by Mark Anthony
A shout broke the spell.
Travis snatched his hand back. Beneath the shelter, Grace and Larad sat up, eyes wide. Farr sprang to his feet, glaring at Travis.
The shout came again, from the other side of the mound of sand from which the columns jutted. Travis started running. The others followed, but he was closer. He ran around the edge of the mound, to the other side of the row of columns.
The storm had exhumed a section of a stone wall from the mound. Set into the wall, beneath a massive lintel, was a stone door, shut. One of the T’gol stood in front of the door: Rafid. His face, always before stern and hard, was now pale with fear. He struggled as if trying to get away from the door, the muscles of his compact body straining beneath black leather, only something was holding him in place. Then Travis saw what it was. There was a hole in the center of the door, about as large as a splayed hand. Rafid’s arm was stuck in the hole, up to the elbow.
The T’gol’s body jerked, and his arm was drawn several more inches into the hole. He shouted again.
“What’s going on?” Grace said, panting as she halted next to Travis. Farr and Larad were right behind her.
“Idiot!” Farr said, clenching a fist. “He should have known. I thought T’gol were trained better than that.”
Rafid opened his mouth, making a dry, weak sound. By then his arm was completely consumed by the hole, his shoulder against the stone door. His skin, once bronze, was ash gray.
Larad started forward. “We must help him.”
Farr grabbed the Runelord’s shoulder. “You can’t help him. Not now. Not unless you know the rune of death.”
Travis didn’t care what Farr said. They had to do something. He started moving; Grace was with him. However, before they could go three steps, the air blurred, and Vani was there before them.
“Do not go near him!”
They stumbled backward, colliding with one another. Ahead, a patch of air shimmered like a mirage, then Avhir appeared, gripping a curved scimitar. The tall assassin swung the blade, lopping off Rafid’s arm at the shoulder. Vani pulled the man back, away from the door; no blood pumped from the stump of his arm. Rafid stared at the other T’gol, opening his mouth as if to speak something. He shuddered once.
Then his body crumbled into dust.
The wind snatched the dust, blowing it away in gritty swirls. Avhir threw Rafid’s empty black leathers to the sand, his bronze eyes hard. Vani stalked toward them. Travis and Grace ran after, Larad behind.
“Stay away from the door!” Farr shouted, but they ignored him.
Just as they reached the assassins, Kylees appeared. “What has happened?” she said, staring at Rafid’s crumpled leathers.
Avhir uncoiled long legs, standing. “I am not certain. I had posted Rafid at this wall to keep watch to the east. I came when I heard his shout. He was—”
Something black and sinuous shot from the hole in the door, wrapping itself around Avhir’s neck, hissing. With a quick motion the T’gol dived into a roll, disentangling himself and flinging the thing to the ground as he stood back up.
It was a serpent, pure black except for its eyes and flicking tongue, which were bloodred. The viper bared curved fangs, its neck flaring. Moving so fast it was a shadowy blur, it struck again at Avhir.
The T’gol was faster. He swung his scimitar, cleaving the viper in two. It vanished in a puff of black smoke.
“Beware!” Kylees called out.
Another viper writhed out of the hole, and another. They kept coming faster than Travis could count, pouring down the surface of the wall like dark water until the sand was black with them. The vipers slithered forward, hissing, puffing out their necks, baring fangs that dripped venom.
Avhir lashed out with his scimitar, and two more vipers vanished in puffs of acrid smoke. However, more replaced them. Travis grabbed Grace’s hand and started to back away, but the serpents had already wriggled across the sand, circling around them. The T’gol kicked at the vipers, flung them away, and hacked at them with weapons until black smoke choked the air, all the while dodging their hissing strikes. But there were too many of them. Sooner or later, one of the T’gol would move too slowly, and fangs would sink into flesh, injecting venom. The assassins formed a circle around Grace and Travis; the vipers closed in.
“Dust!” a voice shouted.
Farr stood a dozen paces away, holding up his left hand. Blood rained down from his palm, but it vanished before it hit the sand. The air buzzed and shimmered, as if filled with insects too small to be seen save for the glint of sunlight on wings.
As if drawn to him, the vipers slithered toward Farr; sweat poured down his brow. He thrust his hand forward.
“Dust!” he shouted again.
Each of the vipers exploded in a black puff. For a moment sight and breath were impossible. Then a gust of wind snatched the foul smoke, carrying it away and clearing the air.
Travis rubbed his stinging eyes. There was no trace left of the serpents. Farr was hastily binding a cloth around his hand, staunching the flow of blood. The buzzing faded to silence; the morndari were gone.
Farr gave the three T’gol a disgusted look, then approached the stone door, careful not to touch it.
“What is it?” Travis said, his throat burning from the smoke.
“It is a blood trap.” Farr looked at Grace. “You’re right. This was a temple, and I know now these are the ruins of Golbrora, whose sorcerer-priests held the black viper sacred. Blood traps were set to keep thieves from stealing the temple’s treasure. A thief who reached into the hole to try to unlock the door found himself trapped, held in place while his blood was drained.”
“And the vipers?” Larad said, raising an eyebrow.
“They were meant to take care of any companions the thief might have had. It was difficult—my spell was weak—but I destroyed them.”
Travis felt the blood surging in his veins, and his hands twitched into fists. Despite his claim that his spell was weak, Farr seemed smug, even arrogant. But Travis could have dispelled the vipers, and by spilling less blood than Farr. He was sure of it.
Stop it, Travis. This isn’t a contest. Hadrian has studied these things, and you haven’t. And be grateful he has, or all of you would have ended up like Rafid.
Grace knelt, touching Rafid’s leathers. “I don’t understand. Why did he try to open the door?”
“Voices,” Travis said, remembering the whispers he had heard as he approached the altar. “He heard voices.”
Farr nodded. “It is as I said. He feared magic, and so was compelled by it.”
“He was weak not to resist,” Kylees said, her words harsh. She turned her back and walked away. Avhir cast his bronze gaze on the empty leathers, then followed after her.
“Come,” Vani said, touching Grace’s shoulder. “The day is nearly done.”
Travis cast one last glance at the door, not even daring to wonder what lay on the other side. Had Rafid really been weak? Travis doubted it. One did not survive for thirteen years in the Silent Fortress by being weak.
It could just as easily have been you who stuck a hand in that hole, Travis, not Rafid.
Only it hadn’t been; that fate wasn’t his. Travis clamped his hands under his arms and trudged after the others just as the sun touched the western horizon, staining the ruins of Golbrora crimson.
29.
The camels paced over the silver dunes, silent as wraiths in the moonlight.
Grace huddled inside a blanket as the camel’s hump rose and fell beneath her. The day’s sweat had dried to a crust on her skin, and now she was shivering. Once night fell, the desert had quickly surrendered its heat to the cloudless sky. Stars glittered like cold gems above—but not in the rift, which was as dark as the vipers that had slithered from the stone door in the ruins of Golbrora. Only the rift wasn’t something that could be fought with blood sorcery, not like the serpents. It wasn’t anything at all.
How can you fight nothing, Grace?
&
nbsp; It seemed impossible, but she wouldn’t let herself believe that. Their only hope was for Travis to find the Last Rune, wherever—whatever—it was. But first they had to find Nim.
And maybe this is how it’s meant to be, Grace. Sfithrisir said Travis would lead you to the Last Rune, and dragons can’t lie. Well, this could be how he does it—by going after Nim.
It didn’t make much sense, but maybe Fate didn’t have to. Or maybe it was something else altogether that had drawn them to this place. Something simpler—and far stronger—than mere Fate. Maybe it was love.
And what do you know about love, Grace?
A lot more than she used to. She had learned so much since coming to Eldh: how to be a witch, a warrior, and a queen. But more amazing than any of those things, she had learned that her heart, however damaged, could still hold love.
Her gaze drifted to a dark form riding just ahead of her. Hadrian Farr. As often happened when she gazed at him, her pulse quickened, though she didn’t quite understand what it meant. She could catalog all of the symptoms—shortness of breath, elevated blood pressure, a ringing in the ears—but she couldn’t diagnose the disease. What was it that looking at him did to her?
Grace didn’t know. Only that it made her feel frightened, and excited, and strangely free. It was like what she had felt at the last feast in Gravenfist Keep, when she had realized that Malachor didn’t really need her anymore.
It was like letting go.
“Is something the matter, Grace?”
Her pulse spiked in alarm. Hadrian had slowed his camel, and now he rode close to her. His dark eyes glittered in the moonlight, studying her; he must have noticed her staring.
“I was just wondering,” she said and cleared her throat, trying to think of something she could possibly say to him. Then, to her surprise, she did. “I was just wondering what Sister Mirrim told you in the Hagia Sophia, in Istanbul. You said she whispered something to you there, something important, but you never said what it was.”
Farr turned his gaze forward, into the night. “She said she knew the answer to the mystery.”
“What mystery?”
“That’s exactly what I asked her. What mystery did she mean? And she said. . . .” His voice trailed off. Grace wondered if was going to answer at all. Then he drew in a breath. “She said the mystery was for me to determine, but the answer was ‘the catalyst does not change.’ ”
Grace couldn’t help a wry smile. “That sounds like something one of them would say, all right. Suitably cryptic.”
He gave her a sharp look. “Do you know what it means?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea. Maybe you should ask Travis about it. He’s spoken with the three of them a lot more than I have—Cy, Mirrim, and Samanda.”
Farr’s gaze moved past Grace, toward where Travis and Larad rode. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Why?” Grace said, her heart rate quickening again, only for a different reason this time.
“He doesn’t trust me.”
Grace licked her cracked lips, but this time her attempt to find something to say failed.
“What about you, Grace Beckett?” He was looking at her again, his dark eyes unreadable. “Do you trust me?”
“I want to.”
Farr nodded. “You might regret that in the end.”
He flicked the reins of his camel, and the beast quickened its stride, distancing itself from Grace’s mount. She stared after him. Her pulse was no longer rapid; instead, it seemed her heart did not beat at all.
They rode all that night, hid from the sun during the heat of the day, then pressed on again as darkness fell. Nothing assailed them, yet Grace felt her fear growing with each passing league. Was the Morgolthi drawing them on, waiting until they were deep within it to swallow them?
Just before dawn they halted at a dead oasis. It must have been beautiful once. No more. What had once been a sizable pool fed by a spring was only a shallow depression caked with salt and littered with the bleached bones of antelope and jackals. Trees circled the oasis, reaching out of the sun-baked ground like skeletal hands from a grave. Their branches bore no leaves, only thorns.
Grace’s camel lowered itself to its knees, and she half climbed, half fell from the saddle, her legs and back aching. The beast bowed its head, eyelids drooping; a yellow crust of dried spittle framed its mouth. Travis, Larad, and Farr dismounted as the air shimmered and the T’gol appeared.
“The camels grow weak,” Avhir said, stroking the neck of one of the animals. He turned his bronze eyes toward Farr. “They cannot go on much longer. One more journey is all they have left in them.”
“It will be enough,” Farr said. He sat with his back against one of the trees, covered his face with the hood of his robe, and did not move.
Travis drew close to Grace. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said under his breath, “but Farr is starting to make Master Larad look like Mr. Congeniality.”
“He’s just tired,” Grace said. “Like all of us.”
Travis gave her a questioning look, but she moved away, to the scant shade beneath a clump of dead trees, and sat down. She had been avoiding talking to Travis. Because if she did, she would have to tell him what Farr said to her two nights before.
You might regret that in the end. . . .
Were Travis’s suspicions right? Was Farr taking them to Morindu for his own ends—out of his own desire for power? Maybe. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was taking them there, that he was helping them find Nim. And, once they were there, if he did anything that put Nim in danger, Grace would . . .
She didn’t finish that thought. Instead, she took out her leather flask and drank a little water. It was hot, and tasted sour, but all the same she had to will herself not to guzzle it. The flask was already less than half-full, and there was no hope of finding water there.
Grace lay down on a blanket, shut her eyes, and soon fell asleep. However, it was a fitful repose, haunted by dreams in which the dead trees began to move, their wood creaking with a dry sound like laughter. She tried to run, but the trees grabbed her, holding her tight in their branches, as thorns drove deep into her flesh. . . .
She sat up. Master Larad knelt beside her.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s time to eat something, Your Majesty.”
Grace pushed sweat-tangled hair from her face. She had slept longer than she intended; the sun was already halfway to the western horizon.
“I was having a nightmare,” she said.
“I know. We were all having nightmares, Your Majesty. This is an evil place. Death lingers here.” Larad tilted his head. “And something else.”
Grace looked up at the dead trees arching over her. “It’s hatred. This place hates life. I can feel it.”
“Come.” Larad held out a hand, helping her to her feet.
They joined Travis and Farr beneath a larger clump of dead trees. Grace wished they could get away from the trees, but they offered the only shade, and the day was still hot. Vani and Avhir were there, but Kylees was nowhere in view.
“She is scouting,” Vani said. “To the south of here, the land is riddled with pockets of slipsand. To step in one is certain death. We must find a way around.”
“I already told you,” Farr said, his face dark with anger, “there is no way around. We have to go through.”
Avhir let out a snort. “If you try it, you will be swallowed before you walk five steps. The slipsand will fill your lungs and suffocate you, if it does not first crush your body as you are dragged down into its depths. We must go around.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Farr growled. “I spoke with the dying sorcerer, and he told me about this place. The region of slipsand stretches on for leagues to both the east and west. The camels are nearly dead, and it would take us days to go around on foot, even weeks. We’ll die, too, before we can do that. We have to go through.”
“How?”
Travis said.
“The sorcerer told me the region of slipsand is no more than half a league across from north to south. If we continue south, we can pass over it quickly. The burial site of Morindu lies not far beyond.”
Avhir’s eyes narrowed. “I will repeat Sai’el Travis’s question. How can we go through even half a league of slipsand without perishing?”
Farr licked blistered lips. “The spirits can guide us through. As you said, the slipsand lies in pockets, with stable areas between. All we have to do is make our way around the pockets without stepping in them.”
“You cannot tell slipsand from normal sand by looking at it,” Vani said. Her words were not combative, not like Avhir’s; they were merely a statement of fact.
“That’s where the morndari can help us. The sorcerer told me the spirits guided him through the slipsand. I can summon them and bid them to do the same for us.”
“Can you?” Master Larad said, his scarred face turned toward Farr. “I confess, I know little of blood sorcery, but I watched you in the ruins of Golbrora. You had to command the morndari twice before they would obey you and destroy the vipers. The powers of sorcery are weakening, just like rune magic, and the magic Queen Grace wields.”
The former Seeker said nothing; his silence was answer enough.
Avhir stood. “It is still two hours until sunset. We will think about what has been said, then decide.”
Farr opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak the air shimmered and Avhir was gone. Those who remained beneath the trees made a frugal meal of dried figs and a little water. Grace chewed without relish. Everything tasted like sand, even the water.
“Maybe it’s good,” Travis said, drawing spirals in the sand with a stick. “Maybe it’s good that magic is weakening.”
“How so?” Larad said, raising a jagged eyebrow.