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 again. 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.
There were benches and tables scattered across the floor. They were ranged around a large, central pillar that rose to the roof. Most of the benches were empty because it was too early for the evening meal. A few old folk sat toothless near the fire, calling advice to the kitchen servants who seemed too busy to listen.