Ishander squeezed back between two woven reed mats that passed for walls. Any concept of a path had vanished altogether, and Drakis found the smells overwhelming. The young man stopped again.
“Remove your shoes before you enter,” the youth commanded.
“Enter where?” Drakis asked.
“Honored ground,” Ishander said with a look that, not for the first time, told Drakis that it was common knowledge to everyone but him. When both Drakis and the chimerian had loosened their sandals, the young Far-runner pulled back a woven mat and beckoned the outsiders within.
Drakis stepped barefoot onto the clean mat flooring and was at once confused and astonished. The room was small and had a low ceiling, but it was carefully organized and well ordered in complete contrast to the chaos outside its walls. Yet, even in its order, it was an explosion of contradictions. Low tables displayed a dizzying array of art alongside broken bits of mechanisms and intricate devices the purpose of which Drakis could only guess at. On one table there lay scattered a pile of small, metallic wheels with jagged edged teeth that seemed to have once fit together inside a bent, green-crusted metal casing. A box encrusted so thickly in rust that it seemed barely able to hold its shape sat in one corner of the small room. There were tubes of copper leaning against another corner beyond a set of carefully arranged pillows that were in a hopeless tangle. Several statues had been placed about the room. Some of them were partial and others complete. Some were so small as to be able to rest in Drakis’ palm while one statue of an enormous winged creature with four legs and no head was far too large for the room with one of its wings sticking through the side wall.
But it was the large stone throne, the back of which ended abruptly in a jagged, shattered edge, that commanded his attention, for there upon it sat the master Far-runner.
He had no legs below the knees. He was an old man; the oldest Drakis had any memory of ever seeing. His carefully kept white hair had been pulled back from his forehead into a long, tightly woven braid that fell down his back. His body was strong but the tone in his muscles had started to fade. He had chiseled cheekbones and his pale eyes were unfocused, seemingly trying to look everywhere at once. He turned toward the sound of Drakis and Ethis as they followed Ishander into the room.
“Outsiders!” the elder Far-runner exclaimed, his face bursting into a smile of childish delight though his eyes did not seem to find them as they stood before him. “A human who smells of distant blood and a rubber-man! Oh, how wonderful!”
Drakis glanced at Ethis, but the shapeshifter’s face remained impassive.
“Come to hear, have you? Come to see?” the old man cackled. “Come to be led by the runner who cannot walk?”
“We have,” Drakis answered. “We need to know . . .”
“Of course you do!” the old man laughed, slapping his bony hands on his thighs. “You’re running far, young man! Farther than anyone has ever run before. You have to know? Why, my son, you have to know better than any of us!”
“Sire, you’re confused. I’m not your . . .”
“Sire be damned, you can save that for the clan-witch and her puppet show down on the point,” the old man interrupted again. “My name is Koben Dakan, I’m the best damn Far-runner that ever lived, boy.”
“But your legs,” Ethis asked, “how could you . . . ?”
“And a chimerian!” the elder man exclaimed. “Never have met one of your kind before, though I’ve seen plenty of likenesses of your clan out in the Lost. Thought your kind were all made up by the loretellers but I guess I was wrong. Well, I’ll tell you, rubber-man, why this great Far-runner is stumping around on what’s left of his knees. I was running in the north, down the left branch as it were of the River Aegrain past the Divergence Falls. I had seen some markers that looked like an old road to Kesh Morain—the City of Delights as it was known in the Time Before—and was holding my path as close to the river as possible without losing the markers taking me farther into the . . .”
“Grandfather,” Ishander grumbled under his breath.
The old man looked over at the youth. “Well, perhaps I’ll tell that another time. The tail of the tale is that Clan Drevoll found me and thought I was poaching on their past. They had the idea that Shurih was their ruin to pillage and wanted to say so clearly to our clan. So they took just enough of my legs to make sport of me. But I got them back, you see, after I’d been there several months and gotten used to getting about on these stumps . . .”
“Grandfather!” Ishander snapped.
The elder man screwed up his face in disgust and turned back, his blank eyes looking toward Drakis. “He’s my grandson, and yet he treats me like a whelp. You can just call me Koben as long as Audelai is out of earshot and you don’t make me mad. So she sent you to me, did she?”
“Uh, yes,” Drakis said, clearing his throat. He was beginning to think he would not be able to fit his questions edgewise between the elder’s words. “We need to know . . .”
“What happened?” Koben said, his eyebrows rising. “What happened in the Time Before when the magic was stolen from the land, when the Citadels went dark and the plague from the south robbed the life from our land? Is that what you want to know?”
“Yes, Koben,” Ethis said.
The elderly Far-runner nodded sagely, then sat back against the broken throne, pressing his long, bony fingertips together.
“Haven’t the slightest idea,” the old man said.
Drakis blinked. “But . . . we were told that . . .”
“Young man, I may not be much to look at now but I was the best in my day,” Koben said. His blank eyes seemed to be looking onto a different place and a distant time. “I ranged across the Desolation. I’ve seen the canopy trees stretching over the borders of Armethia itself. I’ve scowered the Mnaros ruins and tempted the drakoneti of Pythar. I’ve climbed the God’s Wall Mountains and seen the dragons on their crags. I’ve tread with quiet respect past the towers of Aegrain and left the ghosts to sleep there undisturbed. I’ve even seen the towers—those incredible, heart-breaking towers of Khorypistan still standing bright in the distance. No man has gone further, seen more, and been more disappointed than I. No man alive knows more than I do about the past, and I’m telling you that all I know is that it’s gone . . . it’s all gone forever.”
“Then you have no idea what happened in the Time Before,” Ethis said, deliberately frowning.
“Oh, there are the stories and the legends,” Koben shrugged, opening his hands casually. “They tell of the time when the plague of long-headed demons came from the south and stole the magic out of the land. They say that men and dragons were brothers in the Time Before, together guarding the secret of the great magic that protected them both. There were some who, at least one legend says, took this brotherhood too far and tried to use that same magic to remake humans into a semblance of their dragon neighbors. That is the explanation we have of the drakoneti although we have no real knowledge of it. All this happened so long out of memory and the records were lost in the calamity when the Towers of Light went dark. The power of Aether—so the legend says—kept our land strong and the demons of the southlands in fear. The Fordrim down the east fork of the Tyra tell a story where the dragons betrayed their human brothers—I spent some time with them before the Drevoll took me—and that it was their betrayal that caused the Aether to be stolen from the land and the glory of humanity to fall in a single night.”
“What if the magic were to return?” Drakis asked. “What if someone found a way to bring it back?”
The old man pondered for a time before he spoke. “That the Aether is gone is sure, and now there are none left who might use it even were it to return. Even so, who can say what might happen? The long-heads from the south believed that we were extinct and after they had their fill of feasting on our land, left it like a rotting carcass. Yet the fathers of our fathers before us—few as they were—still managed to survive. We are still here. We may be a flickerin
g flame in the winds of terrible times, but we burn still. Who is to say what we might be if the great fires were rekindled among the Lost Citadels?”
“Can you tell us the way?” Ethis asked.
The old man smiled. “No . . . not even I can tell you that.”
“I know the way,” Ishander said, folding his arms across his chest.
The old man turned to the youth, a pained expression on his face. “No, Ishander! You must not. It is farther than even I have run. Your father was foolish to have tried . . .”
“I will take you,” Ishander said, ignoring the old man and addressing Drakis directly. “I have seen the Towers of Light. I have walked the Lost Citadel. I know the way.”
CHAPTER 21
Uncertain Ground
“IT IS A VIOLATION OF CLAN-LAW!”
Philida, a female Hunt-runner, stood before Urulani with her bare feet planted resolutely wide and firm against the track of packed dirt that ran its serpentine course through the thick jungle growth that all but obscured the collapsing ruins around them. It had previously been Armenthis Road, but once they had passed the Near Gate beyond the Ambeth wall, the ancient avenue had nearly disappeared altogether.
Philida was almost a full head shorter than Urulani but had a muscular build that reminded Urulani of Jugar. She was unquestionably strong, as she had demonstrated only three days before when she had found Mala and the Lyric walking up this same street toward the Near Gate through the town’s defensive wall to the north and had summarily picked up both women and carried them back into the marketplace where, apparently, clan-law dictated they should remain. Her hair was a mousy brown, what little there was of it, since the woman preferred to keep it cut less than a finger’s width in length. She had a strong jawline, which was often set in defiance of Urulani’s wishes and small, gray eyes that peered at the Captain of the Cydron with perpetual suspicion. Her skin was deeply tanned and leathery from exposure, leaving it wrinkled and old in appearance. If the woman had a love interest, Urulani would have liked to meet the person just out of curiosity to see what kind of companion this woman could successfully bring to heel that she would bother with enough to keep.
“Violation of clan-law?” Urulani yelled back at the Hunt-runner. Her own people—the Sondau of Nothree—had little in the way of material possessions except those that they “liberated” from their gnome, goblin, or elven neighbors whenever the need arose. The Sondau were a happy people, living life on their own terms to come and go as they pleased; these Ambeth humans were plentiful, it was true, but seemed in a perpetual state of anxiety and desperation. They hunted but took no joy in the hunt. They brought in fruits and vegetables gathered from the forest but never seemed satisfied with what they found or how much they brought in. The Clan-mother counseled peace but beneath her words was a perpetual message of fear. Urulani’s own people were dark-skinned sea raiders who had the sense to take only what they needed to live and spend the rest of their time enjoying the living of that life. These light-faced northern people seemed to have lost all their senses along with their color: they were afraid of everything, driven to have more of everything than any of their neighbors, and so busy getting everything that they had no time to enjoy anything. And all for what? So that they could fill their lives acquiring a hoard of possessions only to die and get no use or pleasure out of what they had spent their lives acquiring.
If this was the great human empire of the ancients, then it was no wonder they were nearly extinct.
And now Urulani was facing perhaps the most stubborn example of northern human thinking in the compact body of Philida Creve, the so-called escort assigned to Urulani, Mala, and the Lyric.
Only Mala and the Lyric had disappeared, which had made Philida more intractable than usual.
“Just which clan-law are you thinking is being broken right now?” Urulani seethed at the Hunt-runner who looked as though she were holding her breath. “The clan-law that says that we are all supposed to stay within your sight or the clan-law that says we must remain within the town walls? Or perhaps you’re thinking of the clan-law that says guests must be kept safe from harm? Well, Mala and the Lyric have managed to get through the gate without you stopping them and they’re out there . . . somewhere.”
Exactly where in the somewhere had become increasingly difficult to ascertain. Their trail was easy enough to follow when Urulani or Philida picked it up, but it often led into the ruins and seemed to wander back on itself from time to time. Urulani felt sure that it had led her and their escort both no more than a few hundred strides beyond the town wall and yet Urulani had not been able to see the wall for some time and was feeling slightly confused by the tree canopy overhead that blocked her view of the sun.
“Their being out here is a violation of clan-law,” Philida said. “You being out here is a violation of clan-law! You must go back!”
“I’d be delighted to go back,” Urulani said, reining in her anger and trying to penetrate this woman’s thinking by speaking slower. “As soon as we find the Lyric and Mala.”
“No,” Philida responded. “You are in violation of clan-law. You must go back now.”
“But if I go back now, I’ll have to leave you to do it,” Urulani said with bridled fury. “And that would be a violation of clan-law, wouldn’t it . . . being out of your sight?”
Philida puckered her lips in thought. It looked painful. “Then I will take you back.”
“Ah, but if you take me back, you will be leaving the Lyric and Mala out here beyond the Ambeth wall,” Urulani said. “That would put them in danger, and then you would be in violation of clan-law. Neither one of them has enough sense to survive on their own. Are you sworn to protect them?”
“It is my unquestioned duty!” Philida responded indignantly.
“Then let’s find them quickly, get back inside the town wall, and then no one will be in violation of clan-law,” Urulani said, pushing her way past the shorter Hunt-runner as she again followed the booted prints of Mala’s feet and the smaller, bare prints of the Lyric back into the undergrowth. She could hear Philida following noisily behind her.
What kind of a hunter is she? Urulani thought. Maybe her specialty is deaf beasts that have to be wrestled to death.
Pushing past another fern, Urulani found the trail easier to follow as the jungle gave way to a colossal ancient structure. The domed roof had partially collapsed but the walls seemed largely intact. Urulani wondered for a moment why the Ambeth had not used this structure for shelter rather than rebuild at the edge of the river. The trail of the two women led very clearly across the broken, dirty flagstones to a wide set of stairs and a large arched opening.
The noise behind her had stopped.
Urulani turned to look back. “They must have gone in there. We just need to bring them . . .”
The short woman was trembling, her eyes fixed on the ruin before them.
“Philida?” Urulani asked quietly. “What is it?”
“You go,” the Hunt-runner said in a quavering voice.
Urulani opened her mouth, about to say something about it being a violation of clan-law but stopped as she realized that Philida was on the verge of fleeing. Instead she said, “All right. I’ll go get them. You stay right here and I’ll be back.”
“Yes,” Philida gulped.
“I’m going to draw my sword now,” Urulani said evenly. “Right?”
Philida managed to nod her head.
Urulani turned back, slipping her blade from its scabbard. It had been made abundantly clear to her by Philida that “guests” of the Ambeth clan were in violation of any number of clan-laws simply by showing their swords uncovered anywhere at any time. The Sondau woman, her smooth black skin now suddenly damp with perspiration, moved quickly up the steps and into the open, arched portal.
Dim light filtered into the hallway that appeared to run along the interior length of the wall before turning at the corners, the sagging ceiling having fallen completely in several p
laces. The floor was covered in debris. The walls featured faces, dim and indistinct in this light carved in a frieze that ran down the length of the hall.
These lost humans had a fetish for face carvings, Urulani thought to herself, following the clear tracks down the hall toward a passage to her right.
“Li-li . . .”
Urulani froze, her eyes widening in the darkness. She shook her head, drew in a deep breath, and then continued. The tracks definitely led through to the right. She turned and paused again.
This was another hallway, but the walls were of wood. She could hear them creaking as she passed them, moving toward the intersection with another hall toward the end. There the halls turned left and right. She could see where these, too, continued deeper into the building.
“Li-li . . .”
She had definitely heard the voice that time. It echoed down the hallway so badly that she was uncertain as to its direction. She could not tell if it was Mala’s voice or that of the Lyric, but it must have been one of the two of them. How either of them knew to call her by that name was a mystery that angered her. No one called her that anymore.
She hurried down the hall to her left, following it to the right and then stopping at another intersection. Two branching hallways went into the darkness on her left or her right while the one in front of her continued a while before also turning right.
Urulani gritted her teeth.
“A labyrinth,” she muttered. “I hate labyrinths.”
“Li-li!”
Urulani whirled about, but there was no one behind her. She was sure the voice had been close, so close that it she thought she felt the breath on her neck.
“Where are you?” she called out.
“Come, Li-li . . . Come and find me.”
Urulani adjusted the grip on her sword. It must have been the Lyric, she thought, moving cautiously down the narrow hall. She and Mala playing their own little game in the ruins like children—too foolish and young to know that there are dangers in the world. What was she doing here, anyway? Charging in to rescue these two women who represented everything she hated. The Lyric who changed who she was and what she knew more often than the sun dawned. Urulani prized reason, tactics, and thought—while this woman placed them all in danger by her madness.
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