They passed the simple dwellings that crowded one another all along the path right down to the water’s edge. Quentin saw an occasional fleeting face at a window or peering from a doorway, but by the time they reached the great wooden pier that served as a wharf for the town’s fishing boats, most of Malmarby’s citizens were going about their business as though nothing unusual had happened. Many followed them down to the pier, and many more hailed the regal travelers as they passed.
The boats of Malmarby were broad, boxy things—sturdy enough to withstand the anger of the harshest seas, which they never faced, since the bulky boats served but to ply the sheltered inlet from one end to the other along its length.
Milan’s boat was more than adequate for their need, though the horses showed some trepidation at being led aboard such a strange-looking vessel.
With Milan’s son, Rol, at the long stern oar, they waved themselves away from the throng on the pier. Rol’s strong hands worked the oar, and soon they had entered a deeper channel, where a swift current pulled them along. They raised the small sail on its stubby mast and drifted smartly away.
“Where do you wish to land, my lords?” called Rol from his seat at the tiller.
“Anywhere you think best, as long as it is west of the Wall.” Quentin paused and regarded the hardy youth, who had strong shoulders and a thick thatch of brown hair. He remembered when the good-natured young man had been a skinny little boy who ran alongside the horses whenever a traveler passed through the village—such as Quentin and Toli had often had occasion to do.
“What is it the village fears?” asked Quentin, stepping close to Rol. “What has come to pass since we have last come this way?”
The young man shrugged a muscled shoulder and continued working the oar. “I do not know. Stories, that is all. It does not take much to frighten such a small village.”
“What are these stories you speak of ? Why have they frightened everyone so badly?”
Toli stepped in to hear what Rol had to say.
“This spring some people came to us out of the Suthlands, saying they had been set upon by demons and their homes burned.”
“Demons do not burn homes,” remarked Toli.
Again the tentative shrug. “I do not know if they do or not; that is what the people said.”
“Hmmmm . . . that is strange. Did they say what these demons looked like?”
“They are giants. Fierce. Fire spewed from their mouths, and each one had ten arms with claws for hands.”
“Where did these demons come from? Did they say?”
“No one knew. Some said they came from beyond the sea. From beyond Gerfallon. Others said they saw the sign of the Wolf Star on their foreheads. Maybe they came down from the sky.”
“This is an odd tale,” said Quentin to Toli as they drew aside.
“Why would anyone burn a village of peasants in the Suthlands?” Toli asked. “There is little enough there, and nothing to be gained by such doings.”
“I cannot guess. The realm is at peace these past ten years. We will tell the king about this; they may have heard something in Askelon.”
Rol proved an able seaman, and the day’s end found them close to their destination. A faint mist gathered on the water at the shoreline and pushed out into the inlet. Through the gray mist they saw the dark plane of the Great Wall jutting out into the deep water as the shadows lengthened upon the land.
Rol steered the boat around the Wall’s looming edge and made for the rocky strand. No one spoke as they passed by the imposing shape. The steady slap and dip of Rol’s long oar was the only sound that broke the stillness of the water.
Quentin watched the mist curling around the base of the Wall and thought it made the Wall appear to be floating on a foundation of billowing clouds, while the deepening sky above seemed to grow hard and solid as stone as it darkened with the twilight. He started when he heard a hollow knock and felt the slight jolt that told him they had touched shore.
“Will you stay with us tonight, Rol? We will camp a little way along the trail, up there.” Quentin pointed to a tree-lined rise that bordered the shore. “Toli will have a fire going in no time, and we will have some hot food.”
“Thank you, my lord. I am tired—and hungry, too. I cannot say which I am the more.”
“Well, you have done us a great service, and it shall be rewarded. Here,”—Quentin reached into the soft leather pouch that hung at his belt—“a gold ducat for your trouble, and one for your kindness.”
Rol bowed low as he thrust out his callused hand. “Sir, it is too much. I cannot accept so much.” He fingered the gold coins and handed them back to Quentin.
“No, you have earned them both, and our praise besides. Keep them and say no more about it. But, look! Toli is already making camp. Let us hurry and join him, or we may be too late for our supper.”
The three reclined around the fire and talked as the stars came out in the immense black vault of the heavens. Below them on the strand, the water lapped gently against the smooth, round rocks, and above them, in the trees, a nightbird called to its mate. Tall pines stood over them, and the air smelled of fresh wind and balsam.
Quentin drifted easily to sleep, nodding in his place, until he at last bade his companions good night and rolled himself in his cloak. Toli added another log to the fire and got up to check the horses before he himself turned in. Rol already slept soundly, judging from the slow, even rhythm of his breathing.
Toli stretched and lifted his eyes to the night sky, now sparkling with tiny lights. As he scanned the heavens, his eye caught a curious sight. He stood for a moment, contemplating what he saw, and then he turned and crept softly toward Quentin.
“Kenta . . .” He nudged his sleeping friend gently. “Kenta, I want you to see something.”
Quentin turned and sat up. He peered intently into Toli’s face, lit on one side by the firelight. He could not read the expression there.
“What is it? Have you at last seen the White Stag?”
“No, nothing so important.” Toli dismissed the jest. “I thought you might want to see this.” He led Quentin a short space away from the fire and the overhanging boughs of the trees.
“Look to the east . . . there just above the Wall. Do you see it?”
“A star? Yes, I see it—that very bright star.”
“See how it shines. Do you think it odd?”
“It is the Wolf Star. But you are right; it does have a different look tonight. What do you make of it?”
Toli gazed upward at the brilliant star and at last turned away, saying, “I do not know what to make of it. I only wanted you to see it, so that we may be agreed about it.”
Quentin was not satisfied with this answer. Toli, who was evidently withholding something, declined to speak further. There was no use in pushing the matter further until the Jher was ready to say more. Whatever was tumbling around in that head, thought Quentin, would come out sooner or later, but only when Toli desired it so. He would wait. Quentin sighed and rolled himself once more in his cloak and fell to sleep.
3
From the sound of the gurgling crash that filled the rock-rimmed canyon, the Arvin’s first cataract lay just ahead. Blazer and Riv picked their way among the loose stones on the canyon floor as Quentin and Toli scanned the soaring cliffs above. All around them towered jagged spires of rock. They moved carefully, as through a giant’s petrified forest.
They passed between two large outcroppings of dull brown stone upon which rested a great slab forming the posts and lintel of an enormous doorway. “Azrael’s Gate,” muttered Quentin as they passed quickly through, and then, brightening considerably, “Look! Eskevar’s road.” He pointed across the Arvin’s racing headwaters to the other side, where the road began.
Without hesitation Quentin urged his steed forward into the frigid water. The swift stream splashed around the horse’s legs and wet his rider to the knees. Quentin found the icy tingle the perfect tonic to banish the oppr
essive foreboding that had settled upon him—as it always did— when he rode through the eerie canyon that ended in Azrael’s Gate. Now, with that behind and the clear, wide road ahead, his spirits suddenly lifted.
“It won’t be long now,” he called over his shoulder to Toli, just then splashing into the course. “Tomorrow night we will dine with Durwin, and the following will see us at the Dragon King’s table.”
“I thought you were the one for haste,” replied Toli. “We can do better than that!” At these words he slapped Riv over the shoulders with the reins and leaned into the saddle. The horse spurted ahead, sending torrents of icy water up into the air as he surged past Quentin and clattered up out of the stream and struck for the road.
“A challenge!” shouted Quentin at Toli’s retreating figure. He snapped Blazer’s reins as they clambered out of the water and dashed after Toli in chase.
High in the lonely foothills, the sound of their race echoed and reechoed from one blank stone face to another. Their jubilant cries sang through the rills and crevices, and rang in rock hollows and caves. The horses’ hooves struck sparks from the stone paving as they flew.
At last, exhausted and out of breath, the two trotted to a halt upon a ridge. Below them the foothills dropped away in gentle arcs, fading from violet to blue in the hazy distance. Away to the south stood the lofty, snow-wrapped crags of the Fiskills, where endless winds howled among the sharp peaks.
“Ah!” sighed Quentin as he drew a deep breath. “Such a sight! It is a beautiful land, is it not?”
“It is that and more indeed. My people have a word for the land— I do not think I have ever told you: Allallira.”
“No, I have never heard it. What does it mean?”
“I cannot be precise—there is no exact meaning in your tongue. But it means something like ‘the land of flowing peace.’”
“Allallira, I like that; it fits.” They started down together. “And it certainly is peaceful. Look out across those valleys. These years have been good ones. The land has produced full measure. The people are content. I cannot think but that the god has blessed the realm in recompense for the troubled times when Eskevar was away from his throne.”
“Yes, these have been good years. Golden times. I hope we will see them endure.”
Quentin cast a sideways glance at his companion. Toli’s eyes were focused on some distant horizon. He appeared as if in a trance. Quentin did not want to break the happy mood, so did not pursue the matter further. They continued down the slope without speaking.
The next day dawned fair and bright, warmed by soft winds from the west. The travelers were already well on their way when the sun popped over Erlemros, the Fiskills’ highest peak. The road made the going easy, and they pushed at a steady pace, reaching the lowlands by midday.
They ate a hasty meal among moss-covered stones in the shade of an ancient oak and started again on their way; they had not traveled far when Toli said, “Along the road, yonder. We have some company.”
Quentin raised his eyes and saw very faintly, and very far away, what appeared to be a group of travelers coming toward them on foot. There was just a glimpse, and then a bend in the road took them from Quentin’s sight.
“Merchants, perhaps?” Quentin wondered aloud. Often traders who sold their wares from town to town banded together in traveling companies for mutual entertainment and protection. “I would like to buy a trinket for Bria.”
They continued on, and Quentin thought of all the things his love would enjoy. They rounded the side of a grassy hill covered with scarlet wildflowers and approached the spot where they had first seen the travelers. “Odd,” said Quentin. “We should have met them by now. Perhaps they stopped up the road beyond that clump of trees.” He pointed ahead to where a bushy stand of trees overhung the road, sheltering all beyond from view.
They continued on with a growing perplexity.
When they reached the shelter of the trees, they could look once again far down the road; there was not a single person to be seen.
“This becomes stranger every step,” said Quentin.
Toli swung himself down from his horse and walked along the road, his eyes searching the dust for any signs that might explain the disappearance of the group they had both seen quite clearly only a short while before.
They moved forward slowly. Quentin watched the wooded area to the right of the road. Then Toli stopped and knelt down. He traced his finger around the outline of footprints in the dust.
“They stopped here before leaving the road . . . there.” He pointed into the trees.
“How many were there?”
“I cannot say from these signs. But there were men and women, children too.”
“Most peculiar,” mused Quentin. “What sent them scurrying into the woods? Not the sight of two horsemen, surely.”
Toli shrugged and climbed back into the saddle. “Here is something else we must remember to tell the king.”
“Indeed we will.”
At dusk they camped in a grassy glade just off the road. The sun sent ruby fingers sifting through the gossamer clouds that moved gracefully across the violet arc of heaven. Quentin stood in a meadow dotted with yellow flowers that brushed pollen-laden heads against his legs. With his arms crossed on his chest and a look of dreamy concentration, he contemplated the imposing shape before him: high up on its plateau, the thin trail leading up like a white wisp rising from the lower ground, stood the High Temple of Ariel.
“You miss your old home, no doubt,” said Toli, coming up behind him.
“No . . . ,” said Quentin absently, then laughed as he stirred and turned away. “No more than one misses a toothache. I was only thinking of the time when I lived in the temple. For me they were days of loneliness and frustration—endless studying, chores, and inscrutable rules. So many rules, Toli. I would never have made a good priest; I could never see the sense of anointing the sacred rock. It always seemed such a waste of time, not to mention expensive oil.
“And the sacrifices—the gold bracelets, silver bowls, and carefully groomed animals—simply made the priests wealthier and fatter than they already were.”
“Whist Orren demands more than bracelets, bowls, or flesh. And he lives not only in temples made by men, but in their lives.”
“Yes, the God Most High holds out freedom to men; the price is unbending devotion. The lesser gods do not demand as much, but who can know them? They are like the mists on the water—when the sun touches them, they vanish.”
They turned and went back to settle themselves for the night. They ate, and Toli turned the horses out to graze in the sweet grass as evening gathered its long purple robes about the quiet glade.
Quentin lay with his head resting upon his saddle with a clear, unhindered view of the spangled heavens. The stars never change, he observed. And then, even as he framed the thought, he remembered the conversation he had had earlier with Toli. He turned his head toward the east and saw the strangely glittering star Toli had pointed out to him several nights before.
“The Wolf Star seems to grow brighter,” observed Quentin.
“I have been thinking the same thing, Kenta.”
“I wonder what High Priest Biorkis would say to an omen such as this. The priests surely have their explanations.”
“Go and ask him.”
“What? Do you think I dare?”
“Why not? There is no harm.”
“I do not believe my ears! Toli tells me to seek an omen from an unholy source! You, Toli, of all people, know I have turned away from tokens and omens. I follow a different god—we both do.”
“I do not suggest you ask an omen of Ariel, or discard the truths you have learned. Only that you go to your onetime friend and ask his opinion of a strange event. There is no harm in that. Besides, Whist Orren, who holds the stars in their courses, sometimes declares his will through such portents. Any who will look may see what is written there.”
“You are right, Toli. Bior
kis is still my friend. Besides, I would like to take a walk. Come along.” Quentin was on his feet and striding off across the meadow toward the temple trail, which showed in the bright moonlight as a silver thread winding its way up the side of the steep hill.
They reached the trail and began the circuitous ascent to the top. As they climbed higher, Quentin looked out into the moon-bright night. The valley glimmered darkly; every leaf of tree and blade of grass was traced in spun silver. Away in the distant hills, shepherds’ fires winked like stars fallen upon the land.
They gained the top at last and entered the expansive courtyard. In the center of the white, stone-paved yard stood a torch on a carven stone stanchion. Its fluttering flame cast a wide circle of light around its base and reflected on the closed doors of the temple.
“We will see if pilgrims such as we are made welcome by night,” whispered Quentin.
They crossed the courtyard and climbed the many steps to the main entrance. Upon reaching the huge doors, Quentin lifted his poniard from its sheath at his belt and rapped upon the solid beams with its handle.
He waited, knowing at this late hour he must rouse some nearby priest from his sleep. As he waited, an uncanny sensation came over Quentin—a feeling that he was once more the skinny temple acolyte of many years ago. For a moment he looked at the dark stone of the temple and the moonlight-filled courtyard through the eyes of his youth.
He knocked again and immediately heard the shuffle of someone on the other side.
“Be on your way, pilgrim. Come back tomorrow. The priests are asleep,” came the muffled voice from the other side.
“Yet there is one who will admit us if you take our names to him.”
“There is no one who would admit you but the high priest himself.”
“Excellent! He is the very man we seek!”
“No, go away! Come back tomorrow; I’ll not disturb him tonight.”
They heard the footsteps shuffling away again on the other side of the door.
“Well, he means to do us no favors,” said Quentin. “But there is another entrance at the rear of the temple. We will try that, since we have come this far.”