by Billy Wright
Hunter said, “It’s weird, Dad. I’m not tired anymore. It’s like energy is just flowing through me all the time.”
“Me, too!” Cassie said, bursting into a skip.
Stewart felt no such relief, however. If anything, his weariness was only increasing. His eyes were full of sand and his limbs were made of stone. He imagined the cause to be the fact that there was too much Darkness in him to flow through and replenish his strength. But Liz and the kids seemed to be perfect conduits for it. Seeing this tangible evidence of their purity of heart made him love them more, while making him feel less and less worthy.
As they went, Stewart’s worries and fears diminished, however. It was like everything they saw was designed to coax his inner ten-year-old into the open.
Everywhere he looked was something wondrous to the eyes. Awe-inspiring vistas of mountains and forest. Industrious denizens in villages of the strangest appearance. The denizens looked human—until one looked closely, when all the tiny differences became apparent. Eyes sparkling with colors no human eye ever had. Skin and hair colors as varied as a box of crayons. He had difficulty identifying what their dwellings were made of. They appeared to be stone at first, but this stone, like the path underfoot, looked somehow alive, organic, as if they extruded it from the earth.
In one village, the dwellings were minuscule, suitable for people of Bob’s stature. In another, where the people were very tall, perhaps eight feet, their dwellings matched their tallness. In another village, everyone seemed to live in a couple of large buildings like beehives. Everywhere was a flurry of activity: gardening vegetables, tending fields of grain, mending this and that. Here and there were people painting, sculpting, stoking kilns full of the finest porcelain. From every village they passed came the sound of music. They sang in the fields, and in villages and glades; they strummed strange, stringed instruments and piped on flutes and horns.
It was all so beautiful, so idyllic, so exciting and yet peaceful, he found himself not believing it.
How could such a place exist? Where were the hard-pressed workers, the peasants? Where were the places of punishment? Where were the poor? Where were the diseased and downtrodden? Where were the outcasts?
Stewart saw no livestock anywhere. Did these people not eat meat? He saw nothing resembling even a chicken. What he saw were lush vegetable gardens and orchards full of blossoms and trees heavy laden with fruit.
The luscious-looking apples made his twisted stomach stir.
The endless wonders filled him with hope and awe, but there was a niggling corner of his mind, like a worm in an apple, that made him fear this was all some elaborate illusion, and the truth was coming like an avalanche to bury him.
He didn’t dare hope too much that there would be a place where dreams came true, where evil couldn’t reach, where everyone was content and fulfilled.
But even as these thoughts plagued his steps, the sight of what came into view as they topped a final ridge drove all such thoughts away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jorath’s sudden recall to the Master’s presence was like a thousand fishhooks in his flesh and soul, dragging him through a keyhole in space and dimension.
One moment, despite how his increasing nearness to the Light sickened him and made his limbs feel made of stone, he’d been leaping from tree to tree in the Borderlands, following high above his quarry. The next moment, incredible agony slashed through him, and he was pulled into blackness.
He awoke already strapped into the Machine, held immobile, surrounded by a thicket of needles and blades. The Machine hummed against his flesh, quiescent for now, but ready to begin his long, agonizing demise at the Master’s slightest thought. The darkness around him smelled of hot metal and blood.
“The human and his family have crossed the Veil, out of the Borderlands.” The Master’s voice was a red-hot boulder, its passage echoing in the metal vaults of the cavernous chamber.
Jorath’s voice was a dry croak. “Forgive me, Master! They had much aid! And I was too far from your presence to overcome their defenses. It is my most fervent wish to serve you!”
“What shall your punishment be, Jorath El-Thrim? How long should I let my Machine work its magic upon you? How small should your pieces become before I allow you to expire?”
Jorath could see nothing except the dim outlines of onlookers standing in the hall, swathed in shadow at the foot of dais, many of them doubtless trembling with anticipation at the imminent spectacle of his agony, others plotting their own short-lived ascension just as he had. The Master’s throne stood out of sight. Jorath could sense the power and intention flowing back and forth between the Machine and its Master, as if the Machine were a gauntlet upon the Master’s hand.
Was Jorath afraid? No. He had known this end was possible. It had always been so. His people accepted it as a condition of their exalted status among the Creatures of the Dark. But he had acquitted himself well against forces that even the Master had not anticipated.
“Master,” he said, “may I speak?”
“Do indeed. Regale us with your pleas.”
Jorath took a deep breath and steadied his voice. Even in the face of his own death, he would not further dishonor the House of Thrim. “For a thousand years, Master, our enemies have not been so active in their designs as now. They have been content simply to react and defend, and only then to the minimum, giving us the advantage in every confrontation. We have grown accustomed to their reluctance to engage us openly. I believe their tactics are changing because they know we have the advantage. Your brilliant designs have borne fruit. They are desperate. They know their power wanes. Now we have the perfect agent in their midst, and neither he nor they know it.”
“What agent is this?” The tiniest shred of interest emerged in the Master’s voice.
An arm covered in blades and pincers paused before Jorath’s face like a serpent, as if sniffing him.
“Stewart Riley, Master. Before he left the Borderlands, I flayed his mind and found exactly what I needed to darken his path. He nearly became ours at that moment.”
“What prevented this?” Baron Tyrus said.
“His family. Their ties are strong. But not unbreakable. He controls his darker nature for their sakes.”
“Not unexpected, but intriguing nonetheless.”
Jorath’s bonds released him, and the Machine dumped him face-first onto the metal dais. He struggled to control his shock. The Master could be as capricious as the wind. Was this a reprieve, or was the Master toying with him? He got to his feet, turned to the throne, and knelt. “I remain always at your service, Master.”
Baron Tyrus rose from the throne, silent as a shadow, and loomed over Jorath like a tower of bleached bones stacked on end. “Come, Jorath El-Thrim.” Sounds of disappointment whispered through the hall from the onlookers deprived of their spectacle. The Master walked away toward the rear of the hall.
Jorath scrambled to his feet and stumbled after, his hands and feet still numb from the tightness of the Machine’s bonds.
The Dark Lord disappeared into an alcove, Jorath scrambling behind. In the alcove was a hidden, thick steel door. The metallic clunk of many bolts, sliding open one by one, sounded muffled through the barrier, then it swung silently inward to blackness.
Beyond the portal lay blackness only an elf’s eyes could penetrate, the blackness of caves and warrens, pits and labyrinths. The Master’s smooth, silent stride carried him so quickly Jorath had to run to keep up.
The tunnel shot straight as a blade through the subterranean blackness. Other vaulted halls branched away into realms Jorath barely knew. He had only heard whispers of this part of Baron Tyrus’s fortress, the place where the deepest secrets of all the universes lay hidden, cataloged, concealed, for eternities of time and dimension. Sounds echoed strangely to Jorath’s ears, as if echoing through something that was not air, or bouncing from and among things that were not metal or stone.
For a long time, Jorath fo
llowed the Master, until they emerged into a cavern where a river of lava provided the only light. The dull orange glow reached a vaulted ceiling far, far above his head. The intense heat would have roasted the flesh from his bones had he not cast a protective spell that sent the heat flowing past him, as if it were river water and he, a stone.
In the center of this huge cavern stood... Well, Jorath did not know what it was, but it was roughly half-spherical, perhaps thrice as tall as the Master. He studied it with his magical sight. It was faceted, black as obsidian, but it didn’t look like stone or crystal, because... He rubbed his eyes. Because the facets were moving, vibrating, shifting size and orientation. Focusing on the facets was difficult because they seemed to devour vision itself, as if color and substance had no meaning for what they were.
This was a barrier of some sort. A shell of pure Darkness. The Dark between stars. The Dark between universes. The Dark between thoughts.
The Master crossed a narrow stone bridge arching over a torpid, orange river toward the barrier. The air rippled with heat. The heat itself seemed to part for the Master’s passage. Jorath hurried to catch up again.
The cavern was unspeakably ancient. Its walls and ceiling showed the smoothness and regularity of the hammer and chisel’s touch, or perhaps the sculpting hand of magic, but in places, stalactites had grown over the construction, perhaps by the movement of water, or perhaps by the drip of molten stone.
A strange sensation gripped Jorath as he approached the barrier, as if he were walking steeply downhill, even though visually it was clear he was not.
The Master paused at the barrier, closed his eyes, laid his hand upon it. The nearest facets crumbled like black smoke, opening a space for them to pass through.
Inside, orange lava-light filtered up through cracks in the floor to reveal a cage resting on spidery legs of black iron. Within the cage, a small figure knelt motionless.
Through the grid of iron bars, Jorath caught a better glimpse of the occupant.
Her face was small and pale, her flesh smooth and covered in a strange, magical sheen, like the surface of a soap bubble. The sheen was a protective spell, not unlike the one protecting Jorath from the heat. In this enclosure, fueled by the heat of the lava, the air might be hot enough to melt lead.
A child.
Of what race, he could not be certain, but she was of the Light side, perhaps halfway to adulthood. She wore a simple white shift soaked with sweat. Her hair was plastered to her head and face, perhaps by sweat, perhaps by the protective bubble. Her eyes held closed and still. Was she even aware of their presence? Her cheeks were drawn, gaunt, like a shriveled fruit. She knelt on the bars of the cage floor, emaciated hands and forearms resting on her thighs, fingers entwined into a pattern of deep meditation.
Questions swarmed through Jorath’s mind, but he waited for the Master to speak.
The Master produced a flask of clear crystal. “Drink, child. You must be thirsty.” He offered it between the bars.
The child remained still, eyes closed.
Jorath moved closer for a better look.
The beauty of her face, even in its desperate state, seized his attention. She was the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Hatred roared forth so intense Jorath grabbed the hilt of his sword and half drew it, intending to impale her through the bars. The sight of this ancient enemy threw his deepest instincts into a froth of killing rage.
But the Master said, “You sense who she is.”
“Yes, Master!” Jorath was almost breathless. “Titania’s spawn! But, Master! How did the child of the Queen of Light come to be here?”
The ramifications beggared Jorath’s imagination. What machinations, what schemes, what profundity of raw power could have brought this child into the Master’s power? In a few eons, she would inherit her mother’s place as the Queen of Light.
The Master’s waxy lips twitched a hairsbreadth toward a smile.
“And she’s still alive!” Jorath breathed. Had he been in a similar position, taken deep into the Light Realm with only his own power to protect him, he would have long since fallen back into the Dark. “How long have you had her, Master?”
“Too many questions, underling.”
The child remained still, did not reach for the flask of water.
Jorath could see the crimson tinge in the water. Had the Master infused it with a couple of drops of his blood? A smile of appreciation found its way to Jorath’s lips. The Master was trying to corrupt her, to bring her to the Dark, thus not only depriving the Light of one of their greatest sources of power but also bringing that power to the Dark and striking a profound blow to the Light’s weak, tremulous heart.
“Oh, Master!” he breathed in worship.
But the child did not take the flask. Perhaps she was too clever and saw through the Master’s ruse. Perhaps she was so deep within her trance that she was unaware of their presence. Perhaps her power was such that she could indefinitely protect herself from the chamber’s scorching heat.
Could the Master compel her bodily to drink his blood?
Perhaps, but that was not his way. Baron Tyrus much more enjoyed seduction and trickery than brute force and savagery. He was averse to none of those, but he played games that were millennia in scope. He reveled in defeating his enemies at their own games. The Master wanted to make her want to drink his blood, because the moment she did so, she was his.
“Take it, my dear,” Baron Tyrus. “You must be so thirsty, and this is the coolest water you have ever encountered. Only a single sip would bring you the sweetest relief.”
The child did not stir. Her entwined fingers did not twitch.
“Perhaps, then,” the Dark Lord said to the child, “you would like me to release you?” From within his robes, he withdrew a key. It looked to be fashioned of the same kind of black emptiness as the barrier, so slippery his gaze could not hold it, except to grasp the impression of spines and barbs. This, the girl opened her eyes for.
The intensity of her gaze, even in her weakened state, made Jorath queasy. The yearning in her gaze was like the force of gravity, but she was examining the key as well, and with similar intensity.
The Master gave a taunting laugh and put the key away.
The child closed her eyes and returned to her meditative posture.
The Master said, “This child is why the Enemy has entreated the aid of the human man. So I believe.”
“To what end, Master?”
“To save her, you fool. Although what they think a mortal human can achieve, I cannot fathom.”
“It would be a fool’s errand, Master.”
“He does not know that. It is his nature that made them choose him. His spirit is home to enough Darkness that he would be equally at home here.”
“So, you still wish to turn him.”
Tyrus nodded. “Of course, that would be my preferred outcome. But destroying him and his family also serves my purposes. They will send him. You must attempt to stop him.”
“But how, Master? They are all in the Light Realm now.”
Baron Tyrus focused his attention on the bars of the child’s iron cage.
Quick as a blink, mechanical arms sprang from the substance of the cage, much like those of the Machine, seized her wrists, jerked her hands out of their meditative pattern, and hung her spread-eagled from the cage ceiling. She gasped in pain, eyelids snapping open to reveal eyes like jewels. They caught the light like diamonds and mixed it with the pain of the air. Her skin reddened, her hair steamed, and her pale shift darkened at the edges. Her gasp became a cry of pain.
The bars parted so that Baron Tyrus could reach through them with the gleam of a talon-like blade. A quick snick of the blade across the child’s arm opened a wound that...
It was blood, to be sure, but not entirely in the sense that mortal, corporeal beings imagined blood.
It flowed, liquid-like, into a silver chalice the Master held under the wound, but it also bubbled and sparkled with co
lors that intensified Jorath’s nausea.
At the moment of the cut, the child’s cries silenced, and she looked Baron Tyrus straight in the eye. Her expression became one of disappointment and stoic reproach. If she were still in pain, it made no mark on her.
Her blood dripped and shimmered into the chalice.
“Have you enough?” she said, in a voice so light and deep that it made Jorath’s bones ache.
The Master took the mostly full chalice, and her wound closed as if she had willed it.
Heat blisters appeared on her legs and arms, her beautiful face.
The iron arms released her, snapping like springs out of sight.
She resumed her posture of meditation, entwined her fingers once again, and closed her eyes.
The Master held out the chalice. “This, Jorath El-Thrim, is how you will stop the humans. Stewart Riley will join us—or die.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Liz fell to her knees, tears trickling down her cheeks. “It’s so... It’s like every fantasy dream I ever had as a little girl!” The yearning in her voice sounded of doll houses, dragons, and childhood adventures.
Stewart stood beside her and stroked her hair.
A glimmering, mist-kissed lake caught the sunlight, stretching into the vast distance where untold mysteries remained to be uncovered. Emerald forests hugged the sides of the valley. Distant waterfalls flowed upward into the lush reaches of the surrounding mountains.
The sun looked larger in the sky, and its brilliance seemed to press down on his flesh, like the quality of the sun in the high mountains, more intense, like tiny fingers pressing on him. Even though the sun filled the sky with light, the stars were so bright they shone through the cerulean blue.
He had thought the redwood trees of the Borderlands to be huge, but those across the lake made them look like saplings. A half-mile high, trunks fifty yards thick, branches and boles shaped and interwoven into homes and thoroughfares, bridges and balustrades. Jewels gleamed in great mosaics embedded in their trunks. Gazebos of pristine white wood entwined with vines and leaves.