The Dark Queen

Chapter 4

Now was the time to scheme and countermine. Now, while the rebels divided and scattered, uncer shy;tain.

There is great power in knowledge, she told her shy;self again.

Great freedom.

She groaned and practiced again the casual lifting of her incongruously heavy arm, the blinking of her eyes at proper intervals. The red-lit landscape glit shy;tered eerily, as though she watched the world from the heart of a gem. These eyes of crystal reflected an angular moonlight. Nearby, the salt flats, the pillars, seemed massive, disproportionately large. The plateau and arroyo, not a league away, seemed diminished, mysterious, as though glimpsed at the end of a thousand-mile tunnel.

The strange triad of Plainsman, bard, and elf seemed mysterious and distant as well, their thoughts and passions and motives still veiled to her.

Takhisis glanced up at the riding moon. Red Luni-tari passed slowly over the eastern sky, over a gap in the heavens where the black moon rested, still unknown to the worldly astronomers.

A mask for Nuitari. A bright veil over the dark moon.

The girl would be the place to start, the goddess thought.

Slowly, the crystals that housed her spirit began to change, to restructure. To a passerby it would appear that one of the columns of salt-a large one, out in the middle of the flats-was melting, dissolving, reforming at the same time.

Takhisis's body hardened, became more angular. The shoulders broadened and the legs, once long and smooth and tapering, knotted as though an ancient wind had twisted and gnarled them.

It was a man now who walked the cooling sands of the desert. A man handsome and muscular and cold.

As he moved through the moonlight, his skin slowly grew translucent, then transparent. He was a ripple of darkness rising out of the desert night, no more visible than heat wavering over the cooling sands. Silently, he slipped by the outermost circle of Fordus's sentries.

Safe behind rebel lines, the warrior paused and listened, sinking slowly back into view, his skin darker, more opaque. Now the distant sound of a lyre chimed over his brittle hand, as the crystals in his fingers vibrated to the soft sound.

Good. The bard was playing. The music was uncomfortable, even disturbing, but it signaled her whereabouts.

Somewhere in the dry gulch, Takhisis-or rather the dark man who called himself Tamex-would find Larken. And the winnowing would begin.

Larken, too, had spent a sleepless night.

Alone in a weathered arroyo, at any time a place of danger, she waited for the inspiration of song and insight, she touched the three strings of the elven lyre, and she thought of Fordus.

"To the north he went," she began, her low, mel shy;lifluous voice unsteady as she searched for the melody in the darkness.

Lucas turned on his ring perch, head cocked alertly at the sound of the lyre.

"To the north came Fordus in the face of Istar …"

Larken fumbled with the lyre strings, striking a quiet but dissonant chord. Lucas shrieked, raising the feathers on his head into a menacing crest.

"What? I know it was bad. Sorry," she replied to him, and his feathers smoothed over again. For an instant, a chill passed over her. Had she heard human words in the hawk's cry? Forgetting the moment, she dropped the lyre indifferently onto her lap.

Larken was glad her bardic instructors could not see her grope for words and flounder with strings. It would confirm what they had told her all along, about Plainsmen and the bardic calling, about her especially.

About this instrument they had hung upon her, useless and discordant in her hands.

Lucas cocked his head and stood very still on the round perch. His green eyes flashed with unearthly fire.

Larken looked at Lucas questioningly. "What?" she asked, this time wanting an answer.

Suddenly, a coldness overwhelmed her, as though the dry riverbed breathed the memory of violent water, of ice. A shadow passed between her and the moonlight-a cloud, a night bird …

The shadow paused above her.

Lucas covered his head with his wing and made a low, painful cry.

Slowly, Larken turned.

The dark man smiled handsomely, his face framed in moonlight. His tight-lidded amber eyes moved over her, and the black silk tunic rose rhythmically on his shoulders and chest. His legs were long and powerful, and he wore black leather boots-an odd choice for the desert, Larken thought somewhere at the edge of her mind.

He was a strange combination of beauty and eeriness, like a distorted reflection of the moon in water. Larken regarded him suspiciously, her hand drifting slowly and surely to the knife at her belt.

The dark man held her gaze, nodded.

"You are Larken the bard," he said, as though he named her for the first time with his words. With a movement lithe and graceful, he stepped toward her, wrested her hand from her knife. . and kissed her fingers elegantly, his eyes never leaving hers.

Lucas shrieked from his perch, swelled with cop shy;per light, and tried to fly at the man, but his jesses tangled.

Larken swallowed hard and nodded, recovering her hand and soothing the hawk. "Hush, Lucas. It's all right."

The bird fluttered and hopped, but obediently kept to the perch.

"I am Tamex," the man said. "I come from the south, from the shining foothills."

Larken composed her face into neutrality. The man's hand had been very cold and hard. She started to sign a greeting, but something baffled her hands.

"While your army fought in the grasslands, I… crossed the desert. I searched for the Que-Nara camp, and awaited your return. Will you speak with me?"

I speak to no one but Lucas. I only sing, she motioned.

"I don't understand," said Tamex. "I know you can talk. I can hear what you say. Will you try?"

"You can hear me speak?" Larken's voice was husky, uncertain.

Tamex nodded. "I have come to serve your leader. I have come to undo the bondage of Istar. And I have come to listen to you."

Larken shook her head, deflecting his last offer. " 'Tis a tall order, to undo that city. Istar is the heart of the world." And then, after a moment, "How is it you hear my speech? It has been cursed."

"Does it matter?" Tamex dissembled, his reptilian eyes at last flickering away from hers. "Does any of that matter?"

He let his eyes play lazily across Larken's kneeling form, over her blond hair, her bronzed shoulders, and her slim thighs, bared to the evening's coolness.

His gaze flickered over the lyre and paused. The black diamonds in the heart of his eyes shuddered, narrowed, and vanished. Then, almost casually, his glance rested on the drum at Larken's side and the bone drumhammer.

"I have heard you play," he said. "Not the lyre. The drum. Your songs and words are worthy of heroes."

Flustered, the bard set down the lyre and reached for the drumhammer. It slipped from her hand and rattled noisily against the drum.

Tamex continued. "You are the one who exalts the Lord of the Rebels."

" 'Exalts'?"

"You magnify him beyond his deeds."

For a moment, brief as the gap between lightning and thunder, the bard's eyes widened. She felt exposed, uncovered by a sudden, surprising welling in her heart, as if she swirled in dark airlessness. Then the world tilted back into focus-the arroyo, the twining moonlight, the tall handsome warrior standing above her.

"Tell me about him," the dark man whispered.

She rose unsteadily and took a deep breath. Again she was Larken; the words stumbled back to her.

"About his gifts? His prophecies?" She turned the drumhammer in her hand.

"Tell me."

"Twenty-five years ago," Larken began, "the Que-Nara found a child nestled against a dune.

"We never knew who left him there, who had abandoned him to the harsh desert elements. It was great fortune, almost a miracle, that anyone noticed the baby. Fordus had not cried or called out, not even then, and the man who found him, a Plains shy;man chief named Kestrel, feared that the child was damaged, addled …

" 'Touched by Sirrion,' the Namer had said, as Kestrel held the silent infant before him on the Nam shy;ing Night. 'The Firemaster is in his eyes.'

"It was the call of the poet, the madman."

"Then he was touched … by the gods?" Tamex asked, a brief, enigmatic smile passing over his pale face.

"So the Namer said," Larken replied, her eyes downcast, looking at the lyre on the ground. "But none of the Plainsmen understood or even wanted to.

"In each generation, only a few are touched by the fire god. Sirrion's mark comes double-edged: For each child who is blessed with inspiration, with insight and poetry, a thousand others become bab shy;blers, lunatics who dance at the red moon's rising, the responsibility for their complete care falling to their families, their people."

" 'Tis a hard life for those bearing the gods' touch," Tamex observed dryly. "But how did the Plainsmen … receive him?"

"The chief took the news … well, like a chieftain," Larken began. "After all, he had found the child and chosen to rescue it. Kestrel was a widower; no woman's hand graced his tents. He tended the child himself, awkwardly but well enough. He handed Fordus over to an attentive wet nurse, carried him in a pouch sewn into his shirt lining.

"The blue-eyed baby was hale enough, and grew tough, thin, and sinewy-like any Plainsman child.

But always the tribe watched for the sign of Sirrion's touch, for vision or madness. "It was fifteen years before they knew for sure." Tamex started to speak, to interrupt, to ask a ques shy;tion, but Larken had begun the first great story, the one she had sung a hundred times around the rebel campfires when morale was low, when faith in For-dus ebbed or wavered.

It felt strange to say the words again. It felt strange not to sign or sing them.

"To the eye of the warrior and the eye of the out shy;runner, young Fordus seemed normal enough- hunting with the other children, helping with the fire, and the catching of lizards for the cook pot. He sat watch when he was old enough to hold a spear and wait out the night.

"Yet when he first began to speak, at the late age of five or six, his talk was veiled and bizarre, a pecu shy;liar poetry of riddle and paradox.

"He spoke of moons and of black sand, of crystal and hawk, and sailing, ominous planets. Kestrel was afraid of no man, but the touch of the gods unnerved him. He continued to feed and shelter the boy, but he could not bring himself to love him.

"The other boys welcomed Fordus on the hunt; after all, he was the chief's adopted son, fleetest of foot and stronger than any. His was the axe that felled boar and leopard, goblin and giant scorpion. But in the Telling Time, when the hunt was relived around fire and tent, when the smallest deed stag shy;gered beneath the largest boasts, he spoke not at all. Stormlight spoke for him, telling his stories to the listening tribe.

"Fordus they called him on his naming night- when he took on his name and passed from boy shy;hood. Fordus. The old Kharolian word for the desert storm, the high wind racing out of nowhere and the blinding deluge of rain. The force that fills the arroyos, that drowns the entire world in its hour."

"What about before the naming?" Tamex asked, leaning toward the girl intently, almost hungrily.

"Before?" It was as though the idea was alien to her.

"Nothing of … opals, then?" he asked.

"Opals?" Larken frowned. "Nothing more than the tore found beside him as a child-the necklace that grew in size as Fordus grew to maturity."

"How intriguing," Tamex observed, lightly, almost casually. "What else do you know of this … tore?"

Larken knew nothing. And something within her told her it was dangerous to guess.

"I know what I am telling you," she said, her eyes fixed on the dark interloper. "Nothing more."

Tamex's eyes fell suddenly flat and cold.

"Tell me of the prophecy, then," he whispered. "Tell me."

Larken shifted, wiped her hands on the front of her tunic as she met the dark man's odd stare. Had one eye blinked more slowly than the other?

"At fifteen," she continued, "Fordus was faster than the tribal outrunners, faster than the leopards and able to pace the gazelle at the desert's edge. Nor would he use that speed in cowardice or caution; he was brave to the borders of recklessness, and yet he calmed and sustained the boys who followed him.

"Then the rains failed, for the first time after the death of the old Water Prophet.

"And the chieftain called council.

"The Namers had searched the sky for months. They tried the old methods of insight and augury- what the old Prophet had done to serve the tribe for fifty years. They augured by star, by stone, by the twining moons, but no rain was promised and no

rain came.

"It was a dark time, they tell me, and soon augury passed into grumbling, and grumbling into the silence of growing despair. Then Kestrel called them all together-boy and man, warrior and outrunner, and sentry and firekeeper.

"He told them he was sending them for water."

Larken paused, tilted her head as though she lis shy;tened to the air.

"The desert abounds with hidden springs," she said. "Sometimes there are oases, unexpected or suddenly, mysteriously newborn from the desert's lack and dry-ness. Sometimes there are springs under rocks, a thin brown trickle in a muddy arroyo. But without a Prophet, the chances of finding water are thin.

"When the chief ordered the water search, he ordered it in desperation. And after a week, even the oldest and wisest of the Namers had given up.

"Racer pressed to be named the tribe's Water Prophet; the title was his by right arid age. He pleaded for the ceremony-the vow to be said before his blood kin, acknowledged on sacred ground, and beneath the shining north star. Then he would fast, and meditate, and perhaps find water, perhaps not. It was a hard and thankless task, water prophecy, and yet Old Racer desired it with all his might. But while Racer sued and cajoled and threatened, the water-skins dried and the youngest children took on the parched, haunted eyes of the drought-stricken.

"At fifteen, for the first time, Fordus spoke for himself at the Telling.

"In the midst of the boasts and dreary bravado he stood, as the firelight mocked the false cheer of the thirsty men around him. He stood, and at his stand shy;ing, the camp fell silent.

"With the kala, Kestrel pointed to his adopted son.

All eyes turned to the lean, muscular youth, who stood resolutely, confidently, flanked by his friends Stormlight the elf and Northstar, almost still a child.

" 'What do I care of your little hunts,' Fordus asked, 'of your spears and your bola, your journey of leagues and nights?'

"He took the old language of the hunter's boast and returned it to them, scalding and unforgiving.

"Racer spat, and his company of Namers nodded their beaded locks in support.

"A murmur rushed through the assembled hunters, but Fordus only smiled. 'Save your water, Racer,' he cautioned. 'With your prophecies, you will need it. Boast and brood and despair of water. As for me, I shall find the water we need.'

"Then Fordus turned and stalked from the camp, with two of his friends at his side. The older men talked of it all night, but by morning they had forgot shy;ten, departing on their own search for the legendary god-given spot from which the water would rise.

"Meanwhile, the three young men hunted on their own."

"A rebel even then," Tamex observed, his voice cold and insinuating.

"But a rebel then for the good of all," Larken replied. She reddened and avoided the dark man's stare.

"Then? And not now?" This Tamex was no fool. He had heard the wound in her voice, the regret and resentment.

"Judge for yourself," Larken answered blandly, and resumed the story.

"The lads combed the desert within sight of the camp, keeping the low fires of the Que-Nara con shy;stantly to their left as they circled the settlement. Fordus loped ahead of them, not even winded, as I have seen him do many times since in the vanguard of armies. And I am sure he paid no more attention to his two companions than to the missing red moon or the slow clouds straddling the western sky.

"When he reached the rise," she continued, ab shy;sently stroking the glowing drumhead, "Fordus stopped and leaned against a smooth, upright stone. Stormlight and Northstar were a step behind him, as always.

"Overhead the white moon sailed serenely out of the clouds, and suddenly the entire desert stretched before them, desolate and featureless as the face of that moon. Salt crystals dotted the arid landscape, catching the moonlight like blades, like slivers of glass.

"Salt and stone, but no water.

"This was south of here, in old country indeed. The ground they stood on once formed the north shy;ernmost borders of Silvanesti, back in the Age of Light. 'Twas woodland until the Second Dragon War, when Lady Chaos laid waste to the Elflands. Now it is rubble and salt, salt and rubble."

Tamex said nothing. The two of them sat in silence, there in the bed of the dried-up river.

"Elf country," Larken continued, her thoughts haunted by the prospect of such devastation. "Druid's country. And then.. "

Tamex stirred restlessly. "I know. I know. The Dragon Wars. But what of Fordus?"

"Fordus? Oh, yes. That was the night he found the kanaji."

"Kanaji?"

"A druidic oracle pit. I first saw them near Silvan-ost, on the banks of the Thon-Thalas. Wide declivities, covered with netting and leaves. The druids descend into them to meditate, to … find enlightenment."

"How? How do they work, these …"

"Kanaji? Druidic magic," the bard answered elu-sively. Something in her shrank from the ardent ques shy;tioning. "Fordus found the pit that evening. He stood upon it, as though it had summoned him there.

"Dig they did, hoping beyond their wildest hopes for water. Then the three of them knelt together, pulling the heavy stone away.

"They found a hollow chamber, round, of lime shy;stone block, just large enough for two good-sized people to sit in. The floor was nothing but fine white sand, which looked as if it had gone undisturbed by wind and water for a thousand years.

"Fordus hopped into the circular chamber, Storm-light close behind. They examined the gray, gritty walls, the shadowed circumference, while the youngest, little Northstar, stood above them in an impatient watch.

"Fordus and Stormlight sat in the fine sand. They joked-the nervous, blustering jests of young men in holy places. But the ancientness and reverence of the place soon stilled their laughter, and they sat in silence as, over the dry expanse of the desert, the chanting of the elders drifted to the rise and down into the kanaji pit.

"The lads went still. In the reverence they had been taught since infancy, Stormlight and Northstar looked up toward the heavens, toward the mobius of Mishakal and the harp of Branchala.

"Fordus, on the other hand, looked toward the floor of the kanaji. Then, suddenly, as the sand began to ripple and eddy beneath him, he glanced up at Stormlight, motioned his friend's gaze to the changing sand, to the strange glyphs forming in the pristine whiteness.

" 'Druidic' my cousin Northstar told them. 'The picture language of a thousand years past.'

"With a whoop, Fordus raced across the level expanse toward the fires of the men, leaving his companions agape at the emerging symbols.

"Curious, not a little irritated at being disturbed at their ritual, the elders were led to the kanaji. Staring down into the pit, all of them noticed the change in Fordus-the sea-blue eyes suddenly bright and focused, as though his earlier addling had been lifted, the pupils dilated until a core of fathomless dark seemed to rise out of that blue sea.

"His lips moved slowly. With great effort, as though he were translating the hidden language of the gods, he breathed a single syllable, then another."

"Crouched by the lip of the kanaji, Racer made the warding sign, protection against the Lady, "and the destruction that follows her."

"A foolish sign," Tamex observed. "A foolish superstition."

"Whatever its wisdom, he did not complete it. With a firm grip Kestrel grasped the old conniver's wrist. 'There will be no warding of my son,' he decreed. 'Let him speak, Racer. Unless you can read glyph and symbol.'

"Silenced, Racer glared at Fordus, who knelt now above the signs fully formed.

" 'Axe,' Fordus muttered. 'Tower and Lightning. The rain is hewn of light and memory.'

"The elders glanced at each other uncertainly. Surely some of them thought of Sirrion's touch, of the flame of poetry or madness.

"Then Stormlight, his white eyes staring into the whirling depths of Fordus's blue, translated for them all.

" 'Halfway between the Red Plateau and the Tears of Mishakal,' he pronounced. 'Seven feet below the surface. Water enough for a month of travel.'

"They had to confirm Fordus's prophecy. Later that night they would dig to the water and their thirst would end. But now, in a starlit cluster, Kestrel set his hands on the head of his adopted son and began the chieftain's chant that would name the lad Water Prophet.

" 'It cannot be!' Racer shouted, bargaining for time, for delay, for anything that would keep the title out of the grasp of the upstart. 'The gods honor only the Prophet who stands beneath the North Star. It has not yet risen! You know this, Kestrel, and yet you wrest the robes from me and confer them on your firestruck son. It is not according to tradition, not fitting, not permitted, not… not…'

"Silently, triumphantly, Kestrel pointed at the lad who stood over his son. 'Who stands above Fordus, Racer?' he asked. 'What is the name of that lad?'

"Northstar, in his place by design or accident, knelt by the lip of the kanaji and, reaching down into the pit, gently and reverently touched the top of For shy;dus's head."

Larken smiled and stretched, rising from the bed of the old river and dusting the sand from her tunic.

"That is the story, Tamex. That is the way it is told at the Telling."

"But never so splendidly," Tamex soothed. "Never by the fabled bard, the Breath of the Gods herself."

Suddenly, as though she were awakening from a trance, an enchantment, Larken looked at her soli shy;tary audience in a new, harsh light.

He seemed much shorter than when he had first appeared, scarcely an hour ago.