Althak thumped on Azkun’s door until he emerged, bleary eyed. Vorish had provided some travelling clothes for him that fitted better than the ones he had borrowed from Althak. They included a strong, leather jerkin and a short sword. He queried the sword but Althak told him he only had to wear it, not use it. Everyone wore a sword in Anthor. He strapped it around his waist next to Omoth’s jewelled knife. Althak also gave him a bag in which to pack his court clothes. But they travelled light like the couriers, taking no food and only essential clothing with them.
It was still dark and Azkun could not stop yawning. Servants led them through the corridors to waiting horses. There they were met by Vorish who embraced Menish.
“I've been reading the Gash-Tal over again,” Azkun heard him say. He did not look as though he was newly wakened. “Menish, you are not to accompany the expedition to Gashan. I forbid it.”
Menish said nothing to commit himself either way, and Vorish’s expression hardened into annoyance.
“You've been warned then. I can't do more.”
They mounted their horses and clattered across the cobblestones, through the great archways and out into the city streets. The horses were lean beasts, built for speed rather than strength. Azkun could feel his horse's excitement at setting off. It wanted to run.
There were few people about, some stall keepers setting up early and a bakery alight with lamps and full of activity. They passed mounted guards, for Vorish had the streets patrolled at night.
The north gate of the city was lit with many lamps and in their light the shields and armour of the guards were visible. Several stood on watch up on the walls, others manned the gate and a large group huddled around a glowing brazier that kept away the night chill.
As they drew near they were challenged. Althak presented the metal disk that functioned as an Imperial pass and the gates were opened enough for them to pass through single file.
The city ended abruptly with the walls and, when the gate boomed shut behind them, Azkun found himself on the wide plains he had seen from the boat. They spread out in every direction under the starry sky that, in the east, was glowing grey with dawn. The road ran straight as an arrow to the north east, reflected dimly in the starlight. To Azkun it looked magical, as if it rose before them like a stairway to the sky.
While he was still dreaming these thoughts Menish kicked his horse into a gallop.
“Anthor!” he cried. “Home to Anthor!” a shout of joy burst from Althak and Drinagish. Young Olcish, caught in the moment let out a high pitched whoop. The other horses sprang eagerly after the king and they galloped along the starlit road with a wild joy in their hearts. Running, racing was all they lived for.
All day they kept up a mad gallop. Every few hours the travellers stopped at a way station by the road briefly to exchange their tired horses for fresh ones. At noon the pause was long enough to eat and drink, and then they were off again.
The country they passed through was flat at first but by the afternoon it was low, rolling hills. In the lowlands the flat fields were swampy but lush and people waded through the mud tending watery crops that were growing vigorously. In the higher country the fields were drier but no less lush. There were small villages where chimneys smoked from mud houses and dogs barked.
In the late afternoon the country became flat again and they skirted wide lakes where men in little boats paddled or waited with lines on poles for fish. One of the lakes had a whole village built out over the water on poles. It was full of boats and people coming and going. Azkun was interested, but they did not stop there.
They rode on into the night until Azkun was nearly asleep on his horse. At last they came to another city. All Azkun noticed was that it was rather like Atonir, including a palace, and they had to cross a great bridge to reach it.
They passed the gate guards and rode to the palace where Athun met them. He had ridden back from Atonir the previous day. The city, Althak told Azkun, was named Askonir and Athun was the Drinol of the city. He looked as tired as Azkun felt. His palace was alive with soldiers, officers shouting orders, cavalry drilling and, in the smithies, the clang and clash of metal on metal. Preparations for the war with Gashan, if it were confirmed, were already under way.
Even as Athun welcomed them a messenger came to him with news of horse counts from further up the river. He ran a weary hand through his dark hair and bade them follow him.
Inside the palace they were provided with rooms and servants. Baths were filled and food was provided. It was already after the main meal of the day so they ate in their rooms, not in the great hall. Azkun did not wait for them to finish eating or bathing. He found his bed and, without bothering to remove his jerkin, went to sleep.
The next day began much the same as the last. A thump on his door before dawn and a wild gallop across the plains. When they stopped for their brief noon meal Azkun could see that the land was becoming more hilly again. Away in the blue distance the hills rose to mountains with a hint of higher mountains beyond.
In the middle distance the ground rose to a blue-black crag that leapt out of the treeless plains. Menish and Hrangil stared at it as they ate their dried meat and fruit.
“I will see the Keeper,” said Menish, a grimness in his voice.
“Sire? The Keeper?”
“Yes, I have… questions for him.”
“The Eye?”
But Menish did not answer. He swung himself up onto his horse and waited silently for the others to mount. Then they galloped off on the road towards the crag.
As the afternoon wore on the details of the crag became clearer: a tall finger of stone pointed skywards, black on the black crag below it. Smoke curled from the tip of the finger and, when dusk enclosed them, a twinkling, yellow light shone from there. They rode on into the night towards it until they came to the foot of the crag. A small post-house stood there, the crag looming above it and the stone tower with its light above that.
They were met by a tall, lean man with a grim mouth and eyes that glowed in the light of the lamp he held. Unlike the other way station attendants, and they had met many in the last two days, this one spoke no word of greeting. Althak presented him with the Imperial pass he carried but the man looked at Menish and nodded as if he recognised him.
“I wish to speak with the Keeper of the Flame,” said Menish.
The man nodded again and beckoned them to follow him inside the post-house.
It was like the many others they had seen in the past two days: a simple, two roomed, stone building with straw pallets in one room and benches and tables in the other. The man’s silent manner stifled any other speech and Althak half whispered an explanation to Azkun.
“He's forgotten speech. Up there,” he indicated the tower on the crag, “they tend their fire for years and years without uttering a word.”
Menish indicated that Azkun was to accompany him, Tenari followed without being asked. The post-house man led them through a rear door. The night closed around them as they were taken along a narrow path that wound up the crag to the solemn tower above.
It was not a long climb, for the crag was not high, but it was difficult. In some places it was treacherous. Loose rocks turned under their feet and others were slippery. Even the lamp was of little use, for the rock of the crag was black and appeared to eat up the cheerful, yellow light. Their guide went slowly ahead of them, effortlessly for he knew the path, but he made no effort to warn them of obstacles.
Azkun, who had not been bothered by the night since Tenari had appeared, felt that there were spectres not far away. They could not see him yet, but they were there. He pulled Tenari closer to him as he walked.
She had changed over the last two days, reverting to her previous blankness. The miles on horseback obviously did not agree with her.
When they reached the top of the crag their legs and eyes ached from the strain and the silence of the place had enfolded them. They stood at the base of the tower whose black stone rose sheer and windowless from the rock of the crag to a dizzying height above. No doubt, thought Azkun, it was built by Gilish. High above them the fire burned. They could see its flames leaping over the crest of the tower.
A door opened at the foot of the tower as they approached and a robed figure beckoned them silently inside. Azkun could sense the awe Menish felt at this place. It was an awe that bordered on, but was not quite, fear. They entered the doorway and found themselves in pitch darkness. The door boomed shut behind them and they heard the sound of heavy bolts sliding into place. The darkness and the silence crowded around them. From the echoes of their footsteps Azkun realised that they were in a large room. He was also aware that the room was full of people. People who were silently waiting in the darkness.
People or spectres? He still held Tenari’s arm but he could see nothing in the blackness. The muffled breathing of a large company surrounded them. He shuddered. The waiting went on and on until he was too terrified to move, afraid to draw attention to himself. He could only stand and wait for them to come for him.
There was a sudden flash of light, blinding after the darkness. A great fire erupted before them, which climbed to a high ceiling and then sank to a yellow glow. On the far side of the flame, on a high, black throne, sat an old man. He was so old his flesh had withered onto his bones and his hands trembled like small branches stirred by the wind.
Surrounding them on every side were silent figures who stood motionless as statues. Hooded cloaks obscured their features making them seem like black-robed spectres waiting for prey.
The Keeper of the Flame rose slowly to his feet, a stick-like arm raised in greeting. “Welcome to the fires of Am-Goluz. May Aton grant that you find what you seek, if what you seek is yours to find,” he croaked, then he sat back on his throne. “You may approach.”
Menish led his company forward, past the flames to the steps that led to the throne. His heart pounded as he looked into the ancient face of the Keeper.
“You are the same keeper?” he demanded. The silence of the place turned his voice into a hoarse whisper.
“I am the same. Many years ago I remember a younger man with a heavy burden who came to me from the burning of Atonir. You had a child, a boy, with you then. I told you he would become Emperor.”
“It was more than twenty years ago. You were old then. How?”
Amusement tinged the Keeper’s face.
“I was ancient then. Menish, must you doubt so? What was your reason for coming here?”
Menish paused, wondering how old the Keeper really was, but not daring to ask in case the answer stretched his credibility too far.
“I came to tell you she is alive.”
“The woman you left to die? I am glad. You are free of murder.”
To Menish his words sounded like an accusation.
“She drugged me!”
“Your condemnation is from yourself not me. Relanor does not see a crime in such things. It is the Anthorian in you that condemns you. You never told your wife.”
“Of course not. I curse the day I went to Atonir.”
“Is that all?” The Keeper’s gaze wandered over to Azkun and Tenari.
“No, I bring you a question. Do you know who this man is? He doesn't eat or drink, he has stood in dragon fire unscathed.”
The Keeper regarded Azkun for a long moment then he turned back to Menish. There was a hint of a smile on his face.
“You call him Azkun and he comes from Kelerish. You would have added that he drove away a korolith, or so the Vorthenki call them. He calmed a storm, but you do not believe that, King of Anthor. And he raised a man from death. He is the son of Thalissa, the woman you thought you had killed.
“But all this you know, you wish me to tell you if he is Gilish or Kopth. And I can answer that question.” He paused, watching them with amusement. “You are going to the land of Gashan. This Azkun will, in Gashan, declare himself to be Gilish.”
“That's not what the priests of Atonir thought,” said Menish.
“The priests of Atonir are fools. What do they know of power? Only our flame has been alight since Gilish placed it here himself. Theirs was allowed to die and be rekindled three times. Only our flame holds the truth!”
As the echoes of his shouts subsided the Keeper made an odd, choking sound that Menish did not immediately recognise as laughter. Menish found himself wondering what made a man take the vows of eternal silence that bound him to the fire tower: a fear of the outside world or a yearning for mystic power?
“You came to me for an answer and you do not like my answer. So be it, but that is still my answer. Yet perhaps I can give you something for your remaining guilt.”
“I told you she drugged me!”
“Of course, yet you still blame yourself. Such guilt is easily paid for by placing Vorish on the throne.”
“Vorish? You approve of him? Why?”
“What do you know of us, Menish of Anthor? You have visited a Fire Tower but once before in your life. The rest you know is mere rumours, the idle talk of men outside. Yet you presume to know of whom we approve and disapprove.”
“I only know that Vorish tolerates you. He doesn't visit you, he doesn't leave offerings before your fires.”
“Do you think we care? Does our power rest only with the approval of the Emperor?”
“Power? You'd speak to me of power? Where were you when Telish was killed?” retorted Menish. “I have said all I wanted to. I do not accept your answer about Azkun. But I wanted to tell you that Thalissa is alive.”
He turned and faced the cloaked figures that stood motionless in the shadows. Before he could walk towards the door the Keeper called him back.
“Stop, Menish of Anthor. I have not dismissed you. You are presumptuous, yet you will be humbled before the Fire.” In front of him the fire leapt high into the air with a roar and Menish threw up his hands to shield his face. “I have something more to say to you.”
Menish turned and faced the old Keeper, angry at him and yet awed. “What is it?”
The Keeper leaned back on his throne and a look like glee crossed his face.
“The ways of Aton are strange, as mysterious as the shape of fire, as unknowable as the dwelling place of the Ammorl. You do not see it yet, Menish. After thirty years you have not seen it. Yet we have known, we who sit in this tower, we who never leave it. The ways of Aton are strange.” He leaned forward.
“We approve of Vorish. We absolve you of guilt. You are his father.”
“What?”
“Of course. How could you not know? He has the look of you.”
Vorish had dark, Anthorian eyes but he was otherwise Vorthenki looking. Menish had always thought he looked like Thalissa.
“He looks like his mother, you haven't seen him.”
“And he looks like his father. Did you not commit your crime nine months before he was born?”
Menish’s mind raced as he tried to remember over thirty years before. He had been in Anthor when Vorish was born. The Vorthenki had not used the Relanese calendar in those days and they were still rather haphazard about recording birth dates. The timing might or might not be correct, he did not know.
“So you see,” the Keeper went on, “you have placed an emperor of the line of Gilish on the throne. Not, unfortunately a direct descent in the male line, but for the present we are content. The means are not relevant. Do we not call Gilish ‘the two handed’ for that reason?”
Menish said nothing. He simply glared at the Keeper as if he had insulted him.
“You may go,” the keeper dismissed him. Muttering oaths Menish turned and walked to the door.