“Tulo—the Ghyste.”
“The Ghyste. She’d know the road. That’s not illogical.”
“In every story I ever heard,” said Myal, “a vengeful spirit pursues, it doesn’t lead. Suppose she stops?”
“Shut up,” Dro said, still softly. “Start walking.”
Myal, forgetting the burning ache in his muscles, walked. They both walked, and Ciddey Soban, not turning, walked before them, into the black cavern of night.
And then the black cavern of night parted seamlessly to let her through, and she was gone.
At first they waited, glancing about for her. Trees grouped together on the slope ahead, hiding what lay beyond. After an unspeaking minute, they went on and through the trees. Nothing stirred, the dark was empty once more. At the edge of the trees, the ground levelled and brimmed over into a great velvet moonless void, like the end of the world, but which was most probably woods.
They looked down at it.
“She’s gone,” announced Myal. He thought of something. “If she used me to come through, I didn’t feel it this time, or last. Only that time in the priests’ hostel, when I was sick.”
“You’re getting accustomed to giving her energy, that’s why. That’s when it becomes most dangerous.”
“Thanks. I feel so much happier now.”
Myal sat on the turf, put his arms across his knees and his head on his arms. Despite his words, he was exhausted, and dully afraid.
“We’ll see the night out here,” said Dro.
“What stupendous fun.”
“I mean to watch for three hours. Then it’s your turn.”
“I’m not watching. I might see something and scare myself to death.”
“If you see anything, you wake me. You’re watching.”
“All right. I’m watching.”
An hour later, the moon came up in a long stream of cloud.
Myal was twitchily asleep. Dro stared across the land, keeping quite incredibly motionless, seldom blinking, as if it were his curse, as with certain guardians in myth, to watch forever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Oh, Myal,” said a girl, licking his ear tenderly. “Oh, Myalmyalmyal.”
Myal woke up, already excited and apprehensive.
“Someone call?”
“Oh, Myal,” said the girl. “Ohmyal.”
She lay on her elbow at his side. Her ash-blonde hair fell across both their faces. He knew who it was, and wondered why he was not petrified. Then it came to him. The simple, obvious solution. Dro had been mistaken, and so had Myal himself. Ciddey was not dead.
When he had dragged her out of the water, he had saved her, just as he desperately meant to do. That she had not revived at once was not utterly surprising. He had been wrong about the strangulated face—a trick of light, and his alarm, the impending fever. No, Ciddey lived, and she had somehow caught them up. She was playing with Dro, punishing him. But she had decided to reveal the truth to Myal, who had rescued her.
“You’re not dead,” he murmured, vocalising his thoughts.
“You say the nicest things.” She kissed his cheek lightly.
He shivered, with pleasure and nervousness. And then it occurred to him to look about for Parl Dro. Presently he located a dark inconclusive shape, stretched across the base of a tree, which had to be Dro. So much for watching. Or... had it been Myal’s watch, and had Myal fallen asleep?
“I want you to come with me,” said Ciddey Soban, touching him once more with her real live icy lips.
“Well, I really ought—”
“Don’t argue. You know you like me. Let’s go for a walk together. Wouldn’t you like that? Down into the wood. It isn’t far.”
“Well, all right.”