The strategy proved even less effective than their "effort" to sneak out of town undetected. Whenever the astonished beggars-especially the children-opened their hands and saw what they had been given, they could not help crying out in delight. Soon, Galaeron and Ruha were surrounded by a moving throng, many of whom noticed the giant-sized gap between them and guessed the true identity of their benefactor.
They reached the small bridge that separated the marshaling fields from Pauper's Town, and the press of beggars brought the caravan's progress to a near standstill. The curses of drivers behind Galaeron and Ruha began to grow both in volume and vehemence but were drowned out by a steady chorus of, "Ilmater's blessing on the Generous Giant," or, "Thanks to the Tall One!"
It was in the middle of this madness that a slender hand wearing two silver rings reached up for a coin. Clasped around the wrist above the hand, hidden almost out of sight inside the cuff of a purple sleeve, was a silver bracelet bearing the skull-and-starburst symbol of Cyric, Prince of Lies. Galaeron ran his gaze up the sleeve to a silver-trimmed collar, where he found himself looking into the sunken eyes of a hollow-cheeked woman with ropy blond hair.
"I have had a vision," she hissed. "One you love-"
Galaeron pressed a coin into her hand and said, "Here's your copper. Take it and go."
She let the coin drop in the dust, nearly felling Galaeron's horse as a knot of beggars dived beneath its hooves to retrieve the offering.
"Listen to me, elf!" Her hand grabbed his reins and brought his progress to a stop. "You must return to Shade. I saw the Seraph in a dream-"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Galaeron said. He pulled his boot free of the stirrup and planted his foot in the center of her chest. This caravan is bound for Iriaebor."
He started to push her off-and found the tip of a stiletto sliding up under the armor on his calf. The sensation of cold steel pricking his leg caused a dark fury to rise inside Galaeron. Leaving the half empty sack of gold to slide off his saddle and spill on the ground, he reached across his body and grabbed the hilt of his sword.
"Shade," the woman hissed. "Go, or she will die."
Galaeron's heart began to pound like a Vyshaan war drum. Though he desperately wanted to ask the woman about her vision, he held his tongue and drew his sword hall out of its scabbard. Even had he thought he could trust a Cyricist, he would never have risked his plan by telling her that Shade was exactly where he intended to go.
"You have mistaken me for someone else, Madam," Galaeron said. "Now, step back or lose your head."
The woman's eyes turned black and sun-shaped, with long tongues of darkness wagging around the edges.
"Believe."
She sank her stiletto a quarter of an inch into his call, and Galaeron's blade rasped free of its scabbard almost of its own will. The woman raised her chin and waited with eerie calmness as it arced toward her collarbone.
"Believe!"
Galaeron's attack came to a sudden end as his forearm struck a huge, invisible hand.
"No," Aris's voice rumbled down from above.
"Leave her be, friend," Ruha called from the other side of Aris. "The mad cannot be blamed for their madness."
"Nor the messenger for the message," the woman added. Her voice was gravelly and multifold, as though there were a hundred people speaking at once. "Go."
The black suns faded from her eyes. Leaving her stiletto hanging from Galaeron's calf, she stumbled back and fell into the throng of beggars fighting over the coins he had let fall. Aris's grasp slackened, and Galaeron lowered his blade, his hand trembling so badly he could barely slip the tip into its scabbard.
"My friend, what is it?" Ruha asked. "Why are you so frightened?"
"More startled than frightened," Galaeron said. He reached down and plucked the woman's dagger from his calf, then displayed the bloody tip. "A message from our friend the cuckold. He wants to see us."
Ruha's dark brow rose, and Galaeron tossed the dagger over the beggars into an empty place in the field. When he turned to urge his horse forward he saw that it was hopeless. The road ahead was blocked by at least a hundred paupers- all with their hands out, praising Aris's generosity-and the little bridge was occupied by two dozen caravan guards on their way back from the marshaling fields.
Once they were clear of the bridge, the guards began shouting at the paupers to clear the road, using their shields and the shoulders of their big war-horses to enforce their demands. Galaeron did his best to remain patient. Whether or not the message had truly come from Malik, it only served to heighten his concern for Vala. His feelings for her were not as spiritual as the love for Takari that he had denied all those years on the Desert Border South, but only because a human and an elf could never come together like two elves could.
Nevertheless, Galaeron did love Vala-if not as deeply as Takari, then at least as strongly-and it had tormented him to remain comfortable in Arabel while she served Escanor as a bed-slave. Not a day had passed that he did not dream of returning to free her. If only she could hold on until he got himself captured.
When the guards began to grow impatient with the paupers and slap at them with the flats of their blades, Aris hit upon a helpful solution and began to fling handfuls of gold away from the road. It took two throws before the beggars realized what was happening and fled, all yelling Aris's praises and pleading for him to throw a handful their way.
Once the road was clear, the guards moved quickly to secure the caravan, thundering past on both sides and barking orders to get moving. Five of their number peeled off and came up beside Galaeron and Ruha, placing themselves so that any beggars returning for more handouts would have to go through them first.
The largest, a hatchet-faced woman in a helmet and dusty fighting leathers, came alongside Galaeron and waved them across the bridge. The guard's voice was as familiar as it was biting.
"Well done, elf. I doubt there's a deaf man or blind woman within a league of here who doesn't know you're sneaking out of Arabel."
Galaeron took a closer look. The speaker's gaunt features softened into those of Storm Silverhand, the hair that looped out from beneath her helmet turning silver and silky, the thin-lipped mouth growing full and shapely.
"This wasn't part of the plan." Fearful of betraying the identity of his guards, Galaeron was careful to avoid the honorific one usually showed the Chosen. The gratitude of the paupers took us by surprise."
"Oh, well that's fine then," growled the rider behind her. "How comforting to know things just slipped out of control."
They started across the bridge. Galaeron glanced over his shoulder to find the visage of an old horse-faced guard yielding to the black beard and frowning features of a man who could only be the renowned elf-friend, Khelben Arunsun.
Galaeron decided not to mention the message from Malik. The Chosen appeared less than enthusiastic as it was, and the last thing he wanted was to give them an excuse to change their minds.
"I apologize for the mistake," he said. "I should have realized how gold would affect-"
"Galaeron is not to blame," Aris said, his voice booming down out of the empty sky. "I am the one who wanted to give them the gold."
"Will you be quiet up there?" Khelben demanded. "At least pretend you're trying to sneak out of here unnoticed."
"I apologize," Aris said, his voice a low rumble that made the bridge planks quiver beneath the horses' hooves, "but you mustn't blame Galaeron-"