant, despite the heat. Though his heart had gone in a different direction for good, Amero was filled with admiration for Beramun. He was sure of one thing: whoever her future mate might be, he would be a very lucky man.
From the shore of the lake, Karada could see sunlight gleaming off the bronze head and arching back of Duranix, a league away. He was still keeping his death watch over the green dragon. She approved of what he was doing and understood it well. When she entered the valley, she had ordered the extermination of the Jade Men, thinking they had murdered her brother. It was the duty of blood kin to avenge wrongs against family, no matter how long it took. It was a law of nature, as irreversible as night being dark and day being bright.
Wading out to her knees in the cold water, she stripped off her muddy outer clothes and rinsed them in the lake. She filled her cupped hands and dashed clear water on her face. The lake hadn’t lost its hard, mineral tang. Licking droplets from her lips, she remembered the first time she’d tasted it, all those years ago.
Thoughts of the past reminded her of Nacris. The madwoman was still chained, and by Karada’s order no one had told her what had happened. Karada was still trying to figure out what to do with Zannian, and his fate was linked to that of his demented “mother.”
“What about me?”
Karada looked up from her reflection in the shallow water. Balif stood on the pebbled shore, a pace or two away.
“What about you, elf?”
He sat, stretching his legs in front of him. “Do you still mean to ransom me to my sovereign?”
“Certainly. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, we did fight for your cause,” he said, leaning back on his hands.
“You asked to fight.”
“So I did. I was thinking I might have earned my freedom in the bargain.”
Karada rose and wrung out her sodden buckskins. She sloshed ashore and sat down on the rocky beach to let the hot sun warm her. It felt good on her face.
“You’re right,” she said at last.
Balif seemed genuinely surprised. “I am?”
“Yes. You can leave the Valley of the Falls when I do. I’ll escort your people to the Thon-Tanjan, to make sure you leave the plains. Just don’t come back to my land ever again.”
She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun again. Tiny waves, stirred by a soft western breeze, lapped the black and tan stones of the shore.
Balif watched the rippling water. He had captured Karada once and freed her. He’d done it to demonstrate his superiority over his human antagonist, to show her elves understood mercy. Karada had been furious the day he set her free. She had thought Balif was mocking her. In fact, he had been discounting her. Bereft of her followers, he’d thought she would be finished.
How far he had come from the cool halls and gleaming crystal spires of Silvanost. No pampered child of capital and court, he’d been born under the trees, within sight of the Thon-Thalas. He’d been part of a band of hunters called the Oak Tree Alliance for his first hundred years. By the time of the Sinthal-Elish—the great council at which Silvanos Goldeneye was chosen to rule the elven nation—he was leader of the Oak Tree elves. Balif’s followers wanted the throne for Balif, and they had the power to make it happen. He wondered what these barbarians—these people—would think if they knew he might have been Speaker of the Stars.
In those days he had two thousand forest elves at his back, and the chief of a powerful society of priests, the Brown Hoods, came to him, saying he would also back
Balif as Speaker. That was a fateful meeting. The Brown Hood’s chief was Vedvedsica.
It wasn’t lack of support that kept Balif from accepting the crown. He knew, deep within, he was not hard or ruthless enough to rule others. Lead them, yes, if they lodged their confidence in him. But rule? No.
To confirm his belief, he asked Vedvedsica to send his spirit to a future time. He wanted to see what would become of the nation if he agreed to be Speaker. For seven days Balif sat in the depths of a cave, breathing the fumes of smoldering herbs. The Brown Hoods used their power to send his spirit out of his body. He was shown what the future would be if he ruled and what would come to pass if Silvanos wore the crown. When the vision ended, he remained in the cave a full day, trying to come to grips with what he’d seen. The choice was plain, of course; reconciling himself to his own future, though, had been difficult. At the Sinthal-Elish, Balif threw his support to Silvanos. He never told anyone, not even Vedvedsica, what he’d seen in the shadows of things to come.
Karada’s sunbath had turned into a nap. She snored loudly beside him.
Savage, he thought not unkindly. Of all the people in the world, Karada would probably understand his decision. She knew what it was like to lead and to live with a curse. One day his destiny would overtake him and transform him into... something else.
Balif shook himself slightly, pulling his mind back to the present. “Wake up,” he said, nudging the nomad chief. “You’ll blister, lying in the sun like that.”
Karada draped an arm across her closed eyes. “Why does an enemy care whether I burn?”
“We are not ordinary foes, you and I. I’m not certain what we are....”
Not wanting this line of conversation to continue, Karada rolled suddenly to her feet.
“I don’t have time to waste idling here,” she said, snagging her horse’s dangling reins. “Don’t you have tasks that need doing?”
“I do,” said Balif, squinting into the afternoon sun. “I am curious about one thing: What’s to become of Zannian?”
“He’ll be dealt with. He at least is still a true enemy.”
Late that night, unable to sleep, Amero wandered out of Yala-tene. He went up the shoreline toward the falls, pausing to inspect the ruins of his foundry. So many days he’d labored here, seeking the secret of bronze. They had been good days, and he wondered if he would ever know their like again.
As he kicked around the broken and blackened stones, the rhythmic thump of wings sounded overhead. He turned toward the noise and saw the dark shape of Duranix alight on the shore. The dragon bent his long neck to the water and drank deeply. Amero ran down the hill, calling to him.
“Duranix! Old friend, how are you?”
The dragon raised his head, and Amero skidded to a stop. One draconian eye regarded him solemnly; the other had been battered shut in his battle with Sthenn.
Taking stock of Duranix’s various wounds, Amero asked quietly, “Will you be all right?”
“Right enough.” Duranix turned away and began walking toward the cliff behind the falls which contained his cave home. Amero trotted after him.
“Is Sthenn dead?”
“He is.”
“You should be happy, then—or at least relieved.”
Duranix stopped suddenly and swung around, facing the far smaller human trailing him. “Happy?” he rumbled. “He cheated me again! Four and a half days! He lived only four and a half days. My mother was three times as long dying!”
“Does it matter now? Sthenn can do no more harm. You’ve avenged your family and saved us all.”
The dragon considered him silently for a moment, then said, “And now I’m going to my cave. I will sleep a while, and heal, and when I waken, I have a decision to make.”