yes?”
“Umm. You kept saying something, Zoromesh, that’s it; Zoromesh, Zbromesh. I couldn’t understand what you meant, nor why the name of Thyra’s province should disturb you so . . . it puzzled me for the longest while, in a dim sort of way.”
“Ah. Hem. This person suggests that if you are very careful you might roll over upon your honorable face so that your back might be cleansed,” murmured Akthoob politely, as if he had not heard. His eyes were evasive, and he seemed distinctly uncomfortable.
“Where are we, anyway, old man?” the boy warrior asked dreamily, while Akthoob sponged his back clean.
“A small cave in the Thirty Hills, ten leagues east of the Perushka encampment This person and the lady Thyra carried you here in one of the gypsy wains, when you were well enough to travel. The cold, you see. We feared to expose you to it for long . . .”
“I would have thought the Perushka dogs would have slain us all, after I fell,” Kadji mumbled sleepily. Akthoob giggled.
“That would have been a very great miracle—this person thinks! The honorable Kadji does not remember, but ere he succumbed to his wounds he slew no fewer than thirty Perushka men . . . the few that were left bundled up their wives and children into the wains and rode off screaming a demon was among them armed with an awful glittering axe!” Akthoob giggled at the memory.
“Did I . . . really slay . . . thirty men?” Kadji mumbled, half asleep. But before hearing the answer he dozed off again, made sleepy by the snug warmth of the cave and the hypnotic rhythm of the old Easterling’s rubbing hands upon his, back.
But he remembered the word: Zoromesh; and he intended to pursue the mystery when next he awoke.
iii. In the Hills
THE NEXT week or so he mended slowly. He did not sleep as much, and they gave him much rare meat to eat, and even a little wine, and he was permitted, after a while, to sit up, to stand, and even to walk a bit, though walking tired him rapidly.
Kadji understood that he had been terribly ill for a long time; so ill that for fifteen straight days he had hovered on the brink of the Dark Kingdom of Death, and the two had labored night and day, sleeping in shifts, fighting to keep him alive.
He assumed it had been Akthoob who had saved him, for he thought a wizard would have knowledge of the healing arts; but no, it had been Thyra. The girl had nursed him with endless solicitude, to the peril of her own health. He felt vaguely surprised that a gently reared Princess of the Blood had such mastery of healing, but he remembered that Zoromesh was famous for its witches—White Witches they were, thinkers and healers, not worshippers of evil—and perchance the girl had learned somewhat of their art in her childhood. Akthoob became very unhappy whenever he raised the question, or mentioned Zoromesh, and when once he let fall a casual word about the White Witches, the old man went pale as parchment and changed the subject so abruptly as to be rude.
Kadji filed this small puzzle away, too, under the heading of Mysteries To Be Explored Later.
He had been ill for two full months. His mouth tightened grimly at the news, and he frowned. Shamad was gone now beyond all hope of finding. There were ten thousand places in the wide-wayed world in which the Impostor could have hidden himself, so the Quest, if not actually ended, was at least made futile now. . . .
In those two months the worst of winter had passed, and when Kadji was permitted out of the cave he saw that spring was near. Gnarled old treees and withered black shrubs grew near the mouth of the snug little cave, and bright green buds stirred upon them. And here and there upon the rounded low hummocks of the old hills, where patches of dirty snow were slowly shrinking, green young blades of grass were thrusting up through the bare, scabrous soil. Grey skies and lowering clouds were giving way to clear blue skies and the gusty wind brought the smell of
“Umm. You kept saying something, Zoromesh, that’s it; Zoromesh, Zbromesh. I couldn’t understand what you meant, nor why the name of Thyra’s province should disturb you so . . . it puzzled me for the longest while, in a dim sort of way.”
“Ah. Hem. This person suggests that if you are very careful you might roll over upon your honorable face so that your back might be cleansed,” murmured Akthoob politely, as if he had not heard. His eyes were evasive, and he seemed distinctly uncomfortable.
“Where are we, anyway, old man?” the boy warrior asked dreamily, while Akthoob sponged his back clean.
“A small cave in the Thirty Hills, ten leagues east of the Perushka encampment This person and the lady Thyra carried you here in one of the gypsy wains, when you were well enough to travel. The cold, you see. We feared to expose you to it for long . . .”
“I would have thought the Perushka dogs would have slain us all, after I fell,” Kadji mumbled sleepily. Akthoob giggled.
“That would have been a very great miracle—this person thinks! The honorable Kadji does not remember, but ere he succumbed to his wounds he slew no fewer than thirty Perushka men . . . the few that were left bundled up their wives and children into the wains and rode off screaming a demon was among them armed with an awful glittering axe!” Akthoob giggled at the memory.
“Did I . . . really slay . . . thirty men?” Kadji mumbled, half asleep. But before hearing the answer he dozed off again, made sleepy by the snug warmth of the cave and the hypnotic rhythm of the old Easterling’s rubbing hands upon his, back.
But he remembered the word: Zoromesh; and he intended to pursue the mystery when next he awoke.
iii. In the Hills
THE NEXT week or so he mended slowly. He did not sleep as much, and they gave him much rare meat to eat, and even a little wine, and he was permitted, after a while, to sit up, to stand, and even to walk a bit, though walking tired him rapidly.
Kadji understood that he had been terribly ill for a long time; so ill that for fifteen straight days he had hovered on the brink of the Dark Kingdom of Death, and the two had labored night and day, sleeping in shifts, fighting to keep him alive.
He assumed it had been Akthoob who had saved him, for he thought a wizard would have knowledge of the healing arts; but no, it had been Thyra. The girl had nursed him with endless solicitude, to the peril of her own health. He felt vaguely surprised that a gently reared Princess of the Blood had such mastery of healing, but he remembered that Zoromesh was famous for its witches—White Witches they were, thinkers and healers, not worshippers of evil—and perchance the girl had learned somewhat of their art in her childhood. Akthoob became very unhappy whenever he raised the question, or mentioned Zoromesh, and when once he let fall a casual word about the White Witches, the old man went pale as parchment and changed the subject so abruptly as to be rude.
Kadji filed this small puzzle away, too, under the heading of Mysteries To Be Explored Later.
He had been ill for two full months. His mouth tightened grimly at the news, and he frowned. Shamad was gone now beyond all hope of finding. There were ten thousand places in the wide-wayed world in which the Impostor could have hidden himself, so the Quest, if not actually ended, was at least made futile now. . . .
In those two months the worst of winter had passed, and when Kadji was permitted out of the cave he saw that spring was near. Gnarled old treees and withered black shrubs grew near the mouth of the snug little cave, and bright green buds stirred upon them. And here and there upon the rounded low hummocks of the old hills, where patches of dirty snow were slowly shrinking, green young blades of grass were thrusting up through the bare, scabrous soil. Grey skies and lowering clouds were giving way to clear blue skies and the gusty wind brought the smell of
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