PROLOGUE (113 page)

Once he had to lie low as a patrol strolled past. Maybe the spell hid him, or perhaps only the shadows did. He rose as soon as they were safely away and continued on in a crouch, hurrying from the refuge of a ditch to the lee of a fallen wall, scraping his knees on ragged stone, smelling the parched odor of the earth. The ground rose steeply beneath his feet. Above, torches burned, the edges of their flaring light obliterating the nearby stars. Figures moved along the walls, but their gazes were turned farther out, across the open ground to the concealing woodland beyond.

He scrambled up through the rubble of tumbled walls that had once ringed this lower slope of the hill. In an odd way it was as though those old sharpened senses, borrowed through dreams from Stronghand, remained with him. Grass sighed under the touch of the wind. Insects burrowed. An owl passed overhead, calling a warning that no man but he could hear: "Beware! Beware!"

He hoisted himself up a chest-high embankment and rolled onto an open ledge. A wave of scent smothered him, lavender and rosemary gone wild, rue and sage a heady aroma like a cloud around his head. The moon sank low along the horizon. He crawled on hands and knees through the overgrown garden and found the place where three walls met, two of them old ring walls and the
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third yet lower again, an ancient foundation almost consumed by the hillside. Because it was dark, he used touch to find the sphinx with her arching wing, powerful forelegs, and hindquarters carved statant into the stone. He placed a thumb in the sphinx's mouth, a forefinger in its eye, and a little finger in a cleft carved under the wing.

A musty exhalation of cold air kissed his face. The moon touched the western horizon, sinking fast. He stumbled forward and banged his knees on stairs carved into the hill, too dark to see. He crept his way up using staff and hand, an arduous climb because of the darkness. After ninety-seven steps—he counted every one—he saw a reddish light flickering and bobbing to his right; a wall cut off his forward progress, and he had to turn right and follow a narrow passage barely wide enough to squeeze through because it was half filled with rubble. Fifteen more measured steps brought him to an embrasure cut into the rock, a hidden alcove from which he looked down onto a broad forecourt that fronted the main gate with its twin, square towers.

Soldiers gathered, ready to march. Their torches made the courtyard flare ominously, all smoke and fire and the glitter of bronze helmets and shields. The standard of the blood-knife fluttered in their midst. A slender figure cut through the ranks of soldiers to speak to the standard-bearer. Alain recognized him at once: the prince, whom the guard had called "Seeker." The two spoke as the soldiers waited in patient silence. Then the prince hurried away, ducking inside a low doorway, lost to Alain's view.

The high priest came from farther down the forecourt, where a wall broke Alain's line of sight. His feathered headdress gleamed in the light of torches held up to either side of him. Ranks of spears bobbed alongside, a fence around their prisoner, trapped between two small wagons.

Because of her horse's body, she stood a head taller than her captives, but her proud and beautiful head was bowed and her eyes were blindfolded. Her thick hair lay tangled and dirty over her shoulders. Bruises and unhealed cuts mottled her naked torso, and she limped, unable to put her full weight on her right foreleg. Her arms were tied behind her back, resting on her withers. Ropes bound her belly and back, held taut out to two wagons, one before and one behind, so she could neither bolt nor kick. She was jerked

to a halt as the wagon drivers pulled back on their reins. The gates were unbarred and men hurried to open them.

They weren't going to wait until daylight to take her away.

Her fine black coat, once glossy, was streaked with dirt and blood and coated with a dusting of ash. She shifted, favoring her injured leg. One of the drivers snapped his whip, a curling "snap" against her croup that made her lurch onto the injured foreleg and cry out in pain. Soldiers laughed to see her suffer. The heavy gates thudded against the towers. The way lay open for the high priest's party to march out.

Alain stumbled backward, almost tripping when he reached the stairs. The smoky light of torches had blinded him. He counted each step so as not to fall, but feeling with his feet and his hands into the darkness it went so slowly. Was that the jangle and clank of their movements, as the troop moved out? Could he actually hear wheels grinding against dust as the wagons rolled down the ramped gateway?

Or was that only the wind moaning through cracks in the stone?

Or the whisper of men speaking in low voices?

Ninety-seven steps brought him to the concealed entrance. His hands traced the carven wings of the sphinx, sleeping forever in stone. He paused at the juncture of the three walls, seeing a pale light gleaming on the small ledge that harbored the overgrown herb garden, and stayed hidden in the shadows.

Someone stood there, back to him, a soldier with a crested helm wearing a hip-length white cloak. Bronze greaves protected his calves. The wind caught the cloak and whipped the ends up to reveal a finely molded cuirass decorated with boiled leather lasses that reached halfway to his knees.

"You're wrong," he said as he turned to face some other person, who was hidden by the curve of the wall.” They will fall before us because our armies are stronger than theirs. They are no better than packs of wild dogs." The pale light limned his profile as it came into view: it was the prince, but he was now dressed in the. garb of a soldier, the same clothing Alain had seen him in before when he had appeared as a shade in the ruins above Lavas.

How strange, that he had changed clothing so quickly.

"Then you underestimate them," said his unseen companion.

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Their whispers made their voices sound much alike.” That is why we still fight."

The prince laughed harshly.” This war will only be over when the pale dogs and the shana-ret'zeri cease to hunt us, and that they will never do. Because they are still beasts, they cannot live peacefully, nor will they ever let us live peacefully." ' "Spoken like a soldier."

"Do not mock me, brother. You know they are our enemies."

"I know there will never be peace as long as our leaders persist in thinking they are beasts."

"Tell me you did not cry with joy when news came to the blood-knife lord that the witch who calls herself Li'at'dano was captured!"

The name made Alain slip in surprise. Pebbles fell in a spray, skittering onto the ground at his feet.

But the unseen man was already talking; neither seemed to have heard.” She is not even the most dangerous of those who oppose us. But at least once she is sacrificed, her power is lost to our enemies."

"We don't need magic to defeat them."

"If you think so, then you are a fool."

"You have been listening to the mumbling of the sky-counters again. We have spears and swords enough."

"Why will you never listen, elder brother? Spears and swords will never be enough."

"What great magic are the pale dogs hiding? How will they rise up and defeat the Feathered Cloak and her sorcerers? What are they waiting for? The witch mare will be taken to the temple of He-Who-Burns, and there she will walk the spheres. So we will be rid of her. The rest will die or surrender or flee."

How could it be that this man, who was alive and not a shade, knew of Liath? Wasn't she already walking the spheres? Or was it Liath he was in fact speaking of? She was no "witch mare."

"That is what I am afraid of," said the other man as he stepped at last into Alain's line of sight. He carried the pale light, a simple oil lamp flaring and flickering as the night wind teased it, held away from his body to illuminate the face of the prince.” That as we march our armies out to the frontier and leave our cities unprotected, the pale dogs are hiding and hoarding their magic. That

is how they will strike us. That is why the sky-counters have sent out raiding parties to the four winds."

"To be eaten by guivres, clawed by sphinxes, and smothered in sandstorms!"

The man carrying the lamp shifted, and all at once the light shone on his face.

Which was a twin to that of the soldier prince. Here was the Seeker again, dressed in simple garb and adorned by feathers.

Maybe Alain made an involuntary squeak of shock. Maybe his foot slipped. The next thing he knew, the soldier had spun around and lowered his lance, balanced to slide right into Alain's belly.

"Who's there?" he demanded, squinting into the darkness.

"Do not act rashly." The Seeker laid a restraining hand on his brother's arm.” I have smelled this one before." He lifted the lamp to shoulder height. He had a young face, handsome and proud, but not cruel. Feathers bobbed in his hair as he lifted his chin.” Come forward. You are trapped."

With his staff held in his right hand, Alain stepped forward cautiously into the light.

"I am only one man," he said quietly, "and I do not understand this long war. Wouldn't you live more easily if you could make peace?"

The soldier hissed through his teeth. He held his lance steady, but did not lunge.

"Do you not mean to stab the pale dog through at once and have done with its barking?" asked the Seeker with some amusement. Seeing them together, side by side, Alain could now detect certain differences of stance and expression—the soldier tense and slightly thinner, as grim as death, and the Seeker with a gleam like mischief in his expression and a sardonic lift to his mouth. Otherwise they looked exactly alike except for their clothing.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the soldier as the point of his lance hovered an arm's length from Alain's abdomen.” How did you come to our walls without being seen by the sentries and patrols?"

Alain touched his own face, but the taste and feel of the oil Agalleos had given him to rub into his skin was long since wicked away by wind and night. Before he could answer, he heard the dis tant sound of barking, all at once, as though the hounds had been surprised out of sleep.

Hard on that sound, the darkness came alive as the blat of conch horns rose out of the east. A rumble like distant thunder shook the earth. Torches flared at the edge of the woods. Alarms rose from the fort's walls, and men shouted out warnings as, along the entire northern sweep of forest, lights bloomed and, in the hands of shadowy figures, swept in toward the fort.

"Now what say you, brother?" cried the soldier.” Do they walk forward offering the gold feather of peace? Do they send emissaries with tribute? No, they strike like wolves in the night." He struck. Alain dodged aside as the prince caught himself and jerked back for another try.

"Hold your point!" cried the Seeker.” These are the Horse folk come for their witch. This one, he does not belong here."

"Then we shall be rid of him." The soldier struck again. Alain knocked the point aside with his staff and leaped back toward the wall as the prince pressed his attack.” Brother! Behind you!"

Two massive creatures scrambled up the lower slope. One, lithe and swift, closed faster than the other. The lamp held in the Seeker's hand flared as the leading centaur burst into the herb garden, trampling waist-high lavender. The soldier spun to meet her. Ai, God. Like the Holy One, she was beautiful. Long black hair blown back revealed full breasts, each glimmering in the pale light like a perfect moon. As with her hind legs she jumped, she raised high in her hands a club bristling with spikes. She bore down on the prince. He held his ground and thrust, catching her between those breasts. Her momentum pushed the spear point out her back as he scrambled backward to the low wall ringing the ledge. The club came down too late across the haft of the spear, splintering it as her body collided with her killer. They both tumbled over the retaining wall, vanishing from sight.

The second centaur let loose a piercing scream as she arrived too late to do anything but avenge her companion. She charged the Seeker, who danced this way and that, at some advantage because he could dodge more swiftly than she could turn her bulky body, until at last his enemy cornered him near Alain. She hadn't the lithe beauty of her dead companion; broad shouldered and barrelyo

chested, breasts almost lost in her muscular arms and chest, she reared up, fore-hooves striking and club lifted for the killing blow. Alain thrust his staff up, catching the club at the apex of its arc. She twisted, her fore-hooves knocking Alain hard to the ground, and reared again, ready to strike him, but he pushed his staff between her rear legs and with the weight of his body twisted it around. The wood did not break. She tumbled back onto her flank. He leaped to force his weight down onto her heaving shoulder, pressing his staff against her neck.

"We must save the Holy One!" he cried.