They stood behind The Which with a huge and humorless Leftist. They’re simply ignorant, The Which thought, shaking her head as yet another sophomoric snort insulted her ears. They are a product of their breeding. Little is expected of them, so little is what their unimaginative minds offer.

Unlike the Indiran, The Which reflected, who was a most uncommon “common soldier.” Something he had said continued to resonate with her. “We educate our soldiers on Indira.” She made a mental note to add that to her list of reforms should she and Olaf come into power.

Yes, the Indiran remained an enigma. He had shown neither excitement nor fear when she had described the Dogs in their chambers and the elusive prize of the Tinderbox that lay at the odyssey’s end. He had accepted the apron wordlessly, without question or the obvious scorn that Kohl had not been able to suppress. The Which had expected some sort of reaction or opinion from him, but he had left her unsatisfied and alone in her enthusiasm for the mission at hand.

He seemed too smart to bribe, and too brave to threaten, so she had tried neither, appealing instead to his compassion. It was not a quality one expected in a soldier, but her instinct about the young man proved correct, and her sincerity became the key to unlocking his obstinance. Whatever his motivation, there he was, clumsily climbing the Tree just as she had asked, with only her word and his sword to sustain him.

She felt the stone in her forehead glow with inner energy and she shuddered. The stone was always portentous. Whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, The Which wished she knew.

EIGHT

Everson struggled into the opening of what The Which called the Tree and promptly collapsed. He was not fond of heights. The climb had been arduous, and he remained sprawled where he was for a few moments to catch his breath and get his bearings.

In her optimism, The Which had given him a satchel to hold whatever prize he was supposed to retrieve from this misnomer of a Manolithic monument, and presently it lay strapped across his heaving chest.

Dutifully, Everson leaned forward with a groan, reached behind him, and clicked his broadsword from its magnetic scabbard. He noticed immediately its diminished connectivity. Either its power pack was low, or The Which had drained the energy to the minimum magnetism. It was still a formidable weapon even without all the bells and whistles. He snicked the sword back onto its scabbard and glanced about.

The cluttered interior instantly piqued Everson’s interest. Here was history and, therefore, an education.

His worlds history advisor in Agrilon, Master Vici, had certainly been worldly and well-versed, but the massive tomes from which he taught had been ancient, and Everson had long suspected that the pompous Master Vici had filled in the blanks about Mano with conjecture and opinion.

Now, the young prince thought, perhaps I can figure out a thing or two for myself. Like why the Manoliths both feared and revered this so-called Tree, and why they doggedly adhered to dogma decreed centuries before.