by Marc Turner
To be swallowed by darkness.
Ahead of Parolla, nothing, no one.
She let her sorcery die out. Moments later there was a crack of stone, followed by a thunderous boom as one of the pillars came crashing down, then a series of smaller concussions. Parolla’s eyes darted as she searched the darkness overhead, fearing the roof of the temple would cave in. A cloud of dust rolled over her, and she turned her head to one side, narrowing her eyes to slits. She breathed in a mouthful of powdered stone, and she coughed until her eyes streamed. Silence descended again.
Then, faintly from above, Parolla heard the flutter of tiny wings.
Shaking her head, she rose to her feet. Coolly done.
There was little point now in trying to move stealthily—if anything lay in wait ahead, her theatrics were sure to have alerted it to her presence. Releasing her power, Parolla raised her left hand. A glow enveloped it, driving the darkness back.
Approaching the doorway again, she paused to scan the chamber beyond. No more than a score of paces across, it was empty save for the remains of a pulpit in its center. Blocks of smashed stone and shards of pottery covered the floor. Along each of the room’s other three walls was a doorway. From the one to Parolla’s right, rubble spilled into the chamber; from the one to her left came a drip, drip of water. The light she had been following emanated from the doorway ahead.
She crossed to it before stopping at the threshold and looking inside. The room was of a similar size to the one she had just passed through. Dominating the wall opposite was an oval-shaped portal enclosed by a frame of metal. The surface of the portal shimmered like oil on water. Her pulse quickening, Parolla took a step forward. Then halted. There was a ripple in the air in front of her, a smell of dank fur.
She was not alone.
“Show yourself,” she said.
The echoes of her voice had almost died away when light began to coalesce to form a tall, spectral figure. Clad in blood-spattered hides, he held a spear in his right hand. His long black hair, braided with fetishes, hung in a tangle to his shoulders. Filed teeth protruded from a prominent lower jaw to overlap his top lip. When he spoke his voice was rusty from lack of use. “You go no farther.”
Parolla’s brows knitted. The language used by the newcomer was a variation on an ancient Mirillian dialect—a dialect she had never heard spoken before. A knowledge of archaic languages was, though, just one of the … gifts … carried in her blood. “What is this place, sirrah?” she asked, matching his tongue.
“Turn back now,” the stranger said. “On sanctified ground.”
“Sanctified to which god?”
“Name mean nothing to you.”
“Because he is dead?” Parolla took the man’s silence for confirmation. “When was he killed?”
“In Second Age.”
Her eyes widened. “The Time of the Ancients? That was two score thousand years ago. You have been here all that time?” Alone?
The spearman shrugged. “Commanded to guard portal.”
Parolla scowled. As if that were answer enough. Such was the tyranny of the gods, twisting devotion until sacrifice was made to feel like a privilege, until allegiance became no more than slavery by another name. And what did the immortals offer in return? “Your mekra is gone, sirrah. I’d say your loyalty is misplaced.”
“You not understand. Force of master’s command remains.”
“Nevertheless, do you really think you could stop me if I chose to pass?”
The warrior’s form glowed suddenly bright. He grasped his spear in both hands and lowered its tip until it was level with her chest. “We find out.”
Parolla blinked against the light. “And if I were to release you from you bonds?”
The spearman went still. “Your power rival that of gods?”
“No,” she conceded. “But sorcery fades. Whatever magical chains your mekra forged about you will have weakened over the millennia. Perhaps I can break them.”
The stranger’s spear remained pointed at her chest.
“Is your prison so appealing, sirrah, that you would refuse the chance to escape it? Shall I leave you, then, to eternity?”
The man regarded her impassively. He adjusted his grip on his spear, first sliding his hands apart before bringing them close together again, and all the while shifting on the balls of his feet as if he meant to attack at any moment. A score of heartbeats passed before he finally relaxed his stance and raised his weapon to the vertical. “What you want?”
Better. “What is your name?”
“Olakim.”
Parolla’s gaze strayed to the portal on the wall behind him. “Well, Olakim, you can start by telling me where this portal leads.”
“Free first. Then answer.”
“You are in no position to make demands.”
Olakim considered this, then said, “Leads to dead lands.”
Parolla’s heart missed a beat. “You’re sure? The realm of the dead?”
“One of them.”
“You mock me. There is only one underworld.”
“No,” Olakim said firmly, his voice betraying emotion for the first time. “Old underworld—kingdom of master—destroyed by usurper.”
“Usurper? His name?”
“Shroud.”
Parolla’s mind was racing. “You are saying Shroud deposed your mekra? Took his place as Lord of the Dead?”
Olakim nodded. “In Second Age, pantheon riven by war. Shroud betrayed master. Took Book of Lost Souls for his own. Dead lands laid waste in clash that followed.”
“And the portal here … it leads to that broken world?”
He nodded again.
Parolla began to turn away in disgust. It seemed this was not, after all, the gateway she was looking for … Then she stopped. Assuming that Olakim was telling the truth, of course. She glanced back at the spearman, studying his face for any hint of duplicity. Could she afford to trust his word? What if he were actually one of Shroud’s servants? What if he knew that he could not prevent her passing, and so instead sought to trick her into turning back? “Stand aside, sirrah,” she said. “I wish to see for myself.”
The tip of Olakim’s spear came down again, and he dropped into a fighting crouch. “Cannot let pass. Said would release me.”
“So I did.” Parolla reached out with her senses. The sorcery holding the warrior bore the same signature as that which seeped from the altar in the main chamber. The invisible bonds had grown frayed and brittle, and Parolla severed them with a flick of her mind. “It’s done.”
With the sundering of Olakim’s shackles he had become once more a creature of flesh and blood, and the glow round the spearman faded. His image darkened and solidified. A ruddy hue returned to his cheeks. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling with a sound like creaking leather. Then he looked about as if seeing the world with new eyes.
Parolla tensed herself for his attack.
Instead the warrior grinned at her. “Great gratitude.”
She returned his smile. “Now, stand aside.”
He did so.
Parolla approached the portal. The device seemed straightforward enough—no choice of destinations to select from, no magical traps woven into the glyphs that decorated the frame. All she had to do was … awaken it. Parolla lifted a hand, and the surface of the portal rippled as her power brushed against it. Colors swirled to form patterns that drew back toward the frame. The darkness left in their wake paled like a dawn sky, blurred shadows sharpening to form swirls of cloud.
There was a roar like a storm-swept sea, and a chaotic swell of sorcery burst outward. With a despairing cry, Parolla raised wards to shield herself. Just in time. Even then when the magic struck her defenses she was hurled a score of paces back to slam into the wall behind. Her head cracked against stone, and she slumped to the floor, lights flashing before her eyes. She tried to lever herself into a sitting position, only to fall back. Fool! she rebuked herself. Most likely this had been Ola
kim’s plan all along: let her open the portal, then strike when she was incapacitated. She thought she heard a footfall now, and she rolled to one side, expecting to hear his spear tip graze the stone where she’d been lying.
Nothing.
Her vision was clearing, and when she looked up she saw the warrior still standing beside the portal, his face expressionless.
But no doubt laughing inside.
Wincing, Parolla heaved herself to her feet. A wave of nausea swept over her, and she bent double, retching. The surge of energies continued to crash against her defenses, but her blood had risen in answer to her need, and her power now ran like acid through her veins. Pushing back against the sorcerous maelstrom, she drove it through the portal and caged it behind a barrier of invisible wards.
The sudden silence left her ears ringing.
She spat vomit to the floor. The back of her head tingled, and when she raised a hand to it she felt a swelling the size of a mitrebird’s egg. The wound was already starting to heal, though, the lump shrinking beneath her fingers until all that remained was the blood matting her hair. Letting her hand fall, she glared at Olakim. “Thanks for the warning.”
The spearman’s look was unapologetic. “Did warn. Said world destroyed by sorceries. You not listen.”
Grumbling, Parolla staggered back to the portal. Through it she saw a featureless wilderness of blasted rock and sorcerous clouds. Not a single tree broke the uniformity of the landscape. Olakim had been telling the truth, then. A barren world, long dead.
And for now, at least, an end to her hopes. Shroud’s realm remained out of reach.
Parolla sighed. “Is it all like this?”
Olakim did not respond, but then he did not need to. If the storms had been caused by Shroud’s clash with his predecessor they must have raged for millennia. Nothing could have survived out there.
A thought came to her. “Do you know where your mekra fell, sirrah? Was it near this portal?”
Olakim shrugged. “You still go through?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
Parolla hesitated. She had no reason to trust the man, but perhaps he could still be of use to her. “I seek a way into Shroud’s realm.”
“Think find one in dead lands?”
“Where vast magics are released, they can burn a way through to the place from which the sorcerer’s power originates. I have seen the phenomenon before, in the gateways leading to the demon worlds. Maybe the same has happened here. Maybe a portal to the underworld was created by Shroud’s magic.”
“You search entire world to find?”
He had a point. If Parolla passed through the portal, how long would she be able to withstand the barrage of sorceries? A day or two? Enough time to seek out what she was looking for? The storm obscured everything beyond a few score paces in each direction. If a way through to Shroud’s realm existed, she might pass within a stone’s throw of it without knowing. And if she needed to return here, what chance would she have of retracing her steps? Parolla hissed in frustration. Could she even trust Olakim not to close the way behind her? And if he did not, might one of Shroud’s priests?
She began to turn away, then froze.
There was movement beyond the portal. On a rocky ridge a short distance away, a crowd of wraithlike figures was gathering. They started drifting toward Parolla like a bank of mist.
Olakim moved up to stand alongside her.
“Who are they, sirrah?” she asked.
“Spirits of dead.”
“Then why are they here, and not in Shroud’s realm?”
“Not know. Perhaps left behind when world destroyed. Perhaps sent to this place as punishment.”
“They are trapped here? For eternity?”
Olakim shook his head. “Souls will die in time. Some survive longer than others.”
The unlucky ones. Parolla watched the ghosts for a heartbeat longer before looking back at the spearman. “They sense the portal.”
“Of course. Chance of escape. Will you open way to them?”
“Why should I?”
Olakim made no response.
The spirits had now come to within touching distance of the portal, but they could not pass through the wards Parolla had fashioned. Her gaze was drawn to a man in the front rank—a Jekdal with the scarred cheeks of a warrior just passed through the rites of adulthood. Shoulders hunched, he stood with his arms hanging by his sides, his dead eyes focused on nothing. The edges of his form were blurred, as if his soul were unraveling.
Parolla scanned the dozens of spirits behind him. She had no idea what these people had done to warrant their imprisonment here, nor what she might unleash on the citizens of Xavel if she freed them. Then again, she mused, if these souls were released, Shroud would surely come to hear of their escape. With luck, their loss would irritate him greatly. Parolla smiled faintly. If she could not confront the god in person, she could at least send him a message. One he won’t be able to ignore for a change.
“I will not lower my shield,” she said finally to Olakim, “but the sorcerous storm will gradually weaken it. In time it will fail completely.” By which point I should be long gone.
“And if others come to close portal?”
“You will just have to stand guard over it a while longer, sirrah.”
Was the spearman’s look one of disapproval? Resignation? It was so difficult to read anything in his expression. Would he risk staying here until her sorcery faded? If the priests in Shroud’s temple came to investigate the opening of the portal, Olakim might find himself enslaved again, or worse. Shrugging, Parolla turned away. She had done her part. The rest was in Olakim’s hands now.
Then the realization struck her. Since the portal was of no use to her, she would have to leave this place by the same way she had come.
Another thought followed close behind.
The Hunt.
Parolla closed her eyes.
She could only pray now that Ceriso di Monata had been able to buy her the time he had promised.
CHAPTER 4
MOTTLE’S DESTINATION served only to pique Ebon’s curiosity—not the throne room as he had expected, but an antechamber to the Royal Quarters. This was to be a private gathering then, not a meeting of the full King’s Council as Mottle had implied. Ebon’s gaze fixed on the mage’s back. A deliberate deceit on the old man’s part? He could never be sure of anything where Mottle was concerned. The mage was clearly enjoying himself, though, judging by the spring in his step and the discordant tune he was whistling.
Mottle threw open the door to the Royal Quarters before stepping back to allow Ebon to enter first. The chamber was filled with smoke from a fire in a grate along the left-hand wall. A tall wooden chair had been drawn close to the flames, and in it sat the king, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Isanovir was staring into the fire, the Serrate Crown lying forgotten in his lap. The flesh had melted from his face, and he appeared to have aged a year for every week Ebon had been gone. The prince felt a weight settle on him. A mercy I was not here to witness his decline.
Also present in the chamber were Prince Rendale, General Reynes, and Queen Rosel. Ebon’s mother sat in a chair as far away from the king as decorum would permit. She wore a long blue gown buttoned up to the neck, and her hair had been scraped back to give her face a severe cast. In her right hand she held a nail file that darted across the nails of her left. Sharpening her claws again. Rosel, evidently sensing his scrutiny, looked up. She frowned when she saw the wound at his temple, but no more than she did at the dust on his clothes.
General Reynes stood to Ebon’s right. His ever-present cinderhound was curled between his legs, and the soldier crouched to scratch it behind the ears. His face fell as Mottle scuttled over to speak to him.
There was no sign of either Domen Janir or the chancellor.
Ebon’s gaze finally settled on his brother. Rendale was pretending an interest in one of the tapestries on the walls. His shirt and tr
ousers were spotted with food stains, and his unkempt, wavy black hair hung down over his eyes. Seeing Ebon, he sauntered over.
“Ebon,” Rendale said. “Words cannot express how relieved I am to see you.”
“Just as I am surprised to see you. Are the taverns not open yet?”
“They had to drag me out kicking and screaming, it’s true. Thank the Watcher you weren’t there to witness my humiliation.”
Ebon could feel blood trickling down his cheek, and he pulled out a handkerchief and lifted it to his temple. “Do you know what this is about?”
“Our beloved mother would say only that my attendance was required. Perhaps she needs someone to straighten chairs when we’re done.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow at Ebon’s wound.
“I had a brush with the Kinevar near the forest,” Ebon explained.
“I thought you were in the borderlands, putting the world to rights.”
“A fragile truce was the best I could manage. I have ordered Yemar and Cenil to send their firstborn to Majack to ensure their cooperation.”
Rendale’s eyes twinkled. “As I recall, Domen Yemar has sired only daughters. His eldest, Maria, is said to be a vision.”
“I do not recall.”
“Ah, but then Lamella has blinded you to all else. My eyes, on the other hand, are always open to beauty.”
Before Ebon could respond, the door to the chamber opened and Chancellor Tamarin strode in. Fashionably late, as usual. Ebon was beginning to suspect the man enjoyed making others wait—a measure, perhaps, of his growing confidence now the king’s health was failing. Ignoring the others present, Tamarin crossed to stand behind Isanovir’s chair. Firelight reflected off his bald pate as he bent to speak in the king’s ear. Isanovir seemed oblivious.
After a few heartbeats the chancellor straightened. “My Lords and Lady. Thank you for coming.”
Ebon pursed his lips. It seemed they were going to start without Domen Janir, which could only mean his uncle had not been invited. This should be interesting.
“A messenger arrived this morning,” Tamarin went on, “bringing news from the north. It seems Consel Garat Hallon of Sartor is set on paying us a visit. He is due to arrive on Black Saint’s Day, two weeks hence.”