5.Death of Chaos
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West of Arastia, Hydlen [Candar]
GERLIS TAKES OUT the small polished glass and sets it in the center of the cream-colored linen that covers the portable table, centering it carefully. Then he walks to the tent entrance and peers out through the canvas flap.
“Orort, I don't wish to be disturbed-except by His Extraordinarily Supreme and Willful Mightiness, the Duke.”
“Yes, ser.” The guard inclines his head, and by the time he lifts it, the tent flap is back down. He swallows.
Inside, Gerlis sits on the polished white oak stool and stares at the screeing glass, ignoring the sweat that beads on his forehead and the heat that slowly builds in the tent.
First, white mists appear in the glass, then a wavering image, which Gerlis studies. Five dusty riders plod down a narrow road. The lead rider is a Kyphran officer, accompanying a figure on a smaller horse.
As the image wavers and fades, Gerlis frowns. “Danger from a few Kyphrans?” He wipes his forehead. After a time, he stands and walks to the corner of the pavilion tent, where he lifts a bottle of wine and takes a single long drink.
“Turning already... curses of the power...” He takes another drink before he sets the open bottle back on the top of the closed single trunk that doubles as a second table beside the narrow cot. Then he walks back to the table and sits down.
Again, he concentrates, and is rewarded with the mists, and a second image-that of a slender balding man in a tan uniform with a sunburst pin upon his collar.
Gerlis frowns. “The sundevils... spells trouble... but not for a time.” He gestures, and the glass blanks. “Not until after Berfir holds Hydlen firmly.”
For the third time, his eyes fix on the glass and call for an image-that of a thin man in the colors of Hydlen who sharpens a long knife and looks over his shoulder toward the setting sun.
Gerlis nods at last.
“... friend Cennon... assassins yet...” His words to himself are barely a whisper.
He lifts his left hand and gazes at it. “The left hand of the Duke, and many will rue it.” Whitish-red fire flickers from his fingertips, and he smiles. Far beneath the meadow, the earth rumbles, and shortly the grasses beyond the tents ripple in the windless afternoon.