“By the Spell of a Hundred Centuries we will bind them, and they shall sleep through the Dark Epoch which lies ahead. Then, when the Spell is done and the Age of Glory has come, the Paragons will march forth to institute the Kingdom of Light!

“To all others I give this instruction: continue on your way. Go south to the Lands of Cabanola and Eio, or — should you find there no respite — onward to the Land of Farwan, or — should you so elect — across the Lutic Ocean to the Scanduc Isles.

“Time presses upon us! We must take our Paragons. Let the King’s Companions and their families come forward, and the surviving Knights, and the maidens from the Institute of Gleyen and the Flower Songs, as well as Nephryne’s Foam, and all others who in pride and dignity must be considered Paragons!

“To expedite matters, all those of the lowest castes: the twittlers, public entertainers and buffoons; the stupid and ill-bred; the criminals and night-runners; those with short ears and long toenails: let them continue on their journey.

“The same suggestion applies to the somewhat more worthy castes, who, despite their rectitude, will not be included among the ‘Paragons’.

“All aspiring to the Golden Age: let them step forward! We will choose with all possible facility.”

Rhialto again tried to position himself directly below the sky-spot, hoping by some means to identify that person who carried the Perciplex, but found no success.

Either through vanity or desperate hope, few indeed heeded the strictures of the Arch-priest, so that those who pressed forward declaring themselves ‘Paragons’ included not only the noble and well-formed, but also the toothless and corpulent; the hydrocephalics, victims of chronic hiccup, notorious criminals, singers of popular songs and several persons on their death-beds.

The confusion tended to impede the process of selection, and so the day passed. Toward the end of the afternoon, some of the more realistic individuals gave up hope of finding sanctuary in Luid Shug and began to trudge off across the plain. Rhialto watched the sky-spot attentively, but it hung in the sky as before, until at last it faded into the murk of evening. Rhialto somberly returned to the inn at Vils of the Ten Steeples, and passed another restless night.

In the morning he again coursed north to Luid Shug, to discover that the selectors had worked the whole night through, so that all of the ‘Paragons’ had been selected and taken into the city. The gates were now sealed.

A pair of Bohul armies, moving slowly across the Joheim Valley, converged upon Luid Shug, and all those refugees still encamped near the crater departed in haste.

The dark blue sky-spot now hung over Luid Shug. Rhialto, descending to the ground, approached a postern beside the west gate. He was denied admittance. A voice from the shadows said: “Go your way, stranger; a hundred centuries will pass before Luid Shug again opens its gates. The Spell of Distended Time is on us; go, therefore, and do not bother to look back, since you will see only dreaming gods.”

The Bohul armies were close at hand. Rhialto took to the air and climbed to the tumble of a low white cumulus cloud.

A strange silence muffled the valley. The city showed no movement. With a deliberation more menacing than haste the war-wagons rolled toward the eastern gates of Luid Shug. The Bohul veterans, grumbling and walking as if their feet hurt, came behind.

From the spiral voice-horns above the city came amplified words: “Warriors, turn away! Make no molestation upon us. Luid Shug is now lost to your control.”

Paying no heed, the commanders prepared to strike down the gates with blast-bolts. Five of the stone effigies moved in their niches and raised their arms. The air quivered; the war-wagons shriveled to small tumbles of char. The peevish veterans became like the husks of dead insects. The Joheim Valley was once again quiet.

Rhialto turned away, and strode thoughtfully from cloud to cloud into the south. Where the hills began to rise, some twenty or thirty miles west of Fader’s Waft, he stepped down upon a hummock covered with dry grass and, seeking the shade of a solitary tree, sat leaning against the bole.

The time was close on noon. The fragrance of dry grass came pleasantly on puffs of warm wind. Far to the north-east a coil of smoke rose above the corpse of Vasques Tohor.

Chewing a straw, Rhialto sat reflecting upon his condition. Circumstances were not at the optimum, even though the Perciplex had been more or less precisely located. Osherl must be considered a weak reed, sullen and indifferent. Ildefonse? His interests comported more with those of Rhialto than those of the treacherous Hache-Moncour. Still, Ildefonse was known for his tendencies toward flexibility and expedience. As Preceptor, Ildefonse, even lacking the chug, might be able to compel Sarsem to correct conduct; in the main, however, and all taken with all, Sarsem must be reckoned even less dependable than Osherl.

Rhialto put the pleurmalion to his eye, and as before took note of the dark blue sky-spot over Luid Shug. Rhialto put aside the pleurmalion and called Osherl out from his walnut-shell.

Osherl showed himself as a wefkin four feet high with blue skin and green hair. He spoke in a voice meticulously polite. “My best regards, Rhialto! As I look about, I discover a fine warm day of the sixteenth aeon! The air tingles at one’s skin with characteristic zest. You are chewing grass like an idle farm-boy; I am happy to perceive your enjoyment of time and place.”

Rhialto ignored the pleasantries. “I still lack the Perciplex, and for this failure, you and Sarsem share the blame.”

The wefkin, laughing soundlessly, combed its green silk hair between blue fingers. “My dear fellow! This style of expression becomes you not at all!”

“No matter,” said Rhialto. “Go now to yonder city, and bring me back the Perciplex.”

The wefkin uttered a gay laugh. “Dear Rhialto, your witticisms are superb! The concept of poor Osherl trapped, dragged, pounded, stamped upon, dissected and maltreated by twenty vicious gods is a masterpiece of absurd imagery!”

“I intended no joke,” said Rhialto. “Yonder lies the Perciplex; the Perciplex I must have.”

Osherl himself plucked a blade of grass and waved it in the air to emphasize his remarks. “Perhaps you should recast your goals. In many ways the sixteenth aeon is more kindly than the twenty-first. You chew grass like one born to it. This time is yours, Rhialto! So it has been ordained by stronger voices than either yours or mine!”

“My voice is adequately strong,” said Rhialto. “Also I am friend to the chug and I distribute indenture points with lavish prodigality.”

“Such humor is mordant,” growled Osherl.

“You refuse to enter Luid Shug for the Perciplex?”

“Impossible while the gods stand guard.”

“Then you must take us forward exactly a hundred centuries, so that when Luid Shug awakens to the Age of Gold, we will be on hand to claim our property.”

Osherl wished to discuss the onerous quality of his indenture, but Rhialto would not listen. “All in good time, when we are once more in Boumergarth, Perciplex in hand!”

“The Perciplex? Is that all you want?” asked Osherl with patently false heartiness. “Why did you not say so in the first place? Are you prepared?”

“I am indeed. Work with accuracy.”

13

The hillock and the solitary tree were gone. Rhialto stood on the slope of a stony valley, with a river wandering sluggishly below.

The time seemed to be morning, although a heavy overcast concealed the sky. The air felt raw and damp against his skin; to the east dark wisps of rain drifted down into a black forest.

Rhialto looked about the landscape, but found no evidences of human habitancy: neither fence, farm-house, road, track or path. Rhialto seemed to be alone. Where was Osherl? Rhialto looked here and there in annoyance, then called out: “Osherl! Make yourself known!”

Osherl stepped forward, still the blue-skinned wefkin. “I am here.”

Rhialto indicated the dour landscape. “This does not seem the Age of Gold. Have we come exactly one hundred centuries? Where is Luid Shug?”

Osherl pointed to the north. “Luid Shug is yonder, at the edge of the forest.”

Rhialto brought out the pleurmalion, but the dark blue sky-spot could not be seen for the overcast. “Let us make a closer approach.”

The two coursed north to the site of the sacred city, to discover only a tumble of ruins. Rhialto spoke in perplexity: “This is a most dreary prospect! Where have the gods gone?”

“I will go to Gray Dene and there make inquiry,” said Osherl. “Wait here; in due course I will return with all information.”

“Stop! Hold up!” cried Rhialto. “My question was casual. First find the Perciplex; then you can seek after the gods as long as you like.”

Osherl grumbled under his breath: “You have dawdled away a hundred centuries, yet if I spent a single year in Gray Dene I would still hear threats and abuse on my return. It dulls the edge of one’s initiative.”

“Enough!” said Rhialto. “I am interested only in the Perciplex.”

The two approached the ruins. Wind and weather had worked at the old crater walls so that only traces remained. The temples were rubble; the twenty gods, carved from marble, had likewise eroded to a few toppled fragments, with all their force seeped into the mire.

Rhialto and Osherl walked slowly around the edge of the old city, testing the pleurmalion from time to time, without result.