light examined it. Faint pictures had been carved into the stone, stiff figures of creatures with the bodies of women and the heads of hawks and snakes and wolves; their eyes glowed like lit jewels. Beyond, at the end of the avenue, the central building gleamed with a startling iridescence. Its white stone seemed to reach into the heavens, touching the sovereign constellations —the Sword, the Staff, the Cup, and the Queen herself, whose Bow was aimed at the Dragon—and drawing their light by invisible threads down into itself, casting it back as luminescence.
Round and white. That building was the altar house.
A shadow moved, detaching itself from a far wall. Alain jumped to his feet, then shuddered, suddenly unable to move. It was not Withi.
It walked with a man's form, moving toward the altar house.
Yet it was not a man's form. Tall and slender he was, yes, but indefinably different in the subtle grace with which he walked and in the strange cut of his garments. The figure halted at the shaded entrance to the altar house and slowly turned, surveying the ruins. At first pass his gaze traveled right over Alain, as if he could not perceive him at all.
He had a wonderful, disturbing consistency to him, partly shade and partly real. He was very dark, but Alain could still see his features clearly. A thin face, more bronze than northern pale, and deep, old eyes under a shock of black hair.
Black hair. Like Alain's black hair. The man was clean-shaven or else beardless, although how any man could truly be called a man unless he wore a beard Alain did not know. Unless he was no true man. He wore a fine metal cuirass decorated with intertwined beasts whose twining points led down onto the leather fringe that
ended halfway to his knees. Under it he wore a plain linen tunic, and he held a white cloak draped over his left arm. He was looking for someone. Or meeting someone.
Alain heard the whisper of a tentative footstep. Over to his right, through a gap in the stone, he saw the opaque shape of a girl appear. But she had a leaden, earthy heaviness to her that marked her instantly in Alain's eyes as a mortal, like himself. She stared around, looking straight at the shade without appearing to see it, and then caught sight of Alain. Or at least, of his lantern.
"Alain?" she said, her tone low and uneasy. "Is that you?"
Alain took one step forward. The shade took a step forward, mirroring him, and their gazes met.
Dizziness swept him. The distant roar of flames sounded in his ears. He smelled smoke thick and oily in his nostrils.
"Where has Liathano gone?" The shade now held in his hand a lance, pointed and deadly, but it was held upright, not threatening Alain.
"I —I don't know," Alain stammered. He could not break his gaze away from the shade's eyes. They gleamed, like the altar house, like the fine outline of the shade's entire body, more gold than white. He heard the pound of horses galloping past, a haze of distant shouting, a faint horn caught on the wind.
"You are not of the blood," said the shade abruptly, lifting the lance like a challenge. "And yet, how else could you be here? What is your name? Who is your mother? How have you come here?"
Though he could not look away from the shade, Alain saw with his peripheral vision the shapes of the buildings. They stood tall, beautiful, and surprisingly delicate for such massive stone structures, but even now the dull red of flame cast its color across them. Burning. Burning. Smoke swelled from the burning and wind swept the thick oily stench across his face. He coughed.
A lost prince, truly. For,now Alain understood what was happening, what he saw: The final destruction of this fort. The sounds of fighting came inexorably closer, the terrible music of fate.
"My name is Alain," he said, wanting desperately to help, yet knowing that this fort was already doomed. What could he possibly do? Who was Liathano? Was this shade his true father? "I don't know how I came here. I
Round and white. That building was the altar house.
A shadow moved, detaching itself from a far wall. Alain jumped to his feet, then shuddered, suddenly unable to move. It was not Withi.
It walked with a man's form, moving toward the altar house.
Yet it was not a man's form. Tall and slender he was, yes, but indefinably different in the subtle grace with which he walked and in the strange cut of his garments. The figure halted at the shaded entrance to the altar house and slowly turned, surveying the ruins. At first pass his gaze traveled right over Alain, as if he could not perceive him at all.
He had a wonderful, disturbing consistency to him, partly shade and partly real. He was very dark, but Alain could still see his features clearly. A thin face, more bronze than northern pale, and deep, old eyes under a shock of black hair.
Black hair. Like Alain's black hair. The man was clean-shaven or else beardless, although how any man could truly be called a man unless he wore a beard Alain did not know. Unless he was no true man. He wore a fine metal cuirass decorated with intertwined beasts whose twining points led down onto the leather fringe that
ended halfway to his knees. Under it he wore a plain linen tunic, and he held a white cloak draped over his left arm. He was looking for someone. Or meeting someone.
Alain heard the whisper of a tentative footstep. Over to his right, through a gap in the stone, he saw the opaque shape of a girl appear. But she had a leaden, earthy heaviness to her that marked her instantly in Alain's eyes as a mortal, like himself. She stared around, looking straight at the shade without appearing to see it, and then caught sight of Alain. Or at least, of his lantern.
"Alain?" she said, her tone low and uneasy. "Is that you?"
Alain took one step forward. The shade took a step forward, mirroring him, and their gazes met.
Dizziness swept him. The distant roar of flames sounded in his ears. He smelled smoke thick and oily in his nostrils.
"Where has Liathano gone?" The shade now held in his hand a lance, pointed and deadly, but it was held upright, not threatening Alain.
"I —I don't know," Alain stammered. He could not break his gaze away from the shade's eyes. They gleamed, like the altar house, like the fine outline of the shade's entire body, more gold than white. He heard the pound of horses galloping past, a haze of distant shouting, a faint horn caught on the wind.
"You are not of the blood," said the shade abruptly, lifting the lance like a challenge. "And yet, how else could you be here? What is your name? Who is your mother? How have you come here?"
Though he could not look away from the shade, Alain saw with his peripheral vision the shapes of the buildings. They stood tall, beautiful, and surprisingly delicate for such massive stone structures, but even now the dull red of flame cast its color across them. Burning. Burning. Smoke swelled from the burning and wind swept the thick oily stench across his face. He coughed.
A lost prince, truly. For,now Alain understood what was happening, what he saw: The final destruction of this fort. The sounds of fighting came inexorably closer, the terrible music of fate.
"My name is Alain," he said, wanting desperately to help, yet knowing that this fort was already doomed. What could he possibly do? Who was Liathano? Was this shade his true father? "I don't know how I came here. I
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