The Divining

     The three had foraged for food along the way, or bartered with farmers,or earned a meal with Ulrika's healing skills. They camped at night under the stars, and Ulrika heard Veeda whimpering in sad dreams, and Iskander pacing in sleeplessness. They bathed in cold mountain streams, and every morning and evening Iskander built a small fire to his god, Ahura Mazda, chanting prayers as he did so, while Veeda sang uplifting songs of praise to "the angels among us."

     And now they had come to the pass in the mountains that would lead them into a world few outsiders had visited. A world where, Ulrika prayed, the Magus still lived and possessed all the answers.

     She had no doubt now that Iskander was the prince she had been sent to help. But it troubled her that Iskander's people might have already been wiped out. How was she supposed to help him when she had come too late? Perhaps the Magus would tell him that survivors were waiting to be reunited with him in a new place in the east.

     Iskander had not spoken much in the last few days, but Veeda was cheerful and loquacious. She walked with a limp and tired easily, and was visited by nightmares of the destruction of her village, but she was a resilient girl and when she was awake was filled with a lively curiosity, and frequently had to be cautioned to keep her voice low, and to stay close to Ulrika and Iskander. The trackers remained in pursuit—Iskander's tribal enemies whom Ulrika had yet to see but whom she had heard—in their angry growls and shouts, and heavy footfall—and who she had no doubt would slaughter her and Iskander and the girl if they caught up.

     Arriving at the rough track that led between two mountain peaks, the three paused to look back. Here Ulrika finally saw them, down the slope, among the trees and boulders in the noon sun, bearded men carrying weapons, looking up at the trio at the top. The trackers stared at Iskander with fixed eyes, as the wind whistled around them and an eagle cried out from his aerie. And then, to Ulrika's surprise, the men wordlessly turned and started back down the mountain.

     She looked at Iskander. "Why did they turn back?"

     "This is the limit of their territory. From here, their gods are powerless. They will not follow."

     "Then we are safe?" Veeda asked hopefully.

     Iskander was silent for a moment as he watched the figures disappear down the slope, then he said, "They will not go far. They will camp and hope that I come down the mountain. I shall bide my time. When they have grown lazy and careless, I will go into their camp and slit their throats as they sleep. And then I will continue on to their village and burn it to the ground, leaving not a man, woman or child alive. In this way, my revenge will be complete."

     Ulrika stared at him. In their days of trekking through the mountains, she had learned that Iskander suffered from insomnia. Although he would drift off after a few minutes beneath his blanket, he was soon wakened by dreams and demons, and he would pace restlessly for the rest of the night. She knew now what kept him awake. Revenge was a powerful stimulant.

     "Let us go," he said and, turning, began the last steps of their journey.

     Steep, rocky walls devoid of vegetation embraced the three as they followed the track in silence, their leather boots crunching stones and gravel underfoot. The wind through the pass was strong, whipping back hair and cloaks. And the sun, as if mimicking their progress, reached its zenith and then, as the silent travelers began their descent down the other side of the mountain, began its own descent toward the west.

     As they crested the peaks they saw, beneath a late-summer sky that was deep blue and dotted with white clouds, a golden plain stretching before them in breathless majesty. The valley lay within a ring of lavender mountains, and the ruins of a city stood at the heart of the valley, massive walls and towering columns, charred and broken, the only testament to the savage and ruthless destruction that had taken place there three hundred years before.

     Iskander, Ulrika, and Veeda were soon down the eastern side of the mountain and following the ancient royal road across an old wooden bridge over the River Pulvar. As they entered a vast stone terrace from which immense stairways rose to the open sky, they stared in humble dismay at the piles of stones and rubble and toppled pillars that had once been the palace of Darius the Great. No gardens flourished here, no trees or flowers, not even a blade of grass—just a flat, barren plain shorn to its crust. They saw charred columns and a layer of powdery dust everywhere—ash from theenormous rafters that had crashed down during the terrible inferno set by Alexander's torch, all that was left of the mighty cedars from Lebanon, and teak trees from India that were once fabulously painted columns capped with gold. Walls of dark limestone that had been laboriously engraved by skilled stonemasons depicted stiff parades of people long forgotten, now the only inhabitants of this desolate place. And as if to add final insult, proof of prior tourists visiting the ruins was found in graffiti etched into the walls: Suspirium puellarum Alypius thraex (Alypius the Thracian makes the girls sigh).

     When they came upon a pair of stone pillars capped by a massive lintel, Ulrika stopped and stared. "I know this place," she said in a tone filled with wonder. "I have been here before."

     Iskander and Veeda turned to her, their hair dancing in the cool wind.

     Ulrika sca

     She resumed walking. "I was told that the Magus lives north of this place. I believe my mother and I met him. We passed through these ruins when we left Persia. I can't have been more than three or four years old at the time." Ulrika took in the walls covered in bas-reliefs and cuneiform text, the stairways leading to nowhere, the sad remains of what had once been grand palaces and gardens.

     She stopped suddenly, her eyes wide. "Why, there he is!" She dropped her travel packs and ran ahead, her feet echoing on the floor of the limestone terrace. Iskander and Veeda followed until they came to stand before an enormous limestone wall.

     They gawked at the prince seated on a majestic throne. He was dressed in splendid robes with a tall round hat on his head, beneath which thick curls cascaded to his shoulders. His beard was thick and prodigious, covering his chest to his waist and coiled in tight ringlets. He held a staff in one hand and, curiously, a flower in the other. In front of him, a golden censer burned incense.

     It was a bas-relief. Not a living man after all, but a long dead emperor, carved in stone.

     "Hello?" came a voice on the wind.

     They turned to see a portly man puffing up the stones steps from the grassy plain. He wore a long coat made of goat felt, a rope-belt holding it closed. His gray hair was twisted into braids, while decorative beads and bells made noise in his bushy gray beard. "Greetings, strangers! I welcome you to my home." He held out his arms. "I am Zeroun the Armenian. That is my caravanserai, down there."

     They followed his pointing finger and saw the stone buildings, corrals, animals, vegetable gardens. "Come and eat, drink! Meet fellow travelers! I have comfortable rooms, and much news and gossip! You do not want to linger here for this is a haunted place, and many think it is unlucky!"

     "What is this place?" Ulrika asked.