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cold water lying among the stones of the road I could see the three moons of Gor.
    I turned and looked upon the valley in which Ko-ro-ba had lain.
    “You are Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” said the man.
    I was startled. “Yes,” I said, “I am Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.” I turned to face him.
    “I have been waiting for you,” he said.
    “Are you,” I asked, “a Priest-King?”
    “No,” he said.
    I looked at this man, seeming to be a man among other men, yet more.
    “Do you speak for the Priest-Kings?” I asked.
    “Yes,” he said.
    I believed him.
    It was common, of course, for Initiates to claim to speak for the Priest-Kings; indeed, it was presumably the calling of their caste to interpret the will of the Priest-Kings to men.
    But this man I believed.
    He was not as other Initiates, though he wore their robes.
    “Are you truly of the Caste of Initiates?” I asked.
    “I am one who conveys the will of the Priest-Kings to mortals,” said the man, not choosing to answer my question.
    I was silent.
    “Henceforth,” said the man, “you are Tarl of no city.”
    “I am Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” I said proudly.
    “Ko-ro-ba has been destroyed,” said the man. “It is as if it had never been. Its stones and its people have been scattered to the corners of the world, and no two stones and no two men of Ko-ro-ba may stand again side by side.”
    “Why has Ko-ro-ba been destroyed?” I demanded.
    “It was the will of the Priest-Kings,” said the man.
    “But why was it the will of the Priest-Kings?” I shouted.
    “Because it was,” said the man, “and there is nothing higher in virtue of which the will of the Priest-Kings may be determined or questioned.”
    “I do not accept their will,” I said.
    “Submit,” said the man.
    “I do not,” I said.
    “Then be it so,” he said, “you are henceforth condemned to wander the world alone and friendless, with no city, with no walls to call your own, with no Home Stone to cherish. You are henceforth a man without a city, you are a warning to all not to scorn the will of the Priest-Kings–beyond this you are nothing.”
    “What of Talena?” I cried. “What of my father, my friends, the people of my city?”
    “Scattered to the corners of the world,” said the robed figure, “and not a stone may stand upon a stone.”
    “Did I not serve the Priest-Kings,” I asked, “at the siege of Ar?”
    “The Priest-Kings used you for their ends, as it pleased them to do so.”
    I lifted my spear, and felt that I could have slain the robed figure so calm and terrible before me.
    “Kill me if you wish,” said the man.
    I lowered the spear. My eyes were filled with tears. I was bewildered. Was it on my account that a city had perished? Was it I who had brought disaster to its people, to my father, to my friends and Talena? Had I been too foolish to understand that I was nothing before the power of the Priest-Kings? Was I now to wander the forlorn roads and fields of Gor in quilt and agony, a wretched example of the fate which the Priest-Kings could mete out to the foolish and proud?
    Then suddenly I ceased to pity myself, and I was shocked, for looking into the eyes of the robed figure I saw human warmth in them, tears for me. It was pity, the forbidden emotion, and yet he could not restrain himself. Somehow the power I had felt in his presence seemed to have vanished. I was now only in the presence of a man, a fellow human being even though he wore the sublime robes of the proud Caste of Initiates.
    He seemed to be struggling with himself, as though he wanted to speak his own words and not those of the Priest-Kings. He seemed to shake with pain, his hands pressed against his head, trying to speak to me, trying to tell me something. One hand stretched out to me, and the words, his own, far from the ringing authority of his former tones, were hoarse and almost inauduble.
    “Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” he said, “throw yourself upon your sword.”
    He seemed ready to fall, and I held