Conalin sighed. 'I thought the rabbits were free here,' said Conalin.
'They are free,' said Nogusta.
'No. I meant really free. Free from danger.'
'Nothing that walks, flies, swims or breathes is ever free from danger. Speaking of which you should not stray too far from the camp.'
Nogusta turned and walked away into the darkness. Conalin caught up with him. 'If you do save the queen,' he said, 'what reward will you get?'
'I don't know. I haven't given it any thought.'
'Will you become rich?'
'Perhaps.'
They reached the edge of the camp and Nogusta paused. 'Go and get some rest. We will have to push hard tomorrow.'
'Is that why you are doing this?' persisted Conalin. 'For the reward?'
'No. My reasons are far more selfish.'
Conalin took a step towards the camp. Then another question occurred to him and he swung round. But Nogusta was nowhere to be seen.
Gathering his blankets Conalin lay down beside Pharis. There was so much here that he didn't understand. What could be more selfish than labouring for a personal reward?
Life in the city had been brutally hard, and Conalin had been alone for much of his young life. Even so he felt he understood the nature of human existence. Happiness was a full belly, joy was having enough food for a full belly tomorrow, and love was a commodity mostly associated with money. Even his love of Pharis was ultimately selfish, for Conalin gained great pleasure from her company. It was that pleasure, he believed, which led him to yearn for her. Like the men and women who gathered at the Chiatze House, and smoked the long pipe, paying for pleasure dreams, and returning again and again, with haunted eyes and shrinking purses.
Conalin had no recollection of his parents. His first memories were of a small room, packed with children. Some of them were crying. All of them were filthy. Conalin had been tiny then, perhaps three or four years of age. He recalled the baby, lying on a soiled blanket. He remembered prodding it with his finger. It did not move. The lack of movement had surprised him. A fly had landed on the baby's open mouth, and slowly walked over the blue lips. Some time later a tall man had removed the baby.
Conalin couldn't remember the man's face. It had seemed so high and far away. But he remembered the legs, long and thin, encased in loose-fitting black leggings. His time in the house of gloom had not been happy, for his belly was rarely full, and there were many beatings.
After that there had been several homes. One, at least, had been warm and comfortable. But the price of that warmth had been too high, and he pushed the memories away.
Life on the streets had been better.
Conalin had even begun to think of himself as a wise man. He knew where to steal his breakfast, and could always find a warm, safe place to sleep, even in the depths of harsh winters. The soldiers of the Watch could never catch him, and his troubles with the street gangs had largely ended when he had killed Cleft-tongue. The gangs avoided him then, for Cleft-tongue had been feared, and anyone who could kill him in one-to-one combat was not to be trifled with. Conalin remembered the fight without any pleasure. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone. All he desired was to be left alone. But Cleft-tongue would have none of it. 'You steal on my patch, you pay rent,' he had said. Conalin had ignored him. Then, one night, the burly youth had come at him with a knife. Conalin was unarmed and had run. He recalled the laughter which followed him on his flight. Angry he had stolen a butcher's cleaver, and returned to where the gang had settled down for the night, in a deserted alleyway. He had walked up to where Cleft-tongue sat, called his name, and, as the youth turned, hit him in the temple with the cleaver. The blade had sunk deep, far deeper than Conalin had intended. Cleft-tongue died instantly.
'Now leave me alone,' Conalin told the others.
They had done so.
Unable to sleep Conalin pushed back his blanket and rose, walking to a nearby tree and urinating. Then he moved to the remains of the fire and added some of the twigs he had gathered earlier. With a stick he located the last glowing area of coals and, for some minutes, tried to blow them to fresh life. Finally admitting that the fire had died he sat back.
That was when he noticed the glow on the far side of the camp, a soft white light that was bathing the body of the sleeping priestess. Conalin watched it for some time, then he moved to Kebra's side and woke the bowman.
'What is it, lad?' asked Kebra, sleepily.
'Something is wrong with the priestess,' said Conalin. Kebra sat up, then pushed back his blankets. Dagorian awoke, saw the glowing light, and, with Conalin and Kebra, walked over to where Ulmenetha lay. The light was stronger now, almost golden. It was radiating from her face and hands. Kebra knelt beside her.
'She is burning up,' said the bowman. Conalin looked closer. Sweat was running from the woman's fat face, and her silver and blond hair was drenched. Kebra tried to wake her, but to no avail. The light around her grew brighter, and small white flowers blossomed around her blankets, writhing up through the grass. A heady scent filled the air, and Conalin could hear far-away music, whispering in his mind. Kebra drew back the blanket that covered the priestess. Only then did they see that she was floating some inches above the ground.
Nogusta moved alongside them, kneeling down and taking Ulmenetha's hand. The glowing light swelled, and flowed up along Nogusta's arm, bathing him in light. Releasing her hand he leapt backwards.
'Is she under attack?' asked Dagorian.
'No,' said Nogusta. 'This is not blood magick.'
'What should we do?' put in Kebra.
'Nothing. We will cover her and wait.'
Conalin peered down at the priestess's glistening face. 'She is getting thinner,' he whispered. It was true. Sweat was coursing over her body, and her flesh was receding.
'She'll die if this carries on,' said Kebra.
'What is happening to her is not of an evil origin,' said Nogusta. 'If it were I would sense it through my talisman. I do not think she will die. Cover her.'
Conalin lifted the blanket over Ulmenetha. As he did so his hand touched her shoulder. Once more the light flowed, bathing him. An exquisite feeling of warmth and security filled him. His back itched andàtingled, and he moaned with pleasure. Dizziness overcame him and he fell back to the grass. Pulling off his filthy shirt he gazed down at his arms. The open sores had vanished, and his skin glowed with health. 'Look!' he said to Kebra. 'I am healed.'
The bowman said nothing. Reaching out he also touched the priestess. The light flowed over him. Bright lights danced behind his eyes, and it seemed, at first, as if he was looking through a sheen of ice, distorting his view. Slowly the ice meltedand he found himself staring at the distant mountains, their peaks sharp and clear against the new dawn. He too sat back. 'I can see!' he whispered. 'Nogusta, I can see! Clearly!'
As the dawn rose, streaking the sky with gold, the light around Ulmenetha faded away, and her body slowly settled down upon the carpet of white flowers.
Her eyes opened, the last of the golden light shining from them.
'We cannot reach the coast,' she said. 'The Demon Lord is marching his army across the mountains, and the way to the sea is closed to us.'
Nogusta knelt beside her. 'I know,' he said, wearily.
Ulmenetha tried to sit, but sagged back exhausted. Her lips were dry. Nogusta ran to the wagon, returning with a water skin and a cup. Helping her to sit he held the cup to her lips. She drank sparingly. 'We must try… to reach. . the ghost city,' she said. 'Now let me rest.' Nogusta lowered her to the ground. She fell asleep instantly.
'What did she mean?' asked Kebra. The sea is our only hope.'