The Fatal Gate

by Ian Irvine

  Aviel’s head was throbbing. She had tried to cram too much into it. She rubbed her eyes and looked down at the pile again, but the words and symbols were blurred; just looking at them made her feel ill.

  She stumbled to an old cracked-leather settee at the far end of the workshop, but when she lay down the whole room started rocking. She rose and made a mug of very strong ginger tea. It burned as it went down but did not clear her head.

  As a distraction she unwrapped Radizer’s grimoire, which oddly Shand had not taken earlier, and slowly turned the pages. What kind of a man had Radizer been? Not a good one!

  Three quarters of the scent potions in the grimoire were dark ones: there were potions to weaken, to exhaust, to confuse and to control another person; potions to make an enemy ill, potions to blind and to spread disease, and potions to turn a wound septic or even gangrenous. There were scent potions to rob enemies of their wits or drive them insane; potions to turn good people to the dark side and potions that could utterly corrupt them. Potions to poison an enemy in all manner of unpleasant ways.

  And potions to kill, slowly and agonisingly or in a blinding instant. The grimoire contained thirteen death potions, all different, and some were so perilous that they could only be tested on the intended victim.

  Aviel clapped the book shut, shuddering. Why was she reading about such wicked things? She limped to the cast-iron cauldron in the corner, which was full of boiling water, ladled out a bucket, carried it to the sink and began to wash the equipment again. But it could not ease her agitation; it was as much as waste of time as before.

  Returning to the settee, she took up the grimoire again, scanning the titles and avoiding any that seemed the least bit dark. There was a small section on love potions, just three, and she hesitated, smiling sadly. Had anyone ever loved her? Certainly not her father or her six horrible sisters. Perhaps her mother had, for a while, though since she had run away when Aviel was only a year old, her mother could not have loved her much.

  But love potions were also dark mancery—they were used to manipulate or coerce another person. Aviel wrapped the grimoire and had just slipped it under a cushion, out of sight, when the door was flung open and Tule stalked in. When he saw her on the settee such a look of fury crossed his age-spotted face that she quailed and scrambled to her feet.

  He lurched across and backhanded her across the face. “You lazy slattern!” He struck her again. “You haven’t done a lick of work since I left.” And again. “You just moved everything around, thinking I wouldn’t notice.”

  Tule slammed his bony knuckles into her left ear, knocking her sideways. “I … notice … everything, twist-foot. You’re a useless, slovenly little rat.” Thump. “You’re not capable of anything worthwhile.” Thump. “You’ve fooled the Magister and the commander but you … can’t … fool … me.” Thump, thump, so hard that it knocked her to her knees. “Clean the equipment, properly!”

  Aviel’s head was ringing. She tried to stand up but could not. She crawled across to the sink, hauled herself up on it and stood there swaying. Tears filled her eyes. She wiped them on her sleeve but they kept flowing.

  “You will acknowledge my orders, girl, or suffer.”

  “Yes, Grand Master Tule,” she whispered.

  Tule came up behind her. “Now!” he roared.

  She put half a dozen sparkling clean beakers in the sink, tipped in some of the liquid soap she had made earlier and scrubbed them furiously, the beakers clattering, though it wasn’t until the water went red that she realised she had broken one and cut her right palm badly. She raised her hand, staring at the flowing blood.

  Tule let out a bellow of fury, caught her head from behind and forced it down into the sink. Aviel fought desperately, fearing he was planning to impale her on the broken beaker, or drown her. The hot soapy water went up her nose, stinging and burning, and down her windpipe, half choking her.

  Her forehead cracked against glass though fortunately it was not the broken beaker. Tule was holding her head under but she could feel his arms shaking. She twisted sideways, he lost his grip and she went up on tiptoes and slammed her head back and up. Crunch! He let out a gurgling cry.

  The soap stung Aviel’s eyes, water dribbled from her nose and her hand dripped blood on the floor.

  Bloody, slimy bubbles foamed from Tule’s nose, staining his beautifully embroidered mancer’s robes. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, spat blood onto the floor and wobbled round to face her. “How dare you lay a finger on your master!” he choked.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You will refer to me by my title!” He raised a hand as if to strike her again, but lowered it.

  “I didn’t lay a finger on you, Grand Master Tule,” she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

  “Don’t mince words with me, twist-foot.”

  Aviel clenched her fist to staunch the blood flowing from her palm. “Never touch me again, Grand Master,” she said, amazed at her boldness yet knowing she would pay for it.

  “By law and custom, I can treat my apprentices how I damn well like,” he hissed.

  “Not if you want me to finish the project.”

  “I couldn’t give a damn about it. Nivol is a fool’s errand; it can’t be done.”

  Blood was still running from his nose, which was swelling visibly and probably broken. He wavered his way to the door, then turned. “Clean this mess up. And when I come back …”

  An evil smile twisted Tule’s thin mouth, then he went out.

  Aviel shuddered. He was a decrepit old man, but he was also a powerful mancer and what he said was true: by law an apprentice was her master’s property and, short of actually killing her, he could do whatever he wanted to her. When he recovered, he would make her pay.

  But she had to make some nivol; therefore she had to deal with him first. Aviel let the bloody water out of the sink, rinsed the beakers, threw out the broken one and bandaged her hand. Then she headed back to the settee and the grimoire.

  There was only one way to deal with a powerful mancer like Tule—with one of Radizer’s scent potions. The dark ones.

  23

  THE SAME DISPLAY OF PERFECTION

  The power of the summon stone scalded Llian. It was flowing into him and through him, trying to corrupt him.

  Bring them and you will have everything you ever dreamed about.

  Ifoli caught Regg around the waist, but he was far stronger and he kept going, dragging her towards the stone.

  You know you want to—

  Llian had to act now or they would all die. He faced the stone, drew on the iron will he had developed over months of fighting the drumming, and roared, “I defy you!”

  He pulled Ifoli away. “Go back! I’ll deal with this.”

  She took one look at his face and nodded. Llian darted around in front of Regg, who looked dazed, uncomprehending. Llian slapped him across the face, left cheek then right. Regg’s eyes cleared and Llian used the moment.

  Using all the authority of his teller’s voice, the almost magical power a great teller had to move people by the sheer power of his words, he said, “Go down, now!”

  Llian turned him and pointed him towards the cleft, and to his surprise Regg meekly hobbled that way. Still consumed by fury, Llian shook his fist at the summon stone.

  He was about to use his voice on it when Ifoli said, “Not a good idea. Come on.”

  She yanked on his hand. The spell broke, and he ran with her back to the cleft. Ifoli was staggering and gasping by the time they got there. Regg was staring at the summon stone and the yearning was back in his eyes.

  Come back, come back!

  He was falling under its spell again, and Llian could feel it undermining his own resolve. If he could not get Regg away at once, they were lost. Llian had used the best of his strength and could not do it again.

  “Thank you,” Ifoli said limply.

  She was on the verge of collapse, and he did not see how he was going t
o get her down either, though at least she could resist the call of the stone. He hesitated. If he helped her, Regg would probably break free and run back.

  He stepped out of the cleft. His weight came down on his twisted ankle and tears of pain formed in his eyes, but his eyes had taken on that fervid shine again. Soon he would walk on bloody stumps to get to the stone. Llian had to get him beyond its reach.

  “Ifoli, take this.”

  Regg handed her the leather manuscript bag he had stolen from Snoat at Pem-Y-Rum; it held his journal which he carried at all times. She slung it over her shoulder and the heavy bag thumped into her back. Ifoli gasped.

  “We’re going down,” Llian said to Regg, using just a hint of the voice, and gave him his shoulder. “Lean on me.”

  “Yes, Llian.” Regg went with him, trembling with every step.

  They passed through the cleft, headed down the steep path and Llian felt the will of the summon stone, which had been beating at him all this time, ease.

  “I’m all right now,” said Regg, pulling away.

  Llian held on to him. He did not believe in miracles.

  “I feel better too,” said Ifoli, then added hopefully, “Do you think, by defying it, that you’ve broken its power over us?”

  Spiders crawled down Llian’s back. “Not for a second.”

  “Its power was really strong on the way up; it was all I could do to keep going. But it’s gone now and I don’t feel ill any more.”

  “It’s a trick to lure us back. Go down, quick as you can.”

  “I’m all right,” said Regg. “Really I am.” He poked around in the trees and found a forked branch that made a rude crutch. He led the way down the cliff path.

  Llian watched him warily, but Regg showed no signs of the compulsion. He was his normal cheerful self again, hopping along on his crutch and making light of his injury.

  Towards the bottom, Llian realised that Ifoli still had his manuscript bag. He took it from her.

  “Any chance we can cross the spit? I don’t want to spend the night here.”

  Ifoli headed up a long ramp of rock to a knoll which formed a small lookout with a view south to Mollymoot. Her shoulders sagged. “Not even if we ran all the way down.”

  Llian came up beside her. The tide was racing in, surging over the long band of gravel. “How long until it’s low again?”

  “There’s a low tide tonight, but it won’t be low enough,” said Regg. “Next chance is tomorrow morning.”

  Ifoli rubbed her back. She had gone pale again. They continued to their camping place, put up the tent and gathered firewood. Regg took his fishing rod and headed down to a rock platform on the eastern side, where large waves were breaking. The wind was rising and the swell seemed bigger than before. It was not a good sign; they could be trapped here for days and if they were he did not think any of them could resist the call of the stone.

  Llian lit the fire and Ifoli perched beside it, shivering. He opened the food bag Dilly had prepared for them. It contained several kinds of local root vegetables, unfamiliar to him, a bag of flour, a packet of mixed spices and a small jar of lard.

  “What are these?” He held up a long hairy yellow root, thick in the middle and tapering on either end.

  “Ghurd,” said Ifoli. “It tastes like turnip, though more bitter. The round orange ones are noolies—they’re best baked—and the red knobbly roots are tiblets.” She grimaced. “They’re supposed to be very healthy but you have to peel them; the skin’s poisonous.”

  “Do you want to cook them? I dare say you know more about it than me.”

  “I’ve never cooked a meal in my life.”

  “I thought you were brilliant at everything.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m good at a few things because I never do anything else.”

  Did she regret the way she had lived her life? Llian supposed she must. He peeled the tiblets. He was an experienced camp cook, though not a particularly good one.

  He dug a hole in the ashes and put the vegetables in to bake. The sky clouded over and the wind grew chilly. He climbed a small rise that looked down on the rock platform, to check on Regg. The call of the stone was weak here but it had already put its mark on him and would be trying to lure him back.

  But Regg was at the edge of the rock platform, casting his lure into the heaving waters. There was no sign that the summon stone had ever got to him. Llian returned to the camp and sat by the fire. The top of Demondifang was not visible from here, though every time the lightning flashed it lit up the thunderhead. It was still striking at the peak, empowering the summon stone.

  He wrote up the day’s events in his journal until the light faded. Ifoli lay on her sleeping pouch, staring at the fire. Every so often her hand crept to her back and she winced.

  “What’s the matter with your back?” said Llian. He had probed it on the mudflat on the first night, though only in darkness.

  “I don’t know. The lump disappeared four days ago, but now it’s back.”

  “I’d better take a look.”

  “Dilly checked it the first night and couldn’t see anything.”

  “Roll over.”

  She turned onto her face. Llian pulled up her blouse. Six inches below her left collarbone there was a shiny plum-sized lump, as if something had bitten her. He pressed down on it, gently. It was firm and hot.

  “Aaahh!” she cried.

  “Why did it go away and come back?” he wondered.

  “Sometimes it gets hot and inflamed, and I feel weak and feverish. Other times I hardly know it’s there.”

  An ugly suspicion surfaced. “Is there a pattern?”

  “When the stone was trying to get at us the lump felt twice as big as it does now. But on the way down it almost disappeared.”

  “I’ve seen all kinds of poisoned wounds and bites and stings,” said Llian, who had spent years travelling across the western world, “and I’ve never come across anything like this. Is there a healer on Mollymoot?”

  “Just a midwife.” Ifoli pulled her blouse down and her coat around her, and sat up.

  “Can you have another go at contacting Nadiril?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Tallia’s got to know the summon stone is here.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” she snapped.

  “You’ve really changed since we came here. You used to be—”

  “So calm and controlled and clever at everything,” she said waspishly.

  “Yes.”

  “I had to seem perfect in every way or Snoat would have got rid of me, the way he disposed of every other possession that wasn’t good enough. My life was in danger every day I served him, Llian—every hour—and when I was alone I was hard put not to scream in terror. So now I’m free,” she said sarcastically, “forgive me for not putting on the same display of perfection for you.”

  He flushed. “I’m sorry. But our news is vital, and—”

  “Using Nadiril’s farspeaker over such a distance takes a lot out of me,” she said quietly, “and what if the stone attacks while I’m doing it?”

  Nonetheless, she took off the small pearl and gold earring in her left ear, pressed and twisted the pearl so it rotated in its mount and held it up to her ear. She pressed and twisted a slightly larger pearl on a chain that had been hidden under her blouse and held the pearl close to her mouth. In the dancing firelight, her face, one the most beautiful Llian had ever seen, was haggard.

  She exerted her famous self-control, the drawn look disappeared, and she was the perfect Ifoli again. Was she putting on a show for her great-grandfather or for herself?

  “Ifoli?” The voice issuing from the earring was faint, but it was unquestionably Nadiril’s. “Where are you? Is everything—?”

  A distant thumping began, not unlike the drumming that had so troubled Llian previously, and it grew faster and louder.

  “I’ve seen the stone—”

  Crack!

  The pearl earr
ing shattered in her fingers and she cried out and dropped it. She picked out a curving shard from her middle finger, stared at the welling drop of blood, then her eyes rolled up and she fell backwards.

  24

  USING IT TO ATTACK US

  Ifoli was trembling fitfully, and every so often she gave a convulsive jerk and a whimper escaped her. Had he pushed her too hard?

  Regg climbed the slope from the rock platform, whistling a merry tune. He had abandoned his crutch and only had a slight limp. He stepped into the firelight, stopped and cried, “What’s happened? Ifoli?”

  He dropped his rod and basket. Four fat golden fish spilled out.

  “She was trying to contact Nadiril,” said Llian. “I think the stone attacked her.”

  Regg lifted Ifoli to a sitting position. She shuddered and her eyes came open.

  “Get off the island,” she said. “Now.”

  “There’s no way off until tomorrow morning,” said Regg.

  Her eyelids fluttered. “But it’s coming.”

  “What do you mean?” said Llian.

  “Tried to take control of me.” She spoke slowly, exhaustedly. “It’s much more powerful than it was before.” A mighty lightning strike lit up the forest above them. “And every bolt’s making it stronger.”

  “How are you feeling?” said Regg.

  “Scorched … in the head.” She noticed the yellow fish scattered across the ground. “I’m starving.”

  Regg put a pan on the fire, collected the fish and started scaling and gutting them. They only took a few minutes to cook. Llian dug out the roots he had buried in the coals, picked the ash and charcoal off and divided them into three portions. The fish were perfectly cooked, the roots overcooked and dried out, but no one noticed the good or the bad. Regg and Ifoli kept looking up at the mountain. Llian felt sure the stone would strike again.

  By the time they’d finished and Regg had taken their plates and cutlery down to the water to wash them, Ifoli’s head was drooping.