The man's face might have been chipped from the rough rocks of this land. It was harsh and strong and forbidding, and the cool gray eyes were like the sea.
"What do you seek here?" he asked. His voice was deep and not at all unpleasant.
Elak hesitated. "Aynger. Aynger of Amenalk. Do you know of him?"
"I am Aynger."
For a heart-beat there was silence. Then Elak said, "I seek the throne of Cyrena."
Laughter sprang into the gray eyes. Aynger of Amenalk reached out a huge hand and gripped Elak's arm, squeezing it painfully. He said, "Dalan sent you! Dalan!"
Elak nodded.
"But it is not me you seek. It is Mayana—the daughter of Poseidon. You must seek her there." He pointed to the distant castle on the island. "Her power alone can aid you. But first—come."
He led the way to the cliff's edge. A perilous, narrow path led down the jagged face; Aynger started along it with surefooted ease, and Elak and Lycon followed more gingerly. Far below, the breakers tore upon the rocks; sea-birds called shrilly.