A Gathering Of Stones

4

On the fourth morning they dug out and found the bliT7Ard had been more blow than snow. Maks hitched up his frisky, rambunctious mules, Simms saddled Neddio and they started south toward the spur of the Asatas where Tok Kinsa was, walled city walled in by snag-tooth mountains, secret city, the ways in warded and hidden from all but the select. There was about six inches of snow on the ground and no road, so the going was difficult even for the huge-wheeled dulic, but they made fair time and by the end of the week had reached the end of the grass. Maks left the dulic in a dry wash and turned one of the mules loose, loaded his gear on the other and prepared to walk into the mountains. Simms followed, leading Neddio.

The trek was hard on Maks; he faded visibly as each day passed.

Simms ached for him; he was filled with frustration and fury at the gods, the demons, everyone, everything responsible for Maks’ hurting. In Arsuid, Simms had pretended to be loose and easy, that was what people expected from him, what his lovers wanted; he lost them again and again because he cared too much and it frightened them. So much passion, so much need demanded a response they were unwilling or incapable of giving. He was feeling his way warily with Maks; he knew so little that was real about the man, only legends and legends lie. Maks seemed to like him, that was a wonderful thing, but Simms saw it as fragile as a soapbubble, a careless touch could destroy it. Maks was willing to love him, though not always able, especially after a hard day’s climbing. But he’d hold Simms anyway, caress him; he made Simms fell wanted, needed. Loved.

The way Maks chose was narrow, steep, treacherous. Snow above was loose, always falling, avalanche a constant danger. Underfoot there were patches of ice and always more snow. They struggled on and on; once again Simms was traveling with a driven person. The only thing that bothered him this time was his inability to help; he’d never been in snow before he crossed the Dhia Asatas, he knew almost nothing about mountain traveling. He told himself he was useful around the camps, doing most of the work so Maks could rest. It was something.

On the third day they came on a small stream wandering through a ravine choked with aspen and waist-deep snow. They made camp on the rim of that ravine in a thick stand of conifers. Around the bulge of the mountain there was a windswept cliff that looked down into the bowlshaped valley where Tok Kinsa drowsed in the watery winter sunlight. They lay there staring down at the city.

Tok Kinsa, Home Ground of the Magus Prime. Power Ground of Erdoj’vak, Patron of the Rukka Nagh, Vanner and Gsany both. Like most local gods, he slept a lot, he was sleeping now.

No Outer Rukks allowed within the walls outside the pilgrim season and the season had finished weeks ago. No strangers allowed within the walls, with the minor exception of a few well-known scholars who were specifically invited to visit the Magus.

A bright city, full of saturated color, reds, yellows, blues, greens shining like jewels against the equally brilliant white of the snow, a paisley city with every surface decorated, even both sides of the immense curtain wall, in the geometries of Rukk design. Inside the walls the streets were paved with alternating black and white flags; they were laid out like the spokes of a wheel, radiating from the round tower with the spiraling ramp curling up around it, the Zivtorony.

The streets were busy with Kinseers dressed in dramatic mixes of black and white, even the children. The city was busy, brightly alive, but the massive gates were closed and stayed closed. There were no footprints in the snow around Tok Kinsa.

Lying on folded blankets with blankets over them, Maks and Simms watched the whole of the day and by the sundown certain things had become obvious.

They couldn’t go in openly or disguised. No one was entering the city and even if they were, there was no way Maks would pass as a Rukk. A six-foot seven M’darjin mix would stand out in any crowd.

It’d be impossible to slip over the walls without the Magus perceiving them and brushing them off like pesky flies. Maks was in no shape for a protracted challenge-battleespecially with a Magus Prime supported by one of the Great Talismans.

The attack would have to be quick, leap in, seize Sharldalakh, leap out the next second, nothing else would work.