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longer； Princess； and I do not want to carry you back by force。 If I help you open the door；〃 he said slowly； not daring to see the painful look of hope on her face； 〃will you return with me afterward？〃
〃Oh； yes； whatever you want'〃 She was childlike in her eagerness。 〃I will let you decide； because I know when you see the land where the Sithi still live； you will not want to hurry back to any sooty cavern。 Yes！〃
〃Very well； then。 I have your word； Maegwin。〃 He stood up and grasped the handle of the door； giving it a sharp tug。 There was no movement at all。
〃Eolair；〃 Maegwin said quietly。
He pulled again； harder； until he could feel the cords of his neck standing out； but the door did not budge。
〃Count Eolair；〃 Maegwin said。
He gave the door another futile pull； then turned。 〃What？〃
She gestured at the door with a broken…nailed finger。 〃1 sawed the bolt through； but the pieces are still there。 Shouldn't we take them out？〃
〃That would make no difference 。。。〃 he began； then looked more closely。 Part of the severed bolt had fallen into the door loop； effectively preventing the door's opening。 Eolair hissed； then pushed the pieces out。 They fell clinking to the damp stone。
This time； as Eolair pulled； the hinges creaked protestingly。 Maegwin came forward； curling her hands around the door handle beside the count's； adding her strength to his。 The hinges spoke louder。 As he kept up the pressure； he distractedly watched the muscles in her forearms。 She was strong； this young woman…but then； she never had been a weak or retiring type。 Except around him； where he had often noticed her sharp tongue suddenly blunted。
Straining； Eolair sucked in a chestful of air and could not help noticing Maegwin's scent。 Sweaty and covered with dirt； the princess did not smell like a perfumed lady from the court in Nabban； but there was something raw and warm and lively about her that was not unpleasant at all。 Eolair shook his head at such musings and redoubled his effort； watching Maegwin's determined face as the noise of the hinges rose to a shriek。 The door began to grate open…an inch； then a few inches more； then a foot； protesting loudly all the way。 When a cubit of blackness was exposed they stopped； leaning against the heavy timbers to catch their breath。
Maegwin bent and picked up a lamp； then slipped through the opening while Eolair was still gasping。
〃Princess！〃 he called breathlessly； then edged through after her。 〃Wait！ The air may be bad！〃 Even as he spoke he realized that the air was fine； if a little heavy。 〃Just 。 。〃 he began； then stopped short at Maegwin's shoulder。 The lamp she held threw light all around。 〃I told you！〃 Her voice was full of satisfied awe。 〃This is where our friends live！〃
〃Brynioch of the Skies！〃 Eolair murmured； stunned。
A great city lay before them； stretched along the bottom of a wide canyon。 As they stood at the canyon's edge； gazing down； the vast expanse of buildings seemed to be hewed directly from the mountain's heart； as though the entire city were one seamless； incalculably immense piece of living stone。 Every window and door had been cut into solid rock； every tower carved out of pillars of pre…existing stone； pillars that stretched up toward the cavern's ceiling far overhead。 But for all its size； the city also looked to be surprisingly close； as though it were in truth only a miniature； made to trick the eye。 From where they stood on the top steps of a broad staircase that wound down into the canyon； it seemed they could almost reach out and touch the domed roofs。
〃The city of the Peaceful Ones 。 。 〃 Maegwin said happily。
If it was a Sithi city； Eolair thought； then its immortal inhabitants must have decided their declining years would be better spent on the sunny surface； for this spread of delicately hewn and shaded stone was empty…or so it certainly seemed。 Shaken by the discovery of such an uncanny place； the count found himself fervently hoping that it was indeed as deserted as it looked。
The small cell was cold。 Duke Isgrimnur snorted miserably； rubbing his hands together。
Mother Church would do better to take a few of those damned offerings and use them to heat her greatest house； he thought。 The tapestries and gold candlesticks are all well and good…but how can anyone admire them when he's freezing to death？
He had stayed long in the mon room the night before； sitting quietly before the great fireplace as he listened to the stories of other traveling monks； most of whom had e to the Sancellan Aedonitis on some sort of business with the lectoral establishment。 When friendly questions were directed toward him； Isgrimnur had replied tersely and infrequently； knowing that here…among others of the same guild； so to speak…the danger of his masquerade being detected was greatest。
Now； as he sat listening to the Clavean bell tolling for morning prayer； he felt himself strongly inclined to go back to the mon room again。 The risk of exposure was great； but how else could be help to uncover the news he so urgently sought？
If only that damnable Count Streawe spoke straightly！ Why should he bring me all the way across Ansis Pelippe just to tell me Miriamele was at the Sancellan Aedonitis7 How could he know that？ And why should he tell me； about whom he knew only that I was asking questions about two monks； an old one and a young7
Isgrimnur considered briefly the possibility that Streawe had known who he was； and worse； that the count had set him to some kind of wild chase on purpose； when Miriamele was in reality nowhere near the lector's palace。 But if that was the case； why should Perdruin's master speak to him personally？ They had sat there； the count and monkishly…disguised Isgrimnur； drinking wine in the count's own sitting room。 Did Streawe know who he was？ What did the man have to gain by sending Isgrimnur to the Sanceilan Aedonitis？
Trying to puzzle out Count Streawe's game made Isgrimnur's head ache。 What choice did he have； anyway； but to take the count's word at its face value？ He had been at a plete dead end； bing the alleyways of Perdruin's greatest city for word of the princess and the monk Cadrach with little result。 So here he was； a mendicant monk taking a little charity in Mother Church's bosom； hoping to find out if Streawe was correct。
He stamped his feet。 The soles of his boots were worn thin and the chill seemed to crawl up through the dank stone floors right into the bottoms of his feet This was foolishness； this hiding in his cell； it would not help him in his quest。 He must get out and mix with the Sancellan's swarming throngs。 Besides； when he sat too long by himself； the faces of his wife Gutrun and his children came to him； filling him with despair and helpless rage。 He remembered the joy when Isorn had e back to him out of captivity； the bursting pride； the exhilaration of fear defeated。 Would he live to have another such reunion with them all？ God grant that he would。 It was his fondest hope； but one that seemed so tenuous that； like a spider web； to handle it unnecessarily might spell its ruin。
But in any case； hope alone was not a fit di