The Rogue (42 page)

“Well done. Not many students accomplish a flawless stone on their first attempt. Some here would say you have stone in your blood.” She shrugged. “Obviously not literally.” She handed the stone back. It was already fading. “I am pleased, and not only that you were able to receive what we offered in compensation for the knowledge that was taken from you. I have a task for you.”

He blinked in surprise, then felt his heart sink a little.

“You hesitate,” she noted, her eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said, then because it was clearly not so: “I was looking forward to making another stone. Learning more. But that can wait.”

Zarala chuckled. “Were you? Well, what Kalia took from you was a basic understanding of Healing. We have given you a basic understanding of stone-making. I’m afraid you, as she, will have to learn more through experimentation, without the aid of generations of knowledge.”

Lorkin nodded, though he was not happy. Not only would he not be taught any more, but Kalia would be allowed to use what she had taken from him.

“Besides, there is no time for you to learn all we know about stone-making,” she told him. “There are more pressing matters to attend to. That is why I am ordering you to leave Sanctuary and return to Kyralia.”

He looked up at her in surprise and, unexpectedly, dismay. He did not want to leave.
No, that’s not entirely true. I do want to leave. I want to be able to see my mother and friends again. But I want to be able to return to Sanctuary, too.
He looked at Tyvara.
Will I see her again?
She smiled. It was a reassuring smile. It seemed to say “wait and see”.

The queen’s expression was knowing, and perhaps a little mischievous. She looked at Tyvara, then back at him. Her expression became serious again. “When you arrive, and if you are received well, you are to begin negotiations between us and the Allied Lands for an alliance.”

Lorkin could not help letting out a small gasp of amazement.
This is what I hoped for! Well, I hoped the Traitors and Guild would trade magical knowledge
after
an alliance, not
before
it, but …

“Tyvara will guide you out of the mountains, then you will journey to Arvice to rejoin the Kyralian Ambassador. To keep what you know of us secret, we will give you a blocking stone. Though it would be politically harmful for the king and Ashaki if anybody read your mind against your will, they may decide it’s worth it for the chance to find us. We would take you straight to the pass into Kyralia, but the mountains are too dangerous for travel at this time of year, with the Ichani growing bolder out of hunger.” She fixed him with her bright eyes. “Will you do this?” she asked.

He nodded. “Gladly.”

“Good. Now, there is something I must give you.”

She picked up a small bag that he hadn’t noticed lying on her lap. Loosening the ties, she upended it and a rough, chunky ring fell into one palm. Holding it up, she regarded it, her expression thoughtful and sad, then extended her hand to him.

He took the ring. The band was gold, but very roughly fashioned, as if made of clay by a child. Set within it was a dark red gemstone.

“Your father gave this to me a long time ago. In fact, I instructed him on how to make it. Of course, it no longer works.”

A chill ran up Lorkin’s spine, and his heart missed a beat.
Father made this!
He turned it over and over, the stone catching the light.
Did Father know stone-making? Surely not.
The answer was suddenly clear to him.
It must be a blood gem.
The implications of that hit him like a slap. “You were in communication with him all along!”

Zarala nodded. Her eyes were misty. “Yes. For a time.”

“So you know why he didn’t return here!”

“If he ever made a decision about that, he never told me.” She sighed. “I know he returned home out of fear the Ichani would invade, and I disagreed with him. I didn’t believe the danger was immediate. Afterwards … there was always something that prevented him leaving Kyralia. And there was more to our deal than an exchange of higher magic and freedom for Healing.” She shook her head. “I was never able to uphold one thing I agreed to. Like him, the situation at home was more difficult to overcome than I’d hoped. After my daughter died, I … I stopped contacting him. I knew I was partly to blame for her death, for asking too much from him, and agreeing to give too much in return.”

The old queen drew in a deep breath, then let it out again. Her thin shoulders rose and fell.

“We were both young and idealistic, thinking we could do more than we could. I believe he intended to return. My people didn’t agree and I couldn’t convince them otherwise without revealing what it was that I’d failed to do.” She reached out, cupped her hands around Lorkin’s and bent his fingers in around the stone.

Over their hands, she looked at him and her gaze was steady.

“Sending you to Kyralia will go some way toward me doing what I agreed to do. I only hope that, unlike your father, I live long enough to keep my promise. Now go.” She released his hands and straightened. “Tyvara has made the preparations and it’s a clear night outside. Be careful and be safe.”

Rising, he bowed in respect. Then, with Tyvara leading, he left the room and the city he had expected to make his home for a lot longer than a few short months.

The horses that carried people up the road to the escarpment were short, sturdy creatures. Dannyl was sure his feet would have been scraping the ground if his mount had not had such a broad girth. The beasts didn’t often carry people, since visitors to Duna – or to the dryer areas – were rare. They were more used to carrying food and other supplies.

Carriages were too wide for the narrow road, which twisted and turned on itself at angles impossible for a vehicle to manage. The high side of the slope was so close that Dannyl had occasionally scraped his boots on the rock wall. His other boot hovered over a near-vertical cliff plunging down either to a stretch of the road below, or to the distant valley floor.

Though he had no fear of heights, he’d found that the constant threat of such a precipice put him on edge. Achati appeared to grit his teeth and resolutely set his gaze on the road ahead. Tayend, despite not having the reassurance of magic to call upon should he or his horse slip, didn’t appear to be bothered at all.

The benefit of the exposed, precarious journey was the view.

The road had begun about mid-way along the valley, the wider end of which spread out behind them, divided into fields dotted at the edges with clusters of houses. A pale band of grey sand separated the green land from the blue ocean. Ahead, the valley narrowed, the cliffs undulating as they drew closer to each other. A ribbon of water threaded through it all, glistening whenever the sun reflected off its surface.

Looking ahead, Dannyl saw that there were several people standing at the next turn. The only places on the path wide enough for travellers to pass each other were bends where it switched back on itself. The people waiting were clearly Duna: slim, grey-skinned, and dressed in only a cloth wrapped about their waist and groin. They were carrying large sacks across their shoulders.

The guide called out a greeting as he neared. The tribesmen – there were no women among them – did not reply or move. Perhaps they made some sign of greeting, because the guide was smiling as he turned and started up the next section of road. Achati was next to turn, and his expression did not change from the same look of grim determination he’d worn since they’d started the climb. Dannyl smiled at the men as he passed. They stared at him in return, their faces impassive but showing neither hostility nor friendliness. He wondered if they felt as much curiosity about him as he did about them. Had any Kyralians visited their lands before? Had any Guild magicians?

I might be the first.

He looked back to see Tayend smiling as his mount turned in behind Dannyl. The Elyne saw Dannyl watching and grinned. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

Dannyl could not help smiling in reply. As he turned away he felt an unexpected wave of affection for his former lover.
He embraces life as if it’s all a big adventure. I do miss that about him.

“And we’re nearly there,” Tayend added.

Looking up, Dannyl saw that the next stretch of road was short. He felt his heart skip a beat as he saw the guide turn to the right and disappear. Achati followed, and then it was Dannyl’s turn.

After a full day of riding, the change of surroundings was so abrupt it left Dannyl feeling disorientated. Suddenly the horizon had returned. The land was so
flat
there was nothing between Dannyl and the line where the grey earth met the sky.

Nothing except a whole lot of tents
, he corrected himself, as his horse turned to follow Achati’s. Even then, the gathering of temporary homes blended with the colour of the land. It looked like a tangle of cloth and poles.

“It’s hot up here,” Tayend said, riding up beside Dannyl. “If this is what winter is like, I’m glad we didn’t come in summer.”

“We must be about as far north as Lonmar,” Dannyl replied. “The difference between seasons there isn’t as great as it is in the south. Duna may be the same.”

He didn’t add that it was the end of the day, and the heat given off by the sun now hanging low in the sky would not be as strong as at midday. As in Lonmar, the air was dry, but here it had a different taste.

Ash
, he thought. It blew into his face, finer than the sand that got into everything in Lonmar.
I wonder if they have the same fierce dust storms
.

The edge of the tents was a few hundred paces from the precipice. As the riders approached, the Duna stopped to stare at them. The guide called out the same greeting, then pulled his horse to a stop a dozen paces from the audience.

“These people have come to speak to the tribes,” he said, his voice lower and respectful. “Who has the Voice?”

Two of the men pointed toward a gap in the tents. The guide thanked them, then directed his mount into the opening, Achati, Dannyl and Tayend following. Every ten or so tents the guide repeated the question, and each time set off in the direction the Duna pointed in.

Soon they were surrounded by tents. Dannyl could not make out where the camp stopped. Some were tattered and well patched. Others looked newer. All were coated in grey dust. Of a similar size, they appeared to be occupied by extended families, from small children to wrinkled old men and women. Everyone in between was occupied in some task – cooking, sewing, weaving, carving, washing, mending tents – but all with slow, steady movements. Some stopped to watch the strangers pass. Others continued on as if visitors were of no interest.

A small crowd of children began following them. It rapidly swelled to a larger one, but although the children giggled, talked and pointed, they were not rowdy or noisy.

The sun had dipped close to the horizon by the time they found what they were searching for. Outside a tent no more extraordinary than the rest sat a ring of old men, cross-legged, on a blanket on the ground.

“These people have come to speak to the tribes,” he told them, pointing at Achati, Dannyl and Tayend. “They have questions to ask. Who has the Voice? Who can answer the questions?”

“We are the Voice today,” one of the old men answered. He stood up, his eyes moving from the guide, who was dismounting, to Achati, Dannyl and Tayend as they followed suit. “Who asks the questions?”

The guide turned and nodded to Achati. “Introduce yourselves,” he instructed quietly. “Only you, not your companions.”

Achati stepped forward. “I am Ashaki Achati,” he said. “Adviser to King Amakira and escort to … these men.”

Dannyl moved forward to stand beside him, then inclined his head in the Kyralian manner. “I am Ambassador Dannyl of the Magicians’ Guild of Kyralia.”

Tayend followed with a courtly bow. “I am Elyne Ambassador Tayend. An honour to meet you.”

The old man exchanged a look with his fellows, who nodded. They shuffled outward to widen the circle. “Sit,” he invited.

“We have brought gifts,” Achati said. He moved to his horse’s saddle-bags and removed a package, then returned and set it down in the middle of the circle.

“You know our customs,” the speaker observed. “And follow them.” The last was said with a hint of wry surprise. One of the other old men reached for the package and opened it. Inside were finely made knives, a box containing a glass lens, a roll of good-quality paper, and a writing set with pen and ink. The old men hummed with pleasure. From the way they handled the items it was clear they were familiar with their uses, despite the fact that they would not be easily obtainable in Duna. The speaker nodded.

“Ask your questions. Know that we may not answer at once. We may not answer at all.”

Achati looked at Dannyl and nodded. Dannyl ran through all the approaches he’d considered during the journey.

“Many years ago I began a task,” he began. “To write a history of magic. I have sought the answer to many questions, concerning both ancient and recent events, and …” he sighed, “the answers have led to more questions.”

A few of the old men smiled a little at that.

“The most puzzling discovery I made was that my people, many hundreds of years ago, possessed something called a storestone. It was kept in Arvice until a magician, through avarice or madness, stole it. The records of that time suggest that he used it, perhaps in a confrontation with his pursuers, perhaps by mistake, perhaps even deliberately, to create the wasteland that borders the mountains between Sachaka and Kyralia.”

The old men were all nodding. “We know of this wasteland,” the leader said.

“My questions are … what was this storestone? Do any more exist? Does the knowledge of how to make one still exist? If it does, how could any land defend itself against its use?”

The spokesman chuckled. “You have many questions.”

“Yes,” Dannyl agreed. “Should I limit them?”