“Tell me about the harvesting,” Alaric said.
Rudd made no reply, and finally Hanio said, “They hold their breath. There’s no more to it than that. No one would want to breathe that stench anyway.”
“They gather it while holding their breath?” said Alaric.
“There is no other way,” replied Hanio. “Through long practice, they become very good at holding their breath. Those who are less good at it are never selected for the work. Or they die.”
“This does not sound like a very attractive sort of work,” said the minstrel. “An early death or perhaps an even earlier one. What kind of man would choose it?”
“There is no choosing,” said Hanio. “The prince commands, and they obey. Of course, the harvesters use as much of the Powder as they like, so there are compensations.”
Alaric smelled his destination before he saw it, and it was as repellent as Piros had promised, a strong scent of rot, like offal left too long in the sun. He paused for a moment, letting Hanio and Rudd draw farther ahead and begin to scramble down the southern slope. He watched them turn and disappear under an overhanging shelf of rock. After a long moment, he took two more steps in that direction and then stopped again, uncertainty warring once more with his curiosity. A feeling of unease was building in him, and no matter how many times he told himself that if Hanio felt it was safe enough, he should, he still hesitated.
Then, one of the gaunt men was leaping up the slope toward him, and he heard Hanio shouting something, though he could not make out the words. He stepped sideways, and the gaunt man brushed past him, sprinting back the way they had come.
Hanio leaned out from under the rocky overhang and shouted again, waving urgently for Alaric to join him. The minstrel looked down the south-facing slope. What was happening, he wondered, that Hanio and the second gaunt man could not deal with? How did they think he could help?
The sounds of running made him turn. Piros and all five of the remaining gaunt men were rushing across the ridge of hillocks.
“What has the stupid boy done?” shouted Piros. But he pounded past Alaric without waiting for an answer.
The last two gaunt men clutched at Alaric’s arms and dragged him along with them, and he stumbled, half losing his footing as the three of them plunged down the slope.
Under the overhang, at the back of the shallow space created by that shelf of rock, the slope of the hillside was nearly vertical, forming a wall a little more than the height of a man, and set into that wall was a massive wooden door. Rudd lay almost at the foot of that door, and Hanio knelt beside him, cradling him like a child.
“What’s happened?” said Piros, bending over his son.
And suddenly, all in a few quick heartbeats, one of the gaunt men flung the wooden door open, revealing the darkness of a cave beyond, and as the odor of rot rushed out, ten times more powerful than before, and as Alaric stopped his own breath against it, three of the gaunt men laid hands on Piros, lifted him high, and heaved him through the doorway while the others swept the minstrel off his feet with strength he could not counter and threw him in as well. What breath Alaric had was knocked away as he fell hard on Piros. And then the wooden door slammed shut and daylight vanished.
In the pitch-blackness, Alaric clutched the caravan master’s body against his own, and in one more heartbeat they were both in the North, and the stench of rot was blowing away on the crisp, clean Northern wind.
Alaric let go of Piros and rolled to his knees, coughing and taking great gasping breaths. The air was cold, and he shivered at the contrast to the heat of the desert, though for the North, at this time of year, the day was mild. He was almost afraid to look at Piros. He hadn’t given any real thought—any real will—to the use of his power; there hadn’t been time. Had he taken Piros’s entire body with him, or would there just be a piece of him, like part of a butchered carcass?
A soft moan drew his eyes. Piros propped himself up on his elbows and coughed. He was whole, and not only that, but he and Alaric were lying on a broad pallet of rock. Alaric realized that his power had taken not just Piros but also a goodly chunk of the cave floor. And on that floor lay an age-discolored human skeleton, ribs cracked, limb bones scattered—Alaric thought he and Piros must have struck it when they fell—and among those bones were incrustations of something that might have been tiny crystals or might have been mold, blue-gray in color. There were smears of that blue-gray on one of Alaric’s sleeves, and as he climbed to his feet he dusted them off against the other sleeve, careful not to let any of it touch his skin, careful not to inhale any of it. He guessed at what it must be.
Piros was sitting up and looking around with wide-eyed wariness at the hardy Northern grass that spread outward from the rock pallet beneath him, at the bushes and stunted trees scattered across the rolling landscape, and the distant, white-capped mountains beyond. He frowned up at Alaric. “Is this the land of the dead?”
Alaric shook his head. “No, we’ve evaded that. This is just the North.”
The caravan master rolled to his knees and crawled to the edge of the rock slab, laying his hands on the chill Northern soil and digging his fingers into it for just a moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet. “How did we come here?” he whispered. He looked at Alaric again. “You did this.”
Alaric said nothing.
Piros turned entirely about. “This is far,” he murmured, and he clutched his desert robes close against the chill. Then he bowed deeply to Alaric. “What would you have of me, my lord?”
Alaric caught his breath sharply. That was not a reaction he had expected. Fear of his witch’s power, yes, and its likely cousin hate. But reverence? “I want nothing, good Piros, except your friendship.”
“I owe you my life,” said Piros. “That is not a debt easily repaid.”
Alaric shook his head. “I saved myself. It was just as easy to take you along.”
“You could have left me to die.”
“I am not that kind of man,” said Alaric.
Piros’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a man? Or are you some sort of magical spirit?”
“A man.”
“And yet …”
“It’s an ability I was born with. I try not to use it where others can observe. It frightens them.” He looked hard at Piros. “But you are not frightened.”
“I have seen many things in my life,” said Piros, “and I have never found fear to be useful. Can you take me back? Not to the cave, but outside.”
“I can take you back to the gaunt men’s camp or to the village by the pond or to your brother’s inn.”
“To the hill above the cave?”
“Yes, that, too.”
“I must know who commanded this. And I must see to my son and Hanio if they aren’t dead already.”
“The harvesters outnumber us,” said Alaric.
“They do,” said Piros, “but we have the advantage of surprise this time.” He shook his head. “This is not their doing alone. Their prince would never allow them to kill me unless someone else was ready to take over the trade, and with a more advantageous offer. The question is … who?”
“You suspect …?”
Piros’s mouth made a tight, grim line. “Someone who came with us to the source of the Powder, to make sure the deed was done. And to kill you, as well, to leave no credible witness.”
“Two possibilities,” murmured Alaric.
“Indeed,” said Piros. “Take me back, minstrel. I need the truth.”
“A little distance from the cave,” said Alaric. “Just out of sight.”
Piros nodded.
“Very well,” said the minstrel. “Come into the circle of my arms.”
They embraced each other, and a heartbeat later they were in the desert once more, on the north slope of the ridge they had followed to the cave. The ridge stood above their heads, but they both dropped to the ground anyway, and Piros crawled to the top, his head and body low. He peered over the rise and then signaled Alaric to join him.