NINETEEN
THE SCENT OF sulfur was as sharp as ever, yet Ryder had grown accustomed to it by now. He stood naked upon the jutting outcrop beneath the Falls of Sharn, his body inundated by a clinging mist warm as blood. His sweat dripped away, incessant droplets that at once cleansed and revived him.
The morning sun would be near its zenith, though he could not see it through the mist. He raised his arms and stretched, enjoying the lingering rush of adrenaline from the workout. He had pushed himself past his normal training limit, stressing his muscles beyond the point of burning until only his will had kept him moving. It had not been enough. There had been no vision, no figure—shadowy or otherwise—beckoning him with a guiding hand to point his direction.
He dove in, the arc of his fall clean and swift. The water met him, crushing him and then enveloping him in its chill embrace. He continued the plunge down, and further until his groping hands touched bottom.
He waited, forcing himself to pause, holding his breath until his chest burned. Only then did he kick out strongly, pulling with cupped hands that churned like a windmill. He broke the surface with a gasp and stared straight into the grinning maw of Wulf. His robe dangled limply between two glinting fangs.
‘You neeeed thisss?’
Ryder grunted an answer and heaved himself up, clambering over the haphazard array of stones lining the bank until he stood once more at ground level.
Wulf’s sense of humor—at odds with his grim and fearsome visage, yet an integral part of his developing personality—had grown by leaps and bounds, easily keeping pace with his rate of recuperation. Unfortunately, the humor was more often than not of the practical variety. Since Ryder was in no mood for it now, it was fortunate he didn’t have to chase halfway down the mountain for his robe.
The tharfi grinned as he dropped it on the wet stone and loped away without a word.
This was the tenth turn since his return to this well-remembered place in company with the giant tharfi—his sole companion. Each suited the other, for each in his way required freedom. For Ryder, it was the solitude, the setting for meditation as he strove in vain to reach some inner portion of himself hitherto unseen. For the tharfi, it was the opportunity to roam as free as a king in his domain. And yet, there was an easy and familiar kinship between them in those times they shared company. The communion of their minds flowed as easily as the falls itself.
Ryder dressed, readjusting to the familiar and comforting feel of the Metals. He moved off, following the path he had carved from the bush until he stood on an outcrop high above the falls. He sat cross-legged, staring down at the rushing torrent as he had done every turn of his sojourn there.
Despite the welcome companionship Wulf provided, there remained an absence sorely felt. He had not realized how much he relied on Mendiko: Mendiko the Sword Thane and Mendiko the fount of knowledge. Mendiko Sid who had become as close as a brother and without whose untiring aid he might not have survived to reach this mountain. Yet the prince had known it was time to move on. No one could follow Ryder where he must go now. But could he go on alone...and once there do what he must?
Why was he here? Had it been the welcome voice of Niobe urging with the best of intentions to delay? Or had fear and uncertainty driven him to this place of solitude? And how long should he remain? What was he waiting for? Another vision?
There had been none, though his dreams remained haunted by the ancient warrior. Whether real or imagined, he could no longer say. Yet each time the old man chided him with his dry, wind-raspy voice.
‘This is not the warrior’s way. You know what you must do. Go forward to meet it!’
Fear made him hesitate. Not the unmanning fear of the coward that stiffened the limbs and made them weak and unbidding. It was the fear of what he might become. Something other than human. Something that might change him beyond all reckoning, and she would be lost to him forever.
'I am but a servant of the Flame Lords. Yet in you lies a true spark of them, only waiting for the proper time to reawaken…'
The vision chased him. The words of the old warrior haunted his nights.
'To find the Power you must seek the Flame.'
He gazed into the churning water and his eyes drifted back beneath where he sat. A large boulder jutted into the stream, forming an eddy near its tip. Closer along the bank it was calmer, almost still enough to be a mirror. He stared like a charmer gazing at a crystal, but no answer was there. Only the large, looming head of the tharfi, the distorted reflection of his shaggy coat like the drooping limbs of the willow.
In the great menagerie of beings inhabiting the Pentarchy of Solarian, they remained alone: two creatures that did not fit in. He raised his eyes and saw the faint but recognizable white pinnacle of Thunder-Fell, its jagged top forever cloaked in snow. Somewhere up there, riding the wind, was a winged creature that had not yet chosen to appear.
Ryder turned and beheld the massive form of his companion, tongue lolling from his wicked jaws. It was the unmistakable sign of laughter.
‘You wish for the windlord to come, even though you are fearful weeee might hunger for his flesh. Fear not. Weeee have no desire to try. Perhaps weeee have become civilized. Though the great battle between ussss would beeee a joyful one.’
Despite his mood, Ryder smiled.
‘Perhaps you should ride on our back. Heeee will not let you.’
Ryder’s smile widened to a grin as he pictured himself riding the broad back of the tharfi, sword in hand. It was an image to frighten even the most stalwart warrior.
The winged horse had not come. Perhaps he could sense the tharfi, or maybe it was because the moon was not yet full. Yet come he must, for he could not survive without the waters of Sharn. He was a product of Galen’s mad dreaming, and equally its prisoner. Ryder recalled yet another of Mendiko’s half-smiling history lessons on their first journey.
‘Galen was one who saw life from the eyes of a child, even though his intellect was unsurpassed. He saw magic in every living thing, and his creations were themselves magical. He spent many moons in these hills, and possibly on the summit itself—though he never spoke of it. Yes, the winged horse was a childish vision, and though not intended as such, a cruel one. The water is the creature’s eternal tether. To us it is but fluid, high in sulfur to be sure and therefore a healthy draught at times. Yet for Pegasus, it is life itself.’
He suddenly decided. He would climb the heights if he could. Only one other had done so with certainty: the Pat’Riark.
‘Youuu will climb the mount? Then return?’
Ryder nodded, his eyes still on the summit.
‘Good. Weeee will go to the lands of Halfinger. Weeee will find a mate…then return for the contest of the swordsmen in the giant caaastle.’
Ryder looked up, his eyes serious. In his way, the tharfi had said he would not climb the mountain.
‘Tell Mendiko I will come soon.’
‘Weeee will tell the Red One.’
Ryder stood and prepared for the journey. He packed only the barest ration of wild nuts and fruit, along with a few edible tubers he had dug up. Under normal circumstances, his appetite was now almost nonexistent, but he foresaw the trip would be grueling and he might require some additional sustenance.
By the time he was ready, the tharfi had already gone. He shrugged into his pack and picked his way around the falls. With long and certain strides, he set his footsteps toward the upper levels.
What he might find there, he did not know. A greater treasure than Pegasus—or so Mendiko had told him. Regardless of what he discovered, it would bring an end to his procrastination. At the finish, he would return to the Tower. There he would discover his true and hidden nature…or he would destroy himself.
***
Mendiko went down to the seashore, for he was certain she would be there. She loved the sea. To an inhabitant of a desert world like Reamur, the sight of the ocean was a magical vision that did not disappear. She would sit for hours, tirelessly staring at the endless rolling waves. He would often sit by her side, content just to be in her company. Yet he knew without asking that thoughts of her world filled her mind: the hardships her family and friends would undergo beneath the cruel dominion of the Grimman-Seth.
He had put off speaking about this as long as he could, for he knew where it would lead. And he had been right. They had quarreled. It was not selfishness on her part that fueled the anger. He knew her mettle and the quality of her spirit by now. It was only frustration and vain hope. Hope that he, the prince of a Pentarchial House, could somehow magically right all the wrongs committed over many centuries.
She must understand his position. She was not a fool. He could not go out like some conquering hero of old and single-handedly defeat an enemy such as the Grimman-Seth—even if they were an enemy and not one of the ruling five realms of the empire.
Yet they had fought. The bitter words had flowed, opening wounds hard to heal, for he had found no solution. Though he had formed a plan with some hope of reconciliation, and a chance to return to her world unmolested. If only she would listen and agree.
He found her where he had expected, upon a high outcrop, immobile, her gaze far off as though immersed in some waking dream.
The sea was a sparkling jewel of sapphire beneath them, yet dimmed by her breathtaking beauty. She had become even more desirable, not only her sensuality but the deep well of emotions as transparent as sunlight, totally without guile. She could burn with passion yet laugh like a child. To him, she was the spring after winter, the sun after rain. She was the magic of moonlight in the stillness of a desert night, a cool drink in the heat of its sun. She already held the key to his heart, and he knew he could never bear her leaving.
She did not turn, though he knew she had heard his approach. He stood behind her, feeling wretched in his awkwardness yet not knowing how to begin.
“Hold me…”
Her voice was a whisper carried away in the breeze. He sat not beside her but behind, enfolding her in his embrace, burying his head in the soft luxuriousness of her hair and breathing in the heady scent of her, a scent that was untiring.
“Of what do you dream, my Shaleen?”
“Weighty matters no doubt similar to those troubling the sleep of my prince.”
“At this moment I dream only of forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I was wrong to expect such impossibility, even from the Prince of Sid.”
She squirmed around so she could see him, and her eyes twinkled in merriment. “Many have said I am hot-tempered.”
He grinned back at her, at once amused and happy.
“You have already done more than enough,” she added, once more serious. “I have received word from my father. The token of our bond is even now being converted to arms. He sends his blessing and his thanks.”
Mendiko nodded, realizing this was her way of apologizing. “I have thought of a way that may afford a respite...perhaps more.”
She waited, her eyes again solemn.
“You must become my betrothed. We will post our union at once. As a princess of Faerwyn-Joss, not even the Grimman-Seth may prohibit your return to Reamur. Once there…well, we shall see what influence I have.”
She did not speak for a moment, merely gazed at him. Then she leaned so close her lips were only a hair’s breadth away. “Are you proposing a contract to me, Mendiko Sid? Or are you saying you will love me above all other women, now and forever?”
“I already love you above all other women. And it will be forever…or nearly so. You must take the Serum.”
“Ah…”
She had not moved, and her nearness was too tantalizing. He kissed her, and her lips were warm and unresisting. But still she had not answered. Reluctantly, he drew away.
“Does that mean yes?” he asked hopefully.
She continued to watch him without expression. He saw the corners of her mouth twitch and she laughed, deep and full-throated, ruffling his hair. “Of course. You are much too handsome to run free all over the Pentarchy.”
He stood explosively as though propelled from a great cannon. Reaching down, he pulled her to her feet. They stood locked together as the wind gusted, buffeting their faces and tugging at their clothes. Their laughter was lost, torn from their mouths even though the smiles remained.
Mendiko glanced out to sea again, startled by a sight he had not seen in many moons. Over a hundred Rudd raced along the cresting waves, each astride a leaping dolphin. These were native to the Rudd homeworld of Rudan, a much larger variety than commonly found on Earth. The legends said the dolphin was not a native species of Earth but seeded countless millennia beforehand. This was neither denied nor asserted by the Rudd, who rumor said had evolved from a similar strain. Regardless of the validity of either belief, the interaction between the Rudd and sea mammal was long and close-knit.
In the van rode Marlon of the Ruderai. He was a striking figure, his hair bound in a circlet of gold. In his raised hand he bore his scepter—a long and slender trident glittering as brightly as the circlet. The signet of his office branded him not only a member of the Zuma but the leader of the Ruderai. It was a rarely seen token outside the Rudd enclaves, and that meant his visit must be of high import.
As they drew up under the outcropping, the dolphins rose as one. The union of their voices was a wailing cry of anguish that echoed like a death knell.
Mendiko, with a cold sense of foreboding, sensed this was the truth. Before Marlon spoke his message, he knew who had passed.
“Prince of Faerwyn-Joss, we have come with grave and woeful tidings. Odrim Sid is no more!”
Mendiko stood rooted in shock, the smile of his recent joy frozen upon his face. Though he had expected it for some time, an icy chill ran through him. Even as he looked at the woman who was now his betrothed, the thought came to him unbidden.
He was nowThird in his House—one of the ruling voices of the empire.