"The Dragon, afraid of us, what a pleasant fantasy," Elenya said dryly. "Have you heard the one about the demon who was afraid of the mouse?"
"There was that strange prophecy of Treynaf's last winter," Alemar said. "'A dragon dead in a palace beneath the sea.' I'm afraid Gloroc suspects the plans we've made with Struth. Don't you think it's significant that he replaced Puriel's former sorcerer with a wizard of the Ril? Omril is said to be an apprentice of the Dragon himself."
"Any word from Struth?"
"The party had not yet returned from the Wood at the time the message was sent."
Elenya picked up her amulet and dangled it from her fingers. "I find it ironic that Gloroc might be worried about our plans. To be frank, I'll believe Struth's man can succeed only after it's done."
All at once everyone in the room paused in shock. The amulet, now that it was touching Elenya's flesh, awakened. It blazed with the deep green tones that warned of magic being cast nearby.
Alemar spun toward the window. A pigeon sat on a nearby branch, observing them. Abruptly it took flight.
"Grandfather!" Alemar shouted.
Cosufier grabbed his bow and quiver, his speed belying his age. He rushed to the porch, the others at his heels. He dumped the arrows out for easy access and strung the bow. He drew back and aimed. The arrow flew long and straight, as his always did, but fell far short of the mark. The pigeon disappeared over the treetops toward the west.
Cosufier cursed.
"No matter," Alemar said ruefully. "Omril's already seen us. Even if we'd killed it, we could not have undone the damage. I'm sorry, Grandfather. We've ruined one of your sanctuaries."
The old man waved away the apology. "There are others. Let's get moving. The wizard's troops will soon be on their way."
Alemar had misjudged Omril. Given three days and the fact that Elenya, the subject of the magic, had not moved, the wizard did have the power to detect the lingering traces of the healing spell. The tension inside him reached a crescendo. They could not even have a momentary respite. The Dragon would hound them until they dropped. The time had come. If he could no longer be a healer, he would be a warrior.
Someone would pay.
XIV
OMRIL STOOD ON THE balcony of his tower, scanning the clouds to the east. A tiny speck appeared, grew, and resolved into the shape of a pigeon. Omril held up his hand. The bird landed on his glove.
"There, there, Swiftwing," the wizard murmured, stroking his servant's neck. He could feel her staccato pulse against his finger. She was barely able to keep her grip. Omril cupped her gently in his palms, comforted her as he stepped into his chambers, and returned her to her coop.
"Your eyes told me a great deal," he said, double checking to be sure the bird and her three siblings had adequate feed and water. He had worked Swiftwing close to her limit, both physically and in terms of the amount of magic she could channel. Still, even her death would have been worth the result.
The rebels had been gone by the time Swiftwing had guided Puriel's quarter cohort of guards to the cottage, but Omril was content. He had flushed them from cover. It was only a matter of time until he did it again. Sooner or later he would trap them. He regretted only that he could not have heard as well seen the rebels' conversation. However, sending one's eyesight to distant locales was one thing, sending one's ears at the same time was another. Swiftwing had done what she could. The Dragon would be pleased with the news.
Omril unrolled a tiny scroll and dipped his pen. In clear, precise glyphs, he wrote: I have seen the talismans of Setan. He closed the scroll, held it under a dripping candle, pressed his signet ring to the hardening wax, and attached the message to the leg of Swiftwing's brother Windborne. He released the bird and watched as it flew south toward Elandris.
XV
ABOVE THE PASS, the snowy peaks sparkled with alpenglow. "Isn't it beautiful?" Deena asked.
Toren kept drawing breath, but the thin mountain air refused to fill his chest. The sun beat fiercely, drying and cracking his lips, but declined to warm the atmosphere. His thighs ached murderously. He vowed silently never to come near a saddle once the journey was over.
They lingered at the crest of the pass. To the right and left rose steep slopes, cloaked in white. Behind them lay the range that separated Irigion from Serthe. Hard leagues. The rough terrain had lamed their pack oeikani, forcing them to transfer its load to the animal once owned by the late Ril wizard. Geim kept saying that they were lucky. The thaw had begun ahead of time, opening the pass early in the season. Even now thick banks of snow were heaped beside the trail in shady spots, eroded and ugly. The oeikani trod on cold mud.
"It is not the place for a Vanihr," he replied. The Wood was a lowland. To him, snow was a light dust on the ground every second or third winter that melted in hours, or at most a few days. He glanced at the peaks; no trees grew that high. He gestured at Geim, who was in the lead, staring at the timbered slopes below them as if searching for something. "I don't know how he has stood it, years without a home, travelling through lands like these."
"Why don't you ask him?" Deena asked.
The elegance of the suggestion hit him by surprise. He took her advice.
When Geim heard the question, he sighed. "It is better now. I serve Struth. Before that, when I simply wandered…" He shrugged, and in the gesture Toren suddenly knew a great deal about the course of Geim's adult life.
"It's good to live for something," Geim concluded. Then, changing the subject, he pointed toward what he had discovered.
Far below, they saw the spur of a river valley. Where it opened out onto the plain, the sun sparkled on glass and white-washed structures.
"The city of Headwater," Geim said. "Our destination."
They continued to descend for two days, passing several riders and small caravans heading the other way-not, according to Geim, as many as there should have been. The reports from the war had made merchants wary. Then they stood before the city gates.
The older part of Headwater was tucked into a gorge where the Slip River spilled out of the mountains in a phantasmagorical waterfall. Bridges, many of them elaborate, ancient constructions, spanned the stream, connecting the two halves of the community. Downstream the houses and shops fanned out onto the valley floor, most of them contained by the fifth and outermost of the city walls, though new buildings poked up outside the gates.
"We are now inside the old boundaries of the Calinin Empire," Geim said as they made their way down the streets. "In fact, Serthe is still part of the commonwealth, tied by treaty to Xais. Headwater was one of the ten great cities of the empire. Alemar Dragonslayer was raised here."
The commentary washed right over Toren. The concept of a dozen large, civilized nations and an equal number of protectorates, all under one centralized government for a period of centuries, staggered him. The only times Vanihr tribes had united were for the campaigns against the Shagas and the Alahihr, and these alliances had lasted only for the duration of raids and sorties. The lands of the Fhali, which had seemed so vast, now seemed like a tiny hunting range.
They passed beggars in rags; guardsmen in fine, polished armor; merchants in loose, wraparound robes; and hordes of vendors. Blacksmith shops belched smoke, bakeries taunted them with the aroma of fresh loaves being drawn from the ovens, jugglers and musicians provided entertainment in the larger squares and plazas. By comparison, Talitha had been only a sleepy river town. Few people stared at Toren and Geim now. Their appearance seemed mild compared to the bright orange braids and immense breasts of the Cotani slave girls washing clothes at the public fountains, or to the short, stocky dark men-"Drelbs," Geim called them-pushing their wheelbarrows down an alley. They even saw another Vanihr, partaking of wine and cheese in an open air cafe.