Laramor and Kesrin were exchanging frowning glances and then, as
Abramm was about to turn away, Kesrin said, “We would like to come along, sir. Perhaps we can be of assistance.”
“I’d welcome it, sir.” He glanced at the border lord. “But your friend here looks like he should be in bed.”
“Your uncle would say I always look like that,” Laramor retorted with a wry grin.
Abramm eyed them both, then gave his consent, wheeling Warbanner around to set him at a canter back up the Longstrand road and then south along the crest-line track to Graymeer’s. And all the way, he was beset with the recurring sensation that the beast he sought was actually seeking him, that it was not in Graymeer’s but following unseen somewhere in the surrounding mists, from which at any moment it might attack. That it had not, made him think the sensation was a ruse, designed to frighten him off, like the griiswurm auras. It also made him wonder if he’d guessed right after all, if perhaps the beast only wanted him to think it was at Graymeer’s, when it was actually fleeing across the headland in the opposite direction.
The final upthrust appeared without warning out of the mist, the ground taking a steep upturn as the trail turned crosswise to the slope. As they ascended the switchbacks to the ruin itself, the sound of the surf crashing in their ears, Abramm’s sense of imminent attack redoubled, his neck hairs rising again and again with the sense of something coming at him. Warbanner grew even more jumpy with his rider startling at every little clack and thump, and the desire to turn back became so intense it took all Abramm’s will to keep his hands from pulling the reins around.
They reached the top without incident, however, passing through the barbican and crumbling gateway into the mistbound outer yard, where the internal pressure fell suddenly and completely away. Unnerved, Abramm reined in Warbanner by the ashes and scorched earth that remained where his men had burned the griiswurm on their first visit. The mist hung thicker now than before, boiling around them as if disturbed by their presence, visibility only a few feet, even in the outer yard. Already the spawn were making a comeback, a few dark, tentacled shapes crawling alongside the road, a sprinkling of staffid unrolling between them and skittering away.
Unable to sense the creature’s eyes on him anymore, Abramm feared that he’d been right: the draw to Graymeer’s was a ruse. But when at last he dared to seek it, it was still there, no longer a looming menace, but a tiny ratlike thing, scrambling to escape his notice somewhere in the inner ward. He rode forward without comment, aware of his companions’ uneasy eyes upon him. Past the second gateway, he stopped beside the half-buried cannon at the foot of the ramp to the wallwalk. The mist was so close now, he wouldn’t have recognized the few feet of ramp that he could see had he not known it was there. Most of his companions were obscured, only Trap and Channon clearly visible, with Ethan Laramor a vague shape beyond them, Madeleine and Kesrin vaguer still. The others he could not see at all. Nor could he see any of the broken walls of the inner ward’s crumbling storage and living quarters, though he knew they lay before him.
He hesitated, seeking the way to go as he ignored the aversion that pulsed within him, the almost overwhelming compulsion to turn and leave.
And then the scene shifted.
He raced down a narrow corridor whose stuffy air was sharp with the tang of spawn. Staffid lay hard and quiescent under his paws and a faint green light glimmered ahead of him, gleaming off the irregular surface of the roughhewn, griiswurm-covered walls. His urgency to escape was mounting. The Other must not come near. Not yet. He needed the master. The master would know what to do.
The light grew closer, brighter, and at last he burst into a familiar place—the domed chamber with the pit full of spidery things swimming in their own secretions. The master lay sleeping on the wall bench, cloaked in dark wool, his halfbarren head pale in the green light.
Abramm gasped and was back in the mistbound inner ward again, staring at the half-buried cannon. “They’re here,” he said, dismounting and striding into the mist. “The beast and Rhiad both. And the beast knows I’m after it.”
There was a scramble of activity behind him as the others dismounted and some hurried to catch up, but he barely noticed, all his awareness fixed upon the mind-scent of the creature he sought. Afterward, he could never say how he found his way—nor retrace his steps—but somehow he did, almost as if he were being drawn, despite the beast’s now-desperate attempts to ward him off. Again and again he was struck with the sense of imminent attack, wave after wave of neck-prickling alarm washing through him. Ironically, each incident, rather than increasing his fear, served only to strengthen his resolve, confirming his belief that none of them were real.
He was vaguely aware of men walking closely beside him, kelistars shining in their hands— He nosed desperately at the sleeping man, whining. But the master would not wake up. He knew the man wasn’t dead—the scent of life billowed out of him, and blood still wept from the cut across his palm. And the blood . . . he paused to sniff the wound, the aroma filling him with a golden rush of delight—then remembered his need. The Other was coming! The Master must save him! Another shove with his nose, another jostle with his paw. Wild with fear now, he nosed the limp hand again and sank his needlelike teeth into the gnarled thumb. The master leaped up, howling, and, seeing him, began to rage.
Abramm blinked and came back to himself, jogging now down a narrow stair, with staffid scrambling away before him and griiswurm brushing his shoulder. The stair emptied into a long passageway walled in obsidian, equally choked with spawn. It smelled familiar, as if he had only moments before known this acrid stuffiness. Down the passage he went to a second short stair, green light glowing at its end. His heart began to pound.
But the great domed room with its green-lit pit at the bottom stood empty. He paused only an instant, then dashed for the left opening. Passages led to stairs to more passageways to more stairs, and finally he emerged in a low vaulted chamber, supported by three pair of squat stone pillars. At the far end stood a dais from which sprang another pillar, this of one red light. And at the base of the dais, a half-bald man with a silver braid carrying a small, doglike thing with heavy, maned shoulders and slim, dangling hindquarters. Abramm’s eyes darted back to the pillar of red, and suddenly his breath left him. That was the opening of a corridor through the etherworld!
If they reached it—
He bolted across the chamber, rapidly closing the gap as shouts rang out behind him—but the malformed pair had too much of a lead, and even as he ran, Abramm watched them fly up the low stairs and fling themselves toward the scarlet column. There was only one possible way to stop them.
As he launched himself after them he heard a shout of warning, felt a hard jerk on his cloak just as he collided with the corridor itself. The world erupted in a firestorm of white and red and green as the Shadow lurched up in him and residualized spore burst alive. A horrible screeching tore at his ears as a million fire-footed ants raced across his skin. He glimpsed a passage of impenetrable darkness, felt for a moment as if he were being turned inside out. Then the Light poured out of him, a vast current of it, that blasted upward through rock and earth and cloud and sky. Spears of it penetrated every passage the main beam crossed, flashing through all the warren that honeycombed the great rock under Graymeer’s.
Something slammed into him from behind, and suddenly he was lying on his back, gasping for breath in air turned biting and sulfurous. Shimmery violet afterimages danced before his eyes, and he wondered if he were even alive, though Tersius was not here to meet him and surely Eidon’s Garden of Light wouldn’t feel like this. . . .
When he could see again, he realized he lay on his back at the edge of the dais, still in the underground chamber. Someone lay beneath him, grunting and squirming in the effort to get free. Abramm rolled off him and sat up, not surprised to find it was Trap. “Are you all right?” he asked his liegeman.
Meridon sat up, as well, staring at A
bramm oddly, then at something over his shoulder. “I think so,” he said. “What did you just do?”
“I thought I could destroy the corridor before they got through it. That if I touched it with the Light, I could do what Carissa did to the one Rhiad made back in Esurh.”
“You did more than that, though. You pulled the Light out of me.”
“And me,” Kesrin interjected, looking up at them from where he stood at the foot of the dais.
“And me.” Laramor stood at his shoulder.
“Me too,” added Madeleine, while Channon nodded agreement behind her.
Abramm stared at them in consternation. They were all looking at him quite oddly. “Well, not because I was trying,” he said finally. “I can’t even throw the Light reliably, let alone draw it out of someone else.”
They began to frown, exchanging puzzled glances. Kesrin shifted and swept the chamber with his eyes. “Nevertheless, you did. Maybe it has something to do with Graymeer’s itself. Something here that you tapped into.”
“Something like . . . what?”
“I don’t know.” He turned to scan the back of the chamber. “There are stories of the old kings and their impenetrable fortresses. Their ‘walls of fire’ and ‘hearts of flame.”’
“Yes!” Madeleine exclaimed, stepping up beside him. “During the age of the Kings of Light.”
Abramm frowned. “Those are myths, my lady. Wild things.”
“So say some of the story of the White Pretender, sir.” She smiled impishly at him, and he felt his face flame.
“Well, it’s not something we’re going to figure out today,” Trap said. “And we have more important concerns at the moment.” He gestured across the dais toward the corridor. “At least we can rest knowing no one will be coming back through that anytime soon.”
Abramm turned to look at the dark, smoking disk that was all that remained of the pillar of light. But instead of triumph, he felt only profound dismay. I have no corpse to bring back to the lords. I may not have even killed the thing.
Trap, as usual, was on the same thought track, putting the uncertainty into words and adding, “You were sensing it before. Can you still?”
Abramm flung his senses outward, seeking the beast’s bitter mind-taste. A long moment he searched, then shook his head. “Nothing.” Not even the small ratty thing.
“It must be dead,” Madeleine concluded.
“They might just be out of range,” Laramor argued. “Young as it is, it’s not going to be that strong.” He gestured at the smoking disk. “My guess is that thing was part of what we in the Highlands call the Dark Ways, Shadow paths conjured by powerful warlocks to take a man leagues across the land in a heartbeat. One of them probably used it last night to help Rhiad make the creature. If your beast is alive, it’s likely up in the Highlands, and out of range.”
“So we’re back to not knowing,” Abramm said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Laramor. “Time will tell. If I’m right, it will be drawn back to you.”
“Killing as it goes,” said Abramm. “I’ve got to go after it, then.”
“No.” Kesrin’s quiet voice stopped him short. The kohal’s dark gaze flicked up to him. “You don’t, sir. In fact, you shouldn’t.”
“If it’s killing my people, kohal—”
“You don’t know that. You don’t even know it’s alive. Don’t you see?” He stepped up onto the bottom stair. “It’s a distraction. As Lieutenant Merivale just said, you have more important concerns.”
Gillard. The Table of Lords. The Mataio and their accusation. My own revelation of the truth.
Abramm’s stomach tied itself instantly into a knot. “If I go back without the corpse no one will believe a word I say. Not about the morwhol nor the corridor nor anything. And they already blame me for all of it.”
“If you leave now, they’ll say you’ve run away. And if I may say so, sir, I have to wonder if they wouldn’t be right.”
Abramm stared at him, stricken.
“The Table won’t wait. If you don’t go back there now and face them, your enemies will defeat you.”
“But if that thing is killing my people—”
“Your concern is noble. But as I said, I believe it’s a distraction.”
“You think Rhiad used the beast to lure me up here just so I wouldn’t admit what I am? He’s the one who accused me in the first place!”
“Not Rhiad—he’s only wrapped up in his desire to ruin you. But the thing that lives in that amulet on his throat? That one knows exactly what it’s doing.”
“Rhu’ema, you mean. But they’ve been trying to expose my secret, too. Now you’re saying they want to hide it?”
“Abramm, you stand on the verge of publicly proclaiming the truth of who you really are. A proclamation that will profoundly impact us all. The rhu’ema know this.” He paused. “You don’t know if this beast is even alive, or if it is, where it’s gone. Eidon does. But he’s chosen not to give you that information, and without it there’s little you can do. Which tells me you must dismiss it for now and turn your mind to the more important task.”
“Go back to Springerlan and tell the lords I wear a shield.”
“Yes, sir.”
__________
As soon as Ulgar disappeared into the column of green light, Carissa lunged for the orb, plucked it off the floor, then pressed herself back against the wall, clutching the talisman and her torn tunic to her breast, fighting back the desire to laugh hysterically.
She could hardly believe Rennalf had caught her, only to let her go . . . until the emotion waned and she realized she’d only received a reprieve. With the door locked and Rennalf’s henchman outside, she wasn’t going anywhere. And the fact of his imminent return precluded the possibility of her inducing her guards to open the door.
Sagging against the wall, she contemplated the faint shaft of light across the room from her. Ulgar had said the waymaker was growing tired, that the corridor wasn’t working as well as it might. But he’d also said reinforcements were coming, which meant she didn’t have a lot of time. If only there was some way to turn it off—
She opened her hand around the orb she’d been clutching and looked down at it. Its white glare had dimmed considerably. In Jarnek, she’d overheard talk that her possession of this very orb had been what enabled her to shove Rhiad into the corridor he had opened in that cistern, triggering its destruction. Perhaps it would do the same with this corridor. Except I have no one to shove through this time. Only myself. Which defeated the purpose. Throwing the orb into the column of light might do the job . . . but then again it might not, leaving her trapped here without even that protection. Still, the thing had flared strongly when Rennalf had tried to pull her through earlier, so maybe just bringing it near enough would trigger something. . . .
Interlacing the broken chain around and through her fingers, she stood and faced the column, aware again of its buzz grating against her skin and teeth and ears. New uncertainties gave her pause. What if she were pulled in and sent on to Balmark? Would she even go to Balmark? What if the whole thing just exploded as it had in Esurh?
She stood there chewing her lip and rolling the orb between thumb and forefinger. Whoever Rennalf sent back for her, he’d bring a soporific, something that worked faster than mead. Then he’d take her through, and shortly Rennalf would apply himself to the matter of siring an heir. Swallowing hard, she decided the quick death of an explosion—even lifelong madness—would be better than that.
With another gulp she clenched her fists and approached the column. It was like forcing her way through a swarm of invisible bees. The buzzing beat against her skin and sucked the air from her lungs. The orb’s heat flared against the backs of her clenched fingers, but she kept going, gratified to see the green column flicker—
Suddenly she found herself facing a crowd of people she did not know. People of exquisite beauty, with kind faces and intelligent eyes, people who offered by some wordles
s communication a haven of safety and belonging the likes of which she had yearned for all her life. But the moment she started forward again, the orb flared hotly. She’d have to drop it to go on. Uncertainty returned. Why did it seem the people had no faces? They were smiling. Their eyes were warm and kindly. How was it she could not tell one from another, could not tell if they were male or female? How was it they kept reminding her of thin ice on Balmark Pond?
She stood buffeted by the invisible bees, unable to hear the voices of those before her for their buzzing. Then orb’s heat seared against her knuckles, the buzzing crescendoed, and as if it were only a painting on a wall, the crowd flattened and tore open before her, revealing an endless black hole and a distant pale figure flying toward her.
Horrified, she was already flinging herself back when he was upon her, looming over her as a white wind came up behind him, seeming to ignite the very air as it bowled her over, sweeping her along until she slammed into a wall, buffeted there for an instant by a terrible screaming gale— Then it was gone. She lay in utter darkness on her side, pressed into the corner made by wall and floor, the broken chain of her necklet still laced through her fingers, the Terstan orb lying hard and warm beneath her palm.
The etherworld corridor’s annoying buzz was gone, along with its light. Outside the hall guards banged on the door. “My lord? Everythin’ all right?”
The latch rattled.
Beside her something snuffled and whined. She heard a grunting rasp, a rustle of clothing, and knew that someone had definitely come through the corridor before it was destroyed. It worked! The thought gave her a thrill of satisfaction, and the comfort of knowing that at least she wouldn’t be back in Balmark anytime soon. Even if she did get beaten for destroying her husband’s precious Dark Way.
She heard the man groan and sensed his movement, her hand tightening reflexively about the orb and bringing it to her chest as the strange doglike whining continued. Then a rasping croon broke the silence. “Are you all right, my pet? Is my little one all right?”
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