The Well of Darkness (19 page)

It took us twenty-two miserable days to reach the Refreshment House at Stomestad.

In all that time, Tarani and I had little time for speech, none at all for privacy. For the first few days, the work was borderline interesting, as learning any new job can be. But once it became “routine”—that is, as soon as we could perform all the required tasks with dependable competence—it became only work—nasty, hard work.

I had hoped that familiarity with vleks would give me an appreciation of some positive quality I hadn’t yet seen in the animals.

Not a chance.

Vleks bawled and bucked and did their best to bite the handler when they were harnessed, loaded, unharnessed, unloaded, fed, or penned in the ridiculous pole-and-rope enclosure that was thrown up every night. They never seemed to be quiet. At night—well, there were over a hundred of them crowded in together, nearly half of them female. For vleks, the odds were that at least five females would be in season at any one time.

We didn’t get much rest.

The trip wasn’t made more pleasant by the two-legged company, either. Vlek handlers are—to put it kindly—a lower-class crowd. Had I been alone, I might have enjoyed their rough humor and foul language. That, in itself, didn’t bother Tarani; she had traveled with caravans before, though not in just this way. What bothered us both was that most of the women who became vlek handlers were the type who didn’t object to being the prize in the nightly mondea game.

We were informed of this tradition on the first night.

Tarani objected.

So did I.

It took five nights of her refusal and my bruises to convince the other handlers that we were atypical—and, at that, we were never quite sure they
were
convinced. So we stayed close together at night, and only one of us slept at a time.

The snatches of rest, brief as they were, brought me pleasant but unremembered dreams that always left me feeling better—calm and almost happy, at least until the needs of our situation made themselves felt. Tarani, too, seemed to waken twice at each rising: once from sleep, and again from an open-eyed daze. But Tarani’s face revealed a fleeting expression of
fear
before she moved on about the day’s business.

I asked her about it once.

“It is nothing, really,” she said. “I have dreams which are … odd. Fatigue and tension, doubtless, are causing them.”

She didn’t invite further discussion, and I didn’t press the issue. I didn’t want to discuss her dreams either, because I thought I knew what they were.

It was obvious these weren’t the ordinary sort of nightmares—waking from those would have produced relief at the realization they were only dreams. It seemed to me the dreams, in themselves, were not the problem. Rather, Tarani was disturbed by the fact that she was having that particular kind of dream—she had said “dreams”, so it wasn’t one dream, repeating itself.

I
‘
ll bet it
‘
s Atonia
, I thought to myself.
Trying to assert control? Or just remembering? I should think that, for a Gandalaran, dreaming about a world two-thirds covered with water would be a distressingly alien experience.

Like me, Tarani quickly shed the after-effect of her dreams, and we were both kept too busy to think about it much.

We reached Stomestad at last. Tellor called out the ritual request for shelter; the symbolic cloth gates were opened; the vleks were led in.

Stomestad was the largest of all the Refreshment Houses, but by the time Tellor, the merchants, and all their people had settled into the four-bed cubicles that lined one long wall of the courtyard, there were few sheltered beds left. Those were assigned by lottery to the rest of us; since the caravan would stay in Stomestad for several days, chances were, nearly all of us would get at least one night’s sleep indoors.

Neither Tarani nor I won the first lottery. I was disappointed, but when I looked around to commiserate with Tarani, I couldn’t find her anywhere in the crowd gathered outside the Refreshment House entrance. I panicked (wondering who
else
was missing) until I caught a flash of movement at the edge of my vision. A familiar white shape was just sinking out of my line of sight, around the corner of the rectangular, walled enclosure of Stomestad.

A hand tugged at my sleeve. I looked down to see a small boy, dressed in a child-size version of the long white tunic that the Fa’aldu always wore in their dealings with travelers.

“Sir,” the boy began nervously. I smiled; he grinned back at me and went on with more confidence. “If it pleases you, sir, the Respected Elder invites you and the lady to speak with him privately.”

I remembered the boy from our earlier visit—he was a nephew of Vasklar, the “Respected Elder” in question.

“Thank you, Hil,” I said, and the boy beamed at the sound of his name. “We will come quickly.”

The boy ran through the opening in the salt-block wall that was the only entrance to the compound. I ignored the curious stares of the crew, who had been too far away to hear what the boy had said, and headed around the corner.

Tarani was playing with Lonna—catching her in the circle of her arms, “letting” the bird slip through and spread her wings to fly, then catching her again. When I appeared, the play stopped, and Lonna took to the air. Tarani came toward me, looking puzzled.

“Still no sign of pursuit,” she said.

We had seen Lonna frequently during the trip, but caution had dictated that the bird not join us and make us even more noticeable than we were already. But Tarani had been in continuous contact with Lonna. At first the news of a clear backtrail had been good; then it had begun to worry us.

“I do not like it,” Tarani said, emphatically. “Indomel must know, by now, that we are both gone. Granted that he cannot know where we are, I would expect him to search every possible route from Eddarta.”

I shrugged. “He has the Ra’ira,” I said, “and you proved to be little help with learning how to use it. Maybe he’s just decided to cut his losses and be glad you aren’t in Eddarta, stirring up trouble.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Do you believe that?” she demanded.

“No,” I said, and laughed. “Listen, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

At last a permanent contribution to Gandalaran culture
, I thought.
A clich
é
joke.

“The bad news is,” I said, “that we lost the lottery.”

She groaned.

“The good news is, Vasklar just sent for us.”

Tarani brightened. “Then we won’t be expected to maintain this—” She slapped her arm. “—fleabitten disguise any longer.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I promised.

Lonna dropped down to hover in front of me for a moment. I stroked her breast feathers gently, careful not to pull them in the wrong direction as the thick muscles beneath them moved with the slow rhythm of her wingbeat. The bird dipped to Tarani for a similar caress, then took to the sky.

I shaded my eyes with my hand to watch her go, until her white body was indistinguishable from the cloud layer.

“Lonna remembers Keeshah,” Tarani said quietly, slipping her hand into mine. “Her image of you is always blended with that of the sha’um.” She paused. “Rikardon, will Keeshah return?”

We seem to know each other so well
, I thought.
I forget that I have to tell her some things before she knows them.

“When this happened to my—to Markasset’s—father, his sha’um never returned from the Valley.”

“But surely that is rare?” Tarani said. “Thymas talked of this once, and he said that the sha’um are gone for a year. Among the Sharith, they believe the sha’um stay in the Valley long enough to see their cubs born and sheltered to a certain age. But no one knows. Those who return do not remember—or at least do not speak of—what occurred in the Valley.”

“Did Thymas say that they
always
return?” I asked.

“No.” Sadly, pressing my hand. “This must be very hard for you, my love.”

I reached for her then. She came into my arms, but I could feel her trembling. As the seconds passed and the overwhelming need we’d shared in Carn’s cellar didn’t reappear, she relaxed and returned my embrace.

Too soon for me, we stepped apart and went to see Vasklar.

The Elder was truly old, his headfur dark and patchy. He was scandalized when he saw us, and he sent children scurrying to the bath-house to prepare tubs scented with dried herbs. They were small tubs, little more than big water troughs made of rough tile. Compared to the deep, ceramic-lined tub in Thanasset’s home in Raithskar, they weren’t much.

Compared to twenty-two days in the unwashed company of vleks and their handlers, it was paradise.

When we were clean and wearing borrowed clothes, Tarani and I joined the Stomestad family at their huge dining table in the inner courtyard. It was a privilege shared by few non-Fa’aldu; I owed it to Balgokh, the Elder at Yafnaar who had helped me and taken a liking to me. He had spread the word to the other Refreshment Houses. Among the Fa’aldu, I was a celebrity. Tarani—known to them before this as the dancer and illusionist—was welcomed on my account.

At dinner, I recounted the edited story of my arrival in Raithskar, wherein Markasset had lost his memory, mended his loose ways, and helped his father, and had been rewarded with the steel sword, recovered memories, and a new name. The Stomestad had heard it before, but they received it with as much show of pleasure as when I had first told it. I dared not look at Tarani, sure that she was gaping at me in amazement. She had heard part of the story in a different version; she thought I was a Visitor.

It
‘
s the pits, trying to remember who I
‘
ve told what to, I
thought.
If this sword pulls Tarani and Antonia together
—
wouldn
‘
t it be wonderful to be able to tell somebody the whole truth for a change?

And what will Tarani think when she hears it?
I wondered.
I
‘
ve been lying to her about myself since the day I met her. I hope she won
‘
t hate me for it.

After we had eaten, Vasklar escorted Tarani and me into a private sitting room.

“And now, my friends,” he said. “I will not ask what happened in Eddarta. Thymas and the two Sha’um are missing, Rika is not at your side, and you come back to us in the manner of an escape. That speaks clearly enough of disaster. So I ask only: how else may I be of service to you?”

“Vasklar, we are grateful beyond words for everything you and your people have already done for us,” I said. “At this point, we need only what you would provide any traveler—time to rest, and food and water to send us on our way.”

“And where does your way lead?” Vasklar asked, squinting at me in the lamplight.

“Through Chizan,” I said. “Back to Raithskar.”

“A long journey,” Vasklar said. “From here to Chizan, what route?”

I exchanged a look with Tarani, and knew we were in agreement on this point.

“The quickest way possible,” I said. “Straight across the desert.”

Vasklar didn’t argue with us. “The Strofaan is the worst of the deserts,” he said. “And the quantity of water you would need—”

His voice trailed off as his mind turned inward, figuring. Tarani spoke into the silence. “Lonna is still with us, Vasklar,” she said. “She can carry small amounts of water. If you will provide that, and feed her when she visits—”

Vasklar smiled, his eyes nearly disappearing in wrinkles. “I am old enough that I recognize change when I see it coming,” he said, “but still too young to predict its nature. I do know that you two are special in the world, and the agents of change. And knowing this part of the world as I do, I must assume that change will be an improvement.

“Of course, we will provide whatever you need, my friends. Go now to your rest.”

We had been given one of the family’s guest rooms. Shallow, wide salt blocks created a big platform in one corner of the room, and it was covered by a rich, fluffy pallet.

A double bed
, I thought.
And the usual courtesy of asking what arrangement we preferred was noticeably absent. Either the Stomestad Fa
‘
aldu are getting crowded, or the way Tarani and I feel about one another is patently obvious.

We were exhausted, just out of one desert and very much aware that we were about to head into another one. Tarani and I slept together in that bed for eight hours and never touched except to kiss lightly morning and evening. There was no tension, no strain, no urgency. There was caring and togetherness and the pleasure of being secure among friends. I caught the look that told me Tarani’s dreams still disturbed her, but even with that, it was a comfortable time.

On the morning we were to leave, the courtyard was deserted. Tellor’s caravan had departed, unmourned and apparently quite efficient without us, two days earlier. Vasklar walked with us to the gate and, according to the ritual, returned our weapons.

“I would ask one favor of you,” he said. “When you reach Chizan, send word to us that you are safe. Speak to Pornon, at the High Crossing Inn. The Inn is our last stop for the slaves we help. Take this—” He handed us a thin strip of leather that carried inked Gandalaran characters that made no sense.

Code,
I thought.
The High Crossing Inn must be the “safe house” Jaris mentioned, and this is the way the Fa
‘
aldu find out a slave is safe, so they can release Jaris
‘
s commission for payment.

“Pornon will take it to a maufel who is also one of us,” Vasklar said as I took what he offered. “When we receive it, we will know that you are safe, and rejoice.”

Tarani was the one who brought up the logic flaw. “You will know we have reached Chizan,” she said. “Does that mean, necessarily, that we are safe?”

Vasklar chuckled. “I see your point. For escaping slaves, they are truly one and the same—the High Lord’s strength does not reach into Chizan.”

“Where do the slaves go after Chizan?” I asked.