"No. No, I do not think that is what a god would do." Fay frowned slightly. She kicked at a lump of sand and watched it fly apart. She ran a finger into her thick yellow hair and twirled it. "Of course you may be right," she said tartly. "I am not versed in the way of gods." "Nor am I," scowled Tyr. "But, in the heart of me, something says there is another way. That, if I can convince the _ardth_ that I could defeat them, smash them in some way--then what would be the triumph of a god." "That might take a long time. I would like very much to have that emerald necklace. Otho said it was worn by Queen Yatha-sath two thousand years ago. Please, Tyr?" She came close to him, perfumed warmth and soft white skin. Her mouth was very red. But Tyr looked away, frowning. "The Old Ones derive their powers from a thing called science," he said slowly. "It says so in a book in the Tower. If I could learn that science, I might defeat them with their own weapons. But that would take a long time. Many years." * * * * * He stared up into the sun and smiled gently, feeling its hot rays lave his chest and arms and thighs. Like bubbles of air surging up through water, he felt the dormant strength of his muscles. He had strength. A strong man can fight with his hands and with his legs. He would fight. He turned sharply to Fay and asked, "What is the Barrow that the Trylla often mention? Where is it?" "The Barrow is the pride of the Trylla. Without it there would be no hope." "Yes, yes. I know. But what _is_ it?" "It is the hidden place where all the wartime secrets of the race are stored. When the last invasion of the Old Ones took place, nearly a hundred years ago, all the accumulated knowledge of the conquered Tryllans was locked away lest the Old Ones destroy it." "Could you find the Barrow?" Fay shuddered. Tyr looked at her, saw her fingers move through her yellow hair, watched with gentle smile as white teeth nibbled at red lip. He put out his big hands and held her arms. "It is for the Trylla that I ask." "I--I know. I can find the Barrow." Her chin lifted defiantly. "Of what use are old legends if they make those who hear them weaklings and cowards? Better to--to die bravely than to hole up like the _tabbug_ at the first cry of the hunting-cat!" Tyr grinned at her, wondering if she believed in her own words. She was so lovely, so childishly greedy for pretty things, so--he frowned at the idea--so unconsciously selfish, wrapped in her own interests, that abstract terms like bravery and cowardice seemed alien to her tongue. Her brown eyes flirted up at him from under their long lashes, and caught his warm grin. She muttered sullenly, "The Barrow is five days' journey from the Desert of the Dead, and that lies two days' travelling from here." "So near?"