She projected the certainty she felt with all her remaining energy. I have the stone …
He was barely able to answer her, and Cyllan began to struggle upright. Gaining her feet, she was forced to lean over the block to balance herself and get her breath - and it was as she gasped air thankfully into her lungs, the Chaos stone still tightly gripped in her hand, that a glittering sliver of steel slid from behind her shoulder to hover a hairsbreadth from her throat, and a voice thick with triumphant savagery said, ‘Thank you, Cyllan. You’ve solved my most pressing problem …
Tarod slumped in the chair, his head thrown back and sweat gleaming on his face and hands. He was drained, and the strength he craved wouldn’t return to him. To summon and use such power was taxing enough under any circumstances, but to do so at second hand, through the medium of another mind, had almost proved his undoing. Only by an iron control of his will had he been able to pull himself and Cyllan back from limbo, and now he felt as weak as a new-born child.
But it was done … The realisation lit a fire within him, though he hadn’t the strength to rejoice. They had succeeded, and the stone had been retrieved from that netherworld …
He must go to Cyllan. In his present condition he had no power to bring her back to the spire, but he must go to her. With a tremendous effort Tarod forced himself to rise from the chair, and stood swaying as though drunk.
And then, as he turned towards the door, something impinged on a deeper level of his consciousness.
Tarod …
He felt the first stirrings of concern, for he recognised the source of the voiceless, psychic call and its inflection told him something was wrong.
Tarod…
Fear. It was fear he sensed in the call she sent, out to him; fear and an incoherent pleading. Drained as he was, he couldn’t lock his mind completely with Cyllan’s, but enough energy remained, fuelled now by alarm, for him to reach out psychically towards her. As he did, he heard her thoughts more clearly.
Tarod, I’ve failed you … I was wrong. I thought he could do us no harm …
The shock of her words struck his tired mind, and a terrible clarity brought home the truth to Tarod. He swung round to where the candle still burned with its sickly halo, and bent over the nacreous green flame.
Distorted images danced before him; he willed them to focus, and saw her.
She knelt on the mosaic floor at Drachea’s feet, both arms twisted viciously up behind her back. Drachea held the blade of a knife poised at her throat, in such a position that one incautious movement would sever the jugular vein. Her eyes were tight shut and Tarod saw blood on her lip where she had bitten into it.
A rage as he had never known before began to fill Tarod. The fury at Themila’s death, which had led him to kill Rhiman Han, the bitterness of Sashka’s betrayal, were nothing by comparison to the insanity of malevolence that consumed him now. He gasped, swaying back, then with one hand swept the candle, books and all other artefacts from the table-top. They smashed to the floor; the witchfire halo winked out, and blackness surged up in Tarod’s mind, bringing with it a resurgence of power which he caught, focused, savagely directing it towards Drachea -
‘No!’ He yelled the word aloud in a desperate bid to break his own concentration, and reeled back as the power-bolt disintegrated in his head. His magic was useless - without a willing medium he couldn’t penetrate the barrier between himself and the Marble Hall, and to use Cyllan as a vehicle for this would be to kill her. He sucked air into his lungs, striving to calm himself and railing wildly against the realisation that he was trapped.
He could do nothing to Drachea, and Drachea held Cyllan’s life as hostage. Whatever the treacherous Heir Margrave wanted - and Tarod believed he knew the answer to that question - he had no choice but to comply. If he refused, Cyllan would die. And as he faced this final, terrible test, Tarod knew that no sacrifice would be too great to save her.
‘So our mutual friend has heard you, and is aware of your plight.’ Drachea smiled, speaking softly, and gave a vicious jerk to Cyllan’s pinned arms that made her gasp with pain. ‘No doubt he’s aware, too, of what could become of his precious stone if he attempts to cross me!
Cyllan didn’t answer. She could make no move, knowing that Drachea held the knife-blade so close to her throat that the smallest slip would drive it deep, and the wound would be fatal;. She had felt Tarod’s despair and fury as he realised what had happened, but now there was no presence in her mind at all. She prayed that he still had a reserve of power, that he could use it to blast Drachea, and cursed herself a thousand times for a fool. If she hadn’t pleaded with Tarod to show leniency, Drachea would be dead …
Another cruel jerk at her arms brought her back to earth. ‘Well?’ Drachea demanded, his voice harsh in her ear. ‘What does he say? What does he mean to do?
Cyllan made an inarticulate noise and he withdrew the knife sufficiently to allow her to speak. ‘I - don’t know … ‘ she whispered.
‘Liar!
‘No … it’s the truth Drachea laughed. ‘Then perhaps your demon-lover thinks less of you than you so fondly believe! Nonetheless, he values that pretty trinket in your hand. Release it, Cyllan.
She clenched her fist. ‘No …
‘I said, release it!’ The knife touched her neck and Cyllan realised she would achieve nothing by defiance. He could kill her and take the stone; she had nothing to gain by sacrificing herself.
The jewel fell to the floor with a small, cold clink and Drachea stared down at it, hardly able to believe his good fortune. It looked an ordinary enough bauble now; dull, lifeless, like a piece of glass. But he had seen the white-hot glare that sprang from Cyllan’s outstretched hands as the thing materialised in his full sight, and he had felt the power pulsing from its heart. It was a deadly artefact - and the Circle would reward him well when he returned it into their rightful custody!
Drachea had entered the Marble Hall as the rite conducted by Tarod and Cyllan neared its climax. Cyllan was oblivious to her surroundings, and he had hidden himself behind one of the black statues, gambling that his presence would go undetected. He soon realised that Cyllan was acting as a medium for the dark sorcerer, and when he saw the soul-stone’s radiance spilling from between her cupped fingers he knew what they had done, and a heady exultation filled him. Weak as she now was, Cyllan would be easy prey. Tarod couldn’t enter the Hall … and with the Chaos-stone in his hand, Drachea would have an unassailable fortress from which to make his demands.
But as yet, he had had no chance to voice those demands. He had ordered Cyllan to make contact with Tarod, but although she swore she had done so, Tarod hadn’t responded. Doubtless he considered her expendable - eventually he must come seeking the stone.
And he wouldn’t be inclined to risk the loss of his own soul for the sake of a simple bargain …
Drachea wondered if Tarod was planning some counter-move. The demon had great guile, and he felt uneasy with nothing to do but wait. Suddenly angry, he twisted Cyllan’s arm again, opening his mouth to voice a further threat if she didn’t try to make contact again. But before he could speak, a new voice cut across the eerie quiet of the Marble Hall.
‘Drachea.
The tone was chilling, calm but terrible. Drachea started and all but lost his grip of Cyllan’s arms; seeing a chance, albeit slender, she twisted in his grasp and tried to pull away, but before she could roll clear he had snatched at her and jerked her back, her head against his shoulder, the knife touching the flesh of her neck.
Slowly, dragging his burden with him, Drachea turned around.
The coruscating mists had shivered apart as though a beam of light had cut through them, and the way to the silver door was unobscured. A single pace beyond the Marble Hall’s threshold stood Tarod, mad-eyed, his left hand raised and pointing directly at Drachea.
Tarod said with unhuman malignance, ‘Release her.
For an instant Drachea baulked, then he remembered t
he Marble Hall’s properties, and his face worked into a sneer. ‘Release her?’ he repeated mockingly. ‘You may think me a fool, demon, but I’m not that gullible! I have the stone, and I have Cyllan. I will destroy either with impunity if you dare to give me orders again!
Tarod’s eyes blazed, and a dark aura flickered into life around him. ‘You cannot destroy the Chaos stone, worm.
‘Perhaps not - but I can kill her!’ Drachea jerked Cyllan violently-and saw fear in Tarod’s look before he could disguise it. His own eyes lit with excitement as he realised that his adversary had revealed an unexpected weakness. Could it be that he had some care for Cyllan after all - or at least, that she was in some way vital to him?
Slowly, thoughtfully, Drachea ran his tongue over his lower lip. ‘Let us say, Adept Tarod,’ he went on, injecting a venomous contempt in the last two words, ‘that there is something I want from you. Let us say that if you refuse to grant it, I will slit Cyllan’s throat, and you may watch her life-blood spill over this mosaic floor. What would your answer to my request be?
Tarod’s face tightened and he responded savagely, ‘Harm Cyllan in any way, and you won’t merely die - I’ll send you to eternal torture!
‘Ah!’ Drachea crowed delightedly. ‘So the soulless one has a flaw after all! What is Cyllan to you, Tarod, that makes her so vital to your needs ? A whore’s a whore, after all - there are plenty better to choose from in the world!
Tarod’s hand jerked up as though to release a furious power-bolt, but Cyllan cried out, ‘No! Tarod, he seeks only to enrage you! Don’t give him that satisfaction!
Drachea swore and pulled viciously at her hair to silence her, but Tarod knew she was right. Fury and fear had taken him dangerously close to losing control; now, with an effort, he collected his wits. If Cyllan was to be saved, he had no business arguing with Drachea. There was a bargain to be struck … and he knew what that bargain must be.
The black aura flickered, faded as he stared at the Heir Margrave and at Cyllan. The slightest move could mean her death … he swallowed, his throat dry, and he said to Drachea, ‘What is it you want of me?
Drachea grinned. ‘Better! You begin to understand at last. I’ll spell it out clearly for you, demon. I have Cyllan, and I have your soul-stone. If you want to save Cyllan’s life, you must use the stone, and call back Time to this Castle!
Cyllan twisted ferociously in Drachea’s grip. ‘Tarod, no!’ she shrieked. ‘It would mean awakening the Circle - you can’t do it, not this way!
Her eyes, wide and staring, met his, and she saw a sadness and compassion in his green gaze that horrified her with its implication. She tried to shake her head, but the knife was too close. ‘Tarod, no, please …
He continued to look at her. ‘I have no choice.
‘But you have! Let him kill me - it’s better than the alternative!
‘No!’ The refusal was shockingly vehement, and Tarod raised his head to stare proudly, contemptuously at Drachea. ‘I will do what needs to be done, Heir Margrave. And I congratulate you on your deviousness.
My reckoning with you must wait!
‘Your reckoning will be with the High Initiate!
Drachea sneered. ‘Save your pride for him, serpent!
Tarod took a deep breath, fighting down his fury, and said calmly, Then give me the stone.
‘What?’ Drachea was incredulous, then he laughed, a loud peal that rang and echoed dashingly through the Marble Hall. ‘I gave up suckling at the teat many years ago, my friend! Until the Circle return, and you are safely bound, this stone stays with me!’ He forced Cyllan forward until she crouched painfully with head bent, then with one foot shifted the Chaos stone, which still lay on the floor, into Tarod’s view. ‘You’ve already used this white-faced bitch as your medium. Use her again.
It would take more strength than he possessed … he was still weakened by the force expended to call the stone out of limbo … Aloud, Tarod said, ‘I can’t.
‘You’re lying! You’ve done it before!
‘Cyllan may not consent.
‘Damn you, then make her consent! It’s a simple enough choice - either you do what I command, in the way I command it, or you watch her die! My patience has run out - make your decision!
There was no other way open to him. If he refused to accede to Drachea’s demands, the Heir Margrave would slit Cyllan’s throat while Tarod stood helpless. And no matter what vengeance he took, nothing could ever compensate for her loss …
But Tarod knew that, weakened as he was by the forces he had used to call the Chaos stone out of limbo, he might not have the strength to do what Drachea wanted of him. This was no trifling magic, and if he failed, if his will broke, then the backlash of power could destroy Cyllan.
Yet she’s damned already if you don’t try …
The inner voice chilled him, for it spoke nothing less than the truth. Tarod sighed. ‘Very well, Drachea. I accept your terms.
‘Ha!’ Drachea grinned, then leaned over to leer at Cyllan. ‘It seems you can take comfort from your demon-friend’s loyalty, bitch! And he thought I was the fool Cyllan shut her eyes, wanting to blot out the image of Drachea’s twisted, triumphant face. She had to stop Tarod somehow - it was better, far better, that she died and left him free, for the alternative was too appalling to consider. Desperately, she tried again to plead with him.
Tarod … listen to me …
‘Quiet!’ Drachea hissed.
‘No! Tarod!’ Her voice rose shrilly. ‘I don’t care what happens to me - let him use the knife, I don’t care ! You musn’t do this, you can’t!
Drachea had twisted her around so that she couldn’t see Tarod, but she heard his voice clearly enough, and it was implacable.
‘There’s no other way.’ And as he spoke aloud, she heard other words, voiceless, echo in her mind. Cyllan, if you love me, obey me in this!
She summoned her mental resources. I can’t! The Circle will Damn the Circle! I won’t see you die …
I’ll fight you …
You can’t fight me. I’ll do what I must do, and I’ll use you in whatever ways I need to, to save your life!
There was venom in the last message, and Cyllan realised that nothing she could say or do would sway him. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks; tears of misery and defeat, and Drachea looked quickly up at Tarod. ‘Is she subdued?’ he demanded.
‘She’ll do what I ask of her,’ Tarod told him curtly.
‘Good. Then don’t prevaricate - begin!
Tarod bowed his head. To turn his mind from Cyllan’s plight and concentrate on what must be done was a nightmare, but he forced himself to clear all extraneous thoughts from his mind. So much depended on his skill and remaining strength now … yet if he succeeded, he would be placing himself in a trap with jaws that could clamp ferociously on him. It was likely that Drachea would attempt to kill Cyllan the moment the rite was completed, and Tarod had to risk everything on the chance that, freed from the constraints put upon him by timelessness, he would be able to intervene before it was too late. But if he failed …
He spoke, hardly recognising his own voice. ‘Let Cyllan kneel by the wooden plinth, and place the stone in her hands.
Drachea spat. The stone stays where it is, and so does she!
Tarod looked up, his eyes malevolent. Then there can be no raising of power. The procedures must be followed.
The Heir Margrave flushed angrily, and looked about him. At his back the slab of black wood loomed out of the mist, and he dragged Cyllan towards it, kicking the Chaos stone along the floor as he went. Reaching the block he looked back at Tarod speculatively - then with a force that made her cry out, he wrenched Cyllan up on to the slab so that she lay staring at the invisible roof, her white throat exposed. Snatching the stone Drachea pressed it into her hands, then took up a stance over her and laid the blade of the knife lightly on her neck.
‘I trust I make my intentions clear, de
mon,’ he said to Tarod. ‘If you attempt to trick me, however swift you are I’ll cut her throat before you can touch me!’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘When we play the game of Quarters at my home in Shu-Nhadek, both contestants know that to try to take advantage of such an impasse will gain them nothing.
‘We, too, play Quarters at the Castle,’ Tarod replied.
‘When impasse is reached, the game is at an end and there’s no victor.
Then I’d suggest for Cyllan’s sake that you don’t attempt to change the rules.
Tarod inclined his head. ‘So be it.
Lying on the unyielding, splintered wood of the block, her eyes closed, Cyllan knew that they were lost. Tarod had made his decision and had refused, foolhardily, to sacrifice her. Now, she hadn’t the will to defy him, however much she might want to. He could overcome any obstacles she put in his path, and she was helpless.
Inwardly she railed against the twist of Fate that had brought them both to this. She should have let Tarod kill Drachea … and she swore to herself that, if they both lived - or if only she lived, which was too terrible a thought to contemplate further - she wouldn’t rest until she had destroyed the Heir Margrave of Shu-Nhadek; destroyed him and all he stood for. She hadn’t thought herself capable of such hate, but it burned in her now like a black flame. And mingling with it suddenly came the awareness of another mind, a raw emotion that linked with hers and made her strong.
Tarod … She sent the mental call out softly and heard his reply shape into silent words.
Listen to me, love. I may not be strong enough - and to conserve strength, I must act swiftly. Don’t be afraid, and don’t resist me. Holdfast to the stone, let it guide you…
I’ll be with you …
His presence faded suddenly into a confusion of images which resolved into a smoothness, a oneness, like a dark, featureless sea. Cyllan felt her identity slipping away, and the stone in her hands seemed to pulse hot, a living heart. She could still feel the touch of the knife at her throat, but it was her only link with reality, and a tenuous one. With a soft sigh she let her consciousness sink into the sea, merging with Tarod, with the soul-stone, with infinity …
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