In the Realm of the Wolf (22 page)

“To understand our own needs and desires we must first understand the needs and desires of our ancestors.”

“I do not see that as true,” she answered. “The desires of our ancestors were obvious; that is why we are here. And those desires do not change, which is why we have children.”

“You think that history can teach us nothing?” asked Ekodas.

“History can,” she admitted, “but these are not history; they are merely writings. Are you the leader here?” she asked, turning to Dardalion.

“I am the abbot. The priests you have seen are my disciples.”

“He fights well,” she said, smiling and pointing at Ekodas. “He should not be here among prayer men.”

“You use the term as an insult,” accused Ekodas, blushing.

“If you feel insulted by it, then that is what it must be,” she told him.

Dardalion chuckled and moved around his desk. “You are welcome here, Shia, daughter of Nosta Vren. And in the morning we will direct you to your brother, Belash.”

Her dark eyes sparkled, and she laughed. “Your powers do not surprise me, Silver-hair. I knew you were a mystic.”

“How?” inquired Ekodas.

Dardalion moved alongside the bewildered priest, laying a hand on the young man’s arm. “How else would I know about the … unsettling, did I say? … attack?” Dardalion told him. “You have a keen mind, Shia. And you are a brave woman.”

She shrugged. “I do not need you to tell me what I am. But it pleases me to hear the compliment. I would like to sleep now. The fighting prayer man offered me a bed.”

“Ekodas, take our guest to the western wing. I have had a fire prepared in the south-facing dormitory.” Swinging back to Shia, he bowed again. “May your dreams be pleasant, young lady.”

“They will or they won’t,” she answered, her eyes still faintly mocking. “Is your man allowed to sleep with me?”

“I fear not,” Dardalion told her. “We are celibate here.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Why do men play such games?” she asked. “Lack of good lovemaking causes diseases of the belly and back. And bad headaches.”

“But set against that,” said Dardalion, barely suppressing a smile, “is that it frees the spiritual mind to heights rarely found in more earthly pleasures.”

“Do you know that for certain, or is it only in writings?” she countered.

“It is only in writings,” he agreed. “But faith is an integral part of our life here. Sleep well.”

Ekodas, his face burning, led the Nadir woman along the western corridor, his discomfiture increased by the sound of the abbot’s laughter echoing behind them.

The room was small, but a bright fire was burning in the hearth and fresh blankets had been laid on the narrow bed.

“I hope you will be comfortable here,” he said stiffly. “I will wake you in the morning with a little breakfast: bread and cheese and the juice of summer apples.”

“Do you dream, prayer man?”

“Yes. Often.”

“Dream of me,” she said.

10

T
HEY WERE CAMPED
in a sheltered hollow within a wood, and a small fire flickered in a circle of stones. Senta, Angel, and Belash were sleeping, with Waylander taking the third watch. He was sitting on the hilltop, his back to a tree, his black clothing merging him into the night shadows. Beside him lay the hound, which he had named Scar.

Miriel lay wrapped in her cloak, her back to the fire, her shoulders warm, her feet cold. Autumn was fading fast, and the smell of snow was in the air. She could not sleep. The ride from the cabin had been made in near silence, but Miriel had linked into the thoughts of the riders. Belash was thinking of home and vengeance, and whenever his thoughts turned to Waylander, he pictured a bright knife. Angel was confused. He did not want to travel north, yet he did not want to leave them. His thoughts of Miriel were equally contrasting. He was fond of her, by turns paternal and aroused by her. Senta suffered no confusion. His thoughts were filled with erotic images that stimulated and frightened the young mountain girl.

Waylander she left alone, fearing the newfound darkness within him.

Sitting up, she added several sticks to the fire, then shifted her position so that her legs and feet could bathe in the warmth of the small blaze. A voice whispered into her mind, so faint that she thought at first she had imagined it. It came again, but she could make no sense of the words. Concentrating her talent, she focused all her power on the whispers. Still nothing. It was galling. Lying down, she closed her eyes, her spirit drifting up from her body. Now the whisper was clearer but still seemed to come from an impossible distance.

“Who are you?” she called.

“Trust me!”

“No.”

“Many lives depend on your trust: women, children, old ones.”

“Show yourself!” she commanded.

“I cannot. The distance is too great, my power stretched.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“Return to the flesh and awaken Belash. Tell him to hold his left hand over the fire and cut his palm. Let the blood fall into the flames. Tell him Kesa Khan commands this.”

“And then what?”

“And then I will come to you and we will talk.”

“Whose lives depend on this?” she asked. Immediately she sensed his agitation.

“I can talk no more. Do this swiftly or the link will be broken. I am nearing exhaustion.”

Miriel returned to her body and rose, moving to Belash. As she neared the Nadir warrior, he rolled to his feet, knife in hand, his eyes wary. She told him the message she had received from Kesa Khan and expected him to question her or express his doubts. But the Nadir instantly moved to the fire, slicing his knife blade across his open palm. Blood spilled from the wound, splashing into the flames.

The voice of Kesa Khan boomed inside her mind, causing her to reel back. “Now you may come to me,” he said.

“Can I trust this Kesa Khan?” she asked Belash.

“Does he say that you can?” he answered.

“Yes.”

“Then obey him,” advised the Nadir.

Miriel did not rely on the words but read the images beyond them. Belash feared Kesa Khan, but there was no doubt that he also admired him and would trust him with his life.

Miriel lay back and let her spirit drift clear. Instantly she was swept into a bewildering maze of light and color. Her senses reeled, and she lost control of her flight, spinning wildly through a thousand bright rainbows and into a darkness deeper than death. But before fear could turn to panic, the darkness lifted and she found herself sitting by a lakeside village. There were houses there, rough-crafted but secure against the winter wind and snow. Children were playing at the water’s edge, and
she recognized herself and Krylla. Sitting beside them on an upturned boat was a man, tall and slim, with wide staring eyes and tightly curled hair.

Miriel’s heart leapt, and for the first time in twelve years she remembered her real father’s face. This was the winter just before the Vagrians had invaded, just before her parents and all her friends had been butchered. It was a peaceful time, full of quiet joy.

“Are you comfortable with this illusion?” asked the wizened old man sitting beside her.

“Yes,” she told him. “Very.” She turned her attention to him. He was no more than four and a half feet tall, bird-boned ribs pressing against the taut skin of his chest. His head was too large for his body, and his wispy hair hung lank to his shoulders. His two front teeth were missing, and his words were sibilant as a result. He was wearing ragged leggings and knee-length moccasins tied with strips of black leather.

“I am Kesa Khan.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“It will,” he assured her. “We share the same enemy: Zhu Chao.” He almost spit the name.

“I do not know this man.”

“He sent the dark knights to kill your father, just as he sends the Gothir army to wipe out my people. And you do know him, Miriel. Look.” The scene flickered, the village disappearing. Now they sat on a high wall overlooking a flower garden. A man sat there, his robes dark, his hair waxed to his head, his sideburns braided and hanging to his chin. Miriel tensed. It was the scaled hunter who had tried to capture her and Krylla five years earlier, before the silver knight had rescued them. But here he had no scales. He was merely a man sitting in a garden.

“Do not be misled,” warned Kesa Khan. “You are gazing upon evil.”

“Why does he seek to kill my … father?” She hesitated as she spoke, the image of her real father strong in her mind.

“Bodalen serves him. He thought it would be a simple matter to hunt down Waylander and slay him. Then he could have returned Bodalen to the Drenai, awaiting the moment the son betrayed the father.” The old man chuckled, the sound dry
and unpleasant. “He should have known Waylander as I knew him. Ha! I tried to hunt him down once. I sent six great merged beasts to destroy him, along with twenty hunters of rare skill. None survived. He has a gift for death.”

“You are my father’s enemy?”

“Not now!” he assured her. “Now I wish him for a friend.”

“Why?”

“Because my people are in peril. You can have no conception of what it is to live under the Gothir yoke. We have no rights under their laws. We can be hunted down like vermin. No one will raise a hand to object. That is bad enough, but now Zhu Chao has convinced the emperor that my tribe—the oldest of the tent people—needs to be eradicated. Exterminated! Soon the soldiers will march against us.”

“How can my father help you? He is only one man.”

“He is the Dragon Shadow, the hope of my people. And he has with him the White Tiger in the Night and old Hard-to-Kill. Also there is Senta. And, more important, perhaps, there is you.”

“That is still only five. We are not an army.”

“We shall see. Ask Waylander to come to the Mountains of the Moon. Ask him to help us.”

“Why should he? You are a man who tried to kill him.”

“Tell him we are outnumbered ten to one. Tell him we are doomed. Tell him we have more than two hundred children who will be slaughtered.”

“You don’t understand. These are not his children. You are asking him to risk his life for people he does not know. Why would he even consider it?”

“I cannot answer that, Miriel. Just tell him what I have said.”

The colors swirled once more, and Miriel felt a sickening lurch as her spirit was united with her body. Waylander was beside her, and the sun was high in the sky.

Waylander felt a surge of relief as Miriel opened her eyes. He stroked her hair. “What happened?” he asked.

Taking hold of his arm, she eased herself into a sitting position. Her head was throbbing with dull pain, her mouth dry. “A little water,” she croaked. Pulling free the cork, Angel passed
her a leather-bound canteen, and she drank greedily. “We need to speak,” she told Waylander. “Alone.”

Angel, Belash, and Senta withdrew, and she recounted her meeting with Kesa Khan. Waylander listened in silence until she had finished.

“You believed him?”

“Yes. He did not tell me all he knew, but what he said was true. Or at least he believed it to be true. His people face annihilation.”

“What did he mean by calling me the Dragon Shadow?”

“I don’t know. Will you go?”

He smiled. “You think I should?”

She looked away. “When we were young, Krylla and I used to love the stories that Mother … Danyal … told. You know, of heroes crossing seas of fire to rescue princesses.” She smiled. “We felt like princesses because you had rescued us. You were the man who helped save the Drenai. We loved you for that.”

“It wasn’t for the Drenai,” he said. “It was for me.”

“I know that now,” she told him. “And I don’t want to sway you. I know you would die for me, as you would have risked all for Mother or Krylla. And I know why you are heading north. You want vengeance.”

“I am what I am, Miriel.”

“You were always better than you knew,” she said, reaching up and stroking his lean face. “And whatever choice you make, I will not condemn you.”

He nodded. “Where do you wish to go?”

“With you,” she answered simply.