The door that confronted them was made of metal, but it was no metal that either had ever seen before. It gleamed sullenly, like old and tarnished silver, yet the glow it gave off was sufficient to light the corridor and filter into the vault beyond. A peculiar, sourceless illumination … something about it made Cyllan’s hackles rise, and she arrested her hand midway to the door, afraid to touch it.
Drachea had forgotten his scepticism and stared at the door with burgeoning interest. ‘The Marble Hall …
he said, half to himself.
Cyllan glanced quickly at him. ‘Do you think it could be?
‘I don’t know. But it would seem possible … even likely.’ Licking dry lips, he reached out and gave the door an experimental push. A tingling sensation ran from his fingers through his hand and arm, and the door didn’t move.
Drachea withdrew his hand and shook it. ‘Whatever lies beyond, it must be significant. This door’s either locked or magically protected.
There’s a keyhole,’ Cyllan said, indicating a small slot in one side of the silver surface.
‘Yes … ‘ Drachea crouched, squinting but being careful not to touch the door again, then shook his head and stood up. ‘It’s impossible to see anything.’ Resentment and frustration tinged his voice. ‘But it is the Marble Hall - I feel it in my bones!
She didn’t answer, but continued to gaze at the door.
Her spine was prickling in the way she knew so well; as though something that lay just beyond the borders of psychic consciousness were awakening and crawling towards the surface. Her vision distorted momentarily, so that she saw the silver door as if from a great distance; the illusion passed quickly, but when her senses righted themselves she thought - no, imagined, she told herself - that she felt a presence on the other side. It lived, it was aware of them; she felt it waiting and watching …
Perhaps Drachea, too, glimpsed something of the same sensation, for he backed away suddenly, and his face had lost its colour.
‘The key,’ he said. ‘There must be a key.
‘You searched the High Initiate’s study,’ Cyllan reminded him. ‘Was there nothing there that you might have overlooked?
‘I don’t know … it’s possible. Though more likely, I’d suspect, that if this door leads where we think it does, the key’s in Tarod’s possession.’ He smiled thinly. ‘After all, if you were in his place wouldn’t you take that precaution against your secret being uncovered?
It made sense, and if Drachea was right Cyllan didn’t relish the thought of attempting to retrieve the key. Yet she wanted to open that door and see whatever lay beyond. Something about this mystery caught and pulled at her, and it had nothing to do with the enigmatic jewel. Something was calling to her, summoning her; and the desire to answer the summons was growing out of all proportion.
Alarmed by the strength of her own feelings she moved away from the door, and thought that she heard, so faintly that it might have been illusion, a soft sigh that emanated from nowhere and drifted away along the corridor. She looked back, saw nothing, then realised that Drachea was as uneasy as she.
‘We should go,’ she said softly.
He nodded, trying to disguise his relief. ‘We’ll return.
We’ll find the key, somehow, and we’ll return.
He took hold of her hand as they turned and made their way back towards the library, whether to reassure her or himself Cyllan didn’t know. Reaching the vault, Drachea closed the small door carefully behind them, then gathered up the books he had collected.
‘I don’t know if Tarod ever comes here, but I wouldn’t relish the prospect of meeting him face to face.’ His smiled was forced. ‘It might be prudent not to linger.
What he had sensed beyond the silver door Cyllan didn’t know, and doubted if he would tell her. She said nothing, only looked back once, speculatively, as they left the vault and started to climb the stairs.
Chapter 6
Gant Ambaril Rannak was trying to control his impatience and irritation, but it was a losing battle. He stood staring through the long window of his drawing-room, his mind not registering the sight of the gradually burgeoning gardens, unpleasantly aware of the sound of his wife sobbing quietly in the background. Today was her birthanniversary, and should have been an occasion for celebration. Instead, they were in the midst of a nightmare from which there seemed to be no awakening - the mystery of their eldest son’s disappearance.
There should have been news by now. The heir to a Margravate didn’t simply vanish without trace. Someone must have seen Drachea leave the market square with that damned drover-girl, and yet although he had used all his considerable resources to the full, Gant could find not one single witness to his son’s fate. He had, at first, tried to face the possibility that the Warp which had struck Shu-Nhadek on that day had taken them both, but he knew his son, and his son wasn’t such a fool as to let himself be caught out in such a grisly way.
There was, of course, the theory that the drovers
leader had been behind the whole thing, setting up the girl to lure Drachea away and hold him to some form of ransom. Such crimes weren’t unknown, and, with the increase in lawlessness over the past year or so, there were a good few ruffians who’d consider the prize well worth the risk. In the first throes of fury and anguish Gant had had the drover imprisoned and mercilessly interrogated, but it soon became apparent that Kand Brialen knew nothing of the affair. His horror at the occurrence was painfully genuine, and even if it stemmed solely from his fear of losing a wealthy customer rather than any concern for his own niece, Gant had grudgingly been forced to abandon his suspicions.
And so, frantic for news and frustrated at every turn, Gant had applied all his considerable resources to what had been, thus far, an utterly fruitless search. The province militia under his command had unearthed nothing; the seers of the Sisterhood had exerted their skills to no avail … and now it seemed that even his last hope would fail him.
He turned to where the heavily built man with the Initiate’s gold insignia on his shoulder stood conferring in a lowered voice with the Lady Silve Bradow, Senior of the province’s largest Sisterhood Cot. It was by sheer good fortune that Hestor Tay Armeth, a fourth-rank Adept of the Circle, had been staying at the Cot when Gant’s messenger arrived to seek the Sisterhood’s aid, and Lady Silve - who was newly promoted to her office and had never before had to deal personally with such a crisis - had looked immediately to Hestor for advice.
But now it appeared that the Circle’s representative was powerless to help. Far from offering the solution that Gant and his family craved, Hestor had thus far done little but prevaricate. The Margrave had a suspicion that there was more behind his dissembling than met the eye, but couldn’t draw him, and his patience, goaded by the worry that ate at every fibre of his being, was running out.
He turned on his heel, clearing his throat loudly to draw their attention. The Margravine sniffed and wiped her eyes, looking to her husband with tearful hope.
‘Adept.’ Gant spoke politely, but with an edge.
‘You’ll pardon my speaking bluntly, but this matter grows more urgent with every minute that passes! My son, the Heir Margrave, has disappeared, and all efforts to find him have failed. I turn to the Circle for help, as anyone might surely be entitled to do in such circumstances - and yet it seems you can offer me nothing! I ask one simple question of you - can you aid me, or can you not?
Hestor and Lady Silve exchanged a glance, then the Sister-Senior clasped her hands and stared down at the thickly carpeted floor as Hestor replied.
‘Margrave, all I have said to you is that I can make no promises. There are complexities involved which -
Gant interrupted him. ‘As I see it, sir, the only complexity is the mysterious nature of my son’s disappearance! Surely, in this case, there’s reason enough to send word to the High Initiate?’ He licked his lips. ‘I know Keridil Toln, as I knew his father Jehrek; and I’m certain that he
would wish to be informed and to offer the Circle’s resources.’ Gant paused, wondering if Hestor would react to the gently implied threat; then, when the man appeared unmoved, he finished, ‘Of course, if you would prefer to take the responsibility on your own shoulders …
The Adept smiled reservedly and without warmth. ‘I wouldn’t presume, Margrave. Naturally, I’ll ensure that a message reaches the Castle; but of course these things take time, and time may not be on our side.
Gant hunched his shoulders gloomily. ‘Nevertheless, it seems to be our only hope, as all else has failed.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘I’ve heard tell that experiments are being made in using hunting birds as messengers in cases of emergency. If we could use such a method, we could send word to the High Initiate far faster than any man could ride.
‘I’ve heard something of it,’ Hestor said cautiously.
‘Falconers in Empty Province have been using birds, and the idea is also being tried in Wishet. But as to its reliability -
‘Damn it, surely it’s worth the attempt?’ Gant exploded, then with an effort brought his temper under control. ‘Forgive me-but surely you can understand my feelings? The Lady Margravine is distracted with worry and grief - and if the Circle can’t aid us, then there’s nothing left!
For a moment Hestor looked away, then seemed to steel himself and met the Margrave’s gaze once more.
‘You’re quite right, of course, Margrave - I ask your pardon if I’ve seemed doubtful or reluctant. I can’t claim to know how the Circle can help you … but there will be a way. You have my assurance.
Gant grunted. ‘Then you’ll inform the High Initiate?
‘With all possible speed.
The Margravine sighed softly and her husband moved across the room to pat her shoulder with stiff affection.
‘There, my dear. You heard what the Adept said. We have the Circle to help us. If any power in the world can restore Drachea to us, they can.’ He glanced at Hestor again. ‘Though the occasion won’t be as festive as normal under the circumstances, we have a small family gathering at dinner to mark the Margravine’s birthanniversary. I’d consider it a pleasure if you and the Lady would join us.
Hestor bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, Margrave, but I think I’d be neglecting my duty if I didn’t set the Circle’s investigation in train without any delay. I’ve promised to escort the Lady Silve back to her Cot, and then I must be on my way North.
Privately, Gant was relieved by their refusal. The anniversary meal would be an unhappy enough affair without the presence of strangers to add further constraint. He rang for a servant to bring the visitors’ horses to the front Of the house, and bade them a formal farewell at the door. As they clattered away in the direction of the drove-road, he watched them, frowning against the low-angling Sun and wishing that he could identify the new sense of unease that moved in him.
Something was wrong. The Adept’s assurances had been too glib, and he had the unshakable impression that the two of them were concealing something from him. Whether it directly concerned his son he couldn’t tell; but instinct told him that it boded ill.
The horses and their riders were out of sight, and a stray cloud moved across the Sun’s face, casting a grim shadow over the grounds. Gant unclenched his hands, which he had been holding unconsciously rigid, then turned and, stooping like an old man, went back into the house.
‘I wish I’d not been forced to lie to him.’ Hestor reined in to allow a lumbering wagon to pass on the narrow road.
‘It sets a bad precedent.
Lady Silve shook her head. ‘You had no choice, th-Hestor.’ The odd speech impediment that marred her words was a quirk she had had since childhood. ‘We dared not, after all, th-tell him the truth.
The Adept sighed through clenched teeth. ‘So what am I to do? Send a message to the Star Peninsula that can’t be delivered? I pity the Margrave, I feel for him -I have children of my own - but I’ve far more urgent matters to worry about than the disappearance of a feckless youth who’s probably living wild with some whore not half a day’s ride from here!
Silve narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s not a sentiment that th-becomes you, Hestor.
‘No … no; I’m sorry; it was an unworthy thought.
Put it down to the worry … I can’t stop thinking of my own family at the Castle, and wondering what’s become of them … what’s become of them all.
‘There’s still been no word?’ she asked.
The Adept shook his head. ‘Nothing. And with each day that passes I fear more and more that something’s terribly wrong. I’ve been over it in my mind time and again and I can’t find an answer that makes any sense.
If Keridil had some intention of sealing the Castle off from the world, we’d have known of it. Even if he couldn’t reveal the purpose, he’d have given warning! But this … ‘ He shook his head again, helplessly.
‘Rumours are spreading rapidly,’ Lady Silve said, her voice sombre. ‘At first the speculation was th-confined to the Northern provinces, but now there are stories abroad th-everywhere. It won’t be long before they reach the Margrave’s ears.
‘And all the while we sit helplessly by and await word from those who returned to the Peninsula.’ Hestor shivered. ‘Part of me is afraid to hear the news they might bring, I’ll willingly admit it.
They rode on in silence for a few minutes before Silve said diffidently, ‘Do you have any - personal theories, Hestor? As to what might have th-occurred at the Castle?
The Adept didn’t reply at first and she wondered if he’d heard the question. But as she was about to repeat it, he suddenly said, ‘No, Lady, I haven’t. Or at least … none that I dare allow to take root.
She nodded, and made the Sign of Aeoris over her breast. ‘We must pray for guidance.
‘Guidance?’ Hestor echoed. ‘I’m not sure, Lady; I’m not sure. Maybe we’d do better to pray to Aeoris for deliverance.
Cyllan lay on the wide bed in her room, fighting the weariness that was trying to break down her defences. In this timeless place such concepts as hunger and thirst and tiredness were, she knew, illusory, but events were taking their toll of her energy and she wished that she could have simply closed her eyes and slept a dreamless, untroubled sleep.
But in truth, she was afraid to rest. Disturbing and unwanted thoughts were crowding into her mind, and however hard she tried she couldn’t banish them. On their return from the library vault Drachea had hurried away to his own chamber with his precious hoard of books; she’d wished he would stay, but he had either not understood her hints or chosen to ignore them, and had left her alone.
Cyllan didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. She needed a distraction to stop them from overtaking her and gaining a painful, clawlike hold; she felt defenceless against them, and reflected unhappily that even Tarod’s company would have been preferable to this solitude.
Tarod … she rolled over and sat up, angry and a little frightened by the fact that her chain of consciousness had led inexorably back to its starting point.
Since she had awoken to find him here beside her she had had no chance to analyse her thoughts and feelings, but now they demanded attention. She had accused Tarod of perpetrating the psychic horror that attacked her in this room; he had sarcastically denied it, and - albeit without good reason - Cyllan found herself believing him.
Or was she a not altogether unwilling victim of self-delusion? Drachea had accused her of prejudice, and she was honest enough to admit that it would be an easy enough trap to fall into. For many months she had carefully schooled herself to the certainty that her path and Tarod’s would never cross again; their two brief meetings had been meaningless coincidence, and to hope for more - as, she admitted, she had done - was childish and stupid. But now they had crossed, in circumstances which her wildest nightmares could never have conjured; and all the old memories were clashing painfully with the grim reality of the present. Tarod’s coldness, his som
etime malevolence, the sheer power he could command, appalled her … and then had come Drachea’s revelation.
She still couldn’t believe it. Even with the High Initiate’s own testimony before her, the thought that Tarod was no man but a thing of Chaos was too terrible to face.
Those dark and ancient powers of evil were nothing more than an ancestral memory to Cyllan; but the memory was deep-rooted, and somewhere, unimaginably far back over the generations, were the ghosts of her clan forefathers who had died fighting the monstrous forces of the Old Ones. She had learned and believed - as everyone learned and believed - that Chaos was dead.
Now she was confronted with one who, on the word of the High Initiate himself, was the embodiment of that evil, incarnated from the hell of the remote past.
And, worst of all, one whom she had once thought she could love …
The one fact that she had been desperately avoiding, shying away from at every turn, was suddenly coldly and harshly clear in her mind, and the thought of it made her freeze inwardly. If the accusations were true, then she had fallen under the spell of a demonic power, something so monstrous as to be almost beyond conception. If the accusations were true …
Cyllan told herself that she dared not allow her mind to follow that path. To weaken now, and to doubt, was the way to damnation. She had to believe, or she’d be lost.
Unhappiness and confusion were eating at her like a disease, and her restlessness was a constant torment.
She rose, paced across the room and then back, not knowing what she wanted, what she felt, what she could do. To confide in Drachea would only make matters worse; his interest in her well-being - as was becoming abundantly clear - extended only so far as it affected his own, with a small but patronising measure of common humanity to mitigate. Wryly, she reflected that were it not for the predicament which had thrown them forcibly together, he would have considered her utterly beneath his notice. Tarod’s arrogance had at least some substance beyond accident of birth …
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