“I would not have disturbed you if there had not been.” He waved a hand at two bowls by their feet. A stew, much like the one that the Lady Alcia had once fed to her so long ago and smelling almost as good. She recalled that incident because it had seemed so out of place when dealing with one of the Tezerenee. Sometimes it was troublesome to remember that the clan’s mistress had been born an outsider, that there had been no clan until Barakas had pulled together his disjointed group of relations and welded them into the only true family among the Vraad. Not known for being familial, the concept of a clan was something known only from the early days of the race. Barakas, however, had assured that it would never be dismissed lightly-and his bride had been his other half in the struggle. She, almost as much as the patriarch, had helped to make the Tezerenee the force they were.
Sharissa found herself hoping that nothing had happened to her.
“Where’s Gerrod?” she asked, trying to put the Lady Alcia from her thoughts.
Faunon handed her one of the bowls. He hesitated, then answered, “I saw him last with his brother. They journeyed away from the camp.”
Trying to do something for Lochivan’s illness? It was the only reason she could think of. Not all of their past differences had been ironed out, but a common concern for their own people had, at least, brought them temporarily together. Had it been any other family, the young woman would have been happy for Gerrod. As it was, she hoped he was not becoming one of them again.
A shadow fell upon them. The two looked up into the dragonhelm of a Tezerenee. “My lord bids tell you that we leave shortly. Prepare yourselves.”
Her companion groaned as the warrior marched off. “I have seldom ridden so much. To think I once thought a horse a terrible animal to cope with. Merely sitting astride one of these monstrosities is worse.”
“What are you expecting to find?” she asked abruptly. Sharissa felt a need to know as much as she could, and Faunon was her only source of information. Of all of them, only he had been born to this land.
The humor of a moment before slipped away, revealing the serious soul beneath. “I do not know, my beauteous Vraad. The only thing predictable about the land’s ways is its unpredictability. I regret to say that the two of us have just as likely a chance of being correct.” He took her hand. “I am sorry I cannot help you.”
She squeezed the hand and, on impulse, leaned forward and kissed him. While he was still staring at her in open shock, the sorceress smiled and said, “But you do.”
For the second time, they rode as if the renegade guardian itself was snapping at the tails of their mounts. Gerrod and Lochivan, who had come back just before preparations for the day’s mad journey were complete, separated as if things had not changed between them. Sharissa had looked at the warlock for some sort of explanation, but Gerrod had merely pulled his hood over his head and buried himself in the all-encompassing cloak. The only thing she could tell was that he was even more worried than yesterday.
The sun was high in the sky when they departed. Again it was a mad race, everyone seeking to maintain the pace that the patriarch had set. This day’s was worse than the first, and Sharissa had a suspicion why. She was certain he had tried again to teleport to the citadel and, of course, failed. That only made it more essential that they cover as much ground as possible each day.
It was impossible to speak, but she did glance at Faunon whenever possible. He returned her looks with a tight-lipped smile. Until the coming of the Tezerenee, he would have never thought riding a drake possible. He probably still did not.
On her other side, beyond the Tezerenee guard who paced her, Gerrod stared straight ahead. Only once did he turn his eyes to Sharissa, but the hood shadowed them so well that it was as if she stared into the sightless face of a dead man. She turned away and regretted it a moment later, but, when she sought to apologize, his attention had already returned to the path ahead.
To find Lochivan, she had to crane her neck and look back, a dangerous trick to attempt for very long, which meant that she was forced to do it more than once just to get a good glimpse of him. He was riding at the back end of the column, his head down so that even if he had not been wearing a helm, she would have been unable to see his face. At the side of his saddle bounced Dark-horse’s insidious prison, apparently in Lochivan’s permanent keeping despite his betrayal. Angry at herself for not demanding the eternal’s release from the box, Sharissa swore she would bring that up with Barakas the moment they stopped. If she could convince him that Darkhorse would listen to her and not seek vengeance, then he might prove willing to allow the ebony stallion freedom. Perhaps if she mentioned the aid that Darkhorse could give them… though that depended on how strong the eternal was. He had, she recalled with bitterness, been punished hard for his attack upon the lord of the Tezerenee.
It was night again when they finally halted. Drakes were good for long bursts of speed, but then they had to rest much longer than horses. They also had to be fed, and that meant meat. For this journey, the Tezerenee had packed as much as they could carry of the special feed that they added to the beasts’ meals. Mixed in with the meat, it would greatly supplement their needs and prevent any chance, however slim, that the drakes might snap at their masters in their search for fresh food.
As she had sworn, Sharissa sought out the patriarch as soon as she had dismounted. Behind her trailed her latest silent shadow. Barakas she found speaking to one of the other guards, evidently setting the watch for the night. Barakas could delegate everything if he chose, but that was not his way. A leader, she had heard him say long ago, did not sit back and grow fat and lazy. He worked with his subjects, reminding them of why he was their lord.
Barakas dismissed the warrior just as she walked up to him. In the background, she caught the vague image of Lochivan spending an overlong period of time busying himself with his steed. He seemed to be watching his father closely, as if wanting something.
“What is it you wish, Lady Sharissa?” the patriarch asked. He sounded as worn out as she felt.
“I have a request of you, my Lord Barakas.”
“Formal, is it? Tell me something first, my lady. Are you rested enough to make good use of your abilities?”
Somehow this encounter had been turned around and he was now asking a favor of her. She kept her peace, thinking it would be best to hear him out. It might help her own cause. “I’m hardly rested, if that is what you mean. If you want to know if I can teleport to the citadel, I doubt it. All I remember with any confidence is the interior; you wouldn’t let me journey outside the walls very much, if you recall.”
“Something I think I am about to regret, yes?”
“I’m sorry.” The sorceress was. It seemed there was never anything she could do, but, in this case, it was the patriarch’s fault. “And if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to materialize inside… just in case.”
“I understand. I was attempting to appear outside the gates myself.” Barakas tugged at his graying beard. “And sorcery might not be safe yet. When I tried just before the day’s ride, I sensed something-immense, is the only way I can describe it-spreading throughout the region of the citadel.”
She thought of the land awakening and the outcast laughing, all still fresh in her mind from the dreams. “Do you think that-”
“I do not know what to think.” He dismissed the subject. “You had a request you wished to make of me.”
“It concerns Darkhorse.”
“Does it now?” In the deepening dark, she could not see his eyes now, but she knew they were narrowed, suspicious. “And how does it concern him?”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve given you my word that I will help you, and you’ve given your word that you will release all of us. Until the latter happens, however, I was hoping that you would let Darkhorse out-”