Now and again the whiteness parted briefly, eddying around a clump of rock or a sick looking shrub. But for these occasional sights, and the jogging of his mount's steps, Fost would have thought he was standing still, lost in the mist.
For the tenth time in the last five minutes he fought down the urge to ask Ziore if she was sure she knew where they were going. Erimenes had reluctantly led him and Moriana to the Ethereals' village, the only alternative being freezing to death in a blizzard. He had sensed the nearness of humans and steered his companions toward them. Ziore had the same senses and used them. But with Fost's visual world constricted to a sphere the radius of his arm, it was hard for him to believe that Ziore knew her way.
Abruptly the mist parted. Before him rose a random clump of huts rudely made from chunks of slag cast up when a meteorite had struck the Steppe during the contest between Felarod and the World Spirit on one side and Istu on the other. A few pale folk, as wispy as the mists through which he rode, drifted without purpose among the buildings. The smell of drying seaweed and an open latrine assailed his nostrils. 'See,' Ziore said smugly. 'I told you I steered us truly.'
He felt an impact behind his right leg. His dog jumped, doubling back with a snarl. He swatted it briskly on the head before it snapped at Synalon's mount which had blundered into it. He cursed under his breath. This collision was his fault. He'd been so surprised at seeing the Ethereals' village that he hadn't given the agreed upon two tugs on the rope tied between Synalon's saddle and his own. He looked back to see the princess rearranging her garments and got the impression she had drawn her black silk tunic open wide to let the damp mist play across her breasts and belly. He saw color on her cheeks. She smiled; he quickly looked away.
'We're here,' he said unnecessarily, feeling the need to be saying something to cover the awkwardness he felt.
Synalon gestured imperiously to him to lead the way. They wound their way around sad, slumping huts to the large round building in the center of the settlement. Fost recognized this as the temple where the Ethereals gathered to meditate. As the two reined in before the irregular door, a man emerged, stooping to pass beneath the sagging lintel. Fost recognized him as well.
'Greetings, strangers,' the Ethereal said in a high, sweet voice. 'I know not what brings you, but you are welcome to rest. And who knows? You may come to share the wisdom of our ways and give up the distress and discord of the material world, which is the world of illusion.'
'It's plain to see we received the more difficult task,' Synalon remarked sardonically.
'Greetings yourself,' said Fost, swinging off his dog. 'I'm no stranger. The woman with me is. Meet Her Royal Highness, Synalon Etuul, Princess of the City in the Sky, currently in exile. Your Highness, this is Itenyim, of the Ethereals. He's an exile, too. From reality.'
'That's not very diplomatic,' Ziore chided softly. Fost shrugged it off. He hadn't realized how bitter he was toward the Ethereals.
'We employ no titles here,' said the Ethereal, ignoring Fost's jibe. 'But you are welcome.'
Synalon stayed on her dog, regarding the Ethereal. She had taken him for a woman at first, because of the slim, frail form and the effeminate features. But the bone structure of the face and the protuberant Adam's apple were clearly masculine, as was the body clad in a simple, dirty green robe that hung to the knees.
'I see the temple wall's finally caved in,' remarked Fost, gesturing to a gap in the melted rock wall. 'They put me to work there when Moriana and I stayed here before. I wasn't at it long enough to do much good, it appears. Where's Selamyl?' A shadow crossed the flawless features. 'Selamyl met with misfortune after you and the woman departed.'
'A misfortune named Rann?' The Ethereal didn't answer. Not looking at Synalon, Fost said, 'Well, round up your people as best you can. We need to talk to them at once.' 'They are about their dances and duties and meditations.'
'Those dances and duties and meditations are about to be permanently interrupted,' said Fost briskly. 'Tell them that unless they listen to the princess and me they are going to have visitors who make Rann look as saintly as Erimenes himself.'
Itenyim's face, already alabaster, turned a shade lighter. He turned and walked off, almost hurrying. A strap was broken on his sandal, giving him a limp. 'Saintly?' asked Synalon, arching a brow.
'They think he is,' said Fost. 'I told you they were divorced from reality.'
'Return to Athalau?' The Ethereal woman's face was a marble mask of incomprehension. 'That's impossible.'
'It had better not be impossible,' Fost said, 'or you and I and the princess and every other human being in the Realm are going to be dead before this winter's snow is melted.' 'Life is illusion,' answered the woman.
Fost bared his teeth. He had the urge to grab her and shake loose her complacency. But that wouldn't only be wrong, it'd be futile. If these people had resisted Rann's special brand of persuasiveness as long as they had, mere shaking wouldn't do any good.
'Are the Dark Ones an illusion?' he asked, voice ragged with exasperation. 'They're what we face.'
A ripple passed through the small crowd assembled in the temple. At least, mention of the Dark Ones got some response. 'What have these matters to do with us?' asked another.
Fost glanced at Synalon. at ease beside him on a three-legged stool that gave every indication of collapsing beneath her. Her lips were curled, and it wasn't just at the odor of stale clothing and indifferently washed bodies that permeated the low-roofed building. Even the air current blowing between the door and the hole in the wall failed to freshen the atmosphere. 'Do you know what's happened?' he asked.
It was a foolish question. He didn't need the sheep-like faces turned to his, some already showing unmistakable traces of boredom, to tell him so.
'We do not trouble ourselves with the gross affairs of the world beyond our village,' said Itenyim loftily.
'The world outside your village is about to trouble you, however,' Fost said, 'and what it will do to you is more than a little gross. The Fallen Ones are back in control of the Sky City, my friends, and Istu rides it like a raft.' His listeners shrank away.
'The Demon is loose?' another woman asked. Fost nodded.
The Ethereals turned to one another and spoke in subdued, quavering tones. Their ancestors had turned their backs on their own past, but fear of the Zr'gsz and of the Demon of the Dark Ones lay deep in human bones.
'Istu knows who you are,' Fost said, which was quite possible. 'He hates you for what your forebears helped do to him.'
'But have we not made amends?' Itenyim gasped. 'Our fathers and mothers forsook Athalau and came to this spot in the wilderness out of remorse for what they had wrought. Is this not enough?'
The air exploded from Synalon's lungs in a surprised snort. Fost scarcely believed what he heard. The Ethereals were hoping Istu would forgive them for their ancestors helping to cast him down!
'Nothing you could do would be enough,' said Synalon. 'The Demon of the Dark Ones knows as little of forgiveness as he knows of mercy. What he does know would shrivel your souls if you heard.' The effect her words produced on the Ethereals hardly seemed great. By normal standards they were still impassive.
'What is it you want of us?' asked a more or less male voice from the rear of the temple.
Fost felt like cheering. They'd gotten through to at least one of the Ethereals.
'What we're asking is grave, I won't deny. We need some of you – as many as we can get – to come with us to Athalau. There we must find the Nexus and use it to get in touch with the World Spirit, as Felarod and your ancestors did ten thousand years ago.'
'But it was for shame at what they'd helped Felarod do that our ancestors came here,' someone cried. 'They helped save the world,' Fost shouted back.
'The material world.' Itenyim practically sneered. 'Had the world been destroyed, think of the generations that would have been spared from suffering its illusions.'
Be calm, Fost, Ziore urged him from her jug. Given the Ethereals' historic dislike for Athalar magic, she had agreed it was best she not show herself to them.
'Suffering?' Fost spat the word. 'For all that the world is illusion, Master Itenyim, you acknowledge suffering as real. And I tell you the suffering the Hissers and their ally have inflicted, and will continue to inflict unless stopped, is a thousand times greater than anything humanity has suffered from the illusions of the material world.'
'But the sufferings of the body are nothing,' the first woman intoned, as if reciting a litany. 'Serenity of the
