The Dark Queen (18 page)

Aloft in a swirl of wind, his sharp eye scanning the edge of the desert, Lucas saw the
riders sur- round the man. Saw them dismount, approach him, and drag him toward the
horses. Something in the birdan old instruction from his mistress, perhaps, or something
embedded and patterned since his time in the eggstirred him to action.

Folding his wings, the hawk plunged from the sky a hundred, two hundred, five hundred
feet. The bird dove gracefully, its talons extended like deadly, curved knives, the
falconer's jesses and bells trailing. In a shimmer of ringing music, Lucas struck the
sergeant in the back of the neck just as the man leaned over to question Vincus. The
sergeant fell headlong, neck broken in a heap of spattered robes, his horse bolting away
with a terrified whinny.

The bird jerked to free himself from the kill, the awkward jesses tangling and knotting in
the fabric of the sergeant's robes. He flies bound. Enslaved, too! Vincus thought. Somehow
the thought inspired him. With a fierce, powerful surge, he shook loose the astonished
troopers. Crotalus spun about, his sword ringing as it fell to the hard ground. The other
man, quicker and more resourceful, had already lifted his spear.

Rolling away from the flashing pont, Vincus drew forth the slivers of his collar, the
edges forming deadly hooks on each side of each hand. They glittered in the dying sun like
scimitars, like the talons of the hawk. Before the spearman could recover, the broken
collar's sharp edges whipped cleanly and fatally into his throat. Vincus pushed him aside
in a fierce, pantherlike rush toward Crotalus, who had managed to find and draw his
crossbow from its place on the saddle of his skittish horse, just as Lucas hopped free of
his tangles.

A piercing cry and the flap of wings about his head forced Crotalus's point-blank aim
high, and the bolt whizzed over Vincus's shoulder, skidding long and hollowly over the
cracked earth behind him. With a lunging leap, Vincus wrestled Crotalus to the ground, and
the two men scuffled briefly, until the other collar half flashed high in the sunlight and
plunged downward.

Moving away from Crotalus, who had breathed his last foul breath, Vincus covered his head,
still expecting a rain of arrows from the last trooper's direction. But he heard the
soldier cry out weakly, and looked up to see him already borne far away atop his rampaging
horse, the two remaining steeds following close behind.

In high pursuit of them, Lucas swooped and glided and dodged, all the while crying shrilly
until they were dwindling specks on the horizon. Vincus stood up painfully, more bruised
than he first had realized by the struggle with the outriders. The hawk, unruffled and
fresh, sailed back to him through the climbing dusk. With a cry it circled overhead, then
soared toward the southwest, its flight now framed by Lunitari low in the sky.

His heart rejoicing for the birdfor its mastery and braveryVincus threw his hands up and
fol- lowed eagerly. They had fought together. The hawk would not betray him. When darkness
had fallen and the stars spangled the clear sky, a comforting light seemed to rise from
the looming shadows.

Vincus laughed and quickened his pace. He called to mind again the druid's patterns in the
sand of the rena garden, the arranged stones, and the instructions. At last Vincus knew
where he was. The camp of the rebels lay ahead in a soft, wavering firelight.

Silently, moving through the tall grass like he moved through Istarian alleys, Vincus made
his way to the edge of the rebel encampment.

He was not sure, actually, why he chose such secrecy. After all, he had come this far,
through dan- gerous country and Istarian patrols, and finally, with the aid of the
mysterious hawk, had reached his destination. But all of his instinctsborn, perhaps, of
his years in slavery and his childhood on the fringes of Bywallurged him to be cautious,
not to drop his guard just yet.

So he approached the camp stealthily, crouched low to make his movements small and quick
through the grass. The camp was laid out in three concentric circles. The outermost
contained the outposts and fires of the sentries, the first warning line against assault
or raid. The men here were young: sharp-eyed, but also inexperienced. If an army had
approached, they would have surely given warning, but Vincus was a solitary traveler, and
a slippery, streetwise one at that. Folding his tattered cloak and the bag Vaananen had
given him close to his side, Vincus moved easily between two sentriessallow-faced bandit
boys from Thoradin, part of Gormion's following. He crept around the shadowy side of the
first tent he came to, then waited until a cloud passed over the red moon, and raced
through an open dry expanse until he reached another tent, another shadow, the second
circle of the camp. Instantly, Vincus knew he was among more seasoned and watchful troops.
These were men and women who had fought the year's war in the service of Fordus Firesoul,
and had probably come to the Water Prophet battle-scarred and ready. As Vincus crouched in
the tent shadow, he suddenly heard a low growling behind him. Slowly he turned to face a
snarling midsized dog, its teeth bared and its fur bristling with aggression. Vincus
extended his hand. With the last scrap of his Istarian traveling rations, he bribed the
dog to silence. He sat in the darkness, rubbing the willow-wounds that scored his
shoulders, feeding bread to his newfound friend, mulling over a dozen ways all
unsatisfactoryto try to reach the center of the camp. Something rattled against the book
in the bottom of the bag. Reaching into the dark folds, gently brushing away the curious,
snuffling dog, Vincus drew forth something hard and oblong, smelling green and citric,
like the soft, thick husk of a freshly fallen walnut. A zizyphus fruit. It could be
nothing else. Vincus wrinkled his nose. The zizyphus was inedible, good only for a
soporificto induce the sleep that banished pain. Clerics and druids made infusions from
the fruit that their patients would inhale, and, within a matter of minutes ... Vincus
smiled, tight-lipped. Tossing the very last crust of bread into the shadows, he waited
until the dog vanished after it, then crept around the side of the tent. He approached
another tight circle of tents and fires, perhaps a hundred yards away, that marked the
command post of the rebel army. Vincus fell to his belly at the sight of two sentries
standing watch by a fire in the open ground. Raindiver and Bittern, the Plainsman
sentries, stood faithfully at their posts, exchanging few words and staring out into the
darkness. The banked fire between them was dim but warm, and while they watched, their
thoughts slipped in and out of vigilance like the moon slipped in and out of the scat-
tered clouds above the plains. It was a night like any other, until something whistled by
Raindiver's ear and skittered into the ashes, scattering sparks and filling the air with a
thick, acrid smoke. Bittern bent toward the fire and saw the small, oblong seed aflame in
its very heart. Suddenly, the seed and the fire began to waver and double and blur, and he
looked up to call to Raindiver, to warn him that something ... something ... But Raindiver
was already facedown in the grass, snoring contentedly. Bittern dropped to his knees and
tried to call out to the other sentries, to Fordus or Northstar, but another cloud seemed
to pass over the moon and the sky and the fire went dark, and he felt himself falling.
Someone brushed by him, running. Bittern tried to shout againa cry of alarm, of warning.
But a

pleasant dreamless sleep rushed over him, and he remembered nothing more. The man had the
look of a Prophet. Vincus, belly-down in the dark grass like some enormous lizard, watched
the auburn-haired Plains- man from a distance. It was Fordus, he was certain. The slight
blond woman who stood beside him in the firelight spoke in sign languagea strangely
inflected version, but easy enough to interpret. And there was the hawk, perched on a ring
near her! She had called the man “Commander.” Called him “Prophet.” Vincus rose to his
knees, peering through the last stretch of darkness toward the firelight. Not yet, he told
himself. I will wait here for a while. For there is something more I am supposed to know.
“Bring me water!” Fordus commanded, his voice deep and melodious and a little too loud.
“Bring meat, and a cup of wine as well.” A young man leapt at his command and rushed off
into the darkness. “Where is that boy? Where is the wine?” Fordus asked, much too soon.
His followers stood about him uncomfortably, averting their eyes as he stared at each of
them. Finally, Fordus turned in Vincus's direction. Though Vincus was well out of sight,
hidden by tall grass and shadow, the firelight showed him the full face of the Prophetthe
handsome, windburnt features and the auburn beard. Unusual for a Plainsman. As were the
eyes. Vincus had seen that color before. Sky-blue? Sea-blue? Had seen it in Istar ... At
the School of the Games? No. It must have been at the Kingpriest's Tower. Barely had the
name crossed through his thoughts than Vincus remembered. The hushed room of the great
Council Hall, the man almost swallowed by a globe of brilliant white light, reflected off
the polished marble and the luminous pellidryn stones that spangled the Imperial Throne.
The Kingpriest. The Kingpriest had eyes like that. And the other features. The thin
aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones, and even the auburn hair. The resemblance was
uncanny. Fordus might have been the Kingpriest's brother. Or ... Vincus's thoughts
recoiled from the prospect. The priesthood of Istar was austere and proper. Suppose the
Kingpriest... It was a thought he could not even finish. For a moment he lay silent in the
darkness, his thoughts far awayon Vaananen, on those in service to the Tower and the city.
He had come a long way with a single message of great importance. But now, having seen
what he had seen, would he deliver that message? He would think on this a while, find a
sheltered place in a greater darkness. He would have the night, at least, perhaps until
sunrise. Then he would decide whether to approach the Water Prophet, or go-He started to
back away from the firelight, intent on losing himself somewhere outside the encircled
tents. But suddenly, rough hands seized him by the shoulders and jerked him to his feet.
Vincus spun around, but his attacker caught his arm and, with a flawless wrestler's
maneuver, twisted it behind his back. Hot pain shot through Vincus's shoulder, and he
looked into the face of his assailant. A Lucanesti elf, his arms encrusted with the first
bejewellings of middle age, regarded Vincus calmly. “I am not sure whether your intentions
are good or ill,” the elf whispered. “But perhaps by other fires and among other people,
we can find out just who you are, and why you spy on Fordus Firesoul.”

*****

The elf's name was Stormlight. He was a lieutenant of the War Prophet, but had fallen from
favor in some recent dispute of policy. After he seized Vineus near Fordus's fire and
tents, Stormlight had taken his captive to the other side of the encampment entirelyto
quiet quarters, where a half dozen veteran Plainsmen waited in

silence. Stormlight had questioned Vincus, and when he failed to understand the sign
language, had reluc- tantly sent for the woman, the one with the yellow hair, whose name
was Larken. With her odd, alien gestures, she translated Vincus's signs in her own
silence. “What proof have you that you were a slave in Istar?” Stormlight asked finally,
regarding Vincus with a stare that was melancholy but not unkind. Vincus showed him the
collar, how the pieces fit together, how they spelled his name. Stormlight nodded, placed
the pieces around Vincus's neck, and was satisfied they fit. He started to ask another
question, then fell silent. “How did you find us?” he asked finally, and Vincus told of
his journey, of the pass through the mountains and his guidance by the benevolent hawk. It
was a god, he signed. / am sure it was a god taking the bird's form to guide me. He camps
with you? I saw him perched by your fire. Larken smiled as she translated his gestures for
Stormlight. The elf's expression softened. “And why have you found us?” he asked. “What do
you ask of us? Or what do you bring us?” Vincus gestured excitedly, knelt on the ground.
Stormlight dropped beside him, and the Plainsmen, Larken, and Gormion stood above them,
watching curiously and intently. Though he had mistrusted Fordus from the start, Vincus
felt surprisingly safe in the company of the elf. He knew that Vaananen's glyphs were
meant for this man, for Stormlight was one who asked instead of commanded. To Vincus, that
was a sign of wisdom and discernment. He had heard enough of command in his servitude.
Confidently, he drew the five glyphs on the ground before Stormlight. After he was
finished, he looked up. Stormlight stared at the glyphs intently. “Desert's Edge,” he
said. “Sixth Day of Lunitari. No Wind.” It seemed to be nothing new to him until he
reached the fourth glyph. “The Leopard? And ... there is a fifth one that follows.
Something dreadfully important here.” I shall bring Fordus, Larken signed, but Stormlight
waved the thought away. “Not this time.” Larken frowned, a question forming in her
thoughts. Stormlight stared at Vincus, and a long moment passed in which the camp lay
silent. “Is the Sixth Legion in Istar, Vincus?” Stormlight asked. Elatedly, Vincus nodded,
gesturing excitedly as Larken struggled to translate his account of his own discoveries,
of conveying the news to Vaananen, of the whole series of events that boded danger for
Fordus and the rebels. Stormlight leaned back, his face lost for a moment in the shadow.
Then, craning toward the fifth glyph, he read it and proclaimed: “Beware the dark man.” He
looked up at Vincus, then at Larken. A crooked, bemused smile played at the corner of his
mouth. “Hear the word of the Prophet,” he whispered, with a laugh. “Beware the lady,” he
said flatly. For a while he knelt before the fifth glyph, tracing its outline with a
callused finger. “I see,” he murmured. “I should have known by the amber eyes. Tamex . . .
Tanila . . . They looked alike. Reptilian. ”And then ... the dragon tracks through the
Tears of Mishakal!"

*****

“One will ask for it soon,” Vaananen had said. “And you will know it is right to give the
book to that person.”

So Vincus gave the book to Stormlight, trusting the same instinct that had guided him
through the desert and steered him from Fordus at the last moment. After all, the book was
written in Lucanesti. What other sign could a man expect? Together, the elf and the bard
puzzled over the ancient text, Larken frowning at the complexities of the scattered,
angular script, but Stormlight nodding, reading...

Until he came to the lost passages. Gray dust eddied in the hands of the elf as he knelt
at the campsite, spreading the opened book before him. Stormlight bowed over the page and
inspected it for a long time. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “it is in my language, and it is
prophecy as well.”

“The Anlage ...” he murmured. “The oldest seeing.” Long before the first migrations of the
Lucanesti across the Istarian desert, before the first discoveries of glain opal, and
perhaps even before the time when the elders of that dwindling people had discovered the
powers of the lucerna, another deeper way of seeing had been encoded in their thoughts and
memory. The Anlage. The great mine of elventhought. The shared memory of the race. In its
depths lay the earliest recollections of the mining elves: their wanderings, their
departure from Silvanesti. Some even said that, in the hands of a wise and anointed elf,
the Anlage could reveal the earliest daysin the Age of Dreams, when the Firstborn of the
world opened their eyes to moonlight upon a newly awakened planet. It was all there. All
memory and all imagining. So the elders had told Stormlight in his childhood and youth, in
the long years of wandering before the ambush, his wounding, and his adoption by the
Plainsmen. The elders had told him how to draw upon that power as well, and of the danger
therein the risk that the visionary might not return to the waking world, but sleep and
sleep until the opales-cence of age covered and swallowed him entirely. Yet without fear
or misgiving, Stormlight sank into these meditations, tunneling deeper and deeper until he
reached a level where he knew the thoughts and recollections were no longer his own, and
he sank into a cloudy vein of mutual remembrance. Around him, his Plainsmen companions,
Larken, and Vincus watched helplessly, expectantly, as though they stood on the shores of
a great ocean, waiting for a distant sail. But Stormlight was calm, preternaturally alert.
No fear, he told himself. No fear is very good. Mindfully, he explored the shadowy dream,
a shifting landscape bedazzled with the light of both . . . no, of three moons. The five
elements enfolded him: the fire of the stars, the water in the heart of the earth, the
desert and stone, the parched and wandering air. And memory. The fifth oi the ancient
elements. Dancing, as the elders said it did, as a gray absorbent light on the margins of
vision. Stormlight directed his thought toward that grayness, and it parted before him.
For a moment there were grasslands, the pale face of someone he neither remembered nor
knew ... Then forest. The book, he told himself. Keep your mind on the book. Briefly, a
great darkness yawned to his left, full of flashing color and a strange, seductive
beckoning. For a while he stood at the borders of that darkness, which seemed to call to
him, promising sleep, an easeful rest. But that way was dangerous. He would be lost if he
entered it. The book, he told himself. Nothing but the book. And then it appeared before
him, its pages crisp and sharp and entirely intact. Eagerly, he opened the pages with his
mind. He read and remembered. Finally, Stormlight looked up, and Vincus saw the
transformation. For a moment the elf looked blind, his pale eyes milky and unfocused.
Vincus started, believing the book had struck Stormlight sightless, but then the eyes of
the elf changed again, a white shell or a pale film dropping out of his gaze and receding
beneath his eyelids.