After studying Rhayn for several moments, Huyar started to speak, but Sadira interrupted before he could accept the challenge. “Today, I run with the tribe,” she called, sliding off the kank. “That gives me a voice in choosing our leader, does it not?”
“Yes,” called Grissi.
“Only if she survives,” countered Esylk. “And not just one day-I say that when she can no longer run, her voice no longer counts!”
“Agreed,” Sadira said, stepping to Rhayn’s side of the line. “Let’s go. I must reach Cleft Rock as soon as possible.”
FIFTEEN
CLEFT ROCK
Sadira thought she and Grissi would never stop running. Each breath carried with it a searing wave of pain, and with every jarring step a dull ache rolled through her head. Hours ago, she had lost the feeling in her blistering feet, and she barely noticed as her numb legs carried her over the rocky ground.
“Keep running,” said Grissi, effortlessly trotting at the sorceress’s side. “We don’t have far to go.”
Had she not been so fatigued, Sadira would have hit the elf. Grissi had said the same thing four evenings in a row, after the rest of the tribe had disappeared into the desert and left them to plod along by themselves.
“Don’t,” Sadira croaked. “You’ve told me that too many times before.”
Even the sorceress did not recognize her own voice, for her throat was so swollen with thirst that she could hardly draw air down it.
“No, really,” Grissi said, pointing at the horizon. “Can’t you see them?”
Sadira lifted her eyes from the orange dust beneath her feet and glanced ahead. Her shadow lay next to Grissi’s, swimming over the broken ground like an oasis eel. The purple hues of dusk were just creeping up from between the rocks, while scattered across the plain were a handful of sword-length blades of grass that the kanks had neglected to crop on the way past. On the horizon, a strange, spider web grid of violet lines covered a gentle, dome-shaped knoll, but Sadira could see no sign of the tribe.
“Just a few more minutes and you can rest,” said Grissi.
“If I don’t collapse on that hill,” Sadira gasped.
This time, her words were barely recognizable. Grissi took the flattened waterskin off her shoulder, then unfastened the mouth and handed it to the half-elf. “Drink,” she said. “Your throat is closing up.”
Sadira shot her companion an angry scowl, then accepted the skin and closed her lips around the mouth. Taking care to keep her chin down so her eyes could watch the ground, she tipped the skin up. The sorceress continued to breathe through her nose as a trickle of hot, stale water ran down her throat. Without breaking her pace, she kept the skin raised high while she drained the last few drops of precious liquid.
Once the skin was empty, she thrust it back at Grissi. “You told me an hour ago we were out of water.” This time, her words were perfectly understandable.
“Never drink your last swallow of water until you’re within sight of the next one,” said the elf, slinging the empty skin over her shoulder.
Sadira peered again at the dark lines on the horizon. This time, it seemed she could make out the billowing crowns of hundreds of trees. “Thank the winds,” she gasped. “An oasis.”
“Not just any oasis. It’s Cleft Rock,” Grissi said, pointing toward the top of the knoll. “See?”
Sadira squinted at the distant trees. “No,” she said. “What am I looking for?”
“A split rock,” Grissi said. “I’ll never understand how city people go through life half blind.”
Sadira ignored this last comment, for the feeling was returning to her legs. Forgetting the throbbing ache in her back, she sped up to twice her previous pace. The exertion made her temples pound as though someone were driving a rockpick through them, but the sorceress did not slow down.
Soon, Sadira could see the elven camp. The warriors were scattered about the summit, gathered in dark clusters and preparing their evening meals. The children had already taken the kanks out to graze and were driving the beasts back up the hillside to tether them for the night.
“I must be getting faster,” Sadira observed. “Half the tribe’s usually asleep by the time I catch up.”
Grissi shook her head. “You’re no faster than before,” she said. “But today, we did not run so far.”
At last, the two women reached the bottom of the rise. As they climbed the slope, they had fight their way through a network of troughs filled with billowing chiffon trees and thickets of spongy yellow fungus. The channels had apparently been dug by some intelligent race, for they were arranged in a series of concentric rings and were the same depth and width. Occasionally, a narrow ditch ran from one channel down to another, giving the place its weblike appearance.
When the two women climbed out of the last trough, Grissi led the way to the crest of the hill. There, a circular monolith of black granite rose out of the dusty ground. The rock stood about as high as Sadira’s chest, and it was as big around as a large wagon. In the center was a jagged cleft, about two yards long and barely wide enough for a child to squeeze into. From its depths came a high-pitched hum, periodically broken by a rasping gurgle and the sound of trickling water.
Rhayn, Huyar, Magnus, and several other elves stood atop the monolith, gathered around the crevice. Their eyes were fixed on a hemp rope that had been attached to a spear’s shaft and dropped into the fissure. Grissi climbed onto the rock, then helped Sadira up.
“Give me something to drink,” Sadira gasped, bracing her hands on her knees and trying to control her heaving ribs.
Huyar surprised the sorceress by offering his flattened waterskin. Sadira cast a wary glance at his face. Seeing no treachery in his eyes, she lifted the bladder and poured the contents into her parched mouth. A trickle of hot, fetid water ran down her throat, then the bag was empty.
Sadira thrust the skin back to Huyar. “I’m in no mood for jests,” she growled. She looked to her sister, then asked, “Would you give me some fresh water?”
“What Huyar provided is all we have here,” answered Rhayn. “In a minute, the children will send up more.”
Sadira sat down on the warm stone, too exhausted to stand while she waited. Huyar stepped over the cleft and came to her side.
“You surprise me,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d last until we reached Cleft Rock.”
“Most of the time, neither did I,” Sadira answered, surprised by the elf’s grudging congratulations. “If I had been running only for myself and not for all of Tyr, I probably wouldn’t have.”
“How noble,” the elf said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Then all of Tyr must be as happy as you are that our father has not recovered from his illness.”
“I’m not happy about Faenaeyon’s condition,” Sadira said, noticing that Rhayn was keeping an attentive ear turned toward their conversation.
“Come now,” said Huyar. “You must admit that it served you well. We have reached Cleft Rock.”
“What’s your point, Huyar?” Sadira asked.
“Only this: that in the morning, you’ll leave to find your tower,” the warrior said. “If you can help the chief recover, there’s no longer a need for you to withhold your help.”
“I can think of one reason,” said Rhayn, joining the pair. “The instant Faenaeyon’s awake, you’ll demand vengeance for Gaefal’s death.”
“Perhaps I was wrong about Sadira’s involvement,” Huyar said, flashing a smile at the half-elf. “I should thank you for trying to save his life, not blame you for this murder.”
Sadira shook her head, disgusted by the elf’s willingness to barter his brother’s death for political advantage. “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” she replied. “If Faenaeyon recovers, you’re first in line to be the next chief. But if Faenaeyon stays in a stupor, the advantage belongs to Rhayn because she’s the temporary chief.”