Jaer knew at once there were two questions she wanted to know answers to. One was the identity of her father, the other was where the Gate might be found. She started to ask one of these and said, 'What is the Serpent's name?'

'Ah. So you begin to understand what must be understood before the seeking stops and the fighting begins, Jaer of the Outer Islands. You know what the Serpent's name is. His name is fury, and quest, and search, and goad. I have answered your question, and I will answer one you have not asked.' The sphinx turned away, whispering over her shoulder, 'Each thing carries the cure for its own illness.'

The black stallion had been grazing near where Jaer lay, and he moved now, stamping a foot imperiously upon the earth, eyes swinging toward Jaer and away. Jaer's eyes flicked up for an instant. When she looked back, the sphinx was gone.

The stallion pushed a soft nose against Jaer's neck, and she rose to lay her face against the smooth black flank. She saw what had disturbed the stallion. There beside the stream a head of unicorns were grazing on the flowery banks. On an outcropping of stone, a phoenix preened in the early light, feathers glittering like jewels. White hands showed briefly at the edge of the bank, then disappeared into ripples which fled downstream toward the river. Jaer whispered to the horse.

'We go to Tharliezalor, forty or fifty days to the northeast. We go peacefully because every pattern of my life says I must go there, and because that which searches for me still does not search here in the east. Its eyes are fixed beyond the Concealment, in the western world. It does not know I am here. It will not know until I come to it, where it is, in Tharliezalor.'

The horse made a soft noise with its nostrils, stamped a foot delicately as though in agreement. Jaer hugged the arching neck, glad of the animal warmth, the easy familiarity. The unicorns went on grazing, looking up from time to time with glowing, incurious eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

THE STONE CITY.

Days 16-26, Month of Wings Returning Thewson tarried a day in Seathe, most of it spent seated on the foot of Jasmine's bed, talking about the Lion Courts. He told her of his spear round, dwelling lovingly upon the catalogue of gods, big and little, and the marvels of their various dwelling places. He could not tell her what he did not remember, but the things he did remember both intrigued and disturbed her.

'When the gods are finished with me,' he promised her, 'we will go to the Lion Courts, though little may be left by that time, and build them up again.'

'We, Thewson?'

'Ah, you will come there. Do not make mockery. You are my zhuraoli-nunu, the bright fire of my life. You will pick some bride price, Jasmine, and you will come. You and the boy child and your girl child, too, for Fox will find her.'

'You think this one will be a boy then?'

'It will be.'

Perhaps, she thought, the god voices has assured him of it. In that case she was annoyed. They might have had the courtesy to have told her first.

'I am not sure I like your gods,' she said, sulking. 'They use you. They do not consult you or let you say what you would rather do.'

'Ah, Zhuraoli, Bright Fire, do not insult them. In my land we know many gods, and we know this about them: they pay well for what they take. If they take a piece of a man's life, they will give such riches in exchange as to make even the Chieftain jealous. We know that!'

'And what if they take his whole life?' she asked soberly. 'AH of it?'

'Then the gods will pay. If not in this life, then in another. Or in another time. It is so, Jasmine. You think it is not because you have seen people suffer ill with no repayment; but not all suffering comes from the gods. Sometimes it is merely faxomol, foolishness, things men do. That is the difference between men and gods, after all. Gods always repay.'

'I do not want them to take you, Thewson.' There were tears in her eyes, and though she tried to hold them, they spilled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. 'See, I am weeping like Chu-Namu. You know the song: 'The wind weeps where once Chu-Namu wandered seeking her lover.

The sun creeps through seasons time has squandered and days now over ...'

'Ah,' said Mum-lil. 'That is a song I know: 'Remembered is she who loving, seeking, in deepest sorrow, engendered a story ever speaking to our tomorrow...

'Yes,' said Thewson. 'All know that song. You sing the sad part where all the women weep and the men look uncomfortable. There is more of it: 'A kind fate bound them from separation, forever after.

Beyond Gate did they find reparation and heaven's laughter ...: His voice was a deep, mellifluous bass. When he sang, the windows rattled, and Jasmine found herself smiling against her will. He saw her smiling, and said to her: 'You will not need to seek for five hundred years, little flower. No. I am not the silly man to go away and leave you without telling where I go. I go north, with those green men. The black bird said to remember the people of Widon the Golden, to remember the people of D'Zunalor, the Axe King. Well, I remember them. All the times I looked for the Crown of Wisdom, people told me the Crown was with the people of D'Zunalor, and the people of D'Zunalor followed the people of Widon. Foolishness faxomol, sar luxufus, foolishness and shadows, all this following and running away to the northlands. What is it there they all run to?'

'You will probably find out,' she said with some asperity.

'That is so.' This seemed to contribute to his satisfaction, for he beamed at her for several minutes without saying anything. 'One, two more days you stay here with Daingol and Sowsie and Dhariat, rest a little more, so, eat hot food not all full of ashes. Then, you go to Tanner, Gombator. Slow. Seven days, maybe ten. The green men say Tanner is empty of black robes now. All are gone away south. So you wait there for me.'

'When will you come?'

'When I find warriors. That is what I go for woman to find many warriors to fight these black beetles. Then I come to you in Tanner '

'Why not Tiles, Thewson? The dog king will come there.'

'Tanner is closer. Send Sowsie to Tiles if you want to do that. Have her look for Fox there. You wait. When flower month comes, then I come for you, Jasmine. In flower month. That is a ... fanul... a sign?'

'A symbol,' she said softly. His talk did not fool her. He was spending the day with her because he did not know if he would see her again. She thought of pleading with him that he not go, or that she go with him, rejecting both. He must go. She would only slow him, perhaps make it harder for him to get safely to ... to wherever, whatever. He had told her that his gods always repaid. Well, she must trust them, as he did. 'A symbol, flower month,' she said smiling and stroking his hand.

During their noon meal, Daingol queried him closely. 'Do you trust these green-clad men, Thewson?'

'Do you not?'

'I have heard no ill of them. I have heard no good, either. You are going far with them, alone.'

'No. Not alone. I will take Lain-achor.' He went on to threaten Daingol and the singers with dire harm should they fail to bring Jasmine and the little people (but mostly Jasmine) safely to Tanner. He spent more time than Dhariat thought necessary in warnings and instructions, but she bore it as gracefully as possible. Sowsie seemed only amused.

He left them in the early dawn, riding out of the inn yard with the rising sun making long shadows across the rain-glossed cobbles of the street. A spring wind carried the smells of washed earth. 'He knows what he is doing,' muttered Daingol.

'His gods know what he is doing.' whispered Jasmine.

More out of boredom than anything else, Jasmine began to learn to weave. The little people did not think it worthwhile to unpack the big loom, but they had back looms with them which they used at odd hours of the day or evening. While Mum-lil strode back and forth (rubbing her own back dramatically and declaiming upon the pains and tribulations of approaching motherhood, much enjoying the drama of it all and the solicitous treatment accorded by Doh-ti) Hanna-lil and the Gaffer taught Jasmine weaving. It seemed that her fingers had always: nown the way of it, so quickly she learned. 'So,' said the little woman, 'you have been joking with us. You were a weaver in Lakland to the east.'

'Never.' Jasmine was torn between pleasure and awe at the way her mind and hands responded to the threads before her. 'Never before today. But it is as if my hands know all about it.' The shuttle flicked between her fingers, one hand to the other, and the fabric grew between her knees.

'Well, we will teach you some harder things some that were hard for us to learn, even after years of weaving. That may slow your hands so that we do not feel outdone.'

Whatever they taught her did not slow her greatly. She wove upon the little loom in the morning, and at noon when they stopped to eat, and in the evenings by the fire. If she could have thought of a way to do it on horseback, she would have woven then, too. When they came to Tanner and found it all but deserted with a quiet inn eager to house them all, she spent every hour not spent gazing northward in weaving. It seemed that the figured belts almost wove themselves, sashes of cream and green, lined in blue and violet. In her mind she saw the belts woven in deeper blue embroidered with silver, like the one Medlo had so often worn, and her fingers ached to try that design in those colours.

Days went by. Mum-lil had a child, a girl baby, blessedly small so that Mum-lil did not suffer in the bearing, but healthy for all her tininess. Between the baby and the weaving they did not become bored with the time though twenty days had gone since Thewson went north. Jasmine forbade herself to worry, told herself sternly that she would not be concerned for him not yet.

Thewson, Lain-achor, and the company of green men rode hard into the north, crossing the icy torrents of the River Lazentien not far from a place Leona would have recognized, observed by a wandering shepherd who marked them as the second wonder of his life. Six days from sunup to dark they rode, and on the seventh came to a waste blocked by a wall stretching from east to west as far as they could see, a wall of such unexpected and bizarre construction that Thewson and Lain-achor were driven into silence past speculation.

When they came close enough to see it well, they saw the wall was just the beginning of an immense, empty city of stone, perhaps as deep as it was long or high, for no end to it could be seen in any direction. It was a place of shadow. Clouds hung heavily upon it, veiling the upward reaches of it, draping the pinnacles of it like heavy canvas tented upon poles of unimaginable height. At the horizon a swollen sun forced itself through lowering grey to slant long, red twilight rays upon the stones. Fantastic shadow structures loomed behind each wall and rampart, shadow pits and more walls through which shadow doors opened upon nothing. Walls changed direction without reason; doors opened into rooms which perched upon floorless space; crevasses were crossed by slabs while tiny declivities were arched with mighty bridges of groined stone.

Above them were more arches, more groins, multiple pillars with stairs twisting about them and away from them to launch into dizzying heights and slide snakelike down other pillars, remote and unconnected to the first. There were horizons of buttresses and vaults, domes, minarets, crenellated towers stretching upward forever only to end at the height and limit of vision against some vaster wall which faded into the ceiling of cloud.

And throughout this place the wind cried, sobbed down streets and alleyways, screamed among the chimneys and towers and across the great, paved squares, entreated hysterically through distant arches, crying to itself in external complaint. It was a dead place, cold, a place in which damned souls might wander.

'What is it?' Thewson grated. 'Who built it? And why?'

The green-clad man who led the troop of northerners, one named Obonor, shook his head. 'No one knows when it was made, or how, or by what, or why. It was here in the time of the Akwithian Kings; it was thought to be untenanted then. But since the time of the Concealment, there has been at least one kind of creature living here, called the Tharnel worm. The Gahlians have taken them away by thousands, away to the south in iron wagons. Now few of them are left, and we can go through the stone city safely, if we are careful.'

'Did you come through this city on your way to Seathe?'

'Yes. This time we did. Other times we have gone far to the west, almost to the source of the Lazentien. This time, being in haste, we came through this place.'

'Why were you in such haste?' asked Lain-achor. 'It would take much to bring me through here.'

Obonor smiled, evading the question. Thus far the green-clad ones had proven friendly, expert in trailcraft, and evasive when questioned. Why they had come in such haste only to return they did not say would not say. They merely clucked to their horses and led the way east along the line of the city, not entering it, merely staring as did Thewson and Lain-achor at the endless wall. They rode, stopped to build a tiny fire of dried whin, boiled and drank their tea, dunked their bread, put out the fire and rode on until weariness dragged at their thighs to make them rest for the night. Far away to the west the bloated sun heaved itself out of cloud like some baleful beast of the air, glaring across the moors. The place of stones burned red in its light, the red of fire, of wine, of blood. Then it turned abruptly dark. One of the green men stood watch, hands loose on the hilt of his drawn sword.

In the dawn the fire left only a wraith of pale ashes moving on the chill air. They went east until the hills to the south became both steeper and closer to the city, while the city opened into long avenues running north and south. 'Here,' said Obonor. 'This is a place to go through. We came this way.'

The troop turned as one and clattered into the city, hooves hammering harshly on stone, echoes pounding, a noise without relief. Within moments Thewson had to stuff his ears against the sound. He saw the others doing likewise with a grimace at him and at themselves. Obonor seemed to say something, his lips forming the words, 'No other way...' Thewson gritted his jaw and tried to ignore the thunder in his ears.

They did not stop until noon. Thewson asked then, 'Why do we not wrap the horses' feet? This is a horrid noise we make.'

Obonor moved away as though not to answer, then turned and said, 'It is thought... the sound may keep certain creatures away.'

'But you said there were none left here,' argued Lain-achor.

'I said there were few. One would be too many.'

Something did not ring true in this interchange. Thewson could detect no malice among the green men; they were respectful, even deferential. But something was not being said. He watched them as he ate a few mouthfuls, was aware of being watched in return. They eased saddles on the horses' backs, mounted once more, and rode with a clatter down a narrow canyon of street, into an avenue, along a wall gaping with doors....

The hiss which came from a gaping throat of darkness at their side screamed above the noise of the hooves, above the sound of terrified screaming from the horses as they tried to break free. Thewson was suddenly alone as the northerners backed away from him, pulling the frantic horses back with iron arms, drawing Lain-achor with them even as he tried to thrust them away.

Thewson was unsurprised. He leapt from the panicking horse to bring solid pave beneath his feet, spear in hand, wondering only a little at their seeming lack of surprise. What came through the doorway could not have failed to surprise and terrify unless those who now saw it had seen it before, hunted it perhaps, seen men killed by it certainly. The men from the north made no sounds of terror.

Thewson did not look behind him to see what actions they took whether they protected themselves, fled, or even menaced him from behind. His attention was riveted to that which came from the black doorway, the pincer feet two by two in endless number, the eye-decked head coiling with slime-dripping tendrils. Fangs glittered and acid slaver dropped to smoke upon the pave. The head reared high above him as the first dozen pairs of feet pushed the body up into a pillar of metal-clawed menace.

He did not think as he measured the distance to the gouted fangs arm, spear, blade at this angle, knees bending to that precise degree needed to launch him upward toward the spot of naked skin which stretched obscenely at the base of the thing's neck....

And he leapt.

The green spear blade whipped upward, slicing its way through the jaw, through the roof of the horrid mouth, up and into the brain caverns, was levered over and down with Thewson's full weight upon it so that he stood in that instant upon the creature's neck, between the lashing pincer feet. He thrust the spear down to pin the hideous head to pave. The whole, monstrous length of the thing lashed in a frenzy against unyielding stone.

Thewson screamed then, echoing the horses, half in triumph and half in pain at the acid drip on arms and shoulders. The green-clad warriors gathered to hack at the thrashing feet with blades suddenly as willing as his own. Then Obonor drew him away from the beast and poured something upon his wounds, something which stilled the fire as abruptly as it had come. Stupidly, Thewson looked down at the black acid stains upon his skin, heard Obonor say as from a great distance, 'They will heal clean, Lord. Forgive us, but it was necessary to be sure.'

Obonor knelt at Thewson's feet in deep obeisance. The others knelt beside him, except one who kept watch upon the creature which died slowly upon the stone. Witlessly, Thewson watched two of the men take up his spear with enormous reverence, clean it of the envenomed blood and return it to his hand after bowing to the blade as well.

Thewson said, 'The noise was to attract the beast. To make it hunt us.'

'Yes, Lord.'

'To test what? The edge of my blade? My courage? The warriors of the Lion Courts need no test, no, even in these northlands!'

'No, Lord. But the bearer of the Sword of Sud-Akwith, that one might be false even if the blade were true.'

Thewson could only stare, stupidly. 'What is this? No more silence now. I will be told!'

'This, Lord.' Obonor touched the spear blade with great respect, touching his hand to his forehead and heart when he had done so. 'This green blade, with the guard curved so, is the blade of Sud-Akwith, cast into the Abyss of Souls by Sud-Akwith himself, thousands of years ago. Then did the Prince, Widon the Golden, say he would not take up what had been cast away until it returned to him or to his people of its own will. Then did he and all the people of Widon which was a host of the people of Akwith go into the northlands in the time of my forebears.

'There were they met by a man, a singer, a king among the people there, one who became greatly honoured among our people for he had built a goodly land. It was he who prophesied the return of the Sword of Power, the blade of Sud-Akwith, in the hands of a dark warrior from the south. He would bring it, said the prophecy, to call the people of Widon to the service of the Firelord once more.'

Thewson heard in the caverns of his mind a far-off whirr, a gentle laughter, a voice saying 'Thewson' almost affectionately. It was like the voice of a god, the voice of the blade when he had chosen it, or it had chosen him, calling him by name. He said, 'It was not made as a spear blade? It is not a spear blade at all?'

'It is as the Lord wills,' answered Obonor. 'It is in the Lord's keeping.'

'How do you know it is not false?'

'Because, Lord, the Tharnel worm is kin to those demons, the Hagak d'tumek, which came from beneath the city of Tharliezalor in Sud-Akwith's time. The Sword of Power can kill them, leaving the bearer scatheless. We can kill them with lesser weapons, but they take long to die and many of us die as well. Oh, Lord Thewson, surely you have come for some very great purpose and surely you know why you come at last, bearing this great gift.'

They were all gazing at him, including Lain-achor, eyes shining with expectant tears, while he sat wondering what he was to do or say next. He discarded the idea of telling them he had been sent by a bird. They would think that trivial, though Thewson was of the sudden opinion that that bird and the jewelled bird god of his youth might have more in common than mere wings. Still, now the gods left him without words, and he cursed at them futilely.

Presently, he said, 'Well. In the Hill of Gerenhodh came a messenger of the Powers to say, "Remember the people of Widon the Golden and those of the Axe King." I, Thewson, say to those people, "Evil walks in the world and the sisters of Taniel call upon them." There, I have said.'

It seemed to be enough. They mounted, helping him quite unnecessarily in mounting the great horse, finding a quick way out of the place of stones to thunder across the northern moorlands, fleet as the wind toward their distant homeland, calling 'Ris, Ris, the Dark Warrior comes,' like madmen, embarrassing Thewson. Behind them it seemed that a part of the city withered and faded like a melting shadow under the lowering sky.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

ORENA.

Day 1, Month of Flowers Days 9-10, Month of Sowing To those in Leona's wagon train it seemed that day succeeded day on the southern trail almost without differentiation. The logs kept by Old Eriden, the oldest scout, a white-haired veteran of a hundred such journeys, made little distinction between days except in the tally of the hunt and the number of minor injuries which the children managed to incur. Their track fell behind them, each day warmer under the summering sun, until one morning came with a happening.

Bombaroba noticed it first in his early morning wandering about the camp, his gossipy nosings among the Sisters and scouts, his examination of animals on the picket lines. There was an unaccustomed silence, certain usual noises missing. There was, he was sure, no laughter of babies. The birds that built ground nests in the twined grasses were still. He trudged to the top of a rise to peer around, then ran to take Leona by the hand and tug her with him to see what he had seen.

'The little animals are gone,' he said at once. 'All in the night. Where did they go?'

'I don't know.' Before them the plain was broken by a new feature of the landscape, one she had never seen before. The earth was pocked by giant hemispheres of stone, grey and lifeless, so close together that there was no room for the train to wend itself between. 'I feel... menace,' she said. 'Have the scouts come in?'

'The night scouts are waiting at the cookfire. The day scouts have not gone out. They are not smiling.'

'No. I should think not.'

Old Eriden rose to greet Leona. The others watched, muttering among themselves.

'A strange place, Lady. No way around it unless we ford the river. That would mean going back, for the Unnamed River goes deep here in a canyon of its own making. Behind us, so say my brothers, comes a troop of armed men, perhaps black robes, a very large group. We can ride west to see if there is a way around, but it will be longer than some days, for I have ridden that way in the night.'

'The hummocks. What do you make of them, Eriden?'