They entered the Temple storage room. Located underground and windowless, it was relatively free of the asphyxiating smoke.
Dagnarus halted. “Do you know where this Portal is?” he asked, glancing around, as if he thought the Portal of the Gods might be among the wine casks and cheeses, dead chickens, and bloody slabs of meat. He turned to Gareth, who had known the question was coming and had been dreading it.
“Where is the Portal?” he repeated angrily.
How easy to claim ignorance! And yet Dagnarus would not believe him. Anyone who had spent years of his life in the Temple, as had Gareth, would know where to find the Portal of the Gods.
“Yes, Your Highness. I know.”
“What?” Dagnarus demanded sharply, irritably. “Don’t mumble!”
“I know.”
“Then you will take me there.”
Gareth hesitated. Dagnarus’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Promise me…promise me that you will not kill him,” Gareth said finally, the words coming out in a gasp.
“Kill him! Of course, I won’t kill him!” Dagnarus cried, exasperated. “I am not a monster! He is my brother. Besides, I intend for him to witness my triumph, my victory! I shall make good use of him. Perhaps even let him remain a Dominion Lord. They will all come under my control, of course, and he might be useful to me. No, Patch. Helmos has but to hand over the Sovereign Stone, and I will kiss him on both cheeks and take him to my bosom.”
“You know he would sooner die than do that,” Gareth said.
“Listen to me, Patch!” Dagnarus caught hold of Gareth, squeezing his arms painfully, dragged him close. The helm’s wolfish visor cut into Gareth’s face, the points pricked his flesh. “I will find this Portal. I will search the Temple from top to bottom, tear it down stone by stone if necessary. But I will find it. And know this. Right now, I am pleased with my success and in a merciful mood. But if you thwart me, if I have to rip apart this Temple to locate my brother, I will not be in a good humor at all. My anger and frustration will grow with every door I open in vain, and by the time I do find him, I will be inclined to simply throttle him and have done with it.
“Now, what will it be, Patch? Will you take me to my brother?”
“I will take you to him,” Gareth agreed.
After all, this might be best, he thought. At least I will be present at the interview, whereas otherwise Dagnarus would most certainly leave me behind in a fury, if he did not kill me outright.
Gareth had not yet used his magic, there had been no need. His strength was holding up well. He knew Helmos would never give up the Sovereign Stone, but there might be a possibility Gareth could save one brother from himself and save the other in spite of himself.
He led the way, swiftly and surely, through the Temple to the very center.
He led Dagnarus to the Portal of the Gods.
The Portal of the Gods
Helmos sat upon the bed in the cell that was the Portal of the Gods, the Sovereign Stone clasped tightly in his hand. He no longer prayed to the gods for intercession. They would not come. They would not storm the walls of Vinnengael and drive away the enemy with their flaming swords and golden trumpets.
And why, he thought suddenly, should they?
His own question took him completely by surprise. He pondered on it.
Well, of course, they should. He reasoned first. Why? Because I ask them to. Because it is mine and I want to keep it.
But the gods did not build the walls. The gods did not farm the land or gather in the crops. The gods did not put the books in the library or the beds in the hospital. Yes, the gods gave us the magic to try to heal those in the Hospital, just as the gods provided the stone for the walls and the eyes to read the books. And who is responsible for the walls, the books, the beds? Those who gave us the means to use them, or we, who produced them?
The gods gave us the Portals, so that we should travel to the lands of our brethren and come to know them better. And what have we done? In our fear, we sealed them shut!
He opened his hand and gazed at the Sovereign Stone. He called to mind the ceremony, saw the stone in his father’s hands—a perfect diamond, flawless, smooth. He saw it split into four parts and then Helmos saw what his brother had seen—the emptiness in the center, the Void left when the pieces were separated. Helmos stared into the Void, aghast, appalled, and for a moment it seemed that the emptiness would empty the world of light and beauty and truth.
“No,” he said aloud. “I will not allow it.”
He stared straight into the darkness, unafraid, and though the darkness was very great and very terrible to look upon, he saw, on the outer fringes, four tiny points of light. Four points of light that would continue to burn.
Like the stars, the deeper the darkness, the brighter the lights shine.
The gods could not save him, could not save Vinnengael. Man must save himself or lose himself, as he chooses. The parents teach the child to walk. They watch it fall, bump its head. They listen to it cry in fear and see it reach to be picked up and carried. The parents refuse, though it pains them.
The child must walk alone.
Helmos knew then with absolute certainty that the gods had indeed answered his prayer. They had not answered it the way he wanted. They had not snatched him up from the hard floor to be kissed and cuddled, cradled and protected. He must walk alone and though the darkness would overtake him, just as night overtakes the day, the gods had given him the means to live through the night and look forward to the dawn.
“Forgive me, Father,” Helmos said softly, tears welling in his eyes. “Forgive me for doubting you. Only by splitting the stone apart, only by accepting and understanding and honoring our differences can we hope to bring the stone back together again. For you saw that if we do, if we succeed, the sundered stone will be stronger than the whole.”
He drew the chain that held the Sovereign Stone from around his neck. He placed his lips against the stone, kissed it reverently, and then set the stone upon the altar.
He left it there and walked toward the door, the door that would take him back into the world, into the darkness.
He walked alone but he knew that somewhere fond parents watched his steps through their own tears.
The Revered High Magus had heard that animals can predict devastating earthquakes. Dogs are said to become extremely agitated. They cannot rest in one place but must pace endlessly and, if shut indoors, will whine and paw at the door, trying to escape outside. Flocks of birds will fly up suddenly into the air right before the ground begins to tremble. If this was true, then the Most Revered High Magus knew well what they felt.
Not an earthquake, per se. At least not within the earth. The very fabric of magic, however, was unstable. He had sensed tiny rents and cracks and tremors at the very start of the battle, and it seemed to him that they grew in magnitude and severity. Though he was in his study, his thoughts were in another part of the Temple, in the Portal of the Gods with Helmos. Reinholt glanced often at his study door, thinking that at any time the King must enter with the word that all was well. The gods would vanquish their foes and cast Dagnarus back into the Void.
But hours passed and Helmos did not come to bring him this news and the Most Revered High Magus was now profoundly worried. He had not liked the expression on the King’s face the last time he had spoken to Helmos. It was a look of one who has lost his faith, a look of hopelessness and despair. Was it the gods’ anger the Most Revered High Magus was experiencing? Anger against their enemies? Or anger against those who had chosen to ignore their warnings?
Reinholt paced like the nervous dog around the study. Though here alone, he was not isolated or cut off from what was happening in the city. He received reports from couriers almost every minute and undoubtedly these reports were contributing to his agitation. The condition of couriers spoke eloquently, they had no need for words—their robes torn and covered with blood, their faces black with soot and cinders, their tears plou
ghing tracks through the grime. He grew to dread the knock upon his door and when another fell, his first impulse was to tell them to go away. His sense of duty and responsibility prevailed. He opened the door.
Nine men and women, clad in furs and iron, armed with spears like trees, their expressions calm, stood in the doorway. The warriors surrounded a shriveled, shrunken little brown bird of a woman, her body all covered with tattoos.
The Revered Magus stared, recovered, and made a low and belated bow. “Keeper Tabita! I am honored by your presence. Please, come inside.”
Yet even as he invited her to cross the threshold, his spirits were in turmoil, now despairing, now fluttering with wild hope. He had met Tabita upon her arrival, had seen the bare spot on her head. That spot was now almost entirely filled in with tattoos telling the tragic story of the battle for Vinnengael. Only one small area remained unmarked, an area at the very crown of her head. The end was fast approaching. And she had come here to witness it.
Tabita toddled inside the study. Her face was cheerful, even ecstatic. She was nearing the culmination of her life’s work. An observer of life, a recorder of events, she was not moved by the horrendous sights she must have witnessed. Seating herself in a chair, with the assistance of the High Magus, who had practically to lift her into it, she gazed out calmly upon the end.
Her feet swung over the edge of the chair, coming nowhere near the floor. She accepted some biscuits and a glass of wine in which to soak them, sat eating and drinking and looking about her with her sharp, bright eyes. She wore slung about her shoulder a bag carrying the tools of her trade. When her repast was finished, she removed the special indelible ink and the magic stylus from the bag, placed them upon the table in readiness. The stylus would pierce her flesh, inscribe there the whorls and lines and dots, markings that could be read only by those trained to the art, the knowledge of which was a closely guarded secret of the Keepers.
The nine Omarah bodyguards entered the High Magus’s study and ranged themselves around the walls, wherever there was space, their spearpoints gouging holes in the woodwork. They stood silently, their heads bowed beneath the low ceiling, their eyes fixed upon one object—the Keeper.
The Most Revered High Magus completely failed in his duties as host. His fear and anxiety, wound up with his hope, had tied him into knots. He could not pace his room anymore, not without tripping over the feet of the bodyguard, and he was quite incapable of making polite conversation. He sat fidgeting nervously, tapping on the table with his fingertips. Tabita inked her stylus.
Minutes passed. The Revered High Magus could not endure the waiting another moment. The fabric of magic seemed to twist tighter and tighter. The magic was taut as a rope in a tug-of-war between monumental forces. Neither force would let go, neither dare let go now for fear the rope would snap back and destroy them. It was the rope itself that must break, unable to bear the strain.
“An apt analogy,” said Tabita, though the High Magus had not spoken it aloud.
“Keeper,” said Reinholt, desperate, “is there…is there anything we can do?…”
“I only see. I only record.” She patted her head and swung her feet back and forth. “But I like your analogy.”
The High Magus sank back into gloomy foreboding. He was roused moments later by the sounds of footfalls outside the antechamber door. He leapt to his feet and flung it open.
“Yes?” He strode into the corridor. “What is it, Roderick?” he demanded, recognizing the head of the war magi. “What news?”
“Dagnarus is here, High Magus! He is inside the Temple! He has gone straight to the Portal of the Gods!”
“Of course.” Reinholt breathed a sigh in understanding. “That is why the magic is being pulled and twisted and tugged, almost to the breaking point. The confrontation between the two must come. There is nothing I can do, nothing anyone can do to stop it. The Lord of Sorrows, the gods have named Helmos. This is his fate. He has taken it upon himself. To try to free him from it would be to rob him of his triumph.”
“We are preparing to attack, High Magus. I—”
“No! Do not attack!”
“But, High Magus!” The war magus was appalled. “We cannot permit…”
“It is out of our hands!” Reinholt gasped for air, wiped his sweating forehead. “We have other, greater responsibilities. We must evacuate the city!”
The war magus stared, his mouth gaping wide.
“Go forth! You and the other war magi and anyone else you can find. Go into the city and warn the people to flee! Tell them to escape by any means they can! Evacuate the Hospital! Hurry, hurry! We do not have much time!”
The Most Revered High Magus turned back to his study. He started to warn the Keeper, started to urge her to flee, but he saw that her eyes were closed. The stylus was in her hand, she was lifting her hand to the bare spot upon her head.
“I fear that this place…may be deadly,” the Magus said softly, speaking to the Omarah, not daring to disturb the Keeper.
The Omarah nodded implacably, unperturbed.
The Keeper began to write.
“This,” said Gareth, coming to a halt before a small door set inside a nondescript wall. “This is the Portal of the Gods.”
Dagnarus glanced at it disparagingly. “This is nothing more than a novice’s cell.”
“Nonetheless,” said Gareth gravely. “It is the Portal.” He was very pale, haggard and trembling. “Your brother is within.”
Dagnarus eyed the cell door grimly. He could now begin to feel the emanations, the magic shiver in his hand.
“Leave me,” he said abruptly.
“Your Highness! It is too dangerous—”
“Leave me!” Dagnarus shouted, rounding on Gareth. His eyes were dark, and Gareth recoiled from them.
“This is between my brother and me,” Dagnarus said. “And if you must know, Patch, friend of my youth, I do not altogether trust you. I believe that you would save my brother, if you could.”
The truth spoke from Gareth’s heart.
“If I could…” he said softly.
“At least you are an honest traitor,” Dagnarus muttered. “Not like that bastard Silwyth. Valura, take Master Whipping Boy out of my sight.”
“I could kill him,” she offered, and there was an odd warmth in the dead voice, a flicker of hatred, of jealousy.
“No, he has his uses. You hear that uproar? The war magi saw us. They are probably now marching to attack us. The two of you return to the end of the hall and there stand guard. Fight them if you must. Let no one pass.”
“I do not want to leave you.” Valura reached out her black-gloved hand in a touch, a caress.
He drew back, out of her reach.
“You will obey me,” he ordered coldly. “I am your master.”
Valura’s hand hung motionless in the air. And then, more lifeless than the day she had first died, her hand drew back, sank down.
She turned away from him and walked into the smoke-filled corridor. Dagnarus looked after her, his gaze dark and lowering. Then he turned to stare—grim and hard—at the door to the Portal.
“The gods curse your father!” Gareth cried suddenly, passionately, vehemently. “And my curse fall upon the gods! This is their fault. You should never have looked inside the Sovereign Stone!”
Dagnarus smiled then. He seemed to soften with the smile, and then the smile twisted. “You know, Patch, I don’t think it happened quite that way.” The emerald eyes were clear and empty, emptier even than the dead eyes of the Vrykyl. “I think the Sovereign Stone looked inside me.”
He fell silent. From the Portal came the sound of Helmos’s voice. The words were inaudible, but the voice itself was strong and resolute, with no tremulous quaver, no crack of fear.
“Go on,” Dagnarus commanded. “Leave me. I must finish what I’ve begun.”
Half-blinded by tears, Gareth turned and stumbled down the hallway. He stopped only when he realized, with deep shame, that he was glad
to have been ordered away, that at least he was absolved of all responsibility.
Understanding this, he halted and, wiping the tears, glanced at Valura. If she knew what he intended, she would try to stop him. The Vrykyl had taken up her post, was standing guard, as she had been ordered. She paid no attention to him.
Gareth hesitated only a moment, then broke into a run.
The distance he had to cover was not far, but, as in a nightmarish dream when the hall one walks seems short, yet grows longer with every frantic step, this hallway seemed to lengthen and stretch away from him.
Still he ran.
Dagnarus waited until he was certain he was alone, waited until he had banished from him the last two who loved him. Free of them, free of all constraints, he smote his fist upon the closed door.
“Helmos! The gods cannot help you now. They have abandoned you. Come out and treat with me, if you would save yourself and your city.”
The door to the Portal of the Gods opened. Helmos stood within, the armor of the Dominion Lord shining silver, reflecting a brilliant white light emanating from the Portal.
Dagnarus, staring past his brother, stared in awe.
The Portal was no longer a small and cramped cell. The Portal was an enormous chamber, its walls not visible to him, its ceiling the dome of heaven. The dome was empty, yet the emptiness was filled with light, not darkness. In the very center, the Sovereign Stone—the quarter piece of the Sovereign Stone—sparkled bright against the radiant light, as the evening star shines at sunset.
Dagnarus’s view shifted from the Portal to the prize—un-guarded, alone. Only his brother stood between him and his greatest desire. His brother stood alone.
The King’s expression was grave, serious, but the light that shone in the Portal behind him shone also in his eyes.
“You know why I have come,” Dagnarus said, regarding his brother with hatred, hatred tinged with envy. “You know what I want. My armies are victorious, the city of Vinnengael is mine. The Sovereign Stone will be mine as well. Stand aside.”
Well of Darkness Page 54