Part 9 (2/2)

”The Wandsmen. They told us to watch for strangers coming from the south. They offered a high price for you.”

”But you do not intend to take it?”

”No.”

”Why not?”

”There was other news from the high north. A man not of this world has been brought to the Citadel. The Ha.r.s.enyi nomads saw him with the Wandsmen in the pa.s.ses of the Bleak Mountains. The Wandsmen like to hide their secrets but the Ha.r.s.enyi see everything. They range over half the world, and they carry news.” The Corn Kong glanced sidelong at Stark. ”Besides, there is the Sight, and I knew who you were when my people first saw you riding beside the wagons. You are not of this world. You come from the south, and it is said that there is a place in the south where the stars.h.i.+ps land. The Ha.r.s.enyi brought this word from Izvand.”

”It is true,” said Stark.

”Ah,” said Hargoth. ”I saw it clearly, in the Winter Dreaming. The s.h.i.+ps stand like bright towers beside the sea.”

They had reached the crest of the ridge. Below, somewhat sheltered from the wind, Stark saw the fires, and the humped shapes of skin tents already dusted with snow.

”That is where we wish to go,” said Hargoth. ”That is why we will not sell you to the Wandsmen. You will lead us, to the stars.”

He bent his head humbly before Stark. But his eyes, looking upward, were not humble.

15.

Stark walked halfway down the slope, so that Hargoth was obliged to follow. Then he stopped.

”I will lead you,” he said, ”after we have taken the Citadel. Not before.”

The wind moaned against the ridge, sending a frozen spindrift of white crystals across it that drifted down on Stark and the Irnanese, on Hargoth and his lesser priests. There was an instinctive movement, each group gathering apart from the other. After that, they stood very still.

Hargoth said, ”The s.h.i.+ps are in the south.”

Stark nodded. ”Unfortunately, that gate is shut. There is war in the south. Other men beside you wish to follow those star-roads, and the Wandsmen are saying they cannot. They are killing, in the name of the Lords Protector. The only way to open that gate is to take the Citadel, destroy the Lords Protector, and the Wandsmen along with them. Otherwise, you will go south only to die.”

The wind moaned and the fine white spindrift fell.

Hargoth turned to Gerrith. ”Sun Woman, is this all true?”

”It is true,” she answered.

”Besides,” said Stark, suddenly very weary of trying to cope with people who stubbornly insisted on getting in his way, ”if Skaith were an open world, certain kinds of s.h.i.+ps could land anywhere on the planet instead of being confined to the enclave at Skeg. There would be no need for your people to go south. It would be much easier for s.h.i.+ps to come to you.”

Hargoth did not answer this. Stark had no idea what he might be thinking. He was only certain of one thing, that he would not be taken captive again by anyone if he had to die fighting. He s.h.i.+fted his weight slightly, wis.h.i.+ng that his muscles were not quite so stiff with cold.

”You are wise in your knowledge,” Hargoth said at last. ”What shall I call you?”

”Stark.”

”You are wise in your own knowledge, Stark, but I am wise in mine. And I tell you that Thyra lies between us and the Citadel.”

”Is there no way around? The land seems broad enough.”

”Until it narrows. Thyra bestrides that narrowness. Thyra is strong and populous. And greedy.” He paused, and then added harshly, ”They have dealings with the Wandsmen. The same word that came to us would have come even sooner to them.”

Stark nodded. He stared at the ground, scowling.

”South,” said Hargoth. ”That is the only way.”

His voice held an inflexible note of triumph. Stark kept his peace, answering only with a shrug, into which Hargoth could read any meaning that pleased him.

Apparently he read acquiescence, because he turned and started down the slope. ”The fires are warm, the shelters are ready. Let us enjoy them. Tomorrow, at his rising, we will ask a blessing of Old Sun.”

Stark perforce followed Hargoth this time. There was nothing of menace in what the man had said, yet Stark felt a twinge of unease. He looked at Gerrith, walking beside him with the long braid swinging. Sun-colored braid beneath the frost. Sun-colored woman. What did Hargoth want of her?

He was about to speak to Gerrith. But she gave him a warning look, and then Hargoth glanced over his shoulder at them, giving them a sharp-edged smile.

Blank-faced, they followed him down.

The folk in the camp were all young men. Women, children, and older men, they were told, were already making preparations for the migration, packing the belongings, dismantling the homes in the broken towers, drying meat and making journey-bread, choosing the beasts that would be saved from the present slaughter to support them later on.

They were singing, said Hargoth, the very ancient hymn preserved from times beyond remembrance, taught once in each lifetime but never sung until now. The Hymn of Deliverance.

The Promised One shall lead us Down the long roads of the stars, Toward a new beginning . . .

The men sang it around the fires as Stark and the others came in. Their faces were flushed, their eyes brilliant, fixed upon this stranger from the far places of heaven. Stark felt embarra.s.sed and more than a little annoyed. Ever since he had landed on Skaith people had been forcing shackles on him, shackles of duty that he had not himself chosen and did not want. d.a.m.n these people and their prophecies and legends!

”Our forefathers were men of knowledge,” said Hargoth. ”They dreamed of star-flight. While the world died around them they continued to dream, and to work, but it was too late. They left with us the promise that, though we could not go, one day you would come to us.”

Stark was glad when the hymn ended.

Gerrith refused food and asked to be shown to her shelter, alone. Her face had that remote prophetess look on it. Stark saw the skin flaps of the tent fall shut behind her with a feeling of chill between his shoulder-blades.

He ate the food that was given him, not because he was especially hungry but because the hunting animal never knows how long it may be until the next meal. He drank the strong drink that seemed to be made of fermented milk. The Irnanese sat near him in a close group. He sensed that they wanted to talk but were inhibited by Hargoth and his people, who crouched or moved among the fires like slender ghosts with their high stooping shoulders and their gray-masked faces all alike and without expression. Despite the fact that the People of the Towers had rescued them from Amnir's shackles, Stark did not like them. There was a touch of madness in them, born of the long dark and the too-long-held faith. It made him feel no easier that their madness was centered on him.

The flaps of Gerrith's tent opened. She came and stood in the firelight. She had thrown off her heavy outer garments, and her head was bare. In her hands she held the small ivory skull, still speckled with the slaughter of Irnan.

Hargoth had risen. Gerrith faced him, and her eyes meeting his were like two copper sunrays meeting ice.

She spoke, and her voice rang sweet and clear as it had that day when Mordach tried to shame her and died for it.

”Hargoth,” she said. ”You intend to give me to Old Sun as a gift, to buy his blessing.”

Hargoth did not look aside, though he must have heard Stark and the Irnanese getting to their feet, clapping hands to weapons.

”Yes,” he said to Gerrith, ”you are a chosen sacrifice, sent to me for that purpose.”

Gerrith shook her head. ”It is not my fate to die here, and if you kill me you and your people will never walk the star-roads nor see a brighter sun.”

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