Timothy swallowed hard before speaking. “We’ve come to ask for your help.”
Romulus laughed, but there was little humor in it. “You’re asking me to help you?”
“Not only for ourselves, but for Parliament, and quite possibly for all of Terra, as well.”
The Grandmaster tilted his helmeted head to one side quizzically. “What nonsense are you speaking, Cade?”
“It’s not nonsense,” Timothy said. “Doubtless you’re aware of the expedition to Tora’nah, and the efforts of Parliament to mine Malleum from the ground there to make unbreakable armor and weapons, to prepare for an invasion from Draconae.”
“An invasion I am still unconvinced will ever come,” Romulus scoffed.
Timothy sighed. “You say that, but I don’t believe you mean it. You have seen Verlis and his family, his clan. You have heard the stories of the violence and oppression on Draconae, and the evil of Raptus. The Wurm on Draconae are working tirelessly to tear down Alhazred’s Divide, and they mean to slaughter all of Parliament as well as all of their kin who escaped their tyranny. Like it or not, Lord Romulus, you and Verlis share the same enemy.
“Regardless, at the moment, there is another enemy who threatens us all. While in Tora’nah, Grandmaster Maddox fell ill. Days ago Caiaphas and I were transporting him back to Arcanum. He had been behaving … strangely. Belligerently. And then he fell ill. But on the journey home, he tried to kill us.”
Romulus pulled his fur cloak tighter about his body as he moved closer. “Maddox tried to kill you?”
“I believe it was Leander in body only. It was as if he was no longer in control of himself—almost as if something had taken possession of him.” The memory of the horrible event chilled him more than the storm raging outside Twilight.
Romulus grew silent, moving past them to return to his great seat. “Sit by me,” he instructed them, gesturing to pillows that had been laid upon the floor in front of the chair.
Timothy and Caiaphas complied instantly. The boy was weak with relief at the realization that Lord Romulus might hate him, but did not consider him a liar.
“Obviously you escaped,” Lord Romulus continued as he lowered his massive, armored body into the chair.
“Barely,” Timothy said, making himself comfortable upon the cushions. His ribs still ached, but the pain was starting to lessen.
The scratches on his cheek had stung him before the cold weather had numbed his face. Now the warmth of the fire reminded him of the claws of Alastor. He realized how extremely tired he was, his body overjoyed by the opportunity to sit. “We were thrown from our sky carriage into the Yarrith Forest, and were lucky not to be killed.”
“That was days ago. Where have you been since then?” Romulus asked. There was a bronze goblet and pitcher upon a pedestal by the Grandmaster’s chair and he helped himself to some refreshment. This served only to remind Timothy how long it had been since they’d last had any food or drink.
“We spent some time with the Children of Karthagia,” he explained.
“Truly?” Romulus asked, taking a sip of his drink. “The Children usually do not concern themselves with matters that occur outside their ziggurats. How did they react to your tale of impending doom?”
Timothy’s stomach growled noisily. “Excuse me,” he said, embarrassed, before continuing. “We did not yet know the extent of this danger, for we had yet to be attacked by Constable Grimshaw and his monstrous beast.”
Romulus paused mid drink. “Constable Grimshaw?” he said. “But he has been reported missing, included amongst the mages no one can seem to locate.”
“Exactly,” Timothy said. “He and the Lake Dwellers—who we mistakenly believed might help us get back to Arcanum—held us captive by the command of…” He paused, reluctant to continue for fear that he would not be believed.
Lord Romulus leaned forward on his seat, setting his goblet down on the side table. The red eyes within his helmet seemed to glow brightly in the ghostfire light. “Under whose command?”
Timothy glanced at Caiaphas, not certain if he should continue. But the navigation mage nodded, urging him on. The boy took a deep breath.
“As impossible as it seems, we heard them speak of Alhazred.”
The Grandmaster of the Legion Nocturne rose quickly from his chair. “Alhazred?” he questioned. “Are you certain that you heard correctly?”
“I heard the name spoken as well,” Caiaphas announced. “It is indeed Alhazred that Constable Grimshaw and the Lake Dwellers serve.”
Romulus began to breathe deeply, as though a fire of rage burned within him. He sounded to Timothy like one of the horses his forest soldiers rode. The mage strode away from them, his fur cape flowing behind him. “How is this possible?” he muttered beneath his breath.
Then he paused and nodded slowly. “And yet, it would explain so much of the recent troubles in Arcanum.”
Timothy stood up from the pillow and approached the enormous mage. “You believe us?”
Romulus looked down upon the boy with burning eyes. “Though it pains me to side with the likes of you, in light of recent events I am left with little alternative.”
Timothy actually found himself smiling at the fearsome countenance of Lord Romulus. “Then you’ll help us?”
“You will stay here tonight in my great hall and know the hospitality of the Legion Nocturne. In the morning you will be given horses to make your way back to Arcanum.”
And with those words, the Grandmaster abruptly turned and strode toward the room’s exit. “But now, I must think upon what you have told me, and ponder the fate of my people, my guild, and quite possibly my world.”
Blending with the surroundings of SkyHaven’s vast hallways and corridors, Ivar searched for further evidence of the evil that Leander Maddox had accidentally uncovered. The servants and employees of this vast, floating fortress went about their business, totally unaware that he was among them. He listened to their whispered gossip, and watched as some shirked their responsibilities when they believed themselves to be truly alone.
Ivar imagined the look of absolute terror that would have appeared on their faces if he had allowed himself to be seen. But he would not allow this to occur. Cassandra had entrusted him with this most important mission, and he did not wish to disappoint the young Grandmaster in training.
In the raving of his illness, Leander said that he had been researching Tora’nah, when he had found something—something evil. Now Ivar moved down a darkened corridor toward a storage compartment where older records and documents pertaining to the business of Parliament were stored. He was certain that Leander would have looked here for the sort of information that he had sought.
The Asura stood before the large door, sealed tight by a spell of security. First making sure that he was alone, Ivar willed the hue of his skin back to normal. Cassandra had expected that in investigating Leander’s mad ramblings, he would need access to places that normally would be forbidden to him. Individual locks required specific spells to open them, but Cassandra had given Ivar a spell of opening that would act as a key to override whatever magical locks he might encounter.
Ivar looked at his palm, where the young girl had drawn the symbols that made up the spell. He held his hand out to a magical orb that was built into the frame, and the door slid slowly open to grant him access.
The Asura had found himself growing fond of Cassandra Nicodemus, seeing in her a chance that the future generation of mages could actually learn from the mistakes of the past. He liked the fact that she seemed to have a special fondness for Timothy, and he for her.
Timothy. There was still no word on whether his young friend had survived the attack upon their sky carriage. With the thought of the boy heavy on his mind, Ivar entered the storage room. The door to the large room closed, and lanterns of ghost-fire immediately were illuminated. Ivar gazed about the vast chamber at the multiple shelves that adorned every wall. Upon each of the shelves were boxes within which
countless scrolls and documents were stored.
Ivar carefully moved through the room, extending his finely attuned senses to seek anything that seemed out of the norm. The room smelled of ancient parchment but, for the briefest of moments, he caught the scent of something else. He prowled toward the back of the chamber, seeking out the odd aroma that now sought to elude him. He was certain that he had smelled it, a scent that did not belong. Ivar shut his eyes. To someone other than an Asura, the scent would have gone completely unnoticed. He imagined his senses as a kind of net, cast upon the still waters of the room. He did not know how long he stood there, eyes closed, but he had almost begun to believe that he might have been mistaken when he found it again.
This time he held on to the scent, following it.
Ivar found himself standing before a particular bookcase in a darkened corner. The bookcase was huge, made from heavy timber, and pressed flat against the far wall. The smell originated here, he thought as he eyed the shelving unit. He carefully examined the floor around it and found scrapes there. Something heavy had been moved across the floor. He crouched lower to the ground at the base of the bookshelves and felt the slightest draft from beneath them.
There is something beyond this wall. He ran his hands along the shelves, searching for access.
There came a sudden click as his hand passed over a decorative engraving in the wood. At first he was unsure what he had done, but then he remembered the spell that Cassandra had drawn upon the palm of his hand. The unlocking spell had worked upon the enchantments that kept the heavy shelving unit attached to the wall, concealing what was hidden behind it.
He leaped back as the storage unit swung away from the wall, scraping along the floor, to reveal a doorway. Carefully the Asura approached it, peering down through the darkness at a winding staircase that descended deeper into the bowels of SkyHaven. His hand went to the knife that he wore in a sheath attached to his belt, just to be certain it was still there, in case it was needed.
As Ivar began his descent, a faint breeze was kicked up from somewhere below and he again caught the scent that had aroused his suspicions before.
The scent of death.
Timothy held tightly to the reins of his mount, the powerful animal beneath him trotting along through the freshly fallen snow.
The cold morning air felt good in his lungs, clearing away the last vestiges of the previous night’s deathlike slumber. He could not recall a time when he had slept so deeply, certain that it had much to do with what he had been put through since falling from the sky carriage into the forests of Yarrith.
He and Caiaphas had been escorted for a time by a patrol of Lord Romulus’s best horsemen, but had been left to go it alone once they were past the Legion Nocturne’s borders.
Yarrith Forest was incredibly beautiful covered in snow, and he could appreciate it more now that he was dressed more appropriately for the chilling weather. Romulus had ordered that they both be given more suitable dress for traveling upon horseback.
He had never ridden a horse before, but found it quite pleasant, almost relaxing. It helped him to forget, just for the moment, the problems that would be facing them once they at last returned to Arcanum.
“How are you doing back there?” Caiaphas called to him. His horse was a beautiful animal, the color of night, while Timothy’s was pure white, blending with the snow.
The boy reached down and patted the animal. “We’re doing just fine.”
“It has been quite a journey, hasn’t it, Timothy?”
“It certainly has,” Timothy said, but deep down he knew that the troubled journey was far from over.
The farther they descended from the mountainous elevations, the warmer it became, and Timothy found himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable in his new heavy clothing. He fumbled with a clasp at his throat to remove the cloak draped over his shoulders.
“Could we stop for a moment, Caiaphas?” he called, pulling back the reins on his mount.
The navigator stopped his horse as well, turning it around to face him. “Do you need some help with that?” he asked good-naturedly, watching as the boy attempted to unfasten the clasp with little success.
“Perhaps you have a special spell for uncooperative clasps,” Timothy suggested with a smile. Twilight’s healers had been in to visit the navigator after their hearty meal of stew and bread, just before they had retired for the evening in front of the great roaring fireplace. Caiaphas’s hands now looked as good as new. It was unfortunate that the magic they could cast would not have any effect on him, or his troublesome cloak clasp.
“Here, perhaps I can help,” Caiaphas said, urging his horse closer to the boy’s.
A crackling bolt of pure magical force descended from the sky and struck the navigation mage, hurling him from his mount.
“Caiaphas!” Timothy screamed, jumping down from his horse to go to his friend.
The navigator lay upon the damp forest floor, his body twitching uncontrollably as the punishing spell coursed through him like snake venom. Timothy laid his palm where Caiaphas had been struck to disrupt the spell, and immediately felt the navigator begin to calm.
Maniacal laughter filled the air, and Timothy looked skyward through the canopy of trees to see Constable Grimshaw hanging there, shimmering supernatural energies keeping him aloft.
“Why won’t you leave us alone?” Timothy shrieked, his fists clenched in rage.
“And here I was thinking that you were a smart boy,” the Constable said, drifting to the ground. “Isn’t it obvious? We hate you—hate you for what you are, and for what you’ve done to us.”
Timothy heard the rustling of leaves behind him and spun to face the most horrific of sights.
“Isn’t that right, Alastor?” Grimshaw asked his monstrous companion.
He didn’t believe it was possible, but somehow the cat had changed even further since the last time Timothy had seen it. It had become even more manlike. The cat-creature was even bigger than before, and was now walking erect upon its hind legs. It padded toward him, clawed hands extended.
Timothy stared into the face of the animal and again was struck with an awful sense of familiarity. What was it about this horrific creature that struck a nerve, making him look upon the beast as something more than animal?
And then it tried to speak, the words coming from its fanged mouth in a growling slur.
“Hate … you,” it spat, saliva dripping from its open maw.
And Timothy understood why the monster seemed so familiar. He saw it in the cat-creature’s eyes, and in the shape of its face. Timothy Cade knew that face, though the one who had worn it was dead. Or so he had thought. Now, staring into the advancing beast’s hateful yellow eyes, he knew that he had been wrong.
“Know me … Cade?” it asked him, a hideous smile stretching its animalistic features.
And the boy did know him.
“Nicodemus,” Timothy said in a whisper of equal parts fear and utter revulsion. “But how?”
Chapter Ten
The stairwell wound down into the heart of SkyHaven, dug out of the earth and stone. The passageway that led to the stairs had been hidden—a secret—and Ivar realized he had discovered something that had been kept from the residents of SkyHaven.
Most of them, at least.
Leander Maddox had discovered that secret passage, these hidden stairs, and whatever lay below, and given his mad ramblings to Cassandra, it seemed that encounter had altered him somehow. Poisoned him. Ivar worried what might have happened to Timothy and Caiaphas because of Leander’s discovery, but at the moment he knew he must focus on the secrets of the Order. Perhaps whatever truths he found could be used to help his friends.
The stairwell was dark, but a dim glow shimmered from below and gleamed dully on the stone walls of the spiral stairwell. He slid his fingers along the stone and was surprised to find how dry the walls were. Dry as bone. Ivar had senses far more acute than an ordinary mage. He was upset that he ha
d not felt the presence of these secret passages previously. Now that he was within them, however, it was simple for him to use those enhanced senses to gather information about his location. Perhaps one hundred feet below him was the bottom of the floating island. At the core of SkyHaven was the conference room where Timothy had first encountered the Grandmasters that Nicodemus had gathered to meet him. The aerie, he believed it was called.
This secret segment of the fortress must have been separated only by a few feet of stone and earth from the more familiar depths of SkyHaven and yet had remained unknown. The hidden stairs were on the eastern side of the floating island, farthest from the shores of Arcanum.
No sound came from below. The passages had been built to be truly private. If Ivar was forced to call for help, no one in SkyHaven would be able to hear him. In the darkness he shifted the hue of his skin to match the gray of the stone walls and continued to descend.
The flickering of light upon the walls grew stronger as he wound around and around down those stairs. When the illumination grew so bright that he knew a few more steps would take him into full light, he paused and pressed himself to the dry stone. Ivar was not afraid, but he knew he must be cautious because so much depended upon his remaining hidden and returning to Cassandra with news of this place.
Carefully and silently he descended farther. The fourth step down took him into view of a ghostfire lamp that sat in a sconce jutting from the wall. Ivar narrowed his eyes and peered into the gloom beyond the light, searching for any sign of motion on the stairs, then continued on, his flesh still the hue of the stone. The Asura knew he was invisible to any observer, even in the light.
And yet… he felt as he descended that someone had noticed him, that there were eyes upon him even now.
Ivar frowned and paused upon those stone steps, and though he feared nothing, a shudder went through him. He turned and glanced back up the curve of the stairwell, but no one was there. His gaze fell upon the wall sconce and the ghostfire that burned in the lamp there. It trembled. In the flames, for just a moment, he thought he saw a face, eyes watching him.
Ghostfire Page 13