As they climbed, Hyam remained held by the language spoken by the witches surrounding them. Milantian was the speech of death and war and darkest mage-force. He knew his company were frightened. He knew he should try to reassure them. But he would not color this trek with fable.
He asked the crone, “Are you our foes?”
“Foes, you say? Do foes light your way to the realm of mystery? Do foes reveal themselves, breaking vows older than the race of man?”
When Hyam translated, Selim hissed in response, “The old woman’s race has been our sworn foe for just as long.”
The crone glanced back from where she led her company. “What strange scent do I detect lingering about this one?”
Hyam had no intent of answering, so he deflected with, “Is there no better route to the top?”
The crone and her company shrieked with glee. “What use is a path when few come and none depart? Except for you and your company, by command of the covert one. A path is as worthless as a name for empty hills in the midst of the empty reaches. And so all the world has thought. Including our own kind. And thus have we survived.”
Hyam caught the hint of a lie but only said, “We will keep your secret.”
“So the covert one has vowed.” The crone shot him a look that was sour and bitter both. “Even so, we shall mark your departure with dread and foreboding.”
The going was very steep in places. They climbed long enough for Hyam to lose every vestige of the night’s chill. The shifting mage-lights cast the slope in shadows that flickered and twisted and hid crevices that almost tripped him twice.
When they finally crested the rise, there was nothing to see. The others gathered around him, panting hard. The desert stretched out behind, a sea of dusky moonlight, lifeless and silent save for the tiny bundle of campfires where their caravan waited.
Before them opened a central valley carved down the length of all four hills. The gorge was dark as a giant’s open grave. There was no sound. No life. No reason to have come here at all.
The crone noted their confusion. “And so all have seen since the dawn of man’s era, save those who have chosen to come and never leave. Not even our own kind who returned here have seen anything else.”
Again Hyam sensed veiled untruths. “The crimson mage came here?”
She waved his question aside. “Here stands Lystra, strange one. This grand city once marked the boundary of the Milantian realm. Before the time of man, before the lure of shadow forces captured our finest, we were.” She reached toward the heavens with both scrawny arms. “Observe, newcomer. Behold the lost empire. Behold the majesty of former epochs.”
The crone’s hands and fingers began an intricate dance, joined by all the others of her company. Together they weaved a complex script of moonlight and mage-force. Their elaborate motions transformed the night into a loom.
They weaved a city.
The hills became a bastion, from which sprung towers of lyrical splendor. These grew ramparts and palaces and grand chambers. The long cavern sprang to magnificent life, filled with silver fire and the music of a hundred fountains. A road of polished pewter opened before them, illuminated by living lanterns with diaphanous wings.
But the greatest change of all was in the crone and her company. Gone were the ghastly figures with their wretched faces. In their place stood women whose beauty dimmed even the city’s allure.
The queen of Lystra shone with a regal power beyond the reach of time or human comprehension. The women who surrounded her gleamed with a magnetic splendor. They seemed to dance even when they remained still. They smiled with their entire beings. They sang a welcome even when silent.
Hyam and his company could only gape in wondrous astonishment.
The queen of Lystra was clearly satisfied with the effect of their creation. She laughed, the sound as lovely as crystal bells, as deadly as a silver dagger. “Come.”