“Are you insane?” he yelled, dark hair sopping, looking at the map. “Bloody rotted angels!”
“It says it’s safe!” She could scarcely hear her own voice over the roaring of the waters. She pointed to writing, barely legible. It read safe.
“I can’t see a damn thing!” Glade jammed the torch into a crack in the wall, set his sword down on the stone floor, took the map from her hand, and studied it. “I can’t read any of it! It’s too faded! And so what if it says it’s safe! It’s madness!”
“We follow the water!” Tala’s heart was swaddled in such a heavy blanket of doubt she could scarcely breathe. He’s right! It is madness! But she had to believe the map. They’d come so far. “The river will take us into another chamber! A chamber that holds an altar with great treasure! The Rooms of Sorrow!”
Glade looked straight into the writhing maw of watery horror next to them. Her eyes were drawn to it too. Even she couldn’t believe what she was saying. This whole thing was a nightmare, growing bigger and bigger with every beat of her jumping heart.
I can’t go in there! I can’t jump into that water and allow myself to be sucked under that rock wall! But that was exactly what the map was asking her to do. “The chamber on the other side.” Her voice trembled. “The map says there are torches left there on the other side! Torches we can light! An altar stone! With great treasure!”
“I thought you said this was the way Hawkwood escaped!”
“It is! Once we get the treasure, we go back into the river! The map says it will empty us out into Memory Bay! Twenty feet under the sea! We swim up! Right near shore! Simple as that!”
“You’re insane!”
“It’s the way Hawkwood escaped! We’ll be heroes!” She had no idea what was heroic about any of it.
And then the truth of their situation hit her. The map is naught but part of the Bloodwood’s game. A game that has led me foolishly down here to my own death. I cannot go into that water.
Glade’s dark eyes were fixed on the map again. “I can’t decipher any of this! It’s too faded and runny! I don’t believe any of it anyway! I’m not going into that water! I’m not dying down here!” He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in close. “If the river empties us out like you claim, twenty feet down below sea level, the crypt would be flooded with seawater. Possibly even this place would be flooded. If there is a chamber on the other side of this wall, it will be flooded! It only stands to reason! This map is a damnable lie.”
Tala hadn’t thought of that. But what he said made some sense. She wasn’t sure of the logistics of sea level and water pressure and underground caverns and all that. But she desperately wanted to be talked out of this madness. She couldn’t even breathe, she was so panicked—it took an astounding amount of will just to inhale and exhale. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the wild violence of the black and suffocating river next to them. Death lay there. She felt a sudden onslaught of guilt. I was supposed to merely deliver the map from Jondralyn’s room to the assassin, not follow it myself. I’ve betrayed my very own sister for nothing.
Something in Glade’s eyes changed, something that made her heart hammer. He crumpled the map in his hands and tossed it into the bleak roaring waters behind him, watching it get pulled under the rock wall.
“There, it’s gone!” Glade shouted. “The map is gone! We needn’t follow it anymore!”
Tala backed cautiously away from him. She saw the lust well up in his eyes. Glade reached out like a serpent and caught her arm. She tried to duck away, but he pinned her by the shoulders, pressing her to the cold, jagged wall just below the torch. Rage washed through her. “Take your hands off me!”
One of his firm hands held her to the wall whilst he thrust the other down into her pants pocket, searching, yanking free the tin of black powder. “After all this bullshit . . .” He backed away, opening the tin. “After all this wandering about in dark places, I should at least get something good out of it. Sniff some lavender deje, if that’s what this truly is.” He buried his nose in the tin and breathed in deep, coughing, hacking, choking.
Angered, he tossed the tin to the ground, his mouth and nose now covered in black. He tried to wipe it away, then gave up and pushed her roughly against the wall again. “I should just do whatever I want!”
Tala could only watch in horror as his contorted face moved toward her. She gritted her teeth, sealed her mouth, tried to turn her face away. But he grabbed her jaw firmly, forced it around. His blackened lips, devoid of moisture, collided with her clenched mouth with all the delicacy of a mule kick to the face. His probing tongue was stiff and dry as a piece of horse leather, and the taste of the lavender deje almost made her puke. Then his hands were pawing at her.
She jerked her face away from his kiss, grabbed his fumbling hands, and bent his fingers backward. “How dare you touch me like that! I am a princess of Amadon.”
“Down here you are nothing!” His words hit her like a blow to the face. And they rang true as his hands continued their pawing. “I am not going to let our seclusion go to waste! This is all your doing! Your fault!” He leaned in again, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, roughly this time, hands still groping.
“Get off me!” With all her strength she pushed him away, remembering how she had escaped his clutches after he had murdered Sterling Prentiss. “Don’t think I won’t kick you in the balls again!”
They were separated by a few paces now. Tala moved away from the wall. Glade snatched his sword up from the floor and circled her until he was directly under the torch, his face in shadow, the tip of the wicked-looking blade now wavering between them. “Kick me in the balls, huh? You think I am stupid enough to fall for that trick again? I’ll turn you over my knee and—”
She slapped the sword away with one hand and punched him in the mouth with the other. His head snapped back and cracked the stone wall behind him, and the sword tumbled from his hands and clattered to the floor. It bounced straight into the dark boiling river and was swept away, instantly disappearing below the surface.
Glade’s eyes rolled up and he slumped against the rough stone wall of the passageway, hands clutching the rock for support as he slid to the floor.
He’s such an idiot. It was almost too easy to surprise him.
Still clutching the wall, one of Glade’s trembling hands reached for the back of his head. It came back bloody. “I think you really may have hurt me this time, Tala.” His hand then reached for Hawkwood’s other sword still strapped to his back. Tala jerked forward and seized the hilt of the sword first, pulling it free and tossing it into the river too.
“You fool,” he said with a grimace. “Those were my gifts. . . .” He trailed off. “I can’t see straight, Tala.” All color had washed from his face as he tipped over onto his side. “I don’t feel right.” Blood gushed from the wound on his head.
Tala yanked the torch from the wall. There was no choice now. They had to go back. And she couldn’t bring herself to leave him to die. I’m no murderer like him.
As she helped Glade to his feet, her heart was full of such loathing for him. “I should just make you find your own way out of here,” she muttered, handing him the torch. His grip was weak, but still he held on to it.
As they stumbled their way back up the passage, Tala couldn’t even bring herself to look at the snarling waters beside her. That black river represented the culmination of all her failures. And if she did look, she knew she just might throw herself into the maelstrom. The emotional impact of the day’s debacle was almost too much to bear.
This was truly the biggest mess she had yet gotten herself into. And if by some miracle they did survive their trek back out of this nightmare, how would she ever explain any of it to her brother?
† † † † †
Four hours later two Dayknights found them wandering, lost, Tala’s smoky torch just a flicker of flame. The knights had ventured a fair ways into the secret passages themselves in se
arch of her, far enough that it still took them nearly an hour to march them back. Though clearly relieved to find the king’s sister, none of the dour-faced knights looked happy about it. Especially when they asked her the whereabouts of Lindholf Le Graven.
“Lindholf?” Tala questioned. “He went back to the castle with Leif.”
* * *
It was a time when men hung a god’s deeds on even the basest forms of nature, a sunset, a rainfall, a lightning strike, a tidal wave, an avalanche, glimmering jewels and gems, bleeding trees, white powders, black powders, and warmed metals that misted with colorful smoke.
—THE ANGEL STONE CODEX
* * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN
17TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
Glade and Tala’s torchlight and padding footfalls had long since receded down the thundering tunnel. Still, Lindholf counted to a thousand before he roused himself out of his hidey-hole and sparked the white powder to flame, casting his eyes about as the brief flash illuminated his surroundings. The swift deluge of floodwaters dominated the entire passageway before him, racing along and disappearing under a black wall some twenty paces away. Then the flame of white light from his palm vanished.
He’d plodded along silently behind Tala and Glade the entire way here, from Gault Aulbrek’s chamber to this dead end. He’d squirreled himself away in the dark alcove and listened to Tala and Glade argue about whether to climb into the river. He’d watched their fight. Watched Tala help Glade stand back up. He’d slunk back into the shadows of his alcove as they’d made their way up the tunnel.
Earlier, in front of Gault’s cage, he’d pretended to be mad at Glade, pretended to follow Leif back to the castle. But he’d merely hidden around the corner and out of sight—spying. Just like Val-Draekin and Seita had taught him. He’d watched as Tala took off her dress and pulled a map from her pants. He’d heard her attempts to convince Glade about the Rooms of Sorrow, treasure, and an escape route into Memory Bay that Hawkwood had used. He’d watched Tala find the secret doorway beneath the column.
Tala and Glade had been easy to track—their two glowing torches always a distant haze of flickering light ahead. Every door they passed through they’d left open. He’d only had to use the powder a few times to light his own way. Tala and Glade had never seen the flashes. He’d been that careful. The Vallè had taught him well. Though he’d nearly had a heart attack when the feces-covered old man had yelled, “Someone is following you!” as Glade and Tala had passed by his hanging cage.
But in the end, he’d successfully tracked them here, to this place.
And now he clutched the wall to his right and made his way cautiously toward the end of the tunnel, where the river vanished under solid rock. He reached the solid barrier, felt its smooth surface with searching hands, knowing the snarling river, so wild and dark, disappeared beneath the rock just to his left, vanishing with a thunderous noise. He reached into his tunic and pulled forth the water skin where he kept the white powder—Shroud of the Vallè. He dabbed some into the palm of his hand and sparked it to flame with a snap. Another white flash of light and he reoriented himself to the wall and the underground river. The light quickly faded and he was plunged into darkness again. I will go where they dared not. . . .
Tala had saved Glade when she could have killed him. Her behavior created an abiding anguish deep in Lindholf’s soul—a soul that was becoming naught but a bleeding wound full of betrayal. He had watched Tala defend herself against Glade in the secret ways near Sterling’s dead body. He had watched her defend herself here again today. Yet still she chose to save Glade. Lindholf felt the rage grow in his own heart at the thought. He still had Tala’s dagger—the black dagger she had left near the cross-shaped altar. It was in his pocket now. And as Tala and Glade had fought earlier, he’d thought of leaping from his hiding place and sticking the blade straight into Glade’s chest. And perhaps he would have if she hadn’t defended herself so well.
He poured more Shroud of the Vallè into the palm of his hand, bent his face to it, and sniffed. Instantly the hurt and betrayal seemed to lessen. If forged with certain metals, Val-Draekin claimed, and then heated just a little, Shroud of the Vallè could create curious mists of color and smoke, and if one knew certain simple tricks, it could also spark to flame. And Lindholf knew those simple Vallè tricks. A bit of powder in the palm, a pinch between two fingers, and then snap. The friction caused the powder to light. But more importantly, Shroud of the Vallè could do other things as well. When sniffed, the powder could create moments of great euphoria and unbridled confidence.
Yes, I will go where they dared not!
He was obsessed with Shroud of the Vallè, gripped by its euphoria, and he’d snorted more than half of what Seita had given him already. It bolstered his confidence like nothing imaginable. And confidence was most definitely what he needed now. He was going to follow Tala’s map to the end. The Rooms of Sorrow were but minutes away, or so Tala had explained to Glade. Torches had been left there on the other side by whoever had penned her map. All he had to do was submerge himself in the stream and let the current carry him under the rock.
But how long will I be without air?
It didn’t matter. Tala and Glade and their torchlight were long gone. He didn’t have a fraction of the white powder he would need to light his way back to Gault Aulbrek’s chamber. He had only one choice. He had to trust in Tala’s map even though Tala herself had not.
Lindholf dropped to his hands and knees and inched his way forward, feeling for the river’s edge with searching fingers, reaching the rim of the rock ledge. Flat on his stomach, he stretched his arm down, fingertips catching the rushing torrent, shivering at the water’s bitter touch and powerful flow.
His heart pounded as he slowly sat up, wondering at the insanity of it all. He dangled his legs over the rim, the water like shards of ice against his feet and ankles, boiling around his calves. The brawny current pulled at his legs, threatening to drag him from his perch. Go where Tala dared not? How has my life come to this?
He felt the scars on his face, his ears. His curse.
He suddenly found himself weeping openly. He wept until his submerged legs were numb. He took three deep breaths. Stop, Lindholf. Just stop feeling sorry for yourself and do it! He summoned all the courage he could muster, fighting off the emptiness in his own heart, fighting off that part of him that just wanted this to be his death. Or am I already dead?
How long have I been living like a dead person? Always feeling sorry for myself? Always pitiful, miserable, and afraid? Seita had warned that living in constant fear was a slow death. It’s either my sorrow or my glory!
You vowed to go where Tala dared not!
He did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart, wondering at the habitual futility of the gesture.
With a galloping heart full of both excitement and terror, Lindholf slipped into the raging river and let it suck him down into the cold, clawing deep.
† † † † †
He felt the rushing waters immediately swallow him whole, pulling him along under heavy stone into complete blackness. His head scraped painfully against the roof of the underwater passage as the swirling flow tossed him within its violent clutch. The water raced and roiled as he was swept away into the swollen gloom, desperately clawing at the slippery underside of the passageway for purchase, every inch of his skin burning with such an icy sharpness it stole what little breath he had, all other senses rinsed away in the swirling madness as every nerve in his body flared in freezing pain. A deep darkness pressed inward, seeming to constrict and paralyze every muscle. He was spun and tossed, stiff arms and fingers clawing for any kind of handhold in the swift torrent of suffocating blackness. His chest pounded with terror. His lungs were on fire.
Suddenly the roof above was gone and his head broke the skin of the frothing horror,
and he could finally breathe. Darkness was all around. The crushing thunder of water was all around. The river dashed him headlong into a protruding rock. He spun uncontrollably and found himself being painfully dragged along a ragged ledge.
Out of sheer instinct, he clambered for a handhold, desperate fingers grasping at anything, cold and numb with pain, barely functional at all. He gained purchase and kicked with his legs, rising up, forcing one elbow above the rim of rock, sliding along, pressing down with his elbow, trying to stop himself in the current.
But he was swept away, tossed like a cork, hands clutching at the rocky bank speeding by. His head dipped under again. His legs were dead weights under him, pulling him down. His numb hands clung to the slippery ledge, slipping . . .
. . . and a cold hand wrapped around his wrist. Like frosty tentacles of ice, thin bony fingers clamped painfully around his flesh and dragged him ashore.
† † † † †
Everything was now calm save for the cool whisperings of the river flowing behind him. Lindholf felt the blood on his forehead. He had cracked it against the underside of the stone waterway. At least the blood was warm. Everything else about him was frozen and soaked through and through. Someone was moving on the stone floor near him. He could hear the wet sliding and slithering noise in the dark. “Who is there?” he rasped.
The reek of decay lay heavy in the air. This dark place smelled acidic, like a barrel of fresh-caught fish and hot, burning iron at the forge all at once. Nothing about the place felt right. His grip on reality seemed tenuous. He wondered how much of his dizziness was the lingering effects of his swirling journey under water. Or the prolonged loss of air. Or the crack to his forehead. Or the fear.
No. He would accept the fear. For despite the fear I went where Tala and Glade dared not! The fear created a certain lucidity he couldn’t ignore. Especially when he heard a hissing noise, followed by a shrill gurgle.
The Blackest Heart Page 20