Sayyed glanced at the man’s emblem and recognized him as a member of the Mira tribe that had its hereditary demesne to the northeast. He frowned in sympathy. The Feast of the Prophets was in nine months, in the cool season of winter. Not much time to save a population from starvation. “Haven’t the priests stockpiled grain in settlements as they are supposed to do?” he asked curiously.
At that his companion turned red with ill-concealed irritation. “Perhaps the Raid have honest officials and no dealings with the Fel Azureth. But the priests of our lands have had to pay grain for taxes to the Shar-Ja’s collectors, and what is left has been claimed by the Gryphon to feed his army of zealots.”
Sayyed slouched in his saddle and tried not to look too interested. He had heard that name from Athlone as the title of the unknown leader of the Fel Azureth. Gryphon seemed an appropriate title for such a man, Sayyed mused. Real gryphons had once existed in the Absarotan Mountains and were known to be cunning, secretive, and fiercely loyal to their mates. “Have you seen the Gryphon?” he asked casually.
“Not face-to-face,” the tribesman said glumly. “He sends his commanders to tithe the settlements and towns in the name of the Living God and the Prophet Sargun.” The man suddenly realized his voice was growing louder with his anger, and he bit off his words with a harsh laugh. “Shahr keep the Gryphon in the palm of his hand, and,” he tacked on in an undertone, “keep him away from my family.” He clucked to his horse and rode forward, away from the curious strangers.
“That was interesting,” Rafnir said. “Not all tribesmen are happy with the Fel Azureth either.”
Sayyed stared thoughtfully ahead, far beyond the caravan, beyond the horizon, to things only his mind’s eye could see. There was so much to consider, so many facts he did not yet have, so many nuances he could not put into place. He needed to talk to someone who knew the current news around the entire realm, someone who would not inquire in turn about his big horse or his lack of knowledge or his curiosity. But there was not one person he could think of, or anyone he could trust. He and Rafnir would have to continue their blind search without drawing the attention of those who might have Kelene and Gabria in their control. One slip could prove deadly for them all.
The sorcerer stifled a yawn. Time was precious, but he and Rafnir could not function much longer without sleep. They had spent three anxious days and two nights with virtually no rest, and the effects were wearing them down. Sayyed yawned again. His head felt heavy and ached behind his eyes.
He glanced at Rafnir and saw the same weariness dragging on his son’s features. There was more there, too, a brittleness of worry and a tight-jawed self-control. Rafnir had said little of his fear for Kelene, but it was there to read in the banked fires of his dark brown eyes.
7
That night at the second oasis, called the Tears of Al Masra, the evening was much the same. The caravan halted in a level field and set up camp beside the string of shallow pools that formed the oasis. After prayers, food was prepared, the horses were herded out to graze under the watchful eye of mounted herders, and the travelers relaxed. Sayyed and Rafnir walked about, observing the activity and looking for something that would lead them to the missing women.
They saw little to help them. The Shar-Ja remained in seclusion. The counselors kept to themselves, and the tribesmen ate and rested. Tassilio seemed to be the only one in camp with a light heart. He ran with his dog, laughing and barking and chasing imaginary prey.
As night settled on the oasis, Sayyed saw seven more men slip out of the darkness and mingle in with the camp’s inhabitants. They were like the first group, totally unremarkable except for their full complement of weapons. When Sayyed tried to approach one, a lean wolf of a man with a mole on his cheek, the tribesman glared at him and hurried away.
At last, exhausted. Sayyed and Rafnir sought shelter in a quiet place under the tall, slim trunk of an oasis willow. They slept undisturbed until morning, when they woke to horns calling the faithful to prayer.
That day followed much like the last. Three days were gone, and there was still no word or clue as to the whereabouts of Kelene and Gabria. That evening the caravan traveled late into dusk to reach the next oasis on the Spice Road, one unimaginatively called Oasis Three.
“There’s one place we haven’t tried yet,” Sayyed told his son as they ate their meal. “The baggage train. We’ll take a look in some of the bigger vans and wagons.”
They waited until the night was late and the camp had settled into subdued nocturnal peace. The enormous dome of the sky arched over their heads, clear and afire with countless stars. In the pale starlight, the sorcerers crept to the supply wagons and began a slow, methodical search of the interiors of each one, large or small. Soft-stepping, they checked the first row then moved to the next.
Sayyed put his foot on the wheel of a large covered vehicle and was about to lift himself up to see inside when he heard the faint crunch of soft boots on sandy soil. He turned to warn Rafnir and glimpsed several shadows spring around the corner of the wagon. Balanced on one foot and with his hands on the wagon sides, he could not react fast enough to defend himself. He fell sideways, hoping to throw off the attackers long enough to form a defensive spell. Something flashed in the starlight, and a brilliant pain exploded in his head. He heard a muffled thud beside him, and as he collapsed he felt the body of his son fall silently on top of him.
Sayyed hung suspended in a black pitiless limbo somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. He could not see or move or speak; he could only dwell in the pain that racked his body. He thought at first the pain was only in his head, in a blinding crack behind his ear that threatened to split open his entire skull. But as he concentrated on that agonizing sensation, more of his senses became aware, and other parts of his body began to complain. His neck, shoulders, and arms ached for some reason he did not yet understand, and his shins and ankles felt battered. Confused at this unknown assault, Sayyed’s mind scrambled farther out of the black fog to seek a way to end the pain.
He became aware of several things at once. First, although he knew his eyes were open, he could not see. Fabric had been wrapped around his head, effectively blinding and gagging him. Second, he realized his arms and shoulders hurt because someone had roped his arms up over his head and was dragging him, facedown, over ground rough with short shrubs, rocks, and small prickly cactus.
Groggily he struggled against the tight bonds on his arms, but his efforts brought only a vicious kick that landed on his ribs. He groaned and stayed still while he forced his mind to full alertness.
He briefly considered summoning magic to break his ropes; then he set that idea aside for the moment. He was still too groggy and could neither speak nor use his hands. Without those guides and the strength to control the powerful energy, he could cause more trouble for himself than he was in now. The magic could burst out of control and destroy all who were in the vicinity.
Instead, he let his body hang limply in his captors’ hands and listened to the sounds around him, hoping to learn more about the men who held him and what had happened to Rafnir. As he concentrated, he discerned more footsteps, perhaps five or six pairs, and what could be the sound of another body being dragged close by.
The attackers moved swiftly and silently up an easy slope, then down a long, gentle incline to a hollow lined with gravel and short spindly plants that crackled under Sayyed’s weight. There the unseen men stopped and dropped their captives on the ground.