Bodasen smiled. “See that you do, my friends. These are not Drenai lands, and there are other customs here. The Emperor is a good man, a fine man. Even so he must maintain discipline, and he will not tolerate such bad manners again.”
The Drenai warriors were billeted in the town centre, all save Druss and Sieben who had not signed on to fight for the Ventrians. Bodasen took the two of them to a deserted inn and told them to choose their own rooms. Food, he said, could be found at either of the two main barracks, although there were still some shops and stalls in the town centre.
“Do you want to look at the city?” asked Sieben, after the Ventrian general had left. Druss sat on a narrow bed staring at his hands; he did not seem to hear the question. The poet sat alongside him. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“Empty.”
“Everyone dies, Druss. Even you and I. It is not your fault.”
“I don’t care about fault. I just keep thinking about our time in the mountains together. I can still feel… the touch of her hand. I can still hear…” He stumbled to silence, his face reddened and his jaw set in a tight line. “What was that about the city?” he growled.
“I thought we could take a look around.”
“Good. Let’s go.” Druss rose, gathered his axe and strode through the door. The inn was situated on Vine Street. Bodasen had given them directions through the city and these were easy to follow, the roads being wide, the signs in several languages including the western tongue. The buildings were of white and grey stone, some more than four levels high. There were gleaming towers, domed palaces, gardens and tree-lined avenues. The scent of flowers, jasmine and rose, was everywhere.
“It is very beautiful,” observed Sieben. They passed a near-deserted barracks and headed on towards the eastern wall. From the distance they could hear the clash of blades and the thin cries of wounded men. “I think I’ve seen enough,” announced Sieben, halting.
Druss gave a cold smile. “As you wish,” he said.
“There’s a temple back there I’d like to see more of. You know, the one with the white horses?”
“I saw it,” said Druss. The two men retraced their steps until they came to a large square. The temple was domed, and around it were twelve exquisitely sculpted statues of rearing horses, three times larger than life. A huge arched gateway, with open gates of polished brass and silver between beckoned the two men into the temple. The domed roof had seven windows, all of coloured glass, and beams of light criss-crossed the high altar. There were benches that could seat almost a thousand people, Sieben calculated, and upon the altar was a table on which was set a hunting horn of gold encrusted with gems. The poet walked down the aisle and climbed to the altar. “It’s worth a fortune,” he said.
“On the contrary,” came a low voice, “it is priceless.” Sieben turned to see a priest in robes of grey wool, embroidered with silver thread. The man was tall, his shaven head and long nose giving him a birdlike appearance. “Welcome to the shrine of Pashtar Sen.”
“The citizens here must be worthy of great trust,” said Sieben. “Such a prize as this would gain a man enormous wealth.”
The priest gave a thin smile. “Not really. Lift it!”
Sieben reached out his hand, but his fingers closed on air. The golden horn, so substantial to the eye, was merely an image. “Incredible!” whispered the poet. “How is it done?”
The priest shrugged and spread his thin arms. “Pashtar Sen worked the miracle a thousand years ago. He was a poet and a scholar, but also a man of war. According to myth he met the goddess, Ciris, and she gave him the hunting horn as a reward for his valour. He placed it here. And the moment it left his grasp it became as you see it.”
“What is its purpose?” Sieben asked.
“It has healing properties. Barren women are said to become fertile if they lie upon the altar and cover the horn. There is some evidence that this is true. And once every ten years the horn is said to become solid once more and then, so we are told, it can bring a man back from the halls of death, or carry his spirit to the stars.”
“Have you ever seen it become solid?”
“No. And I have been a servant here for thirty-seven years.”
“Fascinating. What happened to Pashtar Sen?”
“He refused to fight for the Emperor and was impaled on a spike of iron.”
“Not a good ending.”
“Indeed not, but he was a man of principle and believed the Emperor to be in the wrong. Are you here to fight for Ventria?”
“No. We are visitors.”
The priest nodded and turned to Druss. “Your mind is far away, my son,” he said. “Are you troubled?”
“He has suffered a great loss,” said Sieben swiftly.
“A loved one? Ah, I see. Would you wish to commune with her, my son?”
“What do you mean?” growled Druss.
“I could summon her spirit. It might bring you peace.”
Druss stepped forward. “You could do that?”
“I could try. Follow me.” The priest led them into the shadowed recesses at the rear of the temple, then along a narrow corridor to a small, windowless room. “You must leave your weapons outside,” said the priest. Druss leaned Snaga against the wall, and Sieben hung his baldric of knives to the haft. Inside the room there were two chairs facing one another; the priest sat in the first, beckoning Druss to take the second. “This room,” said the
