“Embelyon,” murmured T’sais.

“— but the spell to journey to this land has been forgotten. Then there is another, who is no wizard, who knows no magic. To get your face, you must seek it of one of these,” and Javanne stopped, the question of Etarr answered.

“Who is this latter one?” he asked.

“I know not his name. Far in the past, far beyond thought, so the legend runs, a race of just people lived in a land east of the Maurenron Mountains, past the Land of the Falling Wall, by the shores of a great sea. They built a city of spires and low glass domes, and dwelt in great content. These people had no god, and presently they felt the need of one whom they might worship. So they built a lustrous temple of gold, glass and granite, wide as the Scaum River where it flows through the Valley of Graven Tombs, as long again, and higher than the trees of the north. And this race of honest men assembled in the temple, and all flung a mighty prayer, a worshipful invocation, and, so legend has it, a god molded by the will of this people was brought into being, and he was of their attributes, a divinity of utter justice.

“The city at last crumbled, the temple became shards and splinters, the people vanished. But the god still remains, rooted forever to the place where his people worshipped him. And this god has power beyond magic. To each who faces him, the god wills and justice is done. And let the evil beware, for those who face the god find no whit of mercy. Therefore few dare to bring their faces before this god.”

“And to this god we go,” said Etarr with grim pleasure. “The three of us, and the three of us shall face justice.”

They returned across the moors to Etarr’s cabin, and he searched his books for means to transport them to the ancient site. In vain; he had no such magic at his command. He turned to Javanne.

“Do you know of magic to take us to this ancient god?”

“Yes.”

“What is this magic?”

“I will call three winged creatures from the Iron Mountains, and they will carry us.”

Etarr gazed at Javanne’s white face sharply.

“What reward do they demand?”

“They kill those whom they transport.”

“Ah, witch,” exclaimed Etarr, “even with your will drugged and your answers willy-nilly honest, you contrive to harm us.” He stood towering over the beautiful evil of red hair and wet lips. “How may we get to the god unharmed and unmolested?”

“You must put the winged creatures under a charge.”

“Summon the things,” Etarr ordered, “and place them under the charge; and bind them with all the sorcery you know.”

Javanne called the creatures; they settled flapping on great leather wings. She placed them under a pact of safety, and they whined and stamped with disappointment.

And the three mounted, and the creatures took them swiftly through the night air, which already smelled of morning.

East, ever east. Dawn came, and the dim red sun ballooned slowly upward into the dark sky. The black Maurenron Range passed under; and the misty Land of the Falling Wall was left behind. To the south were the deserts of Almery, and an ancient sea-bed filled with jungle; to the north, the wild forests.

All during the day they flew, over dusty waste, dry cliffs, another great range of mountains, and as sunset came they slowly sloped downward over a green parkland.

Ahead shone a glimmering sea. The winged things landed on the wide strand, and Javanne bound them to immobility for their return.

The beach, the woodland behind, both were bare of any trace of the wondrous city of the past. But a half-mile out to sea rose a few broken columns.

“The sea has come,” Etarr muttered. “The city has foundered.”

He waded out. The sea was calm and shallow. T’sais and Javanne followed. With the water around their waists, and dusk coming from the sky, they came through the broken columns of the ancient temple.

A brooding presence pervaded the place, dispassionate, supernal, of illimitable will and power.

Etarr stood in the center of the old temple.

“God of the past!” he cried. “I know not how you were called, or I would invoke you by name. We three come from a far land to the west to seek justice of you. If you hear and will administer us each our due, give me a sign!”

A low sibilant voice came from the air: “I hear and will give each his due.” And each saw a vision of a golden six-armed figure with a round, calm face, sitting impassive in the nave of a monstrous temple.

“I have been bereft of my face,” said Etarr. “If you deem me fit, restore me the face I once wore.”

The god of the vision extended its six arms.

“I have searched your mind. Justice shall be meted. You may remove your hood.” Slowly Etarr doffed his mask. He put his hand to his face. It was his own.

T’sais looked numbly at him. “Etarr!” she gasped. “My brain is whole! — I see the world!”

“To each who comes, justice is done,” said the sibilant voice.

They heard a moan. They turned and looked at Javanne. Where was the lovely face, the strawberry mouth, the fair skin?

Her nose was a three-fold white squirming thing, her mouth a putrefying blotch. She had dangling mottled jowls and a peaked black forehead. The only thing left of Javanne was the long red hair dangling over her shoulders.

“To each who comes, justice is done,” said the voice, and the vision of the temple faded, and once more the cool water of the twilight sea lapped at their waists, and the broken columns leaned black on the sky.

They returned slowly to the winged creatures.

Etarr turned to Javanne. “Go,” he commanded. “Fly back to your lair. When the sun sets tomorrow, release yourself from the spell. Never bother us henceforth, for I have magic which will warn me and blast you if you approach.”

And Javanne wordlessly bestrode her dark creature and winged off through the night.

Etarr turned to T’sais, and took her hand. He gazed down at her tilted white face, into the eyes glowing with such feverish joy that they seemed afire. He bent and kissed her forehead; then, together, hand in hand, they went to their fretting winged creatures, and so flew back to Ascolais.

IV

Liane the Wayfarer

Through the dim forest came Liane the Wayfarer, passing along the shadowed glades with a prancing light-footed gait. He whistled, he caroled, he was plainly in high spirits. Around his finger he twirled a bit of wrought bronze — a circlet graved with angular crabbed characters, now stained black.

By excellent chance he had found it, banded around the root of an ancient yew. Hacking it free, he had seen the characters on the inner surface — rude forceful symbols, doubtless the cast of a powerful antique rune … Best take it to a magician and have it tested for sorcery.

Liane made a wry mouth. There were objections to the course. Sometimes it seemed as if all living creatures conspired to exasperate him. Only this morning, the spice merchant — what a tumult he had made dying! How carelessly he had spewed blood on Liane’s cock comb sandals! Still, thought Liane, every unpleasantness carried with it compensation. While digging the grave he had found the bronze ring.

And Liane’s spirits soared; he laughed in pure joy. He bounded, he leapt. His green cape flapped behind him, the red feather in his cap winked and blinked … But still — Liane slowed his step — he was no whit closer to the mystery of the magic, if magic the ring possessed.

Experiment, that was the word!