On a hot afternoon in Jador, Gilwyn retired to his chambers with Minikin. They had spent the morning out in the desert, training him to scan the sands with his mind and locate the different creatures present. It had stunned Gilwyn that his mind could reach so far, if he concentrated hard enough, and he had not only detected the kreels on patrol but also an unsettling number of rass, the great hooded snakes that were the kreels’ mortal enemy. The exercise had exhilarated Gilwyn but it had also exhausted him, and the thought of stretching out on his comfortable bed became too much of a temptation. As he reached his chambers Minikin was still with him, her bodyguard Trog not far behind. She continued to lecture him, even though he wasn’t listening any more, as they stepped into the opulent rooms.
‘. . and if you can control a kreel, than you can control a rass as well,’ Minikin was saying. She had a smile on her face as though she had imparted the most important knowledge.
‘A rass is not a kreel,’ he said. The heat of the day had sapped his enthusiasm. His gaka felt heavy on his shoulders. He unspooled it and tossed it over a fabulously carved chair. ‘They don’t feel the same.’
‘No, certainly not,’ replied Minikin. ‘But did the kreel not feel strange to you at first?’
‘Not Emerald,’ answered Gilwyn, recalling the first time his mind had made contact with his own kreel. ‘That was easy.’
‘Ah, because you have a special connection to her,’ said Minikin. The little lady padded behind him, following him toward the bank of windows. ‘It is like that for all the Jadori warriors — they have a bond with their beasts. But not all of them can connect with just any kreel, Gilwyn. Not like you.’
As he pulled back the heavy drapes from the windows Gilwyn considered what Minikin said, but he was really too tired to give it much thought. The rass had a peculiar feeling to them, and he supposed not even Minikin could understand that. Sunlight flooded the room, hot, stabbing beams of orange. He groaned and started to close the drapes, then saw a white bird outside the window, pecking contentedly at the bird feeder. The sight of the bird jolted him.
‘Minikin, look,’ he said. ‘A dove. .’
One of Princess Salina’s doves, certainly. He could tell by the little roll of parchment threaded to its leg. Gilwyn stepped aside for Minikin to see. The mistress approached the window and opened the glass door.
‘Don’t frighten it,’ Gilwyn cautioned. ‘It might fly off.’
‘Oh?’ said Minikin. She stepped out onto the landing but paused before the feeder. ‘Then you should keep it here, Gilwyn.’
Gilwyn frowned.
‘Go on, do it,’ the mistress urged. ‘Calm the dove. You can do it.’
Gilwyn shook his head. ‘No, it doesn’t seem to be afraid of you. Just get the note.’
‘The note can wait. Think about the dove, Gilwyn. What do you see?’
He wanted to beg off the exercise but he relented, concentrating on the dove. As his mind reached out for it the bird stopped pecking and looked at him. His eyes locked with the dove’s own tiny orbs, and as Ruana built the strange bridge between them he could see himself through the bird’s tiny brain, and the trip the white creature had made across the desert. He felt its thirst and hunger. Then, to his pleasure, he saw a beautiful young woman.
‘Princess Salina,’ he said. ‘I see her, Minikin. .’
Minikin’s smile was prideful. ‘You are good. Better every day. I don’t suppose you can tell me what the note says?’
‘Hmm, I don’t think the bird knows that.’
Minikin laughed, then went calmly to the dove. She spoke gently to the bird as she worked the thread with her tiny fingers, freeing the note from its leg. ‘Let us see then for ourselves,’ she said. The thought of going out to rescue Seekers wearied Gilwyn, and while he waited patiently for Minikin to unravel the note he wondered who he could take with him. Without Lukien around, protecting the Seekers — and Jador — had become a good deal more difficult. Minikin remained calm as she opened the parchment, but when she began to read her eyes glazed over.
‘What is it?’ asked Gilwyn.
The expression on Minikin’s face grew frightening. She stared at the note, which Gilwyn knew from its size could not have been detailed, and read it again as though she could not believe its contents.
‘What’s it say?’
‘It’s from Salina,’ said Minikin. ‘About Prince Aztar.’
Puzzled, Gilwyn strode toward Minikin and reached down to take the note from her. Just as he had supposed, the note was very brief, but its contents were clear. The dove — the bird of peace — had borne them a call to war.
‘Gilwyn, we have to act quickly,’ said Minikin. Her tone was exact. ‘Use Ruana and locate Ghost. Have him and the others return to the city at once. We have a fight on our hands now, and we’ll need everyone here.’
‘I will, Minikin,’ said Gilwyn. He looked at her anxiously. ‘And we’ll have to get the city ready, too, build defences, prepare. .’
‘We will do that,’ Minikin agreed. ‘You’ll start, and when I return from Grimhold I’ll help you.’
‘Grimhold? Minikin, this attack can come at any time. We need you here.’
‘Aztar is still in Ganjor, Gilwyn,’ Minikin reminded him. ‘It will still be days yet before he can mount an attack. And we need to be ready for him. For that, we’ll need my Inhumans.’
‘And kreels, Minikin,’ added Gilwyn hopefully. ‘I can be there and back in less than a week,’ he told her, ‘with enough kreels to make a difference.’
Minikin gave no argument. ‘Make ready, then. Take Ghost with you.’
‘Really? You’re letting me go?’
‘Of course,’ replied Minikin. ‘You are regent.’ Determined, she looked out across the desert. ‘We will give this so-called prince a fight, your kreels and my Inhumans. It it time you found the valley. And time to call Greygor from the gate.’
27
West of the Agora river, deep in a valley circled by a noose of mountains, lay the city of Dreel. The last important province before the fabled crossroads of Ganjor, Dreel was a bastion for those from the north, where merchants and traders still unfamiliar with the desert kingdoms could fill their bellies with familiar foods and contemplate turning back. In the streets of Dreel, among the darkly rising towers and slave markets, men from Liiria and Marn and Reec, bent on making a fortune on Ganjeese spices, did their last bits of horse-trading before riding south. Dreel was a stronghold, a fortress city that had long had good relations with the kings of the north. For a price, the dukes of Dreel had protected the north from an invasion that had never come. To Lorn and his companions, Dreel was a remarkable and frightening city, and they had paid dearly to enter it. The tax at the city gate had sorely depleted their pockets. But unlike the merchants and traders who had homes in the north waiting for them, there was no turning back for Lorn.
The journey south had been long and difficult for the Believers. There had been thirty of them when they’d left Koth, but they had lost three of their number in the terrible weeks since. Two of them, both women, had died from a lung sickness during the rains in Nith. The third, a man named Orus who had never been hearty, stumbled on his crippled legs and slipped into a ravine. Now, whittled down to twenty-seven, Lorn led the Believers through the gates of Dreel. The black and towering wall of the city rose up above them like a gargoyle’s wing, shadowing their faces with sooty torchlight. The sliver of a moon struggled through swarming clouds. Eiriann and her father Garthel exchanged worried glances from their place in the wagon. The toll had been great because they were so many, and none of them had expected it to be so high. Dreel soldiers at the gate snickered as they passed. They were, Lorn knew, a desperate-looking bunch.