The Tyranny of Ghosts_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [16]
Except it wasn’t Oraan, of course. Ashi sucked in her breath. “Aruget?”
The changeling flicked hobgoblin ears. “You’re not alone, Ashi.”
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