The Breath of Aoles
Date: 2010-03-20 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Young Adult; Adventure
Description: Pelmen hates being a tanner, but that’s all he would ever be, thanks to the rigid caste system amongst his people, the hevelens. Then he meets Master Galn Boisencroix and his family. The master carpenter opens up the world of archery to young Pelmen, who excels at his newfound skill. But Pelmen’s intractable father would have none of it, and tries to force Pelmen to stay in the tannery. One day, however, Pelmen’s best friend and Master Galn's son, Teleg, disappears. Lured away by the prospect of untold riches through mining amberrock, the most precious substance in the world, Teleg finds himse

Alan Spade

ARDALIA

Volume One: THE BREATH OF AOLES

*****

Pelmen hates being a tanner, but that’s all he would ever be, thanks to the rigid caste system amongst his people, the hevelens. Then he meets Master Galn Boisencroix and his family. The master carpenter opens up a world of archery to young Pelmen, who excels at his newfound skill. But Pelmen’s intractable father will have none of it, and tries to force Pelmen to stay in the tannery.

One day, however, Pelmen’s best friend and Master Galn’s son, Teleg, disappears. Lured away by the prospect of untold riches through mining amberrock, the most precious substance in the world, Teleg finds himself a prisoner of the Nylevs, fierce fire-wielding worshippers of the god of destruction.

Now Pelmen must leave all he knows behind, overcome his fears and travel across the land, in search of his childhood friend. Along the way, he will ally himself with strange and fantastic beings: a shaman who controls the Breath of Aoles, or the power of the wind, a krongos, a creature of the mineral realm who can become living rock, and a malian, adept at water magic.

*****

Special bonus

Subscribe to my
Readers’ Group and receive in your inbox
the free link to download the complete ebook of Ardalia: Turquoise Water (book two)

*****

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Kristine Kathryn Rusch, an extraordinary lady and USA Today Best-seller writer (she has a great blog for readers and authors, http://kriswrites.com/ ), who helped me to meet Stephen Harmon.

A great thank you to Stephen Harmon, who has proved so precious when it was time to make the novel smoother. Best of luck on your own writing career, Steve.

*****

For Lawrence, who, in the middle of the tunnel,
guided me toward the light

*****

Chapter One - A TANNER’S DESTINY

It was hot in the tannery even though the doors and windows allowed constant airflow. Unfortunately, in the first months of the renewal, the air in the Canyons of Panjurub was already hot and dry. In the workshop, the fetid scent of dead flesh and tannin permeated everything. Even the hevelens’ sensitive noses could hardly distinguish the odor of their own sweat from the all-encompassing smells of the tannery.

The only clothes worn by the six tanners as they cut the hides and tanned them were loincloths and light sandals. Like the majority of their fellow citizens living in Durepeaux, the six had shorn heads. Sweat glistened from their coppery skin, and ran into their globular eyes, but did not slow down the activity of their four-fingered hands in the slightest.

The youngest of the tanners was named Pelmen Arimal. Over the years, the flint he was using had gashed his hairy skin and covered his hands with scars. He mopped his brow, watching his father Zenel from the corner of his eye. Zenel, a hevelen with a wrinkled face and yellow eyes, was busy plunging pelts into the tannin baths. His gestures were precise and sure.

Pelmen sighed. Sometimes, he envied the serenity which never seemed to abandon his father. He was far from feeling it himself. On the contrary; when he pictured his father’s life, the life of a simple laborer, living and dying a tanner, he could not help feeling sick at heart. The idea that such a destiny might be his was almost more than he could stand! So many things in the world waited to be discovered, and yet he was expected to remain here, practically cloistered in this miserable stinking place?

Zenel’s response to his son’s discontent was one of disarming simplicity: “I don’t know how to do anything else.” A casual observer might have believed he was simply resigned to his fate, but the truth was even worse. Pelmen knew that his father loved his job, what he couldn’t get his head around, was why? Perhaps he delighted in the stench which enveloped him every morning when he went into the workshop and, from then on, assaulted the nostrils at the slightest movement... Maybe he had come to appreciate the company of the parasites infesting the nidepoux hides, which covered him with lumps all day long, making his skin almost as hard as wood. That did not even make Zenel blink. It often felt as if Pelmen and his father had been cast from two completely different molds.

The hours went by, interminably, and Pelmen summoned up an image of Alicene, as he often did, just to get him through the day. Her delicate features, her pretty hooked nose and her rounded cheeks represented the ultimate island of beauty to which he could cling. She was so far away, and as inaccessible as the Goddess Tinmal, and yet she lived so close at hand!

Galn Boisencroix, the girl’s father, was a carpenter and master craftsman in Falsine, the next town over. If the order of things had been respected, a simple tanner, a Disinherited like Pelmen, would almost never have had the opportunity to even cross his path, but…

***

After work, Pelmen has come to watch the son of the carpenter of Falsine, as has become his habit since the day when Zenel first took him in search of tannin. Teleg, with a smile on his lips, is plying his flint in a lively manner, and the wood chips are piling up at his feet. Pelmen is happy. Teleg knows that he is only a Disinherited, and yet he welcomes Pelmen’s company, letting him watch as he cuts or polishes the wood. Some time ago, the young hevelen with the blond curls doubtless guessed that Pelmen would have preferred working with wood instead of bloody flesh and hide. Pelmen would never admit that, of course. To do so would be improper, not to mention downright rude. He simply considers himself lucky to be here and very lucky that Teleg takes an interest in him, asking for details of his activity at the tannery.

Pelmen finds himself wondering whether Alicene will turn up today. Teleg’s sister seems to spend most of her time inside the Boisencroix house; he only catches fleeting glimpses of her while she is gardening—with two exceptions, at least. Twice, she has come nearer to greet him, and twice surprise and emotion have prevented Pelmen from replying. He feels troubled and stupid just thinking about it. She is so beautiful, and so refined in comparison with the girls in Durepeaux. Pelmen wishes with all of his heart that there is a way in which he could watch her for hours without her being aware.

His heart begins to beat more rapidly. The door of the house has just opened, and he is about to see…

A sigh of disappointment escapes his lips, for it is not Alicene but her father, Master Galn, who has appeared. Of average height, with chiseled features and pale gray hair, Master Galn is as solidly built as the objects he manufactures. He has a large bow slung over his shoulder and is carrying a smaller one by the shaft.

“It’s time, son,” he says, holding out Teleg’s bow. Teleg raises his head, takes the weapon, and turns to put his flint away, along with the piece of wood that will sooner or later be transformed into a statuette on display in the house.

An awkward silence hangs in the air as Pelmen and Master Galn look at one another. Teleg’s father has the same mauve eyes as his son—or rather, obviously, the other way around. Master Galn gives him a smile, but Pelmen looks away. He knows that he shouldn’t be there; just how can the master craftsman even tolerate his presence?

Pelmen has just taken a backward step when Teleg reappears.

“What about Wide-Eyes?” asks Master Galn. “Does he want to come?”

Eyebrows arched, Pelmen looks at the pair in turn. Master Galn has winked at him while asking the question, but seems to be addressing Teleg. Perhaps it is some kind of private code. Teleg bursts into a belly laugh, which only adds to Pelmen’s embarrassment.

“He’s asking whether you want to come with us. Yes, you’re Wide-Eyes, because you always look so awestruck! My father likes giving people nicknames. So, are you coming or not? We’re going to draw the bow.”

Come? Come! Pelmen can’t believe that they are seriously asking him to go with them! The sight of them waiting patiently for a response terrifies him to the point where he is tempted to turn on his heels and run. At the same time, he knows that if he gives in to fear, he will not have the courage to come back again. His adventures would be over, there would be nothing left for him but the stifling tannery and the inn across the way, where he would be obliged to mingle with the tanners and the other Disinherited of Durepeaux—to become one of them.

The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking and so, in the end, he simply nods his head.

“This way,” says Master Galn.

As they walk down Falsine Hill, taking a side-path and going into a rocky corridor, Pelmen expects to be sent away at any moment. So he chooses to walk in silence, biding his time, desperate to delay the inevitable disappointment.

At the end of the corridor, wooden stakes have been partly buried and stabilized by stones heaped at their bases. Astonished to still be here, Pelmen watches as Teleg takes up a position fifty paces from the targets. His thin arm trembles slightly, as he barely skims one of the stakes.

Master Galn takes his turn, setting himself up at one hundred paces. The cactus thorn arrows leap from his bow, flying straight and true under the flabbergasted gaze of the young tanner, who experiences a sense of joy every time the Master hits his mark. Three out of four! Then Master Galn walks over to his son, coaching him with expert advice. Without even realizing it, Pelmen inches to within earshot, listening intently, hanging on every word, and his avid attention does not escape the gaze of Master Galn. Teleg tries again, and this time, he hits the bottom of the stake.

“Hey, Wide-Eyes, do you want to try?”

Pelmen’s eyes grow even wider. Master Galn is standing expectantly in front of him, with no sign of mockery in his facial expression. Pelmen dares not respond as Master Galn turns to his son, smiling. “Lend him your bow, Teleg.”

Pelmen swallows as he accepts the bow which is held out to him, but is trembling so much that he fears he will make a fool of himself. Teleg’s sly expression confirms his suspicions; that the father and son have only brought him there to have a little fun at his expense.

“I… I…” he stammers.

Pelmen feels comforted when Master Galn places his strong hand on his shoulder. “Take your time, lad,” the older man murmurs. “Breathe. There. Place your feet one in front of the other, like this.”

The first thorn barely travels a dozen paces, causing Teleg to smile. When the second slips from Pelmen’s grasp to bounce at his feet, the blond-haired young hevelen starts howling with laughter. Shooting a sharp glance at his son, Master Galn is quick to reassure Pelmen.

“Don’t worry, that’s normal, in the beginning. You have to concentrate on the tip of the thorn and your target. Set your shoulders like this. Come on, lad, give yourself time. Relax and breathe. Draw the cord back, without hurrying; then, when your right hand is next to your ear, let go. Go on.”

So many things to remember! But the guiding voice is friendly, and Pelmen, his brow furrowed, does his best not to forget any of them. The last two draws are taut, the darts flying more than fifty paces, with Pelmen even getting close to one of the stakes. He feels like he’s flying with the thorns, an intoxicating sensation. Nothing would please him more than to try again.

“Promising,” says Master Galn, looking him in the eyes. “Very promising. You’ll have to come back.” Then the master craftsman turns to his son. “You see—you should never judge someone by the class into which he is born. Remember that.”

***

Pelmen’s throat had become as abrasive as a pebble when the door to the shop finally opened. The stout form of Master Olgen Peaudecuir, clad in trousers and a sleeveless tunic, appeared in the doorway. Scarcely had the overseer given the signal for the end of the workday than Pelmen leapt to his feet and hurried toward the shed. He retrieved the family pitcher and went out into the dusty, perpetually windswept street. His triple nostrils dilated as he filled his lungs with the particle-laden air. The heat and the dust it carried were unimportant; the wind was a veritable blessing.

His bones clicked when he stretched. The sky was perfectly yellow, without a single cloud. Up above, Astar, the red Sun-God, more imposing than the largest building in Durepeaux, was gradually sinking. Soon he would set everything ablaze with his rays before disappearing beyond the horizon.

A queue had already formed at the village well. From the height of his five feet, Pelmen loomed over the majority of those forming it. The tannery workers lined up behind him, arguing with one another. It was a question of the establishment versus the quality of the camlorn beer and the eventual presence of Syala, one of the most attractive serving girls. Pelmen only lent a distracted ear to what they were saying. Master Linen’s inn was not for him.

A long, covered cart with furled sails was parked in front of the entrance. Sitting at the front, a hooded silhouette appeared to be meditating. Another hevelen intrigued Pelmen. This one was corpulent, with bracelets on his wrists and thick, sweaty black hair. The stranger was staring at him and had perhaps been doing so for some time. When their gazes met, he turned away and set about unloading barrels from the cart.

Pelmen frowned. The person at the front did not move a muscle to help his companion.

Odd fellows, those two, he thought.

When his turn came, Pelmen took hold of the well’s handle. Many villagers only partly filled their bucket in order to be able to bring it back up without too much difficulty. Immersing his, Pelmen filled it to the brim. His muscles had been well developed by long hours spent cutting hides, so this hardly taxed him. He hoisted the bucket onto the rim of the well and leaned over momentarily, contemplating his reflection in the green-tinted water. Two eyes with large black pupils circled by brown irises stared back at him, not without bitterness. Fatigue was legible in his oval face.

Realizing that there was a queue of people waiting, he hastened to transfer the bucket’s contents to his pitcher and stand aside. Delighted, he washed his face. The cold water ran down his neck, stimulating his senses.

Pelmen headed for the family home, leaving behind the tannery workers who were still talking about unimportant matters. He gave no further thought to the hevelen with the cart, who had again interrupted his unloading, and was watching him intently.

The little house with a thatched roof and shabby walls had nothing remarkable about it except its rather isolated location. Pelmen went around the back and turned toward Mils’ burrow. Silently, he lay down on the ground and tried to pierce the darkness of the hole. An eye returned his gaze, so he extended his hand to the entrance of the burrow. The ptat leaned toward the intruder and sniffed him before climbing up.

The animal must have fallen victim to disease because its right eye was constantly closed, which was what had caught Pelmen’s attention when he had found it. All alone in the middle of a thicket, its cheek-pouches hanging down, starving and in distress, the rodent had obviously lost its parents. It was too young to feed itself, so Pelmen had picked it up and made the animal his loyal pet.

Pelmen extended his arm and the ptat ran up it, but before it reached his shoulder, he intercepted it with his other hand. He put it on the ground on its back, and set about stroking its belly with his index finger. The animal quivered, all four paws in the air, without trying to right itself immediately.

Pelmen started laughing. “What a little marvel you are,” he murmured.

Other people in the village had domesticated one of those bundles of ochre fur, but so far as he knew, Pelmen was the only one who had been able to train his ptat to stand on its hind legs or fetch him a twig without the promise of food. His mother, Dryna, was of the opinion that the rodent was motivated purely by its stomach, but Pelmen was sure she was mistaken, even though he couldn’t really explain why.

The stainflower field was only three hundred yards away. Shielded from prying eyes, Pelmen rubbed the various parts of his body with the petals. Although the stench of the tannery did not disappear completely, the perfume of the stainflowers was strong enough to mask most of it.

As he went back into Durepeaux’s main street, a grinding sound accompanied by dry clicks echoed up and down its length. A sailcart approached, driven by the wind. Its point of departure—Alveg or Seledcha—was not difficult to guess, given that the wind always blew from east to west in the Canyons. The vehicle stopped near Nitayer’s farm.

Pelmen went through the village at a rapid pace. Having reached the first crossroads past the far end of town, he took the path that led to Falsine. He knew every stone in the road. He had walked it so often since the day, six years previously, when he and his father had traveled it by cart. The path climbed the slope of one of the rare hills in the Canyons where trees and plants grew. The resinian trees, almost seventy feet tall, with violet-tinted blue bark and yellow needles, clung to the soil as if their life depended on it. It did, in fact. The tall trees constantly struggled against the wind that seemed to be trying to uproot them. Mils huddled in the corner between its master’s shoulder and neck. From time to time, the animal changed shoulders or fidgeted until Pelmen finally ended up taking it in his hands.

There was a bend in the path. Down below, toward the northwest, the emerald-hued waters of Lake Subelin reflected Astar’s reddening rays. Pelmen did not linger over the breathtakingly beautiful tableau of fishing boats floating on the lake and the inlet lodging Port Subelin, which was the only city in the Canyons with a harbor. Nor did he pause to admire the flourishing vegetation or to amuse himself counting the quadrupeds grazing or digging in the ground.

A few branches and forks further along the path, as he went around a thorny bush, he glimpsed Teleg and his sister chatting on the threshold of their home, one of the few dwellings in Falsine with wooden walls. After all, Master Galn the carpenter lived there, and it simply would not do to have anything less. Alicene towered over her brother; she was nearly five feet tall, compared to Teleg’s four and a half.

Neither of them had noticed him. Pelmen slowed his pace, reluctant to approach. In Alicene’s presence, the perfume of the stainflowers seemed cheap and tawdry, and the reek of dead animals began to ooze from his entire body as if to spite him.

That evening, she was still wearing a beige dress; secured at the waist with a slender leather belt, which emphasized the slenderness and curves of her figure. She seemed to be setting aside her usual knee-length shorts and chanvreline jacket with increasing frequency. According to Teleg, Alicene had accepted an invitation to dance with a boy at the last village fête, although she had previously preferred mending clothes or tidying the workshop. “If this goes on,” Teleg had said, “I’ll have to keep a closer eye on her.”

Pelmen couldn’t see his friend playing the guard-dog for his sister, especially when he never missed an opportunity to chase the girls and flirt with them himself.

“Come on!” Teleg called when he noticed Pelmen’s presence. “Don’t stand there with your mouth open—come and join us.”

Subtlety was not Teleg’s strong suit, but his talkative nature came in handy when he had to cover for Pelmen’s awkward silences and the blushes that often rose unbidden to his face. He walked forward a little too hastily and nearly stumbled when Alicene greeted him with a wave of her hand.

“My father wants to talk to you,” said Teleg, without any preamble. “He’s inside.”

“About your house move? Is it confirmed, then?”

Some weeks earlier—when his health had begun to decline—Master Galn had announced his plan to return to Alveg, where he had spent his childhood. His brother owned a carpentry workshop there, and Master Galn had suggested he might participate in the Exchange, a long-standing ritual observed every six springs. The Exchange involved the heads of the families in the two largest cities, Seledcha and Alveg, exchanging their workplaces with those of their relatives.

“Uncle Dalen has agreed to come and live here with his family,” said Alicene enthusiastically. “He likes the Port Subelin region a lot and wants a change of scenery.”

“That’s convenient.” Pelmen tried in vain to muster a smile. A cold fist had closed on his heart.

“We’re leaving in two days,” said Teleg.

“So… so soon?” Pelmen stammered. “Yes, that’s right… it’s in two days that the Exchange begins…”

“Hey, don’t pull that face. Whatever you think, we’re not letting go of you. That’s what my father wants to talk to you about.”

“And don’t forget it’s in Alveg one finds the best herbalists,” Alicene added. “It’s better for him.”

“I know,” said Pelmen.

Of course he knew; they had already talked about it and, ordinarily, he would have shown a lot more enthusiasm. It was just that he had not expected things to move so quickly. He went toward the door of the house, glancing back when he saw that neither Teleg nor Alicene was following him.

Teleg encouraged him with a nod of the head, and he crossed the threshold.

Master Galn was not in the workshop. A large table dominated the room. It contained flints of various shapes and sizes, which were heaped up between miscellaneous pieces of wood. Pelmen walked through the workshop and opened the door to the carpenter’s bedroom.

The room was veiled in shadow, and so dark that Pelmen could scarcely see. The Master Carpenter sat up and drew back the curtain from the window over his bed. The effort elicited an all-too-familiar coughing fit from Master Galn, which left him out of breath, his respiration ragged. It died down rapidly. The daylight streaming in through the uncovered window revealed a thin hevelen with a waxy complexion, aged before his time.

Master Galn propped himself up; his robust constitution being the only thing that lent him the appearance of still being solid. Serious illness had a smell about it, and even the cloying odor of Pelmen’s stainflowers could not completely block it from penetrating his three nostrils.

“Greetings, Master Galn.”

“Welcome, Wide-Eyes. And welcome, One-Eye!”

Pelmen grimaced. He did not like the nickname Master Galn had foisted on Mils.

“You should try, at least, not to look so sad when you come to see me. You’ll force me to give you a new nickname.”

“Sorry,” said Pelmen, lowering his eyes. “There are days when it’s harder… to look happy.”

“You’re alluding to the Exchange? Should I infer,” he coughed, “that you still haven’t talked to your parents about your plans?”

“Not yet,” said Pelmen, stroking Mils. “It’s a delicate subject.”

“Delicate? How many times have you talked to us about it? You haven’t changed your mind, have you? The career of a tanner has its merits too, you know.”

“Oh no, certainly not...!” Pelmen exclaimed, then paused. “I haven’t changed my mind. I’m just afraid my father won’t understand. He’s so…”

“Oh, come on! With a bow, you can hit a fly at a hundred paces. You have everything you need to be a hunter and you…” Another coughing fit, longer and deeper than the last one. “If you want,” Galn continued, more slowly, “I can talk to your father.”

“Thanks, but it’s up to me to plead my own case,” said Pelmen, steeling himself. “If I don’t have the courage to do that, what’s the point of wanting to be a hunter?”

“That’s the way to talk, lad. I have no doubt you’ll succeed in getting your point across.”

“And then?”

“You’ll come with us, of course. The move is set for two days’ time, at dawn. Once we’re there, you can sleep in Teleg’s room; he’ll be glad to make space for you. With time, and by practicing hard, you’ll make your dream of becoming a hunter into a reality.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“At your service, Wide-Eyes.” Galn winked, and then put a hand to his throat.

Pelmen took a step backward but changed his mind. He took a deep breath before saying: “Why… why are you doing all this for me?”

“Does there always have to be a reason?”

As Pelmen stared at him silently, Master Galn visibly weakened. “I don’t like to see a talent like yours going to waste. Keep it to yourself, but I’d have liked my son to be as talented with a bow as you are. Leave me now.”

Galn drew the curtain and lay back down in his bed. Pelmen left the room, closing the door without making any noise. It was as if he had a hot ball in the pit of his stomach, but the heat it gave off, relaxing his muscles, was laced with a cold undercurrent.

“So?” said Alicene, on seeing him emerge. “You look like you’ve been turned upside-down. Did what father tell you not please you?”

“No, it was fine,” said Pelmen, busily adjusting a stainflower while doing his best to master the tone of his voice. “I don’t like seeing him in that condition, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Teleg probed.

“I… I still have a hard time getting my head around what he’s offering me. It’s a change so… It’s so generous of him…”

Teleg came closer to Pelmen, with a pinched smile on his lips. “He’s always had a soft spot for you, you know.” With that, he slapped Pelmen hard on the back, in what might have been a brotherly gesture, had there not been a slight undercurrent.

Mils’ sharp, curved claws sank into his master’s flesh, and Pelmen groaned loudly before detaching the animal from his shoulder as Teleg burst out laughing.

“That’s not funny,” said Pelmen, massaging his painful shoulder.

“Oh, someone’s in a bad mood even after what my father’s just proposed!”

“That has nothing to do with it. It’s been a hard day, that’s all.”

“Just another one, then.”

“If you say so.” Pelmen looked down.

Teleg spread his arms wide in a theatrical gesture. His eyes sparkled mischievously. “It’s entirely up to you to change all that.”

“And I’ll do it. I promise I’ll do it.”

“Good! That’s what I wanted to hear. In fact, you know the Seer is going to recite his legends this evening. What if we go to listen? It’ll take our minds off things, and perhaps it’ll even give you back your smile—let’s hope so!”

Pelmen’s features relaxed, and he nodded. Impulsively, he turned to Alicene: “Are you… coming with us?”

As she smiled, Pelmen was once again reminded of her beauty, and as he thirstily drank in her splendid blue irises, her long, light brown hair with amber glints, and her slender nostrils, he wondered what had prompted him to ask such a bold question.

“Sorry, no,” she replied. “I have to stay here with Father.” She turned to Teleg. “Don’t be too late back,” she said, in a tone that allowed no argument. “You have to help me with the preparations.”

The reddening ball of Astar had begun to sink beneath the horizon. The end of the first month of the renewal was approaching, and Cilamon, the God of Life, had mostly regained his strength, with the result that the thousand scents of new growth were mingled with those of the ancestral trees paying court to the nostrils of the two youths.

“Do you really think your father will get better in Alveg?” Pelmen asked.

“He’ll have a better chance of recovery there than in a remote place like Falsine. Do you know of anyone who’s been cured of lung disease around here?”

Pelmen shook his head.

“Me neither. In Alveg, there’s hope. Anyway, it’s the biggest city in the Canyons.”

They walked alongside a field where a rather large nidepoux was digging in the soil with its snout, in search of acorns. The lice leaping over the hide of its arched back were almost visible.

“Maybe that’s the one you tried to ride two springs ago,” Pelmen observed, jerking his chin towards the animal. “Do you remember?”

“Vaguely.” Teleg’s cheeks reddened as he accelerated his pace.

Pelmen laughed briefly. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising that Teleg’s memory was faltering.

***

“Hey, Wide-Eyes, do you see that nidepoux? I’ll bet you a camlorn I can climb up on its back.”

Pelmen sighs. They are between Lake Subelin and a field, where an imposing nidepoux is digging the ground conscientiously.

Pelmen is very familiar with the glint in his friend’s eyes. More than once, it has been the cause of their having to run away as fast as their legs could carry them from some furious farmer, when Teleg wasn’t acting the fool in front of a gaggle of young women. Teleg the reckless, ready to do anything to prove himself… but to prove what, exactly? His virility? His superiority? Pelmen knows that if his friend succeeds, then it will be his turn to climb up and pluck one of the tasty fruits from a camlorn tree, risking a fall or being caught by a gardener, which could be even worse.

He also knows that there is no point in saying no.

“It’s not enough for you to climb up on its back,” he retorts. “This time you’ll have to stay there for at least three bounds.”

“Ha ha! You drive a hard bargain—but that doesn’t scare me,” Teleg brags, puffing out his chest.

Pelmen is convinced that he has nothing to worry about. Most of the time, his companion is rather indiscreet. Positively oafish. Pelmen figures that he will simply spook the beast, and the matter will be settled.

He is soon forced to change his tune. The nidepoux is so interested in the tasty food that it can smell that it doesn’t notice the young hevelen sneaking up on it from the side. A moment later, Teleg, with the stealth of a sanrkhas, has leapt onto its back and is clinging on to its brown hide with all his strength.

“Phrrt!” snorts the beast, taken by surprise. It has obviously never been trained for mounting and so it whinnies and sets off like an arrow. The image of Teleg’s distraught face, grimacing in terror, is not one that Pelmen would easily forget as, with his eyes bulging, his hair streaming behind him and his thin body bouncing with the rhythm of the gallop, he clings on for dear life. Teleg and his mount make a full lap around the field in record time.

Terrified for his friend, Pelmen waits, watching for an opportunity to get close to the giant rodent. Taking advantage of a moment of fatigue and indecision, he grabs its large pointed ears in order to pull them down over its eyes. The method, learned from breeders, never fails. Once the nidepoux is calmed down, Teleg is able to slide down and drop to the ground.

Striking a theatrical pose, Teleg bellows: “You’ve saved my life !” However, the fear still shows in his eyes as he takes Pelmen’s hands, squeezing them earnestly. “You’re no longer my friend; you’re my brother, and it’s me who owes you a camlorn.”

***

That experience had not made Teleg any less reckless, but afterward, Pelmen got the impression that his friend no longer saw him as a Disinherited.

“You know,” said Teleg, “my father has agreed to let me make you a bed once we’re in Alveg.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He swelled with pride. “It’s the first time I’ll have a chance to work on a job that important.”

“I’ll have to work hard once we’re in Alveg—for that, and for the bow you’ve offered me…”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Teleg insisted. “Consider it part of my apprenticeship as a carpenter.”

“Even so…”

“Just don’t break your promise to us. I’d be bored silly without you out there.”

“Not a chance!”

The buildings had become more frequent along the path before it curved to the south-west to open into the center of Falsine. A crowd of hevelens were sitting around a roaring, spitting camp-fire in the middle of the main square. Standing a little way off from the flames, which leaned with the wind, a white-haired old man with a chiseled face and a nutcracker chin was brandishing a staff and reciting a story. The moment Teleg and Pelmen sat down, he let his voice die away. Picking up a tankard set close to the fire, he drank a long draught from it, before wiping his lips with his forearm and setting it down with a number of others, all empty. He remained silent, as if he didn’t care.

Teleg walked forward and detached a pouch from his belt containing some rather tasty mushrooms. “Accept this, Seer,” he murmured deferentially, bowing.

Zalinen sniffed the offering. Lowering his eyelids as a sign of agreement he tied the pouch to the cord of his robe. A few whispers were heard in the audience. The old man extended his arms and soon, only the murmur of the wind could be heard. Then, the grave and profound sound of his voice was projected upon it, filling the space. In turn quavering and soothing, roaring and heavy, it made the words ring or flow to the rhythm of the legend.

Pelmen knew every detail of the story, but as usual, the voice went straight through him, transporting him to another time.

“It was an epoch which the most ancient only remember by virtue of the tales told by their ancestors, which they obtained from their own ancestors, and so on back through the ages. In that almost-forgotten era, we, the people of Aoles, lived on the Windy Steppes, moving from place to place, one journey after another.

“It was a time of wars and troubles, evils and destruction. The infernal hordes of Valshhyk the Immolated, led by his four offspring, were blighting the land with their diseased corruption and fighting terrible battles against us. Coming from the north, our enemies drove us from our ancestral lands and we were no longer safe anywhere. Exhausted, and desperate to escape those perpetual wars, we sought a haven of peace.

“The day came when we were hemmed into the south by the Emerald Ocean, to the west by vast tracts of marshland, and to the east by the Uncrossable Mountains. Then, the Aguerri[1] Relven Panjurub, praised be his name, had a vision of an algam circling in the sky. He, alone, seemed to perceive it, so he decided to follow it without telling anyone.

“What bard could sing all the adventures of the Great Discovery? For days on end, the algam led Relven toward the mountains of the east. Relven confronted and challenged wild beasts, marauders and errant demons along the way. Every time the greatest of our Aguerris was about to give up and turn back, certain of having lost sight of it for good, the majestic bird reappeared.

“One morning, they reached the first foothills of a rocky peak. In the past, no one had ever been able to climb the Uncrossable Mountains or even find the slightest fissure in the rock. At the sight of the immeasurable sheer cliffs, discouragement might have left Relven downcast, and sapped the last of his strength, but no! Our Aguerri continued to follow the algam until he reached a heap of rocks, which he climbed, gouging his hands and exhausting what remained of his strength.

“From the top of the slope, Relven saw that part of the mountain had collapsed, opening for the first time a passage through the Uncrossable Mountains. Beyond it extended the Canyons that now bear his name. For it is said our forefather, Aoles the Wind, took pity upon his children and sent them his own son, Shalgam, the God of all the algams, to show them the way to their salvation in this land. And Shalgam had chosen Relven Panjurub, the proudest, strongest, and most valiant of the Aguerris to prove him and test his faith. Relven never faltered, and that is why he was rewarded, and on his return was borne in triumph by all those of his clan.”

Zalinen’s voice fell silent. No one said a word. Then, the Seer sat down on a tree-stump, and the villagers came back to life. Several, including Pelmen, got to their feet in order to go about their business.

“Astar is sending forth his last rays,” he explained to Teleg. “My parents are expecting me for the evening meal.”

Teleg got up in turn and fixed his mauve eyes on his friend’s. “What will you do if they refuse to let you live your own life?”

Pelmen shrugged his shoulders, but the tone of his voice belied his casual gesture. “We’ll see.”

“May the breath of Aoles be favorable to you, Wide-Eyes.”

“I hope so,” said Pelmen, nodding his head. “You’ll have your answer tomorrow.”

Was it the effect of the Seer’s story? Pelmen felt quite confident—so much so that he set off on the return journey with a firm stride.

***

“When I say no, I mean no.”

Pelmen looked his father up and down, angrily. Waiting patiently until the end of the meal to begin a conversation, and then trying to present his request in the least abrupt fashion possible, had done no good. He had run into a wall.

“Teleg’s put this idea into your head again, hasn’t he?”

It was not really a question; the expression on his father’s face, simultaneously sly and mocking, meant: I know you better than you think. “I’ve always said it was a mistake for you to hang about with him,” he went on, knowingly. “He’s not one of us. What did I tell you? By sticking you to his heels, he thought he could make you run away… yes, run away from your rightful place. It’s all nonsense, if you want my opinion. By Astar, use what you’ve got between your ears! What will become of you, in Alveg, far away from your family and trained as you are for the trade?”

“I’ve already explained that to you. Teleg’s father has agreed to put me up for a while. For the time I need to become a hunter.” Pelmen tried to hide all trace of irritation from his voice, so as not to give the impression he was on the defensive. “Teleg says that the Recruitment Tournament is open to anyone.”

Zenel sniffed scornfully. “Pooh! You imagine they live there as we do? There’s no better trade than the one we’ve followed, you and me, but not everyone thinks so. Perhaps you think that their… their… delicate snouts aren’t offended by your smell? Wanting to be a hunter won’t change that. You don’t learn to hunt by cutting skins with flints, and it takes more than shooting a few thorns after work to learn to use a bow!”

Pelmen felt the blood rising to his head. Limited as his vocabulary was, his father had a knack of choosing hurtful words. He ought to have been able to make some reply, otherwise what was the point of all those hours spent perfecting his arguments? However, at that moment, nothing came to mind.

“You’re our only son, and we’ve always been tanners, father to son, and that’s not going to change today,” Zenel snapped. “Don’t look down!” he added, lifting his son’s chin with his thumb and index finger.

Pelmen pulled away with a curt gesture, his expression black.

Zenel went on, wagging his index finger, not backing down. “Try to grasp what I’m saying. What I learned from my father and have begun to cram into your skull, is pure amberrock. Thanks to what we know, we have our place in the world. We’re respected, and that’s all that counts.” He paused, before lowering his voice. “Forget these stupid dreams, son. Don’t try to pick the fruits at the top of the tree; take the ones you have right before your eyes. You won’t regret it, you’ll see.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Pelmen’s fists and jaw were clenched. “There are lots of things you don’t know, and you’ll never understand.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned his back and headed out of the door.

Zenel made as if to run after his son.

“Please stay.” The pleading voice was full of sadness, and that, more than anything else, stopped Zenel, making him turn to his wife. She had stayed in the background during the argument, but he knew her well enough to know that she had her own opinion. They looked at one another for some time, and Zenel could read the anxiety in her opal eyes.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” she murmured. “Don’t push him too far, or nothing good will come of it.”

“I mustn’t show any weakness,” he retorted. “If I could just root these stupid ideas out of his head…”

“Don’t you fear… seeing the past repeat itself?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Zenel’s tone, firm and determined, signified that the conversation was over. Dryna nevertheless noticed that her husband’s shoulders had slumped slightly.

Pelmen walked around the house again and again without being able to think coherently at first. His father: his father and his street talk, his mockery and his overprotectiveness. He couldn’t stand it any longer. No, he wouldn’t stand it any longer. Was there anything at all keeping him from leaving right now?

His mother had come to stand on the doorstep. She watched him anxiously. A second went by, which seemed to last forever. He couldn’t do this to her—not right now, anyway. Dryna had always been his ally, his friend. During the worst times in his life, she had sustained him.

Without her, he would never have learned the meaning of all those words unknown to Zenel. Every time she had been able to, she had tried to educate him, in spite of her husband’s raised eyebrows; criticizing her for spending too much time with her son. She had gained her knowledge from her first marriage to the former Seer of Durepeaux, whose breath had rejoined Aoles’ a few years before Pelmen was born. Pelmen had often wondered what she saw in his father. Tinmal, the benevolent Goddess who stirred emotions in the hearts of hevelens, concealed many mysteries.

He went to grab a handful of the acorns heaped in a clay pot beside the wall and directed his steps toward Mils’ burrow. Feeding his ptat would have a soothing effect on him. He was relieved when his father didn’t show himself again that evening. Lying on his bed, Pelmen kept going over his bitter thoughts for a long time. He had not been able to find the words to persuade Zenel, even though his desire to be free of the tannery had never been stronger.

He scrunched up his eyelids. Where words had been meaningless, actions would be more appropriate. Yes, a demonstration was in order. He would take Zenel into the rocky corridor where Master Galn had taught him archery, and where he practiced. His father would be unable to do anything but admit how skilled he was.

But what if his father refused to go with him? Or what if that wasn’t enough? Should he appeal to Master Galn?

Out of the question—Galn was already in enough trouble. Pelmen would get out of this by himself as he had promised to do. If the worse came to the worse, he would have to appeal to the judgment of the Seer. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he was old enough to change his master.

It’s tomorrow or never.

Sighing, he realized that Zenel would not give in easily.

Chapter Two - STRANGE COMPANY

The first glimmers of Astar were coming through the window of the tiny bedroom and settling on Pelmen’s face. He opened his eyes and got up at once. Not wanting to change his routine, he went out to perform his ablutions.

In the kitchen, where his father was already at breakfast, Pelmen wore an expression of morose resignation. In reality, he was seething inside. He forced himself to absorb his dish of veguer’en cereal mixed with water unhurriedly. He was so used to it that it was insipid. His father enthused about a new consignment of nidepoux hides; Pelmen replied with a word here or there.

Zenel looked at him. “You have to learn to love the work, son. It’ll be easier if you do, much easier.”

Pelmen bit his lip to keep from replying. It was too soon to tell his father exactly what was on his mind. The best thing to do was to let Zenel think he had given up, and then give him proof of good will at the tannery to get him into a good mood. In the evening, he would ask his father to go with him. If he approached him in the right way, Zenel would be unable to refuse. That was necessary, because there was so very little time left.

Pelmen was very active that morning. He prepared the tanning baths, brushed the hides, and buckled down to skinning animals with unusual zeal.

He used his hand to wipe his brow, which was streaming with sweat. As usual, Zenel did not seem to notice his renewed effort. From the day he had begun work at the tannery he had not been given any compliment, or even simple encouragement. I probably won’t get one or the other today, either.

The nidepoux he was attacking was one of the toughest. Pelmen gritted his teeth. He leaned on his flint with all his weight, engraving a profound groove along the spinal column. He grimaced. A scarlet drop pearled in the palm of his hand. Followed by several others, it was about to mingle with the blood of the dead animal. Pelmen seized a rag from a bag provided for that purpose and bandaged the cut on his hand. He resumed work, cutting more carefully. The overseer, Olgen Peaudecuir, didn’t like it when Pelmen hurt himself, thinking it slowed him down too much. He could not, however, fault his apprentice for wanting to put his heart into the work.

When it was time for their midday meal, the tanners went into the side room which served as a dining area. Zenel sat down to the right of Olgen Peaudecuir, who was enthroned at the head of a long rectangular table, upon which a clay soup dish was set. Pelmen’s place was the one furthest away from the overseer. The meal unfolded following an unchanging ritual, Master Olgen serving himself first, then Zenel, Jenin, Meslen, Hitaro, Welen and finally Pelmen. The tanners would hang on the Master’s every word, wondering how they might please him or show themselves in a good light.

While eating his soup, Pelmen started thinking about the best way to approach his father at the end of the day. He didn’t want to run the risk of an immediate refusal. The best strategy would doubtless be to beat around the bush a little, by first gaining his father’s interest, but how?

Betting! Zenel liked to bet on nidepoux races.

It seemed like a good idea; he would offer to make a bet with his father. If he lost, Zenel could have his next meal, but if he won, he would be allowed to leave without any more arguments. Pelmen would have to hit one of the wooden stakes in the corridor three times in a row with the thorns shot from his bow in order to win. A hundred paces would be a good distance.

Pelmen looked at his bandaged hand. His injury represented a handicap, but maybe also a trump card. Because of that, Zenel would be convinced his son’s chances were slim. He would be bound to accept.

The afternoon stretched out interminably. Zenel went into the workshop to lend a hand to Olgen, and did not reappear. That annoyed Pelmen.

I hope he’s still here at the end of the day. I need to find him quickly to make my demonstration before Astar sets, and also get my bow. It was in his bedroom; he would have no time to lose.

An eternity later, Master Olgen came to announce the end of the day’s work before turning on his heels. Pelmen left his work, changed his dressing and went to the shed. When he came back with his pitcher, Zenel was still not there. He headed toward the exit at a swift pace, only to trip and fall, instinctively protecting the pitcher, which was not broken. He looked back furiously. Meslen, his leg extended, had a mocking smile on his sly face.

Meslen, you filthy insect. Always the first to lick the master’s boots, and never the last to hit below the belt.

If he had had time, Pelmen would have made Meslen lose his taste for practical jokes. Making a big effort to contain his rage, he got back up and turned toward the exit.

Welen’s massive shape loomed in front of the door. Pelmen went pale. Flanked by Meslen and Hitaro, Jemin moved closer.

“What is it?” Pelmen demanded.

The tall knock-kneed hevelen pointed at his bandaged hand. “You’ve been warned. When you cut yourself, our master isn’t pleased. When Master Olgen isn’t pleased, the old fogey gets crotchety. You’ve botched the job one too many… ouch!”

Holding his pitcher in front of him, Pelmen had leapt upon him.

Jemin fell backward. With a side step, Pelmen was on Meslen. His left fist—the good one—crashed into his chin. Under the impact, the thickset tanner stepped back, clutching his jaw. Pelmen uttered a little cry of joy, and took advantage of it to jump through the nearest window—Hitaro’s fingernails only scratched his thigh. He rolled over in the dust, got up and started running. From the corner of his eye, he saw Welen’s heavy arm swinging toward him. He ducked under it easily.

In the square, a few villagers waiting their turn to draw water from the well watched the spectacle of Pelmen running away from the stout Welen with interest.

Without thinking about where he was going, Pelmen veered to the right. A hundred strides further on, he saw that Welen, out of breath, was falling behind.

“Hey, lump of nidepoux grease!” he shouted. “What are you waiting for? Come and get...” He broke off and ran again. Jemin had taken up the race. Less speedy, Hitaro and Meslen were lagging behind, but Jemin was gaining on him.

The bastards! What’s got into them today?

Accelerating to a sprint, Pelmen ran out of the village like a gust of wind. At the first crossroads, he took the road toward Port Subelin in order to avoid the climb toward Falsine. His lead would not last much longer before Jemin caught up with him. There were only a few yards between them, and Pelmen was running out of breath.

A sailcart appeared behind his pursuers, and Meslen and Hitaro got out of the way to let it pass. The opportunity was too good to waste. Pelmen stopped dead, before quickly turning round and charging Jemin, arms forward. The impact was violent, for his adversary had scarcely had time to slow down. They fell down in a painful, uncontrolled fashion that took them to the edge of the road.

Pelmen was the quicker to react. Throwing himself backward, he delivered a two-footed kick, sending the other tumbling into the bottom of the ditch. With a deafening racket, the cart swept past Pelmen, too rapidly for him to be able to grab hold of it as he had intended.

Against Meslen and Hitaro together, Pelmen knew he would not come out on top. One faint hope still remained; the vehicle had left a cloud of dust in its wake masking him temporarily. Without delay, Pelmen ran across the road, dropping down into the opposite ditch and hiding among the rocks.

What can I do now? he wondered, panting.

His heart was beating too rapidly and he was suffering from several cuts and bruises. He forced himself to breathe deeply to chase away his fears.

They very nearly had me, and they might come at me again at any moment. What can I do? By Aoles, what can I do?

Finally, his pulse calmed down and he found the answer to his question. The best thing to do was to double back and try to get back to Durepeaux. Such a move seemed absurd, and that was why it would not occur to the tanners to look for him there.

Taking all possible precautions, Pelmen made his way through the rocks at the bottom of the ditch.

“Where did they go?” That was Hitaro’s voice.

After a moment’s silence: “There! It’s Jemin! In the ditch!” Meslen’s voice was just perceptible, carried away by the wind.

Pelmen quickened his pace, his guts knotted. Had he killed Jemin? Barring some inexplicable misfortune, he did not think so, for the ditch was not very deep at the spot where he had projected the tanner into it.

He did not hear anything more.

His mouth creased into a bitter smile. Whether Jemin survived or not, his rebellion would not be pardoned. As for his father… Pelmen had no doubt he would put all the blame for the brawl on him.

In spite of the thickness of his sandals, Pelmen felt sharp spurs of rock digging into his feet, so he hurriedly climbed up again toward the entrance to the village. He risked a peek, and was relieved when he saw no one.

For the moment, Astar was sinking and the shadows were lengthening. Pelmen had an idea. Rejoining the road he ran toward the shadow of an uninhabited mud hut. His hands were damp and a thin layer of the ochre dirt remained stuck to his skin. He rubbed them to get rid of it. Moving from shadow to shadow, he slipped all the way to Master Linen’s inn, which he went around warily. Hidden behind the cart parked near the entrance, he looked around.

His father, standing in front of the tannery, was waiting for something.

Pelmen ducked backward. What could he be waiting for, if not…

He went pale. A vision of Jemin and Welen dragging him to his father’s feet had just appeared to him. His fingernails dug into his palms.

Shit, shit, shit! Nidepoux shit! Galcyne shit!

Zenel’s absence from the workshop that afternoon had been deliberate. Pelmen did not know whether his father had arranged the whole thing from the start, but one thing was certain—with Olgen’s complicity, he had deliberately left the field free for the workmen to inflict a small punishment on him.

You didn’t want to be implicated, did you? Just as well to let the others do the dirty work. Pelmen’s lip trembled. Damned if I know what’s keeping me from...

No, he decided. Whether he elected to fight or just to hurl abuse at his father, he would not get the upper hand. He would find himself alone against all of them. Better now to escape from his father’s empire for good; that would be the best revenge. Yes… Zenel had sought to bring him to heel, but he did not know who he was dealing with.

Pelmen unclenched his fists. Now, it was necessary to think about the best way of getting to Alveg, as quietly as possible. Without any support it would be difficult, but he had to try, no matter what the cost.

“I can hide you, and even get you out of the village, if you want.”

Pelmen jumped, startled. He remained petrified momentarily before daring to move. The murmur came from under the cover of the cart. A corner was lifted up surreptitiously and Pelmen saw the hevelen’s chubby face from the day before looking at him questioningly. His eyes were gleaming in the half-light, but the rest of his face was difficult to make out. Perhaps that crease in his mouth and the way in which his nostrils were pulled in indicated a kind of compassion, or maybe sympathy?

The gap in the tarpaulin closed again. Pelmen had to make up his mind.

“Wait… I… Agreed!”

“Climb in, but make sure you’re not seen!”

After carefully checking to make sure that no one was looking, Pelmen hoisted himself into the cart. The sharp odor of camlorn beer permeated the air under the cover, adding to his unease. Barrels were lined up in two rows along the sides. The hooded one was sitting near the main mast, as if dozing, or as if he did not want anyone to know he was there. His companion greeted Pelmen with a half-smile and pointed to one of the barrels, which he opened wide.

“No one will think of looking for you in there.”

Pelmen drew nearer. “Thank you,” he stammered. “Truly, thank you. It’s Aoles who sent you.”

“Thank me later. Now climb in.”

Pelmen managed to pass his legs into the gap, before dropping down into the large cask.

“Er… where are you going?” he asked.

“Port Subelin, I’ll put the lid back on; we mustn’t take any risks.” The hevelen’s double chin was as placid as the rest of his face, but the inflection of his voice was urgent. He matched words with action, and darkness closed over Pelmen, who sat down as best he could in the bottom of the barrel. Already, he could hear the mainsail being deployed; departure was imminent.

A click told him the brake lever had been released. The cart began to move before completing its first turn to the left… and as the wind swelled its sail, it gained speed. Pelmen dared to breathe again.

They left Durepeaux by the road along which he had escaped from Jemin and his companions. He was trying to calculate how far they had gone when—far too soon—he heard the screech of the brake-lever over the rattle of the wheels as they rolled along the stony track.

Was that because of him? The sickening stench of the tannery now overwhelmed the odor of the camlorn beer.

Meslen, Hitaro, Welen and perhaps Jemin. It can only be them. They’re close by.

Pelmen braced himself. If the cart stopped, he would have to leap out, fight if necessary, and run away again. They wouldn’t get him. No, they would not get him.

The lever was released, the screeching stopped and they gained speed again. Pelmen breathed and only then felt a stabbing pain in his right hand. He had clenched his fists so tightly the wound he had sustained in the tannery had opened and was bleeding. He extended his fingers, letting relief penetrate every fiber of his body. He would have his revenge. They wouldn’t get him now. His father would wonder where he had gone, for sure.

What a pity! Yes, what a pity not to be there to see his face, when he realizes I’m not coming back! It’s over, Zenel—I’ve finally gotten you out of my life!

He felt tears of joy running down his cheeks.

It was over, the work at the tannery. No more petty daily humiliations; no more stench of dead flesh. He was free to live at long last! How he wanted to take a bath!

At regular intervals the wind increased its force and the cart accelerated, trembling all over. In those moments, Pelmen knew they had just passed a veguer’en. Ten feet tall and planted in the middle of the road, Aoles’ plants nourished themselves on the wind. In order to do that they possessed two bulbs provided with a large orifice and circled by gilded foliage. The former, orientated to the east, took air in, channeled it and transferred it to the second, directed westwards. The latter expelled the gift received from the direction of the wind, accelerating its flow.

Pelmen thought about his mother. She must have expected that he would go for good one day or another; he had confided in her often. He did not like leaving her upset though. She didn’t deserve that. He would have to arrange to get a message to her.

Only when I’m settled, he resolved. I don’t want to find Zenel on my back.

He would also miss Mils. The little rodent would have to fend for himself now. The ptat had been such a great comfort to him. The wound of separation would take a long time to heal.

Perhaps that’s the way of things. Mils was part of my old life. Nothing must anchor me to Durepeaux now.

He did not even have the bow given to him by Teleg, which would remain in the trunk in his bedroom, unused; he could not permit himself to go and collect it, any more than he could fetch Mils.

By Astar, who would have believed freedom had such a high price?

Drumming his fingers on the floor, Pelmen began to feel very lonely. Without the slightest source of light, and with all his thoughts in confusion, he could not tell how much time had gone by. The confined space of the barrel was becoming more painful by the minute. Pelmen strained his ears, but with all the background noise, there was no way he could make out the occasional scraps of conversation between the two hevelens.

Cautiously, he lifted the lid, blinking his eyes to accustom them to the light. What little he could glimpse told him they were going along the shore of Lake Subelin, making progress in the right direction. The floating tunic of the hevelen to whom he owed his escape showed folds of shiny fat heaped up at the level of the hips, just above his chanvreline trousers. In his right hand, he held the tiller.

A hiss resounded from behind. “Komel!” The voice was hoarse and harsh, as if its owner were speaking with a flint in his throat.

The corpulent person turned, looked at a point behind Pelmen, and then redirected his gaze at him. He gestured imperiously to him and raised his voice to make himself heard. “Hey! Sit down and put the lid back. Come on! If we cross the path of other travelers, your presence in that barrel will seem suspicious!” As Pelmen did not comply immediately, he added: “You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, do you?”

Pretending to agree, Pelmen lowered the lid but left a thin crack.

“Completely!” Komel ordered. “Astar’s setting and we’ll be making a stop before long.”

The time seemed too long to Pelmen, though, and his legs were beginning to go numb when they finally stopped. The lid above him was removed.

“You can get out,” said Komel.

Pelmen emerged from his hiding place, his limbs stiff. After the obscurity of the barrel, even the twilight seemed bright. While Komel lifted other lids, Pelmen breathed in deeply. Mingling with camlorn beer, the reek of dirt and other bodily odors floated in the air.

Several shaven skulls emerged from the barrels.

Pelmen took a step backward, leaning on a crate in order not to fall over. Only two of the heads, surrounded by a particularly strong odor, were hairy: dirty hirsute manes, yellow teeth, their breath reeking of beer… like those of the other “passengers”, their features testified to a precarious, wearying existence. They also seemed dazed, as if after a long night.

Pelmen turned to one young individual with a more alert expression. “What are you doing here?”

The other studied him, nonplussed, and then a condescending smile formed on his face. “The same thing as you, I suppose. I’m heading for a better life.”

Komel took Pelmen by the arm, leading him outside.

The cart had come to a stop behind a rocky mound not far from the shore of the lake. Some distance away, Pelmen saw the quay of Port Subelin, with its rows of habitations in the background. The last green-tinted gleams of the water contrasted sharply with the ochre cliffs in the distance.

“I’ll explain what’s going on,” said Komel. He paused, sniffed and then pinched his nostrils. “By Hamal, you stink. Hmm… before anything else, you’re going to take a bath. And now that I think about it...” He scanned the little group of ragged and smelly individuals assembled by the cart with a critical eye. “The rest of you are, too.”

The passengers greeted Komel’s directives with strong cries of protest. Pelmen kept quiet, content to observe the scene, amused.

Komel turned to the hooded hevelen, who advanced toward the protesters and fixed them with his gaze. To Pelmen’s surprise, even the most stubborn quietened down and headed toward the bank, although not without dragging their feet.

Pelmen attempted to discover what the hood concealed. By chance, a ray of light gave him a glimpse of the hevelen’s smooth face. It was impossible to say how old he was. Thin lips, a broad forehead and a straight nose gave him an aristocratic appearance. His disdainful green eyes reinforced his air of arrogant superiority. Although his stature was scarcely impressive in and of itself, the cold mastery which emanated from him and his calculated way of moving in particular were not at all reassuring. One could not look at him without feeling ill at ease.

Pinching his nose, Pelmen tore himself away from his thoughts in order to plunge into the lukewarm water in his turn. He immersed himself from head to toe, and it was as if he were washing away his past.

It’s over; I’m no longer a tanner.

He happily prolonged the moment until he was one of the last to come out.

Komel was getting impatient. “Come over here. Good. You’re probably wondering why I’m hiding these people in the barrels?”

Pelmen nodded his head.

“Quite simply, I help those who are in need.” Komel smiled briefly. “In any case, I arrived at an opportune moment, didn’t I?”

“Why do you do that?”

“Well… sad as it might seem, the teachings of Aoles are hardly practiced anymore. All you have to do is open your nostrils and eyes to observe that. Instead of being as free as the wind and standing proudly on the lands that bore them, most hevelens crawl and do the work which the most powerful assign to them. Others are cast out and become rejects. I’m there; I bring them assistance.”

“To what end?”

“Isn’t it obvious? My aim is to create a free community, one which is happy to respect the divine teachings.”

“Really? And… where are you taking us?”

A fire smoldered in Komel’s gaze. Pelmen suppressed the urge to recoil.

“There are hidden riches in the world. Riches allowing their possessors to forget the scorn they have had to suffer… to regain their dignity. With just a little effort, they offer themselves to those who have the will to use them. We’re going to a remote place, where we’re sure to find them. For now, I can tell you no more, but look at this.” With a theatrical gesture, Komel brought a translucent object out of the pocket in his tunic.

Bright red, the thing gleamed with an inner golden light which shifted, depending on the angle of observation.

“Fascinating,” Pelmen murmured. “What is it?”

Initially disconcerted, Komel threw his head back and emitted a sonorous burst of laughter. “Poor ignorant Disinherited! It’s amberrock. Amberrock!” He waved the thrilling fragment before Pelmen’s eyes. “Do you understand? With this single fragment, you could buy the inn in Durepeaux and all its servants. There is much more where we’re going. Imagine the possibilities…”

Pelmen had frowned initially upon being called a Disinherited, but curiosity got the better of him. He only knew the value of amberrock by reputation. He held out his hand, but Komel moved the object out of range.

“It’s yours… if you agree to accompany us to where we’re going.”

“Can I hold it? Just for a moment?”

Komel darted a penetrating gaze at him before handing the amberrock to Pelmen.

The fragment was light and gave the impression of being easily pliable. For fear of breaking it, Pelmen only exerted a weak pressure on it. No effect. His subsequent efforts, increasingly vigorous, yielded no better results. The object’s strength belied its apparent fragility. Pelmen studied it closely. Its edges revealed themselves to be keener than the sharpest flints. Undoubtedly, it was very valuable. If the people of Durepeaux found out I had this, then they would look at me differently. Yes, they’d finally have to respect me, and I’d become someone… important.

Komel seemed to read his thoughts. “You can keep it. As I said, it’s yours if you join us.”

The tone of his voice revealed no trace of sarcasm. Pelmen hesitated. Such wealth within arm’s reach…

In the space of a single evening, his world had already been turned upside-down, and now he was being given the opportunity to do it again. The proposal was almost unreal, unimaginable. He tottered and, gripped by sudden vertigo, put his free hand to his temple.

What would Master Galn think?

Pelmen made an effort to conjure up an image of the hevelen, with his unhealthy complexion. It was not easy, and he knew that he would only succeed if he were able to distance himself from the emotions assailing him. It seemed to him that the carpenter was looking at him sternly.

Komel cleared his throat.

It was all so easy… too easy. All he had to do was to follow them, Komel had said. But why refuse to reveal their destination? And his sinister-looking hooded companion… it all smelled rotten. Pelmen kept his eyelids lowered momentarily, moistened his lips, and held out the fragment of amberrock to Komel.

“Take it back.”

He thought the merchant’s eyes were about to jump out of his head.

“Do you know what you’re refusing? The fortune you’re allowing to escape?” Komel’s voice had risen, the final words vibrant with anger.

Pelmen continued to hold out the fragment.

Komel pocketed it with an abrupt gesture. Then he turned toward the setting sun.

When he resumed speaking, all trace of irritation had been wiped away from his features. “I accept your decision, although it seems to me to be incredibly absurd.” His lips stretched in a sickly sweet smile. “Have you noticed? Astar won’t take long to disappear now. We’re going to set up camp a little higher up, in a herdsman’s hut.” He pointed to a hill overlooking the shore. “I invite you to spend the night in our company for the first, and probably the last, time. You’d be wise to accept, thus giving yourself the time to consider my proposition more seriously.”

While he was speaking, his silent associate had approached. He inspected Pelmen coldly, punctuating Komel’s words with a curt nod of the head. Pelmen looked at him as well. He judged it more prudent not to annoy them, especially the hevelen whose name he did not know.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, reluctantly.

They did not have to walk far. On the threshold of the building in question, a hevelen with a shaven head, broad shoulders and a surly expression was holding a herdsman’s crook. Far from being astonished by their appearance, he greeted them with a grunt and invited them all to sit down on the uneven ground of the hut, around an impressive dish of beans set on a low table. A cask of beer was pierced and tankards distributed. Soon, tongues loosened, and eyes shone in the semi-darkness, poorly lit by four crackling torches.

Unused to its pronounced bitterness, Pelmen scarcely touched his camlorn beer. The walls of the room, bare and sinister, contrasted with the cheerfulness of his companions, as they talked noisily about the misery of their past lives and drunkenly toasted their future good luck.

Toward the end of the meal, one of them brought a fragment of amberrock out of his loincloth, and was quickly copied by a second, and then a third, so many that the table scintillated with gilded red fires. Everyone was comparing his treasure with those of the others and boasting about its merits, carefully refraining from any exchange.

Komel took advantage of that to go out, in the company of the herdsman.

A short time later, several hevelens decided to get some air. While he initially joined them, Pelmen quickly left them to go their own way. He watched as Komel and the herdsman melted into the nocturnal shadows. Curious to know what they were discussing so mysteriously, he decided to circle around the building, listening for sounds. Getting the sudden feeling he was being watched, he turned round.

A hooded silhouette was outlined on an overhanging rock in the blue lunar light of Tinmal and Hamal. Motionless, the individual was tracking his every movement.

Pelmen shivered. He looks more like a protodactyl ready to fall on its prey than anything else. Not wishing to find himself alone in the presence of the unnerving stranger for a moment longer than necessary, with no further thought to what Komel was doing, he hurried back to the relative safety of the hut.

The dining room also served as a sleeping area. In one corner, a dozen straw pallets had been set out on the floor, several of which were already taken. Pelmen chose the one furthest away from the entrance door, as if his sole intention was to spend the night as comfortably as possible, far away from the nocturnal chill.

The other hevelens paid no heed to him, either because they did not consider him to be one of them—unlike them, he had refused the amberrock—or for some other reason. Lying down with his eyelids half-closed, Pelmen pretended to doze off while monitoring the comings and goings in the room.

The hooded individual, the herdsman and Komel were the last to reappear. The door, which had no latch, was closed behind them. Only the weather-beaten herdsman lay down on a nearby pallet. Komel and his associate crossed the room in order to go through an opening giving access to the store-room—at least that was what it had been originally, although it had evidently been adapted into a lodging providing a minimal level of comfort.

Pelmen tried to rest his weary bones, but, it was difficult to not actually fall asleep, given how tired he was. The rhythmic snoring of the hevelens was both comforting and unsettling and, cursing to himself, Pelmen wondered just why his life had become so turbulent, all of a sudden!

He would have liked to have had more time to think about everything that had changed, but his instinct whispered to him not to trust Komel, and to run away again as soon as he had the opportunity. He would undoubtedly not have reacted like that without the presence of the merchant’s disquieting acolyte, who was exercising—it was beyond doubt now—a mute surveillance over the entire group.

Pelmen waited patiently for the dead of night. When he judged everyone to be asleep, he got to his feet. Unless he was mistaken, there was no movement, but his heart was hammering so forcefully in his chest that it would be a miracle if it did not wake someone up. He took his sandals in his hand and, stepping over the extended limbs as best he could, he reached the entrance door with a stealthy tread. He opened it and closed it behind him immediately, wishing neither the sound of the wind nor the intrusion of a brief air current to disturb anyone’s sleep.

Taken in great gulps, the invigorating night air refreshed his lungs.

All right. For the moment, everything’s going well.

The night was calm and clear. Pelmen was determined to reach Port Subelin as quickly as possible. Putting on his sandals and opting for what seemed to him to be the shortest route, he headed back down the hill which would take him to the shore of the lake.

The blue-tinted light projected by Tinmal, allied with the pale green luminescence of her rival, the Goddess Hamal, was working in his favor. In order to avoid dead branches, potholes and pebbles, he rarely raised his eyes. Gradually, however, he allowed the serenity of the starry night to wash over him. His anxiety appeared to be on the point of disappearing, like the misty residue of a nightmare on awakening. The first houses were outlined on the horizon.

“You’ve made an error in refusing that which was so generously granted to you.”

An obscure form had emerged from behind a rock. The silhouette of a face veiled by shadow confronted him. Pelmen had only grasped the meaning of the words after a delay, as if they had been pronounced in a foreign language. Already, the intruder had resumed speaking… or rather, allowing a stream of incomprehensible flatulence to escape, dissonant, discordant and corrupt, with his hands extended before him.

Between his fingers a scarlet glimmer was born, which grew into a reddening ball of contained energy. Thus illuminated, his features were clearly visible.

Pelmen gasped, even more frightened by the apparition than the fireball. The face was ruddy and swollen, speckled with abscessed wounds. The fact that its possessor was not writhing in agony seemed to have something supernatural about it. On the contrary, his olive-tinted eyes were observing him with their customary glacial assurance. Pelmen took two steps back, emitting a stifled moan, seeking in vain to get his breath back.

The stranger parted his hands. Liberated, the ball flew toward Pelmen. Its volume gradually shrank on contact with the wind, but its trajectory remained immutable. Pelmen’s legs slackened, and he plunged sideways. A painful burning sensation spread from his groin. The air, blocked until then, finally flowed into his lungs. Pelmen screamed. Maddened by the pain, he came upright again and ran straight ahead. The rock behind which his attacker had hidden was backed up against a granite cliff.

A dead end. He’ll be on me at any moment to finish me off.

Veering toward the imposing obstacle, Pelmen understood in a flash that his only option was to scale it. He launched himself toward it. The enterprise was hazardous, but fear multiplied his strength tenfold. His fingers became levers, his sandals slipped and detached fragments before finding footholds. He climbed as quickly as he could.

Down below, a further series of guttural outbursts erupted.

Not without scrapes and cuts on his knees, Pelmen reached the top. He looked to the right and the left. A gently-sloping path went down the other side. With a hiss, a fiery serpent landed a few inches from his foot. Pelmen jumped, recovered his balance and blinked in shock.

The rock sizzled and melted at the point of impact. The shaman yanked his incandescent lasso backward. Pelmen ran down the slope. Terrified, spurred on by pain, he went as fast as his legs could carry him. A plain opened out before him, and in the distance he saw once again the first buildings of the town. He veered toward a fold in the hill a short distance away.

The deformed voice of the shaman was distant now.

Pelmen began to zigzag and he ended up reaching level ground, where he leaned on the bank, with his hand on his side, out of breath. His wound was still burning like an ardent ember. Brushing it with his finger, he was amazed to find it so limited in dimension and so shallow. He straightened his shoulders.

No time to lose. I need to go.

Incapable of sprinting any longer, his stride shortening, and with cold sweat running down his spine, Pelmen nevertheless arrived in Port Subelin without incident.

Rows of carts, mostly loaded with furniture and bric-à-brac of every sort were lined up in single file in the dusty streets. Pelmen examined them, bewildered. He had completely forgotten the Exchange period was to begin the next day… or rather, this morning, since dawn was now imminent.

The Exchange, which would mark the departure of Master Galn, Teleg and Alicene for Alveg!

The patter of tiny feet nearby made him jump.

It was only a ptat, hastening in search of a safer refuge.

I have to do the same. And quickly—it won’t be long before I collapse on the spot.

Pelmen did not have the luxury of being imaginative; a cart would have to suffice. He opted for one of the most voluminous and heavily laden. With fear in his belly he climbed inside, groping his way in order not to knock anything over. His fingers encountered a piece of fabric—a thick tablecloth. He slipped underneath, displacing objects as he went that could only be camlorns, judging by their odor.

Before he collapsed with exhaustion, one last thought occurred to him, detached from all emotion. He looked like the hooded one, but with a very different face—except for the eyes.

Chapter Three - AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE

The heat woke Pelmen up, unless it was the jolting of the cart, or the exhortations of the nidepoux driver up front. He propped himself up on his elbow, laboriously, careful not to start one of the camlorns rolling with his legs or bump his head on the underside of the table. Grimacing, he set about massaging his neck. He was alive—that was the essential thing.

The burn in his side reminded him that the nightmare of the previous night had been very real, and he almost let a groan escape. He must not think about that hateful, swollen face—not at the moment, at any rate, unless he wanted to stay underground, like a ptat, for the rest of his life.

Intermittent rays of light filtered into his hiding place. Judging by his aching joints, he must have slept for several hours at least, possibly even half a day. His stomach was crying out with hunger and thirst. Pelmen remained motionless for a few more moments, his nostrils quivering and his ears pricked. The crystalline voice of a young woman could be heard and was followed by that of the driver—her father, or perhaps her husband.

Although the exact meaning of the words was unintelligible, Pelmen was certain that he was not the subject of the discussion. Was this how it felt to be a fugitive, he wondered, lifting up the tablecloth slightly to risk a peek. He could not see anything except an accumulation of pots lined with chanvreline drapes. That did not tell him very much. Any corner of the cart might hide a hevelen who he would only see at closer range.

Pelmen stretched his limbs and tried to gather what remained of his courage.

His torso was already outside when he changed his mind and turned round. The camlorns. They’re there, within reach. It would be pure and simple theft, scarcely worthy of the hunter he had so desperately wanted to be before the world around him had gone crazy. He was dying of hunger and thirst, so, without any further hesitation, he grabbed a ripe fruit of respectable size, put it under his arm and crawled away.

He had to go around stools, step over earthenware pots and climb over crates. The rear of the cart was bathed in a blinding light. Pelmen jumped down on to the stony road, collected himself and reached the ditch without further delay.

The driver of the vehicle to the rear, whose features he could not make out because of the glare, had seen him. However, he must have thought Pelmen inconsequential, for he contented himself with shaking his head to show his disapproval.

Pelmen chose an out-of-the-way spot to sit down. The stone was warm under his thighs. Astar dominated the sky with his unavoidable mass. The surrounding décor was that of a granite corridor with ochre walls.

Pelmen picked up a stone with a pointed end, wedged his camlorn between his knees and used it to cut through the pink-streaked blue rind. He sucked up the moisture at the heart of the fruit eagerly and feasted upon the pulp. Then it was the skin’s turn, tougher but more nourishing, which he broke into pieces and chewed, while watching the convoy of hevelens and animals marching against the wind, their shoulders hunched.

Aoles always blows westwards, so they’re heading eastwards, toward Alveg, Pelmen deduced. He, too, felt like he had been marching against the wind since the beginning. His attempt to escape the destiny mapped out for him by his father had very nearly proved fatal. I won’t be going back with my tail between my legs any time soon. Anyway, it’s too late to turn back.

Families whose father or eldest son was pulling a cart made up most of the convoy. There were also carts harnessed to nidepoux, and a few herdsmen, small by comparison with their seven-foot tall linguilis. Occasionally, one of the quadrupeds with immaculate fleeces and long prehensile tails strayed from the herd. A herdsman quickly recaptured it, whirling his crook to force the animal back into line.

What if one of those herdsmen was the one from yesterday, sent to search for me? Or what if the shaman himself were mingling with the travelers in the convoy?

Frightened by that thought, Pelmen felt his heart begin to race, subconsciously feeling the wound on his hip, which was already less painful. He examined the travelers more carefully, relieved by the fact that no one had a veiled face, but aware that the shaman might have changed his clothes in order to be better able to take him by surprise. He mulled over the situation, before coming to the conclusion that the shaman’s swollen face should be easily enough recognizable.

Having made certain that he was not in any immediate danger, Pelmen eased himself into the flow of migrants. He needed to join Master Galn and his family in Alveg, and avoid any unfortunate encounters along the way. He would ask someone for directions once he got to the city.

The convoy was advancing along the right-hand side of the road, leaving the center free as prudence and custom required. A cart appeared, under full sail, stretching its rigging to breaking-point, traveling in the opposite direction, speeding past with a thunderous din. A veguer’en must have been nearby, or the cart would not have gained such speed. Pelmen admired the ingenuity of the first hevelen—whose name he did not know—to have discovered that the veguer’en needed the strength of the wind to grow rather than water, and to have had the idea of hollowing out the rock of the Canyons at regular intervals in order to plant them.

In order to shelter themselves from the breath of Aoles, some of his traveling companions had positioned themselves behind a rig filled with veguer cereals, which they were pushing, as was customary in such circumstances. Pelmen lent them a hand.

As the afternoon drew to a close, the caravan stopped. A murmur was heard along its length: “Aguerris! Aguerris!”

Many hevelens, mostly young, hurried forward. Pelmen, who had never seen one of his people’s leaders, let himself be drawn along by the flow. The crowd was thickest at the head, where the rocky corridor opened out into a vast grainy plain. Several hunters, lances tipped with flint in hand, were holding the spectators back, blocking the end of the gorge.

Hunters…

Wedged between a plump mother and a herdsman, who was making use of his crook to try to push him away, Pelmen studied the hunters. Perhaps they were not as tall and noble as he had pictured them—one of them was a good head shorter than he was—but at least everyone respected them. With luck, one day he would join their ranks.

A few hundred paces away, the company of Aguerris was advancing with great ceremony. Standard-bearers were brandishing various brightly-colored banners. Immediately behind them, servants were buckling beneath the burden of game animals slung on poles. There were also barrels and poultry on carts pulled by nidepoux.

In spite of the heat, the Aguerris were decked from head to toe in rich furs, surcoats and sumptuous dresses, and as tradition required, each wore a cape embroidered with an emblem. They were being driven in ostentatious chariots. Pelmen singled out some of them, waving and offering up a brief smile to the crowds that had gathered. Two, who were each holding the reins of a chariot, and were flanked by hunters equipped with axes, lances, slings or bows and well-filled quivers, decided somewhat jealously that the honor of leading the hunt should be theirs.

The company soon turned its back on the spectators in order to head toward a mountain in the background, which Pelmen recognized as belonging to Alveg.

Night was beginning to fall when the caravan was finally allowed to move on. Only a short distance remained to travel before it reached Alveg, but the caravan only reached the outskirts of the city by courtesy of the stars and the two moons. Hamal was in her final quarter and the blue Tinmal was gibbous.

Pelmen went past a gigantic wooden wheel set against a rectangular stone pillar: a mill of Aoles, performing the function of an elevator, creaking and moaning in the wind. Nose in the air and stumbling several times, he arrived at the foot of the colossal rocky edifice around which the city had been built.

He had been here before, to be sure, but he hadn’t really realized the extent to which the architecture defied comprehension: Alveg, the city with a thousand footbridges, all slender, aerial and giving the impression of unshakable solidity. The city with a thousand caverns, where one palace, it was said, had been built by the Gods…

From a height of about three hundred feet onwards, he could see the rocky foundations emerging from the mountain, which sustained multiple platforms he knew to be linked together by the footbridges. Translucent in the nocturnal light, columns loomed up on granite pedestals. Around them ran stone stairways, interrupted at intervals by further platforms enthroned at great heights.

Somewhere up there, Master Galn, Teleg and Alicene must be wondering what had become of him. His first impulse was to set out in search of their home, but Pelmen restrained himself, realizing that in the dark, his chances of finding the way were slim.

Fortunately, camp-sites had been set up around various exterior wells by travelers who, like him, had arrived too late to go into the city. Pelmen was able to slake his thirst and, in spite of his grumbling stomach and the hardness of the ground, he eventually succeeded in going to sleep between the wheels of a cart.

***

The torches in the tunnel crackled. As they burned they spread an aroma of resinian, with the result that Pelmen only had to concentrate on the odor for images of Falsine and its lush hill to flood into his mind. This practice only partly dissipated the sense of oppression that had besieged him since he had gone into the subterranean passage, climbing up to the lowest levels of Alveg.

According to what he had been told, the majority of carpenters were to be found on the third level. Pelmen would have much preferred to make use of one of the mills of Aoles, but he did not have anything to trade for his passage. His troubles were not yet over. In spite of the early hour, there were many others going with him through the gloom, guiding linguilis or nidepoux by the bridle, pulling hard to draw their carts. The majority were silent, as if the mass of the surrounding rock were a great source of anxiety.

There was a bend in the tunnel and then Pelmen went past an opening through which he glimpsed a hevelen unloading his cargo under the watchful gaze of a hunter. The tunnel contained many of these depots hewn out of the rock, large enough to accommodate several nidepoux-drawn carts and their contents. Thanks to these reserves, or caches, Alveg was never at risk of running out of water or food, even during the harshest of winters.

Pelmen wondered with a stab of anxiety whether, if he became a hunter, he might be sent here, into the underworld. He had not considered that aspect of the job, the prospect of which was less than attractive. He promised himself to ask one of the guards about it when he had more time. If working here was an obligatory phase of the profession, perhaps it might be better for him to think about something else.

He arrived at a level which was flooded with light. Pelmen only gave the exit a brief glance before continuing his ascent. Shortly afterward, he overtook some hevelens who were catching their breath, their burdens at their feet. There weren’t as many of them after that, and as the route became clearer, he was able to quicken his pace.

It was with a sense of relief that he reached the threshold of the second level, his nostrils quivering.

The large wind-blown balcony on which he found himself went around the perimeter of the mountain and gave access to a host of footbridges, columns and platforms. On the platforms, buildings with astonishingly high doors had been constructed, carved into the rock. The upper and lower levels were also laden with similar structures. The whole thing reminded him of hundreds of giant arms lifting up an even greater number between the plateaus. By what miracle the former were able to support the granitic mass of the latter, Pelmen could not imagine. The foundations must really be solid.

He went along the balcony, which followed the contours of the mountain. If it had not been for the balustrade, the sensation of vertigo would have been overwhelming. He guessed that he was more than six hundred feet above the ground! The hevelens he could distinguish at the very bottom looked like they were the size of knucklebones by comparison, or like the wooden statuettes of different heights he had had the opportunity to admire in Master Galn’s workshop. Those on the first levels looked like magnified specimens.

A little further on, he started to climb the steps of a stairway carved into the side of the cliff. The wind whipped his face and, at times, Pelmen felt almost weightless, full of powerful and wild energy. He easily understood why his ancestors had chosen to settle here, on the heights.

On the third level, he asked twice for directions to the Boisencroix shop before it was pointed out to him. It was recognizable by two majestic blue-barked resinians on its banner, symbols of the Carpenter Emeritus.

As Pelmen approached the shop he noticed that, like all the buildings in Alveg, this one possessed a solidity which was proof against anything, emerging from the rock itself. The sight of the cart parked nearby, half unloaded, was more than reassuring.

They’ve already arrived.

He knocked on the door and waited. No response. He knocked more loudly, and after a few moments he heard the sound of voices inside as someone ran toward the door. Teleg flung it open. His forehead was creased with anxiety, and Pelmen was concerned to see distress in his mauve eyes, immediately replaced by astonishment when he was recognized.

“Pelmen!”

“I know,” he said, smiling. “I’m late. There were... hitches, but nothing that could have prevented me from coming to join you, of course. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know ahead of time.”

“Your father told us he was looking for you.”

“Really…?”

“Yes, just before we left.”

“I should have expected that. Did he leave a message for me?”

“He said you had to go back so he could clear up a misunderstanding.”

“Ah!” Pelmen burst out laughing, but his eyes glistened with anger and his nostrils were flared when he recovered his breath. “Zenel really has a sense of humor. Priceless! Believe me, that son of a sanrkhas isn’t ready to see me again. Not if I can help it, at any rate. Er... are you going to let me in?”

Teleg’s features became distraught.

“What’s the matter?” asked Pelmen.

To his amazement, his friend shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

“Why? By Aoles, why? You aren’t going to leave me at the door, though? You were going to make me a bed, remember?” Pelmen looked to the right and left, uncomprehendingly. “If this is a joke…”

“It’s not a joke,” Teleg interjected. “Listen, old chap, I… it’s my father. He’s had another attack. This one’s serious.”

For the first time, Pelmen noticed that Teleg’s eyes were bloodshot.

“He’s coughing up blood. We sent for a herbalist, who stayed all night. It doesn’t look as if he’s going to recover.”

Pelmen felt his own blood drain away from his face. “How is that possible? Is he really as ill as that?”

Teleg nodded his head.

“It shouldn’t have happened so quickly. Never! Do you think the journey… it’s the journey that weakened him isn’t it? Oh, Teleg, I… I don’t know what to say. I… I’d just like… can I see him? Just for a moment?”

“He’s too weak. Even Alicene and I aren’t allowed to see him right now. Come back… later, perhaps. Later.”

Teleg closed the door again abruptly.

Pelmen found himself staring incredulously at the wooden panel, realizing that this was not some schoolboy prank. Slowly, he turned round; his legs giving way as he suddenly found himself sitting down against the door. Teleg was supposed to be his friend. His friend—and he had shut the door in his face, at the very moment when Galn had most need of him.

It was Teleg who had insisted he join the family. It was Master Galn who had arranged everything for him to be able to live with them. All his plans were threatened with ruin, and there was nothing he could do! The hevelen who understood him best, the one to whom he felt closest, was on the point of returning his breath to Aoles, and he was powerless.

Pelmen sniffed. Walk, I must get up and walk. I’ll go mad if I stay still.

He started striding along a footbridge, without paying any attention to where his steps were leading him.

He wandered like that for an indeterminate length of time, along access-routes which, at hundreds of feet long, felt more like perches, all linked to one another and suspended over empty space. He leaned over several times and then, seized by vertigo, threw himself backward.

He gradually brought a little order back to his chaotic thoughts. What would become of Alicene and Teleg if…? Would Teleg be able to take on all of his father’s activities, become a master craftsman and develop a clientele when he had only just moved here?

The uncertainties weighing upon his friend, he realized, were no less overwhelming than his own. If the worst happened, Teleg would be forced to spend all his time just providing for Alicene and himself. Pelmen would not be at all surprised if his friend were unable to feed an extra mouth.

He should, therefore, take responsibility for himself and get himself out of trouble. What can I do? I don’t know anyone here. No one except…

No. Not him. He would not go to ask for help from Zenel’s brother.

Pelmen had only met his uncle Xuven twice in his entire life. The last time was years ago, when he had come to Alveg with his parents. So far as he could remember, Xuven was a solitary recluse who hardly said a word.

So what? He thought. He isn’t Zenel. It’s obvious they didn’t see eye to eye, or they’d have seen each other more frequently.

Wrinkling his nostrils, Pelmen figured that anything was better than going back to Durepeaux and having to admit to his father that he had been right, that there was no place for him in Alveg.

He looked around. The place was unfamiliar to him, but the mountain, girdled by its balcony was an ideal reference point. He went back that way, down a stairway open to the sky in order to reach the second level, where Xuven lived. Only partly trusting his memory, he asked for directions several times, until a middle-aged woman wearing a brightly-colored checkered ribbon as a head-dress told him the way, all the while shooting a suspicious, sidelong glance at him.

As he neared his uncle’s home, the location began to seem vaguely familiar—which only added to the anxiety knotting his gut.

How would his uncle, a hevelen who was practically unknown to him, and a master craftsman—so far as he knew, he owned his shop—welcome a Disinherited like him? Pelmen did not have the slightest idea.

As he reached the building at the foot of a column, he knew that he had arrived. The banner flapping in the wind over the frontispiece showed a cart pulled by a nidepoux, the emblem of the Tireless Traveler, one of the Aguerris.

Pelmen lowered his eyes, to see a silhouette emerging from the past. Xuven’s hair, tied back with a cord, side-whiskers and gray-flecked beard, had whitened since the last time he had seen him. His triple nostrils sniffed him carefully, as if his uncle were capable of disentangling all of his adventures with the aid of his sense of smell.

There was shrewdness in the large gray-circled irises, but also the mistrust of one who has lived alone for a long time.

Uncle and nephew did not say a word for some time; then Xuven’s deep voice broke the silence.

“You’ve come alone, I see.”

“Yes,” Pelmen replied, his throat taut. He could smell various familiar odors upon his uncle, and other unfamiliar ones, which probably came from the merchandise found in his shop.

“Don’t tell me: you’ve come all the way from Durepeaux on foot.”

“Something like that,” said Pelmen, bowing his head.

“And all that effort simply to make a courtesy visit to your old uncle, I imagine,” said Xuven, in a peevish tone, without appearing to notice the anguished expression on his nephew’s face. “Well, come in.”

Pelmen hesitated only a moment before following him. Inside the shop, sumptuous fabrics were fixed to the walls, and carved boxes were lined up alongside slender ivory statuettes placed on sanrkhas skins. Placed prominently on the counter, items of jewelry made of precious stones mounted on seashells competed in exotic beauty. There were all sorts of singular objects, whose purpose Pelmen did not always understand. His own presence seemed to him to be incongruous in the midst of all that finery—to the extent that he joined his uncle in the adjacent room without delay.

Xuven rooted around in the larder, eventually returning with a piece of dried meat and a biscuit made of beans. “You look hungry to me. Eat this, and we’ll talk afterward.”

“Thanks. I think I could eat a nidepoux!”

Pelmen cleaned his plate and shared a pitcher of beer with Xuven. The latter furrowing his bushy brows as he looked at the bowl his nephew had emptied so swiftly. Nevertheless, he filled it again.

While feeding himself, Pelmen thought about Master Galn. From what Teleg had told him, the herbalist who had been summoned had been unable to make him better. Did that signify all hope was lost? And if it were still possible at this stage, how could he be helped? He made the journey here in order to get better, but the opposite has happened. It would be utterly absurd if I were never to see him again: too absurd.

Xuven waited until Pelmen had finished before questioning him.

“What brings you here? If you’d come for the festivities of the renewal and the Exchange, your parents would have come with you, wouldn’t they?”

Pelmen nodded. It was a decisive moment, the one when he would have to explain himself convincingly. His instinct told him to stick to the facts, and he decided to trust it.

“I’ve run away,” he said, frankly, giving a brief account of the beating his colleagues at the tannery had tried to give him, concealing neither the role played by his father nor the revolt his schemes had produced. On the other hand, he skipped over the episode with Komel, the Disinherited in the cart and the shaman. No need to complicate things further—they’re complicated enough already.

When his story was finished, Pelmen held his breath. His future right now depended on the hevelen facing him, the uncle that he hardly knew.

Xuven studied him impassively. “So, you stood up to four workmen, did you?”

“I barely managed to get away from them.”

“Interesting, and if I’ve understood rightly, you don’t want to work in your father’s tannery anymore?”

“I’m not made for that. I’m sixteen years old, so I’ve paid my debt to my family. My destiny belongs to me.”

“Bold words. How do you intend to fulfill your needs?”

“By becoming a hunter. I… I’m not bad with a bow. I had to leave mine in Durepeaux, but it was no longer the right size for me anyway. I’ll just have to get another before the next Recruitment tournament.”

“Just have to get one… fine optimism. At any rate, the tournament isn’t due to take place for another two months. What are you going to do in the meantime? Where are you going to live?”

“Well, I… I hoped… I told myself that perhaps you might need an apprentice,” Pelmen improvised.

Xuven, who had gone to the window, lowered his head without showing any surprise and lost himself in the contemplation of the landscape.

Pelmen watched him apprehensively. His uncle didn’t move a muscle. One might have thought he had mutated into an inert extension of the windowsill.

The silence went on and on. Pelmen remained suspended, waiting anxiously for what Xuven had to say, his fingers permanently interlocked.

“An old hevelen once helped me, in similar circumstances.”

Pelmen leaned forward. Xuven’s voice was low, as if he were talking to himself. Turning, his uncle looked him in the eye. “You are my nephew. I am your uncle. We’re family, but let’s be clear—I’m not going to make you my apprentice just so you can leave me after two months. You can be a hunter, but you’ll be in my service. That means as long as you’re with me, you’ll have to do as I say.”

Pelmen had scarcely registered the final words.

You can be a hunter! You can be a hunter!

The words danced in his head, and he could easily have let his legs follow their rhythm. His eyes shining, he asked: “So… I can take part in the Recruitment tournament?”

“I’m counting on it.”

“I don’t know how… how to thank you.”

“It’s quite simple, you can thank me by helping me in the shop, and by escorting me when I go abroad, from city to city.”

“It will be an honor… a pleasure, even. But if I… if I succeed in being accepted, I don’t know whether I’d be allowed to work for you.”

Xuven gestured vaguely with his hand. “That’s not a problem. Merchants like me always need at least one guard to protect their goods.”

“True—I hadn’t thought of that. Excellent! It’s agreed, then? It’s really settled? You’ll take me into your service?”

“Ask that once more and I might change my mind.”

“Oh? It’s just…” Pelmen shook his head. In his brief life, he had been a tanner for so long… the idea of earning a living by handling a bow had been a great hope, but most of all a dream. And suddenly, in the space of only a few days, it had become so real! Was that what life was all about, an outstretched hand, pulling you out of the mud and forcing you to see the world in a different light?

The corners of Xuven’s lips had turned up in an imperceptible smile. He took Pelmen up to the spare room on the first floor, a spacious room with a simple skylight, half-empty, in which a few old trunks and barrels were gathering dust. Pointing to one of the trunks, he said: “You’ll find straw in there, enough to make a suitable pallet. But first, you’ll need to tidy up.” Xuven handed him a broom. “Come back down when you’ve finished.”

Having completed his task, with loud sneezes and fits of coughing, Pelmen had to wash himself in a basin of cold water. He was astonished, after having dried himself, to see his uncle handing him a pair of leather trousers and a chanvreline shirt.

“They should fit you,” Xuven explained as if the present were a mere trifle. “My nephew should be decently dressed on this day of celebration. Anyway, you can’t keep those clothes. I wouldn’t want my customers turning on their heels when they see them. And we’ll let your hair grow back.”

Pelmen was speechless. He hurried to get dressed, but only ever having worn a loincloth, he felt ill at ease under his uncle’s appraising gaze.

He would get used to it. He would get used to his new clothes.

“Have you any jobs you want me to do, Uncle?”

“Not today. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the area; that will make things easier. Visit Alveg and take advantage of the celebrations; you can start work tomorrow.”

“Thank you. Er… I hesitate to ask, for fear of abusing your generosity, but…”

“What?”

“Do you know a herbalist? A very good herbalist? I have a friend who lives here in Alveg and… his father is very ill. I owe both of them a great deal.”

“There’s Bugen Herberas. If he can’t do anything, there’s no point in looking elsewhere. I’ll tell you where to find him…”

Following Xuven’s directions, Pelmen went out on to the circular balcony once again. He crossed several footbridges and climbed the spiral staircase around a column.

Bugen Herberas was not at home. According to his apprentice, who gave Pelmen a description of him, he was watching the festivities. Pelmen stressed the urgency of the situation, and the novice told him where his master had said he was going.

As he made his way back down to the foot of the mountain, Pelmen joined many hevelens of all ages and conditions who were going in the same direction. They all wore relaxed, even jovial expressions—everyone seemed to be rejoicing in advance. Pelmen remembered his training sessions with Teleg and Master Galn, and the radiant smile on his mentor’s chiseled face. “You see, Teleg; at least Pelmen has grasped the technique!”

The steady stream of people rushed into a gully, and with everyone squashed together, it soon became difficult to breathe. The gully divided into two branches one of which, sinuous, but broad, was strewn with rocky outcroppings and veguer’en growing abnormally close to one another. The wind was racing between the walls and roaring, but the plants scarcely bent. Stone stairways had been carved into either side of the gorge, and numerous spectators had already taken their places on the cliffs, which looked as if they had been designed to accommodate the crowd.

The apprentice had mentioned a race of Wings of Aoles, and that Bugen Herberas, who had a scar on his face and was dressed in green, would be found not far from the Aguerris’ platform. As Pelmen got closer to the platform in question, he noticed that the spectators were dressed in more luxurious garments; some of them were even wearing jewelry. Although he knew that it was rude to do so, unused to such opulence, Pelmen found himself staring in awe. The Aguerris were a stunning looking bunch and were spread out across the entire breadth of the dead-end closing off the corridor. Across from them was an unusual rocky spire, which looked like it had been perforated in the middle. That ring, hollowed out by some force of nature, was facing a crest, on which two veguer’en grew. From the way the assembly was laid out, it was obvious that passing through the ring would decide the victor.

Pelmen studied the crowd carefully. His gaze settled on a silhouette answering the herbalist’s description.

A hunter with broad shoulders, leaning on an imposing flint ax, was guarding the entrance to that part of the arena. Pelmen went up to him and tried to persuade him to let him through. While explaining it was vital for “his master” to receive emergency care, he wondered whether his shaven head might compromise his chances. Then a mighty clamor echoed among the spectators. Pelmen followed the direction of the hunter’s gaze. Large sails had just appeared on a plateau overhanging the entrance to the canyon.

“If you cause any trouble, I’ll come to take care of you personally,” said the guard, giving him a sign to go on.

Uttering a sigh of relief, Pelmen hastily climbed up and sat down beside a person with a weathered face marked with a large scar who, judging by his thunderous expression, was annoyed by the intrusion. An ivory statuette was suspended around his neck and he had a satchel at his side, which must, if Pelmen was not mistaken, contain medicinal herbs.

“Are you Master Bugen Herberas?” he asked.

The only response he obtained was a vague grunt.

“My… uncle is gravely ill and in need of your services… as soon as possible.”

The hevelen glared at him vindictively. “How dare you disturb me at a time like this, by Valshhyk?”

“When the breath of someone dear to me is threatened by extinction, I’m prepared to do anything. I beg you, you’re my last hope! All cures have failed thus far. It is said there’s no better herbalist than you. My uncle is a carpenter and you can select the object of your choice from his shop.”

Although he felt uncomfortable in offering the bargain, Pelmen guessed that it was not too bold.

Bugen’s expression seemed to soften as he considered what Pelmen had said, however, the herbalist continued to look fixedly at the entrance of the gorge. Out there on the crest, fifteen competitors were lined up. The Wings, of various colors, were made up of two sails, one of which formed a semicircular tail. Soon, the Riders of the Wind launched forth, beginning to glide, now becoming one with their machines.

“This is my decision,” Bugen said, finally. “If—and I say if—you bring me luck and my favorite wins, I’ll agree to help you.”

Feeling sick to the core, Pelmen wrinkled his nostrils. It was cruel of the herbalist to toy with him, but he was only half-surprised by it. The majority of hevelens had gambling in their blood—nothing excited them more than betting. All was fair in winning the favor of Aoles, the God of the Wind, Fortune and Destiny.

“Which is your favorite?” he asked.

“The messenger of Tchulen Poindivoire—the Indomitable Hunter, if you prefer: the one flying the red Wing with white markings.”

At that moment, the ambient light weakened. Pelmen thought a simple cloud was the cause, but several spectators were looking up into the sky. Up above, Astar was no longer perfectly circular. Over a portion of his circumference, a black crescent had appeared, and was growing, devouring the light.

The customary sentiment of respectful dread gripped Pelmen. The moment of the encounter between the Goddess Tinmal and the Sun-God, the creator of all things, had arrived. The Seers had calculated the frequency of such events, but the precise moment remained a mystery to the last. The audience was abuzz with rumors. If Tinmal had chosen such a moment to unite with Astar, she was surely consecrating the race with her favor.

Gradually, a reverent silence established itself. The dark circle of the Moon-Goddess was superimposed on Astar, limiting his light to an iridescent ring. No encounter was ever the same as the one before it; sometimes, Tinmal scarcely brushed by the immense molten ball; at other times, like now, she surrendered herself entirely to the God.

It seemed to Pelmen that it had suddenly become a little cooler, although Astar continued to dispense his rays around his chosen one. A few moments went by like that, and then, slowly, the moon drew away before disappearing. When conversation resumed, it was initially in hushed tones, as if the spectators were awakening from a dream.

“The Aguerris have given the signal,” Bugen Herberas announced. “The race is about to begin.”

Together, the Wings launched forth and began their descent. Propelled by the energy of the veguer’en, they wandered all over the place, with the exception of those who chose the shortest route. Two of them collided and crashed to the ground, their riders tumbling for several yards. One of them tried painfully to get up while the other lay there, inert.

The red Wing of the Indomitable Hunter, easy to spot, had not been involved in the accident.

There was an astonishing display of intercrossing sails, the most skillful competitors trusting their instincts to lean sideways at the last moment, skimming the contours of the rocks in their flight. Those who gave themselves too large a margin of safety lost precious time, and were left behind. The red Wing was one of the bolder competitors; it swerved between the obstacles with precision. Its rider did not hesitate to brush the veguer’en in order to seize the best part of their breath.

Several competitors crashed into the rocks. On the cliffs, the hevelens were shouting, booing, falling to their knees with their heads in their hands or bounding with fervor. Bugen Herberas had got to his feet, his eyes riveted on the survivors. Pelmen did the same.

The red Wing was still behind the two leaders. A yellow one on which two axes intercrossed were drawn, and a white one decorated with turquoise motifs had benefited from the most favorable air currents. It became obvious one of the two was bound to win when they surged over a block of granite at top speed, their riders masterfully positioning their sails behind the last few veguer’en—those which would propel them toward the stone ring, and victory.

The crowd held its breath.

The two riders had the same idea. Each one tried to cut off his adversary’s path. A dull sound resonated: wooden frameworks colliding. The Wings, their extremities still directed skyward, were deflected from the ideal trajectory.

Although the white accepted his fate, avoiding the ring and executing a graceful curve before righting himself, the yellow rider struggled with all his might to pass through, no matter what the cost, swinging his body in order to reorient it. He only succeeded in crashing onto the rim of the ring. A dazed silence accompanied his chaotic forty foot fall.

Immediately afterward, the cheers rose again, and then exploded when the scarlet Wing went through the ring, victorious. Hevelens ran forward to help the wounded and inanimate competitors lying on the ground. A huge crowd gathered around the Wing of the Indomitable Hunter to congratulate its rider.

Pelmen sighed with relief although his anxieties were far from being alleviated. Please, let it not be too late, he prayed. If it is, all this was for nothing.

Abandoning all his dignity, Bugen Herberas began to dance a jig, raising his arms to the sky. He leaned toward one of his neighbors, who wore an exceedingly long face, and pocketed his stake, a glittering bracelet. Some of the spectators set out to leave the canyon, but most remained seated.

Bugen, in a much better mood, agreed to accompany Pelmen without further delay. On the way, they crossed the path of a column of chariots pulled by nidepoux—the races had not yet finished.

They reached the nearest mill of Aoles, for which Bugen casually paid the fare. Pelmen, for whom the experience was new, considered the three-hundred foot high wheel respectfully. During his previous visit, he had been told about the existence of a conduit hollowed out diagonally under each of the mills. “Veguer’en grow at the bottom which receive the gift of Aoles through a gently-sloping tunnel ending in the open air,” a passerby had said.

Pelmen climbed into the basket in which Bugen had already taken his place and waited for the moorings to be cast off. Down below, a hevelen with a muscular back opened the trap-door of the conduit, while keeping hold of it. Then the sails linked to the baskets inflated, the wooden framework groaned, and the mill began to rotate. When they passed above the axis of the opening, Pelmen experienced, for the second time that day, the intoxicating sensation of being carried by an invisible hand.

After several successive halts of the wheel, they disembarked in their turn on an immense platform upon which sat various artisans’ shops, and the stalls of a permanent market.

Pelmen hesitated several times during the rest of the journey, provoking recriminations on Bugen’s part, but he finally spotted the banner he had seen before. This time, Alicene opened the door. Her hair was untidy and her face, paler than usual, reflected her surprise. She looked Pelmen up and down, and then the person accompanying him.

“I’ve brought Bugen Herberas,” said Pelmen, blushing, “a herbalist of great renown.” So saying, he studied the young hevelen. So far as he could judge, she was not entirely distraught, which meant that perhaps all was not lost. Her reaction confirmed this first impression because she bowed to Bugen.

Teleg came running in his turn, his brow furrowed. Pelmen went to meet him.

“How is your father?” he asked.

“He’s resting,” Teleg replied. He grimaced. “The herbalist said he can do nothing more for him.”

“Oh, Teleg… excuse me for asking, but do you know this herbalist… well?”

“What do you think? Did we have time to make a choice, when we arrived?”

“Right—that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The one with me is named Bugen Herberas. According to my uncle, he’s the best herbalist in Alveg. The best, you hear? In exchange for his service, I’ve promised him he can take the object of his choice from your father’s workshop.”

“I don’t know… he’s already had so many remedies. I’m wondering whether we should not leave him in peace.”

Pelmen grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him. “Teleg! Don’t say that! We must fight as long as there’s breath in him, you understand? If not, you’ll be the first to regret not having tried everything.”

“He’s right,” said Alicene.

Eyelids lowered, Teleg said nothing. Then he raised his head.

“All right. I haven’t slept for two nights and I’m not thinking clearly. We need to go see him.”

Bugen demanded to be left alone while he examined the patient.

Pelmen had begun to make a circuit of the workshop with long impatient strides when his eyes met Alicene’s. He read so much grief in them that he headed toward her and squeezed her hand, which was as moist as his own.

The atmosphere grew heavier and more oppressive with every passing second. Large jars, casks and boxes were heaped up in a disorderly manner, not far from wooden planks and worn stone tools. Alicene picked up a rag and started dusting. Her gestures were repetitive and she went over the same spot several times. Teleg went to his sister and suggested that she sit down. He put his arm around her shoulder, awkwardly, and they remained like that, frail twigs, interlaced. There was nothing to do but wait and direct their thoughts toward Aoles, the father of the hevelens. Pelmen had forced himself to be still and stared intently at the ceiling as if the answers to all his questions might be found there.

Finally, Bugen emerged from the bedroom, his expression grave. He beckoned to them to follow him outside.

“The lung disease is extensive,” he declared, “and that’s a fact. However, I refuse to believe all hope is lost. I’ll send you my apprentice, with potions of my own making, one yellow and one green. The yellow one will strengthen him and put him back on his feet temporarily. He’ll need to take it twice a day, with meals. The other will permit him to bear the more serious episodes without too much suffering.”

“Do you think he’ll recover?” asked Teleg.

“He’ll be better in a few days, but then there’ll be a risk of relapse. If he survives that, he’ll be safe.”

Alicene had straightened her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed a little brighter.

Bugen chose a delicately sculpted ocarina by way of payment. He took his leave with a nod of the head. Teleg murmured a few words to his sister, who headed toward Master Galn’s bedroom.

Pelmen cleared his throat. “May I… see your father?”

“Of course,”

Teleg preceded his friend into the room, from which a sickly odor emanated.

In the dim light, it was difficult to make out Galn’s features. As his eyes adjusted, Pelmen became conscious of his mentor’s condition, and his throat tightened. Galn’s eyes, half-closed, were gummed-up with mucus, his overly long gray hair fell in an untidy mess over his shoulders, and his wrinkles were even deeper than the last time Pelmen had seen him.

Pelmen realized that Alicene was looking at him. He tried to keep his expression calm, but had a great deal of difficulty in doing so.

“He... hello, lad.” The voice was little more than a murmur, a raucous breath. “Al… ways so sad, Wide… Eyes.”

Pelmen was overcome by a sudden urge to run as far away as he could. Instead, he stammered a few awkward words. “Are… are you suffering much?”

“Not… bad. You’re still practicing the bow?”

“Er… yes, yes, of course.”

Master Galn blinked, as if it required an effort to maintain his attention.

“We’d better let him rest for a while,” said Alicene.

Pelmen saluted Master Galn with a forced smile, and then all three of them beat a retreat to the workshop.

“I wish I could stay here day and night,” said Pelmen softly.

“I’m… sorry for having treated you the way I did,” said Teleg.

“Forget it. That’s already ancient history, believe me.”

“You can stay here, of course. For as long as you want.”

“Thanks, but… actually, my uncle Xuven has agreed to take me in. Part of me would like nothing better than to stay here, but he’s been so generous in agreeing to take me into his service, you see. I have to become his apprentice; I don’t want to break my word to him.”

“I see,” said Teleg, appearing to notice Pelmen’s attire for the first time. “By the way, what’s become of One-Eye?”

Pelmen wrinkled his nose. “I had to leave him behind—along with the bow you gave me. I had no choice.” Pelmen gave him a brief account of his flight from Durepeaux, again avoiding any mention of the help he had received. There was something embarrassing about the memory of that episode. To have been hiding out with thugs and criminals in a barrel, in order to escape his father, was hardly something to be proud of. As for the attempt on his life, Pelmen was no longer even certain he believed it, so much did the shaman seem to be something out of the tales the Seers told.

“Your father really is a… I shouldn’t say,” said Teleg. “I’m sorry, especially about your ptat. I’m even more annoyed with myself for having received you so badly.”

“Don’t blame yourself for that. I think I understand what happened. You weren’t yourself.”

“This came on us at such a bad time…”

“I know.”

“Fortunately, friends are there to lighten the burden,” said Alicene.

The brother and sister looked at him, and Pelmen did his best to give a hint of a smile.

Chapter Four - A BOW FOR PELMEN

During the first few days after settling in Alveg, Pelmen’s activities in the shop provided him with a distraction, which he did his best to cling to. Xuven had asked him to stay in the background to begin with and observe how negotiations were carried out. That way, Pelmen learned the value of the various fabrics, carpets, cushions, items of jewelry, perfumes, ointments, tools and objects of every sort. Cleaning and rearranging the merchandise according to his uncle’s instructions were not chores, once he had understood the necessity. For the first time, he felt useful. And above all, he could think about something other than Master Galn, Mils and Dryna, all of whom he missed terribly.

On the third day after his arrival, Pelmen wondered more than ever whether his mentor had survived his illness. The afternoon was drawing to a close and he was standing on the threshold of the shop, contemplating the platforms higher up. The day before, for the hundredth time, he had rejected the idea of going to see Alicene and Teleg. He did not want to impose or seem as though he was pushy—at least, that was what he told himself. The excuse was nidepoux shit, of course. It had more to do with the wan and jaundiced face of the master craftsman that surged forth every time he thought about him—that was not the Galn he wanted to see again. Above all, he was afraid of having to face the worst.

Pelmen was relieved to see Teleg approaching, a huge grin lighting up his face.

“He’s getting better?” Pelmen asked, his heart suddenly in his throat.

“Much better!” exclaimed Teleg. “Your herbalist’s remedy had more effect than we could have hoped. His appetite has returned and he is getting out of bed more often. That’s not all—now he wants to get back on his normal schedule! Alicene and I are having a lot of trouble slowing him down!”

“Excellent!”

“He’s asked to see you, of course.”

Such a request was no trouble, for Xuven had given him the evening off. Pelmen told his uncle that he was going out before setting off with Teleg.

“It’s fantastic,” Pelmen said as they walked. “I’ll admit now that I was really afraid.”

“You’re not the only one. Alicene and I don’t know what would have become of us, without him.”

Master Galn had, in fact, recovered his strength. His gestures were slow and marked with weariness, but his complexion was less jaundiced and he could stand up. Pelmen felt the accumulated tension of recent days ebbing away in relaxing waves. He smiled at his mentor.

“One would think I had returned from a long journey,” said Master Galn. “I owe you a considerable debt of gratitude, from what Teleg tells me.”

“Oh, I was just really lucky,” said Pelmen.

“On the contrary, Wide-Eyes, you showed particular inspiration—as you did when you listened to Aoles while drawing the bow.”

Pelmen’s smile was only slightly forced.

“Teleg tells me that your bow is no longer in your possession?” queried Master Galn.

“That’s true, unfortunately.”

“But in spite of everything, you still want to train for the Recruitment tournament?”

Pelmen nodded.

“I’ll make you one—it’s the least I can do.”

“I couldn’t ask for anything better,” said Pelmen, unable to mask his delight.

“The only problem is that, given the state I’m in, it won’t be ready before the beginning of the tournament. Hmmm… in the meantime, you can take mine.”

Pelmen’s nostrils dilated. “You want… to lend me… your bow?”

“Ah! There’s the Wide-Eyes I know! You haven’t been yourself recently.” He winked.

Pelmen tried to offer lavish thanks, but Master Galn interrupted him. “It’s necessary to give you every chance,” he said, becoming serious again. “Besides which, don’t think you’ll get off so easily—I intend to take an active part in your training.”

Alicene, who had been busy arranging garments in a trunk, turned to her father. “Not in the next few days you won’t. You’re still much too weak.”

Master Galn pulled a face. “You see how it is?” he said to Pelmen. “I’m no longer master in my own house.”

“It’s necessary to be reasonable,” Pelmen said, in a conciliatory tone.

“If you’re on her side, too, then… all right. Come with me.”

Master Galn took Pelmen to his room, and pointed at a long box decorated with blue motifs, which had seen better days. Pelmen had no need to open it to know what it contained: the large bow in slender gilded wood, renowned for its elasticity and strength.

“I’m not worthy,” he murmured.

“Nonsense! Apart from me, you’re one of the few people who can best make use of it. You’ll need time, of course, and perhaps some advice.”

“When you’re better, that goes without saying.”

“Hmph! I feel fine. Go on, take it.”

Pelmen hugged Galn, his throat tight. He could feel the extent to which Teleg’s father had grown thinner.

“Go and fire a few thorns then,” Master Galn said irritably, before freeing himself.

Although visibly tired, his mentor would not sit down in his presence. Pelmen did not delay in taking the box and leaving the room. Through the window, he saw Astar had touched the line of the horizon.

Teleg, who had followed him with his gaze, was smiling. “Go on. We’ll see you again soon. I still have work to do this evening.”

The amusement platform, one of the four major ones, where the archery range was located, was easy to reach. Master Galn’s bow was obviously much more powerful than the one Teleg had made. He would certainly need time to get used to it; that first session turned out to be a fiasco. As he returned to Xuven’s shop, however, Pelmen envisaged the future with confidence. In the fullness of time, he would succeed in mastering it.

The following evening, his uncle surprised him by suggesting that he watch Pelmen train. Slightly anxious, he hurried to fetch the bow and thorns. Xuven stopped him with a gesture.

“Your abilities as a wrestler will be just as necessary to succeed in the Recruitment tournament. The prospect of fighting doesn’t frighten you, I hope? The years have made a sturdy fellow of you.”

“You think so?”

“Your modesty does you honor. Let’s go, my lad.”

Pelmen did not particularly enjoy direct confrontation, but he had no answer ready.

Beneath the last fires of Astar, the immense windswept esplanade was tinted red. Clamors rose up from several stone arenas. Here and there, novices armed with clubs were striking wooden mannequins, young men equipped with hoops were lining up facing pillars, and on the archery range, bowmen were sending their long thorns toward targets stuck in the ground. Near the edge of the platform, gathered in a circle around their Wings, Riders of the Wind were in a huddle, discussing tactics.

Xuven guided Pelmen to a stage, around the perimeter of which a handful of hevelens with glistening limbs were standing. All eyes were focused on two wrestlers, one of whom, with red curls and broad shoulders, was bracing himself to meet his rival’s charge. The planks groaned and trembled under the feet of the massive individual, whose flabby belly swayed with every move that he made. The flamboyant hair would soon be floating in the wind, projected like a wisp of straw…

But no, he was more like a tenacious liana winding around his prey. The hevelen with the fiery hair had gripped the fleshy neck of his adversary with his arms, and the latter was twisting and writhing in vain.

Cries of “Go on, Arlece” and “Take him down!” were heard.

Sinking his knees beneath the ribs, the skillful fellow caused his victim to buckle, and then to collapse. The one named Arlece maintained his grip on the throat until the assembly had declared him the victor by acclamation.

“There’s an adversary that should suit you,” Xuven murmured to his nephew. “Perhaps you’ll think him unworthy of you because he’s not yet a hunter, like all the novices around this stage, but it’s necessary to begin somewhere.”

Pelmen stared at his uncle, who did not seem to be joking, and then at the defeated individual lying on the ground, whose tanned face had taken on a violet tint and who was holding his throat, striving to get his breath back.

“I… I don’t know,” said Pelmen, going pale. “Perhaps it would be better to start… with someone else.”

With a condescending smile on his lips, Arlece looked down at his victim. He put on a confident expression in order to embrace the audience with his gaze.

“Go on, then! His face doesn’t please you, is that it? Look at him strut! It’s time to bring him down a peg. Hup! Over here! My nephew will gladly take you on!” Xuven shoved Pelmen between the shoulder-blades, making him stumble toward the stage.

“What’s this? Do you want to fight me, shaven-skull?” Arlece’s brown eyes were gleaming with anticipation. In addition to the reek of oil, his skin exuded a perfume Pelmen thought was only worn by females.

“Well…”

“Play by the rules, then. Take off your shirt and get up here. If you leave the combat arena, you’ve lost. But that won’t happen—you’ll have bitten the dust long before then!”

Pelmen could not get out of it without looking like a coward. Under the mocking gaze of Arlece and his companions, he took off his shirt and got ready to climb up onto the stage. Xuven held him back by his wrist.

“Grease yourself up first. If not, you’ll be at a disadvantage.” He pointed to a clay pot at the foot of the stage and Pelmen went to daub himself with broad, jerky gestures. Then he joined his antagonist, trying not to lower his gaze or let his shoulders slump. All his muscles taut, Pelmen watched out for the slightest movement.

Arlece sized him up, with his arms folded. Suddenly, he leapt up and slammed his foot down on the ground, making Pelmen shiver and step back.

Arlece turned to the audience and burst out laughing, his hands on his hips, to huge jeers at Pelmen’s expense. Furious, Pelmen rushed at the joker. He tried to take hold of him and throw him down, but Arlece sidestepped and his fingers slid over the oily skin.

“You want to know who’s the stronger, do you?” said Arlece. Swiftly, seizing him by the forearms, he pushed with such vigor that Pelmen, taken by surprise, recoiled three paces before being able to block the thrust.

That type of jousting did not frighten him. Summoning up all his energy, with a grunt, he braced himself on his legs: one step, then two.

It was Arlece’s turn to adopt an expression of astonishment. Pelmen did not relent in his effort. Then, as they came closer to the edge of the stage, he saw anxiety and alarm in Arlece’s eyes. One more step and victory would be his.

Arlece brutally pulled free, however, Pelmen, who had been expecting that, stopped his surge before moving out of range, for fear of a new trick.

They both moved back to the center of the arena. Arlece’s smile had mutated into an arrogant rictus. They circled each other, moving closer. Pelmen had decided to allow Arlece to take the initiative, in order to counter-attack.

As he had expected, Arlece’s fist shot out, and he raised his arm to protect his face, but it was only a feint, and in a flash, the combat was joined. Arlece grabbed his arm and unleashed a terrible upward thrust with his knee, connecting with his abdomen. Pelmen doubled up, the wind knocked out of him while his adversary, with a turning movement, twisted his arm and threw him to the ground, with a forearm on his neck.

Pelmen, who was groggy, had not yet felt complete humiliation until the other pressed down on his back, and shoved his face against the planks with one hand. Through the fog in which he was struggling, he heard Arlece’s voice murmur in his ear: “You fight like a Disinherited!”

Pelmen was so disgusted with himself that he did not dare raise his head to look his uncle in the eye during the long walk back home.

“That’s not very conclusive,” said Xuven. “Apparently, you have the strength but not the technique.”

Annoyed, Pelmen could not argue with him. He hesitated, then darted a glance at his uncle. “Do you… intend to train me?”

“Certainly not!”

Pelmen lowered his head again, feeling dejected.

“I don’t know anything about the art of wrestling. But you’re better with a bow?”

“Yes… at least, I think so. I’ve never compared myself with anyone in Alveg.”

“When the time comes, you’ll have to show me what you’re worth in that respect too.” Xuven sighed. “Fortunately, you’re making yourself useful in the shop.”

Arlece was an adversary of some stature, and Pelmen thought it would be difficult for him to reach a comparable level between now and the tournament. If he succeeded in doing so, however, the chances of his talents as a fighter impressing the representatives of the Indomitable Hunter would be increased. He needed to find a master in order to win that race against time.

I can’t count on Master Galn for now, and I don’t have the means to hire the services of a wrestling master.

The next day, Pelmen brooded. Xuven had just traded two blushing young women a fertility balm for two beautiful camlorns—they went away chattering and laughing surreptitiously—when a disagreeably familiar stench invaded the shop. Pelmen’s fingers tightened on the counter and his jaws clenched.

Xuven, meanwhile, smiled in the direction of the threshold. “My dear brother! So my messenger did his job! You’ve acted quickly.” Xuven turned to his nephew. “Sorry—I forgot to tell you. As you can understand, I couldn’t leave your parents unaware of your fate.”

Pelmen shot him a murderous stare.

He should have expected his uncle to do that. Since his arrival in Alveg, every time he had thought about contacting his parents to at least let them know that he was still alive, Pelmen had put it off until later. It was not for want of missing Dryna, but the many hours of suffering he had endured at the tannery had a tendency to blot out all the good times he had spent beside her. And above all, he did not want to have to deal with his father.

Dusty and bathed in sweat, Zenel strode into the shop. He shot an unfriendly glance at Xuven before directing his yellow eyes at Pelmen. His old ragged loincloth looked out of place here.

“You’re coming with me,” he said, in a harsh voice.

Pelmen felt a sharp twinge in his chest as he squeezed his fists under the counter. Xuven was wearing his usual imperturbable expression.

“Right now!”

Pelmen started slightly, but his voice was filled with anger when he replied: “I’m old enough to make my own choices. And I’ve chosen to remain here, where I’m more useful. If you haven’t brought your henchmen from the tannery with you, I don’t see how you hope to make me obey you.”

Zenel swung back unsteadily on his legs, as if he had been punched. Collecting himself, he sniffed scornfully as he looked at Xuven.

“Is that what you’ve told him, making him think that he’s at home here?”

“He is. I’ve agreed to accept him as my apprentice as you must have suspected from his outfit. At his age, he has the right to offer himself to a new taskmaster.”

“So that’s how it is! You’re trying to take him away from me; to get your own back… because I’ve always been better than you at tanning. Because, like him, like a milk-livered galcyne, you disgraced yourself back in the day!”

Pelmen looked at Xuven, surprised, but the latter hardly furrowed his brow. “Your words are running ahead of your thoughts, Zenel. The fatigue of the journey must be affecting you. Come and refresh yourself with a glass of beer—that will set you to rights. We might as well talk about this calmly.”

“Nidepoux shit! I’ve wasted too much time on you two.” He advanced toward Pelmen. “I’ll show you I don’t need anyone else to take you back home!”

Pelmen prepared to meet him.

“I’ll remind you,” said Xuven, in a voice which sounded both icy and cutting, freezing his brother in his tracks, “that Pelmen is under my protection and the Tireless Traveler’s since he’s my apprentice. Even if you succeed in dragging your son away, you won’t get far. Don’t tell me you’re so ignorant that you don’t know what the banner over my shop signifies?”

“There’s no point, father,” Pelmen added. “I’d still refuse to work in the tannery. You were wrong to set the other workers on to me.”

Zenel turned white with rage. He knew he was beaten, but he shouted at Pelmen regardless. “You want to be a hunter, do you? How are you going to do that, you poor imbecile? A runt like you would rather run away than fight!”

If Zenel hoped to make him lose his temper, he was wasting his time. Turning pale, Pelmen growled at his father through gritted teeth. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

With a menacing grimace on his face, Zenel turned on his heels.

“What a dung heap!” muttered Pelmen, as he slammed the door so violently that it shuddered on its hinges.

“It’s his ignorance that blinds him,” said Xuven. “He reminds me of a wounded sanrkhas, all the more furious because he can’t understand where his pain comes from.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t understand,” said Pelmen. “How can you find excuses for him? And how could you tell him without even mentioning it to me?”

“I needed to know whether your renunciation of the tannery was sincere. If I had warned you he was coming, your blood would have been up, and you might have made some plan or other.”

“I could have prepared myself, you mean.”

“The confrontation was necessary. At least you’ve been able to say what was in your heart. Believe me, you can’t build anything much on lies or shame.”

Pelmen studied his uncle with his eyebrows raised. A grave expression was imprinted on his features. “You know something about it, don’t you? He… he was telling the truth? You ran away from the tannery too?”

“I had no choice. Just like you. Life is an algam, you see. It’s necessary to let it take flight, or suffer the consequences.”

That day was to be one of unexpected encounters for, while the last customers were leaving the shop, the pleasant silhouette of Alicene appeared in the entrance. Her hair was untidy and she seemed troubled. Her cerulean eyes were magnified as she drew nearer to Pelmen.

“Father’s asking to see you,” she said, without even greeting him. Breathing in deeply she continued tearily: “He doesn’t have much time…”

Pelmen’s eyes widened. He needed a moment before he was able to stammer, “You… you’re sure? Really? How is that possible?”

“A relapse,” she said, in a broken voice.

“By Aoles! It’s enough to make one think Valshhyk were harassing him. I can’t believe it.”

Alicene took another deep breath, clearly struggling to compose herself. Her odor was of affliction and resignation. Fists clenched, Pelmen turned to head toward the back room of the shop like a sleepwalker.

“What’s the matter?” asked his uncle on seeing him. “You’re so pale.”

“It’s Master Galn, the one for whom I asked you about the best herbalist in Alveg. He’s had a relapse.”

“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?”

Pelmen unclenched his fists, his shoulders slumped, and his voice cracked. “Without him, I wouldn’t be here. He’s always believed in me. He made me… better. And not only because he taught me to draw a bow, you understand.”

“Then go to see him, my boy. It’s at times like this it’s necessary to be there for one’s friends.”

“Thanks.”

Outside, he kept pace with Alicene, who was almost running. He would have liked to fly. He can’t die—not until I’ve paid back at least part of my debt! At least he deserves to see me progress, to see his efforts weren’t in vain... At least that.

The walls of the carpenter’s workshop, lit by oil lamps, were resonating to an irregular click clack. His features distressed and his eyes red, Teleg was still at work. Under strokes delivered with neither conviction nor application, the piece of wood in the vice had become formless, unusable. When Pelmen walked toward him, Teleg looked up at him without appearing to recognize him. Troubled, Pelmen nevertheless put his arms around his friend.

Finally, Teleg’s gaze became animated when Pelmen murmured: “Be strong. Be brave. I’m with you.”

The flint chisel fell to the ground with a dull thud. Teleg’s jaws were still clenched.

“It’s over… over!” he hissed, between his teeth. His body convulsed with sobs.

Pelmen pulled away in horror. There was something definitive in his friend’s eyes, which he had never seen there before. Wavering on limbs as stiff as a marionette’s, Pelmen rejoined Alicene. He crossed the room to collapse onto his knees at the foot of the bed on which the desiccated husk of the once-great Master Galn was lying.

Alicene huddled one last time against her father’s breast. She remained there for some time before straightening up, her face bathed with tears and her lips stretched into a poor smile. “He’s no longer suffering now,” she said to Pelmen, holding out her hand to him.

He accepted her help and stood up, without wiping away his own tears. Bending down with difficulty, he deposited a single kiss on the scarcely recognizable forehead of the person who had been more than a mentor, more than a friend. He turned away, his breast shaking with uncontrollable convulsions.

His feet carried him as far as the threshold of the dwelling. The night was clear, the stars unmasked by the halo of the two glimmering moons. He breathed in great gulps of the cool air. Some moments had passed before the first coherent thought came to him.

The wind carries away the breath of the dead.

He shook his head to the right and left. Galn’s death was so brutal, so unjust. Why had he imagined that his mentor would pull through? Bugen had warned him about the danger of a relapse. All that hope—that stupid hope—which had swelled his heart… the better to pierce it, no doubt!

Only then did Pelmen notice the silent presence of Teleg by his side.

“So, your… your father… asked to see me?” he said.

Teleg raised his eyelids, pulling himself out of his torpor. He sniffed noisily. “One of the last things he managed to say.”

“One of the last things…” Pelmen lowered his head. Once again, he could not hold back his tears. “One of the last things,” he repeated. “One of his last thoughts was for me, and I wasn’t there. After all that he did for me…”

“Hey!” Teleg shook his shoulder. His pupils were gleaming in the gloom. “Stop it! You couldn’t have known. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I’m the one who told you too soon that he was out of danger.”

Silence fell. Pelmen was the first to lower his eyes.

“You know,” said Teleg, “I don’t think he suffered much, thanks to the second remedy.” He turned his face away, but not quickly enough to keep Pelmen from seeing his misty eyes.

Alicene, who had sidled over to them, took Pelmen’s hand. The young hevelen’s skin was icy. “It’s because of you,” she said, in an unusual voice, “that we recovered him for the space of a day. Yes, Father was himself again. That’s priceless. That’s the image I’ll keep of him.”

“But what if…” Pelmen licked his lips. “What if the remedies hastened his end?”

“We’ll never know,” Teleg said, frowning. “What’s certain is he was already doomed. No herbalist had succeeded in getting him back on his feet before the one you brought.”

“If only… if only I’d arrived in time to talk to him!”

“Oh, I know what he wanted to say to you,” said Teleg.

Pelmen’s heart skipped a beat.

“He told me, immediately after making me promise to look after Alicene. He wanted you to keep his bow.”

A wave of pure warmth unfurled, momentarily sweeping away grief and pain, stirring the utmost depths of Pelmen’s soul. His lips tremulous, he struggled to recover the use of speech. Bathed in the deep blue-green light of the two moons, Galn’s children, their features creased, sniffed the air in his direction.

“No,” said Pelmen, finally, wiping his eyes. “It’s you, Teleg, who should have it.”

“To the one who can get the best out of it,” Teleg replied. “That’s how he saw it. It’s you who deserve it.”

“Father wanted you to keep it,” added Alicene. “I’m sure of it.”

Pelmen perceived his flesh prickling. “But I’m only a…” he stammered. “I’m so… I... I don’t know what to say…”

“Then don’t say anything,” Teleg interjected.

A gust of wind made them shiver a little more, and they went back inside.

“We need to summon the Seer now,” Teleg declared.

Even though he felt overwhelmed by fatigue and emotion, Pelmen offered to stay.

“Your uncle’s waiting for you,” said Alicene, softly.

“Don’t torture yourself too much,” said Teleg. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Easy to say.”

“You can come back tomorrow if you want.”

Pelmen agreed and, after hugging them both, left. He walked at a slow pace, his limbs incredibly heavy.

When he got back, rather late, lost in his thoughts, Pelmen found Xuven’s shop plunged in darkness. Groping his way, he went up to the loft serving as his bedroom without delay.

Sleep did not come for several hours. His mind kept replaying the events leading up to the death of the man he thought he had saved. His feverish mind, finally overwhelmed by exhaustion, drifted off to sleep, haunting him with terrible, fleeting images he couldn’t remember for most of the night.

At dawn, Xuven’s usual bustle woke him up. Without feeling at all rested, Pelmen opened eyelids swollen by fatigue and sat up. His gaze sought Mils, his ptat, and, not finding him, wandered over the surrounding casks, to pause on the blue box. His heart in his mouth, he went to move it, in order to hide the object that had belonged to Master Galn.

Xuven did not press him with questions, but his silence was sufficient for Pelmen to tell him in a few short sentences about his mentor’s death.

“So, this Master Galn,” Xuven enquired, “was a carpenter, and he had two children?”

“My only friends here,” Pelmen confirmed. “I’d like to be able to console them, or, at least, do my best to help them.”

“Is one of them Worthy?”

Pelmen wrinkled his nose. “Worthy?”

“If neither of them is Worthy,” Xuven affirmed, “they won’t be able to keep their father’s workshop.”

Pelmen opened his eyes wide.

“When a master craftsman yields his last breath,” Xuven explained, smoothing his beard, “his shop reverts to the Aguerri on whom it was dependent, before being reassigned. If one of the master craftsman’s children is Worthy, it’s granted to him. If not, the Aguerri—in the case of your friends, the Carpenter Emeritus—designates the person who will become its proprietor. A Worthy individual, of course.”

“But who are they?”

“Hevelens who have passed the trial of Merit. For that, they have to prove their practical knowledge and skill before the representatives of the Aguerris, who judge the success or failure of the enterprise. The representatives never put themselves out for nothing. Those who fail in the trial are penalized.”

Pelmen felt the scales falling from his eyes. The shock caused by Master Galn’s death had caused him to lose sight of the delicate situation in which Teleg and Alicene would find themselves.

“I don’t know whether Teleg is Worthy,” he murmured.

“I suggest you ask him next time you see him.”

Pelmen did not stop thinking about Master Galn, Teleg and Alicene for the rest of the day—so much so that, after he had given trana spirit to the old man who had asked for a mug of beer, a fishing-net to a young hevelen who wanted a set of dice and linguilis cloth to an elegant and dignified client who wanted chanvreline cloth, Xuven thought it preferable to limit him to the most routine tasks.

When evening came, Pelmen plucked up his courage and went to the Boisencroix’s house. His friends’ abode in Alveg, unlike the one in Falsine—once a place of happiness, or at least of comfort—had shown itself to be the very focal point of pain and affliction.

He wanted to return to Alveg because he sensed his end was near. He wanted to die in the city where he had spent his childhood.

Pelmen pursed his lips. Why could one only be lucid in misfortune? Despite the progressive decline in Master Galn’s health, despite the slim chance he had of recovering from his lung disease, until the last few days Pelmen had never really been prepared for the possibility of losing him.

Can you prepare yourself, though? Or can you only know what it’s like when it happens?

The silence radiating from the house carved into the rock, under the banner of the Carpenter Emeritus, was overwhelming. Alicene, who opened the door to him, had put up her hair in a bun but was wearing the same clothes as the day before. Her eyes were ringed by dark shadows, her features waxy.

“Neither of us is Worthy,” she replied, when Pelmen, after asking after their health, put the question of greatest importance. “Teleg has gone to ask for a trial of Merit, in order that we might keep the shop.”

Teleg, with unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes, appeared behind her and confirmed it with a nod of his head.

“There are risks, I believe,” said Pelmen.

“That’s why neither my father nor I kept our arms folded in recent days.” While speaking, Teleg had moved toward the wall, where a beautifully-manufactured, but incomplete, harp stood. “We began this in Falsine. With this, I’ll limit the risks. My father assured me it would pass.”

“But it’s nearly finished?”

“Of course,” said Alicene. “To create a harp from start to finish in front of the Carpenter’s examiners would take far too long! They’ll only come to observe the final touches, making sure Teleg’s style is in accord with that of the object.”

“Every carpenter possesses his own technique,” Teleg added. “For those who understand that, it’s easy to spot a flaw in the execution.”

“When will the trial take place?” Pelmen asked.

“In two days, at the beginning of the afternoon, on the major platform of artisans.” With a bitter smile, Teleg added: “This kind of thing isn’t dragged out.”

A little later, when Pelmen asked Xuven for permission to watch the trial of Merit, the latter examined him carefully.

“I owe it to him to be at his side,” Pelmen explained, embarrassed by his uncle’s penetrating gaze. “Especially after what he’s been through.”

“You’re supposed to be my apprentice.”

His lips taut, Pelmen was content to await the verdict.

“And what about your training? You’re neglecting it. I haven’t seen you with your bow this evening.”

“My bow? Er... Master Galn’s bow, you mean?”

“He gave it to you as a gift.”

Pelmen shook his head. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. “It’s too much. It’s too hard. To pick it up again would seem like…”

“Robbing him? Committing sacrilege?”

“Very nearly,” Pelmen replied, plunging his gaze into his uncle’s gray eyes.

“Listen, my boy—you should ask yourself the right questions. What do you think Galn’s body looks like right now? The flesh around his bones must have started to decompose—you should know that. Am I shocking you? Do you think I’m being too hard? Well, life’s like that. It doesn’t wait. It won’t wait for you.”

Pelmen shot a furious glance at him. “What are you trying to say?”

Xuven sighed. “I’m trying to make you understand you’re at a decisive moment. Is it a body, a cadaver you want to honor? Or would you prefer to realize the hopes of the person who, on the threshold of death, bequeathed his wealth to you? Do you want to hang on to a memory? Or would you rather grab the present with both hands?”

“I… I don’t know anymore. I need to think about it.”

Xuven’s only response was to grunt and wrinkle his nostrils.

That evening, Pelmen went back to his loft with his shoulders sagging. By the pale light of an oil lamp which he held, he cleared away the obstacles separating him from the blue box. The oil in the lamp had almost run out when he finally plucked up the courage to lift the lid.

The bow appeared to him, supple and robust, elegant and noble. With a trembling finger, he caressed the harmonious curves. Should the object not be resting alongside its rightful master?

That was not what Master Galn had wanted.

Pelmen raised his head and saw a shining star through the skylight. His decision made, he blew out the lamp and headed toward his bed of straw.

“Will you… let me train on my own to begin with?” he asked Xuven, when he saw him again the following morning. “I still need time to accustom myself to the bow.”

“You’ve made the right decision. You have a week. I’m impatient to know how you get on, and anyway, the tournament’s not far off. You’ll need to be ready soon. That’s why you won’t be helping me in the shop today.”

“I… you’re permitting me to practice, is that it? Well… thanks!”

“It’s not me that you need to thank. Simply reach the level he expected of you and that will be thanks enough.”

Chapter Five - THE SANCTUARY OF THE TEN

There was a cloying smell of oil, sweat and perfume on the recreation platform as wrestlers, archers and idlers of both sexes strolled casually around between the arenas that morning. As he headed for the archery range, Pelmen found himself staring at Arlece’s flamboyant hair. Arlece had just handed a quiver, bow and thorns to a companion and was approaching one of the many stages.

Pelmen decided to study him. Arlece easily floored two adversaries, using skill, as well as his strength, and Pelmen desperately tried to memorize his techniques. Although he was painfully aware that it was practice which would give him the best chance of victory, he nevertheless figured it would do no harm to watch and learn. After quickly disposing of the second wrestler, Arlece strutted to the edge of the stage, challenging Pelmen with a menacing stare.

Pelmen did not want to let go of his bow, even for a few minutes and so turned away and continued on his way, stopping a hundred paces from one of the targets, a wooden manikin. Slowly, he took out several bundles of thorns, tied up with a cord, with which he was equipped. Then, fighting back a sigh, he lifted Master Galn’s bow—his bow. Guided by memories of his first experiment with the weapon, he had decided not to fire at the target to begin with, in order to concentrate on firing distances.

The string was still as difficult to draw. The first attempt was too short, the second, badly managed, went askew. When, after a while, Pelmen went to pick up the thorns, and then shot again, mechanically, the absurdity of the exercise drew grimaces of annoyance from him. Why continue when the person who had taken him to one of the corridors of the Canyons, and who had shown him what a marvelous thing it was to draw a bow, no longer existed? Why upset himself? What was the point?

To match his skill… The Pelmen who might have tried to do that was a different person. Someone who wouldn’t have this gaping hole in his life.

Feeling hungry, Pelmen went to sit down in a deserted corner of the esplanade. He rummaged in his satchel and ate without tasting his food, then went back to take up his position again and resume his session, without any more conviction. He continued until his fingers were burning, and he felt as if he was making progress, even if that progress resulted in a painful shoulder. Determined to prove himself, Pelmen focused on the pain, telling himself that at least it proved that he was still alive.

“Pel? My son?”

Pelmen turned round. For a second, he stood there stupidly, wondering who the stout hevelen was whose crudely shorn head gleamed under Astar’s rays and who had stolen the sweet odor of his mother.

“Mama?” he finally said. “What have you done?”

He interrupted himself, his breath cut short. Dryna had just thrown herself into his arms and was hugging him so tight that he thought he would break in two. He did his best to return the embrace while she babbled in his ear. The warmth of his mother’s skin shooed away the shadows which had, up until a moment ago, been gripping his heart, making his pain more bearable.

“Astar be praised, you look well,” she said, pulling away and stepping back in order to look at him more closely, her nostrils quivering.

Pelmen forced a little smile. How emotional must his oh-so-discreet mother be to make such a display of her feelings in public?

Her face filled with compassion. “Your odor is that of grief, as Xuven told me. Yes, your uncle told me about Master Galn. And your gaze… it’s changed. Oh, my son, why did you have to come here?”

“It would have happened anyway,” replied Pelmen, hoarsely. “Master Galn didn’t have much longer. And I think… no, I’m sure, it would have been even harder in Durepeaux. I would have felt that not only was I losing him, but also all of my hopes and dreams.”

Dryna resembled a wounded animal when she looked at him again. “You could have warned me, all the same! To tell me where you were… instead of leaving it to Xuven to do it.”

“I’m sorry, truly sorry. I would have done, but… Why didn’t you come with Zenel the other day?” he asked, changing the subject.

“He didn’t want me to come with him. He thought he’d be able to bring you back to Durepeaux.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I knew he was mistaken.”

“You know me, at least.”

Dryna’s expression became grave.

“What’s the matter?” Pelmen asked.

“Oh, I…” Her eyelids fluttered. “Before leaving, I made my own inquiries. I know what Zenel planned at the tannery. I know you left because of that.”

“Not only that, Mama.”

“But if you don’t like it here,” she went on, without paying any heed to the interruption, “you can come back. You’ll always have a place there, you know. Even if I have to make your father swallow rotten nidepoux broth for six months before he ends up accepting you. It’s nothing less than what he deserves, trying to trap you the way he did.”

Pelmen watched her and then burst out laughing, pleased when his mother started laughing uncontrollably too. He realized that her presence made him feel better, and he placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders.

“Thanks, but it’s not going to happen,” he said softly. “You see, before you arrived, I asked myself a lot of questions. Thanks to you, I understand that it’s here I need to be. I have to go forward, make progress, and do it not only for Master Galn, but for myself. It’ll be difficult at first, but never as difficult as cutting up nidepoux hides.”

“You’re firmly decided, then. You know you might have to travel with your uncle—to go to distant countries, including some outside the Canyons? That terrifies me.”

“Yes, he’s talked to me about it. It’s pretty frightening, it’s true. I admit, however, I want to find out more about the places where he swaps all of his merchandise. Then again, I’ll have to earn my food and shelter sooner or later.”

Dryna nodded her head. “I know you well enough to know you won’t change your mind. At least promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course, Mama. That’s a promise. Er… I wanted to ask you… what’s become of Mils? You haven’t brought him?”

Dryna pursed her lips. Pelmen looked at her anxiously.

“The first two days after you left, I gave him something to eat. Afterward… afterward, he no longer came. I think he understood you weren’t coming back.”

“Then…” Pelmen’s throat was dry. “Then he too has gone to live his own life. It’s probably better that way.”

Astar had begun his decline toward the line of the horizon.

“Are you spending the night in Xuven’s house?” Pelmen asked.

“I can’t, Mistress Buselden gave me a day’s leave, but no more.”

Mistress Buselden was the dressmaker in Durepeaux for whom Dryna worked.

“But the tiredness…” Pelmen protested.

“Don’t worry. I traveled aboard a nidepoux cart coming up here, and my legs are still strong. It’ll be all right.” She cast a glance at the day-star. “I mustn’t stay too long, though.”

“Give me time to pick up my thorns and I’ll come with you.”

While walking beside his mother, avoiding the hevelens and the animals which were being led by the bridle across the footbridges, Pelmen thought about how much effort his mother had put into coming to visit him. He felt guilty about being the only cause of her coming to the great city, without being able to help taking a certain pride in it.

To come here, she must finally have put some distance between her and Zenel. It’s about time.

“I’ve brought you our long-haired nidepoux blanket,” said Dryna. “It’s waiting for you at your uncle’s house.”

“You… you did that?” The warm and silky blanket, a gift from Olgen Peaudecuir, was the most precious thing they possessed, and it was Pelmen’s father’s pride and joy. “Does Zenel know?”

“Not yet,” she replied, with one of her malicious smiles. “You know he keeps it in his trunk and only takes it out once or twice a year to admire it. He won’t notice right away.”

“But when he does, how are you going to explain it?”

“I’ll tell him you needed it more than he does. I’ll talk to him about his responsibilities to you. He’s still your father.”

“That won’t please him.”

“Don’t worry about it; I know how to handle him.”

“Oh, Mama…” He stopped and, putting his hand on her wrist, made her turn toward him, before hugging her. “Thanks. Thanks for that… and most of all, for having come.”

Dryna didn’t reply and turned away, fighting back her tears. They continued walking in silence into the tunnel leading down to the base of the mountain, and emerged into the open air. There, at the foot of the great city, they said their goodbyes.

“Don’t forget the blanket if you go traveling. When you’re inside it, I know you’ll think of me.”

“I’ll take it,” Pelmen promised. “And I’ll come to see you, as soon as I can.”

They embraced once more, for a long time, before Pelmen pulled away gently. She stood there motionless while he turned around and went back into the tunnel.

Pelmen slept a little better that night. Every time the image of Master Galn on his death-bed came to torment him, racking him with questions about the fate of Teleg and Alicene, or he thought about his mother and Mils, he pressed the soft, comforting nidepoux fur against his skin. That was how he ended up going to sleep, with his cheek resting on it.

Before Astar reached his zenith the next day, Pelmen left for the artisans’ platform, with instructions to come back as soon as the trial of Merit was over. Between the weavers’ and potters’ shops, the air was filled with the hubbub of merchants appealing to passers-by and customers haggling over prices or making conversation, with the background sounds of carpenters tapping, polishing and cutting. For them, it’s just an ordinary day.

It was Alicene who saw him first. She was standing near the stage, and shouted to him after he had passed her by without noticing her. It was easy to tell by the rings beneath the young woman’s eyes and her half-closed eyelids that the night had been very short. In spite of her tiredness and sorrow, Alicene tried her best to behave naturally around Pelmen.

I dare not imagine what state Teleg’s in.

His friend sat on a stool set on the stage. His back bent, he seemed to be entirely absorbed in his task. Facing him, two unknown individuals were watching him.

“I hope he’ll succeed,” Alicene said. Teleg’s sister’s eyes sought out his own, looking for comfort—she must have reached the end of her rope, to rely on him!

He tried to look confident. “You heard what he said—he’s been preparing for this for some time. If your father was sure he would succeed, there’s no reason to think he was mistaken. Let me see how he is doing.”

Pelmen walked around the stage in order to assess the object which Teleg was working with flint in hand. There was an entire array of them at his feet, their cutting edges varying in size and thickness. The harp was wedged between his knees. At the moment, Teleg was working on the inner curvature of the instrument’s upper section. His features were wrinkled in concentration. Pelmen was certain his friend had not noticed his arrival.

So far as he could judge, Teleg’s hand was steady, which was something of a marvel, considering what he had been through.

“I feared that tiredness might have dulled his skill,” Pelmen whispered to Alicene, “but I can’t see any deficiency. I’m not an expert, of course.”

“As long as those two are of the same opinion,” she replied.

Pelmen turned to look at “those two”. The examiners were wearing togas ornamented by the motifs of the Carpenter, displayed on an ochre and yellow background. One of them, old enough to be his father and short of stature, had gray side-whiskers that tapered toward the chin. His brows furrowed, he was sitting motionless. The second individual, younger and less attentive, must have been having difficulty channeling his energy, for he never ceased shifting his large carcass, like a nidepoux too long confined in its pen.

Alicene, whom Pelmen was watching out of the corner of his eye, was visibly making an effort to adopt what might pass for a neutral attitude.

Teleg only paused for brief intervals to gauge the quality of his work. He continued to hollow, file and polish his instrument until he was happy that it had reached the degree of perfection needed. Then he took the strings which he had brought and extended them across the framework of the harp. A clear sound rang out. He checked his work one last time. When he got to his feet, turned toward the judges and, not without a certain solemnity, held the object out to them, his face was a display of various contradictory emotions. Fear, pride and indecision were in conflict there.

The older hevelen took the harp, weighed it in his hands, and inspected it carefully. He strummed the strings, which emitted a sound Pelmen thought pleasant. That was not the opinion of the examiner, however, for he handed the instrument to his companion with a dismissive gesture. The massive individual scarcely cast a scornful glance over the harp before breaking it over his knee with a frightful and resounding crack.

“No!” howled Teleg.

Losing control of himself, he rushed toward the large examiner—who, with an authoritative sweep of the hand, struck him full in the face, sending him sprawling on the ground, half-stunned. Pelmen wanted to run to his aid, but Alicene’s frail arms encircled him, causing him to lose his balance and fall over.

“Don’t go. It’s useless! You’ll only make things worse!” she was sobbing and pleading, but holding on to him with the strength of desperation. Pelmen would have had to hurt her to pull free, so he became still.

“Did you see?” he groaned, propping himself up on his elbow and turning toward her.

She replied with a nod of the head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“The Merit is not granted,” the first examiner announced. Apparently, he thought he needed to elaborate, since breaking the harp wasn’t clear enough.

Teleg was lying on his back, his arms extended alongside his body, crushed by the weight of his failure and all his accumulated fatigue, even more than from the blow he had received.

“Accordingly, you will carry out for our lord, the Carpenter Emeritus, the functions of windlass operator, from today onwards and for the two following springs. All the property of your deceased father, the master craftsman Galn Boisencroix, now belong to our lord, who will dispose of it as he sees fit. In his great forbearance, the Carpenter Emeritus consents to employ your sister, Alicene Boisencroix here present, in his quarters in the Sanctuary of the Ten, where she will become one of his maidservants.”

The examiner directed his mocking, hawk-like gaze at Alicene. Pelmen, his fists clenched, wanted to make him swallow his words, and he muttered through his teeth: “We’ll see whether or not she’ll serve him!”

“Don’t get involved!” Alicene pleaded again, gripping his arm with her long, slender fingers. Once again, he looked at her uncomprehendingly.

“It’s my fate at stake. It’s up to me to decide it.” The young woman’s voice was firm, her bloodshot gaze meeting Pelmen’s without flinching. “What has happened is… it’s horrible, I know. My brother doesn’t deserve it at all, but I beg you not to make things even more difficult. At least the Carpenter treats his maidservants decently.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s well known. Believe me, a place in the Sanctuary of the Ten is far from being the worst thing that could happen to me. At least there, I’ll be able to try to keep an eye on my brother.”

“He’ll be there?”

“In the section reserved for windlass operators. You’ll be able to visit him, I think.”

Alicene turned toward the shorter of the two examiners, who had drawn near and could not have failed to hear her last remark. His silence was tantamount to confirmation: if visits had been forbidden, he would not have kept it private.

“Come with me,” he said to Alicene.

She gestured silently to Pelmen that all would be well. He stood aside, with ill grace.

The brutal examiner had hoisted Teleg, who was still semi-conscious, onto his shoulder. He came down from the stage as if he were carrying an insignificant burden.

With his soul feeling as if it were dying, Pelmen watched them move away. He could not believe what had just unfolded before his eyes. The meaninglessness of Master Galn’s death had been followed up by further tragedy. Slowly, numbly, he went to pick up the abandoned flints.

***

The vigorously launched cactus thorn sped across the two hundred yards separating it from the target to lodge, vibrating, in the leg of a wooden puppet attached to the platform. Pelmen turned to his uncle and nodded his head.

The week before, after Teleg’s failure and the heavy penalty inflicted on him, Pelmen had wondered whether he might need to give up on Alveg and those who exercised power there. When he had told Xuven about the disastrous conclusion to the trial of Merit, his uncle expressed sympathy, while manifesting disappointment rather than surprise. “I’ve heard tell of skillful apprentices finding themselves set aside, to the profit of hevelens who benefit from the favor of Aguerris,” his uncle explained, “but there’s no proof. Until now, I assure you, not all Aguerris have acted like Ferestas Taillebois—the Carpenter’s name. In my opinion, you shouldn’t look at it as a desire to do harm but largely a matter of thoughtlessness. Ferestas is a gambler, and rumor has it that he has recently got into debt, as a result of stupid bets. To him, any means seems good to get the wind behind him again. If Teleg had, let’s say, thought to offer him his best pieces, his chance of success would undeniably have been increased.”

Pelmen had wrinkled his nose in disgust. The songs praising the nobility and wisdom of the Aguerris were no more than songs, then. More than ever, he understood that if he wanted to succeed in his own endeavors, he would have to fight, and try to come through the trials without expecting any leniency.

The physical challenge did not displease him so, in his free time, he aggressively drew the empty string of the bow he kept behind the counter, imagining he was taking aim at each of the two examiners, quaking in fear. They had only been carrying out orders, of course, but he had never seen the Carpenter.

After some initial stiffness, his muscles became accustomed to prolonged effort, and over the course of evenings spent on the recreation platform, the old feeling came back to him with increasing sharpness as he familiarized himself with his bow. The distance he was able to attain now surpassed anything he had been able to reach before.

Xuven studied him as if seeing him for the first time. “I must admit that it isn’t commonplace, to hit the target at that distance five times running against the wind. But don’t let it go to your head—it still remains to be seen how you perform in a lateral wind. Let’s go pick up your thorns.”

They drew nearer, and Xuven whistled between his teeth. Except for the last, less precise shot, the thorns were all planted in a neat group in the torso of the puppet. Pelmen did his best to pull them out without damaging them, but was obliged nonetheless to throw away two that had become unusable. Still accompanied by Xuven, he went back to the shooting area, taking for his target a puppet due south of his position.

From the quiver given to him by his uncle—“What would an archer be without his quiver?” he had asked Pelmen in a gruff tone—he took several thorns and carefully selected those he was about to employ.

His nostrils quivered, his entire body infused with the breath of Aoles. He sensed the wind—the wind was within him.

Calmly, he drew the bow which had belonged to Master Galn, releasing the string at the right time. The dart flew, heading to the left of the puppet. Caught by a gust of wind, it scored a direct hit.

Xuven shot him such an incredulous glance that it almost provoked a smile from Pelmen. When three out of the other four projectiles had hit their target, Xuven placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“One might think Aoles were guiding your hand in person.”

“Does that mean I can remain in your service?”

“Of course. You’re genuinely gifted, it’s true. Especially for being so…”

“What?”

“I should tell you the scent that clings to you most frequently these days is that of anger.” Xuven raised his hand to prevent his nephew from responding and went on: “Oh, it’s normal to revolt against injustice, but anger, although it permits advancement at times, is a double-edged flint. Don’t travel too long in the company of that beast, or you risk feeling its bite when it begins to devour your heart.”

Taken aback, Pelmen remained silent, suddenly aware that he couldn’t hide how he was feeling from his uncle.

“Think about pleasant things,” said Xuven. “About those you love, about good times spent in their company. No one can take those moments away from you. There is more to the world than just the bad things.”

Pelmen thought about arguing, but instead he uttered a deep sigh. His eyes stared into the void. “You’re probably right,” he admitted finally. “If not, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“What’s that I see?” said Xuven, ironically. “One might almost think it was a smile. Come on, I prefer that.”

Pelmen went to extract the thorns from the puppet before replacing them in his quiver. He would have to go down to the plain to harvest more thorns from the cacti in order to replenish his stock. As he came back, he raised his eyes along the granite cliff of the Alveg Mountain, all the way to the immense palace of gilded rock crowning it. The distinctive tint of the Sanctuary of the Ten, which was found nowhere else in the Canyons, gave him the impression a piece of the sky had been detached, as an ambassador, to settle there and watch over the inhabitants of the city. The swollen and bulbous form was fascinating, even from afar. From time to time, a Wing of Aoles launched forth from the top of one of its ten towers.

Pelmen turned up his nose. Deciding to concentrate all his efforts on his training was the logical thing to do in order to ensure that the sacrifices he had made had not been in vain, but he could not help feeling a little guilty. His friends must think he had abandoned them.

“You can go and see them tomorrow morning,” Xuven said, pointing to the Sanctuary. “I have to be away from the shop, so you’ll have the whole day to yourself.”

Pelmen accepted with gratitude, and was getting ready to follow his uncle when he saw Arlece. The curly-haired wrestler was watching them.

Pelmen frowned, walking in the opposite direction so as to avoid him. However, he wasn’t fast enough.

“Fortunately for you,” said Arlece, “you’re better with your bow than you are at wrestling.”

Pelmen stopped, surprised. His uncle took another few steps forward before turning around, frowning.

“You were watching me?” asked Pelmen.

“That’s all I was doing,” said Arlece, ironically. “You can handle yourself.”

“You think so? In that case, you and I make a pair.”

“I wouldn’t go that far…”

“I’ve just had an idea,” Pelmen interjected. “I could teach you what I know about archery, and in exchange, you could teach me to wrestle. That way, we’d have all the trumps in our hand for the tournament.”

Arlece forced a smile. Pelmen thought he was about to be rudely put in his place with one of the mocking remarks Arlece had the knack of making, so he was surprised by the wrestler’s reply.

“Perhaps that’s not such a stupid proposition. Let’s see… how about this: we meet up tomorrow when Astar reaches his zenith, at Master Benras’ tavern in the Three Taverns sector. Might as well discuss it over a tankard.”

Pelmen looked at Xuven for guidance, who nodded imperceptibly.

“Agreed,” said Pelmen.

Early the following morning, with a satchel slung over his shoulder, Pelmen impatiently began climbing the cliff leading to the Sanctuary. Astar’s rays were already decorating the edifice with a thousand beams of light. The palace of the Aguerris was so majestic and seemed so inaccessible that under normal circumstances, it would never have entered Pelmen’s mind to go there. He climbed the narrow stairways as quickly as possible. Soon, however, he had to slow down in order to catch his breath.

The high steps went on forever. Dressed luxuriously, Opulents perched in baskets surrounded by rigging overtook him. Hoisted by windlasses, they reached the summit well before him, in spite of the gusts of wind making their perches sway.

Pelmen had sturdy legs, and did not slow his progress once, although, by the end, he felt like a pain-ridden old man. Down below, the city deployed its multitude of footbridges and platforms, insignificant in comparison with the so-called major plazas. Under the breath of Aoles unfurling over the plateau, Pelmen advanced, his back bent, toward a gigantic granite portal surmounted by a sculpture on the same scale. The latter depicted an algam, which, on its rostrum, invited the visitor to follow it. The work was so ingenious Pelmen could not imagine how his fellow hevelens could have accomplished it. It gave the impression that, at any moment, the bird might come to life and beat its wings.

His attention caught by the ruby-tinted hues of the portal’s lintels, Pelmen stared. Refusing to believe it at first, his eyes widened.

He had assumed that the supposed riches of the Sanctuary were an exaggeration due to the striking coloration of its walls, but it was necessary to yield to the evidence—the bars of amberrock alone represented an immeasurable treasure. It was only after recovering from his initial astonishment that he noticed an open stone doorway off to one side. Judging by the pair of hunters armed with flint spears and guarding the entrance, it must have been the more commonly used of the two; the other was obviously only used on ceremonial occasions. Pelmen addressed himself to one of the guards, whose eyes looked at him from a weather-beaten face.

“I’ve come to visit a friend. May I come in?”

“Friend? What friend?”

“He’s a windlass operator. A new one named Teleg, who arrived less than a week ago.”

“You’re in luck—they still need reinforcements,” the second guard, a stocky individual, piped up with a predatory smile.

Pelmen did not much care for the joke, but he contented himself with waiting for the sentries to stop laughing.

With a grunt, the weather-beaten guard invited him to follow.

A soft light, emanating from crystals that could be distinguished within the rock, illuminated the vast interior of the palace. The visibly organic aspect of the exterior was also evident within. Pelmen felt a wall. Cold, hard and smooth, it was certainly stone, but so perfectly united that nothing suggested the blocks had been fitted.

Servants in the colored livery of their lords were hurrying back and forth; here and there, Opulents were conferring in small groups. Overly emphatic laughter or exuberant exclamations rang out on occasion. Covered by an emerald green carpet, a monumental staircase led to the upper floor. The hunter ignored it to turn into a gently sloping corridor leading to the hall where the windlasses were housed. Daylight streamed through horizontal wooden bars which were seamlessly inlaid into the sills of the windows. The hunter veered to the left a little before the entrance. Nevertheless, Pelmen caught a glimpse of three hevelens leaning over the handle of one of the windlasses—a second trio must have been working on the other side.

Dust had settled in the new corridor they went along. It tickled Pelmen’s nostrils, and he sneezed.

“Who does your friend work for?” asked the weather-beaten hunter.

“The Carpenter Emeritus.”

A little way further on, after passing several doors, they went into a room saturated with the acrid odors of sweat and dirt. Hevelens, young and old, but all male, were living there in squalid conditions all too familiar to Pelmen, in the midst of filthy blankets, broken pitchers and straw pallets of more than questionable cleanliness. While the guard remained at the entrance, Pelmen looked around the place without finding Teleg. He questioned two windlass operators before a third with a ruddy face and fetid breath intervened.

“You’re looking for a blond with violet eyes, is that right?”

“That’s him.”

“He’s doubtless in Master Dorecruche’s tavern in the city. He’s had a nasty fall, your mate—but between us, he’d better watch his back if he wants to last. The Aguerri here doesn’t like us to get drunk.”

Amazed, Pelmen asked: “How does Teleg pay for drink?”

“He does what we all do, odd jobs for the boss at the tavern. We do it, and not even every day, because we’re only allowed to eat at work, but he’s young and strong. ” The hevelen’s eyes lit up. “What have you got in your satchel? Perhaps you can help me out…”

Pelmen took a step back to avoid the dirty hand, and the other burst out laughing while he drew away, without asking for any more. Pelmen retraced his steps, still escorted by the guard. When they reached the first intersection, he asked which way to go to reach the servants’ quarters.

The hunter shook his head. “Only a few people are authorized to see the Aguerris’ personal servants. If there’s one you need to see, he’ll have to come and find you during his rest period.” In response to Pelmen’s distressed expression, he added, slyly, “I can get a message to him… if you have something to offer in exchange.”

“I don’t have anything,” Pelmen sighed. All that the satchel contained was his next meal, and he had no intention of trading it.

The guard pointed at the exit, signaling that he should leave.

“But I’ll come back, and I won’t be empty-handed.”

“I’ll look forward to that blessed day with impatience.”

Without further delay, Pelmen went back down the steps along the side of the cliff. He asked for Master Dorecruche’s establishment, and learned it was in the Three Taverns quarter.

As he strode over the footbridges and walked among the houses, the directions he had been given became confused in his mind.

I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Fortunately, the four major platforms situated at the cardinal points formed precious reference-points. Retracing his steps, Pelmen went back to the balcony circling the mountain. From there, he resumed his search more carefully.

When he began to encounter groups of two or three hevelens with vile smelling breath who were holding one another’s shoulders as they walked, he knew he had made no mistake this time.

A drunkard, singing at the top of his voice, leaned abruptly over the edge of the balustrade to empty the contents of his stomach. Pelmen felt sorry for any unfortunate individual who might be passing by on the lower level.

The regulars were coming from a building whose banner, flapping in the wind, depicted an earthenware pitcher. Bawdy shouts mingled with the buzz of conversations scarcely permitted the intermittent chords of a lyre to be heard.

Pelmen entered the dive. At the back of the room, bare-breasted dancers with wrinkled skin swayed their hips provocatively without any respect for the rhythm of the music. That was of no importance anyway. For the clients, occupied as they were in exchanging the latest gossip over a tankard, were not paying any attention either to the dancers or to the old musician on the stage, who was as decrepit as his instrument. The beer was flowing freely, and the shaven-headed tavern-keeper was so busy he did not notice the new arrival.

Pelmen made his way to the counter and from there set about making his way along the line of cheerful drunks. Most of them had brought small trinkets, or even items of food, to pay for their tankard of beer or goblet of trana spirit. The landlord inspected the merchandise with a wary eye and then, if he judged it adequate, made it disappear as if by magic before serving anyone.

When Pelmen discovered Teleg, the bare-chested young hevelen was gazing into the bottom of his tankard. Not at all sure what attitude to adopt, Pelmen approached him at a measured pace and tapped him on the shoulder.

His friend raised his head and contemplated him, haggardly. He had the beginnings of a beard and his hair had lost all of its shine. Teleg recognized him after a momentary delay, but even then, his expression stayed a little suspicious.

“Why did you come?” Teleg asked, in a thick voice. His breath was noxious, and Pelmen took note of the hollow rings around his eyelids.

“Why? Aren’t we friends? Brothers, you told me, remember…”

“Yeah, for sure,” Teleg snarled. “My sister told me you were there when I underwent the trial. You can see where that led.”

Pelmen stood there open-mouthed. Teleg went back to his tankard, and then, after a pause, without looking at him, murmured: “It doesn’t matter now; it’s not important anymore.”

“Yes, it is,” Pelmen replied. “It’s very important to me. Do you think I should have intervened? That it would have helped?”

“No, you were probably right… just like Alicene. I know she’s the one who stopped you from helping me. But you see…” Teleg looked at him, his eyes gleaming momentarily. “I no longer have enough energy. The only freedom I have left is to choose to be bitter and to drink myself senseless.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “If I didn’t hate songs so much, I could almost make one up about that.”

“You say so because you can’t think straight right now. Why not try to look further ahead? I’ve kept your set of flints, and I’ll bring them to you myself two springs from now. Yes, what happened to you is vile, I’m the first to admit that, but all hope isn’t lost. You’ll be able to start again…”

“You can be so naïve! It’s obvious you’ve never been a windlass operator. Two springs might as well be an eternity. Even assuming I hold out that long, do you think I’ll still have any desire to work under the banner of that piece of shit Carpenter? I’d rather starve.”

“You could change trades.”

“Change trades!” Teleg shook his head. “You tire me, and Astar knows I don’t need anyone to make me tired these days. Go home.”

Although wounded by Teleg’s attitude, Pelmen realized that pushing his friend right now would not do either of them any good. Teleg was simply not in a state to hold a conversation. Pelmen took a step toward the exit before changing his mind.

“I’ll be a hunter soon, and then, I swear to deploy all the winds of Aoles to get you out of it before your term. If it has to come to that, I’ll go as far as offering myself to finish it in your stead.”

Teleg shook his head, with a knowing expression. “I doubt that kind of arrangement is possible. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

They looked at one another and then Pelmen turned around and left for good. It was the first time his friendship with Teleg had been subjected to such a rough test. If he had been able to change the past, to go back and persuade his friend not to participate in that damned trial, at least for a while, he would have done so gladly. Windlass operator! Teleg’s fate was certainly not an enviable one.

Astar had almost attained his zenith already. From where he was standing, Pelmen could see the other two taverns.

Stirred by dark thoughts, he headed toward the one from which the most attractive odors emanated. That was indeed Master Benras’ establishment, as one of the drinkers confirmed. Arlece was not there. Pelmen traded a thinly rolled leaf containing spices for a tankard of beer and sat down at a table, where he waited. There weren’t a lot of customers at this time of day—only a few regulars expressing themselves in slurred voices.

Eventually, the confident silhouette of Arlece appeared in the doorway. He was clad in necot and wearing an ivory necklace. His characteristic sly smile froze momentarily as he spotted Pelmen. He sat down and, with a familiar gesture, summoned the innkeeper who appeared quickly and served him with deference.

They drank at the same time, Pelmen making an effort not to wrinkle his nostrils on sniffing Arlece’s perfume.

“Have you thought about my offer?” Pelmen asked.

“Your talent for bartering isn’t much better than it is for wrestling.”

Pelmen’s nostrils quivered.

“Let’s see,” Arlece continued. “You’re proposing to teach me what little you know about archery in exchange for what I can reveal to you about wrestling. That looks like a fool’s bargain, doesn’t it?”

“Because you think you’re a good enough archer?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you’ve brought me here for nothing.” Pelmen stood up.

“Come on, come on! Don’t get huffy. Do you want to succeed in the Recruitment tournament—yes or no?”

Pelmen looked at Arlece suspiciously.

“Without my help,” Arlece declared, “you know as well as I do all the winds of Aoles aren’t sufficient to make a hunter out of you.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself,” said Pelmen, sitting down again reluctantly.

“I fought you, remember? I know what I can do for you. And if I help you to finish in the top sixteen, you’ll be selected by the representatives of Tchulen Poindivoire.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“I don’t say it will be easy, but it’s possible. You lack the basic techniques, and you can’t learn them on your own.”

“And in exchange?”

“In exchange, all I ask is your bow.”

Pelmen’s eyes widened. He almost burst out laughing. “Only my bow?” he murmured. “Preposterous.”

“Of course, you’ll keep it for the duration of the tournament. Afterward, once you’re a hunter, it’ll be mine. Believe me, it’s not too high a price. What I teach you will serve you all your life, whereas the bow…”

“Its range surpasses what most can achieve.”

“How do you know?”

“The man who made it told me.”

“Probably so he could sell it to you! Take it from me, don’t let the chance pass you by.”

“Sorry, but it’s out of the question.”

Arlece’s jaw clenched, but he contented himself with staring into his tankard as Pelmen stood up and left the tavern.

Pelmen spent the rest of the day furiously fighting various adversaries on one of the stages of the recreation platform. He saw Arlece going past the combat arena, avoiding meeting his gaze, heading for the archery range. Pelmen tried to remember his rival’s techniques, but his movements were clumsy. He lost against three opponents out of four, and only succeeded in dragging the fourth off the stage with him.

The next day, he got a camlorn from his uncle, which he took to the Sanctuary the same evening. The guard with the weather-beaten features happened to be on duty again when Pelmen, his legs weary, reached the stone gateway. Apparently satisfied with the payment, the hunter told him to wait outside while he passed on the message, which was easy to remember. Pelmen invited Alicene to join him immediately if possible and if not, to arrange a meeting.

Pelmen waited, patiently at first. The wait was prolonged to such an extent he began to wonder whether the guard was making a fool of him. The second sentinel refused to let him pass “just to take a look”, which only added to his frustration.

Finally, a slender silhouette appeared, hidden beneath a shawl. Alicene was clad in a long dress that was becoming, but had not taken any particular care arranging her hair. In spite of her recently acquired status as a maidservant, she still walked with dignity.

Pelmen uttered a strangled word of greeting, having momentarily forgotten the purpose of his visit.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” said Alicene. “I thought you might have forgotten us.”

“I… I would have been very ungrateful if that were the case,” Pelmen stammered, blushing, “but it hasn’t been easy to get to see you. I had a hard time finding your brother too.”

“Is he well?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“I’ve been so busy with my work here I haven’t had time to think about him.”

“Is the Carpenter treating you well, at least?”

“Yes, his maidservants are privileged. He’s been courteous thus far.”

“So much the better.”

“It’s kind of you to worry about me.”

Pelmen blushed again. “It’s just that… you and your brother… are going to need all the help I can give you.”

“You think so?”

Pelmen looked at her in surprise. “You’ve lost your shop! Don’t you think that’s revolting?”

“Aoles and Tinmal have turned away from us, it’s true. But that might change.”

“That must change. If I succeed in becoming a hunter…” Pelmen hesitated. He had never thought in concrete terms about what his future steps might be. He had a sudden inspiration. “I’ll try to get myself assigned to the Sanctuary.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll use all my influence to get you out of here.”

“And what if that doesn’t work?”

“Perhaps I’ll need to use other methods.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well…” Seeing Alicene’s furrowed brow, Pelmen hesitated, struck suddenly by the fact that he had no plan of action. “I need to think about it. To talk about that now would be premature. For the moment, the essential thing is for me to find a wrestling master—someone who’ll be able to train me for the tournament.”

“There might be someone here.”

“If that’s the case, let me know, will you?”

“Of course.” Alicene turned round anxiously. “I’m sorry, but I need to go back now. I’ve been away too long.” She paused and then planted a furtive kiss on his cheek. By the time Pelmen had recovered from his surprise, her swirling dress had already passed through the doorway.

Chapter Six - THE THREE TAVERNS

The days, and then the weeks, went by. There was no sign of Alicene, and Pelmen’s wrestling sessions were no more encouraging than the initial defeat he had suffered at Arlece’s hands. Although he succeeded in avoiding being too badly maltreated, most of the time he was thrown out of the combat area, the victim of his own impetuousness and naïvety. To reassure himself, he went to shoot thorns into the wooden puppets, nervous that his skill with the bow would prove insufficient. Teleg was the reason for his occasional visits to the Three Taverns quarter. Pelmen struggled to restore his faith in the future, but every time he saw him, his friend seemed surlier. A few days before Tinmal’s full moon, which marked the opening of the Tournament, he met him in Master Daguen’s tavern, a renowned rogues’ den.

“You’re still my friend, aren’t you?” Teleg asked him, directly, as soon as he had sat down at his table.

“Of course.”

“So you’d be willing to do me a favor?”

“Er… yes, I think so,” Pelmen watched him anxiously. Teleg’s eyes were feverish, and his breath reeked, as it did too often.

“Good. I need you to bring me my flints. I need them.”

“Your flints? What are you going to do with them?”

“I need them, that’s all. You’re my friend, aren’t you? They’re still mine—or have you taken them for yourself?”

Pelmen gritted his teeth. He was beginning to get used to Teleg’s provocative attitude. “You might want… to trade them for camlorn beer.”

“So what? Beer is expensive and, recently, the innkeepers have stopped wanting me to work for them. You aren’t going to leave me in the lurch, are you?”

“I’m sorry… it’s impossible. I can’t be part of…” Pelmen indicated his companion’s tankard and then the counter. “... your self-destruction. You need to pull yourself together, Teleg, the sooner, the better.”

“Pull myself together?” Teleg grabbed Pelmen by the collar of his shirt. “Do you want to know what I think? I think I don’t want to see you anymore. This respect for authority, this selflessness, becoming a pawn like the others…” Teleg grimaced in disgust while loosening his grip. “And then, you’re here, and you remind me of… too many things. Things which make me feel ill… that I want to forget. Get out. Get out and don’t come back.”

Pelmen felt himself turn pale. “You’ve had too much to drink… the camlorn has gone to your head.”

“Don’t try to force your presence on me again, or…”

“Or what?”

Teleg fixed him with a menacing stare. Out of the corner of his eye, Pelmen was distressed to see that they had become the center of the inn’s curious patrons’ attention. As Teleg did not relax his lips, Pelmen had no alternative but to stand up and leave the tavern, in a deathly silence. He heard the conversations slowly continue behind him.

That night, he had trouble sleeping. The times he had spent with Master Galn and Teleg in Falsine had been happy. Maybe Master Galn had encouraged their friendship, however, in spite of that, Teleg had accepted him as his equal, so much so that he had contributed to bringing his life’s goal within range. Until the day when he had reached the age at which he could free himself from his father’s control, that was what had allowed him to endure working in the tannery. He knew all that he owed him.

What a turnaround! He’s no longer the same hevelen. I’d never have believed he was so fragile.

What should he do? Teleg had been robbed of his rightful inheritance, and as such was now calling the authority of the Aguerris into question. Should he rally to his friend’s point of view and also enter into rebellion? And in the days to come, what could he do to help him?

No matter how many times he tossed and turned, Pelmen could find no answers to his questions. The next day was no better either and, that evening, he did not take the road to the taverns but to the recreation platform. He wanted to soothe the doubts gnawing at his mind for a little while.

The plaza was crowded with future candidates for the Recruitment tournament. Pelmen cut through them to the archery range. Since I’m sure of cutting a pitiful figure in single combat, I have to be unbeatable at drawing the bow.

This time, he had the satisfaction of making his demonstration before a panel of spectators, some of whom applauded him. Pelmen was glad of the chance to put his troubles to one side and it was only when the last rays of Astar were replaced by the light of the stars that he was forced to once again face up to the reality of his situation. With the intriguing exception of three hevelens built like wrestlers, all of the spectators had left the area. Pelmen was about to put his last thorn back in his quiver when he instinctively changed his mind. It was better to keep the thorn ready for use—only if the need arose, of course.

He made a detour in order to keep his distance from the trio, but one of them advanced to cut off his path, without allowing himself to be impressed by the thorn notched to the bowstring.

“What do you want with me?” he demanded.

No response. Only a few combatants were still on the great plaza. Pelmen’s heart began to beat more rapidly when he realized no one would come to his aid. He launched himself in the direction of the nearest footbridge, reaching it just ahead of the stranger and accelerated with all his might. As he emerged onto a narrow platform he heard the sound of breathing. One of the other two was racing from the right, brandishing a flint spear. Pelmen uttered a stifled groan, veered to the left and went along another footbridge.

A nidepoux rig blocked his path.

Pelmen only hesitated for a second. He plunged straight ahead, and leapt on to the nidepoux, his bow over his shoulder. The animal hissed and attempted a kick, but Pelmen had already jumped down on the other side. Crawling as fast as he could, he passed underneath the cart. He straightened up, took a spiral stairway that wound around a column and, short of breath, climbed up to the next level.

He had gained the lead on his enemies.

As long as they don’t know where Xuven lives. If they do, it’ll be easy for them to set a trap for me.

Breathless, he continued running as best he could. Given the position of the recreation platform, he calculated a route that would take him back to the shop. He moved cautiously, the bow ready for use. More than one passerby looked at him, widening their eyes. His legs heavy from all of the climbing, he finally reached Xuven’s dwelling.

“What’s happened?” asked his uncle, in a taut voice, as the haggard Pelmen looked anxiously all around the shop.

“I don’t know. I didn’t really understand…”

“Tell!”

“I was training peacefully… then these strangers started running after me…” Pelmen recounted his misadventure in a halting voice.

“You didn’t provoke them?”

“Not at all. Perhaps they’re competitors, who wanted to get rid of me before the tournament.”

“Or just to scare you. It wouldn’t be the first time, before a tournament. In any case, it proves that at least one person is taking you seriously. I’ll bring it to the attention of Tchulen Poindivoire’s hunters, and ask them to be vigilant. There’s nothing else we can do, unfortunately.”

Pelmen remembered Arlece. There was no real evidence to implicate the flame-haired wrestler, but Pelmen had seen the face of the first individual who had attempted to intercept him—if he saw him with Arlece, he would know.

The next morning, Xuven’s shop was unusually busy, and Pelmen was glad to concentrate on the customers’ demands. Too many preoccupations and too many torments were lying in wait for him like birds of ill omen. When dusk came, a fiercely beautiful young hevelen with night-blue hair appeared. In exchange for an ivory necklace she asked for a pot of burn-ointment. When Pelmen brought it to her, she seemed preoccupied.

“Are you… Pelmen?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“Alicene sent me to tell you she has a great need of you.”

Xuven murmured in his nephew’s ear: “A rendezvous already? So that’s what’s been tormenting you recently.”

“You’re on the wrong track,” said Pelmen, shaking his head. “It must have something to do with Teleg. I was afraid of something of the sort. Since he’s been enrolled at the Sanctuary, he hasn’t been the same.”

“She didn’t want to tell me anything,” the messenger put in, “but it seemed to be urgent.”

“Your evenings are decidedly busy,” said Xuven. “I would rather you used them to practice… but after all, I imagine you know what you’re doing.”

While he accompanied the messenger, who introduced herself as one of the Carpenter Emeritus’ maidservants, Pelmen’s anxiety only grew.

To his annoyance, he had to slow his pace so that the young maidservant could keep up. For that reason, the climb to the Sanctuary seemed long and difficult. The maidservant told the sentinels he was with her, and he was allowed to pass.

They climbed the steps of the staircase in the entrance hall, went through rooms carved out of the rock, where Pelmen scarcely noticed the magnificence of the woodwork, and strode along interminable corridors to end up turning into an isolated, yet sumptuously decorated room.

Alicene was sitting on a wooden stool, looking distraught. When they arrived, she stood up and greeted him stiffly before getting straight to the heart of the matter.

“My brother has disappeared.”

An icy chill ran down Pelmen’s spine. The feelings of foreboding which he had tried to push to the back of his mind had proved correct. “Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared?”

“He didn’t come back to work yesterday morning. The Carpenter’s second summoned me in the afternoon to tell me the news.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “They’ve searched all of Alveg in vain, from what I hear. Oh, Pelmen! If they ever catch him, it’ll be the windlass for the next ten springs—and they won’t allow him to go out again.”

“Then it’s vital that they don’t catch him.”

“But what will become of him?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“You… you’d tell me if you had anything to do with it, wouldn’t you? You haven’t advised him to run away?”

Pelmen frowned. “No, of course not. It’s not because I…” He cleared his throat. “When I ran away from Durepeaux, it was my father I was running from. Here, Teleg isn’t in the same situation.”

“According to the windlass haulers, he hated his work, as you did. And he’d started hanging out in the taverns. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Well… to be honest, yes.”

“Why did you hide it from me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

Alicene raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“Then again, I’d hoped I could make him see reason by myself,” Pelmen said sadly. “But the last time I spoke to him he told me he didn’t want to see me again. In truth, he seemed to be ready to do anything to deter me. That was two days ago. I should have come to tell you about it, but I was busy training—the tournament is imminent. So yesterday evening, I didn’t go looking for him. Now… now I’m wondering whether he deliberately got rid of me in order to have the freedom to act. Yes, that might explain it.”

“He must have had some kind of… escape plan?”

“It’s possible.” Pelmen clenched his fists. “By all the Gods, if only he’d taken me into his confidence! At least I’d have been able to help him!” His tone became bitter. “I don’t think he trusted me any longer. He accused me of… of playing the Aguerris’ game.”

“What are we going to do, Pelmen?”

“You, nothing. You have a job here, and it’s necessary to salvage what we can. I’ll begin my own research. I don’t care how long it takes, but I’ll find him, I promise you. Let me know if he contacts you.”

“I will.”

Pelmen took his leave, bowing as Alicene watched him close the door behind him.

Pelmen had no way of knowing that he would not see her again for a long time.

As he was already in the Sanctuary, he decided to start speaking to Teleg’s colleagues, to find out what they knew. Any information that they might be able to offer before he began making inquiries in the city would help. From the entrance hall he had no difficulty finding his way back to the windlass operators’ quarters.

There, he was disappointed. Few of them would admit to ever having spoken to his friend, and they were by no means talkative. Teleg was a windlass operator who had not accepted his new status. The scant effort he had put into getting the job done had won him few friends. Until his disappearance, he had managed to avoid any consequences of his laziness, however, the threat of punishment had always been hanging over him. He also drank too much, with the result that his reputation was no better with the hunters, who had deliberately given him more chores than the others.

Pelmen asked whether Teleg had spent time with anyone in particular. There was Guelen, one of the Carpenter’s water-carriers, who sometimes passed through. He and Teleg had gone out drinking together once or twice.

Pelmen got directions to where Guelen lived. He had to hurry. An entire day had already gone by since his friend’s disappearance. He thought the information he had gathered confirmed his own findings. Teleg was no longer the exuberant, sociable and generous companion that he had been in Falsine.

I can’t really hold that against him; I wouldn’t wish what he’s been through on my worst enemy.

When, after a long, exhausting walk, Pelmen finally reached Guelen’s house, the blue-tinted light of Tinmal could be seen dancing among the stars. The Goddess of Hope and Charity had hardly been smiling upon him of late.

Making sure that he could easily get hold of his flint if necessary, he knocked on the door. Soon, a well-built hevelen with a broad forehead and a lightly-wrinkled face appeared.

“Are you Guelen?” asked Pelmen.

When the other replied “Yes,” he explained the reason for his coming without beating around the bush.

The news of Teleg’s disappearance seemed to cause the other more sadness than surprise. Inviting Pelmen in, Guelen gave him a tankard of beer before taking one for himself. Pelmen barely wet his lips.

“I can’t tell you very much, I’m afraid,” Guelen began.

The hevelen knew how awful it was to work in the windlass, and tried to make life easier for newcomers. He had invited Teleg twice to have a drink with him in Master Dorecruche’s tavern. It had been obvious that Teleg could not bear his work, so he had invited him home in order to explain the merits of his activity as a water-carrier. He thought he had given the young hevelen something to think about, and was sorry when it turned out not to be the case.

Pelmen asked him a few more questions, without finding out anything of use. He was sorry when it was time to leave, however, it was getting late and he still had a long return journey ahead of him.

Tinmal would be full the day after tomorrow, he thought, and then the Recruitment tournament would begin. His guts knotted as he realized that was no longer his top priority.

Unless…

He might find it easier getting help in his search for Teleg if he were a hunter. But could he let himself lose even one more day?

Pelmen reached his uncle’s shop without having worked through his dilemma. He did not try to avoid Xuven; the matter was too important to be buried.

His uncle seemed surprised and wanted to know all the details of the conversation with Alicene as well as the meager responses Pelmen had been able to get from the windlass operators and Guelen. Afterward, he reflected in the silence of the dining room, which was only disturbed by the sound of Pelmen’s chewing as he forced himself to eat, digging into the galcyne legs left on the table for him.

Xuven eventually broke the silence. “Your friend’s disappearance isn’t an isolated case,” he revealed, in a calm tone.

Pelmen looked up, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Xuven continued, “for some time, hevelens have been vanishing without a trace. Most of them are Disinherited, but some of my traveling colleagues have also been affected. The matter is understood to be a source of concern for our Aguerri, Selenice Milempas.”

“The Tireless Traveler?”

“That is indeed her title.”

“Go on... ”

“It might have nothing to do with it, but at the same time, unconfirmed rumors have been going round regarding the reappearance of crimson shamans. They’re worshipers of Valshhyk the Immolated—fanatics who sacrifice their physical appearance in the name of their religion. They have the power to handle the Destroyer’s fire. The lands of Ardalia were thought to be rid of that breed forever…” Xuven interrupted himself to sniff the air. “What’s that? Your odor has changed; I sense disturbance and fear in you.”

Pelmen gulped, his throat suddenly dry as he realized the consequences of not being totally honest with either Teleg or Xuven. His cheeks flushed red with guilt. He had behaved like a cowardly child, with disastrous consequences.

He took a deep breath before speaking. “Well… you see, I didn’t tell you everything when I arrived. You remember I fled Durepeaux to escape the ill treatment my father’s colleagues had in store for me?”

“Indeed.”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t have gotten away from them without the help of a traveler named Komel, who hid me in one of the barrels in his cart. But I wasn’t the only one escaping that way.”

And Pelmen told him the story, the whole story this time, of his arguments with Komel, and the shaman’s ambush. Although Xuven had been unable to hide his surprise from the start, when Pelmen reached the point where the shaman had used magic, he stared in amazement at his nephew, before jumping up and anxiously pacing the room.

“A crimson shaman, in the Canyons? Do you know for sure what you’re saying?”

“I wouldn’t have told you about it if Teleg hadn’t disappeared without a trace. I’ve doubted my own experience several times, but my memories are there, and can’t be erased. Just like this scar here.” He lifted up his shirt and his uncle leaned forward.

“That certainly looks like a burn scar. Obviously, it doesn’t prove anything, but… if what you’re saying is true, this is serious—very serious.” Xuven lowered his head and muttered between his teeth, in a scarcely audible fashion: “Their audacity knows no bounds…”

“I… I get the feeling I could have spared Teleg what happened to him,” Pelmen said, “had I told you all that sooner. If I’d known these people represented a threat, even here in Alveg, I could have warned you, and maybe…”

“You wanted to protect yourself by burying your head under an animal skin.” Xuven nodded. “That’s what most people do.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“You weren’t prepared. You couldn’t have been prepared—and believe me, you can bless Aoles, Tinmal and Astar you’re still alive.” Xuven sighed. “No, you’ve no reason to blame yourself.”

“I do everything wrong. Everything!”

“I’m sure the puppets on the archery range don’t share your opinion.”

“How can you joke at a time like this?”

“Beating yourself up won’t do you any good, my lad. Personally, I think that for someone so inexperienced, who was trying to solve several problems at once, you didn’t do too badly. You can’t be good at everything.”

Pelmen uttered a groan. “I’d prefer not to spoil anything. What are we going to do for Teleg?”

“I’ll try to help you, but that will take time. You mustn’t expect miracles. To date, none of the people who have disappeared have been found.”

“None? That… that’s impossible! If I was able to escape, perhaps he…”

“Will he want to? You know better than I do his future as a carpenter has been seriously compromised. And the amberrock dangled in front of him, the promise of a new life… all that must have had an effect on him. In his situation, it would have been an especially powerful one.”

The terrible truth in his uncle’s words chilled Pelmen’s heart. He remembered that the Disinherited in the cart had been there of their own accord, and none of them had tried to get away.

“How horrible…”

“The crimson shamans are clever, powerful and well-organized. Otherwise, their schemes would already have been discovered, and they’d have been subjected to the justice of the Aguerris.”

Pelmen refused to accept that he had lost his best friend forever, so soon after the death of Master Galn. “And… even if we find him and get him away from them, he’ll have to go into hiding?”

“Or at least move to a different city to put himself out of reach of the Carpenter for some time. Hmm… from now on, you’ll have to obey me on all points because I can see that our search will take us into troubled waters. Don’t mention your encounter with Komel and the shaman to anyone. We’ll see about the rest tomorrow… hoping it won’t be such a dark day.” Xuven smiled bitterly. “It’s going to be hard to sleep right now, but that shouldn’t keep us from trying.”

Lying on his pallet, pressing his blanket against him, Pelmen went over and over the events of the day. The vortex into which he and Alicene had been drawn, the hellish spiral that had sucked them in, had already swallowed Master Galn and perhaps Teleg.

He had to stop being the victim of events, no longer meekly accepting them, but fighting back, doing everything to keep his promise to Alicene by finding Teleg. Hamal, the Goddess of Despair and Misfortune, was hounding the Boisencroix, and if Pelmen could do anything to turn her wrath away from them, he would do it, no questions asked.

Find him. Find him. Find him…

Lulled by the litany, he slipped away from the world of wakefulness.

His dream was that of a dizzying and endless fall. The further he fell into the night, the faster his life’s course swept by him. When the first glimmers of dawn appeared against a barrel in his field of vision, Pelmen spent a moment wondering why he was motionless and why Astar kept wanting to rise in the middle of the night.

He uttered a groan and started getting ready, unable to shake the feeling that he was nothing more than one of the articulated figurines Teleg used to amuse himself with by moving in all directions, once upon a time…

His bad mood became even worse when, during breakfast, Xuven instructed him to stay in the shop all day.

“I promised Alicene I would find her brother,” Pelmen objected.

“Unless she’s extremely naïve, she must know it will be difficult to keep your word, at least. I asked you yesterday to be patient. Our adversaries have already proved to you, I believe, how dangerous they are.”

Grimacing in annoyance, Pelmen did his best not to argue. His uncle clapped him on the shoulder before saying goodbye.

Have to be obedient on every point. Be patient. That’s easy for Xuven to say.

Cursing, Pelmen tidied the shop before raising the banner of the Tireless Traveler, the sign that the shop was open. He served only two customers, however, before making sure his uncle was out of sight and taking matters into his own hands. Having lowered the banner again, he equipped himself with a satchel, which he filled with enough food for the day. He stuck his flint in his belt.

Rather than directly question the clientele of the three taverns which Teleg normally frequented, Pelmen had decided to explore the area around the taverns in a widening spiral. So he spent his morning, and a good part of his afternoon, without getting anything but a few flimsy dead-end leads. The task was made even worse because it was the eve of the Recruitment tournament, and the crowds were huge.

He had been feeling hungry for a while before he decided to take some refreshment. Sitting on a boundary marker, he glimpsed a familiar figure cutting through the passers-by. His uncle, whose determined stride he easily recognized, walked by without having seen him on the wayside.

Intrigued, Pelmen put his half-eaten veguer biscuit back into his satchel. Slightly ashamed of what he was doing, but feeling excited, he did his best to keep a good distance between his uncle and himself, while taking care not to lose sight of him. Xuven came to a halt, and then took his place in one of the baskets surrounded by rigging frequently used by the Opulents.

He’s going to the Sanctuary of the Ten. To question Alicene? But he has never met her.

The question was an intriguing one, but not worth the effort of climbing up to the summit of the mountain. Consequently, Pelmen decided to wait for dusk and then to go back to Master Daguen’s tavern. That was the only tangible trail he could follow; the place where he had seen Teleg for the last time.

On a whim, Pelmen wandered for some time before sitting down on a stone bench in a quiet little square. There, he chomped at the bit until the time came for him to go back to the Three Taverns. He was becoming such a familiar face in the area that the quarter’s inhabitants had started thinking of him as a local.

Cheerful young men were chatting as they walked toward the establishment. He didn’t even have to listen hard to deduce from their conversations they had come to the city for the tournament. Pelmen ground his teeth. At present, he should have been on the archery range on the recreation platform, for his final practice. That was what his uncle would have wanted.

He’s doubtless already noticed my disappearance. He must be angry with me for having disobeyed him, but too bad.

Pelmen slipped behind a group of young men, his head lowered, so as not to be recognized. Fortune smiled on him. The tavern was overcrowded, and he was able to make his way unnoticed toward the tables at the rear, where he sat down in front of a half-full tankard. He picked it up and pretended to drink while inspecting the surroundings. At first glance, he was sufficiently discreet.

He remembered having seen the tall beanpoles to his right before, several of whom wore the stigmata of flint duels on their faces. He would avoid any contact with them if he could. Those making up the majority of the clientele, however, were people looking for a good time who were only here for the evening. The merriment of some didn’t ring true. It was as if they knew instinctively that their presence was just being tolerated in there.

Pelmen watched the comings and goings. This time he needed to act with certainty—he could not afford to attract attention to himself by questioning too many people. Customers sat down at his table, emptied their goblets and moved on again, finding his company too silent for their taste. Outside, the night was becoming more impenetrable. Then a runt with a black shock of hair appeared and greeted the landlord before seating himself a few yards away, generating a void around him. Pelmen could smell his grimy stench only too clearly.

When had he seen him before? Or smelled him?

Suddenly, he remembered. On the evening of his argument with Teleg, this puny person had been one of those who had taken an avid interest in their argument. Pelmen got up. The closer he got, the more he wondered how a Disinherited runt, whose hair was a visible haven for lice, could be admitted to this place. Pelmen passed his hand nervously over his hairy skin, feeling the prickles of stubble, and then sat down, taking care to keep his distance. The other watched him without masking his curiosity.

“You were here two days ago?” Pelmen asked him, point-blank, wanting to keep the conversation as short as possible.

“When you nearly came to blows with the blondie? Yes, I remember. Everyone was watching you. I was on my third beer but Artus hadn’t offered to pour me another. Artus is the server you see over there: my half-brother’s second cousin, and very generous. No later than this morning, I’m told…”

The man had a voice that would have made the cackle of galcynes seem like sweet birdsong. Pelmen cut off the runt’s verbal diarrhea by asking, “You’ve seen him before—the blondie?”

“Yes… but as I was saying…”

“Was he alone every time?” Pelmen cut in again.

“Often,” the hevelen replied, scowling. “Not always.”

“He saw different people?”

At this point, the hevelen darted anxious glances to either side. He drew closer, and Pelmen closed his nostrils but tried not to recoil. The short hevelen murmured, in a confidential one: “No, only one. A merchant, I think. He was here the evening you came, too, after you’d gone. They drank together, but the merchant wouldn’t let me join them…”

“Are you quite sure?” Pelmen asked, too forcefully, his heart suddenly beating faster.

“Er… yes.”

“Do you know his name? The merchant’s name…?”

The hevelen leaned forward to murmur something. At the same time, the back of his hand brushed his goblet, knocking it over, and it fell at Pelmen’s feet.

“Hey, my goblet!” said the runt.

Pelmen bent down to pick it up, and then put it on the table.

Where did he go?

The hevelen had disappeared. While he was looking for him, he noticed a movement in the crowd. Pelmen hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but whereas the little man had been able to slip easily through the crowd, he lost a few seconds jostling several people. Outside, a small silhouette was running through the night along a footbridge.

He sprinted forward and, being the faster runner, he gained ground. The fugitive had started climbing a stone ladder attached to a dwelling. Pelmen increased his pace, leapt up, and just barely grabbed his ankle. He tried to pull him down, but the hevelen resisted with all his strength.

The rogues menacing breath reached him, then. Pelmen immediately let go, which was probably a good thing, as it spared him a kick that would have flattened him against the ladder. He felt a surge of anger more powerful than fear—they won’t keep me from finding Teleg—and his hand closed around the flint at his waist.

He did not have time to use it. A second rogue had rushed him and tackled him.

In the ensuing brawl, he counted three adversaries. With a kick he dislodged the one who was on his back, leapt to his feet and administered a more accurately-placed kick, but was hit on the head with a flat object.

Half-stunned, his vision blurred, overtaken by the beginnings of panic, he tried to get away. It was a waste of time and effort. Blows began to rain down on him. He tried to avoid them, doing his best to at least protect himself. He fell into unconsciousness without noticing that the wind blowing over the platform was swirling in a strange manner around his assailants.

The almost tangible glacial air gripped them and slowed their movements. Then they fell, one by one, struck down by an invisible force.

Chapter Seven - THE AUDIENCE

Pelmen regained consciousness feeling like a band of musicians had used his head for a drum, pounding away incessantly. His temples, his chin, one of his cheekbones and the back of his skull had all sustained injuries, and were incredibly painful. Touching a nostril, he felt clotted blood. His fingers moved along the ridge of his nose… it wasn’t broken. His tongue explored the contours of his teeth—there was still a taste of blood—and again, Pelmen thought he was fortunate none had been dislodged. The swelling of his contusions, on the other hand, must have rendered him unrecognizable.

The bright light of Astar was entering through an abnormally large window. Another anomaly: Pelmen was not lying on his usual pallet but in a comfortable bed—Xuven’s.

A fleeting smile brightened his uncle’s face when Pelmen turned to look at him.

“How… how long?” he murmured, in spite of his bruised lips.

“You were unconscious all night, my boy.”

“All night…! The… the tournament…” Pelmen tried to hoist himself up with his forearms, but his strength failed him and he collapsed again onto his back.

“Drink this.” Xuven handed him a goblet a third full of thick liquid resembling milk.

“What is it?”

“Drink it! It’s a remedy to hasten your recovery.”

Too weak to argue, Pelmen obeyed. The liquid had a heady taste. “The tournament,” he repeated. However, he was soon overwhelmed by waves of exhaustion.

“It’s too late for the tournament,” murmured Xuven while Pelmen’s heavy eyelids closed again.

When he awoke later in the day, Pelmen had recovered sufficient strength to get up and go to the kitchen to eat something in his uncle’s company. He did so diligently, while gathering and organizing his thoughts.

“It was you who found me yesterday?”

“You were lucky. In the future, when I tell you to do something, you must obey me, or find another master.”

“I couldn’t stay here with my arms folded. It was impossible.”

Xuven sighed, but his tone softened. “You have to learn to trust me and listen to me, my lad. If not, it’s not going to work out between us.”

“I’ll try,” Pelmen said. He studied his uncle with his gaze. “So, you just happened to be passing the place where you found me?”

“I knew you’d go to that sector again, because that was where you went the last time you saw your friend. When I found the shop closed in the evening and you were nowhere to be seen, I figured out immediately what you were doing and it seemed prudent to make sure that you hadn’t got into trouble. I know the reputation of the three taverns. Luck did the rest.”

“The people who attacked me… they were still there when you arrived?”

“They’d left you for dead. I had to hire a cart to bring you back.”

“I’m sorry. I guess you could say I’ve caused you a great deal of trouble.”

“Less than you might think. What have you learned?”

“Teleg talked to someone after my last meeting with him, on the night he vanished: a merchant.”

“The one named Komel?”

“The hevelen who gave me the information didn’t want to say any more. He fled. I was trying to catch him when I was attacked. But I hope to be able to find him again…”

Xuven raised a hand to silence him. “You won’t find him. I’ve already warned you not to underestimate the people organizing these disappearances.”

“Yes but…”

“Do you think they’re going to leave a trail, now that they know you’re looking for your friend? ‘It’s not when the sanrkhas catch your scent that you should track them,’ as the saying goes. Have you considered that the individuals who attacked you last night might have been the same ones who chased you earlier?”

“Now that you mention it, it’s a possibility, yes.”

“Which proves that your face is known. The best thing to do now is to keep a low profile, as if you learned your lesson. You need to be forgotten.”

“What about the tournament?”

“You’ve missed this year’s and the next one isn’t until the next Renewal.”

“Next Renewal!” The dream Pelmen had cherished during so many hard hours at the tannery, and every time he had gone to practice with the bow, fell into ruins. He passed his hand over his bruised face. “It’s just as I said,” he muttered, in a broken voice. “I make a mess of everything I undertake.”

“And you’ll continue to suffer setbacks as long as you allow yourself to be dominated by your emotions,” snapped Xuven. “If I’m not mistaken, Astar has given you the faculty of reasoning; it’s up to you to use it.”

Pelmen pursed his lips but made no other response.

“That said,” Xuven went on, “last night wasn’t a total failure. Your attempt at least shows us that Teleg hasn’t simply run away.”

“How does that help us?”

“It’s obvious: we know where to concentrate our efforts. For now, you have to get ready for another meeting, doubtless even more important than the tournament. Tomorrow afternoon, we’re going to the Sanctuary, where I’ve been granted an audience with the Tireless Traveler.”

Pelmen stared at his uncle in disbelief. An audience with an Aguerri, no less! At any rate, that explains why he went to the Sanctuary yesterday.

“Needless to say, it’s in your interest to make a good impression, and you won’t succeed with such a shabby looking face. Come with me.”

He went into the storeroom and came out carrying a small earthenware pot. “The balm it contains is rare and much sought-after,” he explained. “It comes from malanite territory, far beyond the Canyons. Sit still.”

His gestures were swift and precise. Soon, Pelmen had the sensation of wearing a mask whose velvet softness contrasted with the burning of his scars.

Xuven ordered him to stay in bed, or, at least, not to do anything strenuous for the rest of the day, but said it would be fine to go outside for a little fresh air.

The sky was bright yellow, without a cloud. The wind returned some color to him, but when he tried to venture onto a footbridge, he felt weak, and had to hold on to the parapet. The dizzying surroundings before his eyes drew him away, sucking him into the void.

His heart beating a death march, throwing himself backward, he turned his head, clinging to the reassuring sight of the shop. The banner of the Traveler was turned over against the frontispiece. His limbs still unsteady, he went back to his uncle’s room and took off his sandals. Contact with the silky sanrkhas-skin rug beneath his feet was pleasant. Without further ado, he let himself fall on to the galcyne down mattress.

Tiredness immediately overwhelmed him. Bitter thoughts and painful dreams mingled in indistinct fragments as his bruised face gradually absorbed the balm. When he woke up, the light had diminished. Although his thoughts had become clearer, Pelmen felt even weaker than before.

He heard splashing sounds in the next room. A little later, Xuven came into the room, his features taut but surrounded by the perfume of stainflowers and free of the day’s dust. “The meal’s ready,” he said.

They dined on smoked nidepoux meat and beans, washed down with beer. “Your face is still badly bruised,” Xuven remarked. “Come here—a second layer of the Healing Salve should be more effective.”

Pelmen allowed the rugged and forceful fingers to spread the balm. As soon as he could, he went outside to take in the coolness of the falling dusk. Numerous water carriers were supplying the dwellings and moving on, towing their carts filled with provisions. To the north he could see the contours of the recreation platform.

Pelmen wrinkled his nostrils. Having thought he had left his troubles behind in Durepeaux, he had collected more than his fair share. His attempts to make things better reminded him of the futile flopping of a fish out of water. His judgment was still clouded, and it was best, for the moment, to trust in his uncle’s.

Pelmen thought he would not be able to go to sleep for a long time, but the opposite occurred. As soon as he lay down, his eyelids closed and his breathing became regular.

When he woke up, his fingers told him the Healing Salve had been more effective than he could have hoped. No swelling remained—his lips had recovered their usual volume and his scars were already fading. Such effectiveness was almost a miracle.

A leather tunic, simply but elegantly tailored, was laid out on a trunk. It went well with his trousers.

“You look a lot better,” said Xuven, looking him up and down with an appreciative gaze. He was clad in a white necot tunic embroidered with undulating motifs almost granting him the appearance of nobility, unexpected in him, to say the least.

They set off for the Sanctuary of the Ten in the early afternoon. Pelmen was carrying a sculpted wooden box under his arm, a present from Xuven to the Traveler. After an initial stairway took them to the upper balcony, they went around the mountainside and went past several departure areas identified by banners, in which hunters were verifying the identity of Opulents claiming access to the baskets.

Xuven stopped in front of the symbol of a nidepoux cart. At a signal from the guard they went forward, and the hevelen gave two short pulls on a cord hanging down beside him.

They rose up, jerkily at first but then more smoothly.

“Does the hunter know you?” Pelmen asked, astonished at having been able to pass through so easily.

“It’s one of their functions. They couldn’t work here if they didn’t have a good memory for faces.”

Pelmen was torn between relief at not having to climb all the way up to the Sanctuary—he had not recovered completely from his injuries and prolonged effort made him feel ill—and the repugnance he experienced at thus inflicting extra work on the Disinherited committed to the windlasses.

I could be one of them. I was, not so long ago. Teleg became one of them, albeit by accident.

The basket swung gently at the whim of the wind and the tension imposed on the rope. When it reached the opening excavated in the rock of the Sanctuary, the muscular arms of the windlass operator in charge of reception hauled it in. Pelmen was glad to feel solid rock under his sandals again—it was far more reassuring than having to put his life in unknown hands.

He avoided looking directly at the windlass operators, fearful of allowing his compassion for them to show. To his surprise, the latter seemed to be in better shape than those he had seen during his first visit. One of them was raising the neck of a water-skin to his face; the glance he darted at him bore no trace of hostility or reproach, merely curiosity.

Guided by Xuven, who was moving at a swift pace, Pelmen walked away, ascending a gently sloping corridor. They came out on to a balcony that circled a vast enclosure open to the sky. Xuven pointed to a large round table of anthracite marble, surrounded by high-backed chairs. “That’s where the Ten meet to discuss current affairs.”

A little further on they went through a hall ornamented with stainflowers and climbing plants, reminiscent of a pleasure garden. Couples were conversing or strolling, taking advantage of the coolness and serenity of the place. Then they went along several corridors, went around a large staircase—which, Xuven said, led to the top of the Traveler’s tower—finally to reach the vestibule of the reception-room.

A servant clad in a robe in the gold, brown and ochre colors of his mistress came to ask their names. He asked them to wait while he announced their arrival. Soon, the double doors opened inwards, and the servant, bowing, gave them the signal to enter.

Pelmen’s lips rounded into an O of admiration. The throne, occupying the center of the room, was a magnificent shell elevated on a stage whose lower section of blue-tinted nacre was padded with brightly colored cushions. The Traveler was standing up to the side. Although she was not wearing any jewelry or other adornment, it was easy to distinguish her from her courtiers and servants. She alone wore a red robe, made of shiny and undulating fabric like none he had ever seen before. Of a supernatural purity, one could follow the contours of that veritable liquid fire without succeeding in fixing its form.

“If you continue to open your mouth like that your jaw will end up coming unhinged,” said Xuven, administering a slight nudge of the elbow to his nephew. The latter immediately sealed his lips, but his nostrils remained dilated and quivering.

As a signal of honor, the Traveler came toward Xuven, smiling, with no more ceremony than if he had been an old friend. The perfume surrounding her was more subtle than invasive. Every time Pelmen thought he had caught a fragrance, another came to take its place.

She held out her hands and Xuven squeezed them, bowing his head.

“My dear friend! Seeing you again fills me with pleasure. Your visits are all the more precious to me for being so rare.”

“That is indeed unpardonable, Your Highness. I have your interests so much at heart that I fail in my duty by not coming to render homage to you as often as I would like.”

“Well put, as if my interests were not also yours. Is it not so?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “And no ‘Your Highness’ between us, if you please. We’ve known one another long enough.” The Traveler’s gaze brushed Pelmen. “Who have you brought me, then?” Her face was artfully made up, and only a few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes indicated she was scarcely any younger than Xuven.

“I present to you my nephew, Pelmen. He has brought you a small testament of my esteem, which I hope will meet with your approval.”

Xuven nodded discreetly, and Pelmen held out the box to the Traveler. She opened it and unfolded a turquoise stole with the same sheen as the robe she wore. Delighted, she threw it over her shoulders and performed a graceful pirouette under the bewildered gazes of the assembly. Her neck was slightly inclined, as fluid and light as the wind.

“Malanite fabric!” she exclaimed. “And it’s of the finest quality, as usual. It would go better with another dress, but your taste is always exquisite, my friend. You have the gift of making me forget your lack of diligence.” Resting her long-lashed eyes on Pelmen, she added: “As for your nephew, why have you kept him hidden from me for so long?”

“Because,” he replied, “he only solicited my instruction a little while ago, when his age authorized him to choose his own path. In fact, I have recognized in him the talents of an apprentice, and I believe he will serve you well.”

“I have every confidence in you on that subject. But I’m impatient to pass on to the object of your visit. Your message intrigued me, I must admit. Would you like us to discuss it… in private?”

A shadow of a smile crossed Xuven’s lips as he bowed. When they began to move away Pelmen followed on their heels, but Xuven turned to him.

“Wait for us here.”

They disappeared behind a door hidden by a double curtain.

Pelmen was not alone in feeling deserted. Several of the courtiers were scowling or conversing with one another in whispers. Not daring to mingle with them, he decided to take a turn about the room.

The fascinating luminous crystals radiating inside the rock brought out the decoration that lent warmth and intimacy to the place. Vases with unusual forms and motifs, some of which reached shoulder height, were set at irregular intervals and looked totally in place. As her visitors doubtlessly brought her presents on a regular basis, the Aguerri must have disposed of far more exotic objects than the room contained.

Pelmen moved closer to some tall tapestries hung between wooden pilasters. They depicted “grayskins”, or malians—very strange beings living far beyond the Canyons, and even the Windy Steppes. One of the scenes showed them negotiating with hevelens. Some had two heads and four arms, as if they were two individuals standing back to back, except these composites only had one pair of legs. Others were only distinguished by their beardlessness and lanky appearance. They seemed friendly.

As Xuven was taking a long time to return, Pelmen sat down alone on a cushion. Some time passed while he wondered what the discussion might be about. It obviously concerned the disappearances, perhaps even that of Teleg. He hoped so, at any rate. What sort of relationship could there be between the Tireless Traveler and the Carpenter Emeritus?

The door behind the curtain opened and Xuven reappeared. When he reached his nephew, he turned toward the Aguerri, who had remained on the threshold, to bow more profoundly than he had done the first time. Pelmen did the same. On getting up, he had a feeling that it was to him the Traveler gestured with her hand.

As they set out on the return journey, Pelmen bombarded his uncle with questions.

“Not here,” said Xuven, tersely.

Once again they used the baskets to leave the Sanctuary, but once they were on the upper balcony Xuven ignored the route they had taken on the outward journey to continue around the perimeter of the mountain. A little further on they went down a staircase and then veered northwards. They were obviously not going back to the shop.

“Where are we going?” Pelmen enquired.

“To see an old friend. He and Selenice are on good terms, and I don’t think he’ll refuse her his aid. Listen carefully to what I say to him; it will save me the bother of having to repeat it.”

Xuven stopped in front of a cavity hollowed out of the rock, inside which a shop was lodged. Displayed prominently on the stone counter, various flints were arranged to attract the gaze of passers-by. One in particular was distinguished by its dark blue pigmentation. Master Galn had once told Pelmen about the existence of such stones, almost as rare as amberrock, with similar hardness and keenness.

Pelmen put out his hand. The flint was very hard but was heavier and less easily manipulable than amberrock.

“You’ve never seen one of those before, have you?”

Pelmen jumped, and dropped the flint. The voice was as sonorous as the echo of drums reverberating in a canyon. He raised his eyes toward its possessor, who emerged from the shadow… and then raised them a little higher. The unknown individual’s stature was massive. His red-brown skin, granular and rigid, was dotted with fragments similar to crystal spikes, longer around his shoulders than elsewhere. Even more alarming, no odor issued from him except that of stone and garments.

The giant wore an unusual costume: a red bandanna over his forehead, a leather tunic, a broad belt of the same material, attached to knee-length necot trousers. On him, however, those garments seemed to shout ‘disguise!’ He looked like he was capable of remaining supernaturally still, as if the rhythm of his life were less rapid than ordinary beings’.

He turned to Xuven.

“Welcome to the rock, my dear colleague. I wondered whether you’d end up paying me a visit.” The sonorous timbre of the voice rolled and resonated endlessly.

“It’s a privilege to greet you, Fekkar; I certainly wouldn’t have missed it.” Xuven’s voice was that of a child by comparison.

“I… you aren’t…” said Pelmen

The creature’s vitreous eyes, devoid of irises, turned toward him. Inside each one, an attentive white light could be distinguished.

“Like you?” Suddenly, the monster began to oscillate dangerously, while emitting a series of sounds more guttural than ever. Laughter? “No, I’m not like you, little one. How did you guess? Aren’t my clothes… similar enough?”

“Well, to tell the truth…” Pelmen remained astounded, contemplating him from head to toe.

“Do I understand you’re really asking to what sort of people I belong?” The question hung in the air for a few seconds. “It’s true that there’s not a lot of us nowadays.” There was a hint of regret in his tone. “The memory of the Western krongos is fading from the minds of the hevelens; soon, no trace of it will remain.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m sure I won’t soon forget you,” said Pelmen.

“That’s… kind.”

“Fekkar is a peddler,” said Xuven.

“That’s right,” said the krongos. “I travel in search of rare objects, and news.”

“I’ve brought you one, if not the other,” said Xuven. “This isn’t a simple courtesy visit.”

“What, then?”

Xuven lowered his voice. “Selenice has told me you are not unaware of the true mission entrusted to her brother, Stenlen Milempas.”

“That’s possible.”

“It happens that Selenice has chosen my nephew Pelmen and I to get in touch with Stenlen, and to offer him all the help he might need. The present situation demands it.”

“I see.”

Pelmen went from one surprise to another. Not only did Xuven have privileged communication with an Aguerri—an Aguerri!—but he was ready to offer his services to her brother! And he knew this being who smelled like stone into the bargain!

“We thought your assistance would be welcome,” Xuven concluded. “It would be an honor and a pleasure to travel again in your company.”

“Stenlen’s concerns are, in fact, also mine. Our objectives should, therefore, combine.”

“We need to set off tomorrow, as simple travelers, of course.”

“I recognize the hastiness of your people in that. Fortunately, most of my business here is complete.”

“We can count on you, then? Rendezvous shortly after dawn, at the exit from the tunnel?”

“Like the last time,” Fekkar confirmed.

Xuven bowed, in a manner as pronounced as the one he had employed before the Traveler, and then he and Pelmen turned around. Pelmen observed his uncle covertly, and was at the point of opening his mouth, but a negative shake of the head stopped him. He held his tongue, therefore, until they reached the shop.

“I thought you were just a tradesman,” Pelmen said, accusingly, once the door was closed.

“I’m a tradesman first and foremost—but travelers must also keep an eye on their interests. That’s why Selenice is able to entrust them with missions.”

“Fekkar… is he an ally?”

“Don’t be put off by his strange appearance. I don’t know of any friend more loyal than he.”

“And Stenlen Milempas… we’re going to look for him, is that right?”

Xuven nodded.

“His mission—what is it?”

“You’ve already guessed. He’s investigating the disappearances.”

“Where does he live?”

“Well… right now, he’s in the Windy Steppes, just this side of the river Hado.”

Pelmen went pale. In theory, he had known he might be obliged to leave the protective enclosure of the Canyons; he and Xuven had already discussed that. There was a big step, however, between a remote possibility and an imminent reality. To venture into the Steppes was to risk encountering wild beasts which made even the most experienced hunters recoil—not to mention the barbaric peoples who lived outside the Uncrossable Mountains.

“I… I don’t see the connection with the disappearances. They happen in cities and villages, no?”

“I don’t know any more than you do about the subject. That said, I have complete confidence in Stenlen. If he’s been led to establish himself in the Steppes, it’s not without good reason.”

“All this is so sudden. In any case, we can’t abandon Teleg! He must still be here, in Alveg.”

“There’s no proof of that. Don’t forget that, here, our enemies know we’re looking for them. They’ll be on their guard. Investigations have already been undertaken in Alveg, and have only run into a dead end. Stenlen, on the other hand, might have information to share. He’s someone who has contacts, and might save us a great deal of time.”

Pelmen rubbed his neck. “To go outside the Canyons… I need to let Alicene know, and my mother.”

“I’ll have messages sent to them by one of my colleagues here, after we’ve gone,” Xuven said. “I’ll tell them you’ve been obliged to leave Alveg to replenish our stocks of merchandise.”

Pelmen made no response.

“I don’t want to force you,” said Xuven. “If you wish, you can remain here during my absence. An archer like you would be useful to me, but if it’s too much to ask…”

“You won’t get rid of me so easily,” Pelmen cut in, shaking his head. He felt a shiver becoming imminent, but was able to suppress it.

They went to the major western platform, where Xuven bought a nidepoux team in exchange for sanrkhas tusks. Once again, Pelmen took note of his uncle’s fluency when it was a matter of talking up his products, coupled with his cunning in devaluing the goods in which he was interested.

The rest of the morning was spent loading merchandise into the cart. As Xuven explained, they had to look like simple travelers, in order not to attract attention. That way, their departure would seem natural. Some of the stock seemed very commonplace, but Pelmen’s uncle told him its value would increase in foreign lands. Once again he warned him about the dangers they would be confronting.

“From now on, we have to be able to count on one another,” Xuven said. “Our survival will likely depend on it.”

Pelmen was busy enough not to have time to think about anything but the task at hand, and it was not until the night fell, lying on his pallet, that he thought about Alicene.

How would she react to his departure? Would she stop being his friend? Would she be angry with him for abandoning her, in her hour of need? He had hoped…

No, it was foolish to start thinking along those lines. For good or bad, he had to take life day by day. His immediate future was entirely taken up by the expedition.

If our investigations put us on Teleg’s track, Alicene will understand. When I tell her who we’re dealing with, she’ll understand. May Aoles favor us in our quest!

The city awoke, magnified by the fires of Astar, whose immense sphere gradually devoured the line of the cloudless horizon. In front of the shop, Pelmen inspected the bric-à-brac carefully stowed inside the cart, which waited to be hitched up. That the vehicle had no sail had surprised him, but the reason was simple. In the Steppes, the wind was inconsistent, and blew in different directions—furthermore, veguer’en only grew there in the wild state. A mast and a sail would only weigh them down.

Pelmen checked his bow. For the first time, he felt invested in the mission of a hunter, and even though he had no official right to the title, the thought was comforting. He did not have to be terribly patient before his uncle reappeared, guiding the two nidepoux he had acquired by the bridle. At the sight of the quadrupeds, Pelmen congratulated himself on having coated himself with the linguilis grease furnished by Xuven before his departure. Although unpleasant, the odor would keep the lice at a distance.

He was unused to hitching up beasts of burden but, by following his uncle’s instructions, he succeeded in doing so without difficulty. To make sure nothing got lost along the way, it had been decided he would walk behind while they traversed the city. He began by positioning himself to the side and watched skeptically as the nidepoux weighed on their hooves and bent their backs under the burden. He was forced to admit, however, the animals’ plump appearance concealed an authentic musculature.

Creaking and groaning, the wheels began to turn and the rig moved off. Few hevelens were out at that hour, so Xuven had no difficulty in carrying out the maneuvers necessary to reach the subterranean galleries. By the sparse torchlight, they went down the sinuous slope. Pelmen felt his doubts welling up again. He was leaving Alicene alone and unarmed.

She’s adapted much better to her fate than her brother. She’ll be able to get through it, he repeated to himself for the hundredth time.

Beyond the exit of the tunnel, a small crowd had formed by the roadside. The curious thing was not so much Fekkar himself as his improbable rig. The cart he was perched in front of, equipped with stone wheels, was an intimate amalgam of wood and stone. Two creatures with enormous bodies lazily bore the harness. Covered with slabs of granite, their backs seemed flattened. Respectable molars garnished their mouths, and a double horn of stone topped their muzzles. Their long, ringed tails shifted from time to time, sweeping the space under the cart.

Pelmen looked up at his uncle, who saw his bewilderment and was amused by it.

“You’ve never seen their like? They’re melepeks, the krongos’ mounts. They don’t go very quickly, but their endurance is unmatched.”

His remark was scarcely out of his mouth when Xuven exchanged a salute with Fekkar, after which the latter emitted a sound so guttural the ground vibrated in response. The hooked hooves of the six feet of each melepek gripped the stony road. For a moment, Pelmen thought it was the ground that was being pushed backward and unrolled behind them while the animals remained stationary. The illusion was dissipated in the blink of an eye, and Pelmen realized the crowd had moved out of the way.

He hurried to climb up beside Xuven, while his uncle guided the nidepoux alongside Fekkar’s rig. The mass of the colossus and his cart full of goods made Pelmen feel his own insignificance. When he turned round, he was astonished to see the stone wheels were not creating ruts as they went along.

They progressed at an inconstant speed. Every time they went around a veguer’en, Xuven’s cart took the lead, for the nidepoux surged forward under the increased force of the breath of Aoles. Afterward, Xuven gave the quadrupeds a rest, which permitted Fekkar to catch up. Pelmen took advantage of one of those moments of respite to ask his uncle what the krongos were.

“They’re the people of the rock, the builders. They’ve existed since time immemorial. Their race was at the height of its glory before Aoles even gave life to the Primal Ten—the Aguerris from whom we descend. It was the krongos who built Alveg and Seledcha.”

Pelmen could not hide his surprise. “Really? How is that possible?”

“Have you never wondered why the doors of the dwellings in Alveg are so large, and the steps of the staircases so steep? The krongos built Alveg for our benefit, and to simplify the task they conceived its architectural elements in intermediate dimensions.”

“Why was that done?” Pelmen’s tone betrayed more bitterness than confusion. Learning that the most considerable constructions in the Canyons were the work of strangers contradicted what he had thought to be certain knowledge. Intuitively, however, he knew Xuven was telling the truth. He had seen hevelens constructing buildings in wood or baked earth but never working in rock.

“A blood debt. Our people were exhausted when Panjurub’s algam led them to the Canyons—and for good reason. In lending our collaboration to the war against the armies of the four valnys, the demons of Valshhyk the Immolated, we had paid a heavy price. To show their gratitude, the krongos built our two principal cities, as well as the Gate we’ll go through tomorrow. The Aguerris of that epoch had sworn an oath of fidelity to the krongos, whose representatives could visit us whenever they wished. They were welcomed then.”

“They’re not anymore?”

“You can see how it is today. Fekkar excites curiosity at best, dread at worst, in most of our people.”

From the corner of his eye, Pelmen saw the krongos drawing nearer. He asked one final question. “Why do we see so little of his species? They aren’t as numerous as in the time when they built our cities, are they?”

“It would take too long to explain, but you’re right, the krongos are in decline. And if you want to question our friend on that subject, I advise you to tread lightly. It’s a touchy subject for him.”

Pelmen contemplated the giant. The crystal shards on his shoulders were shining with the fires of Astar. It was difficult to imagine anything could hurt him.

Deserted to begin with, the rocky defile gradually filled in with hevelens on foot or riding nidepoux. Xuven adopted a policy of remaining in front of Fekkar’s cart in order to permit sail-carts to pass.

When Astar was at his zenith, they went past the junction of the side road leading to Durepeaux. Pelmen felt his heart contract, but he kept his lips sealed. Dryna was so close… as for Mils, if he had survived, perhaps he was frolicking not far away. However, the ptat had probably already forgotten him…

Then there was his father, at the tannery. So many memories, sordid or precious, between Durepeaux and Falsine…

Dryna did not deserve to be left behind for so long without a word of farewell, but no good would come of seeing her again now.

I’ll come back. And perhaps you, at least, will be proud of your son…

Some distance further on, the canyon broadened out and Xuven stopped the nidepoux alongside the wall. There they rested, dipping economically into the expedition’s food supplies. The dried meat was tough, and Pelmen’s jaws soon began to ache. Fekkar also ate, but when Pelmen looked more attentively at what he was eating he could only see a brown sludge looking utterly indigestible.

The krongos absorbed his food with very little chewing, and then picked up a spatula and mortar in which he began to mix a brown powder with water. That accomplished, he transferred the contents to his bowl and resumed swallowing. When he noticed Pelmen’s curiosity his expression altered slightly but it was impossible to determine whether he was offended or amused.

The afternoon passed without incident. Pelmen, who had put his bow and quiver down behind him, allowed himself to be lulled by the progress of the nidepoux, only becoming a little more animated when he felt the wind blowing more vigorously on his back.

In the evening, they went past the fertile regions of Lake Subelin and turned northwards. The somber mass of the Uncrossable Mountains was much nearer and more oppressive when they stopped for the night. Xuven and Fekkar exchanged a few words once the nidepoux had been fed and the makeshift camp set up. They talked about past expeditions and common memories, which did not interest Pelmen much. To relieve his lower back, aching because of the discomfort of the cart, he lay down and made himself as comfortable as possible in his nidepoux fur. The next day, he did not feel much rested when he awoke from slumber. He was chewing a biscuit sulkily when his gaze was attracted by the irregular—and familiar—outline of the rock whose shadow sheltered him.

There was an inexplicable movement.

The wall suddenly came to life and was animated. Astounded, Pelmen would have thought he was having an absurd nightmare if he had not recognized the white gleam of eyes previously hidden behind eyelids of stone.

“Your rock is welcoming, cool and restful. I like it here,” Fekkar commented, in his booming voice. As he finished detaching himself, his skin resumed its original red-brown color. Behind him, the melepeks were stirring in their turn, and their epidermis changed from ochre back to gray.

Pelmen wondered at first, angrily, whether the krongos might have been trying to frighten him—if that had been his intention then he had certainly succeeded, judging by the frantic beating of his heart—however, Fekkar’s attitude, devoid of malice, ended up convincing him otherwise.

The nidepoux had recovered their strength, so the three companions did not take long to resume their marching. On the way, they met several convoys of travelers. Seeing barrels inside one of the carts, Pelmen wondered about their real contents. Burning as his curiosity was, he could not undertake a search. The Tireless Traveler’s mandate was not official—it was a matter, as Xuven reminded him in a whisper, of not awakening suspicion.

It was not until Astar had started to descend toward the horizon that the outlines of the Gate appeared. For a long time, they moved toward it, and what had seemed at the start to be a modest circular slab framed by the mountains, little by little appeared to them in a different light. The edifice of smooth rock was the largest Pelmen had ever seen, much higher and wider than the Sanctuary of the Ten. The last doubts he had regarding the krongos’ involvement evaporated. A structure of such magnitude simply could not have been built by his fellow hevelens. The rock had to be hollowed out in some places, because loopholes had been pierced all the way through the central axis of the sphere.

When they arrived they heard the muffled sounds of hevelens straining under the effort, and then there was a click. Then the scraping of stone caused the ground to vibrate, and echoed in the distance. The central axis shifted, causing an excavated section to appear, which opened to a narrow passage in the side. Hunters emerged armed with axes of dark blue flint, bows and thorns.

Xuven asked Pelmen to present some nidepoux skins he had brought for the occasion to their leader, a thickset individual with a vigilant expression.

The gift was accepted. Fekkar remained a little way behind and nothing was asked of him.

The guards disappeared with their fee into the tunnel from which they had come and, a few seconds later, groans and rumbles were heard again. There was another click, and the axis of the sphere tilted forwards. This time, the hollow section revealed a plain so vast the eye could see no end to it, invaded by blue lichens from which sunset shadows extended.

Without delay, but also without excessive haste, Xuven and Fekkar maneuvered their carts into the tunnel. While the wind dug into his back, Pelmen measured the thickness of the wall. His respect for the krongos increased further.

They emerged on the other side and, with a noise that sounded like the end of the world, the central sphere closed behind them. Loopholes defended that side too.

Pelmen and his companions did not stay there for long. They went on into the Windy Steppes.

Chapter Eight - IN THE STEPPES

The plains of short, dry grass extended on forever. Contemplating them, Pelmen felt dizzy. For the first time in his life nothing stood in his way. It would be so easy to get lost in the vastness, with only a few stunted trees to provide reference points...

“Better pick up your bow,” said Xuven.

Pelmen jumped, startled. More by virtue of reflex than will, he obeyed. His hand settled on the curve of slender wood, and his sense of smell went in search of the familiar aroma of thorny cactus, separating them from the unfamiliar odors floating in the air. With great effort, he was able to quash panic which was threatening to engulf him. His uncle had not asked him to pick up his weapon on a whim—they were no longer sheltered from predators going forward.

With such a clear field of vision, I’ll see the danger a long way off. I just need to remain vigilant.

He had just begun to draw up a list of the wild beasts of which he had heard mention when Xuven interrupted his train of thought. “We came through the Gate too easily,” he said. “Did you notice they didn’t search our carts?”

Fekkar agreed with a guttural syllable. The krongos took the lead, using brief sonorous injunctions to guide his melepeks through the grass. The path they took must have been an ancient road, for most of the ochreonces and ortalies were growing along its sides. The stinging or prickly plants that had dared to invade it were remorselessly trampled down by the melepeks. The path only curved to avoid a rock or a dip in the ground.

When night fell, Xuven instructed Pelmen to set up camp before disappearing behind some dead trees.

Fekkar had not chosen the place at random. A half-buried rock surged from the ground, isolated on the plain. He set his back to it and rapidly became no more than an inert mass, a sculpture with an unrecognizable face. Pelmen wondered whether he might not have passed close by a rock of that kind in the Canyons in the past without guessing its true nature.

The melepeks closed their eyelids in their turn. They were easily detectable, not being in contact with the rock.

Xuven came back after a brief interval. He picked up two calabashes and led Pelmen to a good-sized cactus growing at the bottom of a slope. Although its appearance differed from those in the Canyons, it nevertheless possessed similar thorns. “You see these swellings,” said Xuven, pointing out various bulges in the lower part of the trunk. “They contain reserves of water in an almost pure state. It’s sufficient to get rid of these thorns and then cut into it to collect it.”

They set themselves to the task, and Pelmen put the thorns he cut off with his flint to one side.

“The cuts don’t need to be very deep,” Xuven advised. “Stop at this level.” He used his index finger to show Pelmen what he meant.

“Why?”

“Even in the Steppes, there are rules. To extract water from above that level would be fatal to the cactus in short order. If we killed it, the next travelers would have to make a detour, and so would we if we came this way again.”

The water began to run into the containers. Pelmen made several trips in order to water the nidepoux. In the meantime, Xuven occupied himself with the gourds and prepared the meal. It was frugal. Cereal seemed to be a prime ingredient, and it reminded him of the unpleasantly drab everyday fare in Durepeaux. It made Pelmen miss the food in Alveg.

An oppressive silence hung in the air. Pelmen ate without saying a word, and lay down in the soft, warm fur Dryna had given him.

In the light of Tinmal and Hamal the gigantic silhouette of the Uncrossable Mountains was outlined. Pelmen imagined himself in the place of Relven Panjurub, leaving his people behind, braving danger to follow the algam in search of a hypothetical way through the mountains. His despair must have been great to have resorted to such an extreme measure! And yet, he had succeeded. Alone, he had given his people back their faith in the future.

Xuven’s breathing had become regular. Fekkar, for his part, was not making any perceptible noise. Pelmen could only envy the krongos’ peacefulness, while he never stopped tossing and turning. The world beyond the Canyons was so vast! And so strange...

It was difficult to dispel the malaise and the sense of insecurity induced by the wide open space. We’re probably not running any risk so close to the Gate, or Fekkar and Xuven wouldn’t be sleeping so confidently.

The fresh night wind tickled his nostrils. He knew he needed sleep, but instead of slumber he had to content himself with a vague drowsiness. It was, therefore, looking and feeling haggard and with drooping eyelids that he spent the following morning.

Maintaining the role of vigilant escort was becoming more difficult. The rest he allowed himself for the midday meal break was too short, so that in the early afternoon his head was nodding. His uncle elbowed him in the ribs, waking him up with a start.

“You need to adapt more rapidly, my boy, if you want to survive this excursion. What you need is to really tire yourself out, and what both of us need is fresh nourishment. Fekkar, as you’ve noticed, has his own means of sustenance.” He embraced the horizon with an ample gesture. “Go on ahead and bring us back some good meat. Only use your thorns judiciously.”

“But… I’ve never hunted!” protested Pelmen, stunned.

“You’d never been a tradesman before starting work in the shop. Don’t waste time arguing, just go and try to improve our diet.”

Pelmen had no choice but to do as requested. By Aoles, Teleg, why do I always have to save your skin?

Fekkar’s cart was progressing at a moderate pace, and it was not difficult to overtake it. The colossus waved to him and his voice appeared to emanate from a cavern. “Good hunting.”

Although most of the grass only grew to ankle height, Pelmen was careful where he put his feet. The plants with white-streaked, dark brown leaves known as ortalies also grew in the Canyons, and he had already been stung by them.

He removed his bow from his shoulder. As far as he could see there were no undulations save those induced by the wind. Nor was there any animal odor except those of his uncle—who had also coated himself with linguilis grease that morning—and the nidepoux.

Pelmen began exploring, sniffing as he went, getting further and further away from the carts without wandering too far from the trail. Even so, when Astar finished his descending curve, he was obliged to admit failure. The only thing he succeeded in surprising was a ptat. Standing up on its hind legs, unconscious of his presence, the rodent had its back to him and he could easily have taken aim at it, but he had refrained from doing so.

When he returned empty-handed, Xuven frowned.

“You should have shot the ptat. Meager fare, but better than an empty stomach.”

Pelmen turned pale, but had to admit his uncle was right. Their survival could not be measured against that of rodents, even if the latter were attached to cherished memories.

After they had calmed their hunger by dipping into their reserves again, Pelmen asked Xuven where Stenlen Milempas had chosen to take up residence.

“He and his apprentice live on the edge of a tri-fold wood southeast of the Hado. It’s a long way off yet.”

On the third day after leaving the Canyons, the wind changed. Pelmen, who had felt it blowing from the east throughout his life, was disturbed by that. His orientation was altered, as if Aoles, gripped by madness, had lost his sense of direction. Anguish must have been visible in his features because Xuven spoke to him in a reassuring tone.

“That kind of change is normal here. Open yourself up and feel the wind as you did in the Canyons. Learn to make use of the odors it conveys. In the beginning, of course, it will betray your presence—that’s inevitable—but if you trust your instinct, after a little while, you’ll be able to deduce the next direction it will take. From then on you’ll be able to move in such a way as to avoid your odor reaching any beast you’re tracking.”

The underlying message was crystal clear. Pelmen nodded his head and got down from the cart. It was necessary to hunt more successfully than the day before, in even more difficult conditions. He had slept better though and, although his limbs were weary, he was beginning to get used to the Steppes and their naked horizon.

This time he went further ahead of the two rigs, although, fortunately, Fekkar’s shape rendered him visible from a long way off. Carefully, he searched the ground for the tracks of game. He sniffed the air and tried to apply his uncle’s recommendations, without success. Was he so easily detectable that animals of every kind of fur and plumage would evade him forever?

He focused on the buzzing of an insect. The sound was not only annoying but synonymous with danger. Dryna had warned him about zeanongs, whose feet, terminating in suckers, could release a paralytic. If too many of the flying insects spread it over your skin, you would sink into unconsciousness, and wake up without the slightest memory.

Pelmen looked around in vain. His anxiety increased as the buzzing came nearer. He raised his head, and in spite of the blinding disk of Astar, finally made out the zeanong. Then it changed course, its red-furred body veering off rapidly. Aware that he was taking a risk, Pelmen decided to follow it. With luck, the insect would lead him to the tumulus where it and its fellows were housed, and where they stored the wax they manufactured.

A penetrating sugary odor invaded his nostrils. He increased his pace and soon an unexpected spectacle was offered to him. An ovoid plant of large proportions deployed its envelope of white petals dotted with orange and garnet. That was where the perfume was coming from, which became more intoxicating as the corolla opened wider. The style, now visible, was glistening with the nectar that was making Pelmen’s nostrils palpitate. He had almost forgotten the zeanong, which was now approaching the style in a decreasing spiral. The insect landed on it, and immediately began sucking up the desired substance with the aid of its trunk.

Cilia, which Pelmen had not noticed at first, unwound from slits in the flower. They leaned over the insect’s back as if they wanted to caress it. When the zeanong, sated, tried to fly away, it was firmly held in place, in spite of its hectic buzzing.

Slightly sickened, Pelmen turned away from the carnivorous plant in order to go hunting further away.

He had not taken fifteen paces when frantic footfalls caused him to turn around, a thorn notched to his bowstring, ready to shoot. A crenelated double corolla, pale green in color, streaked with pink, had surged forth from where there had previously been nothing. The quadruped to which the footfalls belonged came to a stop in front of the vegetable, in such a way Pelmen could not see anything but its muzzle from the place where he stood. On the other hand, he could clearly make out the animal’s four redoubtable tails, equipped with bristling spikes, and the green fur of its supple body, designed for running.

Pelmen was able to benefit from more than a small advantage. The overwhelmingly sweet perfume of the plant flooded the immediate area, so there was no risk of the animal catching his own scent. He took three steps in order to get a better angle from which to aim. A flattened muzzle dominated his prey’s narrow mouth. The animal was busy with its own affairs, its agile tongue running over the stem to return laden with nectar. The cilia surged forth to seize the intruder, but not rapidly enough, so swiftly and easily did it move away.

The petals hindered his view, but Pelmen did not want to take the risk of moving again. He released the bowstring, which emitted a clear and vibrant twang. The animal was hurled backward, lashing the air with its tails, the thorn stuck in its flank. Had Pelmen been any closer, he would have been severely lacerated. His breath short, he notched a second thorn.

His prey must have sensed the danger for, at the moment he released his dart, it bounded to one side and then made off. It ran so rapidly one might have believed Aoles was riding it. During the few seconds when it was still within range, in spite of all the strength he put into drawing his bow, Pelmen missed. He had not anticipated its course well enough. Swallowing a curse, he launched himself forward to give chase.

“Stop there! Don’t move!”

It was Xuven, whose approach from behind had gone unnoticed.

“I’ve wounded it!” Pelmen pointed the tip of his thorn at the quadruped, already reduced to an almost indistinguishable dot on the steppe. “It will tire more quickly and then I’ll have it.” His auburn eyes sparkled with a poorly-suppressed gleam.

“It’s dangerous out there. There are sanrkhas.”

“What sanrkhas? How do you know?”

“I know—trust me. The sanrkhas will take care of the steppe-runner, and in the meantime, we’ll make a detour and remain undisturbed.”

“But that’s not fair!” Pelmen shook his head. “That prize is ours.”

“The runner would have taken you too far afield. Better that the sanrkhas occupy themselves with it, rather than with us.”

Heavy clouds with dark green tints piled up during the afternoon. Xuven went away from time to time, handing over the reins to Pelmen. On returning from one of these explorations he announced that they had passed out of the danger zone and could return to the trail.

That evening, rain fell, washing the accumulated dust off them. Pelmen rejoiced in it at first, but as the ground beneath the nidepoux’s hooves gradually turned to mud, he was obliged to take off his sandals and get down, cursing his bad luck, in order to lend the animals a hand.

It was, therefore, with the pitiful expression of a damp ptat that he lay down underneath Fekkar’s cart. The only sustenance he had in his stomach was a few trana roots Xuven had dug up, which they had sliced up with flints. The roots had the property of restoring vigor, but not of calming hunger.

In the morning of the following day, Pelmen discovered several rodent burrows. It required several hours of patience before a ptat extended the tip of its muzzle, but then he shot it almost without remorse. He brought his meager booty back to find Fekkar and Xuven in conference, seemingly preoccupied.

“What’s the matter?”

Xuven turned toward him. “We’re being followed. Perhaps it’s a matter of chance, but the hevelens behind us are gaining ground and should catch up with us this evening.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“Of course not.” In response to Pelmen’s intrigued gaze, Xuven shrugged his shoulders. “Aoles responds to those who know how to question him.”

Pelmen sniffed the air with deep breaths, striving to filter out the slightest olfactory nuances. The odors were numerous, but none belonged to any hevelens other than his uncle and himself. If he was telling the truth, his uncle must possess a highly developed sense of smell.

Strangely, Fekkar had a gleam dancing in his eyes and the fissure of his mouth almost seemed to be smiling.

“We’re going to clarify the matter,” said Xuven, curtly. “Fekkar, do you agree that we should leave the trail again and blaze a new one?”

The krongos nodded his head.

“If they continue to follow us, we can prepare a welcome for them,” Xuven declared.

In spite of the vegetation off the main trail, the imperturbable melepeks continued to march with the same rhythm. The nidepoux followed them without complaint, which reassured Pelmen to begin with. When he saw the furrows left by the carts, however, his relief diminished.

As he had done while they crossed the sanrkhas’ territory, Xuven turned the reins over to his nephew in order to leave. Pelmen asked Fekkar what his uncle had gone to do. The krongos contented himself with shaking his head and making no reply. Although he seemed thoughtful, there was no indication he was unduly anxious.

Xuven came back, slipping up behind the cart when Pelmen was not expecting it, as usual, and then hoisting himself up beside him with unexpected vigor for someone of his age. Although his features remained taut, it was in a controlled voice that he spoke, addressing himself to his nephew as well as to Fekkar. “They’re still behind us and they’ll catch up with us soon. Fifteen individuals.”

“Fifteen!” said Pelmen. “What are we going to do, if they’re enemies?”

“We’re going to stop, as if we’re making camp for the night,” Xuven replied. “I have a plan.”

***

Lying some distance from the carts, behind a mound of earth and stones, Pelmen waited, a thorn notched, on tenterhooks. Would the wind, which was incessantly changing direction, reveal their presence? Fortune would decide that. Alas, the benevolent Goddess Tinmal was not showing herself in the starry firmament. Only Hamal was illuminating the outlines of the carts with her green-tinted light.

Although Xuven was not optimistic, the people following them might not have evil intentions. It would not be long before they found out.

Pelmen shivered. Behind him Xuven was chanting, in a language whose sounds were familiar but whose significance escaped him, in a low and grave voice. Since he knew the truth, Pelmen was as expectant as he was fearful of that kind of demonstration. His uncle was displaying a twisted piece of wood of an unknown variety, which would scarcely have merited a glance if compact currents of air had not perpetually surrounded it. Xuven had produced it from under the folds of his toga while contemplating the horizon behind the carts, before making a sign to his nephew to go on ahead of him to their observation post. If the tales of shamans of Aoles versed in the mysteries of the wind could be trusted, those so-called gnarled wands were among their attributes.

So many distant, legendary things have become real lately—but to think that my own uncle might be a shaman!

Dizzying as the discovery might be, this was not the time to think about it. He knew Xuven would not have revealed his secret if the danger had not had every chance of being real. As the chant drew to a conclusion, the nocturnal air currents glided around Pelmen, brushing him and tickling him like so many mischievous snakes.

Amazed, he lay there open-mouthed. “What are you doing?” he whispered, half turning round.

Xuven signaled to him to shut up. He had just stuck his wand in the ground, between the two of them. “I’m dispersing our odors,” he murmured. “We’ll have to rely upon our eyes to detect the approach of our pursuers, but at least Aoles won’t notify them of our presence.”

Pelmen realized that he was, indeed, isolated now from the fragrances of the steppe, the air-currents around him forming a kind of barrage. He shivered, and his heart began to beat more forcefully in his breast, for he found himself in a fog, without his sense of smell to guide him.

And yet, he reasoned, it’s entirely the opposite. Sheltered from view behind his bush, he was almost undetectable, and had a better chance of surprising others than being discovered by them.

He had only just continued scanning the plain when he saw them. They were only shadowy silhouettes, but they stood out against the light of Hamal. They would soon be within bowshot. The hevelens were carrying spears or flints, when they did not have barbed objects—sanrkhas fists. They were moving in loose formation and weren’t taking any precautions, confident in their number. Yes, there must be about fifteen of them in total.

When they reached the edge of the camp, they slowed down and tightened their grip on their weapons. Most of them seemed astonished to find no sign of life, but one of them, armed with an ax, suddenly leapt up into Xuven’s cart. There he lifted the lid of a small barrel, which he held up, shouting at the top of his voice. In spite of his strange accent, Pelmen understood he was claiming the prize.

“I’ll take care of him,” Xuven said. “Aim at one of the others. Don’t fire until I give the signal.”

Doing his best to forget that he had never had a hevelen for a target before, Pelmen opted for a fat one, grateful for the fact that at this distance he was unable to see his face.

A little further on, at the edge of his vision, a second rogue became brave enough to climb into Fekkar’s cart. The pillage was about to begin.

As soon as Xuven took the wand out of the ground, the air currents around it were interrupted. He pointed it at the intruder on the cart. “Halneven!”

The wand vibrated internally. Pelmen very briefly saw the contours of a spherical form at its tip. An eye-blink later, the thing had disappeared. The individual with the ax had just taken possession of what must have been a necklace. He did not have a chance to make off with it. A spasm traveled the entire length of his body, and he collapsed.

Pelmen’s eyes widened.

“Your target! Concentrate on your target!”

Xuven seemed furious, and Pelmen blushed under the reproach. He obeyed without question, drawing back his bowstring…

“Go!”

He released the dart, which flew into the night.

Like his companions, the broad-shouldered hevelen had frozen when his accomplice had been stricken. He stupidly watched the inert body and, at first, did not appear to feel the oblong thorn burrow into his arm. It was a moment or two later before he uttered a roar, turned in a complete circle and closed his hand over the projectile.

“A thorn! Someone’s shooting at us!”

At that very same moment, the hevelen who had climbed into Fekkar’s cart was seized by a powerful hand. The stone colossus, who had been hiding in the shadows and biding his time, had raised himself up to his full height. Time seemed to stand still and all eyes turned to him. His profound, almost sepulchral voice rose into the air: “YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS HERE!”

Hurled like a rag doll, Fekkar’s victim crashed into one of his companions below.

Panicking, the hevelens howled in terror and fled in all directions, bumping into one another as if they had lost their minds. None had the courage to stand firm.

Terrified, the nidepoux whinnied and struggled, tugging on the bridles by which they were tethered, threatening to break free. Fekkar got down from his cart and headed for the animals, without paying any further attention to the last of the fugitives, who redoubled their efforts to get as far away as possible. The krongos was emitting sounds even deeper than usual. The nidepoux pricked up their ears, then calmed down. The melepeks had remained imperturbable, as if all the agitation was no concern of theirs.

Pelmen emerged from his hiding place, a cry of triumph on his lips. The victory had been much quicker than he had expected. The plan made by Xuven had unfolded perfectly, Fekkar having thrown panic into the hearts of the enemy at the decisive moment. Pelmen ran toward the krongos, grateful to have him in his camp.

“There you are, archer! Your miserable skull will end up as pulp!”

Pelmen’s blood froze in his veins. The voice came from the shadows of Xuven’s cart. An instant later, a club brandished in two hands eclipsed Hamal. The attacker’s face was still hidden by the shadows, but his bald head was tinted green by the moonlight.

“Look out!”

He barely heard his uncle’s voice, such was his terror, and Pelmen found himself paralyzed by fear, staring mutely at the enemy while a part of his mind, strangely detached, noted that one of the thickly-muscled arms—blood was pearling there—was slowing down the other.

Ultimately it was the part of him that was insensitive to emotion which took charge of his movements, causing him to grab a thorn from his quiver with a gesture so swift he could never have carried it out consciously, notch it, draw the string and release it. It felt like an eternity, however in reality, only a fraction of a second had gone by, and the club had not yet begun its downward trajectory when the dart neatly pierced the aggressor’s throat.

Slumping to his knees in his dying moments, futile as it was, the large hevelen tried to reach for the projectile. A horrible gurgle was followed by bloody hiccups, and then he slowly fell sideways, as if he were going to sleep with his eyes open.

He did not move again.

Xuven placed his warm hand on Pelmen’s shoulder. Pelmen was beyond words and it was only as he looked into the man’s lifeless eyes that he realized what he had done. Gripped by disgust and self-loathing, he leaned his forehead against Xuven’s breast. His uncle patted him on the back and whispered. “There, there… pull yourself together… it’s all right, my boy, it’s all right. It was him or you… him or you.”

Beyond comfort, Pelmen tore himself away from his uncle’s grip and, like a sleepwalker, headed toward the middle of the encampment, ignoring Fekkar, who was also watching him worriedly.

I spent hours practicing for that? I stretched myself to the limit for that? For that?

He did not even realize that he was sitting among the lichens when Xuven came to snap him out of his trance.

“Drink, lad.”

The liquid was bitter and heady: beer.

“Why?” said Pelmen, his jaw clenched. “Why didn’t he run away like the others?”

“Living beings react differently to pain,” said Xuven. “You’d wounded him in the arm. He saw red and had nothing left but his hatred and desire for vengeance. Fekkar’s demonstration only made him cautious, and he hid in our cart, waiting for his moment.”

“Alone against three of us… he had no chance!”

“Intelligence must not have been his foremost quality.”

Pelmen sniffed and then pointed at the body of the first brigand put out of the fight. “Is he dead too?”

“Unconscious. Fekkar and I will take turns watching him. He’ll have things to say when he wakes up. For your part, try to get some sleep, or at least rest.”

The image of the dying hevelen, his throat pierced and his eyes shocked, haunted Pelmen every time he closed his eyes, so he tried to stay awake. However, in the middle of the night, exhaustion claimed him and he sank into a troubled sleep.

The fresh breeze of the dawn woke him up. The lichens of the steppe were undulating in the wind as far as the eye could see and, in the distance, the first fires of Astar were setting the horizon ablaze. The day promised to be ironically beautiful.

At the periphery of the camp, the earth had been recently shifted.

That’s where they’ve buried him.

In spite of the efforts made by his uncle and Fekkar to be discreet, Pelmen had heard them digging. He suppressed the nausea threatening to make him throw up the meager contents of his stomach. When he turned to the prisoner it was without any friendly feeling that he studied him. He had woken up too and was standing up beneath Fekkar’s gaze. His ribs protruding and dressed in rags, he would have evoked pity but for the malevolent glint in his eyes.

Without waiting for Xuven to wake up, Pelmen advanced toward him. He had left his bow with his blanket, but he had his flint in his belt, which he covered with his hand.

“Who are you?”

The hevelen looked him up and down, and Pelmen momentarily thought he would not get a response.

“I no longer have a name.” He spoke slowly and his voice was hoarse—he must have been thirsty.

“No name? What clan do you belong to?”

A mocking gleam flickered in the prisoner’s gaze, but this time he remained silent. Fekkar nodded his head toward Xuven, who had risen to his feet, yawning as if to unhinge his jaw. Xuven approached them unhurriedly.

“The introductions have been made? No?” Xuven looked the prisoner in the face. “Judging by your appearance, you’re a Banished, aren’t you? No point in feigning indifference, your reaction tells me I’m right.” His lips pursed disdainfully, in a fashion Pelmen had not seen before. “Business doesn’t seem to be flourishing for you and your kind lately...”

The prisoner clenched his fists hard enough to make the knuckles white. “Bah!” he said, finally. “If your hunters,” he spat on the ground, “didn’t chase us like sanrkhas, we wouldn’t be forced to go after people like you to survive. Isn’t it bad enough they threw us out of the Canyons?”

“So you and your friends are white galcynes, and the world has conspired against you?” said Xuven, sarcastically. “You’ve been banished for good reasons, it seems to me. If you attack convoys, what’s more natural than keeping things in order…?”

“Even if we go straight and stay away from caravans, the hunters come after us.”

Faced with Xuven’s unconvinced expression, the Banished let his resentment explode. “What about you? Since when do you consort with these… these stone giants? Since when do you serve the flames?” The hevelen displayed his forearm. From the elbow to the wrist, his skin had the characteristic pallor left by passing through fire.

Pelmen’s eyes widened. “You’ve encountered a crimson shaman?” he exclaimed. “How long ago?”

The Banished shut up, as if he were determined not to reveal anything more, but when Fekkar stepped forward he recoiled and stammered: “It was… it was last season.”

Pelmen examined him. There was nothing about his demeanor to suggest that he was lying. “Have you and your band attacked other carts recently? Any transporting barrels that should have contained beer? With Disinherited aboard?”

“Nothing… nothing like that. You’re the first we’ve encountered for several moons.”

He might be trying to protect the crimson shaman and his acolytes, Pelmen thought.

Nevertheless, save for terror, the Banished did not appear to have any motive for doing that. Although deceptive, what he said tended to confirm hevelens like Komel and his allies were traveling through the Steppes.

Xuven did not seem to doubt the prisoner’s sincerity, who refused to give them his name in spite of his fear. By way of breakfast, Xuven permitted him to quench his thirst and even gave him a slice of a veguer biscuit, which the hevelen devoured. “If you want to live, you need to make yourself useful,” he told him. “My nephew isn’t well-versed in the art of hunting. You can teach him.”

Pelmen shot a puzzled glance at his uncle.

“Nevertheless, take care that you do not betray us. Remember, wherever you are, I can strike you down before you even know what’s happening.” Xuven caressed the gnarled wand.

The hevelen shivered on seeing the air currents agitating the surface of the rod. “I’ll do it,” he muttered, lowering his eyes and feeling the bump on the back of his neck. “But I’ll need my ax for that.”

“Out of the question. Pelmen’s bow and thorns will suffice.”

The prisoner emitted a grunt of disappointment. “Best start now,” he sighed, “if you want to fetch anything for the midday meal.”

“Go that way,” Xuven said, pointing in a south-westerly direction. He drew nearer to Pelmen to whisper in his ear: “Have no fear. I won’t be far behind.”

Reluctantly, Pelmen went to pick up his weapons. He beckoned to the prisoner and they both left the camp and headed in the direction his uncle had indicated.

Once they were out of earshot, Fekkar said to Xuven: “Aren’t you putting your nephew at risk? What if the rest of the gang tries to get the Banished back?”

“No risk after the rout they’ve suffered. They’ll remember it for a long time, and you’re worth a great many of them. And as you must know, the Banished have no clan spirit, no loyalty to each other.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I want to keep Pelmen from thinking too much. There’s nothing like a dangerous situation to keep his nostrils flared.”

Pelmen never took his eyes off the prisoner, who was walking in a relaxed way, unworried by the gaze weighing upon him. If the hevelen had wanted to allay his suspicions, he would act no differently. The other was smaller and thinner than he was, but the way he moved told Pelmen he was used to the steppes.

Where was he taking him? Toward his friends? As he learned by a glance behind him, Xuven was following them at seemingly too great a distance. In the face of several adversaries, the chance that his magic could protect him seemed slim at best.

His magic… the questions Pelmen was asking himself on that subject rattled around his mind. He needed to have a serious conversation with his uncle as soon as possible.

“Have you found any trace of game?” he asked.

“Not yet,” the hevelen replied, with an impotent gesture.

Pelmen thought long and hard. The prisoner was walking with his head up at a steady pace, without seeming to be sniffing for odors or looking for tracks. By all accounts, he gave no evidence of excessive zeal. Perhaps he was even making a fool of him. The night had been exhausting, so Pelmen gathered his willpower in order to remain calm. He gripped the hevelen’s wrist with his left hand, closing his right hand around the flint in his belt.

“I should tell you we’re rather short of food,” he said, looking the individual in the eye. It was not entirely true, but it was also unlikely the other would know that. “What we catch today is your daily pittance as well as ours.”

The hevelen muttered something unintelligible, but seemed to pay more attention to examining the surroundings after that. They went on for some time in that fashion, Pelmen always watching the outlaw as if he were the only game around.

“There!” said the other, lifting up some ferns. Pelmen looked, but the scattered black granules he saw meant nothing to him; their odor was almost imperceptible.

“What is it?”

“Are you blind? Ashy rocol droppings. And fresh too! If you can shoot straight, we can fill our bellies.”

“I can shoot straight. You’d do well to remember that.”

The other cast him an offended glance. As Pelmen stared at him unblinkingly, he turned away to explore the ground carefully. He pointed to a place where the grass did indeed seemed to have been slightly flattened—Pelmen would not have noticed anything without it being pointed out to him.

“It went that way.”

Pelmen only knew the fowl by reputation. Its meat was a luxury item only Opulents could afford. He notched a thorn and hastened to follow the prisoner. While he calculated the direction it had taken, ochreonce thorns scored his ankle. He stifled an oath but continued at the same pace.

A few hundred yards away, the glitter of a small expanse of water interrupted the gray and brown hues of the steppe. Leaning over the edge of the pool, a bird with a thin neck and prominent claws was drinking, its wings neatly furled.

The prisoner increased his pace, evidently desirous of catching the creature with his bare hands.

“Halt!” said Pelmen. “Stop now!”

The other obeyed instantly, and then, at an impatient gesture from Pelmen, stepped out of the line of fire—too slowly, alas, for the rocol had raised its small head and was looking in their direction. Its muscular feet were folded up, like a galcyne sitting on its eggs.

Pelmen took aim and held his breath. The bird was a good size. If its mass were not due to excessively thick plumage, it would furnish meat for at least two days. The bowstring twanged. In spite of the distance, the movement had not escaped the prey, and with lightning swiftness the bird launched itself. It took off with large wing-beats, and the thorn passed beneath it.

Pelmen uttered a cry of frustration, rapidly repressed. The overweight bird did not seem to be able to remain in the air for very long and there was nothing graceful about its flight. Pelmen gave chase, thinking he could match its speed, and even overtake it.

Although he did, indeed, gain ground to begin with, he lost it again when he had to go around the pond. He saved his breath. He soon had cause to rejoice, because the rocol’s flight became increasingly erratic. Finally, the bird lost altitude and disappeared behind a clump of cactus.

Pelmen froze, biting his lip. The prisoner!

The thought of finishing off his prey as quickly as possible and coming back with fresh meat after so many disappointments had pushed his duty to guard the prisoner to the background.

He turned around and scanned the landscape with his gaze.

The limitless expanse of the steppe was everywhere. The silhouette of his uncle was visible several hundred yards behind. And then he saw him: the prisoner was running as if all of Valshhyk’s demons were on his heels. He had fled in a straight line, without changing direction or taking any account of the one Pelmen had taken.

He’s still in range.

Spotting a small mound nearby, Pelmen scaled it hastily. With one knee on the ground, he notched a thorn and took care this time to calculate the trajectory in accordance with the fugitive’s speed. In his mind, the other was already shuddering under the impact, stumbling to bite the dust. His pupils remained fixed, and all the life drained from his limbs.

The thorn began quivering on its axis and then dropped, along with the bow. Dazed, Pelmen took a moment to regain his feet. Then, he wondered whether he would ever again have the courage to shoot at a hevelen.

Chapter Nine - STENLEN MILEMPAS

“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Xuven had ended up joining his nephew, prostrate on the ground. The bow and the thorn were still at his side.

Pelmen shook his head, as if awakening from a nightmare. He made a great effort to get up. The taste of ashes filled his mouth.

“That’s entirely to your credit,” said Xuven.

“Entirely to my credit? Letting the enemy escape from under my nose? He’ll rush off to rally his friends to set an ambush for us.”

“I don’t think so. The Banished prefer easier prey. They’ve already lost one of their comrades. It would be surprising if they wanted to take on a krongos, a shaman and an archer again.”

Skeptically, Pelmen stared into his uncle’s imperturbable gray eyes. “He would have been able to tell us more. If he lied and he’s gone to link up with our enemies, it won’t be long before he tells them about our curiosity.”

“That’s improbable. I don’t blame you for doubting his word, but think about it. The people orchestrating the disappearances have considerable means at their disposal, enough to offer amberrock to simple Disinheriteds. To be sure, their allies might not have the same means, but I can’t see them carrying out a smash-and-grab raid the way these Banished did. No, the people we’re looking for are more organized than that.”

“They waited until Astar had set before going into action, though.”

“The most basic prudence dictated that. But did they even explore the surroundings of the camp? Their impatience, as well as their garments, proves they’re at the end of their rope—which our former prisoner confirmed.”

Xuven’s tone intrigued Pelmen. “So what?” he asked.

“It’s an interesting indication, and not just because their poverty distinguishes them from the people we’re looking for. Does the name of Tchulen Poindivoire mean anything to you? He’s the Indomitable Hunter, the Aguerri to whom you’ll report if you succeed in your ambition.”

Pelmen was no longer at all convinced that he had what it took to become a hunter, but he kept his objections quiet.

“He’s our Protector, the one Selenice Milempas questions at every council meeting with regard to the disappearances of tradesmen. If she’s charged us with making enquiries, it’s obviously because it’s still a problem. What we’ve just seen confirms, however, that Tchulen Poindivoire is making life hard for the Banished…”

“But he’s aiming at the wrong target, you mean?”

“It’s doubtless logical it’s the most vulnerable bands that suffer the effects of the hunt first.”

Xuven scanned the horizon thoughtfully. Then he pointed to the bow at Pelmen’s feet. “Pick it up, then. It’ll still be useful to you.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“Oh, come on! You did honor to that bow by not squandering the prisoner’s life. He’s not a threat.”

“I didn’t spare him because I respected his life.”

“Your mind didn’t respect his life. You’re always in the right when you listen to your heart on such occasions. As you must surely know by now, the awareness of our actions doesn’t abandon us once they’re accomplished.”

Pelmen’s shoulders sagged as he mulled over his uncle’s words. Then he knelt down, picked up the thorn and replaced it in his quiver. He picked up the bow, without looking at it, and put it over his shoulder.

When they got back to the carts, Fekkar only asked one question: “Did he get away?”

The absence of any reaction on the part of the krongos when Xuven confirmed it surprised Pelmen. “You’re not angry?”

“On the contrary, the news is satisfactory. He would have slowed us down unnecessarily.”

“You wouldn’t rather know he was dead?”

“I don’t have any personal animosity against that hevelen. I don’t think he can hurt me, nor even that he wants to.”

Pelmen nodded. I take things too personally, that’s what it is. He envied the krongos his detachment.

Xuven asked Pelmen to hitch up the nidepoux, and they set out again. Pelmen’s stomach was empty and his fatigue, combined with his dejection, left him no energy for anything but running the morbid images of the day before through his mind. When the midday heat made the hides of the nidepoux glisten and they stopped to rest, he felt a little better. A number of questions remained in his mind, one of which stood out in particular. So, Pelmen questioned his uncle about his status as a shaman.

Xuven was not very talkative. Decades ago, he had been the aide of a true master of the wind—none other than the person they were going to meet, Stenlen Milempas, the brother of the Tireless Traveler. The latter had been introduced to him and, sensing the way the wind was blowing, Xuven had ended up putting himself at the disposal of the Aguerri. As for old Stenlen, he had been officially retired from Selenice’s court since then, but well-informed people still knew he was the gray eminence behind his sister’s throne.

“Why did you choose the profession of traveler rather than taking the title of shaman?” Pelmen asked.

A shadow passed over Xuven’s face. “My choices in the matter were overruled. It’s probably for the best, for the time being. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have the same room for maneuver.”

“Why?”

“One only decides to approach a shaman for serious reasons. It’s easier to keep company with a merchant and reply to his questions in a natural manner. I learn much more this way.”

“How were your choices overruled?”

Xuven seemed pensive, but not for long. “You’d do better to save your breath. We still have a long way to go.”

Pelmen tried to change the subject. “What about Fekkar? Does he possess his own magic?”

“Fekkar is a krongos, with all the differences that implies. But if it’s what you want to know, so far as I know, he’s not one of those initiated into the secrets of his God, Kerengar.” Xuven stood, putting an end to the conversation.

Pelmen not only did not have to go hunting for the rest of the day, but he was allowed to accompany Xuven when he went out on reconnaissance. So, he got to see him summon the wind.

With his gnarled wand at eye level, his uncle intoned a chant, some modulations of which sounded like foliage rustling. Soon, the odors of the steppe flowed like invisible threads winding themselves around his wand. Pelmen’s nostrils could only detect a few fragmentary odors, which nevertheless enabled him to sense the quantity of entangled scents. Concentration was visible on Xuven’s face. With experience, his uncle must have learned how to sort out the multiple odors, and estimate the distance of their sources by how much time they had taken to reach him and the strength of the wind.

The next day, when Pelmen asked for permission to remain at his side again, his uncle refused. Hunting could not be deferred, because their reserves were diminishing.

“With your powers, you could easily get us all the game we need!” Pelmen protested. “Don’t tell me you’re incapable of that!”

Xuven smoothed his beard. “That’s one of the reasons why I wanted to avoid revealing my talents to you too soon. You have to learn to survive in the Steppes without external assistance. What if we’re separated? Or if, by some misfortune, I have to join my ancestors?”

Pelmen had not looked at the situation from that angle. He could only concede the validity of the argument.

“Go on—you’ll be all the prouder of what you obtain with the tips of your thorns.”

Pelmen obeyed, but without enthusiasm. That day, as on the preceding ones, his excursion was by no means fruitful. The small mammals whose traces he found invariably caught his scent by some trick of the wind and their bounds were unpredictable, so he lost a lot of thorns in the vegetation. He cursed then, without a lot of conviction, spending a good deal of time recovering his thorns and launching himself once again into similarly vain attempts.

In the final count, he fell back on berries and roots, which he brought back to Xuven. The latter uttered a sigh of annoyance, but indicated which of the vegetables were edible, so Pelmen was gradually familiarizing himself with the flora.

Pelmen remained hopeful, for as they got closer to the river Hado, the customarily arid landscape gave way to more abundant vegetation, and the wind conveyed the odors of more various and numerous kinds of animals. All his senses seemed to wake up, in harmony with the new liveliness of the environment. Birds flew overhead, the grass trembled at the passage of some sinuous reptile, and the densest thickets stirred. Sometimes, a gray or blue pelt was seen hastening out of range.

Pelmen could not put a name to the majority of the creatures, but it was evident the latter had already had contact with hevelens. By night, the tables had turned. Roars and screeches made the hair bristle all over his body and his heart beat faster. Xuven, however, carefully stuck his wand in the ground and made use of a spell he called the Protection of Aoles. Then swirling gusts of wind enveloped them, dissipating their odors. As long as they remained lying still, the predators took them for lifeless, inert forms.

One morning, as Pelmen was getting ready to go hunting, Xuven surprised him by telling him to stay by his side.

“Various clans might be living in this territory. Not all are friendly to hevelens from the Canyons.”

Pelmen frowned. “That’s too bad. For once, there’s no shortage of game…”

The hours went by too slowly for his taste. To relieve the boredom, he asked his uncle the names of the more unusual plants. At first, Xuven satisfied his curiosity, but soon told him to shut up, embracing the horizon to his right with a sweep of his hand. “Look over there instead. That’s the river Hado, which flows into the Emerald Ocean to the south and divides the Steppes between its eastern and western banks.”

Indeed, the green and muddy waters of an enormously broad river extended along its bed. For Pelmen, such a spectacle was new and he stayed where he was, watching twigs and branches borne along by the current.

Lake Subelin was fairly large and the tumultuous waters of the little streams in the Canyons had some spirit, but the river Hado surpassed them immeasurably in its power and majesty. Its flow might be less rapid than that of the torrents, but it was nevertheless irresistible. Whether Pelmen directed his gaze to the north or the south, he could not discern where its course ended, in spite of the bare horizon.

“Can’t we get any closer?” he suggested, perceiving they were still some distance away.

“Bad idea. The banks are muddy and treacherous most of the time.”

They continued in the same direction all morning and for part of the afternoon. When they came to a bend in the river they drew far enough away to reduce it to a long silvery streak in the distance.

They were crossing an infertile stony plain. The carts were traveling in convoy when Xuven stopped his and got down to go on ahead. He came back with a somber expression, still clutching his wand in his hand.

“What is it?” Fekkar asked.

“In the direction where Stenlen’s home should be, the odors are of sulfur and burned things: odors that seep into the mind—the kind leaving behind only headaches and bitter thoughts.”

“You didn’t sense any others?”

“They mask all the rest, as if…”

“As if what?”

Xuven’s gaze was as hard as flint. “As if they were the work of crimson shamans. I don’t believe one of them alone could have obtained that result.”

Pelmen went pale. He remembered the hideous face of the one that had tried to kill him. By Aoles, to face several of them… He suddenly felt as weak as a baby.

“They have that power,” Fekkar confirmed. “Their flames destroy, and the odor of the ashes troubles the mind and excites the worst nightmares.”

“They’re waiting for us, then?” Pelmen articulated, in a dull voice. “And we can’t determine how many there are?”

“It’s impossible,” Xuven replied.

“Let’s make a detour—or wait for nightfall.”

“We’ll be even more vulnerable without our eyes to guide us. But you’re right about one thing. Wait for me here. Fekkar will look after you.”

“What about you?”

“I need to know what has become of my master.”

“No,” said Pelmen, his jaw clenched and his nostrils quivering. “There’s no way I’ll abandon you.” He hoped his uncle couldn’t tell how terrified he was.

“It won’t be said that a krongos would let a friend face danger alone,” added Fekkar. “Let’s leave the animals behind that group of rocks”—he pointed at an outcrop of massive boulders—“and we’ll all go together.”

“Is there no one here with a shred of common sense?” said Xuven. “Oh well, let’s get on with it.”

The nidepoux were tethered and Fekkar emitted a low-pitched sound. Images of silvery-gray rocks, of a kind unknown in the Canyons, imposed themselves on Pelmen’s mind. Fekkar stood between his melepeks, with a hand as large as a laundry-beater on the back of each one. The sound escaping his lipless mouth was much richer in nuances than the one he had used to pacify the nidepoux during the ambush. When it faded, like a mountain whose slope becomes gentler toward the base, the melepeks bent their knees and soon became almost indistinguishable from the granite.

Xuven advanced, wand in hand. Pelmen had notched a thorn to his bow. Fekkar only had his fists, but they were a match for the most intimidating weapons.

The stones underfoot were replaced by grass. Footprints could be seen here and there. Still distant, giant plants loomed up more than a hundred yards away. They formed a red clump, solidly rooted, seemingly posing a permanent challenge to Aoles, defying him to cast them down. When they were close enough, Pelmen could see the branches of different trees between their red leaves, woven together. The trees were grouped in threes, making up coherent and solid lattices.

“Tri-fold,” Xuven commented.

As they went on, the odor of sulfur assailed Pelmen’s nostrils. He sniffed, and then grimaced. As Xuven had predicted, it was impossible to pick up any other scent.

They passed beneath the canopy of leaves, where the dim light contrasted with the brightness of the vast plains. There was no rustling or birdsong. Pelmen noticed he was breathing much too rapidly and he had drawn his bowstring taut. In that condition, he could easily have wounded Xuven at the slightest start.

He forced himself to relax, and the extreme tension in his body ebbed away as he slackened his bowstring. His uncle raised his hand and they stopped. In the center of a clearing, a large blackened tree raised its charred branches toward the sky, imploring Astar to end its suffering.

That’s where the odors are coming from.

Pelmen’s nausea became worse. Where the branches joined the trunk there were the remains of what had once been a structure. In the clearing, nothing moved. Xuven’s gaze was fixed. He advanced into the open, soon followed by Fekkar. Pelmen remained in the shadows, his bow raised.

As long as my arm doesn’t tremble. If there are enemies here, they must know that we’re here.

With a rapid gesture, he wiped the sweat from his brow. The surrounding branches were motionless. The silence was heavier than stone.

Xuven and Fekkar crossed the space separating them from the tree. Grimacing, Xuven detached one of the charred rods that had served as rungs of a ladder from the trunk. He asked Fekkar to help him.

The krongos offered his joined hands for Xuven to step on to them. His uncle did not make a move while Fekkar lifted him up above his shoulders. Then he started climbing, causing the blackened rungs still attached to the bark to fall away. He hoisted himself up into what remained of Stenlen’s home and began to clear away the debris.

Shortly thereafter, Pelmen saw Xuven dragging something heavy. His uncle hailed Fekkar before lowering the inert mass toward him: a body, undoubtedly a hevelen, who must have been stout.

A second body, much thinner, soon came to join the first. Pelmen scrutinized his uncle’s face.

There was a displacement of air. Pelmen threw himself backward, which permitted him to avoid the club that would have knocked him unconscious—but not his aggressor’s knee, which he took full in the abdomen. Under the impact, he dropped the bow and thorn.

The tree: he must have been in the tree above me.

The unknown assailant fell upon him. Hands gripped his throat and cut off his air supply.

With a convulsive kick, Pelmen planted his foot squarely in his attacker’s crotch. The pressure on his throat relaxed, and Pelmen drove him back with a punch. He got to his feet, breathless, and launched another punch, but the other, dodging, hit him with an elbow behind the ear. Stunned and staggering from the blow, Pelmen was pinned against a tree. He could read the determination in his adversary’s dark eyes. His triple nostrils were quivering with excitement at the thought of his imminent victory. The unknown assailant took a flint (Pelmen’s!) from his belt and prepared to deliver the coup de grace.

An enormous hand grabbed the hevelen around the torso. He was shoved back in his turn against the trunk of a tree.

“It’s pointless struggling,” Fekkar warned him. “The more you resist, the harder you’ll make it on yourself.”

Pelmen massaged his neck, his breath wheezing. “I thought I was dead.” His voice shook as he picked up his flint.

“Silence,” hissed Xuven, his jaw taut. Addressing the prisoner, he said: “if anyone should talk, it’s you. What are you doing here? Did you see what happened?” His voice became harsher. “Did you… participate in it?”

“I… I don’t know anything,” said the stranger. His accent made the syllables he employed difficult to recognize, to the extent that Pelmen only grasped the meaning of the reply at the second attempt.

“Given the position you’re in,” Xuven said, “I advise you not to lie.”

It was another voice, full of irony, which replied: “Given the position you’re in, I advise you to put down your weapons and surrender.”

Pelmen looked around and his eyes widened. In the branches a little higher up, a bow was directed at him. Two other hevelens were taking aim at Fekkar. A thicket moved and a spearman advanced, his weapon directed at Xuven. Further enemies emerged from the shadows.

Surrounded! They surrounded us!

No one moved. Pelmen could count his heartbeats.

Xuven reached for the flint in his belt. He took it out and dropped it. Pelmen was not slow to do likewise while Fekkar released his victim.

“Come with us,” said the spearman, a tall hevelen with supple movements, who seemed to be in command. “If you make any attempt to flee, we’ll kill you without hesitation.”

Xuven sniffed. His gray eyes shone with an anxious gleam. Fekkar, for his part, contented himself with shrugging his shoulders. None of the hevelens who had come down from the trees came within ten paces of him.

They started to move through the shady wood. Pelmen counted more than a dozen individuals.

Xuven will wait for an opportunity to present itself to go on the attack. He surrendered his flint, but not the gnarled wand hidden in the folds of his toga. He can intervene at any moment, taking advantage of the element of surprise—and Fekkar has no fear of them, that’s certain.

The same could not be said about him. Pelmen doubted Fekkar and Xuven could neutralize all the enemies without him receiving at least one spear-thrust or a thorn. He would have to recover his bow as quickly as possible, but the warrior who had picked it up, who was particularly muscular and vigilant, would not be easy to knock down.

As they progressed beneath the branches, Pelmen’s nervousness increased. Silhouettes, some armed with spears, appeared fleetingly. He could smell different odors again so he could tell that there were more hevelens lurking in the shadows. The leafy canopy overhead now sheltered waxed canvas tents perched on amalgams of tri-fold branches. Near the ground, the branches were often frequent and broad enough to welcome anybody in search of refuge. When that was not the case, light wooden ladders permitted access to the most stable of them. The hevelens were no longer making any effort to hide. Sure of their numerical advantage, they showed no sign of anxiety, merely vigilance.

Pelmen and his companions arrived at what must have been the center of the camp. Nidepoux-drawn carts were parked under the tri-folds. Individuals of both sexes were unloading their cargoes.

Perhaps these are the famous voyagers whose trail Selenice Milempas charged us with picking up. In that case, Teleg might well be nearby.

Pelmen sniffed the air and made careful observations, raising his head to look at the houses. He searched in vain to spot the blond hair and distinguish the scent of his friend. The odors were too abundant and confused, the hiding places too varied.

The spearman murmured a few words to one of his archers, and then ran forward to weave his way through the hevelens. Several of them were looking at the prisoners, intrigued. Fekkar, in particular, was the object of a great deal of attention and many whispers.

They waited. Their guards did not relax—on the contrary. The bows were drawn, ready to fire. Xuven had turned sideways. His gaze sparked with fury. Pelmen was about to follow the direction of his gaze when he saw the spearman coming back, escorted by two hevelens. The smaller and stouter of the two had a red beard, wore a triple rank of necklaces, and most of his fingers were ornamented with rings. His sanrkhas leather cape was flapping in the wind. The jet black hair of the other was striped by a spotless line on the side of his head—a real white ray. They both advanced soundlessly, the former with assurance and the second with an animal flexibility that almost caused one to overlook his slight limp. The originating wound had left a scar in the form of a dark spot, which hollowed out the underside of one of his knees.

The stouter hevelen and the spearman came to a halt while the black-haired one headed straight for Xuven, pushing an archer out of his way.

Xuven faced him without flinching.

With lightning rapidity, the hevelen seized his forearms. Pelmen tensed his muscles.

The warrior released Xuven, who hugged him. He even clapped him on the back! Pelmen stood open-mouthed amid the murmurs of many surrounding hevelens who shared his amazement. He watched the warrior step back in order to salute Fekkar.

“The joy of seeing you both again is stained with great pain,” the unknown person declared, looking in the same direction in which Xuven had been gazing shortly before.

Pelmen wrinkled his nose as he looked at the two burned bodies, which had been transported on makeshift stretchers. An old hevelen with weak legs was standing nearby. There was a gnarled wand passed through his belt. Pelmen wondered, with a surge of hope, whether this might, in fact, be Stenlen Milempas. He can’t be a crimson shaman, at any rate. The one I met had no wand.

“Glad to see you again, too, Fregan Halenor,” said Fekkar.

The person thus named turned to the guards. “Lower your weapons, all of you! These are friends!” In spite of his manner (that of an Aguerri whose influence lay not in his position but in his ability to inspire the immediate loyalty of his hevelens), the warriors waited until the character with a red beard had given his consent, which he did with a placating gesture.

Xuven, the person named Fregan and Fekkar headed toward the two charred bodies. Pelmen went after them. He felt lighter, released from a substantial fraction of the tension and fear that had possessed him thus far.

Fregan contemplated the shorter of the two bodies. “Stenlen Milempas is marching in the tracks of Cilamon,” he said, confirming Pelmen’s fears.

Xuven’s gaze shone with tears. “He welcomed me and fed me at a time of great necessity. He taught me everything I know.”

“He was always welcoming to the people of the rock,” Fekkar declared. “Throughout his life he contributed to strengthening the bonds between our two peoples.”

Fregan turned to the spearman and gave orders for the two bodies to be placed in a sepulcher.

“When did you arrive?” asked Xuven.

“Only a few hours ago,” Fregan replied. “As usual, we sent a patrol to check the place out.” He indicated the old man with the wand. “Fean Solthal, one of our shamans, was a part of it.”

“Sorry for the mistake,” said the shaman in question, bowing to Xuven.

“The error was mutual,” Xuven replied, bowing in his turn. “The fumes of Valshhyk stimulate mistrust and resentment.”

“And the circumstances didn’t help, either” added Fregan. “What are you doing in this area?”

“Business, mainly. Fekkar and I hid our carts behind some rocks as soon as we sensed something amiss.”

“I understand. All three of you, follow me. My cousin Tenel will want you to explain the reasons for your coming to him in person. He has summoned the clan chiefs, and the council will be held immediately. But tell me, Xuven, who is the young hevelen accompanying you?”

“My nephew and apprentice, Pelmen.”

The gold-rimmed pupils examined Pelmen carefully. “Your nephew… I thought you didn’t see eye to eye with your family?”

“That’s still the case,” said Xuven, “but he’s an exception, it appears.”

Fregan laughed, humorlessly. “You people of the Canyons have a knack for complicating things that should be simple. But let’s not speak of that.”

The warrior with the red beard who Fregan had brought them to was none other than Tenel Halenor, Aguerri of the Rameaux clan, as Pelmen soon learned.

“Today is darker than a moonless night,” he declared. “The day that has seen a Cilamenite territory violated by Valshhyk’s evil breed…”

“According to my estimate,” Xuven corrected, “the intervention of the crimson shamans occurred several days ago, although its odor is still powerful.”

“That’s possible,” Tenel admitted, not without a certain irritation. “Nevertheless, I’d like an explanation of your presence in this place.”

In a low voice, Xuven gave a brief summary of the orders they had received.

“I knew my cousin was in communication with a Canyonite merchant,” Tenel commented, darting a significant glance at Fregan, “but not that the merchant was under the direct orders of the Aguerri Selenice Milempas.”

“It’s a matter of a specific mission,” Xuven tempered, before Fregan could reply, “which must remain confidential. The Traveler only entrusted it to me because I knew her brother, and because my nephew is, to a certain extent—and to his misfortune—mixed up in the matter with which Stenlen was occupied.”

“Confidential or not, the chiefs of our clan will be informed of it. Don’t worry—they can hold their tongues. Messengers will also be sent to the other three clans. Every Aguerri needs to keep his hevelens on a war footing until the menace is nothing but a bad memory.”

“If such a thing is possible,” replied Fekkar, gloomily. “The crimson shamans wouldn’t have done this if they weren’t confident of their strength.” Although he had barely murmured, several hevelens nearby darted anxious glances at him.

“We’ll discuss it in council. The advice of a krongos would, of course, be greatly appreciated.”

Their weapons were returned to them, and they moved between the thick roots, to end up at the foot of a tri-fold in which a scarlet and gold tent was enthroned. Wooden footbridges had been extended at various levels, linked to circular platforms. It reminded Pelmen of a tree-lined Alveg. The trees were immense, and even though their height far from equaled that of the mountain city of Alveg, the effect was magnificent.

“I only climb rock,” said Fekkar.

Tenel seemed annoyed. On Fregan’s suggestion, it was then decided to hold the council in the thickest part of the underwood, in the heart of a clearing ringed by a cordon of sentinels. Much to his annoyance, Pelmen was invited to go in search of his uncle’s cart without delay, accompanied by two guards.

“Don’t worry about the melepeks,” Fekkar told him. “I’ll go to collect them myself.”

Dusk was stretching out like a fiery shroud when Pelmen came back to the underwood. By interrogating the warriors who were escorting him, he had learned they were Cilamenites.

Pelmen knew almost nothing of the people in question. In the Canyons, the term designated the barbaric tribes of the Windy Steppes in their entirety. It was said they never stayed in one place for long, and that was doubtless why Xuven had not expected to find Fregan Halenor, with whom he appeared to have some link, here. Pelmen hoped the confidence of his uncle and Fekkar was well-placed. For the moment, the presence of his bow on his back was reassuring.

The guards indicated a place to one side of the camp, where the Cilamenites rubbed down their nidepoux. Pelmen unhitched the exhausted animals and went to work doing the same. In spite of the parasites with which the rodents lived and the disgust inspired by his past work on the hides of their kin, his opinion of the quadrupeds had gradually been changed. Their tenacity and faithfulness had shown them to be praiseworthy beasts, not to mention that his uncle’s commercial endeavors rested, in large measure, on their shoulders.

While busying himself, he watched the Cilamenites working from the corner of his eye, noting their manual dexterity and the way they went about the task. The animals were in great need of rest and, when he had finished with them, they lay down gratefully.

The guards had gone away while Pelmen was busy with the nidepoux. The path led into the underwood. He went along it, wondering how he should conduct himself.

He heard voices. He did not recognize the first, even though he had heard it before.

“You took a risk in revealing your… talent to Fean.”

“It was necessary.”

Pelmen identified the voice a second before Xuven, accompanied by Fregan, appeared at the end of the path. His uncle signaled to him.

“You and your apprentice have things to discuss,” said Fregan, when he had joined them. “I’ll go help Wilne prepare the meal. You know the way.”

Xuven nodded, and Fregan drew away silently.

“What has the council…?”

Pelmen did not have time to finish his question. “Not now,” said Xuven. “Follow me.”

Xuven took the lead, and went around the nidepoux enclosure, darting a glance at his animals and the unhitched cart. “No need to keep your bow on your person,” he whispered. “If enemies were to get this far, we’d have advance warning.”

Pelmen reluctantly hid his bow and quiver among the merchandise. Then Xuven drew him into the middle of a clump of bushes in a remote area. Gnarled wand in hand, he launched the spell he called the Sign of Aoles. His nostrils began to quiver.

“No one in the immediate vicinity,” he murmured. “No one will overhear us.”

“So?” said Pelmen.

“Emissaries will be sent to the Traveler. Stenlen and I were working to retighten the links between the Rameaux clan and Selenice. I hope what has happened here won’t spoil our efforts.”

“Why not notify her ourselves?”

“You’re forgetting our mission. That remains our first priority, now more than ever. I only hope the deployments of force ordered by Tenel Halenor won’t complicate our task too much.”

“You think you can take on the crimson shamans then? With only myself, and maybe Fekkar to help?”

Xuven swept the argument aside with a curt gesture. “It’s not a matter of confrontation, nor of vengeance. Not immediately, at any rate. Stenlen’s mission relied upon discretion, just like ours. My master was powerful in his domain, but his age, alas, no longer permitted him to travel the length and breadth of the Steppes. He, therefore, had no choice but to trust his apprentice to obtain the information he lacked. We must conclude that the latter didn’t have enough experience.”

“How do you know that?”

“We discussed it in council. Fregan had reported comings and goings to Stenlen that were suspicious to say the least. Malians have been seen in the company of merchants and outlaw hevelens in the Windy Steppes.”

“Malians? You mean the grayskins? Those… creatures which exist in duplicate?”

“We call them grayskins, but they call themselves malians. They live in distant lands to the west of the Hado, so I wouldn’t have believed they could have anything to do with our affair. Let me finish, will you?”

“Of course.”

“One of the convoys was directed by a malian disfigured by tattoos. Cilamenite scouts weren’t able to make out what they said, but they nicknamed him the Marked. Those who tried to follow the convoys fell victim to headaches, and then to nightmarish visions in their sleep, after which they could no longer smell the members of the convoy.”

“The crimson shamans…”

“There’s no doubt about that. According to Fregan, Stenlen had sent his apprentice, a certain Kalel, to make enquiries in Belenia—the great malanite city—a season ago. He was expected to return at any moment. He must have discovered something. Rather than eliminate him right away, the crimson shamans must have preferred to follow him here. The Cilamenites having not yet arrived, the rest scarcely posed any difficulty. Stenlen doesn’t seem…” Xuven swallowed “… to have put up any resistance—they must have taken him by surprise, perhaps while he was asleep.”

Pelmen shook his head. They had attacked in such strength that no error was possible. What was he going to do in the midst of all that? “Did they leave anything behind?” he asked, anyway. “Any clue?”

“I haven’t seen anything, and neither has Fekkar. Unless Tenel’s hevelens can pick up their trail—which would surprise me—we’ll have to pick up the trail where this Kalel left it.”

“Which means…”

“That’s right. We’ll have to go to Belenia.”

Pelmen’s throat was suddenly dry. “I… I’d never have dreamed that Teleg’s trail could take us so far.” To have become involved in the affairs of crimson shamans and grayskins!

“We’ll have to redouble our caution,” Xuven confirmed. “I can still count on you?”

Pelmen took a deep breath. “I made a promise. And I know someone who’s going to need my help… if he’s still alive.”

“You have courage, my boy.”

“I’m trying hard not to think about what’s waiting for us.”

“That’s the wisest course, in fact. For now, we’re going to stay here for a while and do a little trading, as if that was what we came to do. It goes without saying our conversation has to remain secret.”

“Even from Fekkar?”

“He already knows the details—including those concerning Teleg—but avoid bringing the subject up for a moment. He’s agreed to lend us a hand if the need arises.”

“Understood.”

Xuven took Pelmen to another part of the camp. Under a tri-fold, two warriors seemed to be waiting for them. Their features suggested their kinship with Fregan. The larger of the two had pronounced features, and his muscles stood out beneath his leather tunic. Sanrkhas fists were attached to the belt of the other, whose alert eyes examined Pelmen curiously.

“Is the wind favorable to you, Beran?” Xuven asked the tall, muscular warrior, who uttered a grunt of approval. “To you too, Ielun?” When the hevelen with the ivory tusks had agreed in his turn, Xuven addressed Pelmen: “This is Beran, the oldest of Fregan’s three sons, and Ielun.”

“Four sons,” Ielun corrected. “Our mother gave birth during the month of Tinmal.”

“Well! Finally, there’s some news to warm my old bones. May the Goddess’s favor fall upon him throughout his life. What name has he been given?”

“Echven,” replied Ielun.

Pelmen and Xuven followed Beran and Ielun over the large and accommodating branches. They went up two ladders before reaching Fregan’s tent. It was adjacent to the trunk, like several others nearby. Suspended overhead, nets of string were filled with food: joints of salted meat, fruits, berries, mushrooms, roots, large, edible yellow leaves, and even fish, probably taken from the river Hado.

The interior of the tent only contained the essentials: a well-stuffed mattress, a pitcher, a few wooden utensils, a crib and two chairs. To one side, an exit led to a footbridge, which Beran and Ielun traversed as if it were firm ground. Pelmen did his best to mask his apprehension—there was nothing to hold on to, the absence of a guardrail being painfully obvious.

On the next platform, sitting on stools arranged around steaming dishes, Fregan and several Cilamenites were waiting for them. There was a young female hevelen of athletic build, dressed in animal skins, a boy younger than Pelmen with an ochre shock of hair and a middle-aged female with long eyelashes as blonde as her hair, who was cradling a baby in her arms. They all had the proud and vigilant attitude typical of Cilamenites. Their odors were those of healthy and robust people—only the eldest hevelen seemed weary. When their eyes settled upon Pelmen he was surprised to see respect in the youngster’s eyes, and he could see that they considered him to be their equal. Perhaps out of politeness, they soon looked away.

“Pelmen, this is my daughter Laneth and my second youngest son Symen.” They both nodded their heads, their serious demeanor contrasting with their youthful features. “And, of course, the youngest of all, Echven, and my wife Wilne.” As he spoke, Fregan went to join them, and took the baby in his arms. Eyelids half-closed, the latter made no protest. He could not have been more than three months old because he only possessed the coppery complexion on his flanks, a part of his breast and his shoulders, the rest of his torso still being lighter.

Wilne offered her condolences to Xuven for the loss of the shaman Stenlen. “We were looking forward to paying him a courtesy visit,” she said. “I hadn’t forgotten he was by your side when you met he who was to become my husband.”

Xuven’s smile did not hide his grief. “It was a different era. The carefree nature of those times seems far away at the moment. This evening, however, perhaps Stenlen’s heritage won’t be entirely lost.”

Although Xuven’s words were mysterious, no one asked him any questions, respectful of his sorrow.

The stars were shining where Tinmal and Hamal permitted while the hosts and invited guests shared the meal on the platform. Without paying the slightest attention to Pelmen, Symen, Laneth and Ielun dug into the tasty flesh with a will, while listening to Xuven and Fregan talk about their memories of hunting together. Beran, meanwhile, was conspicuous by his quietness. Pelmen could have sworn the big warrior did not consider their arrival to be welcome news.

“The shaman Solthal should be here soon,” Fregan announced. “You must be burning to know whether your nephew has inherited the gift of Aoles.”

“Impatience is a poor adviser, but the question has indeed crossed my mind,” Xuven replied.

“Have I missed something?” Pelmen put in.

Xuven studied him carefully. “It’s possible, without your knowing it, that Aoles has invested you with a fraction of his powers.”

“You mean, like yours? You’re joking, I assume.”

“Today isn’t a day for joking,” Xuven rebuked him, dryly. “When a shaman dies, it sometimes happens that the gift manifests itself in a new hevelen. You’re my nephew. It’s possible you have a predisposition.”

“And it’s this shaman, Solthal, who has to verify it?”

“He doesn’t have the power. Only the Tree of Life can transmit the material proof of the gift. As tradition demands, Fean Solthal has made his dwelling there—that’s why we have to request his permission.”

“His permission to do what? You’re talking in riddles.”

“Patience, you’ll soon find out.”

“In the meantime,” said Fregan, “you’d honor me by accepting these fruits.”

In spite of his imperious desire for enlightenment, Pelmen did not refuse the offer. There were camlorns there, and various berries with sweet or bitter tastes.

To what ordeal are they going to submit me? he wondered as he ate. Against all expectation, Xuven had introduced him to Fregan as possibly being endowed with magic—which explained the attitude of Fregan’s children, taught to maintain the same reverential distance with regard to shamans that was common-place in the Canyons.

Pelmen had never imagined his uncle might believe him to have powers similar to his own. The disappearance of his master must have shaken him.

But if I discover I really do have powers, must I live apart for the rest of my life? Or even in hiding, as my uncle does in Alveg? That’s quite absurd.

The shaman was late putting in an appearance, and Pelmen’s thoughts drifted to the Tree of Life. What powers did it possess? The tree must be one of the tri-fold. Pelmen did not know any other kind of plant that gave the impression not just of vigor but also of comfort, security and… cohesion. Aoles could do everything possible to shake them, but their largest branches remained stable.

The shaman Solthal arrived, a little later, over the access bridge. He advanced with his head held high in spite of the burden of his years. It was difficult to believe that such thin legs could support such a determined stride.

Fregan set the example, rising to his feet first to welcome the shaman. Everyone else did likewise.

Fean Solthal went past everyone else to stop in front of Pelmen, whom he pierced with his bright eyes. The silence had become complete. After a while, the shaman turned to Xuven. “You’ll owe me one night,” he said.

“I’ll owe you one night.”

Fean walked stiffly ahead, and they all followed him, Xuven and Pelmen a few paces behind, Fregan and his kin further back. They went all the way back down to the ground, the shaman giving proof of a sense of balance his age would not have suggested.

“What does ‘I’ll owe you one night’ mean?” Pelmen whispered, moving a branch aside as he went past.

“Fean will have to abandon his home to permit you to sleep at the foot of the cilamen,” Xuven replied. “In exchange, I must lend him my dwelling for one night in my turn, if he ever happens to arrive there and desires to stay or to lodge one of his disciples there.”

“You’ll put your shop at his disposal, with all the precious objects it contains?”

“I’ve promised to do so. The chances are slim it will ever happen—most Cilamenites avoid going into the big cities as much as possible.”

“You mentioned a... cilamen?”

“Yes, the Tree of Life.” Xuven looked at him, sniffing the air. His expression darkened. “It’s just as I feared—the name is unknown to you. The Seers of the Canyon don’t mention it willingly so that the memory of our own origins is gradually slipping away from us. You need to know that, although Aoles is the father of the hevelens, nothing would have been possible without Cilamon, the father of Aoles, the provider and protector of all terrestrial life. It’s toward Cilamon the Protector that all those whom we call Cilamenites turn.”

“And what about the cilamens?”

“They’re the emanations of the God of Life over the lands of Ardalia. The hevelens who possess the magic of Aoles have it from birth, but it’s the cilamens that issue the key shamanic attribute, without which they can’t exercise their power.”

“The… gnarled wand?”

Xuven nodded his head.

They had just emerged from the edge of the underwood, and Fean headed toward the silhouette of a tree. Isolated on the lichenous plain, the tree gave an impression, even at a distance, of power and serenity. However, it was only after several minutes of marching that Pelmen became conscious of its true scale.

By comparison, the tri-folds were almost dwarfs. The near-black roots, of tremendous girth, plunged underground to unknown depths. Brown and massive, the trunk appeared solider than a rock. A hundred feet up, the base was subdivided into branches that twisted according to strange patterns, but were demonstrably unshakeable under the assaults of the wind.

Upon observing it, Pelmen understood its superiority to the tri-folds. Like the veguer’en, rather than being weakened by the wind, the cilamen seemed to be strengthened by it. Pelmen felt very small beneath those branches, which masked the stars, but the monstrous size of the Tree of Life had something about it more comforting than overwhelming. He could not explain why.

Pelmen felt a tug on the sleeve of his shirt. Xuven signaled to him to move closer to Fean. Hesitantly, he obeyed. The chirping of birds, which the little group had interrupted in passing, resumed more insistently, noisy and frantic.

Fean was standing in a corridor that would have resembled those in the Canyons had the walls, on this occasion, not been composed of the supple wood of roots. The shaman said something. His accent was even more pronounced than Fregan’s, and Pelmen had to repeat the sounds to himself several times before understanding they indicated the place where he was to spend the night.

“What does the ordeal consist of?” he asked.

Fean raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about an ordeal? You’ll sleep here. At dawn, we’ll know whether you have the gift.”

Pelmen opened his eyes wide, without succeeding in distinguishing the shaman’s features. He would not have imagined what was being asked of him was so simple.

“I need my blanket,” he said. He turned round and, guided by Xuven, had no difficulty finding the cart.

Fekkar had returned with his rig. Pelmen greeted him before picking up the bundle of long-haired nidepoux fur. At first he made as if to head toward the cilamen, but then turned aside to walk at a brisk pace in another direction. The maneuver had not escaped his uncle, who called out to him.

Rather than stopping, Pelmen slowed down. Xuven caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm. “Where are you going? That’s not the way to the Tree of Life.”

“Who said I had agreed to sleep there?”

Pelmen regretted not being able to make out his uncle’s face as well as he would have liked. The anxiety in his odor and his tone of voice gave him satisfaction nevertheless.

“You’re going to insult our hosts? The shaman Solthal, who has consented to leave his dwelling?”

“You decided, on your own initiative and without talking to me, that I would submit to this ritual. How do you expect me to trust you if you act like that? As for the shaman Solthal, I haven’t asked him for anything, so it’s not me who is giving proof of thoughtlessness.”

“Have you thought about Stenlen? He should not have died in vain.”

“I’ve seen you grieving,” said Pelmen, softening his tone. “His… disappearance has upset you, I know. One loses one’s bearings. But after all, you should have consulted me about this decision. The fact that I’m your apprentice doesn’t mean you have the right to settle my future, does it?”

Xuven’s silhouette stirred in the shadows. “What are you going to do, then?” he asked, finally.

Pelmen paused before replying, as if he were carefully weighing his different options. In reality, he was enjoying the moment when the decision was actually his to make.

“I’m indebted to you,” he said, at last. “In truth, I owe you a great deal. And I’m with you, even if I can’t truly share your grief because I didn’t know him. I’ll sleep under the cilamen.”

Xuven put his hands on Pelmen’s shoulders. A little surprised, he recoiled slightly. His uncle drew him toward him forcefully. He smelled dust, linguilis grease and sweat, but the odor of grief seemed lessened.

“Thank you, Pelmen. You’re in the process of changing, you know. You’re becoming a hevelen.”

His face deep red, Pelmen felt as if a balm had just been applied to painful wounds. Once his uncle had released his grip, he smiled, turned and headed for the cilamen, noticing the presence of individuals who, shielded from his gaze, were watching his every move.

Chapter Ten - THE TREE OF LIFE

The cilamen’s bark was composed of large, thick, overlapping plates. With so many points of support, the climb was easy, yet Pelmen was careful to conserve his breath. Just how long he had been climbing, he was unsure. However, he had a niggling feeling that he needed to keep his wits about him. Glancing down, Pelmen felt faint. The bushes and rocks at the foot of the tree looked like miniatures. More than fifty feet from the ground, every fiber of his body told him a fall would be dangerous, possibly even fatal. The wind surrounding him would doubtless have blown him from the tree had it not been for the narrow gaps in the bark, in which he was able to slide his fingers and balance. Pelmen focused on the brown bark, striving to breathe more slowly, to calm the beating of his heart.

Don’t get carried away. You’ll get there.

As soon as his arms and legs had stopped trembling, he continued to climb. His sense of linear time fragmented. He saw the different stages of his climb following one another without any apparent reason. When, exhausted, he hoisted himself into the crotch of the trunk with its huge branches, he stayed there for a while, lying on his stomach. Then he looked up.

Perched on a branch wide enough and solid enough to support an entire row of buildings, its long beak pointed in his direction, a large bird with ochre plumage was peering at him through gilded eyes. The bird took flight, and while it rose up, threading its way through the branches, its wings shimmered. Then it disappeared.

Pelmen woke with a start. The air was warm and dry. Astar was visible again, and for the briefest of moments, he confused the glare of the dawn with the eyes of the bird. He looked in every direction but could not see it anywhere. The winged creature was probably camouflaged right now. Just like the algam, the bird of legend. Its appearance had coincided with the sculpture in front of the Sanctuary of the Ten, and the colorful descriptions of the Seers.

It seemed so real. Was it really a figment of my imagination?

As his eyes swept the trunk, one detail held his attention. Pelmen drew closer to the bark, formed by plates overlapping one another. As in my dream—but yesterday evening, I couldn’t see the cilamen’s bark was like that. He inserted his fingertips into the gaps and tested the strength of the wood, without being able to bend any of the plates.

The odor is identical too.

Glancing over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps, he turned and was surprised to see Xuven moving between the roots, looking preoccupied. Pelmen stared at him questioningly.

“I’ve just gone all the way around the tree, and I haven’t found anything. It should be here, though, close to where you were sleeping, conspicuous.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The gnarled wand, of course.”

“Oh, that…” Pelmen suppressed a smile at his uncle’s stubborn desire to make a shaman of him. “I haven’t found it either.”

“Haven’t you had any unusual dreams? Visions of entire plains of flattened blades of grass? Of yourself guiding the roaring wind with the aid of your wand?”

“I… I saw something, yes, but not of that sort. There was an algam, I think.”

Xuven’s irises dilated. “An algam, you say? Then you don’t have the gift. Or rather, you probably have an ability, but very different…”

“You really were hoping I would discover that I, too, had power over the wind?”

Xuven blinked before looking at the cilamen. “Who can claim to know the Gods’ plans?” There was a long pause, then he darted a piercing glance at Pelmen. “In any case, you should develop your affinities with animals. You could start with the nidepoux.”

Pelmen remembered Mils, and the trust so rapidly established between them. “You want to know if that’s my talent? How could that help?”

“Shalgam is the father of all animal life. He’s the one who appeared to you. That implies a power over fauna, which might be useful to you—for hunting, for example, or getting close to certain animals. Alas, I can’t help you to master it. It will be necessary for you to find someone else, or learn it for yourself. Trust your intuition.”

Pelmen got the impression that a new, previously unknown, field of possibilities was opening up before him. “Trust my intuition,” he repeated, in a murmur. “There’s something I’ve felt the need to do since I woke up.” He went back to the trunk and put a hand on one of the plates. The contact was rough, but not unpleasant.

His uncle raised his eyebrows, but Pelmen stuck to his idea. “There’s something I have to confirm,” he said, beginning to climb.

The climb proved to be easier than the one in the dream. The plates were reassuring. Touching them almost gave him energy—not once did he look down. Half way up, he went around a natural excavation in the trunk. Scarcely visible from the ground, it had been adapted and contained a spacious tent, a bed and various personal effects: the shaman’s dwelling.

Pelmen allowed himself plenty of rest during the climb. The wind sometimes lashed him, but always ended up being incorporated into the trunk. He reached the summit just as he ran out of breath, surprised at having managed his effort so well. As soon as he was there, he examined the branches and the foliage. The algam was not in the area—or else it was deliberately hiding from him.

The spiral branches fascinated him, and not only because of their dimensions. The vast space currently housing him was a great source of comfort and security. It’s not surprising Cilamon is called the Protector. Here, one’s out of harm’s way… in the palm of the God’s hand.

There were folds forming alcoves in the tree, so many opportunities to lie down and rest. Pelmen bent his knees, yielding to an impulse. Beneath him, firm and gentle at the same time, the bark transmitted a message of unchanging life to him. His eyelids closed and his mind calmed. He no longer thought of his uncle, who waited for him at the foot of the cilamen. When he awoke, Astar had scarcely changed position, but Pelmen felt much more relaxed and rested than before.

It’s the first time since Master Galn’s death I haven’t thought about either Teleg or Alicene while drifting off. I’d even forgotten that hevelen I killed, and what happened to Stenlen Milempas yesterday!

He shivered as he thought about the furnace unleashed such a short distance away by the crimson shamans. Xuven’s former master had also gone innocently to sleep in his lodgings… in the branches of a tree.

The dark and shadowy thoughts seemed to have less force here, however, so much so that when his sense of smell made out the presence of berries among the leaves, Pelmen went to pick them and eat them. They were pulpy and very nourishing. There were enough to support an entire clan for days without their needing to climb down again.

A downward glance told him that Xuven was no longer there. Regretfully, Pelmen thought it was time to rejoin the Cilamenites.

Xuven, Fregan and his family, except for Beran, were sharing a morning meal on the same platform as the day before. Laneth was one of the first to notice Pelmen, and this time looked at him without blinking. Symen and Ielun cast different glances at him from the ones they gave him yesterday. Now, they contained a certain amused curiosity.

Pelmen contented himself with eating without saying anything.

Fregan misinterpreted his silence. “Don’t be too disappointed,” he said. “Each of us, in the clan of the Rameaux, spends a night sleeping under a cilamen eventually, and it’s rare—exceedingly rare—to have the honor of acquiring the endowment of a gnarled wand.”

“Don’t worry—it’s an honor I can live without.”

The response generated many different reactions. The expressions of Fregan and Wilne were grave, while Ielun shook his head, but Pelmen thought he saw Symen and Laneth suppressing smiles.

“Is it customary for inhabitants of the Canyons to show disrespect to Cilamon and Aoles?” asked Fregan.

“There was no disrespect,” Pelmen responded. “I’m relieved that I don’t have to take a path for which I’m not suited.”

“Really? And we thought you wanted to follow in your uncle’s footsteps… For what are you suited, young hevelen?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“There are indications,” Xuven said, soothingly. “But no one can plough your furrow in your stead, certainly.”

Pelmen welcomed the support gratefully. Fregan darted a surprised glance at Xuven, but refrained from asking why he had changed his mind.

Immediately after having refreshed themselves, Xuven and Fregan descended from the platform. Pelmen went after them. The two hevelens were discussing the affairs of the Halenor family and the clan of the Rameaux. In particular, there was the matter of the ritual of the Voyage, which Ielun, Laneth and Symen would soon undergo.

“If the crimson shamans have penetrated Cilamenite territory,” Fregan said, “I’m wondering whether it’s a good time for the Voyage. Perhaps it would be better to wait for more favorable circumstances.”

“You’re free to decide, my friend,” said Xuven. “On the other hand, in your place, I’d want to give my children the opportunity to harden themselves as soon as possible, as the customs of the clan prescribe. They’re old enough to explore new territories on their own.”

“As soon as they’ve accomplished the Voyage,” Fregan objected, “Tenel will have the right to recruit them. He asked me to release them from my guardianship yesterday, when the patrol came back. All of this has come at a bad time.”

“Will the convoys you mentioned be more numerous from now on?”

Fregan looked at Xuven without replying, and then uttered a sigh. “On the contrary. Our watchmen haven’t signaled any for some time.”

“Don’t let fear guide your choices,” said Xuven, “even in relation to your family. They should not be ill-prepared when danger presents itself.”

Fregan had lowered his head. The silence weighed heavily while Pelmen and his uncle awaited his response.

“As usual, you’re right, my friend,” he said, meeting Xuven’s gaze squarely. “I don’t know what’s got into me. It’s high time to let them go.”

Their steps had taken them all the way to Fekkar’s cart. The krongos, who did not waste time, had rearranged the interior in such a way as to display his wares. Numerous Cilamenites were crowding around it. Many were discussing the previous day’s dramatic events.

There were some suspicious glances, but the majority of the customers seemed to know Xuven, because they bowed, or saluted him respectfully. Pelmen and Xuven went to remove the tarpaulin from the cart and set out the merchandise. In spite of Fekkar’s competition, the last malanite fabrics Xuven had held especially in reserve elicited more than one exclamation of “Oh!”. The initial curiosity passed, the natives went away one by one to return shortly afterward, their arms laden with jewelry, garments, medicinal herbs, and weapons of delicately-carved ivory or wood. The day promised to be profitable.

“I don’t need your help here.”

Pelmen turned to his uncle, astonished.

“You have better things to do than bargain. Get your bow and go and practice. You’re responsible for escorting me; no one will worry about it.”

Although he did not understand his uncle’s suggestion, at the very moment when he would have been most useful, Pelmen knew there was no point in arguing. After collecting his equipment, he got down from the cart and went away in the direction of the tri-folds. Crossing the perimeter of the inhabited region, he went on to a wilder zone, where he would not be disturbed and there would be no risk of wounding anyone. He selected the trunk of a dead tree as his target.

The wind was scarcely stirring it, but Pelmen had tasted failure too often of late. He positioned himself a mere fifty paces away and took careful aim—or so he thought.

None of the five thorns that sprang forth in turn hit the target. He uttered a groan. How had he fallen so low? Annoyed, although genuinely surprised, he set about searching for his thorns. Turning round to retrace his steps, he stopped momentarily on seeing Symen’s red hair at the place where he had previously positioned himself.

The young hevelen was holding a short bow. A slight smile was sketched on his lips, and Pelmen guessed he had witnessed his lack of success. Had the other followed him without his being aware of it? He frowned in irritation.

“My turn now,” said Symen. “Stand aside, if you please.”

The Cilamenite was already drawing his bow, so Pelmen did not argue. Symen sniffed the direction of the wind, then filled his lungs.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

There was virtually no pause between the shots, and yet the three thorns were fixed in the trunk. Pelmen got the same impression he’d had on the occasion when, on a dare, he and Teleg had jumped under a cascade of icy water.

“Are you certain that you’ve chosen the right weapon?”

Although Symen’s tone contained more sarcasm than curiosity, Pelmen could not help looking down at Master Galn’s bow. Did he really deserve it?

There was only one way to find out, and that was why he advanced toward Symen. “I’ll try again.”

Symen stood aside, still smiling.

Pelmen notched a thorn, then raised the bow and drew back the string.

Before him he saw the image of the hevelen pierced through the throat, and struggling while the blood flowed away from his face to expand in a sticky flood along the thorn.

With his heart in his mouth and his arms trembling, Pelmen tried to summon up the sense of calmness he had felt earlier that morning, lying in the crux of a branch of the Tree of Life. Far from seeking to block out the vision, or become paralyzed by it, he accepted it as an integral part of himself, and allowed it to wash over him before vanishing. One by one, Pelmen remembered Master Galn’s instructions. His arm became firm.

“Relax your body,” Teleg’s father said to him. “Free your mind from distraction. Fill that void with the Breath of Aoles. Let the bow become one with your arm. At the last moment, fill your lungs with air and hold your breath. The wind will guide you.”

He released the thorn.

For a moment of terrible uncertainty, he thought he might fail again. It planted itself on the edge of the trunk, remaining suspended there by sheer luck.

“Almost,” said Symen. The tone of his voice made it clear he thought Pelmen had benefited from beginner’s luck.

A second, and then a third thorn, hitting the center this time, forced him to reevaluate.

“This is too easy,” said Symen. “Let’s try a longer distance.” He moved away from the dead tree, and Pelmen followed him. When he stopped, a hundred yards separated them from the target. Symen took more time. Pelmen could see he was stretching his bow almost to the limit, choosing his trajectory with care. His first shot hit the target, followed by the second. Only the third missed.

“You’ve been well trained,” Pelmen murmured. He took up position in his turn.

The vegetation made the shot difficult. His bow was more powerful than Symen’s, so Pelmen opted for a flatter trajectory. The wind was blowing intermittently. For the first time since his arrival in the Steppes, Pelmen knew when it was about to change direction. The first dart fixed itself in the trunk with a dull thud, perceptible in spite of the distance and the chirping of the birds. Pelmen did not smile or glance at Symen. Totally focused on the task at hand, he released the next thorn, which flew toward the target. The third extracted an exclamation from Symen as it joined the others in the trunk.

“I’ve obviously won that round,” said Pelmen, lightly. “Let’s go collect them.”

They did not exchange a word as they refilled their quivers, but Pelmen sensed Symen was waiting for something. “Let’s try a longer distance,” he suggested. “That way, we’ll really be able to separate ourselves.”

After a slight hesitation, Symen agreed. Pelmen chose his direction in such a way as to obtain the clearest possible line of sight. That required a certain number of adjustments, because he lost sight of the dead tree several times. Finally, he came to a halt two hundred yards from the target. Symen studied him, frowning.

“Your turn,” said Pelmen.

His expression fixed, Symen positioned himself. Although he was more fragile than his brothers, the young hevelen, grimacing under the effort, succeeded in stretching his bow all the way while avoiding any tremor. His first thorn shot forth, described a curve and fell to the ground a hundred and thirty yards away. Symen shook his head but notched a new thorn. The dart did not remain in the air as long as the first. “It’s no use,” he muttered.

“No third try? In that case, let’s see what I can do.”

Pelmen positioned his legs carefully and took a deep breath. His arms stretched the bowstring.

The first thorn passed to the left of the target, but to Symen’s amazement, the length was good. The second brushed the trunk, a failure that did not surprise Pelmen—the target was not as big as the manikins in Alveg. He took more time before releasing the third dart, his nostrils quivering, sensing the breath of Aoles through all the pores in his skin, in complete harmony with the environment. The thorn cut through the air with a whistle. The tree-trunk quivered under the impact.

Although Pelmen thought, at that moment, he was on a small cloud, he only allowed himself a smile when Symen uttered an incredulous groan. The Cilamenite headed for the target first, but in the final analysis, could only yield to the evidence.

Pelmen read a new respect in the emerald eyes, but Symen’s words were not those he expected.

“All right,” he admitted. “You’re a good shot. Are you a good hunter as well?”

“Well… I do my best.”

“Good… the time has come to verify that.”

“Now?”

“I know the best places.”

Symen did not admit defeat easily. Pelmen could not refuse without admitting his own inferiority.

Symen led him to the bank of a stream, where they quenched their thirst.

“Let’s stay together,” said Symen, when they had finished. “That way we’ll know which of us hits the target first. He pointed to the top of a tree. “You see those nests? Their occupants never stay away for very long.”

“I see them.”

They waited, but, contrary to Symen’s assertion, no bird appeared. After a few minutes, the other signaled to Pelmen to follow him, and they moved away. Symen had started walking in a semi crouch, brushing the foliage without causing it to stir, his sandals matching the contours of the ground, touching twigs without causing them to crack. Pelmen felt clumsy by comparison. He tried nevertheless to imitate his companion, with a certain success at first, in spite of the encumbrance of his bow, which he held in his hand in order to avoid any inconvenient contact.

He was stepping over a low branch when he glimpsed, on the other side, half-hidden by the leaves, the thorns of an ochreonce. Immediately, he modified his foot’s trajectory, which threw him off balance. Reflexively, he clutched at a branch, and barely avoided falling.

Wings began to beat frantically. Pelmen followed Symen’s gaze—the other had already notched a thorn. Surging from the shadow of the foliage, a pair of galcynes fled. Pelmen was still taking his thorn from his quiver when Symen fired. He had scarcely taken aim, but one of the galcynes fell, its side pierced.

The second bird reacted badly. Rather than continuing in a straight line, it began a curve that would bring it directly over the hevelens’ heads.

“That one’s yours! Go!” cried Symen.

Pelmen tried to judge the right moment, but he let fly a moment too late, and his dart was lost in the trees. By the time he had notched a second thorn and turned, the galcyne had disappeared into cover.

“Conclusive,” said Symen, sarcastically.

Pelmen bit his lip and said nothing.

“Tell me, have you only ever fired at fixed targets?”

“Until recently, yes.”

“It shows.”

Pelmen sighed inwardly but made no reply. Symen bent down over the dying galcyne, finishing it off by wringing its neck. He put the warm body over his shoulder. “Let’s go back. The hunt has made me hungry.”

Pelmen let Symen climb up to the family tent, while he returned to the carts.

He went over to Fekkar, who had begun preparing his nutritive broth. “Is it true you’ve agreed to help my uncle if we have to go to the land of the grayskins?” he asked.

“It’s true,” replied Fekkar, without interrupting what he was doing. “What has happened here can only increase my anxieties, and those of my peers. And Xuven has asked me, for your friend’s sake.”

Pelmen remembered that his uncle had demanded discretion with respect to everything regarding their mission. Reluctantly, he changed the subject. “You’re so different from us. How were our peoples able to form an alliance?”

Fekkar looked at him with eyes devoid of irises. “If we had been obliged to judge by appearances, it surely wouldn’t have been possible. In addition, the Northerners were hostile to such an alliance, to their misfortune. For myself, I don’t think the differences between us are of any importance.”

Surprised, Pelmen raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“The alliance was made as most are, because of mutual need. Many of my people, of course, had no suspicion of the existence of that necessity, just as many of your people didn’t understand it could possibly exist. To begin with, we were your protectors and your guides—a role that gave us another reason to live and to hope.”

“But how could you need us?”

“Some of us shared your values, and History had taught us not to neglect any resource, even the most seemingly harmless, in the battle against the forces of destruction.”

“Go on.”

The gleam in Fekkar’s eyes became more animated. “Do you want me to retrace the history of the world for you? That would take more time than Fregan and his kin will need for their meal. They’re waiting for you, I think.”

Pelmen’s cheeks reddened. Fascinated by the krongos, he had forgotten about the Cilamenites. Without further delay, he left. During the course of the following meal, Fregan got up and looked in turn at Ielun, Laneth and Symen. “The time has come for you to undertake the Voyage,” he announced.

They did not show any surprise or utter a word of protest—on the contrary. Pelmen saw more than one spark ignite in their eyes, followed by a smile. He remembered his own reaction to the thought of accompanying Xuven outside the Canyons, and measured the difference from the young Cilamenites’.

Fregan turned to Xuven. “To begin with, you’ll accompany the shaman Xuven, his nephew Pelmen and the krongos Fekkar to the border of the malanite territories.”

Xuven nodded in agreement, and Pelmen understood what that implied. The Aguerri Tenel’s hevelens must not have discovered any clue that would permit them to set off in pursuit of the crimson shamans. Pelmen could not help feeling relieved.

“The trial will therefore not commence for you until you begin the return journey, when you will be left to yourselves and will have to give proof the time spent in hardening you to the perils of the Steppes has not been wasted. You will return to the encampment—not this one, but the one at the Three Rocks—as skilled hevelens, or will not return at all. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

Wilne’s inexpressive features contrasted with the usual softness of her expression. Pelmen admired her courage, for that was the only symptom of her anxiety.

What must Dryna be thinking at this moment? He considered the question for a few moments, feeling guilty about leaving her without any news for so long. He noticed then that Symen, Laneth and Ielun were all sizing him up with their eyes, and his reflections took a different direction. In the course of the expedition, he would undoubtedly face new challenges. He thought about the two contests in which he had engaged against Symen, and the manner in which the latter had moved. There was no doubt that he was at a disadvantage. Had Xuven thought about that? The other guests could probably see nothing in his gaze but his habitual neutrality, but Pelmen could have sworn he saw satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. His uncle was as cunning as an old hevel. Pelmen did not doubt he had arranged matters so as to make the necessities of the Voyage coincide with his own plans.

When Xuven returned to his cart to resume his trading, Pelmen didn’t offer to help him. Instead, he focused on the underwood, dilating his nostrils in quest of the scent of game. This time, he needed to get far enough away to make sure he was really alone, in order not to incur any further humiliation.

The slight fragrance of hevelen caused him to pivot on his heels. Laneth’s brown hair fell over her shoulders in waves as she advanced toward him, her full lips tracing a smile.

“My little brother tells me you can handle a bow,” she said, by way of greeting. “That’s useful right now.”

Pelmen looked at her closely. Her attitude, like the tone of her voice, did not seem to suggest that she was making fun of him.

“Do you see that branch over there?” he replied.

Laneth nodded, and Pelmen took aim at the target. His thorn flew through the foliage to plant itself in the branch, vibrating. As he went to recover it, taking care to observe the young female, Pelmen wondered whether she, too, was going to suggest a hunting expedition. Although she was only carrying a sling in her waistband, he wondered how he could decline the offer without his dignity suffering.

“Symen was right,” she said. “You do have talent.”

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” said Pelmen, pulling out the thorn with a soft click.

“Go on.”

“How did your father and my uncle become such good friends? It’s not common for an inhabitant of the Canyons to be so closely linked to a Cilamenite.”

“Have you asked your uncle?”

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” said Pelmen.

“Is that really it? Or is it that he doesn’t judge you worthy of his confidence?” A mischievous gleam showed in her eyes. “In that case, why should I tell you anything more?”

Pelmen had no answer. At that moment, Laneth looked sideways, toward a well-built silhouette in the reddening dappled light. It took him a few seconds to put a name to it: Beran.

An expression of annoyance passed over Laneth’s features but disappeared swiftly.

“If you want me to tell you what I know,” she went on. “You have to meet the challenge.”

“What?” said Pelmen, frowning.

“Come this way.”

She slid gracefully through the ferns and low branches, stepping over roots and tangled grass. Pelmen followed her, circumspectly. They did not take long to reach a small clearing.

“We’re here.”

Pelmen inspected the surroundings without finding anything out of the ordinary, except perhaps for the silence, which was more profound here. The odors of hevelen were barely perceptible.

“What is there here?”

“Nothing in particular, but we won’t be bothered here.”

“Doing what?” Pelmen sniffed the air the direction of the young female, and it seemed to him he detected spices denoting a certain excitement.

“According to your uncle, you people of the Canyons haven’t entirely rejected the old customs. From what he tells me, you still practice wrestling.”

“Of course,” said Pelmen. “Especially those who want to become hunters.”

“Like you, perhaps? I’ve never had the opportunity to measure myself against a Canyonite. It would be… an honor.”

Again, Pelmen studied Laneth’s expression. The slight hesitation before the word “honor” and the natural pride of the Cilamenites made him doubt the sincerity of her words. Probably, like her brother Symen, she had no other goal than to prove the superiority of her own people to him. He was beginning to find the Cilamenites slightly irritating. This one really needed to be taken down a peg, but could he do it?

She was certainly muscular. Even in the Canyons, female hevelens served the Indomitable Hunter without generating any excitement. They were regarded as almost equal to their male colleagues, compensating for their lesser strength with qualities of suppleness and intuition. Pelmen, however, was a little taller and the repeated efforts of cutting skins and drawing his bow had hardened his muscles. If he could make his weight count, he thought, he should be able to win without encountering much resistance.

“Are you really sure about this?” he asked, putting down his bow and quiver. “I don’t want you to regret it…”

“If you want me to answer your question, this is the only way.”

She positioned herself, by bending her legs and straightening her back. Given the way she moved, Pelmen wondered whether he had made an error in his assessment.

He advanced toward her cautiously, although he still expected to win without any difficulty. She circled around him, with measured steps, whose regularity was an indication. Her brown eyes were riveted to his—even in these circumstances, Pelmen could not help but find them charming.

She took a further step. Before it was complete, Pelmen was upon her. A moment more, and he would have thrown her with a violent shove. While slipping away with feline grace, she grasped his forearm, stuck out her leg, and in a flash turned his movement against him. Unbalanced, he fell, and remained face down, dazed. If Laneth wanted to finish him off, she only had to install herself on his back and keep his shoulders to the ground. Instead, she remained standing, a slight smile on her lips.

Red with embarrassment, Pelmen got up. Faster—she’s faster than I expected. This time he watched her for a longer period, trying to come up with a strategy to make her fall.

She was the one to seize the initiative. Grabbing him by his shoulders, she engaged in a battle of strength that surprised Pelmen, for he took several steps back. Here at least, he had thought he’d hold the advantage. Nevertheless, he planted his feet and braced himself, stopping his backward movement. For a moment, they remained motionless, forming a single mass. Then she was the one who gave ground. Pelmen recovered his confidence. Laneth seemed determined to resist him until the last moment, and that was why he attempted to weigh upon one shoulder, and then the other, in the hope of causing her to lose her balance.

Again, she slipped away.

Her alacrity was such that, once again, Pelmen was taken by surprise, and lurched forward. He would have succeeded in regaining his balance if she had not cut loose and charged him, knocking him down with a thrust of her shoulder in his ribs. An instant later she was on top of him, her round and firm breasts, held only by a simple leather strip, pressed against his chest.

Pelmen should not have been thinking about anything but combat, but the situation troubled him more than he would have believed. Alicene’s face suddenly came back to mind, her disapproving expression adding further to his confusion. He struggled to raise himself up on his elbow—a reaction she had anticipated, because she twisted his wrist. He let go, and she flattened his shoulders against the ground.

“You lose,” she said, with a smile.

Humiliated, he attempted one last derisory somersault. Kneeling on top of him, she held him down, firmly but without causing any pain. He emitted a vague grunt of assent and started thinking, with a hint of guilt, that the situation was not so disagreeable. She raised her eyes to look at something outside his field of vision before redirecting them at him, provocatively.

Pelmen had expected sarcasm, and he was still wondering how he ought to react when she let him up. To add to his embarrassment, Beran was standing fifty feet from them with his arms folded and his nostrils pinched. The big warrior stared at Pelmen without saying a word, and then turned back toward the camp.

“So I won’t get an answer to my question,” said Pelmen, looking at Laneth pensively.

She turned to look at him. “I get the idea that what you’re taught in the Canyons isn’t worth much.”

“It’s just that I haven’t been trained in wrestling…” Pelmen swallowed and took a deep breath. “But I’d like nothing better than to improve. I mean… since we’ll be traveling together and if your brothers will permit me…”

“My brothers won’t have any say in the matter,” she cut in. “If it’s Beran you’re afraid of, well, he won’t be coming with us. He’s already passed the trial.”

“I’m not afraid of anyone. I prefer to avoid trouble, that’s all.”

Laneth’s laughter had a delicate, crystalline sound. “Trouble! As if family members never quarrel!”

They did not say anything more about the matter, but when they set off for the camp, Pelmen got the impression that there was a tacit agreement between them. His thoughts reverted to Alicene. The young hevelen would doubtless have disapproved.

She’s far away now and, in any case, the only promise I’ve given her is to find Teleg.

Laneth placed a hand on his shoulder, which troubled him further. “I’ll tell you what I know, about your uncle and my father.”

Pelmen came to an abrupt halt and stared at her, incredulously. More unpredictable than a mountain stream.

“Well?” she said, looking at him impatiently.

“Er… all right. Go on.”

“It’s quite simple, really. My father had tried to kill a sanrkhas without any help. He succeeded but was wounded in the knee.”

“That’s why he has a limp?”

“Yes. Your uncle arrived shortly afterward, accompanied by his master, the shaman Stenlen Milempas. He dressed my father’s wound and helped him into his cart. Thus, they traveled for several days, side by side, and every evening, your uncle took care of my father’s wound. Hence their friendship.”

“And Stenlen Milempas entered into discussions with the members of your clan at that time?”

“Yes, I think it must go back to that time. It’s terrible for Xuven, what happened to him. No one could have thought such a venerable master would meet such an end…”

“I’d like to have met him while he was alive. My uncle held him in high esteem, I know.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“About your father…” said Pelmen.

“Yes?”

“Why confront a sanrkhas in single combat? One of your trials?”

“Our people seem reckless to you, is that it? Well, you’re on the wrong track. My father did that to win my mother’s hand in marriage. His rival didn’t accept the challenge.”

Pelmen nodded his head. Age had scarcely altered Wilne’s beauty. It was not surprising that at one time, suitors had been ready to risk their lives to win her.

Pelmen had assumed he and Laneth would each go their own way now, so he was pleasantly surprised when she offered to show him around the area. They spent the rest of the day exploring the underwood and talking.

The life of the Cilamenites differed in several respects from that of the inhabitants of the Canyons. They did not burden themselves with useless ornamentations, and their basic gear was permanently parceled up in cord sacks. Patrols circulated, including one of the clan’s shamans, who took turns detecting the odors of the underwood and the steppe beyond.

If a small group of predators approached the encampment, an expedition was organized to confront them, or the warriors would set up an ambush, supported by the masters of the wind. When the breath of Aoles became icy, or if the carnivores were too numerous, it was time to move on. The necessities of life were then gathered together in haste and the tribe would fall back to another place of resort in the steppes. If all retreat were cut off, the Tree of Life itself would constitute an ultimate refuge.

“You live in constant peril,” Pelmen observed, “ever ready to fight or flee.”

“So what? At least we’re not stuck in canyons like frightened ptats. If your gate were to fall, how would you face up to the danger?”

“Evidently, you’ve never seen the Gate. And you’re forgetting we have warriors too—hunters who go out into the Steppes and bring back game.”

“You rely too much on them, and you’re too far away from Cilamon.”

“Very funny. Our Seers tell us it’s the Cilamenites who have rejected Aoles.”

“That’s a lie! How dare they claim that?”

Pelmen did not reply, suddenly unsure as to who was right: the ancients of the Canyons, or those from the Steppes. He could not say. Until recently, he had thought of the Cilamenites as a barbaric and indiscriminate people. The reality was far more subtle, he had to admit. As for the stories of the Gods, although he had scarcely ever paid any attention to them, he was still troubled by his vision of the algam. The immense cilamen, for its part, was certainly the closest thing to a deity he had ever seen.

“To each his beliefs, yes?” said Laneth.

“Not really. In my opinion, we have an interest in learning from one another.”

“That’s what you believe?”

“Perhaps one day it will be my turn to show you around the Canyons and teach you many things.”

She stared at him for a few moments, in a way that left Pelmen feeling uncomfortable. So much so that he ended up looking away.

Dusk was falling. Some way ahead of them, in the fading light, two silhouettes were running, avoiding bushes and roots with the supple stride only Cilamenites had. In spite of the distance, Pelmen recognized Ielun and Symen.

“Where are they going in such a hurry?” he asked. “That’s not the direction of your family tri-fold.”

“They’re going to meet friends, to have fun, sing and drink beer… in the middle of the night! That’s the way it is before every Voyage. It’s time for me to join them.”

Pelmen made as if to accompany her, but she turned toward him with a smile on her lips. “I advise you to go and join your uncle and my father. They must be waiting for you.”

Pelmen took the hint. With a nod of the head, he set off in the direction of Fregan’s tent. What could be more natural than Laneth wanting to take advantage of a final few moments with her friends? Who knew what dangers their journey might bring, or how long it would last? He would simply have liked to feel less alone.

Pelmen only had a few rungs left to climb, when he heard Fregan’s voice and another, which he did not recognize.

“Why do you want to go with them?” Fregan asked.

“That’s the way it is. I’ll protect them,” replied the other.

“You’ll protect her, you mean.”

Pelmen froze.

“I’ll leave them as soon as they’ve separated from the foreigners. But I have to make sure they arrive safely at the beginning of the trial. I can then attest they’ve really gone to confront the perils of the Steppe, alone and without external aid.”

“I suspect your motives are much less generous. You know that I don’t approve of such a plan.”

There was a long silence, and Pelmen was on the brink of going to join them when Fregan resumed speaking.

“Oh, I know how stubborn you are, and I know full well that once your mind is made up, there is no point in trying to dissuade you. Don’t forget, though, that danger might just as easily strike you as your… protégés.”

Pelmen spotted Xuven down below. He started moving again without delay, hoisting himself up onto the base of the branch, only to see the square jaw of Beran through the opening of the tent. Beran fixed him with a hostile stare before turning his back and going out, unhurriedly, through the far exit. Pelmen crossed the threshold and greeted Fregan. His host made him welcome, but couldn’t hide his lingering annoyance.

Xuven joined them and they went to the platform where Wilne served the meal. Together, they settled the final details of the expedition. Fregan announced Beran’s presence—news that Xuven greeted with raised eyebrows. To Pelmen’s disappointment, his uncle left it at that, raising no objection.

Laneth’s reaction, the next day, as they were packing up the last of the luggage, was very different. As soon as she saw the big warrior, who was carrying an impressive spear with a flint head, an ax passed through his belt and a large sack slung over his shoulder, she ran toward him.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Calm down little sister. As soon as our mother told me the time of the Voyage had arrived for you, I made my preparations. I’d be a bad brother if I let you depart alone.”

Laneth’s eyes could have shot thorns.

“You are a bad brother. You’re preventing us from accomplishing our trial.” Turning to Fregan, she added: “Don’t tell me you authorized this?”

Her father made a placating gesture and explained the role that Beran would play. “No one can doubt your word,” he concluded, “and when you return to us, no one will contest that you’re full-fledged hevelens.”

“Why take such risks?” demanded Laneth, dryly. “He’ll have to come back alone, by his own means, to the camp at the Three Rocks.”

“That’s my choice,” said Beran, raising his voice for the benefit of the audience. “Anyone who objects will have to face me in single combat.”

A small group of hevelens had gathered, but only the trilling of impertinent birds shattered the silence that followed. Beran nodded his head. Without paying any further heed to his sister, who looked him up and down with her nostrils flared and her fists on her hips, he went to place himself in the back of Fekkar’s cart.

The farewells were as dignified as they were brief. Then the rigs moved off, escorted by four Halenors.

Chapter Eleven - THE LEGACY OF ASTIAN

To begin with, Pelmen remained seated beside his uncle. We’re about to move out of the Rameaux clan’s zone of influence, he thought, anxiously. If we run into the murderers of Stenlen Milempas, we’ll have to rely upon ourselves.

Aguerri Tenel’s scouts had found no sign of the crimson shamans in the vicinity of the encampment, but that did not mean they were long gone, and they might have found a means of covering their tracks and hiding so that they might watch the comings and goings. In that case, the Halenors, who were moving around the carts like shadows, appearing and disappearing silently in the vegetation, would be the first ones exposed to danger.

The forest was not very extensive, and they emerged without incident. In the steppes, the sparse clumps of trees were all potential hiding places. The Halenors scattered, and Pelmen guessed they were going hunting.

What’s the point of wanting to be a hunter if you’re going to stay in a cart quivering with fear? he chided himself. It’s not up them to take all the risks. Determined to prove himself, he leapt down from the cart and ran to join Symen.

“Shh!” said Symen. “You make more noise than a herd of nidepoux in rut. You have to learn to walk silently, or you risk not being able to fill your game-bag.”

“How do you do it?”

Symen stopped and turned to Pelmen. “You haven’t been taught anything, then?” He sighed. “You have to control your breathing and your sense of smell. Those are the basics that every hunter needs to know. If you succeed in filtering what reaches your nostrils, they’ll tell you better than your eyes where to put your feet. Try. Breathe in and concentrate on your senses.”

Pelmen obeyed, grateful for the opportunity to focus on something other than his fears.

“What do you notice?”

“The odors of grass and lichens. And your odor.”

“That’s too general. You have to go deeper, into the nuances. Forget the most powerful smells.”

“There are other odors. Those of insects… stone… earth.”

“Good. Those are the ones you need to keep permanently in focus as you move. Without closing yourself off to others, of course, or you’ll become unconscious of dangers lying in wait for you. You’re still in tune with the earth? Now, move forward and keep it in mind. More slowly! Your feet and your legs need to let themselves be guided. Do you sense something? Like a new rhythm?”

“Not really.”

“That’s because you’re not bending your knees enough. Abandon yourself to the odors, forget your other senses. Use your breathing to master your movements…”

Pelmen forced himself to follow Symen’s directives, but he felt awkward and his legs were hurting. Nevertheless, he watched his companion and did his best to imitate his movements. A part of his mind remained focused on the odors, to such an extent that gradually, he seemed to be able to filter them more efficiently.

When they sensed the droppings of a rocol, he made no move to take up his bow. On the contrary, he continued to study Symen’s movements. The young hevelen drew closer than Pelmen would have thought necessary, to the point at which, conscious of his inability to remain silent, he was obliged to let him take the lead.

Symen progressed in fits and starts, and sidesteps, cleverly anticipating the capricious shifts of Aoles. Pelmen engraved in his mind the fashion in which he grasped his bow, fitting a thorn and taking aim at his target promptly.

Hit in the side, the rocol attempted to take off, uttering shrill clucking sounds. A second thorn missed, but it fell under the impact of a third.

A rumble rose up from Pelmen’s stomach. Raising his eyes, he realized Astar was already halfway through his course. His gaze swept the monotonous extent of the steppe, but the carts were out of sight. Given the multiplicity of the changes of direction they had made, it would have been difficult to determine the direction in which they needed to go to find them.

That did not seem to be a problem for Symen, who, after sniffing the air, chose without hesitation and headed southeast. Indeed, it was only a little while before the grinding of the stone wheels of Fekkar’s rig became perceptible, borne by the wind.

“Only one little rocol!” said Beran. A blue-furred quadruped whose throat had been slit was thrown over his shoulder. “You’re slacking off, Symen! One might think a large insect had slowed you down…”

“And how do you know it wasn’t Pelmen who brought it down?” Symen replied.

“Oh, come on! You know very well that a Canyonite couldn’t hurt a zeanong.”

“No point in responding,” murmured Symen, giving Pelmen a slight nudge with his elbow. “He likes making a show of his superiority, but it’s only a facade.”

“Superiority…? I’m not sure killing makes you superior,” Pelmen retorted, looking at Beran without blinking.

The eldest Halenor sniggered.

Shortly afterward they were joined by Ielun, who had dead ptats hanging from his belt and sanrkhas fists, still bloody, in his hands. Laneth was with him. Her game-bag was laden with vermilion eggs. With a luminous smile, she exhibited one as large as her joined hands. Pelmen smiled at her in return.

At the front of the convoy, Xuven raised his arm to signal a halt. Pelmen took advantage of it to sit down in the shade of the krongos’ cart and stretch out his stiff legs.

During the course of the meal, Laneth cast several emphatic glances at Pelmen. He only responded briefly, in the most neutral manner possible. If, as he supposed, she was the cause of Beran’s hostility, the best thing to do was not to fan the embers, to let her brother believe he was in control of the situation. He redirected his attention to his uncle, who cleared his throat after taking a long swig of beer.

“As you know, we’ll soon have to cross the Hado. There’s a ford a few hours’ march from here, where there’s a bend in the river…”

“It shouldn’t pose a problem at this time of year,” Beran put in.

“I need to make sure of that. I don’t intend to risk the carts in the river mud if the water is too deep. Are any of you prepared to go out on reconnaissance? In that direction”—he pointed westwards—“the odors transmitted by Aoles aren’t those of danger.”

“I’ll volunteer,” said Ielun. “In this heat, dipping my legs in the water won’t do me any harm.”

“Unless they encounter mud leeches,” said Laneth, with a mocking smile. “Then you’d really be warm.”

Symen uttered a brief laugh, but Pelmen remained impassive. He expected to see other candidates come forward, and when it became apparent that was not going to happen, he announced his intention of going with Ielun. Laneth’s expression was one of bewilderment.

Xuven shrugged his shoulders. “I’d rather there were two of you. Go on then, and come back with good news.”

Ielun took the lead confidently, and began to run with a supple and muscular stride. Pelmen did his best to keep up. He was still sniffing the air apprehensively and darting suspicious glances at any clump of plants capable of hiding enemies, but being in the company of a hevelen so familiar with the steppe had the effect of reducing his fear.

Without having the athletic mass of his brother Beran, the short-statured Ielun was broader in the shoulders and more thickset than Symen. In spite of that, his feet made no more noise as they touched the ground than the breath of Aoles in the blades of grass. They went around obstacles as if they knew where they had been before they were visible.

Even though his legs were aching due to exerting himself earlier that morning, Pelmen plunged into the hunter’s state of mind, according to Symen. Giving priority to his sense of smell, he tried to be nothing but one with nature, without overmuch conviction.

The exercise had been hard enough while walking and Pelmen would have thought it impossible while running. The odors flowed without him being able to make a conscious triage. To his surprise, however, even the stealthiest stride came to him easily. By leaving no time for thought, running helped him focus on sensations. At each false step—inevitable, given that his legs and body were unused to such exercise—Pelmen looked for signs of reproach from his guide.

Ielun’s pace never slowed, so it was sheer pride that drove Pelmen to stay with him to the end. Gradually, the air filled with the fragrance of algae, moss and fresh water. Ielun slowed down, and then set about walking along the banks of the great river. Pelmen drew breath. On the opposite bank, wild nidepoux were drinking. As Xuven had announced, the course of the Hado curved a little further on, and numerous rocks protruded where the water was at its shallowest.

“Here it is,” said Ielun. “Let’s go.”

The green-tinted water was cold and the current perceptible, although insufficiently vigorous to throw him off balance. Under the surface, a multitude of particles blocked the view.

If leeches are hiding under there, I won’t know until it’s too late.

The thought was hardly cheering, but his companion advanced without hesitation, and Pelmen forced himself to follow. Contrary to his fears, they reached the northern shore without any problem.

“You have more courage and stamina than I thought,” said Ielun, turning toward him. He measured him with a long look. “If you want, tomorrow I’ll start teaching you to use these.”

Pelmen raised his eyebrows at the sanrkhas fists Ielun was brandishing. He knew the Cilemenite was doing him a favor. Masters of that discipline were rare in Alveg.

“Agreed, thank you…”

They began the return journey with less diligence, taking the time to chat briefly. The Voyage had arrived just in time for Ielun, his mother’s sister and his grandmother having decided to marry him to a young female of the clan, named Osean—a prospect he did not find particularly attractive.

“Is your brother Beran also a bachelor?”

“Indeed. Neither he nor I care much for female matters.”

“His weapon is the spear?”

“He excels with it,” said Ielun, nodding his head. “I advise you not to challenge him.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve mastered all the different weapons. Is there a reason for that?”

“In the family, you mean? Everyone has simply chosen whatever suits him best. It’s our father who taught us everything we know. He’s a master of arms, one of the most respected in all the clans.”

“I don’t find that hard to believe.”

The lichens of the steppe were taking on a violet tinge when Pelmen and Ielun got back to the carts.

The day had been trying, and Pelmen had only one urgent desire: to fill his empty stomach and then lie down for as long as possible. When Laneth discreetly nodded and winked in his direction at the end of the meal, he pretended not to have seen it and went to the place where he had left his things, grimacing. His limbs were so stiff that simply moving them required considerable effort. He let himself fall down like an inert mass.

Paradoxically, sleep was slow in coming, which annoyed him. Had he not earned the rest after such a day? When he finally succeeded in forgetting his aches and slipped into relaxation, he was interrupted by someone shaking him by the shoulder.

“Eh?” he said, blinking.

The stars were shining in the darkened heavens (several hours must have elapsed), and they framed the face of a young female. Although Pelmen was still disoriented, he recognized Laneth.

“What are you doing here?”

“What? Looking for you, of course. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it?”

He produced a sound that was both a yawn and a groan. “I don’t remember asking you to wake me up in the middle of the night.”

“Don’t pretend not to understand. I was going to teach you the art of wrestling, remember?”

“Right now?”

“The sooner, the better, for you. We won’t go far.”

“Did Xuven send you?” he grumbled.

“No.”

Pelmen studied her, conscious of the fact that not far away, Ielun had just shifted in his sleep. Sighing, he got to his feet, more because he did not want to wake his companions than for any other reason.

She took him to a place a hundred yards away, near a clump of fragrant plants.

“What are we going to do?” he muttered, stifling a further yawn. “I can hardly see you.”

“Exactly. The exercise is excellent. You’ll have to trust your instincts. Let your body find its points of equilibrium.”

Pelmen sighed again. At that moment, the only point of equilibrium in his body, with its aching limbs, was situated in the depths of his pallet.

Laneth drew closer, and, moved by a defensive reflex, Pelmen braced his legs. They gripped one another by the shoulders. Pelmen drew upon unknown resources to resist the successive pressures exerted by the young female. Twice he lost his balance and she would have been able to throw him and dispose of him easily. Instead, she tempered her effort each time.

His breathing became hoarse. Beyond the fatigue, he understood the key to combat lay in knowing what his adversary’s next move would be. Therefore, he launched all his senses in search of the slightest clue. Laneth was skillful in feinting and hiding her intentions so effectively that Pelmen found himself hard pressed again. It was at the moment when he was so exhausted he thought he couldn’t fight anymore that he finally anticipated one of her moves and blocked it.

Elated, he immediately tried to counterattack, but she slipped away so that, turning his own momentum against him, she sent him tumbling to the ground. He got up, clenching his teeth, his legs unsteady. Scarcely taking the time to draw breath, he took hold of her once again.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Chilled, Pelmen recognized the hoarse voice. He spun around, pulling free as he did so—or rather, Beran let go of him.

“What are we doing? We’re training.”

“You couldn’t choose an adversary your own size?”

“Don’t imagine that Laneth is an adversary,” said Pelmen. “She’s the person I’ve chosen to teach me how to wrestle.”

“A female?”

“So what?” retorted Laneth. “The Aguerri of the Slender-trees clan is a woman.”

“The Slender-trees are weaklings,” Beran affirmed, turning to his sister. “She wouldn’t last any longer against me than it would take me to drink a mug of beer.”

“In that case, why don’t you challenge her?” said Laneth.

Beran sniffed loudly.

“No, that’s not why you’re sneaking around like a zeanong in the veguer,” Laneth said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know very well! You’re putting yourself between us for the same reason that pushes you to intimidate all the hevelens unlucky enough to be interested in me. It’s your fault no one has dared ask to share my bed yet!”

Pelmen stood there, his breath cut off. He would have liked to be many leagues away, while almost wanting to pity Beran for the humiliation. After all, he asked for it, he reasoned.

Disconcerted at first, the other pulled himself together.

“Even so, you aren’t going to keep company with a Canyonite!”

“And why not, if I want to?”

“It would debase our blood to mingle it with that of cowards.”

Pelmen could not let that pass. Convinced he had surpassed the limits of exhaustion, he knew that the combat would end in defeat. Even so, he put himself on guard, determined to strike first.

An imposing gray hand closed on Beran’s shoulder. He shuddered, and then took two steps back. Furiously, he launched his fist backward, but uttered a cry of surprise and pain when it crashed into a torso of stone.

A voice full of profound and rocky echoes, familiar to Pelmen, rang out.

“Beran, I could not help overhearing you, and the words you have said do you no honor. Is it me, a krongos, who needs to teach you the history of your own people? Don’t you know that before the schism, Cilamenites and Canyonites were one people?”

Pelmen directed a gaze overflowing with gratitude at Fekkar, whose bulk masked a considerable number of stars.

“Why are you interfering?” growled Beran, massaging his aching shoulder.

“Answer my question.”

“That’s exactly what shows they’re so different from us. They chose to take shelter and live the life of… citizens.” Beran spat out the last word scornfully.

“And you’ve chosen Cilamon. A choice full of dignity, but one which cost the lives of many of you. One of the cilamens was burned by the adherents of Valshhyk. All those who thought it protected them perished.”

“That episode is one of the most illustrious in our history,” Beran replied, puffing out his chest. “Everyone knows a new Tree of Life has grown at the exact spot where the old one was burned.”

In the diffuse light of Tinmal and Hamal, the silhouettes of Symen, Ielun and Xuven appeared. They formed a circle, silent spectators.

“And that proves you made the right choice?” Fekkar shook his head. “Fanaticism only engenders pain and death.”

In spite of the gloom, Pelmen had the impression Beran was not convinced.

“Do you even know,” Fekkar went on, “where the language you’re speaking comes from?”

“From our fathers’ fathers, and their fathers before them.”

“Which proves your ignorance, I fear. Listen, then. Long before the demons of Valshhyk went abroad in the world and the majority of hevelens were forced to take refuge in the Canyons of Panjurub, your nomadic people were already trading with the malians and those of my own kind who were known as the Western krongos. In those remote times, it was decided, with common accord, to found a city where the representatives of each species could live in harmony: a city dedicated to Ast the creator, of whom Astar himself is merely an emanation. And for that reason, it was named Astian.”

Fekkar turned to each of the members of his audience in turn. Most of them were listening meekly.

“Built at the sources of the river Hado, Astian was a haven of peace for more than five hundred years, and its prosperity grew in proportion to its fame. Even among us, the builders, it was said the world had never known a more admirable city.” The krongos plunged his milky eyes into Beran’s. “It was during that period that a language was forged, common to our three civilizations, which had previously only been able to understand one another imperfectly. You and your people use that heritage every day, Beran. Beware of attaching too much scorn to those you call citizens, and don’t forget some of your ancestors probably lived in Astian.”

Beran tried to reply, but no sound emerged from his mouth. He screwed up his nose in Pelmen’s direction, then turned round abruptly and returned to the camp.

While Laneth, Ielun and Symen talked in low voices, Xuven signaled to Pelmen to follow him.

“What were you doing with Laneth to unleash Beran’s anger?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” retorted Pelmen, sounding ill-tempered.

“Hmm. Beware of females, my lad. They’re a source of never-ending problems.”

“What do you know about it?”

Xuven grimaced. “It’s time to get some rest. You look worn out.”

Pelmen obeyed, but not without first going to Fekkar to thank him warmly for his intervention.

For the second time in a few hours, someone shook Pelmen’s shoulder.

“Finally, you open your eyes!” said Xuven. “We’ve waited for you as long as possible, but we have to leave now. We’re crossing the Hado this morning. Come on! You can rest on the way, in the cart.”

Astar was, in fact, already entirely visible on the horizon. Blinking his eyes and constantly yawning, Pelmen picked up his things and went to install himself in the cart. Before thinking about eating or drinking anything, he stretched his numb limbs. The trana roots he chewed on, distilling their reinvigorating juice, chased away some of the fatigue and made the jolting of the cart more tolerable.

Pelmen completed the meal with a few handfuls of veguer, which he washed down with a little water. He wondered whether Fekkar’s lecture of the previous night would suffice to make Beran modify his behavior. Not a family trait. Laneth was not in sight, which was a good thing. What she had said to her brother was perhaps flattering for Pelmen, but he knew he would feel embarrassed around her.

The great river soon presented its sparkling expanse. From time to time, however, heavy clouds reduced the brightness and gave it a more disquieting appearance. Guided by Ielun they came to the ford, and then lightened Xuven’s cart by transporting some of the merchandise on foot.

Afterward, Pelmen and Xuven came back to lend a hand to the nidepoux, with the result that, save for a few dead branches carried by the current, which it was necessary for them to push out of the way, the crossing of the Hado went off without a hitch. Fekkar, for his part, had also dismounted. He and his melepeks crossed the river almost without interruption to their habitual rhythm.

The first raindrops were falling on the footboard when Ielun came over to Pelmen. “I believe the nidepoux would be grateful to be relieved of the burden of your great carcass,” he said, with a little smile. “They’re resilient, but I suggest you avoid tiring them out too quickly.”

“He’s right, my boy,” said Xuven.

Pelmen sighed. The Cilamenites, apparently endowed with inexhaustible energy, would think he was lazy if he refused.

“Don’t go too far,” said Xuven. “The rain will mask your odors.”

His back bent, Ielun broke into a trot. Pelmen tried to imitate him as he had the day before. The downpour became more intense and the ground was becoming spongy. It was the beginning of the first month of Astar. The atmosphere was heavy and Pelmen welcomed the freshness with gratitude. The odors had a tendency to blend together, making it harder to detect changes in the terrain. Once again, Pelmen felt disadvantaged by his lack of practice.

“Symen and I have talked to Beran,” said Ielun, almost without slowing his pace.

Pelmen raised his head.

“He won’t trouble you anymore. We’ve made him understand our sister is of an age to choose her companion… for wrestling, of course.”

“Yes, wrestling. But why did you intervene?”

Ielun stopped running, and held Pelmen by the arm, his face having become grave. “Our group will doubtless have dangers to confront on the road. Anything that might cause discord and diminish our vigilance risks fatal consequences. My brother should not have accompanied us since he has already undergone the trial…”

“I won’t disagree with that.”

“That’s why, if he creates any further problems, we’ll ask your uncle and Fekkar to send him back.”

Ielun resumed running, in silence. After a pause, Pelmen followed him. That Beran had been made to see reason—but could he really be?—was good news. On the other hand, Pelmen was not sure he appreciated the allusion to his relationship with Laneth. While he was undeniably attracted to her and enjoyed her company, Pelmen wasn’t sure whether she had only spoken out so bluntly to annoy her brother. Did she really desire him, or was she simply using him?

“Shhh! Less noise!”

Pelmen realized he had indeed fallen into his old habits while running. He admonished himself inwardly. In addition to the steppe’s natural predators, they might cross the path of other Banished or, worse, crimson shamans. In either case, those who detected the presence of the enemy first would be at an advantage.

A little further on, Ielun signaled a stop. They were in the middle of a meadow of long grass, which the wind was twisting in all directions, causing a multitude of raindrops to scatter. Ielun drew away, indicating to Pelmen he should stay where he was. He began to circle, sniffing the air.

“We should be undisturbed for a while,” he said when he came back. “At least, I think so—with the rain, one can never be sure.” Carefully, he unfastened the sanrkhas tusks tied to his wrists. He held them out. “Take them. I’ll help you to put them on.”

Pelmen’s eyes widened. Since he had met the Halenors, he had not seen Ielun take off his precious ivory fists.

There was an impatience in the Cilamenite’s expression, belying the detached attitude he was feigning. That did not bode well, but Pelmen took the tusks anyway. He had had more than his share of defeats lately, one more or one less wouldn’t matter much. Ielun drew a grimace from him as he tightened the straps around his forearms. To begin with, Pelmen made a few passes. The fists made his limbs heavy and placed a different significance on every gesture. With his open hand, he could still grip things, and his new trappings could pass for mere ornaments. With the fist closed, the baubles became deadly weapons.

“Sharp, aren’t they? They’ve never let me down. Only the most courageous make use of them, obviously. Others content themselves with felling their prey at a distance, when they know they’re taking no risk…”

Pelmen replied to Ielun’s mocking wink with a grunt.

“Oh, you didn’t like that? Come on, attack me!”

Ielun had assumed a fighting stance, his eyes shining with excitement. In response to Pelmen’s perplexed attitude, he added: “This is part of the training. Go on, throw a punch! I won’t hold it against you. You’re not a girl, are you?”

Any hesitation which Pelmen was feeling vanished and, with his fists clenched and a fixed expression on his face, he began twirling his arms with increasing speed, taking care so as not to hurt himself, advancing toward Ielun, who remained imperturbable. Pelmen forced himself to go on, hoping to stun rather than perforate with his next gesture.

At the very last moment, Ielun dodged. Fighting the force of inertia, Pelmen stopped his windmill movements and pivoted, his sanrkhas fist flying toward Ielun’s shoulder, who deflected it with the back of his hand and launched his foot at Pelmen’s face.

If Ielun had not stopped the blow in time and it had connected, the impact would have sent Pelmen flying backward, out of the fight. Only the displacement of air made his nostrils quiver.

“I could have knocked you out with that kick,” said Ielun, pausing for effect. “Let’s go.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to fight with bare hands? Or with sticks?”

“You already have a master for barehanded combat, and I don’t teach the use of the staff. If it reassures you, when you get to the point where there’s a risk you could hurt me, I’ll let you know.”

They continued for a good part of the afternoon. Ielun moved just as unpredictably as his sister. Even disarmed, he gave the impression of brandishing his favorite weapons. The dynamics of his war dance had nothing in common with Laneth’s. His movements were more circular—and also more brutal, as Pelmen bitterly learned after biting the dust several times. Every time he got up again he looked dejectedly at Ielun’s face. To his surprise, the other’s facial expression bore no trace of mockery.

It had stopped raining, and daylight was fading when the young warrior finally brought the session to a close, full to overflowing with remarks and recommendations. Pelmen was astonished to see it was not the desire to belittle him which motivated Ielun.

During the return journey, Pelmen thought about how to remove all ambiguity from his relationship with Laneth. There was no ideal solution, but he thought he had found an acceptable strategy. Once they were back in the camp, he no longer sought to avoid her. In spite of his built-up fatigue, he was the one who went to her to ask for another training session. A camp fire had been lit, around which everyone except Fekkar had huddled in order to dry their clothes. By the light of the flames Pelmen saw the young hevelen’s smile, immediately followed by Beran’s reproving scowl. None of the others manifested any disapproval and, after they had eaten, they drew away into the darkness.

The clouds had not dispersed, so the darkness was profound. More than ever, it was necessary for Pelmen to rely on his sense of smell, hearing and instinct. He fought with even more sullen determination than the previous night. Laneth was unaffected by that and felled him with the same regularity. She, too, had a plethora of comments and advice, inciting him to work on his breath, his center of gravity, and balance.

Pelmen was not used to having to swallow his pride in front of a female, and he would have felt useless if it weren’t for how much Laneth’s technique surpassed his own. So, in spite of his somewhat wounded pride, he listened, wanting to do better, not to please her, but rather to show her he would not let her use him as a counterfoil merely to irritate her overprotective brother.

The clouds masking Tinmal cleared and Pelmen saw Beran’s silhouette some distance away.

“Why am I not surprised?” he murmured, pointing his elbow in the warrior’s direction.

Laneth wrinkled her nostrils slightly in the particular way she had. “He can’t help himself,” she said. “Throughout the journey, he’ll watch over me with all the diligence of a steppe-runner following carnalyne nectar.”

“What about the return?”

“If he does it then, I swear my brothers and I will hunt him down like a vulgar sanrkhas.”

They exchanged a brief laugh, although Pelmen had read in her eyes she was not joking.

The days that followed confirmed Laneth’s prediction. Beran did not relax his vigilance. For that reason alone, Pelmen was tempted to forget his resolution and kiss the young female. He would have done so had he not sensed that this was not the way to win her respect. So, he restricted himself to wrestling with fervor, and gradually absorbed some unexpected moves.

To begin with, Laneth helped him to discover new postures, and then taught him how to channel his energy to direct it to a precise point in his body. She called the technique the Squall of Aoles. Her daily lessons complemented those of Symen and Ielun, and Pelmen became increasingly appreciative of her frank and honest character. From time to time he remembered Alicene, and was astonished to find his memories of her becoming less vivid. Even Teleg only figured in the background of his thoughts, so intent was he on his determination to improve his skills.

It was with Symen that his progress was the rapidest. As the weeks went by, Pelmen’s body gradually got the upper hand over fatigue. The Cilamenites’ characteristic manner of movement became second nature to him. He was now able to anticipate every caprice of Aoles, and his thorns found their target more frequently, so his hunting expeditions were mostly crowned with success. His speed almost equaled Symen’s and his precision was better. His sense of smell had not been conclusively diminished by the stench of the tannery—he developed and refined it.

Pelmen also discovered other senses. Thus, he was soon able to tell when the nidepoux were thirsty or hungry before they displayed any symptoms, and to detect the first signs of their fear at the approach of predators. He learned to anticipate most of the reactions of animals, and became as skillful in that as Symen, who was the best of all of them.

On some evenings, by the light of the stars, Pelmen thought about Astian, the marvelous cosmopolitan city described by Fekkar. Xuven had told him it had been destroyed without even a few ruins remaining, after which Pelmen had tried to find out more from the krongos—but the latter had walled himself in silence, shaking his head.

When asked, Xuven told him the story of Astian was linked to the fall of the krongos. “Inexplicable as it might seem, in spite of the time that has gone by, the subject still opens our friend’s wounds. They’re a very different people, you see. He’ll talk about it when the time is ripe.”

More than a month and a half had gone by, and the landscape had changed. Clumps of tri-folds and slender-trees speckled the formerly uniform environment of the steppe with scarlet and gold patches. The uplifting scent of solitary resinians reached their nostrils. In the bright light, the conifers’ yellow needles stood out against the blue background of their bark.

For three days, the carts had been accompanied at a distance by a herd of nidepoux similarly heading westwards. The opportunity had been ideal for Pelmen to try out his new talents. On the first day, he had approached a dominant male, a beast twice the size of the nidepoux in the Canyons, which usually remained apart from the herd. Even at a range of several yards, Pelmen’s empathy enabled him to tell which of his gestures was likely to produce a reaction of suspicion or retreat, which was warranted. To begin with, he restricted himself to familiarizing the animal with his odor, that of hevelen mingled with linguilis.

Symen and Laneth had expressed interest in his project, but neither of them made use of the louse-repellant grease. Both of them, therefore, watched him from a distance, while Beran watched his sister from an even greater distance.

On the second day, Pelmen had gained ground little by little, ending up by indicating the tastiest broad beans to the nidepoux. Suspicious at first, the beast had then headed toward the nourishment.

The next day, Pelmen knew he could no longer delay if he wanted his gamble to pay off because the herd’s route had deviated and it would be moving away from now on. At his approach, the alpha male raised its snout toward him before resuming digging in the ground.

Pelmen turned his back and inspected the horizon. Everything on the plain was tranquil, and he thought his uncle had guided them wisely, since they had so far avoided predators. His hearing warned him the nidepoux had interrupted its investigations. Pelmen continued to watch as if his life depended on it. He thought the animal had lost interest in him, when its breath warmed the palm of his hand. The nidepoux rubbed it with its muzzle.

Only then, with slow and relaxed gestures, did Pelmen respond to the pressure with caresses, which he renewed continually while gradually moving backward. In the most natural fashion possible, he mounted the beast with a flexible rotation of his pelvis. He could not have said why he had done it at that precise moment—he had simply sensed the animal would let him.

The nidepoux’s reaction proved that his instinct had not betrayed him. Although surprised, the large quadruped remained motionless, its ears pricked. Further caresses and whispers followed, pacifying, almost intimate. Pelmen felt the hair beneath his fingers becoming more flexible as the beast’s tension eased. With his knees, he suggested that it move forward. The nidepoux obeyed, snorting.

They took a few steps, and Pelmen guided the animal to an area where he had assembled a pile of broad beans. He replied to Symen’s and Laneth’s enthusiastic gestures with a small hand signal. Pelmen sensed the nidepoux’s satisfaction, which gradually eased away its anxiety. He allowed it to finish gorging itself while the Halenors approached.

“Go!” said Pelmen in his mount’s ear, while pressing it with his heels. The nidepoux hissed and attempted a kick, but Pelmen hung on and pushed its ears down over its eyes until it stood still. For the second time, he gripped its fur and pressed with his heels. The rodent launched forward, and Pelmen steered it as best he could toward Symen and Laneth, who had stopped moving. Having come within a few yards, he seized the nidepoux’s jaws and pulled them back. The animal slowed down and Pelmen held out his arm to Laneth.

“Climb up!” he said.

Laneth hesitated for a brief moment, before leaping up, supporting herself on the proffered forearm in order to vault up onto the animal’s rump. She put her arms round Pelmen’s torso as he worked to turn his recalcitrant mount aside—for their course was taking them toward Beran, who had begun running toward them, spear in hand.

The nidepoux’s violent reaction nearly unbalanced them and threw them to the ground, but with jerky movements of its hind legs, it was able to fight itself and veer sideways. A little further on they raced into the middle of the herd, which dispersed in a cloud of dust, with an explosion of whinnying and yelping.

Beran’s cry of annoyance resounded behind them. With his hair blowing in the wind, intoxicated by speed, the feeling of triumph and liberty, Pelmen was exultant as he wiped away the droplets of sweat blocking his vision. He gripped Laneth’s wrist and moved it gently backward, slackening her grip somewhat.

The animal was robust, its bounds rapid and regular. They went past a clump of tri-folds, and Pelmen guided the nidepoux toward a group of slender-trees on the horizon. As they drew closer, its stride eased. The respiration of their mount made it evident it could not keep going much longer. The jolts of its successive bounds became more difficult to support, but Pelmen kept up the pressure until the end.

Laneth jumped down before the nidepoux had come to a stop. She plunged her hand into her abundant hair in order to scratch her head furiously.

Pelmen dismounted, and gratified the nidepoux by stroking its flank. It drew away at a walk, breathless, too exhausted to protest against the treatment inflicted upon it.

From the satchel slung over his shoulder, Pelmen extracted a carefully-rolled tri-fold leaf. “Apply it to the forehead and around the ears,” he said, still smiling as he handed it to Laneth. “That should be enough to get rid of them quickly.”

Laneth seemed doubtful, but took the leaf and unrolled it, revealing the linguilis grease. She proceeded with its application while looking at Pelmen, perplexed.

“Let’s get out of sight,” he said when she gave back the grease. She nodded, and they went into the clump of trees.

“Good.” Pelmen stretched his limbs and neck. “Let’s not lose any time—Beran will be on our track. Put yourself on guard.” He flexed his legs and arched his back.

“You… you brought me here to fight?”

“Of course! What else?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“I’ve had enough of Beran spying on the slightest of our actions every time we train. Let’s go!”

Laneth blinked, but positioned herself.

Their hectic course had awakened all Pelmen’s senses. At the moment, his perception of the world was extremely acute. His heart was beating frantically, and nothing seemed impossible. In almost two months, however, he had not beaten Laneth. His only accomplishment had been to succeed in throwing young Symen, who had occasionally consented to wrestle. Benefiting from greater experience, Laneth had got out of difficulty on the rare occasions when he had been able to unbalance her.

They began their war dance. Several times, Pelmen advanced to test his adversary’s defenses without following through. It was she who attacked first. She swung her torso, feigned an attack on his leg only to switch with lightning rapidity to his arm. Pelmen slipped away. She unleashed various attacks and feints, her legs almost as fast as those of a steppe-runner. Pelmen anticipated her movements by odor, going with them in order to better neutralize them. He knew the longer the combat went on, the more risk there was of her surprising him, as she so often did, for none of her moves was similar to the preceding one.

Suddenly, he leaned over and grabbed her ankle. He tried to throw her but just before she lost equilibrium she directed a kick at his wrists that forced him to let go.

They watched one another warily. Pelmen’s face was a mask through which no emotion filtered. Laneth was exhibiting the same apparent impassivity, with the exception of her breathing, which had quickened.

He moved more rapidly than he had ever attempted previously, to find himself on her flank. She only just had time to adjust her center of gravity to resist the charge. As soon as they made contact his legs swept hers, and he bypassed her defenses, gripping her around the waist. Laneth clawed him with her nails to free herself—a method she’d never had to use before. He flipped her over, causing Laneth to land on her back. This time it was Pelmen’s turn to straddle her. As he waited for his breath to return, he was amazed to only read a very moderate disappointment in Laneth’s features. As if she knew I would defeat her one day. Her pride, which he had thought immeasurable, had not, therefore, prevented her from envisaging the possibility.

Her expression turned to a cheeky smile as she murmured. “You’ve won. It’s up to you to claim your due.”

Pelmen raised his eyebrows, however, her trembling voice and dark eyes which were shining with passion, made her increasingly impossible to resist. Forgetting everything, he leaned down to brush her lips with his own in a kiss initially soft and sweet, but which quickly deepened as their desire for each other intensified. They were like two travelers quenching their thirst after a long trek through the desert, with Pelmen prising his lips away from hers long enough to gaze appreciatively at her magnificent body, marveling at the way the sweat gleamed and glistened on her coppery skin.

Laneth was waiting, indecision on her face.

“It’s still… too soon,” he decided.

“Too soon? Too soon for what?” The roar came from Beran. The eldest of the Halenors had been careful to approach against the wind, waiting for the right moment to creep up behind them.

With a single movement, Pelmen turned around and stood up. Beran’s spear was directed at his breast.

Their eyes met. Anger marred the features of the Cilamenite, but an evil satisfaction was also detectable there.

“Too soon to do what you should have already done with a female long ago,” Pelmen replied, coldly.

Beran’s eyebrows arched and his lips trembled. There was a long pause during which time Pelmen thought Beran was going to attack him and he was sure he was going to die. In spite of that, he did not flinch.

It was Laneth who broke the stony silence, taking hold of the spear and directing it at her own breast. “He’s right,” she said, “and you know it. Your heart knows it. It knows he has a hevelen’s needs, and it cannot be me…”

“Shut up!”

“If you want to kill Pelmen, do it—but you’ll have to run me through first. And if you do, it will only be out of spite because today you’ve heard the truth.”

Beran did not react immediately, however, his shoulders had slumped. He ended up stepping back with a grimace of disgust, pulling his spear away with a brutal gesture. “Bah! You’re not even worth wasting my time on.”

He turned round and stormed off across the steppe, without looking back.

Chapter Twelve - THE MARKED

An orange sheet extended like an oil slick over the surface of the water. Pelmen would not have noticed it in the green and misty expanse if Xuven had not pointed it out to him. The sheet stirred, and a few bubbles burst amid the eddies at its center. Pelmen suppressed a shudder. According to Xuven, what could be seen of amebas was scarcely the tenth part of their actual size. This one, a submerged formless gelatinous mass, must then be big enough to swallow a hevelen whole. Pelmen did not know how it could be possible, but it was said that an ameba’s prey remained alive for a considerable part of the digestion process, which required days, or even weeks.

He wrinkled his nose, a futile reflex, trying to get rid of the reek of decomposition permeating everything. That was the most disquieting thing. Since they had entered the Deadroot marsh, it had become impossible to rely on one’s sense of smell. In order to detect an eventual danger, Pelmen was reduced to trying to pierce the mist with his gaze.

Silhouettes of giants with thick and fibrous hair hanging down to the ground sometimes loomed up. Guided by Fekkar, the carts soon approached one of the broad-bole willows, whose translucent pale brown bark was traversed by a network of veins as dark as a starless night.

The willows were the only vegetation growing here. Their leaves were sometimes toxic, with the result that it was necessary to dip into the reserves to feed the nidepoux. The beasts advanced with their customary stubbornness, but Pelmen could feel their reluctance with every step they took. He felt all the more oppressed because his options were reduced to staying in the cart or marching behind the convoy. In fact, outside the path followed by Fekkar, the ground was unstable, and might swallow up an imprudent traveler at any moment—not to mention the danger of the amebas.

“It’s the rapidest and safest route, in spite of appearances,” Xuven had replied, when Pelmen had asked him why they were going this way.

With an impatient gesture, Pelmen swatted away the mosquitoes ceaselessly harassing him. Immune to the linguilis grease, they had been a nuisance since the three companions had intruded into this world of brackish green water. They had separated from Laneth and her brothers two days before, and Pelmen was already keenly aware of how much he missed their company, especially that of the young female.

After Beran’s departure, Pelmen had put his arms round Laneth’s shoulders and she had rested her head against him. He had felt relieved and happy as he had not been for a long time, detached from all cares. Symen had caught up with them, fearing the worst, amazed by the fact that they were making no attempt to disguise their intimacy. They had reassured him, laughing, and then had returned to the carts.

Xuven and Fekkar had also wanted to know what had happened, because Beran had bid them goodbye and had gone to pack up his equipment in a hurry. The only explanation the warrior had offered was he had completed his duty of protection since they would cross the limits of the Windy Steppes the following day.

Pelmen had related the facts in a few words.

“The impetuosity of youth!” Xuven had sighed. “What’s done is done, but don’t forget in the future that the Steppes aren’t a playground—for games of any kind.”

Afterward, Laneth and Pelmen had not dared to flaunt their budding relationship any longer, limiting themselves to exchanging glances and furtive touches—until the separation. Then, they had reached hungrily for each other under the shade of a resinian. Laneth’s full lips had tasted like honey, and their hearts had beat in unison. She had shown him the camp sites where he would be able to find her in future months, and he had promised her their parting kiss would not be the last.

Pelmen wondered why he had not told her about the mission that had led him to accompany his uncle. She believed Xuven and Fekkar were going to carry out trade, and nothing more. Her father, Fregan, and the chiefs of the Rameaux clan knew their true motive, but had received orders not to talk about it.

In order not to worry her, and because secrecy is essential, he told himself.

He shook his head. It was a very good reason and settled things nicely. He had made use of it as a shield to reject the obvious, so he didn’t have to admit that the oath he had made to find Teleg linked him to another female. Alicene’s reserved personality, her distinction and delicacy, had represented an ideal to conquer, and yet, Pelmen noticed that there had never been a rapport between them approaching that which he had discovered with Laneth. In those conditions, even if he never ceased repeating that Alicene considered him simply as a friend, the prospect of finding himself face to face with her made him feel uncomfortable. As for Laneth, he preferred not to imagine how she would react if she thought she had a rival.

There’ll be time to sort out any problems when they arise.

He mopped his brow, although he was aware of the futility of the gesture. Even bare-chested, the humid heat reigning here was almost unbearable. Aoles had either forgotten to breathe in these deprived lands, or did not think they formed part of his kingdom. No longer able to stay in the cart, Pelmen got down and walked behind it. His situation was hardly any better, for he hated the sucking sounds his sandals made, and how they sank into the ground. He consoled himself as best he could by telling himself at least he had something on which to concentrate his efforts.

With infinite slowness, the mist became less prevalent and the terrain dried out underfoot. When it became evident that the stench was easing, Pelmen gave thanks to Astar. He wanted at all costs to avoid spending a third night in the swamp. Even Fekkar emitted a low-pitched sound in which satisfaction was detectable, and Xuven nodded his head. The grasslands were sterile in the vicinity of the marshes, the rare trees stunted and deformed. A little further on, the vegetation had won the battle, although it had not yet recovered all its liveliness. They camped among a few slender-trees, and then moved on again after a night of rejuvenating sleep.

The wind blew with much less vigor than on the Windy Steppes, it even dropped completely for hours on end. The grass became yellower and livelier, covering the hills where the space was not filled with forests of tri-folds growing in rows.

Eventually, they traversed the first field of toropones, olive-tinted plants whose bulbs protruded from the ground, the extremities of the largest ones reaching three feet in height. According to Xuven, they were the malians’ staple food but were toxic to hevelens.

Individuals clad in trousers or robes girdled with broad strips of cloth were working in the fields, and Astar occasionally reflected the blue gleam of their sickles. Pelmen dilated his nostrils. The creatures only exuded a very weak odor, difficult to identify. The odor of fresh water. Their skin had a gray-blue coloration and their limbs were strangely articulated, testifying to a completely unfamiliar combination of flexibility and rigidity.

“Malians?”

Beside him in the cart, Xuven nodded.

“I thought they were much smaller.” Pelmen estimated the nearest malian to be more than six feet tall, a stature approximately matched by the other peasants. Beardless and lanky, the native had interrupted his work to watch them.

“The rare representations we have of malians are rather flattering—to us,” Xuven said, smiling. “The artists undoubtedly thought the difference in height to be not worth mentioning.”

A chunkier malian, who was working only a few yards away from the track that they were following, scrutinized Pelmen closely as he leaned over to trim a toropone stem. The trunk supporting his neck and head—one of his two necks and heads!—tapered toward the hips. He only had two legs, orientated in the opposite direction, thicker than they would have been if their proportion to the rest of the body had been maintained. His bare feet were webbed, unlike his long, slender hands.

Having overcome his initial amazement, Pelmen realized he was confronted by one of the duplicated beings represented on the tapestries of the Traveler’s audience chamber. One of the two parts—as it happened, the one wielding the sickle, with its feet turned in the right direction—was more “complete” than the one observing him, amused by his bewilderment.

He would have thought it a birth deformity had not several of the malian’s fellows presented a similar appearance.

Somewhat belatedly, Pelmen realized that he was being rude by staring. Confused, he fixed his gaze on the line of the horizon.

“Feless’tu,” said Xuven. “Fused, if you prefer. It takes a certain time to get used to that… peculiarity of the malians. What is considered extravagant to us is normal here.”

In front of them, Fekkar’s rig changed course to go around a cart partly loaded with toropones. A melepek was stationed between its shafts, immutable and placid.

They did not meet another living soul until they reached the banks of the Iogar. The waters of the great river were a much brighter green than those of the Hado, and near-transparent. Numerous malians, either feless’tu or mil’ser—as those who were not fused were called—were walking along its banks, some pulling carts laden with provisions or garments, others holding children by the hand.

Pelmen went from astonishment to astonishment. All of the malians were beardless, like the first he had seen, and one might have believed they were neither male nor female. A more attentive examination revealed, however, broader hips, different attitudes and more delicate facial features among the females. Unlike those of hevelens, their noses had only two nostrils, and their hands had an extra finger.

The walls of the Canyons were a long way away now, and in a moment of distress, Pelmen wondered whether he and his companions might not have crossed a boundary making any return to normalcy impossible. He took a deep breath, striving to drive away at least part of his anguish.

Fekkar had also seemed more than strange to begin with. I just need to understand what these duplicate beings are.

He looked at his uncle. “You mentioned ‘fused.’ Does that mean that these feless… are born as distinct individuals and that one of them has lost his legs?”

“It’s the miracle of the Turquoise Water,” Xuven said, nodding. “After birth and during the periods of the conjunction of Tinmal or Hamal with Astar, newborn malians feel the need to unite with the one they call their mil-nan—their concordant being—in the pools of Turquoise Water, which are sacred in these people’s eyes. By the grace of Malia, their Goddess of Harmony, the fusion takes place and one of the children then becomes ascendant, the other respondent. The ascendant is the one who carries the respondent.”

“He’s condemned to that for life?”

“No. During the next conjunction of the moon under which they were born, they change roles.”

“You mean the one that has no legs will grow them while the other loses them?”

“They never disappear completely, I believe. Malian bodies aren’t made like ours, and the Turquoise Water confers special properties on them.”

“They’re truly… bizarre, to say the least.”

“As much as we are to them.”

Pelmen would have preferred the malians to be shorter, as he disliked having to crane his neck to look at their faces. Some of the carriers—or rather, ascendants, he corrected himself—were females, and their respondents males. The inverse also occurred, and there were also combinations of fused individuals consisting of two males or two females. Some of them bowed their heads respectfully on seeing Fekkar, but the majority scarcely spared a glance for his uncle or himself. When they could, the malians went so far as to make a slight detour. Pelmen attempted to distinguish the odors of each member of some of the binomes—it was not easy, with such light scents. In the final analysis, he had to admit he could not tell the difference between ascendants and respondents by smell.

More often than not, the Iogar was masked by ranks of canalees growing abundantly on its banks. It was through one of the rare gaps in the tree-sized reeds that Pelmen saw two malanite boats. Elongated in form, they had no sails, but their streamlined hulls permitted them to cut quickly through the waves. Their sides were so high that they hid the crew completely. They were dotted with openings through which gray-blue hands plied oars whose tapering extremities looked like fish fins.

To judge by their bulk, they must be transporting merchandise.

It was late afternoon when the two carts slowed down and came to a halt. Malians were crowded in front and behind. None stood alongside Xuven’s rig, even though there was plenty of room.

“Why are we stopping?” asked Pelmen.

“There’s a bottleneck,” his uncle replied. “We’re approaching the bridge crossing the Iogar. If all goes well, we should reach the city of Belenia tomorrow.”

After a brief pause, Xuven’s expression clouded. “The blockage doesn’t usually last this long.”

“Malians don’t like foreigners, it seems,” Pelmen murmured, leaning toward his uncle. His flickering eyes indicated the empty spaces along the roadside.

Xuven clucked his tongue. “It’s mostly the nidepoux that they don’t like.”

The procession was advancing in fits and starts. In spite of the density of the crowd and the presence of children, no cries were heard and the voices were reduced to timid waves of indistinct murmurs. Pelmen understood the cause of the delay when he saw guards busy at their postern, which defended the entrance to a slightly-arched edifice of gilded wood linking the opposed banks. Armed with plant-like spears with sharpened points and clubs covered with spikes, they were searching the pedestrians and carts making up the crowd.

The travelers’ progress would have been even slower had a number of malians not chosen to dive into the river. They penetrated the surface without making a noise or a splash—a fact all the more remarkable because most of them were feless’tu. A few moments were sufficient for them to reappear, often nearer the other bank. The malians swimming from the other shore were no less numerous or speedy.

“For the people of harmony, doesn’t all this seem a trifle disorderly?” said Pelmen, sarcastically.

“Harmony doesn’t necessarily imply order. But it’s true, this is abnormal. As a general rule, only foreigners are searched.”

Fekkar must have benefited from a certain reputation, for when his turn came the guards only darted a simple glance at the barrels and crates inside his cart. Perhaps because Xuven was behind him, the inspection of his cargo was far more thorough.

The sentinels were wearing dark blue tunics on which eight turquoise pools edged in white were embroidered in a circle. At closer range, Pelmen saw their lances were made of canalee wood. How the malians had been able to sharpen the hollow tubes to a point, especially with such precision, and maintain their inner cohesion, he could not tell. The guards’ respondents were armed with their own clubs, and kept a scrupulous watch on the travelers arriving from the other bank, where a very similar scene was repeated.

Once the bridge had been crossed their progress became smooth again, although they were accompanied by numerous other travelers heading for Belenia. The road was wide and dusty, and it was not long before it turned to follow the Ig, a tributary of the Iogar. Malians were working in the fields where ingenious ditches had been dug, which Xuven called irrigation canals. The farms they saw here and there looked like giant mollusk shells. Only the largest ones benefited from the presence of melepeks. To the east, beyond the Ig, hills surmounted by slender-trees reminded Pelmen of the hills of Falsine, where Teleg had lived in another lifetime.

They set up camp at nightfall, a hundred yards away from a group of malians. Such proximity made Pelmen ill at ease. Everything about the malians seemed contained and reserved, but when they made a decision they acted promptly. You could search them for odors they did not possess, so then you had to focus on their facial expressions in the hope of understanding them better. His questions became more intense, but Pelmen could not determine whether, for them, what he thought of as “duplication” was a curse or a blessing. He ended up by going to sleep both frustrated and impatient.

Xuven woke up at dawn. They progressed with greater speed that day, only overtaken by the boats gliding along the Ig. Natives were harvesting algae on the banks with the aid of wooden rakes, and Pelmen had the idea of going fishing to renew their provisions.

“That would be deeply frowned upon,” said Xuven. “Malians feel an affinity with fish of every sort. One of their Gods, Andunieve, sometimes adopts the aspect of a marine creature.”

From afar, Belenia resembled a collection of mollusk shells mounted on circular stages decreasing in size toward the summit. Under the fires of Astar, the palace crowning the city reflected gleams of gold, lapis and emerald. The city had no ramparts, but boasted a harbor whose activity was incessant. Boats were coming into it to unload their cargoes, carpenters were caulking hulls, and dozens of itinerant vendors shouted to attract customers.

As they approached the periphery, Pelmen saw two hevelens watching nidepoux in an enclosure. Their presence relieved him, for they were the first compatriots he had encountered for some while. A short distance further on, they went past an immense building in the form of a hemisphere, the central axis of which was supported by stone columns. Melepeks were lodged in specially-designed stalls under the guard of malians.

The city had several access-points controlled by sentinels—the line was not as long as the one at the Iogar bridge. Fekkar passed through without difficulty, but two guards undertook to escort Xuven’s cart. In the streets, the proportion of feless’tu was far superior to that of isolates. None of the malians was shod, and a considerable number of them were naked. When Pelmen asked his uncle why this was, the latter smiled.

“There are numerous pools in the city, and those who intend to bathe in them simply leave their clothes at home. As you’ve been able to observe, they have no apparent genitalia, so their nudity has nothing shocking about it.”

The shells sheltering the city-dwellers were endowed with round windows and sliding doors, curved inwards in concentric spirals. The largest were composed of interpenetrating ensembles.

“We’re on the fifth level,” said Xuven. “What you see there”—he pointed at the next platform up—“is the fourth level; then comes the third and so on, to the first, dominated by the Hortal’s palace.”

“The Hortal?”

“The governor,” Xuven specified. “Here, power is concentrated in the hands of a single person, a feless’tu. The Hortal is above his councilors although he’s elected by them.”

“What does ‘elected’ mean?”

“Hmm. I’ll explain later. As I said, it’s a different way of doing things than ours, but their people have adapted to it quite well.”

They reached a square, the center of which was cluttered with stalls surrounded by pressing crowds. At the approach of the nidepoux, however, the passers-by moved out of the way hurriedly, furrowing their hairless brows in annoyance. Pelmen breathed in a thousand odors, most of which were unknown to him, contemplating strange assemblies of parchment Xuven called “grimoires”, shiny fabrics like those his uncle sold, carpets, cushions, perfumes, blue flint tools—more widespread here than in the Canyons—blowpipes, spears and spiky clubs, rope, musical instruments and kitchen receptacles in wood and ceramic, candles, zeanong wax, orange aquatic moss, various kinds of stainflowers, jewelry, and even small quantities of amberrock.

While they maneuvered the cart to bring it alongside a display of toropone bulbs, Fekkar signaled to them with his hand. “I’m going up to the fourth level. We’ll meet up again tomorrow.”

Xuven nodded, and the krongos drew away, exciting numerous comments as he passed by.

Pelmen helped his uncle to unharness the cart.

“You remember the nidepoux enclosure at the entrance to the city?” Xuven asked. “That’s where you need to take them. Take a bag of provisions with you. You’ll need them for this evening.”

“Aren’t I coming back to join you afterward?”

Xuven shook his head. “Who would guard the nidepoux? The hevelens you saw aren’t herdsmen but travelers like us. You can relieve them, and they’ll do the same tomorrow morning, as is customary. You can answer them if they talk to you, but reveal as little as possible and don’t ask any questions. I’ll take care of gathering information. We’ll see Fekkar again tomorrow and catch up then. Go now, before the guardians of harmony become impatient.”

Pelmen wanted to pick up his bow, but Xuven stopped him and slowly shook his head. “I’ll watch your things,” he murmured.

The faces of the hevelens at the stable brightened when Pelmen showed them a piece of cloth on which a nidepoux rig was embroidered. They gave him directions and useful instructions, and then wandered away.

To begin with, Pelmen occupied himself with his uncle’s animals. Exhausted by the journey, they had difficulty bringing themselves to feed. He rubbed them down, patted them and encouraged them for some time, and then, thinking they were settled, made a circuit of the enclosure. He took inventory of the rodents of which he was in charge, noting their odors and particularities before leading them to their stalls. He went to sleep himself after a frugal meal, in a corner of the stable where fodder had been set out.

The next day, he did not have long to wait before two more hevelens appeared with their banner of the Traveler and their own mounts. He passed on the instructions and took his leave without delay.

Although disorientated by the city’s tangle of sinuous alleys and dusty streets, he refrained from asking for directions. His sense of smell guided him more reliably than any gesture or verbal indication to the square where so many complex scents intermingled. Xuven was talking to a feless’tu behind the display. Like the majority of his fellows, the malian was only clad in loose trousers.

“Ah! Here he is now!” Xuven exclaimed. “Pelmen may I introduce Denealan-Arlin.”

The malian leaned forward, a slight smile on his lips. Then he pivoted and his respondent inclined his head, a little more stiffly. Pelmen did his best to mask his disturbance, but his eyes rolled. It was the first time he had had any dealings with a fused, so he decided to be extra careful, so as not to commit any social faux pas.

“The one and the other have rendered me great service since I first came here. To date, alas, I haven’t been able to convince them to acquit my debt by offering them the hospitality of our beautiful country.”

“I must say I’ve heard so much talk of your canyons that the idea of visiting them wouldn’t displease me,” declared the one who was presumably Denealan. His accent was more musical in its tonalities than that of the Cilamenites.

“That would be a violation of all our traditions,” said a more high pitched voice. “And where would we find pools in that land?”

“It’s true that if water weren’t so scarce, it would be easier to envisage the expedition,” Denealan agreed.

Pelmen watched them with his lips sealed, not daring to say anything.

“You forget our interior lake,” Xuven put in. “That of Port Subelin. Its fresh waters would please you, I think.”

“Even so, it would be out of the question,” said the voice coming from the malian’s back. “I refuse to go so far!”

“You mustn’t hold it against Arlin,” said Denealan, with an apologetic gesture. “Excursions to our own cities are difficult for him.”

“Don’t talk nonsense! You know perfectly well, in this day and age, it’s best to avoid traveling.”

“Because you believe the situation is better here?”

Xuven cleared his throat. “My dear friends, will you please watch over my goods again? My nephew and I have to leave.”

“Already? Of course,” said Denealan.

“In return for a similar favor?” said Arlin.

“Yes,” said Xuven, smiling, as he took hold of Pelmen’s arm and saluted the feless’tu with his other hand.

They went through the market and drew away, to end up going into a deserted back street. “I’d rather not listen to them go on about their own concerns,” Xuven explained. “I already questioned them at length yesterday evening. I took my precautions, of course.”

“They’re truly disconcerting,” Pelmen commented. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to their strangeness.”

“Yes, it’s a little unsettling to start with.”

A little unsettling! Pelmen exclaimed internally. How could Cilamon create such monstrosities?

“But you’ll manage, I’m sure. Let’s rejoin Fekkar.”

They went to a large stone stairway, climbing its steps to the next level. Xuven guided Pelmen between the shells without hesitation. They soon went past two pools, the first of which contained water of the usual green color, while the second had a blue tint Pelmen had only ever seen in malanite fabrics. Although the surface of the former was troubled, that of the latter was pristine.

The malians only passed through the green water, but appeared to immerse themselves for much longer in the blue. As soon as they entered the latter, spores opened in their skin. All of them had multiple folds in their flesh, and their movements were slow.

“That’s the Pool of Return to Harmony,” said Xuven. “The oldest of the malians come here to prepare to rejoin their Goddess in the other world. By the way, don’t even think, on any pretext whatsoever, about going into one of their pools, of any kind.”

“The water’s harmful?”

“Not directly, but it would be a sacrilegious and profane act. The Turquoise Water, especially, represents the most precious wealth in the eyes of malians.”

A few hundred yards further on, they came into another marketplace. Ornamental objects and jewelry were much more prevalent here than on the lower level—there were more perfumes, and even the food was of higher quality.

Fekkar was stationed in front of a compact dwelling carved in a block of stone. As in Alveg, the krongos had his own granite stall on which he had set out his merchandise. Pelmen wondered how such massive materials could have been transported here.

Fekkar preceded Xuven and Pelmen into his refuge.

Xuven took his gnarled wand from a fold in his tunic and pronounced inaudible words. The air current that he invoked was more tenuous than usual. Having ended his examination, he turned to Fekkar.

“Have you caught the echo of anything, my friend?”

“Nothing very precise.” Fekkar was making an effort to murmur, but his deep voice reverberated in the rock. “Some malians are anxious. The harmony within the pools is no longer of the same quality. Too many thoughts of enrichment and profit, from what I understand.”

“Neither commerce nor bargaining is a novelty for them, though,” Xuven objected.

“That’s true. Something must have changed.”

“Do you have anything else?”

Fekkar made a negative gesture. “The malians respect me, but don’t go so far as to take me into their confidence. Not so quickly, at any rate.”

“What about you, Pelmen?”

“I stuck to your instructions, so I don’t have anything new.”

“You did well. Fortunately, after a couple of cups of trana spirit, Denealan proved as talkative as ever.”

Pelmen raised his eyebrows. “I thought he was a friend.”

“Me too, that’s why I was surprised to find him so reluctant when I mentioned the Marked. I had to change the subject, and then loosen his tongue. I had no choice.”

“I suspect the subject isn’t easy to broach,” said Fekkar. “If not, I’d have succeeded some time ago. Arlin didn’t protest?”

“He too was under the influence of the trana spirit. He didn’t complain to begin with… and afterward, it was too late to complain.”

“What did he say?” asked Fekkar.

Surprised, Pelmen studied his face. The nuances of the krongos’ tone were as close to impatience as he would ever see.

Xuven smoothed his beard and looked at him in turn. “The story we are interested in began four years ago. In the waters of the Ig, as in the Iogar, there’s a particularly rare and revered animal species hereabouts. The burrowing octopus, as it’s called, has the property of secreting an indigo-colored pearl in an internal cavity, which cannot be extracted without killing it.”

Xuven turned to Pelmen. “As I told you, my boy, the malians forbid fishing, but to kill a burrowing octopus is particularly blasphemous for them. So, four years ago, the guardians of harmony, led by the High Hierarch—a feless’tu charged by the Hortal with administering justice—was on the trail of a diver suspected of committing such a blasphemy.

“They knew he wasn’t acting on his own, so in order to be able to get back to the one pulling the strings, they let him commit his crime. Then they followed him back to the city. The mil’ser climbed one of the stairways leading to a luxurious dwelling on the third level. As he was handing the indigo pearl over to the owner, a rich idler named Sinistan, also a mil’ser, the guards pounced, accompanied by the High Hierarch himself.

“They doubtless thought their mere presence would be enough to paralyze the guilty parties with fear, but instead, they defended themselves, flint in hand. The diver was run through by a spear and Sinistan was wounded. Sinistan did, however, have time to inflict a mortal wound on the High Hierarch, Falnan-Jalti. The ascendant died of his wound and the respondent joined him in the beyond a few hours later.

“Sinistan appeared before the Hortal. The guards had discovered an entire collection of indigo pearls in a trunk with a false bottom, so, for having offended against all the precepts of Malia and committing murder, he was sentenced to the capital punishment of exile. Before he was escorted to the borders of the Windy Steppes, the symbol of Valshhyk was branded on his forehead with a hot iron. Since then, Denealan has only heard mention of Sinistan in the form of rumors he deems untrustworthy.”

“What rumors?”

“The malians believe he’s dead, but some maintain that his spirit has returned to disrupt the harmony of the pools and haunt those who use them, in order to drive them mad, leading them to flee and never return.”

Pelmen’s nostrils flared. “Malians are disappearing?”

“Two of Denealan’s assistants, mil’ser, vanished overnight,” Xuven confirmed. “He couldn’t find them anywhere, and when he went to the Councilor in charge of manual labor, he was received with others who had the same tale to tell.”

“That explains the sentinels on the Iogar Bridge and the gates of Belenia,” said Fekkar. “Did Denealan want to know why you were interested in the Marked?”

“He thought I’d heard rumors about a spirit returned from among the dead, and I made no attempt to correct his assumption—quite the contrary.”

“In that you have my approval,” said Fekkar. “We mustn’t under any circumstances alert those whose trail we’re following. Does Denealan have a personal opinion about the matter?”

“He’s troubled, as one would expect. According to him, the current problems arise from poor distribution of the Turquoise Water from the original pools, which contain the purest.”

“If the Marked—or Sinistan, since that’s his name—has been seen in the Steppes with malians and hevelens,” said Pelmen, “it’s obvious he’s taken the risk of coming back or, at least, of maintaining connections here in order to act covertly.”

“There’s no evidence the malians seen in the Steppes are the same ones that disappeared from here,” said Xuven.

“But it’s the most probable scenario, isn’t it?”

“I agree.”

“It’s, therefore, possible that we’re dealing with a network sufficiently well-developed to act simultaneously in malanite and hevelen territories,” Fekkar deduced. “To sustain such an association between hevelens and malians would require a powerful motivation.”

“Amberrock,” said Xuven.

“Do you know enough to alert your Aguerri?”

“I’ve thought about that. After the death of her brother, Selenice will want something far more concrete—a confession from one of Sinistan’s associates, for example. Furthermore, we mustn’t give our enemies time to organize their defenses, and that’s what will happen if we raise the alarm prematurely. The first intervention needs to be decisive. I’ll interrogate Denealan further.”

There were a lot of customers in the afternoon. As they were sharing Denealan-Arlin’s stall—standing on boxes to compensate for their lesser stature—Pelmen was able to watch the malian’s transactions. To one of the customers who complained of the overly limited choice of toropones, he relayed that his supplier’s deliveries had diminished in recent months. “A surge in the number of ptats,” he explained. “Part of the crop was devoured.”

In the evening, the clientele thinned out as the food on the stalls diminished. Xuven met Denealan’s gaze. “Not only have you lost your diver and mushroom picker, but you have fewer toropones this year, too. Misfortune is pursuing you.”

“It hasn’t been a good year.”

“As I understand, you still haven’t replaced your diver and your mushroom picker?”

“Labor is becoming scarce, alas.”

“It won’t be easy to find two assistants who put their hearts into their work, if I remember correctly.”

“Zest for the work? They showed it to begin with.”

“But in the end,” Arlin put in, “we usually had to go dislodge them from the Pool of Felicity, if not the Amberrock Palace.”

Seeing Xuven’s perplexed expression, Denealan explained: “A tavern in the Strays’ quarter. In reality, we’ve only been there twice—the place isn’t very respectable. Serephan liked to boast about the quantity of beer he drank there.”

“A degenerate!”

“An agitator,” Denealan corrected. “I don’t believe half of what he said had any truth in it.”

“These days,” Xuven agreed, “One never knows who to trust. It’s a pity, for there shouldn’t be any lack of good will and strong arms in such a big city.”

“If you can find any,” said Arlin. “Don’t hesitate to point us in their direction.”

Xuven lowered his eyes, thoughtfully. “Why not, after all…” He looked at Denealan, although his words were intended for his respondent. “I’ll take you at your word. If, in my comings and goings, I discover any apprentices free of their obligations, I’ll send them to your stall.”

“We’d be grateful to you,” said Denealan.

“It’s no trouble.”

When the day’s work was concluded, Xuven and Pelmen put away the unsold goods in the cart, and then, in order to protect it from theft, went to pay the required tax to the guardians of harmony. They went into a stone shell where a tall warrior—tall even by malanite standards—seated between two half-tables accepted Xuven’s beryls with a nod.

Pelmen had been puzzled by the exchanges of precious stones for services until his uncle had explained the role of money to him. He judged that method of doing business too theoretical, one of those exotic customs whose usefulness was doubtful.

They went out and headed for the port, which they were overlooking. From where they were, they could see one of the sail-less boats gliding over the river, and the crew positioning the oars in order to land. On the way, Xuven beckoned to a malian and asked him the way to the Amberrock Palace. The feless’tu looked at them in astonishment but gave them directions.

The shadows were lengthening and the city was being overtaken by quietude and silence. Xuven tugged his nephew’s sleeve. “Do you think you can carry out an important mission?”

“If it helps to put us on Teleg’s track…”

“You need to be as discreet as possible, and prudent, and station yourself close to the Amberrock Palace. Don’t go in, whatever you do—you’d attract attention immediately—the only inn in Belenia where hevelens stay is the Descendants of Aoles. Hide, and do nothing but watch the comings and goings. When you get sleepy, come to join me at the cart.”

“I’d rather have my bow. Why aren’t you coming with me?”

“Two of us would look suspicious, just as one of us bearing arms would be too conspicuous. Alone, you can pretend to be a young visitor who’s lost your way if anyone asks.” Xuven fixed him with his gaze. “Now, repeat to me what you remember of the directions.”

Pelmen did so, and Xuven made sure he had correctly understood how to reach the tavern.

“I believe your apprenticeship has taught you a great deal,” he concluded, gripping him by the shoulders. “The time has come to put its lessons into practice.”

Chapter Thirteen - THE POOL OF BLISS

The brick-built shells of the Strays’ quarter were mostly decrepit, and corroded by mold. Some that were half crumbled still had malians living in them. Pelmen shook his head. The narrow streets cluttered with refuse, where trickles of fetid water sometimes ran, did nothing to ease his malaise.

In spite of the way the place made him feel, Pelmen plunged with satisfaction into the hunter’s state of mind. He walked silently, gliding from shadow to shadow, and when he could not avoid crossing the path of a malian he slowed down and observed his surroundings curiously.

For a long time, he had been worried about the length of time it was taking to find Teleg, and had been thinking of ways to speed things up. Now his search was taking him to a tavern once again. The similarity of the situation was striking. The trap he fell into the last time he tried to get information which would lead him to his friend had shaken his resolution and his self-confidence, but since then something had changed. Virtually unarmed and left to his own devices in an unusual environment, his movements were more assured, more fluid than ever.

“A hunter must be at home everywhere,” Symen had said to him—and Pelmen had adopted the saying. That did not stop him from being on the alert, conscious of the responsibility weighing upon him.

As the passerby had indicated, the street opened onto a square in which two pools of water extended. The humid air carried the impatient murmurs of malians assembled around the first pool and Pelmen backed up against a wall, watching. The individuals, mostly isolates whose swift and jerky gestures betrayed agitation, were obviously waiting for the second body of water, packed with bathers, to become less crowded. Their attention was so focused on it that Pelmen decided to risk himself in the open without further delay.

“You too want to sample the Pool of Bliss?”

Startled, Pelmen whirled in the direction of the hoarse voice. The malian must have come from an adjacent street because he had not seen him when he had scanned the area earlier. Judging by the bags under his bloodshot yellow eyes, the mil’ser had not slept for a long time. Although not excessively stooped, he nevertheless presented the wrinkles characteristic of old age among his people. His skin, dry and cracked over large areas, displayed ugly red sores.

“I… I’m not a malian,” said Pelmen, taking a step back.

“You should try it,” said the stranger with the feverish gaze, as if he had not heard. “Your wildest dreams would be realized in the pool.” He moved a step closer to Pelmen who bolted, the sound of the malian’s mad laughter ringing in his ears. Fifty yards away down the line, realizing that he was not being chased, he finally slowed down. His hair bristling and his heart racing, he observed his surroundings.

He was closer than ever to the shining pools. Fortunately, if the malians had noticed him, they didn’t seem to care too much about his presence. Several of them seemed to be suffering from nervous tics in their faces, and a few arms and torsos were similarly dry and cracked, although not to the same extent. The green-tinted water of the first pool was unoccupied, in contrast to the liquid expanse of the second, almost as yellow as blue. The malians floating in it had wide open spores. Their features displayed expressions of delight, and Pelmen could see drool running from the corners of more than one mouth.

Occasionally, a feless’tu turned over, allowing the second member of the binome to breathe—evidently, the respiratory capacity of malians had nothing in common with that of hevelens. The face of the one submerged twisted in a spasm of pain, and then ecstasy got the upper hand again.

Pelmen had crossed the plaza when a malian hoisted himself up on the rim, releasing a murmur of satisfaction among those waiting their turn. The malians began scrambling and grunting as they fought for the right to plunge into the pool. Eventually, a winner emerged who leapt gracelessly into the first pool and began thrashing around in a series of disorderly movements to reach the far side and the joys of the second pool as quickly as possible. He bumped his legs, climbed and let himself fall on the other side with a groan of anticipated pleasure.

Outside, the smile of the streaming isolate leaving the pool was transformed into a rictus. He drew away without looking back, his head bowed. Pelmen went on his way, confused. He could not have explained why, but there was something degrading and unnatural in the scene he had just witnessed. He knew very little about malians, but what he had just seen did not mesh with the image he had formed of them.

The twilight was fading, and Pelmen was no longer sure he could make out all the reference points he had memorized. It was just as he was thinking about turning back in order to verify his course that a scent of burning oil reached him. He followed it until he reached a crossroads, in the middle of which two lamps illuminated the front of a shell.

Although the structure in question was larger than the others, it was by no stretch of the imagination a palace—its spirals were as dirty as those of its neighbors. As for the amberrock, Pelmen could not see any decoration. In spite of that, when he saw two mil’ser crossing the threshold, clinking goblets, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the tavern that he was searching for. Spotting a pile of bittersweet smelling toropone peelings, he slipped in without being seen. The stakeout was boring. The customers, mostly isolates, went in alone or in groups, and came out much later, often unsteady on their feet or supporting one another. The natural reserve of the malians seemed to balance, and in many cases overpower, the cheerful mood associated with liquor, with the result that conversations were conducted in muffled tones. What little he overheard was of no interest. To cap it all, the night was cloudy and Pelmen could not make out faces.

If I could slip inside, I would learn more.

He circled the tavern without making a sound. He had to admit, though, that trying to get inside would be too risky. The oval windows of the shell did not have the kind of latches with which he was familiar. There was a second door at the back, but there was no way of knowing what he might find on the other side of it.

Stifling a yawn, Pelmen resigned himself to retracing his steps. The night was cool and nothing moved in the shadows. He progressed with even more caution than he had in coming, stopping as soon as he detected the slightest unusual odor.

He finally reached the square of the Pool of Bliss, which was deserted given the late hour. As he came closer to the liquid expanse, the clouds opened to reveal Hamal, who projected her spectral light over the square. The surface of the water was flat, and Pelmen noticed he was much closer to it than he had thought.

Too close. In a surge of foam, a claw grabbed hold of his leg.

Pelmen threw himself backward with an exclamation of surprise. However, it was too little, too late, and he realized that it was not a claw, but rather a fleshless hand that had closed around his ankle: that of the malian who had spoken to him previously. Their gazes met, and in that moment when Pelmen made out the spark of fervor animating the dilated pupils, he knew the individual had lost all sense of reason. Falling prey to terror, he began to breathe heavily. In spite of his resistance, the other inexorably dragged him in. One false move and his leg would be broken. His abdomen had become a block of granite, and Pelmen saw himself under the water, where he would be at his most vulnerable, and doubtless defeated, his mouth and then his lungs unavoidably filling up.

Just when the situation seemed to be completely hopeless, Pelmen had a flash of lucidity. Relaxing his imprisoned leg, he stopped resisting the malian. At the same time, while calculating his trajectory, he jumped up, immediately folding his free leg. Scarcely had he left the ground than he propelled his leg forward. The resulting impact was violent—his heel slammed with a dull thud into the malian’s skull, and there was a sharp crack.

The malian let go.

Pelmen’s fingernails scraped on the edge of the pool, but he gripped it tightly out of sheer desperation, kicking his legs in the water. He succeeded in stabilizing himself and hoisted himself up by the force of his arms, not without feeling a slight prickling in the places where he had got wet. His nostrils fully flared, gulping in air as if he had already begun to drown, he rolled over, got to his feet and started running straight ahead.

He did not pause until he found himself out of breath, in a deserted alley, his heart beating as if about to burst and his legs buckling.

He remained still for some time, leaning on a large barrel, trying to recover a normal respiratory rhythm. Instinctively, he had appealed to the Squall of Aoles which Laneth had taught him. That was doubtless why he was still alive. He did not know whether he had stunned or killed his attacker.

What an abomination! How long had he been under the water? He shivered. Best not to think about that, to forget that gleam in his eyes more quickly.

He looked around, and then sniffed the air, but did not recognize anything in the itinerary he had followed when coming. Then, his limbs still shaky, he wandered around the side streets, retracing his steps to follow other branches until he finally smelt familiar odors.

The walls of the shells were reddening with the first rays of Astar when he came into the market-place and climbed into the cart, where he found Xuven asleep. He shook his shoulder feverishly to wake him up, collapsed onto a crate and told him what had happened in a voice he hoped was sufficiently controlled.

“You’ll have to take a different route in the future, in order to avoid the pool,” said Xuven.

“What?” said Pelmen, paling. “You want me to go back?”

“This evening. The danger is greatest in the vicinity of the pool. If you don’t use it as a reference point—and I know you’re capable of that—you won’t be running any risk.”

“Easy for you to say! I didn’t see anything unusual out here. Why not try to watch the apprentices instead? That way, we can see if they’re approached, and by whom.”

“Hmm. We’d need a lot of luck to pick up the trail of those we’re searching for on the third level. That’s where most of the trade organizations are represented. On the other hand, your misadventure at the pool seems to me to be significant.”

Pelmen grimaced. “The one that attacked me wasn’t a conspirator. He’d lost his mind.”

“Certainly—but from what I know, the Pools of Bliss are supposed to bring relaxation, not euphoria, much less the improper reactions you told me about. Those we’re pursuing might perhaps be responsible for this disruption. To enquire at the pools themselves would be too risky. On the other hand, I still believe we might learn more in the vicinity of that tavern.” Xuven frowned. “You don’t seem convinced.”

“I’d prefer to avoid the sector, at least for today.”

Xuven stood up, started walking around the cart with his head bowed, and then turned back to his nephew. “I’m reluctant to force your hand, all the more so as caution is sometimes necessary. You’re pretty shaken up, it seems.”

“How perceptive of you,” said Pelmen sarcastically. “We’ll follow my plan, then?”

Xuven nodded. “We’ll need a pretext. You’ll go to buy malanite fabrics, but apart from bargaining, you must content yourself with observing, understood?”

“Understood.”

“If your results are inconclusive, you’ll have to resume your vigil at the Amberrock Palace tomorrow night.” He sighed. “I’d like to give you more help, but my face is too well-known here, and your new talents are more useful than mine under these circumstances. I’m sorry to burden you with such a heavy responsibility.”

Pelmen smiled weakly. “I need to be useful for something. After all, the Traveler confided this mission to both of us. For the moment, I just need a little time to pull myself together.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Xuven. “On that subject, I’m afraid you’ll have to return to the nidepoux pen to take your shift. You’ll be able to rest once you’re alone there.”

Pelmen grimaced, but got to his feet in spite of his stiff legs.

***

The relief arrived sooner than expected at the stables, so Pelmen, having slept for a few hours, was able to leave again in the early afternoon. The rain that had begun to fall during the morning made him miss his shelter, but it was slackening by the time he rejoined Xuven. His uncle gave him a purse of yellow and white beryls and made him memorize the prices at which he intended to acquire the different fabrics. Finally, he unrolled a sheet of parchment.

“What’s that?” Pelmen asked.

Xuven gave him a stern glance. “A map. I bought it this morning. It represents the city of Belenia.” His index finger ran over the parallel lines. “There, you see, this is a street. Here are the staircases you need to take. We’re here.” The index finger stopped on a sector where the stalls had been drawn, seen from above. “Thanks to this map, I’ll be able to show you the best route to avoid the Pool of Bliss, when the time comes.”

Pelmen nodded. The plan was perhaps not a guarantee in itself, but having the near certainty of being able to give the pool a wide berth was reassuring. He visualized the day’s journey, although he was not certain of remembering all the turns. Then, carrying a light wooden trunk, he set off, nervous at the thought of what the purse of beryls in his belt represented. The sky was still dark green, but the rain had stopped. Here and there, yellow patches seemed to foretell the return of good weather.

The steps, with rounded edges and shining with damp, were steep and difficult to climb. Sloping causeways flanked the stairway, rigid and straight. On one of them, a pair of melepeks with elongated bodies were pulling a cart full of merchandise, their two horns directed skywards and their hooked hooves gripping the ground. The only indication of the efforts they were making was their pupils glistening with a brighter gleam than usual.

Nidepoux would never be able to do that.

As he got higher, Pelmen encountered malians in different costumes. Most of them wore simply-tailored garments, but some were clad in sanrkhas leather tunics or doublets with epaulets. A hevelen had slipped in among those who were going up, as tall as one of their children but bigger built, with coppery skin. Pelmen could not take his eyes off his blond curls.

What if…

He quickened his pace, his heart beating faster. It was a crazy idea, of course, but if there was the slightest chance that it was him, then he shouldn’t let it pass.

He was scarcely conscious of reaching the third level, tumultuous thoughts rolling around in his head. The malians around him were no more than obstacles to go around while steps followed after steps. Several times he lost sight of the hevelen who might have been Teleg. All discretion forgotten, Pelmen ran indirectly until he spotted the other.

A hundred yards, then fifty.

Breathless, he drew nearer, and soon there were no more malians between them. The person was wearing a brown tunic, which came down to the base of his thighs.

His gait—it’s not the same. His odor is different.

He had to be sure, though. The unknown individual was moving slowly, so he caught up with him easily.

It was a hevelen with wrinkled features, still lively in spite of his age, whose face lit up as soon as he saw him and asked him where he was from. Overcome by disappointment, his heart hurting, Pelmen replied tersely. Nodding his head, he left him behind as if he were in a hurry.

The steps were now made of white marble with blue veins. Feless’tu surrounded by the perfume of stainflowers, whose ascendants were female, wore swirling dresses decorated with embroideries. A malian with an angular face looked Pelmen up and down, his lips pursed—he must have been an important dignitary, with his immaculate necot toga topped off with a ruffled collar. His respondent, more affable, smiled at him as he went past. Pelmen did not care. He set foot on the plaza of the topmost level.

While he let his burden slide to the ground in order to stretch his spine, with his mouth still curled sulkily, he promised himself not to get so excited in the future. He had wanted to see Teleg, so badly that he had tried to bend reality to his will.

It’s the easiest way to be disappointed. So long as my breath hasn’t rejoined Aoles, my mind needs to stay grounded.

The mischievousness and insouciance of his friend came back to mind, in so many painful memories. Those times had gone. The chances of finding him were slimmer than ever.

He sighed and picked up the trunk again. The sound of water falling into water transmitted its refreshing melody. Several dozen yards away, intersecting jets were pouring from the mouths of fantastic marine animals, most of which were unknown to him. Bas-reliefs depicting fish and octopus decorated the rim of the sparkling fountain.

Pelmen took a few steps forward, lifting his chin incredulously. The dimensions of the Hortal’s palace would have seemed overwhelming if the gaze had not been attracted and seduced by its architecture and the abundance of its decorations. Although generally rectangular, it manifested no right angles. It was all curves, spirals and roundness. On the pediment, an immense blue-gray pearl reflected Astar’s rays, which intermittently pierced the cloud layer. Oval windows of orange, emerald, lapis and gold crystal heightened the gleam of the pearl. Overhanging towers whose spires were partly formed of amberrock diffused gold and vermilion gleams. One of them, made of crystal, was almost transparent.

Two enormous statues flanked the double-battened entrance door. The nearer depicted what might have been a wide-hipped malian, an isolate with delicate features and a generous smile. She was coiffed with a tiara whose amberrock arches radiated in decreasing arcs around the principal axis. A crescent of cobalt gems surmounted it, whereas an emerald crescent dominated the second statue. The latter was surprising by virtue of the multicolored crest extending from its bald head to descend all the way to the base of the spinal column. Its neck was massive, its face masculine, its arms and torso muscular. Its skin was covered in blue-green scales and an imposing fin was substituted for its legs.

The male is power, whereas the female is grace and serenity. The more majestic of the two, by far, is the female. That can only be Malia, the Goddess they revere.

Setting his cares aside for a moment, Pelmen gave himself a few minutes to examine the marine sculptures carved on the entrance door, the handles of which were pure amberrock.

On the third level, the air rang with the hammering of tools and the scraping of flints. The laborers were working with wood or stone. There were jewelers fanning the flames of their crucibles filled with molten amberrock, as well as gardeners weeding their plots. Every shell or plot of ground sheltered guildsmen in their accompanying stalls, exhibiting merchandise. There were a couple of pools, as well. In the depths of the Turquoise Water—brighter in color than the Pool of Bliss—it was commonplace to see malians sitting cross-legged in the pools, with their backs straight. Concentration and meditation were legible in their features. It was not always easy to tell apprentices from the master craftsmen, but no one seemed to be supervising them.

The rare taverns, practically deserted at this hour of the afternoon, presented a glossier external appearance than that of the Amberrock Palace—which was, admittedly, not difficult. The dwellings were covered with various kinds of shells: giant nautiluses, rounded cones, helices with multiple prominences sticking out of them, and others, assembled in a diverse and dissimilar fashion. Their material was more durable than the shells of the fifth level—stone rather than baked earth—and the most luxurious were coated with nacre.

Pelmen was wondering where to begin his search when he spotted what had to be an armory. In addition to the vendor, only two malians were beneath the surface of the nearby pool. The knives in the display were carved out of blue flint while the javelins, spears and clubs were created from organic, raw materials, primarily canalee wood. The blowpipe darts were no less sharply pointed for all that, nor were the javelins less sturdy and sharp, easily handled owing to their light weight. When Pelmen asked about the usage of little clay pots placed on the display-table, the vendor told him they contained poison.

Pelmen could not hang around, so he took a quick tour of the quarter, examining the passers-by distractedly. As no one seemed suspect, he resigned himself to going into the weavers’ workshop. There, he marched with a firm step, trying to make full use of the arguments habitually employed by his uncle. His youth was a handicap, however, so he was obliged to set several fabrics aside.

Three days went by, and every night Pelmen went to the Strays’ quarter to resume his surveillance in the vicinity of the tavern, carefully avoiding the Pool of Bliss and its immediate surroundings. Mil’ser roamed the streets, their gazes vague or feverish. More than once, Pelmen moved back into the shadows to avoid being seen. Often, he thought with a shiver about the investigations of Kalel, the shaman Stenlen’s apprentice, and the disastrous outcomes for both of them.

In these slums, the guard patrols interfered as little as possible. Pelmen mastered the art of stealth. The sense of danger aside, his frustration increased as the chilly hours went by. The conversations he managed to overhear were limited to mundane considerations, concerning the price of beer, the possibility of getting credit from the innkeeper or the difficulties of the day to day work. How could he hope to obtain more information without interrogating the malians? Why remain in malanite territory if their room to maneuver was limited to that extent?

He thought he knew how Xuven would respond to those questions, and that was why he didn’t ask them. The measure was unnecessary, in any case, because the stock of goods from the Canyons and the Steppes was near exhaustion. There would soon be no option but to start the homeward journey. Xuven, whose expression was darkening by the day, would have to resign himself to it.

Pelmen would not admit defeat. The promise he had made could not be taken back. He would return to Laneth, explain his mission to her and, with or without her, would set forth in search of the Marked. In the absence of any trail to follow, the task would become almost impossible, so he would rely on the breath of Aoles. Convincing Xuven would probably be the hardest thing to do.

Pelmen did not have to wait long for his predictions to be confirmed. On the morning of the fourth day, Xuven announced they would meet Fekkar that evening.

“We’re not going to be able to stay any longer,” he explained. “Perhaps my intuition regarding the Amberrock Palace was false.” His voice was reduced to a murmur. “That won’t prevent us from keeping watch tonight on one of the roads leading from Belenia to the Steppes. Perhaps luck will be on our side this time. The only problem is that we don’t know which one they take. It might as well be the river route, for all we know.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We need to think about that. Perhaps Fekkar will have an idea.”

The customers were more frequent that day, and Pelmen saw dozens of carts filled with foodstuffs and the widest possible variety of objects. At the end of the afternoon, a feless’tu accompanied by an isolate stopped his melepek-team directly in front of their stall, drawing recriminations from the merchants who found themselves suddenly cut off from their clientele.

“Ah! Here he is at last!” said Arlin. His ascendant advanced to greet the newcomer. Denealan examined the toropones in the cart with an appraising eye before giving the signal to unload.

While the carrier and his assistant got busy, Denealan came back toward Xuven. “It’s about time he got here. His deliveries have become increasingly irregular.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ezechian-Uzeve—why?”

“So I know where not to go to if I need toropones.” Xuven winked.

He asked Pelmen to replenish the display by setting out the last goods from the depths of the cart. Pelmen had made several trips before he was able to occupy himself with customers again.

Loud voices burst forth, rising above the surrounding tumult. Denealan-Arlin had just turned round and was pointing theatrically at the unloaded toropones. “It’s robbery, I say! Three yellow beryls and twenty white, that’s all they’re worth!”

He tipped the gems into his supplier’s hands, authoritatively.

A charged silence descended and, for a moment, Pelmen thought Ezechian-Uzeve was about to throw them down, or at least argue more forcefully, but the feless’tu limited himself to shrugging his shoulders and turning away. Denealan and Arlin shook their heads.

As they returned behind the stall, Denealan muttered between his teeth: “He delivers me less than half the quantity I ordered, but he wants the full payment!” He leaned toward Xuven. “We’re definitely changing our supplier.”

“You do well, my friend—you should never relax the reins of a lame nidepoux.” Xuven turned to his nephew and winked at him. “You’ve just sold one of our last tunics, I believe?”

“Er... yes.”

“In that case, it would be a good idea for us both to go and fetch those that Fekkar is keeping for us. They’re selling well today, and we need to take advantage of it.”

Xuven looked at Denealan, who sighed. “Go on. Your merchandise will be safe.”

They drew away, and Pelmen had to hasten his pace to keep up with his uncle. He was only half-surprised to see Xuven ignore the street leading to the main stairway, and continue following the toropone-supplier. They slowed down in order to maintain a respectable distance.

“What makes you think Ezechian-Uzeve might be implicated?” he asked.

“A hunch.”

“Like the one you had regarding the Amberrock Palace?”

Xuven stopped walking and wrinkled his nose while looking at his nephew. “Anyone can make a mistake. But don’t forget that Ezechian-Uzeve could have met Denealan-Arlin’s forager and diver in the past. If everything seems normal, we can always ask him about them. In the meantime, let’s be discreet.”

Pelmen thoughtfully rubbed a finger across his lips. He had to admit that his uncle’s reasoning seemed sound.

“Let’s go now.” Xuven moved forward again, and Pelmen followed him.

The cart went through side streets barely wide enough for it. When the passers-by began to thin out, Xuven let it draw further ahead. The rig ended up coming to halt in front of one of the warehouses on the waterfront. Its occupants got down. Pelmen tugged his uncle’s sleeve, pointing out the corner of a building from which they could observe without being seen.

The silence was only disturbed by the nearby splashing of water. Ezechian-Uzeve’s assistant, a female mil’ser with a sad face, asked him a question to which he replied with a jovial tone. Then the supplier exhibited a purse of beryls and signaled to her to follow him.

As soon as they had turned the street corner, Xuven pointed at the rig. “Let’s go take a closer look.”

Pelmen looked to the right and left. Although the place was deserted, with no facing windows, he was anxious—they would look too much like thieves once they had begun. Xuven did not hesitate and climbed up briskly. Shortly afterward, the toropones started to roll toward the rear. The melepeks remained impassive.

“A little help?”

Pelmen joined him and, with a last cautious glance, lent him a hand. The green membranous pods were more voluminous than heavy, but they had to take care not to break the leaves off. Gradually, they plowed through them.

“You see?” said Xuven, lifting up a bulb placed against the side. A groove had been hollowed out half way up the side-panel. “I’m sure it will be the same on the other side,” he declared, heading toward the opposite panel.

“Er... they might come back at any moment,” said Pelmen, caressing the flint in his belt.

“I want to be certain. Humph! There!” With a triumphant smile, Xuven pointed to a second groove.

“What are they for?”

“There must be two more, but we’re missing a key element. Let’s keep looking.”

Xuven resumed his activity with even more alacrity, if that was possible. Biting his lip in order not to protest, Pelmen combined his own efforts with his uncle’s. They finally moved enough of the pods to expose a plank.

“There!” said Xuven. “Feel this edge.”

Pelmen put his fingers on the place indicated by his uncle in the middle of the cart, and then nodded his head.

“It’s a plank—a movable plank! Do you see the trick, lad?”

“They can slide along the grooves.”

“Yes, but first they move the toropones. They fix the plank, the malians slip underneath, and they cover them up. The plank and its contents are entirely hidden by the toropones.

“There must be just enough room to slide underneath it… and that’s how they get past the searches.”

“Not particularly difficult. The guards posted at the exit from the town don’t have time to fully explore the contents of the carts—it would slow things down too much. The guards on the bridge might be a little more thorough, but you saw how things went out there.”

“I saw. Shall we go now?”

“Let’s put everything back in place first. They mustn’t suspect anything.”

They buckled down to the task, not sparing their efforts—after which Xuven carried out an inspection, and nodded in satisfaction. He took out his wand and murmured a few indistinct phrases.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ll continue to follow them. The cart is filled with their odor—we’ll find them again in spite of their lead.”

“Why do that? We can just take cover and wait for them to come back.”

“We mustn’t neglect any clue,” said Xuven. His expression of concentration did not leave him when he started walking again, still holding his wand under his toga. Pelmen followed, his movements becoming those of a hunter.

He licked his lips when he recognized the malodorous streets bordered by shells with worn brick walls. The Strays’ quarter was all too familiar. They only encountered a few malians, and although their presence surprised them, no one spoke to them. The lengthening shadows added to the sinister appearance of the place. They emerged into the square from a different street from the one Pelmen had used before.

There were still as many malians waiting their turn around the Pool of Bliss.

Pelmen and Xuven were as discreet as possible, sheltering behind the principal spire of a shell. White-faced, Pelmen observed the surroundings attentively, especially the alcoves, doorways and obscure corners from which someone might be watching them. The unhinged individual who had tried to drag him into the pool was nowhere to be seen.

“They’re here,” whispered Xuven.

Ezechian-Uzeve and his assistant were, indeed, involved in an animated discussion not far from the first pool. The young mil’ser asked a question to which the feless’tu responded in the affirmative. She bit her lip, dancing from one foot to the other, fixing him with her gaze. Her decision made, she headed at a slow pace toward the malians who were waiting their turn.

Xuven frowned at the sight of the jostling occurring every time a place became free. Several malians barged ahead of the mil’ser unceremoniously, but, finally, she took a deep breath, slipped through and succeeded in throwing herself into the water. With rapid and fluent strokes, she traversed the pool of purification and emerged, then came to a stop in front of the Pool of Bliss. She dove in.

Ezechian-Uzeve had changed position in order to keep track of her movements.

Pelmen was not content to observe the center of the plaza, but kept an eye permanently on the periphery, conscious that the risks were substantially greater because there were two of them. For the moment, nothing moved. He sensed that, in spite of the circumstances, he was hungry. His uncle was as still as a statue.

The fires of Astar were shining from behind the houses when the mil’ser finally emerged from the water. She turned to Ezechian-Uzeve, and Pelmen caught a glimpse of her dazed expression. They went away then, she with slumped shoulders, he with a satisfied expression. The feeling of nausea he had already experienced in watching a similar scene returned, more invasive still.

“Disappearances might well take place this evening,” Xuven whispered.

At these words, Pelmen’s nausea was replaced by a shiver of anxiety, mixed with excitement.

“We’re going to split up. Go back to the cart and put everything in order. If Denealan asks any questions, tell him I have to attend to some urgent business. Then find Fekkar and tell him what’s going on. Ask him to help you collect foodstuffs, which you’ll take to the stables. I’ll catch up with you there.”

“What about the cart?”

“It’s heartbreaking, but if they act tonight, we’ll have to abandon it. Fortunately, we still have most of our beryls. If necessary, we’ll load saddlebags full of provisions on to the nidepoux. Who knows? Perhaps Denealan will keep watch on our merchandise until we get back.” Xuven started to leave their cover, but Pelmen held him back by the arm.

“Where are you going? Are you going to continue following them?”

“It’s the only way of discovering their intentions. Go, now.”

Pelmen briefly saluted his uncle and then vanished into the shadows. He moved at a swift and nervous pace, plastering himself against the wall as soon as a malian threatened to cross his path. Dozens of questions were jostling in his skull, but he suppressed them: never had there seemed to be so many good places for an ambush along those damp and sinuous alleyways. He reached the monumental stairway, however, without incident.

After having found Denealan-Arlin eager to go home and apologizing for his lateness—“Something unexpected came up”—Pelmen tidied away the contents of the stall and put the tarpaulin over the cart. To regain the stairway and go back to the higher level only took a few minutes. He missed his turn twice and had to retrace his steps, his fists clenched. He forced himself to stay calm. His uncle’s destiny, and perhaps Teleg’s too, were in the balance at present—he must not lose his composure.

Fortunately, Xuven knows how to hide better than he lets on.

Pelmen uttered a sigh of relief on recognizing the pools where he and his uncle had seen the aged malians. From there on, the journey to the fourth level was not very long. As a precaution, he kept as much distance between himself and the bodies of water as the width of the causeway permitted.

Fekkar’s abode was open, reminiscent of a dark mouth. The absence of a door was slightly unsettling, but Pelmen remembered the same had been true of his lair in Alveg. Who would dare steal the property of a krongos? His footsteps resonated on the granite floor. He could only make out the contours of a few rare objects.

“Fekkar?”

No reply. Pelmen went forward. He suppressed an oath when his hip collided with an obstacle. The smooth cold contours were those of a stone crate. Another glance around did not reveal a single detail, which nevertheless caused him to smile. A little further on, scarcely reached by any residue of light, the edge of a crystal shard gleamed.

“Fekkar?”

Pelmen measured his steps. He hesitated, and then touched the cold, uneven wall beneath the shoulders bristling with crystal. As he had guessed, the krongos was asleep in his own fashion, incorporated into the wall. He called out again, and went so far as to knock on what must have been the base of his torso, without any other result than hurting his hand.

It was not until he decided to use his flint and tap the inert body that he obtained a reaction. There was something like a vibration, and then the white gleam of eyes brightened above his head. The experience of time immemorial was contained therein—at least, that was the impression he got in studying them at such close range. He stepped back when the krongos began to detach himself from the mass of the rock.

“Has something happened?” The voice rumbled over the walls like the beginnings of a thunderstorm.

Pelmen replied in the affirmative and, while Fekkar lit oil lamps with the aid of a striking flint, he gave him an account of recent events. He ended with Xuven’s instructions.

Fekkar put on an ample tunic of malanite design. “So your uncle intends to follow them? To discover their lair?”

“Yes, I believe so. It’s the only chance I have of finding Teleg.”

“But you’re not sure they’re leaving this evening?”

“To tell the truth, no.”

“Let’s see,” Fekkar reflected, aloud. “This Ezechian-Uzeve, having made his delivery, has nothing to keep him in Belenia. If he were to stay for too long with the toropones he still has, that would arouse suspicion. Furthermore, the place where you say his cart is parked isn’t far from the city exit.” He nodded his head. “Your uncle’s plan is not without risk, but… evidently, your friend’s testimony might prove quite valuable, if he’s among those we’re seeking. You’ll have to be more cautious than an insect next to a carnalyne.”

Pelmen’s features reflected his lack of understanding and dismay. “You? What do you mean, you?”

Fekkar bowed his head contritely. “I can’t go with you. Unless Xuven wants to capture this Ezechian-Uzeve right away, in which case I’ll help you.”

“Why can’t you come?”

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed”—Fekkar’s eyes danced—“but I’m just a little conspicuous. If you choose to follow our enemies and spy on them, I wouldn’t be any help—quite the opposite, in fact.”

Pelmen stood there, aghast. He certainly had not anticipated this, after having identified at least one of the abductors. The imposing stature of the krongos had ended up becoming a point of support in the course of the journey to Belenia. Pelmen was well aware of the extent to which it had been a privilege to have benefited from Fekkar’s wisdom and friendship.

Turning his back, Fekkar bent down and put his hands on a granite plaque sealing a coffer of the same material. A dazzling streak traced along the lines where he ran his thumbs. The lid alone must have weighed as much as two hevelens, but Fekkar lifted it effortlessly in a broad gesture. He plunged his hands inside, and took out some supple wooden necklaces which glowed with a pale aura. He put them into a satchel without saying a word.

“What are…” Pelmen began.

“Not now,” said Fekkar. He looked at Pelmen gravely. “I want you to remember one thing: if you die, you won’t be any use to your friend.”

Pelmen nodded, his throat taut.

Fekkar looked up. “For the moment, let’s go get saddlebags and supplies. I fear that you might have a long road to travel.”

Outside, a light breeze greeted Pelmen. The cool nocturnal air was not, however, responsible for the shivers running through him.

Chapter Fourteen - HOPES AND DANGERS

Pelmen felt like he was walking next to a moving mountain. Given Fekkar’s mass, each of his footfalls should have made the ground vibrate loudly, waking the sleeping inhabitants with a start—Pelmen assumed the malians slept, although he didn’t have visual proof. On the contrary, as the enormous feet met the ground they produced a muffled sound that could not have been heard more than ten yards away. The saddlebags on Fekkar’s shoulders made him look even more massive. They glistened in the light of the two moons.

Pelmen readjusted the quiver on his back. He had picked up his bow with a feeling split between satisfaction and sullenness. Although it permitted him to hunt and feed himself, and protected him against enemies, Pelmen knew that for each one of them he shot, there was a price to pay.

Had the comfort of life in the Canyons made him too sensitive? Things were doubtless simpler for the Cilamenites, as they faced danger on a daily basis. Laneth had confirmed that her clan had faced gangs of the Banished in the past. “Sometimes, we have to put them in their place. Afterward, they leave us in peace for a long while.” A disagreeable but necessary task. Pelmen wondered whether he would ever reach that level of detachment. Perhaps it was not desirable.

Fekkar’s opposing arm suddenly forced him to stop. The enclosure was visible on the horizon. The field was empty, the nidepoux presumably having been put away in the stalls. The krongos seized one of the saddlebags and withdrew a leather bottle containing beer.

“You’ve been getting drunk in the tavern of the Descendants of Aoles,” he murmured, in his profound voice, the glow in his eyes fixed on Pelmen. “As I know your uncle, and I saw you staggering in the street, I decided to accompany you back to the stable. He asked me to keep an eye on you and I’m going to inform him of your conduct when he returns. Is that story all right with you?”

“Er... I suppose krongos don’t drink?”

Fekkar shot him a disapproving look.

Pelmen cleared his throat. “Do I have to?”

“We don’t know how far Sinistan’s network extends. If the stable was to be occupied and hevelens were to talk about a krongos and a compatriot arriving in the middle of the night and leaving again shortly afterward with no explanation, it would arouse suspicion. Drink now. And sprinkle some on your face—you need to reek of beer.”

They resumed walking, Fekkar supporting Pelmen, who was advancing unsteadily. When the door of the stable opened, grating, under the pressure of the krongos’ hand, the hevelens stirred in their sleep. One of them opened his eyes. As he raised his head, his eyes widened with incredulity. Hiccuping with terror, he flattened himself against the wall as if he wanted to push it backward. Fekkar showed him the symbol of the Traveler, although it was too dark to make out anything but its shape. The hevelen’s respiration became even more broken, and Pelmen thought that he might be about to faint.

“Pardon me for troubling you in your sleep,” said Fekkar, in a low voice—which woke the other two with a start and make them recoil in fright in their turn. “This wretch here”—he shoved Pelmen, who tottered and then collapsed against the side wall, a blissful smile on his lips—“has been drinking most of the night. He was celebrating setting off for home, it seems.” Fekkar picked up a torch attached to the wall and used his striking-flint to light it.

The travelers watched him do it with raised eyebrows, not daring to make a sound. He produced the cloth embroidered with the emblem of the Traveler for a second time, which seemed to reassure them. At least, they almost ceased trembling. Pelmen started singing something incoherent. One of the hevelens wrinkled his nose in disgust while another looked at him reproachfully.

“You, come with me,” said Fekkar, grabbing Pelmen with his free hand, and dragged him into the next room, opening the door as he went. He took him to one of the large troughs in front of the stalls. Before Pelmen had recovered from his surprise, he had plunged his head inside.

The water was cold and viscous. As soon as Fekkar allowed him the opportunity, Pelmen threw himself backward and shook his black hair furiously, gasping for breath. He nearly roared that it was not what he had expected, but restrained himself with great difficulty, contenting himself with looking Fekkar up and down as if he wanted to kill the krongos.

Assembled on the threshold, the travelers watched, standing on tiptoe, curiosity barely edging out terror. After having scolded the young hevelen, the krongos, his torch still in his hand, ordered him to go and lie down on a pile of straw in a corner and not move. Then he turned toward them, provoking a collective movement of recoil.

“With your permission, I’ll spend the night here. I need to have a little talk with his uncle before they return to the Canyons.” Fekkar did not wait for their stammered acquiescence before extinguishing his torch by closing his fist around it. He sat down cross-legged beside Pelmen. The hevelens closed the door, but the stable was buzzing with their excited whispers for some time.

The disjointed planks were filtering the first light of day when Pelmen realized, to his surprise, that he had fallen asleep in spite of his tension. Through the smaller of the room’s two doors, muffled sounds reached him. As he got up in search of news, a gesture of Fekkar’s hand restrained him, followed by a shake of the head. The krongos waited for a few minutes until the entrance door had closed behind the hevelens, to break the silence.

“You’d better get the nidepoux ready and eat something. Your uncle might arrive at any moment.”

Pelmen did as he was told, his brow furrowed, preoccupied with the prospect of the day that awaited him. First he strapped the saddlebags on to the backs of the nidepoux—which seemed to be in good shape, as a rapid examination assured him—before consuming a few veguer biscuits. The animals stirred in their stalls, demanding to be let out. Pelmen did not move.

As time went by, the idea that something unexpected might have occurred took on greater plausibility. His uncle was resourceful, but knew no more than he did about the means of their adversaries. A crimson shaman might have been watching Ezechian-Uzeve’s back without their knowing—in which case, the consequences would be catastrophic.

Pelmen realized that he was clenching his jaw to the point of grinding his teeth. As for Fekkar, he remained seated, impassively, with one hand on the ground and his head slightly tilted.

“He’s coming,” he said.

Pelmen pricked up his ears and sniffed the air. Only the musky odors of the surrounding animals were perceptible. “Are you sure?”

“I recognize his stride.”

They did not have to wait long before someone drummed on the door of the enclosure. Pelmen ran to the wooden bar that secured it, drew it back and opened one of the battens.

Although Xuven’s eyes were hollow, his tanned face was still grave and attentive. His first words confirmed Pelmen’s hopes and fears alike.

“Are you ready, lad?”

“Yes, Uncle. It’s just that there’s a problem with… Fekkar.”

Xuven looked at the motionless krongos, who stood up, dominating them with his stature. “You’re not coming, is that it?”

“Only if you choose to get rid of the supplier.”

Before he had even finished the sentence, Xuven had shaken his head. “If we were to do that, we’d lose time trying to make him and his companions talk. Not to mention that they might put us on a false trail.”

Fekkar nodded his head. “I understand.” He reached into his bag and took out the necklaces. “Here are four necklaces of Cilamon: two for you and two for those you succeed in freeing from their claws.”

Xuven looked at him, taken aback, before bowing with profound reverence, surprising Pelmen. “In the name of Aoles, be thanked for this gift, the most precious of all!” He straightened up, and took the necklaces, causing the minuscule orange gems, set where the cilamen wood formed knots, to sparkle. “That’s a great weight you’ve lifted from my shoulders. We’ll return them to you, of course, when we have no further use for them.”

“What do they do?” Pelmen asked.

“They’re necklaces of Cilamon,” Fekkar replied. “Even the majority of Cilamenites don’t know of their existence, for they go back to the forgotten epoch of Astian.” He paused, and for a brief moment, the gleam in his eyes lost its brightness. “Their enchantments have the power to protect you from some of the spells of Valshhyk’s shamans.”

“Which ones?”

“Those that cloud the mind and give you headaches so violent that it becomes difficult to go on,” Xuven explained.

“I understand,” said Pelmen. “They’ll doubtless be useful to us if we catch up with Stenlen’s murderers.”

At his uncle’s request, he brought out the nidepoux.

“I’ll take care of your cart during your absence,” Fekkar declared. “Unless you’re forced to backtrack within the next three days, you will find me at Guernal.”

“Truly, you are the most irreplaceable of friends,” Xuven said, placing his hands in Fekkar’s massive stone ones. “But I should warn you that our absence will probably be a long one if we have to alert the Aguerris.”

“Your goods will be safe with me,” Fekkar reassured him. “It’s the least I can do, since I can’t go with you. Which way did they go?”

“Over the Belenia bridge. They’re heading northeast. Excuse us, but time is pressing.”

Fekkar bowed his head. “Good luck, children of Aoles. May the wind always blow for you.”

Pelmen joined his uncle in thanking him, trying to put on a brave face. Fekkar seemed to understand his sadness. “We’ll see one another again, young hevelen,” he said, delicately covering Pelmen’s shoulders and part of his back with his hands.

The nidepoux snorted resentfully when Xuven and Pelmen mounted them. Pelmen’s mount, recognizing the odor of the person on its back, put up less resistance. Pelmen moved closer to Xuven’s mount, which was refusing to advance. He took it by the bridle, and, after several murmurs and tugs, he convinced it to move off. Rather than follow the usual route, they went along the Ig in the direction of the harbor. Xuven discouraged Pelmen from urging the nidepoux to gallop—such haste would only slow them down more in the end.

“Better divide up the necklaces,” said Xuven. “Take these two—and above all, take good care of them.”

Pelmen felt their beads as if to assure himself that they were real. He put them away carefully, and then took out a small terracotta pot in order to coat his face and hands with linguilis grease.

The sentinels let them pass when they explained that they were only entering in order to cross the bridge. After going around a bend that had previously hidden it from view, Pelmen saw the edifice of gilded wood. It took a long time to reach it, because there were already a lot of malians coming and going in both directions, and although the guards only superficially inspected the carts, even that rapid examination created lines and bottlenecks.

Pelmen wanted to ask Xuven a question, but the space around them generated by the malians’ aversion to nidepoux was no guarantee of confidentiality, so he waited. Now he was more familiar with the malians, he realized that the surrounding murmurs mostly revealed discontent and acrimony. The pedestrians giving him and his uncle dirty looks were in the minority when compared with those who were complaining about the slowness of progression.

They likely aren’t a people who rebel easily, but something tells me that their bad mood is a groundswell which needs to be taken into account.

The dark blue tunics of the sentinels at the far end of the bridge finally came into view. In response to their questions, Xuven replied that they had been told so much about the beauty of Lake Iogar that they absolutely had to see it before returning to the Canyons. The guards looked at one another, arching their hairless brows, but seemed to think that it was necessary to expect anything from hevelens, and signaled to them to pass.

Beyond the bridge, hills covered with grass and stainflowers in shimmering colors bordered the Iogar. Only a few shells were nestled in places where the contours of the land permitted it. The road was paved, which did not prevent carts from raising the dust between the paving stones. At least they did not have to swallow as much as they had on the way in.

“How many are there?” asked Pelmen, when space had opened up between them and other travelers.

“Five are hidden in the double bottom, all mil’ser. The apprentice was one of them.”

“They’ve got a good head start.”

“Don’t worry, that’s not a problem. Their melepeks are powerful, but don’t move very quickly. Unless they abandon them, which seems unlikely, we’ll have picked up their trail before the end of the day.”

Xuven made no objection when Pelmen took his nidepoux by the bridle and caused it to advance in brief successive surges. They overtook numerous malians traveling on foot or at the tranquil pace of melepeks, only slowing down when they had no choice. Every time an opportunity arose to operate in complete secrecy, Xuven took out his gnarled wand and used the Sign of Aoles. He was making his fifth attempt when Pelmen impatiently asked him whether he had detected anything. The nidepoux’s tongues were hanging out, and they had to stop to let them rest.

“The odors of malians are faint and require intense concentration to pick up,” said Xuven, blinking against the glare of Astar. “I had thought at one time that they might have turned off the road—there were cart tracks in the grass.”

“Why not follow them?”

“It might not have been their trail. There were only fragmentary odors, difficult to identify. The road we’re following heads northeast and ends at a bridge over the Iogar. I’d be surprised if they don’t take it. Their only alternatives would be the north and the northwest, where the country is civilized. They’d be discovered as easily as a sanrkhas in a nidepoux pen! If I wanted to pass unnoticed, I’d choose to go over the Iogar bridge, in the midst of other travelers.”

“So that’s where we’re going?”

“We’re going to continue night and day until we reach it. Afterward, it will be enough to take turns watching the flow of traffic.”

“But if they don’t go that way, they’ll give us the slip.”

“We need to make a choice, though.”

They did not take long to dismount and lead the nidepoux by the bridle. The weather was fine and a light breeze was unsettling the needles of the resinians, diffusing their penetrating scents. The far side of a hill might have masked one or several malians until the last moment. Pelmen hoped that Xuven would catch their odors in time. His own senses were refined, but not enough to let him discern such weak odors at a range of more than a few yards.

They ate on the march, which was uncomfortable, all the more so because they had to hold the bridles of animals that were protesting against the difference in their treatment. Pelmen stroked them and cajoled them, using his affinity with the animals to murmur what he knew ought to encourage them. He was not at all sure, however, that they would be able to advance by night as Xuven wanted to. If he wanted to continue to having the nidepoux’s confidence, he would have to give them a double ration that evening, and at least a little rest.

When they mounted up again, the rodents whinnied discontentedly. Getting them to trot required persistence, and the animals’ strides were more chaotic and unpredictable than ever. Pelmen’s backside was so bruised that he thought he would not be able to sit down for two days. No, three, he corrected himself, uttering a groan. It would take time for the improvised mounts to get used to progressing in a fluid and regular manner, even if they weren’t intentionally mistreating their riders. They just weren’t used to being ridden. Astar was half way through his descending curve when Xuven tugged on his reins and turned to Pelmen. There was a gleam in his eyes.

“They’re close by.” Xuven pointed toward the end of the road, which slanted to the right behind an old tree-stump. “Just beyond that bend. Let’s get down, then.” Once on the ground he put a hand on his back in order to straighten it. He made no complaint, but Pelmen took some comfort from the fact that he was not the only one experiencing the rigors of the chase.

“We need to stay far enough away not to be noticed,” Xuven murmured, as they approached the turning. “I can track them by odor from now on, so it doesn’t matter if we lose sight of them.”

His uncle might say that, but Pelmen was in a hurry to catch sight of Ezechian-Uzeve again, and he took the bend without slowing down. At first he could not see anything but a small cloud of dust lazily dissipating. At the top of the hill ahead of them, and on the point of disappearing over the opposite ridge, a handful of isolates was surrounding the toropone cart. There must have been at least five, bare-chested and wearing bulging trousers, with the exception of one, clad in dark glossy fabric. Pelmen felt a surge of excitement on recognizing beside him the silhouette of the toropone supplier’s apprentice.

“That’s doubtless why Ezechian-Uzeve had pulled off the road,” said Xuven. “The mil’ser must have been starting to choke in their hiding place.”

“They’re not afraid of being caught anymore?”

“It’s the city guards that worried them. The malians aren’t a warlike people, and we haven’t seen a single patrol since we left.”

“Who’s the one dressed in black?”

“A sixth rogue that I haven’t seen thus far. He must have joined them after I left.”

“One might think that they were only taking isolates,” Pelmen reflected, aloud. “Perhaps for lack of room within the cart…”

“Not just that. Ezechian-Uzeve has restricted himself to recruiting in the Strays’ quarter, and that’s not a matter of chance. It’s there that one sees the most isolates, hence its name. The malians who haven’t found their doubles are also the ones who most often resort to the Pools of Bliss and drink.”

“The most vulnerable, that is.”

Xuven’s gaze was penetrating. “Do you remember the particular moment in your life when you encountered Komel and his acolyte?”

Pelmen nodded his head, with a bitter smile. “I know what you’re getting at. I wanted to get away from the tannery, and was ready to do anything to do so… just as Teleg didn’t want to remain a windlass operator at the moment of his disappearance.”

“Their strategy is identical here, that’s why I’m increasingly convinced that it’s the same gang that’s operating among the malians and among us. We still need to discover what their objective is.”

Pelmen went to the nidepoux, which he stroked with his hand. Sinistan’s objective was irrelevant to him. If he could recover Teleg and take him back to his sister—or at least find out where he had been taken—he would consider his part in the mission to be over. Then he would be sure that he was worthy of Master Galn’s bow and would be free to live his own life. And perhaps share it with Laneth, if she could wait for him until his return.

They made camp as soon as Xuven was certain that their quarry had called a halt. Pelmen was strongly tempted to go to verify the enemy position rather than rely on his uncle’s declarations, but he set the idea aside—his peace of mind did not warrant taking such a risk. Resignedly, he took the nidepoux away from the mound where he and Xuven had placed their things, and led them to a copse of slender-trees. Judging by their odor, there was a quantity of acorns there to dig up. He took advantage of the respite to eat and drink.

He and his uncle took turns to mount guard during the night, having the malians that they were following in mind rather than predators, which were not numerous in the region.

Pelmen wrapped himself up in the nidepoux fur that Dryna had given to him. The cool night was a bringer of hopes and uncertainties. Their tracking would be all the more difficult because they would not be able to light a fire to warm themselves or cook meat. Although the month of Aoles was not the most rigorous in the year, Pelmen did not know where Ezechian-Uzeve and his companions might lead them, or how long their mission would last.

He allowed Xuven to sleep longer than the limit they had agreed, conscious that his uncle must have needed a little extra rest after his sleepless night. It was not merely out of generosity of soul that he did so. If his uncle no longer had enough strength to summon up the power of Aoles, then they would lose their most precious trump card.

When he sensed that his eyelids would no longer obey him, he woke Xuven and lay down without delay in his furs. The ground was neither hard enough, nor cold enough, to prevent him from abandoning himself to the comfort of sleep.

He had undoubtedly waited too long before waking his uncle, however, for he did not seem to have been asleep for more than a few minutes when Xuven shook his shoulder. Indeed, a few stars were still shining belatedly in spite of the gleams of dawn. His uncle’s nostrils were quivering in such a way that Pelmen was certain that he had just had recourse to his magic.

Xuven confirmed what he feared—that the malians were already on their way—and they set out. His eyelids heavy, Pelmen was drowsy for much of the morning, limiting himself to matching strides with his uncle. Xuven sometimes signaled to him to slow down, in order to keep the toropone cart outside visual range.

At the end of the afternoon Pelmen felt sufficiently vigorous to go out hunting. He shot a rocol, which he plucked that evening, and whose cold flesh he butchered with a flint. He gratefully went to lie down, promising himself not to cheat on the watch shifts again.

On the third day, game was harder to find, so he had to content himself with collecting mushrooms and digging up roots. Low clouds had rolled in during the night and the morning. In spite of the rain that fell during the afternoon, they maintained their pace. When it stopped, the humidity of the air not only persisted but increased, and Pelmen realized even before sensing it that they were approaching the Iogar.

Xuven signaled to him to slow down, and when they went around a curve that extended in a straight line, descending toward the river, they were overtaken by travelers. Ezechian-Uzeve’s rig was there, not far away. There must have been a hundred yards between the cart and the Iogar bridge when Pelmen suddenly noticed that the malians accompanying it were not mil’ser. He examined the sides of the road, and thought he recognized two that were moving upriver, parting the canalees as they went. Three others were mingling with travelers and moving downstream.

Pelmen mounted up.

“What are you doing?” asked Xuven, looking up at him and frowning.

“They’re splitting up. We’ll have to do the same to continue following them.”

Xuven grabbed the bridle of his nidepoux. “Get down, you fool! Can’t you see that one of them is watching the road behind the cart?”

Pelmen leaned forward. Between several feless’tu transporting jars and baskets full of fruits and vegetables, he glimpsed the malian clad in the black surcoat sitting in the middle of the toropones, facing the road. He dismounted immediately.

“Are we going to let the others go, then? How do we know that the cart won’t lead us astray?”

“They would, if they were sure they were being followed, but we’ve taken all the necessary precautions so far, haven’t we?”

Pelmen nodded, but his expression must have reflected his doubt, because Xuven continued: “There are still three in the cart. If it comes to that, we’ll capture them and try to make them talk. We won’t have any other choice if they’re going to give us the runaround. At worst, we’ll take them to the Hortal, in the hope that the false bottom will suffice to prove the accusation. In any case, for the moment, what we should do is continue to follow them—agreed?”

“You might be right,” said Pelmen.

The cart stopped at the guard post. Xuven and Pelmen drew nearer in the company of travelers. The malians were still keeping their distance, an attitude that was consistently irritating, but now threatened to give away their position. They could hear Ezechian’s voice in spite of the rigs between them. To judge by its tone, the ascendant was protesting against the sentinels in blue livery, who were shifting the toropones.

After an interminable lapse of time, the cart began moving again.

Pelmen breathed more easily and redirected his attention to the banks of the river, where malians were diving in. If I were one of those guards, I’d question my usefulness. He searched the landscape with his gaze before spotting the rig again, heading north. It soon disappeared behind a row of canalees. Pelmen took advantage of the wait to smear himself with linguilis grease under the unfriendly gaze of merchants dressed in silky fabrics. They were accompanied by guards in dark green livery armed with javelins and clubs.

At the sight of the nidepoux the sentinels did not even want to approach, and gave them the signal to pass without further ceremony. Xuven and Pelmen crossed the bridge marching beside their beasts and then turned northwards. A few hundred yards further on, Xuven confided his bridle to Pelmen and plunged into a clump of tall ferns. Pelmen, who suspected what his uncle was doing, let him go.

The road extended into the distance. Among the carts, Pelmen could not pick out Ezechian-Uzeve’s, and the odors, too varied and confused, told him nothing more. Opposite the river and behind the ferns, a stand of resinians and slender-trees preceded a dense forest massed some distance away.

There was a rustle of the foliage and Xuven emerged again, wand in hand, his expression grave. “They’ve gone into the woods. They must have erased their tracks behind them since we haven’t noticed them.”

“They’re suspicious.”

Xuven agreed. “Fortunately, they can’t mask their odors. Let’s give them a short start—the trail is fresh.”

They drew away from the road in order not to attract attention. Pelmen studied the blue lianas hanging down from the slender-trees.

“The Forest of Shadows,” Xuven commented. “I’d like to be able to go around it, but we can’t risk losing them. The fact that they’ve chosen this route is proof of their guilt in and of itself. They don’t want to be followed. We have to be twice as careful.”

Pelmen looked at his uncle anxiously. “There’s danger?”

Xuven nodded. “Simply do as I say and keep silent.”

At a sign from his uncle, Pelmen put his bow over his shoulder before mounting his nidepoux. The ground was covered with a carpet of dead leaves, which made far too much rustling and crackling. Xuven led his mount between the gilded or brown tree-trunks to a path that was only just wide enough in places to allow the melepek team to pass.

The forest became darker as they went further into it. The chirps, clucks, trills and other bird and insect sounds were not as numerous there as Pelmen expected. The odors were those of either venerable or fleeting existences, mixed with the predominant smell of damp earth. There was sometimes a considerable stir within the foliage, but when Pelmen looked up he failed to determine its origin.

“Stranguls,” said Xuven. “They live in the treetops.”

Pelmen had no idea what the creatures with the sinister name looked like. One thing’s certain: with all these shadows projected by the trunks and branches, it’s a perfect place to hide. The forest justifies its name only too well.

Xuven pointed at the ground, where fresh ruts surrounded by footprints had appeared. Their quarry must believe that they were secure enough not to have to erase their tracks.

“Judging by the number of different footprints, the ones that separated from the carts have now rejoined it,” Pelmen observed.

They marched until nightfall, and then looked for a place as safe as possible. Apart from a few resinians covered with thorns, no tree possessed branches low enough to permit climbing.

Eventually, it was in the middle of a clearing, the access to which was guarded by thorny bushes, that Xuven planted his gnarled wand. He extended his hands, murmuring the words of power, and the air currents surrounded them, as well as the nidepoux. The quadrupeds had been nervous and more reluctant than usual since they had penetrated the forest. Once tethered, however, they seemed to overcome their fears, and did not take long to begin avidly sniffing the soil. Pelmen picked up his bow and was preparing to notch a thorn to the string when Xuven dissuaded him.

“No practice or hunting here. We have to stay together, and as close to the wand as possible.”

Pelmen kept his bow in his hand while Xuven, ignoring his own advice, went over to a group of resinians. His silhouette crouched down at the foot of a trunk, and then he busied himself with some mysterious task.

The darkness was becoming deeper by the minute. If Pelmen had to fire at something threatening his uncle, he would not be able to identify it, and his chances of hitting the target would be reduced.

Xuven eventually came back, his satchel bulging. “Mushrooms,” he said. “Enough nutrition here to save us from having to hunt.”

Pelmen pulled a face. Something told him that his diet would not be very varied in the days to come.

They advanced at a steady pace along the path between the massive trees. Pelmen felt like an insect trying not to wake giants. It was only his second day in the Forest of Shadows, but he was already in a hurry to get out of it. Sitting on the back of his nidepoux or leading it by the bridle, he kept his bow ready at all times. The impression of being watched crawled within him like a silent parasite.

Xuven’s face was the customary mask, with the exception of the quivering nostrils and eyes that occasionally squinted in the direction of the foliage. He was also brandishing his gnarled wand most of the time, but only used the Sign of Aoles sparingly, as if he had decided to conserve his energy. He was forced to use it, however, when the tracks deviated from the principal path. After sniffing the air circumspectly, he gave the signal to follow the tracks.

“Do you think their lair is in the forest?”

“If that’s the case, it explains why no one has discovered it so far. People don’t usually come here.”

Pelmen could understand why only too well.

Every time it was possible, the imprints went around the trees at a respectful distance. Pelmen relaxed his grip on his bow and massaged the back of his neck. His head felt as if it might end up detaching from his neck by virtue of watching the treetops unrelentingly. They were going alongside a stream, taking advantage of that to renew the water in their leather bottles and satisfy their thirst. A little further on, the grass at the foot of a dark brown mound covered in ortalies had been trampled more extensively than elsewhere.

“They stopped here,” said Xuven, looking around. There were no trees nearby.

Pelmen got down, took a few steps and bent down in front of a bed of purpleafs that had escaped trampling. His nostrils palpitated. “There’s an odor of wood,” he murmured. Parting some of the large leaves, he revealed a hollow space, scarcely sufficient to slide his hands through. A wooden panel was hidden there, which he tried without success to move.

His uncle came to lend a hand and, between the two of them, they raised the trap-door. In the depths of the hiding place, earthworms several inches long were moving between boxes. There were also casks, javelins, blowpipes and spiked clubs.

“Shrewd,” said Xuven. “This is where they pick up their weapons without arousing suspicion.”

Apart from a few fruits which Pelmen hastily hung on the saddlebags, the food in the boxes was not edible for hevelens. They put everything back in place and left, taking extra care to erase their own footprints. Their predecessors’ trail rejoined the principal path.

They camped near a dead slender-tree which was being reintegrated into the forest floor. Whistles followed by hisses and further stirrings of the leaves disturbed the silence of the night, causing Pelmen’s hair to bristle and making the nidepoux yelp with terror. He struggled to calm the animals.

“It wouldn’t take much,” he murmured to Xuven, “to make them panic. If they run away, we’ll be in dire straits.”

“That’s why I’m counting on you,” his uncle countered. “Unless we stumble on their lair in the meantime, we should be out of these woods in two days.

There was no further disturbance that night, but between Pelmen’s turns on watch his sleep was filled with nightmares. The nidepoux were reluctant to move off again the next day, increasing their masters’ anxiety. In order to make up for the delay, they made them advance in more rapid strides in the morning. The surrounding foliage became even denser, and the light of Astar became even weaker, if such a thing were possible.

The air was suddenly charged with the stench of rotting flesh. A branch groaned. Pelmen twisted in his saddle, notching a thorn to his bowstring. One shadow had detached itself from the others and was plunging toward them from the treetops. Fangs glistened in the gloom. Before he was able to release the string, Pelmen heard Xuven’s word of power, and the creature was suddenly hurled backward, its head tilted inwards, as if it had been punched in the gut. Pelmen’s thorn was lost in the trees while creepers lashed the air a few yards away.

No, tentacles; the thing’s just drawn them in.

Pelmen thought that the creature was about to fall to the ground, but at the last moment, one of the tentacles curled around a branch and shrank in length, while thickening, drawing its owner closer to the tree. In the blink of an eye, the shadow vanished from sight.

The attack had only lasted a matter of seconds, but the nidepoux were kicking and fighting. Even with their ears folded over their eyes, they continued trembling.

“A strangul,” said Xuven. “Let’s not linger—next time, there’ll be more than one.”

Pelmen swallowed, envying his uncle’s apparent calm.

This time, there was no need to force their mounts to move forward. Quite the opposite—preventing them from racing away required all the energy they could muster. Pelmen huddled over the spine of his nidepoux, conscious of the fact that, at the speed they were traveling, he could not turn round in case of attack.

Too many trees around us, too many nooks and crannies where they might take us by surprise.

The odors swirled around, and the fact that he could not catch the one he dreaded in the mixture was no guarantee of safety. Some creepers might be tentacles—he could only tell the difference by seeing them become animate of their own accord.

Xuven called a halt. It was only then that Pelmen realized how much his back was hurting. His uncle pointed his wand forward and sniffed the air.

“We’re very close to those we’re following at present. It’s time to stop and have something to eat.”

Pelmen grimaced at the idea of becoming a stationary target. He followed on Xuven’s heels, however, as they approached a resininan, the roots of which contained a hollowed out cavity. The place was unoccupied, and after tethering the nidepoux to the tree, they anxiously increased the size of the hole, making it big enough to crawl into.

There was sufficient daylight between the roots to keep watch on the beasts, and perhaps even to target assailants if the need arose. An animal odor permeated everything. Blue hairs belonging to the previous occupant were scattered over the fresh loose earth. They took turns eating and keeping watch.

Once he had eaten, Pelmen was the first to scrabble out of the oppressive burrow. He distributed grain to the nidepoux, while sizing up the surroundings with a bleak eye.

The wind told Xuven that no enemy was nearby. The malians had moved on. “The melepeks can go for several days in succession without slowing down,” he said, nodding his head. “The malians must be eating as they travel.”

They moved off, at first on foot and then on their nidepoux, as soon as they rejoined the path. The silence around them was heavy with dreadful anticipation. Pelmen held his bridle and bow in one hand and a notched thorn in the other. Xuven looked straight ahead, aiming at the extremity of the path.

There was only a vague murmur to begin with, which gradually became more precise: vocal outbursts punctuated by cries of fright and orders given in a crisp tone. Pelmen and Xuven looked at each other.

“Let’s go on,” said Xuven, “but cautiously.”

Suddenly, there was a loud scream. Pelmen’s nidepoux bucked, obliging him to let go of his thorn in order to hang on tightly to its mane. The animal launched itself forward—straight toward the danger.

As soon as he had recovered his balance, Pelmen seized the bridle and pulled on it with all his might, grunting dully. He was barely able to change his mount’s direction, making it leave the path—but the screams continued to get closer while they hurtled headlong through bushes and roots. An ochreonce stem slashed open Pelmen’s arm and he clenched his teeth in order not to cry out. The moment had come to jump off in order to save his skin.

No! Don’t give in to panic! His grimace of pain mutated into a grimace of determination as he leaned over the rodent’s ears. He set about repeating the same words in a tremulous voice, close enough to the eardrums to drown out the sounds of the battle, which were becoming more distinct by the second.

Perhaps it was that litany, or perhaps fatigue, at any rate, the animal slowed down sufficiently for him to be able to hide its eyes, which were rolling madly in their orbits, without risking a collision with a tree.

Out of breath, the quadruped bent its knees and emitted a kind of groan. Pelmen mopped his forehead in vain—his entire body was covered with sweat—and tethered the animal to a resinian. For a moment, he was tempted to slip under a tree stump and not move until death either claimed him or decided to spare him. The cries that reached his ears were of desperation or terror. He took a deep breath, notched a thorn and, defying all reason, headed toward them. They drew away. His nostrils widened and sorted the odors, guiding his feet to places where they would not cause leaves or dead branches to crackle. He went around open spaces in order to merge with the shadows, conscious that stranguls usually did the same.

It’s likely a trap.
Those monsters are setting a trap for me and, imbecile that I am, I’m heading straight into it. What an idiot! Nevertheless, he continued.

Whatever had uttered the howl emitted another scream, shrill but fainter, and it was then that Pelmen saw her through the lianas: a female malian, imprisoned by a pair of tentacles that were wound around her waist and neck. The victim had almost abandoned all resistance.

Heavily, the strangul was carrying its prize a few yards from the ground, using two other tentacles to project itself through the air. It was heading toward Pelmen, so he threw himself into the shadow of a rock.

She hasn’t been completely strangled, or she wouldn’t be able to cry out.

A brief glance around revealed no visible enemy.

The nauseating odor of spoiled flesh was too close now. Without taking the time to reflect, Pelmen knelt down against the rock and raised his bow, drew it to the maximum and, in phase with the odor, fired without taking aim.

A dull thud: incredulously, the strangul contemplated the thorn that had perforated its torso. Its tentacles retracted and it fell, letting go of its prey. The repulsive appendages lashed the ground like crazed serpents. Pelmen threw himself back under cover. Branches were moving all around as if the entire forest had decided to come to life. The rustling was accompanied by blood-curdling whistles, which responded to one another.

His sweat dripping to the ground, Pelmen concentrated on his breathing, trying to recover a normal rhythm. Some distance away, the nidepoux, its gaze maddened, tried to stand firm, but its legs were trembling too much. Pelmen held still until the tumult eased, along with his heartbeats. The bow ready for use, he began to move, imperceptibly.

The places where the stranguls might be hiding were numerous, but one of those dark corners, a high branch covered with foliage, was ideally situated for surveying the area. Not without a mute prayer that his instinct would not betray him, Pelmen drew the string and fired.

A shrill whistle pierced his ears and a strangul launched itself into action. Pelmen threw himself backward again, holding his breath. He had had time to perceive his thorn embedded in what must be the creature’s shoulder. Creepers shifted as the strangul hissed and whistled—undeniably in pain—and there were other displacements in the branches, further echoing as it rubbed together its body parts.

I am doomed if one of them ever catches sight of me.

Pelmen thought he might faint with relief when he realized that the noises were gradually decreasing. Soon, complete silence fell in the vicinity. He waited a little longer in order to be sure, and then took an unsteady step toward his victim. The overwhelming stench made him nauseous. The lifeless corpse of the strangul had arms and legs that were astonishingly short by comparison with its elongated torso, to which the four tentacles were linked. Its dark gray skin was smooth and shiny.

The unconscious malian was stirring. Her face moved and Pelmen recognized the youthful features of Ezechian-Uzeve’s apprentice. The air current lashed him a fraction of a second before the cold and slimy member—so cold!—fell and curled around his neck. Dropping the bow and the thorn, Pelmen groped for his flint, his sandals scraping the ground as he was dragged backward.

He had just run out of air when he was lifted from the ground… to be immediately released. The tentacle unwound. There was a dull thud behind him.

Pelmen breathed in great gulps of air. He rubbed his neck and turned round. The strangul still seemed to be alive, and Pelmen, bewildered, stared at its gaping maw, which revealed yellow fangs, and above it, the delicate fibers of the ridge of its nose, overhung by the black oblong pearls of its eyes. It took Xuven’s flint dagger descending upon the creature’s throat, unleashing a final spasm and a flood of noxious black fluid, for Pelmen finally to collect his thoughts and pinch his nostrils, sickened.

“That one probably positioned itself behind a tree and waited for its opportunity,” Xuven explained. “Unfortunately for the strangul, so did I. Where’s your nidepoux—we need to get away from here as soon as possible.”

“Wait! This malian is still alive.”

Xuven frowned, looking at the slender, quivering body.

“If you’ve lost your nidepoux, we’ll have to leave her where she is. She’d slow us down too much.”

“It’s behind that rock over there,” Pelmen assured him, praying that the animal was still there.

At first he could not see it, but the nidepoux was really there, crouching between the roots of the tree. Xuven came back with his own mount. Pelmen’s nidepoux, which had scarcely reacted to his caresses and encouragements, found the strength to get up when it sensed its companion. It even went to sniff its muzzle. On seeing that, Pelmen uttered a sigh of relief.

The malian’s body was flexible and firm. They draped her across Xuven’s beast, her arms folded against its torso and her feet dangling on the ground. Dark blue tracks were evident here and there, where the tentacles had been wound.

They left the two bodies behind, moving as fast as they could. They had not gone a hundred yards when the branches began to quiver again in their wake. Pelmen turned round without seeing any stranguls.

“Keep going,” said Xuven. “Our only chance is that they’ll busy themselves with their own remains rather than our carcasses.”

Pelmen twisted his mouth in disgust and obeyed. The principal path became sinuous, the tracks of the cart clearly visible. Wand in hand, Xuven confirmed that the malians had survived.

Their legs became heavy and their feet were bruised, but they marched without rest until nightfall. Then Xuven turned to Pelmen. “They haven’t called a halt. We’ll continue too.”

Pelmen could have howled in frustration, so much was his body demanding rest. He knew, though, that his uncle was right. They took just enough time to transfer the apprentice to Pelmen’s nidepoux—still unconscious, she stirred feebly during the operation—before going on.

“It’s a miracle that she survived,” said Pelmen, feeling her neck. He still had the icy, implacable grip of the strangul in his mind.

“Malians are resistant, granted, less so than krongos, but more so than us.”

Pelmen’s stomach was reminding him of its needs, rendering the march even more difficult.

The pale pre-dawn glow revealed lianas hanging nearby. Bow in hand, Pelmen sniffed the air suspiciously. The nocturnal breeze could have been responsible for their oscillation—at least, it was necessary to hope so.

Later, when the trees were more spaced out and Astar rose in all his majesty, he breathed more easily. The view was less encumbered now. The toropone cart had stopped beyond the edge of the forest, beside the path.

They took cover. Pelmen started folding and unfolding the fingers of each hand, which had been numbed and marked with grooves, by virtue of hauling on the tether of his stubborn nidepoux. In spite of their fatigue, he and his uncle made a final detour in order to reach a bend in the terrain. Pelmen fell to his knees. They were in a meadow of yellow grass, out of range of anything stirring in the forest.

Chapter Fifteen - DECISIONS

As soon as they had stopped, the nidepoux lay down on their flanks so fast that Xuven had to grab the malian’s legs and then swiftly pull her away in order to lay her down. Robust and vigorous as the beasts were—and they had shown astonishing stamina while crossing the Steppes—they were not used to being ridden, and fear had sapped their strength. Their hearts were pounding so fast that Pelmen feared that they might die without further delay. Setting his own exhaustion aside, he tried to rub them down. The earthenware bowl that served to water them, carefully wrapped in cloth, had survived their misadventure. He filled it and set it before their muzzles before satisfying his own thirst.

Xuven had knelt down beside Ezechian-Uzeve’s apprentice. A vaguely familiar bittersweet odor emanated from the pot in his hand. With the other hand, he smeared the places where the marks of strangulation were displayed.

“The Healing Salve should take effect rapidly,” he said, looking up at his nephew.

“What are we going to do with her?”

Xuven stood up to draw Pelmen aside. “She might be Ezechian-Uzeve’s accomplice as well as his victim,” he said, lowering his voice. “In either case, she represents a danger if we let her go. If she’s still committed to those on the cart, she’ll try to warn them, in which case the peril is immense. If she isn’t, and chooses to return to Belenia, she might talk about her adventure and reveal our presence to enemy ears.”

“We saved her life, though.”

Xuven dismissed Pelmen’s argument with a wave of his hand. “Her reappearance back there wouldn’t help us, unless…”

“Unless…?”

“Unless we can convince her to accompany us until the end of our mission, and then take her evidence to the Hortal when the moment comes. She’s only a mil’ser, and her word won’t carry much weight among her fellows, but if we corroborate what she says, perhaps it will be taken into consideration.”

“How will you do that?” Pelmen asked.

“We’ll simply explain the situation to her. Oh, don’t fool yourself—you’ll have to watch her most of the time.”

Pelmen rolled his eyes. Xuven didn’t seem to notice.

“I hope that we won’t have to take extreme measures. Above all, it’s important to find out which camp she’s in—although I have my suspicions about that.”

With that, Xuven turned around and went back to the malian. She was sleeping peacefully. Seeing her in that state, Pelmen yawned.

“She needs sleep,” said Xuven. “I’d pref…”

“Look!” said Pelmen. He crouched down and extended his arm toward an oblong form that was discernible beneath the apprentice’s trousers. Ignoring Xuven’s frown, he slid his hand inside. With a triumphant smile, he brandished his prize, which reflected the rays of Astar, accenting them with a golden gleam.

“Amberrock,” murmured Xuven.

“Which means,” said Pelmen, jubilantly, “that she was only persuaded recently to undertake this journey. If not, she’d have bought new clothes a long time ago. You can see how threadbare her trousers are.”

“True. After her passage through the Pool of Bliss, Ezechian-Uzeve took her to the Amberrock Palace. I couldn’t follow them inside, of course, but that’s doubtless when the bargain was offered to her.”

Pelmen’s eyelids fluttered. When he replaced the amberrock, he nearly collapsed on top of the apprentice.

“You can hardly stand up,” said Xuven. “Rest—I’ll take the first shift on watch.”

Pelmen made no attempt to protest. He had no idea where Xuven got his energy from. So far as he was concerned, he had exceeded his limits some time ago. His sleep was both deep and dreamless.

A voice pulled him out from that bottomless well: a shrill and hoarse voice, which he did not recognize.

“… they’re all over me! Everywhere! They’re swarming! They’re biting me! By Malia, what have you done? Why have you put me in contact with these… abominations?”

“Without those abominations, as you call them, the stranguls would be feasting on your dead body at this moment,” Xuven replied, in a calm tone.

At those words, Pelmen found the strength to open his eyes. The malian, of medium height by the criteria of her own species but taller than any hevelen, was frantically scratching her torso, her back, her face and her arms—everything, in fact, that was not covered. Her long slender fingers might perhaps have seemed feminine in different circumstances, in spite of the calluses distributed over them.

“Smear yourself with this,” said Xuven, showing her the pot of linguilis grease. “That will deter them better than your gesticulations.”

“I don’t want to have anything to do with you!” she spat, taking a step back.

“What ingratitude,” said Pelmen, getting to his feet with difficulty, “toward those who saved your life.”

She looked him up and down sullenly. Xuven shook his head. “Don’t waste your time. I’ve already explained to her. We’d be better off talking to a wall.” He held out the pot. “Your turn. Lice like nothing better than malian flesh. We’ll see how well she gets on by herself.”

Pelmen had barely started smearing himself when Xuven drew him toward the recumbent quadrupeds, reducing his voice to a murmur. His wrinkles had extended further, but his eyes were gleaming with determination. “They’ve set out again,” he said. “We must do likewise, but I doubt that your new friend will want to join us.”

She was scratching so violently that her flesh was darkening in places. She looked at them, her eyes filled with tears of rage. To their amazement, she advanced toward them, her lips taut. “Give me that!”

Pelmen had finished with it, so he let her snatch the pot from his hands. She moved some distance away, turning her back on them, and commenced applying the grease with sweeping gestures.

“In moderation!” Xuven instructed. “Or we’ll be forced to do it for you.”

The malian paused, then resumed more slowly, only using as much as she needed this time.

“Have you questioned her?” Pelmen asked.

“Do you think she’s in any mood to talk?” The gravity of the expression in his eyes belied Xuven’s faint smile. His right hand was plunged into his toga, clutching his wand. “She’ll be finished soon. Let me handle it.”

Others would not have noticed anything, but over the months, Pelmen had learned to interpret the tiny wrinkles that appeared in the corners of his uncle’s eyes. He’s about to do something he doesn’t like.

The tremors troubling the malian had ceased—she was no longer trying to scratch herself. She put the pot of grease down beside her and stood up. With her back still turned she started walking, parallel to the edge of the Forest of Shadows—and then began running. She was weak, and her gait was unsteady. Xuven held out his wand and moved his lips—an instant later, she fell forwards. He went toward her unhurriedly, and Pelmen went with him. They reached her just as she leaned over her hands in order to get up. A further blast plastered her face to the ground like an invisible, colossal hand. Pelmen raised his eyebrows at the demonstration of force.

“You owe us a debt,” declared Xuven, in a strong, clear voice. “It’s a matter of life and death. According to our traditions, you’ll only be free of us when we decide to let you go. Until then, you belong to us. You’ll follow us, and will be as docile as a nidepoux.”

With that, Xuven leaned over, took her by the shoulder and turned her over unceremoniously. A trickle of mauve blood was escaping from the malian’s lower lip. Her misty eyes were flashing, but that was her only reaction.

“Those accompanying you—those we’re trailing—are our enemies. If you try to rejoin them or warn them, know that you’ll be treated as such.”

The tone of Xuven’s voice and his expression allowed no ambiguity. He took hold of his flint. The malian’s almond eyes widened while Pelmen, alarmed, wondered whether he should intervene.

Xuven rummaged in his satchel, however, and took out a gray object that turned out to be a trana root. He sliced it into segments, which he held out to the malian. “Eat! I won’t take no for an answer.”

She looked at him wildly. With a scornful gesture, she raised herself up on her elbows, accepted the morsels and swallowed them. The restorative did not take long to take effect. The captive’s gaze became brighter and betrayed surprise.

“The trana roots will fortify you but won’t nourish you,” Xuven explained. “You’ll need to feed yourself. You’d do better to start sooner rather than later. What’s your name?”

She got to her feet without replying and moved away, with Pelmen on her heels. Xuven had put away his wand and was observing her movements. At a clump of plants that Pelmen would have taken for noxious weeds she knelt down, took hold of them, braced herself, and succeeded in unearthing them, revealing black bulbs lodged between the roots. She chewed a few of them avidly. When Xuven ordered the resumption of their route, she pointed at the nidepoux and made it understood that she preferred to stay behind.

Xuven shook his head. “In that case, you can go on ahead as a scout. There’s no point trying to get away. Pelmen here is as accurate with his thorns as I am with this.” He pointed the wand at her, and a current of air smoothed out the wrinkles in her loosely-fitting trousers.

Her eyes widened. With her head bowed, she took a semicircular route to overtake them.

What character! Pelmen thought. Xuven did well to show her who’s in charge.

He chewed trana roots while observing her, leading his mount by the bridle. The quadrupeds were evidently in no hurry, but he was confident that they had recovered. Once in a while, Xuven shouted curt orders to the malian, guiding her with his voice as he might have done a beast of burden.

As soon as they found the wagon ruts again, he called upon the Sign of Aoles. Their quarry had gained a significant lead on them, due to the slower progress of the nidepoux.

“A good thing, too,” Xuven mentioned, looking pleased. “With the bare horizon and the isolate's stature, they could see us from a long way off, now.”

The apprentice’s shoulders were slumped, and her entire attitude indicated resignation. Sometimes she stumbled, uttering a slight groan before continuing. When she sensed that she was going too slowly, she turned round, and, seeing the nidepoux coming closer, accelerated again. Her lanky body seemed out of place in the undulating yellow expanse.

“Will she be able to survive so far from the pools?” Pelmen asked.

“This Sinistan was able to,” Xuven replied. “Why do you think that he and his gang would pay so dearly for mil’ser if they were going to die on the way?” Xuven looked at Pelmen momentarily before continuing, with a faint smile on his lips: “I think she’s even more mutinous and stubborn than you are.”

“She also seems completely lost. Something tells me she isn’t going to make things any easier.”

The lower part of Astar had crossed the line of the horizon when Xuven ordered a halt in the shade of a clump of tri-folds. The malian’s gray skin was streaked with pale lines that must have indicated great fatigue—for their part, the marks of strangulation were faded—because as soon as the nidepoux came to a stop she let herself fall to the ground. Even in her exhaustion, there was something graceful about her movement.

Xuven sat down cross-legged and began breathing deeply. While he took care of the nidepoux, Pelmen wondered whether his uncle could sleep with his back so straight. He did not appear to be conscious of his surroundings, at any rate.

As soon as he was sure that the nidepoux were firmly tethered and had enough to eat, Pelmen went to check that the malian had not moved before he went hunting. He knew that he was taking a risk, but after having settled for mushrooms and the occasional veguer biscuit for three days, he felt the need for meat. Fatigue slowed him down and took a toll on his reflexes, but he succeeded in sniffing out the trail of some ptats, and his instinct allowed him to anticipate their movements.

By the light of Hamal, he returned to the grove with two prizes in his belt. Against all expectation, the malian was sitting up and eating—plants, apparently. Pelmen scanned her from head to toe without noting anything abnormal. She acted as if he did not exist, of course.

He did not mind about that. Xuven was lying down, asleep. Pelmen cut up one of the ptats, telling himself that at least his experience as a tanner was useful for something. He chewed the raw flesh for a long time, watching the malian from the corner of his eyes. Eventually, she lay down. The second ptat was intended for his uncle, so Pelmen wrapped it up in tri-fold leaves. He forced himself to stay on watch for as long as he could—he did not have the heart to wake Xuven. Then he went to sleep in his turn.

They proceeded more diligently the following day. At regular intervals, Xuven made his nidepoux bound forward, overtaking the malian who hurriedly got out of the way, and scanned the surroundings. He sometimes lost their quarry’s trail when predators crossed it, in which case they accelerated their pace to compensate for the detour.

The expanses of yellow grass gradually gave way to terrain with the blue-tinted lichens of the steppes. Aoles was almost constantly present now, in a manner that Pelmen would once have judged unpredictable, before the Cilamenites had trained him.

The shadows of the rare cacti were lengthening when the cart and its escort of gangling silhouettes appeared in the distance. Xuven immediately ordered the malian to lie down on the ground, which she did.

She was more obedient than before, if one set aside her refusal to speak when questioned. She was stubborn, and that was a fact. From the ill-tempered glances that she sometimes darted, one could have concluded that she had a grudge against the whole world. Pelmen wondered if he might not have become like her, back in the tannery, if he had not had Master Galn, Teleg and Alicene to make him dream of a better future.

They camped near a cactus with prominent swellings, which they used to replenish their water supply. Pelmen took advantage of the opportunity to replenish his quiver with fresh thorns, as well.

“We’ll need to be more careful than ever,” Xuven said. “One can see a long way in the Steppes. Fortunately, Aoles is powerful here so we can leave a greater distance between them and us.”

That was what they did the following day. The monotony and tedium of the environment weighed upon Pelmen, who missed the mountainous buttresses of the Canyons, where there was always some detail to attract the eye. He was in a hurry to go out hunting. Perhaps he would be able to catch a rocol, or even—he sniffed the air more attentively—a steppe-runner. Some distance to his left, a white-petaled carnalyne was diffusing the tempting perfume of its nectar. The carnivorous plant was in the closed position, certainly not for very long, and there was nothing remarkable in the vicinity. Pelmen gazed forward again.

He uttered an oath and his heartbeat quickened.

Neither Xuven nor the malian were visible any longer. His uncle had moved forward a little while before, but that could not explain his disappearance, given the clear line of sight. The malian’s absence was even more inconceivable.

Pelmen mounted his nidepoux and was about to urge it forward when Xuven reappeared some distance away. His head appeared first, followed by the rest of his body. Almost undetectable from where Pelmen was, a dip in the ground, obviously deep, had masked his uncle until then.

She can’t take long to appear, either.

Even so, he urged the nidepoux forward. A hundred and fifty yards further on he stopped, having reached what must have been a stream, now dry. No sign of the malian. That was not yet completely abnormal, since the opposite slope, although not as high, was too steep to climb easily and the trough in the ground was sinuous.

Not completely unusual, but disquieting.

If their captive had tried to get away, she would have gone to the left. Pelmen dismounted before taking his nidepoux down the steep slope. He began sorting out the odors, eliminating all those that did not belong to the malian. The delicate fragrance was almost imperceptible, but he recognized it. It was drawing away—to the left, indeed.

Pelmen groaned as he studied the dry bed. Strewn with boulders and sharp stones, it did not lend itself to a pursuit on nidepoux-back. Pelmen could choose to climb up the small ravine again in order to launch his mount at full tilt along the rim of the ditch, but the malian might take cover in some recess when she heard him approaching. Better to track the odor.

He started running, guiding his nidepoux by the bridle. He had to solve the problem himself—the captive was his responsibility. Weaving between the boulders, he conserved his breath as he had learned to do during his long excursions with Ielun, Symen and Laneth, having no anxiety for himself, but for the nidepoux, whose long rein was grazing his hand.

From time to time he lost the scent, then found it a little further on. In spite of all his efforts, it did not become any stronger. The malian had waited for the most opportune moment for her escape, using the delay to recuperate her strength.

May Astar ensure that she isn’t guiding me toward our enemies.

Improbable at the start, that idea ended up becoming plausible, given the dry streambed’s unpredictable changes of direction. Pelmen’s sweat hollowed out furrows on his dust-covered face, but his legs pursued their course untiringly and he did not relax his vigilance. If he had not had any other motivation, the memory of the prisoner that had got away from him in the course of his first journey across the Steppes would have sufficed.

He reached what must have been the source of the watercourse, where only a pool of stagnant water subsisted. On the edge of the ditch, footprints stood out, as elongated as their maker. Pelmen climbed up the side, pausing several times to haul up his nidepoux.

He scanned the bleak expanse and saw the silhouette of the malian. He hoisted himself onto his mount, which, responding to the thrust of his heel, launched forward. The terrain was smooth again, so he quickly gained ground.

The bow would only serve as a last resort, he decided. The malian had darted a glance over her shoulder. She must have been conscious that her cause was now lost and was only continuing out of pure obstinacy.

I’ll make her feel my pun…

He broke off in mid-thought. The fugitive had just risen above the ground, without any possible explanation. Pelmen’s jaw dropped. He immediately drew in his reins.

By Aoles—one moment she’s running and the next she’s several yards up in the air!

Suspended in mid-air, the malian seemed even more disconcerted.

What sorcery is this? Some trick of Xuven’s?

If that was the case, it was unusual to say the least, because he could see clearly now that the captive was enclosed by a kind of bubble, motionless now at shoulder height.

All his hair bristling, Pelmen got his bow ready, and opened his mouth—but the malian got in ahead of him, uttering a scream and abruptly spreading her arms. Immediately, the bubble burst, and a gasp of surprise was heard, which did not come from either Pelmen or the malian.

The air blurred, to recompose in the haughty image of a feless’tu with features and limbs that were doubly feminine, clad in a blue robe slit down the sides. The tip of Pelmen’s thorn, pointed toward the ascendant, trembled.

Impossible! She wasn’t there a moment ago!

The ascendant ignored the threat. She looked at the malian who had fallen on the ground with arched eyebrows. The mil’ser raised herself to her knees, her jaw clenched.

“You won’t be going any further,” the feless’tu articulated, in a calm and clear voice with melodious tones. She turned to Pelmen, considering him from her full height. “That bow won’t be necessary, my friend—we don’t want to fight.”

Pelmen lowered his weapon, subjugated by her majesty. With her phenomenal powers, she could have dealt with me already if she had wanted to.

That thought was simultaneously reassuring and disquieting, so he kept his thorn notched, ready for any eventuality. Ezechian-Uzeve’s apprentice divided her anxious glances between him and the fused. The ascendant redirected her attention to the mil’ser.

“If you were thinking of returning to Belenia, you’ll have to be patient, I fear. We’re Elisan-Finella, in the service of the High Hierarch Talja-Guelza…”

“And, through his intermediary, of the Hortal himself,” added Finella, in a more velvety voice.

“... charged by him to shed light on the overly frequent disappearances of mil’ser,” Elisan finished. “Henceforth, you’re under our command. We want to know where the cart that took you aboard is going…”

“… a curiosity that you and the bearded hevelen seem to share,” Finella put in, addressing herself to Pelmen.

The bearded hevelen? Are they talking about Xuven? How do they know?

“In fact, we’d also like to know for what reason two hevelens are taking such risks to follow that cart,” Elisan confirmed, glancing sideways at Pelmen.

He said nothing. So they too were being followed! And neither he nor Xuven had seen anything. As to whether this feless’tu was who she claimed to be, that remained to be seen.

The mil’ser, who had just stood up, unleashed a torrent of spite and rage. “I’m not under anyone’s command! I belong to nobody but myself!” She suddenly brandished her fragment of amberrock, whose flame-like, ruby glitter danced in her eyes. “You see this? I earned it! It cost me plenty”—her hand caressed her neck feverishly—“and it’s high time for me to profit from it. Do you think, maybe, that I was happy being poor?”

Elisan frowned, but Pelmen interjected. “I was offered a fragment of the same kind,” he said, “as large as yours. I refused—and do you know what happened?”

“Oh yes!” said the mil’ser. “You regretted your stupid decision so much that you’ve been trying ever since to find your benefactor, in order to beg him to take you into his service!”

“Do you honestly believe that?” asked Pelmen. “After my refusal, they tried to kill me. They have crimson shamans who can destroy everything in their path with fire!”

“So what? I don’t want to have anything more to do with them. I’m going back to Belenia.”

“Oh, so you count on living as a recluse for the rest of your life? If they get their hands on you, they’ll try to suck you in again with their lies, or arrange to have you disappear quietly.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Pelmen bit his lip. She was as stubborn as he had imagined—perhaps even more so—and illogical too.

“Do you really believe,” said Elisan, “that fragment of amberrock will allow you to find balance and harmony?”

There was a silence. The isolate fixed her green eyes on the feless’tu with the expression of a wounded animal. Pelmen strained his ear, trying to catch her muttered response. “I sure won’t find what I need in The Pool of the Second Chance…”

“How do you know? Have you ever immersed yourself in it with the right attitude, or in the right state of mind?”

The malian shifted her weight from one foot to another. “I’ve done that—more than once, and during the conjunctions. Now, it’ll be a full six years before I can try again! It feels like I could try a hundred times without getting anywhere.”

“For some, harmony requires an apprenticeship,” said Finella.

“We could teach you to find the most favorable state of mind,” Elisan proposed, “and even allow you access to the purest pool of Turquoise Water there is. Yes, we could help you discover your mil’nan.”

The term reminded Pelmen of something. Suddenly, he remembered. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place within his mind. According to Xuven, most malians found their mil’nan at birth, and thus became feless’tu, those strange individuals with four arms, two heads and two legs, but for those who were exceptions to the rule, there was the Pool of the Second Chance. There must be more favorable periods since the mil’ser had alluded to the conjunctions of the moons with Astar, and the six years that she would have to wait for the next attempt.

The isolate probed Elisan with her gaze. The sullen expression had almost disappeared from her face, giving way to perplexity, and even to interest. “You’ll help me, on condition that I place myself at your service, is that it?”

Pelmen could have intervened—after all, the mil’ser was his prisoner. Instead, he put his bow over his shoulder and waited to see what would happen. The mil’ser had proved her determination. The fused magician, whose mission seemed to be similar to the one confided to Pelmen and his uncle by the Tireless Traveler, seemed to have arguments that made her more docile.

“You’ve understood me perfectly,” Elisan said.

“You can refuse,” Finella added, “but there’s one thing we can guarantee—it’s not amberrock that will bring you your mil’nan.”

The mil’ser, her eyelids lowered, traced a curve in the dirt with her foot. “I’d be able to spend my amberrock as I intend?”

“You can do whatever you like with it.”

“You’ll permit me to use the Pools of Bliss?”

Elisan hesitated. The mil’ser was still contemplating the dust at her feet. “If you wish. However, we wouldn’t advise using them right now.”

“I don’t want that at all—it was a trap.” She had raised her head and her eyes were shining brazenly. “If you’d given me any other reply, I’d have refused. What wages would I get?”

Pelmen opened his mouth, and then closed it again with an incredulous smile. The isolate had some nerve. She had just met a magician capable of appearing unexpectedly out of nowhere and imprisoning her in a bubble—an emissary of the Hortal, no less—and she wanted to negotiate her salary!

Coldly, Elisan replied: “That of an apprentice. Food and shelter, and five white beryls a day. What do you say?”

The mil’ser cleared her throat, holding her head high, unable to resist the temptation to prolong the delay for a few seconds. “I’d say that you’ve found yourself an apprentice,” she declared, finally.

Elisan nodded her head. Finella made her voice vibrate in a low tone, and a few yards away, an elongated mass surged from behind a rock. The melepek was carrying several jars and sacks, as well as a bowl heavier than the one that Pelmen used to water the nidepoux. A comfortable saddle with a double saddle horn was fitted to its back, in which Elisan-Finella took her place, with a graceful movement.

“Let’s go rejoin your companion,” said Elisan, looking at Pelmen. “He must be waiting for you impatiently. During the journey, we’ll take pleasure in listening to your story.”

“I’ll be glad to take you to him, but I can’t say anything for the moment,” Pelmen replied. Although his instinct suggested to him that he could trust the feless’tu, he preferred to let his uncle decide the matter. Taking someone to him who had such troubling powers already made him uneasy.

“As you wish. By the way, I nearly forgot.” Elisan turned in the saddle and put the tips of her long fingers together, forming a circle that she completed by bringing the palms of her hand into contact. At that moment, the air between the fingers was disturbed, and a blue-tinted sphere appeared, whose size diminished when she directed it toward the mil’ser beside the melepek.

Before the latter could react, the Bubble brushed the perimeter of her neck, matching its curvature to it. Pelmen blinked, but his eyes were not deceived. The last dark marks on the mil’ser’s skin, evidence of the strangul’s attack, were no more than a memory. Rather than bursting, the Bubble shrank to the point of vanishing into thin air.

“Thank you,” said the isolate, in a voice where respect and gratitude competed with disbelief, as she felt her throat.

“What is your name?” Elisan asked.

“Lominan.”

“Pretty name,” approved Finella’s suave voice.

The dry streambed was easy to find again. Elisan must have had her own means of detection, for she indicated without hesitation that they should go around it to the north and continue northeastwards. Shortly after their departure, Pelmen had seen her form another circle with her hands. No sphere had appeared, but Elisan’s half-closed eyes had seemed lost in the distance for most of the time thereafter. The magician was manifesting such great detachment and self-confidence that even Lominan was looking at her reverently.

The trio progressed until Astar had set completely, his light replaced by that of the stars in the firmament. When Pelmen perceived the familiar odor of his uncle and his nidepoux, he made a sign to the malians to wait where they were. “No need to put him on the defensive,” he said.

The nidepoux was sheltered behind cacti, and Xuven was standing in the shadows.

“Don’t come any closer,” he said, when Pelmen tried to join him. A current of air surrounded the latter before withdrawing.

This is what it’s like to be among magicians, Pelmen thought, frowning.

“Who is the malian accompanying you?” Xuven’s tone was harsh and cold.

“An envoy of the Hortal—at least, that’s what she claims. She says that her name is Elisan-Finella. She’s succeeded in convincing our… guest to decide against returning to Belenia.” Briefly, Pelmen told him about their captive’s flight, followed by the surprising apparition. Xuven had him repeat the details he considered important.

“Females are only good for bringing trouble,” he complained. “First this Lominan, and now Elisan-Finella—and a magician no less! We aren’t out of the abyss yet!” He smoothed his beard. “Anyway, it’s not your fault, I suppose.”

“In your opinion, can we trust her?”

“Where have you ever seen a female we could trust? And two in one!” He shook his head.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Maybe,” said Xuven. “I’d rather meet her before making a decision.”

Pelmen had no clue where his uncle’s misogyny could have come from. It wasn’t the first time he had denigrated females in general.

Xuven stopped fifty yards from the malians. He bowed ceremoniously, and then made his introductions. In return, Elisan-Finella dismounted gracefully before making a distinguished curtsey. Lominan watched the scene with astonishment. The feless’tu disclosed her identity.

Pelmen smiled inwardly. Earlier in the day he had been hunting the mil’ser and trying to tire her out like a rocol. Now he could almost believe that he was in the reception room of some palace.

“Pelmen tells me that you and I have the same objective,” said Xuven, without beating around the bush.

“We’re trying to discover what is causing such an exodus of mil’ser,” Elisan confirmed, “and why. Your companion has not revealed your motives to me…”

“They’re identical. One of our Aguerris sent us to investigate the disappearances of travelers, also on the rise.”

Pelmen cleared his throat. “I have reason to believe that one of my friends has chosen that exile or been forced into it. His sister has asked me to find him.”

Xuven frowned at Pelmen, who remained impassive.

“I understand,” said Elisan, inclining her chin toward Pelmen before returning her attention to Xuven. “Will you agree to join forces? Pelmen mentioned crimson shamans. If that means that the power of Valshhyk is at work behind all this, then an alliance between us would be most advantageous.”

“I accept.” Xuven had responded without hesitation, lowering his head, perhaps in a slightly dry manner.

Elisan smiled, and their pact was thus concluded. Later, Xuven revealed to Pelmen that such an alliance between a malanite magician and a hevelen shaman had not been forged for several centuries.

They settled down for the night, Pelmen with his uncle, the latter’s gnarled wand stuck in the ground and dispersing their odors, Elisan-Finella and Lominan a little further away, near the melepek.

Pelmen darted a glance at his uncle. So far as he could judge, the latter’s face betrayed no agitation, which was usual for him—but at any rate, he was not keeping watch on the malians.

It was the rain that woke Pelmen, by falling upon his face. Dawn had just broken, and one might have thought that Hamal had contaminated the whole of the stellar vault with her greenish glow. They were nothing but clouds, however: vast fluffy moving masses, which had begun to pour down large raindrops.

Pelmen turned his head to the right and left, troubled. Except for the melepek, there was no trace of the malians. The odors in the air were dominated by the dampness, making it hard to sort them. He scarcely had time to reflect on this before Lominan’s leg seemed to emerge from behind a transparent curtain, and then the mil’ser appeared in her entirety. Whatever was camouflaging the malians blurred then, and it was Elisan-Finella’s turn to become visible.

Pelmen shivered. The fused one’s magic is truly amazing. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

Elisan gave him a discreet smile before directing the attention of her new apprentice to a saddlebag on the flank of her pack animal. While Lominan took out a few plants with pale brown leaves, she personally took charge of unhooking a heavy bowl and placing it on the ground. The rain began to crackle as it flowed into the receptacle, which didn’t seem to bother the magician at all. She created a Bubble that slowly inflated and grew heavier.

Lominan paused in mid-gesture, the leaves halfway to her mouth. Pelmen also held his breath, and a little further away, Xuven watched the scene with open interest. Elisan guided the Bubble with her hands as if impalpable threads linked it to her. The sphere positioned itself directly above the bowl with the blue-veined white interior. It suddenly tore, and water poured down noisily—a water that was not green, but to which some alchemy lent a turquoise blue appearance. Elisan-Finella lifted up her robe, stepped over the edge and placed her feet inside. The faces of the ascendant and the respondent relaxed.

Pelmen could hardly believe his eyes. The Bubble has simply captured the rainwater! And that color! That bowl… one would think that it was a version of the pools, adapted for traveling.

Her footbath concluded, the feless’tu invited Lominan to imitate her. At first, the mil’ser seemed inclined to refuse, but she let herself be persuaded more easily than Pelmen would have supposed. It seemed to do her nothing but good, the tension visibly fading from her features.

Pelmen went to join Xuven beside an old worm-eaten tree-stump. “It looks like a belenite bowl,” said Xuven. “It’s the same material as that of the Original Pools. Remarkable—truly remarkable!”

“It seems to have an effect on them.”

“Malians need water, and not just to drink. Turquoise Water, in particular.”

“Yes, I think I understand that—but tell me…”

Pelmen asked what the Original Pools were. According to Xuven, they had been fashioned by Andunieve and Malia themselves, and each one performed in a distinct capacity.

“They’re only found on the first two levels of Belenia. From the third onwards, there are only subsidiary pools, imitations that evidently don’t have all the virtues of the originals. That’s why the Turquoise Water is purer on the first levels.”

“The feless’tu obviously can’t live in the Strays’ quarter and have something like that.”

“The same thought had occurred to me.”

They set forth, with Xuven and Pelmen taking point, Elisan-Finella and Lominan bringing up the rear. With the exception of sparse veguer’en, which chased the rain away from before their mauve bulbs, the steppe was duller than ever. Several times, Pelmen and Xuven hesitated after having resorted to the Sign of Aoles—the rain made the trail harder to follow. When Xuven chose to take a winding passage between hills, Elisan-Finella came forward to dissuade him.

“There are sanrkhas in there,” she asserted.

Unlike Xuven and Pelmen, who tended to hunch their shoulders under the downpour, she and Lominan remained upright, seemingly appreciative of the water streaming over their skin. Elisan pointed to a stony plain. “We’ll gain ground by going that way.”

Xuven grimaced, but muttered his agreement, which only half-surprised Pelmen. The magician certainly seemed to know what she was doing.

The rain did not stop until the end of the afternoon. Xuven made a further appeal to the wind, and had to agree with the accuracy of Elisan-Finella’s prediction.

During the days and the weeks that followed, Lominan became less surly, and Pelmen even saw her smile while addressing Elisan-Finella. During the day, the malians usually conversed between themselves, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and the nidepoux.

More than once, their revelations plunged Pelmen into confusion. According to what he could make out, the mil’nan, the ideal double of an isolate, was not an end in itself, but a mere preliminary to the quest for happiness and blossoming—which for a malian, was anything but individual. That was, at least, Elisan-Finella’s notion: the state of being feless’tu liberated the mind and allowed the respondent as well as the ascendant to become more familiar with their own nature. Thus, the ascendant could meet other feless’tu, discover whether or not they had common interests, and choose to form relationships of a more or less intimate nature with an ascendant of the opposite sex. Respondents profited from the shared emotions to enrich their own personal life until the time came for them to become ascendant and perhaps discover their own soulmate.

The possibilities gave Pelmen a headache. Finella had mentioned a family living in interconnected shells in which, because of the associations of the feless’tu, there were twenty-four husbands and wives—who shared their emotions by physical contact or by immersing themselves in a pool known as the Gift of Malia. On hearing that, Lominan had smiled, as if it were the most desirable of prospects!

Pelmen could scarcely imagine the intimate relationships of feless’tu, but reproduction was the likely outcome, and he found the indecency and voyeurism in such four-or-more way relationships deeply disturbing. So, he refrained from digging too deeply into the question and instead, took care to keep his distance from Elisan-Finella. After all, a little courtesy was enough.

Lominan surprised him by asking to accompany him on a hunting expedition. As she promised to obey him in everything, he accepted. She did, indeed, follow his instructions, limiting herself to observing silently. When he had riddled a blue-furred quadruped with thorns and hoisted its corpse onto his shoulder, he read a certain respect in her eyes.

“So you were also offered amberrock?” she asked him.

Here we go. He put down his prey and examined her curiously. The mil’ser’s interest seemed sincere, so he decided to tell her about his experience. She seemed impressed—and also nauseated—by the shaman with the burned face and the powers he had displayed.

“As for me,” she said, “it was Ezechian-Uzeve who introduced me to Regnan at the Amberrock Palace. Life had never seemed bleaker to me than at that time. The amberrock… shone like the hope of a new beginning.”

“I understand what you mean, only too well.”

She grimaced. “I saw afterward, in the cart, that Regnan considered us to be less than nothing.”

“But none of you left.”

“The journey was our only prospect. Regnan promised us that we would be able to live as we pleased, gaining wealth beyond our wildest dreams. A possible future, however desperate, is better than no future at all.”

“Yes, that’s also what Teleg must have thought—my friend, the one I’m looking for.”

Lominan’s emerald eyes shone with a more intense gleam, and she bit her lower lip. “There’s one thing that I wanted to say to you… Thank you… thank you for what you did for me.”

Pelmen raised his eyebrows. “Well, well—what courage! Who would have thought that would end up coming out! Astar has marked this day with his imprint…”

“Don’t make fun of me. It’s just that… I didn’t see any of what happened, and I wouldn’t have believed someone so… er, small… could put an end to a monster like the one that attacked me.”

Pelmen wrinkled his nostrils. “I think I still prefer your indifference to your praise.”

Lominan blinked. “No!” she protested. “Oh, excuse me, I’m so awkward! It’s not that you’re small, you’re just… thickset. I… I meant that it was on seeing you kill that game, back there that I realized just how skillful you are with your bow.”

Pelmen gave her a wry grin. “That’s all right. I don’t regret what I did, at any rate.”

“Me neither!” They both burst out laughing.

She went with him on several more of his hunts. She too had grown up poor. Initially brought up in a mil’ser shelter, she had demonstrated a gift for the mysterious art form called writing, but she had not found any master who would agree to take her on, only learning it by herself, and had to settle for making a living picking mushrooms, harvesting toropones or cleaning shells. She made no allusion to her attempts to discover her mil’nan. Pelmen guessed that each of her disappointments had only made her more bitter.

During their excursions, she asked him to talk about the Canyons. Pelmen did so, without being able to mask the desire he had to return to his homeland.

Little by little, the country became harsher, the vegetation sparse and bare. Only rarely did they catch a glimpse of the cart they were following, as a distant shadow that soon disappeared.

A month had gone by since the meeting with Elisan-Finella when the wind began to carry the acrid reek of sulfur in sudden gusts. Pelmen immediately remembered Stenlen and his charred remains, but, contrary to expectation, neither Xuven nor Elisan-Finella seemed unduly worried. In spite of that, Pelmen decided to increase his vigilance.

Game was harder to flush out, although some animals did not react normally. One rocol, instead of fleeing, flew right toward Pelmen, its little eyes filled with fury: an easy target. The nidepoux became more nervous and were sometimes prey to violent and inexplicable fits of shivering.

By night, Pelmen saw himself thrown into abysses where he never reached the bottom, his skin liquefied long before then by the extreme heat. He woke up sweating, fighting down cries of terror.

The nightmares also wormed their way into his companions’ sleep. Lominan howled in the darkness, and unaccustomed wrinkles of anxiety furrowed Xuven’s brow at dawn. Even Elisan-Finella seemed to have lost her serenity. At every meal, now, she invoked a Bubble that rolled over the surface of the water cupped in her companions’ hands or adapted to the form of aliments. Without that, the water and nourishment had a bitter taste that was almost unbearable.

One evening, Xuven distributed the necklaces of Cilamon and asked Pelmen to put on his. The odor of sulfur had become more pronounced during the day so that Pelmen felt a permanent headache. Too often, he had let his mind dwell on the overwhelming odds against them, and the superiority of their adversaries.

As soon as he had fastened the clasp, air appeared to escape from the necklace to caress his face—a miraculously fresh air devoid of any miasma. The sensation was pleasant. He began to breathe more freely, and straightened his shoulders, while his thoughts became clearer.

Fantastic! This necklace is fantastic! If only it didn’t isolate us from the odors of the steppe…

For her part, Elisan-Finella raised the object toward the sky, reddened by the rays of the setting sun. Whether or not it was turned toward the light, the orange gems of the artifact shone with an unalterable interior gleam. The string consented to stretch when she extended it around their two necks.

“Why must we wear them?” asked Lominan.

Pelmen listened more than a little attentively to the reply, which came from Elisan-Finella this time.

“They’re sacred objects. They were thought to be forever lost, although some parchments in the spire of the Magic Arts mention them. Their creation goes back to the time of Astian, and it’s written that they have great power. They provide protection from the miasma of Valshhyk’s own breath.”

“Valshhyk?” said Lominan, smiling. “A tale to scare children! What we can smell isn’t poisoned, it’s just sulfur, natural in this region.”

“Are your nightmares also natural, then?” Elisan retorted, staring at her with a piercing gaze. “When you fall into the gulf and burning breath melts your skin?”

Lominan opened her mouth, several seconds passed before she was able to articulate a reply. “How… how do you know that?”

“Are the crimson shamans close by, then?” Pelmen put in, no longer able to hold back. “Are they trying to put us off the track?”

Lominan looked at him, terrified.

“Impossible to be so certain,” Xuven temporized. “The one thing I’m certain of is that caution is more important than ever.”

Elisan-Finella nodded approvingly.

By the sideways glance that Lominan darted after having put on her necklace, it was easy to understand that she too was now feeling the benefit of the magic of Cilamon.

“The protector merits his name,” Finella commented.

“You have our gratitude, Xuven,” Elisan declared, bowing to the latter.

“It’s a friend by the name of Fekkar that you have to thank,” he muttered. “A krongos.”

“So it’s the people of the rock who have conserved these artifacts,” Elisan murmured. “The krongos Fekkar must honor you with great trust to have confided them to you—which signifies that his community supports our cause. I don’t know whether we should be reassured or even more alarmed.”

“All that I ask of you,” said Xuven, considering Elisan and Lominan alternately, “is to take as good care of them as of the apple of your eye.”

They nodded—after which everyone settled down for the night.

Two days later, on a rocky plain dominated in the distance by mountains with snow-capped summits, they saw swirls of gray smoke escaping from fissures. The smallest of those cracks could have swallowed entire buildings. They all converged on a central axis, which zigzagged like a dark river with red gleams, a gaping wound plunging deep into the entrails of the world.

“The Great Rift,” Xuven murmured.

Chapter Sixteen - IN HOSTILE TERRITORY

They had stopped, contemplating the fault that could have been the edge of the world. It drew the eyes, as it seemed to be drawing everything that came near to it into its bottomless depths. Pelmen was astounded by its dimensions. What force could have disemboweled the earth that much? He could feel corrosive and irritant fumes on his skin, and the breath of Aoles only made the heaviness of the air more of a nuisance. Pelmen grimaced as he noticed that his nidepoux’s breathing was raspier than usual.

Without the necklace, I’d be in the same state. If the crimson shamans are behind it, they can’t be far away.

His uncle’s features were expressionless and his gaze was that of a hevelen preparing to confront a long-anticipated ordeal. Pelmen opened his mouth without making a sound. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to him that only the wind, which plunged, roaring, into the earth, had any right to disturb the silence of the place. By speaking, he risked awakening an unwanted attention, the malevolence of which would be even deeper than the gulf itself. A cold shudder ran down his spinal column. His companions also remained silent.

I must not allow fear to dictate how I react.

The sound of his voice rose into the air, not as firmly as he would have wished, but distinct enough. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lominan shake herself as if emerging from a bad dream.

“The atmosphere here would be almost unbreathable without the necklace,” he said. “The crimson shamans?”

Elisan shook her head negatively. “Since time immemorial the Rift has been one of the symbols of Valshhyk’s presence on Ardalia. It’s not his lackeys versed in sorcery that are creating what’s reaching our nostrils… although they have the power to reproduce it, alas.”

“The crimson shamans corrupt the breath of Aoles in a more condensed form,” Xuven explained.

“This comes from the Rift, then,” Pelmen concluded. “In these conditions, how do you expect to continue to follow the cart by smell?”

Xuven stared at the fault. “I fear that I’m no longer able to do so. The sulfur is too strong here—its scent masks all others.”

“You don’t even want to try?”

Xuven’s gray gaze fixed upon him. “Only as a last resort. I’d need to take off the necklace to open myself to the Sign of Aoles.”

“We’ll guide you,” said Elisan. “Our spells don’t require the removal of the necklace.”

Xuven nodded. “Logically,” he said, “they must be continuing along the edge of the fault for the sake of secrecy. That’s what I’d do in their place. The dread this place inspires is their best ally. It’s said that those who get too close to the Great Rift are endangering their very souls.”

It was decided that they would veer away from the gaping fault before resuming an eastward course. That meant giving up on following the tracks of the toropone cart, relying solely on the magician’s abilities of detection, but Pelmen was relieved at the decision. Although his uncle’s thoughts were difficult to guess, he suspected that Xuven considered Elisan-Finella’s aid as a necessary evil. Certainly, he did not like being dependent on the feless’tu—far from it—but his conception of “females” was perhaps more complicated than he let on most of the time. The day before, Xuven had avoided Pelmen’s gaze when asked why he had entered the service of a female Aguerri if he did not trust females. “She’s the exception to the rule,” Xuven had muttered. “Then again, I’ve never thought about her in that way.”

Pelmen had not argued with him, but his uncle’s discomfort was apparent.

As they resumed their march, he saw blue-furred bestial silhouettes a hundred yards away, leaning over the edge of the fault. The quadrupeds looked like they were drinking the darkness. Pelmen shivered.

In the days that followed, Pelmen and his companions had to fight several times with creatures which had terribly emaciated flanks and pelts as wretched as the vegetation. Some of them might have been nidepoux in another life. These confrontations were almost too easy, with Elisan or Finella to predict them in advance and then imprison the monsters in Bubbles or slow their movements.

Pelmen never tired of admiring the powers of the two magicians. At the same time, the creatures’ eyes expressed so much madness and hatred that he felt disgust mingled with pity when he unleashed his thorns. As for Xuven, he felled the survivors or flung them through the air before the initially fearful eyes of Lominan, huddled in the shadow of the melepek.

The isolate and Elisan-Finella were becoming more irritable every day. Pelmen could not help connecting that with the neglected belenite bowl, which no longer left the melepek.

“Neither Elisan nor Finella can extract sufficient moisture from the air any longer,” Lominan explained. “According to them, the atmosphere is too polluted anyway. Purifying the food already requires a lot of energy, not to mention making Bubbles of Vision.”

Elisan had then raised her eyebrows in their direction and Lominan had turned away, as if regretting having said too much. Pelmen knew what was going on between them. He had noticed that a substantial fraction of Lominan’s discussions with Elisan-Finella seemed to concern magic. In the Canyons, it was common knowledge that shamans were not inclined to talk about anything to do with their secrets. Perhaps it was not the same among the malians.

Unless, he thought, the feless’tu has resolved to unveil certain aspects of her knowledge with the aim of helping Lominan to forget the hardship that she has endured.

One morning, they discovered footprints heading southwards. Elisan-Finella soon confirmed the new direction that their quarry had taken.

“I’ll be surprised if they go far in that direction,” Xuven declared. “The risk of running into Cilamenites would become too great.”

To the north of the sources of the Hado they discovered traces of a campsite. The area was relatively untroubled by the breath of the Rift, and slender-trees and tri-folds were growing there. Xuven indicated a plain where lichen competed with short grass. “The ancient city of Astian was built here, according to the Seers and ancient texts.”

Pelmen examined the desert expanse, trying to imagine what the co-existence of krongos, hevelens and malians must have been like. That era must have been very strange.

“Ancient texts, you say?” said Pelmen. “So you too know... reading. Is that the right word?”

“There’s a good deal to be learned by association with malians,” Xuven said, smiling.

Elisan inclined her head slightly, as if accepting the compliment for herself.

“Why was Astian built so close to the Great Rift?” Pelmen asked.

It was Elisan who replied. “Astian’s purpose was twofold. As well as reinforcing the collaboration and understanding between the peoples, it was to serve as an observation post over the roads leading toward the volcano Ixal, and to be the first bastion of defense in case of any attempt at invasion by Valshhyk’s henchmen. The might of the most powerful Western krongos, in association with that of hevelen shamans and malanite magicians, was combined to enchant statues set up around the city. Thus, the surrounding fumes could be permanently dissipated and the air purified.”

No sign remained of the statues or the city. Pelmen thought that Astian might as well never have existed.

Hunting and gathering were better in this area. In a matter of days, their morale improved, and the hides of the nidepoux became more lustrous. Soon, however, the trail turned northwards again. Worse still, the lay of the land forced them to move closer to the Rift. From then on, they went on, wedged between rocky hills and the abyss, overhung by mountains with jagged ridges, so close to the opposite rim that their fate would undoubtedly be swallowed up by it, no matter how high they were.

The nidepoux must have hardened their hearts, for, although fear never left their gaze, they shivered less. Pelmen took some comfort from the courage of those faithful companions.

“There are the Unchanging Sentinels,” said Xuven, pointing to the snowy peaks, “and there”—he pointed ahead—“is the region of the Bitterhills.”

So far to the north in that season, the heat seemed supernatural. Pelmen would gladly have traded the poisonous dry heat for the icy purity of the mountains.

“Up there!” Lominan exclaimed, pointing with her finger. “What’s that?”

Pelmen squinted in the direction she had indicated. High in the sky, sometimes masked by the shadow of the mountains, sometimes standing out in contrast to it, winged silhouettes were moving, with a disquieting speed in spite of their swollen abdomens.

Xuven stifled an oath. “Protodactyls. If they see us…” He turned to the feless’tu. “Can you hide us from their eyes, Elisan-Finella?”

Elisan shook her head negatively. “There are too many of us, and there’s no room to group behind the melepek.”

Such a threat was unexpected for Pelmen. Struggling to maintain his composure, he picked up his bow and notched a thorn to the string. One of the fliers had separated from its fellows and was now gliding toward them. Its membranous wings, with their enormous span, ended in hooked talons. The protodactyl could not have failed to see them, but it suddenly disappeared behind a hill.

Xuven, his eyes closed, had begun intoning a litany. His gnarled wand trembled with the energy invoked.

More alarmed with every passing moment, Pelmen twisted his neck to examine the ridges of the surrounding hills. The protodactyl might surge forth from anywhere.

Mist gathered around them, in pale, light swirls.

Elisan-Finella’s faces brightened. “We’ll help you.” The ascendant and the respondent formed a circle with their hands. Instantly, the mist thickened, becoming colder and opaque. It was impossible henceforth to see their adversary, which surely signified that they were sheltered from its gaze.

“Thank you,” Xuven murmured, in a voice that was almost tremulous.

Pelmen and Lominan exchanged uncertain glances. They both shuddered when sonorous flapping resounded overhead, followed by a loud trill that was reminiscent of a howl of frustration. Elisan-Finella, who had dismounted, approached Xuven, her tread as majestic as if she were marching into the Hortal’s palace, although her features, paler than usual, reflected her anxiety. “We can’t move the fog, but we need to get away from here as quickly as possible.”

Xuven’s wrinkles deepened with concentration. “I can manage that,” he stated. “Go back to your melepek and get ready to thicken the mist again if it begins to clear.”

At Xuven’s signal, they moved their mounts forward. The fog remained overhead, so that Pelmen began to breathe a little more easily.

The respite did not last long. As they drew nearer to the side of the mountain, from which a cacophony of wingbeats and high pitched trills was coming, the roar of the wind engulfing the defile drowned out the sound of the protodactyls. Xuven stopped and got down. The nidepoux became restless, and Pelmen ran to his uncle’s, taking it by the bridle and leading it to its fellow. Immediately after, the breath of Aoles seemed to vanish, for they could no longer feel it.

Teeth clenched, the veins in his temples bulging, gripping his wand, which was vibrating internally, Xuven must not even have noticed that he was drenched with sweat. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees. In spite of all his efforts, and to general consternation, the shield that he had established around the fog weakened. The wind brushed them and the mist became less dense, fading. Anticipating imminent catastrophe, Pelmen bit his lip without being aware of it. He wound the animals’ bridles around his wrist, and got ready to sell his life dearly.

Although smaller, the protective sheet increased again in density. The squall drew away as promptly as it had come.

Elisan-Finella’s faces, as they emerged from a trance similar to Xuven’s, were paler than ever. Xuven’s jaw relaxed and he resumed walking. Pelmen repositioned his animals feverishly, conscious of the danger to which the slightest false step would expose them. By some trick of his own, his uncle had lightened the mist ahead of them so that the view was clear in that direction. Soon, the gaping gulf was no more than a few inches away. The heat that escaped from it not only dried the skin, but it corrupted the emotions, in spite of the protection of the necklaces of Cilamon, inciting contemplation of the blackness of the void and the intermittent flashes of crimson that were like heartbeats.

“Don’t look,” Xuven ordered, in a voice so weak that Pelmen looked at him anxiously.

It’s not surprising that he’s never summoned the fog before if this is the price he pays. As he walked, Pelmen struggled to drive away the idea of that gaping mouth, the bottomless mouth that would like nothing better than to swallow them, and also the idea of those curved claws overhead, ready to seize them and lacerate them, to carry them while still alive to some nest where they would be torn apart.

As soon as the fog can no longer be maintained…

The road formed a bend, and a slender quadruped suddenly appeared around it. Its tails, ending in spines as hard as horn and as sharp as cactus thorns, agitated while it examined the newcomers with its red eyes, full of suffering and demented animosity. The steppe-runner gathered itself, and Pelmen knew that their end was imminent.

Xuven continued advancing, his shoulders slumped.

Horrified, Pelmen realized that his uncle no longer had any but a restricted consciousness of his surroundings. Or else he no longer has a choice. He raised his loaded bow, but at the same moment, the frightened nidepoux jerked his arm backward by the bridles still attached to his wrist.

I won’t even get to shoot!

Coming out of nowhere, a white liquid showered the runner, droplets splashing the rock all around it. The animal reared up, then convulsed. Its movements slowed down, however, as the liquid solidified on contact with the air. The nidepoux were frozen with terror, as were the malians and hevelens. The steppe-runner had almost stopped moving when a winged form plunged upon it, whistling, and carried it away in its claws, right before Xuven’s eyes.

Pelmen shook his head in disbelief. The protodactyl’s abdomen was still gaping, and the residue of white sap was dripping from it. On the faces of the malians, Pelmen read the reflection of his own fear, but Xuven was too exhausted to display anything but fatigue.

The nidepoux, their legs trembling, followed as if deprived of all will when Pelmen, barely overcoming the shock himself, pulled on their reins. He plodded on mechanically, barely fast enough to keep up with his uncle.

Night took forever to cover the harsh terrain with its veil, at the end of which Xuven, his hand shaking with unstoppable tremors, put his wand away in a fold in his tunic. The light of the stars reached them then.

They sheltered in a crack in the rock and Elisan-Finella took care to settle the melepek down across the opening. His hair unkempt and features distressed, Xuven scarcely chewed a few trana roots and a little dried meat before lying down next to his nidepoux. Elisan-Finella did not seem to be in much better shape. Sitting in the middle of her refuge, she sank into a meditative trance, which was soon transformed into sleep.

Lominan and Pelmen looked at one another. There was so much distress in the mil’ser’s expression that Pelmen put a hand on her arm. Its coolness surprised him, in light of the temperature. “It’ll be all right,” he lied. “I’ll take the first watch.” She nodded, and went to take care of the breathless animals.

For half the night, he felt as if he could feel the hoarse breath of some demon on the back of his neck. Only the calm of the melepek reassured him and, before going to sleep, Pelmen spared a thought for Fekkar, wondering what had become of his friend.

Dawn revealed the menacing silhouettes of protodactyls circling in the distance. Xuven studied them with a dark gaze before turning to Elisan-Finella. “Is there any news of the cart?”

“We’ve lost sight of it.”

As Xuven began to reply, Elisan stopped him with a gesture of her hand. “We’re convinced that it has gone into… a sort of city built in these hills.”

“A city?” said Xuven. “Here, in the heart of the Bitterhills? By Aoles, what new madness is this?”

“We’ve only caught a glimpse of it, but we’re sure that it exists, and can take you there. It’s within a day’s march.”

“No one would dare settle here but criminals,” Pelmen put in. “In that case, we’re reaching our goal.”

“Or our end,” said Xuven, cutting him off. “Too much optimism is as dangerous as defeatism. We mustn’t stay here—there’ll be time to make our plans once the city is in sight.”

Again they summoned the fog, but it took longer to form this time, and Elisan-Finella had more difficulty thickening it. The camouflage proved indispensable, however, for a few minutes later, multiple wingbeats clattered overhead. In the late morning, the group drew away from the fault and, following Elisan-Finella’s directions, began climbing a tortuous path up the side of a hill. Xuven refused to pause to eat, doubtless knowing that it would be impossible for him to maintain his control over the mist or summon it again.

Astar was still high in the sky when the precious protective veil broke up, and then began to dissipate. Pelmen was then able to see the two protodactyls that were still following them.

As he turned to his uncle, Xuven collapsed on the slope.

“Xuven!” he exclaimed. He ran to him, placing his hand on his uncle’s sweat-moistened breast. The heartbeat was weak, but reassuring. He whipped around, a thorn notched. The winged silhouettes were growing gradually.

Elisan-Finella and Lominan were darting significant glances in all directions. They’re looking for an escape route. Pelmen could not blame them for not wanting to fight. The feless’tu’s Bubbles of Confinement would not have time to reach their target before they were all covered with the sticky substance swelling the creatures’ bellies.

No! Not after all we’ve been through! Xuven doesn’t deserve this, and neither do we! Pelmen’s nostrils dilated under the pressure of anger and revolt. He drew his bow to the maximum in the hope of piercing the membranous skin of one of the protodactyls, and waited for the right moment.

A flash of red fell upon the carnivore to the left.

Pelmen’s eyes widened, astonished. A beak plunged into the flank of its victim, which uttered a screech of surprise and pain, allowing him to guess the nature of the new arrival and understand why he had not noticed its approach,

“An algam!” he murmured. His thorn nearly fell from his bow.

Mortally wounded, the protodactyl fell. The algam reared back vigorously, trying to disengage its beak. At the very moment when it stabilized itself with a great flapping of wings, the second protodactyl tried to dive upon the intruder. Its swerve, too abrupt, did not allow it to seize its prey in its fanged beak, but one of its wings closed upon it, and the talons at its tip tore at the other, dispersing ochre plumes.

The fliers were now so close together that Pelmen could not take aim at the protodactyl. While they lost altitude, the algam thrust artfully with its beak and struck several times. It must have reached a sensitive point, for the protodactyl threw itself backward with a convulsive movement.

The algam flapped its wings furiously, but could only slow its fall, and disappeared in its turn into a ravine.

Pelmen felt galvanized, transported by an unknown energy. He darted a glance at Finella. Her ascendant, Elisan, was guiding a Bubble over Xuven’s face; he shivered at the contact and opened his eyes.

“It’s the algam we need to look after now,” said Pelmen, “if we can. Follow me!”

Finella raised her brow-ridges. Without paying any more heed to her, Pelmen, in a daze, ran down the path as fast as he could, scarcely darting a glance at the sky, which seemed free of threats. He had an inner conviction that a long-awaited, and perhaps long-dreamed-of event was on the verge of becoming a reality, or of vanishing forever.

At the bottom of the ravine, the protodactyl must at least have had a broken wing. Its beak was still moving. As for the algam, it had succeeded in lodging itself slightly higher up, between a projecting rock and the sheer side of the ravine. The space in which it lay, with wings folded, was too narrow to accommodate a protodactyl but ample enough for a hevelen.

Further down, more menacing than ever, the Great Rift promised an ominous fate to anyone who dared try to help the injured bird.

Pelmen took a breath. No vegetation grew here, but the rocks offered abundant footholds. He memorized the access route, and then, his heart pounding in his breast, he descended more rapidly than was wise. At a distance of fifty yards, his gaze met the algam’s.

There was still much shrewdness in the golden eyes. Was it just a feeling, or was the bird really not surprised to see him? In spite of the similarity with the one glimpsed in his dream, Pelmen could not have sworn that it was the same one. His inner turmoil and excitement continued to grow as he drew closer.

He reached the shadow of the projection, and soon had only a single step to take to reach the algam. A single sweep of that sharp beak and he would be dead. He advanced, his fears relegated to the background for a moment. What ran through his limbs and along his spine, spreading sensual warmth everywhere was not fear—it was very different. Incapable of understanding why he felt such an intense and profound joy, he savored every moment.

The algam waited.

Pelmen stepped forward. Pupils dilated and holding his breath, he extended his hand toward the neck, where the plumage was incredibly soft. The algam inclined its beak slightly. There was no submission in its gaze, but a glimmer that suggested to Pelmen that he should do something in his turn.

“I salute you,” he murmured, in an unrecognizable voice, nodding his head.

The algam seemed satisfied. Only then did Pelmen inspect the area where the feathers were stained with scarlet. Although the majority of the wounds were only superficial scratches, one of them was leaking blood that was almost black.

His throat tight, Pelmen turned and raised his head. Elisan-Finella had begun the descent along the ravine, but with unbearable slowness. The ascendant allowed herself to be guided by her respondent’s directions. He had to admit that she was progressing smoothly and without hesitation.

Xuven appeared at the edge of the cliff, and started to follow in spite of his weakness. Pelmen shouted to him that there was no need, begging him to take care on seeing him stumble and right himself at the last moment, and then asked him to go back.

To no avail. It was pointless calling his uncle a madman, for Xuven remained deaf to his pleas and expletives. Up above, on the path, Lominan was watching them, but Pelmen scarcely noticed her.

Elisan-Finella supported herself at last against the rocky spur. Pelmen immediately pointed out the most serious wound and then stood aside at her request. The ascendant and the respondent each evoked a Healing Bubble. The operation took some time, after which Pelmen launched himself toward the algam. Fearing the worst, he lifted the plumes.

The flesh underneath was pink—the blood had ceased to flow. A complete examination revealed that most of the claw wounds were no more than a bad memory. Pelmen turned to Elisan-Finella and bowed profoundly. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say. I… with all my heart, thank you. Both of you.”

Elisan nodded her head. Her thin lips were almost white as she concentrated her attention on the algam, studying it as the most unusual of specimens. The bird had not budged, but its gaze had become livelier.

Elisan was interrupted in her meditation by Xuven, who asked her to let him pass. His face extremely pale, he had been backed up against the spur, gasping like a fish out of water. Elisan tried to step aside, but he had to make two attempts to get high enough up the cliff to go around her. His breath wheezing, he straightened up and raised his wand.

“What’s gotten into you?” Pelmen asked, harshly. “Are you really so tired of living? You’ve already done more than enough.”

The gnarled wand pointed at his nephew. It seemed that Xuven had to make a supreme effort just to speak.

“Certain powers… drain your strength… others… restore it.”

Pelmen frowned, not understanding at all. Lighter than a gossamer touch, the breath that reached him did not seem to be of any consequence. When it passed over him, however, his vision was briefly blurred. He blinked, at first disconcerted and then struck by amazement.

The air current—a thin, almost transparent thread—was now visible! It reached the algam and then came back toward him, having grown in thickness. It passed over him for a second time and rejoined Xuven, to turn back once again in the direction of the algam. And so on, for several repetitions, always gaining in consistency, erasing all the distance between himself and the algam. Pelmen could sense the imposing bird’s slightest quiver and every beat of its heart. The experience was at the same time terrifying and marvelous.

Then the exchange stopped.

The emptiness and depression were such that Pelmen felt like he was teetering on the edge of the abyss again. Xuven’s features, by contrast, had relaxed. His cheeks were red, his ocular globes shone with a gleam that had vanished several days ago.

“What did you do?” Pelmen asked, in a blank voice.

“What the situation required. The complex weaving of the link between an algam and its rider is reputed to be one of the few spells that can restore a shaman’s vigor. I can attest that once again, the ancients’ teachings have been verified.”

“That you’re better is good news,” Elisan interjected, “but there’s no time to discuss it. Lominan is getting impatient, and I believe that she’s right. We’ve done what we can here.”

Pelmen knew that the algam would attempt to stand up before the bird moved. Without thinking, he leapt forward, helping it to free its wings, supporting it as best he could, flexing his legs, putting all his weight where it was necessary. The algam hopped awkwardly, collided with a rock, then, once having got around the spur, launched forth with its wings spread. It descended like an arrow and brushed the ground before rising up again, filling the sky with its majesty.

As it drew away, its plumage shimmered, and it disappeared.

His heart swollen with joy and pride, Pelmen continued for a few more seconds to follow a point in the sky where his eyes alone declared that there was nothing to be seen.

***

They had passed over the crest of the hill, descended the opposite slope and were on the point of reaching the top of another. Xuven had decided to take the risk of making no further appeal to the fog so that they were moving at a good pace.

His mind entirely preoccupied with his recent experience, Pelmen had not paid any attention to the landscape until then. What his uncle had said about the link with the algam perplexed him. Was the title of Rider merely honorary? Or would he be called one day to climb on to the back of the legendary bird? The prospect was thrilling, but also a little frightening. Pelmen could no longer make out the presence of the algam, but the link created between them still existed—he could feel it without being about to describe it clearly.

Reality suddenly called him back. He gritted his teeth, while Lominan made as if to look away, without being able to do so completely.

Dominating the horizon, reddened by the dusk, the somber contours of a conical mountain disfigured by a monstrous scar loomed up in the extension of the fault. Black smoke was rising from the cone. Pelmen knew immediately that the source of the malevolent feeling emanating from the Rift was there, perhaps a few leagues away.

“So close to Ixal already,” murmured Xuven.

“The volcano in which Valshhyk immolated himself?” asked Pelmen, incredulously. “I always thought that was a legend.”

Xuven looked at him, as if the question needed no answer.

“The city is located behind the hill a little to the right of the Fault,” said Elisan. Her voice was absent-minded, as it was every time she plunged into one of her trances. Her eyelids were lowered and her long fingers were palpating the space in front of her. “The city dwellers—hevelens and malians—are very active. All those buildings… a shaman… a crimson one… I don’t think he’s seen me. I’m returning outside the walls… yes, down there, there’s an access road… only two warriors to avoid. The nearer one is on a hill… on the other side.” Her hands fell back on her thighs and she uttered a profound sigh, echoed by Finella.

“So this is where we are, after so many days and incidents,” said Xuven, in a voice shot through with contained emotion.

A crimson shaman! This is where Stenlen’s murderers are based, Pelmen thought, with a shiver. And possibly Teleg. He scanned the surroundings without detecting any trace of buildings. To the right, a landslide masked the view. The watchman must be on the other side of the hill as Elisan said.

Noticing Elisan’s waxy complexion, Xuven had taken some trana roots out of his satchel, which he held out to her. “They’re the last ones,” he said. “I can’t make any better use of them than giving them to you.”

Elisan did not have to be offered twice.

“There are watchmen, then?” asked Xuven, after a moment or two.

“Luckily they’re malian,” said Elisan. “Heavily armed, but that won’t make any difference.” Her cobalt eyes contained an icy glitter. “They haven’t tasted Turquoise Water for a long time—too long. They’re vulnerable, and tonight, their minds will wander. Thanks to Finella and myself, they’ll think they’re back in Belenia, in the softness and harmony of one of the Original Pools. They won’t see anything but that.” There was no warmth in the smile she addressed to Xuven.

“And afterward?” he asked.

“We have no alternative. One of us has to scale the outer wall and see what’s going on. The best thing would be to take advantage of darkness to pass for one of the inhabitants.”

“Bold,” Xuven judged, “but perhaps feasible, as long as no questions are asked. They must be recruiting almost every day to have built a city so rapidly, unknown to everyone. They’ll find it normal not to recognize one of us.”

“Lominan or Pelmen seem to me to be the most suitable if we want to have any chance of persuading one of the city-dwellers to come back with us. Lominan knows the latest arrivals and might perhaps…”

“Not a chance,” the mil’ser interjected. She lowered her head under Elisan-Finella’s doubly reproachful gaze and her voice softened. “I’m sorry, Mistress, but it would be suicide. I know my old companions well enough to know that none of them would allow themselves to be persuaded. And if one of them remembers me, he’s certain to ask how I was able to survive.”

Not wishing to pick a fight, Elisan turned to Pelmen. “You mentioned a friend…”

“I’ll do it,” he said firmly. “The algam we met… I think it was waiting for me. In any case, it didn’t come to our aid by chance. If Teleg is really in that city, I’ll find him, and do everything in my power to bring him back.”

“A decision heavy with consequences,” observed Xuven. “Have you given it due consideration?”

“There’s no better way.”

Xuven’s callused hand fell on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

Pelmen only took slim comfort from those words. He had the impression of having passed the point of no return, and was no longer sure that his life belonged to him—but he had to do it. If Master Galn was watching him, somewhere, he had to do it.

Xuven raised his voice as he turned to the malians. “We’d better move back a little. We’re too visible here.”

While they were watching the end of the sloping path, hoping it would remain empty, darkness gradually replaced the twilight. Tinmal, in her last quarter that evening, rose into the sky, a blue-tinted islet. Opposite her was the gibbous Hamal. The two moons combined their light, casting dark blue and greenish light over the surrounding sterile landscape.

Calm and vigilant, Xuven stood up, ignoring gusts of wind that were as sudden as they were violent. His features were not downcast, as they had been when he collapsed with exhaustion. So many things had happened since that Pelmen could hardly believe that it had only been a few hours ago. He thought about Laneth, and then about Alicene and Dryna, and the armor of his resolve cracked.

The concrete, he told himself. I need to focus on the concrete, and not on all that I risk losing.

“How am I going to go about trying to find Teleg?” he asked, abruptly.

Xuven nodded his head, as if he had expected the question. “You might have to approach another hevelen if you can’t find him. Someone seeking to leave the city.”

“Are they being held there against their will?”

“That’s what you need to find out.”

“None of those we’re following have tried to run away, at any rate.”

“True,” Xuven replied somberly. “To begin with, I advise you to check out the carpenters’ dwellings, or any other place that your friend might have wanted to live. If you find nothing, or you think the risk is too great, come back right away. If you think you’ve learned enough to make one of the inhabitants’ testimonies superfluous, come back immediately. As soon as you’ve entered into the city, everything you see or learn will be worth its weight in amberrock.”

“Understood.”

Xuven sighed. “If your mother knew where I’d brought you, I’d bet that my head would very quickly adorn the end of a pike. Are you sure you want to go out there?”

“I have to. If I don’t, everything we’ve done so far will be meaningless.” While he pronounced these words, he hoped that the ambient gloom would mask the uncertainty on his face.

Xuven looked at Elisan, who closed her eyelids. A diaphanous sphere escaped from the magician’s hands and rose up, to disappear in the direction of the far side of the hill. A moment later she made a sign and, still perched on her melepek, urged it forward, accompanied by Lominan. The six feet of the rock creature were placed on the slope with the same regularity as on level ground, the plates covering its body moving in a quasi-hypnotic fashion.

Elisan’s concentration contrasted with the serenity of Finella’s beautiful face, which showed absolute confidence in her ascendant. They passed the point where the volcano Ixal loomed up, a menacing shadow, descended again along the path and came out on the other face, into the open.

As Elisan had predicted, a few hundred yards up-slope, a silhouette armed with a spear was outlined on a rocky spur that overlooked the approach to the city. Motionless, the slim sentinel did not give any indication that she had seen them. A good thing, since she’s out of bowshot, Pelmen thought.

A small section of the enclosing wall of the mysterious city appeared before them, between two hills. Pelmen probably would not have realized its true nature if Elisan had not told them of its existence. No sentinel on this side, for the moment.

The tension grew as they came closer. Lominan’s shoulders were hunched. She darted a sideways glance in which Pelmen saw nothing but pure terror. Finella sensed it too, examining her with a preoccupied expression. He held his bow at the ready. If only it weren’t so clear. Anyone who came on to the top of the ramparts could not fail to see them, now. Perhaps the melepek was advancing a little more rapidly than usual, but it was hardly noticeable. As for the nidepoux, they must have been affected by their masters’ anxiety, for, after having been sullen and mulish at the start, they were no longer pulling on their reins, striving instead to get closer together.

At the foot of the somber rock, the road branched. To the right, the wall curved, and for some distance in that direction the space facing it was open. Elisan took them to the left, where the path curved downwards, winding between a hill and the rampart, which gained in height as they descended. Her face was no longer strained, and Pelmen understood that she had relaxed her spell.

“It’s up to you to take care of the second malian,” she murmured.

Finella did so at the place where the road rejoined another branch, which inclined toward the Great Rift.

Several hundred yards separated them from the monstrous fault, which emitted an almost continuous red glow. Pelmen grimaced—he had not realized that they were so close. They passed the intersection and continued along the wall while the path sloped upwards again. It was Finella’s turn to close her eyes.

The malanite guard appeared at the top of the mound. A discreet but revelatory golden red light pulsed at the tip of his spear and on his leather armor. The interlaced amberrock must render the latter as resistant as the former was sharp. Initially struck by amazement, Lominan reacted by trying to crouch down behind the melepek, only succeeding in collapsing onto all fours. Pelmen had released the bridle of his nidepoux and, overcoming his repulsion, notched a thorn. Xuven, however, pushed his bow hand down.

“His disappearance would alert the others,” he whispered.

At closer range, it proved that the sentinel was staring fixedly, his gaze lost in space. Finella did not seem to be having any difficulty maintaining him in her power, as if her influence increased as she got closer to her victim. Relieved by not having to intervene, Pelmen picked up the reins, but did not take his eyes off the guard until further on, under the cover of a landslide.

“Finella should be able to continue distracting him until you’ve climbed over the wall,” said Elisan, nodding her head in Pelmen’s direction.

He frowned. At that point, the rampart, less high than at the base of the slope, must still have been nearly twenty-five yards high. Projections did not seem numerous or pronounced—the climb would be dangerous. He went forward anyway, at an uncertain pace.

Xuven stopped him. “Your bow won’t do you any good. In fact, it might hinder you and call attention to you.”

Pelmen could not deny it. So he secured his faithful companion on his nidepoux, with a mute prayer that he would find it there when he came back—if he came back.

By Aoles, I would never have believed that I’d ever come to miss Durepeaux. How were the heroes of ancient times able to confront danger without fear—that’s what I’d like to know!

“Your task will be delicate, as well as perilous,” Xuven emphasized. “Don’t do anything rash, or take unnecessary risks. And above all, keep in mind that we’ll wait for you as long as need be.”

Resigned to his fate, Pelmen approached the wall and placed his hands on it, only to withdraw them immediately, uttering an exclamation. Another second and they would probably have been blackened and covered with blisters.

“This wall’s red hot,” he said, grimacing.

Elisan raised her brow ridges. “We seemed to sense something, but we didn’t know what it was. It must be the work of Valshhyk’s shamans. The rock looks cold, but burns anyone who touches it. Some texts refer to it, but it’s the first time we’ve ever witnessed it.”

Xuven handed his nephew the earthenware pot containing the Healing Salve. The burning sensation eased as soon as Pelmen had applied it to his hands.

“Aoles is powerful enough for me to be able to get you over the wall,” Xuven estimated. “The difficulty will be falling on the other side without sustaining any damage.”

Pelmen’s eyes widened. “You want to project me through the air, is that it? Like the creatures of the steppe.”

Xuven did not deny it.

“Have you tried it before with anyone you didn’t kill or cripple?”

His uncle winced, but abstained from replying.

“No, of course not,” Pelmen deduced. “In that case, I’d rather not take my turn.”

“I told you that it would be suicide,” Lominan murmured. She never ceased shifting her fearful gaze between the rampart and the dark coverts of the landslide, unable to fix her attention anywhere. Her clenched fist had closed upon her fragment of amberrock. Xuven lowered his head fatalistically, but Elisan intervened.

“We don’t have much time. I believe I can form a Bubble of Confinement and maintain it above the rampart long enough to let you down gently.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s possible, as long as the Bubble doesn’t come into contact with the wall.”

“Will it be affected by the wind?” asked Xuven.

Elisan-Finella nodded.

“In that case, I’ll make sure of pushing it over the wall. It’s necessary.”

Pelmen looked at them in turn. “Er… it’s still hazardous, right?”

The silence that followed spoke volumes. Pelmen turned to the obstacle and swore between his teeth. He took a long, tremulous breath. “I suppose we haven’t come all this way to run away like galcynes at the slightest danger. Let’s go.”

Scarcely had he finished speaking than the air around him seemed to thicken and cool. His feet were detached from the ground and Pelmen was only able to move his limbs with great effort, as if he were trapped by a cloak of ice. Even breathing became more arduous. He could not feel the air current that bore the Bubble aloft, but he saw that he was rapidly gaining altitude. Slowly—too slowly for his taste—he approached the summit of the wall.

No guards. Perhaps Tinmal is with me, in the final analysis. If only I weren’t so cold. Provided that…

The last thing Pelmen heard before tumbling, head first, was the distorted roar of the wind. If the air had not been blocked in his lungs he would have cried out in surprise, and then howled while he began spinning around and the images before his eyes blurred.

At a certain moment, the top of the wall melted beneath him—then darkness swallowed him up.

Sheltered behind the landslide, Xuven and Lominan held their breath, scrutinizing Elisan’s ever emaciated face and her hands, which were trembling as if beneath an excessively heavy burden.

“I’ve… stabilized him,” she eventually said, in a colorless voice. “He’s set down level with us, on the other side—exactly where, I can’t say.”

“Was it a rough landing?” asked Lominan.

“Not as bad as I feared. The Bubble protected him.”

“Thank you,” said Xuven, inclining his head toward the magician. “I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be surprised by that gust.”

“You’re tired,” said Elisan. “We all are.” A glint of anxiety crossed her gaze. “Now let’s take cover—and don’t make a sound, Finella’s about to break the contact with the sentinel.”

The first moments were anxious ones. In the heavens, lit up by silvery sparks, Tinmal and Hamal peacefully pursued their elliptical courses. There was no sound, except for those of the intermittent wind and the placid breathing of the nidepoux.

Lominan, sitting with her back to the melepek, ended up letting her head sag. From time to time, she shivered and woke up, inspecting the surroundings anxiously. Then she changed position, sighing, in order to sleep more comfortably.

After conferring with Elisan-Finella, Xuven had hidden the nidepoux in the midst of the debris. Sitting cross-legged, he divided his attention between the rim of the rampart and the feless’tu. The ascendant suddenly gestured to him. He drew nearer, hoping to prevent his old bones from creaking, but not succeeding as well as he would have liked.

“We have the information you wanted,” Elisan murmured.

At that moment, Lominan’s eyelids fluttered. She turned her head toward them and got up to join them.

“There is indeed a passage to the east, toward the gap you indicated to us,” said Elisan.

“Good,” said Xuven. “That’s the way we’ll go, when it’s time to flee.”

“He’s taking too long to come back,” Lominan commented, in a thick voice.

Elisan interrupted her by raising her hand in an imperious gesture. “Silence! A patrol is passing along the outside of the wall at this moment. Four hevelens, heavily armed. Around three hundred yards to the northeast. They’ll soon be here.”

“We need to get away!” exclaimed Lominan, her pupils dilated.

“No.” Xuven had grabbed her wrist, his eyes focused upon her. Lominan seemed to shrink under the weight of his disapproval.

“It’s necessary to distract their attention, then,” she moaned, with an imploring glance at Elisan.

“That won’t work on hevelens,” the ascendant replied. “As for hiding, there’s no point thinking about it. They’re bound to inspect this rubble.”

“We’ll have to fight,” said Xuven, sharply.

While barking orders in an urgent tone, he carried out a rapid examination of the locale. “Lominan, go join the nidepoux hidden behind those rocks. Elisan-Finella, can you use your camouflage capability on you and your melepek? Good—it would be best to position yourself here.”

While Lominan, grimacing as she forced herself to overcome her repugnance for the nidepoux, slipped away into the shadows, Xuven, breathing heavily, set out four medium-sized pieces of stone at strategic points. By the time he had finished, Elisan-Finella and their melepek had disappeared behind a curtain of humidity, which had melted into the décor. Xuven seized his wand and held it ready.

In the silence of the night, the sound of rhythmic footfalls rang out, soon becoming more distinct.

From the corner of his eye, Xuven glimpsed movement. He turned his head and suppressed an oath. The silhouette of Lominan launched itself in the opposite direction. In a split second, Xuven made his decision. Whipping round, he ran in his turn. Lominan, however, surged into the granite plain before he could intercept her. She was too quick, so he stopped in the shadow of one of the last rocks.

From the top of her hillock, the sentinel had just seen the spooked malian. The guard was extending his arm in order to take better aim, bracing himself, his spear at the ready.

“Halneven,” murmured Xuven, raising his wand.

The Wind’s Fist struck the spearman at the moment he extended his arm. He did not complete his action and was bowled over, his head slamming into the cliff as he fell. His body rolled down to the bottom of the slope.

Lominan had accelerated her course. Xuven turned round—he had no more time to pay any heed to her, and progressed furtively between the rocks, drawing closer to the four hevelens who had taken possession of the locale. One held a loaded bow, two others were brandishing clubs and the fourth had a spear and shield. The last, perplexed, pointed to one of the stones placed in evidence—and then shuddered before collapsing as the stone in question crashed into his forehead with a dull thud. His three companions started to disband as they saw Xuven, his wand extended toward a second fragment of rock. Their movement suddenly seemed to slow down, as if they were wading through molasses. The bowman’s string was not completely drawn back when he collapsed in his turn. The other two hevelens tried to escape from the trajectory of the whistling projectiles, only to realize, in alarm, that they were too slow to succeed.

Chapter Seventeen - THE NYLEV

Lominan’s necklace bounced on her chest as she ran full tilt. She heard a noise immediately to her right—something heavy had fallen—which redoubled her terror. The landscape flew past at top speed. Everything was blurred, with the exception of the wall, which curved gently. Beneath her feet the ground sloped downwards and her flight accelerated even more.

A bend arrived that she had not anticipated. She skidded. Her hands beating the air in a vain attempt to regain her balance, she felt the burn of friction against her leg and she fell to the ground, instinctively protecting her face.

The impact was brutal. Thrown backward, Lominan arched her body, squealing, with one hand on her side. She could not tell for how long she was frozen in that position. When the pain finally allowed her to think coherently, she forced her body to straighten out, her jaws so tightly clenched that she feared she might break her teeth.

Her fingers became active, feeling the places that hurt the worst, especially the side of her abdomen. If her skeleton had not been composed of glumass and she had had bones like a hevelen’s, she would certainly have broken something. Her skin was harder where she had collided with an obstacle. She moaned, wiping the tears from her eyes. She had got away with a bruise, which revealed itself as a nasty black patch.

Lominan stayed down for a little while longer, then, proceeding in stages, feeling like she was reassembling her limbs as she reassembled her thoughts, she stood up.

The rock off of which she had so violently rebounded had kept her from falling to the bottom of the gap, saving her life. Lower down, the contours of the Great Rift were scarcely distinguishable, making the abyss all the more terrifying.

She put her hand up to her neck. I still have it. Against all odds, the necklace of Cilamon did not seem to have been damaged. The air current surrounding her had never seemed so comforting.

The guards... It was the guards that I was running from. She darted a swift glance at the top of the slope. Everything was calm. Her legs, however, still trembled. She had to pull herself together.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She had tried to search for the amberrock in the pleat in her trousers, and for a horrible moment thought that she had lost it. Her eyes widened as she crouched down, fearfully.

There!

At the sight of the fragment on the path, she thought she would swoon with relief. With a feverish gesture, she picked it up and pressed it against her chest. With that, she could get herself a shell on the fourth level and consign the Strays’ quarter to the rank of a bad memory.

As she continued walking, the reality of her situation returned to her and a baleful smile stole across her thin face. She was alone, bruised and unarmed, with no food or water, hundreds of leagues from Belenia. She had abandoned her companions. Her heart sank at the idea of the trust that Elisan-Finella had placed in her. This was how she had paid the magician back!

She had to admit, however, that the goals pursued by Xuven and Pelmen and even those of Elisan-Finella were not hers. All she wanted was to lead a tranquil life, safe from need.

What should she do now? If she chose to ask for help from the inhabitants behind the rampart, chances were good that they would decide to imprison her. By now, in fact, the guards must have captured Xuven and Elisan-Finella—she dared not imagine their fate. She would be associated with them, as well as that madman Pelmen, and their attempted espionage. Even if that weren’t the case, they would not want to let her return to Belenia, for fear that she would reveal the city’s existence.

To be a captive here, so far from the pools…

The corners of her mouth turned down. She should have suspected that getting involved with someone as powerful as the magician would only lead to insurmountable problems. There was nothing left to do but retrace her steps, to try to get back to the south as quickly as possible, in the crazy hope of being able to beg for help from any travelers she met.

Her grazed leg was hurting her, and causing a slight limp. The intersection with the path that descended toward the Great Rift was in sight, when she heard voices coming from the direction of the wall, carried by the wind. The sounds were distorted and unintelligible. Soon, silence fell again—until the sound of approaching footsteps reached her ears.

Lominan blanched and shot fearful glances around her.

If I turn back, I risk running into the guards of the patrol.

Without asking questions, she launched herself toward the path at a dead run. In spite of the pain, she did everything she could to control the rate of her descent. The gulf grew, and with it, the promise of oblivion in the red-tinted darkness. Fascinated, she almost failed once again to see another bend in the path. She flexed her limbs, inclined her shoulders to the left and threw all her weight onto her toes. Three strides later, she came to a breathless stop, her hands on her hips. She was out of sight.

The slope curved as it rejoined the edge of the fault. Less than a hundred yards away, a malian was standing, leaning over the void.

Lominan drew closer, cautiously. The person was swaying, with a hypnotic rhythm. At closer range, she recognized the profile by virtue of the subterranean glow lighting his features. Those pursed lips, that receding chin and that hooked nose, could only belong to Mital, one of the mil’ser with whom she had exiled herself from Belenia. She took a step toward him, only too glad to meet someone she knew.

She froze, stiffening. Between two wind gusts, she heard the rattle of footsteps up above. She frantically flattened herself against the cliff. She was too visible, too vulnerable. As a last resort, she crouched down, and then crawled behind rocks that were no more than three feet high.

The sound on the granite surface became clearer. Lominan sensed an imposing silhouette moving toward her, looming over her… and then continuing without slowing down. As the noise of footsteps faded, she relaxed her jaw and her breathing relented. Slowly, with infinite caution, she dared to raise her head again.

From the back, the unknown character, a malian, did not seem to be armed. He was wearing a tunic that might have been white, with a high collar and epaulets, a belt decorated with pearls and ample trousers in the malanite style. He stopped beside Mital, who, still absorbed in contemplation, did not react.

While she watched, the unknown malian titled his head sideways. Perhaps he was yielding in his turn to the fascination exercised by the Rift—unless he was listening to an inner voice. His face was entirely burned. Engraved on the blackened skin of his forehead, a sinuous streak reflected a crimson gleam.

Lominan’s eyes widened and her heart began to hammer in her breast. Everyone in Belenia was aware of the story of Sinistan the Marked. The scar shaped like a two-headed serpent alone was enough to identify him. What wonder had allowed that banished criminal, that profaner of harmony, to survive until now?

His blistered lips stretched into an evil smile and Lominan thought that he had exchanged some pleasantry with Mital. The latter had not budged. Sinistan unhooked a fiery serpent from his belt—at least, that was what she saw at first. On second glance, it had to be a whip: a whip made of amberrock and something else, which should have consumed it from within. She could not explain it, but she was sure that his crimson complexion was not due to the incandescent glare of the gulf.

Sinistan had placed himself behind Mital now. He raised his arm and struck, causing mauve blood to spatter. Mital did not utter a cry, but he turned round. His gaze seemed to be devoid of all expression, except perhaps for a glimmer of incomprehension.

The hoarse voice that echoed in the darkness then was undoubtedly that of a demented being, held in the grip of a cold and murderous madness.

“The moment has come for you to elevate yourself, to show yourself worthy of the favor of our omnipotent Master. You must suffer and satisfy him!”

For the second time, Sinistan brought down his whip, this time across the torso—then again, and again. Droplets of vital fluid sprang forth, falling to the ground.

Her eyes brimming with tears, Lominan turned away, trembling in every limb. Mital did not deserve that. She had not held him in high esteem, to say the least. He had been a thief for most of his life, and in the short time she had known him had seemed incapable of uttering a sentence that did not contain the word “amberrock.” The punishment that was being imposed on him, however, was beyond the pale.

The rhythm of the unbearable whip cracks accelerated. Without even being conscious of having made a decision, Lominan had begun to crawl backward, in the direction of the top of the slope. The atmosphere around her had become thicker and she felt a sudden external pressure, which had nothing to do with the wind. She touched her collar. The artifact was diffusing air vigorously and continuously. The gems were shining with an intense orange fire, very different from the radiation of the gulf.

A cry made her turn round. Mital, finally emerged from his mortal trance, was struggling with all his might. The whip now had a nimbus of flame, its thong charring the torso as it landed.

“There!” exulted Sinistan. “Now!”

The whip stiffened in that very moment as if the object had come to life—or perhaps it had never been inert. Still a prisoner, Mital was transported above the abyss. There he stayed, suspended, his howls amplified by the echoes. Then a flame rose up from inside the fault, which enveloped him.

His skin sizzled and melted and his face stretched in an impossible manner while he continued writhing in agony. In defiance of all logic, as Mital’s body burned, the flames, no longer fed by any external source, did not diminish. Even when the entire body was consumed, they remained, resembling something grotesquely akin to a biped endowed with a pair of arms.

A hideous smile was outlined on the location of the face.

Lominan threw herself backward. No longer conscious of anything, she scampered on all fours, came to her feet, and fled as fast as she could.

A roar of triumph resounded behind her. “Go, nylev! Rejoin the Master’s bed and wait there until you are summoned! You shall serve him well!”

The surrounding walls did not seem to want to stop echoing Sinistan’s manic laughter.

Her legs carrying her almost of their own accord, Lominan reached the bend where she had almost tripped. A thread of consciousness rose above the panic, and this time she swerved without losing her balance. With her heart in her mouth, feeling exhaustion overtake her, she only had one thought: to get away as far and as fast as possible.

The pebbles on the ground reddened like so many vicious demons.

Someone seized her arm, causing her to stumble, pivot, and then collide with something supple. She raised her eyes nervously.

Elisan was looking at her, her expression a confused mixture of anxiety, relief and reproach.

***

Pelmen’s shoulder hit the ground. He rolled over, grimacing with pain, and it took every last ounce of willpower that he possessed to stop himself from crying out. Supporting himself on the pavement, he raised himself to his feet, cautiously. He massaged his temples, and then the bruised arm. The sensation of glacial cold gradually eased, and he was able to breathe freely again. His necklace was shining in the gloom, so he hid it beneath his leather surcoat.

The atmosphere was heavy and everything around him was dark. The absence of the familiar weight of the bow on his shoulder aggravated his unease. He found himself between the wall and a structure whose oval form was not unfamiliar to him: a malanite shell. His gaze lingered on the rampart, which seemed to possess a patrol route. It was unoccupied, for now. They doubtless thought their sentinels and their magic were protection enough, unless they were confident in their anonymity.

A few hundred yards away, a stairway rose up to the top of the rampart. Pelmen quickly memorized the location.

The darkness was so profound that he decided to go around the shell by groping his way along the rounded wall rather than risk bumping into something.

Outside the shadow of the wall, the light of the two moons imposed itself again. Pelmen was careful not to break his cover.

The main street of an impressive city stretched out before him. Richly dressed pedestrians, malians and hevelens, were circulating at a fast pace in spite of the extremely late hour, lone individuals crossing one another’s paths without speaking. The surrounding buildings were in the hevelen or malanite style, giving an unusual appearance to the whole thing. Some of them had overhanging roofs illuminated by the incandescent glare of torches, but many were still under construction. Although he knew little about such matters, Pelmen noted that several, of hevelen manufacture, must have been built in a hurry, paying no attention to the rules of the art. Their walls askew, they looked ready to collapse. Curiously, even those facades were usually decorated.

Wanting to stay away from the main artery, Pelmen had begun to go around the rear of the buildings. Although he moved cautiously, his necklace kept him from sensing odors, in particular those of the ground. It was impossible under those conditions to plunge himself into the trance that would have made him stealthier. He would have taken off the artifact if he had not sensed a presence. An animal whose instinct had not been corrupted would doubtless have fled in his situation, its ears pinned back and its tail between its legs. Pelmen struggled to ignore his fear so he could concentrate on his environment.

There were signs of extravagance everywhere. It was not uncommon to see amberrock paneling reinforcing the door of an otherwise ordinary house, or crystal windows in a shell with terracotta walls. Beside a smithy, there was a cauldron whose bottom he could not see. The shops of hevelen merchants were abundant—all closed at this hour, of course.

As Pelmen crossed a patch of open ground, trotting with his back bent, his foot sank into a muddy puddle. He recoiled abruptly. On closer inspection, it was not a puddle, but a semi-liquid expanse of imposing size, into which he had almost plunged.

There was a gurgling sound. Pelmen raised his eyebrows. His first impulse was to throw himself back against the encircling wall, but the painful memory of the spell protecting the wall dissuaded him. Twenty yards away, at the most, a silhouette gradually emerged. Unconscious of his presence, the gangling creature stood up and set about getting rid of the mud covering it, proceeding with an abundance of nervous gestures, its breathing hoarse. Pelmen was forced to accept the evidence—it really was a malian. He could now see various garments assembled a little further away.

There must be others like him, still immersed beneath the surface.

The realization inspired a grimace of fear and disgust.

Still facing the other way, the malian headed toward his clothes. Pelmen took the opportunity to go around the expanse of mud without making any noise. He dared not look back for fear of looking suspicious, but with the buildings becoming less frequent under the starry sky, he was visible now.

He had all the more trouble keeping himself from running because the night was progressing much too quickly. When dawn arrived, he would surely be discovered. As for his companions, they might be found at any moment. He hurriedly approached one last shell. Clamors punctuated by unusual sounds were coming from the other side.

When do these people sleep?

Back bent, he threaded his way between the coils. The noises were recognizable now: pieces of flint impacting wood or one another, punctuated by groans, oaths and invective. Pelmen started to crawl.

A voice nailed him to the spot, nostrils dilated and the hair on the back of his neck bristling. He tried to swallow, but his throat was tight. The voice had come from behind him. Gripping his flint, he turned round.

No one.

Pelmen listened more attentively. Although guttural, the intonation had feminine aspects. It was coming though an opening between the coils, which he had not noticed—a rudimentary window whose circular shutter was in the open position. The unknown individual wasn’t shouting at him—her words were too monotonous for that. The same incantatory phrases recurred so frequently that Pelmen was able to attribute meaning to them.

“… one mind in several bodies… one body for several minds… one mind in several bodies…”

The longer Pelmen listened to the litany, the more doubtful he was that the malian pronouncing them was doing so consciously. He rose silently to his feet and raised himself up on tiptoe. The interior of the room was, however, too dark to distinguish anything within it.

The noises continued without interruption. His curiosity getting the better of him, Pelmen started crawling again. Behind the curve of the shell there was a vast plaza strewn with wooden dummies, some of which, pathetically, had half-severed heads or were lacking an arm or a leg. The warriors assaulting these pivoting targets and trying to avoid the counterthrusts of their assaults included as many malians, all mil’ser, as hevelens of both sexes. Armed with amberrock clubs, axes or spears, they were striking without restraint.

Grunts of pain and cries of triumph emerged from some of those armed with simple staves. The latter were training in pairs, circling around one another, looking for an opening. The majority of these duels were evenly matched, malian against malian or hevelen against hevelen. When that was not the case, the hevelens had to compete with litheness and agility to escape the sweeps and thrusts of antagonists with a much longer reach. Several were lying on the ground, stunned or clutching injured limbs.

Dull clicks dominated the tumult, issuing from the edge of an unoccupied archery range. There, amid showers of sparks, flint axes were rebounding from shiny amberrock armor. Covered from head to toe, the combatants were withstanding without flinching assaults that would have cut a nidepoux in two, waiting for their turn to come to strike back.

Pelmen was mortified. In spite of the training he had received, he doubted whether he would be able to match any of these warriors in hand-to-hand combat. How can one confront enemies who know no fear?

The self-sacrifice shown by these protagonists, however, did not even come close to pleasing their instructor. Dressed in shiny black cloth, with the broad shoulders that Lominan had described as belonging to Regnan, the malian was heaping them with insults and epithets that would have forced him to defend his life in any tavern in the Canyons.

The fighters he was harassing got to their feet without a word, taking up their positions again, but then attacked with the fury of sanrkhas cut to the quick. Every gesture from Regnan and every inflection of his voice betrayed his sentiment of superiority and his arrogance. It was not he, however, that made Pelmen’s heart race, his hand going to an almost-forgotten scar on his side. Half the size of the malian, a character whose hood hid his features was standing beside Regnan. His immobility was such that Pelmen had only noticed him when the wind agitated the folds of his robe.

The hooded character turned toward him.

Pelmen threw himself back into the shadow, fell on his back and squirmed away, grazing his elbows, breathless, overwhelmed by panic.

If he saw me…

In spite of the distance, the sense of danger and vigilance surrounding the crimson shaman had chilled his blood. It seemed to him that the other was still staring at him through the walls of the shell. Pelmen darted a hasty glance around. Anyone who had seen him would have judged his attitude abnormal, if not alarming.

The city was calm, however.

Don’t stay here. Flee, hide.

Throwing caution to the wind, he started running along the main street. As soon as he could, he turned aside to plunge into the shadow of the buildings facing those he had initially skirted. He flattened himself against a wall and let himself slide along it, his lips trembling. Recovering his breath, he strove to cast out panic and gather his thoughts.

He knew enough. He could flee now by the shortest route. Xuven would be the first to applaud him for the information he had gleaned. By now the crimson shaman had doubtless begun to summon warriors and give them his instructions.

Pelmen took a deep breath and straightened up. I’m crazy to be here, so I might as well be crazy enough to go on to the end.

So great was his restlessness that he began to walk stiffly. He studied the dwellings more closely, searching for a specific detail. He guessed that he had covered a lot more ground than when he came in, when he spotted a rocky mass perched on a rise in the ground, whose sharply-angled facades were covered with amberrock, and which appeared to have been built on top of a natural cavern. That obscene mouth, dominated by that blind face, had something inexplicably appealing about it.

Pelmen turned his head, wrinkling his nostrils. The air current coming from the necklace was stronger. His eyes came to rest on a group of habitations halfway to the mound. A little closer stood a half-finished building of hevelen manufacture, in wood accented by fragments of amberrock. Pelmen squinted. Around the walls lay dummies like those he had seen on the plaza. In a pitiful condition, for the most part, they were waiting to replace the one deposited on the table underneath the overhanging roof of the shop.

Pelmen’s nostrils dilated. Something here moved him, stirring him to the core. The house. It’s familiar. He had seen the same kind in Falsine, and had gone inside one of them on numerous occasions.

He had to move into the open again to reach the house, but at that moment, Pelmen did not care. To curb his impatience and adopt the attitude of a client or a messenger was an ordeal for him. When he reached the workshop he slid toward the darkest wall. There was a window, but the shutter was closed and did not budge, even when he used his flint to try to open it. Giving up, Pelmen decided to risk himself under the torch-lit overhang. He swore under his breath. The entrance door was solidly bolted. He didn’t dare knock, and he realized that his behavior must look more and more suspicious.

Without further delay he continued walking along the wall, aiming for the section that was under construction, where only the framework of the facades had been put up. In the back wall, a small door stood out in the darkness.

Someone on the other side of it was speaking.

Pelmen stuck his ear to the wooden panel. His heart drummed madly in his breast and he wanted to leap with joy.

The voice was Teleg’s, only a little rustier.

He licked his lips. He had to stay calm, not forget where he was, and consider the best options. There was no movement, and no sound except for Teleg’s voice, to disturb the silence. Pelmen’s fingers explored the framework. The door, less well-fitted than the one at the entrance, must have been much thinner. Again he tried his flint.

This time, a few feverish attempts succeeded in popping the latch. Pelmen opened the door.

Teleg’s voice was reciting, in an even tone: “… one mind in several bodies… one body for several minds… one mind in several bodies… one body for several minds…”

Pelmen could not suppress a shiver. He’s talking in his sleep. The same words as the malian. Exactly the same.

There was almost no light, but Pelmen soon felt the edge of the bed against his leg. Gradually, he made out a reclining form. He leaned over and then, breathless, forced himself to be still. He was trembling all over. The person for whom he had risked so much, the hevelen to whom he had contracted a debt since his father had bequeathed his bow to him, his childhood friend, was inches away.

Calm down. Yes, calm down and think.

Teleg might not be as happy to see him as he was. He might, voluntarily or by carelessness, raise the alarm. Making sure that he had a clear escape route, Pelmen extended his arm. His fingers closed around Teleg’s wrist. He shook him.

“Teleg! Wake up!”

The silence was deafening, and Pelmen held his breath for what felt like an eternity. Then, an abrupt movement caused him to let go and throw himself backward, grabbing his flint. There was the sound of a body hitting the floor, a creak, a spark. A light, flickering at first, projected an increasing glow.

Teleg—or, rather, someone who looked like Teleg—was brandishing a spear in one hand and lifting up a lantern with the other. His blond hair framed a face covered in black scabs. He wore a chemise made of malanite silk, a fabric of liquid anthracite, and his legs were bare. A sly smile twisted his features while he swayed with the assurance of an accomplished hunter, the lance in his hand directed at Pelmen’s breast. A crimson spark kindled in the depths of his pupils.

“Teleg? Teleg! It’s me, Pelmen. Your friend, Pelmen! You remember? Falsine… your father… Alicene.”

The swaying stopped. The point of the spear lowered slightly.

“A… licene?” Teleg’s voice was hoarse.

“Yes, Alicene! Your sister, Teleg! She’s still alive and anxious to see you again. She’s the one who asked me to come to look for you… to bring you back to the Canyons.”

“The… Canyons,” Teleg repeated. He bowed his head, frowning, and then fluttered his eyelids. The spark in his eyes weakened. “The Canyons. That was a long time ago… is that really you, Pelmen?”

The tip of the spear was now resting on the bedclothes.

Pelmen would have liked nothing more than to hug his friend with all his might. At the same time, his heart broke at the sight of the scabs on his face. That half-crazed gaze was even worse. What sacrifices must Teleg have agreed to in order to survive here, in the Bitterhills, and amass all this wealth? The room was cluttered with trunks, some of which, their lids open, revealed luxurious fabrics and items of jewelry. Pelmen struggled to hide the pity he felt. “Yes, it’s me. Your friend. You have to come back now—to the Canyons. Your true life is waiting for you there.”

Teleg threw back his hair in a strange burst of silent laughter. A broad smile split his face—his mauve eyes shone.

“Come back? To live my true life?” His smile mutated into a grimace of disgust and his features were distorted. “Life of poverty, you mean! As a lackey of… of…” Teleg appeared to make an effort of memory. “… the Carpenter Emeritus? You’ve come all this way, just to convince me to do that?”

Pelmen nodded his head.

“By Valshhyk, you don’t really believe that, I hope? Have you looked around? The riches here would make the most opulent of Alveg’s Opulents pale with envy!” His voice fell to a murmur, and his gaze intensified. “There’s a mine here, Pelmen. An amberrock mine.” He raised his voice again and dropped his lance, opening his arms in an ample gesture. “Merchants from Alveg, Seledcha, Belenia, Guernal, and soon from Halian, more numerous every day, come here to lay the best they have to offer at our feet, in exchange for that amberrock. You’re the one who should join us! You see, I'm improving on my house, making it bigger and better. Soon, I’ll be able to ask Alicene to come and live here!”

Teleg interrupted himself to clear his throat, and looked at Pelmen, who had just put his hand on his flint.

“Skeptical, eh? That’s because you’ve never listened to our m… I mean, Sinistan.”

Pelmen arched his eyebrows.

Teleg misinterpreted his reaction. “A malian,” he explained. “He committed youthful errors, but he’s made amends. A great person, in truth. He’s realized an impossible dream, that of creating a city from nothing: a city like the glorious Astian of our ancestors. A city where hevelens and malians live and work together… and soon, perhaps, krongos—who can tell?” Again he laughed silently. “You must know what I’m talking about, no? They’re the peoples of Ardalia, long separated. Here, in Sinista, they’ll be able to come together again, for their greater glory! And ours too!” He winked, and for an instant, Pelmen almost caught a glimpse of the mischievousness of the Teleg he had known.

“This city… is called Sinista?”

“That’s what it has been named. Believe me—he had every right to give it his name. Without Sinistan, none of what you see around you would exist.”

“Teleg…” Pelmen hesitated. The subject might prove dangerous. “Did you know that in your sleep…?”

“What?”

“… you were talking. You were reciting words—the same words that I heard someone else here reciting. Strange words.”

“You’re here to spy on us?” Teleg’s voice had become cold and cutting, as taut as his features.

“To spy—no!” Pelmen protested. “I’m… fascinated. Er… what’s happening here is fascinating.”

“Fascinating…” Teleg raised his finger to his chin. “You’re absolutely right—that’s the word. Yes, something is at work here, something great. When I’m at the mine, working the wood or training with the spear, I can feel fire flowing through my veins. I become stronger, tougher, and capable of feats I thought were beyond me.” Teleg frowned and darted an inquisitive glance at him. “Tell me, do you feel it too? That force?”

“Well, to tell the truth…” Pelmen looked away, both in search of inspiration and to mask his repulsion, then met Teleg’s feverish gaze again. “… yes. There’s something in the air here. Something that transports you.”

“You’ve got it—that’s it exactly!” Teleg punched his other hand. He filled his lungs with air, delightedly, his nostrils quivering. His smile did not linger on his lips, however. “Well, there’s that slightly bothersome side effect—you know, no longer being able to sense the odor of things. Nor their taste, either. It’s a little disturbing, at first.”

“I haven’t been capable of it since I’ve been here,” Pelmen agreed.

“But look!” Teleg picked up a necklace of opaline pearls and held it out to Pelmen. “Do you think you could earn enough in your entire life to get this?”

Pelmen took the necklace and raised it in front of his eyes. “I must admit that it’s fabulous.”

“It’s for Alicene.”

“And you obtained all this simply by working here? Thanks to the amberrock? That’s fantastic!”

“You can profit from it too. It’s up to you.”

Pelmen ran his finger over the pearls, pensively. He handed the necklace back to Teleg, who took it back, frowning.

“I have to make a confession,” Pelmen said, lowering his head.

“Go on.”

“You’ll be able to give this necklace to Alicene yourself.” Pelmen raised his head again, smiling.

“You mean… she’s here? In Sinista?”

Pelmen lowered his chin.

“You’ve brought her to me?”

Pelmen forced himself to broaden his smile. Teleg hugged him vigorously, and Pelmen turned away, hoping that his friend would interpret it as an excess of emotion. In reality, he had never felt so guilty. He cursed the contrary fate that was forcing him to act in this manner.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

“Not so fast.” Pelmen stopped him. “She’s not expecting to see anyone but me at present. This city… frightens her. If anyone other than me approaches her or calls out to her, she’ll run away.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Let’s both go up to the ramparts—just the two of us, without telling anyone, quietly. You can stand back while I call to her. As soon as she’s reassured, you can talk to her in your turn. Then we’ll be able to convince her to join us by presenting herself at the main gate.”

Teleg seemed anxious. “The Bearers of the Sacred Fire say… that we shouldn’t go near the wall… that it’s dangerous.”

Pelmen felt himself go pale, his breath cut off. The Bearers of the Sacred Fire… the crimson shamans?

Through sheer willpower, he collected himself, rejecting the argument with a shrug of the shoulders. “If it were dangerous, I wouldn’t be here. How do you think I got in?”

Teleg pinched his nostrils. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Do you want to see your sister again or not? Let’s go!”

Without waiting for a response, Pelmen went through the back door. He went as far as the corner of the building, forcing himself not to look behind him, his ears quivering. The wait seemed interminable, but it seemed to him that he could hear Teleg moving about in his room. The sound of his muffled footsteps was the sweetest of rewards.

Brighter than ever, the night was nearing its end. In the distance, a few pedestrians were circulating at their rapid pace. Pelmen grimaced on seeing the spear that Teleg had brought with him. “You’ll need to hide that, or Alicene will run away.”

Teleg nodded. He had put on a fur cloak, leather trousers and boots.

“Good,” said Pelmen. “I’ll go first. You follow me at a distance. It’s essential that no one sees us together.”

“Agreed...”

Pelmen emerged from the shadows and started putting one foot in front of another. His legs were weak and unsteady, and he was having a hard time breathing normally. Victory was almost within reach, but the slightest setback might ruin everything. He reckoned that he could deceive malians or former Disinherited hevelens, but what would happen if the crimson shaman had already begun to organize a search?

He studied the ramparts, searching for the stairway that he had spotted when he arrived, desperate at not being able to see it. As he reached the main street, a rig drawn by two melepeks came forward. Ezechian-Uzeve was driving.

Frozen to the spot, Pelmen prepared himself for the worst.

The ascendant and the respondent went past without paying any heed to him, apparently absorbed in their thoughts. Pelmen breathed out. He remained motionless while the cart was in sight, and then crossed the street, not daring to turn around to see if Teleg was following.

It was only after reaching a less crowded area that he flattened himself behind a barrel and darted a backward glance. Teleg was approaching, his expression anxious. Pelmen waited for him to catch up before resuming his progress.

They reached the vicinity of an oval structure curled back on itself, which was not a shell—the darkness of its entrance more or less kept at bay by torches. A hevelen with blackened skin, as if it had been burned a long time ago, came out, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with chunks of rock streaked with veins of red and gold. His gaze as fixed as those of the majority of the city’s inhabitants, the hevelen set off along the main street at a rapid pace.

A powerful hand gripped Pelmen’s forearm. He started.

“Can you hear the call?” Teleg demanded.

Fearfully, Pelmen saw that the glints in his friend’s pupils had brightened again.

“You must be able to hear it! Come on!” Teleg croaked, drawing him along with an unexpected vigor.

Pelmen was about to struggle when he saw them: the crimson shaman and several soldiers, advancing along the central thoroughfare.

Chilled with fear, Pelmen stopped resisting, and plunged through the opening by Teleg’s side. The air coming from his necklace became more intense, to the point at which he feared that Teleg might sense the artifact’s breath. He adjusted his surcoat.

The atmosphere was stifling. Scarlet torches on the walls gave out heat but no smoke. The particular shade of their flames was the same as that of the fireball that had brushed Pelmen in the Canyons.

They went on for some time through long, dark and gilded tunnels, so oppressive that Pelmen wondered how the workers they passed were not running as fast as their legs could carry them. Streaming with sweat, the miners were so absorbed by the blows of their pickaxes—amberrock pickaxes—that they did not pay the slightest attention to them. They were carrying out their task with the same feverish excitement as the combatants had employed in their training. The ruddy walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

Pelmen felt that it would not take him long to run out of air. Biting his lip, he thought that the Great Rift must not be far away.

“I know where there are pickaxes,” Teleg said. “You’ll become rich too!” His voice was almost unrecognizable. “You’ll see, it’s as if you were chiseling flames. Oh, yes, you’ll become a master of the flames too!”

“Teleg!” Pelmen had seized his friend by the collar. He pushed him against a wall and held him there, summoning up all his strength.

Teleg tried to push him away with the shaft of his spear, but lacked leverage. “What the… what’s got into you?”

Pelmen transfixed him with his gaze. “Teleg, Alicene will go away! If she doesn’t see us come back, she’ll go away, and you’ll never see her again. We have to get back to her!”

“But the call…” Distress was legible in Teleg’s features.

“Immediately! Close yourself off to the call. Anyway, you’ll come back. Concentrate on the image of your sister. Don’t think about anything except Alicene.”

Teleg tried to turn away, but Pelmen did not relax his grip. His friend swallowed and closed his eyes.

“All right. We’ll take care of her, and we’ll come back here. Guide me.”

Teleg kept his eyes closed, and his attitude became submissive. Pelmen raised his eyebrows at his friend’s versatility. The first hesitation passed, he seized him by the arm.

While they retraced their steps, they were joined by malians and hevelens pulling a cart full of precious fragments or dragging sacks full to the point of splitting. No one seemed to be alarmed by the sight of Teleg armed with a spear, or even to sense that he was walking with his eyes closed.

Pelmen suddenly had a horrible premonition of what was to follow. The guards are waiting outside. The patrol saw us before, and have been waiting ever since for Teleg and me to come out again. He shot glances to either side, but the miners who were surrounding them and drawing them toward the exit prevented him from seeing more than a few yards.

Impossible to turn round. As they crossed the threshold, his heart began to beat as if to burst. At the crucial moment, he felt someone dig something hard into his ribs.

It was not a guard, but Teleg, with the shaft of his spear. “The ramparts are that way,” he said.

Pelmen breathed out. He had not realized that his companion had recovered his intelligence. He was sweating from every pore in his skin, but dared not reproach Teleg aloud for having given him the fright of his life. The shaman’s patrol was no longer in sight. They moved away from the entrance, along the wall, stopping several times to avoid being seen. After a few moments, Teleg pulled his arm away and darted a glance in which Pelmen could read a certain perplexity, combined with suspicion. Perhaps he was less agitated, but attempting to guess what he might do next was futile.

He’s doubtless wondering why I didn’t hear his master’s call. Fortunately, he hasn’t seen the necklace.

They had just passed a large wooden building that might have been a warehouse when Pelmen realized that the location was becoming familiar. Intuitively, he turned round. Not only was the stairway directly behind them, but the ramparts still seemed to be deserted.

“This way!” he whispered, before launching himself up the stone steps. He was hoping that his sandals would protect him from the heat of the wall, but he did not feel it.

It must only be the outside of the wall that’s bewitched.

He could hear Teleg’s raucous breath. The goal was close, and yet Pelmen’s anguish, far from calming down, was reaching its paroxysm. His throat was burning, his tongue dry. Would Xuven and the others be at the rendezvous? It was such a long time since he had crossed over the wall. If he did not find them, it would doubtless be better to jump, with every chance of breaking his neck, rather than risk capture. The thing lodged in the city crushed consciousness and enslaved wills.

Having arrived on the parapet—perhaps a little hotter than the rest, but the temperature of which was bearable—Pelmen signaled to Teleg to duck down as they went on. He prayed that no one would look up in their direction. While running, he examined the landscape.

A cloud had just passed over Hamal’s face, so it was bathed in Tinmal’s blue light that the landslide appeared to him. Unsure as to whether he would be able to see Xuven, Pelmen waved his arms.

His uncle’s silhouette came forward. Pelmen saw Elisan-Finella at the instant when she moved in her turn. He uttered a sigh so profound that he lost his sense of balance and had to set his knee on the floor. Finally, there might be a chance that everything would go without a hitch.

But… that’s not… that’s not Alicene!”

It was Teleg, appearing unexpectedly.

“Yes!” protested Pelmen, getting up. “Look carefully, over there!” He gestured to his friend to take his place, and as he stood aside, his hand encountered the familiar roughness of the stone at his waist. Pelmen didn’t hesitate. As Teleg leaned over, he brought the flint down on the top of his head. There was a crack, and Teleg fell back. Pelmen tugged his friend toward him in order to catch him in his arms, and then stepped back, depositing him on the parapet.

Teleg seemed to be unconscious, and Pelmen prayed that he hadn’t killed him.

“I’m sorry, old friend, truly sorry,” Pelmen muttered.

Grabbing hold of the spear, he hurled it over the wall. As for the flint, cracked along part of its length, it could be of no more use to him. Pelmen felt sufficient regret to stick the fragments back in his belt.

Now it’s time to stake everything. If Alicene knew what I were about to do, she’d go mad. But the world is mad, here.

Bending his knees while lowering one of them far enough to touch the hard, hot ground again, Pelmen slid his hands under his friend’s legs and armpits before straightening up. Once he was upright, he modified his grip. The effort of lifting Teleg at the end of his arms caused all his muscles to tremble, but he held firm.

They were now fully visible and exposed on all sides. Pelmen prayed that Elisan understood the urgency of the situation. A gust of wind whipped his face, threatening to make him let go.

She understood. The air around Pelmen’s arms became glacial. Then he contracted his muscles and, his jaws clenched, threw his friend. During the thrust, the tip of his sandal touched the burning wall without him being conscious of it as he leaned over the void.

The moment was terrible. Teleg’s body went over the wall, seemingly bound to crash down, before suddenly bouncing—and then falling like a feather, all the way to Xuven’s side. The latter lowered his wand.

The heat in his toes reminded Pelmen of his own circumstances, and he snatched his foot back. Down below, Elisan had turned round. It was now Finella who was curving the fingers of her extended hands in his direction. He knew that her Bubble could not reach him if he did not leap over the rampart.

He filled his lungs with air and leapt into the void, with his feet together, his nostrils still dilated. Too fast. He thought he was about to vomit up his guts when a superior force broke his fall, shoving him back. The cold accentuated while he fell, slowly.

The Bubble vanished on contact with the ground, leaving him haggard and breathless, on all fours.

In the distance, behind a hill, Astar’s first ray appeared.

Xuven ran toward him then, while Elisan-Finella bent over Teleg. His legs like jelly, Pelmen got to his feet, but he had to lean on his uncle in order not to fall over.

“That’s Teleg?” Xuven asked.

“Yes.”

“What have you done?”

“Not… not now.” Pelmen pulled free, ignoring his uncle’s frown, and ran to his friend. “Is he alive?” he croaked, his throat constricted.

Elisan looked at him, as if measuring him for the first time. “His breathing is regular. I hope he’ll recover. I’m not able to help him, and neither is Finella.”

“He’s still breathing, then! Thank you, Astar! Thank you! Teleg, old friend! Perhaps this can help him.”

Pelmen’s instinct howled at him not to do what he had it in mind to do. He ignored it. Plunging his hands into his surcoat, he took out his necklace and pulled it over his head. He immediately felt lethargic. So much so, that he thought he was going to collapse. The atmosphere had suddenly become infinitely heavier. He tottered, blinking. However, he knelt down, and with great determination, placed the artifact around Teleg’s neck.

“What are you doing?” Xuven exclaimed. “That’s insane!”

Red lights were dancing before Pelmen’s eyes. He could hear, more clearly, the muted hammering of something. Oh yes, much more clearly. Its power was immeasurable. To allow himself to be borne away by its wave, finally to be invaded by unparalleled joy…

No!

If he abandoned himself to the exaltation of that force, he would be unable to maintain his lucidity much longer. The temptation was there, omnipresent. He knew that he could only be free of it by taking back the necklace.

“It’s… the only way… to give him a chance. It’s as if... he were possessed…”

Xuven shook his head slowly. “You are courageous, my lad… Anyway, I’m not sure that I approve. I saw you knock him out—you’ve brought him against his will. You’re taking a terrible risk.”

Pelmen looked at him blackly. “We need… a witness… no?”

“We need someone who will agree that it was necessary to come.”

“The necklace will help him… to recover his mind. He must.”

“You don’t fear losing yours, then?” Elisan asked, bluntly.

“I’ll fight.”

“Friendship is undoubtedly the most beautiful and incomprehensible of all things,” Finella commented, in her warm voice. “You deserve to have been born malanite.”

Pelmen tried to smile, but it had become too painful. Intolerable stabbing pains had begun their work of torture. “I’ll warn you… if I find that I’m losing control… let’s go now, quickly.”

Prostrate in the midst of the landslide, Lominan was gazing into space. Although he was having difficulty concentrating, Pelmen saw bodies behind her—hevelens—tied up with ropes. Asking questions would have required too much energy, and for that reason, he didn’t.

They collected the nidepoux and, with a familiar gesture, Pelmen passed his arm through the curvature of his bow in order to put it over his shoulder. Xuven helped him to hoist Teleg on to his nidepoux. One of the prisoners had leaned sideways and was looking at them malevolently. In spite of the headache that was almost stopping him thinking, Pelmen wondered why his uncle was letting him see in which direction they were going.

Xuven and Elisan-Finella set off westwards.

Immediately, Lominan slid along the flank of her melepek and set off in the opposite direction. Pelmen leapt upon the mil’ser. They rolled on the ground.

Pelmen was nauseous, and felt that he could not hold her. Elisan and Xuven took hold of Lominan in their turn. Her features convulsed with horror, the latter struggled while they forced her to mount the melepek. Soon, however, she abandoned all resistance, plunging her head into her hands.

Pelmen only understood a little later why they had paid so little attention to the prisoners, realizing that they were following a long curve that would take them back in an eastward direction. Hidden among the landslide debris, their victims would be unable to see them, and they were too far away to hear them. Lominan had sat up slightly straighter behind Finella on taking note of the change of direction.

As Pelmen and his companions drew nearer to the downward cliff, the stabbing pain that had not yet ceased to get worse tore the interior of his skull, so intensely that he could not see clearly as he progressed.

The stabbing sensations gave way to images of glorious and powerful flames. Pelmen was yearning to embrace it, to immerse himself in it. His lips trembling and his face streaming with sweat, he turned his head away from the abyss. He knew that he could not remain like this for long. The pain returned, compressing his skull more than before, threatening to make it explode.

It was not until they moved into a defile heading southwestwards that the vice relaxed its grip. Pelmen breathed in the sulfur-saturated air in great gulps, only gaining meager comfort from it.

The city of Sinista was behind them now. It would not be long before the bodies of the hevelens were discovered and the alarm was raised, but they could reasonably hope that the searchers would head westwards, along the road they had used to arrive, gaining them precious time.

Teleg’s body moved to the rhythm of the nidepoux whose bridle Pelmen was holding. Around Teleg’s neck, the necklace of Cilamon shone. Pelmen hoped that it might restore him to his old self—hoped so desperately. For that miracle to have occurred, then they would have triumphed over all obstacles, and Pelmen would truly be jubilant. Every time he refused to yield to the very different exultation that threatened to submerge him, the stabbing pains resumed, gradually wearing away his resistance, forcing him to summon it up at the moment of respite when he was tempted. His lips were set in a grimace. Victorious as they might be, the uncertainties that weighed upon all of them, him most of all, made the victory seem extremely fragile.

The trail was broad enough for the nidepoux to draw alongside Elisan-Finella’s melepek without getting too close. They advanced in convoy in that formation, a varied assembly which had to attract curiosity. The bearers of secrets that would have been enough to crush shoulders more solid than theirs.

*****

END OF VOLUME ONE

*****

You enjoyed this story?

Please consider leaving a review to help other readers notice the book.

Even if it’s only a line or two, it would be a huge help!

*****

DO YOU WANT TO READ THE SEQUEL?

TAP HERE TO GET YOUR FREE EBOOK

*****

From the same author

Ardalia, volume 2: Turquoise Water ( http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00UUKRV2U/ )

Along the Great Rift, in the heart of the volcano Ixal, Valshhyk the Immolated is stirring. The creatures corrupted by his putrid fumes are growing in number daily. Within the fiery walls of Sinista, the amberrock swords, axes and lances of an army of outcasts gleam, waiting. The day is drawing near when the nexus binding the dark god will collapse. Then, the nylevs will surge forth from the abyssal depths…

Pelmen, Xuven, Teleg, Elisan-Finella and Lominan, the Messengers of Destiny, have an urgent mission. Alas, dissent soon surfaces among them and they go their separate ways. Who among the Children of Aoles or Malia will succeed in warning the world of its peril? When the time comes to confront the servants of the Sacred Fire, will the Breath of Aoles and the power of the Turquoise Water be enough to defeat them?

Download your ebook on Amazon

Ardalia, volume 3: The Flames of the Immolated (to be published)

The great hunt had begun, and the hevelens were the prey. When would it end, and how? Impossible to predict…

With the malian army defeated, the forces of Destruction are laying siege to the Gate of the Canyons and spreading out over the Windy Steppes. For every child of the wind or the water captured and hurled into the Great Rift, a Nylev, a fire-being, is born. Pelmen, Laneth, Lominan and Elisan-Finella must convince the krongos to join them in their desperate struggle, but only a handful of the mineral creatures remain, and Valshhyk, the Immolated, seems unstoppable…

A brief history of Ardalia ( http://www.amazon.com/brief-history-Ardalia-Alan-Spade-ebook/dp/B00IO2FXX0 )

This mythological, not to say cosmogonic, story describes in a few pages the genesis of the four great civilizations of Ardalia and the most significant events preceding the Ardalia trilogy. For those who have read The Breath of Aoles, Turquoise Water and The Flames of the Immolated, it offers an interesting adjustment of perspective. For others, it permits an easy introduction to the details of the universe while furnishing a complete synoptic history benefiting from a different viewpoint.

Download your FREE ebook on Amazon

About the author

Alan Spade worked for eight years for the press, reviewing video games. In his youth, he acquainted himself with the classic French authors, while immersing himself in the works of H. P. Lovecraft, Isaac Asimov, J. R. R. Tolkien and Stephen King. That wide range of influences is reflected in his style, simultaneously approachable, visually evocative and imaginative.

*****

© 2014 Emmanuel Guillot Publishing

1)

Aguerri: War chief  ↵

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One - A TANNER’S DESTINY

Chapter Two - STRANGE COMPANY

Chapter Three - AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE

Chapter Four - A BOW FOR PELMEN

Chapter Five - THE SANCTUARY OF THE TEN

Chapter Six - THE THREE TAVERNS

Chapter Seven - THE AUDIENCE

Chapter Eight - IN THE STEPPES

Chapter Nine - STENLEN MILEMPAS

Chapter Ten - THE TREE OF LIFE

Chapter Eleven - THE LEGACY OF ASTIAN

Chapter Twelve - THE MARKED

Chapter Thirteen - THE POOL OF BLISS

Chapter Fourteen - HOPES AND DANGERS

Chapter Fifteen - DECISIONS

Chapter Sixteen - IN HOSTILE TERRITORY

Chapter Seventeen - THE NYLEV

From the same author

About the author