Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) (14 page)

  
His thoughts became fuzzy and dispersed; he barely noticed the guards unchain him, drop him to the floor, hoist him up and chain him again. His mind only partially registered it when they dragged him out the door and carried him down a maze of hallways, careful not to let him touch the familiar sandstone. His dying, muddled mind was all that stood between his common sense and total, uncontrollable panic.

  
They were taking him to die, and he knew it.

~

  
At least, he
thought
he knew it. It came as a mild surprise when they carried him not to the Dunelord, but to the cleric who had been there at his capture. The thin, emaciated man sat on a simple, three-legged stool in a white-walled room with little furnishings, dressed in the same pale alb and yellow belt, hands folded on his lap and hood flung up over his head, flushing his gray-framed face in shadow.

  
The black-skinned guards tossed Gribly to the floor in front of the cleric, chains and all, then left, closed the door, and positioned themselves equally on either side of it. When they had done so, the cleric spoke.

  
“The Dunelord’s guards will assure that no one disturbs us. We may now speak as we please.”

  
The battered thief lay still, his face pressed into the gritty floor of the room, too afraid and too tired to respond. Many spoke of the cleric of Blast, but no one had ever seen him and almost no one even believed in him, much less in the powers he claimed to serve. What legends still circulated about his kind were scarce and terrifying. Gribly would never have been inclined to believe them, had he not met Traveller, seen the Highfast Shrine, and been tossed at the feet of the mysterious man himself.

  
The cleric spoke again when he saw that the boy was not moving. His voice was smooth and sweet, like aging honey.

  
“This room is hewn out of the desert, young one. Draw on its power as you have taught yourself to do, and it will give you strength.”

  
The meaning of his words only half-reached Gribly through the haze of his mind, but he understood enough to reach into the sand around him with his mind and draw from it what he needed. The power of the wide, wild desert filled him and sustained him like it never had before. He felt as if he was back in the Shrine, being lifted up on waves of energy that wasn’t his own. It was freshening, but exhausting at the same time.

  
Soon he rolled reluctantly onto his back and slowly tried to sit up, fighting the heavy weight of the chains around him. At last he did it, slouched over and supported by one arm, but upright nonetheless. He looked into the cleric’s eyes, deep and gray and full of hidden knowledge… and stared.

  
Gribly knew eyes and could read them better than anyone he knew. He could tell emotion and intentions easily enough: whether a man was angry or afraid, friendly or malicious. And looking into the cleric’s eyes, Gribly knew one thing for sure:

  
The cleric was
not
a man.

  
Oh, he was
male
, right enough. He certainly wasn’t a woman. But those eyes, those gray eyes that seemed to be open wide and staring even when half-lidded… those eyes weren’t human.

  
“Who… who
are
you?” He questioned.

  
“That,” the cleric replied smoothly, “Is not an easy question to answer. Few really can answer it in their lifetime. I certainly do not know the whole or even most of the answer.” Gribly tried to understand what that meant; this cleric talked like Traveller, riddles and all. Soon he continued. “If, however, you refer to my odd appearance, then your question would better be phrased:
what
are you? Not:
Who
. The answer to the
what
is twofold.

  
“One: I am a cleric of the Most High, one of the few still alive in this chaotic age.

  
“Two: I am a nymph of Greenwood Forest in the west, hence, I do not look to you as a fellow human would. I suspect this is the answer you are looking for, no?”

  
“Well…” Gribly stuttered. A nymph? A wood-child?
Those are… ah, legends, naturally
. And all the legends Gribly knew were starting to crop up alive and real, far too often for his liking. The nymph tipped back his hood for a moment, revealing long, pointed ears that were tied tightly to his skull to hide them. “Yes,” the thief finally said, “That about settles it.”

  
“And now, I assume,” said the nymph, “you will want to know why you have been brought here, instead of the arena where you belong. Am I correct?”

  
Gribly thought. “Yes,” he answered again, “It makes sense you blotchers would put me in the arena to die. What I don’t understand is why you’ve bothered bringing me here to heal.”

  
The cleric’s mouth tightened at the curse, but he declined to comment on it. “The answer the Dunelord would give is simple: he wants you to die fighting. In style. The answer
I
would give is more complex.”

  
“What?” the thief spat.

  
“You may have deduced by now how Dunelord Ymorio has kept himself in power for so long.”

  
“He kills all the other people like me- people who can play with sand.”

  
“Play with sand…” the nymph mused. “Humorous, and true. Ymorio has learned that with every Sand Strider he defeats, his own power grows and the Ymeer comes one step closer to being completely under his control.”

  
Gribly had been watching the cleric’s eyes as he said this, and had noticed the irritation- or was it stronger than that?- in his eyes.

  
“So having my gift makes me a Sand Strider, and the Dunelord kills Sand Striders. That doesn’t make you happy, eh? Even though you’re the Dunelord’s pet hermit?”

  
“I am not… his… pet.” The cleric unfolded and folded his hands several times, agitated. “He has kept me here long past my time, and I have endured his tyranny for one reason only.”

  
“And that is…?”

  
“You, little thief.”

  
“Me? You don’t know me, oldskin!”

  
The nymph smiled ruefully. “No, I do not. I had hoped you would be different… but I suppose this is to be expected… You have never learned of my kind, or the Aura, or even-”

  
“I have, actually.”

  
“Have heard of the Aura?”

  
“And the Creator. I saw you about to say his name. I’ve even met one of the Aura, I think.”

  
“You have?” gasped the thin man, his eyes wide under his hood. Gribly hadn’t expected his story to get such a reception, and it confirmed his idea that the Aura, the Creator, and the clerics were real and terribly important. He nodded to the nymph. “Then you
must
be the one,” the older man said. “You have no parents, yes?”

  
“Everyone has parents,” Gribly snapped. “I’ve just never met mine.”

  
“I’ve already seen you change the sand to suit your will. That would leave one thing…”

  
“What are you talking about??” Gribly demanded. “If you don’t explain to me why I’m here
right now
, I’m going to use all this sand to dig you a living grave!”

  
“No, you won’t,” returned the cleric, and Gribly had to admit he wouldn’t. This was too interesting, and his naturally enormous curiosity was peaked. “You have met the Wind Strider, then?”

  
“Wind strider? You can’t mean… Lauro? That
brat
?”

  
“Lauro?” asked the cleric, suddenly even more interested. “Is that his name?”

  
“Sure,” Gribly said, “But he isn’t a… whatever. He’s some nobleman’s son… I think, probably sent into the army as punishment. He claims he’s got a letter for the Dunelord himself, and… and…”

  
The cleric was bent forward, eyes hungry for more information. Gribly could have kicked himself: how had he been so careless as to let so much out? Some professional thief
he
was, telling the Dunelord’s right-hand man his secret so easily…

  
“You’re just going to tell all of this to the Dunelord, aren’t you?” the thief snapped. “You’re only pretending to be on my side to trick me. I’ve met your kind before.”

  
The cleric leaned back and smoothed his robes carefully. “I think it is safe to say, Gribly, that you have never, ever met my kind before. And I am not reporting this to Dunelord Ymorio as you suppose. He is at the arena preparing your doom, and does not know of our meeting.”

  
The brazenness of the cleric’s assertion surprised Gribly as much as the sudden use of his name. He didn’t think he’d mentioned it to the nymph. “But those are his guards outside, aren’t they?”

  
“Naturally,” the cleric told him. “But I control the silverguard and half the bronzeguard, in addition to managing most of Ymorio’s martial duties. He does not know of my plans to defeat him, and I will do it without bloodshed if possible… but there you have it. I am not loyal to him.”

  
“Then what’ll you do if I tell him about you?” tried Gribly.

  
“You won’t get the chance,” the nymph answered smugly. “He won’t speak to a peasant like you, even if you
are
a Sand Strider. He knows nothing of the prophecy.” Immediately the cleric bit his lip, as if he’d said something he hadn’t meant to. That more than anything made Gribly believe he really did intend to overthrow the Dunelord, even if he wasn’t an ally.

  
“Prophecy?” he prodded.

  
“It is beyond your need to know,” answered the cleric as he stood and smoothed his robes again.

Chapter Eleven:
Prince of the Arena

  
At the cleric's word, the door behind Gribly opened and the four guards in silver came through. “Thank you for your cooperation,” the old nymph smiled as the thief was hoisted between the four men again. “If it is possible to secure your safety when I make my final move, I will certainly do so. The prophecy I spoke of does not concern you; it concerns your friend. If I find him in time, you may live through the ordeal Ymorio has planned for you to undergo.”

  
“What?!” yelled Gribly, and was gagged by one of the guards in return.

  
“Ymorio has no knowledge that you have been allowed to touch sand and clear your mind for the combat. I have allowed it so that you will at least have a fighting chance against your foes in the arena. Live long enough, and you may be rescued. Your life is in your own hands. Goodbye.”

  
The guards carried Gribly’s chain-entwined body away, quickly trotted down the deserted corridors of the prison section of the palace, and strung him up in his cell.