At last Vincus knew where he was.
The camp of the rebels lay ahead in a soft, waver shy;ing firelight.
Chapter 19
Silently, moving through the tall grass like he moved through Istarian alleys, Vincus made his way to the edge of the rebel encampment.
He was not sure, actually, why he chose such secrecy. After all, he had come this far, through dan shy;gerous country and Istarian patrols, and finally, with the aid of the mysterious hawk, had reached his des shy;tination. But all of his instincts-born, perhaps, of his years in slavery and his childhood on the fringes of Bywall-urged him to be cautious, not to drop his guard just yet.
So he approached the camp stealthily, crouched low to make his movements small and quick through the grass.
The camp was laid out in three concentric circles. The outermost contained the outposts and fires of the sentries, the first warning line against assault or raid.
The men here were young: sharp-eyed, but also inexperienced. If an army had approached, they would have surely given warning, but Vincus was a solitary traveler, and a slippery, streetwise one at that.
Folding his tattered cloak and the bag Vaananen had given him close to his side, Vincus moved easily between two sentries-sallow-faced bandit boys from Thoradin, part of Gormion's following. He crept around the shadowy side of the first tent he came to, then waited until a cloud passed over the red moon, and raced through an open dry expanse until he reached another tent, another shadow, the second circle of the camp.
Instantly, Vincus knew he was among more sea shy;soned and watchful troops. These were men and women who had fought the year's war in the service of Fordus Firesoul, and had probably come to the Water Prophet battle-scarred and ready.
As Vincus crouched in the tent shadow, he sud shy;denly heard a low growling behind him. Slowly he turned to face a snarling midsized dog, its teeth bared and its fur bristling with aggression.
Vincus extended his hand. With the last scrap of his Istarian traveling rations, he bribed the dog to silence. He sat in the darkness, rubbing the willow-wounds that scored his shoulders, feeding bread to his newfound friend, mulling over a dozen ways- all unsatisfactory-to try to reach the center of the camp.
Something rattled against the book in the bottom of the bag. Reaching into the dark folds, gently brushing away the curious, snuffling dog, Vincus drew forth something hard and oblong, smelling green and citric, like the soft, thick husk of a freshly fallen walnut.
A zizyphus fruit. It could be nothing else.
Vincus wrinkled his nose. The zizyphus was ined shy;ible, good only for a soporific-to induce the sleep that banished pain. Clerics and druids made infu shy;sions from the fruit that their patients would inhale, and, within a matter of minutes …
Vincus smiled, tight-lipped.
Tossing the very last crust of bread into the shad shy;ows, he waited until the dog vanished after it, then crept around the side of the tent.
He approached another tight circle of tents and fires, perhaps a hundred yards away, that marked the command post of the rebel army. Vincus fell to his belly at the sight of two sentries standing watch by a fire in the open ground.
Raindiver and Bittern, the Plainsman sentries, stood faithfully at their posts, exchanging few words and staring out into the darkness. The banked fire between them was dim but warm, and while they watched, their thoughts slipped in and out of vigi shy;lance like the moon slipped in and out of the scat shy;tered clouds above the plains.
It was a night like any other, until something whistled by Raindiver's ear and skittered into the ashes, scattering sparks and filling the air with a thick, acrid smoke.
Bittern bent toward the fire and saw the small, oblong seed aflame in its very heart. Suddenly, the seed and the fire began to waver and double and blur, and he looked up to call to Raindiver, to warn him that something … something …
But Raindiver was already facedown in the grass, snoring contentedly.
Bittern dropped to his knees and tried to call out to the other sentries, to Fordus or Northstar, but another cloud seemed to pass over the moon and the sky and the fire went dark, and he felt himself falling.
Someone brushed by him, running. Bittern tried to shout again-a cry of alarm, of warning. But a pleas shy;ant dreamless sleep rushed over him, and he remem shy;bered nothing more.
The man had the look of a Prophet.
Vincus, belly-down in the dark grass like some enormous lizard, watched the auburn-haired Plains shy;man from a distance.
It was Fordus, he was certain. The slight blond woman who stood beside him in the firelight spoke in sign language-a strangely inflected version, but easy enough to interpret.
And there was the hawk, perched on a ring near her!
She had called the man "Commander." Called him "Prophet."
Vincus rose to his knees, peering through the last stretch of darkness toward the firelight. Not yet, he told himself. I will wait here for a while. For there is something more I am supposed to know.
"Bring me water!" Fordus commanded, his voice deep and melodious and a little too loud. "Bring meat, and a cup of wine as well."
A young man leapt at his command and rushed off into the darkness.
"Where is that boy? Where is the wine?" Fordus asked, much too soon. His followers stood about him uncomfortably, averting their eyes as he stared at each of them.
Finally, Fordus turned in Vincus's direction.
Though Vincus was well out of sight, hidden by tall grass and shadow, the firelight showed him the full face of the Prophet-the handsome, windburnt features and the auburn beard.
Unusual for a Plainsman. As were the eyes.
Vincus had seen that color before. Sky-blue? Sea-blue? Had seen it in Istar …
At the School of the Games? No. It must have been at the Kingpriest's Tower.
Barely had the name crossed through his thoughts than Vincus remembered. The hushed room of the great Council Hall, the man almost swallowed by a globe of brilliant white light, reflected off the pol shy;ished marble and the luminous pellidryn stones that spangled the Imperial Throne.
The Kingpriest. The Kingpriest had eyes like that.
And the other features. The thin aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones, and even the auburn hair. The resemblance was uncanny. Fordus might have been the Kingpriest's brother. Or …
Vincus's thoughts recoiled from the prospect. The priesthood of Istar was austere and proper. Suppose the Kingpriest…
It was a thought he could not even finish.
For a moment he lay silent in the darkness, his thoughts far away-on Vaananen, on those in ser shy;vice to the Tower and the city. He had come a long way with a single message of great importance.
But now, having seen what he had seen, would he deliver that message?
He would think on this a while, find a sheltered place in a greater darkness. He would have the night, at least, perhaps until sunrise. Then he would decide whether to approach the Water Prophet, or
go-He started to back away from the firelight, intent on losing himself somewhere outside the encircled tents. But suddenly, rough hands seized him by the shoulders and jerked him to his feet. Vincus spun around, but his attacker caught his arm and, with a flawless wrestler's maneuver, twisted it behind his back.
Hot pain shot through Vincus's shoulder, and he looked into the face of his assailant.
A Lucanesti elf, his arms encrusted with the first bejewellings of middle age, regarded Vincus calmly. "I am not sure whether your intentions are good or ill," the elf whispered. "But perhaps by other fires and among other people, we can find out just who you are, and why you spy on Fordus Firesoul."