Winehouses … wenches? He shook his head in irritation, at odds with the way his mind seemed to be jumping about.
Looking out over the now glowing eastern horizon and scratching at his stubbed jaw, he grudgingly admitted he was losing his normal poise. Just as quickly, he convinced himself it had nothing to do with the woman, but rather the simple truth that the world had gone absolutely mad. What with the quakes, raging infernos, and demons running about, a man had a right to be put out of sorts by even the mundane things in life. And, too, he had to face the truth that something in him had changed when that tongue of blue fire had snaked out from the temple and touched him.
After a long moment, she said, “I am Sister Ellonlef Khala.”
Reluctantly, Kian turned. She had dribbled water over her chin and chest. “I am Kian Valara,” he answered. Her eyes flared at that, which seemed strange, for it appeared that his name had brought not just recognition but something more.
Pushing the thought aside, along with his ridiculous aversion to accommodating her needs, he squatted down and dug through his panniers for something to dry her off. The best he could find was a not-so-clean tunic. When he straightened, she was still staring at him with deep curiosity and, perhaps, a touch of mistrust … or was it fear?
“Something wrong?” he asked, irritated. He dropped his tunic into her lap and waited for a response.
Instead of answering right away, she scrutinized the camp and his small party, dabbing at her chest with the tunic. One by one, men tossed aside their blankets and rose to stretch away stiffness from their bones.
“For a man seeking to usurp the Ivory Throne,” she said offhandedly, “you seem short of warriors.”
Kian’s mouth fell open, stunned. “The way you fought the Bashye last night, standing in the open and making a perfect target of yourself, I knew you were mad,” he snapped.
“I faced certain capture by the Bashye,” she said slowly and precisely, speaking as if to a lackwit. “I would rather have died in battle than become their slave-a concept I should not have to explain to an Izutarian, if I rightly understand your people.”
“She has you there,” Azuri said, coming near with Hazad at his side.
Kian looked between the two men, fully aware that he had spoken before thinking, which was not his habit. He was starting to wish he had never laid eyes on this Sister Ellonlef. Yet he had, and the question of her sanity or unflinching bravery aside, the accusation she had leveled at him was, without question, unacceptable. The last kingdom he would want-if ever he sought a kingdom-was Aradan, a realm filled with all manner of debauched and lazy highborn, men and women so long from true struggles that they had to invent problems over which to be angry or concerned. To be sure, the kingdom contended with the Bashye, as well as Tureecian raiders, but to these threats the Ivory Throne conscripted vast armies and paid hordes of mercenaries to keep safe Aradan’s great cities and holdings, ensuring the highborn had all the more time to invent depraved entertainments in which to wallow.
Before he could respond to her outlandish statement, Azuri bowed at the waist and introduced himself, followed by Hazad, whose movements were far more crude.
“If you need anything, Sister,” Azuri said, “you have only to ask. Hazad may be as ugly as Kian, but he is usually far more pleasant.” He finished with a wink that brought a sudden and delighted grin to Ellonlef’s lips.
Kian glared at his friends. They had openly betrayed him, all for a pretty woman. It was simply disgusting.
Ellonlef’s grin became a captivating smile that momentarily set Kian back on his heels. “Thank you,” she said.
Kian forcefully regained his wits and demanded, “I would know why you accused me of seeking to depose King Simiis.”
Ellonlef’s smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. “I am not your accuser, rather the messenger.”
“Then who is my accuser?” he asked, anger rising. Such a slight could not go unanswered.
Ellonlef appraised him, as if trying to determine his worthiness. Finally she answered. “Your former charge, as it happens, Prince Varis Kilvar.”
“Varis!” Azuri hissed, voicing the surprise of all three.
“He arrived in Krevar several days ago-exactly how many, I cannot be sure, as I have been riding hard and sleeping little since Lord Marshal Otaker sent me north. And, so you know exactly what you face, Varis’s followers now call him the Life Giver.”
“ ‘You seek to supplant the master of the mahk’lar, the Life Giver,’ “ Hazad muttered. “Lord Marshal Bresado said that, or something very close, right before he-”
Kian cut the big man off with a sharp look. He wanted Ellonlef to tell all that she knew before he shared anything in return. As far as he knew, she might be in the service of Varis. Yet, by the look on her face, eyes wide with shock, mouth slightly agape, what Hazad had said obviously disturbed her greatly. Too greatly, Kian silently conceded, for a woman of her stripe. A Sister of Najihar, it was said, was never out of countenance. That Ellonlef so obviously was, suggested she could not be in league with Varis … unless her emotions were a ploy.
“You are sure,” she asked, “that Lord Marshal Bresado spoke those words, named Varis so?”
“No question at all,” Hazad said. “Though I would like to, I will never forget Bresado-or whatever he was-as we last saw him.”
Azuri confirmed the big man’s statement with a nod.
Ellonlef bowed her head in thought. When she looked up again, her eyes glinted with unshed tears, and Kian felt something inside himself soften, just a little. He had never seen eyes more ill-suited for tears.
“If …” Ellonlef trailed off, voice cracking. Visibly composing herself, she said, “If you speak true, then Lord Marshal Otaker Racote is dead … or changed.”
Kian did not like the way she said that last. With all that he had recently seen of demons, changed was not a word he wanted to apply to a man.
“Last night you claimed,” Kian said, “that all the people between Yuzzika and Oratz have been slaughtered.”
“I made no claims,” Ellonlef retorted. “I saw the dead-hundreds, thousands. Most were too far gone to guess what had killed them. In Oratz, however, it was obvious that something had … had torn out their throats before they died.”
Creatures of shadow and hate, Bresado’s voice rose up from deep within Kian’s mind, glutted themselves on the blood of the dying.
Kian lost the opportunity for the secrecy he needed to glean all that Ellonlef knew or suspected when Hazad spoke aloud the words in his mind, and naming Bresado as the speaker. Kian wanted to shout at the man, but held his tongue. The nervousness that had greeted him upon waking reared up again, larger than ever. A storm, of sorts, was coming. There could be no question that sharing details with the Sister of Najihar was hastening its approach. Bowing to fear was not in Kian’s nature, but more than ever he wanted to run far and fast, before the first stroke of lightning fell from the envisioned storm, before the first drop of poisoned rain touched his brow.
Azuri began speaking next, telling her what had happened at the temple, about Varis creating fire from thin air, of the battle with the diabolical root-serpent. Then he moved on to the demon that had taken Fenahk’s flesh for its own, and how Kian had miraculously defeated it. Hazad took up where Azuri left off, recounting in a hollow voice about the many dead at El’hadar, as well as the demons seemingly under Bresado’s command, creatures only Kian could easily kill.
After they finished, Ellonlef mulled their words, then said, “These demons are, in truth, the Fallen. Lady Danara, whom Varis brought back from death, told that she had been to Geh’shinnom’atar, and that she had seen the Fallen freed.”