The Blasted Lands (24 page)

The woman stood exactly two arm lengths away from the Empress’ brother, her arms at her sides, within easy reach of her weapons.

Desh Krohan had not heard her approaching, had not seen her, and for him that was a very rare thing indeed.

That she was Sa’ba Taalor was a given. Her skin would have given her away, the fair gray color of it, so close to the ash that painted the ground. Her attire would have given her away as easily, the leather pants, the vest, the insane number of knives. The veil over her face. The eyes that glowed even in the light of the sun.

“You are the wizard, Desh Krohan.” It wasn't a question.

Desh nodded his head and wondered if his cloak would stop whatever the woman intended to throw his way.

“This is for you.” She tossed a metal tube at his feet. The dust kicked up when it landed. He watched the object as it rolled to a stop at the edge of his robe and when he looked back up the woman stood directly behind Brolley. “Read it. I will be here waiting for your response.”

He nodded his head silently and lifted the container. He wasn’t at all worried about poison or being attacked. If they’d wanted him dead he would have already achieved that state. The fact that the woman – by her stature he guessed “child” more accurate. She was likely no older that Brolley – had virtually manifested from nowhere made it clear that she could have killed him at any point. Even now the soldiers in the distance were just realizing that there was a problem. He could hear their cries of shock.

Desh held up a hand to warn them against any foolish actions. Despite their surprise, they listened. He could see the man in charge – damned if he could remember a name – pacing like a caged animal. No one liked to be caught completely unaware.

Desh read the scroll inside quickly. The note was five simple words: Do You Wish To Parley?

“Yes. Yes we do.”

The girl nodded. He’d seen her before, he was sure of it. “When?”

“Choose a time and a place. We will meet for the parley.” He kept his voice as calm as he could manage. “What happened to the people in this town?”

“King Tuskandru was attacked by your soldiers.” Her voice was calm. “The Council of Kings felt a message needed to be delivered.”

“I would imagine I’d have been just as happy with a note on the subject.” He tossed the tube back to the ground to make his point.

The girl nodded. “Some messages need to be made more clearly.”

“When and where do your kings wish to arrange a parley?”

“What your people call the Temmis Pass will do. Ten days from now, when the sun rises.”

“How many people from each side?”

The girl tilted her head, considering. “As many as you like. This will be a discussion of peace.”

Desh’s eyes looked around a second time, trying to understand how the girl had seemingly manifested from nowhere. It took a moment, but finally he saw the marks in the ash-painted sand. “What if we had attacked you instead of agreeing to parley? What then?”

“I would have lived or I would have died and the Daxar Taalor would have their answer either way.” She slid back from Brolley, who, to his credit, did not try to reach for his sword. Desh had half expected the boy to try to defend his honor.

“Ten days from now. Until then we are at a peace?”

“Until then.” She spread her hands out from her sides and bowed in formal accord.

Desh returned the bow.

A moment later she turned and walked away, heading toward the Blasted Lands. It would take her longer than ten days to get home and that in and of itself told him more than he had known before.

One of the soldiers looked as if he might go after her, but the commander said something from too far away for Desh to hear and the fool stopped. Good. That was good. He had no particular desire to kill a soldier who was only trying to do his duties.

Brolley took a step toward him and then shivered as quietly as he could. “By the gods where did she come from?”

Desh pointed to the marks in the soil. “She was waiting here.”

“What?”

“She was waiting here. Waiting for us or for someone else, I’m not completely certain. But she was waiting. She rested under the sand.”

Brolley walked over to the indent and shook his head, his face showing clearly his surprise at the notion. “For how long?”

“Who can say? Long enough to surprise us and we’ve been here for a few hours.”

Brolley looked after the retreating figure. “Jost. I think her name is Jost.”

“You’re right. I couldn’t think of her name to save my life.”

“So they want peace?”

Desh looked at the Empress’ brother and shook his head. “It’s hard to say what they want. Peace? Possibly. Or they might be hoping to find us in a vulnerable position and attack then.”

“Who will handle the parley?”

“That is for your sister to decide. And Merros Dulver as well.”

Neither of the men said much more as they headed for their horses. They had the answer to what had happened in Roathes. They had all the answer they needed for the moment.

And they had new questions.

“What will happen in the meantime, Desh?”

Desh Krohan looked out at the bleak sea of ash and dead fish and shook his head. “I have hopes to accomplish several impossible tasks before then.”

***

Danaher spread out before the Pilgrim, a vast collection of towns that had grown into one city over the course of centuries. The last time he had been in the area the towns that became a city had been little more than villages. Times had changed and for the better it seemed.

Still, looks could be deceiving.

He walked into Danaher without event, and only a few people noticed him at all. He had changed his clothes since awakening and his flesh had taken on a more healthy color.

Little remained of the towns he knew from long ago. Certain buildings, the way roads cut between two hills here or there. Mostly nothing was the same, but there were always exceptions. Near the lake’s edge a rough wall – Danaher’s Wall, actually, where the great man had first settled the area and decided to raise his family – ran for a quarter of a mile, holding back the earth that had, in distant times, been soft and prone to collapse. The roots of trees had long since hardened the earth’s grip and the tendency to slough away was a thing of the past, but the wall remained, mostly intact. The Pilgrim walked the length of the wall and occasionally let his fingertips trace the rough stone. Almost exactly halfway along the wall’s length he came to the temple. That at least had not changed.

Plith was the God of the Harvest, who aided the farmers in their efforts and in her wilder days had also been known to drive men wild with lust. In those times she’d been portrayed as a beautiful woman with harsh features and vast antlers. The statue he saw of her now was a different thing entirely. There was a statue of a woman covered in vines instead of the lusty figure he recalled so well. He suspected there were changes in more than the way she was portrayed.

He would find out soon enough.

There were many people who spent lifetimes seeking to better understand the gods and those wished answers often went to the priests and priestesses to get answers. That was exactly what the Pilgrim did as well. He followed the length of Danaher’s wall to the temple of Plith. The path was clear of weeds and the stones placed for walking the length were worn from generations of feet.

The temple itself was in fair shape. The original stone had been replaced several times to make room for more worshippers as was to be expected when a small personal temple became the center for something larger and far more formal.

Danaher had been a good man. He had also been an excellent leader of men. The temple was only one of his legacies.

The interior of the temple was clean and warm, inviting, as it should have been. Plith was not an angry god, but a generous one. Did she not offer of herself to strangers? Did she not help make the most meager of crops enough to allow a family to thrive? Had she not offered herself to the people of this region?

His presence did not go unnoticed. The man who approached him was smiling as he stepped toward the Pilgrim. “Welcome. Well met.” The man held his hands together, cupped as if to accept water from a fountain. Puzzled by the gesture, the Pilgrim nonetheless returned it.

“How can we help you, my son?” The priest’s voice was warm and soft. His eyes shone wetly in the well-lit temple.

“I would speak with Plith.” The Pilgrim bowed his head in the old ways, showing his respect.

The priest’s face worked in a strange way. “She is not here, of course.”

“Where else would she be?”

“Well, Plith is among the stars with the other gods, looking down upon us all.”

The Pilgrim’s mouth cut into a harsh line. “Where in all the teachings does it say that Plith resides among the stars?”

Again the man seemed puzzled by his words, as if the Pilgrim was speaking in a language that seemed almost like one that made sense, but only because it sounded close to right.

“It is common knowledge.”

The Pilgrim closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them after waiting for patience in the darkness of his head. “No. It is not. ‘Plith may be found in her temples and in the great woods and in the fields when the harvest time has come.’ This is her temple and I would speak with Plith.”

“Plith resides among the stars, with the other gods. There is nothing that I can do to make her show herself in this place if she is not already here.”

The Pilgrim took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Then you are not a priest of Plith and you should not be here.”

“I am a priest of Plith, my son. I am the First Priest of Plith. The teachings of Fornuto and Polemea reside within this temple.” The priest’s voice had taken on an edge and his eyes looked past the Pilgrim, seeking, perhaps someone to assist him.

“Fornuto was second to Treidin and Polemea was a follower of Tyrea, not of Plith.”

“You are mistaken, my son.” The priest now spoke with a definite edge to his tone.

“No. I am not.” The Pilgrim’s hand lashed out, striking the priest in the throat and crushing the delicate cartilage there. The priest staggered back and hit the wall, coughing, his hands trying to probe the damage and understand exactly what had happened.

The Pilgrim walked forward and held the priest’s shoulders, looking into the man’s panicked eyes.

“I would speak with Plith. Now.”

From so very far away he heard the voice of Plith. It was a faint sound, barely above a whisper as it came from the mouth of the priest.

The Pilgrim listened as best he could to the voice that should have been so very much clearer.

This was the first of his gods he sought to speak with. Plith would not be the last.

Chapter Eleven

After weeks of living on little more than scraps and dried goods the feast was amazing. The meals he’d enjoyed in the palace in Tyrne had been amazing, but they had also been terrifying things, with endless runs of cutlery and odd bowls and goblets for almost everything. True, most of the Sa’ba Taalor had ignored those sundry items, but Andover hadn’t felt quite like he could, and so he spent most of each meal with others trying to imitate what item should be used with which bite of his meals.

This was different. There was a great deal of fresh food – roasted meats, vegetables raw and cooked alike and several different breads – and the only rule seemed to be to eat until you could barely move.

Andover had no problem with that notion. He ate a great deal and enjoyed every bite.

And when it was done there was only one speech. King Tuskandru stood where he had been sitting and raised one hand for silence. When most of the people were paying attention, he simply said, “The gods are generous today. Eat and celebrate that generosity.” Had he not known better, Andover would have thought that the most rousing speech he’d ever heard by the way the people around him reacted. They roared approval and stomped their feet and drank their wines. And through it all Andover enjoyed his food with the gusto of a condemned man. He drank three glasses of the sweet wine he was offered and leaned back against a stone that had obviously been set where it was for the purpose of leaning against it. There was no furniture, as such, but there were many spots like the one where he found himself, where one could settle against the stone and enjoy the view.

The air had cooled substantially, but he wrapped himself in his cloak and looked at the stars above through their thin veil of clouds and down into the valley below. A good ways off he could once again see the lights that burned near the lake. There were more than there had been before. A lot more. Enough to make him wonder if there was a vast city down there that he had somehow missed before.

Delil sat down beside him, sort of falling into a cross-legged puddle of mellow intoxication. “You should be celebrating more, Andover Lashk.” She considered him for a moment and then took a drink from her flask, moving her veil out of the way and once again revealing a hint of a strong chin and jaw line.

“I’ve eaten nearly my own weight in food and I’m drunk.” He waved a hand in her direction and smiled. She was a welcome sight after being surrounded by strangers for the last few hours. Drask had already left, waving one time before he climbed on his mount and the beast charged down the steep slope down to the pass. Bromt – never the most talkative of souls – had found a group of friends and gotten first drunk and then rowdy. He wasn't quite sure how it turned out but the last he’d seen of the man there had been a fight and at least one of the participants was bleeding rather badly. Tusk was… well, Tusk was Tusk. That was all there was to it. And most of the others looked at Andover as a curiosity. A few spoke to him and a few did not.

He pointed to a man with only one arm and leaned toward Delil. “Why does he not have a metal hand like mine?”

Delil looked back at him and then touched his hand, her thumb caressing in circles over the palm, while her fingers wrapped into his. “The Daxar Taalor do not merely give away replacements. If they did most of the people in this valley would be covered with metal. Metal skin, metal eyes, metal ears and noses.” Her voice was low and soft and calm and soothed him. “Your hands are a blessing from Truska-Pren, who decided for whatever reason that you should be blessed. You are an exception. You were given your hands and then told to earn them. Most times if someone wishes a replacement for what they have lost, they must prove their worth and then if they are worthy they will receive the blessings of the gods.”