closer to the mountains, and toward nightfall began to steer toward what looked like a spike or a standing stone set high on a small, oddly rounded hill. As they neared it, Maerad saw it was a ruin, bare even of moss, with empty slits for windows. It was getting late; the sun already threw the long shadows of the mountains over them, and Maerad could feel the chill of early dew. The land was now completely silent, and it frightened her; she felt as if the unseen hunt were drawing in, crouching, preparing for attack. She thought she would like it better if she could see what tracked them. This invisible stalking was unnerving.
As they walked up the hill, slipping a little on the smooth turf, she asked what the ruin was.
“It used to be a guardhouse,” answered Cadvan. “Nothing else stands here but this. We did well to make it by now.”
“What did it guard?” asked Maerad.
“A great city,” Cadvan said. “Its name is now long forgotten. Before the Silence this was a rich and populous country. The Nameless razed even the memory of this place. He took all its palaces and gardens down stone by stone, save this tower. Perhaps it had a use for him.”
They passed under a thick granite lintel into the roofless ruin. It had been a small tower, about fourteen feet square, and once a stair had led to a lookout high above. For the most part the walls, made of huge stones cunningly fitted together without cement of any kind, still stood high — although the roof had collapsed and the stairs and floors had long rotted, leaving the marks of fireplaces high on the walls where rooms once had been. There was only one doorway, and the slit windows were set high up in the walls. Cadvan threw down his pack.
“We have but little time, and we must use it well, if we are to survive the night,” he said. “Fire is our hope. We need wood, quickly, before it grows dark.”
They left the tower and went wood-gathering. Around the base of the hill grew some thorn trees, and two had been uprooted in a winter storm. “Dry, perfect firewood,” Cadvan said. “I think there will be enough here.” Maerad had opened her mouth to ask how they were to chop firewood with their bare hands when Cadvan drew a sword from beneath his cloak. “Forgive me, Arnost, for putting you to such usage!” he said, and began to hack the deadwood as easily as if he were cutting bread.
“I didn’t know you had a sword,” said Maerad. “I never saw it before!” Suddenly she felt almost lighthearted, as if they were preparing a bonfire for a party.
“There is much you don’t know about me,” Cadvan said. “Pray that you get the chance to find it out! Now hurry!”
Catching Cadvan’s urgency, Maerad dragged bundles of branches up the hill, and soon, after he had split the trees, he helped her. It was difficult work, as she kept slipping on the turf. Before long they had a high pile of firewood inside the old guardhouse. Cadvan eyed it critically. “It will do,” he said. “It will have to. It is almost dark. Gather some more branches while there’s time. I have something else to do.”
He drew a small, curiously shaped dagger and began to score a deep line around the base of the hill, and as she lugged more firewood to the guardhouse, Maerad could hear him chanting words in the Speech in a low, rhythmical monotone. When he had circled the whole hill, he stood still and lifted his arms up to the sky. Again he seemed to be illuminated by a strange light, and for a second Maerad saw a ring of white flame leap around the tower; but then she blinked, and it was gone, and she thought it must have been a trick of the vanishing light.
She went inside the guardhouse. The pile of wood was high, and the sun was just now slipping over the horizon. Inside, it was almost completely dark.
Cadvan joined her and immediately knelt down and made a small pile of kindling by the door. Then, stretching out his hand with his two forefingers stiffened, he said:
As they walked up the hill, slipping a little on the smooth turf, she asked what the ruin was.
“It used to be a guardhouse,” answered Cadvan. “Nothing else stands here but this. We did well to make it by now.”
“What did it guard?” asked Maerad.
“A great city,” Cadvan said. “Its name is now long forgotten. Before the Silence this was a rich and populous country. The Nameless razed even the memory of this place. He took all its palaces and gardens down stone by stone, save this tower. Perhaps it had a use for him.”
They passed under a thick granite lintel into the roofless ruin. It had been a small tower, about fourteen feet square, and once a stair had led to a lookout high above. For the most part the walls, made of huge stones cunningly fitted together without cement of any kind, still stood high — although the roof had collapsed and the stairs and floors had long rotted, leaving the marks of fireplaces high on the walls where rooms once had been. There was only one doorway, and the slit windows were set high up in the walls. Cadvan threw down his pack.
“We have but little time, and we must use it well, if we are to survive the night,” he said. “Fire is our hope. We need wood, quickly, before it grows dark.”
They left the tower and went wood-gathering. Around the base of the hill grew some thorn trees, and two had been uprooted in a winter storm. “Dry, perfect firewood,” Cadvan said. “I think there will be enough here.” Maerad had opened her mouth to ask how they were to chop firewood with their bare hands when Cadvan drew a sword from beneath his cloak. “Forgive me, Arnost, for putting you to such usage!” he said, and began to hack the deadwood as easily as if he were cutting bread.
“I didn’t know you had a sword,” said Maerad. “I never saw it before!” Suddenly she felt almost lighthearted, as if they were preparing a bonfire for a party.
“There is much you don’t know about me,” Cadvan said. “Pray that you get the chance to find it out! Now hurry!”
Catching Cadvan’s urgency, Maerad dragged bundles of branches up the hill, and soon, after he had split the trees, he helped her. It was difficult work, as she kept slipping on the turf. Before long they had a high pile of firewood inside the old guardhouse. Cadvan eyed it critically. “It will do,” he said. “It will have to. It is almost dark. Gather some more branches while there’s time. I have something else to do.”
He drew a small, curiously shaped dagger and began to score a deep line around the base of the hill, and as she lugged more firewood to the guardhouse, Maerad could hear him chanting words in the Speech in a low, rhythmical monotone. When he had circled the whole hill, he stood still and lifted his arms up to the sky. Again he seemed to be illuminated by a strange light, and for a second Maerad saw a ring of white flame leap around the tower; but then she blinked, and it was gone, and she thought it must have been a trick of the vanishing light.
She went inside the guardhouse. The pile of wood was high, and the sun was just now slipping over the horizon. Inside, it was almost completely dark.
Cadvan joined her and immediately knelt down and made a small pile of kindling by the door. Then, stretching out his hand with his two forefingers stiffened, he said:
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