He smiled reluctantly. “I have a friend, a woman who is a sorceress in Alois, near Lake Tirragen in the hill country. For three nights I have dreamed she was in peril, cut off from me by fire.” He shook his head. “We grew up together, before she discovered her Gift. She could not stay. There was no Woman Who Rides Like a Man to say she could be a shaman. But she returns here often.”
Is she the reason that Halef Seif never married? Alanna wondered.
“I would go to her myself, but my duties do not permit such freedom—”
Alanna put her hand on his arm. “I’ll go. Don’t worry about your friend. If she’s in trouble, I’ll do everything I can to help.”
For a moment he covered her hand with his, the lines of concern smoothing out of his face. “Thank you, Alanna.”
Alois was five days’ ride to the north through hill country. Coram and Alanna donned leather and mail for the trip instead of burnooses; Alanna made sure her uncovered lioness shield was prominently displayed. Dressed as Bazhir, they might have encountered trouble. Dressed as Tortallan soldiers, they did not glimpse another soul.
During the ride Faithful stuck close to Alanna, never straying. The knight knew her pet was worried. “What’s going to happen that you aren’t telling me?” she finally demanded when they passed the marker indicating the village was near.
I don’t know, Faithful admitted. I just have a bad feeling. He settled down in his cup, the tip of his tail switching anxiously.
It was a beautiful day for January. The breezes were warm, and the snow had melted from the ground. Alanna expected children to be playing outside the huts that grew thicker as they approached the village, but no one was in sight. If people watched from inside their homes, there was no sign. A noise disturbed her, and she jerked around in her saddle. Coram was taking the canvas wrapping from his round leather shield, his dark face grim.
“I don’t like what I’m feelin’ here,” he admitted. “Do ye?”
Alanna grimaced and undid the fastenings that held her shield over Moonlight’s haunches. Settling the lioness rampant on her left arm, she drew the crystal sword with her right. It doesn’t even hum at me anymore. Then she heard people shouting in anger and fear. It was impossible to make out the words, but the voices came from the village’s center, behind the first wall of huts.
They trotted forward, scanning watchfully now as they made for the source of the cries. No one ran out to greet them; the huts of the village proper were as deserted as those outside.
There was a mob in the wide space that was the heart of the village: a tall, angular man in tattered gray robes stood on a platform that raised him head and shoulders above those around him. Alanna’s senses prickled with uncomfortable recognition before she and Coram stopped beneath the eaves of a large cottage. They examined the area for armed men (other than the villagers, who waved sticks and farming tools), waiting to see what the fuss was about.
“Yahzed will have your souls,” howled the man on the platform. His wide eyes gleamed with fanatic joy. Behind him a tall post thrust against the sky; the sight of it made Alanna sweat. Where had she seen this picture before? “Yahzed is angry; he is ferocious! Obey his command! Cleanse yourself of the ancient evil or Yahzed comes with plague and famine to cleanse you! Obey the servant of Yahzed! Only then will you escape the wrath of the God of Stones!”
A knot of men, struggling with something, encircled the tall post. Alanna remembered: twice she had seen this place, and the madman exhorting the people. Only in her second vision, the one given to her when Ishak had destroyed himself, she had seen a woman burning at the post.
A knot of villagers struggled with something as Coram whispered, “This Yahzed is one of the Scanra gods, I think. A nasty fellow. Dead set against witchcraft, or any magic—”
Alanna frowned. Why had the Goddess sent her this particular vision? What meaning could it have?
Her nostrils caught the scent of burning wood, and someone screamed in agony.
“Now you do Yahzed’s work!” the priest screamed. “Burn the sorceress! Cleanse this village of her taint!” The people roared their satisfaction; the woman they were burning screamed again.
Alanna reacted. A year ago she would have hesitated; a year ago she had not been a Bazhir shaman. Bolts of purple fire flamed from her open palm, knocking those they touched to the ground. “No!” she screamed. When they turned to charge, she pointed the crystal sword, opening a chasm at their feet.