probably in the Cataclysm.”
“Wait, there are two of them,” Matya said, pointing to
another broken boulder, which was carved in the form of a
regal-looking woman.
“The two giants,” Trevarre said. “It seems the maiden’s
directions were not so inadequate after all.”
*****
The road beyond the ruined statues was all but hidden
by a tangle of willows and brambles. Matya doubted that
anyone had come this way in a long time. The way was
passable but overgrown and rutted. Trevarre winced each
time the wagon’s wheel hit a bump, but he said nothing.
“He has courage, if not sense,” Matya told herself. She
glanced at him, and for a brief moment her hard expression
softened. She found herself wondering just how. old
Trevarre was. He was not a young man, she suspected,
despite his foolhardiness.
The narrow road wound across the rolling foothills,
over grassy knolls and through groves of aspen and fir. In
places the trail was so faint Matya could hardly see it, and
several times it ended abruptly, only to be found continuing
a hundred paces to the left or right. It was almost as if the
land itself had shifted beneath the road, breaking it into
pieces.
As the hills slipped away to either side, Matya began to
feel a growing sense of unease. The land around them was
strangely silent. There are no birds here, she realized with a
start, here where the meadows should have been filled with
birds.
It was late in the afternoon, and the amber sunlight had
grown heavy and dull, when the wagon crested a low ridge.
Below lay a small, grassy dell, and in its center stood –
“Tambor,” Trevarre said triumphantly.
Matya shook her head in astonishment. She had
expected to see a pile of ruins in the dell, the burned-out
husks of a few cottages perhaps, and some crumbling stone
walls. Instead she saw a prosperous village. More than a
score of well-tended cottages lined a main street, busy with
people, horses, chickens, and dogs. Smoke rose from a low
stone building – probably a smithy – and a mill’s waterwheel
turned slowly in a small stream.
“You have kept your end of the bargain, Matya,”
Trevarre said solemnly. “Now it is my turn.” He handed her
the leather pouch that contained the doll. Matya gripped the
purse with numb hands.
The kender had been wrong, she told herself, that was
all. Tambor had NOT been destroyed in the Cataclysm.
Matya didn’t know why she was surprised. Still, there was
something about this that did not seem entirely right.
“What is such a prosperous village doing at the end of
such an overgrown road?” she asked herself, but she had no
answer. Not that it mattered. She had the doll now. That
was all she cared about.
“I can walk the rest of the way,” Trevarre said, starting
to climb down from the wagon, but Matya stayed him with
a hand on his arm.
“I know it’s hard, but try not to be a fool, Knight. I’ll
take you into the village. I’ll need to stay here anyway. It’s
growing late. I’ll set out again in the morning.”
Matya guided the wagon to the banks of the stream. A
small stone bridge arched over the clear, flowing water. A
young woman stood on the far side of the stream. She was
clad in a gown of flowing white, and her hair was as dark
as jet. She was beautiful, as beautiful as the porcelain doll.
“My knight, you have come to me!” the woman cried
out. Her voice was the doll’s sweet voice. Matya thought
this odd, disconcerting, but it didn’t bother Trevarre. His
pale eyes shining, he slipped from the wagon and limped
across the stone bridge, ignoring the pain of his injury. He
knelt before the young woman and kissed her fine-boned
hand.
Matya scowled. He never kissed my hand, she thought
sourly.
“I am Ciri,” said the sweet voice. “Welcome, Sir
Knight. My deliverance is at hand.”
*****
Ciri led Trevarre and Matya around the edge of the
village. “Quickly,” she said softly. “The fewer the folk who
see us, the better.”
Matya wondered why, but it wasn’t HER place to ask.