‘I don’t think I can stay awake that long.’
Tarantio’s dagger pricked the skin under Duvo’s chin. ‘If you fall asleep, I think I know a way to wake you.’
The night wore on, seemingly endlessly to the exhausted Duvodas, and when at last the first rays of dawn could been seen illuminating the southern end of the cleft, he felt a surge of elation.
‘What do we know about this monastery?’ asked Tarantio – the first words he had spoken in hours.
‘Very little. I looked for references to it in the library at Corduin. It was originally built by Priests of the Source hundreds of years ago. Now it is owned by a sect who call themselves the Letters of Revelation. Their cult believes the end of the world is upon us.’
‘They may not be far wrong,’ said Tarantio grimly. ‘Let us hope they are early risers.’
The two men rose wearily to their feet and moved
along the cleft. Duvodas stumbled to a halt before the narrow ledge leading to the gates of the monastery. It was around 100 paces long, ice-covered and slanted, in places no more than three or four feet wide. The drop to the left of the ledge was dizzyingly deep. ‘How high do you think we are?’ he asked Tarantio.
‘A thousand feet. Maybe more,’ answered the warrior. ‘The height is immaterial. A drop of a hundred feet would see a man dead. All this means is that you will be in the air for longer.’
‘I don’t think I can walk across that,’ said Duvo.
‘Move ahead of me. I’ll catch you if you stumble.’
‘I can’t.’
Dace grabbed Duvo’s fur-lined cloak and slammed him back against the rock wall. ‘You listen to me, you miserable whoreson! You’ve dragged me half-way across the land with your tale of woe, of rescuing the Eldarin and imprisoning the Daroth. And now a little danger has you pissing your breeches. You’ll walk – or I swear I’ll hurl you over the edge.’
‘Not everyone is blessed with your courage,’ said Duvodas, ‘but I will make the attempt. Not because you threaten me, but because you are right. It is more important to find the Pearl.’
Tarantio released him. ‘Hold to the wall, and move slowly. If your foot slips, drop to your stomach. Do not try to maintain balance.’
Duvo took a deep breath and was about to step forward, when the sound of distant singing came from the monastery. A wall of warmth struck him. Ahead the ice began to melt on the ledge. The heat was now almost unbearable and both men turned their backs to it. As they did so, they saw the same effect flowing along the cleft. ‘They understand the magic
of the land,’ said Duvo. ‘They are clearing a path for us.’
The wall of heat moved on, flowing past them. Stepping out, Duvo ran along the ledge and up the small slope to the ancient gates. Tarantio came up behind him.
‘They are not doing it for us,’ said Tarantio. ‘If they were, the heat would have stopped where we were. And they are still singing their magic.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Duvo happily. ‘We made it, Tarantio.’ He thumped his fist on the gate. After several moments he heard a latch creak, and when the gate opened an elderly monk stood there in woollen robes of flowing white. He had kindly brown eyes and a gentle smile.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Can we come in?’ asked Tarantio. ‘It has been a cold night and I would appreciate a warm meal.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ The old priest stepped aside. After they had entered he closed the gate and led them across a small courtyard and into the main building, up three flights of stairs and along a corridor. Here there was a long, narrow dining-room. Another white-robed priest was working in the kitchen area, cleaning dishes. The sound of singing was muted now, but the travellers could still hear it coming from far below.
‘Good-morning again, Brother Nemas,’ said the old man to the dish-washing priest. ‘We have two visitors. Is there any soup left?’