The tyranny of ghosts

CHAPTER THREE

9 Aryth

On the fourth day after their skirmish with Tariic’s soldiers, Ekhaas began recognizing landmarks. Not in the way that she knew landmarks across a vast swathe of the continent of Khorvaire-from the ramshackle streets of Rhukaan Draal to the towers of Sharn to the dangerous wilds of southern Droaam-but in a much more familiar way. There in the distance was the white mountain Gim Juura. Closer, the weathered remains of a slim spire stood against the sky, the ruins of Bran’aa, where ancient seers had watched the stars in the Age of Dhakaan. Closer still, the steep depths of the valley they skirted, a cursed place where the ancestors of her clan had once trapped and slaughtered raiding rivals during the Desperate Times that had come after the fall of the great empire.

A sense of ease and belonging rose inside her. She sat up a little straighter in her saddle. “We’re in Kech Volaar territory.”

Geth roused himself from a weary doze, opening one eye to look around. “How much longer until we reach Volaar Draal?”

“Just after noon.”

“Are there patrols?” asked Tenquis.

A hawk burst up from the trees on the hillside above them and flew southwest. Ekhaas bent her lips in a smile and flicked her ears. “Yes. We’ll be expected.”

The territory claimed by the Kech Volaar was not large. With every valley slope they crossed and every mountain flank they rode around, Ekhaas’s sense of familiarity increased. Kech Volaar was one of the smallest of the clans that held true to the traditions and glories of Dhakaan. Other Dhakaani clans, like the militaristic Kech Shaarat might try to defend larger territories, but the strength and wealth of her clan was in the ancient lore preserved in its vaults and in the stories of its duur’kala. Kech Volaar, meant “Word Bearers,” and Ekhaas had never imagined a life that did not center around the venerated heritage of Dhakaan.

Never, a small part of her said, until now.

It was difficult to believe that only a week ago she’d been watching Dagii of Mur Talaan command an army against Valenar raiders in defense of Darguun. The gray-eyed young warlord’s cunning tactics, combined with Chetiin’s timely rallying of the wolf-riding cousins of his clan and her own songs of inspiration, had turned what might have been a massacre of dar into a rout of the elves. It had been a triumph for Darguun.

And flush with triumph and the excitement of battle, Ekhaas and Dagii had faced each other and expressed the love and respect that had grown between them, exchanging endearments of taarka’nu-wolf woman-and ruuska’te-tiger man.

He’d replaced some of her love for her clan. Every familiar place she saw reminded her that he wasn’t there with her. He had a sense of muut and atcha, the twin imperatives of duty and honor that held dar society together, that would have impressed even an elder of the Dhakaani clans.

It had impressed her. Her ears drooped a little at the thought of him.

The last time she had seen Dagii, the light of intelligence and honor in his eyes had been dimmed by the fanaticism inspired by the Rod of Kings. That betrayal hadn’t been his fault-only the influence of Aram, the Sword of Heroes, and the shield of Ashi’s powerful dragonmark could have offered protection from the rod’s power-but it still struck her like a knife in the belly.

“Dagii will be fine,” said Chetiin from beside her. Ekhaas’s ears rose again as she gave the old goblin a sharp stare. Chetiin gave her back a thin smile, his head with its cobweb-fine hair bobbing slightly in time with Marrow’s loping gait.

“It’s not a difficult guess,” he said. “Among the clans of the Silent Folk, death has its own language. You have the look of mourning someone who is absent rather than someone who is dead. Dagii is the only one I know who fits that description. But don’t worry about him. Tariic has more to gain by keeping him close than by imprisoning or killing him. After his triumph over the Gan’duur rebels and victory in the Battle of Zarrthec, Dagii is a hero to the people.”

“Legends are full of lords and kings who set aside inconvenient heroes.”

Chetiin bent his neck in acknowledgment. “I will not argue legend with a duur’kala. But don’t give up on Dagii. The absent return more readily than the dead.”

As the sun reached its zenith, they emerged onto a stone-paved road winding up into the mountains. The road showed its age in worn stones and moss, but Ekhaas knew that it was even older than it seemed. Even the oldest stone was a replacement for a stone that had been there before, the newest a replacement for a replacement for a replacement. When Volaar Draal had first been established, there had been no road. The early Kech Volaar had hidden themselves away alongside the lore that they guarded, but as the clan had grown stronger, hiding had given way to display of their heritage.

They rounded the final bend in the road, and Volaar Draal was revealed.

Geth’s wide animal eyes opened even wider. Tenquis reined in his horse so sharply, it almost reared up. Even Chetiin’s eyebrows rose and he signaled Marrow to pause for a moment. Ekhaas’s chest felt tight as pride rose up in her. “Volaar Draal,” she said. “In the human tongue, the ‘City of the Word’. Called Niianu Raat, Mother of Stories, among its children and Skai Duur, the Great Dirge, among those who have tried to seize it.”

Beyond its final bend, the road entered a steep-sided valley cradled in the arms of the mountains. Ancient stories told how, when the Kech Volaar had first come, the valley had risen to a sheer wall of naked rock, and a cleft in the wall had been the only opening into the refuge of the Word Bearers. But that cleft had become a great gate and the wall of rock transformed, carved away as if Volaar Draal had waited within the mountain since the birth of the world for the hands that would reveal it.

Four mighty spires stood above the valley like the blades of massive swords, edges turned to meet whoever or whatever came against them. The bulk of the city lay within the mountain, the precious vaults deep below it, but this was the face that Volaar Draal presented to the world. From slits within the walls, archers could command the area before the spires. Hidden behind sliding panels of stone, powerful ballistae and catapults could sweep the entire valley. Master strategists had a hand in creating the stronghold of the clan, but the lore of Dhakaan had guided the masons who brought it forth from the rock. As harsh and functional as the spires were, there was a cruel majesty in their proportions. Volaar Draal was like a warrior defending himself in battle with a heavy blade-enemies who attacked the City of the Word were promised death beneath its walls.

“Horns of Ohr Kaluun,” said Tenquis. “It’s incredible.” He glanced at Ekhaas. “Daashor constructed this.”

Ekhaas saw a thin smile flicker across Geth’s face. “You must be feeling better,” the shifter said. “You’re talking about daashor again.”

“You think I would come to Volaar Draal and not ask about them?” Tenquis asked. He looked back to Ekhaas. “You promised me tales of the daashor in payment for crafting the false Rod of Kings. While we’re looking for a way to stop Tariic and the rod, I’d be happy to take whatever lore about the daashor that’s stored in the vaults.”

Ekhaas’s ears flicked. The daashor had been the artificers of the Empire of Dhakaan-and more. Wizard-smiths of astounding ability, they had forged wonders that were the stuff of legend even before Dhakaan’s fall. The Sword of Heroes and the Rod of Kings were the creations of just one daashor, the legendary Taruuzh. In many ways, the daashor were the counterparts of the duur’kala. The magical music of the dirge-singers manifested almost entirely in women of the goblin races; the craft of the wizard-smiths in men. Ultimately, music had proved more lasting than craft-the traditions of the duur’kala had survived the Desperate Times, while the lore of the daashor had faded away, scattered in crumbling tomes and ancient carvings that the dirge-singers could not access. Some knowledge persisted, handed down among masons and smiths, but such magic was less than the shadow of what the daashor had practiced.

Until he had agreed to help them, Tenquis’s life had been devoted to the rediscovery of the lost lore. Who knew? Perhaps a modern artificer, even one who was not a dar, could find more meaning in the ancient writings than a duur’kala could. But… “The vaults are vast, Tenquis. The Kech Volaar have been collecting the lore and artifacts of Dhakaan for thousands of years. The archivists who tend the vaults maintain a list-the Register-of everything placed in them, but even it’s massive.”

“Even better.”

Ekhaas sighed and urged her horse back into a walk up the road toward the great gates. “Just don’t do anything stupid. The vaults contain the treasures of my clan, and the Kech Volaar don’t like trespassers.”

Three ranks of guards stood before the gates, all dressed in armor that had not changed since the days of Dhakaan. Linked plates provided strength and mobility. Spikes at strategic points provided weapons even if a warrior should be unarmed. Flared helmets protected vulnerable necks while still allowing openings for large and expressive ears. A Dhakaani legion on the attack would have looked like a wave of steel. As the travelers approached, the guards moved in response to some unseen signal, their ranks splitting to open the way into Volaar Draal.

One of the guards, a red insignia of rank on his helmet, stepped forward and thumped his chest in salute. “Ekhaas duur’kala,” he said in Goblin, “you are expected. Tuura Dhakaan summons you. An escort comes for you and your… companions.”

It was impossible to miss the dip in his ears or the way his eyes flicked over Geth and Tenquis as he said it. Ekhaas knew exactly what he was thinking: chaat’oor. It was the Goblin word for humans and the races descended from them, like shifters and tieflings, that had come to Khorvaire after the fall of Dhakaan. Loosely translated, it meant “outsider.” More specifically, it meant “defiler.” Ekhaas’s own ears went back. “Treat them with respect, lhurusk. Their names will be sung alongside the heroes of the dar.”

“Then you move in honored circles,” said a familiar voice from the shadows of the gate. “Walking with heroes and summoned by the leader of our clan. Perhaps a humble lorekeeper isn’t enough of an escort for you,” A hobgoblin woman dressed in a black wool robe and a red leather girdle tooled with angular designs walked out between the parted ranks of the gate guards. “Saa, Ekhaas.”

Ekhaas felt her face flush hot. “Kitaas,” she said. She bit the name off, hating the sound of it. “You’re our escort?”

Kitaas inclined her head, ears twitching. She looked at Chetiin and Geth, ignoring Tenquis. “Chetiin of the Silent Blades, and Geth, wielder of Aram, the Sword of Heroes. I am honored to greet you.”

Chetiin returned her nod. So did Geth, although a little more slowly. Ekhaas saw the stirring of curiosity, then a flash of recognition in his eyes. Kitaas turned to lead them into the gate and as they rode after her, the shifter leaned close to Ekhaas and whispered in the human language. “I recognize that girdle. In Rhukaan Draal, you used an illusion to disguise me as a woman-you said you had to choose someone familiar.” He nodded toward Kitaas’s back. “She’s your sister!”

“In the way that a dagger is sister to a sword,” she told him.

Inside the gate, goblin stablehands came to take their mounts. One approached Marrow, but the worg snapped at him. Chetiin slid to the ground and she ran back out the gate, drawing yelps of surprise from the guards as she slipped among them.

“She will remain outside to find her own shelter and prey,” Chetiin said to Ekhaas.

“As she wishes,” said the archivist.

The others dismounted as well and unloaded their meager gear. Tenquis looked at Kitaas with interest. “You’re one of the keepers of the vaults of Volaar Draal?” he asked.

Kitaas glanced at him with the same disdain the gate guards had. “I understood that tieflings had tails.”

Tenquis’s face went hard, and he self-consciously twitched the back of his long vest to cover the mutilated stump. Ekhaas bared her teeth and snapped back at her sister before he could. “Don’t antagonize my friends, Kitaas.”

“Ban,” said Kitaas. She gave Tenquis a haughty look. “I am adjunct to Diiteshm the High Archivist of Kech Volaar.”

“It means that she may call herself a ‘humble lorekeeper,’ but she isn’t,” Ekhaas said. She met Kitaas’s glare with one of her own. “You recognized Geth and Chetiin.”

“Senen Dhakaan makes regular reports. We are not isolated from events in Rhukaan Draal.” Kitaas folded her hands across her girdle, but her ears stirred languidly, and the ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Those events are what Tuura Dhakaan wishes to speak to you about.”

Beyond the inner gate stretched the echoing length of the Great Passage, the final approach to the City of the Word. Kitaas didn’t slow her stride for the weary travelers. Soon she was a dozen paces ahead of them. Geth moved closer to Ekhaas. “What’s between you and Kitaas?” he asked quietly.

Ekhaas kept her eyes on her sister’s back. “That’s not your concern.”

“You don’t think it might be? She’s the assistant-”

“Adjunct,” Ekhaas snarled.

“I don’t even know what that means. Is this High Archivist she works for in charge of the vaults? Maybe we want to stay on her good side.”

“It’s years too late for that,” she said curtly.

Geth took the hint and fell back a pace to let her walk in silence. Distant sounds flowed through the shadows-the clash of weapons and the stamp of boots as warriors trained, the haunting song of a far-off duur’kala, the rhythmic ringing of hammers against anvils-and again Ekhaas felt a pang that Dagii wasn’t with them. She would have liked to introduce him to the sounds of Volaar Draal. And to the sight of the city, gleaming in the darkness as they emerged from the Great Passage.

But Geth, Tenquis, and Chetiin paused in awe, and at least that was something.

Close-packed ranks of homes, halls, and workshops filled the floor and crept up the walls of the vast cavern where early Kech Volaar had once sought refuge. From windows and posts, sparks of dim white-green ghostlight glimmered. Against the shadows of the cavern, the lights resembled the dense brilliance of the Ring of Siberys in the night sky. Monuments rose in silhouette, and the sounds of life filled the still air. Ekhaas felt a rush of pride in the hidden beauty and grandeur of Volaar Draal.

Kitaas didn’t even slow down. While not quite so chaotic as the streets of Rhukaan Draal, the way through the Home Cavern was twisting, narrow, and filled with dar going about their business. Ekhaas gestured for the others to keep up and hurried after Kitaas, who said nothing to her and just kept walking. Ekhaas couldn’t help noticing that the way opened up before her sister.

“Do they respect you or the robe of an archivist?” she asked boldly. Kitaas didn’t answer, but her ears went back a little. For a moment, the satisfaction of a well-struck blow warmed Ekhaas-then Geth nudged her.

“We’re attracting attention,” he muttered.

Ekhaas glanced over her shoulder. Where they had passed, ugly expressions and flattened ears followed as Kech Volaar stared after Geth and Tenquis. Kitaas, she realized, had deliberately taken them along one of the city’s busiest streets. “Ignore them,” she said. She thought she heard a satisfied chuckle from Kitaas.

“Is this going to make it difficult to keep our being here secret from Tariic?” asked Geth.

“Most Kech Volaar never leave sight of Volaar Draal,” said Ekhaas. “Those who do don’t talk much about clan matters. We’re safe.”

“What about them?” asked Chetiin. He pointed ahead with a slight, concealed gesture. Ekhaas looked.

The blocky shape of the Shrine of Glories, the seat of the Kech Volaar’s leadership, rose before them. Clustered at the foot of the stairs that swept up to the entrance was a group of six armored hobgoblins. An outsider less knowledgeable than Chetiin might have mistaken them for Kech Volaar, but Ekhaas saw instantly that they weren’t. The armor they wore was even heavier and more archaic than that of the guards at the city gate-and here in the heart of the city, they were the only hobgoblins wearing armor at all. The emblem of a sword was displayed on their helmets, and Ekhaas knew that if they got close enough, she’d see the emblem repeated in brands on their cheeks.

Kech Shaarat.

Ekhaas grabbed Kitaas and shoved her into the cover of an alley. Her sister let out a curse, but Ekhaas put a hand over her mouth. “What are the Blade Bearers doing here?”

Kitaas pushed her hand away. “They come under compact of peace to speak with Tuura Dhakaan. It’s no business of yours.”

“We can’t let them see us.” It was possible that the warriors of the rival clan wouldn’t recognize the significance of Geth’s presence in Volaar Draal, but they were far more likely to tell stories of what they’d seen to someone who might. “We’ll go in the slaves’ door.”

Kitaas’s ears went back at the suggestion. “You go too-”

A flash of anger broke over Ekhaas. Seizing her sister’s wrist, she twisted her around with an arm behind her back, and Kitaas’s words broke off in a soft cry. Ekhaas pushed her bent arm higher. “The slaves’ door,” she ordered and pushed Kitaas deeper into the alley.

Kitaas hissed but marched on.

The slaves’ door of the Shrine of Glories was far less grand than the front entrance, but there was no one here to see them except for a startled old bugbear who bent low as they passed. Once they were inside, Ekhaas released Kitaas. “Where’s Tuura?”

“The Hall of Song.”

Ekhaas flicked her ears. “We’ll have cover at least.” Geth glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “It was designed after the audience chamber of the Dhakaani emperor,” Ekhaas added. “There are pillars everywhere.”

Pillars, she realized when they reached the hall, that reminded her uncomfortably of the woods where Tariic’s men had ambushed them. Like trees, the thick columns of stone gave them cover but also blocked their line of sight. Functionaries and petitioners lurked in the shadows like thieves. Ekhaas wished they still had Marrow with them.

She heard the flowing water of Tuura Dhakaan’s voice before she saw her. “The truth of the matter is that Ruus Dhakaan wishes to exploit the connections that the Kech Volaar have made with the leaders of Darguun.”

Ekhaas’s ears flicked upright. She saw Chetiin’s big ears twitch as well and knew he’d recognized the name too. Ruus Dhakaan, leader of the Kech Shaarat. Ekhaas caught Kitaas’s arm. The archivist scowled but held her position.

The voice that answered Tuura was also a woman’s though not so musical-the speaker had not undergone training as a duur’kala. “The Kech Volaar’s connections were with Haruuc Shaarat’kor. You have no connection with Tariic Kurar’taarn yet. In fact, we have heard that you delayed negotiations of your alliance with Darguun.”

Tuura sounded irritated as she answered, “A matter of tradition and prudence, Riila Dhakaan, not a sign of weakness. We respected the period of mourning for Haruuc, and while there was still competition among his potential heirs, approaching one of them would have been foolish. Even now, Tariic may hold the throne of Darguun, but he has yet to prove himself.”

“Prove himself? Does such a thing matter?” A man’s voice this time. Ekhaas’s ears rose higher. She leaned forward and saw the speaker between the pillars. He was big, even for a hobgoblin. The steel breastplate of his armor had been hammered into the visage of a snarling demon, and the hilt of a massive sword projected over his shoulders. His features-long ears, flat nose, square chin, and angular cheeks beneath branded swords-had a sharpness that spoke of an ancient and closely bred bloodline.

The woman, Riila, who stood just slightly ahead of him, also carried the sword brand of the Kech Shaarat on her forehead. Her features were so similar to the warrior’s that they might have been brother and sister. She didn’t wear heavy plate armor, but instead a suit of light scale mail beneath the blue-edged mantle of a diplomat traveling under a compact of peace. Though her ears flicked in anger at her companion’s outburst, she recovered quickly.

“Through his choice of a general, Tariic won a victory over the elves of the Valaes Tairn, ancient enemies of Dhakaan. If that does not prove his ability, at least it shows he has potential. Through cunning, he also survived an attempted assassination.” Riila’s ears flicked again. “An assassination we are told one of the Kech Volaar was involved in.”

Ekhaas would have shrunk back into the shadows, but Geth put a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. A figure previously hidden by a pillar leaned forward in a raised chair, and Ekhaas caught a glimpse of Tuura Dhakaan. The leader of the Kech Volaar carried more lines in her face than the two envoys combined. Her eyes, however, were as keen as a hunting bird’s, and her words were just as sharp. “The actions of one are not the actions of the clan. If they were, the Kech Shaarat would not be here. We meet under ancient oaths of honor. I’d advise you not to break them.”

While her warrior companion fumed in silence at the rebuke, Riila bent her head. “As you say, Tuura Dhakaan. Still, this is not the time for the Dhakaani clans to stand alone or apart. Tariic respects the past, perhaps even more than Haruuc did. He wields Guulen, the Rod of Kings, with confidence. Ruus Dhakaan believes that the Kech Shaarat and the Kech Volaar together-our strength and numbers combined with your lore-could help Tariic bring about a new era of empire.”

“Riila Dhakaan and Taak Dhakaan speak the truth,” added a dusty voice, and Ekhaas saw the movement of a black wool robe behind Tuura. She recognized the voice-Diitesh, the High Archivist whom Kitaas served. “An alliance with Haruuc offered us the chance to spread the lore and tales of Dhakaan across Darguun. Joining with Tariic and the Kech Shaarat could see the glory of Dhakaan spread across-”

“I have matched wits with Ruus many times,” said Tuura, cutting off the archivist. “I didn’t realize he had become such an optimist.” She looked down on Riila. “Ruus Dhakaan guides your clan with aggression. He has conquered two lesser clans by force. He knows he can’t take the Kech Volaar by the same means, so he pursues a strategy of friendship. Perhaps he will attempt the same with the lhesh of Darguun. My answer is no. The Kech Volaar will not ally with the Kech Shaarat in this-or any other-matter. If Ruus truly wishes to find favor with Tariic, let him do it himself.”

The warrior of the Kech Shaarat, Taak, twisted his face and started to speak, but Riila silenced him with a gesture. She gave Tuura a cold look. “You put your clan in the path of the Kech Shaarat.”

“The path of the Kech Shaarat is not so wide as Ruus thinks it is.” Tuura sat back and disappeared from Ekhaas’s sight. “You may go.”

Riila inclined her head, though there was nothing of deference in her bearing. Without another word, she turned and walked away. Taak didn’t even bend his neck to the leader of the Kech Volaar but whirled and stalked after Riila.

“That was ill-considered, chib,” said Diitesh, almost too softly for Ekhaas to hear. “We might have turned this to our advantage.”

“Whose advantage, Diitesh?” Tuura asked. “When Ruus Dhakaan pours wine, I check for poison. You might want to remember that.” She raised her voice. “I know you’ve returned, Kitaas. Bring them forward.”

There was no hiding from an elder of the duur’kala in her own court. Ekhaas straightened and started forward, but Kitaas pulled her back and went ahead of her, bending her head low. “Diitesh Dhakaan, Tuura Dhakaan, I obey your commands. Here are the travelers recently arrived at the gates of Volaar Draal.”

Ekhaas ground her teeth at her sister’s manner, then moved forward with Geth, Chetiin, and Tenquis at her back. Tuura’s face was impassive as they approached. Behind her, though, Diitesh gaped in open shock at the sight of outsiders brought into the heart of Volaar Draal. The High Archivist had a pale complexion, yellow like the dust of Rhukaan Draal, and the flush that rose in her face turned it the color of mud. She glanced at Kitaas as she took a place beside her, then leaned close to Tuura again. The leader of the Kech Volaar silenced her with a flick of her fingers.

Ekhaas bent her head in a deep nod before meeting Tuura’s gaze. “Mother of the dirge, I claim sanctuary-” she began.

“Do not speak, Ekhaas.” Tuura looked down at her with eyes that were suddenly filled with anger. Shock shivered through Ekhaas, and she closed her mouth sharply. Tuura ignored her discomfort. “You heard my conversation with the emissaries of the Kech Shaarat. I do not like being placed in a position to defend attempts by members of this clan to assassinate potential allies. Do you understand that?”

Ekhaas nodded again. Tuura sat forward, and her voice dropped into a whisper more terrible than any shout. “Then why did you do it? And why by the blood of the Six Kings did you bring your fellow assassins to Volaar Draal?”

Diitesh made a noise like a boiling kettle. “Sanctuary!” she spat. “For chaat’oor!”

“Diitesh!” said Tuura. The High Archivist fell silent. Tuura looked back to Ekhaas and the others. “Just by coming here you put the Kech Volaar in danger.”

Anger at the accusation rose inside Ekhaas, pushing aside shock and dismay. She raised her head to look Tuura in the eye. “Tariic thinks we’ve run for Breland. Kech Volaar would be in greater danger if we hadn’t come. Mother of the dirge, we carry a warning for you.” Ekhaas stood straight. “Tariic cannot be trusted. Make an alliance with him and the Kech Volaar will be dragged down along with Darguun under Tariic’s rulership.”

This time Diitesh snorted and leaned forward to hiss in Tuura’s ear. “Tuura, this is nonsense! They’re trying to turn us against an ally who could restore the empire!”

But Tuura’s eyes were on Ekhaas. Her ears, which had been folded back flat against her scalp, rose slowly. “Where does this warning come from?”

“From our own experience-and from Senen Dhakaan. She aided our escape.”

“You dragged her into this?” Diitesh said harshly. “Where is your honor, daughter of the dirge?”

“It was Senen’s suggestion that we come here,” Ekhaas snapped.

“Then why didn’t she send the warning in one of her reports?” Kitaas leaped into the argument like Diitesh’s echo. “She has used her magic to sing reports to us of your disgrace. Why didn’t she warn us directly?”

“Maybe because she believed that a warning from our mouths would carry more weight than one sent by magic.”

Diitesh bared her teeth. “And she said nothing in her reports because she believed the word of traitors would be respected above the word of a trusted emissary?”

“She said nothing,” Tuura said with unexpected calm, “because she knew that she was being watched.”

Ekhaas’s gaze darted back to her, a retort to Diitesh’s argument fading on her lips. Tuura sat back in her chair. “Senen’s reports of late have been unusually circumspect,” she said, “but she is adept at hiding brief messages within them. One message said that she was being watched and could not report all that she wanted to.” Tuura rested her chin on her hand and looked again at Ekhaas. “Another said that I would receive advice and would be wise to accept it.”

Ekhaas felt a burst of elation, but she bent her head humbly. “I urge you to heed her words.”

“And perhaps,” Tuura added, “you can shed light on another of Senen’s hidden messages. Is there a reason she would feel it was important to tell me that Tariic holds the younger daughter of Deneith?”

Ekhaas stiffened. The younger daughter of Deneith? Ashi. Ashi was Tariic’s prisoner. But if she was his prisoner, that meant At her side, Geth drew a sharp breath. “Grandmother Wolf, Ashi’s alive!”

The elation she’d felt before turned into radiant joy. Ekhaas fought to stay calm as she raised her head. “I think that message was meant more for us than you, Tuura Dhakaan. Thank you for it.”

She watched Tuura consider each of them, even Tenquis. Then the leader of the Kech Volaar turned back to her.

“If Tariic doesn’t suspect that you are here,” she said, “I see no harm in granting sanctuary to you and your allies, so long as they respect the customs of the Kech Volaar.”

“Tuura!” Diitesh’s voice rose sharply. “They are chaat’oor. They have no place in-”

“Remember your place, Diitesh!” Tuura stood up and turned to face the High Archivist. She was nearly a handspan taller than the other woman and in her anger looked even taller. “Your muut is to the archives. My muut is to the clan. If there is a danger to Volaar Draal, it must be examined. I know Senen. She would not do this lightly. You may return to the archives, Diitesh.” Tuura looked to Ekhaas. “We will find a place we cannot easily be overheard, and I will hear your whole story, Ekhaas duur’kala.”

But Ekhaas’s joy was already turning to a sickening knot in her belly as Diitesh and Kitaas glared at her over Tuura’s shoulder. Geth had suggested that they try to stay on Kitaas’s good side-but it was too late for that with both the High Archivist and her adjunct angry with them, and that wasn’t going to make her next request any easier.

She swallowed her pride. “Actually, Tuura Dhakaan,” she said, “there is something else…”

As she made her request, the knot in her stomach grew tighter, Tuura’s expression grew harder-and the smile that grew across Diitesh’s pale face became gloating.