and admire and adore this new, mysterious leader. "Takhisis commands the armies of Istar. Now I know. "And now she knows, too."
* * * * *
The corridors of the tower were drafty and dank as the druid made his way back to his quarters. The hour was still early, his priestly brothers either at prayers or the festival … or adoring the general, breathless and rapt like vermin mesmerized before a sewer snake.
There was still time to warn the rebels, if Fordus returned to the kanaji.
Vaananen knew that the days to come would be dangerous for all of them. Now he would have to lock his doors, board his windows against the sud shy;denly hostile night. The goddess had recognized him-he was almost sure of it. And since that was true, his life was forfeit.
A faint light wavered and approached from a side corridor. Not even an hour, and. it has already begun, Vaananen thought, wrestling down a rising fear. He stepped into a dark threshold, pressed himself against the polished wood of the door . . . and watched as a sleepy acolyte passed, bearing a torch to the last prayers of the night.
Vaananen moved out from the darkness, laughed softly and sadly. It would not do. He would not hide and hole away in the temple, waiting for Takhisis to strike. He would not lie trembling in bed, awaiting a footfall outside his locked doors.
And yet, despite his brave thoughts, Vaananen sighed in relief when his own door was behind him, when it was locked and double-locked against the night and his own fearful imaginings. At once the druid moved to the rena garden, to see if the four glyphs he had drawn that morning lay untouched in the shadowy sand.
Yes, they were still there. Fordus had not received them.
Vaananen sat on the black stone. It was time for a fifth symbol. The druids had taught him that a pow shy;erful magic lay in the crafting of this extraordinary glyph-a magic to be used only when circumstances were dire. The message of the fifth symbol was always loud: sometimes a warning of famine or sud shy;den flood, often, during the Age of Dreams, a token that a dragon approached. It was distinct from the other glyphs, for it beckoned with an impulse as strong as hunger or weariness.
Now the message would call out to Fordus from the landscape itself-from the rocks in the foothills to the mud along Lake Istar, wherever his army marched. The fifth rune would summon him back to the desert, to the kanaji.
Carefully, shaking ever so slightly, Vaananen drew the glyph beneath the other four. It was an ancient symbol, used last, the druid believed, in the time of Huma-in the Third Dragon War that had driven the goddess from the face of Krynn.
The markings were twofold, overlapping. The image of a woman upon that of a man.
Beware Takhisis! the glyph read. Beware the dark man!
Tamex greeted the last of the clergy, two balding old men who bowed and scraped before him as though he were the Kingpriest himself. They babbled their amenities, their little phrases of flattery and adoration, never noticing that the new commander's amber eyes had strayed from them.
Quick, ruthless, and efficient, she had come to Istar for business. Crawling through the city as a snake had been a pleasing reconnaissance. No one noticed another serpent in Istar, anyway. And there had been no one to bar entry to the arena, no one to disturb her next transformation.
Out of the sands she had assembled Tamex, and it had been easy for this embodiment, this creature of crystal and lies, to win over the Kingpriest and his company-indeed, to win over all of them.
All of them, that is, except that druid.
Oh, yes. She had seen the druid for the first time in a vision, exultant at Fordus's victory, raising his bared arms. It had to be him. She had seen the red oak leaf tattooed on the inside of his left arm.
That information alone, in the proper hands, would be enough to silence him.
Yet, at times the court of Istar moved with exasper shy;ating slowness. Misdemeanors could take years to try and judge, and a capital crime such as this-high trea shy;son against the empire-could take so long the druid might die of old age before he was sentenced.
No, his silencing would come by older, more tra shy;ditional means.
Tamex moved through the dispersing crowd, tak shy;ing care not to brush against priest or acolyte. The cold, stony feel of the adopted body would surely arouse suspicion. Moving the heavy limbs without overmuch noise or breakage was difficult enough.
Watch your windows, druid, the crystals in Tamex's blood whined and whispered. Watch your doors, and watch your back in the corridors.
And, oh, yes, count the sunrises and the sunsets, and bless each one of them. For you, there are few remaining.
Chapter 17
A third day had passed, and a fourth, while the glyphs lay unchanged in the rena garden. Always before, they had vanished on their own, a sign that their message had been received by the rebels.
But now Fordus was far afield, and Vaananen's concern deepened with the passing hours. Had the fifth sign not called him back? Perhaps the Prophet refused to return to the kanaji, to the intelligence that might save him and his small army.
Vaananen's own time had run out. He knew Takhi-sis was coming for him. It was only a matter of when and how.
As he sat on the red stone in the rena garden, Vaananen composed his last message. He picked gingerly at a black silken hair caught on the.inch-long needles of the large barrel cactus near his foot. The strand caught on a ripple of his breath and settled back upon the spines, this time well entan shy;gled. Vaananen stared abstractedly at it for a moment, and then caught a tiny, odd vibration from the life-current in the plant. He noticed the cactus had also swelled somewhat over the last few hours, as if there had been a sudden rain the afternoon before.
"Just like the new commander's power," he mut shy;tered. "Swelled full-blown overnight."
The priests of Istar had reveled as the new com shy;mander assumed the reins of the army. The scattered Twelfth and Ninth Legions recombined within a day and were renamed the Fifteenth, joining the First, Second, Fourth and Eighth in the defense of the city.
With the current size of the city's garrison, three legions could at any time march out the gates and still leave a sizeable guard at home. The town now knew that the fabled Sixth had arrived-the hexa shy;gons drawn in charcoal on the stone walls of alleys, scratched on doors and hung on tattered banners from the windows of abandoned houses, bore omi shy;nous witness that at last the legion was showing itself.
Soon they would all join together. Tamex would have his army, and the goddess within him would have her foothold in the world.
Vaananen shifted on the red stone. "But it isn't over yet," he said firmly, quietly.
Outside the window, almost in mockery, the dis shy;tant sounds of the shabby festival reached him from the Marketplace, and the druid stood, stepped away from the garden, and walked to the lectern, where he scrawled a hasty note on a scrap of parchment. He stepped into the corridor, handed the note to a passing linkboy, and ordered the child to the library.
"I want this book from the dark young man, the silent one," he whispered, and the linkboy hurried off.
Of course, it was no book Vaananen awaited.
Vincus arrived minutes later, his hands ink stained and sandy from Balandar's copying tasks. He found Vaananen somber and crouched above the rena gar shy;den as usual, but this time circled by lanterns as though he awaited a deeper darkness, as though all of that light was meant to ward him from something deadly and close.
Instantly, Vincus knew that this time was differ shy;ent. This time was special.
Vaananen beckoned him, and cautiously Vincus approached. He knew there was a magic in this gar shy;den, but it was quiet and meditative magic-far from the fire and thunder of the festival illusionists.
And yet, best be alert.
Solemnly, the druid showed him four symbols drawn in the sand. "You're a copyist, Vincus," he whispered, "and a good one, I hear. How is your memory?"
Vincus stared at the symbols in puzzlement. His memory was sharp and searching. Though he had seen them just once, he could have told of each booth in the Marketplace, the merchant's name and his wares, his home country and the color of the pennants on his tents.
No, there were no clouds in Vincus's recollection.
But the druid was asking for more than memory. And what he was asking for …
Well, Vincus was not sure.
So he shrugged, his right hand flickering with three tentative signs.
I remember as well as some, he told the druid.