Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 3 - The Amber Enchantress (14 page)

“And why would you want me to do that?” asked “Because he'd never take my word over hers,” Sadira answered. “And I don't want to get blamed if she tries something before we reach Nibenay.”

“Sorry,” Magnus said. “I intend to keep her secret. Faenaeyon was a great chief when he was younger, but Rhayn's right about him now. It would be better for us all if you did as she asked.”

The Dancing Gate

“Is that Nibenay?”

Sadira pointed at the plain below, to where a distant city of minarets sat huddled in the shade of a rocky butte.

“Of course,” Faenaeyon answered, keeping his eyes focused on the hillside beneath his feet. He leaped over a spray of yellow cloud brush, landing on a round boulder, then immediately launched himself toward a jumble of copper-colored stones. “Did I not promise to take you to the City of
Spires
?” he called.

“And now you have,” the sorceress confirmed. She kept her hands tightly clutched on her kank's harness as it scuttled after her father's running figure. “Your obligation has been met. You don't have to escort me into the city.”

Faenaeyon stopped and looked at her, “You'll need us to help you find a guide,” he said, a silver glint in his eye. “Besides, Nibenay is a good place for elves to do business.”

“I can take care
—
”

Sadira's objection was interrupted by a wild scream
from the hunters running ahead of the tribe.

“Turks!”

Four terrified creatures sprang from a copse of silverbristle and bounded down the hill. They were larger than half-giants and as gaunt as elves, with stooped shoulders and white skulls uncovered by any sort of flesh. The tul'ks had bulging eyes, toothless jaws, and a set of oblong cavities where their noses should have been. Each wore a shabby tunic of tanned leather, secured about the waist with a snakeskin belt.

As they ran, the frightened manbeasts dragged their knuckles along the ground, using their gangling arms like an extra set of legs to keep themselves from stumbling. The Sun Runner hunters set off in pursuit, gleefully nocking arrows as they leaped from boulder to boulder.

“Stop your warriors!” Sadira said.

Faenaeyon gave the sorceress a look of disdain. “Why?”

“Because it's murder,” she replied. “The tul'ks have done nothing to you.”

One of the hunters loosed an arrow. The shaft sank deep into a tul'k's back. The manbeast stumbled and fell head over heels.

“They are beasts,” the chief scoffed, grinning in amusement as he watched the injured tul'k regain his feet and try to flee.

“Beasts don't wear clothes,” Sadira said. She thrust a hand into the satchel holding her spell components. “Call off your hunters, or I will.”

“As you wish,” Faenaeyon said. Turning toward the hunters, he boomed, “Let the tul'ks go!”

The elves came to a stop and looked back to Faenaeyon, their faces showing their confusion. “What did you say?” demanded one.

“He said to leave them alone,” Sadira called. “They've caused you no harm.”

The hunter looked from her back to Faenaeyon. “You want this?”

“I do,” Faenaeyon said. As the tul'ks disappeared into the brush, the chief turned to Sadira. “You really shouldn't have stopped my hunters. By killing the tul'ks, we're doing them a mercy.”

Sadira removed her hand from her satchel. “How can that be?”

“The tul'ks are descended from the Ruin Stalkers
—
a tribe of elves that disappeared three centuries ago.” He stepped closer, watching Sadira with a roguish grin on his lips. “Do you want to know how they became tul'ks?”

“Probably not,” the sorceress answered. “But tell me anyway.”

“The
Pristine
Tower
,” Faenaeyon said. “They were searching for the treasures of the ancients.” He looked in the direction the tul'ks had fled, then added, “You saw for yourself what became of them.”

“What are you saying?” Sadira asked, suspicious of Faenaeyon's story.

The chief shrugged. “The elders don't claim to know exactly how it happened. The warriors might have fought between themselves, or they could have been attacked by a herd of wild erdlus,” he said. “Or maybe they just stumbled across a wasp's nest. Whatever it was, everyone in the tribe was wounded, and they were changed into the beasts you saw.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Believe what you like,” Faenaeyon countered. “But if you go to the
Pristine
Tower
, take care not to spill your blood. If you cut yourself, even if you just scratch yourself, the magic of the place will change you into a beast more pitiful than the tul'ks. I've seen it happen.”

Sadira started to sneer at his claim, then remembered what the windsinger had told her about his origins. “Was that when you found Magnus?”

Faenaeyon's eyes flashed, more in pain than anger. “Yes. What do you know about that?”

“Only what Magnus told me
—
that you found him there when he was a child.”

“He was a newborn baby,” the chief corrected.

“Tell me about it,” Sadira said. “Perhaps it'll give me reason to heed your warning.”

Faenaeyon nodded. “When I was a young warrior, the Sand Dancers attacked us and stole my sister, Celba. By the time I recovered from my wounds and tracked them across the Ivory Plain, my sister had grown weary of being a slave-wife and fled into the desert. Her husband and four of his brothers went after her, so Celba fled to the one place they wouldn't follow
—
the
Pristine
Tower
. I found her pursuers camped in the lands just beyond sight of the tower.”

“What did you do?” Sadira asked. She found herself more interested in Faenaeyon's dedication to his sister than in what had happened at the
Pristine
Tower
. From the tale he had told so far, the chief did not sound like a man who would have abandoned a pregnant lover into slavery.

“I killed all five, of course,” Faenaeyon answered. “Then I followed Celba into the wild lands. What I didn't know was that the Sand Dancers had gotten a child on her. When I found her, she was already giving birth.”

“So Magnus is your nephew?” Sadira gasped.

The chief nodded. “Yes, but Celba didn't live to raise him. Because of the blood she had shed during labor, the magic of the tower changed her into a hideous, mindless beast. She tried to devour her child, and to save Magnus I killed her with my own sword.”

“And Magnus was wounded, which is why he's
—
”

“Do you take my blade to be that slow?” Faenaeyon demanded crossly. “Magnus was born as he is.”

The chief fell silent and began a gentle trot toward Nibenay. Sadira spent a moment trying to reconcile the image she had always had of her father as a coward with the tale of bravery she had just heard. When she could not, she gave up and urged her mount after him.

As her kank came up behind Faenaeyon, she called, “If you're telling me this because you want me to stay with the tribe, it won't work.”

Faenaeyon slowed, allowing Sadira to guide her mount to his side. When he spoke, his voice was overly calm. “What makes you think I want you to stay?”

“Don't you?” Sadira demanded.

The chief allowed a conniving smile to cross his lips, but did not take his eyes off the ground over which he ran. “We might come to an arrangement
—
”

“I doubt it,” the sorceress spat. “My talents are not for sale.”

Faenaeyon shrugged. “That's unfortunate,” he sighed. “But it doesn't change what you'll find at the
Pristine
Tower
. Truly, it would be better if you stayed with us.” “Better for you, perhaps,” Sadira answered. “But I've promised to go there, and I will.”

“Only a stupid fool would let her promise kill her,” Faenaeyon answered, shaking his head. “There's a reason fear is stronger than duty.”

Sadira wanted to ask if he had forsaken her mother because he was frightened, but restrained herself. To do so would have been to reveal her true identity, and she still thought it wise not to trust her father with that particular
secret.

Instead, she said, “Fear isn't always stronger than duty, even for an elf. You must have been afraid when you went after Celba.”

“I was angry, not scared”. No one steals from me!“ Faenaeyon said, glancing at her with a frown. ”If I had let them take my sister, they would have come back for my kanks and my silver."

“I should have known,” Sadira said. If there was bitterness in her voice, it was because she felt naive for thinking her father had ever acted out of noble motives. “You elves live only for yourselves.”

“Who else?”
Faenaeyon asked. They reached the bottom of the hill and started across the flat plain, pushing their way through a thick growth of brittlebrush. “Life is too short to waste on illusions like duty and loyalty.”

“What about love?” she asked. The sorceress was curious about Faenaeyon's feelings for her mother, and how, if he had known Sadira's true identity, would he have felt about her. “Is that an illusion?”

“If so, it is a good one,” Faenaeyon said, grinning. The terrain here was less broken, so he could afford to look at Sadira more often. “I have loved many women.”

“Used them, perhaps, but you didn't love them,” Sadira said acidly. She did not know whether she was more angered by the elf's flippant use of the word love, or the implication that her mother had been one insignificant consort in a stream of many.

Faenaeyon frowned. “How would you know about my women?”

“If you feel no duty or loyalty to your women, you can't love them,” Sadira countered, avoiding a direct answer to the question.

“Love is not bondage,” the chief scoffed.

“I know that as well as you,” Sadira countered. “But it's not self-indulgence, either. Did you even care for all the women you took as lovers?”

“Of course,” the chief replied.

“Then prove it,” Sadira said.

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

“Nothing too difficult.
Just name them,” Sadira replied, wondering what it would feel like to hear Faenaeyon speak her mother's name
—
or to hear him forget it.

“All of them?”

Sadira nodded. “If you cared for them all.”

The chief shook his head. “I couldn't possibly,” he said. “There've been too many.”

“I thought as much,” Sadira sneered. She tapped her kank's antennae, urging it into a gallop.

Faenaeyon quickly caught up to her. “There's no reason for haste,” he said, loping along at her side. “We'll reach the city long before they close the gates for the night.”

“Good,” Sadira said, not slowing her mount.

They continued at that pace throughout the morning, eventually coming to a caravan track that led into the city. A spirited melody rose from the main gate and drifted out over the plains, welcoming the travelers to Nibenay. Many of the elves began to dance, trotting along the dusty road in a heel-and-toe quickstep. Some of the warriors kept the beat by pounding the flats of their blades against a kank's carapace. Even those fatigued by the morning's hard run joined in the revelry and rocked their shoulders to and fro.

Only Faenaeyon seemed to resent the greeting, continuing toward the city at the unrelenting pace Sadira had set earlier. “By the wind, I hate this place,” he growled.

“The last time we were here, the guards demanded five silver coins to let us inside. No wonder they're glad to see us.”

His gray eyes remained fixed on the gate, a high-pointed arch flanked by a pair of craggy minarets. On the terraces of these towers stood many Nibenese guards, each waving his bow over his head as he swayed to the music. Between the minarets, a buttressed porch extended from the city wall and overhung the gateway. A dozen musicians stood on this balcony, playing the huge drums, xylophones, and pipes that sent the melodies drifting into the silvery desert. “I can get us inside for two coins,” said Sadira.

“How you can you save me this money?”

“Sorcery,” she answered.

Sadira gave him a knowing smile, hoping it would disguise the lie in her eyes. Her conversation with the chief had convinced her that Rhayn's warning earlier had not been entirely self-serving. Despite the casual manner in which he had accepted the sorceress's refusal to join the tribe, Faenaeyon clearly did not wish her to leave. As for her own feelings, Sadira's curiosity about her father was sated. If he was braver than she had imagined, he was no less self-centered, and she had no desire to know him better.

Faenaeyon nodded. “Good. Do it.”

When he did not reach into any of his purses to extract the coins, Sadira held out her palm. “Have you forgotten?” she asked. “I gave all my coins to you at the canyon.”

“In matters of money, I never forget,” the chief said. Instead of reaching for his purse, he summoned his son Huyar forward. The warrior's relationship to Sadira showed only in his pale eyes, for his features were square
and heavy for an elf. “Give her two silver, my son,” Faenaeyon ordered.

“I would, willingly, but you have taken all my coins,” answered Huyar.

Faenaeyon frowned. “I would expect one who hopes to replace me someday to be wise enough to hold a few coins back,” the chief said, still waiting for his son to produce the money.

“I would never dishonor my tribe by disobeying my chief,” Huyar said. The warrior scowled at Sadira, clearly blaming her for this setback with his father.

Resentment had become common for Huyar since the sorceress had ingratiated herself with Faenaeyon. Whenever she wanted something, the chief looked to his son to provide it. Sadira suspected that her father had no true fondness for Huyar, but pretended to favor the gullible warrior only because it made him more willing to do as Faenaeyon wished.

Glowering at his son, the chief opened the purse he had taken from Sadira and gave her two of her own coins. “Will you get them back for me?”

Sadira shook her head. “Think of it like this
—
you're not losing two silvers, you're saving three.” She took the coins and slipped them into the pocket of her tattered cape. “I'll go ahead and cast my spell on one of the guards. Allow a quarter of an hour for it to work its enchantment. Then, when you reach the gate, be sure to speak to the same guard I did.”