It—she looked very militant, and I bethought me of Gamemistress Joumerie at Vorbold’s House back in Xammer a time that seemed long ago indeed. `Joumerie,” I said, giving Ganver my old gamemistress’ name. “You are, ah—you are Gameswoman Elator Joumerie.”
“Very well,” she said. “Now keep a modest face on you.”
The Armigers stalked, pace on pace, posing and posturing, lifting their feet high, plumes nodding on their helms, keeping in step with one another until they came up on us at either side. The one from the left-hand fortress spoke first, leaving the other fuming a bit, red in the face.
“What business have you here?”
“None at all,” said Ganver. “We but pass through on our way north.”
“Your names and station?” demanded the other.
“I am Gameswoman Elator Joumerie,” it—she said. “Passing quietly with one servant, opposing none, asking no Game.”
Left hand sneered. “We accept none such in this valley, Gameswoman. You must choose left or right, right or left, the fortress of Zyle or the fortress of Zale.”
“I have heard of two brothers styled Zyle and Zale,” said Ganver in a mild voice. “Could these be they?”
“Who or what they are is no business of yours. You have only to choose which you will follow.”
“And if I choose to follow neither?”
“Then you will go no farther on this road.”
“Then we will return the way we came.”
“You will neither go forward nor return.”
I looked over my shoulder to see the Armigers ranked behind us, interspersed with Sorcerers to Hold Power for them and a few Tragamors for depth of attack. Half of them were in yellow and half in black, standing well apart, alike in intent though not in allegiance.
“Well then,” said Ganver, “I will let my page choose, for it matters nothing to me.”
I had had enough of blackness, blackness of shadows and grayness of spaces where nothing happened. The yellow reminded me of the Daylight Bell, so I moved a step to the left.
“Zyle it is,” said Ganver. There was a low growl from the black-clad Armiger, and he stalked off toward his fortress with the others after him. We, surrounded by a yellow-clad escort, went toward the left-hand fortress. As we drew near, I saw they were much alike, these two bastions, both with high, crenellated walls and fangy portcullises, both decked with banners that hung slack in the quiet morning air. When we came through the barbican gate, we were confronted by a pale, slender man wearing the shabby cloak of a Prophet and walking with the aid of a cane.
“Accept my apologies for delaying you Gameswomen. It is my way of saving travelers the inconvenience of serving Castle Zale. If you will accept a meal, rest perhaps a day, there are tunnels which will take you into the forests north and safe away. . . .
Ganver mimed confusion, modest outrage. “And what if my page had chosen Castle Zale?”
The Prophet dug into the paving with his cane, seeming unconcerned at the question. “Few do. They find the black garb of my . . . of the Dragon Zale forbidding. Also—I am able with some degree of certainty to See if that is a likelihood. . . .”
I remembered then that Prophets have the Talents of Flying, Fire, and Seeing. If the Dragon of Zale was indeed this one’s brother, they shared family Talent. If I remembered the Index aright, both Prophets and Dragons were Armigerians; Zale would lack Seeing and have a limited power of Shifting instead.
Ganver was asking in a cold voice, “And if you had Seen that likelihood?”
“I . . . ah, I would much have regretted it. The Dragon of Zale does not treat travelers well. We do what we can to assure fairness.” He looked at us with dead eyes that did not seem to see us, glancing always away toward the other keep across the valley as though whatever he could feel was housed there, not in this place at all. As though, I told myself, his heart were there, with his enemy.
Ganver did not press further; we accepted the hospitality of the place, I wondered all the time what this was about. Evening came. Ganver asked to see the Prophet Zyle, and we were escorted into his presence. As we went, Ganver whispered once more, “Watch and learn.”
The Prophet was on the walls, and we went to him there. As we came up to him, I heard a sound, far and far to the north, like a reverberation from memory, quiet as evening and yet with a plangent hush that flooded the world. The Shadowbell. In a moment the echo returned from the south. The Daylight Bell, resonating softly to keep the shadow in check.
Both Ganver and the Prophet stood facing me. In Ganver’s face I saw the brightening, the awakening, the hearing that I knew was on my own. On the Prophet’s face nothing, no consciousness. He turned from me impatiently, peering at the keep across the valley, and I thought again it was as though his being dwelt there and not here where we were.
This one lacked something. If he did not lighten at the Daylight Bell, however soft and far its sound might be, it meant something within him was missing. My heart was sick within me, and I could not understand. He had treated us well, though coldly. He had not seemed a soulless wight. The Eesty caught my eye, shaking like a garment the Elator head it wore.
“We came to express our thanks, Prophet. If it is convenient for you to show us the tunnels to the north, we will take our leave. We go on a matter of some urgency. “
And we went, to come out far to the north under the early
