Under Fallen Stars - Mel Odom [130]
"I've got you, my priestess." Straining, the effort pulling horribly on Laaqueel's ligaments and muscles, Iakhovas drew her beside him. He kept her curled protectively in his arms when he returned her to the deck. "Are you well?"
Overly aware of Iakhovas's body next to hers and its effects on hers, Laaqueel said, "Yes. Thank you." She didn't try to push away from him, letting him shelter her in his embrace.
Iakhovas remained standing, facing the wild current and staring into the heart of the liquid fire tunnel they followed. "We're traveling through the lines of volcanic fault. It was the fastest and truest way to gate into Seros. When we reach the end of this tunnel, well be in the Alamber Sea."
Glancing over his shoulder, Laaqueel saw the line of fliers speeding after them. The sahuagin aboard them were shielding their eyes from the bright magma swirling around them.
"Will this gate remain open long enough for all of them to get through?" she asked. She'd never before heard of the mode of travel they were using now.
"Probably."
Laaqueel thought of what it would be like to be suddenly boiled alive when the lava closed in.
'If that should happen," Iakhovas told her, "be assured that it will be over before they know it. There are some risks that we must take, and some losses that we must endure."
'To become stronger," Laaqueel said, "as Sekolah has so designed."
"Yes."
Looking ahead again, Laaqueel kept herself strong in her faith, not thinking about the potential for failure, but for the promise of success. At the other end of the tunnel, made bright by the whirling lava walls, she saw the dead end. A roiling mass of lava and hard rock blocked the way.
"Isn't it supposed to be open?" she asked.
"Yes." Iakhovas's tattoos glowed deeper green, looking like they were burning into his flesh. "It will be."
Tarjana bore down on the blockage and Iakhovas kept his hand steady on the wheel. Laaqueel felt the rush of heat when the ship collided with the end of the gate.
XXVI
1 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet
Pacys the Bard sat in the small sea elf tavern down in the heart of Telvanlu and almost felt at home. The sea elves, he'd found, were a quieter lot than he was used to, but as it turned out they appreciated his music.
The bar was like a lot he'd played in on the surface world and the crowd wasn't that much different, but none of the sounds were the same. Voices echoed through the water much more easily so the listeners had to be more polite, and there was no shuffling sound of feet across a sawdust-covered floor. After having been in the water for so long he was getting accustomed to feeling the currents change around him, and how someone passing nearby could affect them.
He sat, at the owner's invitation, at the end of the bar. The bartender passed out drinks packaged in fish bladders treated so they were clear enough to see the contents. A patron drank from the bladder by squeezing the bottom and opening the seal at the top. It had taken some getting used to when he'd first arrived in Faenasuor, but now the bard drank quite easily. Learning not to lick his lips afterward still took concentration, though.
Telvanlu was the capital of Naramyr, the sea elven lands in the Lake of Dragons in Serds, and was located two hundred feet down and forty miles southwest of Suzail. The city was moderately sized as elven dwellings went, but the architecture was definitely inspired by the sea.
Clamshell-like buildings hugged the silt, deliberately low to avoid the shipping that took place constantly between the coastal cities overhead. The architecture hadn't been all that agreeable to the elves. Some of them wanted taller buildings so they wouldn't have to be spread out. Many of them didn't like the fact that they had to live more or less two-dimensionally as the surface dwellers did. The trade with the surface dwellers was good, so though a lot of complaining was done, none of the buildings went any taller.
One of the things that surprised Pacys most had been the laws