The Amber Enchantress

ELEVEN SUDDEN DEPARTURE

Sadira felt someone pull away the cape she had been using as a blanket, then a rough hand began tugging at her smock. She opened her eyes to see Huyar bending over her, a crumpled wad of blood-soaked blue cloth clutched in his hand. Behind him stood a dozen elves, the green rays of dawn streaming over their shoulders. Two of the warriors held Gaefal’s lifeless body suspended between them.

“What are you doing?” Sadira demanded, trying to sit up.

Huyar forced her back to the bench, then grabbed her smock and held the cloth next to it. The smell of stale blood came to the sorceress’s nostrils.

A cold knot of dread formed in Sadira’s stomach. “Get off me!” she yelled, pushing the elf’s hand away.

“It’s the same color!” Huyar screamed, thrusting the blood-crusted rag into Sadira’s face.

“So what?” demanded Magnus. He forced his way through the elves behind Huyar and plucked the enraged warrior off Sadira. “Leave her alone.”

“I found this cloth in the wound that killed my brother,” Huyar explained, holding the rag up for Magnus to see.

Sadira grabbed her satchel and stood, fearing she might need her magic to defend herself.

Without putting Huyar down, the windsinger took the rag, and held it up in front of one of his black eyes. “This cloth’s so blood-stained it’s impossible to say what color it is.”

“There’s blue around the edges,” Huyar said. He pointed at Sadira’s smock. “The same blue she wears now.”

“I’ve seen a thousand tunics that color,” Magnus said dismissively.

The windsinger started to slip the bloody cloth into his pocket, but Huyar snatched it back and stepped toward Sadira.

“Then let us see if this matches the shape of her torn collar,” he said, unwadding the cloth.

“It does,” Sadira answered, realizing she would only arouse suspicion by trying to keep Huyar from checking the rip. “I was passing by the Bard’s Quarter when I saw that youth stagger from the gate,” she said, pointing at Gaefal. “I stopped and bandaged his wound, but he died anyway.”

“Rhayn and I found her not too far from there,” Magnus said, his snaggle-toothed snout creased by what may have been an approving grin.

“I’m only sorry I didn’t recognize him as a Sun Runner,” Sadira added. “I would have told you about him sooner.”

“What do you suppose Gaefal was doing in the Bard’s Quarter?” Magnus asked, at last releasing Huyar. “Hasn’t Faenaeyon always warned us to leave the bards alone?”

The windsinger’s ploy almost worked. The warriors began discussing the reasons the youth might have had for entering such a dangerous place. Even Huyar fell into a thoughtful silence.

Unfortunately, the warrior reached the wrong conclusion. “There’s only one reason Gaefal would have disobeyed his chief,” the warrior said, glaring at Sadira. “He was chasing you, so you killed him.”

“You don’t know that to be true,” said Magnus.

“I don’t know it to be false,” Huyar answered, stepping toward Sadira and reaching for his dagger. “And I won’t take Lorelei’s word for it.”

Magnus grasped the elf’s wrist and prevented him from drawing the weapon.

Sadira tugged on the empty sheath at her waist. “Have you ever seen a knife in my belt?” she asked. “I lost my dagger before I helped the Sun Runners get across the Canyon of Guthay. If I killed your brother, what did I use?”

“You’re a sorceress,” countered the elf. “You could have used magic.”

“True, but that looks like a knife wound to me,” said Rhayn, stepping out of the stairway. “Why do you insist on blaming Sadira?”

“Sadira?” Huyar repeated, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Our guest,” Rhayn explained. “Just before we captured her, Magnus overheard her talking to a boy from the Veiled Alliance. Her real name is Sadira-Sadira of Tyr.

Sadira cursed under her breath. She knew Rhayn was trying to keep Huyar off-balance and save her life, but the sorceress would have preferred it to be done without revealing her identity to the rest of the tribe.

Huyar stared at Sadira in shock, and a buzz of astonishment ran through the warriors gathered behind him. “You are Faenaeyon’s daughter-the one who killed Kalak?”

“I am the daughter of Barakah of Tyr and your chief,” Sadira allowed, glancing pensively at her slumbering father. “Though, after abandoning me into slavery, I’m not certain Faenaeyon has the right to claim me as daughter.”

“What Faenaeyon claims is his,” Huyar answered. “But that gives me no cause to believe you. Perhaps your friend from the Veiled Alliance had a dagger.”

Back in Tyr, no Templar of the King’s Justice would have accepted the elf’s logic, but it was becoming increasingly clear to the sorceress that Huyar was not looking for the truth so much as a scapegoat.

“I didn’t kill your brother, but I can see there’s no use telling you that,” Sadira said, slipping a hand into her satchel. “So attack me now, or let the matter drop.”

“I’m no fool,” Huyar said, casting an uneasy glance toward the sorceress’s concealed hand. “But I won’t let my brother’s death go unavenged.”

“No one’s asking you to,” said Rhayn. “But it’s not for you to say who should be punished. Faenaeyon is chief-or have you forgotten?”

“I have not forgotten,” Huyar said. He motioned at one of the elves standing over Gaefal’s dead body. “Wake the chief, Jeila.”

The warrior, a woman with tangled brown hair and three bone rings piercing one nostril, scowled at Huyar’s back. Nevertheless, she went to the chief’s side and, placing a cautionary hand over his dagger hilt, shook him by the shoulders. “Faenaeyon,” she said softly. “We need you.”

The chief uttered an indignant growl, and his eyelids rose to reveal a pair of glazed pupils. He struggled to focus on the woman’s face, and for a moment it appeared he might overcome his stupor. Then he let out a loud groan, as though in terrible pain, and his pointed chin dropped back to his chest. His glassy eyes remained open and vacant.

“He’s still drunk,” Jeila reported.

Huyar shook his head and went to his father’s side. “I don’t think so,” he said, placing a hand under the chief’s shirt.

“Is he dead?” asked another warrior.

“No, but he’s sick. His heart barely beats, and his skin is as cold as night,” Huyar answered. Taking his hand away from his father, the elf looked at Sadira. “I wonder how many other tragedies your return to the Sun Runners will bring?”

“I’m not responsible for Faenaeyon’s gluttony, if that’s what you mean,” Sadira retorted. “He stole the wine from me-or have you forgotten?”

“Huyar, say what you mean or be quiet,” added Rhayn. “Only a coward implies what he is afraid to speak outright.”

“She’s right,” agreed Magnus. “Sadira is Faenaeyon’s guest, and you’d do well to remember that.”

At first, Sadira thought the two were defending her because of the help she provided, but a better explanation occurred to her. They were trying to undercut Huyar’s influence with the rest of the tribe, so that it would be easier for Rhayn to maneuver herself into position as the new chief.

After glaring at Rhayn for a time, Huyar hissed, “I’m no coward. As for Faenaeyon’s ‘guest’, she has cast an enchantment on him.”

“For what purpose, Huyar?” Sadira demanded, taking her defense into her own hands.

Huyar came toward her and did not stop until he was within few inches of her face. “Yesterday, did you not tell me that you had reasons of your own for returning to us?”

“I said that,” Sadira conceded.

“I think you came back to enchant Faenaeyon,” Huyar concluded. “To force us to take you to the Pristine Tower.”

Rhayn cast a sidelong glance at the chief’s torpid form. “Whatever’s wrong with Faenaeyon, he isn’t enchanted.” she said. “If you had any sense, you’d know that.”

“What would you know?” countered the warrior.” You’re no more than a trickster.”

“I’m skilled enough to put you into your place.” spat Rhayn. Not that I’d need magic to do it.”

Huyar stepped toward his long-sister, fists clenched in rage. Magus slipped between the two, conveniently preventing Rhayn from having to make good on a threat. “We’re members of the same tribe!” he growled. “Act like it!”

Though Magnus pretended to be speaking to both of them, his black eyes were turned only toward Huyar.

Before Huyar could respond, a young warrior rushed into the chamber from the room above. “Templars are coming!”

Huyar motioned at the warriors standing by Gaefal’s body. “Stall them, and see to the kanks,” he said. As they rushed down the stairs, the elf looked to Sadira and snarled, “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn you’ve brought this upon us, too.”

“We should be getting the tribe out of this tower, not worrying about why the templars are here,” Rhayn said, rushing up the stairway. “Let’s go.”

Huyar threw his brother’s body over his shoulder, than ran up the stairs after her.

“Where are they going?” Sadira asked. “We’ll be trapped.”

Magnus shook his head. “Elves can always run,” he said, starting to follow the other two Sun Runners.

“Wait!” Jeila called. “I can’t get Faenaeyon to stand. We’ll have to carry-”

A resonant thump shook the tower, interrupting the woman in midsentence. This noise was followed by a moment of eerie silence, then cries of injured elves began to ring out from the floor below. Magnus rushed for the stairway.

“I’ll see if I can help,” he said. “Take Faenaeyon up to the others.”

The windsinger had barely reached the threshold when the hum of a dozen bowstrings sounded from the stairs below. Magnus threw an arm up to protect his eyes, then grunted as a flight of arrows ticked into his thick hide. To Sadira’s surprise, he did not fall. Instead, he slapped the shafts off his body, screaming madly-as a normal man might after being stung by a swarm of wasps.

The sorceress went to Jeila’s side and slung one of Faenaeyon’s arms over her shoulder. As they dragged the chief’s limp form across the floor, the windsinger roared in anger. Sadira saw the tip of an agafari spear glance off his knobby elbow, then he plucked a shrieking templar off the floor and hurled her down the stairway. She crashed into a file of women that had been following close behind, and they all went tumbling down the steps. Magnus opened his great mouth and began a deep-toned ballad of war, making Sadira’s heart pound and stirring the bloodlust in her spirit.

A deafening blast silenced the windsinger, sending his huge form sailing into the air. He crashed into the opposite side of the chamber and slammed his skull into the wall, then dropped to the floor amid a clatter of loosened stones. Despite the charred circle in the middle of his chest, Magnus shook his head to clear it, then braced his massive arms by his sides. Gathering his legs beneath him, he slowly pushed himself upward.

The windsinger was about halfway to his feet when his knees buckled. He crashed back to the floor and did not move, his chin resting on his chest and the black in his eyes fading to gray.

Once again, Nibenese voices and the slap of sandals on stone echoed from the stairway. Jeila slipped Faenaeyon’s arm off her shoulder. “Come,” she said, pulling the steel dirk from the chief’s belt. “We must give the tribe time to escape.” She handed her own dagger, made of a simple bone, to the sorceress.

Sadira let the dagger drop to the floor. “Hold them for just a moment,” she said, reaching for her spell ingredients. “I have better way.”

Jeila nodded and leaped to the stairway. She dodged a wild slash from the first templar’s obsidian sword, then sliced open the arm holding it. The elf kicked her attacker back into the stairwell and, with her free hand, snatched up the falling sword.

As Jeila fought against the next pair of templars, Sadira shaped a lump of clear paraffin into a small cube. After summoning the energy for a spell, she tossed the wax over Jeila’s shoulder and spoke her incantation. The paraffin burst into a fine mist and spread through the entire stairwell. An instant later, it congealed into a transparent gel and engulfed the templars.

The Nibenese women tried in vain to free themselves, their arms and legs straining against the viscous mass in slow motion. Jeila stepped away and watched in amusement as the templars’ faces turned purple with suffocation.

Wasting no time on such frivolities, Sadira went to Magnus’s side and cast another spell. When the massive windsinger rose off the floor, she took him by the arm and tugged him to the stairway.

As she started up the steps, Sadira called “Jeila, bring Faenaeyon and hurry! That plug won’t stop our enemies forever.”

The elf slipped the dagger and sword into her belt, then grabbed the heavy chief under the shoulders and dragged him after Sadira. By the time they had ascended halfway up the stairway, both women were out of breath. Even though Magnus was floating in the air, it was no easy matter for a woman of Sadira’s size to pull that much bulk up the steep pitch.

As they neared the top of the stairs, they heard a confused babble of elven voices coming from the room above. Jeila stopped and looked toward the noise. “Half the tribe should be gone now,” she panted. “Something’s wrong.”

“We won’t find out what until we get there,” Sadira gasped, continuing to climb.

As Jeila moved to follow, the clatter of claws on stone came from the bottom of the stairwell. Summoning the last of her strength, Sadira dragged Magnus upward at a run.

Jeila did not follow. Instead, she laid Faenaeyon down and began to descend. “I’ll hold them below. You get help and come back for Faenaeyon,” she said, drawing her sword and dagger.

“No!” Sadira yelled, stopping on the highest step. “It doesn’t sound like the templars.”

Her warning came too late. Dhojakt’s head peered around the bend. Sadira’s jaw fell open in astonishment, for he was covered with sticky slime from the crown of his black skull-cap to the bottom of his round chin. From the looks of it, he had forced his way through her magical mire with his strength alone-something not even a giant could have done.

Sadira shoved Magnus over the threshold, then began preparations for another spell. At the same time, Jeila launched herself at Dhojakt, slashing her sword at his neck and thrusting her dagger at his dark eyes.

The prince did not even bother to block the attacks. Instead, he simply turned his face away from the dagger and allowed the sword to strike his neck. Without causing even the tiniest wound in Dhojakt’s skin, the obsidian blade shattered into dozens of chips. The steel dagger fared little better, glancing off his cheekbone and opening a small scratch beneath the eye.

Jeila landed just ahead of the prince, her eyes as wide as saucers. She raised the dagger to attack again, but Dhojakt’s arm shot out and three of his fingers pierced through her throat. The dirk slipped from her grasp, and she clutched at the prince’s arm. He casually tossed the elf over his shoulder and scurried up the stairs.

As Dhojakt clattered over Faenaeyon’s unconscious form, Sadira tossed a tube of carved wood onto the steps and spoke a string of mystical words. With a sonorous rumble, the stairwell stretched to an impossible length. Suddenly the prince and her father were so far away they could barely be seen.

The sorceress turned away, already listening to the distinct tick of Dhojakt’s claws growing louder in the magical tunnel. She had delayed the prince for the time being but Sadira knew it would not be long before he and the templars who followed were upon her again.

The sorceress stepped onto the third story, where the stairwell opened into a round chamber. At one time, the room may have been divided into smaller compartments, for the stone baseplates of the long-vanished walls still traversed the floor in various locations. Now it was a single large garret, littered with pottery shards, scraps of hemp cloth, and the bones of a small animal.

The Sun Runners had tied a half-dozen ropes to the ceiling beams, but had not yet thrown the lines out the tower windows. Instead, the warriors were firing arrows at someone below. Sadira found Rhayn and Huyar standing together, on opposite sides of a doorway opening onto empty air. A pair of stone buttresses were all that remained of the balcony that had once hung outside.

As she approached, Sadira said, “Let’s go! Dhojakt is less than a minute behind me.”

“You first,” said Huyar, waving Sadira ahead.

The sorceress peered outside and found herself looking down upon the avenue that bordered the outside wall of the Elven Market. Standing in the street directly below the tower was a company of Nibenese half-giants. To defend themselves from the Sun Runners’ arrows, they were holding their wooden shields over their heads in a makeshift roof.

Sadira pulled a handful of powdered sulfur from her satchel. “Tell your warriors to put their bows away and drop their lines on my command,” she said. “And have someone bring Magnus. I’ll clear the way for our escape.”

As Rhayn passed the instructions along, the sorceress turned to Huyar. “I need some water.”

The elf ignored her and searched the room with a frown on his face. “What happened to Jeila and Faenaeyon?”

“Jeila’s dead, and Faenaeyon’s with the Nibenese.”

Huyar clamped a hand over Sadira’s arm. “You won’t save yourself that way,” he growled. “You’re not leaving until Faenaeyon’s safe.”

“You left him downstairs, not me. I’m the one who tried to help him,” Sadira said, jerking her arm away from the warrior. “And if you don’t get me the water I need, I’ll leave the Sun Runners here to face Dhojakt’s wrath. It’d be easier if I didn’t have to save your whole tribe as well as myself.”

Huyar glared at her for a moment, then spun around and grabbed a skin from a nearby warrior. Sadira opened her hands and instructed him to pour water over the sulfur. When the powder had turned into yellowish muck, she flung it out the window and spoke the words of her spell.

Instead of falling to the ground, the mudball hung motionless in the air. A cloud of yellow mist began to form, spreading steadily outward. From the street below came the concerned murmurs of half-giants, along with their commanders’ exhortations to stand firm. Sadira allowed the cloud to expand until it covered the entire company.

Rhayn came over, two huge satchels slung over her back and dragging Magnus’s floating form behind her. “Hurry! Dhojakt’s coming-with a company of templars behind him.”

“Storm!” Sadira said, waving her hand outside.

With a peal of thunder and a flash of golden lightning, the cloud burst open. Fire rained down on the half-giants in a deluge of flame. The shields covering their heads dissolved into shreds of fume, and in the next instant the air was heavy with the rancorous smell of burning flesh. The half-giants stumbled away, their bodies trailing smoke and their screams ringing through the streets like howling wind.

Sadira waited an instant for the firestorm to die down, then yelled, “Drop your lines!”

A half-dozen ropes sailed out the windows. Almost before the ends hit the cobblestones, the first elves were dropping to the streets below. Sadira moved toward the line dangling from the balcony door, but Huyar pushed her back.

“Not before the last Sun Runner has gone,” he snapped, waving forward a powerful woman with a heavily lined brow.

Rather than hold things up by fighting over the matter, the sorceress stepped over to wait with Rhayn. Already, half of the tribe had left the chamber, carrying their personal satchels on their back. Nevertheless, thinking it would be wise to be prepared for Dhojakt, Sadira scooped a handful of grit off the floor and prepared another spell.

Once that was done, Sadira looked across Magnus’s body and asked, “Do you rehearse these sorts of escapes often?”

Rhayn shook her head, keeping a careful eye on the stairwell. “We never practice,” she said. “We do this so often there’s no need.”

Sadira heard Dhojakt’s legs rattling. She cried out her incantation and threw the grit in her hand at the sound. A furious sandstorm rose at the mouth of the stairwell, blowing down the dark hole with such fury that the entire tower trembled. Although it was impossible to hear anyone screaming above the wind, the sorceress knew that those trapped in the squall’s fury would be crying out in agony as the flesh was scoured from their bones by whirling sand.

“That should stop him!” Rhayn yelled.

The elf had barely spoken when Dhojakt stepped from the stairwell. The prince’s expression showed no sign that he felt the sand raking over his skin. He held his body perfectly upright, as though the ferocious wind were no more than a breeze to him.

Sadira looked toward the ropes and saw that there were still several elves waiting to descend each of them. Even if she were able to push her way into line, she would never be able to reach the street before Dhojakt was once again upon her.

The prince’s black eyes searched the room for a moment, then came to rest on the sorceress. When he moved toward her, a pair of elven warriors stepped to block his path-not so much for Sadira’s benefit, she was sure, as to protect Huyar and the other elves who still had not descended the rope.

The warriors swung their bone swords, striking Dhojakt so hard that, even over the roar of Sadira’s magical wind, the thud of their blows was audible. The blade of one weapon snapped at the hilt and went skittering across the floor, while the other bounced off as though it had struck stone.

The prince did not even slow down. Stepping between the two elves, he finished one with a punch to the heart, sinking his hand fist-deep into the warrior’s chest. The other he killed more artfully, reaching up behind the tall elf’s back and snaking a hand around to grab his chin. With a quick jerk of his arm, Dhojakt snapped his victim’s neck, then threw the body aside and continued inexorably toward Sadira.

“Let go, Rhayn!” the sorceress yelled, taking Magnus’s wrist and pulling the windsinger toward the doorway. “Unless you want to learn to fly.”

“I’ll take my chances with you!” Rhayn answered, casting a frightened glance at Dhojakt.

Huyar and the other elves in front of the door scattered before Magnus’s bulk. Sadira and Rhayn pushed the windsinger out of the tower, throwing themselves onto his immense chest. At first, they dropped rapidly, but their descent slowed after a few feet, and they sank toward the scorched street more or less under control.

“Just hold tight,” Sadira advised. “Were going to be fine.”

“I don’t think so,” Rhayn answered, looking toward the tower.

Sadira craned her neck and, to her dismay, saw that she and Rhayn were descending more slowly than the elves on the ropes. Already, Huyar had jumped onto a line and descended farther than they had.

That was not what concerned Rhayn most, however. Dhojakt stood in the doorway of the balcony, pointing a slender finger in their direction. He held his other hand turned palm down, and Sadira could barely make out the shimmer of magical energy rising into his body.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t tell me he’s a sorcerer!”

Rhayn had no chance to reply. Dhojakt uttered his incantation, then the magic Sadira had used to levitate Magnus failed. The windsinger plunged to the street below, with Sadira and Rhayn still clinging desperately to his arms.

Magnus crashed into the charred body of a dead half-giant. The sorceress heard the staccato cracking of the guard’s ribs, then a brutal jolt rocked every bone in her body. The air left her lungs in an agonized scream, and her mind went numb with shock. She felt herself bounce off the windsinger, but barely noticed as she dropped back to the cobblestones at his side. There was a sick, mordant smell, a spray of black ash, and an explosion of unimaginable agony.

Sadira did not lose consciousness. She remained alert enough to see a pair of fleeing elves stoop to gather up Rhayn’s form. Several more paused to grab Magnus and drag the heavy windsinger to safety. The task of helping the sorceress fell to one of the last stragglers, a pregnant elf with green eyes.

As she tried to lift Sadira, the woman gasped in pain and clutched at her swollen abdomen. “I can’t lift you,” she said, grasping the sorceress’s wrists. “Maybe I can drag-”

“Go on,” Sadira said, shaking her head. The sorceress knew that if she could not stand by herself, the pregnant elf would be risking her life with little chance of saving Sadira’s. “I’ll be fine.”

The woman did not need to be told twice. Without saying anything more, she turned and ran out of sight.

Sadira pushed herself up to her knees. Her entire body protested in torment, but she did not stop. The sorceress gathered her legs beneath herself and rose to her feet. For a moment, Sadira actually remained upright.

Then a terrible burning ran through her legs, as though her veins were filled with fire instead of blood. She lost control of her muscles and collapsed back to the cobblestones.

Sadira did not allow herself even a moment of self-pity. Instead, she immediately resorted to pulling herself across the street with her hands alone. She did not dare look back, for fear that she would see Dhojakt swooping down like some bird of prey to snatch her away.

A few feet later, it was clear to the sorceress that she would never escape this way. Her only hope was to cast another enchantment and hope Dhojakt did not dispel it, too. The sorceress reached for her bag.

A sandaled foot pinned her arm to the street. “There’s no time for that,” said a familiar voice.

The sorceress looked up and saw Raka’s boyish face bending over her. Though one side of his jaw was mottled with scabs from a day-old burn, he looked more or less the same as he had when she last saw him.

“You escaped!” Sadira gasped, delighted.

“Yesterday, at least,” the youth said, grabbing her under the arms. “Today, we may not be so lucky.”

Sadira followed his gaze to the tower. Dhojakt was coming down the wall headfirst, easily clinging to the rocky cracks with the sharp claws of his two dozen legs.

The sight brought new vigor to the sorceress’s legs. She managed to push herself up high enough to slip an arm over Raka’s shoulder. The youth led her into one of the narrow lanes down which the Sun Runners had fled. Instead of following the elves deeper into the city, however, he ducked into a doorway of a half-collapsed hovel.

“What are you doing?” the sorceress asked.

“My master sent something along to hide us from the prince,” he answered, pulling a small ceramic plate from his purse. “This will put him off our scent for a while and give us a chance to escape.”

“Then you were looking for me,” Sadira surmised. “I guess it makes sense that this is no chance meeting.”

“Correct,” Raka answered, laying the plate on the floor. “After you disappeared from the Sage’s Square, we set a watch on the gates of the Forbidden Palace. When Dhojakt left this morning with a company of templars and another of half-giants, we knew we’d find you by following him.”

“Then the Alliance will help me?” Sadira asked hopefully.

“As much as we are able,” Raka answered. He passed his hand over the plate and whispered a command word. The disk melted into the ground and faded from sight. “But not as much as you would like. We cannot take you to the Pristine Tower.”

“Why not?” Sadira asked.

Raka took her arm and guided her through the ruins of the hovel. “Because we don’t know where it is,” he answered. “From what my master can learn, only the elves have visited it-and even then, just the most courageous have dared to attempt journey. There might be no more than a dozen warriors in the Elven Market who know where to go. We’ll try to help you find one, but time is running short. We’ve learned that the northern cities sent their levies to the Dragon many weeks ago, while the Oba of Gulg is gathering her slaves even as we speak. My master believes this means-”

“That the Dragon is going from north to south,” Sadira surmised. “Tyr is after Gulg, leaving Balic for last.”

Raka nodded, then helped the sorceress climb through the hovel’s back wall. “You have perhaps three weeks left to stop him.”

“Then I can’t waste time searching for a guide,” Sadira said, looking toward the tower where her father had been captured. “But I do know someone who can take me there-provided you’ll help me get him back from the prince.”

“We’ll do our best,” Raka promised.

The muffled rattle of Dhojakt’s feet echoed through the hovel. Raka smiled and held his hands to his lips. An instant later, an enormous hiss sounded from the other side of the shack and a spray of green sparkles shot into the sky. Dhojakt roared in anger, then such a terrible stench filled the air that Sadira could not keep from retching.

“There,” said Raka. “Now you’ll be safe-at least long enough to leave this part of the city.”