The Windeye straightened his sagging shoulders and reached out to take Aurian’s hand. “I’ll be all right,” he reassured her with an effort. “This is a time of heavy burdens for us all. I will rest tonight, I promise—though I ought not, while we keep vigil.”
“Bugger the vigil,” Aurian growled. “I won’t let Phalihas and his men see you sleeping—but sleep you will, my friend. I’ll see to that. You deserve it, and you need it.”
“Just so long as you don’t snore,” Parric threatened, with a grin.
“What?” Chiamh raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “I’ll have you know that the mighty Windeye of the Xandim never snores!” Though the burden was still his to bear, his heart felt immeasurably lighter now that his decision had been made. He answered Parric’s comradely clap on the shoulder with a buffet of his own, and turned reluctantly away from the warmth of his friends toward the hostility of his enemies. “We must be moving,” he told his companions. “The sun is almost setting, and there is little time remaining to do what we must.”
It was as though an invisible line had been drawn between the standing stones across the mouth of the vale, from one tall, sinister monolith to the other. Beyond that impenetrable boundary of fear and superstition, the Elders stood. Behind them, ranked in line, were the regional chieftains of the nomadic Xandim hunters and the leaders of the small family communities of fisherfolk, salt-panners, and beachcombers who spent part of their year in residence down on the coast and traded their goods at regular gatherings with the inland tribes. Accompanying them was Phalihas, still trapped within the equine shape of a great black stallion. At the sight of Chiamh the former Herdlord tensed with rage, flattening his ears back against his skull while one huge hoof pounded restlessly at the ground, tearing the turf to shreds.
Ysalla, leader of the Elders, stepped forth: tall and gaunt and brittle as an ancient pine. Though her russet hair was more gray than chestnut now, and her weathered face was hollowed and lined with age, her manner was still haughty and imperious as she addressed the Windeye. “Well, tergiver-sator? The dark of the moon is upon us again. What word have you for us, upon this Night of Challenge? Does that skulking Outland scum that you have raised to power intend to keep his word to us this time? And what of your own promise? Will you free Phalihas? For we have ruled that under our ancient Law he was unfairly Challenged and may contend again, if he so wishes—but not under the geas of a foul traitor!”
Chiamh, though he shook inwardly, met her cold gaze without flinching. “True to my vow, I will release Phalihas.” He paused to give the murmurs and cries of the assembled Xandim a chance to die away. “And to meet him I bring forth another who would Challenge! Though the present Herdlord keeps his word and will not fight again, under the Law he may nominate another to stand in his place.”
“Another Xandim,” Ysalla snapped.
“He is another Xandim.” The Windeye’s expression of impassive calm did not alter as he beckoned Schiannath to his side, though he was almost overwhelmed by the cries of anger and outrage that erupted all around him.
“Traitor!”
“Injustice!”
“It is forbidden!”
“He would foist an outlaw on us now!”
“Schiannath has already failed!”
“He may not fight again!”
Chiamh lifted his hand—and a blast of howling wind swept all their words away. Into the stunned and resentful silence that followed, he spoke again. “May I remind you that Phalihas has also failed a Challenge, yet still you call upon the Law to let him fight again. The Herdlord, Parric, is willing to give up his position, but a resigning Herdlord has the right under our Law to nominate a Challenger—any Challenger that he may choose, so long as it be one of the Xandim—to take his place. You cannot deny that it is so.”
For a long moment Ysalla hesitated, plainly desperate to deny his words—but she could not. At last, she dropped her eyes from Chiamh’s unwavering gaze. “It is so,” she admitted through gritted teeth, sounding as though each word had been dragged by force out of the very depths of her soul. “If you restore Phalihas, then Schiannath may Challenge—and we, the Xandim, will abide by the result. But hear me, Windeye”—her eyes smoldered with the intensity of her loathing—“if Phalihas should prevail, then tomorrow’s dawn will be the last that you and your accursed Outland companions will ever see. By the Light of the Goddess, I swear it.”
“Before you make such a rash vow, you should be sure you are able to enforce it,” the Windeye replied levelly. “I, at least, can keep the promises I make.” With that he lifted his hands, grasped the air that shimmered around Phalihas, and twisted. The horse-shape blurred and altered—and standing in its place was the tall, strong figure of the former Herdlord.
“You…” Phalihas screamed, and hurled himself at Chiamh, his hands outstretched to grasp and maul. He fought the Xandim that held him back, all the while spitting out vile epithets and snarling like an animal in his rage. The Windeye stood unmoving, never taking his eyes from his would-be murderer.
Ysalla put an end to it. “Stop this, you fool!” she roared. “Do you want to ruin everything? If you cross into the Vale of Death—or if you shed blood upon the Eve of Challenge—you will be cursed, and may not fight tomorrow!”
Phalihas subsided immediately, though his eyes glinted with unsatiated rage. “Count the hours, Chiamh,” he told the Windeye. “You have not many left.”
Chiamh shrugged—a deliberate move designed to keep Phalihas angry and off balance throughout the night. “For certain, one of us has not.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
Aurian, watching, felt her heart swell with pride.
The sun was dipping low behind the riven peaks of Steelclaw, streaking the gaunt and looming monoliths with crimson as the two camps of the Challengers settled down by the stones for the night’s uneasy vigil. There was little time left for talk before the darkness brought the rule of silence, and Parric hurried to catch the Windeye alone while Aurian and Anvar lit a fire, and the others were busy setting up their rough camp, arranging the watches between themselves so that two would always be there to guard Schiannath, and one other would be on hand to feed the fire and surreptitiously keep the Challenger awake should he falter. Chiamh was coaxing a reluctant, nervous Schiannath to eat the last meal he would have before his Challenge, but when he felt the cavalrymaster’s hand upon his shoulder, he quickly turned away.
Parric led them both into the shadows behind the great stone. “Look,” he began roughly, “I’m just a soldier, and not much of a one for words, but if I didn’t thank you before for all you’ve done for us, I want to do it now. And, well, I wanted to thank you for what you did the other night. When I’m wrong, I say it—and you stopped me from making one of the worst mistakes of my life when I tried to get Aurian away from the fastness without Anvar. I’m sorry for what I tried to do, and I’m in your debt because you never told Aurian I was such a bloody fool. The lass would never have forgiven me—I realize that now. You saved me from making a right old fist of things, and probably saved Anvar’s life into the bargain. I’m truly grateful to you.”
At that moment the last shred of sunlight vanished and the lonely wail of a horn rang out across the plateau, signaling that the hours of silent vigil had begun. Chiamh was prevented from making a reply, but his smile and his strong clasp of Parric’s hand managed to convey both friendship and approval as they walked back together to the fire.
Though they had all arranged to take watches, none of Schiannath’s companions save the chagrined Windeye—who insisted, afterward, that Aurian had bespelled him—got any sleep that night. In the case of Sangra and Yazour, their thoughts were astonishingly similar, though their backgrounds were so disparate. Each of them, in their own way, was longing for home. Sangra was thinking wistfully of the busy, muddy streets of Nexis: the taverns, the training, and the rowdy, rough-and-tumble companionship of the Garrison. Yazour sat shivering in his thick cloak, missing the shimmering, broiling heat, the rhythmic chirpings of the frogs beside the river, which made each night less still and lonely, the sound of his mother tongue—and the endless, glittering horizons of the desert.