But how could he not think of the Fáil when he knew that it held the answers to the challenge entrusted to him and his friends by the High Architect as she was dying. The continuing purpose of that quest still faced them. Soon, though it might be the most dangerous force in the universe, he would have to confront it. And Milish was right: even thinking about it, he felt its terrible awareness focus on him.
“First we rest,” he said, quietly, calmly, his words addressed more to Mo than to Milish. “Then we organize.”
Milish’s brown eyes assessed the waiting crowds. “For the moment let us give thanks that fate has preserved us. Let us not look grim and whisper.” Milish lifted her arm to wave, and her face was smiling at the fluttering ribbons and the dancing lights.
The Temple Ship then heeled around a buttressed corner of the ancient walls, where a tall tower hovered a hundred and fifty feet above them, and it approached a second gate, more openly constructed than the Water Gate.
“This is the Harbor Gate,” said Milish. “And I am pleased to find it open to us. It would appear that the Prince Ebrit, the Elector, has seen fit to welcome us. But be warned—this is a city that knows only intrigues.”
The Temple Ship halted a hundred yards out, in deeper water.
Soon a barque of state, of gilded and tapestried finery, emerged through the wide-flung gates, and many oars dipped and pulled in perfect harmony as its shallow draught skimmed over the waves. A great cheer sounded from the Shee and the Olhyiu on board, to be answered by the thousands of people holding aloft their candles of welcome.
On the dock, as if disdaining to join those aboard the approaching vessel, Alan sensed a powerful mind. He searched the distant mass of figures until he found its source: a very old woman who stood alone in the shadows of the gate, her toothless mouth collapsed and wrinkled, her back stooped and bent over a staff of power. For a moment he was shocked to sense her warning:
Beware the object of your quest. It may prove a poisoned chalice.
A second presence, a good deal more hostile, caused a thrill of alarm to pulse in the oraculum. Alan glimpsed a tall man with a bearlike head, one of his arms replaced by a false limb of black metal. Could it possibly be Snakoil Kawkaw? Alan shook his head, keeping a protective arm enfolded around Mo.
He would face any new challenge when it arose. Today Carfon welcomed them like the buds of spring after a famine winter.
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks to my agent Leslie Gardner for her encouragement and advice in writing this book, and to Dr. Hilary Johnson and her agency and my editors, Dr. David V. Barrett and Laura H. Booth, for their courtesy and thoughtful contribution to the final script. It is also a great pleasure to thank my artistic collaborator, Mark Salwowski, whose cover illustrations for my books have been an inspiration over many years. I also want to proffer my grateful thanks to Brendan Murphy, whose belief and practical support was greatly appreciated. Finally, I am indebted, as always, to my wife Barbara for her patience and indefatigable support.
Frank P. Ryan is a multiple-bestselling author, in the UK and US. His other fiction includes the thrillers Goodbye Baby Blue and Tiger Tiger. His books have been translated into more than ten different languages. Born in Ireland, he now lives in England.
Visit him at www.frankpryan.com
The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) Page 51