"Fenro," one of the men said.
"I'm Domano," another.
"Aladu!" called the third man from the other side of the wagon.
The woman who shared the wagon-seat with Old Man smiled in the rain, her black hair plastered to the sides of her face. "I'm Turchia," she said. Her voice was low-pitched for a woman's.
Duran remembered what he had told Dajhi, Old Man, what seemed a lifetime ago. "Your names are safe with me," he murmured, touching his heart.
He sensed the Sabirn relaxing, saw the sudden warmth in them—though he was certain Old Man had told them this Ancar was different from most.
"There's a small grove of trees down the road a ways," Aladu said. "Lets make camp there."
There were no more questions until Old Man stopped the wagon for the night. The men dragged out another tarp from the wagon and secured it to three long staffs of wood, making a tent of sorts out from the wagon. A third tarp they spread on the ground so everyone could sit in comfort.
With a minimum of fuss, Fenro had started a small fire. Duran and Dog settled: Kekoja scurried about on small errands—but among the first he brought Duran a cup of heated wine.
"My father," Kekoja called him—"my second father—"
At which Duran found his eyes stinging, and his throat tight, and the wine most welcome to hide the fact.
"Now for questions," Old Man said. White teeth flashed in the firelight as Old Man smiled. "One of mine first. Then, I promise you, I'll answer anything you want."
Duran nodded. "Ask."
"Did you have any enemies who would have been able to hire wizards against you?"
Duran started to shake his head in denial, then nodded slowly, seeing Wellhyrn's face, and Ladirno's, in his mind.
Kekoja reached out and tapped Old Man's knee. "I told you."
Old Man smiled.
"But I was only clumsy for a day," Duran said, recalling everything he had dropped and tripped over. Suddenly, why things had returned to normal dawned on him. His skin tightened. "You knew," he said softly, his eyes holding Old Man's gaze, "and you counteracted the ill-wishes aimed at me. Who was the wizard and how did you afford him?"
Old Man smiled.
"But, Ladirno and Wellhyrn could afford some of Targheiden's best. . . ."
"Then I'm complimented," Old Man said. "Next question. Ask."
"What you did . . . back there . . . the mob." He looked from one dark face to the next. "What in Dandro's hells was it?"
"That wasn't wizardry," Old Man replied, "but just as well they think it was. You're an alchemist. You've seen things explode."
"Aye—"
"Explosion in an open-ended cylinder—" Old Man opened his fingers. "Boom! A pellet flies—"
"Set that damned mob running, that's for sure," Domano said.
"I'm sorry I had to do it, though." Old Man's voice was soft. "Now life for the Sabirn of Targheiden will be even more difficult. Perhaps impossible. There'll be blood. There already has been. It may shake a throne—"
"Was it you—the weather?"
Old Man had no expression. He only sipped his wine.
"Did you?" Duran demanded to know.
"Say that times change. Kingdoms end. This one—has run its course. All the accumulated magic—all the spells against it—call it nature. Call it a run of luck. No. I didn't. Their own -wizards—wished the luck on their enemies. They feared—and they hated; and they wished with all they had. And their enemies—are in the city: do you see? Their enemies—"
"—were themselves," Duran said, with a chill.
"There are those worth saving," Old Man said, "those that aren't so blind. When we come across a mind like yours—we make every effort to draw it to us: we make no difference of race."
"We," Duran said, and looked at the dark faces in the firelight. "Who is this—we?"
"Northeast of here. We've a place there. If this kingdom falls—we'll not be part of it. We'll wait. We've waited before. A thousand years."
Duran's head spun. The Old Empire—
"Dajhi," Duran said. "Are there—alchemists where we're going? Are there those—who can transmute metals—turn base metal into gold?"
Old Man laughed. "Once an alchemist, always an alchemist. No, Duran, I'm afraid not. That's something no one has ever been able to do."
"I wonder why?" Duran mused, staring into the flames.
"Maybe that's something you'll discover," Old Man said.
Silence fell, and in that silence Duran heard his pulse beating in his ears. He was not so old. He had his medicines and his alchemist's tools. He had his Sabirn friends—
A cold nose touched his hand. He put an arm around Dog's neck, and stared off to the west where Targheiden lay, hidden by the darkness and rain.
Strange: he mourned the loss of home with a real grief, but at the same time that life seemed pale and distant. Few men were ever given the chance to start their lives over.
Duran smiled, and turning his eyes east, began to dream of what he could find.
Book Three:
Reap the Whirlwind
Dedication:
To my partners in crime
Nancy Asire
Leslie Fish
But most of all, to the lady
who made it all possible
for all three of us
C. J. Cherryh
with respect, admiration,
and a touch of impertinence
CHAPTER ONE
Felaras stood in the open window of her study and let the cold night wind whirl around her, tying her hair into knots and cutting through the thick red wool of her tunic. That wind was the herald of a storm crawling its way toward her; thunderheads blackening the already dark night sky, growling and rumbling. Lightning danced along the tops of the mountains to the east in blue-white arabesques; jagged streaks of fire that leapt from the clouds to lash the world's bones.
There was no real need for Felaras to endure the ice-fanged wind. The study traditionally belonging to the Head of the Order of the Sword of Knowledge had one of the few glazed windows in the Fortress. Felaras could have shut that window and still been able to see the storm. But the current Master of the Order preferred to feel the wild wind on her face this night. The wind was uncontrolled and cleansing, and she had a need to remind herself that such forces existed beyond the petty squabblings of humans. That they would continue no matter what happened here below. That they waited for some human to learn their whys and wherefores, and to tame them to human hands. And one day—one day she knew it would happen. Some day, some man or woman would call the lightning, and it would answer.
For a moment it almost seemed to Felaras that if she called in her need, it would answer her.
But—no.
Hubris, old woman. Hubris and desperation. The gods aren't listening—if they ever did.
The storm wouldn't answer her, as the superstitious believed—but it was nice to imagine, for a few moments, that the foolish tales about the "Order of Sorcerers" were truth.
Ah, you winds—if only you would blow those damned horse-nomads right off the face of the earth—or at least back to their steppes.