The Sea-Priest chants over the silvered water glass in a thin falsetto. Sweat beads on his forehead, mixing with dust to form rivulets of mud down his cheeks while he struggles with the melody and the tempo.
As he finishes, a small and wavering image fills the center of the glass, an image that shows a long line of horses on a narrow trail, a trail clearly not the main road into the Vale.
“The bitch . . . the unpredictable sow. . . .”
The image shatters into silver globules that chase each other for several moments. JerRestin sits down on a boulder, breathing heavily and ignoring the heat that seeps through his dust-smeared white trousers.
After a time, he chants again, using a voice more tenor than falsetto.
When an image forms, it shows a figure in green atop a flat hill. Behind the slender woman in the brown hat, a line of players forms. Behind them are dusty armsmen, still mounted. Flanking the sorceress are two mounted guards bearing heavy shields.
The Sea-Priest chants quickly, and the image dissolves into silver globules once more. He seats himself for a time, breathing heavily, before he climbs wearily from the shelter of the oblong rock overlooking the road and slowly scans the valley, a valley all too still for the life it encompasses.
He can sense the hidden archers and lancers to the west, but the sun has fallen on the side of the sorceress, not on her face.
The sounds of strings and horns echo faintly in the distance, so faintly he can barely hear them—but they come from the south. He scrambles down the scree of the slope toward his mount.
“ . . . bitch . . . the bitch. . . .”
His mumbled words are lost in the clatter of the small stones dislodged by his boots.