Sennar's Mission (28 page)

Still yet, she suffered images of death. Salazar as it imploded and crumbled to earth, overcome by flames. Livon imploring her, “You still haven’t avenged my death.” The people of her city repeating, as if in a trance, “When will his blood be spilled, he who spilled our blood? When will his life be taken, he who took our lives?”

It was an endless nightmare. Then, one after another, the crying voices began to fade. Little by little, terror loosened its grip. And in the end there was only darkness, silence, stillness.

This must be death. I’m dead.

When she cracked open her eyelids, the daylight stung her.

She was in a tent. Someone was holding her hand. Slowly, she turned her head. “Laio …” she whispered.

“Everything’s okay,” he responded, running his hand over her hair. “Everything’s okay. Really.”

Beneath the soft sound of his murmuring, Nihal rested her head again and slipped finally into a peaceful sleep.

Once she had resurfaced and the burning pain in her injured leg had subsided for long enough, she was able to listen as Laio recounted the details of her rescue. Oarf had carried her behind the battlefront and left her in the care of the squires.

“How’s he doing?” she asked, worried.

“He suffered a deep wound, but he’s beginning to heal now,” Laio answered. Then he cast her a disapproving glance. “What in the world were you thinking, Nihal?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she feigned.

Laio shook his head. “Don’t act like I’m stupid, Nihal. That man is too strong for you. You shouldn’t have let yourself go like that.”

Nihal said nothing. She was enraged, overcome by a blind and all-consuming anger.

Not only had Dola defeated her, but he’d injured her dragon. She couldn’t bear the idea that Oarf, too, had nearly become another of his victims. Destroying Dola was no longer just a challenge—it was a necessity.

A few days later, Ido stopped by to visit her at her bedside. The dwarf was in bad shape. His arm was wounded and he seemed wracked with exhaustion.

“Damn it, Nihal, this time you really made me worry,” he began, before he’d even entered the tent.

Nihal laughed, but her good humor was lost on the dwarf. “How’d the battle go?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

“That evening, the day you were injured, we retreated and established this encampment,” he said, as he sat beside her cot. “We were overwhelmed. As it stands now, we’re at a stalemate.”

“Who tended to my wound?”

“Ganna. When it comes to strategy, he’s a wreck, but as a sorcerer he’s not so bad.”

Nihal eyed her bandages. “Ido, Dola’s lance penetrated my armor.”

“I know, Nihal. You’re hip’s torn open.”

“But black crystal is the toughest material in the Overworld. How could it be possible that …”

“Listen, Dola’s not just any warrior. He’s in direct contact with the Tyrant. He’s capable of far more than you can imagine. Which is precisely why I told you to avoid him.” Ido shot her a look of reproach.

Nihal could tell he didn’t feel like dwelling on it, but that he certainly didn’t approve of the little adventure that had ended with her lying on a sickbed.

“We were right on top of one another when he stabbed me. He had all the time in the world to take aim. He couldn’t possibly have missed,” she said. “Do you know what that means?” she insisted, but he remained stubbornly silent. “Ido, answer me. Did he spare my life?” Silence. “I asked you a question. Did Dola spare me?”

“It makes no difference.”

“Well, it does to me, if you don’t mind. He wounded my dragon and he made a mockery of me, the same way he made a mockery of everyone in my city!” Nihal raised her voice. “That’s why he let me live. Just to ridicule me, to show me how inconsequential I am, that I’m not even a threat to him.”

A sharp pain in her hip cut off her words.

“Yes, so he spared you!” Ido burst. “Now what? Just thank the heavens you’re still alive.”

“Dola is a dwarf, did you know that?” Nihal asked.

Ido stood without answering, then made for the exit.

“Wait! Do you know him? Have you faced him before? Why won’t you just talk to me about him, Ido? What’s your problem?”

Ido turned, exasperated. “No, I don’t know him! What I am, though, is worried about you, Nihal. Do you not see what’s happening to you?”

The nightmares she’d suffered during the battle flashed in Nihal’s memory.

“I don’t want you here,” Ido grumbled, interrupting her reverie. “I’ve arranged for you to take two-weeks’ leave. You’ll go to the Land of Water. There you’ll have time to heal, and when you return you’ll be your old self again, and you’ll have forgotten all this nonsense.”

Nihal tried lifting herself from the pillow. “No! I …” The pain stole her breath. She paled.

Ido began walking back toward her. He was no longer angry or disappointed. “All I want is for you to think this over, Nihal. Take a break. Take a minute to reflect on what you’ve accomplished these past few months. That’s all. You’ll leave tomorrow,” he said, and walked out of the tent before she could respond.

Laio insisted on going with her, and Nihal, too, made a fuss about bringing Oarf along. In the end, both the squire and the knight were granted their wish, and the three of them left the next morning, accompanied by a guide. When Nihal saw Oarf, she nearly broke into tears. Had she been able to move, she’d have liked to hang from her dragon’s enormous neck and beg his forgiveness. He looked back at her bright eyed, returning her stare as she lay there white as a bed sheet on her cot, as if to let her know that a knight and her dragon share the same fate, that it was only natural they’d both been injured.

It was a pleasant journey. The stretcher that had been provided for Nihal’s transport was comfortable. Barely visible in the distance was the countryside of the Land of Water with its thousands of springs, breathtaking as always. Considering that wondrous landscape after the monotony of battlefields, Nihal realized she’d nearly forgotten there was life outside of war, a life she might one day take part in, once she quit trying to find herself in the heat of battle. The first time she’d traveled to the Land of Water from the Land of the Wind, three years before, the crossover from one land into the other had been hardly distinguishable. But things were different now. From the squalor of the scorched and battle-worn steppe they passed into the lustrous ambience of a still-untouched and fertile land. At the border, marking the passage between the two realms, Nihal noticed a sort of aquamarine barrier.

“What is that?” she asked the guide.

“What?”

Nihal lifted her arm from the stretcher and pointed. “That stripe there in the distance.”

“Are you a sorceress?” the man asked.

“No. I mean, I know a spell or two, if that’s what you’re asking.” Nihal replied.

“Ah, that explains it. That’s the barrier erected by the nymphs of the Land of Water to prevent the armies of the Tyrant from entering. Only those who know sorcery are able to see it.”

“I don’t see anything,” said Laio, stretching himself forward on the back of his horse and squinting at the horizon.

“A band of nymphs are responsible for maintaining the barrier, night and day.”

Narrowing her eyes, in fact, Nihal could make out a few of the evanescent water creatures. They stood a few arm lengths from the barrier, standing tall in all their beauty, their diaphanous hands reaching out toward the border. Their faces were absorbed in the effort, their long hair blown back by the rush of wind. Carved into their concentrated expressions was a sense of melancholy, a sense of utter loss, of lives consumed in sacrifice and solitude.

Nihal could feel that emotion drift toward her like a fog through a valley, until it enveloped her completely. For a moment, she felt dizzy, and she seemed to hear the voices of those creatures who had chosen to sacrifice their lives, even though they still clung to the sweet memory of a normal existence. The echo of a doleful, mournful litany reached her ears, and she could hear the words of the spell as they went on maintaining the barrier. It was like the sound of some brave dirge, full of dignity and pain.

Nihal knew the long torment of losing what cannot be regained. She turned her gaze from those sorrowful creatures.

They settled in a village not far from the border. Behind the houses was a forest, and there between the trees resided the nymphs. Filling out the view, in the distance, was a makeshift army base.

Nihal spent the first few days in bed and found herself enjoying the luxury of forced rest. She was too weak and tired to think of anything else but her own recovery.

Several nymphs were responsible for treating her wound. The first time one of them entered the room and explained that she was there to take care of her, Nihal was astonished. The ethereal creature approached her slowly, gracefully, as if hovering over the ground. Then she touched her. It was the first time Nihal had ever had any physical contact with a nymph. They seemed to be composed purely of water, and Nihal had always thought of them as somewhat impalpable creatures. Instead, the hand now resting delicately on her hip was fleshy and tangible. The nymph’s cooling touch pulsed with a revitalizing force and gave Nihal a sensation of wellbeing that exceeded even the most powerful healing spells Sennar had persuaded her to try.

“Is it sorcery?” Nihal asked.

The nymph smiled. “If that’s what you want to call it … For you humans it makes sense to speak of it as sorcery. You’re too detached from the natural forces; you cannot tap in to the life force that runs through the soil, through the trees, through the water that is our mother. But for us it is much different. We are composed of nature, and therefore we are what you would call sorcery.”

Thanks to the nymph’s healing touch, Nihal was soon able to get out of bed, though the moment she was back on her feet her troubled spirit began once again to torment her. She had two weeks of leave to get through, and she hadn’t even made it through the first. She wondered how she’d ever manage. For the first few days of recovery, she hadn’t given it much thought, but now the images of her defeat swirled ceaselessly in her head. Dola’s eyes, the dragon’s sneer derided her, and she knew the score had not yet been settled.

She began to wander about the village’s surroundings, following along the thousand creeks that cut through the land. The thread of her reasoning unraveled in winding paths, as circuitous as the waters running beside her, revolving always around the same central thought: Dola. Not even the splendor of the landscape could overshadow that name. The idea that Dola was free to do whatever he pleased with the Land of the Wind, with her native soil, with her home, was intolerable. Until he was annihilated, she would find no peace.

Only one thing troubled her: the dwarf’s armor. When she’d finally managed to strike him, the scratch had vanished on its own. The Tyrant, doubtless, had improved his armor with some sort of enchantment. Against an enemy like Dola, a sword would not be enough. She’d have to resort to magic.

It was the following evening, as she racked her brain trying to think of who she could turn to for a solution, that all the pieces fell into place.

I could always head back to the library in Makrat. Find some way to distract that loathsome librarian, take down a few of the black books from the prohibited shelves. There, I’d certainly find a spell capable of …

Nihal’s heart leaped. How could she not have thought of it before? Megisto! According to the
Chronicles of the Fight Against the Tyrant
he was still alive, imprisoned right there in the Land of Water. It was Megisto she’d have to find! Who more so than he would be familiar with the Tyrant’s sorcery? Who, if not the sorcerer who’d served as his faithful servant?

The next day, during the nymph’s daily visit, Nihal built up her courage and decided to give it a shot. “I’m looking for someone in particular. Perhaps you know where I can find this person …”

The nymph went on with her work, passing her hands gracefully over the wound.

Nihal took her silence as a positive sign and resumed her question. “His name is Megisto,” she spat out.

A tremble passed through the nymph’s hands. “Megisto is a condemned traitor,” she said, without lifting her eyes from her work.

“I know. I need to speak with him.”

The nymph shook her head. “There’s no reason for you, or anyone else, to seek him out.”

“Listen, I’m begging you,” Nihal insisted. “The man who did this to me is an atrocious enemy, one of the Tyrant’s most ruthless warriors. I’m going to have to face him again and I’d like to win this time. But the only way I’m going to do that is if I speak to someone with a knowledge of forbidden magic. I have to know … Please, just tell me where I can find him.”

For a long while, the nymph was silent, attending dutifully to Nihal’s wound—so long, in fact, Nihal began to think her plea had failed. Then, when the nymph had finished with her work, she stood and walked toward the exit in silence, an unreadable expression on her face.

Standing in the doorway, she turned back toward Nihal. “In the darkest part of the forest, to the northeast of the encampment, there’s a small clearing,” she said, speaking faintly. “You can’t miss it. In the center of the clearing is a large boulder. Go there as the moon rises and wait. You’ll find him without having to look.”

Nihal smiled. “Thank you. Truly.”

“I haven’t done you any favors,” the nymph murmured, and walked out the door.

Nihal couldn’t restrain herself. The sun had hardly begun to fall when she snuck outside, wrapped in her cloak despite the heat, and made for the hut at the edge of the village that they’d converted into a stable for Oarf. When the dragon saw her coming, he stood tall at attention and greeted her with a satisfied grunt.

“I’m going boulder hunting, Oarf. Would you like to join?”

The dragon lowered his head for her to climb on.

“What would I do without you?” Nihal said, smiling.

They took off heading northeast, skimming over the treetops. At dusk, the forest took on a grim aspect. Birdcalls and the rhythmic beating of Oarf’s wings were the only sounds in the flame-orange sky.