“As regards the man himself, he is a throwback, almost as different from most of the Ehleenoee of today as would be Hwahlis Linsee or Djeri Hahfmun or any other of our people. As a young man, at the court of Basil—who, though infamous for his cruelties and dissipations, was all man, something his son is not—Alexandras Pahpahs stood out like a sore thumb. He was ever the direct antithesis of the fop, affecting plain clothing and unadorned, serviceable weapons and gear. He is fluent in every language and dialect used on this coast, and has a phenomenal memory for names and faces and dates and events. They say that he never forgets anything that he reads and he reads not only Ehleenokohs, but Old Merikan as well. The numbers of his defeats may be counted on the fingers of one hand and, though he is wont to make quick decisions, they are invariably sound decisions. Though he has been known to encourage or condone some rather gruesome practices in warfare, in command he is fair and eminently just. He is honest to a fault, brutally frank, and worships personal and family honor as a god. He is clean and decent and his tastes are simple and natural. He is now sixty or thereabouts.”
Milo soon discovered that Mara had been right about Lord Alexandras Pahpahs. He was so bluntly frank as to be almost disconcerting. The moment that the amenities preceding their private meeting had been attended, he launched into a series of probing questions.
“My Lord Milos [from the start, he had Ehleenicized Milo’s name], for what possible reason did your people come to this land? You are horse-nomads, you need plains and prairies, endless expanses of graze for your herds and flocks, and you’ll not find them hereabouts. This is farming country. If your purpose is simply one of despoiling this land, then moving on to another, you’ll find no ally hi me, quite the contrary, sir. The rulers of this land and people have served my kin ill; but only the rulers, never the land or the people who live on it. The people are one with me. They are as my flesh and I shall defend them to the last drop of my blood! So, then, tell me why you are come to Kehnooryohs Ehlahs.”
Milo told the old fighter as much of the truth as he felt he should know. “Lord Alexandras, for many hundreds of years has this tribe been nomadic, but no more. In the time of the gods, the sacred ancestors came from the sea—from ‘the Holy City of Ehlai beside the shining sea’—and it was long ago prophesied that, in due time, they should return to the sea and rebuild their city. When the tribe comes within sight of the sea, they shall cease to be nomads. They will but wait there for a sign, a sign that will tell them where Wind, Who blew them here, wishes them to begin their rebuilding.”
The old Ehleen nodded. ” The Prophecy of the Return’? Yes, I’ve acquired some little familiarity with the customs and legends of the western peoples, Lord Milos. However, as I remember having heard, your tribe was to be led back to the sea by an immortal god. Are you then a god, Lord Milos?”
“No, Lord Alexandras,” replied Milo. “I am but a man like you.”
The Strahteegohs eyed him shrewdly. “What is your family name, Lord Milos?”
“Though I am clanless, in my capacity here,” responded Milo “my clan is Morai.”
Lord Alexandras shook his head. “That is your name, among the nomads, Lord Milos. But you are no nomad, that much is obvious. For one thing, you’re too tall and big-boned; for another, there’s your coloring, had you a beard and civilized clothing, you could walk the streets of any city of this realm without drawing a second glance. It is quite clear, to me, you are an Ehleen! Judging by the idioms of your Ehleeneekos, I should say that you came from Kehnooryohs Makedonia and that you are noble-born. You have no need to feel shame for your present status, you know. Whatever dishonor caused you to leave your homeland has apparently been long expunged, for a stranger who lacked for honor could not have risen to your present exalted position among these people. I greatly admire the western nomads, Lord Milos. I admire their bravery, their honesty and then- inflexible code of honor. These are qualities which my own ancestors possessed, which—to my shame—their descendents have lost. I could not watch this land despoiled and its people extirpated; but even a barbarian king could rule it better than the present kakistocracy. That the new ruler should be an Ehleen of noble lineage is even better. This is why I ask you your family name, Lord Milos.”
It was Milo’s turn to shake his head. “I reiterate, Lord Alexandras, no matter what I may appear, I am no Ehleen! I am Milo Morai, War Chief of this tribe.”
The old nobleman’s features darkened and his lips became a tight line and the words which next issued from between them were clipped, short, and sharp as a new-honed blade.
“I do not believe you, Lord Milos! For some cryptic reason, you wish to delude me. And you obviously take me for a fool. I am not! Until you decide to be candid with me, I can discern no point in continuing discussion of an alliance. Now, will you tell me your Ehleen name?”
“Oh, ’Lekos, ’Lekos, ever were you pig-headed! With a bone in your teeth, you’re stubborn as a hound. I should have thought that age might have vouchsafed you some measure of wisdom,” said Mara as she advanced into the room.
She was garbed as an Ehleen noblewoman, jeweled and cosmetized, her hair elaborately coiffed. Milo had never seen her like this.
But Lord Alexandras obviously had! He paled and rapidly crossed himself with a trembling hand. “Dear sweet God!” he whispered. “Lady Mara! Lady Mara of Pohtahmohs! Am I mad? Was the wine drugged? Or are you a ghost out of the past, come to haunt me?”
19
A half-smile curled Mara’s lips. “No, ’Lekos, you are not mad.” She glided to a point beside his chair, lifted his wine cup and took a long draught of its contents. Then she laid the warm palm of one smooth hand on his scarred, gnarled knuckles and, gazing into his bewildered eyes, said, “Nor was the wine drugged, ’Lekos, nor am I a ghost.”
Lord Alexandras’ mind was whirling madly. He felt as if he had been clubbed. He shook his white-maned head vigorously. “But… but… Mara … my love … it… it’s impossible! Impossible! You … not one white hair… no change at all … and … and it’s been nigh to forty years! It’s impossible, d’you hear me? You cannot be her!”
Her voice became tender. “Poor ’Lekos, I could not tell you then; so you do not understand now. ’Lekos, long years ago I gave you a token. It was a cameo executed in the milk-stone with the gem for its setting. In the gem, which is an amethyst, is a tiny cavity filled with liquid. On the back of the stone was carved a single word.”
“Remember,” whispered Lord Alexandras with awe and reverence. “Then, impossible as it is, it must be. None other, even my wife, ever knew of that stone. Many years ago in a battle, the chain which held the golden case in which it was sealed was torn from my neck. After the battle, I went back and scoured the bloody ground until I found it. Something—horse-hoof or chariot-wheel—had crushed the case flat against a rock and ground the stone within to dust. Since then, my only links with you have been my memories and … my love.”
Bending over him, Mara tilted back Alexandras’ head and kissed his lips. Then, leaning back against the table, she said, “Oh, God, I had almost forgotten! I loved you so much, my ’Lekos, loved you more than I have ever loved another man in all the years of a long, long life.”