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mountains, their tops capped with snow. Looking back, the
party could see they had come through a long series of broken
defiles that led down to the eastern plains. That night, they
found plenty of wood for a fire and built a cheerful blaze to
guard against the brisk wind that swept over this higher land.
Sisay and Fewsteem huddled close to the fire. Both had
recovered from their infection, but neither was as hardy as
before the ghoul attack. Against the darkness, the flames made
fantastic, leaping shapes. Tahngarth picked up a long stick
from the ground and stirred the fire. A shower of sparks spat
and leaped up, rising into the ebony sky. To himself, the
minotaur chanted softly a Talruum battle song. Gerrard looked
at him with affection.
"What are you smiling about?" asked Sisay, a blanket
wrapped tightly about her.
"I was just thinking," Gerrard returned.
She moved a bit closer to him on the log. "About what?"
Gerrard rubbed his chin, feeling the rough bristle of his
beard. "I've forgotten how much I miss this."
"Miss what? Sitting miles away from your home with nothing
to eat but dry rations, nothing to do but hope you'll make the
next day's march without some disaster, nothing to wear but
the clothes on your back that you haven't washed for a week."
Sisay wrinkled her nose. "I hope to the gods we find a stream
tomorrow. You need a bath."
Gerrard laughed. "I know. You're pretty ripe yourself. No,
that's not what I meant."
"What, then?"
He waved a hand around him. "All this. Companionship.
Searching for something but not knowing whether you'll ever
find it." He shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."
Sisay put a hand on his arm. He could feel the tough
calluses on her palm. "I know what you mean. Believe me, I do.
There's something special about the search itself, even if you
don't find what you're looking for. I think sometimes that's
what I was really looking for, rather than for the Legacy. I
was looking for ... for the looking itself. Is that stupid?"
"No. No, it's not." Gerrard turned and looked Sisay full
in the face. Since he'd found her in Volrath's Dream Halls,
this was the first time he'd looked closely at her. Fine lines
surrounded her eyes. A tiny streak of gray had appeared in her
hair. A delicate scar-almost a decoration, it was so fine-ran
from the edge of her mouth back along the line of her jaw to
her ear. Her skin was weather roughened, not the fine blush
that mantled Hanna's face. Yet it had a kind of unearthly
beauty that was all Sisay's own. Her eyes were brown, set deep
in her face, filled with pain, with joy, with a kind of wild
hope.
"Do you know something?" Gerrard asked. "Rath made you
stronger. Made you wiser. More beautiful."
"It's the power of hate," interrupted Takara, sitting
nearby, tossing pebbles sullenly in the fire. "Hate makes you
stronger, wiser, more beautiful."
Without looking at the Rathi, Gerrard shook his head. "No.
There you're wrong. Hate eats you up from the inside. It makes
you weak and stupid and ugly. It's hope that makes you strong.
There were two ways to survive Rath-hate and hope. Only hope
makes heroes."
* * * * *
The next two days, the road wound among trees of
increasing girth and height, with branches that began fifty or
sixty feet up the trunk. They were of a kind completely
unfamiliar to anyone in the party. In some places, the path
was completely overgrown. It took all of Tahngarth's and
Sisay's tracking skills to keep them going in the right
direction.
From the lower branches of the trees, moss draped like
tattered clothing, casting mysterious shadows across the path.
Wherever upper branches let" sun penetrate to the forest
floor, lizards scuttled across the roadway or sunned
themselves on rocks.
At night the party lit fires that drove back the shadows
but attracted thousands of huge moths. During the still
watches of the night, the rumble of vast hooves came from the
forest, and huge pairs of eyes gleamed distantly with
reflected firelight. It was easy enough for watchmen to stay
awake, but no beast ever came close enough to be identified.
On the second day in the forest, they came upon the ruin
of a large stone tower among the trees. Its walls were limned
with moss and ivy, and the roof had fallen in. When new, the
tower must have been impressive, but now it was merely a sad
reminder of a long-ago glory. The crew found themselves
speaking in hushed tones as they examined the ruins.
It was Ilcaster who drew Gerrard's attention to the glyph
carved in the stone arch.
The Benalian examined it carefully. "Yes. No doubt about
it. It's another Thran glyph. Whoever built this place knew
something about the Thran." Gerrard looked about them at the
tall trees, silent witnesses to the unknown past. "I think,"
he said finally, "we can safely say we've entered Ouramos."
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