watched the stranger walk down the slope toward him, his fear transformed to awe by the strength and energy, the controlled power and cold assurance of the creature who approached.
Atrus staggered back, astonished. Above him, the figure stopped and, lifting the thick lenses that covered his eyes, squinted down at Atrus.
“I see you have my glasses.”
Atrus stared, unable to answer. The man who stood above him was as pale as the moon, his hair as white as bleached marble, and the irises of his eyes were huge, a thin circle of pale green about them. His cheekbones were finely chiseled and yet strong, his hands both delicate and powerful. Everything about him—from the cut of his clothes to his aristocratic demeanor—spoke of an innate strength allied to an effortless elegance. He seemed old, certainly, but in a timeless way that reminded Atrus of his grandmother.
He stared back at Atrus, as an eagle stares, then spoke again. “Well, boy? Have you no greeting for your father?”
“My …” Recognition hit Atrus like a physical blow. He shook his head. “I …”
“What’s your name?”
“Atrus …”
“Atrus … of course …” The man stretched out a hand and placed it on Atrus’s head, the contact like an electric shock. “And I am Gehn, son of Atrus.”
Atrus swallowed. He was dreaming. For certain he was dreaming. Nervously he touched his tongue against his upper lip, feeling the hard, salty shape of a grit of sand.
No. Not a dream.
“Gehn,” Atrus said softly, echoing the word.
The stranger nodded, then removed his hand. “Good. Now go and inform your grandmother that she has a visitor.”
ATRUS RAN DOWN THE MOONLIT SLOPE, CALLING to Anna loudly as he ran, the dust flying up behind him. As he came to the cleftwall, he almost vaulted it, forgetting to remove his sandals.
“Grandmother! Grandmother!”
Her head poked from the kitchen window, startled. “What’s happened?”
Atrus stood on the swaying bridge, breathless, gasping his answer. “A stranger’s come! He sent me on ahead!”
Anna’s mouth fell open. “Gehn …” she said, almost whispering the word. Then, collecting herself, she ducked back inside. There was the sound of a metal bowl falling against the stone floor, and then the outside door flew open. Barefoot, she hurried down the steps that hugged the wall, her haste surprising Atrus.
“Grandmother?”
But she barely seemed to heed him as she circled the narrow rim of the inner wall and began to climb the rung ladder.
Atrus turned, watching as she clambered up onto the cleftwall, even as the stranger with the ash-white hair, the man who called himself his father, strode across and stopped, barely ten feet from the cleft.
“Mother?” he asked quietly, tilting his head slightly.
“Gehn,” she said once more, hesitating. Then she stepped closer, hugging him tightly. “Where have you been, my son? Why in the Maker’s name did you not come back?”
But Atrus, watching, noticed how the warmth of her embrace was not reciprocated, how lightly the stranger’s hands touched her shoulders, how distant he was as he stepped back from her, like a great lord from one of the tales.
“I came to see the child,” he said, as if he’d not heard her. “I came to see my son.”
ATRUS LAY SPRAWLED OUT ON HIS BELLY ON top of the cleftwall, staring across at the shadowed rectangle of the kitchen, and at the bright square of the window in which Anna and the newcomer were framed. Though the two had been talking for some while now, little of real importance had been said. Even so, there was a strange tension between them. Anna, particularly, seemed to be walking on eggshells, afraid to say too much, yet keen to know where Gehn had been and what he had done. By comparison, Gehn was relatively taciturn, ignoring her questions when it suited him not to answer them.
Just now, Gehn was sitting on the polished stone ledge, to the right of the tiny galley kitchen, beside the
Atrus staggered back, astonished. Above him, the figure stopped and, lifting the thick lenses that covered his eyes, squinted down at Atrus.
“I see you have my glasses.”
Atrus stared, unable to answer. The man who stood above him was as pale as the moon, his hair as white as bleached marble, and the irises of his eyes were huge, a thin circle of pale green about them. His cheekbones were finely chiseled and yet strong, his hands both delicate and powerful. Everything about him—from the cut of his clothes to his aristocratic demeanor—spoke of an innate strength allied to an effortless elegance. He seemed old, certainly, but in a timeless way that reminded Atrus of his grandmother.
He stared back at Atrus, as an eagle stares, then spoke again. “Well, boy? Have you no greeting for your father?”
“My …” Recognition hit Atrus like a physical blow. He shook his head. “I …”
“What’s your name?”
“Atrus …”
“Atrus … of course …” The man stretched out a hand and placed it on Atrus’s head, the contact like an electric shock. “And I am Gehn, son of Atrus.”
Atrus swallowed. He was dreaming. For certain he was dreaming. Nervously he touched his tongue against his upper lip, feeling the hard, salty shape of a grit of sand.
No. Not a dream.
“Gehn,” Atrus said softly, echoing the word.
The stranger nodded, then removed his hand. “Good. Now go and inform your grandmother that she has a visitor.”
ATRUS RAN DOWN THE MOONLIT SLOPE, CALLING to Anna loudly as he ran, the dust flying up behind him. As he came to the cleftwall, he almost vaulted it, forgetting to remove his sandals.
“Grandmother! Grandmother!”
Her head poked from the kitchen window, startled. “What’s happened?”
Atrus stood on the swaying bridge, breathless, gasping his answer. “A stranger’s come! He sent me on ahead!”
Anna’s mouth fell open. “Gehn …” she said, almost whispering the word. Then, collecting herself, she ducked back inside. There was the sound of a metal bowl falling against the stone floor, and then the outside door flew open. Barefoot, she hurried down the steps that hugged the wall, her haste surprising Atrus.
“Grandmother?”
But she barely seemed to heed him as she circled the narrow rim of the inner wall and began to climb the rung ladder.
Atrus turned, watching as she clambered up onto the cleftwall, even as the stranger with the ash-white hair, the man who called himself his father, strode across and stopped, barely ten feet from the cleft.
“Mother?” he asked quietly, tilting his head slightly.
“Gehn,” she said once more, hesitating. Then she stepped closer, hugging him tightly. “Where have you been, my son? Why in the Maker’s name did you not come back?”
But Atrus, watching, noticed how the warmth of her embrace was not reciprocated, how lightly the stranger’s hands touched her shoulders, how distant he was as he stepped back from her, like a great lord from one of the tales.
“I came to see the child,” he said, as if he’d not heard her. “I came to see my son.”
ATRUS LAY SPRAWLED OUT ON HIS BELLY ON top of the cleftwall, staring across at the shadowed rectangle of the kitchen, and at the bright square of the window in which Anna and the newcomer were framed. Though the two had been talking for some while now, little of real importance had been said. Even so, there was a strange tension between them. Anna, particularly, seemed to be walking on eggshells, afraid to say too much, yet keen to know where Gehn had been and what he had done. By comparison, Gehn was relatively taciturn, ignoring her questions when it suited him not to answer them.
Just now, Gehn was sitting on the polished stone ledge, to the right of the tiny galley kitchen, beside the
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