Heart of Light (27 page)

“Of course,” Kitwana said like a king granting a favor. He slid off to oversee the packaging.

Nassira left the youth standing on the path and stomped off behind them, to deal roughly with the tin plates and the pots and pans and the other few cooking implements they'd brought.

Emily stayed where she was. She could feel Nigel behind her, standing still, quiet, wrapped in some dignified hurt that she couldn't understand. She didn't even know if he was hurt by her or Farewell, but she knew that Nigel included her in his long, resentful silences. She could feel his presence like a coldness at her shoulder, quietly disapproving. And she
personally
resented his suspicions

The silence lengthened, till it seemed as though any moment it would burst. But Emily didn't know what it would burst into, and she turned around and faced Nigel.

He looked coldly disapproving, pale, quiet. His glacial blue eyes stared at her and his expression was exactly the same expression her father had regarded Emily with so often, when he did not understand what Emily had said or done.

Emily stared at Nigel questioningly, as she'd never done to her father. Nigel didn't speak. He turned and was gone, leaving Emily alone on the path, looking out on the verdant expanse of Masai land. The herder-warrior had vanished, and the only sign of life, other than their own party, was the sound of the lion in the distance.

HIS SILENCE AND PAIN

It was the end of the day, which came abruptly in this
region, the sun setting over this broken land of chasms and peaks with the suddenness of a blown-out candle.

The carriers had set up with quiet efficiency.

In this, at least, Nigel was happy. He'd made the right choice. After all the horror stories he'd heard about rebellious carriers and incompetent guides, he relished Kitwana's well-bred efficiency and his laconic, almost British mode of address.

This was Nigel's only consolation, though, as he watched night cover the savannah, making every thorn-bush, every acacia tree into a looming monster. Behind him, the tents—lit with magelights inside—swelled like immense lanterns. If Nigel turned, he would see Emily's silhouette against the light. “Nigel,” Peter called from behind him.

Nigel turned. He saw, over his friend's shoulder, Emily's shadow inside the tent. She stood by the small portable table. Nigel knew that the compass stone would rest on that table, but from the outside, it wasn't clear what Emily was doing with it, or if she was done. All for the best, as Nigel did not think the carriers should be informed of the magical import of this quest. “Your wife wishes you to be inside with her,” Peter said.

Nigel raised his eyebrows at his friend in a mute question.

Peter nodded. “I'll stay outside and attempt to shield both of you from magical interference should . . . our enemies trace you.”

Peter was so serious. Vanished was his playful attitude, his mocking manner. Their interaction had become strained, weighted down by things unsaid, bent out of shape by Nigel's suspicions of Peter and Emily. But if Peter had only been taking a bath at the oasis, then why had he blanched when Nigel interrogated him? And yet, how could Nigel suspect his wife and his best friend of such gross betrayal? His wife was so in name only, and he had not seen Peter for many years. People changed.

“You must see that I'm more qualified to keep shield, as I'm not marked by the enemy.” Peter slanted his eyes toward the carriers, a little ways off.

So Nigel walked into Emily's tent. It was the same size as his, and like his, it contained a camp bed and a table that served as table and desk and vanity. Right now, it had been swept clean and the compass stone sat atop it. Emily stood in front of the stone. She looked up at Nigel as he came in. She wore a dark blue dress of some sturdy material, entirely devoid of ornamentation, which brought out the blue in her eyes.

It seemed to Nigel that the tent was warmer than the outside and that the air itself was suffused by Emily's scent of roses. He took his place across from her at the table.

If something went wrong with Emily's scrying, it would be up to Nigel to help her first. He did not know what he could do. He'd tried to keep her safe from the Hyena Men before and he'd failed. Yet he was willing to try again.

While she bent her head over the stone, Nigel prayed silently that they'd be close to the ruby. He wanted this expedition to be over. He wanted to be safely at home with Emily, where he could make her his wife—truly his wife—and resume the thread of his life that the queen's summons had interrupted. And keep her away from Peter and protect her as he'd meant to.

He watched as Emily's fingertips grazed the stone, and hoped it would just glow with a single red dot. Or point backward. But the glowing red arrow formed on the gray surface. And it pointed, still, southwest.

Nigel almost groaned, but stopped himself just in time.

Emily had opened her eyes and they looked vacant, unfocused. She looked at Nigel as if he were not there at all, then she tottered, as though ready to fall.

Nigel rushed toward her, hands outstretched, to stop her from falling. “Emily,” he called. “For heaven's sake, Emily.”

But she swatted his hands away. “Mr. Farewell,” she said. And then louder. “Mr. Farewell.” Her eyes gaining focus, she looked anxiously around. “Mr. Farewell?” She hurried to the tent entrance. “Mr. Farewell?”

Peter turned around and ducked into the tent. “Mrs. Oldhall?”

“I had a vision,” Emily said. She focused wholly on Peter and her expression lit up in eagerness. “It came to me from the compass stone and showed me stone walls. Circular houses. Great walls.”

“Stone?” Peter blinked. “There is no stone house around here. It is all dirt and branches and cow dung. He frowned. “Are you sure you saw stone? That sounds almost Mediterranean.”

Emily sighed, looking impatient. “No. The arrow pointed yet farther south and west.”

Peter shrugged, exasperated. “I can ask the carriers if any of them know.”

“Please do.” Peter strode out.

“You didn't ask me,” Nigel said. He hadn't meant to speak, but the words flew out. “You asked Peter, but not me.”

Emily looked at him, surprised. “Do you know where such houses are?” she asked. “Tall, round stone houses? In Africa?”

He shook his head. “I've never heard of those,” he said. And added, with peevish annoyance, “Neither has Peter.”

“But,” Emily frowned, “he might have.”

Nigel shook his head. “You speak to everyone,” he said. “Ask questions of everyone but me. Peter and even the carriers. But not of your husband.”

“My husband has shown little interest in my company,” she said. “He even sleeps in his own tent.”

Nigel hushed her frantically. “Your husband knows that these tents are almost transparent and certainly not soundproof,” he said, in a low, vicious whisper. “And the last time I was with you within a sturdy house, you'd not unlock your door.”

Emily glared at him. “I had reason enough not to.”

Nigel felt color climb, flaming to his cheeks. She had reasons. He thought of Peter's deserted room, his abandoned clothes. “I do not want to know your reasons,” he said. “You could have no honorable reasons.”

Emily glared back, shaking slightly. Even her lips were pale and trembled, as if longing to say something.

Nigel could not bear it. He turned his back and stormed out.

LADY AT THE BRIDGE

A week later, walking ahead of the expedition through
the broken terrain of Masai land, Nigel stopped. Right at his feet, without warning, the earth cleaved into a deep, jagged chasm that extended a good hundred yards across before the more-or-less even terrain resumed. Further, the chasm extended for what looked like miles in each direction.

Emily peered over Nigel's shoulder at the bottom of the ravine, dry as a bone, and filled with a crisscross of jagged rocks, like a open mouth revealing cruel teeth.

“It is wholly impassible,” Emily said, stepping up beside him.

“The Masai say that in the beginning, when they first came onto this land, a chasm such as this divided their people and fractured their tribes,” Kitwana said, from Nigel's other side.

Nigel looked up and met with Peter's amused gaze. He stood just beyond Emily and had pulled one of his cigarettes out of his pocket. He was shielding the flame with a conched hand while he struck his lighter. And he seemed to view Emily and Kitwana—and perhaps even Nigel, who stood dismayed and still at the edge of the abyss—as a study in nonsense.

“We will have to walk around it,” Peter said.

Nigel looked both ways to see if there were any signs of the chasm ending. In the distance, he could barely discern a flimsy, ropelike bridge. “We could take the bridge,” he said.

Peter shook his head, squinting into the distance. “Looks too frail for us to take the carriers across it.”

“Locals take them all the time,” Kitwana said. “With herds.”

Peter looked puzzled but threw his cigarette down, stepped on it and nodded. “Fine,” he said. “We'll walk to it.”

Nigel noted that though the idea was his, Peter acted as though he, not Nigel, was the leader of the expedition, making the final decision on how to proceed.

They walked about an hour to the bridge.

The thing was a construction of ropes of unknown origins, some still showing green grass amid their weavings. The bottom of the bridge looked like the work of basketry made by a weaver at the edge of insanity. There were ropes and twigs and sticks and pieces of unidentifiable grayish material, probably decomposing grass. All of it was held together somehow, interwoven, intertwined with other pieces of the bridge, and Nigel was quite sure that it would all give way the first time someone put a foot on it.

But he would not show his fear. Stinging from Peter's easy assumption of command, he refused to show weakness now.

Peter grinned at Nigel with the type of expression that Nigel hadn't seen in many years. It was the grin of a schoolboy challenging another schoolboy to a daring feat. Possibly a dangerous one. Not since the old days had Nigel seen Peter smile like that. He'd seen Carew do it. And many more in Carew's circle. But not Peter.