Later, much later, as the wet figure stood beside the stream, he spoke softly and his breath came in gasps:
“You were—the greatest—to be raised up against me—in all the ages I can remember. . . . It is indeed a pity . . .”
Then, having crossed the stream, he continued on his way through the hills of stone, walking.
Entering the town of Alundil, the traveler stopped at the first inn he came to. He took a room and ordered a tub of water. He bathed while a servant cleaned his garments.
Before he had his dinner, he moved to the window and looked down into the street. The smell of slizzard was strong upon the air, and the babble of many voices arose from below.
People were leaving the town. In the courtyard at his back, preparations for the departure of a morning caravan were being made. This night marked the end of the spring festival. Below him in the street, businessmen were still trading, mothers were soothing tired children and a local prince was returning with his men from the hunt, two fire-roosters strapped to the back of a skittering slizzard. He watched a tired prostitute discussing something with a priest, who appeared to be even more tired, as he kept shaking his head and finally walked away. One moon was already high in the heavens—seen as golden through the Bridge of the Gods — and a second, smaller moon had just appeared above the horizon. There was a cool tingle in the evening air, bearing to him, above the smells of the city, the scents of the growing things of spring: the small shoots and the tender grasses, the clean smell of the blue-green spring wheat, the moist ground, the roiling freshet. Leaning forward, he could see the Temple that stood upon the hill.
He summoned a servant to bring his dinner in his chamber and to send for a local merchant.
He ate slowly, not paying especial attention to his food, and when he had finished, the merchant was shown in.
The man bore a cloak full of samples, and of these he finally decided upon a long, curved blade and a short, straight dagger, both of which he thrust into his sash.
Then he went out into the evening and walked along the rutted main street of the town. Lovers embraced in doorways. He passed a house where mourners were wailing for one dead. A beggar limped after him for half a block, until he turned and glanced into his eyes, saying, “You are not lame,” and then the man hurried away, losing himself in a crowd that was passing. Overhead, the fireworks began to burst against the sky, sending long, cherry-colored streamers down toward the ground. From the Temple came the sound of the gourd horns playing the nagaswaram music. A man stumbled from out a doorway, brushing against him, and he broke the man’s wrist as he felt his hand fall upon his purse. The man uttered a curse and called for help, but he pushed him into the drainage ditch and walked on, turning away his two companions with one dark look.
At last, he came to the Temple, hesitated a moment and passed within.
He entered the inner courtyard behind a priest who was carrying in a small statue from an outer niche.
He surveyed the courtyard, then quickly moved to the place occupied by the statue of the goddess Kali. He studied her for a long while, drawing his blade and placing it at her feet. When he picked it up and turned away, he saw that the priest was watching him. He nodded to the man, who immediately approached and bade him a good evening.
“Good evening, priest,” he replied.
“May Kali sanctify your blade, warrior.”
“Thank you. She has.”
The priest smiled. “You speak as if you knew that for certain.”
“And that is presumptuous of me, eh?”
“Well, it may not be in the best of taste.”
“Nevertheless, I felt her power come over me as I gazed upon her shrine.”
The priest shuddered. “Despite my office,” he stated, “that is a feeling of power I can do without.”