Megan Lindholm - The Limbreth Gate

'I will presume your folk do some trading, and you will know how to bargain these for coin ? though I doubt you could ever get what that hawk is worth to me. Still, it will be enough, from hawk and tack, to get stable space for the horse and a cheap room at a decent inn. Be sure and ask for a cheap room; then you'll surely get one with no windows.'

'You abandon us.' Tears edged Chess's voice.

'No. I go to do for you what you won't do for yourselves. I'm going to force your Gate, and return with Ki. That will be two coming in and two going out...'

'It will take three exiting to restore the balance if we two enter,'Jace began to correct him, but Vandien shook his head at her.

'I'll do what I can. Keep the boy safe. And come to the Gate at least once every night. I don't know when I'll return. Ki makes better time in that wagon of hers than you might suspect. Much as I hate to admit it, she may like your world. But I'll talk her into coming back. There's little, wise or foolish, that I can't persuade her to try. When I bring her back, be waiting for us.'

'And if we run out of coins before you return?' Chess asked practically.

'Sell the horse. Ask thirty silver bits, but don't take less than twenty.'

'We cannot sell a beast into slavery!' Jace objected.

Vandien looked at her despairingly, and turned to Chess. 'Perhaps I should be telling you to look after your mother. Do what you can, Chess, and what you must, to stay alive. Remember to come to the Gate at least once every night. You will?'

Chess nodded once, and looked up in awe at the beast he led.

'Don't worry about him. He'll obey you perfectly, as long as you don't ask him to work. He'll love your mother. They'll get along well.'

'You think me an ungrateful fool, Vandien, but -'

'The night slips away, and the Gate goes with it. If I fail, we can talk all day about what we think of one another. If I succeed, it won't matter. Be careful.' Vandien could take no more of it. He stepped up silently to claim his cloak from the saddle.

'Take your waterskin also, and fill it before you go,' Jace urged him softly.

'Your land has no water?'

'It is not safe for you to drink. It will affect you ...'

'I've a brass-lined stomach, friend. Water in strange lands has never given me the cramp or flux.'

Jace shook her head impatiently. 'It's not that. The water in our land flows to us from the hills of the Limbreth. With it flows wisdom and peace. You would lose your determination if you drank it. You would begin to see the higher goals you might set for yourself. No outworlder has ever passed the first stream without drinking from it. Its call is said to be undeniable. No one is ever unchanged by it. After the second bridge, you never need fear the stranger. That is how our saying goes. The peaceful water of the Limbreth quenches their fiery thoughts and hot lusts. It brings to the surface whatever sweetness is hidden within. They become enlightened and seek the Limbreth, to be cured forever of restless ways and dissatisfied hearts. Then they are given a task that is to them a joy, and is to the Limbreth a lasting monument.'

Jace's heart was in her words and her words were worshipful when she spoke of the Limbreth. Chess lifted his face to his mother and his shining eyes echoed the peace his mother spoke of. Not even Vandien was immune to it, despite his quick, hawklike nature. Peace. Contentment. How often had he scoffed at those goals - as Ki had, with her roaming Romni attitudes. What had that old priest called it? Sour fruit.

They had given the priest a ride on the wagon one spring when they overtook him, footsore and weary, upon the road. His wooden chest of healing herbs and potions Ki had lifted into the back of the wagon. Gently she chided such an old man for wandering so far from his kin that cared for him. But all he spoke of was the peace and contentment of poverty and service. There was a joy in binding up the running sores of a beggar, or mixing the potion that lifted delusion from the mad. Ki and Vandien had smiled at one another over his white head. 'Peace,' he had chided them then, 'to you two will always be sour fruit. You long for what you cannot reach, and so you pretend to despise it. You run from the aches in your hearts and the scars on your bodies. I would that I had a potion to cure you, but you are beyond such skills as I have.'

His words had quelled all talk; Vandien had not been disappointed when he left them at the foot of a pass. He and Ki had kept the image of sour fruit, and made it a secret bandying word between them.

Vandien gave his head a shake, aware that they were both staring at him. He could see their secret fear; he would find peace in their world and forget all about them. 'Do not be afraid,' he told them lightly. 'I'm immune to contentment.' He made those words his farewell, lifting the waterskin from the saddle as he went. Let it be a sign to them and a talisman to himself. Once he glanced back. They both were looking after him, holding horse and hawk in their hands. He hoped to the gods they would have the sense to follow his instructions.

He replenished the waterbag at an ancient fountain. Looking down at the moon reflected in the water he promised her never again to drink Alys in a tavern, and to beware of needy strangers. A drop of water from the bag's spout fell back onto the surface; the moon winked at him, knowing well he lied. He slung the bag over his shoulder. This early in the night there were still people abroad in the streets, though not many. Cheerful light issued from many a window or door left ajar in the summer heat. He passed an inn where the sounds of revelry beckoned him. But he went on, threading his way through the unfamiliar streets. Lacking a knowledge of the city's landmarks, Vandien relied on his sense of direction to take him back to the city walls. He soon found himself on a street he remembered. There was the house of the woman who had called him a pox bringer. The flung stones were still scattered in the dusty street. But of the Gate there was no sign.

The gods striding on the walls of the city looked past him in disdain; the heroes went on their heroic tasks. The wall was innocent of any Gate or opening or crack as far as he could see in the gloom. No one was about. Vandien went quickly to the wall, running his hands over it. No cracks, no loose stones to push. The wall was solid. Rapping his knuckles on its thickness did nothing but skin them. The wall emitted no sound, hollow or otherwise.

Stretching to his full if unimpressive height, Vandien ran the tips of his fingers over the wall again. He grimaced to himself in the darkness. It was no better maintained than any other city wall he had been up against, but its basic construction was sounder. The bas relief figures offered little purchase for climbing. But it was not impossible. He did wish he had kept the horse with him. Its back would have given him a place to start his climb from.

Stooping, he unfastened the buckles of his knee boots. Kicking free of them, he stood barefoot in the dust of the street. He flexed his toes and feet in the dust, and rubbed his hands down his shirt to free them of sweat. Once more he stretched and ran his hands over the wall. A kneeling goddess offered him a leg up. He gave a final glance about for guards; the last thing he wanted to do was flee barefoot down these streets with a pack of guards after him. The dusty streets were hot and empty. Vandien started up the wall.

From the goddess's knee he found a grip on her torch. Vandien cursed the unknown artist admiringly. Purchase places were few, and they were shallow, nail-bending, knuckle-scraping ones. His chest dragged against a hero's face, and he wished he had left behind the friction of his shirt. A third of the way up, one foot slipped from its spider-splayed grip and he nearly tumbled back. He heard his knuckles pop and felt a toenail tear. But he did not fall, and after a moment resumed his ascent.