THREE

FROM THE sound of the gurgling crash which filled the rock-rimmed canyon, the Arvin’s first cataract lay just ahead. Blazer and Riv picked their way among the loose stones of the canyon floor as Quentin and Toli scanned the soaring cliffs above. All around them towered jagged spires of rock. They moved carefully, as through a giant’s petrified forest.

They passed between two large outcroppings of dull brown stone upon which rested a great slab forming the posts and lintel of an enormous doorway. “Azrael’s Gate,” muttered Quentin as they passed quickly through, and then, brightening considerably, “Look! Eskevar’s road.” He pointed across Arvin’s racing headwaters to the other side where the road began.

Without hesitation Quentin urged his steed forward into the frigid water. The swift stream splashed around the horse’s legs and wet his rider to the knees. Quentin found the icy tingle the perfect tonic to banish the oppressive forboding which had settled upon him as it always did when he rode through the eerie canyon which ended in Azrael’s Gate. Now, with that behind and the clear wide road ahead, his spirits suddenly lifted.

“It won’t be long now,” he called over his shoulder to Toli, just then splashing into the course. “Tomorrow night we will dine with Durwin, and the following will see us at the Dragon King’s table.”

“I thought you were the one for haste,” replied Toli. “We can do better than that!” At these words he slapped Riv over the shoulders with the reins and leaned into the saddle. The horse spurted ahead, sending torrents of icy water up into the air as he surged past Quentin and clattered up out of the stream and struck for the road.

“A challenge!” shouted Quentin at Toli’s retreating figure. He snapped Blazer’s reins as they clambered out of the water and dashed after Toli in chase.

High in the lonely foothills the sound of their race echoed and re-echoed from one blank stone face to another. Their jubilant cries sang through the rills and crevices, and rang in rock hollows and caves. The horses’ hooves struck sparks from the stone paving as they flew.

At last, exhausted and out of breath, the two trotted to a halt upon a ridge. Below them the foothills dropped away in gentle arcs, fading from violet to blue in the hazy distance. Away to the south stood the lofty, snow-wrapped crags of the Fiskills, where endless winds howled among the sharp peaks.

“Ah!” sighed Quentin as he drew a deep breath. “Such a sight! It is a beautiful land, is it not?”

“It is that and more indeed. My people have a word for the land-I do not think I have ever told you: Al-allira.”

“No, I have never heard it. What does it mean?”

“I cannot be precise-there is no exact meaning in your tongue. But it means something like ‘the land of flowing peace.’ ”

“Al-allira. I like that; it fits.” They started down together. “And it certainly is peaceful. Look out across those valleys. These years have been good ones. The land has produced full measure. The people are content. I cannot think but that the god has blessed the realm in recompense for the troubled times when Eskevar was away from his throne.”

“Yes, these have been good years. Golden times. I hope we will see them endure.”

Quentin cast a sideways glance at his companion. Toli’s eyes were focused on some distant horizon. He appeared as if in a trance.

Quentin did not want to break the happy mood, so did not pursue the matter further. They continued down the slope without speaking.

The next day dawned fair and bright, warmed by soft winds from the west. The travelers were already well on their way when the sun peeped over Erlemros, the Fiskill’s highest peak. The road made going easy and they pushed a steady pace, reaching the lowlands by midday.

They ate a hasty meal among moss-covered stones in the shade of an ancient oak and started again on their way. They had not traveled far when Toli said, “Along the road, yonder. We have some company.”

Quentin raised his eyes and saw very faintly, and very far away, what appeared to be a group of travelers coming toward them on foot. There was just a glimpse, and then a bend in the road took them from Quentin’s sight.

“Merchants, perhaps?” Quentin wondered aloud. Often traders who sold their wares from town to town banded together in traveling companies for mutual entertainment and protection. “I would buy a trinket for Bria.”

They continued on, and Quentin thought of all the things his lovely would enjoy. They rounded the side of a grassy hill covered with scarlet wildflowers and approached the spot where they had first seen the travelers.

“Odd,” said Quentin. “We should have met them by now. Perhaps they stopped up the road beyond that clump of trees.” He pointed ahead to where a bushy stand of trees overhung the road, sheltering all beyond from view.

They continued on with a growing perplexity.

When they reached the shelter of the trees they could look once again far down the road; there was not a single person to be seen.

“This becomes stranger with every step,” said Quentin.

Toli swung himself down from his horse and walked along the road, his eyes searching the dust for any signs which might hold an explanation of the disappearance of the group they had both seen quite dearly only a short white before.

They moved forward slowly. Quentin watched the wooded area to the right of the road. Then Toli stopped and knelt down. He traced his finger around the outline of footprints in the dust.

“They stopped here before leaving the road… there.” He pointed into the trees.

“How many were there?”

“I cannot say from these signs. But there were men and women, children too.”

“Humph!” The utterance was a puzzled snort. “I wonder what has sent them scurrying into the woods? Not the sight of two horsemen, surely.”

Toli shrugged and climbed back into the saddle. “Here is something else we must remember to tell the King.”

“Indeed we will.”

At dusk they camped in a grassy glade just off the road. The sun sent ruby fingers sifting through the gossamer clouds which moved gracefully across the violet arc of heaven. Quentin stood in a meadow dotted with yellow flowers that brushed pollen-laden heads against his legs. With his arms crossed on his chest and a look of dreamy concentration he contemplated the imposing shape before him: high up on its plateau, the thin trail leading up like a white wisp rising from the lower ground, stood the High Temple of Ariel.

“You miss your old home, no doubt,” said Toli coming up behind him.

“No…” said Quentin absently, then laughed as he stirred and looked into Toli’s dark brown eyes. “No more than one misses the shadows once he walks in sunshine. I was only thinking of the time I spent in that temple, for me days of loneliness and frustration, of endless studying and not finding the one I really sought. I would not have made a very good priest-I could never see the sense in anointing the sacred rock of the temple. It seemed like such a waste of expensive oil, though others esteemed it a fine gift.

“And the sacrifices-the gold bracelets, silver bowls and carefully groomed animals-simply made the priests wealthier and fatter than they already were.”

“Whist Orren demands more than bracelets, bowls or flesh. And he lives not only in temples made by men, but in their lives.”

“Yes, the God Most High holds out freedom to men; the price is unbending devotion. The lesser gods do not demand as much, but who can know them? They are like the mists on the water- when the sun touches them, they vanish.”

They turned and went back to settle themselves for the night. They ate, and Toli turned the horses out to graze in the sweet grass as evening gathered its long purple robes about the quiet glade.