The witch was staring across at her.
The High Priestess sighed. ‘It is not an easy thing for a proud man or woman, to simply ask.’
‘No,’ whispered the witch. ‘It’s not.’
Neither spoke then for a dozen heartbeats, and then the witch slowly straight-ened. ‘What have you done to me?’
‘I expect Kurald Galain has done its assessment. Your aches are gone, yes? Your breathing has eased. Various ailments will disappear in the next few days. You may find your appetite… diminished. Kurald Galain prefers forces in balance.’
The witch’s eyes were wide.
The High Priestess waited.
‘I did not ask for such things.’
‘No. But it did not please me to realize that your journey to my temple would prove fatal.’
‘Oh. Then, thank you.’
The High Priestess frowned. ‘Am I not yet understood?’
‘You arc,’ replied the witch, with another flash of irritation, ‘but I have my own rules, and I will voice my gratitude, whether it pleases you or not.’
That statement earned a faint smile and the High Priestess dipped her head in acknowledgement.
‘Now, then,’ said the witch after yet another brief stretch of silence, ‘I ask that you help Salind.’
‘No.’
The witch’s face darkened.
‘You have come here,’ said the High Priestess, ‘because of a loss of your own faith. Yes, you would have the Temple act on behalf of Salind. It is our assessment that Salind does not yet need our help. Nor, indeed, does the Redeemer.’
‘Your… assessment?’
‘We are,’ said the High Priestess, ‘rather more aware of the situation than you might have believed. If we must act, then we will, if only to preempt Silanah-although, I admit, it is no easy thing attempting to measure out the increments of an Eleint’s forbearance. She could stir at any time, at which point it will be too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘Yes, for Salind, for the usurpers, for the pilgrim camp and all its inhabitants.’
‘High Priestess, who is Silanah? And what is an Eleint?’
‘Oh, I am sorry. That was careless of me. Silanah commands the spire of this keep-she is rather difficult to miss, even in the eternal gloom. On your return to your home, you need but turn and glance back, and up, of course, and you will see her.’ She paused, and then added, ‘Eleint means dragon.’
‘Oh.’
‘Come, let us return to the others. I am sure more tea has been brewed, and we can take some rest there.’
The witch seemed to have run out of commentary, and now followed meekly as the High Priestess strode from the chamber.
The return journey did not take nearly as long.
It should have come as no surprise to Samar Dev when Karsa Orlong rode back into the camp at dusk at the end of the third day since leaving them. Riding in, saying nothing, looking oddly thoughtful.
Unscathed. As if challenging the Hounds of Shadow was no greater risk than, say, herding sheep, or staring down a goat (which, of course, couldn’t be done-but such a detail would hardly stop the Toblakai, would it? And he’d win the wager, too). No, it was clear that the encounter had been a peaceful one-perhaps predicated on the Hounds’ fleeing at high speed, tails between their legs.
Slipping down from Havok’s back, Karsa walked over to where sat Samar Dev beside the dung fire. Traveller had moved off thirty or so paces, as it was his habit to attend to the arrival of dusk in relative solitude.
The Toblakai crouched down. ‘Where is the tea?’ he asked. ‘There isn’t any,’ she said. ‘We’ve run out.’
Karsa nodded towards Traveller. ‘This city he seeks. How far away?’
Samar Dev shrugged. ‘Maybe a week, since we’re going rather slowly.’
‘Yes. I was forced to backtrack to find you.’ He was silent for a moment, looking into the flames, and then he said, ‘He does not seem the reluctant type.’
‘No, you’re right. He doesn’t.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Cook something.’
‘I will.’
She rubbed at her face, feeling the scrape of calluses from her hands, and then tugged at the knots in her hair. ‘Since meeting you,’ she said, ‘I have almost forgotten what it is to be clean-oh, Letheras was all right, but we were pretty much in a prison, so it doesn’t really count. No, with you it’s just empty wastelands, blood-soaked sands, the occasional scene of slaughter,’