Istar loomed inside them, unreal and dark. Trac shy;ing a roundabout path through the concentric pen shy;tagonal walls of the inner city, he approached its epicenter, its heart: the marble tower that housed the Kingpriest.
For that was Fordus's destination. Stormlight was sure of it. And sure, from the years of affinity between Prophet and interpreter, in which their minds had virtually melded in the search for water, for victory, for hidden dangers, that his old compan shy;ion was still alive.
Alive, and bound for the end of his journey.
At the very window toward which Fordus climbed, Takhisis waited, breathing cold life into the crystalline form of Tamex. Her hours as a warrior of salt and sand were dwindling. Already Tamex crumbled at the edges, two of his fingers broken off in the mere act of opening the door to this sparely appointed guest chamber.
Yes, the both of them waited there-the translu shy;cent warrior and his animating spirit.
But there was another as well. A blue-eyed, bald shy;ing man who cowered in the corner of the chamber, nervously fraying the lace on his high priest's robes.
Tamex had wakened him from his unsettling mid-morning slumber, where he dreamt trees as things with daggers, brooks and streams thickening and darkening in the red moon. He had almost been grateful to awaken, until he saw his visitor, translu shy;cent and eroding, at the foot of his bed.
He whimpered once, most unroyally. Fumbling for the broadsword in which the druid had instructed him all these years, he clutched the pommel desperately, but it was as though his arms had failed him-the sword was heavy and his hands trembled.
Tamex had dragged the Kingpriest from his sump shy;tuous quarters, imprisoning him in this room to wait out the last of the night, the sunrise, the first blood of the battle. Then, coming down from the walls, the crystal warrior had joined his captive in a meeting he knew would be brief.
Now Fordus climbed the last few feet toward the window. Tamex glanced once at the Kingpriest, whose sea-blue eyes widened at the sound of some shy;thing scraping beneath the sill.
Good, the goddess thought, swirling slowly in her body of salt.
Good. It is time for them to meet.
* * * * *
Fordus climbed through the window.
Moving quickly, his eyes adjusting to the shadows of the room, the Prophet saw two figures at the far door. One was Tamex, the man in the salt flats-the dark and menacing warrior who had trifled with Larken in the battle's aftermath.
Fordus crouched, prepared for battle. But then he noticed the other.
The older man-the balding, robed dignitary-he had seen somewhere, he was certain. The face lay half-shadowed, but the curious sunlight in the room illumined the man's eyes.
Sea-blue. The color of Fordus's own.
Cautiously, the Prophet approached them, draw shy;ing his dagger.
"At last," Tamex said, with a voice that resonated out of Fordus's memory-a voice he recalled from a vision, a dream.
He shrank from its sound.
"At last," Tamex repeated, raising a cracked and crumbling hand. "I have brought us all together."
With astonishment, Fordus saw that the warrior- the creature-before him was a thing of rock and crystal, a breathing stone with a stone's heart.
The thing gestured toward its white-robed com shy;panion. "Bow before the Kingpriest of Istar, Fordus Firesoul."
"The Prophet bows to no man," Fordus replied coldly, knuckles whitening as his grip on the dagger tightened.
"But honor is due the Kingpriest," Tamex insisted melodiously. "A natural honor that rises . . . from a forgotten time."
"You talk in riddles, false warrior," Fordus replied.
"Who is this man, Tamex?" asked the Kingpriest nervously, and the pale man turned his faceted face to the cowering ruler.
"This is the one who would have your throne, such as it is," Tamex announced. "This is Fordus, the Desert Prophet."
"Wh-What do you want of me?" the Kingpriest stammered, backing hard against the wall and the nearby door. "I intend you no harm, no slight. Stay away from my throne!" His fingers fumbled vaguely for the latch.
"You will remain!" ordered Tamex, a new, cold authority in his voice. It delighted and amused the goddess within him to humiliate the ruler of a vast empire, but the cravenness of the Kingpriest was sometimes . . . inconvenient.
In disgust and contempt, Fordus watched the robed man grovel. Why, the Kingpriest, his chosen enemy, was nothing but a coward! A thing of robes and her shy;aldry and high renown-no more than a figurehead, an elegant glove for his general's iron hand.
"And are you any better, false Prophet?" asked Tamex, his glittering amber eyes turned toward For shy;dus. "You accuse me of speaking in riddles . . . you! The mirage of the desert, the mockery of a Prophet!"
"You dare call me a mockery?" Fordus asked men shy;acingly, taking a long, aggressive stride toward the warrior.
"Oh, yes, Fordus Firesoul. You are a mockery. And many other foolish things."
With a brittle arm, Tamex seized the Kingpriest by the nape and dragged him into full light. Now For shy;dus and his adversary looked at one another face-to-face, and the slow light of recognition dawned in each man's eyes.
"That is correct, Your Eminence," Tamex sneered. "The son of a slave girl you wished so … devoutly to forget. And when the time came, you took the child-no, you had the child taken-to the desert, and there, in a lonely place where predators stalked and the sun was nigh and merciless . .."
"No!" the Kingpriest cried, covering his ears.
In astonishment, Fordus dropped his dagger. The world seemed to rock and, tumble around him, as though once again, huge cracks opened in the earth-molten crevasses, threatening to engulf and swallow him. He staggered, fell against the far wall.
"Don't you admit the . . . family resemblance?" asked Tamex, a sinister glee in his voice. "Why, the two of you are exactly alike!"
He gestured to the Kingpriest, who had fallen to his knees, moaning and shaking his head.
"You, sir," Tamex said, "are nought but a backwa shy;ter king. A ruler of ghosts and little fictions. And you, Fordus Firesoul…"
His amber eyes fixed Fordus once again.
"You are as much a tyrant as the man you sought to overthrow. I knew you always had it in you. In all your talk of liberation, you have only shackled, only oppressed!
"Yes, the two of you are identical! And you are both my creatures!"
With a cry, Fordus leapt for Tamex, but the crystal warrior tumbled into dust and swirled in a blinding cloud through the room. The dust rose, glittering and eddying, and flashed suddenly, painfully, into the Prophet's eyes.
Blinded, Fordus fell to the hard stone floor, grop shy;ing for his dropped dagger, for anything. Slowly the Kingpriest approached the helpless rebel.
"Forgive me," the Kingpriest murmured ironi shy;cally, as delicately he touched the collar at Fordus's neck, removing the opals with a whispered spell. He stalked from the room as the golden tore around the Prophet's neck began to sparkle, tighten, compress.
Blute lightning played over the glittering metal, whichVontracted with a slow, inexorable motion. Fordus, writhing and gasping, clutched savagely at the strangling collar, tried to cry out. He fell face first to the floor, stirring the unswept dust with his last, desperate thrashing. Slowly, with a choking cry, he sank into a black, abiding darkness, where the army of the dead opened their ranks to receive him. His last breath eddied on the dusty floor of the Great Tower of Istar.