“This is Alturk,” she told Vaelin. “Tahlessa of the Mahlessa Sentar.”
“We’ve met,” Vaelin said, nodding at the big man. “Your son is well?”
Alturk’s face spasmed with anger and Vaelin resisted the urge to reach for his sword as Kiral tensed beside him.
“My son was varnish,” Alturk said in harsh Realm Tongue. “A worthless life well ended.”
Vaelin wondered if he should voice some word of sympathy but guessed it would only be taken as further insult. “The Mahlessa has granted us passage,” he said. “What is your purpose here?”
Alturk gritted his teeth, speaking in slow controlled tones as if worried his anger might choke him. “The Mahlessa commands one hundred of the Sentar follow you. The finest blood of the Lonakhim, to be spilled at your word.”
“You know our course? We travel across the ice to the lands of our enemy. The dangers are many.”
“Word from the Mountain is not questioned.” Alturk tugged on his reins, turning the pony. “Follow our track, do not stray from it. There are few here who welcome your coming and I give no promise of safety.”
? ? ?
They covered thirty miles by nightfall, the Sentar setting a punishing pace through myriad canyons and valleys. Vaelin noted they rode with weapons ready, many holding bows with arrows notched, eyes constantly scanning the surrounding hilltops. His eyes also picked out a few riderless ponies among them and noted some warriors sported recently bound wounds.
“The Mahlessa asks much of our people in allowing your passage,” Kiral explained, following his gaze. “The False Mahlessa may have fallen but her words still linger in many ears.”
“But you are . . . were the False Mahlessa,” Vaelin said. “Won’t your presence among us discourage them?”
Kiral smiled sadly. “When the Mahlessa freed me I went forth from the Mountain with my sisters, telling my story at the fires of every clan. It’s a story welcome at any fire, being so rich in incident. Most believed it, some didn’t, thinking me somehow turned from my true course by the Mahlessa. The thing that held me had a way with words, an ability to plant the seeds of doubt in the hearts of those already versed in malice and cruelty. It’s easier to hate when given a reason, and she had many.”
They encamped amidst the crags of a low plateau some hours later, Alturk posting a heavy guard on all approaches. Most of the Sentar seemed content to stay away from the Merim Her but not all were so wary, one stocky woman approaching to peer at Dahrena as she unsaddled her horse, speaking in rapid Lonak.
“I don’t know your language,” Dahrena said, clearly discomforted by the scrutiny.
“She asks if you belong to the Arrow Glass Clan,” Kiral explained. “Your face reminds her of a cousin she lost years ago.”
Dahrena offered the stern-faced Lonak woman a cautious frown. “Lost how?”
“A raid,” Kiral related. “An entire village was wiped out, her cousin died along with her sisters and their children. They thought it the Seordah but the tracks were wrong, and the Seordah never kill children.”
Dahrena’s expression became more intent and she laid down her saddle, stepping closer to the Lonak woman. “Did her cousin have a name?”
“Mileka,” Kiral translated. “It means Owl.” She paused as the Lonak woman spoke on. “She asks if you have a story for the fire.”
“Yes.” Dahrena gave a reluctant nod. “I have a story.”
The Lonak woman brought a dozen or so more Sentar to hear the story, squatting around the fire as Kiral translated Dahrena’s tale. The presence of Wise Bear and Iron Claw was an obvious source of discomfort but apparently not sufficient to assuage the desire for a new tale. They sat, clearly fascinated as she related her dim memory of the destruction of her village. Some became agitated when she mentioned the wolf that had borne her through the forest, but they all stayed until she finished, relating how Lord Al Myrna had found her and made her his daughter, nodding and grunting in appreciation as she fell silent.
“They liked it,” Kiral said, a note of relief in her voice. “A good story means much to my people.” She tensed somewhat as Alturk stepped from the shadow of a nearby crag, arms crossed and gaze fixed on Dahrena.
“You lived as Merim Her,” he said. “But your arms are adorned with Seordah trinkets.”
“I am both Merim Her and Seordah,” she replied evenly. “In soul if not in blood.”
Alturk grunted something that might have been a laugh. “Lonak blood doesn’t weaken so easily. You may feel it swell again before this tale is done.” He growled something at the onlooking Sentar and they quickly scrambled to their feet before disappearing into the shadows. “Be sure to wake before dawn,” he told Vaelin, stalking back into the night.