by Licia Troisi
“Wind whistles through the crevices and the sea foam sprays high into the air.”
There was nothing he could do now but crawl his way along the coast and wait for Nihal.
“At night, from afar, they stand out like two shadows in the darkness, like two towers.”
Sennar swung his head around. Their conversation had reached him only in bits and pieces. He wasn’t even sure what the two soldiers were talking about, but those last few words had caught his attention.
“What were you saying looks like a tower?” he asked. Nihal had used almost the exact same words when she’d spoken of the sanctuary.
The soldier looked at him in surprise. “The two great rocks off the coast of the Gulf of Lamar. The Sea’s Meridians. The Arshet.”
It may just be what he was after … but then again …” I’m searching for a place just like the one you were describing, or at least I think I am. … Do these arshet have anything to do with the so-called ‘spires’?” Sennar asked.
The soldier smiled. “According to my grandmother, the word arshet is an ancient, elfish term for exactly that, spires. And that’s what the Arshet is: two strange, towering rocks that look like spires.”
“Thank you, thank you, and thank you,” Sennar shouted to the soldier, already racing to find his knight.
5
Sarephen
or On Hatred
Nihal recovered without delay. She’d never have admitted it, but she had truly required the rest. She could feel her body recharging itself, her muscles regaining vitality. Not since her battle with Dola had she taken any real time off, and now she realized just how much she needed it.
Laio tended to her by day, applying warm, odd-smelling pastes; at night, Megisto pitched in, preparing one excellent soup after another. But Nihal wasn’t able to fully enjoy her rest. Sennar’s departure had left her with a barely perceptible feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. The sorcerer’s words as he bid her farewell had been confident and optimistic, but there was something not quite convincing about the tone of his voice. The talisman was a danger to him.
One evening, Nihal sensed Megisto was behaving strangely. Laio had already dozed off, and she sat staring at the last embers as they faded in the fireplace.
The old man was taciturn as he moved the coals about with the poker. Nihal felt ill at ease. She knew Megisto could see the future. Every now and then, without warning, it would reveal itself to him, and the old man would see, for an instant, and indistinctly, what was due to happen next. On their first meeting, in his own way, Megisto had foreseen Soana’s return.
“What’s wrong? Why are you so quiet?”
The old man shook himself out of his stupor. When he turned toward Nihal, something dark in his expression frightened her.
“Why are you looking at me that way? What is it?”
Still, the old man said nothing, poking at the coals. Smoke rose lazily through the air. Only ashes were left in the fireplace. “Before he left, Sennar asked me to take care of you, to keep you from worrying too much over him.”
She felt something rising to the surface, a dark premonition gradually taking shape within her.
“I’m afraid I can’t keep the truth from you any longer,” the old man said grimly.
“What is it that Sennar didn’t tell me?”
“Today, when I woke, the gates of time opened and revealed the future to me. There is no spell that can contain the powers of the talisman. The force of even the single stone it now contains is already wearing down Sennar’s strength. By the time he reaches the sanctuary, he’ll be worn and exhausted. He will die there.”
Megisto’s prophecy fell like a stone into the silence of the cave.
“When?” Nihal asked, her voice choking up.
“I can’t say. My visions are always hazy, as you know. But soon: a matter of days.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know where here is now, but I know it will take place near a large bay, the Gulf of Lamar, at the center of which stand two enormous rocks. There.”
Nihal grabbed her sword and began gathering her things. She shook Laio, who was reluctant to wake, and turned again to Megisto. “Why didn’t you tell me he lied?” she snapped at him, furious.
“You know well why Sennar has come with you on this mission. I wanted to be true to his wishes. I held out as long as I could.”
As soon as they were ready, at the first sign of day, Nihal and Laio leaped onto Oarf’s back.
“Thank you,” Nihal whispered to the old man just as they took to the air.
But Megisto had already turned back to stone.
Aymar was forced to employ his entire arsenal of persuasive techniques—which was, in truth, rather scarce—and every ounce of his good sense to convince Sennar to wait to set off until dawn.
Just as soon as the sun tinged the western sky, the sorcerer burst into the knight’s room and shook him from his bed. “It’s time to go,” he said.
Sennar dragged Aymar, still half-asleep, to the dragon, and they took flight.
Sennar was hoping Aymar would bring him to one of the arshet, but the knight insisted it would be impossible. His dragon had nowhere to land on the sharp and jagged rocks. Sennar would have to settle for a point along the coast of Lamar, where he could rent a boat. Fortunately, the count had given him a bit of money.
Dusk had come and gone by the time they reached Lamar. Sennar leaped down from the dragon, bid farewell to Aymar with hardly a thank you, and hurried on his way, heading straight for the port.
The city was a vast labyrinth of narrow alleyways that opened out now and then onto little squares, and Sennar could barely keep his bearings. When he finally reached the port and its docks, he was greeted by a swarm of ships. The moon was high. Procuring a boat at this hour would be difficult. At the fifth dock he came to, however, the sorcerer ran into a kind soul, willing, at least, to hear his request.
“A boat? At this hour?” asked the wizened old man. His back was hunched, weighted down by time, and he was completely bald. “For what?” he added, twisting a rope in his callous, bony hands.
“I have to reach the Arshet,” Sennar muttered impatiently. “I can pay you right away.” He held out the money.
“Money’s not the issue,” the old man insisted, nonetheless glancing down at the coins in Sennar’s hand. “It’s tricky to sail these waters at night. Do you know how to handle a boat?”
“It can’t be all that difficult. …” Sennar muttered. His words were met with a hearty laugh.
The old man finally stopped laughing and eyed Sennar again. “Later on, there’s a group of fishermen going out to sea. You’d be better off hitching a ride with them.”
“Where are they?”
“It’s still early,” said the old man. “I don’t know where you’re from, but around here this is dinner time.”
As if there were any time to eat. …
Despite his determination, Sennar’s stomach began to growl. He blushed.
The old man shot him a look of amusement. “Listen, young man, you seem to be a bit hard up, and you won’t get very far in such a state. Why don’t you have dinner with me? Then I’ll introduce you to a fisherman I know.”
“I’m not sure I have enough money for both the boat and dinner.”
The old man’s expression changed. “Where the devil do you come from? Here in the Land of the Sea, we’re known for our hospitality. Quit jabbering like a fool.” He flung open the door and showed the boy into his hut, which faced out onto the pier.
Sennar was served a bowl of fish soup like the soup his mother often made. The smell and flavor stirred up some of his fondest memories. It pained him that he wouldn’t have time to visit his own village and see his mother.
Soon enough, it was time to go. They left the hut and walked together
along the dock. The old man asked Sennar the one question he dreaded most. “So what makes you want to head out to the Arshet?”
Sennar hesitated. He couldn’t think of a plausible lie. “I’m looking for something there,” he mumbled.
“In what sense?” the old man insisted.
Sennar let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, but it’s a sort of secret. … In fact, it is a secret. … I really can’t tell you.”
“Well, I suppose everyone has a few skeletons in the closet,” the old man replied philosophically, and Sennar thanked the heavens for the discretion of his native people.
They arrived at a dock crowded with fishermen. A few boats were anchored there, each with the faint gleam of a lantern at its stern. The old man approached one of the fishermen, a hulking powerhouse of a man, black as the night around him. The two conferred for a moment and then called Sennar over. Without a word, the fisherman nodded for him to board the boat. Before long, they untied and made for the open sea.
Because the Gulf of Lamar was sheltered, the water was calm, and the waves crashed and dissolved before they could reach the shore. Sennar’s gaze wandered back and forth from the water running peacefully beneath the boat to the muscled back of the man rowing in front of him.
It was the fisherman who broke the silence at last. “They say that in ancient times, a fortunate people lived on that mountain in a magnificent city, all of gold. They were doted on by the gods, who granted them wealth and prosperity. Soon enough, though, greed took hold of their hearts. They were no longer content with the peace of their splendid city. They traveled down into the valley and began to pillage and destroy the cities they encountered on their way. They became powerful, feared, and used terror and force to rule their kingdom, thus bringing about their own downfall. The gods, unable to tolerate their contemptible behavior any longer, decided to destroy their city and cast them into misery. In a single night, the mountain was destroyed and turned upside down. The city was drowned, and this round crater took its place. Soon after, the gods summoned the Arshet up from the seabed—immense, imposing towers that rise from the earth to the heavens. All to prove that no man can ever rise to the height of the gods. No one has ever scaled their razor-sharp rock walls,” the fisherman concluded in a satisfied tone, fixing Sennar in his gaze.
“I’m not interested in rising to the height of the gods. I’m here for a different reason,” said the sorcerer, and went back to staring at the black water coursing beneath the hull of the boat.
No, he hadn’t come to the Arshet to challenge the gods, but nonetheless he knew himself a blasphemer because his hands were impure and unworthy of touching the stones. He shook his head and pushed the thought aside.
The boat glided slowly beneath the menacing light of the moon that struck Sennar as a warning of danger to come. A chill ran down the length of his spine. In his pocket, the heat let off by the amulet continued to grow. Once again, the leaves were beginning to fall to bits, and Sennar was forced to take deep breaths in order to combat the feeling of tightness in his chest.
Nihal didn’t allow Oarf any rest. She forced him to fly for the whole day and the night that followed. The dragon’s muscles quaked with exhaustion.
“Don’t give in!” Nihal begged.
At dawn the next day, they finally paused, but Nihal didn’t eat a bite. During the night and despite her best efforts, she had drifted off to sleep for a moment, and Sennar’s face appeared to her in a dream. Surrounded by the faces of the dead, it was pale and cold and wearing the same vacant expression she had seen on Fen’s ghost. She’d woken with a start.
Laio, who was shoveling down his dinner beside an exhausted Oarf, did his best to lift her spirits. “Don’t worry, we’re going to reach Sennar in time. Megisto would never have told you at all if there weren’t some way to save him. It’s all going to be fine.”
His words, however, provided no comfort. There was only one person who could have reassured her, and right now his life was hanging by a thread.
They resumed their journey, flying over the Little Sea and the Central Desert. When dusk came, Nihal and Laio watched as the sun sank into the ocean. They were close now to the Gulf of Lamar.
After a wordless hour of rowing, Sennar could finally make out the figure of the Arshet in the distance, two enormous shadows in the darkness. They towered above the gulf and Sennar could see the sharp, jagged spikes sticking out of the steep rocky faces. The rocks gleamed with a strange silver light, as if reflecting the moon. Sennar’s fear mounted.
“There’s still time to change your mind,” said the man.
Sennar was silent, taking in the two gargantuan figures. “No,” he answered at last. “What I’ve come to do here is too important.”
The man shook his head. “I’ll drop you off a short distance from the base. The rest is up to you. These aren’t just plain old rocks. They are sacred idols of the gods, and no profane foot may step upon them. I don’t want anything more to do with this.”
They arrived two hours later, and, as agreed, the fisherman dropped him off some distance from the rocks. Now that they were farther offshore, the sea was choppier and waves crashed up against the base of the Arshet, the water spraying upward with tremendous force. The wind howled. It was just as Nihal had described it.
“Here we are. Time to disembark,” the fisherman ordered.
Sennar stood, but he could feel his legs giving way beneath him and his head spinning. To keep from falling, he gripped the edge of the boat.
“Everything alright?” the man asked.
Sennar nodded. In his pocket, he could feel the weight and the heat of the amulet. He regained his courage and looked down at the water. No doubt it was freezing. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, but the man made no reply. He merely gestured once more for Sennar to get out, turning his back on the sorcerer and the two obscure rocks.
Sennar muttered a spell and a narrow bridge of light formed along the water. Fortunately, a span of only a few feet lay between him and the rock wall, and he crossed it without delay. He watched as the fisherman rowed away with all his strength. He was alone with the two colossal rocks. Already, they seemed to be rejecting his presence.
Sennar moved around the base, but could find no entrance. Just two rocks, two stone masses. Could it be that the sanctuary was at the peak?
Suddenly, without warning, the luminous pathway beneath his feet faded and Sennar fell into the freezing water. The amulet was gaining strength; the second stone must be here.
Sennar decided it would be best to save what little strength he had left for his encounter with the guardian, and refrained from using any more magic. He swam to the base of one of the Arshet and narrowly missed being slammed against the side of the rock by the waves. He gripped the stone with both arms and caught his breath.
When he lifted his gaze, he noticed a crevice three yards or so above his head. The entrance to the sanctuary. There was an inscription above the doorway, but Sennar couldn’t make out the letters from where he was.
He set about scaling the slimy, razor-sharp rock. It took him several minutes, but soon enough he’d made it. With one final push, he hoisted himself up and stood before the entrance. A single threatening word loomed down from above: Seraphen.
Sennar rifled through his memory. Seraph, “sea,” Nihal had said. This was the entrance. He hesitated for a moment there, trying to catch his breath. He glanced below and shivered in fright.
Wedged between the spikes of black rock, he noticed something, an object gleaming white. Bones. The bones of shipwrecked sailors. Or, perhaps, the bones of others like himself, unworthy of approaching the sanctuary walls. Rather than dwell on it and feed his fear, Sennar entered without delay. The darkness wrapped itself around him.
It was a cold, gloomy evening. Oarf could hardly move his wings. It was then that the two Arshet emerged from the darkness. Immense, sinister, b
lacker than night. They brought to mind the unsettling image of the Tyrant’s Fortress.
“There they are!” Nihal shouted. “We’re here.”
Hold out, Sennar! Please, hold out just a little longer!
Several times in the past, Sennar had gazed upon the Tyrant’s fortress and wondered what it looked like inside. Now, entering the sanctuary, he seemed to be stepping into his own imagined idea of the Tyrant’s dwelling.
At the tower’s summit was an opening, so high up as to appear miniscule, though in reality it must have been enormous, through which light filtered to illuminate the sanctuary. Beyond it, Sennar could make out a bit of sky and moon. The base of the structure was round, with a pointed rock pinnacle that rose nearly to the opening above. A staircase spiraled upward around the pinnacle, its small, treacherous steps carved into the rock. Now and then, a spray of white sea foam came in through one of the many crenels in the steep inner walls as waves crashed against the structure.
Sennar stood there in thought for a moment, gathering courage to move forward. When at last he proceeded toward the central pinnacle, his footsteps echoed hauntingly.
Sennar raised his foot to the first slick, narrow step and began to climb. Where was the guardian? He heard only the howl of the sea as it slammed against the rocks and the agonizing wail of the wind, as well as his own, faltering footsteps, his ever more labored breathing.
Sennar was frightened, but it wasn’t fear that had him wobbling with each step. It was the amulet in his pocket, lunging forward with all its force to unite with the second stone. More than once he slipped, nearly falling from the stairway, only to regain his balance and push onward up the endless pinnacle. When he looked down, the inner floor of the Arshet seemed miles away, and yet when he looked up, his destination seemed farther away than ever.
The worst part was the sanctuary’s apparent emptiness. It couldn’t really be empty, of this Sennar was certain. The guardian must be hiding in the shadows, waiting for just the right moment. Sennar could feel its presence, could sense it acutely, but nothing appeared.
