Before the afternoon was over they came to a line of camels trudging slowly along the road. The camels walked with a curious, lurching motion, swaying their heavy bundles with each step and protesting loudly at the folk who walked beside them. Some were led with harnesses, others were simply prodded with sticks from behind when it seemed necessary. It was all done with what appeared to be the maximum amount of noise and confusion. Children and old folk alike trudged along beside their camels, only a few rode on the backs of the beasts, for each one that did lessened the saleable load the animal could carry.
To add to the confusion of camels protesting and men shouting came the gallop of horses. The caravan was escorted by a troop of armed horsemen who rode wildly up and down the length of the caravan for no apparent reason, except, perhaps to frighten the camels and stir up more dust.
As soon as Menish and his company were seen a detachment of horsemen broke away from the others and rode towards them. Menish told Althak to unfurl his standard and waited for them to arrive. The caravan horsemen careered towards them at full gallop, pulling their horses to a halt at the last minute. It was not until the dust cleared that they could speak to each other.
“Greetings,” said Menish. “We travel in peace and do not raid.” It was a formal greeting, not quite necessary for Menish to give but polite anyway.
“We also do not raid. You're welcome, Sire.” The captain of the horsemen was a big man for an Anthorian, a northerner by the look of him. His fighting gear was in good condition, a polished bronze helmet and a jewelled sword hilt. Guarding caravans paid well.
Menish did not recognise him until he removed his helmet, even so he only knew the man vaguely. His father and Grath’s were cousins, members of the same clan anyway. He could not think of his name.
“You're travelling to Meyathal?” Menish nodded.
“Any trouble on the roads?”
“Not this trip, Sire. The raiders rarely attack a guarded caravan these days.”
“Raiding caravans is, of course, against the law,” said Menish.
“But we all know it happens, Sire. There's the fine point as to what defines a caravan and what defines a herd. I've seen a clan chief throw a caravanner’s objection out of court because the raider claimed it was a herd, not a caravan, he was raiding.”
“I'm aware of the difficulty. I suppose it keeps you well enough fed, although I hate to think what the Relanese merchants must think of us.”
They travelled with the caravan for the rest of the day and camped with them at nightfall. Like most Anthorian caravans, it was owned by Relanese merchants. There were many of these nowadays. Many aristocratic Relanese left alive after the battle with Gashan had fled with their families to Anthor when Sinalth invaded Relanor. Most did not adapt well to the Anthorian ways, having little skill with herding animals, and they could make no sense of the raiding laws. A generation had grown up of homeless folk who wandered between Anthor and Relanor trading animal hides and medicinal ambroth for Relanese luxuries.
The caravan folk certainly looked more Relanese than Anthorian. They were taller and finer boned, and they wore colourful clothing. The women wore brightly coloured tunics like those Relanised Vorthenki they had seen in Atonir. At first they were shy of the newcomers. Menish introduced himself to the caravan master, a grave-faced man named Drinamuz, but the rest of them continued about their business, casting covert glances at Menish’s company.
When evening came, however, Keashil brought out her harp and they all drew close around the fire. Drinamuz and the other men laughed and drank with Menish’s company, though they preferred warmed ale to ambroth. Their women, who otherwise stayed around their own fire a short distance away, served them hot bowls of mein with dried meat stirred into it. But there was a sense of loss among these displaced Relanese. They spoke of Atonir as a city of lost grandeur and fallen greatness, though they approved of the Emperor. For them, even though many of them had been born since the invasion, there could never be anything like the good, old days again.
The caravan was travelling north, carrying Relanese goods into Anthor, and, being merchants, they drew out the wares they carried. There were swords and shields, rhinoceros hides to be made into battle jerkins, and silver bracelets for the Anthorian women, the only ornament they would wear.
Menish looked through the hides. Several were very good, thick and tough but still pliable. They had been well cured. He bought two of them, one for Drinagish and one for Hrangil. Hrangil’s present jerkin was worn and cut, Drinagish was still using the one he was given two years ago and he had grown since then. While he was buying presents Menish could not forget Althak who had saved his life so recently during the fight with the pirates. But hides would not do. Althak wore a metal breastplate not a fighting jerkin. The curved swords Drinamuz hoped to sell to the Anthorians would also not suit him. But Menish noticed a jewelled belt among the traders’ goods. It was a garish thing studded with gold knobs and sparkling with red enamel. It might have been Relanese but it looked Vorthenki. He bought it and Althak was delighted.
They left the caravan next morning. Their horses could travel much faster than the walking pace of the camels and they had no desire to slow their pace. Azkun was sad to leave them. They reminded him of the deer he had seen in the forest when he had run from the death of the pig. It seemed long ago now. Unlike the Anthorians these people’s answer to violence was to run from it. He did not have a chance to tell them about the dragons.
The day was cold until the sun rose. They were now skirting the edge of the wide plains of Anthor where the nights were cold and the days hot. It was a land of open spaces where they could see for miles and miles and the sky was vast and blue over their heads.
Twice that day they saw distant herds moving across the plains and once they saw a thal, a group of tents pitched in the lee of a low rise. They were almost too distant to recognise and Azkun could only make out that they were round and white. He supposed they were similar to the tents the merchants had pitched the night before.
In the afternoon a chill wind rose from the east which made them clutch their cloaks around them tightly.
As dusk approached they found a hollow in the ground which was sheltered by a rocky outcrop from the worst of the wind. A copse of trees, one of the few they had seen on the empty plains, stood not far away and Althak suggested it might be warmer under the trees. Hrangil snapped at him and Menish said nothing so they made a small fire in the hollow and ate. It was very cold. A frost stole across the plains. They wrapped themselves in their blankets and made themselves as comfortable as they could on the rocky ground.
It must have been several hours later that Azkun awoke, for the moon had risen high in the sky. It was full tonight and it shone with an ice-cold light. To Azkun it seemed larger than usual. The moonlight that filled the night was intense, almost dazzling to him, but it was no more than moonlight.
He sat up, expecting the whole plain to be alive with white light. It was not, of course. The white frost had dusted the ground, glistening fairy-like in the moonlight and a thin mist drifted in the hollows, confusing his vision in the dimness.
But there was more. Something in the air that tasted like menace, or a promise. Like a distant melody that haunted him from afar. It was so like music that he glanced to where Keashil lay. But Althak’s harp lay silently beside her filled with moonlight.
Movement caught the corner of his eye at the same moment he realised that Tenari was not beside him. He could see her, or a figure that must be her, gliding silently over the frost towards the group of trees.
A chill that was more than just the frost ate into his bones. He pulled his blankets around him tightly and shivered. It did not occur to him to follow her at first but as she disappeared among the trees that strange feeling grew stronger.
Silently he rose, still clutching his blanket around him, and followed. Her path was clearly marked out on the frosty ground. Frozen grass crunched under his feet and the co
ld could be felt through his boots.
The strangeness grew into an exquisite pain that was not pain as he approached the trees. They loomed darkly ahead of him, and among them the moonlight was reflected off something.
Under the trees it was warmer, as Althak had said it would be. What had Hrangil said about this place? He could not remember. The frost had not come here but it was still very cold. He pushed his way through a brake of undergrowth, following Tenari’s clear path of turned leaves and broken twigs.
Beyond the undergrowth he found himself in an open space where the trees crowded darkly against the sky. A ring of pale stones, each as tall as a Vorthenki, gleamed whitely in the moonlight and in the centre of the ring stood Tenari gazing at him dumbly.
Other than her blank gaze she gave him no acknowledgement. The strangeness in the air intensified here; the very stones were haunted by it. He stepped towards her, wanting to speak but hesitating, as if his voice might break some deep magic.
Magic was almost tangible. It swam in the moonlight and lurked in the shadows. The ring of stones was alive with it.
With a sudden clarity of vision Azkun realised that the stones were indeed alive. On each stone was carved an eye, and each eye was looking at him with silent inscrutability. He could feel their minds, or the moonlit shadows of their minds, as they surveyed him with an awful depth of vision, as if they looked into his very soul.
He felt suffocated by their gaze. They seemed to be dissecting him. When he tried to cry out no sound came from his throat. His limbs were lead weights. He tried to run, grabbing at Tenari’s arm to pull her with him but his legs buckled, pitching him forward. His head struck something and darkness blotted out the moonlight.
He awoke just before sunrise stiff with cold and sore from lying on the hard ground. His blankets had rolled off him in the night. No one else was awake yet so he rose as quietly as he could and walked away from the hollow to stretch his legs. His dream bothered him. Not far away the copse of trees hunched like a crouched animal. He wondered if he should go and see if there was a ring of stones, but he was too uneasy at the thought. It was just a dream, Hrangil had said something about the copse yesterday and he had built it into a nightmare. His head had no injury from his fall. Tenari still lay in the hollow. It was just a dream.
But he found footprints in the frost that matched his own leading to the copse. None returned and Tenari’s footprints were nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 21: Meyathal
The dream haunted him for the next two days as they travelled through the mountains that separated the plains of Relanor from the pastures and deserts of Anthor. The icy wind left them as they entered the relative shelter of the mountains but a thin, misty drizzle rolled in from the east.
The days were spent hugging wet cloaks around themselves, the nights in sodden blankets around frugal fires of wet wood. Olcish developed a cough and Keashil looked pale and weak. Althak made the lad a brew of herbs he found on a hillside, but the cough only grew worse. Menish’s leg began to pain him again but he said nothing. Home was not far away and there he would find relief, not before.
For Azkun the weather was a minor discomfort compared to the unease of his dream. He felt the eyes of the stones staring at him as they travelled, hidden behind trees and rocks, making evil plans for him. They haunted him.
Once he ventured to ask Hrangil what he knew about the copse of trees, but he told no one of his dream. That would admit its reality. Hrangil made vague, sinister references to the evil Monnar who built magic circles in these mountains and killed men there. He knew little about them, and his peculiar way of answering Azkun’s questions, as if it were some obscure test, was both irritating and uninformative.
One thing he did make clear was that the Monnar were responsible for Gilish’s death, for they had told him that the Duzral Eye lay in the Chasm of Kelerish.
Meanwhile the nagging feeling that they were watching him continued and he grew more and more anxious. Was it some judgement from the dragons? The guilt he had acquired unwittingly on the raft of cow skins still lay heavily on him. The guilt that Vorish had given him by having that man executed in his place was also fresh. He had drunk wine against his vow at the banquet at Atonir, was it that? And they had killed a girl for him on that Vorthenki beach. But he found himself glancing sidelong at Tenari. It was she who had led him to the Monnar, it was she who watched him. She was under some spell of theirs, some evil that was part of what they were plotting against him.
Whenever they managed to get a fire going Azkun stared at it, trying to take comfort from the flames and to remember the fire from the dragon. But the fires were pitiful in the damp, as if the Monnar would extinguish all his hopes.
On the second day the countryside opened out onto a broad plain that swept up to the feet of the mountains where it was cut by wide valleys. They crossed several of these valleys during the day. Many-channelled streams wound amongst themselves on the valley floors, swift, cold, shallow and filled with gravel banks.
Late in the day they found themselves on the edge of one of these valleys. It was wider than the previous ones and a deep river flowed in it, winding among tilled fields and herds of cattle. Directly below them the road plunged down the long slope towards a town near the river. It could only be Meyathal.
Menish let out a whoop of joy when he saw it and kicked his tired horse into life. The rest of the company paused at the top of the slope as he sped ahead of them, giving Azkun time to see Meyathal from a distance.
The palace was clearly an imitation of the great palace of Atonir, but a poor imitation. Azkun had by now heard the story of how it had been built long ago by Relanese craftsmen for Harana, the daughter of the Emperor, when she married the son of the King of Anthor. Those craftsmen showed great mastery of their skill, but their works could not rival those of Gilish.
It was also reminiscent of Holdarish and Mora’s house, but those and the other smaller buildings he had seen were probably copied from this.
The result was a many sided building with tall grey stone walls and a wide terrace. It was, perhaps, four stories high, but the roof was complicated and it might have been higher in some places and lower in others. The tops of the walls were decorated with flowing carvings but Azkun could not make out the details from a distance. He guessed that horses and cattle were the dominant themes.
There was a lower wall surrounding the main house with a grandly carved stone gateway in it. Within that wall a number of smaller buildings clustered around the house.
Surrounding the outer walls were stone houses like the ones they had seen in Kronithal, but varying in size from tiny hovels to larger, rambling buildings. Forming a fringe around those were many of the round, white tents that they had seen in the distant thals.
As Menish sped ahead of them towards Meyathal a shout came from a figure on the terrace. Moments later a horseman sped through the open gateway. They charged at each other like warriors in combat. Menish called something that sounded like a war cry. Azkun turned to Althak, wondering what was happening. The Vorthenki was smiling indulgently.
“They've never tired of each other, even after forty years.”
The two riders met, though not with the shattering impact Azkun expected. The horses skidded to a halt at the last moment, the riders leapt off them and clung to each other in an embrace that lasted until the others caught up with them.
Azkun watched them as he and the others approached Menish and his wife. With his eyes he could see them locked in each other’s arms. With his mind he glimpsed their wordless sharing of hearts. It made him think of Vorish and Sonalish, yet for Vorish the Empress was his well of resolution, a thing he almost fed on. What lay between these two was a passion as deep as the sea, in its depths lay a peace they both shared.
They broke apart when the rest of the company stopped their horses. Adhara turned from Menish and smiled at them.
“Greetings, Master Hrangil, Althak, Drinagish. It's joy to see you a
gain. And you, Strangers, welcome to Meyathal. Be at peace in our dwelling.”
Her gaze was fixed on Azkun as she spoke.
Adhara stood half a head taller than Menish. She wore tunic and breeches and a sword hung from her belt. Like Menish she was broad-shouldered and powerfully built. Her bare arms were muscled and looked as though they knew how to wield the sword. A straight scar that looked like an old sword cut ran down one forearm. Azkun could not imagine a woman less like those of the caravan.
Unlike Menish she wore some jewellery. Not nearly as much as Althak, however. Two silver bracelets and a heavy, silver necklace adorned her. Her hair hung loose down her back, a cascade of grey-threaded black, which caught in the breeze.
In a way she was reminiscent of Vorish. An arrogance lay in her face and mind. Her chin was out thrust and her eyes stared at him in open curiosity. But perhaps it was only that he expected her to be deferential like the caravan women.
Menish mounted Adhara’s horse and she sprang up behind him with the reins of Menish’s own horse in her hand. The rest of the company followed them to the gateway.
The gate led them into a courtyard where servants took their horses. Azkun was surprised at the attitude of the servants. They were no less respectful than those in Relanor were but there was something in their manner that echoed Adhara’s arrogance. They were free men. One of them spoke to Menish directly, greeting him as a friend. When she spoke Azkun realised that she and several more of these stable servants were women dressed in tunic and breeches like Adhara. All of the women he had seen in Relanor and in the caravan wore brightly coloured, loose robes and jackets. He had assumed the beardless servants here to be youths. When he thought of it, he remembered that two of the Anthorian horsemen who rode with the caravan had been beardless. He had not heard them speak.
Another thing he noticed while they led away the horses was that every one of the servants wore a sword.
The hall Menish led them to was much smaller than Vorish’s but larger than Holdarish’s. There were tapestries covering cold stone walls, rushes strewn on the floor and a huge hearth along one wall. Kitchen servants, also wearing swords, scurried around the hearth with pots and dishes. As in Holdarish’s house there were weapons hung on the walls in the bare spaces between the tapestries. The Anthorians were a warlike folk.
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