But then, he didn’t intend to need Uramoric or Ressamoric or Elankoran, or even Aryomoric. He had decided to strike out to the north, all the way to the Great Highway, where his Trader’s Tongue and Ethsharitic could be put to use — to the Great Highway that ran between the legendary bazaars of Shan on the Desert to the east, and the huge, crowded complexity of the Hegemony of Ethshar, with its ancient capital, Ethshar of the Spices, to the west. The seer had said she saw a road stretching before her that he would travel — what other road could it be, but the Great Highway?
So he had set out, his pack on his shoulder, and for three days he had marched north, through pastures and meadows, past farms and villages, through most of Shulara into Sevmor, and then from one end of Sevmor to the other.
At least, he thought he had passed beyond Sevmor, because he had never heard of any highways that ran through Sevmor. The Great Highway ran through Hlimora, and he therefore now believed himself to be in Hlimora.
What else could that road be, but the Great Highway?
And what was it, but a long strip of dirt?
Three days of thirst, sore feet, and backache had taken much of the glamor out of his plans, and the sight of that empty road was the pebble that sank the barge. This trip, like the others, was a failure.
Maybe his sisters had been right all along, and Zindre the Seer was nothing but a lying old woman. He would never see the great cities she had promised him, the strange beasts and beautiful women, the mighty magic.
He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, then plumped up the pack to serve as a pillow. His food was gone; he had eaten the last at midday. He would need to use his precious handful of coins to buy food from now on, whether he went on or turned back.
And in the morning, he promised himself as he lay down, in the morning he would turn back. He would go home to the family farm, to boring old Shulara, and he would stay there, dismal as that prospect was. He would listen to his family and give up his belief in the seer’s prophecy.
After all, what need did he have of the wonders she had promised? He had a safe, secure position. With all three of his sisters married he would one day own the farm himself, the green pastures and the rich cornfields and the thirty head of cattle. He would undoubtedly marry someone — probably not the magical beauty the seer had predicted, but someone boring, like Inza of the Blue Eyes from across the valley. They would settle down and have children. That was just what his family had always said would happen, and they were right after all. He wouldn’t see any wonders, wouldn’t be an honored champion — all he would do would be to keep his parents happy by working the farm.
How horribly dull!
He opened his eyes and peered down through the darkness at the highway. The greater moon was rising, casting a pale yellow glow, so he could still see the road, faintly.
It looked horribly dull, too — that was the problem. All of life, all the World, seemed to be horribly dull, with no wonders or beauty anywhere.
Maybe he was just tired, he thought. Maybe everything would look better in the morning.
Even if it did, though, he would go home — not covered in glory at all.
He sighed, and closed his eyes, and slept.
Chapter Two
He awoke twice during the night, shivering with the cold; each time he curled himself up into a tighter ball, pulled the blanket more closely about him, and went back to sleep. The third time he awoke the sun was squeezing up out of the ground, far to the east, and he blinked at it unhappily.
With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes and sat up, remembering just where he was.
He was facing north atop a low hill, and below him lay the legendary and very disappointing Great Highway. To his left both moons were low in the west, and to his right the sun was just rising, and the combination cast long, distorted, and colored shadows across the hills. The sky was streaked with pink and gold and feathered with bits of cloud. The morning air was cold and sharp in his nostrils, carrying the smells of wet grass and morning mist.
A dawn like this was a sort of wonder, at any rate, but no more so than he might have seen back home.
He got to his feet and stretched, trying to work some of the stiffness out of his joints, and stared down at that disappointing strip of dirt below.
At the very least, he told himself, he should go down and walk a few paces on it, just so he could honestly say, when he got home, that he had traveled on the Great Highway. After all, wasn’t that part of the point? Wasn’t he trying to do things that he could brag about when he got home? He didn’t really think he had ever seriously wanted to stay away forever, and the seer had said he would return. He couldn’t quite imagine not going back home sooner or later.
He just hadn’t intended it to be quite so soon.
He had learned years ago, in the face of his sisters’ mockery, to keep his mouth shut about Zindre’s predictions; still, he had secretly harbored hopes of someday making them all come true.
Now he was finally convinced it would never happen. The World was just not an exciting place. There were no wonders to be seen.
He would just go home and be a farmer.
Something moved in the corner of his eye; he looked up, startled. The movement had been off to the left; he turned and looked, trying to spot it again.
At first, of course, he looked at the highway, and then at the fields to the far side, and then along the row of low hills along the near side. Only when the sparkle of something bright catching the morning sunlight drew his gaze upward did he spot it.
It was pale and gleaming and more or less cross-shaped, flying along above the highway, and initially he took it for a huge and unfamiliar bird. It swooped closer as he watched, gleaming in the dawn as he had never seen a bird gleam. He stared, trying to make it out, and realized that it was no bird.
It was a person, a person with wings, and it was coming toward him.
He hesitated, unsure whether to run or stand his ground. A person flying meant magic, and magic, much as he wanted to see it, could be dangerous.
The World might not be quite so dull as he had feared, but, he told himself, it might be more dangerous than he had thought.
Then the flying figure drew close enough for him to see the curve of breast and hip, the long sweeping flow of golden hair, and he knew it was a woman, a young woman, and like any lad of sixteen he wanted to see more of her. He stood his ground.
The figure drew closer and closer, her wings spread wide to catch the gentle morning breeze; they flapped occasionally, but she was gliding more than actually flying. Sunlight gleamed brilliantly from the wings, sparkling and iridescent; rainbows seemed to flicker across their silvery-white surfaces. She was wearing a white tunic with colored trim, though he could not yet make out the details; below the tunic were fawn-colored breeches, rather than the skirt a woman should be wearing — Kelder supposed a skirt would be impractical in flight. Her dangling feet were bare.
He held his breath, expecting her to veer away or vanish at any moment, but she came closer and closer. He could see her face now, the high cheekbones and turned-up nose, the large eyes and mouth. She was very young, not so much a woman as a girl, his own age or even a year or two younger. The trim on her tunic was green and blue embroidery, depicting leaves and flowers.