“Valorian!” a voice boomed over the others. “How are you, lad?”
The clansman nodded with pleasure and saluted the man striding beside Adala. “I am here, Father. That should say something.”
The old man, still looking as robust and hale as the day he tangled fatally with three Tarnish soldiers, laughed and slapped his son on the leg. Valorian felt only a slight sensation. Death had certainly limited his sense of touch.
“Father, do you see this horse?” Adala exclaimed. “Isn’t he a beauty? What did you do, Valorian, steal him?”
“Hush, Adala!” her mother shushed the girl. “There will be time later to talk when he returns from Lord Sorh.”
Valorian winced. He had just found this part of his family.
He hated to tell them of his true mission.
Before he could say anything, his father demanded, “Tell me first, Valorian. Two things: How is your brother, and did you fulfill your duty to the Clan before you left?”
Valorian wanted to groan. Leave it to his father to bring up the sore point of his life now. At least he could report the good news first. Maybe he could be gone before his father demanded the rest.
“Aiden was well and happy the last time I saw him. He is about to be married.”
“Aiden? He survived unharmed to manhood? Praise Surgart!” his father declared.
Adala snorted indelicately. “That wildcat in a sheep’s coat? Married? Poor girl.”
Valorian couldn’t help but smile. He, too, had often despaired that Adala’s twin brother would ever grow up. Aiden had been as wild and reckless as his sister.
“He missed you horribly when you died,” Valorian told Adala. “I think some of his deeds came out of his grief.”
She quieted for a moment, her shining smile lost in sadness, then she brightened and skipped ahead to Hunnul’s head. “At least you’re here with us now. May I ride your horse?”
“Perhaps sometime,” Valorian replied vaguely. He waved a hand toward the seemingly endless fields of grass. “Is this all there is?”
“My goodness, no,” she said. “This is only a small part. The realm of the dead has many places and many more people. You can make of your eternal life what you will.”
“Enough chatter, girl,” their father said in exasperation. “Valorian, you will not change the subject. Did you and Kierla produce a son?”
“No.” Valorian replied flatly and clamped his jaw shut. He didn’t want to continue that discussion. His father had chosen Kierla as a wife for him when he was barely a man. She had the looks of a good brood mare, the old man had said—long frame, wide hips, ample breasts. She would bring many children to Valorian’s tent. Valorian had had his heart set on another, but he took Kierla reluctantly to please his father. To his surprise, marrying her had been the best decision of his life.
The only problem was that she hadn’t borne any children.
In the fifteen summers since they had been joined, she had never once been pregnant. Several people had suggested to Valorian that he could turn her out and get a new wife, but he refused. He and Kierla had grown to love one another in a way that transcended the absence of children. Although he knew the lack of babies in her arms was a bitter disappointment to her and that she would leave if he asked, he had never even considered it. Kierla had strengths that sustained them both and a spirit that delighted his heart. It was a shame his father would never understand.
“What?” the old man bellowed. “Why that useless—”
He was interrupted by his wife who put her hand on his arm. “It hardly matters now, my husband. Let our son pay his homage to Lord Sorh.”
As soon as she spoke, Valorian reached out and gently touched her hair. His mother’s hair was still as gray as on the day she died, but the face she turned to him was radiant with peace and contentment.
“Mother,” he said quietly, “it is possible I will not come back.”
“Whyever not?” cried Adala.
His parents looked up with questions in their eyes.
“I go to Gormoth in Ealgoden as Amara’s champion to face the gorthlings,” he replied.
The entire entourage abruptly fell quiet.
“No, you can’t!” breathed Adala finally. Their mother’s radiant peace faded to a sickly fear.
“Valorian, don’t be a fool!” an uncle shouted. “No mortal can best a gorthling.”
His grandfather gestured furiously toward the mountain. “Those creatures are evil, don’t you know that? They’ll destroy you.”
Only his father stared keenly into his face with the piercing gaze of an old, wise eagle. “If Amara chose you,” he stated with intensity, “then you must go.”
The clansman nodded, his cool blue gaze matching his father’s. “The goddess gave me a weapon,” he said to reassure his parents. “I am not totally defenseless.”
The old man clenched his fist. “Then use it wisely, and we will see you when you return.”
“Thank you, Father,” Valorian said. It was time to move on. He was afraid that even with Amara’s warning ringing in his mind, he would lose himself in the reunion with his family. He waved farewell to his relatives and friends and kicked Hunnul into a canter. The four silent Harbingers moved with him.
“Surgart go with you, Brother,” Adala cried, waving frantically.
“And Amara, too,” bellowed his father.
All too quickly the crowd of well wishers was left behind on the green fields, and Valorian rode on alone with his escort. Ahead of him, the meadow stretched on in gentle, unbroken waves to lap against the feet of the sacred mountain that rose in solitary splendor to meet the sky.
Even from a distance, Valorian could see that the peak was bigger by far than any puny mountain in the mortal world. Its gigantic gray-black ramparts dominated the realm around it; its massive, jagged crags thrust high into the rarefied air. A veil of cloud and mist hid the upper reaches of the peak where the gods and goddesses resided, but the eternal light at the summit burned clear and bright.
As Valorian and Hunnul drew closer to the mountain, the clansman noticed that they were following a faint path in the grass. The trail ran straight and true to the mountain’s slope and shimmered with its own pale luminescence in the sacred light. He knew they were riding one of the many paths of the dead that led to the throne of Sorh. He studied the path worriedly and wondered how he was going to get away to begin his search for an entrance into Gormoth. The Harbingers weren’t going to let him simply wander off, nor did he think he could escape from them. On the other hand, Valorian didn’t relish going to the court of Lord Sorh.
By immortal law, he, as a newly arrived soul, was required to face the god of the dead before he could take his place in the realm of the dead, and normally he would have done so.
However, this situation could hardly be called normal! Valorian was afraid that if he went to face the god of the dead before he tried to rescue Amara’s crown, Lord Sorh could delay him, hinder him, or simply refuse to let him go. The last thing Valorian wanted to do was spend eternity arguing with gods while his world drowned in the fury of unleashed storms.
He sighed between his teeth and settled into his saddle to wait. As long as he had four Harbingers for escorts, there was little he could do except follow them and hope for a chance to slip away.
A short while later Valorian realized there were other people on the trail. Not far ahead was a single Harbinger escorting several men on foot—Tarns, from the look of their clothes and their swarthy skins. Before them, another group of men, women, and a child walked with their escort. Valorian glanced over his shoulder and saw, far behind him, a fair woman of Chadarian blood riding a dun-colored mare and carrying a baby. They, like he, were all moving toward Ealgoden to face the god of the dead—whatever name they might call him.