Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  Belgan lifted one eyebrow. “What enemy might that be?”

  “A boy cloaked in black magicks. He goes by the name Joach.”

  “And what makes you think he might be coming here?”

  Dismarum leaned heavily on his staff, clearly weak and hungry. “He’s the brother of a wit’ch.”

  Belgan jerked with these last words, shocked. “How did you . . . a wit’ch?”

  “I’ve heard rumors on the road. He comes seeking to avenge the death of his sister.”

  Belgan felt the blood drain out of his limbs. The torch trembled. What had Kesla done?

  “I would tell you more, but the desert has worn me, drained me.” The visitor’s words seemed to worm into Belgan’s skull. “I would beg a boon. Let me in.”

  Belgan’s suspicions flared, but the man’s staff waved again. Belgan blinked, staring back at the guileless old man. How could he distrust this wanderer who had risked so much to bring him news? Guilt at his rudeness surged again. He stepped back. “Raise the gate,” he instructed Seth.

  “Master?”

  Belgan noticed the worried look on the apprentice’s face. “We’ll offer this desert wanderer a drink and a warm meal. Now open these gates.”

  Seth hesitated, glancing past the gate’s bars with disgust.

  Belgan remembered with shame his own initial revulsion of Dismarum and scowled at Seth. “Do as I say!”

  Seth’s eyes widened as he rushed over to the winch.

  Belgan touched his forehead, surprised at his own outburst. He never raised his voice. It must be the lack of sleep, the days of worry for Kesla. His eyes drifted back to the old man behind the gates. Dismarum lifted the staff, rolling it in his palm—and all Belgan’s concerns vanished. What was he thinking? He must treat this elder with the utmost compassion. Perhaps he should even offer him his own room for the night, compensation for his lack of hospitality so far.

  Gears cranked, and iron groaned. Slowly the portcullis rose, its speared lower tips drawn from the sandstone. Soon the way lay open.

  Belgan hurried forward and offered Dismarum his arm. The man smiled gratefully, all warmth and friendship. Belgan smiled back, content that he had pleased his guest. He led Dismarum under the gate and into the central yard.

  For just a moment, Belgan thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A blur of something hulking, a glimpse of claw and cloven hoof. Then it was gone, leaving the scent of goats in the air.

  Belgan slowed, his brow furrowing. In his chest, his heart beat faster, panicked. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. His feet tripped.

  Then the old man was there, catching him up, brushing him with his staff. With its touch, Belgan sighed with relief, all fears gone.

  He shook his head at his own foolishness and continued toward the sculpted towers and spires. His ears ignored the burst of panicked nickering rising from the stables as he passed with his guest.

  Instead, he patted the old man’s arm. “Welcome, Dismarum. Welcome to Alcazar.”

  10

  ON THE SECOND day of trekking through the desert, Joach marched beside the litter bearing the broken-limbed Richald. They were the last in the line of marchers. Kesla led. Hunt walked beside her, bearing Sheeshon in his arms. Ahead of Joach, Kast and Sy-wen strode side by side, wrapped head to toe in drapes of cloak and cloth. The only skin exposed to the sun were their two hands, fingers interlocked as they crossed the sands.

  Joach glanced skyward, squinting. He shaded his eyes. The sun touched the western horizon. Soon they would need to seek another campsite for the night—and it could not come quick enough. The entire party was hot, sunburned, and thirsty.

  Last night, Kesla had led them to a site amid a tumble of rocks. Off the sands, the risk of attack from the desert’s nighttime prowlers was less. As they had set up camp, she had also directed them to prop up sections of the singed sails. “To collect the night’s dew,” she had explained.

  It proved a wise move. By morning, the cups and pans positioned under the lower edge of the canopies were filled with fresh water. It was not enough to wash the sand and dried sweat from their bodies, but it did allow them each to drink a small amount and to fill leather flasks for the day’s journey.

  But now, as the sun lowered to the west, Joach’s small water supply had long been used up. His lips were cracked, and his tongue felt like a sticky piece of hide. Kesla had shown him how to keep a pebble in his cheek to help stave off thirst and moisten his mouth, but he had spat it out long ago. As he walked, every joint and crevice in his body was chafed raw by the sand. Joach’s eyes ached from the blinding reflection of the sun off the surrounding dunes. It seemed as if they had been marching for moons instead of days. Even Joach’s dreams had been of sand and of endless, empty skies.

  And he was not alone in his suffering. Each member of the party slogged through the desert, head hanging, beaten down by the sun. The litter bearers bore the worst, carrying Richald slung between thin poles. The elv’in prince used traces of his magick to lighten his body and make his burden less for them, but the desert sun sapped everyone’s energy. At times, Richald would allow his bearers to rest and would limp with a crutch across the sands, his stoic face lined with pain. But he could not do this for long and would have to return to the litter.

  “Joach?” A hoarse whisper rose from the litter’s rumple of cloths and sails.

  Turning, Joach shifted the scarf of cloth from his face to stare at Richald. It was the first word the elv’in prince had spoken since the crash of the Eagle’s Fury. “What is it, Richald?”

  Richald shifted to one elbow. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I failed you all.”

  Joach crinkled his brow. “How so?”

  “I should not have lost the Fury. It brings shame to my family.”

  Joach sighed. He recognized the pain in the other’s eyes. Living among the clouds, Richald had seldom been so seriously challenged as he had been two nights ago. The experience had taken the winds out of his haughty sails.

  Reaching up, Joach touched the other’s wrist. Richald tried to pull away, but Joach tightened his fingers, gripping the man’s arm. “I’m sorry you lost your ship, Richald. Truly I am. But you sailed us through the narcissus fields and made it possible to continue our journey here. You have not shamed your name or family.”

  “But the Fury . . .”

  “It was just wood and sail. As long as you live, another ship can be built. You are the true Fury.”

  Richald’s wounded face softened a few degrees. He stared at Joach for a moment, then pulled his arm free. “Thank you,” he whispered, then rolled away.

  From ahead, Kesla lifted an arm. “We’ll camp just over the next rise.”

  Joach groaned with relief, glad this long day was over. According to Kesla, they should reach Alcazar by midday tomorrow.

  As Joach trudged forward, he found renewed strength. The entire group increased its pace with the end of the day’s trek in sight. The last slope was a monstrous dune, sweeping up to the height of a steep foothill. The team climbed the ridge of sand, passing back and forth in ascending switchbacks.

  At long last, as the sun sank into the western horizons and shadows stretched into a twilight gloom, they reached the summit. Joach, last in line behind the litter, saw the party stop with gasps of surprise on their lips. He trudged the final distance and stared into the next valley.

  “Sweet Mother!”

  Below was a wonderland. A small grove of tall, thin trees crowned with canopied leaves lay in the valley. The twilight gloom was even thicker in the deep trough, but there was no mistaking the glint of water—a wide pond! Beside the water, tiny lanterns glowed, illuminating a scatter of tents. The tinkling whisper of some stringed instrument floated up to them.

  “The oasis of Oo’shal,” Kesla said with delight. She swept back her hood. The last rays of sunlight lit her cascade of tawny curls into strands of gold.

  “Why didn??
?t you tell us you were heading here?” Kast asked, mildly irritated. The same question was on Joach’s mind, too.

  “I could not. It is taboo to speak of an oasis until you are at it. The desert tribes believe that to waste the moisture of one’s breath to name or speak of an oasis will offend the gods of this land. As punishment, they might drain the waters back into the sand or hide it from your path.” Kesla searched their faces with a trace of a smile. “And you wouldn’t want that to have happened, would you?”

  Hunt answered. “Not for all the gold in the sea.” He began to hurry down the slope.

  Four masked men suddenly rose from the sand, stepping out of hiding behind small boulders and slipping from under camouflaged flaps of cloth. In their hands were long, sickle-shaped blades.

  Kesla stepped forward, empty palms raised. “Naato o’shi ryt,” she said calmly to the guards.

  The lead swordsman’s eyes grew large when he spotted her. He swept back his own desert hood and mask. “Kesla?”

  She grinned and bowed. “It is good to see you again, Innsu.”

  The man sheathed his sword and ran up the slope. Joach noticed how tall and broad-shouldered the young man was. His skin was darkly complexioned, and he had deep, penetrating black eyes and a small, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The dome of his head was shaved bald, as were all the other guards’.

  Reaching Kesla, he picked her up in his arms and swung her around. “We’ve been watching for you.”

  “Watching for me?” Kesla asked, breathless from the greeting as he set her back on her feet.

  “Shaman Parthus is down at the camp.” Innsu nodded to the collection of low tents. “His bones warned of danger along your path through the desert. We came searching for you. I knew you’d come here to Oo’shal.”

  Her grin broadened. “You always know me so well.”

  “And why wouldn’t I? How many times have we been out here training? I couldn’t keep you away from the water.” As Innsu turned, Joach spotted a small daggered tattoo behind the man’s left ear marking him as another assassin.

  “How’s Master Belgan?” she asked.

  The tall young man rolled his eyes. “Worried, as usual.”

  This raised a bit of laughter from Kesla.

  Joach frowned, irritated by the man’s familiarity with the tawny-haired girl.

  As if sensing his emotions, Kesla glanced back to him. “We’ve had a long day’s trek, Innsu. Perhaps we’d better get these folks cleaned, fed, and settled. Then we can catch up.”

  He sobered. “Of course.” Straightening, he addressed the rest of them formally. “Be welcome to Oo’shal. Come share our waters.” It was clearly a common greeting, spoken rotely without true emotion.

  Innsu turned and spoke in the desert tongue to his companions. One darted away and ran down the slope toward the valley, evidently to spread the word of their arrival.

  Kesla waved them all down toward the trees and waters. “Come. We’ve all traveled through hardship, and I imagine the road will grow even harder from here. But this night, let us honor the gods of the Wastes and enjoy the hospitality of Oo’shal without worry or fear.” She led them with Innsu at her side.

  Joach glanced behind him. The other two guards vanished into the sand, returning to guard the valley.

  Turning back around, he found Kesla’s eyes upon him again. Her violet eyes matched the deep twilight waters below. Joach’s breath caught in his throat. She slowed her pace to come abreast of him and touch his elbow, leaning close. “We’ll be safe tonight. There’ll be nothing to fear.”

  He nodded, noticing the hard, studied look Innsu gave him from behind Kesla’s shoulder. A desert eagle studying a scurrying mouse.

  Joach met his gaze, unblinking. An unspoken challenge passed between them.

  With a slight narrowing of his eyes, Innsu turned away.

  Kesla, seemingly oblivious to the exchange, continued to speak. “Oo’shal is a desert name. It means ‘jewel of the sand.’ ”

  “A jewel indeed,” Sy-wen said, holding Kast’s hand. “It’s beautiful.”

  The small pond’s color deepened to a midnight blue as they worked down the slope and into the shadows. It stood in sharp contrast to the red sand and green trees. After the unending landscape of wind-sculpted dunes and jutting rock, the oasis seemed a paradise of splendor and color.

  As they neared the outskirts of the oasis, the noises of the camp grew in volume. Voices called across the valley in ululating echoes, sounding the arrival of the newcomers and the return of Kesla from her journey. The single stringed instrument was joined by the strike and beat of scintillating cymbals, a much merrier tune than the previous melancholy one.

  Stepping under the fronds of the tall, narrow trees, Joach stared up. Pendulous gourds of a purplish hue hung from the high canopy.

  Kesla caught his gaze. “Gre’nesh fruit. Its flesh is very succulent and sweet. The tribesmen make a potent ale from its mashed and strained seeds, while shamans chew the seed whole to walk the dream desert.”

  Joach’s ears pricked up. “To walk the dream desert? What do you mean?”

  “It’s a shaman’s ritual. In truth, I never fully understood it.”

  Joach was disappointed. Since his loss of Flint and Meric, he’d had no one to instruct him in his own talent of dreamweaving. After his near-disastrous misinterpretation of one of his dreams, Joach had grown to consider his talent more a threat than a gift. Over the past moon, he had sensed the occasional twinge of magick attempting to infuse his dreams, but Joach had shunned it like an unwanted guest.

  A voice spoke out the shadows ahead. “You ask of the dream desert. Maybe I can explain it better after you’ve rested.” A thin figure stepped across their path. He was gaunt, all worn bone and gristle, with skin burned to a deep bronze. Only his eyes seemed fresh and bright, almost aglow in the twilight murk.

  “Shaman Parthus!” Kesla exclaimed, rushing forward to hug the old man. She quickly made introductions.

  “Come,” the shaman finished. “We’ve healers to help the injured, and food and drink—but first I imagine you’d all like to wash the sand from your feet.”

  “And hair, and mouth, and ears, and arse,” Kast said.

  This earned a small smile. “Fear not, Oo’shal will cleanse your body and Spirit. Innsu will lead the men to their bathing pool; Kesla will take the girl child and woman. In the meantime, I’ll guide the injured to the healer’s tent.” Parthus waved a hand, and a group of tribesmen led Richald and his litter bearers down a side path.

  Kesla scooped up Sheeshon, whose eyes were wide at the new surroundings. “This way.”

  Sy-wen kissed Kast on the cheek and followed the lithe assassin.

  The remaining men were led down another path toward the waters.

  Joach noticed the shaman’s eyes following him as he left. Caught staring, the shaman nodded knowingly. The shaman’s lips moved in words meant only for Joach, and though the man was a distance away, Joach heard him as clearly as if he had whispered in his ear. “We’ll speak after the moon sets,” the old man said.

  Still pondering the shaman’s strange words, Joach found himself at the edge of the pool. As the sun finished setting, stars began to appear in the sky, mirrored in the waters here. As Joach stared, he was surprised by the size of the pool. From this shore, the far bank was almost indiscernible, more a small lake than a pond.

  Kast tugged off one boot and reached a foot into the water. “It’s nice and cool.”

  Innsu explained, arms crossed over his chest. “Oo’shal is fed from underground springs deep beneath the desert.”

  Kast nodded and pulled his other boot off, then quickly shed his garments. Joach and Hunt did not hesitate, stripping off their sandy and sweat-stained cloaks and undergarments. Kast ran and dove into the waters, Hunt and Joach at his heels. Their whoops of delight must have been heard far across desert.

  Innsu just stood on the bank, arms still crossed, face stoic as stone.

>   After rubbing the sand and grime from their bodies, the trio floated and swam. None of them wanted to leave the balm of the cool lake. But eventually Innsu waved them back to the shore. Climbing from the waters, they found clean, loose robes to don.

  “Your clothes will be washed tonight,” Innsu said. “Now we must hurry. A small feast is being prepared.”

  Joach quickly learned that small was a subjective term. In a clearing at the center of the low tents, a large woven blanket had been spread. Bright sitting pillows interwoven with thin strands of silver dotted the edges, but it was the platters and bowls of fruits and roasted meats and the flagons of ale that drew Joach’s eyes. His mouth watered at the sight. And the rich scent of spices and sizzling roasts almost made him swoon on his feet.

  Sy-wen, Sheeshon, and Kesla were already seated, waiting with clear impatience. “It’s high time you men showed up,” Sy-wen said, wearing a scolding smile. “It seems these desert tribesmen have the odd custom of allowing their men to eat first.”

  Kast crossed and settled to a pillow next to his mate. “Sounds like a fitting rule to me.”

  His statement earned him an elbow jabbed in his side. He laughed as Joach and Hunt took pillows on the far side of the spread of food.

  Innsu bowed. “I must return to my watch. I bid thee a good meal.”

  Kesla smiled up at her fellow assassin. “Thank you, Innsu.”

  Before he left, he glanced to Joach, his face again stone, unreadable. Then he swung away. The other tribesmen also gave them privacy to enjoy their meal, retreating to their tents, though somewhere a pair of musicians continued to ply the night with soft chords and the tinkle of bells.

  Now settled, Kesla showed them how to partake of the meal. There were no plates, knives, forks, or spoons. All that rested before each pillow was a short spear, about as long as Joach’s forearm. Kesla demonstrated how to use the tool to jab a morsel and bring it to one’s lips.

  She did not eat what she speared but nodded to Joach. “Men must eat first.”

  Joach smiled and speared a chunk of sizzling meat.