Toller looked up at Land, which was steadily growing brighter, and in an instant traced the course of his life, from his birthplace on that distant world to the quiet enclosure where he now stood. Everything that had ever happened to him seemed to have led directly to this moment. In retrospect his life appeared as a single, clear-cut highway which he had followed without conscious effort—but now, abruptly, the road had divided. A momentous decision had to be made, and he had just learned that he was ill-equipped for the making of real decisions.
Toller half-smiled as he recalled that only minutes earlier he had regarded his dalliance with Berise Narrinder as something of importance. Gesalla—far ahead of him, as usual—had known better. He had reached the fork in the road, and had to go one way or the other. One way or the other!
As he wandered the precinct the sun continued its descent to the horizon and the daytime stars became more numerous. Once the transparent globe of a ptertha sailed overhead on a breeze which could not be detected within the vine-clad walls. It was not until silver whirlpools were beginning to show themselves in the eastern blue that Toller abruptly ceased his pacing, stilled by an accession of self-knowledge, by an understanding of why he was taking so long to choose the future course of his life.
There was no decision point before him! There was no dilemma!
The issue had been decided for him, even as Gesalla was putting it into words. He could never make her content, because he was a hollow man who could never again make himself content—and the subsequent delay had been caused by his craven inability to face the truth.
The truth is that I am halfway to being dead, he told himself, and all that remains for me is to find a suitable way to finish what I have begun.
He gave a quavering sigh, went to the bluehorn and led it to the precinct gate. He took the animal outside, and while closing the gate looked for the last time at the drowsing house. Gesalla was not at any of the darkening windows. Toller got into the saddle and put the bluehorn into a slow-swaying walk on the gravel road to the east. The workers had departed the fields and the world seemed empty.
“What comes next?” he said to the universe at large, his words swiftly fading into the sadness of the surrounding twilight. “Please, what do I do next?”
There was a tiny focus of movement on the road far ahead of him, almost at the limits of vision. In a normal frame of mind Toller might have used his telescope to gain advance information about the approaching traveller, but on this occasion the effort seemed too great. He allowed the natural progression of events to do the work for him at its own measured pace.
In a short time he was able to discern a wagon driven by a solitary figure, and within another few minutes he could see that both the wagon and its occupant were in a sorry state. The vehicle had lost much of its siding and its wheels were wobbling visibly on worn axles. Its driver was a bearded young man, so caked with dust that he resembled a clay statue.
Toller guided his bluehorn to the side of the road to give the stranger room to pass, and was surprised when the wagon drew to a halt beside him. Its driver peered at him through red-rimmed eyes, and even before he spoke it was apparent that he was very drunk.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said in slurred tones, “do I have the honour of addressing Lord Toller Maraquine?”
“Yes,” Toller replied. “Why do you ask?”
The bearded man swayed for a moment, then unexpectedly produced a smile which in spite of his filthy and dishevelled condition had a boyish charm. “My name is Bartan Drumme, my lord, and I come to you with a unique proposition—one I am certain you will find of great interest.”
“I very much doubt that,” Toller said coldly, preparing to move on.
“But, my lord! It was my understanding that as Chief of Aerial Defence you concerned yourself with all matters pertaining to the upper reaches of the sky.”
Toller shook his head. “All that is over and done with.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, my lord.” Drumme picked up a bottle and drew the cork, then paused and gave Toller a sombre stare. “This means I shall have to seek an audience with the King.”
In spite of all that was pressing on his mind, Toller had to chuckle. “Doubtless he will be fascinated by what you have to say.”
“No doubt at all,” Drumme agreed, comfortable in his intoxication. “Any ruler in history would have been intrigued by the idea of planting his flag on the world we call Farland.”
Chapter 13
The Bluebird Inn in Prad was named after a prominent hostelry in old Ro-Atabri, and it was the ambition of its landlord to win a comparable reputation for decorum. As a consequence, he had been visibly disturbed when Toller had walked into his premises with the disreputable figure of Bartan Drumme in tow. It had been obvious that in his mind the honour of accommodating the heroic aristocrat scarcely compensated for the presence of his smelly and bedraggled companion. He had, however, been persuaded to provide two bedchambers and to set up in one of them a large bath filled with hot water. Bartan was now soaking in the bath, and except for his head the only part of him visible above the soap-greyed water was the hand which was clutching a beaker of brandy.
Toller took a sip from the drink Bartan had given him and grimaced as the crude spirit burned his throat. “Do you think you should be drinking this concoction all the time?”
“Of course not,” Bartan said. “I should be drinking good brandy all the time, but this is all I can afford. It has cost me my last penny to get here, my lord.”
“I told you not to address me as lord.” Toller raised his drink to his lips, smelled it and emptied the ceramic beaker into the bath.
“There was no need to waste it,” Bartan complained. “Besides, how would you like that sort of stuff swilling around your private parts?”
“It may do them good—I think it was intended for external application,” Toller said. “I’ll have our host serve us with something less poisonous in a little while, but in the meantime I have to go back to the part of your story which sticks in my craw.”
“Yes?”
“You claim that your wife is alive on Farland, not as a spirit or a reincarnation—but in the flesh as you knew her. How can you believe that?”
“I can’t explain. Her words conveyed more than words—and that was what I got from them.”
Toller tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. “I’m not conceited enough to think I know all there is to know about this strange existence of ours. I concede that there are many mysteries, most of which we may never penetrate, but this does not sit easy with me. It still binds.”
Bartan stirred in the bath, slopping water over the side. “I have been a convinced materialist all my life. I still scorn those simpletons who cling to a belief in the supernatural, in spite of all I went through in the Basket—but although I am at a loss to explain it, this is something I know. There were strange lights that night. Sondeweere did something beyond my understanding, and now she lives on Farland-”
“You say she appeared to you in a vision, spoke to you from Farland. I find it difficult to imagine anything more supernatural than that.”
“Perhaps we use the word in different ways. My wife did speak to me—therefore it was a natural occurrence. It only appears to smack of the supernatural because of elements beyond our comprehension.”
Toller noted that Bartan spoke with impressive fluency in spite of his intoxication. He stood up and walked around the lamplit room, then returned to his chair. Bartan was contentedly sipping his brandy, not looking at all insane.