“Then you would’ve fallen into Sthenn’s hands or been killed,” Karada said bluntly.
Amero sat back, cradling his head in his hands. “I can’t help the past, but I can give you a future.” Eyes flashing, he raised his head and added, “You were taken in arms. Your life belongs to the one who defeated you, Lord Balif. He’s given you to me. I say you shall remain in the Valley of the Falls for the rest of your life. Blind or sighted, you’ll learn how to live as a peaceful man of our village, and if you cause trouble—any trouble at all—I’ll give you back to Balif!”
Karada stifled a grim smile at what she knew to be an empty threat. Zannian said nothing, so she punched him on the shoulder.
“Say something, boy,” said Karada. “What it’ll be? If you want, I’ll lend you a knife to fall on right now.”
Zannian’s expression changed from defiant to sly. He licked his parched lips, then said, “What happened to the black-haired girl, Beramun?”
“She’s in camp,” Karada said.
“Could I speak to her?”
Amero shook his head hard, but his sister answered, “That’s up to her.”
“I want to speak to Beramun and Nacris.”
His siblings argued, but in the end, it was agreed: Zannian would be taken to Nacris. Karada would be present, and when she ordered the meeting at an end, Zannian would go without complaint. Later, Amero would ask Beramun if she cared to visit Zannian. It was entirely up to her whether she did.
Amero touched his younger brother’s arm. “Don’t take me for a fool,” the Arkuden said. “I stood up to you in battle, and I won. If you make trouble or try to escape, I’ll deal with you. Brother or not, Yala-tene comes first.”
Amero stood. “Let’s go back to the village.”
“Leave him here,” Karada said. “He’s a wanderer, he’s better off in a tent than a stone hut.”
Zannian shrugged. “All places look alike to me,” he said without humor.
The Arkuden left. Mara clung to the warm ground, bathed in angry sweat. Her thoughts were confused, muddled, but one phrase echoed in her head—I’ll give you back to Balif! How could he betray his brother, a fellow human, to the Silvanesti? Didn’t he know how they treated their captives? What kind of tyrant had the Arkuden become?
Karada must be made to understand the enormity of the Arkuden’s words. Karada trusted her brother too much—and loved him unnaturally, Mara knew. That unnatural love, which blinded her to his true nature, was also the fault of the elves. Her Tosen had told her so.
17
The great pyre burned itself out around dawn. The mound of ash and embers slowly lost its dull red aura, but the pall of smoke hovered over the valley like a noxious mushroom, held in by the Ember Wind raging above it. When the funeral fire finally winked out, the last one to leave the scene was Duranix, who had watched over the pyre to the last. He flew back to his cave.
Amero wanted to talk to him, but his hoist had been destroyed during the raider attack. Silent calls for the dragon’s aid were ignored, so the only way for Amero to get inside was by the vent holes cut through the roof of the cave. He gathered vine rope from all over Yala-tene. He needed a great deal of it to descend to the cave floor from the high ceiling.
Conditions were improving in the valley. Hunting parties returned with the last of the village’s missing children. Every one had been found. Not a single child was lost, because the older children took care of the little ones, hiding out in the foothills exactly as their parents had told them. Likewise, the children and old folks of Karada’s band returned, not only hale and whole but staggering under the weight of fresh game and foraged food.
Karada embraced her old friend Targun. “Well done, old man!” she said. “Any problems to report?”
“None, chief,” he replied. “The country seems abandoned. All the time we were out there, we saw no one—not a human, not a centaur, not an elf. Just lots and lots of elk!”
“Sounds good. I wish I’d been there.”
The grizzled old plainsman regarded his chief curiously. “Was the fight not a good one?”
“Ugly,” was all she would say about it.
“When do we return to the plain?”
Karada had been pondering this question herself. She’d imagined her band would fight, defeat the raiders, and depart immediately when they were done. Last time she was in Yala-tene, it was such a strain to be around Amero that she’d left as speedily as possible.
Oddly, she did not feel that way now. The curse was still there, without doubt. She felt it skulking within her, like a hunger pang no meal could cure. But things were different now; the situation was more complicated. Amero had a woman of his own, a woman with whom he shared a history that didn’t include herself. There was Beramun, who had become like the daughter she’d never had. Balif too was a considerable distraction. These people filled her days and blunted the ache she felt from her compelled love for Amero.
Lastly, there were Zannian and Nacris. Karada found it hard to care much about the fallen raider chief. She hardly knew him, and what she did know, she didn’t like. Still, he was her flesh and blood, and how he lived his life mattered, if only because Amero felt so strongly about him.
Nacris was another matter entirely. She deserved death—even Amero agreed—but it was harder than Karada thought to condemn her. If they had met on the battlefield, sword to sword, Karada could have slain her joyfully. In her present state, crippled and deluded, there would be little honor in taking her life.
Targun was still talking.
“Eh? Forgive me, old man. I was elsewhere,” she told him.
“I was asking: How long will we stay here?”
She looked at the sky, still capped by the oppressive Ember Wind. According to reports from her scouts, the eastern passes and foothills were free of the life-draining wind, so the nomads could return to their beloved range any time they wished.
“Three days,” she said impulsively. “We’ll leave in three days.”
Targun looked disappointed. “So soon? I was hoping to feast the people of Yala-tene before we departed.”
“So feast them. You have my good wishes.”
Word was spread. In two days, a great feast would be held to celebrate the liberation of Yala-tene and the defeat of Sthenn and the raiders. The morning after the feast, Karada’s band would ride out.
Accompanied by Pakito, Karada entered the tent where Nacris was being held. A young nomad woman followed, bearing a steaming basin of water.
Nacris was dirty from her confinement, and her hair was a mass of gray snarls. “Is it my day to die?” she said with strange glee, eyeing her visitors.
“Not yet,” Karada retorted. “You’re to have a visitor. I thought you might want to clean up before he gets here.”
“Who is it? Hoten? Tell him to go away.”
“Hoten is dead.”
“Then I certainly don’t want to see him!” Nacris suppressed a giggle.
Karada sighed and turned to her towering comrade. “You see what she’s come to? Crazy as a sun-addled viper.”
Pakito looked on sadly and said nothing. Many years ago he’d had a longing for Nacris. She’d been a spirited woman in those days, a doughty fighter and a magnificent rider, better on a horse than even Karada. Nacris had preferred Sessan. Pakito got over his infatuation and took Samtu as his mate (though everyone else knew it was Samtu who’d done the taking). The twisted, wretched creature before him was far from the impressive woman of his youth.
Karada had the water bearer put the bowl in front of Nacris, then the girl gave her a small nub of pumice for scrubbing.
Nacris sat up, her chains clinking. She dipped both hands in and carried warm water to her grimy face.
“So,” she said, rubbing loose droplets from her eyes. “Who wants to see me, if not Hoten?”