"He's mad."
"Aye, he'll probably cleanse the halflings, too. The only question worth asking is, can we stop him? I can resist him, disobey him, but I can't stop him, not alone. If we all attack at once..."
"You'd survive," Borys responded quickly, the old distrust burning bright in his eyes. "You could lay back until you were the last—"
"And he'd slay me, then he'd find someone else to annihilate the humans. Maybe a score of someones. He promised you a kingdom, Borys. What price will you pay for it?"
Borys neither spoke nor moved.
"Make up your mind, champion. He's probably out looking for another farmer's son right now. Maybe he'll pluck someone out of your army this time. Maybe he's already dragged the poor sod up the stairs in his damned white tower."
"No. You saw how it was. He needs us—"
"Needed."
Another curse as Borys looked at Kemelok's battered towers. "Five days. If I'm gone longer than that, the siege will fail, and the runts will scatter." Borys allowed a breathtakingly short time in which to bring down the War-Bringer.
"Sielba," Borys replied without hesitation.
Hamanu was inwardly astonished. He'd have left the red-haired Sprite-Scourge and seducer of champions for last. But he'd come this far to get Borys's help and kept his opinions to himself while the Butcher of Dwarves made arrangement with his high-ranking officers to continue the siege while he was gone.
Since the day the champions had drunk each other's blood in the negligible shade of Rajaat's white tower, Sielba had repeatedly invited Hamanu to visit her retreat. The invitations had grown more frequent and enticing in the years since he'd vanquished the trolls and taken his place among the champions who'd achieved their final victories. The notices had become especially regular since he'd settled in Urik and begun to transform the dusty, roadside town into a rival city.
They were neighbors, Sielba would write on ordinary vellum scrolls that her minions delivered to the Urik gates, or she would whisper in a mysterious, musk-scented hush that haunted the midnight corners of Urik's humble palace. They should know each other better. They should explore an alliance; as partners, Sielba promised, they and their cities would be invincible.
Hamanu had ignored every overture. He hadn't forgotten the loathsome combination of lust and contempt with which she'd scrutinized him that one time, the only time they'd stood face to face. He wanted nothing to do with her or her invitations.
However his farmer's son's jaw dropped when Borys led him from the Gray into an alabaster courtyard, and he began to reconsider his reticence. Musical fountains, flowers, lyric birds, an abundance of brightly colored silk... he'd never dreamt of such things. Sielba had cleansed Athas of sprites, then retired to the ancient city of Yaramuke, where she idled away the days and years, ruling a docile citizenry from an imperial palace. Hamanu shook his head and reshaped his appearance to equal the luxury surrounding him—at least he hoped he equaled it.
Sielba greeted Borys warmly and familiarly; Hamanu readily perceived that their acquaintance was both old and intimate. She greeted him like a kes'trekel alighting on a corpse.
"Will you feast with me?" she asked, with her lips against his ear and her hands weaving through his hair.
Lips, ears, hands, hair—even the tense muscles at the back of Hamanu's neck—were all illusions, but beneath their illusions Rajaat's champions remained men and women. Hamanu, at least, knew that he remained a man. He remembered every loving moment in Dorean's arms; Jikkana's, too; and the infrequent others of his mortal years. After Rajaat made him a champion, he'd discovered the hard way that there were lethal limits to illusion. Sielba's sturdy immortality tempted him with dangerous possibilities.
He pushed her away, with more force than he'd intended. "We've come to talk about
Rajaat—"
"You still have the manners of a dirt-eater, Hamanu," Borys interrupted. "Try to behave."
With words and a few subtle gestures, the two more experienced champions pierced Hamanu's defenses. They shrouded him with an awkwardness that wasn't illusion. He was young compared to them, and ignorant. He knew how to fight, but not how to sit amid the wealth of cushions surrounding Sielba's banquet table, or which of the unfamiliar delicacies were eaten with fingers, and which required a knife.
As for the urgent matter that had brought Hamanu first to Kemelok and then to Yaramuke, Borys disposed of it between the berries and the cream.
"The War-Bringer's not going to stop with the Rebirth races," he said bluntly, but casually. "He's going to create another champion to cleanse Athas of humanity."
Sielba set down her goblet of iridescent wine. Her illusion retained its beauty when she frowned, but her inner nature— the heart and conscience of a victorious champion—revealed itself as well. "And us? What about his promises? Are we to rule a world filled with beasts and halflings?"
"Apparently," Borys replied, with studied nonchalance balancing a mottled berry on the tip of his knife. He exploded it with a thought. "Or he'll create a champion to cleanse us, too." "He has to be stopped."
Lips as red as the stain parted in a condescending smile. "Do you have a plan?" she asked Borys, not Hamanu.
"Of course, but it will require all of us, together."
Sielba's dark eyes narrowed. "And you need to know where everyone is?"
"I can hardly ask the War-Bringer, can I?"