Moriana had gone with Rann to Athalau and Fost guided Synalon to the Ethereals' village. Likewise, the genies had to split up. Erimenes, who had helped gain entrance to Athalau before, went with Moriana. Ziore rode with Synalon and Fost in hopes her ability to sway emotion would help convince the Ethereals to forsake their ancient isolation and join the battle against the Dark.
Orange and swollen, the sun peeked above a blanket of clouds stretched across the eastern horizon. Fost scanned the sky. Twice they had glimpsed skyrafts in the distance, and once they had scarcely managed to find shelter in a steep-walled arroyo when a twenty foot slab of stone passed soundlessly overhead. Rann's ruse must have failed; it was rare for the Vridzish to commit their aircraft this far south.
A few times they had glimpsed other riders. To Fost's surprise, the jet-haired princess made no objection to evading them. But as she pointed out, there was no honor - and damned little diversion - to be gained in battling brigands.
Beyond these incidents, little transpired. Several times Ziore detected the nearness of some hunting animal but was always able to deflect the creatures before they came near enough to attack. Unlike Moriana and Rann, neither Fost nor Synalon was a competent archer so they had taken plentiful provisions, and the necessity of hunting didn't slow them. Having reassured himself the sky was clear of foes, Fost's main concern was to keep an eye out for the fierce barbarians of the Steppe. Eventually some agreement would have to be reached with them to allow the passage of unprecedented numbers of northerners across their territory. It wouldn't help if Synalon reduced a score of them to cinders before Fost had a chance to open negotiations.
Synalon rode behind, wrapped in her cloak and her own thoughts.
'What are you thinking?' Ziore's voice asked from the satchel bumping at Fost's hip.
He started. He wasn't yet accustomed to the gentle feminine voice that now accompanied him or the equally gentle presence that went with it.
'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, and quickly twisted off the lid of the nun's jar. 'I forgot you were there. Erimenes would have made his presence known long before this.'
A surprisingly girlish giggle emerged along with a streamer of pink smoke that swirled in a familiar fashion and became the form of Ziore.
'Erimenes can be trying sometimes. But still, he's awfully cute.'
Fost couldn't think of anything to say to that and so rode in silence. The land here was almost flat, tan dotted with the green of occasional bushes as far as the eye could see. The very uniformity of the land was treacherous for it made the terrain seem flatter than it was. The Steppe boasted hills, ridges and deep gullies which could hide large bodies of foes until one was almost on top of them. The sameness of the land lulled one into thinking none could approach without being seen far off.
'I wish I knew what to make of our friend back there,' he said.
'I, as well. Can we trust her? Moriana is afraid that she'll betray us.'
'We don't have much choice. And she's got as much reason to hate the Dark Ones as Moriana. More, in fact.'
'But she's not always rational.' In spite of himself, Fost laughed at this. It was a marvel of understatement. 'Perhaps her hatred of Moriana will overrule her bitterness toward the Lords of Infinite Night.'
He took his black water flask from the satchel and drank. The taste of gruel was still in his mouth, and the tepid water the vessel provided did little to wash away the taste. He took a mouthful, swirled it around in his mouth, spat at a clump of amasinj bush.
'Have you had any luck at reading her?' he asked.
'She sensed it at once when I tried probing her at that first meeting, and since then I've been careful. Her emotions are so strong she can't altogether hide them. Her passions surge with the power of ocean waves, Fost. They practically swamp me.'
Fost was grateful he didn't possess Ziore's sensitivity.
'I can't get past them to her thoughts. But some of the passions are clear. Pride. Ambition. Rage. Longing. So great they'd tear apart a lesser psyche.'
'And Rann?' he asked. 'Have you tried reading Rann?'
'He's got some manner of protection, or perhaps he is just good at shielding his thoughts.'
'But no emotions? I imagine he's as cold as fresh caught cod.'
Ziore's vaporous eyebrows rose and turned pinker.
'Not at all. He's almost as passionate as she. But I cannot define his passions as well as hers. Pride, great pride. Longing and rage, I think. And . . .' She paused as if afraid he'd ridicule her for saying the next. 'And fear, I think.'
His impulse was to laugh, and he held it down. A frown formed on his face as he rode. The nun was most likely wrong. She admitted that Rann's warped passions were harder for her to make out than his cousin's.
But what if she weren't wrong? What would it take to frighten a man like Rann?
Fost spent the rest of the day trying to push that thought from his mind.
The sun had passed its zenith when Synalon picked out the low dome of fog that squatted endlessly above the Great Crater Lake. When they made camp that evening, Fost judged they would reach the Ethereals' settlement early the next morning.
The three of them shared conversation over the small campfire. The first day Fost and Ziore had kept to themselves, wary of speaking to Synalon and frankly unsure of the reception they'd get if they tried. Slowly the ice had thawed and the two began to talk guardedly about the sorceress-queen. They still feared her, and Fost was a long way from liking her, but there was something about the empty immensity of the Steppes that made humans seek each other's company. Their differences all became trivial in the face of the lonely spaces and distant skies that dwarfed and mocked human fears and aspirations alike. Even Ziore, who was to all intents immortal, confessed to being made to feel ephemeral by the changeless waste.
Fost did most of the talking. To his surprise he had found Synalon a good listener. She sat across the crackling fire, her cloak casually open as if to let the moonlight shine on breasts barely contained by her low, silken blouse. Her eyes were big and seemingly self-luminous, and always on him.
He spoke of his childhood in High Medurim, as he had to Moriana a year before when they journeyed to Athalau. Synalon encouraged him with questions, with attitudes of head and body implying receptive interest. She had a lively mind, he reflected, to have learned as much as she had of the difficult magical lore. His experiences as a slum child in Medurim must be as alien to the highborn sorceress as any work of demonomancy.
At times like this, with both moons high and waxing in the sky, Ziore was mostly silent, too. Fost almost lost awareness of his audience; he talked to the moon, himself, the restless wind, the insects that sang beneath the canopy of stars. He even found himself speaking of what he and Moriana had undergone together, after their flight from the very woman who sat watching him with such rapt intentness. He told of the journey south, the encounter with the Ethereals, the attack by Rann and his men at the foot of the Ramparts and what befell him and Moriana after they were separated. He told of Athalau, lost and splendid, and what he had found within. He told of how he had died and been revived and gone looking for the woman who had slain him. And he told of what he had gone through to find her. All this to the person who, for the past year, had personified evil in his thoughts. And she nodded in appreciation of the things he told her, even when what he spoke of was how he and the woman he loved had smashed the plans of this other.
It was lonely on the Steppe. The sound of his own voice was comforting.
After the need for speaking had burned itself out, he sat with his knees drawn up before him and his arms around them, staring into the slowly dying campfire. In a detached way, he was aware of Synalon scrutinizing him. Perhaps it was to the wind and stars he had spoken and not to her.
With a rustle of grass and fine cloth, she rose and stepped to his side. Her touch was both cool and hot upon his cheek.
'You're quite a man, Sir Longstrider.'
He sat dead still
. He had dreaded this moment - and yet he felt ambivalent. He had seen the looks she gave him as they rode from Tolviroth Acerte. If nothing else, he had piqued her interest by thwarting her consistently across a year; and she was beautiful, heart-stoppingly beautiful. The double moonlight fell as soft as a caress on her skin. He tensed, fearing her, fearing that within him which longed to respond to her.
But her fingers were soon withdrawn - too soon? - and she walked grand and serene back to her side of the fire. Trying not to betray the confusion he felt, he said a quick goodnight and stretched out on the ground, with his saddle beneath his head and Ziore at his side. He glanced from the silver and black of Synalon's form into the blank darkness of the Steppe where hunting beasts cried down the moons. In time he felt Ziore's touch upon his mind, soothing, lulling. He slept.
A timeless interval. Sleep departed. He was awake at once, sword in hand. A touch on his arm aroused him. His senses strained. 'Who is it?' he asked softly.
I, Fost. Ziore's feathery thoughts brushed across his mind. Something's amiss.
Aware of the strange stillness, he twisted about, studying the Steppes. The pink moon Astrith was gone and blue Raychan prepared to dip into the Golden Sea. Dark shapes huddled off across the flatness and movement flirted at the corners of his vision. He was wise to the wild and knew his brain created the motion. Whatever was going on, it wasn't happening in that direction.
Keeping his breath as regular as if he still slept, he shifted and murmured to himself, preparing to roll onto his other side. Ziore sent him no further thoughts. The Athalar spirits never needed sleep, and he had been content to fall asleep himself without caring whether Synalon stayed awake or not. Ziore was a better sentry than either of them, and could be trusted. It would have been like Erimenes, before his apparent change of heart, to let some toothy horror out of the Ramparts creep up almost within distance to make its final savage leap before rousing Fost.
He made another sleepy sound and rolled. At the same time, he moved up one arm as if to pillow his head. He used the motion to lessen the chance of firelight glinting off an eyeball and betraying his wakefulness.
The fire had been tended since he'd dropped off to sleep. It flickered low but not as low as he'd last seen. Synalon sat beyond it so that the yellow tendrils of light barely reached her. Her head was nodding, one slim hand tracing elegant figures in the air in front of her. With a shock, Fost realized she was not alone.
Her companion sat farther from the fire than she. With the black mountains at its back, Fost couldn't limn it by the stars it blocked. But by the faint glimmer from above he saw - or thought he saw - a Dwarf.
That's odd, he thought to Ziore. The creature had a Dwarf's outsized head and stumpy limbs yet it appeared taller than Synalon.
I'm frightened. He felt a contact on his arm and twitched, barely stifling a yelp of surprise. I need to touch something - somebody.
He knew of Ziore's illusory touch from Moriana; Oracle had known the same trick though he'd never used it to hold hands as the genie was doing.
It's all right, he thought back. But what is that thing?
Synalon glanced his way. He quickly shut his eyes.
/ don't know. But it scares me. It broadcasts no emotions that I can detect. Fost, I... I fear to probe it.
He squeezed her hand.
Then don't. I don't think it'd be wise to fool with that thing, whatever it is. Are we betrayed?
He felt his muscles winding tighter. The question lay like a lump of lead in his mind.
We can't assume anything. Wait and see.
He opened his eyes. Synalon sat alone. Her chin was sunk to her breastbone. Asleep or not, she showed no sign of movement.
Fost rolled over again. Even with Ziore's help, he was a long time finding sleep. And when he did, it was filled with dreams of Dwarves and twisted faces and roses as black as death.
CHAPTER TEN
Tendrils of fog reached for Fost's face, making him think he rode through cotton. He could scarcely see the alert, upright ears of his dog a few feet in front of his face. The padding of his dog's footfalls came as though from far away. Behind, Synalon's dog existed only as rhythmic sounds even more remote.
Now and again the whiteness parted briefly, eddying around a clump of rock or a sick looking shrub. But for these occasional sights, and the jogging of his mount's steps, Fost would have thought he was standing still, lost in the mist.
For the tenth time in the last five minutes he fought down the urge to ask Ziore if she was sure she knew where they were going. Erimenes had reluctantly led him and Moriana to the Ethereals' village, the only alternative being freezing to death in a blizzard. He had sensed the nearness of humans and steered his companions toward them. Ziore had the same senses and used them. But with Fost's visual world constricted to a sphere the radius of his arm, it was hard for him to believe that Ziore knew her way.
Abruptly the mist parted. Before him rose a random clump of huts rudely made from chunks of slag cast up when a meteorite had struck the Steppe during the contest between Felarod and the World Spirit on one side and Istu on the other. A few pale folk, as wispy as the mists through which he rode, drifted without purpose among the buildings. The smell of drying seaweed and an open latrine assailed his nostrils.
'See,' Ziore said smugly. 'I told you I steered us truly.'
He felt an impact behind his right leg. His dog jumped, doubling back with a snarl. He swatted it briskly on the head before it snapped at Synalon's mount which had blundered into it. He cursed under his breath. This collision was his fault. He'd been so surprised at seeing the Ethereals' village that he hadn't given the agreed upon two tugs on the rope tied between Synalon's saddle and his own. He looked back to see the princess rearranging her garments and got the impression she had drawn her black silk tunic open wide to let the damp mist play across her breasts and belly. He saw color on her cheeks. She smiled; he quickly looked away.
'We're here,' he said unnecessarily, feeling the need to be saying something to cover the awkwardness he felt.
Synalon gestured imperiously to him to lead the way. They wound their way around sad, slumping huts to the large round building in the center of the settlement. Fost recognized this as the temple where the Ethereals gathered to meditate. As the two reined in before the irregular door, a man emerged, stooping to pass beneath the sagging lintel. Fost recognized him as well.
'Greetings, strangers,' the Ethereal said in a high, sweet voice. 'I know not what brings you, but you are welcome to rest. And who knows? You may come to share the wisdom of our ways and give up the distress and discord of the material world, which is the world of illusion.'
'It's plain to see we received the more difficult task,' Synalon remarked sardonically.
'Greetings yourself,' said Fost, swinging off his dog. 'I'm no stranger. The woman with me is. Meet Her Royal Highness, Synalon Etuul, Princess of the City in the Sky, currently in exile. Your Highness, this is Itenyim, of the Ethereals. He's an exile, too. From reality.'
'That's not very diplomatic,' Ziore chided softly. Fost shrugged it off. He hadn't realized how bitter he was toward the Ethereals.
'We employ no titles here,' said the Ethereal, ignoring Fost's jibe. 'But you are welcome.'
Synalon stayed on her dog, regarding the Ethereal. She had taken him for a woman at first, because of the slim, frail form and the effeminate features. But the bone structure of the face and the protuberant Adam's apple were clearly masculine, as was the body clad in a simple, dirty green robe that hung to the knees.
'I see the temple wall's finally caved in,' remarked Fost, gesturing to a gap in the melted rock wall. 'They put me to work there when Moriana and I stayed here before. I wasn't at it long enough to do much good, it appears. Where's Selamyl?'
A shadow crossed the flawless features.
'Selamyl met with misfortune after you and the woman departed.'
'A misfortune named Rann?' The Ethereal didn't answer. Not looking
at Synalon, Fost said, 'Well, round up your people as best you can. We need to talk to them at once.'
'They are about their dances and duties and meditations.'
'Those dances and duties and meditations are about to be permanently interrupted,' said Fost briskly. 'Tell them that unless they listen to the princess and me they are going to have visitors who make Rann look as saintly as Erimenes himself.'
Itenyim's face, already alabaster, turned a shade lighter. He turned and walked off, almost hurrying. A strap was broken on his sandal, giving him a limp.
'Saintly?' asked Synalon, arching a brow.
'They think he is,' said Fost. 'I told you they were divorced from reality.'
'Return to Athalau?' The Ethereal woman's face was a marble mask of incomprehension. 'That's impossible.'
'It had better not be impossible,' Fost said, 'or you and I and the princess and every other human being in the Realm are going to be dead before this winter's snow is melted.'
'Life is illusion,' answered the woman.
Fost bared his teeth. He had the urge to grab her and shake loose her complacency. But that wouldn't only be wrong, it'd be futile. If these people had resisted Rann's special brand of persuasiveness as long as they had, mere shaking wouldn't do any good.
'Are the Dark Ones an illusion?' he asked, voice ragged with exasperation. 'They're what we face.'
A ripple passed through the small crowd assembled in the temple. At least, mention of the Dark Ones got some response.
'What have these matters to do with us?' asked another.
Fost glanced at Synalon. at ease beside him on a three-legged stool that gave every indication of collapsing beneath her. Her lips were curled, and it wasn't just at the odor of stale clothing and indifferently washed bodies that permeated the low-roofed building. Even the air current blowing between the door and the hole in the wall failed to freshen the atmosphere.
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