Had these three servants of the city-quartermas shy;ter, armorer, and barracks keeper-met in a tavern that first festival night, had they compared notes and curious observations over the last several days, they might well have placed together that all three passersby-mercenary, acrobat, and fortune-teller- were exactly the same height, age, and coloring.
Indeed, the Shinarion was a time of commerce and coincidence.
There was one other similar visit in the central city-the last of the four-in a large stable not far from the School of the Games. In the shadowy, musty-smelling barn, a solitary groom mucked out a stall amid the whicker of horses and the buzz of bottle flies. He scarcely noticed when a slave appeared-a dark young man, wearing the white tunic of the Inner Temple.
Balandar's servant, the groom observed dimly, his mind neither on nor off his work.
No doubt the old priest was set to buy another mare.
The young slave nodded to the drowsy man and passed between stalls quietly, as though shopping for horses. The groom left him alone, no more inter shy;ested in his business than the quartermaster, armorer, or barracks keeper had been earlier in the day. Finally, the groom fell asleep over his broom, dreaming of winning a hefty wager at the First Games of Josef Monoculus, and spending it … spending it…
All on beer.
Vincus, meanwhile, moved from stall to stall, looking for anything odd or out of place. Most of the animals were familiar to him:-the roan that belonged to young Trincera, a priestess of Mishakal, the two mares that his master Balandar owned, and
the Kingpriest's half-dozen stallions.
There were others, however, less familiar. Vincus approached one, then another. The great beasts were calm and steady beneath his confident hand, as the young slave quickly checked ears and flanks and teeth.
The brands on the flanks of two geldings clearly indicated that they were the property of merchants from Balifor. Nothing surprising there.
The braided mane of the pony indicated its Tho-radin origins. Vincus smiled to imagine a dwarf rid shy;ing the creature, unsteady in the saddle, cursing and muttering and pulling at his beard.
It was the fourth mount that caught and held the young man's eye. A strong, spirited gray mare, weathered but well tended, stood in the far stall, eyeing Vincus defiantly. An old, long scar creased her withers, and her right flank was pocked with four arrow wounds, healed years ago as well.
As Vincus approached, the mare lowered her head and snorted once, menacingly.
Vincus slowly extended his hand. The slice of apple, an offering of truce, settled the animal's tem shy;per. A bit skittishly, the mare let him stroke her long dark mane, let him examine her flanks and hooves for identifying markings.
Nothing. The horse was unmarked.
Making a soothing, clicking sound, Vincus reached up and opened the mare's mouth. There, on the pink of her inner lip, was the blue tattoo.
The hexagon. Glyph of the Sixth Legion.
Vincus sucked in his breath. The Sixth Legion was the stuff of legends. Istar's finest, a tough, relentless group of veterans trained by Solamnics and schooled in the Siege on Sorcery and in innumerable raids against the ogres. They were noted for their swiftness and endurance …
And utter lack of mercy.
Now they camped on the borders of Kern. At least that was what he had heard in the taverns and the School of the Games-the information he had brought back to Vaananen in their weekly visits.
His thoughts racing, Vincus examined the lip of the black gelding in the adjoining stall, and the chestnut mare near the entrance to the stables. The blue hexagon marked them both.
The Sixth Legion was in Istar.
Quickly the young man's mind rushed over the gatherings of the day. New provisions, new weaponry, and now a horse that named the stranger. The Sixth Legion, under cover of darkness and dis shy;guised as acrobat, dancer, and merchant, had been recalled to Istar.
The Kingpriest was preparing for the rebels.
Chapter 14
For ten days he stood at the border between worlds, as the shamans despaired for his life. Larken sang healing songs over him, and the music and words trickled into his long, dry sleep like a dream of water.
Fordus would rise toward the surface then, toward light and waking, but there was another voice inhabiting his sleep-a voice deep and tranquil and alluring.
Lie down, be at peace now, you have fought long and hard and done your best, let someone else do the hard work henceforth and come to me, come to me in the sweet darkness.
I will teach you everything of prophecy.
On the third day after his wounding, he gave in to the voice, to its soothing and promises and to his own curiosity, and his dreams revealed wonderful things.
It was always the desert he traveled, a featureless desert with neither rock nor salt flat nor arroyo to mark it, to distinguish one path from innumerable others. And always in this dream, he came upon the kanaji pit by surprise-an old wide well swallowed by sand, rising from the heart of nowhere.
He entered the pit, the darkness, and his hands began to glow with unexpected light-a light that seemed to rise from his own veins, filling the high circle of limestone wall.
But instead of the expected glyphs, the accus shy;tomed marks in the sand, the woman Tanila sat before him, her dark eyes glittering and wild.
The words came to her readily, easily, like the words of Larken's songs. You have opened the rift of the world, she began, as he extended his glowing hands toward her. Let the new world arise from rift and confu shy;sion. Let it change in the flame of your hand.
Then the light in his veins would extinguish, the blackness would surround him, and he would sleep heavily, darkly, until the voices returned, Larken's first, then the deep soft voice in pursuit. The dream would happen again and again. And each time, before complete and oblivious darkness, he would hear the other voice, melodious and solitary, blend shy;ing with his memories of Tanila's voice. And it would tell him the last thing, the thing his heart remembered as he slept.
Your studies are over, Prophet. Now the world will shake. You no longer need glyphs to prophesy, nor the cus shy;tomary second tongue. You will speak to the multitudes on your own, needing neither interpreter nor bard.
In the depths of his sleep Fordus tried to argue, tried to say no, I have not done this before, have not prophesied and interpreted as well. It is not permit shy;ted. The ancient way of prophecy is twofold.
But the voice was insistent.
You are a city unto yourself, a wondrous city, Fordus Firesoul. Istar will pay you tribute, will be subject to your command. The rival you have longed for awaits you in Istar: the Kingpriest, your match in valor and worthiness. But you will triumph.
And this I promise: In the heart of Istar you will find out who you are.
Who I am? he asked, with the same insistent yearning he had felt upon first learning of his strange adoption.
Hurry. You must hurry to know. You must storm Istar now.
Do not delay.
But we are too few.
Do not delay.
On the plateau the rebels held hopeless vigil over their wounded leader. Northstar knelt at his feet and Stormlight at his head, praying the deep prayers to Mishakal. Larken stood above the three of them, beating the drum slowly and singing the Three Songs of Healing, over and over. They stopped only for an hour's fitful sleep.
On the second night, Gormion took her followers back to the red tents of the bandits. It was enough, she concluded. The man was dead, and all that remained was to name Stormlight as his successor.
The Que-Nara were more faithful. Many of them stayed through four, five nights, but on the sixth day the number of watchers began to dwindle. Women led the children to their tents, and some of the older warriors and the shamans returned to camp on the seventh day.