‘The citizens here must be worthy of great trust,’ said Sieben. ‘Such a prize as this would gain a man enormous wealth.’
The priest gave a thin smile. ‘Not really. Lift it!’
Sieben reached out his hand, but his fingers closed on air. The golden horn, so substantial to the eye, was merely an image. ‘Incredible!’ whispered the poet. ‘How is it done?’
The priest shrugged and spread his thin arms. ‘Pashtar Sen worked the miracle a thousand years ago. He was a poet and a scholar, but also a man of war. According to myth he met the goddess, Ciris, and she gave him the hunting horn as a reward for his valour. He placed it here. And the moment it left his grasp it became as you see it.’
‘What is its purpose?’ Sieben asked.
‘It has healing properties. Barren women are said to become fertile if they lie upon the altar and cover the horn. There is some evidence that this is true. And once every ten years the horn is said to become solid once more and then, so we are told, it can bring a man back from the halls of death, or carry his spirit to the stars.’
‘Have you ever seen it become solid?’
‘No. And I have been a servant here for thirty-seven years.’
‘Fascinating. What happened to Pashtar Sen?’
‘He refused to fight for the Emperor and was impaled on a spike of iron.’
‘Not a good ending.’
‘Indeed not, but he was a man of principle and believed the Emperor to be in the wrong. Are you here to fight for Ventria?’
‘No. We are visitors.’
The priest nodded and turned to Druss. ‘Your mind is far away, my son,’ he said. ‘Are you troubled?’
‘He has suffered a great loss,’ said Sieben swiftly.
‘A loved one? Ah, I see. Would you wish to commune with her, my son?’
‘What do you mean?’ growled Druss.
‘I could summon her spirit. It might bring you peace.’ , Druss stepped forward. ‘You could do that?’
‘I could try. Follow me.’ The priest led them into the shadowed recesses at the rear of the temple, then along a narrow corridor to a small, windowless room. ‘You must leave your weapons outside,’ said the priest. Druss leaned Snaga against the wall, and Sieben hung his baldric of knives to the haft. Inside the room there were two chairs facing one another; the priest sat in the first, beckoning Druss to take the second. ‘This room,’ said the priest, ‘is a place of harmony. No profane language has ever been heard here. It is a room of prayer and kind thoughts. It has been so for a thousand years. Whatever happens, please remember that. Now give me your hand.’
Druss stretched out his arm and the priest took hold of his hand, asking who it was that he wished to call. Druss told him. ‘And your name, my son?’
‘Druss.’
The man licked his lips and sat, eyes closed, for several minutes. Then he spoke. ‘I call to thee, Rowena, child of the mountains. I call to thee on behalf of Druss. I call to thee across the plains of Heaven, I speak to thee across the vales of Earth. I reach out to thee, even unto the dark places below the oceans of the world, and the arid deserts of Hell.’ For a moment nothing happened. Then the priest stiffened and cried out. He slumped down in the chair, head dropping to his chest.
His mouth opened and a single word issued forth: ‘Druss!’ It was a woman’s voice. Sieben was startled. He glanced at the axeman; all colour faded from Druss’s face. ‘Rowena!’
‘I love you, Druss. Where are you?’
‘In Ventria. I came for you.’
‘I am here waiting. Druss! Oh no, everything is fading. Druss, can you hear. . . ?’
‘Rowena!’ shouted Druss, storming to his feet. The priest jerked and awoke. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I did not find her.’
‘I spoke to her,’ said Druss, hauling the man to his feet. ‘Get her again!’
‘I cannot. There was no one. Nothing happened!’
‘Druss! Let him go!’ shouted Sieben, grabbing Druss’s arm. The axeman released his hold on the priest’s robes and walked from the room.