months ago to the other priest, the troubled one who had been struck by his own tough-mindedness when they met so briefly in the refugee camp at Castle Gateway and together conceived the mission ...
... but now, lost in the fog, with night closing in, he asked himself: "Was I an arrogant old osloyeb to think I might succeed where she failed? What if I never even find the place? What if I get there-and the bodyguard of Tanu mind-benders sends me off with a flea in my ear?"
He had eaten his last scraps of food for breakfast. Hunger and fatigue made him dizzy and he stumbled many times as he traversed a rubble-strewn slope, which was devoid of any semblance of shelter. The fog was metamorphosing into a chill drizzle. His left ankle, which he had turned early in the afternoon when the mist thickened abruptly, was now so puffed that the strap of his sandal had disappeared into discoloured flesh.
Where could the damned trail be?
He switched on the lantern and cast about, the yellow beam seeming almost semisolid in the murk. He prayed, "Archangel Rafe, patron of travellers, help me spot that perishing trailmarker!"
And there it was: three stacked rocks, light against the graphitic shale and, as a bonus, a pile of old chaliko dung, sure sign that some other wayfarer had passed this spot. Brother Anatoly blessed the Lord, the marker, and the dung. His ankle throbbed, he was benighted and hypothermic and famished enough to eat shoe leather-but at least he was no longer lost.
Fastening the lantern to his cincture, he gripped the staff and plodded on. The trail continued to rise, twisting among rock slabs as black as ink. He came to a fork. Right or left? He shrugged and turned right, onto the wider section of path. The butter-coloured cone of lamplight shone on wet gravel, on tumbled chunks of gneiss, on a treacherous slickensides incline, and on ... nothing.
"Mat' chestnaya!" yelled the priest. He teetered and clung to the staff, which skidded into a small fissure and wedged tight.
Just one more step would have taken him over the precipice edge. Only the lantern's warning had saved him, and the banditgift staff.
He rested on his knees, trembling in terror and relief. Cracked shale pressed through his soaked robe like dull knives, but his unrejuvenated old bones were so chilled that he felt hardly any pain. Head bowed, he mumbled an Ave in the old tongue.
Somewhere down below, a mountain stream seethed and roared and a wind was rising. He looked up and saw a nearly full moon racing amid rags of cloud. The fog was dissipating-or perhaps he had simply climbed high enough to top it-and in a few minutes he had a clear view of a deep coombe threaded by a silvery torrent. The opposite wall was in heavy shadow and above it rose a ridge that culminated in a great moonlit eminence shaped roughly like an old-fashioned papal tiara. Black Crag.
Anatoly climbed to his feet and lifted the lantern high. They could probably see him! He was well out in the open, away from any screening mass of rock, and the guardian farsensors might have been watching him for hours as he picked his way along the fog-shrouded slope. Perhaps they had even given the warning.
In a voice raised only slightly against the wind, he said, "Good evening! I am Brother Anatoly Severinovich Gorchakov of the Order of Friars Minor. I've been sent with an important message. May I come ahead?"
Was it only the wind-or were spectral metasenses plucking at him, feeling him out? Was exotic scrutiny viewing him with Olympian benevolence-or preparing to flick him off like some intrusive gnat?
Was there no one up there at all, and was he simply a silly old crank with a rumbling stomach and fast-dwindling strength?
He clutched staff and lantern and stood there swaying. Then he saw it, farther into the ravine, on his side of the stream: a tiny red light. And then a white one springing into being just beyond it, and another red one, and then many others, alternately red and white,
... but now, lost in the fog, with night closing in, he asked himself: "Was I an arrogant old osloyeb to think I might succeed where she failed? What if I never even find the place? What if I get there-and the bodyguard of Tanu mind-benders sends me off with a flea in my ear?"
He had eaten his last scraps of food for breakfast. Hunger and fatigue made him dizzy and he stumbled many times as he traversed a rubble-strewn slope, which was devoid of any semblance of shelter. The fog was metamorphosing into a chill drizzle. His left ankle, which he had turned early in the afternoon when the mist thickened abruptly, was now so puffed that the strap of his sandal had disappeared into discoloured flesh.
Where could the damned trail be?
He switched on the lantern and cast about, the yellow beam seeming almost semisolid in the murk. He prayed, "Archangel Rafe, patron of travellers, help me spot that perishing trailmarker!"
And there it was: three stacked rocks, light against the graphitic shale and, as a bonus, a pile of old chaliko dung, sure sign that some other wayfarer had passed this spot. Brother Anatoly blessed the Lord, the marker, and the dung. His ankle throbbed, he was benighted and hypothermic and famished enough to eat shoe leather-but at least he was no longer lost.
Fastening the lantern to his cincture, he gripped the staff and plodded on. The trail continued to rise, twisting among rock slabs as black as ink. He came to a fork. Right or left? He shrugged and turned right, onto the wider section of path. The butter-coloured cone of lamplight shone on wet gravel, on tumbled chunks of gneiss, on a treacherous slickensides incline, and on ... nothing.
"Mat' chestnaya!" yelled the priest. He teetered and clung to the staff, which skidded into a small fissure and wedged tight.
Just one more step would have taken him over the precipice edge. Only the lantern's warning had saved him, and the banditgift staff.
He rested on his knees, trembling in terror and relief. Cracked shale pressed through his soaked robe like dull knives, but his unrejuvenated old bones were so chilled that he felt hardly any pain. Head bowed, he mumbled an Ave in the old tongue.
Somewhere down below, a mountain stream seethed and roared and a wind was rising. He looked up and saw a nearly full moon racing amid rags of cloud. The fog was dissipating-or perhaps he had simply climbed high enough to top it-and in a few minutes he had a clear view of a deep coombe threaded by a silvery torrent. The opposite wall was in heavy shadow and above it rose a ridge that culminated in a great moonlit eminence shaped roughly like an old-fashioned papal tiara. Black Crag.
Anatoly climbed to his feet and lifted the lantern high. They could probably see him! He was well out in the open, away from any screening mass of rock, and the guardian farsensors might have been watching him for hours as he picked his way along the fog-shrouded slope. Perhaps they had even given the warning.
In a voice raised only slightly against the wind, he said, "Good evening! I am Brother Anatoly Severinovich Gorchakov of the Order of Friars Minor. I've been sent with an important message. May I come ahead?"
Was it only the wind-or were spectral metasenses plucking at him, feeling him out? Was exotic scrutiny viewing him with Olympian benevolence-or preparing to flick him off like some intrusive gnat?
Was there no one up there at all, and was he simply a silly old crank with a rumbling stomach and fast-dwindling strength?
He clutched staff and lantern and stood there swaying. Then he saw it, farther into the ravine, on his side of the stream: a tiny red light. And then a white one springing into being just beyond it, and another red one, and then many others, alternately red and white,
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