“A dream?” asked Menish, suddenly interested. “Dreams don't always show all the truth. I had a dream. It led me to the Chasm and you emerged. But in my dream something else came out of the Chasm.”
“What?”
“The ghost of Thalissa.”
Althak looked at him sharply for a moment then he said, “Those eyes, I wondered where I'd seen them before. But she died when they threw her into the Chasm, and good riddance. Why should you dream of her?”
“They didn't throw her into the Chasm, they lowered her into it to prolong her punishment. She's Azkun’s mother, and she's alive in Lianar. I spoke with her there.”
“Kopth’s balls! Alive? You saw her?” Menish nodded. “I thought that was one service Thealum had done us, but it seems he could be trusted with nothing.”
“Althak, she's Azkun’s mother. Have a care what you say.”
“He doesn't know the crimes left unpunished in his mother.”
“Don't say unpunished. She's suffered enough. Let her be.”
“And what of Vorish? Does he know she's alive? Would he let her be if he knew?”
“He already knows. I told him when we last saw him and he told me he'd known for years. She'll not trouble us again. Don't seek retribution for crimes gone cold.”
Althak did not reply. He stared at the ground between his feet, and Menish knew he was far from convinced.
They slept one more night in the old man’s hut. The next morning he picked up his staff and beckoned them to follow him back to the road. Althak still could not clench his hand around his sword properly but his strength had returned to his legs. Menish was also ready to travel. In spite of Azkun’s warnings they followed him. Azkun had no choice but to go with them, he did not want to remain in the Monnar’s hut alone.
It was a strange journey. They seemed to travel faster than they walked. The sensation was such that Azkun could not quite grasp hold of it. When he looked around him nothing was amiss. The countryside was forest and meadow, pleasant to walk through, but when he looked ahead he would see a mountain or a pass that was impossibly closer than when he had last noticed it. So it was that they found themselves high in the mountains, the road strewn with snow, and the day was not half over.
The strangeness of their journey was contrasted sharply by the old man. He muttered and snorted, stopping every once in a while in a fit of coughing. Often he blew his nose on his hands and wiped them on his dirty robe.
Still they travelled on. The snow became thicker and the mountains steeper, yet the road always ran level. Once they crossed a wide ravine on a bridge of ice, or they appeared to. When Azkun looked back at it the bridge was no longer there and the road curved away behind a hill. It was dreamlike, and he wondered if he would wake up back in the hut, or even in the forest of Gashan. But then the old man would spit or cough again and the dreamlike air would vanish.
When the sun finally set that day they found themselves on a wide hillside with the mountains behind them. The road had deteriorated to a rough track that was barely discernible in the mountain tussock. Ahead of them the hills swept down to a wide plain that stretched to the horizon. They could see two rivers winding their way across it, glinting redly in the last rays of the sun.
One of the rivers curved close to the base of the slope on which they stood, and there they could see a cluster of white tents with a plume of smoke rising from it. It was a thal. They had reached Anthor.
At about the time they noticed the thal, they also noticed that the old man was no longer with them. It seemed that he had not been with them for some time, although they could not say when he had left.
Although the sun had set before they reached the thal the light of the camp fires and the crescent moon guided them. Even so their way was slow, for the remains of the road did not run towards the camp and they were forced to pick their way through the tussock which was strewn with boulders. Several of these were large enough to stand up above the tussock, and Azkun fancied he saw Monnar eyes watching him from their moonlit surfaces.
Monnar magic. The old man had cured Althak, rescued them from the forest, and brought them here. He had fooled the others, but he had not fooled Azkun. Azkun had seen those eyes in the ring of stones, he had seen the old man with blood around his mouth at Gildenthal, and he had seen the painted eye on this old man’s forehead. The others did not have his sight, they could not know. The Monnar had made the Duzral Eye, their magic was evil.
As always there was only one answer to corruption. This talk of a battle with Gashan was madness. They had the Eye, mere swords could not hope to fight them. Only the dragons could prevent the Gashans from sweeping down from the north.
They heard singing as they approached the camp, an old Anthorian song Menish recognised of the heroes of Ristalshuz.
Suddenly a figure rose out of the ground before them, and they saw moonlight on a drawn sword.
“Halt, you're surrounded by ten swords. Are you friend or foe?”
A glance around them showed other blades within striking distance. “Friend,” answered Menish. “We come in peace and do not raid. I am Menish.”
“Indeed? You sound like him, but we'll see. Who are these? Since when does the King of Anthor travel like a beggar with other beggars?”
“This is Althak, the Vorthenki, and a man called Azkun. We lost our horses and two of our number in the forests of Gashan.”
A hiss of breath sounded in the darkness.
“Come then,” said the sentry. “Let's see you in the light. If what you say is true you are welcome at our fireside.”
They followed her into the camp. It was similar to the ones they had seen on their way north, horses hobbled and grazing nearby and round, felt tents. Inside the largest of the tents oil lamps lit a group of men and women sitting about a fire which crackled and spat. A young woman was stirring a pot of mein and the others, who had been singing, turned to see the strangers.
“It is indeed the King!” said the sentry. “Welcome, Sire. I didn't believe you in the darkness.”
“Neither would I have,” said Menish. “Your herds won't suffer for such diligence.”
“Greetings, Sire. Come and sit with us,” called a man of about Menish’s age who sat by the central tent pole, the place reserved for the head of the thal. Menish recognised him but could not think of his name. Althak murmured it to him quietly.
“Thank you, Aronyar. We've travelled far today and are in need of food, rest and your good company.” Aronyar had more than one hundred head of cattle, yaks mostly, but a number of sheep and camels. Like Grath he was bigger than the southerners, but not as big as Althak. His long legs were thrust towards the fire, one bare foot nearly touching a glowing log. Behind him Menish could see the polished helmet and mail shirt he had been eager to show off at the last spring games. He had bought them from a Relanese merchant at great expense. In this hour of relaxation he had hung them from the tent pole and wore a woollen tunic and breeches.
Beside him, and similarly dressed except for the addition of two silver arm rings, sat a woman with long black hair who looked too young to be his wife. Ah, Menish remembered her, she was his daughter. She was richer than her father and was, therefore, technically the head of the thal, but she deferred to her father. He could not remember if Aronyar had any other children.
He nodded to the woman in greeting as he sat down, trying to think of her name. Althak was too far away from him now to whisper it.
Just as politeness required that a host did not inquire too deeply into a guest’s business, so it was the duty of a guest to give some account of himself. Menish came straight to the point.