wait until the sun
fell, in perfect patience.
Hirel’s gaze dropped. “Yes,” he muttered. “I give it.”
“It is accepted.”
Then Hirel was forgotten, left to gather his belongings and
tend his mount and fall into the line of riders. Sarevan led, as always; Ulan
kept pace with him. The others rode in no perceptible order, except that Hirel
took care to hold the rear.
They left the lake, winding up a steep wooded ridge, and
wound down into a long valley. Trees closed in, but the valley’s center was
clear, like the last gasp of a road: grass and stones and stretches of barren
earth.
Toward midday the vale bent westward, rising into a long
gentle slope lightly furred with trees. Stones crowned the hill, a rough circle
that held a suggestion of men’s hands, but hands long fallen to dust.
Hirel slowed his mare as if to stare. No one noticed. He let
the gap widen. Sarevan was far ahead, striking for the eastward ridge, and Ulan
loped in front of him.
Hirel clapped heels to his mare’s sides, bending over her
neck. She bolted toward the hill.
Behind them, a shout went up. Hirel lashed the mare with the
rein-ends; she shifted from flat gallop to full flight.
They were far behind, all his jailers. Hirel grinned into
the teeth of the wind.
His jubilation shuddered and died. A grey shadow flowed over
the ground, and its eyes were green fire. It was closing. Angling. Moving to
cut him off.
“No,” he said, not loudly. He bent lower still, singing into
the flattened ear, praising, cursing, willing the mare onward. Up the hill. Up.
She stumbled. He caught her, bearing her up by main force,
driving her forward.
Ulan filled the corner of his eye. The great jaws gaped; the
white fangs gleamed.
The stones. If Hirel could only come to the stones, he could
defend himself. Before he fell. As he must. Damn that unnatural cat to the hell
that had spawned it.
The circle floated before him. Avaryan sat above the tallest
stone and laughed, a great booming roar, filling Hirel’s brain.
Even in his desperation he could reflect that he was at a
sore disadvantage: he had no god to set against this flaming monstrosity. Logic
was a poor defense; philosophy crumbled like a tower of sand. And all Asanion’s
thousand gods were but a tale to frighten children.
The mare veered. Ulan’s jaws clashed shut where her throat
had been. Hirel fought with rein and leg, beating her back toward the west.
She struggled, stiff-legged, throwing up her head. Ulan
snarled. She went utterly mad.
Slowly, leisurely, Hirel wheeled through the air. The earth
was a bitter shock. Sharp cloven hooves flailed about him. He could only lie
and gasp and wait to die.
A blur of fire and shadow became Sarevan’s face. Hirel
sucked in blessed air. Sarevan’s expression, a cool corner of his mind
observed, did not bode well for him. He had seen it once ablaze with temper,
and that had been frightening. But this cold stillness was more deadly by far.
Little by little his lungs remembered their office. The rest
of him was bruised but unbroken.
He sat up shakily. No hand came to his aid. They were all
mounted, staring, save for Sarevan on one knee beside him.
Sarevan watched with eyes that granted him nothing. Not
mercy, not fury, not even contempt.
Hirel rose dizzily, swallowing bile. He was eye to eye with
Sarevan. In spite of themselves, his fists had clenched.
At last the Varyani prince spoke, soft and cold. “You gave
me your word.”
Hirel laughed, though it made his head throb. “I do not
waste honor on animals.”
This silence stretched longer even than the one before.
Longer, colder, and more terrible.
Sarevan stood. He towered like the standing stones, like the
god enthroned upon them. He raised a hand.
The Zhil’ari who came at the signal had no illusions of
gentleness. He bound Hirel’s hands behind him, a tightness just short of pain,
and set him in the saddle of the lathered and trembling mare, and bound his
feet together beneath
fell, in perfect patience.
Hirel’s gaze dropped. “Yes,” he muttered. “I give it.”
“It is accepted.”
Then Hirel was forgotten, left to gather his belongings and
tend his mount and fall into the line of riders. Sarevan led, as always; Ulan
kept pace with him. The others rode in no perceptible order, except that Hirel
took care to hold the rear.
They left the lake, winding up a steep wooded ridge, and
wound down into a long valley. Trees closed in, but the valley’s center was
clear, like the last gasp of a road: grass and stones and stretches of barren
earth.
Toward midday the vale bent westward, rising into a long
gentle slope lightly furred with trees. Stones crowned the hill, a rough circle
that held a suggestion of men’s hands, but hands long fallen to dust.
Hirel slowed his mare as if to stare. No one noticed. He let
the gap widen. Sarevan was far ahead, striking for the eastward ridge, and Ulan
loped in front of him.
Hirel clapped heels to his mare’s sides, bending over her
neck. She bolted toward the hill.
Behind them, a shout went up. Hirel lashed the mare with the
rein-ends; she shifted from flat gallop to full flight.
They were far behind, all his jailers. Hirel grinned into
the teeth of the wind.
His jubilation shuddered and died. A grey shadow flowed over
the ground, and its eyes were green fire. It was closing. Angling. Moving to
cut him off.
“No,” he said, not loudly. He bent lower still, singing into
the flattened ear, praising, cursing, willing the mare onward. Up the hill. Up.
She stumbled. He caught her, bearing her up by main force,
driving her forward.
Ulan filled the corner of his eye. The great jaws gaped; the
white fangs gleamed.
The stones. If Hirel could only come to the stones, he could
defend himself. Before he fell. As he must. Damn that unnatural cat to the hell
that had spawned it.
The circle floated before him. Avaryan sat above the tallest
stone and laughed, a great booming roar, filling Hirel’s brain.
Even in his desperation he could reflect that he was at a
sore disadvantage: he had no god to set against this flaming monstrosity. Logic
was a poor defense; philosophy crumbled like a tower of sand. And all Asanion’s
thousand gods were but a tale to frighten children.
The mare veered. Ulan’s jaws clashed shut where her throat
had been. Hirel fought with rein and leg, beating her back toward the west.
She struggled, stiff-legged, throwing up her head. Ulan
snarled. She went utterly mad.
Slowly, leisurely, Hirel wheeled through the air. The earth
was a bitter shock. Sharp cloven hooves flailed about him. He could only lie
and gasp and wait to die.
A blur of fire and shadow became Sarevan’s face. Hirel
sucked in blessed air. Sarevan’s expression, a cool corner of his mind
observed, did not bode well for him. He had seen it once ablaze with temper,
and that had been frightening. But this cold stillness was more deadly by far.
Little by little his lungs remembered their office. The rest
of him was bruised but unbroken.
He sat up shakily. No hand came to his aid. They were all
mounted, staring, save for Sarevan on one knee beside him.
Sarevan watched with eyes that granted him nothing. Not
mercy, not fury, not even contempt.
Hirel rose dizzily, swallowing bile. He was eye to eye with
Sarevan. In spite of themselves, his fists had clenched.
At last the Varyani prince spoke, soft and cold. “You gave
me your word.”
Hirel laughed, though it made his head throb. “I do not
waste honor on animals.”
This silence stretched longer even than the one before.
Longer, colder, and more terrible.
Sarevan stood. He towered like the standing stones, like the
god enthroned upon them. He raised a hand.
The Zhil’ari who came at the signal had no illusions of
gentleness. He bound Hirel’s hands behind him, a tightness just short of pain,
and set him in the saddle of the lathered and trembling mare, and bound his
feet together beneath
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