Despite the cold the night was beautiful. But with his usual perversity Erimenes chose to wax morbid as Fost and Moriana supped on gruel.
'Rann may concentrate his search farther east, as you say, Princess,' he said, with an obsequious bow in Moriana's direction. When they had stopped for the night, Fost had yielded to Erimenes's pleas and uncorked his jar. Now the spirit rose from the broad mouth of the jug, a thin spire of glowing blue haze that grew and resolved itself into the figure of a man. Except for his complexion Erimenes appeared much as he must have in life: a gaunt man of medium height, high of brow and ascetic of feature, with a lordly prow of a nose that seemed designed expressly for peering down at those of lesser intellectual attainments. The spirit looked exactly what he was, one of the more renowned philosophers of a city famed for its savants. Only a certain gleam in his eyes and a few lines etched around his aristocratic mouth hinted that Erimenes the Ethical had undergone a change since departing corporeal life.
When Moriana did not respond, he turned his attention back to Fost. 'Even so, you must cross the southernmost reaches of the steppe, and then cross the domain of the barbarians who dwell in the shadows of the Ramparts. They are known to be most inhospitable to strangers.'
Fost rubbed his chin, wishing they had a fire. But even if they had possessed fuel for one, a rare commodity on the virtually treeless steppe, they would not have dared light it. An airborne observer could sight even a spark for miles.
'I've heard of them,' he said. 'Nomad warriors, insanely suspicious, feuding among themselves like the clans of the Highgrass Broad. I've never been this far south before - not much call to make deliveries in these parts. But it's said they ride all manner of outlandish creatures, bears and badgers and outsized goats. No fit mounts for civilized folk, not like a good war dog.' He caught the look Moriana shot him. 'Or giant eagles,' he amended. 'But that may be just campfire gossip. You know how couriers are.'
'Don't mention fires,' Moriana said, drawing closer. Fost grinned and put his arm around her.
Erimenes shook his head. 'Never have I seen folk so eager to commit suicide,' he said. 'And two so young! A shame to die, with all your lives before you.'
'You're an old woman, Erimenes,' Moriana said, looking at him wryly. 'I'm not afraid of any skin-clad savages, no matter how unorthodox their mounts. Fost is right; rumour is as fickle as a fire sprite. These nomads of yours are probably starving and as timid as mice.' She shook back her hair defiantly. 'And even if they're not, what of it? I'm a princess of the City in the Sky. What have I to fear from a passel of wretched groundlings? I mean . . .' She blinked, and her skin darkened in the starlight.
Fost laughed at her eagerness to correct herself. The Sky Citizens' disdain for those who dwell beneath their feel had been obvious to him the instant he entered the City. During his short stay in the City, he'd become acquainted with their favorite derogatory term for their earthbound fellows.
'And what of the storms?' Erimenes asked, returning to his point like a dog to its bone. 'The Ramparts bear the brunt of the antarctic storms, but it is fast becoming winter. How will you find your way when a white wall of snow blocks your vision past the tip of your nose? How will you find food, shelter?'
'We've food a-plenty, Erimenes.' Fost held up the bowl he shared with Moriana. As always when uncovered, it magically brimmed with an infinite load of unappetizing, murky, thin porridge. Ebony filigreed with silver, the bowl had been part of Fost's meagre loot from the keep of Kesti-i-Mond, the mage to whom he'd been sent to deliver Erimenes some weeks before. Moriana wrinkled her nose.
Though nourishing, the gruel lacked anything resembling taste.
'For shelter we can dig in,' Fost continued, 'and I have a tent when the ground gets too hard. By that point the storms will probably be severe enough to ground Rann's bird-riders so we won't have to worry about concealment.'
An idea hit him. 'I know Rann's Sky Guardsmen are proof against your sorceries,' he said to Moriana, 'but do you have any power over weather? If you can whistle us up some nice, low clouds, we'll have nary a worry about running into your cousin.'
'I've some of the weather magic,' she admitted, 'but no vast amount. It is a field all its own, one requiring much study and certain affinities I lack. The best I can do is - how can I say it? - shape and expand existing weather patterns, harness forces already set in motion by nature or the gods. I cannot create a cloud, but if one appears nearby I can influence it. Likewise a storm.'
'Excellent.' Fost brightened. 'There's usually an overcast in the morning. If you get started early . ..'
'I don't think you understand,' Moriana said quietly. 'My control over weather is imperfect. At this time of year, so near the Southern Waste, I wouldn't dare to tamper with a storm. If I tried to make it grow it would probably get away from me. We could wind up in twenty feet of snow.'
'Oh.' 'Doomed,' Erimenes intoned. 'A shame. A sorrow. A waste.' Moriana put her chin in her hand and stared at him in exasperation.
'You, Princess,' the spirit said. 'So lovely, so fine and noble of limb and face. What a pity such a vision of loveliness should be nipped in the bud.'
'You're mixing metaphors, Erimenes,' Fost said. 'And you, even if you are lowborn and something of a guttersnipe, you're not displeasing to the feminine eye, I should say. Those muscles, while they could be larger, are far from insignificant. Remember the adventures you've known with other ladies. Would you throw all that away? I remember sweet Eliska .. .'
Fost shook the jug hard enough to disintegrate the vaporous being momentarily. Actinic sparks swarmed within the luminous cloud, dancing like agitated insects. Erimenes's face reappeared wearing an expression of supreme indignation. 'That was an ungentlemanly thing to do,' he sniffed. 'Most rude.'
'This is not the time to elaborate on my, uh, adventures,' Fost said. He rested his hand on the jug, lightly but menacingly, to show the spirit that more of the same could be expected if he continued that line of conversation in Moriana's presence.
'Spoilsport,' Erimenes pouted. He turned a sorrowful face to the princess. 'Have pity on a poor, disembodied spirit,' he said. 'Turn back from this mad escapade. Don't leave me stranded to spend eternity on the steppe beside your bleaching bones.'
'So that's why you're so against us going south, Erimenes’ said Moriana. 'You're afraid we'll both be killed and leave you helpless and alone. There wouldn't be any more vicarious excitement then, my nebulous friend, would there?'
'My foremost concern is the welfare of you, my two best friends in all the world,' the spirit said, sincerity ringing from his words.
'I'm sure,' said Fost sarcastically. He eyed the spirit intently. He had the feeling Erimenes's reluctance to venture south depended on more than fear of being marooned.
The spirit looked keenly at him, then at Moriana. 'You're still determined?' They nodded in unison.
He sighed. 'Well,' he said, 'if you are committed to this folly, so be it. But since you have so little of life left, why not make the most of the time at hand?' A knowing leer marred the spirit's distinguished features. Fost sighed. Erimenes was up to his old tricks again.
In life Erimenes the Ethical had preached a turning away from all wordly concerns - and most especially the pleasures of the flesh. So great was the power of his mind, he maintained, and so total his otherworldliness, that on the death of his body his spirit survived to be immured in an Athalar spirit jug. But Erimenes's after-life was blighted by a tragic irony.
Death had brought a revelation to the ascetic philosopher: The only worthy life, he decided after centuries in the jug, was one of utter hedonism, the only goal sheer physical pleasure.
Both of which it was now too late for him to enjoy. He could, however, watch others live their lives and experience through them the sensations forever denied him. If those around him did not show what he considered a properly hedonistic outlook, he was quick to offer suggestions. At the best of times it made him a nuisance. At the worst, when danger loomed an
d his bloodlust was aroused, it proved perilous. Erimenes was indispensable to their quest for the Amulet of Living Flame and eternal life, but sometimes both Fost and Moriana wondered if immortality was sufficient recompense for putting up with him.
Something small and warm slipped inside Fost's cloak and into his jerkin. He looked down at Moriana. She smiled slowly and kissed him.
'It's cold out,' she said, nuzzling closer. 'And who knows? Perhaps tomorrow we will hear Hell Call. For once I think our friend's advice is sound.'
'Since you put it that way . ..' Fost began. She stopped his mouth with hers.
And for a time the cold of night was banished. The tenth day after their flight from the City, they reached the foothills of the Rampart Mountains. The Ramparts blocked off the huge ice-sheets and the bitterest cold of the Southern Waste, but the wind blew southerly, its tendrils seeking out every winding passage through the Ramparts to clutch at the travelers' limbs like frigid, insistent fingers. The night was simply too cold to be walking. Marching during the day had not pleased Fost at first. Should Rann have bird-riders on picket duty along the north face of the Ramparts, the arduous journey could come to a short, ugly end.
'If Rann comes this way he won't patrol this region with less than his full force,' Moriana had assured him. 'The thulyakhashawin lair in these mountains.' The thulyakhashawin were winged foxes, the only flighted creatures in the Realm capable of meeting the eagles of the Sky City on equal terms in the air. Not bats but actually winged vulpine carnivores, the thulyakhashawin hunted in packs and attacked the Sky City birds on sight. This news had alarmed Fost as much as the thought of Rann finding them, and Moriana's assurance that the foxes seldom attacked humans afoot did little to soothe him.
'Well,' he said, looking up, 'we'll not be plagued by eagles or foxes today.' The clouds hung dense and impenetrable, so low it seemed as it he could reach out and touch them. It was as if a fluffy white roof had been laid above the rocky hummocks that had begun to interrupt the steppe.
'Brrr.' Moriana shivered and drew close to him as a gust of wind blasted into their faces. She wore her gold-lined maroon cloak, the one she'd left with Fost in the forest after robbing him of Erimenes. He had taken it from his sled along with the other gear, which now rode in a knapsack slung on his back.
Fost squinted into the wind, tears rolling down his cheeks. 'That damned gruel doesn't do much to warm a body,' he said. The cloud cover took his words and cast them back in a flat, ghostly echo. It was as if they had somehow stumbled into a gigantic hollow chamber.
'You've no one to blame but yourself,' Erimenes said. 'You insisted on coming this way against all my good advice.'
'It's doubtless just as cold to the East,' Fost pointed out. Erimenes lapsed into sulky silence. Fost sucked in his cheeks. At first he had relished Erimenes's lack of verbosity, but of late he'd come to share Moriana's suspicions. The spirit had displayed unexpected abilities at the fight back in the ravine. He was, after all, born in Athalau, though he had lived long after the heyday of that city. It was unlikely Erimenes would tell more of his powers unless it suited him, and Fost could think of no way to compel him. With one hand hugging Moriana close and the other holding his own cloak shut against the gelid wind, Fost put his head down and trudged on into the stiff gale.
They had walked for what seemed an eternity when the blizzard struck. The wall of white rolled over them like an avalanche. At first, blinking at it as the gusts stabbed his eyes like daggers, Fost thought it was the cloud that perpetually hung over the Great Crater Lake. According to Moriana a volcanic vent at the bottom of the lake kept it from freezing even in the deepest cold, and the steam that rose from the warm waters held heat within the crater like a lid covering a bowl.
'Look,' he said, fingers plucking at Moriana's shoulder. 'The cloud - we've made it!' Thoughts of sinking his half-frozen limbs in balmy water drove him forward. He broke into a run, dragging the princess with him.
He saw dancing motes of whiteness, and the snow swept over him like a tide. He cried out in disappointment, wiping the snowflakes from his face and watching them melt slowly on his palm. Moriana glanced up at him but said nothing.
He shook his head violently. The nervous strain and physical exhaustion of the last two weeks were wearing him down. The erosion of his strength and will could be as deadly a foe as the cold or the forces of the Sky City. 'We should stop and try to ride the storm out,' he shouted above the clamor of the wind. 'It's death to keep moving through a blizzard like this.'
Moriana shook her head. 'There's no place to take shelter, and the ground is too frozen to dig in.' She waved a hand to still his protests. 'I know we could sit with our backs to the wind, huddling beneath our cloaks for warmth. But why delay what must be? All that could save us would be a fire, and we don't have any dry fuel. I'd rather meet my fate standing up - and fighting.'
Erimenes spoke. The torrents of wind washed away his words. Fost's arguments died unspoken. What difference does it make? he asked himself. If the storm subsides, we may have a chance. Otherwise we die, sooner or later. What do a few miserable hours matter? He bent his head and walked on.
The snow mounted until they stumbled through deep drifts, their feet leaden. The cold leeched thought and emotion from their minds as it sucked the heat from their bodies. They moved through a white swirling fog that existed as much inside their skulls as without. Fost tripped over an unseen obstacle and fell. The wet bite of the snow on his numb face revived him for a moment. Moriana apathetically helped him to his feet. A few minutes more and the spark of life that had flared within him died until he was scarcely aware of who he was.
Knives stabbed up his calves at every step. He vaguely welcomed the pain as a sign that some life still lingered. His lungs burned. The force of the wind was like a river at full flood. It took all his dwindling strength to make headway.
The white hours passed, a waking nightmare of featureless, icy, surreal tapestry. A voice cried for him to stop, to sink into the snow and conserve what vitality remained. He ignored the voice within his skull and concentrated on the task of lifting one dead weight that was a foot and heaving it in front of the other.
What does it matter, what does it matter, what does it matter;1 The question thudded in his brain like slow blows of a mallet. Yet he also heard the words, Listen to me, fool, I can guide you to safety. Curse you, you thickheaded clod of a courier, I can save you!
He stopped short. Moriana plodded on a few steps and then sank to her knees. Cascading snow turned her instantly into a white statue.
'Erimenes?' Fost asked dumbly. 'By the bones of Felarod, yes!' The spirit's words rang inside his mind.
Am I imagining this? he wondered. 'Turn forty-five degrees to your right and proceed,' the voice said. 'You'll come to a gentle slope. Go up it until I tell you where to go from there.'
Fost shook his head. He had aged millennia since the storm began.
Too tired,' he said.
'You mush-brained lout, you'll be more tired soon. Your body temperature is dangerously low. If you lose much more heat, you'll experience eternal rest. And I shall be stuck in the midst of this eternal waste, watching two frozen bodies that instead could be intertwined in acts of fornication.'
Fost blinked. 'I could never imagine a statement like that,' he said, shaking his head hard. From somewhere strength flowed into his limbs like a warm tide. His fingers, toes and nose began to sting as circulation returned. 'Erimenes?'
'Yes, fool, I'm stimulating the flow of your adrenaline. But the effects will soon be gone, and then you'll be beyond my power to help. Get the princess to her feet and move'
Fost struggled forward and shook Moriana's shoulder. Her head swung disconsolately from side to side. 'Lost,' she said. 'We've lost the amulet. What shall become of my City?'
When a second shake produced no further result, Fost stopped, put his hands under her armpits and hauled her upright. She looked at him, green eyes glazed and dull. When he started wa
lking, she went along without protest.
As predicted, the ground soon began to rise in front of him. Slick with snow, it offered little traction to his boot-soles, and he found himself and Moriana floundering along on all fours. When he blinked snow from his eyes to look at the princess, her pale face had set in determined lines. Apparently Erimenes had invigorated her as he had Fost.
The slope went on forever. The fresh vigor ebbed from Fost's brain and limbs, gradually at first, then rapidly draining until he felt as if his life seeped through his boot-soles and into the frigid ground.
Something jarred his knees. It took him a half-dozen heartbeats to realize he'd fallen to his knees on snow-sheathed rock. Even the jagged pain did not tear through the deadness that shrouded his brain.
'Up, up! A few more steps. I beg of you, Fost, stand up and walk!' The note of pleading in Erimenes's words roused Fost to action. Dimly he realized that for the shade to abandon his usual superciliousness was a significant event. He hoisted himself to his feet once more, though it seemed he carried the weight of all the Rampart Mountains on his shoulders.
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