again. And I will be recalled from the darkness, to await another Candidate.”
Haroun glanced at the old bronze sword. He reached — then drew back. As if sensing final rejection, the blade disappeared. Eyes wide, Haroun turned to the old man.
The alleged son of Ethrian the Wise had vanished too. Only dusty bones sat on the chalcedony throne.
Imp-Child considered him gravely. “Thank you. For the old man’s freedom. For mine. Take your people away now. Your pursuers won’t see you go.”
There was a flash and a pop. When Haroun’s senses cleared he found himself alone with bones and dust and three empty pillows.
A hint of dawn rosed the sills of the windows. For a moment he wondered if his visit hadn’t been a hallucination.
But no. It had been real. He had healed. He wore a ragged ermine mantle, which he removed. And he felt driven to reclaim the usurped throne he’d never seen.
It was a need he would do anything to fulfill.
He went down dusty stairs and out a doorway which disappeared behind him. Looking north, he saw the dawn- tinted, snow-capped peaks of the Kapenrung Mountains. One day. Maybe two. He surveyed his companions. Bragi, the boys and all the animals were in a deep sleep beside a pool of water. They all looked healthier than when last he had seen them.
On a distant ridgeline a band of horsemen paused to study the land ahead, then stumbled forward along a trail which had no end.
“Wake up, Bragi. Time to get moving.”
The old man stepped from behind the chalcedony throne. He carried a huge cornucopia. He stuffed its bell with pillows, bones and such. He muttered to himself while he worked.
“The stage is set. The struggle will last a generation.”
He whipped around the throne, dragged a squawking Imp-Child from hiding. “Crafty little wretch. Thought I’d forget you, eh?” He booted the imp into the horn’s bell. It tried to scramble out. He grunted as he strained to overcome it. “In, damn it! In!” The cherub squealed piteously and popped out of sight.
The old man leaned against the windowsill and watched the fugitives straggle away. He chuckled malevolently. “Now for Nassef,” he said, and crooked a finger at the riders in the hills.
“What happened?” Bragi asked. “It seemed like I dreamed for days.”
“I’m not sure,” Haroun replied. He told what he could recall. “But I don’t know if it was real. I already feel tired again.”
They paused atop a ridgeline and looked back. There was no sign of a watchtower.
Haroun shrugged. “Real or not, we have to go on.” He seemed to feel a heavy weight atop his head. He glared at the mountains before them, started forward, grimly determined.
Here Ends Book 1 of the
