Fost moved his head tentatively, gingerly shaking it as if unsure whether or not pieces might break off or fall out. When nothing untoward happened, he straightened and spoke.
'Water,' he said in a voice sounding like it came from another's throat.
A look of concern passed over the slender, aged face. 'I cannot help you. But 1 perceive you have your magic water flask with you.'
In objective terms, it probably would have taken more out of Fost to climb hand over hand from the ground to the Sky City on a rope than to open the satchel in which he carried Erimenes's jug and bring forth the silver-chased black flask. But certainly the chore seemed onerous. With fingers that felt as agile as the City's great sausage-shaped cargo balloons, he unstoppered the flask and held it to his lips.
The tepid water was as sweet as nectar rolling through his cottony mouth and down his parched throat. When he had found the body of Kest-i-Mond the mage murdered in the sorcerer's own study a few thousand years ago – was it only last fall? – it had seemed at first that his only reward for braving the Sky City soldiers to deliver Erimenes's spirit to the enchanter was to be the flask and a silver-covered bowl of similar make. A paltry reward, the flask produced a perpetual flow of lukewarm water and the bowl gave an inexhaustible supply of tasteless thin grey gruel. However, this wasn't the first time Fost had cause to be thankful for those items. He wiped his lips and tossed back his head, which was a mistake.
When the sledgehammer pounding in his brain had given way to a tackhammer tapping insistently at his temples and forehead and the bridge of his nose, he dared a look around. The raft was an oblong eight feet wide and twelve long. The gleaming black sphere at the stern controlled the raft's movements – under the guiding hand of a Zr'gsz.
Around him the day was overcast. A rumpled ceiling of cloud hung above his head. The clouds thinned to admit rays of watery sunlight of a sour lemon shade more unpleasant than plain shadow. Aft he saw a massive purple bulwark he eventually identified as the Thail Mountains dividing the continent. Oriented, Fost scanned all around, swivelling his head slowly to keep it from falling off his neck. North he saw the green of forests, bordered by the broad brown flood plain of the River Marchant. Beyond that the play of light and shadow on fallow lands and those planted in spring wheat turned the Black March into a giant's game.
Off to starboard lay an irregular metallic splotch with a dark mound in the middle. Its color was that of an Imperial klenor-piece whose silver wash had worn away to reveal base metal. Fost recognized Lake Wir, with Wirix unapproachable at the center. The lake was ringed with an irregular dark line that the courier didn't think was vegetation. After a moment, his eyes moved involuntarily to
Moriana, who lay huddled at his side, her shoulders rising and falling to the tidal motion of her breathing. She had mentioned leaving a force of Hissers camped on the shores of Lake Wir. Now they had become a besieging army, and a sizable one at that. Fost wondered where they'd come from in such huge numbers.
'Moriana often pondered that question,' said Ziore, causing him to jump. 'When we visited Thendrun, the place appeared deserted. More of the Vridzish were involved in the attack on the Sky City than the princess thought were exiled.' Her face grew thoughtful. 'I suppose I should call her queen now.'
'Princess is probably as accurate as any other term,' sneered Erimenes, 'since she has no domain to rule.' He wagged his head censoriously. 'Her ambitions cost her dearly. Though I daresay others will pay far more before this mess is done.'
'How can you say that!' flared Ziore. Her form became darker and redder, the light flecks within her substance blazing like tiny suns. 'This has been terrible for her! She knows well what she's caused. Indeed, she blames herself far too much since all she did was what she believed to be right.'
'She couldn't possibly blame herself too much. Should she accept an adequate share of guilt for the evils she's wrought, she'd cast herself over the edge.' Ziore's form turned almost white in rage. 'You dare…'
'Shut up!' Fost bellowed. Ignoring the aftershocks in his head, he scowled at the two genies and went on in a low, deadly voice. 'I have endured as much of your squabbling as I intend to. Another word of argument from either of you and I'll cast both your jugs over the edge of the raft.'
Both shades opened their mouths at the same time. Fost's eyes became slits of a gray ice. Both mouths promptly closed.
'That's better.' He lowered himself back on his elbows and continued his cursory survey. Black clouds obscured the country to the south, belaboring the Highgrass Broad and the Quincunx territory around Bilsinx with lightning and heavy rain. 'Where's the City?' he asked.
'Due south of us,' said Erimenes after a moment of sulking, his eyebrows lowered and his thin mouth pouted to let Fost know how miffed he was at such cavalier treatment. 'It's hidden by the clouds.'
Fost nodded, very deliberately, as if he had an egg balanced on his head and didn't want it to roll off.
'They can't see us. And I can't see them, which makes me just as glad.'
He put a hand up and gingerly explored his face. The contours weren't altogether familiar. 'How long was I out?'
'You've slept since yesterday,' Ziore answered. She didn't seem as angry over Fost's outburst as was Erimenes. She was a forgiving soul, save where Erimenes the Ethical was concerned. 'We do seem to be slowly outdistancing it.'
'Not that it matters now that they can't see us.' Being able to contradict his antagonist brought a pleased smile to Erimenes's lips. 'We floated in plain sight of the City until night came, and they showed no sign of molesting us.'
Fost lifted the flask for another drink. He still felt no hunger; the thought of food made his stomach surge and roll like a boat in a moderate sea. 'Are we just floating at random, then?' Erimenes shook his head. 'Where are we going?'
The genie inclined his head. Fost followed his gaze and found himself staring at the smoke-wreathed fang of Mt. Omizantrim. His stomach dropped away beneath him.
When he awoke, the first thing Fost saw was black Omizantrim looming over them like a hammer poised to fall, its head dense smoke shot through with lightnings. The steady rumble of the angry mountain beat against his ears. Brimstone clutched at his throat and wrinkled his nose. Even his skin gritted unclean with a sheen of ash and volcanic dust.
The second thing he saw was Moriana, sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms encircling them. Her face was haggard and pale. She turned toward the fury of the volcano as if with longing.
'Moriana,' he said softly. She neither spoke nor stirred. Cautiously, he raised himself. His head didn't start vibrating like a gong. He reached out and took her arm.
She turned to face him. Her eyes were like coals and only vaguely the green he remembered so fondly.
'Erimenes is right.' Her voice fell heavy and black like a burnt ember. 'I should fling myself over the side.'
After an ugly glance at the philosopher who stood by the port edge looking sadly at the thunderhead piled above them, Fost said, 'Nonsense. You should know better than to listen to him.'
She pulled away and looked back toward the mountain.
'I've brought disaster on the world. I wanted to save my City. Instead, I destroyed it. And I murdered you, the man I loved. Oh, you live, thanks to my error in taking the wrong amulet. But the deed was done, is done, and cannot be revoked.
She dropped her face into her hands. Her hair hung in lank strings, its normal glorious gold dimmed to mousy brown.
'Was it power I truly sought all the time I quested and connived and killed to regain my throne? Am I no better than Synalon?' Her body jerked with sobbing, convulsive despair.
Ziore's pink, smoky body fluttered in a slight breeze crossing the raft. She looked in appeal to Fost.