'Old rules to deal with famine,' Samar said, nodding.
'Rules in the frozen time.'
Karsa Orlong looked at Samar Dev. 'What is this frozen time, witch?'
'The past, Teblor.'
She watched his eyes narrow thoughtfully, then he grunted and said, '
And the unfound time is the future, meaning that now is the flowing time-'
'Yes!' Boatfinder cried. 'You speak life's very secret!'
Samar Dev pulled herself into the saddle – on this ridge they could ride their horses – carefully. She watched Karsa Orlong follow suit, as a strange stillness filled her being. Born, she realized, of Boatfinder's words. 'Life's very secret.' This flowing time not yet frozen and only now found out of the unfound. 'Boatfinder, the Iron Prophet came to you long ago – in the frozen time – yet he spoke to you of the unfound time.'
'Yes, you understand, witch. Iskar Jarak speaks but one language, yet within it is each and all. He is the Iron Prophet. The King.'
'Your king, Boatfinder?'
'No. We are his shadows.'
'Because you exist only in the flowing time.'
The man turned and made a reverent bow that stirred something within Samar Dev. 'Your wisdom honours us, witch,' he said.
'Where,' she asked, 'is Iskar Jarak's kingdom?'
Sudden tears in the man's eyes. 'An answer we yearn to find. It is lost-'
'In the unfound time.'
'Yes.'
'Iskar Jarak was a Mezla.'
'Yes.'
Samar Dev opened her mouth for one more question, then realized that it wasn't necessary. She knew its answer. Instead, she said, '
Boatfinder, tell me, from the frozen time into the flowing time, is there a bridge?'
His smile was wistful, filled with longing. 'There is.'
'But you cannot cross it.'
'No.'
'Because it's burning.'
'Yes, witch, the bridge burns.'
King Iskar Jarak, and the unfound kingdom…
Descending like massive, raw steps, the shelves of rock marched down into crashing foam and spume. A fierce wind raked the northern sea's dark waves to the very horizon, where storm-clouds commanded the sky, the colour of blackened armour. At their backs and stretching the western length of coastline, rose a bent-back forest of pines, firs and cedars, their branches torn and made ragged by the battering winds.
Shivering, Taralack Veed drew the furs closer, then turned his back on the raging seas. 'We now travel westward,' he said, speaking loud enough to be heard above the gale. 'Follow this coast until it curls north. Then we strike inland, directly west, into the land of stone and lakes. Difficult, for there is little game to be found there, although we will be able to fish. Worse, there are bloodthirsty savages, too cowardly to attack by day. Always at night. We must be ready for them. We must deliver slaughter.'
Icarium said nothing, his unhuman gaze still fixed on that closing storm.
Scowling, Taralack moved back into the rock-walled camp they had made, crouching in the blessed lee and holding his red, cold-chafed hands over the driftwood fire. Few glimmers of the Jhag's legendary, near mythical equanimity remained. Dark and dour, now. A refashioning of Icarium, by Taralack Veed's own hands, although he but followed the precise instructions given him by the Nameless Ones. The blade has grown dull. You shall be the whetstone, Gral.
But whetstones were insensate, indifferent to the blade and to the hand that held it. For a warrior fuelled by passion, such immunity was difficult to achieve, much less maintain. He could feel the weight now, ever building, and knew he would, one day, grow to envy the merciful death that had come to Mappo Runt.
They had made good time thus far. Icarium was tireless. Once given direction. And Taralack, for all his prowess and endurance, was exhausted. I am no Trell, and this is not simple wandering. Not any more, and never again for Icarium.
Nor, it seemed, for Taralack Veed.
He looked up when he heard scrabbling, and watched Icarium descend.
'These savages you spoke of,' the Jhag said without preamble, 'why should they seek to challenge us?'
'Their forsaken forest is filled with sacred sites, Icarium.'
'We need only avoid trespass, then.'
'Such sites are not easily recognized. Perhaps a line of boulders on the bedrock, mostly buried in lichen and moss. Or the remnant of an antler in the crotch of a tree, so overgrown as to be virtually invisible. Or a vein of quartzite glittering with flecks of gold. Or the green tool-stone – the quarries are no more than a pale gouge in vertical rock, the green stone shorn from it by fire and cold water.
