And longer still, if the augurers found no water.

Already miserably fatigued, Larken struck the drum once, twice, and waited for words and music to come to mind. The drumhead mottled and dark shy;ened in her hand, as though it, too, was mourning.

When no song came, Northstar sat down beside Larken, draping his arm consolingly over his cousin's shoulders.

Tamex approached them, smoke curling over the black silk of his robe.

Larken gave the dark stranger a sidelong glance. Though she had nothing for the dead, words that would attend Tamex's deeds and the music that would exalt his glory suddenly flooded her mind.

The bard felt unsettled, troubled by the strange, unbidden music. The melody was simple-a Plains shy;man ballad from her deepest childhood-with the first lines about the dark man and the mystery and the desert night. Still, some part of her refused to give voice to them.

Her drumming was soft and tentative as she hov shy;ered like a hawk between singing and silence.

Then a cry arose from the Plainsmen, and a dozen or so ragged children rushed toward a solitary rider emerging from the Tears of Mishakal.

It took Larken a moment to realize that the rider was Stormlight.

The elf leapt from the saddle and, with a swift and relentless stride, made his way through the group of children and past the smoldering campfires, brush shy;ing by Gormion and Aeleth as though the bandits were mist or high grass. Taking Larken's drum hand firmly and gently in his grasp, he guided her away from the fireside, away from her startled listeners, and when the two of them had passed out of earshot from the rest of the rebels, he spoke to her fervently, whispering through clenched teeth.

"Whatever you do, singer, whatever the magic you wield by drum and song, I command your silence now!"

Command? Larken signed, bristling at the elf's rough words. Take your hand from me, Stormlight!

Her gestures snapped sharp and final in the air between them. Slipping his grasp, the bard stalked off toward the Red Plateau.

Stormlight caught up with her. Overhead, Lucas soared out of the black salt flats.

"I know the power of your song," the elf insisted.

"How it raises up and it casts down …"

"Stop!" Larken shouted, but Stormlight contin shy;ued, never hearing her.

"You were set to sing the glories of Tamex-this new and sudden hero. I could see it. But think of this before you sing. Whose bard have you been through the long months of exile and wandering and rebel shy;lion? And who is it you love?"

I know, Larken admitted, this time signing more evenly. Fordus is still our commander.

"And Tamex," Stormlight added, "is not who he seems to be!"

Larken shot the elf a searching glance. Something deeper than knowing, deeper even than song, told her that Stormlight spoke the truth, and that she knew it too well.

Tell me who he is, Stormlight, she gestured.

Then the hawk screamed above her, and all eyes lifted to the Red Plateau.

Fordus stood on the great height, overlooking the campsite and the ruin it had become.

* * * * *

He had climbed out of the salt flats and made the arduous ascent of the Red Plateau, his swollen foot still throbbing and aflame with the springjaw's poi shy;son. Twice more he had stumbled, his strong fingers scrabbling on the plateau's heights, as the desert reeled below him, a breathtaking distance into a black, crystalline void.

Let it go . . . let it go . . . you are weary, the desert seemed to say. The hard rock and the razored crystal beckoned to him-and for a brief, dizzy moment he listened, leaning out into the silent air, his iron grip slackening.

But he thought he heard a drum, distant and faint in the blurred encampment, and despite his groggi-ness and the deafening pulse of his blood, he had kept his balance.

Now he raised his arms to the heavens and shouted to the sunstruck sky, to the solitary reeling hawk, to the sea of uplifted faces now gathered in the black rubble below.

"I have returned from the desert. From the heart of the desert I have returned."

A dark man-someone new to the camp, and menacing-sneered at him. "Where were you when Istar returned?"

An approving murmur rose from the assembled rebels, loudest among the milling bandits.

Heedless of the noise and growing strife, Larken rushed by Tamex toward the staggering Fordus, humming a quick healing song.

"Your departure was . . . singularly convenient, Water Prophet," Tamex continued, folding his pale arms and glaring at Fordus with cold, reptilian eyes. "I trust that you at least have water to show for such a costly absence?"

Climbing the slow incline to the top of the plateau, Larken sang more loudly, her ragged voice trans shy;formed by concern for the wounded man. The tune was an ancient one, but in her voice it renewed and empowered, gaining depth and strength. Even the battle-wounded, lying on the blankets about the campfires, felt some stirrings of healing.

Suddenly Fordus's fever broke, and as the sweat rushed over his body, the glyphs returned to his shocked and dazzled memory.

"I have brought you this," he shouted, pointing at the pooling liquid on his skin, "as a foretaste of the water we shall find elsewhere. For the glyphs are the sign of the Tine, the Third Day of Solinari, and No Wind."

Though exhausted and bleary, he knew to keep the sign of the Springjaw from them-the ominous glyph that foretold danger-at least for now.

And he hid the other glyphs, too-the Tower and Chair. The signs that Fordus Firesoul was the King-priest of Istar.

He hid much and said little, but Stormlight lis shy;tened intently to what he said. Suddenly, as it always did, the interpretation came to him.

"At the Tine!" he shouted. "Water three feet, four feet under! Hail the Water Prophet!"

"Who brings us the water!" Northstar chimed exultantly. He spun about, looking for Tamex.

But Tamex was nowhere to be found. On the bit of ' rock where he had stood only moments before, between Gormion and Rann, a dark dust wavered and dispelled.

For a moment Northstar wondered again who this man was. From where had he come? To where had he vanished? The question unresolved, the young guide stepped into the shadowy vacancy and lifted his eyes loyally to the rebel commander, who stag shy;gered a little in the full sunlight.

Larken began a second song of healing, of recon shy;ciliation and celebration-the song just as powerful, designed to drive away the darkness that had brushed against her people, that had dwelt among them for a while.

This healing song was as ancient as Krynn itself- so ancient that, according to the legend, the larken-vales themselves had taught the words to the first elven bards. And again in this late and fallen time, the old words worked. Tough, wiry grass suddenly bristled in the sands and the salt. A soft mist gathered and rose from the watery sand, bathing the Plainsmen and the bandits, rising up the sheer face of the Red Plateau until Fordus himself felt the cool shy;ing balm, felt the soothing mist wash over him and the poison slow in his hectic blood.

He looked down. The swelling in his foot had sub shy;sided.

The rebel leader raised his hands to the heavens once more, triumphantly and defiantly. He had mas shy;tered the darkness and the old death; he had returned from the desert with visions.

At the foot of the blossoming mesa, the Plainsmen danced.

Chapter 10

Takhisis stormed into the fastness of thc salt flats. The warrior's body she inhabited had stiffened and dried, almost to the point of crumbling and dissolv shy;ing, so the goddess moved heavily, clumsily.

Muttering a dark oath, she hastened between the droning crystals, over the level black sand, silk robe and translucent, faceted legs blurred with unnatural speed. The crystals themselves bent at her passing, like trees in a strong wind.