There was a lance of fire in his skull, yet no pain. A darkness swirled like the sea, but there was no fear. Now the voice, which led him like a guide through the unknown dark rooms of his own brain, had assumed a sex and a name. It had become Ashne’e’s.
Yannul whistled as he crossed the clearing behind the wooden house at noon. Resha sat, as she always did, outside, staring dejectedly down across the slope at men and women moving in the thin forest below. They had been here ten days and had adopted the forest people’s mode of dress. Resha looked very well in it, and, certainly, she had worn little more aboard Rorn’s Daughter. Yannul lightly ruffled her hair. He thought of her generally rather as he had long ago thought of his sisters, with a protective amusement, tempered by occasional slight irritation. Their sexual unions did not disrupt this attitude, for in Lan, where farmsteads were remote from each other, it was neither uncommon nor frowned upon for sisters either to couple with, or even marry, their brothers, or sometimes their sires.
“Well, Resha of Alisaar, I told you I would communicate somehow with them, didn’t I?”
“You did, Lannic man. In Alisaar, boasters are whipped.”
“Are they, indeed? Well, well. No wonder you jumped aboard a Zakorian pirate rather than stay to lose your skin—No, don’t clout me on the ear! Hear me out. I have had a little conversation with some of the men. Truly, a simple method. We drew pictures on slate and waved our arms about. I’ve learned a good deal. Over these hills there are cities—great cities, with kings and palaces and taverns and entirely suitable whore shops. Ah! Bite me now, would you? Listen, little banalik, when Raldnor comes back from wherever it is he went with that old woman, you and I and he will seek our fortune over the hills. They talk there—by mouth. We can soon pick up their tongue. Imagine a city ruled by a yellow-haired king.”
“We’ll be outlanders—scum,” she grumbled. “They’ll burn us or stone us as the Vis of Dorthar do the Plains people.”
“No, Resha. Judge by these. Are we outcast here? Yellow-haired men, I’ve observed, have more justice. Did you know Raldnor was a Lowlander?”
“He was brave,” she said. “I did my best to win his favor on the ship, but he was celibate and pure. A good man.”
“And the son of Rehdon, the High King. Yes, that makes big eyes. It whets your appetite even more, doesn’t it, you shameless piece? Up now, and I’ll teach you to juggle and stand on your hands. We’ll need a trade where we’re going.”
The dusk came on, and little black bats fluttered among the trees.
Yannul and Resha lay in the shade. She had worked obediently, and her body—strong and supple from ship’s labor—was quick to learn, though far too enticing. In the red slanting rays of sunfall he had pulled her down for other lessons.
Now, in the lengthening shadows, a man came walking through the trees toward them.
“Ralnar,” Resha said.
Yannul looked up and studied the figure. Yes, he knew it. Skin burned almost black by the sun—the tan of the Vis—and hair salt-bleached to white, long now as Yannul’s own. Yet, as the man came nearer, Yannul hesitated to greet him and checked again the physique and face, as if uncertain after all. They had all suffered and all been changed on the nightmare voyage, and then had come this nine-day absence, during which Raldnor was hidden with the old wise-woman. But did any of these things account for the vast, oddly inexplicable differences Yannul saw in Raldnor? He crossed the little clearing and came to a halt by them, looking down. His expression was remote, as if he saw them from a long way off, still—as if he did not know them well. His eyes were wide, burning, clear. Yannul thought, with uneasy amusement: “That old one, she’s been feeding him incense leaves. He’s been having visions in the forest.” But this did not seem applicable. Yannul fathomed it suddenly. “He’s been emptied, scoured, cauterized. Then filled. Filled with something better.” But he said aloud: “You look strange. Were you ill?”
“No, Yannul,” Raldnor said. Even his voice was somehow altered. Now it was the voice—Yes, of a king. The forest fell peculiarly silent all around them. “For the first time in my life,” Raldnor said, “I am at peace with myself. A rare and wonderful gift.”
He turned and walked away from them, toward the wooden house or the sea.
Resha whispered: “He’s marked for a god.”
Her fingers fluttered in a swift religious sign. Yannul cursed her.
“Don’t be a fool. He’s had misfortunes. Perhaps the old woman helped him bear them.”
“No. I’ve seen that look on the faces of priests before they jump from the rocks into the sea, to honor Rorn.”
“Do you mean you think he’ll die? Be quiet, you stupid girl.”
Resha looked at Yannul in scorn.
“From now on, Lannic lout, all men will be to him only like dust on the wind or blowing sea spray. None of us could harm him. He is his god’s. And the gods protect their own.”
In the morning there were new men in the wooden house. They, too, were of the forest people, almost indistinguishable in coloring and style of dress. They had brought with them three riding mounts—milk-white zeebas of unusual size—and linen garments suitable for two men and a woman.
Yannul marveled.
“They’re very prompt to supply our wants. How did you get them to understand you, Raldnor?”
“I can speak with them now,” Raldnor said.
Yannul said nothing further. He had heard the stories of the Lowlanders’ telepathic abilities, and, having already seen evidence of it in these alien forests, accepted Raldnor’s part in it with a shudder of unease. To Resha, nothing Raldnor did at this time was too wonderful. He was his god’s, which accounted for everything.
They left the wooden house before noon, leading the white zeebas up the narrow forest tracks, with one of the yellow-haired men walking ahead. The tree shade grew intense, then diminished. They reached a rocky summit, and below stretched rolling ocher grassland under a cobalt sky. Their guide pointed down and away. Raldnor nodded. The man turned and vanished back among the trees.
“Where are we headed for?” Yannul called, as they left the rock and mounted. “A town? Or that city they mentioned?”
“There are three cities here in the Plain. I shall make for the first of these, but naturally, you’ll have your own plans.”
“I planned to ply my old trade,” Yannul said, ill at ease as they rode. “A city would be a healthy place for it. And you?”
“I have business with their king, whoever he is.”
“Their king! You’re ambitious.”
“I always was, Yannul. I obtained status but no direction. Now, I’m driven, obsessed.”
“To do what?”
“To get my birthright. My second birthright. Already this land’s given me the first.”
“High King of Vis,” Yannul said. “A difficult task.”
“No, Yannul. That essential thing is merely secondary. My kingdom is in the Lowlands. They had their own lords in the past. Now, they have a lord again.”
Yannul glanced at him. Raldnor seemed calm, remote, his passionate words untinged by emotion. Then Raldnor turned in the saddle and looked full at him. For the first time the Lan felt the force of an incredible personal power stream like light out of the Lowlander—a power that seemed alive, fathomless, indestructible. It was an awesome thing to witness in a man he had known only as a man; for now, Yannul saw, whether at the whim of a god or not, Raldnor had become something more.