The Dark Queen (10 page)

and rebellion? And who is it you love?“ I know, Larken admitted, this time signing more
evenly. Fordus is still our commander. ”And Tamex,“ Stormlight added, ”is not who he seems
to be!" Larken shot the elf a searching glance. Something deeper than knowing, deeper even
than song, told her that Stormlight spoke the truth, and that she knew it too well. Tell
me who he is, Stormlight, she gestured. Then the hawk screamed above her, and all eyes
lifted to the Red Plateau. Fordus stood on the great height, overlooking the campsite and
the ruin it had become.

*****

He had climbed out of the salt flats and made the arduous ascent of the Red Plateau, his
swollen foot still throbbing and aflame with the springjaw's poison. Twice more he had
stumbled, his strong fingers scrabbling on the plateau's heights, as the desert reeled
below him, a breathtaking distance into a black, crystalline void. Let it go . . . let it
go . . . you are weary, the desert seemed to say. The hard rock and the razored crystal
beckoned to himand for a brief, dizzy moment he listened, leaning out into the silent air,
his iron grip slackening. But he thought he heard a drum, distant and faint in the blurred
encampment, and despite his groggi-ness and the deafening pulse of his blood, he had kept
his balance. Now he raised his arms to the heavens and shouted to the sunstruck sky, to
the solitary reeling hawk, to the sea of uplifted faces now gathered in the black rubble
below. “I have returned from the desert. From the heart of the desert I have returned.” A
dark mansomeone new to the camp, and menacingsneered at him. “Where were you when Istar
returned?” An approving murmur rose from the assembled rebels, loudest among the milling
bandits. Heedless of the noise and growing strife, Larken rushed by Tamex toward the
staggering Fordus, humming a quick healing song. “Your departure was . . . singularly
convenient, Water Prophet,” Tamex continued, folding his pale arms and glaring at Fordus
with cold, reptilian eyes. “I trust that you at least have water to show for such a costly
absence?” Climbing the slow incline to the top of the plateau, Larken sang more loudly,
her ragged voice transformed by concern for the wounded man. The tune was an ancient one,
but in her voice it renewed and empowered, gaining depth and strength. Even the
battle-wounded, lying on the blankets about the campfires, felt some stirrings of healing.
Suddenly Fordus's fever broke, and as the sweat rushed over his body, the glyphs returned
to his shocked and dazzled memory. “I have brought you this,” he shouted, pointing at the
pooling liquid on his skin, “as a foretaste of the water we shall find elsewhere. For the
glyphs are the sign of the Tine, the Third Day of Solinari, and No Wind.” Though exhausted
and bleary, he knew to keep the sign of the Springjaw from themthe ominous glyph that
foretold dangerat least for now. And he hid the other glyphs, toothe Tower and Chair. The
signs that Fordus Firesoul was the King-priest of Istar. He hid much and said little, but
Stormlight listened intently to what he said. Suddenly, as it always did, the
interpretation came to him. “At the Tine!” he shouted. “Water three feet, four feet under!
Hail the Water Prophet!” “Who brings us the water!” Northstar chimed exultantly. He spun
about, looking for Tamex. But Tamex was nowhere to be found. On the bit of ' rock where he
had stood only moments before, between Gormion and Rann, a dark dust wavered and
dispelled. For a moment Northstar wondered again who this man was. From where had he come?
To where had he vanished? The question unresolved, the young guide stepped into the
shadowy vacancy and

lifted his eyes loyally to the rebel commander, who staggered a little in the full
sunlight. Larken began a second song of healing, of reconciliation and celebrationthe song
just as powerful, designed to drive away the darkness that had brushed against her people,
that had dwelt among them for a while. This healing song was as ancient as Krynn itself so
ancient that, according to the legend, the larken-vales themselves had taught the words to
the first elven bards. And again in this late and fallen time, the old words worked.
Tough, wiry grass suddenly bristled in the sands and the salt. A soft mist gathered and
rose from the watery sand, bathing the Plainsmen and the bandits, rising up the sheer face
of the Red Plateau until Fordus himself felt the cooling balm, felt the soothing mist wash
over him and the poison slow in his hectic blood. He looked down. The swelling in his foot
had subsided. The rebel leader raised his hands to the heavens once more, triumphantly and
defiantly. He had mastered the darkness and the old death; he had returned from the desert
with visions. At the foot of the blossoming mesa, the Plainsmen danced.

Takhisis stormed into the fastness of thc salt flats. The warrior's body she inhabited had
stiffened and dried, almost to the point of crumbling and dissolving, so the goddess moved
heavily, clumsily. Muttering a dark oath, she hastened between the droning crystals, over
the level black sand, silk robe and translucent, faceted legs blurred with unnatural
speed. The crystals themselves bent at her passing, like trees in a strong wind. Takhisis
crossed the flats to an upturned spot among the crystals, a black whorl of churned salt
and crossing tracks. She had wandered this spot upon other nights, clad in the crystal
flesh of the dark woman, her other avatar. Now, preparing for yet another change, the
goddess crouched amid the black rubble, her glinting hands dry and fragile from her long
stay in the invented body. Her brittle finger traced the outline of new tracks in the
salt. A fresh trail. A horse. Its path encircled this cen-termost spot... And headed for
the rebel camp, weaving through the barren landscape of crystals. Takhisis glanced up
warily, the features of her face suddenly crumbling, hardened and angular. Sun- light
caught in her eyes and vanished, the warrior's body she inhabited glittered like polished
onyx. Somehow, she would get to that elf, Takhisis thought, as her assumed form of Tamex
crumbled into black powder. She would eliminate that slight, wiry shadow with the desert
eyes and the grand suspicions. He must know of the opals. Of the watery black stones and
their secrets. After all, he was Lucanesti, the opalescence of his own skin protecting him
from her energies. But he was vulnerable ... on other counts. The goddess hovered, a dark,
incandescent cloud over the pooled salt. Slowly, the salt and rubble began to whirl, as if
borne on an unearthly wind. The spinning, unnatural cloud took on another shapethat of a
huge creature, its leathery, angular batwings fanning the chaos of the hurtling debris.
For a moment the cloud dwarfed the surrounding crystals, then suddenly it began to
diminish toward a smaller, more solid formthat of the beautiful dark-haired woman, the
temptress of all mythologies.

***** The woman emerged secretly from the Tears of Mishakal, at the southernmost edge of
the salt flats

after sunset. She came when the watches changed and the sentries, caught in the last
business of the day before their long night vigil, turned their attentions briefly and
idly elsewhere. Nobody saw the whirling black sand, borne on a cold night wind, as it
descended and coalesced at the border of the salt flats. Nobody saw the woman it formed,
saw her slip into the camp. She blended in at once and well, her black silk robe discarded
for a deerskin Plainsman tunic Tamex had taken from one of the newly dead. Nobody saw the
woman take a place by the fires of the Que- Nara, her long dark hair tangled and covered
with sand as though she had been grieving.

But it was not long until they noticed her, Plainsman and bandit and barbarian alike. They
could not help but notice. The woman was splendidly beautiful, her skin pale and luminous
and her amber eyes glittering under heavy, sensuous lashes. But those eyes were red-rimmed
and that pale face tearstained, and though her face was cold and impassive, it was easy to
see that she had lost someonesomeone dearin the raids of the morning. And though all the
men of the encampment looked upon her admiringly, longingly, they kept the mourner's
distance out of decency.

Even Gormion's bandits were respectfully silent in her presence. Stormlight noticed the
woman as well, as he stood alone by his fire near the foot of the Red Plateau. Above, like
a soft accompaniment to her arrival, the bard's singing tumbled from the height of the
mesa, where Larken kept watch over Fordus as he drowsed and waked and wandered and
continued to heal.

*****

The-woman's amber eyes followed the elf intently as he walked across the littered
campground. Storm-light approached slowly, drawn to stand silently beside her fire, the
opalescence in his skin playing from blues to golds in the flickering light. Stormlight
wished then that Larken had come with him, to fable his deeds into wonders and miracles
for this enchanting woman. His face flushed at the foolish prospect. He needed no glamour
or go-betweens. He would show her who he was, without embellishment or ornament. He ...

But what was he thinking? She was likely a new widow. “You're too close to the fire, sir,”
a soft, echoing voice observed, breaking through the tangle of his confused thoughts.
“I... I beg ...” He stepped back as small sparks scattered on his lower legs, spangling
his boots for a brief, uncom- fortable moment. He thought the woman laughed, but her
expression was unchanged, nor had she moved from her spot by the dwindling fire. “Here,”
Stormlight muttered, clumsily tossing kindling onto the blaze. “It will be cold tonight,
and your fire is failing.” “Thank you,” the woman said, her voice chilly and somber. She
lifted her amber eyes to him for a moment, then lowered them demurely. Stormlight hovered
above the fire, more dried twigs in his hand. He started to turn, started to slip into the
shadows back to his lonely post, but her presence held him in unwilling fascinationthe
firelight shimmering on her dark hair, the pale, almost translucent skin. When she spoke
again, it was like precious rain in the expectant desert. “I am Tanila,” she pronounced.
“From the south. From Abanasinia.” “Que-Shu?” he asked hopefully. Larken's father was of
the Que-Shu tribe. He knew something of those Plainsmen. The woman shook her head slowly.
“Que-Kiri. From the foothills near Xak Tsaroth.” Stormlight nodded, but they were names
only, these distant tribes and places. The strange woman remained a mystery. “You are
Stormlight,” she said, her voice still strangely vacant. “And you command these armies.”
“No,” Stormlight began, crouching by the fire, his gemlike hands radiating purples and
reds as he extended them to the warming glow. “Fordus commands the armies. I am his
lieutenant.”

“You are Stormlight the elf, are you not?” Tanila asked skeptically. “I have heard that
Stormlight commands these armies.” For a moment his heart cried Yes! Yes, I command these
armies, in the field and in encampment. Fordus is only foxfire, a brilliant spark, and I
am the substance, I am the guide through the wilderness of his words . ..

But he stopped before he voiced the cry, amazed at his own vehemence and dishonor. “My
husband . . .” Tanila continued, her gaze shifting toward the fire, “my husband fought in
your legions. Moccasin was his name.” Still shaken by his own vaulting thoughts,
Stormlight plumbed his memory for the face of the man, for the name itself. Nothing. It
was as though Tanila's husband had vanished in the depths of the desert, and the sands had
settled over him for a thousand years. “I ... I am sure he was a brave man, Tanila,” he
offered, knowing his answer was not enough. In the distance, by the foot of the Red
Plateau, the campfires waxed with a brighter light, and for the first time on that somber
evening, the sounds of music and storytelling arose from the encampment. As is often the
case in a warrior's camp, the rebels were putting the ambush behind them. Having mourned
the dead for a brief space, they had set about to bolster their hearts for the coming day.
For if the Istarian cavalry had struck once ... Stormlight glanced toward the fires, which
seemed to glow across a gap of miles and years. Part of him longed to be in the midst of
the councils. There his cool presence was encouragement. “Go ahead and join the others, if
it please you,” Tanila urged. “You have been most kind.” She sat by the fire, her dark
hair covered in ash and sand, but oddly, almost unnaturally, beautiful. Larken's drum
sounded, and her sinewy voice carried over the campfires. They were too far away for
Stormlight to make out her words, but he no longer listened to them. For the first time,
as he sat beside her near the fire, Tanila smiled at him. He banished his awareness of the
camp at once, his thoughts transfixed by her depthless amber eyes. He remembered little of
what he said to her that night, but he was surprised that he said it. Long tales he told,
ranging across hundreds of years, of his wandering days with the Lucanesti, and finally of
the ambush, the slavers, and his hostage people in the caverns below Istar. The telling
drained him, sapping his strength as his story unwound. And Tanila changed as he spoke,
the mourning lifting from her until Stormlight could see only the devastating, almost
haughty beauty that had no doubt imprisoned ... Moccasin. Yes, that had been his name.
Tanila listened intently as Stormlight told her of the night among the crystals when, for
the first time, Fordus read the mysterious glyphs of the gods. Tanila was most curious
about that night, her questions soft at first, encouraging the story, then more subtle,
more detailed. When he turned to other sto- -riesof their exploits in Fordus's youth, of
the hunts and the battles, and of this great venture against the rule of the Kingpriesther
interest seemed to waver. Yet he persisted, story after story as the night passed toward
morning. She asked him most often about the opals, leaning toward him hungrily as he
explained the stones his people had hunted for since the early times: the white and the
black, the water and fire. And of course the opal darker than blackthe glain, which the
Lucanesti called the godsblood, for obscure reasons lost in the Age of Light. Her
questions tunneled and probed, her eyes urged and tempted and haunted. The eyes. The elf
felt swallowed by their loveliness. The dawn came before he expected or even imagined, the
eastern horizon rising from the darkness and the night's fires fading into the sunlight.
Slowly, with the barking of dogs and the cry of Larken's hawk hunting overhead, the camp
awakened. Now Stormlight could make out shapes moving from tent to tent, and he realized
to his dismay that he had been thoughtless and rude, filling Tanila's mourning night with
his boastful stories. “And all of this . . . from that single night in the salt flats,”
Tanila remarked, her amber eyes brilliant and alert.

Stormlight shifted uncomfortably and rose to his feet. The eyes again. Where had he seen
them before? His memory was tired and scattered. She was just a girl. Dark-haired and very
beautiful. But she had noticed himpreferred himto For-dus.

As he was turning back to her, to those glorious amber eyes, as he thought of another
story and a story to follow that one, suddenly a call rose up from the encampment. Fordus
approached, hobbling, leaning on Larken for support. “So this is where the night has kept
you!” Fordus exclaimed, a strange laughter in his voice. Now Tanila rose to her feet,
brushing back her hair with a graceful wave of her translucent hand. Modestly, she lowered
her gaze at the approach of the commander.

Fordus's sea-blue gaze darted from Stormlight to Tanila as though he read a glyph in the
morning sand. He smiled fiercely, and the bright blue of his eyes grew suddenly flat and
cold. “Who is your friend, Stormlight?” he asked quietly, gently pushing away Larken and
standing unsteadily on his own. “Lady, I do not recall your presence in this camp, and I
would remember those eyes and the long temptation of this raven hair.”

Larken stepped away, a look of familiar hurt and anger passing over her face. Fordus took
two wobbly steps toward Tanila and extended his hand, his fingers playing softly with a
braided strand of her hair. “I know I would remember you,” he murmured lazily. “Her name
is Tanila,” Stormlight replied icily, glaring at the commander. Fordus was like this had
always been like thisthe joy of the chase and the conquest impelling him in the hunt, in
battle, and in more tender matters. He meant no harm, no injury, but when he set forth, he
was cold and indifferent to the hearts of all around him. “Tanila?” Fordus replied, blue
eyes locked with amber in a fervent, stormy exchange. “The widow of Moccasin,” Stormlight
continued. “One of your followers, who fell yesterday in the ambush.” His own voice
annoyed him with its thin, weak self-righteousness. “I am sorry to hear of your loss,
Tanila,” Fordus said, his expression never changing. “In such a sor- rowful time, it is
the commander's duty to see . . . that all your needs are met.” “Great Branchala!” Larken
spat, turning from the fire and stalking back toward the camp, whistling to the hawk as
she broke into a run. Of course, Fordus's gaze never wavered. “I shall study to be
deserving of your kindness,” Tanila replied, almost formally and yet with a subtle and
sinuous heat. It was Stormlight's turn to mutter. Then, overhead, Larken's hawk screamed
in alarm. All eyes shifted to the bird, the moment forgotten in the outcry and the
approaching tumult of his wings. Lucas swooped out of the pale morning sky and, gliding
low across the shadowy sand, struck the gloved hand of his mistress and frantically pulled
himself upright. His shrieks and whistles were shrill, almost deafening, and a strange
green light flashed over his pinions. Larken soothed the creature, her fingers stroking
his feathers like harp strings. Stormlight rushed to the side of the bard. Fordus was not
far behind, the pain in his foot forgotten. Larken stared at them, her brown eyes wide
with alarm. “Istarians?” Fordus asked, his right hand reaching instinctively for the
throwing axe at his belt. Still the bird screeched and yammered. Larken raised her hand to
the two men, motioning for their silence. Not Istarians, she signed with one hand,
inclining her ear toward the loud, insistent bird. Not sandlings nor ankheg, not panther
... “Then what?” Fordus exclaimed impatiently. Larken shook her head, her fingers slow and
deliberate. Their fresh hostility forgotten for the moment, Fordus and Stormlight
exchanged troubled glances. It is nothing he knows, Larken concluded, as the bird whistled
once more and fell silent. Nothing he has ever seen. There is no word for it in Hawk.
“Then we shall find the words for it,” Stormlight declared.

Fordus nodded and drew forth his axe. By the cooling ashes of the fire, Tanila regarded
them impassively. The black pupils of her amber eyes slitted and closed.