P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

Then too, her head still hammered from the previous night’s dreams.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

“I do with my own flesh what I choose!”

Damn you, Father, and poor Tori, to have such a monster caged inside your skull .

If he didn’t treat Kindrie properly, though, she would have something to say on her own, and he would damn well listen to her.

Timmon nudged her. “Are you all right?”

“Right enough.” Jame rubbed her forehead and brought her mind back to the matter at hand.

A mixture of seasoned randon, third-year cadets and second-years were going on the expedition, mostly those who had never previously had the opportunity. Timmon was one of them, to his delight. Gorbel, to his disgust, was not, nor were any other Caineron: Lord Caldane had made his interest in discovering the caravan’s destination entirely too obvious. Gorbel had told them about his father’s private explorations into the Wastes, to the vast, glistening pan of the Great Salt Sea and beyond.

“All they found were ruins half buried in the sand,” he had said in disgust. “Those, and the shell of a Kencyr temple.”

That last had surprised Jame. “What, one of the missing five?”

“Kothifir, Karkinaroth, Tai-tastigon . . .” Timmon had counted on his fingers.

“Tai-than, perhaps.” Jame wondered what Canden’s expedition had found. Trinity, how long ago it seemed since she and Dally had seen their friend off from Tai-tastigon’s walls.

“Kencyr prisoners at Urakarn claim to have sighted one there too,” Gorbel had said.

“At Urakarn , in the enemy camp?” That idea had truly startled Jame.

G’ah, too many mysteries, too few answers.

She now asked, “Do they say why this might be the last caravan?”

“No,” said Timmon with a grimace. “I’ve been among the drivers, buying them wine, listening for gossip, but they’re so scared this expedition will fail that there’s no loosening their tongues. King Krothen has enough wealth to last a lifetime—and to pay for his pet hobby, the Southern Host. He already has two treasure towers full of the finest trade silk. However, many merchants are gambling their fortunes and futures. It will be a hard time for Kothifir if this venture fails.”

Jame wondered if that was true for Gaudaric. His principal capital lay in his talent, but the mission must be important or he wouldn’t be sending his son-in-law.

Gorbel grunted. No doubt he had also tried to gather information, presumably without success. Jame could guess how hard his father must be pushing him.

“Will you take Bel-tairi with you, and that bloody rathorn?” he asked.

“I think not.” Other horses still made her uneasy, but she would rather risk riding them into the desert than her own unlikely pair. “Bel is too valuable—remember, she’s a Whinno-hir, hundreds if not thousands of years old—and Death’s-head burns too easily.”

“I had wondered,” said Timmon. “With those red eyes, he’s an albino, isn’t he?”

“Yes. A rathorn mare’s last foal often is, and an outcast too, poor boy. Others of his kind have black or gray coats, but still white manes, tails, and ivory. Speaking of which, in the desert he would not only have to carry all that weight but broil in it as well. I just hope I can get both of them to stay here.”

Gorbel gave a snort of laughter. “Still can’t manage the brutes, eh?”

“Bel, yes, and she’s a lady, I’ll thank you to remember, not a brute. Death’s-head, maybe. If she stays, though, he probably will too. Jorin goes with me.”

“Waugh,” said the ounce from under the table, as if in agreement. Jame rubbed his back with her foot.

“Ten more days,” Timmon said with a sigh, as if he were speaking of years. Jame wondered if he would be as enthusiastic deep in the desert.

As she left the canteen some time later, movement in the shadows to one side caught Jame’s attention. Her hand brushed her knife’s hilt, then drifted away. What should she fear here in the camp? Darkness resolved itself into Shade, muffled to the eyes in a cloak.

“Ran Awl has disappeared,” she said.

Jame felt her heart skip a beat, as if at the opening move of some dire game. “You’re sure?” Of course Shade was; she would have looked everywhere, questioned everyone. “What does Commander Frost say?”

“She suggests that, finding nothing wrong, Awl went home. But she wouldn’t without telling her staff. Without telling me.”

Jame recognized the tone. Bastard, half-Kendar daughter of a lord, shunned by most of her house, Shade had finally found someone to believe in, only to have her mentor disappear. Frost had only hinted at a cause. To be more explicit, especially if she knew better, would be the death of her honor. How much a Kencyr could get away with by simply not telling a direct lie. “It might be . . . perhaps . . . it seems . . .” G’ah. The bland smile, the easy evasion—was that all that honor had come to mean to her people?

Shade was watching her intently. She wants something from me; some validation, some protection . . .

The Randir opened her cloak at the neck. Within, golden scales shifted.

“Oh no,” said Jame, stepping back. “Every time I take Addy into my care, you go off and try to get yourself killed.” It suddenly occurred to her what Shade’s soul-image might be. For a nascent changer, what better than a snake with its supple, ever-changing form? “Truly, protect her and she will protect you.”

Shade considered this, then closed her cloak. “You understand more than I do, perhaps. So be it.”

She stepped back.

“Wait! Promise me that we’ll speak again before I leave.”

The other nodded and faded into the shadows.

The days passed, full of exercises and bustle as the senior randon prepared their juniors for the trials to come. Jame heard much of the desert’s threats and denizens, of sinksand and mirages, of hostile tribesmen and things beneath the sand, of thirst, hunger, and delirium. A lovely time they were all going to have, she thought, but still her spirits leaped at the thought.

Winter’s Eve arrived. Despite the farewell festivities held throughout the camp, Jame waited in her apartment for Shade, but the Randir didn’t appear.

Then it was Winter’s Day.

“Whoa there! Wait your turn!”

The caravan ground was chaos. Drivers jockeyed into their prescribed positions, surrounded by clusters of family and well-wishers with hands outstretched as if to hold them back. Horses neighed and stomped. Oxen bellowed. Donkeys brayed. Brass bands bounced about the margin of the field, playing discordant melodies. Dogs fought. Every form of transport seemed to crowd the field from wind carts to ten-mule teams, from high-riding buggies to wagons with wheels rimmed by inflated rhi-sar intestines. Perhaps only a third had risked the Wastes before and knew what to expect there. Among the veteran traders, all drove flat-bottomed wagons with upturned prows, drawn by horse teams that would be switched to something more appropriate when they reached the desert proper.

“My place is forward,” said Timmon to Jame. “See you tonight.”

As he rode off with his ten-command, Char followed with his own of Knorth third-years, shooting a glower at Jame in passing. As far as she knew, all challenges had stopped in the Knorth barracks with her order, as sourly as Char had received it. Ran Onyx-eyed hadn’t seemed to care one way or the other, but then how was anyone supposed to read that bland face? She was also with the caravan as second-in-command.

Jame saw Gaudaric standing by one of the flat-bottomed wagons while his daughter Evensong bade good-bye to her husband. As Ean mounted the vehicle, she retreated in tears to her father’s arms.