TWENTY-ONE
NIGHT FELL AS Ryder reached the edge of the tree line. Rather than waste his energy on shield-glow, he decided to stop and rest for the night. The wind had dropped, yet it had grown colder. Not quite freezing, but as he set about constructing a rough shelter, he knew it would be a long and miserable night.
When he had finished, he built a fire and huddled close, feeling the warmth seep into his skin. He had spent many hours in a heightened state of alertness tuning his shields, experimenting with power and control. He knew it would require far more power and adeptness than he now possessed to filter out the cold yet still allow enough breathable air to pass through. It was a frustrating thing since he knew such control was a possibility, and yet he could not see the answer. Perhaps after.
The flames flickered as he watched, mesmerized by the bright and changeling color. Yet it was but a flame, natural and kindly in its warmth. Not like the other he must soon face.
The thickening crescent moon rose to greet him but gave him no added comfort. He sought the Quietus, his breaths deep and even, yet he could not maintain his focus. He rose several times to add logs he had gathered.
During one such interlude, he paused and listened to the surrounding night. From somewhere came a feeling of being watched, yet questing outward he could find no hint of another living entity. At some point, he drifted into sleep. He awoke to find the dawn had crept in.
He rose and stretched his limbs, startled to see the summit looming over him, appearing both near and far at once. Judging its height, he thought with a bit of luck he might scale it before darkness caught him again.
The sun was intense and glaring until he cut a strip from the hem of his robe and tied it around his eyes, adding the tiniest of slits to peer through. The skies accommodated him and clouded over, and then it snowed. Fluffy flakes drifted into his footsteps and swallowed them.
He trod on, tireless and alone against a backdrop of white. He scaled several passes, more like chutes. His fingers gripped like claws, with barely enough room for a foothold. He passed one false summit, then another. The air thinned, and he felt as though he had risen above the earth into a different dimension.
Noon came and went, taking the falling snow with it. He did not stop but quickened his step. At the top of a long, leaning slope where the snow lay knee-deep, he saw the summit. The rising sense of expectation lent wings to his feet.
It had looked like a solid spire, yet when he scrambled up the last hundred meters he found a narrow defile leading inward. It was not a natural construction but carved out of solid rock. Though he could not see the chamber within, the defile widened after a few steps. And there was light, so the interior must be open to the sky.
This would be the Seat of the Pentarch.
On the fronting face of the entrance, he saw the familiar etching of the ancient Rudd text. He was suddenly aware of the silence, not only within himself but in his surroundings. Though he could not read the letters, he knew the wording—another riddle Mendiko had forced him to memorize.
There is a road from well to mount
Traveled by hero and fool,
Like the arrow’s feathered shaft they come,
To seek the precious jewel,
Changeling colored in templed light,
Earthly fruit of stone,
Fragile wisp, yet glittering bright,
A brief but gloried flash—then gone.
And one there comes twice cursed by fate,
Should his journey run too late,
To the ice-crystal cavern, with back against the wall,
One light must pierce the other—or both will surely fall.
He moved forward with the words echoing in his mind, not knowing what he would see within, yet hoping.
The light was blinding after the brief gloom, and he blinked as he tried to focus. The space was open-roofed yet sat beneath a series of massive stone columns supporting long beams of similar rough-cut stone. It was rectangular, and the far end remained open. If not shrouded by mist, it would give the viewer a majestic view of the valley far below.
The floor was a patchwork of carefully inset stones, with stone seats equidistant around a circular grassy sward. Rising from the middle of the circle was the tree. It stood solitary and dwarfed, its naked boughs drooping to the rocky floor. Upon a single tip stood a flower: ebony dark and fringed with a thin lacing the color of blood.
Ryder felt both disappointment and amazement at once. His mind questioned how such a tree could have grown amidst barren rock. And how could it have produced a flower the like of which he had never seen in such cold? As amazing as it was, it was nothing like what he had expected. What had he expected?
He ambled around the tree, leaning close enough to scent the flower and caress it. At his touch, the petals closed until they hid the five slender stamens. With aching slowness, they reopened. Their texture was slick, as though a light sheen of oil glazed the surface. The perfume was a delicate scent that reminded him of apples.
This too is a forbidden fruit.
Ryder was so startled he jerked backward, bumping into the stone seat and reaching for his sword at the same time. The thought was not his, and yet it had been as clear as a voice. The memory of Mendiko’s half-joking warning returned.
‘They say the shade of Galen wanders these hills as guardian.'
He searched the enclosure but saw nothing other than the original objects. He relaxed, feeling both guilty and a little foolish. Above him drifted white clouds, looking more like a series of gentle hills covered by a blanket of freshly fallen snow. He tore his eyes away, for the image made him feel disoriented. It was as if he stood on his head looking down.
He walked to the far opening. Beneath the massive overhead beam he appeared to look through an archway. As he gazed out, he saw the bulk of the island lying far below, blocked at intervals by trailing puffs of cloud. The mountain’s face on this side dropped cleanly, and he felt a moment’s vertigo.
He was standing in the castle of the gods. At any moment, he expected to see jagged bolts of lightning and hear ragged peals of thunder. But there was only silence, hallowed and tomblike, broken by brief and intermittent wind-wails that funneled through the opening and flapped the trailing hem of his robe.
He stood there for seconds beyond counting, watching and waiting, for what he knew not. The sun slipped beneath the horizon and the first flickering stars popped out. The clouds over the mount disappeared. The night became still and clear. He seated himself on the icy stone and began his vigil.
The hours passed. The moon rose once more, its girth swelling huge, so close he felt he could touch it. The light reflected dimly from the rough stone, bathing the solitary flower in pale pink like the briefest aura of shield-glow.
Time dragged on. He continued to wait, his patience clamped in the iron grip of his will. The moon raced across the sky, and the first glimmering blush of dawn came to meet it. Yet nothing had happened.
For the second time, he felt something watching him. An icy sliver of apprehension crawled down his spine. His shield now glowed brightly.
He heard a noise that seemed to come not only from above his head but all around. It was a rhythmic pattern, rising and falling in volume. He waited, tense and uncomfortable, not liking this place. The noise grew to a great and breathy whooshing that made him think of wings.
His eyes widened as he heard the clarion call reverberate across the great chasm. He saw the stallion approaching, a blot against the moon’s fullness. The image grew until it filled the opening directly above him. A steady draft of air washed down and around him, flowing past his shields. The solitary flower quivered as though suddenly alive.
The changes in the magnificent beast astounded him. Every ounce of spare flesh had fallen away, leaving the bulging muscles of chest and shoulder to stand out cleanly beneath skin so thinned it appeared translucent. The stallion’s eyes were feverish, burning with a mad desire as they locked onto Ryder’s waiting form.
His challenge rang out again, filled with frustration, rage, and desperation. Ryder could see the beating wings were now faltering. The animal was on its last reserves of energy.
He moved back as far as he could until his back pressed against the furthest column. The animal refused to land, its fear of Ryder overpowering its sense of urgency.
Finally, there was no choice. With a mournful wail, the winged horse plummeted the last few meters, landing heavily on legs too weak to support him. He collapsed onto the stone. The wings fluttered once and ceased moving.
Ryder was afraid the stallion had succumbed, yet he saw the eyes remained open and staring with rapt attention. The horse struggled to move, but its efforts were feeble. Ryder knew it was dying, and he searched his mind feverishly for an answer. The riddle? There must be some connection.
‘One there comes twice cursed by fate…Should his journey run too late…To the ice crystal cavern with back against the wall…One light must pierce the other—or both will surely fall.’
One light must pierce the other or both will surely fall… What else could it be but the flower?
Ryder heard a soft sighing, like the exhalation of breath. Then came the unmistakable sound of laughter. It was a strange, almost sad laughter containing a note of self-mocking.
The sense of being watched came stronger than ever before. With it came the tingling of his other sense.
He whirled and confronted a mirage. It was a holo…or it appeared to be one, perfectly formed and aligned with the stone floor.
The image was a man, yet one Ryder had never thought to see. He stood a shade shorter than medium height, with dark, close-cropped hair. He wore the robes of an Adept and carried both sword and shields. The slender blade of the Gundring rode upon his forearm.
The strangest thing about the image—if it was such—was that it possessed the same bloodless countenance as a Zurd, complete with colorless eyes that watched Ryder with calm interest. Ryder stood immobile, hardly daring to breathe. The shade’s voice was deep and sonorous, his words tinged by the smile twisting his lips.
“Yon is the Tree of Life. The fruit blooms but once each cycle, and its color predicts the events to follow. Ask not how I have wrought this wonder. Even I who am the composite of all the memories of Galen and more do not know the answer. Yet these facts are unimportant. Now there are two who have come who must…lords of wind and flame…one to seek what Galen wrought, and the other has no name.”
“Who…what are you?”
The shade’s smile widened, and the corners of his lips tilted further in mischief. “Let us say I am something not yet complete. You know me…and what you must do.” The shade raised his arm and pointed at the fallen stallion, now breathing raggedly. “Hurry…there is little time left.”
With the echo of the last word still ringing, the image dissipated until once more Ryder stared at empty grey stone.
He wasted no more time but moved around the horse to the tree. He now knew what he must do, though it made no sense to him. Nothing he had seen here made any sense, yet so far in this age of miracle and wonder few things had.
He reached up and plucked the flower, then carried it to the fallen stallion. The eyes of the beast grew rounder and larger as he approached. Behind the glaze, he must appear a distorted giant. And yet it was the flower the stallion watched with hunger.
Ryder dropped to one knee, lifting the animal’s long head and dropping the flower into its gaping mouth. The response was instantaneous. The winged horse jerked convulsively as it swallowed. Ryder saw a blue aura rippling down its entire length, transforming and reviving.
He stepped back as the animal struggled unsuccessfully at first; then again, a great heaving surge that brought it staggering to its feet. It stood there wobbling yet visibly strengthening with each passing second. Ryder remained motionless. The eyes of the stallion now fixed upon him. Fear and rage had both died away, replaced by something else. Acceptance?
The big animal moved toward him, crabbing sideways, sniffing his scent. Ryder lowered his shields and closed his eyes. He felt the soft muzzle nuzzling him. He stroked the smooth flank, still wet with sweat and hot to the touch.
“So, my friend, now you trust me, eh?”
There was an answering whinny as the stallion tossed his head, as though he had understood perfectly. Ryder had unconsciously decided to no longer think of the stallion as ‘it’ but ‘he’. With careful deliberation, he raised his hand and grasped a handful of black mane. He drew himself up in a fluid motion onto the broad back. This time there was no frenzied bucking and heaving. The stallion reared and with a powerful thrust of his hindquarters launched himself.
The beating wings swiftly lifted them above the roof, and Ryder felt the well-remembered exhilaration flood him. He left his shields low, luxuriating in the rush of wind across his face. They swooped down and away from the mountain pinnacle until the island lay bare.
Tucked low and close to the arched neck, Ryder whooped with glee. With only a slight pressure of his knees, he guided the stallion toward the white spire, stretching up like a beckoning finger far in the distance.