“Zannian.”
Nacris’s hands froze, pressed against her cheeks. “Don’t lie, Karada!” she said angrily. “If Hoten’s dead, how can Zannian still live?”
“He does, and he’s asked to see you. I told him he could, so long as I remain in the tent.”
Nacris resumed washing, though her hands shook visibly. “It can’t be,” she muttered. “It can’t be. My boy would not live with defeat and disgrace—”
“He’s not your boy!” Karada shouted so loudly that Pakito, Nacris, and the water girl all jumped. Her next words seemed filled as much with disgust as with anger. “His name is Menni, and he’s the son of Oto and Kinar, as am I!”
Nacris’s thin lips drew back in a wide smile. “So you know? I pieced the tale together a long time ago, I did. How does it feel, Karada, to know one of your brothers killed the other—killed the one you love?”
The nomad chief stepped forward, fists clenched. Pakito put a broad arm before her to halt her advance.
With a visible effort, Karada mastered her anger and said a few words in Pakito’s ear. His heavy eyebrows climbed his high forehead, but when his chieftain frowned emphatically, he nodded and went out.
Karada dismissed the water girl, then called, “Send the raider in!”
Two armed nomads guided Zannian into the tent. At the sight of him, Nacris gasped.
“What have you done to him?” she said hoarsely.
In answer, Zannian pulled the bandages from his head. His awful wounds spoke louder than any words. The puffiness around his ruined eyes had subsided somewhat, but the bruises were still dark and the red line of the sword cut was crusted and scabbed.
“Poor boy, poor boy,” crooned Nacris. “Karada did this to you?”
“No,” he said. “The elf lord, Balif, did it in a fair duel.”
“Poor boy... come closer.”
Karada ordered, “Stand where you are.”
Zannian advanced no farther but, groping about, sat down cross-legged, facing the sound of Nacris’s voice. Nacris regarded his awkward movements with obvious dismay.
“Why did you pretend to be my mother?” he asked quietly.
“It was Sthenn’s wish. I could not refuse. Later... I did it because I wanted to. You were a bright boy, Zanni, a great warrior. I was proud to be your mother.”
“Not a great enough warrior,” he said. Tilting his head toward the nomad chief, he added, “Karada says you must die. I wonder why she hasn’t killed you yet?”
Nacris snorted. “She can’t kill me! Sthenn foresaw my fate. Neither water, nor fire, nor stone shall kill me, and no man living shall strike me down.”
Zannian laughed, but the pain of his wounds cut his black mirth short. “All your stratagems were for nothing!” he hissed. “Now you are the prisoner of your mortal enemy! You’re just a crazy, hateful old woman. Better you had drowned years ago when the bronze dragon threw you in the lake!”
“A touching reunion,” Karada murmured, lip curling in disgust.
“You’re hardly any better,” Zannian sneered. “I know why you let Nacris live: The hate you share for each other is so strong, so much a part of your spirits that neither of you can bear to live without it!”
“I’m destined to kill Karada!” Nacris declared, trying to rise. Her missing leg and the heavy bronze chain brought her up short, and she subsided.
“You’re destined to feed worms,” the nomad chief shot back.
Just then, a muffled voice came from outside the tent. Karada peeked through the flaps.
“Ah! Good. Another visitor for the hag.”
Pakito had returned with Amero, who ducked inside and stood beside Karada. Brother and sister stared down at Nacris without speaking.
Nacris blinked rapidly. Her jaw worked, but no words came. Making strangled hissing sounds, she struggled again to stand.
“Yes, he’s alive,” Karada said, pleased by the effect of her surprise. “Your green assassins failed. They killed the wrong man!”
With a shriek, Nacris picked up the water basin and smashed it on the ground. She thrust a jagged shard at Amero. Though he was well beyond Nacris’s reach, Karada stepped between them, sword bared.
Losing her balance, Nacris fell over Zannian, knocking him onto his back. The clay shard cut his cheek. He wrenched the fragment from her hand, and they rolled over several times, winding the chain around them both. Nacris seemed oblivious, howling her hatred for Amero and Karada all the while.
“Pakito, separate them,” Karada said, appalled.
“Stay back!” Zannian shouted, gritting his teeth as he fought to pin the raging woman beneath him. To Nacris he said, “Be still, mother, and I’ll put you out of your misery!”
“No!” shouted Karada and Amero in unison. Both moved toward Zannian.
But before they could reach them Nacris had worked loose the stake holding her chains to the ground. With a shrill cry, she whipped the heavy wooden peg into her free hand and smashed Zannian in the head. His body went slack. Nacris heaved herself to one knee, facing Karada and Amero in triumph.
Pakito had his stone mace in his hand, but Karada ordered him back.
“Give me a true weapon,” Nacris demanded, panting. “Let me die like a warrior!”
Karada’s features twisted. “You’re not a warrior,” she said coldly. “You’re the mother of three dozen and one snakes!”
The bronze blade went up. Nacris had her fetters clutched to her chest, protecting her. Karada turned her blade and brought it down with all the rage and pain of her lifetime. When it ceased its shining arc, Nacris’s head fell from her shoulders.
Nomads summoned by the shouting burst into the tent. They saw their chief, the Arkuden, and Pakito standing over the erstwhile leader of the raiders. The headless body of the prisoner Nacris lolled at their feet.
Amero knelt by Zannian and reported he still lived.
Pakito said, “Take him to Karada’s tent. Bind him, but not too harshly.” Two men took Zannian by the hands and feet and carried him out. Pakito went with them.
Alone with his sister, Amero stared at the dead woman, shattered by what he’d heard and seen.
Tearing his gaze away—and forcing himself not to look on Nacris’s severed head—he whispered to his sister, “Are you all right?”
“Of course I am.” Karada bent and cleaned her bloody blade on a fold of Nacris’s shift. “There’s one problem solved.”
Amero was shaking. “How can you be so hard? Does life mean nothing to you?”
Karada slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “Pity can get you killed,” she told her brother. “I have none for her, and neither should you. How many times will you let a mad dog bite before you strike it down?”
He couldn’t answer. He could only regard her in silence with wide, shocked eyes.
Her voice softened. “She mentioned a prophecy, an augury made by the green dragon. He told her neither water, nor fire, nor stone would kill her, and no man living would strike her down.”
Amero looked down at his feet, his buckskins splashed with blood. “How did he know?” he asked. “How did Sthenn know Nacris would die at the hands of a woman with a bronze sword?”
“He was a dragon,” Karada replied, shrugging. “Dragons know too much.”
Late in the night, a log raft pushed out from shore. Two people stood on it. The taller one gripped a long pole, with which he propelled the raft out into the lake. His companion stood on the other side. Between them lay a long, hide-draped bundle.
No stars could be seen through the rushing clouds, but the last flickers of the Ember Wind provided a pulsating light to guide them away from shore. When the raft neared the center of the Lake of the Falls, the man stopped poling. The raft drifted slowly under the momentum of his last push.
“This is good,” said Karada.
“How deep is the lake here?” asked Harak.
“Deep enough.”
He hadn’t asked a single question, not even when Karada, cloaked and hooded, had arrived at the prisoners’ pen and bade him come with her. A simple job, she’d said. A special task she didn’t want her band to know about.