"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?"
"Much of the journey is across terrible deserts, and the rest is over insurmountable mountain barriers. The Barrow is atop the tallest mountain on all the planet."
"That makes it so much harder for the Old Ones to find it," Tyr said.
"The Old Ones can fly. The Trylla must walk. Our monorails run only in the cities. Oh, Tyr, the only way you can win is to go into the chambers of Yawarta and destroy the leading ardth. You can do it no other way!"