The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [276]
“Promise me you won't worry, beshala.”
“I will be waiting” was all she said, and they stayed that way, the three of them together, as dawn turned the sky to gold.
He left that day, taking only one other—a broad-shouldered young man named Fahir—with him. Word had been sent to the fastness of Golgoru, in the Mountains of the Shroud, but there were few T'gol these days, nor was it likely one of them would reach Al-Amún sooner than Sareth. From this place, it was only a half-day's ride to the port city of Kalos, on the southernmost tip of Falengarth, at the point where the Summer Sea was at its narrowest. Sareth hoped to reach the city by nightfall and book passage on a ship the next day.
Before he left, his al-Mama called him into her dragon-shaped wagon and made him draw a card from her T'hot deck. His fingertips tingled as they brushed one of the well-worn cards, and he drew it out. As he turned it over, a hiss escaped her.
“The Void,” she said in a soft rasp.
There was no picture on the card. It was painted solid black.
“What does it mean? Do I have no fate, then?”
“Only a dead man has no fate.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “What of the A'narai, the Fateless Ones who tended the god-king Orú long ago?”
She snatched the card from his hand. “As I said, only a dead man has no fate.”
His al-Mama said no more, but as Sareth left the wagon he glanced over his shoulder. The old woman huddled beneath her blankets, muttering as she turned the card over and over. Whatever it portended, it troubled her. However, he put it out of his mind. Perhaps the dead had no fate, but he was very much alive, and his destiny was to return to Lirith and Taneth as soon as possible.
They reached Kalos that evening as planned and set sail the next morning on the swiftest ship they could find—a small spice trader. Fahir, who had never been at sea before, was violently ill during the entire two-day passage, and even Sareth found himself getting queasy, for the Summer Sea was rough, and the little ship ran up and down the waves rather than through them, as a larger vessel might. The ship's captain remarked that he had never seen such ill winds so early in the year before.
Fortunately, the voyage was soon over, and they disembarked in the port city of Qaradas, on the north coast of the continent of Moringarth, in the land of city-states known collectively as Al-Amún. Sareth had traveled to Al-Amún several times in his youth; it was a custom among the Mournish of the north that young men and women should visit the southern continent, where most of the Morindai yet dwelled. Qaradas was just as he remembered it: a city of white domed buildings and crowded, dusty streets shaded by palm trees.
“I thought the cities of the south were made of gold,” Fahir said, a look of disappointment on his face.
Sareth grinned. “In the light of sunset, the white buildings do look gold. But it is only illusion—as is much in Al-Amún. So beware. And if a beautiful woman in red scarves claims she wishes to marry you, don't follow her! You'll lose your gold as well as your innocence.”
“Of the first I have little enough,” Fahir said with a laugh. “And the second I would be happy to dispense with. This is my first trip to the south, after all.”
They headed to the traders' quarter, and Sareth examined the front door of every inn and hostel until he found what he was looking for.
“We will be welcome here,” he said with a grin. In answer to Fahir's puzzled look, Sareth pointed to a small symbol scratched in the upper corner of the door: a crescent moon inscribed in a triangle. This place was run by Morindai like them.
Inside, Sareth and Fahir were welcomed as family. After they had shared drink and food, the hostel's proprietor suggested a place where camels and supplies for a journey could be bought at a good price, and Sareth went to investigate, leaving Fahir with orders to rest and not even think about