The Warslayer(56)

"Gotcha. Belegir—he's going to be all right, isn't he?" She'd rather have had this conversation somewhere out of Belegir's earshot, but doubted her ability to get Tavara off somewhere private without giving the girl heart failure.

"He is old, and weak, and badly hurt. It will be many days before he can ride even as far as the edge of the forest," Tavara said matter-of-factly.

"But the day will come, right?" Glory insisted.

"If Erchane wills it," Tavara said, casting her eyes demurely downward.

Fortunately, Ivradan chose that moment to appear with the local version of a McDonald's Happy Meal—a big bowl of boiled grain spiced with raisins and cubes of smoked meat, a thick slice of buttered bread, and a wooden mug full of tea. Glory accepted all three with avaricious gratitude, and wolfed the bread down in a few short bites.

"You lot came prepared, I'll give you that," she said around bites of bread, reaching for the tea. It was scaldingly hot, but she had no complaints. It was food, and there'd been little enough of that in the past day or so.

"Helevrin told us we must. If only her True Dream had come sooner—!" Ivradan agonized.

" 'If only' gets you nothing in this life, Ivradan," Glory said with rough kindness. "You came, and you came in time to save our bacon. That's more than enough. I'm sorry about the other horse. And Kurfan. He died game." She blinked back unexpected tears. "I wish I could have saved him."

"You saved Belegir," Ivradan said, putting an awkward hand on her shoulder.

"I hope." She glanced over her shoulder. Tavara and the other Allimir were sitting beside Belegir, having their own breakfasts. Tavara was feeding Belegir sips of gruel from a small spouted cup. "She says he'll be okay?"

"When I was younger, I fell from the roof of our barn at haying time, and spent the whole season in bed. But I am here today. When he can ride again, Tavara will release the spell that Helevrin sent with us, and the Allimir will come to bear him away."

"But you and I will be gone by then," Glory guessed, looking straight at him.

Ivradan didn't flinch. "Helevrin said that also."

Glory sighed and ate weird oatmeal. It wasn't bad, particularly if you couldn't remember the last time you'd had a full meal.

"That's why you brought so much stuff."

"She said the Oracle would speak to you."

Only it hadn't spoken to her, and apparently it'd told Belegir she'd go toes-up at the first opportunity. All she'd had was a wacky dream she couldn't quite remember any more. Well, bugger that for a game of soldiers. She was going to muddle on as long as she could, and damn anybody who got in her way.

After she'd eaten, Glory got carefully to her feet. She'd eaten too much too fast, and in combination with the corset, felt like she'd swallowed a young pig, trotters and all. Still, she'd rather be full than empty.

"So, Ivradan. Want to come see the Oracle?"

She could tell from the look on his face that he'd much rather not, thank you very much. But if he was going to be her native guide to the wonders of Elboroth-Haden, the former Grey Arlinn, it'd be just as well for him to get his feet wet with some nice friendly magic first.

So, Glor, just when did you get so ruthless?

"C'mon, mate. Y'wanna live forever? Besides, there's a map in there I want you to see."

Looking as if he'd been told off to be hanged, Ivradan followed her up the stairs into the temple. She was actually getting used to the treachery of the stairs, after all this time.

He was on familiar ground as far as the Presence Chamber, but once she took him through the back wall and into the Old Temple, Ivradan's eyes bulged, and he stared at everything at once.

"Belegir says this is the part they used to use a long time ago. The floor's a map. Look. We're here." She pointed at the purple triangle on the floor that represented the Oracle. "And we need to go . . . here."

Ivradan gulped, staring at the red glyph set into the floor. If the Allimir'd had the gesture, Glory bet he would have crossed himself. As it was, one hand groped toward something hanging around his neck beneath his clothes.

"There?"

"That's right."

"Ah . . ." he said, sighing resignedly. "Thus it must be, if Erchane wills."

"I reckon you're right there. Just get me close enough that I can find my way. I'll do the rest."

And who in God's name was writing her dialogue this morning? Glory wondered. It was bad enough to say things like this after a pint or two of overproof Allimir ale, but on tea and oatmeal it was nothing short of criminal.

Must be the water.

After giving him enough time to gawk, she led the way back down to the Oracle spring. After so many trips this way, it had begun to seem like her morning commute. She carried the blasphemous trinket by its cord—she'd be glad enough to get rid of it, and surely Belegir knew the proper means of disposal if anyone did, but it still seemed a touch impertinent to go tossing it into a sacred well as if it were a rubbish tip. Still, she'd rather think about that than the fact that the Warmother (whether she existed or not) had apparently gotten up the brains to rope in a cadre of extra-dimensional bad guys to help her out. Apparently She hadn't had any trouble getting people to show up when she wanted them.