Mrillis spared a sliver of power to send an alarm to others in the Stronghold, and fended off Emrillian's demands for explanation. He didn't pull back until he knew others had come into their quarters and were tending Ceera and Pirkin.
Later, he snapped at his daughter, when she demanded an explanation yet again. There are lives at stake. Your mother and Pirkin are alive and safe. That is all that matters.
When the healing was done, he showed Emrillian in a short, hurried image of all that he had witnessed through the Threads. She let go of their link to fall weeping into Pyris' arms. Mrillis opened his eyes and slumped in his chair and wept. He felt empty, aching, old and useless. He needed to hold Ceera tight in his arms, but she was days of travel away.
What has happened to us? he wondered, when the first flood of grief and anger abated a little, so he could think at all.
We were the strong and invincible, and we were put here by the Estall to defend others. How did we become so weak, so vulnerable?
Chapter Fourteen
Mrillis left the camp within the hour, to ride with all speed back to the Stronghold. It frustrated him to the edge of cursing, to know that it would take just as long to ride to the coast and take the tunnel from Wynystrys as it would if he rode straight from the mountains to the Stronghold. Did he imagine, or did he hear Endor's laughter among the Threads, exulting that his plan had worked perfectly, stranding the Stronghold's defenders too far away to be any good to the beleaguered inhabitants? Ceera was injured and battling poison that had magic to support it; Nainan was dead; illness wove through the Stronghold, supported by blood magic; and traitors hid among the faithful, raising the barrier around the Stronghold every time those inside pulled it down again. That barrier blocked the power of the Threads.
It took most of Mrillis' concentration to constantly pull apart the wall of magic--blood magic, disguised as Thread magic, so no one had realized the danger until it was too late--and spill power from the Zygradon to the sufferers inside. They could battle the illness raging inside the Stronghold or they could fight the barrier that drained away the imbrose of everyone inside, but they could not do both. In his efforts to defend his home with nearly the width of the entire continent of Lygroes between him and it, and send healing power from the Zygradon to Ceera, he almost ignored his daughter when she called him through the Threads.
You're going? Emrillian called, when he acknowledged her contact. Tears filled her voice, but cold fury held back her fear and gave her strength.
Where else would I be? Mrillis fought down the weakness that writhed through him despite all his efforts at self-control. The terror of losing Ceera tried to strangle him.
We can't go. Papa, we have traitors among us. When you closed down the stream of power, we pulled out of the healing trance to find ourselves surrounded. Another minute, and we might have had our throats slit without anyone being aware until it was too late.
How? Your guards-- He choked as understanding filled his mind, and dug his heels harder into his horse's sides.
Our guards are either all traitors, or held in thrall. We know what Endor has been doing all these years--perfecting spells to make slaves of us without anyone feeling the slightest touch of magic. They waited, like hibernating spiders, no sign, nothing to betray their presence, until needed. Her voice thickened, fury turning her tears to ice. There's sickness in the Stronghold. One of them told us, boasted, before he killed himself. Papa--
I take the power of the Zygradon with me. Pirkin and your mother will be safe and well. I swear on my soul. Come along when you can, Emmi. Please. They both need you.
In a while. Papa, those of us who are left... We've decided to hide the Zygradon. I think we should take it--
No. Don't say it. Even here, someone could be listening. Tell me when we are together again. Your mother will make your favorite stew and we'll spend the evening playing jump-stones. We'll teach Pirkin to play.
He's too young, Papa. Laughter threatened to break her control.
Be strong, sweetling. I've never been prouder of you than right this moment.
Kiss Mama for me.
Then the feel of her presence, the sound of her voice among the Threads, vanished. Mrillis brushed stubborn, burning tears from his aching eyes with the back of his gauntlet and leaned closer along his horse's neck, to cut down wind resistance. He silently chanted Ceera's name in time with the horse's hoof beats, making it a prayer and plea.
All his perceptions blurred and the sun seemed to hang, unmoving, in the sky. Mrillis fought his panic and concentrated on gathering all his strength, sending it ahead to Ceera, begging, commanding her to heal, to awaken, to not leave him alone.
When night fell, he let the horse slow to a walk and half-dozed in the saddle. His body rested, but his mind raced, straining, directing arrows of power from the Zygradon to slash through the persistent barrier of warped magic around the Stronghold. Half the energy went to destroying the poisonous web, the other half went to those inside, to aid in the healing. All was chaos inside, illness spreading through the tunnels and chambers and towers as if on a strong wind that penetrated everything.
Breylon contacted him in the morning to report that no one could get into the Stronghold and no one could get out. The holes that Mrillis slashed through the inimical web of power weakened it, a little more every time. Every enchanter in Lygroes was on their way to surround the Stronghold with power, drain the Threads of every bit of magic to equal the cataclysm that came after the destruction of Flintan, if that was what it took.
What defeats us, his old teacher said, is the magic of the Stronghold itself. While someone who belongs inside holds the barrier against us, no outsiders can get through the barrier.
Then how is it I can tear the barrier? Mrillis snarled, and dug his heels into his horse again, to demand a little more speed from the poor beast who was already dripping sweaty foam from the effort.
You were born there, you belong there, your heart is there. When you arrive, when you are physically here to challenge the barrier, it will fall. The distance works against you now, but you are making headway.
Will it be soon enough? I am weeks of travel away--if I don't kill my horse in the next day. Why didn't we ever build tunnels to other parts of Lygroes? Mrillis knew he would laugh at the irony of the frivolous question.
You need the tunnel to contain the magic that warps time and distance, Breylon responded slowly, his mental voice soft and thoughtful. Or perhaps not?
Master?
There is a chance...give us time to be sure, then we will tell you. There may be a way to get here sooner, but it could be risky.
Do you think I care?
You must care, Mrillis, or we are all lost.
Mrillis passed a vale just before noon and rode his staggering horse through the pool of collected Thread power, weaving strong spells of strength and endurance and nourishment around the beast. It didn't like the feel of magic penetrating its flesh, but its lungs stopped heaving like old bellows and its stride smoothed out and gained speed. He feared the poor beast would fall over and die as soon as they reached the Stronghold and the spell lifted, but Mrillis couldn't feel more than a flicker of regret. This, he suspected, was how the Nameless One started down his long, slippery descent into darkness--for the sake of a higher cause, he had lost his ability to care, to regret, and felt nothing when small sacrifices were made and others were hurt.
Every time he sent more power to the Stronghold, he gathered a bit of news. None of it was good. Nainan was dead. Triska had escaped, with the help of someone not yet identified. Illness ravaged the Stronghold, quietly, with lingering stubbornness, so that some who seemed perfectly healthy dropped in the midst of tending the ill and died within the hour, without a struggle, while others lingered in paralyzing fever. Every morning, the healers found another lifeless body in the healing rooms, another in the dormitories, another in the hallway where a woman or child with night duties simply collapsed without a sound.
Mrillis drew on the power of the Zygradon to battle the illness that had its roots in malign magic, but the deaths came more quickly than the gradual increase of healing power. The bowl was too far away to heal as it did in the mountain villages. If they could have dared to bring the Zygradon back to the Stronghold immediately, no one would have worried or suffered, but that was the problem. With so many traitors unmasked, Emrillian's team of Valors and healers had chosen to hide rather than race to the Stronghold. The chance of the bowl falling into the hands of traitors could not be risked. So the Stronghold had to suffer and fight for healing without the help of the Zygradon.
Ceera lingered. One of the first to fall ill, she remained, rousing once or twice a day to whisper the names of those she loved, to be reassured that Mrillis raced to return to the Stronghold, Emrillian was safe, and no one had stolen Pirkin from his cradle.
* * * *
We have found a way, Master Breylon announced, near midnight of Mrillis' second day of travel. The magic that compresses time and distance and lets us pass through solid objects is anchored in the walls of the tunnel, but it does not need to be anchored to be used. If it is used in small bites, small steps.
Mrillis felt something achy stir in his chest, as his teacher passed on to him the framework for a spell that would let him cross Lygroes in one-fourth the time of riding at top speed. He would have to do it in short bursts of magic. Maintaining the spell for any period longer than ten minutes at a time would cause damage to the land and animals all around him. That was why no one was allowed to live inside the tunnels that allowed swift passage. Mrillis would have to ride or rest for at least six hours between each burst of magic, but each step would take him a day's distance of travel.
When his teacher finished giving him the instructions and boundaries for the spell, Mrillis released the breath he had been holding. He realized that ache was laughter, unbelieving and relieved. He gathered up all his concentration and carefully followed the instructions just given to him. The world spun around him, a blur of silvery Threads and muddy fields. His stomach tried to turn inside out and his lungs froze. His horse reared and squealed in furious fright.
Then a moment later, all the unpleasant sensations ended. Mrillis reined his horse to a stop and looked around him. His imbrose wavered when he reached for the nearest vale, to identify his surroundings. Laughter burst out of him, shredded by the strain of the last few days, when he verified he was an entire day's journey closer, and still on the straight path for the Stronghold.
Ceera, I'm coming! Hold fast, my love, my darling.
* * * *
Belissa called to Mrillis through the Threads, before dawn of the third day of his desperate race, when he had finally left the mountains behind and long, level grasslands stretched out before him. Emrillian and Pyris and their guards had fled while Belissa and the sons of Patros, Caerienne and Ricken led four groups of the tested and loyal to guard their trail. She wasn't sure where Emrillian intended to go, only that she and the other descendants of the makers of the bowl and sword had sworn to give their lives to make sure no one could follow them. Belissa reported they had been attacked from within their own ranks, just as Emrillian's team had been. Six Valors and two descendants--she refused to name them--had been Endor's followers, and had either died in the battle or killed themselves when they were captured.
I'm sorry. We failed you. It was all Mrillis could think to say. It grieved and rankled him that the circumstances wouldn't even allow Belissa time to mourn her mother. All mourning and sympathy would have to wait until the Stronghold and all inside it were safe and healing. Until he knew Emrillian was safely at home and the Zygradon hidden where no one could find it. Until he saw Ceera smile at him once more.
Despite her calm and strength, Belissa couldn't keep the weariness and grief and sense of betrayal from filtering through her mental touch.
Looking backwards makes us trip over our own feet, she retorted. When this is over, I'm going to marry Cafral, like our parents want. You'll stand as my father, won't you?
Try to keep me away.
He held onto the warmth that came from her wisp of teary laughter. The sound lingered in his mind for hours, and he prayed that soon, he would hear her and Emrillian laugh again.
In the gray of twilight, when moon and sun were both hidden, Mrillis pulled up on his horse's reins to slow and walk until moonrise. A woven wall of Threads intertwined with blood magic sprang up around him without warning, the flicker of power that triggered it so subtle he sensed nothing. Mrillis roared fury, all his thoughts on Ceera, on the need to get to her. The Threads tangled his hands and feet, wrapped in a choke-hold around his neck, and squeezed the air from his chest.
My love, Ceera called, her voice soft and fine as gossamer.
Her voice, her presence, became a knife sharper and thinner than even star-metal could be hammered, and cut through the Threads. Mrillis hung suspended in mid-air, slowly turning as the Threads that held him prisoner snapped apart, one by one, the sounds chiming sharp with discord in his soul. He blinked and realized he had been blinded, physically as well as in his imbrose. His horse lay in a broken heap of torn flesh and shattered bones and stank of charring. Fires still flickered around the clearing where there should have been no clearing.
Endor stood only a few steps away, fire in his eyes, his hair thin and streaked with gray, his face wrinkled and ravaged with time and hatred. He wore clothes richer than any High King had ever used, and they hung on him as if borrowed from a much taller, wider man.
Mrillis looked at his old friend, who seemed not to see him, staring past him as if seeing hundreds of leagues across the land to the Stronghold. Endor, he realized in a moment of insight, had wasted himself away for the sake of power. He had devoured his own body to stoke the fires of his efforts when the Threads would not yield what he wanted. Had Endor learned to drain others of their strength, their vitality, perhaps their intelligence, to fuel his warped imbrose, without actually resorting to blood magic?
The last Thread binding his hands snapped and Mrillis grabbed hold of the trailing edge before it sealed. He pulled hard with his mind, sucking all the energy he could from it. Endor's head turned sharp and fast, his eyes focused on Mrillis and he laughed, a sound like an enraged beast.
"I never would have left her alone, like you did. Too bad she wasn't smart enough to give herself to me, instead. Her mistake. Poor Mrillis, always playing the hero. Do you really think you can get there in time to save her?" Endor spat. He lazily lifted a hand and a ball of fire coalesced in his palm.
Mrillis reached through the shredding net of Threads still holding him prisoner and yanked hard on the power of the Zygradon. A long column of power that could very well consume him, like dried grass in a bonfire, slapped up and out and around. It wrapped around Endor in a sheet as he flicked the ball of fire at Mrillis.
The fire didn't leave Endor's hand, but grew and flared and engulfed him.
His screams drowned the sound of the net snapping and disintegrating, and Mrillis fell to the ground. He reached with his mind for Endor's horse--please, Blessed Estall, he has to have a horse!--and he ran, ignoring the sounds of struggle and pain and fear. Mrillis leaped into the saddle and instinct turned him toward the Stronghold.
What did you do? Breylon called to him, as dawn hovered, bloody and swollen with rain on the horizon. Mrillis though he could see the edges of the mountains that held the Stronghold, like broken knife blades that made the sky bleed.
Quickly, Mrillis showed him the battle with Endor. He didn't conceal his bitter wish that he had killed Endor in that moment, but it would have required more time and strength than he could spare.
If Ceera had not roused and broken through to me, I might still be trapped. Or dead, he admitted.
We should have known only a grave threat to you could break through to her. Grief strained Breylon's voice.
Master? Mrillis refused to even let the image of the possibility of disaster enter his
mind.
The wall around the Stronghold has fallen, meaning that Endor helped to maintain it until you defeated him. We are inside and healing has begun. But Ceera drained herself dangerously. The Threads that surround her are all but transparent and the poison that remains has grown stronger. Hurry home, Mrillis. Without the Zygradon's physical presence, you are her only lifeline.
Mrillis let go of his last bit of control over the Zygradon, knowing distance and the guarding Threads Emrillian wove around it made it all but useless to him now. He concentrated on harvesting all the power he could from every Thread he passed on his desperate journey across the countryside. Part of the power he used for the magic to fuel the spell to take his hopping steps across Lygroes. While his horse walked and recovered from the magic that strained its flesh, he channeled all the power he harvested to the Stronghold, to aid in the healing and to replenish Ceera, body and imbrose. He dreamed that she called to him when he dozed in his saddle, and woke with tears in his eyes.
* * * *
It's done, Emrillian announced on the fifth day, when Mrillis was in sight of the Stronghold.
Mrillis nearly wept to hear her voice, after such a long silence. They had agreed that she and her followers would move silently, hiding even from the Threads, wrapped in the silence and invisibility granted them by the Zygradon itself. He thought he had grown incapable of tears, but Breylon had shown him an image of the Threads that touched Ceera just a few hours ago, and they were opaque white with touches of blue and green. Mrillis felt more strength with every step that brought him closer to home.
All those who know the hiding place are safe?
I'm the only one who knows. Not even Pyris knows where I put it. A soft, choked bubble of laughter escaped her. He's furious with me, that I don't trust his ability to resist torture and magic. I don't care. This is more important than anything, even us.
I'm sorry.
How is Mama?
See for yourself. Mrillis stretched out to snag more Threads and folded them around Emrillian's presence, to bring the sense of her closer, then looped the same Threads around Ceera. He stopped his horse and emptied himself to give her strength, to rouse her. Surely it would only do her good to hear her daughter's voice, feel her touch through the Threads. Soon, he would hold her in his arms and pour everything he had into her. Soon, she would be healed and whole again.
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