Darkvision (21 page)

The swordswoman shivered, then struck her forehead with the heel of her palm as an idea occurred. What a moron! She’d had the means to warm the dwarf all along.

She plucked the flask from her hip, twirled off the metal cap, and tipped the opening to Thormud’s lips. He unconsciously swallowed the few tiny sips that Kiril allowed him. She had a pull herself. The warmth hit her belly and immediately spread to her extremities. That was better! She gave the dwarf another small sip.

Kiril laughed. After all the times the dwarf had given her his sour look for drinking too much and too often. It was a small revenge, but necessary if the dwarf were to pull through. If he did, she’d tell him how she’d been forced to give him spirits enough to warm his blood.

The elf shrugged. She knew drinking from the flask was only a temporary measure. Alcohol didn’t generate warmth—it merely allowed the reservoir of warmth stored in the core to be liberated. By drinking the hard stuff, you’d warm up your fingers and toes in the short term, but freeze to death all the sooner.

She hoped Prince Monolith hurried. She didn’t want to have to bury the dwarf at the top of the world, under a drift of icy snow.

Flakes swirled across her eyes, obscuring her vision.

The dwarf’s health improved markedly after getting down off the top of the pass. Thormud sat in his seat, blinking at the harsh sun and drinking frequently from his waterskin.

The destrier’s pace was steadier as it followed the thudding steps of Prince Monolith down the dry path of a prehistoric, nameless river. The mountains on this side of the pass were nearly empty of vegetation, unlike the southward face they had ascended.

Ahead and below lay the flat face of Raurin. They were so high above its empty reaches that Kiril spied a distant dust storm of incredible ferocity. Swelling and towering like a genie loosed from its bottle, the gargantuan wind devil suffused with sand danced westward. It strode above the dead plain, promising stinging death to any at its feet. Kiril couldn’t gauge the column’s true size, but she didn’t doubt it was supernaturally large. Such storms were one of the reasons travelers rarely chose to chance the briny sand seas of the Dust Desert.

“I hope that storm passes before we get down to the edge,” Kiril told Thormud.

“Mmm.”

She’d been trying to engage the geomancer in conversation all morning, with limited success.

Prince Monolith plodded onward and downward.

They continued to follow the parched course of the ancient river down from the foothills. Day passed into midafternoon. The river’s dead path wound among hills rounded and degraded by eons. Kiril saw nothing but worn boulders, pebbles, and fine rusty sand. Nothing moved on the river bottom, whose stones were bare even of dead lichen.

The malignant wind devil with the sandstorm shrouding its base hadn’t passed over the horizon as they’d descended the pass. Instead, it twisted and swelled toward them, as if it were a sentient guardian come to bar their passage into Raurin. Perhaps it was.

“We’d better find shelter before it gets here,” Kiril told Thormud as she pointed toward the approaching storm.

“Mmm.”

“Damn it.”

Kiril yelled ahead, “Monolith, Thormud’s still not himself. Don’t expect any direction from him, if you’re waiting for it.”

The deep voice of the elemental noble resonated back, “Why should I? I am the guide, not he.”

“All right, rock head, if you’re so smart, maybe you should think about that approaching wind devil. We won’t survive its outskirts, let alone the column at the center.”

The elemental stalked down the empty path, but one of its stone arms rose and pointed ahead. Kiril followed the direction of his gesture and saw a tiny cavern mouth, perhaps five hundred paces distant, gaping from the side of the empty stream bed.

She shrugged, saying nothing. Truth was, she was slightly embarrassed she hadn’t descried the cave mouth herself. She was an elf, after all, and had a reputation to maintain.

The storm stifled the sun as they reached the aperture. They moved through a baleful twilight stained with bloody light. The cave opened out of the flat, eroded face of an ancient riverbank. The cave’s sides were crumbled into heaps of crusted dust, but Kiril immediately noticed a suspiciously clean avenue down the center of the cavern floor. More suspicious yet—the flickering illumination of lantern light emerging from what should have been a lonely, black hole.

Someone lived in the cave—perhaps several someones.

Prince Monolith reached out and touched the rock above the cave entrance. He held the position briefly, then stepped to the side of the cave entrance and ceased all movement.

“Not coming in?”

He replied, “I doubt I would fit. Plus, I might frighten the natives.”

“What kind of natives?” asked Kiril.

“Environs as harsh as Raurin are extreme, but mortal flesh, for all its frailty, is surprisingly adaptable. The rock has led me to a colony of dervishes, despite an enchantment of misdirection attempting to lead me astray. But I have a closer association with the world than most.”

“I hope they’re friendly.”

“Enter and ask for shelter. I have observed that cultures perched on the edge of wastelands often prize hospitality above all other values.”

The storm was sweeping down upon them and beginning to sting Kiril with windblown grit. “I don’t see what choice I have.”

Monolith stood silent as stone.

The elf wrestled Thormud down from his seat and bodily carried him into the cave entrance. She’d worry about their equipment and supplies, still lashed to the destrier’s back, later. Xet fluttered around unhelpfully.

The lantern hung from the ceiling some thirty feet down the cavern’s throat, rusted and battered, but burning a half-full reservoir of oil that smelled pleasantly of cloves. The lantern light revealed the edge of a chamber that widened gradually toward a great wooden gate blocking the mouth of a deeper tunnel. The floor was worn smooth, as if by vanished waters … or by years of busy feet. Dust from the storm outside began to swirl across the stone surface. She set Thormud down with his back against the cavern wall.

With the storm howling at the cave mouth, Kiril pounded on the wooden gate, carved with abstract designs.

After a short wait, too brief for Kiril to consider pounding a second time, a small panel high on the door slid open. An amber glow and tinkling music streamed from the grilled opening.

“Hello?” said Kiril.

A man’s voice replied from the other side of the door. “What do you want?” The language was Elvish, with something like a Yuirwood accent, but more liquid.

Kiril was too surprised by the language and what it implied to immediately respond.

“Well,” said the voice again, in its strangely accented Elvish, “I can see you are not djinn; perhaps you were chased by a djinn to the safety of our doorstep?”

“Perhaps,” said Kiril, not actually sure what the voice was asking her. “A storm came, and we saw the cave. We hoped it would give shelter—we didn’t know we’d find someone living here.”

“No? You weren’t looking for the hidden city of Al Qahera or its people? But only those of elf blood could hope to locate Al Qahera—it is an ancient enchantment we preserve.”

“I am an elf, that’s true, but I hail from the north, from …” she almost said Stardeep, but finally said, “from the Yuirwood forest. I am not of the Al Qaheran clan. Elves hidden in the Yuirwood call themselves ‘people of the star.’ But I am not really part of their society any longer, either. I am a traveler.”

“You’ve traveled far, and to one of the most inhospitable places in the world. I see no children with you, just a mountain carver. Are you carrying contraband?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes oathless smugglers make haddrum runs between Huorm and the oasis towns.”

“I don’t know what haddrum is, but, no, we’re not carrying dangerous substances, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Then what?”

“It’s a long story. I’d be happy to tell you if you let us in. My friend here is sick.”

“Mmmm, hmm, yes, so I see,” said the voice, and paused. “Very well. I’m a good judge of character, so I tell my sons and daughters.” The sound of a bolt being drawn back momentarily drowned out the sound of the blowing sand. “Be welcome in Al Qahera! Bring with you no deceit, and you shall find none here.”

The great carved door swung wide, and standing in its gap was an elf wearing a long, heavy gown of spun white cloth, over which he wore a larger, looser garment stitched with intricate script Kiril didn’t recognize. His face, while certainly that of an elf, was strangely weathered. Despite his fey blood, his skin marked him as one who’d spent a lifetime in the sun.

“My name,” said the man, “is Essam. Enter.” He moved to the side and gestured inward. Behind him Kiril saw the heart of the dervish community of Al Qahera.

The entrance, wide as it was, opened onto a far larger and deeper plaza, enclosed on all sides by stone balconies, galleries, and square tunnels leading to hidden rooms. The entire plaza was brilliantly lit by hundreds of clove oil lanterns. Great bronze plaques with calligraphic script hung from every surface that didn’t sport a tapestry of intricate weave. A beautiful mosaic design was laid out in tiles that paved the entire floor of the plaza. A high-walled stone well protruded from the plaza’s center. From where she stood at the entrance, Kiril scented the cool tang of deep water.

People moved everywhere—men, women, and children. All were elves, and all were weathered like Essam. The adults wore flowing, colorful gowns, but the children wore loose pants and simple tunics.

One edge of the wide plaza, which was well over a hundred paces in diameter, hosted a bazaar with several semipermanent stands. The elves of Al Qahera were thickly gathered there. But the appearance of strangers had apparently distracted the Qaherans from the merits of their transactions. Everyone in the subterranean, lantern-lit plaza looked in her direction.

Essam clapped his hands and yelled, “Call the healer—we have visitors, and one is ill. Come! Do not stare, my friends—we shall have time to make their acquaintance when our visitors have rested and washed away the burdens of their journey.” Essam paused and smiled openly at Kiril. “Perhaps we might hope for a story from our guests, describing how they found themselves on our porch, running before a gowaan storm.”

Several children rushed forward, curious, along with a young elf woman in a blue caftan, hardly older than a child herself. She nodded at Kiril and said, “My name is Fadheela. You and your friend can stay in our guestroom. My father is a healer.”

Kiril blinked, taking in the comfort of the round chamber. A covering stitched with desert stars hung from the ceiling. Soft sheepskin lay across the floor. A fire in a tiny side alcove burned away the subterranean chill. No smoke lingered in the room—the fireplace was apparently well vented. Kiril wondered briefly how fresh air was drawn in, then shrugged. The elves of Al Qahera had obviously worked it out.

“I do feel much better, Kiril,” said Thormud in an irritated tone. The dwarf sat propped up on the small bed, his back against a wooden headboard carved with still more elaborate designs. “I’d like to go down to the plaza tonight to talk with the Qaherans.”

“You heard Fadheela’s father. You’ve caught some sort of dolor, and you need bed rest if you want to shake it off.”

“But…”

“Tonight, you sleep.”

The geomancer sighed. “Perhaps that would be best. I am strangely fatigued.”

Kiril didn’t tell the dwarf the entire diagnosis. Fadheela’s father felt that the dwarf might be suffering from some sort of magical curse. It was a potential explanation for Thormud’s lack of response to the healer’s spell of purification.

“Damn right, it’s for the best. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything that happens. Maybe they know something about what we’re looking for. Maybe they’ve seen something strange out in the desert.”

The dwarf nodded but was already blinking his eyes. He fell asleep a moment later.

Kiril pulled up his blanket, strapped Angul to her belt, and departed the small chamber.

Fadheela waited for her in the foyer of the apartment, one of many similar apartments on both sides, above, and below. The best apartments faced the central plaza of Al Qahera, and as a healer, Fadheela’s father enjoyed some privilege.

“How is your friend?” Fadheela asked.

“Better. He’s asleep. Maybe I’ll take him something to eat later.”

“Good—that sounds good!” Fadheela clapped happily, then reached forward to grasp one of Kiril’s hands. The swordswoman, out of surprise, allowed the desert elf to complete the motion without losing a limb.

Fadheela said, “Come with me, then. Everyone’s down in the plaza. You’ll just love meeting everyone, I promise!” The girl pulled, and Kiril consciously forced herself not to resist the tug out of the apartment. They walked onto the wide balcony two stories above the tiled floor of the central courtyard and looked down.

Since she’d rested in Fadheela’s rooms, answered her father’s questions, and washed off several days of travel, the lamps in the courtyard had been turned down, dousing the corners of the chamber in warm shadow. A large bonfire blazed in a stone-lined firepit. Kiril traced the smoke as it rose up past their balcony and floated up a few more stories before exiting through a large cavity in the ceiling.

The odor of something succulent roasting over the flames pulled her gaze back down to the fire, where young Qaherans slowly turned several spits. Others were setting up large plank tables and stools. A group of elves tuned up flutes, sitars, drums, and other instruments. Well over a hundred people gathered in the plaza—and perhaps double that number.

“What’s all this?” Kiril asked, an anxious note creeping into her voice.

Her enthusiastic guide smiled and said, “We do this every night—don’t worry, you needn’t fear being singled out.”

Kiril nodded, still suspicious.

Fadheela pulled her along the balcony toward a stairway that spiraled down to the plaza, and whispered as they neared the bottom, “But your presence is unique, and we’d all love to hear something of your journey!”