Suddenly Fordus's fever broke, and as the sweat rushed over his body, the glyphs returned to his shocked and dazzled memory.
"I have brought you this," he shouted, pointing at the pooling liquid on his skin, "as a foretaste of the water we shall find elsewhere. For the glyphs are the sign of the Tine, the Third Day of Solinari, and No Wind."
Though exhausted and bleary, he knew to keep the sign of the Springjaw from them-the ominous glyph that foretold danger-at least for now.
And he hid the other glyphs, too-the Tower and Chair. The signs that Fordus Firesoul was the King-priest of Istar.
He hid much and said little, but Stormlight lis shy;tened intently to what he said. Suddenly, as it always did, the interpretation came to him.
"At the Tine!" he shouted. "Water three feet, four feet under! Hail the Water Prophet!"
"Who brings us the water!" Northstar chimed exultantly. He spun about, looking for Tamex.
But Tamex was nowhere to be found. On the bit of ' rock where he had stood only moments before, between Gormion and Rann, a dark dust wavered and dispelled.
For a moment Northstar wondered again who this man was. From where had he come? To where had he vanished? The question unresolved, the young guide stepped into the shadowy vacancy and lifted his eyes loyally to the rebel commander, who stag shy;gered a little in the full sunlight.
Larken began a second song of healing, of recon shy;ciliation and celebration-the song just as powerful, designed to drive away the darkness that had brushed against her people, that had dwelt among them for a while.
This healing song was as ancient as Krynn itself- so ancient that, according to the legend, the larken-vales themselves had taught the words to the first elven bards. And again in this late and fallen time, the old words worked. Tough, wiry grass suddenly bristled in the sands and the salt. A soft mist gathered and rose from the watery sand, bathing the Plainsmen and the bandits, rising up the sheer face of the Red Plateau until Fordus himself felt the cool shy;ing balm, felt the soothing mist wash over him and the poison slow in his hectic blood.
He looked down. The swelling in his foot had sub shy;sided.
The rebel leader raised his hands to the heavens once more, triumphantly and defiantly. He had mas shy;tered the darkness and the old death; he had returned from the desert with visions.
At the foot of the blossoming mesa, the Plainsmen danced.
Chapter 10
Takhisis stormed into the fastness of thc salt flats. The warrior's body she inhabited had stiffened and dried, almost to the point of crumbling and dissolv shy;ing, so the goddess moved heavily, clumsily.
Muttering a dark oath, she hastened between the droning crystals, over the level black sand, silk robe and translucent, faceted legs blurred with unnatural speed. The crystals themselves bent at her passing, like trees in a strong wind.
Takhisis crossed the flats to an upturned spot among the crystals, a black whorl of churned salt and crossing tracks. She had wandered this spot upon other nights, clad in the crystal flesh of the dark woman, her other avatar.
Now, preparing for yet another change, the god shy;dess crouched amid the black rubble, her glinting hands dry and fragile from her long stay in the invented body. Her brittle finger traced the outline of new tracks in the salt.
A fresh trail. A horse. Its path encircled this cen-termost spot…
And headed for the rebel camp, weaving through the barren landscape of crystals.
Takhisis glanced up warily, the features of her face suddenly crumbling, hardened and angular. Sun shy;light caught in her eyes and vanished, the warrior's body she inhabited glittered like polished onyx.
Somehow, she would get to that elf, Takhisis thought, as her assumed form of Tamex crumbled into black powder. She would eliminate that slight, wiry shadow with the desert eyes and the grand suspicions.
He must know of the opals. Of the watery black stones and their secrets. After all, he was Lucanesti, the opalescence of his own skin protecting him from her energies.
But he was vulnerable … on other counts.
The goddess hovered, a dark, incandescent cloud over the pooled salt.
Slowly, the salt and rubble began to whirl, as if borne on an unearthly wind. The spinning, unnat shy;ural cloud took on another shape-that of a huge creature, its leathery, angular batwings fanning the chaos of the hurtling debris. For a moment the cloud dwarfed the surrounding crystals, then suddenly it began to diminish toward a smaller, more solid form-that of the beautiful dark-haired woman, the temptress of all mythologies.
* * * * *
The woman emerged secretly from the Tears of Mishakal, at the southernmost edge of the salt flats after sunset. She came when the watches changed and the sentries, caught in the last business of the day before their long night vigil, turned their atten shy;tions briefly and idly elsewhere.
Nobody saw the whirling black sand, borne on a cold night wind, as it descended and coalesced at the border of the salt flats. Nobody saw the woman it formed, saw her slip into the camp. She blended in at once and well, her black silk robe discarded for a deerskin Plainsman tunic Tamex had taken from one of the newly dead. Nobody saw the woman take a place by the fires of the Que-Nara, her long dark hair tangled and covered with sand as though she had been grieving.
But it was not long until they noticed her, Plains shy;man and bandit and barbarian alike. They could not help but notice.
The woman was splendidly beautiful, her skin pale and luminous and her amber eyes glittering under heavy, sensuous lashes. But those eyes were red-rimmed and that pale face tearstained, and though her face was cold and impassive, it was easy to see that she had lost someone-someone dear-in the raids of the morning. And though all the men of the encampment looked upon her admiringly, long shy;ingly, they kept the mourner's distance out of decency.
Even Gormion's bandits were respectfully silent in her presence.
Stormlight noticed the woman as well, as he stood alone by his fire near the foot of the Red Plateau. Above, like a soft accompaniment to her arrival, the bard's singing tumbled from the height of the mesa, where Larken kept watch over Fordus as he drowsed and waked and wandered and continued to heal.
* * * * *
The-woman's amber eyes followed the elf intently as he walked across the littered campground. Storm-light approached slowly, drawn to stand silently beside her fire, the opalescence in his skin playing from blues to golds in the flickering light.
Stormlight wished then that Larken had come with him, to fable his deeds into wonders and miracles for this enchanting woman. His face flushed at the foolish prospect. He needed no glamour or go-betweens. He would show her who he was, without embellishment or ornament. He …
But what was he thinking? She was likely a new widow.
"You're too close to the fire, sir," a soft, echoing voice observed, breaking through the tangle of his confused thoughts.
"I… I beg …"
He stepped back as small sparks scattered on his lower legs, spangling his boots for a brief, uncom shy;fortable moment. He thought the woman laughed, but her expression was unchanged, nor had she moved from her spot by the dwindling fire.
"Here," Stormlight muttered, clumsily tossing kindling onto the blaze. "It will be cold tonight, and your fire is failing."