Dusk was falling by the time they rode into Lianar. The last few miles had been easier because the villagers had kept the way clear of obstacles for their own use. The horses, sensing food and warm stables, changed from their reluctant plodding pace to an enthusiastic trot.
They found themselves moving down a cleft in the hills where the forest had dwindled to low scrub and tussock. A tangy salt wind blew in their faces and, not far ahead, they could see the first of the Vorthenki long houses. The smell of cooking fires drifted in the wind.
Azkun’s panic stirred uneasily with the approach of night. The spectres of the darkness gathered around him. But he knew now that this was only night. After the chasm of night would follow dawn. And he could smell smoke. Fire was not far away. He was weary with pain now. His arm was no longer numb, and it ached.
The houses they approached were made of wood and earth and their roofs were thatched with the scrub that grew around them. A doorway darkened the side of the nearest house, it was hung with a heavy curtain. As they passed the curtain was pulled back and a figure stepped out. Azkun caught a glimpse of fire and shadowy forms inside. It made the night seem suddenly deeper. The man in the doorway called something to his fellows inside and more men came out.
The gathering gloom made them difficult to make out, and the firelight was behind them, but Azkun could see that they were as tall as Althak. Their clothes were roughly made unlike his own, and among them stood some children with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. These were pushed back inside the house as soon as their presence was realised by the others. With their movements Azkun caught a glint of metal, an ornament or a weapon. Several of them were shouting to the other houses now and one of them ran to the nearest house. A horn blew, alerting the whole community.
More people appeared. Glints of metal were everywhere. They seemed tense, not quite afraid, but not at ease either.
He wanted to call to them. He was not to he feared. He was the bridge to the dragons. He would not bring the darkness of the chasm to them. But their anxiety had insinuated itself into his own mind and mingled with his native fear of the growing gloom.
“Say something, Althak. Tell them we are friends.” Menish spoke wearily from behind.
Althak nodded to Menish and called something in the Vorthenki tongue. Azkun did not understand it but it carried a tone of reassurance that eased his fear. The tenseness in the air evaporated to a vague uneasiness. Most of the Vorthenki folk returned to their fire sides and the few that remained were more curious than concerned.
But Azkun had been shaken. The darkness gathered about him, releasing its spectres. He clutched at the reins of his horse and clamped his jaw so that his fear would not be voiced. He must have fire.
Then it happened.
The villagers in their doorways wavered like ghosts. They became suddenly transparent. He could hardly see them. For a heartbeat he thought it was just the darkness, but he could still see the houses. The darkness was not complete. Even the hills behind were still solid to his vision. He had seen two nights now. People did not turn to ghosts at night.
He turned to Althak, hoping for an explanation. But before he could speak he realised that Althak was just the same.
Althak noticed his sudden movement and returned it with a raised eyebrow, an unspoken question. His wavering transparency made the gesture into a mocking death’s head with diamond eyes.
“Azkun, what is it?”
But he could not speak. Terror clutched at his throat, robbing him of speech, robbing him of the gift of the dragons. He could not speak to a spectre. He could not admit that this was happening.
A dog barked and they passed more people, all wavering ghosts, all adding to the paralysing terror. Grath, Bolythak, Hrangil, Menish and Drinagish, they were all ghosts. Was this how they had appeared to the pig?
He thought of running, but he had already rejected that way. Flight was madness unless there were some goal. Besides, how could he ever outrun this horror? If only he could reach a fire. But the fires were in the houses and the ghostly forms of the villagers guarded the houses.
Desperately he scanned the skies for the sight of a dragon. But all he saw was the black sky looming over him like death.
They stopped beside a building that was different from the long houses. It was taller and made of stone blocks. A warm glow came from the open doorway, bringing Azkun some relief. But, clustered on the roadway in front of the building, were more ghostly villagers. They stared at the horsemen, especially at Azkun. He felt as if they were sentencing him to death.
Behind it all he could hear a rushing, hissing sound, like the sighing of lost souls, but he could not see its source. More insubstantial figures came out of the building and spoke to the ghost of Althak in their harsh tongue. The others dismounted, but Azkun clung to his horse. It was his anchor of sanity. He stared at his own hands, finding a superficial comfort in their solidity, watching them lest they too dissolved in the darkness.
“Come, Azkun. We've arrived.” It was Althak at his side, or the wavering form that had been Althak. It wanted him to dismount.
“No,” he managed to croak back, a refusal of everything.
“Come, we must go inside. Climb down.”
He shook his head and closed his eyes, shutting out reality, or what was left of it.
Menish called something to Althak, a question and an order, and Azkun felt the hands of the Vorthenki as he was lifted from the horse. The shock of the solidity of his grasp was numbing and the movement hurt his sore arm. Althak set him on his feet and the horses were led away by the ghostly shapes of Grath and Bolythak.
But still he could not move. He did not trust his senses. The ghost of Althak loomed beside him, it asked him questions with Althak’s voice but he refused to listen. With the solidity of the rocks that had tried to kill him, Althak’s ghost pushed him forward towards the door. Ghosts that leered at him from their transparency guarded the door. Then he saw the woman.
She stood apart from the cluster of villagers near the door, a strange little figure among these giants. A loose blue robe hung from her shoulders and fluttered in the wind. She stared at him vacantly, just another curious villager.
But she was different. She was solid. No, more than solid. The others were wavering ghosts blown in the wind, but the buildings were solid; he, himself, was solid. She was like a blinding pillar of light, solid as massive granite in the darkness. He felt himself fading in comparison, paling away to nothingness.
When he looked back at Althak’s ghost his eyes had to adjust before he could find him. He seemed less threatening now, an insubstantial, ineffective thing against the solidity of the woman. But it had been Althak, and Althak had been kind to him. He pointed to her. It was impossible that they had not seen her.
“Look!”
“Azkun, this is no time for wenching.”
Althak’s ghost nudged him towards the doorway, but he twisted away from its paradoxically solid grasp. A sharp pain ran the length his injured arm and he thought he had made it worse. But the woman was all that mattered. He crossed the space between them and reached out to her. He had to touch her.
Suddenly another of the ghosts stood between them. An old woman, he could hardy see her insubstantial form against the first woman, barred his way. She wavered and floated in the wind, but wrath was etched in her face as she said something in the Vorthenki tongue that was unmistakably a rebuke. Then both were gone, the old woman and the young, they disappeared into the night.
Althak’s hand grasped him by the shoulder and he turned.
He blinked. The world was normal again. Althak was no longer a ghost, none of them was. The others looked at him curiously, as if they had not noticed the change. The light spilling from the doorway looked friendly, as did the faces of the villagers nearby.
Drinagish had already gone inside and Menish was about to follow, but he was troubled by something. For some reason Azkun could not fathom he was suddenly deeply upset.
“That was ill done,” said Althak as he herded him towards the doorway. “One does not take women in the road as one fancies, whatever you may have heard of my people.”
“I do not know what you mean,” replied Azkun. “Could you not see her?”
“She was comely enough, I suppose, though I've seen better. But that's not the way these things are done.”
“But she was real!”
They stepped through the doorway into a large room with faded frescoes on the walls and heavy wooden rafters. The walls were made of stone and the floor was strewn with rushes. In the centre of the room a great cauldron hung from one of the rafters and a fire below it filled the room with the smell of smoke, which mingled with the other smells of ale, fish and sweat. Lamps hung from the rafters, shedding a smoky light. There were benches and tables scattered around the floor, occupied by big, yellow-haired Vorthenki seamen. Along one wall lay a series of wooden barrels.
An unusually short Vorthenki, who made up for his lack of height by an enormous girth, beamed broadly and bowed incessantly at each and all of the company, speaking quickly in the Vorthenki tongue as he did so, and giggling nervously at the strangers. Althak was the most richly dressed so he received most of the bows. Menish seemed barely interested.
“Have him roast some of our meat, Althak, I don't like the smell of that cauldron. We'll sleep here tonight. Ask him if he can organise a bath.”
Althak nodded and passed Menish’s message to the proprietor who bowed again and beamed even more broadly.
The fat man indicated that they should sit at one of the benches while he scuttled off to another room and began shouting orders. Although Azkun understood nothing of the Vorthenki language it was obvious enough what was happening. Besides he caught hints and snatches of thoughts from everyone in the room. But to Azkun they were dominated by the boiling thoughts of Menish. His mind was racing with confusion and anxiety. Azkun’s own confusion was largely replaced by relief, but Menish’s suddenly troubled thoughts mingled with his own. They were so intense that Azkun began to see what was bothering him.
Menish despised the Vorthenki. As they rode past the first of the houses he had remembered their foul, barbaric ways. Their long houses were a symbol of their brutal society where a strong man would murder his brothers and set himself up with his wives and slaves.
He hoped Azkun had not noticed the dragon post outside the inn, but Menish had seen it. Across the road it stood, streaked with old blood. Sometimes they used animals, Menish knew, but Kopth preferred human flesh. Children or slaves were often killed to adorn the dragon post.
Menish had expected no less, in fact he had not really expected such a fine building as this in which to spend the night. It was obviously an old Relanese structure, for the Vorthenki never built of stone. The frescoes on the walls were illustrations of tales from the Mish-Tal. Of course it had seen better days. The smelly cauldron of fish stew in the centre of the room was a Vorthenki alteration.
But all this was incidental. He had expected to find Vorthenki in a Vorthenki village. The thing that troubled him had sprung from the incident outside when Azkun had approached that woman. Why he had done so did not really concern Menish. If his story was true he had never seen a woman before so it was not unreasonable that he should approach the first one he noticed. It was not the young woman Menish was thinking about anyway. It was the old one.
She had stepped out of the shadows and thrust herself between Azkun and the woman he was reaching out to and told him with all the vehemence of the Vorthenki tongue to leave her daughter alone. Then she had looked beyond Azkun and her eyes had lighted on Menish.
Thalissa.
For a moment his heart had stopped beating. In that moment she had turned and whisked the young woman away into the night. But he had seen her.
Her face was lined with age, as was his own now, and her once golden hair was grey, but even though he could not see the colour of her eyes in the dim light he knew her features only too well.
Inside the inn, in the cheerful light of the lamps, he wondered if it really was her. It was all so long ago. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he was not mistaken. He needed to know. He did not know what, if anything, he should do if she was still alive. Nevertheless, he had to know.
The fat man returned. His name, he had said, was Astae and he had spoken enthusiastically of his premises as if they rivalled the palace of Atonir. Menish could speak Vorthenki well enough, but he disliked that tongue. He would rather leave Althak to organise things with the man. Now Astae herded several dirty looking women before him, each carrying carved drinking horns.
“This is the best ale north of Deenar, M’Lords. Folk come from as far away as Athim for a mere sip of the ale of Lianar. And our women are said to be the delight of the Dragonseed…” Menish glared at him so ferociously that he trailed off nervously. If there had been an Anthorian woman in their company Astae would not have survived that sentence. Grath loosened his sword overtly and Bolythak’s dagger, which had been cleaning his fingernails, moved in a subtle but menacing way. A bawdy song in the wilderness was one thing, open talk of the Dragonseed festival was quite another.
“We require food, drink and rest,” said Althak, breaking the tense silence. “Your hospitality need extend no further.”
Astae grinned nervously. He had obviously not met Anthorians before or he would know better than to offer his women to them. It was only a mistake, thought Menish, the Vorthenki honoured their guests this way. The women stood in an awkward knot beside their master, wondering what to do with the drinking horns, not quite daring to offer them to these strange folk, though one of them was surreptitiously making eyes at Althak.
Menish dissolved the tension by reaching for one of the horns and Astae sighed with relief.
“You have come a long way then?” It was the cautious question of one who was curious but did not wish to give offence with his curiosity.
Althak looked to Menish who surprised him by answering.
“We are travellers from Anthor on our way to Atonir.” His accent, he knew, was appalling but Astae nodded. “We wanted to see this part of the country.” With a wry grin he added, “the fame of your ale has travelled far.”
At that the innkeeper giggled again. Menish decided he did not like the man. But he was too full of his own thoughts to be much annoyed by a grown man who giggled.
“If you are bound for Atonir I may know of a ship-”
“Talk to Althak about it. He will arrange it.”
Drinagish, who had gone out to check how the horses were stabled, entered the room with his face clouded with anger. He was shouting at a youth that followed at his heels and, though he was agitated, plainly did not understand a word Drinagish said. Menish decided he must arrange for Drinagish to learn some of the Vorthenki tongue as soon as he could.
“Uncle, this place is disgusting! The stables are filthy with dung and rotten oats.”
As he spoke he made threatening gestures at Astae and any other Vorthenki within reach, including the women.
“Calm down, Drinagish. Is it so bad?”
“Oh, it's better than they've had for the last few nights I suppose. But they've earned good food. I think he makes his beer in the stables.”
Astae began to bow nervously. Menish made an impatient gesture at Althak, who spoke to Astae in Vorthenki, explaining that the horses were to have fresh oats immediately.
“Come, Drinagish, the ale is good enough,” said Menish. “Have some, though you'll have to brave Astae’s women.” He knew why Drinagish was so concerned. He had a particularly fine horse that Menish had given him. Drinagish seemed to distrust the bench he was to sit on, but he sat down anyway and Grath reached him a horn of ale from one of the women.
“Not bad,” he said after he had tasted it. “I thought any ale north of Deenar was no better than horse piss.”
“Fortunately for the northerners that is not so,” said Althak.
Through an open doorway they could hear the sounds of their meal being prepared. The other Vorthenki folk in the main room helped themselves to the cauldron now and then, ladling the fishy stew into metal dishes. It did not look very appealing to the Anthorians, although Althak occasionally glanced towards the cauldron as if he would like to taste fish again.
“This is not really a Vorthenki house is it, Sire?” asked Grath.
“It seems Relanese to me,” answered Menish. “What do you know of it, Hrangil?”
Hrangil had hardly touched his ale. He had been looking at the frescoes on the walls.
“It is, indeed, an old Relanese building. It was old when my father and I came here many years ago from Atonir. I believe there had always been a Vorthenki village here also. There's a good harbour. But this was built as a stopping place for pilgrims to Kelerish.” He glanced at Azkun. “I'm afraid it's but a ruin of what it was. The walls, as you see, show scenes from the Mish-Tal. There are similar ones in the Court of Learning in Atonir. This one shows the Vaults of Duzagen in the Chasm below the Tor. There is the bridge we crossed today and here is-” he stopped with his finger pointing towards a stylised picture of the Chasm. “Here is Gilish throwing himself into the Chasm of Kelerish,” he said slowly.
“But who's this Astae?” asked Drinagish. ‘He doesn't look like a Vorthenki warlord. He's no taller than Grath, at least not when he stands up!”
Althak sighed and looked pained
“We're not all murderers of our brothers, Drinagish. His father probably found that Astae was the most competent at running the inn and left it to him when he died. It's not uncommon for these things to happen peacefully.”
“What about the speeches and the, you know, they fight over the food don’t they?” asked Grath.
“Oh no, not here. This is an inn. It's sacred to Yaggrothil and no one would boast before Yaggrothil, the dragon of the deep. Every fishing village of any size has a place where the sailors who have no long houses of their own can stay in safety. Here they can take their meals without having to establish who should eat first.”
Drinagish muttered something that might have been ‘barbarians’.
“Cease, Drinagish,” said Menish. “We must demonstrate our own good manners even to those who have none.”
Drinagish sulked, drinking down his ale and asking the woman who stood near him to fetch more. Menish was not sure he liked the way his nephew looked at her as she drew ale from one of the big wooden casks along the wall. He wished the Vorthenki women would dress a little more modestly.
He found himself thinking about Adhara, wondering how she was managing while he was away. He had left her in charge before and she always did well. But he worried that she would tire herself out. Not all of the women gave her the respect she was due, he felt, but he did not know why. She had a shrewd sense of judgement and she needed it when he was away because the king, or his regent, had to judge the cases the clan chiefs could not fathom.
But now it was not her judgement he missed, it was her ready wit. She usually found a way to make him laugh even when he was tired. Would she make him laugh again if she knew all about Thalissa?
Supper was not long. Two women, accompanied by Astae and the youth, brought in the roasted pieces of pig on a wooden platter and placed it on the table before them along with a loaf of black bread. Menish sniffed at the meat. It was under cooked, most Vorthenki did not really know what to do with red meat, but he was too hungry to have them cook it longer.
The meat was skewered onto metal spikes and Menish grabbed the nearest one and began to eat. Astae was visibly relieved that it was edible. Azkun ate nothing, but that was expected. He sat and glared at the others as if they were committing the worst of Vorthenki barbarities, which did nothing for their conversation.
Menish did not wish to talk anyway. He was trying to think of an excuse to speak to Astae alone, to ask him about a certain old woman. It was awkward. He had hated Thalissa for years and he had half-deliberately sown that hatred among his men. They would want to kill her if they found her alive. But, after all these years, with the actual possibility of revenging the evil she had done in his grasp, he began to wonder if his hatred was entirely just.
At the end of the meal he rose and muttered something about visiting the midden. It was obvious he would have to ask Astae for directions, so he beckoned to the innkeeper as he walked towards the door.
“Yes, M’Lord?”
“My friend saw someone he thought he recognised outside, a girl,” he said in a tone that was easily lost in the conversation of the Vorthenki sailors. “Do you know her?”
“A girl? Oh, yes, I saw him make for her. Not a very pretty wench, and good for nothing I’ve heard. Her name is… oh, I can’t remember now. She was only found a couple of days ago and it isn’t her real name anyway as far as we know.”
“Found?”
“Yes, she was found by Trian at the mouth of that Chasm when he was fishing. Crazy place to fish if you ask me. But he goes there often. He’s a free man, you see, though he is of Akarth’s house. He has a boat of his own. Folk say she might do him good. His other woman has given him no children, and it is rumoured she gives him no pleasure either. Soft, crazy and soft, is Trian. Fancy keeping a woman and no return for it.
“I think he has made the same mistake again. This new woman’s a strange one, too. A half-wit or such like. She doesn’t speak or even look at you. Poor Trian, he has no luck with women. It comes of fishing near that Chasm, I say.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t I say? Oh, the old woman, Loreli, she was found at the Chasm mouth years ago, or so they say. He should have left her there.”
“That was the old woman who took the younger one away? She referred to her as her daughter.”
“Yes, that was her. She seems to have taken a fondness for the young one and calls her daughter. Not the usual way is it, M’Lord? When you bring in younger women the older ones are rarely so pleased!”
“I would not know,” said Menish tersely. “Perhaps you can direct me to the midden.”
Astae’s familiarity disappeared and he gave Menish the information he wanted. Menish went outside and found it largely by following his nose rather than the innkeeper’s guidance.
How Thalissa had survived he could not guess, but somehow she had escaped from the Chasm and been rescued by a fisherman. Since then she had lived here in obscurity, unaware that her son was now Emperor of Relanor.