“Never is a stupid word,” the Eithlisch replied. “Our history is longer than you can imagine, Alwyn Scribe. Your mad queen is not the first to cast hungry eyes upon these lands. But—” he shrugged “—it has been a very long time since so great a threat loomed. We met it then, and defeated it, though it cost us much in blood. There’s a place, far from here, a cove on the southern shore where the sands turned red with it. Even today, I can feel the stain of so much slaughter.”

  “You talk like you were there,” Juhlina observed.

  To this, the Eithlisch said nothing. Usually, when his willingness to converse had been exhausted, he would rise and stalk off into the night. This time, for some reason, he lingered.

  “He was,” I said. I watched the Eithlisch stare into the fire, eyes distant with grim remembrance. “Do you have any notion of how old you are?”

  I was unused to seeing any emotion on his face beyond disapproval, so it was jarring to see a faint smile play over his lips. “Older than you,” he said. “Yet younger than the Doenlisch.”

  Abruptly, the amusement vanished from his features and he stood, eyes fixed upon the darkness beyond the firelight. At first I heard nothing, but soon it reached my ears, a steady thrum that built into the familiar drumbeat of hooves upon the earth.

  “Paelah,” I said, reaching for my sword and getting to my feet. “It means ‘horse’, doesn’t it?”

  “It means more than that,” he muttered back. Seeing the sword in my hand, he added, “Keep it sheathed, for now.”

  The riders came into view soon after. I counted a dozen vague mounted shapes coming to a halt, keeping to the shadows. Snorts and stamping hooves filled the night air while the Eithlisch stood in frowning expectation. I discerned a pinched quality to his expression, as if he suffered a grave insult.

  “Should’ve brought a crossbow,” Juhlina said, shifting to my side with her warhammer in hand. A loud whinny in the dark caused her to raise the weapon to readiness.

  “Easy,” I told her, placing a restraining hand on her arm. “I doubt fighting will avail us much now.”

  Another snort sounded from the shadows and a horse stepped forward to reveal itself, drawing a muffled exclamation from Juhlina. I found the sight of the beast no less startling. It stood at least two hands taller at the shoulder than even the most impressive warhorse I had seen, its coat all black save for a flash of white in the centre of its forehead. Its neck and shoulders were a knotted mass of muscle that made the rider on its back appear almost childlike. More arresting than its size and evident power were its eyes. Blackfoot was a clever animal by horse standards, and would often exhibit his frequent scorn or occasional approval with just a glance. Looking into the bright but narrowed gaze of this creature, I knew instinctively its nature went beyond mere cleverness. Also curious was the absence of a bridle. Its head was completely unfettered, and the reins held by the rider were affixed to a harness about the animal’s shoulders.

  “This is him?” the rider asked. Dragging my gaze from the eyes of his mount, I saw a lean man of bronzed complexion clad in leather armour far more hardy and extensive than most toalisch. A lance was strapped across his back and a flat bow hung from his saddle. His words were coloured by an accent harsher than the forest and hill dwelling Caerith we had met so far.

  The Eithlisch gave no response, merely maintaining his same frowning stance. His failure to answer appeared to act as a signal for the other Paelith, each one coming forward to reveal the circle they formed around us. The horses varied in colouring but were all equal in size to the black giant who continued to regard me with his too clever eyes.

  “I have no patience for your pretensions, old man,” the bronze-skinned Paelith told the Eithlisch. The horse brought him closer, even though I saw no signal from the rider. As he leaned forward in the saddle, I beheld a face set in stern, demanding anger. His markings were more regular than most Caerith, twin lines of pale flesh tracing from his brows and over his shaven head. “Is this him?” he asked again, jabbing a finger at me.

  Still the Eithlisch did not consent to reply, stubborn resentment showing in his clenched jaw and bunching fists. Sensing matters were about to escalate to an uncertain outcome, I stepped forward, offering the rider the customary nod of greeting.

  “My name is Alwyn Scribe,” I said in Caerith. “And I bear the mark of the Doenlisch, if that is your meaning.”

  The rider stared at me with all the respect one might afford the leavings of a dog’s arse. After a long interval of disdainful scrutiny, he sat back in his saddle, giving a contemptuous sniff. “Liar,” he said simply, addressing his words to the circle of riders. “This Ishlichen filth may have learned to prattle in our tongue, but that proves nothing. I sense not the slightest hint of the Doenlisch’s touch upon him.”

  “You have no vaerith, Morieth!” the Eithlisch growled. “You are not fit to judge such things.”

  “And you have no say over me or mine, old man!” Morieth snapped back. “Too long have the Paelith suffered the weight of your decrepit creed. We will chart our own meilah, the path of the paelah, the path that tells us there is no trust or alliance to be had with the Ishlichen. You travel far, spreading warnings of war. Let it come and let it be the end of his kind.” Moving with the swiftness of a skill learned since childhood, Morieth unslung the lance from his back, levelling the point at me. The action was repeated by his companions, the surrounding circle bristling with spearpoints. Juhlina shifted into a fighting stance, hefting her warhammer while I made ready to draw my longsword. Strangely, this display of aggression failed to rouse their mounts to more than a gentle sway of the head.

  “The Doenlisch would never have put her mark on one such as this,” Morieth continued, lance again jabbing in my direction. “You, Eithlisch, are either a gulled fool or a deceiver.”

  The Eithlisch let out an ominous groan, his shoulders broadening as he began to swell. It seemed he was prepared to fight for me, after all. “The only deceiver here is you,” he said, the words emerging through a wall of clenched teeth. “Why?” the Eithlisch demanded, rounding on the other riders. “Once the Paelith were true to our ways. Why do you allow yourselves to be guided into folly by this spinner of lies?”

  If the encircling warriors were cowed by the swollen giant’s anger, none showed it. Scanning their faces, I felt a rush of recognition for the rigid, unflinching countenance of the true fanatic. This lot were every bit as committed to Morieth’s creed as anyone who ever followed Evadine. Realising this confrontation would have but one ending, I took a firmer grip on my sword and began to inch the blade free of the scabbard. Morieth was still distracted by the Eithlisch. If I could cut him down quickly, we might have a chance, albeit a slim one.

  My deadly intent, however, came to an abrupt halt, along with the increasingly voluminous argument betwixt the two Caerith, when the black horse Morieth rode raised its head to emit a sound that cannot truly be termed a whinny. It was far deeper, a low rumble lacking any shrillness. And I felt it, deep in my bones.

  Morieth fell instantly silent, as did the Eithlisch. In an instant, the Paelith rider’s expression lost its fanatical rictus to shift into wide-eyed fear. He started in fright as the horse came towards me, but made no move to stop it. I fought the urge to run and forced myself to lower my sword, watching the horse’s mighty head loom above. As it sniffed me, I felt the hot, musty gusts of its breath, like the blasts of heated air from an open forge door. Once again, I saw the intelligence in its eyes, and knew myself to be subject to careful appraisal. I was unable to prevent my gaze slipping to the massive, shaggy hooves, my heart labouring faster with the knowledge that this animal could pound me to ruin on a whim. The great horse snorted, recapturing my attention. Was there a glint of amusement there in the slight narrowing of its gaze? I couldn’t know, but, amused or not, I saw no sign of hostility.

  Snorting in apparent satisfaction, the horse raised its head and retreated a few paces, whereupon it reared with such sudden violence that Morieth was cast from the saddle. He landed hard, but scrambled to his feet with lithe quickness. I expected the rage of the embarrassed braggart, but instead he appeared stricken as he gaped at his mount. The horse, however, deigned not to afford Morieth another glance. Instead, it let out another throaty rumble and the horses on either side also reared to dump their riders from the saddle. The other paelah drew back, much to the patent disappointment of the fanatics they carried.

  “What a pitiable fool you are, Morieth,” the Eithlisch said, his swollen bulk diminishing as he strode forward to take the reins of a russet-coloured mare with a vacant saddle. “You may be unable to discern the mark of the Doenlisch, but the paelah are not.”

  Morieth, all defiance and antagonism apparently leached from him, had no answer. He stumbled away like a man fleeing a scene of horror, dropping his lance to pelt into the darkness.

  “A Paelith who will never again ride the paelah,” the Eithlisch said, casting his words at the crestfallen warriors. “That is the fate of those who deny the true meilah. You have been fools, but no soul need be a fool forever. Atone by escorting us to the Mirror City.” With that, he climbed on to the mare’s back. “Mount up, Alwyn Scribe,” he told me, gesturing to the black horse. “They don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Eithlisch told me the black paelah’s name was Uthren, which translated as Night Shadow. How the Eithlisch came to learn it was but one of the many mysteries regarding the great horses of the Caerith plains that I have never fully resolved. That first night, when they bore us away from the camp, we galloped full pelt through darkened hill country without apparent fear of stumbling. I soon understood that the reins I clung to with an occasionally desperate ferocity offered no control over the beast I rode, they were merely to prevent its rider from falling.

  The paelah finally slowed when dawn glimmered over the eastern hilltops, by which time I had begun to sag in the saddle. I could only guess how many miles we had covered as I slipped from Uthren’s back when he consented to halt. I cared little for the contempt of the Paelith for my weak-legged exhaustion, ignoring their muttered exchanges of derision to stumble away and sit next to an equally spent Juhlina. Naturally, the Eithlisch exhibited no tiredness at all, and a single glance of his glowering visage was enough to silence the murmuring scorn of our escorts.

  Looking around, I saw the landscape had changed. Steep, wood-speckled hills had become rolling downs blanketed in thick grass. When the Paelith dismounted, Uthren and the other paelah wandered off to graze, tails swishing as they nickered and jostled each other.

  “The Paelith are not their masters, are they?” I enquired of the Eithlisch. “They consent to be ridden.”

  “Such has it always been with Paelith and paelah,” he replied. “In the time after the Ealthsar, the starved and scattered people of the plains beseeched the paelah for aid, and it was given, though how the compact was formed remains forever a mystery.”

  “Ealthsar?” Juhlina asked.

  “It’s what they call the Scourge,” I explained.

  “So, it really did cover all the world, as the scrolls claimed.” She frowned, shaking her head. “And there I was, casting aside all Covenant lore as worthless.”

  “Not all.” Inevitably, my mind went to Sihlda and the Pit Mines, her ever patient face flickering in the meagre candle light as she tried to impart lessons I had ultimately failed to learn. “There’s wisdom there. We just chose the wrong guide.”

  The paelah allowed us until noon to rest and eat before returning. Once again, Uthren came to me, turning to offer his back with an impatient snort. He sped off just as I settled into the saddle, rearing and striking off across the grasslands at a pace even faster than the night before. I checked to ensure Juhlina and the Eithlisch were following, then concentrated my efforts on not falling. A tumble at this speed would surely involve more than a few broken bones. Soon, however, my trepidation gave way to exhilaration. Shorn of the terrors of a night-time ride, I began to appreciate the privilege of riding a paelah at full pelt. To either side, the world became a blur of green and blue while the landscape ahead unfolded in its unspoilt majesty. Once I grew accustomed to Uthren’s movements, his sheer speed brought a sense of flying, one I was happy to lose myself in, for the joy of it drowned my worries, at least for a time.

  Thanks to the paelah, our journey to the Mirror City took four more days rather than the weeks long trudge the Eithlisch had given me to expect. Having sped through the rolling grasslands, we entered a region characterised by increasingly tall hills that soon grew to mountains, the valleys between rich in rivers and lakes. Here, at last, the great horses slowed as they carried us along winding tracks through ridge and vale. We passed many more settlements here and saw far more people. From their rapt, often joyous stares, it was clear they were scarcely more used to the sight of the paelah than I was. As before, the settlements were crowded with gathered toalisch, but here they responded to the Eithlisch with deference instead of obedience.

  “We await the word of the council,” one grey-haired warrior said in reply to the ancient mystic’s exhortations to march north. “War is not embarked upon without the consent of our elders.”

  I saw how the Eithlisch restrained himself during these meetings, clamping down on his annoyance to force out an assurance that such consent would soon be forthcoming. However, the more settlements we visited as we pushed deeper into the lake lands, the deeper his anger grew. Also, although he tried to hide it, my practised eye for duplicity detected a lack of conviction in his platitudes.

  “You’re not certain at all, are you?” I asked him during one of the infrequent interludes when the paelah consented to walk instead of the rapid trot they adopted in the mountains. “About the council’s judgement. You think they might deny the Doenlisch’s wishes.”

  “I do not answer to them,” he said. “Nor is any Caerith bound by their word. But the judgement of elders is never disregarded by our people. They have known strife in their time, but never the depth of danger we face now. When you stand before them, Alwyn Scribe, speak only truth. Do not attempt your wiles upon them. Do not lie, they will know.”

  We came upon the Mirror City shortly after dawn of our third day in the lake lands, the aptness of its name becoming instantly apparent the moment it came into view. I breathed a soft, wordless sigh of amazement as my eyes tracked over a series of tall spires rising from a group of islands in the centre of a broad lake. The spires were formed of angular walls dotted with windows and balconies ascending in a spiral over their massive flanks. Each was at least three times the height of the tallest structure in Albermaine, birds flocking and wheeling about the narrow, needle-like summits. The islands they sat upon were linked by arcing bridges, themselves adorned with smaller spires. The lake appeared possessed of an unnatural calmness, reflecting the city with only a faint shimmer to create the impression of a vast construction floating in an azure void. It all gleamed white in the sun climbing above the mountains, a blaze of untarnished marble that nevertheless conveyed a sense of considerable age. I saw echoes of the shattered city under the mountain in the way stone had been worked into something wondrous, but this was no ruin.

  “This has stood since before the Ealthsar,” I said to the Eithlisch, a statement rather than a question.

  “Centuries before and centuries since,” he said. “The only Caerith city to escape destruction.”

  “How many people live here?” Juhlina asked, staring at the spires in unabashed awe.

  “None. It was empty at the time of the Ealthsar. That is what spared it. And so, to keep it preserved, it has remained empty ever since, except when council is called.”

  The paelah conveyed us down a winding track to the banks of the lake where a long-hulled boat bobbed. It sat empty, tethered to the shore with rope. Coming to a halt, Uthren shifted his shoulders, his signal to dismount. After I did so, he paused to afford me a final glance of his too knowing eyes before tossing his head and trotting away.

  “Consider yourselves released from obligation,” the Eithlisch told our Paelith escort as he climbed down from the russet-coated mare. “I beseech you to seek further atonement by riding north to join the Vahlisch.”

  They appeared as unmoved by his words as they had been throughout our shared journey. A fanatic’s fervour doesn’t simply disappear, and I knew their service had been secured solely through submission to the paelah’s will. Apparently disgusted by their silence, the Eithlisch turned his back on them and moved to the lake, wading into the water to haul himself aboard the boat.

  “I hope you have some knowledge of water craft, Alwyn Scribe,” he said, hefting an oar. “I’ve always detested boats.”

  Juhlina took charge of the tiller while the Eithlisch and I worked the oars. “Why are they still there?” I asked the Eithlisch as we rowed, nodding to the Paelith still sitting in silent watchfulness on shore. “You released them.”

  “Awaiting the outcome of the council, I imagine,” he grunted. “Hoping their delusions will be proven correct.”

  “Despite the paelahs’ judgement?”

  “There are factions within all tribes. Some of the plains folk revere the paelah the way your kind revere the dead servants of your peculiar faith. Others, like Morieth, regard their compact as more an association of equals.” His countenance darkened and he cast a glance over his shoulder at the towering city. “And Morieth’s notions did not grow from nothing.”

  Juhlina steered for a jetty protruding from the rocky flanks of the nearest island. Climbing free of the boat, my gaze ascended the spire rising above us, birthing the dizzying sensation of being dwarfed by something almost beyond comprehension.

  “How could human hands ever craft such a thing?” Juhlina wondered, echoing my thoughts.

  “I’ve read of great tombs beyond the southern deserts said to rise to similar heights,” I said. “The early scrolls talk of them being built by vast armies of slaves captured in war.”