Part 21 (1/2)

The Voice of the Exalted. Vethiq aril Tolsadri. Balandrick had heard a great deal about him from Algariq during their journey. He despised himself for having betrayed such an important secret, but part of him knew there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. Fat lot of good it does to tell myself that, he thought. I should have found a way to fall on my sword, if nothing else.

They were quickly confronted at the perimeter, where Algariq spoke to the soldiers in their native tongue. Balandrick eyed the soldiers carefully. He noted the strange armor Gerin had described, and the variety of races that comprised the Havalqa military. Skin color that ranged from olive to brown to nearly jet, as well as paler flesh like his own. Exotic eye shapes and intricately tattooed symbols.

The soldiers treated Algariq with contempt, though they grudgingly allowed her to pa.s.s after gesturing toward an area deeper in the encampment. ”Follow,” was all she said to him, though he could hear the shame and anger in her voice.

They reached the command area of the encampment. It was well-guarded, and contained the largest and most colorful tents, dyed with broad stripes of crimson, purple, and gold. Algariq was once more shamed and treated poorly by the soldiers before finally being ushered into one of the larger tents. Balandrick could almost see the tension growing in her as they stepped through the flap. She doubts whether she'll leave here alive, he thought.

She approached a dark-haired man whose back was turned toward them. He was bent over a table, studying a large stained map. A single manservant lurked in the shadows near the tent wall. Stopping several feet behind him, she bowed her head. ”Honored Voice, I have brought an important captive to you.”

The man spun about as if he'd heard the voice of Shayphim himself. ”You!” he snarled. ”How dare you sully my quarters with you filthy presence!” He struck her with the back of his hand, hard enough to stagger her. Balandrick saw a streamer of blood fly from her mouth.

The dark-haired man raised his hand once more, his expression contorted with murderous rage. Before he could swing, she said, ”Honored Voice, if you touch me again, I will die before revealing the location of the Words of Making. I swear this on the name of Holvareh Himself, and upon the honor of Bariq the Wise.”

Tolsadri paused. ”You threaten me now, wretch?”

He moved with the speed of a striking snake. A small knife appeared in his hand-the same one Gerin had used to kill him on Gedsengard?-and flicked it toward her. Its blade hovered at the side of Algariq's neck. She did not so much as flinch. She stared at Tolsadri with cold defiance.

”I should kill you now,” he said. ”You deserve death for your failure on the island. I will have your naked corpse dance for my amus.e.m.e.nt.”

”Kill me and you will learn nothing. I know where the Words can be found. If you want that knowledge, you will agree to my terms.”

He laughed harshly. ' ”Terms'? You do not set 'terms' with the Voice of the Exalted, wretch. You will tell me what you know, or you will know the true meaning of suffering.”

”I will die before I reveal anything to you if you do not agree to my wishes.” She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if discussing the weather. ”You can sense the truth of some things, Honored Voice, if the stories about you are true. You should know I mean what I say.”

”Why should I believe you have the secret of the Words?”

”If I had nothing to offer you, I would be worse than a fool to come here.”

Balandrick saw Tolsadri tense the arm that held the knife, and felt certain he would slit Algariq's throat and be done with it.

But Tolsadri withdrew his hand and stepped back. ”State your terms. I will decide whether they are to be honored.”

”Before I reveal anything, you will elevate me to the caste of Yendis, as was promised to me in the decree from the Exalted herself before we set sail for these lands. That was to be my reward for accomplis.h.i.+ng my task, which I have now done twice. Defy this again, and you will be an oath breaker in the eyes of Bariq, a dangerous thing for an Adept and Loremaster.

”Second, you will swear by the holy power of Bariq the Wise that you will attempt no retaliation against me for demanding what is rightfully mine to begin with. I will be permitted to leave here unmolested and unharmed.”

Tolsadri c.o.c.ked his head, as if trying to decide whether to laugh at her or drive his knife into her eye.

”I will agree to your terms, wretch,” he said after a moment. ”Let it never be said that I do not honor my word. But if you do not have the knowledge you claim to have, I promise you will not leave this tent alive, and that it will be a long time before you die.”

”That is acceptable, Honored Voice.”

Tolsadri spoke to the servant in their native tongue. The olive-skinned man bowed and left the tent. He returned shortly with a pudgy, red-faced man.

”Enbrahel,” said Tolsadri, ”you must witness the elevation of this woman to the caste of the Mother. The requirements of tel'fan must be observed.”

The shorter man's eyes widened in surprise. Then he remembered himself and bowed his head. ”Yes, Honored Voice. I will do as you command.”

Tolsadri issued another command to the servant, who once more departed the tent.

The Voice then began an invocation in his native tongue. It did not seem to Balandrick that any magic was involved. It appeared to be more of a religious ritual, with the shorter man interjecting ceremonial phrases at periodic intervals. Algariq stood with her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her.

The servant returned and placed a new set of clothes, a flagon of water, and a few small objects on the map table. Without faltering in the invocation, Tolsadri turned and filled a hammered bronze bowl with a small amount of water. He said something directly to Algariq, and she raised her head and accepted the bowl from his hands. He issued what was obviously a command, and she took a sip from the bowl. Balandrick noticed that her hands were trembling.

Tolsadri spoke a clipped sentence, after which Algariq extended her arm. He picked up a small wooden statue of a woman and held it firmly in his hand. His voice changed, grew deeper and more powerful. He placed his palm over the back of Algariq's hand-Balandrick wondered how much revulsion Tolsadri had to overcome in order to touch her skin in a way that wasn't intended to harm her-and began to rub it in a small circle.

A few moments later he withdrew his hand. There was a white symbol on Algariq's flesh, a spiral radiating straight lines from its center with an eye-shaped oval above and below.

Tolsadri stepped back and spoke the concluding phrase of the ritual. From his tone and everyone's change in demeanor, it was obvious to Balandrick that the ceremony was over. Enbrahel clapped his hands once and bowed his head. Algariq shuddered and stared, transfixed, at the white mark on her arm.

The servant gathered the clothes from the table and positioned himself behind Algariq. To Balandrick's surprise, he helped her remove her garments until she was in only her underclothes. She did not seem ashamed or embarra.s.sed. Indeed, there was a look of elation, almost religious fervor, on her face.

The servant then helped her dress in her new clothes. They were plain, unadorned, but from Algariq's expression, might have been the garments of a queen. She was trembling openly as the servant finished.

Tolsadri held out a large coin. She took it and held it in both hands.

”It is done,” he said. ”You and your line are now of the caste of Yendis.”

Algariq drew a deep, ragged breath, like someone gasping for air after a near drowning. She muttered something too quietly for Balandrick to hear, but it had the cadence of a prayer.

Tolsadri loomed over her. The threat in his posture and expression could not be clearer.

”And now you will tell me everything there is to know about the Words of Making.”

Algariq barely heard the Voice speak to her. She had done it. At last, after so many years, a lifetime of pain and regret and sorrow, she had achieved her goal of escaping the clutches of the Harridan. I am free, she thought. And Huma is free as well. The mark on her arm would have appeared on his as well, a sign that he, too, had been elevated.

But she knew she was not truly free yet. Indeed, she was still in mortal danger until she could get away from the Voice of the Exalted.

She commanded her captive to tell the Voice all he knew of the Words of Making. Her captive described where the fortress could be found and what he knew of its defenses. While he talked, the witness to her raising was called away; the servant, too, disappeared from the tent on some unknown errand. Algariq smiled inwardly. The Mother's grace s.h.i.+nes upon me this day, she thought. Truly, I have been blessed.

Tolsadri asked her captive a number of questions, some of which he could answer and others that he could not.

”That is everything he knows?” Tolsadri asked her.

”Yes, Honored Voice.”

Tolsadri folded his arms and tapped his fingers against his beard. ”Very well. I am done with you. Go, but do not let me ever see you again.”

She inclined her head to him as custom dictated, but every nerve in her body was ready to spring. He did exactly what she expected him to do. The moment she bowed, he lashed out with a long knife he kept tucked up one of his sleeves. Prepared for such an attack, she leapt backward, before the blade buried itself in her heart. As she did, she shot her hand out and brushed it across Tolsadri's wrist. The edge of the blade sliced into her forearm, but she ignored the pain and released her power.

She felt the Voice's will enter her. She had not known if her power would work on an Adept and Loremaster-it was possible that the Mysteries of Bariq would provide some element of protection-but she had no choice. It was either control him or perish.

”Put your weapon away and remain silent,” she commanded.

Tolsadri tucked the knife back into his sleeve, his expression slack.