The youth nodded eagerly, then started for the steps leading into the street. Rhayn caught him by the sleeve and redirected him upstairs. “One boy lost tonight is enough,” she said. “Go and get some sleep.”
Once the young warrior had reluctantly obeyed, Magnus produced an empty waterskin from beneath his tunic. He handed it to Rhayn, then picked up the cask and opened the tap hole.
“What’s that for?” Sadira asked.
“I doubt we’ll need this, but it’s best to be prepared,” said Rhayn.
The elf held the skin steady while Magnus filled it. Once that was done, the windsinger smashed the cask at the chief’s side.
“If anyone asks, Faenaeyon dropped it himself,” Rhayn said, sealing the skin in her hands. “Now, go back to sleep.”
“Keep a close eye on that wine,” Sadira said. “Someone mighty try to sneak a gulp.”
“Not from my satchels,” said Rhayn, going back upstairs.
This time it took Sadira much longer to doze off. At last she slept, only to dream of murder and betrayal.
ELEVEN
SUDDEN DEPARTURE
Sadira felt someone pull away the cape she had been using as a blanket, then a rough hand began tugging at her smock. She opened her eyes to see Huyar bending over her, a crumpled wad of blood-soaked blue cloth clutched in his hand. Behind him stood a dozen elves, the green rays of dawn streaming over their shoulders. Two of the warriors held Gaefal’s lifeless body suspended between them.
“What are you doing?” Sadira demanded, trying to sit up.
Huyar forced her back to the bench, then grabbed her smock and held the cloth next to it. The smell of stale blood came to the sorceress’s nostrils.
A cold knot of dread formed in Sadira’s stomach. “Get off me!” she yelled, pushing the elf’s hand away.
“It’s the same color!” Huyar screamed, thrusting the blood-crusted rag into Sadira’s face.
“So what?” demanded Magnus. He forced his way through the elves behind Huyar and plucked the enraged warrior off Sadira. “Leave her alone.”
“I found this cloth in the wound that killed my brother,” Huyar explained, holding the rag up for Magnus to see.
Sadira grabbed her satchel and stood, fearing she might need her magic to defend herself.
Without putting Huyar down, the windsinger took the rag, and held it up in front of one of his black eyes. “This cloth’s so blood-stained it’s impossible to say what color it is.”
“There’s blue around the edges,” Huyar said. He pointed at Sadira’s smock. “The same blue she wears now.”
“I’ve seen a thousand tunics that color,” Magnus said dismissively.
The windsinger started to slip the bloody cloth into his pocket, but Huyar snatched it back and stepped toward Sadira.
“Then let us see if this matches the shape of her torn collar,” he said, unwadding the cloth.
“It does,” Sadira answered, realizing she would only arouse suspicion by trying to keep Huyar from checking the rip. “I was passing by the Bard’s Quarter when I saw that youth stagger from the gate,” she said, pointing at Gaefal. “I stopped and bandaged his wound, but he died anyway.”
“Rhayn and I found her not too far from there,” Magnus said, his snaggle-toothed snout creased by what may have been an approving grin.
“I’m only sorry I didn’t recognize him as a Sun Runner,” Sadira added. “I would have told you about him sooner.”
“What do you suppose Gaefal was doing in the Bard’s Quarter?” Magnus asked, at last releasing Huyar. “Hasn’t Faenaeyon always warned us to leave the bards alone?”
The windsinger’s ploy almost worked. The warriors began discussing the reasons the youth might have had for entering such a dangerous place. Even Huyar fell into a thoughtful silence.
Unfortunately, the warrior reached the wrong conclusion. “There’s only one reason Gaefal would have disobeyed his chief,” the warrior said, glaring at Sadira. “He was chasing you, so you killed him.”
“You don’t know that to be true,” said Magnus.
“I don’t know it to be false,” Huyar answered, stepping toward Sadira and reaching for his dagger. “And I won’t take Lorelei’s word for it.”
Magnus grasped the elf’s wrist and prevented him from drawing the weapon.
Sadira tugged on the empty sheath at her waist. “Have you ever seen a knife in my belt?” she asked. “I lost my dagger before I helped the Sun Runners get across the Canyon of Guthay. If I killed your brother, what did I use?”
“You’re a sorceress,” countered the elf. “You could have used magic.”
“True, but that looks like a knife wound to me,” said Rhayn, stepping out of the stairway. “Why do you insist on blaming Sadira?”
“Sadira?” Huyar repeated, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Our guest,” Rhayn explained. “Just before we captured her, Magnus overheard her talking to a boy from the Veiled Alliance. Her real name is Sadira-Sadira of Tyr.
Sadira cursed under her breath. She knew Rhayn was trying to keep Huyar off-balance and save her life, but the sorceress would have preferred it to be done without revealing her identity to the rest of the tribe.
Huyar stared at Sadira in shock, and a buzz of astonishment ran through the warriors gathered behind him. “You are Faenaeyon’s daughter-the one who killed Kalak?”
“I am the daughter of Barakah of Tyr and your chief,” Sadira allowed, glancing pensively at her slumbering father. “Though, after abandoning me into slavery, I’m not certain Faenaeyon has the right to claim me as daughter.”
“What Faenaeyon claims is his,” Huyar answered. “But that gives me no cause to believe you. Perhaps your friend from the Veiled Alliance had a dagger.”
Back in Tyr, no Templar of the King’s Justice would have accepted the elf’s logic, but it was becoming increasingly clear to the sorceress that Huyar was not looking for the truth so much as a scapegoat.
“I didn’t kill your brother, but I can see there’s no use telling you that,” Sadira said, slipping a hand into her satchel. “So attack me now, or let the matter drop.”
“I’m no fool,” Huyar said, casting an uneasy glance toward the sorceress’s concealed hand. “But I won’t let my brother’s death go unavenged.”
“No one’s asking you to,” said Rhayn. “But it’s not for you to say who should be punished. Faenaeyon is chief-or have you forgotten?”
“I have not forgotten,” Huyar said. He motioned at one of the elves standing over Gaefal’s dead body. “Wake the chief, Jeila.”
The warrior, a woman with tangled brown hair and three bone rings piercing one nostril, scowled at Huyar’s back. Nevertheless, she went to the chief’s side and, placing a cautionary hand over his dagger hilt, shook him by the shoulders. “Faenaeyon,” she said softly. “We need you.”
The chief uttered an indignant growl, and his eyelids rose to reveal a pair of glazed pupils. He struggled to focus on the woman’s face, and for a moment it appeared he might overcome his stupor. Then he let out a loud groan, as though in terrible pain, and his pointed chin dropped back to his chest. His glassy eyes remained open and vacant.
“He’s still drunk,” Jeila reported.
Huyar shook his head and went to his father’s side. “I don’t think so,” he said, placing a hand under the chief’s shirt.
“Is he dead?” asked another warrior.
“No, but he’s sick. His heart barely beats, and his skin is as cold as night,” Huyar answered. Taking his hand away from his father, the elf looked at Sadira. “I wonder how many other tragedies your return to the Sun Runners will bring?”
“I’m not responsible for Faenaeyon’s gluttony, if that’s what you mean,” Sadira retorted. “He stole the wine from me-or have you forgotten?”
“Huyar, say what you mean or be quiet,” added Rhayn. “Only a coward implies what he is afraid to speak outright.”
“She’s right,” agreed Magnus. “Sadira is Faenaeyon’s guest, and you’d do well to remember that.”
At first, Sadira thought the two were defending her because of the help she provided, but a better explanation occurred to her. They were trying to undercut Huyar’s influence with the rest of the tribe, so that it would be easier for Rhayn to maneuver herself into position as the new chief.