"Be quiet," he told it, his lips tightening as he argued in his mind. And then he had an idea. Yes, he thought. Maybe I will. He removed the cord from his neck, slipping the ring off and putting it on his finger.
He began to speak of the city. Unexpected words came out of his mouth, telling of towering spires whose walls were carved with scenes in miniature, images of everything from raging battles to lovers exchanging flowers alongside a stream. All the scenes moved and shifted, like massive plays staged by hundreds of actors. His voice continued without his prompting, telling of the white walls that bounded the city. Pure white, as white as the clouds on a spring day, majestic. He described how the city's roads were carved from marble whose beautiful veins of pink ran the length of the streets.
At first J'role only listened to his own voice, his eyes shut as he imagined the city of his words. But as he continued, he began to look around at the crowd. They stared at him with wide eyes, their lips parted slightly, as if thirsty for his words. Soon many began to smile, and J'role realized that the description invoked in them a wonder-the same wonder that drove him forward toward the city. The same wonder his own father had inspired in the people of his kaer. He was telling them of their world's past and of the future that might await them.
The villagers stood around him enraptured. He was giving them dreams. They wanted to hear his words.
As his mouth and tongue worked themselves into words and sentences, tears began to form and roll down his cheeks. He didn't notice them at first. When he did, they confused him.
Why? Why am I crying? he thought. The creature made no comment, but J'role knew the words he spoke were not those of the thing in his mind. He had the attention o f the crowd, and his words gave them pleasure. But the ideas he spoke came from somewhere else, a place he could not understand. Whatever pleasure he took from these people was a lie.
He pulled the ring off his finger, the metal burning icy cold against his flesh as he gripped it in his palm. The crowd parted for him. He grabbed his father's hand, then walked on past them, followed by Garlthik. The crowd remained silent.
He had to keep moving. He had to hide from Mordom. He had to reach the city first. In that moment J'role had no idea why. It was just something to focus on. Something to do, to keep busy, so the hurting didn't eat out his heart with its intensity.
J'role hated his father. It was early afternoon, and the two of them were seated in the shade of a tall rock. Garlthik rested on another rock nearby, letting the warmth of the sun wash over him.
As J'role stared, his father picked at the grains of dirt scattered along the ground, holding them up before his face, grinning in wonderment like a child. Twice he tried to show the sand to J'role, and the second time J'role knocked his father's hand away sharply.
Cradling his hand against his chest, protecting the sand, his father looked hurt for a moment, as if about to cry. Then he apparently lost interest in trying to please J'role, and fell to staring at the sand once more. "Drink?" his father said to no one in particular.
J'role stood, the rest over. His father, confused, looked up. J'role leaned down and extended his hand, taking his father's wrist, helping him up. He'd learned to keep hold of his father at all times. If not carefully tended to, Bevarden would go wandering off somewhere.
The creature said, "I don't know how you go on."
"Quiet." The creature had offered neither support nor suggestions of suicide of late, only odd sarcastic comments. Ever since J'role had found the ring, the thing in his head had become different from all the other years it bad shared his thoughts. It seemed, in fact, somewhat confused.
"Drink?” his father asked. He shivered slightly, though the air was warm, and wrapped his arms around himself.
For two more days they walked, traveling as quickly as they could to stay ahead of Mordom. Garlthik eased J'role's concerns about Mordom's chariot-a rare magical device that could only be used once, he said. Apparently Mordom thought being trapped in the tavern was an emergency worthy of its use. Still, the magician was powerful and wily, and they did not want to give him the chance to find them.
They ate what food they could find. Hunger came often, and when they passed near a village, J'role was tempted to enter it and steal some food. Garlthik was wary of approaching a village, however, for Mordom always seemed to find him whenever he did so. He preferred to stay in the middle of nowhere, following the magical road.
On the second day after leaving the village, J'role spotted a group of travelers to the south. He thought he made out Mordom's bright robes, but could not be sure. Traveling with the man in the robes were two others: one small and wiry, the other one tall. Slinsk and Phlaren? Again, the group was too far away to be sure.
Following the general direction of the road, J'role and Garlthik dragged Bevarden to the other side o f the hill to avoid detection. Later that night J'role slipped the ring on and found they were still on their way along the road, which appeared just as new and glowing to J'role. When Garlthik put the ring on, the road was old and ruined.
Mordom's group, if that was who it was, seemed to be heading in the same direction.
J'role wondered if Mordom knew something about the city's general location. Maybe he knew much more. J'role wished desperately he could discuss these matters with Garlthik, but he could not. And since the fight with Mordom, Garlthik had become strangely sullen and rarely spoke. He often walked at a distance from J'role and Bevarden.
J'role wondered at first if it might have to with the thing that Mordom had placed in Garlthik's head. But then he decided that no, it was not that. But he was not sure what the reason was.
It was strange traveling with his father and Garlthik. Bevarden alternated between simple minded smiles and open tears. Garlthik brooded. Neither offered conversation, and J’role was silent too. The three of us might as well each be traveling alone, J'role thought.
"Don't forget about me," the creature said. J’role did not-respond.
* * *
"The ring," said the creature. A red haze bled over the western horizon and the eastern sky was turning dark purple. "What?” thought J'role, tired and wishing only to rest.
"What?" he thought again. Why did the creature taunt him so?
"Do it! If you want to find the city, do it!"
The creature's tone so startled J'role that he stopped in his tracks and began to fumble about for the ring on the leather cord.
"Why are you. .?" he began to think, but he'd already slipped the ring on.
The sky flashed bright and he stumbled back.
"Father!" he cried. His father did not respond. Garlthik ran up to him.
"What is it? Are you all right?" Garlthik asked.
J'role opened his eyes. Even in the light of the setting sun the brilliant glow of the city on the hill ahead blinded him.
The spires, the towers, the magnificent walls-everything was as J'role had described it.
It shone as brilliantly as if the sun itself had settled on the earth.
"What is it, lad? What do you see?"
J'role responded with his babbling words describing the city. He pointed in the direction of the city.
"Go!" said the creature.
"The city?" Garlthik asked. "Is the city there?" He grabbed at J'role's hands and fumbled to get the ring off. He grabbed so roughly that J'role thought the ork would shatter his bones.
J'role pulled his hands away, then removed the ring before Garlthik could attack again.
He threw the ring to the dirt and fell back.
The city had vanished from J'role's sight.
"Passions," Garlthik said softly. "We've found it." He hesitated only a moment, then charged toward the hill where J'role had seen the city. Forgetting about his father, J'role followed.