Chasers of the Wind

18

Tia got to the Ors when it was getting dark. She stopped in a grove of willows along the bank, a few yards away from the water, and sat down without taking her eyes off the opposite shore. The mighty river was leisurely flowing toward the sea and it gleamed with the nighttime lights of Al’sgara reflected on the water. Right now the southern capital reminded her most of the great city of Sdis, Sakhal-Neful, when it was being approached after sunset from the Great Waste.

Typhoid gazed through Pork’s eyes and could not believe what she saw, even though she should have expected it. The last time she had beheld these walls and towers was five hundred years ago, on the day when one part of the Council rebelled and decided to destroy the other. Twenty of them opposed the Mother and her supporters, and only eight, those who would later be known as the Damned, survived the night to leave the city, fleeing after the failed rebellion. Yes, they killed many, including the Mother herself, but they wasted too much energy fighting those who came from the Rainbow Valley to help Sorita.

Pork gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, remembering that time along with his Mistress. Since then none of the Sextet had seen the great city. The War of the Necromancers devastated the Empire over the course of fifteen years, and then they had to go beyond the Boxwood Mountains and Nabator. To Sdis. To the Great Waste and beyond.

And now, after so many years, here she was on the shore of the river, looking at the city once more, the city in which she had lived a part of her former life. Al’sgara was the same and yet completely different. Foreign. True, even from this shore it was possible to see the walls, towers, and spires of Hightown. The Sculptor’s walls and the temples to Melot were the same as before, but much that was new had appeared. The city had grown. It had expanded along the coast, overgrown its walls, spawned new districts, new buildings, new homes, new people, and had become much more unsightly, dangerous, and frightening. Typhoid felt like this enormous creature was breathing, defecating, and seething with thousands of people, alive with the magic of the Walkers. If Retar were alive, he would have put it differently. But he was long gone, even though she could still recall his face and his smile quite well. She had loved him more than life—she’d followed him into the Abyss and been left alone.

Deep-rooted hatred toward the idiots sitting in the Tower stirred within her, and Pork, twitching with fear, began whimpering. Typhoid suppressed his will. Once again she contemplated the Walkers and stared grimly at the city. She was sure that the archer, who had unfortunately escaped her, was beyond the walls that towered over the other side of the river. And the girl with the spark and the boy Healer would be with him. That meant she needed to get into Al’sgara.

But it wasn’t that simple. Tia was sure that the gates were being watched by the Tower and she wouldn’t be able to pass through them. The Walkers might sense her Gift, even though her spark barely glimmered in Pork’s body. Even the smallest hint of a spark was enough for some experienced mages. And then…

Tia knew that she would not be able to deal with all the Walkers and Embers of Al’sgara when they inevitably descended on her, drawn like wasps to molasses. And descend on her they would, if she so much as touched the gates. That meant there was only one way—by water. It was unlikely the entrance to Haven was guarded as closely as the walls. She had a greater chance of sneaking in there. But even if she succeeded, she would still need to be on the alert and not be seen by the bearers of the Gift. Or by the Scarlets, for that matter. Though the Damned could more or less fight against the former, she would be completely powerless against the wizards. Anyone wearing a red robe could bind her hands and feet with a snap of his fingers. It had already happened once in that foggy village and, if she were honest with herself, she was still shocked at how easily the old man had bested her.

At the time Tia had been out of her wits because she had finally caught the archer who killed her body, and so she saw the twisted, ruby-covered wand too late. It seemed to the Damned that she’d been hit over the head with something heavy. Her vision darkened and she only regained consciousness after a day, when the fool was wandering through a field. Typhoid was so enraged that she vented all her anger on Pork.

She had to go back to the deserted village on foot, and there she found out that the horses had disappeared. The archer and the wizard had probably taken them. In an extremely foul mood, realizing that with every minute she was falling farther behind the people she was pursuing, the Damned walked on, and in the next village she stole a horse.

Suddenly a nasty burning sensation pierced Pork’s spinal column and Tia grimaced as if she had a toothache.

A Summons!

The Abyss take her, a Summons! One of the Sextet wanted to talk to her. The burning increased, spread from her back to her shoulders to her neck, and then it started creeping up the back of her head.

Typhoid knew, of course, who was calling her.

Rovan.

Only his summons burned like the venom of a red scorpion or a fiery hot brand. Curse him three times over! What did that tomb worm want? They didn’t talk often and tried to be as far away from each other as possible. Consumption was a dangerous opponent. Especially now, when the Damned had lost most of her powers. Rovan would gleefully take advantage of this opportunity to destroy her.

The burning increased.

Rovan was not going to give up. He was demanding a conversation, and with each passing second resisting him became increasingly difficult. Before Typhoid could have simply brushed aside his intrusiveness, tearing up the weave, but not now. She didn’t have enough strength, and the damned maggot would not let up. The burning sensation was bordering on pain. Rovan strengthened it and then suddenly eased up on the pressure, and when her body relaxed, the next painful sting hit her. Tears poured from Pork’s eyes, and Tia realized that this pathetic shell simply could not withstand such abuse.

She forced the half-wit to stand up, and she hurried over to the river on his trembling legs. Falling to her knees at the water’s edge, she looked around. There was no one. With all her strength she struck her fist on the surface of the water. A splash shot up into the air and hung there, the drops shimmering with silver in the uneven light of the half moon; then they merged together and formed a wide, flat mirror in front of the Damned. It was translucent, but, in obedience to her command, it shone with a dull light, and Typhoid saw her interlocutor.

Rovan was reclining on soft satin pillows scattered haphazardly over an expensive Sdisian carpet. Next to him was a cuirass, polished until it gleamed, and a sword with an expensive hilt; a bit farther away was a table piled high with papers. Enough candles were burning that Typhoid could see that he was in his tent.

Rovan Ney, Lord of the Tornado, Son of the Evening, Axe of the West, known as Consumption, seemed about five years older than Tia. He had a purebred, somewhat pale face, large brown eyes, arrogant, thin lips, and a perfectly straight nose. Very light blond hair and eyebrows, a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Thick, long eyelashes that any woman would envy and a dazzling smile. He was of average height, fairly broad in the shoulders and well muscled enough to be intimidating. He had narrow, elegant hands with long fingers, such that you rarely encounter in good soldiers. And yet, he could run rings around any living thing when it came to his mastery of the blade. Only Retar had been able to compete with him before.

Consumption was dressed in a black silk shirt, which was lying open on his broad chest, and loose trousers of the exact same color. No jewelry, no weapons, no shoes. At his feet was perched a short, and quite young, woman of the Je’arre nation. She could have been called beautiful, even taking into account her shaven head, but one of her snow-white wings was broken and, apparently, it had happened recently. The flyer did not take her adoring gaze off her master. In contrast to the Damned, a small knife hung on her belt, but she obviously had no thought of putting it into action.

It was a familiar scene. Rovan delighted in the pain of others. He elevated it to a kind of worship, a daily requirement of gratification. He loved to torment, loved to feel the terror of his victims. He loved to hear them beg for mercy, choking on their tears, crawling at his feet. But most of all Consumption loved to subjugate. To convert pain into blind love, adoration, slavishness. With magic and pain he broke others’ wills and reforged them to bend only to his own. He turned the proud into sycophants and ciphers, his enemies into servants and the dead. Oh! No one in the world knew how to surround himself with dead bodies and to derive true pleasure from it like Rovan did!

“You took your time answering,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s not very polite of you to treat your friends like that. Don’t you agree?”

“I see you’re not at all surprised to see me looking like this.” She ignored his question and forced Pork to stretch his lips into a smile.

“Just imagine.” Rovan barely moved his finger, and the Je’arre was already offering him a cup of wine. A well-trained girl. “Although you must permit me to say—you looked much better before.”

At this Typhoid could only smile sweetly. Or at least try to. Right now she was occupied with a far more important matter—she was feverishly wondering why the maggot was so calm and sarcastic, and why he didn’t even raise an eyebrow at seeing the stupid mug of a village cowherd instead of Tia’s usual face. There could only be one answer—Rovan knew what he would see before he made the Summons.

Damn Tal’ki!

“What do you want?” she asked sullenly.

“You don’t sound very happy to see me.”

“Enough!” she snapped. “Tell me what you want!”

“I see that some things never change. You’re just as rude as before, Typhoid. Even in that body. I just wanted to inform you that I’ll arrive soon.”

“Where, if it’s not a secret?”

“In Al’sgara. I’m hastening there as fast as I can.”

“As far as I recall, you’re stuck in the east.”

“You have outdated information. Leigh and I managed to conquer the Isthmuses of Lina. He went to Okni to meet up with Alenari and head for the Steps of the Hangman, while I and my army are going to crack the sweet nut that is Al’sgara.”

Rovan smiled blindingly and stroked the cheek of the Je’arre. She shivered with delight.

“I don’t recognize you, Son of the Evening. You were never so unreasonably flippant. The nut is sweet, but hard. Or do you think that the walls, delighted by your beauty, will fall and the gates will fling themselves open? You’ll meet an army of the Imperials. Plus, there are no fewer bearers of the Gift here than in the capital.”

“My regiments will capsize the army into the sea.” Rovan shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t look at me like that, Rider of Hurricanes. I know they are good soldiers, but the battles have not been going in their favor. And there are far fewer of them. The Sdisian spies did their job well. Soon I will crush Crow’s Nest and open a direct route to Al’sgara. How do you like my friend?” he asked suddenly.

“You prefer boys.”

“Slander.” His eyes were laughing. “At any rate, no more than girls. So?”

“She’s pretty,” she answered dryly. “You educated her well.”

“Education is something you have never lacked. She would do anything to please me. If you want, she can die.”

“It makes no difference to me.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. I still haven’t played with her enough. I want you to cut your face,” he snapped at his handmaid.

She eagerly bared her knife and without a moment’s hesitation drew it from her temple to the corner of her eye and down her cheek, passing though her lip to her chin. Blood began to flow. A lot of blood. The Je’arre smiled, oblivious to the blood and pain. She was happy that she pleased her lord.

He didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to the winged girl. Instead, he watched Tia intently the whole time. She lived up to his expectations; Pork made a contemptuous face.

“I’m always amazed that such a repulsive maggot like you could have had such a remarkable brother,” she said bitterly.

Rovan’s beautiful features contorted instantly, and his brown eyes flashed with fury.

“You filth! Don’t you dare talk about my brother!” he roared, jumping to his feet and grabbing his sword. “Retar was the best of us and he died because of you! You stupid, insignificant painted whore!”

His pale face was flushed, and he took out his fury on the Je’arre. The unfortunate girl’s head rolled under the table, her body collapsed to the floor, her wings were shorn off, pouring blood over the satin pillows and the expensive carpet. Rovan stood over her, breathing heavily, trying to control himself. He succeeded. He ran his hand over his face, tossed the bloody sword into the farthest corner of the tent and shoved the body away with his foot. He sat down and said, drawing out his words, “Let’s get back to our conversation.”

“You’re a pervert, Rovan.” Tia shook her head. “But I’m sorry you ruined your toy.”

He smiled tightly. “A trifle. I’ll find myself another.”

“One would think you had an entire regiment of Je’arre.” She deliberately led the conversation astray.

“Well… for some time I did.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The flyers came over to our side. Their elders sold out their own people.”

“That’s news.”

“Yes. They provided us with a little help at the Isthmuses, where they struck the Imperials from behind. But a few days ago there was a little trouble—the birds got into a serious argument with the Shay-z’ans. You know how they have their history. The Burnt asked for blood. I consider the Shay-z’ans more important than the feathered. So now the numbers of the Je’arre are a bit, shall we say, curtailed. But I’ll find something for myself.”

Typhoid gritted her teeth. What an idiot! He’d grown stupid from the smell of blood and decay. How could Leigh have entrusted the leadership of an entire army to him? He couldn’t just play the two formerly unified peoples against each other and deprive them of new allies! Now others, knowing what fate befell the Je’arre, would think ten times before moving to the side of the Overlords.

“I want you to help me with Al’sgara,” Rovan said suddenly.

“Did I just imagine it, or did you really just say that?” Typhoid didn’t know what to think.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” he replied, his blond eyebrows converging.

That would be fun, Tia thought to herself, but just said, “What do you want?”

“I want you to sneak into Al’sgara before the rumors fly that I’m coming to visit. You’ll open the gates for me.”

“A single set of fallen gates won’t do you much good. There are many walls in the city.”

“I’ll think of something. Just do it.”

“What do you want?” asked the Damned a second time.

He drilled her with his eyes for a moment and then said, “A book.”

“I don’t understand.” Hearing this from Rovan was a novelty.

“Don’t play the fool. I need the same thing as Tal’ki does, or else Leprosy wouldn’t have sent you there, still in that form. I need a book. I need The Book. Have you got it? I want to know where it is when we storm the city. It would be a very bad thing, if we unknowingly burned down the library. Don’t you agree?”

“What reason do I have to help you?”

“You’re not helping me, but yourself. If the library burns down, every Overlord will lose a great deal. Plus, I’m willing to share with you if I get there before Tal’ki. We can help each other.”

“I simply don’t recognize you.”

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten.” He smiled promisingly. “I haven’t forgotten or forgiven. You hate me, and I pay you back in the same coin. But right now we should work together. I give you my word that we’ll divide everything evenly, and I won’t stab you in the back.”

“How very generous of you.”

“Have I ever broken my word?” He frowned.

“No,” she said, and finished to herself, In this you and your brother were always alike.

“Then I want to hear your answer.”

“If it’s possible,” she replied cautiously.

“That’s enough for me. I hope you won’t waste time. When I arrive, I’ll contact you.”

The mirror darkened, and the water flowed back into the river.

Typhoid clenched her teeth. The Abyss take her, but what was going on here? Melot knew what kind of book, what library? What was the maggot talking about? What had Tal’ki told him? It was obviously something important if Rovan, who considered Tia to blame, albeit indirectly, for Retar’s death, had decided to enlist her support for the first time in all these centuries. She had to know. And quickly.

It took her a lot of effort to create the Silver Window. Leprosy answered almost instantly. Typhoid saw her sitting on her bed in a cap and nightgown. She had clearly just been woken up, but there was no resentment on her face over the late Summons. Her faded blue eyes studied Pork steadily.

“I see, my dear, that you are handling him well. And you’ve even tuned him up a bit. He’s not as ungainly as he was before. You’re making progress. That. I. See.” She narrowed her eyes and with a plump hand pushed the cat sleeping on her legs to the side. “I see that some of your power has returned to you. But you can only use it when you’re in a dead body, am I right? How did you manage that?”

“The same way you did.” Tia was angry. “When Ginora and Retar died, you drank up their power. I just took back my own.”

“Very good.” Tal’ki was not going to deny anything. “Very good, my dear. I’m happy for you.”

“You didn’t even tell us, Tal’ki!”

“Why should I have done that?” The Healer was sincerely amazed. “We all have our little secrets. Did you wake me up for this?”

“No! I just had a conversation with Rovan! You told him about me!”

She didn’t even raise a brow.

“Not all that much. He knows that you are near Al’sgara and that you changed bodies. As for the fact that you are as weak as a kitten, no one but me even suspects.”

“But why did you need to involve him in our affairs? You know how much he hates me!”

“Well, he’s hated you for five centuries, so you’re coming to your senses far too late. He still can’t forgive you for his brother. That boy always thought he loved him far more than you did. I don’t see why I should explain this to you. You think that I blabbed to him for nothing? What do you take me for, a silly, gossiping old goose?”

Typhoid was choking on her indignation, but Tal’ki curtailed her wrathful tirade with a question. “What did he want from you?”

“He offered me a deal. He needs a book.”

“Naughty boy.” Tal’ki bit her lip in chagrin. “And what would you get in return?”

“He’s prepared to share.”

“Well… that’s not so bad. I hope you agreed?”

“Yes.”

“A wise course of action.”

“Perhaps you could explain to me what it is we’re talking about?”

“Mitifa is still stuck in the library of the Walkers at the Six Towers. She’s a smart girl. She found much that is interesting. This includes what may very well be the Sculptor’s notes.”

“How did the Walkers miss them?”

“You wouldn’t be all that surprised at it if you saw the state they keep the books in. The parchment was practically impossible to handle. It crumbled. But Mitifa read a part of it.”

“I’m quivering with anticipation to hear what was written there.”

“It seems that the Sculptor hid his old journal in Al’sgara. It tells how to create the Paths of Petals.”

That explained a lot. Including the fact that Rovan had decided to make a deal with her. Such knowledge would mean vast power. Enough power to become higher than the other Overlords. To create new Paths to replace those destroyed by Sorita. To rule the entire world. If it was true, there would be a real hunt for the book.

“I don’t believe my ears!”

“I too did not believe at first, my dear. But then I thought about it for a bit, and why not? It’s entirely possible.”

“Where is the journal located?”

Tal’ki smiled sadly. “Do you think if I knew, I would tell you? The book is somewhere in Al’sgara. In the older buildings, possibly in Hightown. What makes you smile so, if I may ask?”

“Mitifa’s idiocy.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it—she’s terribly naïve when it comes to such matters.”

The stupid fool! If Typhoid had found such a parchment, she would have kept silent about it. Not a word to anyone. But her? She instantly spread the news around the entire world!

“Who did she gossip to?”

“Only to me. I’ve always taken care of her, so she trusts me a bit.”

“How did Rovan find out?”

“I mentioned it in passing, but he’s a clever boy. He understood.” Tal’ki was smiling contentedly, but Typhoid could no longer keep up with the thoughts of the mad old hag. “Well, I also said that you had gone to Al’sgara. Of course, I couldn’t be exactly sure that you were headed there, but what is said cannot be unsaid. You understand.”

The old witch! Of course, all it took was mentioning the book to Consumption and hinting that Tia had already been sent to search for it, for him to immediately head for the city. He would have no desire to give Typhoid and Leprosy such a valuable prize. The latter didn’t have anything to lose. The city was vast, and the secret cache of the Sculptor had not been found for a thousand years (albeit no one knew about its existence to this day), so Rovan would not find anything right away. It had to be well planned out, but Consumption was incapable of that. He was a warrior, not a thinker. Retar, yes. Retar could have done it. But not his brother. So there was no need to worry about the safety of the book that spoke of the creation of the Paths of Petals.

Tal’ki had acted wisely. With the help of a false rumor she had made Rovan decide to do that which had been put off for so long—the assault on Al’sgara. No one wanted to start it, fearing to break their teeth against the great walls, and so the city had not yet been touched, had been left for later. But now Consumption would brave the whirlwind, and perhaps he would be lucky. In any case, he would be kept busy and wouldn’t hinder Leigh and Alenari from breaking through the Steps of the Hangman.

“Very well done,” approved Tia.

“Thank you, my dear. I knew you would appreciate it.”

“And what about Mitifa?”

“She’s at the Towers. Finishing her work.”

The Abyss! Rubeola really was a complete idiot, for still choking down book dust after revealing such a secret. In her place, Typhoid would have been rushing toward Al’sgara like a lunatic.

“The Son of the Evening is sure that you know where the Sculptor hid the book, and he said as much. He offered me half. What do you offer me?”

Tal’ki coughed out a dry laugh. “I think the same thing he offered you—nothing.”

“That’s not very generous of you.”

“But honest. Rovan doesn’t know where the book is. You don’t know where the book is. I don’t know where the book is. It could take us a century to find it. So all his promises are empty. Right now you should have little interest in the Sculptor’s secrets. You’ve clearly forgotten that you are in no state to go chasing after phantoms. Judging by the fact that you are already at the great city, you haven’t managed to catch either the Healer or that talented girl. And yet they are your only chance for getting back your strength and a satisfactory body, if, of course, that is what you still want. I see that it is. So redouble your efforts. They, not the book, are your main goal. You’ve gotten around just fine for five centuries without the Petals, and you’ll live as many more, but without your power and a body, even Mitifa could crush you. You’d agree that would be a humiliating way to end such a long life. The Healer. The Healer, my dear. You can even forget about the girl, she’s not that important, but the boy—bring him to me alive and unharmed. He is your only hope. Is he in the city?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“Find out! And don’t waste time! When the army arrives, madness will ensue. It will be very difficult to escape.”

“Escaping is not the problem. Getting in will be virtually impossible.”

“I suppose. But the harbor is always more poorly guarded. You should try a boat, my dear.”

“I was thinking that. That’s just what I’ll do.”

“Wonderful. Everything is ready. Bring the Healer and I will try to return what was lost. I found one interesting weave in the old books. It will help make it so that your ward’s eyes are a normal color. You agree that white pupils would attract too much attention to you. Look.”

She drew a few fine lines in the air.

“Thank you. That will help.”

“I have no doubt. Good luck, my dear.”

Without waiting for a reply, she liquidated the window. Tia muttered a curse, forced Pork to his feet, and set off in search of a boat.