Head bowed to the wind rode Guyal, and the mountains slanted along the twilight like the skeleton of a fossil god.
The horse halted, and Guyal found himself at the brink of a wide valley. The wind had died; the valley was quiet. Guyal leaned forward, staring. Below spread a dark and lifeless city. Mist blew along the streets and the afterglow fell dull on slate roofs.
The horse snorted and scraped the stony ground.
"A strange town," said Guyal, "with no lights, no sound, no smell of smoke ... Doubtless an abandoned ruin from ancient times .. ."
He debated descending to the streets. At times the old ruins were haunted by peculiar distillations, but such a ruin might be joined by the tundra by a trail. With this thought in mind he started his horse down the slope.
He entered the town and the hooves rang loud and sharp on the cobbles. The buildings were framed of stone and dark mortar and seemed in uncommonly good preservation. A few lintels had cracked and sagged, a few walls gaped open, but for the most part the stone houses had successfully met the gnaw of time ... Guyal scented smoke. Did people live here still? He would proceed with caution.
Before a building which seemed to be a hostelry flowers bloomed in an urn. Guyal reined his horse and reflected that flowers were rarely cherished by persons of hostile disposition.
"Hallo!" he called—once, twice.
No heads peered from the doors, no orange flicker brightened the windows. Guyal slowly turned and rode on.
The street widened and twisted toward a large hall, where Guyal saw a light. The building had a high facade, broken by four large windows, each of which had its two blinds of patined bronze filigree, and each overlooked a small balcony. A marble balustrade fronting the terrace shimmered bone-white and, behind, the hall's portal of massive wood stood slightly ajar; from here came the beam of light and also a strain of music.
Guyal of Sfere, halting, gazed not at the house nor at the light through the door. He dismounted and bowed to the young woman who sat pensively along the course of the balustrade. Though it was very cold, she wore but a simple gown, yellow-orange, a daffodil's color. Topaz hair fell loose to her shoulders and gave her face a cast of gravity and thoughtfulness.
As Guyal straightened from his greeting the woman nodded, smiled slightly, and absently fingered the hair by her cheek.
"A bitter night for travelers."
"A bitter night for musing on the stars," responded Guyal.
She smiled again. "I am not cold. I sit and dream ... I listen to the music." --
"What place is this?" inquired Guyal, looking up the street, down the street, and once more to the girl. "Are there any here but yourself?"
"This is Carchesel," said the girl, "abandoned by all ten thousand years ago. Only I and my aged uncle live here, finding this place a refuge from the Saponids of the tundra."
Guyal thought: this woman may or may not be a witch.
"You are cold and weary," said the girl, "and I keep you standing in the street." She rose to her feet. "Our hospitality is yours."
"Which I gladly accept," said Guyal, "but first I must stable my horse."
"He will be content in the house yonder. We have no stable." Guyal, following her finger, saw a low stone building with a door opening into blackness.
He took the white horse thither and removed the bridle and saddle; then, standing in the doorway, he listened to the music he had noted before, the piping of a weird and ancient air.
"Strange, strange," he muttered, stroking the horse's muzzle. "The uncle plays music, the girl stares alone at the stars of the night ..." He considered a moment. "I may be over-suspicious. If witch she be, there is naught to be gained from me. If they be simple refugees as she says, and lovers of music, they may enjoy the airs from Ascolais; it will repay, in some measure, their hospitality." He reached into his saddle-bag, brought forth his flute, and tucked it inside his jerkin.
He ran back to where the girl awaited him.
"You have not told me your name," she reminded him, "that I may introduce you to my uncle."
"I am Guyal of Sfere, by the River Scaum in Ascolais. And you?"
She smiled, pushing the portal wider. Warm yellow light fell into the cobbled street.
"I have no name. I need none. There has never been any but my uncle; and when he speaks, there is no one to answer but I."
Guyal stared in astonishment; then, deeming his wonder too apparent for courtesy, he controlled his expression. Perhaps she suspected him of wizardry and feared to pronounce her name lest he make magic with it.
They entered a flagged hall, and the sound of piping grew louder.
"I will call you Ameth, if I may," said Guyal. "That is a flower of the south, as golden and kind and fragrant as you seem to be."
She nodded. "You may call me Ameth."
They entered a tapestry-hung chamber, large and warm. A great fire glowed at one wall, and here stood a table bearing food. On a bench sat the musician—an old man, untidy, unkempt. His white hair hung tangled down his back; his beard, in no better case, was dirty and yellow. He wore a ragged kirtle, by no means clean, and the leather of his sandals had broken into dry cracks.
Strangely, be did not take the flute from his mouth, but kept up his piping; and the girl in yellow, so Guyal noted, seemed to move in rhythm to the tones.
"Uncle Ludowik," she cried in a gay voice, "I bring you a guest, Sir Guyal of Sfere."
Guyal looked into the man's face and wondered. The eyes, though somewhat rheumy with age, were gray and bright—feverishly bright and intelligent; and, so Guyal thought, awake with a strange joy. This joy further puzzled Guyal, for the lines of the face indicated nothing other than years of misery.
"Perhaps you play?" inquired Ameth. "My uncle is a great musician, and this is his time for music. He has kept the routine for many years ..." She turned and smiled at Ludowik the musician. Guyal nodded politely.
Ameth motioned to the bounteous table. "Eat, Guyal, and I will pour you wine. Afterwards perhaps you will play the flute for us."
"Gladly," said Guyal, and he noticed how the joy on Ludowik's face grew more apparent, quivering around the corners of his mouth.
He ate and Ameth poured him golden wine until his head went to reeling. And never did Ludowik cease his piping—now a tender melody of running water, again a grave tune that told of the lost ocean to the west, another time a simple melody such as a child might sing at his games. Guyal noted with wonder how Ameth fitted her mood to the music—grave and gay as the music led her. Strange! thought Guyal. But then—people thus isolated were apt to develop peculiar mannerisms, and they seemed kindly withal.
He finished his meal and stood erect, steadying himself against the table. Ludowik was playing a lilting tune, a melody of glass birds swinging round and round on a red string in the sunlight. Ameth came dancing over to him and stood close—very close—and he smelled the warm perfume of her loose golden hair. Her face was happy and wild ... Peculiar how Ludowik watched so grimly, and yet without a word. Perhaps he misdoubted a stranger's intent. Still...
"Now," breathed Ameth, "perhaps you will play the flute; you are so strong and young." Then she said quickly, as she saw Guyal's eyes widen. "I mean you will play on the flute for old uncle Ludowik, and he will be happy and go off to bed—and then we will sit and talk far into the night."