In the Realm of the Wolf (23 page)

“Tell me what he said again.” She repeated the words of Kesa Khan. “A cunning old man,” said Waylander.

“I agree. But what makes you say so?”

“The children. He wanted me to know about the children. He knows me too well. By heaven, I hate sorcerers!” Waylander took a long, deep breath and saw again the flowers in bloom around the dead face of his son. How old would he have been now? A little older than Senta, perhaps.

He thought of Bodalen. And Karnak.

Senta, Belash, and Angel were standing by the tethered
horses. Summoning them to him, he asked Miriel to tell the story for a third time.

“He must think we are insane,” said Angel as Miriel concluded her tale.

“No,” said Senta softly, “he knows us better than that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on, Angel. Don’t you just love the thought of impossible odds?” asked Senta, grinning.

“No, I don’t. I leave that sort of idiocy for young men like you. Talk sense to him, Dakeyras.”

“You are free to ride where you please,” said Waylander. “There is nothing holding you here.”

“But you are not going to go to the mountains?”

“Indeed I am,” said Waylander.

“How will you stop the killing? Will you ride out on a tall horse and face the Gothir army? Tell them you’re Waylander the Slayer and you’re not going to allow them to butcher a few Nadir?”

“As I said, you are free to go where you will,” repeated Waylander.

“What about Miriel?” asked Angel.

“She can speak for herself,” said Miriel. “And I shall ride to the Mountains of the Moon.”

“Just tell me why,” pleaded Angel. “Why are you all doing this?”

Waylander was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. “I don’t like massacres,” he said.

Vishna’s voice was calm, but Dardalion could sense the tension in the priest as he spoke. “I do not see how we can be sure that the woman is sent by the Source. We have all agreed to risk our lives in the battle against evil. I have no qualms concerning that decision. To stand on the walls of Purdol against the Ventrians would help Karnak maintain the defense of the Drenai, as would offering our assistance to the general at Delnoch. But to ride into the steppes and risk our lives for a small Nadir tribe …?” He shook his head. “What purpose would it serve, Father?”

Dardalion did not answer but turned to the others, the blond
Magnic, the slender Palista, and the silent, reserved Ekodas. “What is your view, Brother?” he asked Magnic.

“I agree with Vishna. What do the Nadir offer the world? Nothing. They have no culture, no philosophy save that of war. To die far them would be meaningless.” The young priest shrugged. “But I will follow your orders, Father Abbot”

Dardalion nodded toward Palista “And you, my boy?”

“It is a difficult question,” answered Palista, his voice deep, incongruously so, issuing as it did from his small slender frame. “It seems to me the answer depends on how we view the arrival of the woman. If the Source directed her to us, then our way is clear. If not …” He spread his hands.

Ekodas spoke, “I agree with Palista. The woman’s arrival is the central issue. For although I respect Vishna and Magnic, I believe the argument they use is flawed. Who granted us the right to judge the worth or otherwise of the Nadir? If our actions should save a single life, only the Source can know what that life is worth. The saved one could be a future Nadir prophet, or his son may become one, or his grandson. How can we know? But is the woman directed by the Source? She has asked us for nothing. Surely that is the key.”

“I see,” said Dardalion. “You believe that she should have received wisdom in a dream, perhaps, and approached us directly for help?”

“There are many examples of such happenings,” said Ekodas.

“If such was the case here, where would faith begin?” countered the abbot.

“I do not understand, Father.”

“My dear Ekodas, we are talking about faith. Where is the need for faith if we have proof?”

“Surely another flawed argument,” put in Palista. “By this token anyone who came and said she was sent by the Source would have to be disbelieved.”

Dardalion laughed aloud. “Excellent, my dear Palista! But this moves us from one extreme to another. What I am saying is that there must always be an element of faith. Not proof but faith. If she had come and claimed to be Source-directed, we would have read her thoughts and known the truth. Then there
would have been no faith. We would have acted thereafter in sure knowledge. Instead, we have prayed for a sign. Where should the Thirty ride? And what was our answer? Ekodas rescued a Nadir woman. Why is she here? To find her brother and bring him home to help face a terrible enemy. Who is that enemy? None other than Zhu Chao, the man whose evil led me to gather the Thirty together. Do these facts not speak to you? Can you not feel the threads of destiny drawing together?”

“This is difficult for me,” said Vishna with a sigh. “I am the only Gothir present among the Thirty. My family and friends are high in the council of the emperor. It is likely that old friends will be riding against these same Nadir. It does not make me feel comfortable to know that I may have to draw a sword against these men.”

“I understand that,” said Dardalion. “But it is my belief that Shia was sent to us and that the Mountains of the Moon beckon. What else can I say?”

“I think we all need more prayer and more guidance,” observed Ekodas. The others nodded in agreement.

“Faith is essential,” added Vishna. “But there must be another sign.”

“It is unlikely to come with letters of fire in the sky,” said Dardalion softly.

“Even so,” put in Ekodas, “if it is our destiny to die in Nadir lands, then the Source will lead us there.”

Dardalion looked to each of the young men before him, and then he rose. “Very well, my brothers, we will wait. And we will pray.”

Ekodas slept fitfully, Shia’s words haunting him like a curse. And he did dream of her and woke often, his body tense with suppressed passion. He tried prayer, and when that failed, he repeated the longest, most complex meditation mantras. For a while his concentration held. Then he would picture her ivory skin tinged with gold, her dark almond-shaped eyes …

He rose silently from his bed in the hour before dawn, moving with care so as not to awaken the five brothers who shared the small dormitory. Taking a clean white robe from the chest beneath his bed, he dressed swiftly and made his way down to the kitchens.

Fat Merlon was already there, removing the rough linen from several large rounds of cheese. In the far corner Glendrin was supervising the baking, and the smell of fresh bread filled the room.

“You are awake early,” said Merlon as Ekodas entered.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.

“I would dearly love another hour, Brother,” said Merlon expectantly.

“Of course,” Ekodas told him. “I will take your duty.”

“I will say ten blessings for you, Ekodas.” Merlon beamed, embracing the smaller man and patting his back. Merlon was a large man, balding already at twenty-six, and his strength was prodigious. The other priests gently mocked him for his vast appetite, but in truth there was little fat on him, save for his belly, and Ekodas felt himself being crushed by the man.

“Enough, Merlon!” he gasped.

“I’ll see you at breakfast.” Merlon yawned, ambling away toward the sleeping area.

Glendrin glanced back. “Fetch me the tray and pole, Ekodas,” he called, flicking the latch on the oven doors. The two-pronged pole was hanging on hooks on the far wall. Ekodas lifted it clear, attached the prongs to a ridged metal plate, and passed the implement to Glendrin. Using a cloth to protect his hands, Glendrin opened wide the oven doors and then pushed the pole inside, the plate sliding under three golden-crusted loaves. Those he withdrew and, slipping on gloves of white wool, removed the bread, placing it on the long kitchen table. There were twelve loaves in all, and the smell made Ekodas feel as if he had not eaten for a week.

“Merlon churned the butter,” said Glendrin, sitting down at the tables, “but I’ll wager he ate half of it.”

“You have flour in your beard,” Ekodas pointed out. “It makes you look older than time.”

Glendrin grinned and rubbed his hand across the red trident beard. “You think the woman was sent?” he asked.

Ekodas shrugged. “If she was, she came to haunt me,” he answered.

Glendrin chuckled. “You’ll need those ten blessings Merlon promised you,” he said, wagging a finger at his friend. “Carnal thoughts are a sin!”

“How do you deal with them?” asked Ekodas.

Glendrin’s smile faded. “I don’t,” he admitted. “Now let us get on.”

Together they prepared the cheese, drew fresh water from the well, and carried the food through to the dining hall, setting out plates and cutlery, jugs and goblets.

Then Ekodas prepared a tray of bread and cheese for Shia, feeling his excitement rise at the prospect of seeing her once more. “I cannot find the apple juice,” he told Glendrin.

“We finished it yesterday.”

“But I promised her some.”

Glendrin shook his head. “Then I would imagine she will despise you for the rest of your life,” said the redheaded priest.

“Fool!” replied Ekodas, placing a jug of water and a clay goblet on the tray.

“Do not be too long with her,” advised Glendrin. Ekodas did not reply.

Leaving the heat of the kitchen, he climbed the cold stone stairwell and made his way to Shia’s room. Balancing the tray on his left arm, he opened the door. The Nadir woman was asleep on the floor before the dead fire, her head resting on her elbow, her legs drawn up, her body bathed in the last of the moonlight.

“Good morning,” said Ekodas. She gave a low groan, stretched, then sat. Her hair was unbraided, hanging dark and lustrous to her shoulders. “I have some breakfast for you.”

“Did you dream of me?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep.

“There is no apple juice,” he told her. “But the water is fresh and cold.”

“Then you did, prayer man. Were they good dreams?”

“You should not speak this way to a priest,” he admonished her.

She laughed at him, and his face reddened. “You
kol-isha
are a strange people.” Rising smoothly, she walked to the bed, sitting cross-legged on it. Taking the loaf, she tore off a chunk and tasted it “Needs salt,” she said. He poured her a goblet of water and passed it to her. Her hand reached out, her fingers stroking his skin. “Soft hands,” she whispered. “Soft skin. Like a child.” Then she took the goblet and sipped the water.

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

“You brought me,” she told him, dipping her finger into the bowl of butter and licking it.

“Were you sent?”

“Yes. By my shaman, Kesa Khan. To fetch my brother home. But you know this.”

“Yes, but I just wondered …”

“Wondered what?”

“Ah, it does not matter. Enjoy your breakfast. The abbot will see you before you leave. He will tell you where to find Belash.”

“There is still time, prayer man,” she whispered, reaching out and taking his hand. He snatched it back.

“Please do not speak like this,” he pleaded. “I find you … very unsettling.”

“You desire me.” It was a statement accompanied by a smile.

Ekodas closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to compose his thoughts. “Yes, but that in itself is not a sin, I believe.”

“Sin?”

“A wrong action … like a crime.”

“Like stealing the pony of your brother?” she inquired.

“Yes, exactly. That would be a sin. Indeed any theft, or lie, or malicious action is a sin.”

She nodded slowly. “Then is lovemaking a sin? Where is the theft? The lie? Or the malice?”

“It does not have to be just these actions,” he said, his voice close to a stammer. “It is also the breaking of rules or oaths. Each of us here made a promise to the Source. It would be breaking that promise.”

“Did your god ask you to make this promise?”

“No, but—”

“Then who did?”

He spread his hands. “It is a part of our tradition. You understand? Rules made by holy men many centuries ago.”

“Ah, it is in the writings, then.”

“Exactly so.”

“We have no writings,” she said brightly. “So we live and laugh, we make love and fight. No diseases of the belly, no
head pains, no bad dreams. Our god speaks to us from the land, not in writings.”

“It is the same god,” he assured her.

She shook her head. “No, prayer man, I don’t think so. Our god is strong.”

“Will he save your people from the Gothir?” snapped Ekodas before he could stop himself. “I’m sorry! It was a thoughtless question. Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, for you do not understand, Ekodas. Our god
is
the land, and the land makes us strong. We will fight. And we will either conquer or die. It does not matter to the land whether we win or lose, for alive or dead we are at one with it. The Nadir
are
the land.”

“Can you win?” he asked softly.

“Will you be sorry when I am dead?” she countered.

“Yes,” he told her without hesitation.

Smoothly she rolled to her feet and moved in close to him, her arm circling his neck. Her lips brushed his cheek. “Foolish Ekodas,” she whispered. Then she released him.

“Why am I foolish?” he asked.

“Take me to the abbot. I wish to leave now.”

Waylander reined in the black gelding and dismounted, walking the last few paces to the crest of the hill, where he bellied down and studied the line of mountains stretching from west to east across the great Sentran Plain. The hound Scar padded up the hill, stretching out alongside him.

There were three routes to the north, but which one should they take? Northeast lay the Delnoch Pass with its new six-walled fortress. That was the direct road to Gulgothir and the Mountains of the Moon, but would the commanding officer have been warned to watch for Waylander?

He sighed and swung his gaze to the north and the high lonely passes inhabited by Sathuli tribesmen, longtime enemies of the Drenai. No wagons passed through their lands, no convoys, no travelers. Ferocious fighters, the Sathuli lived their lives in isolation from the civilizations of both Gothir and Drenai.