Gaborn pulled out the volume, and Iome unwrapped the leather that bound it. She opened to the title page, and read slowly, “‘The Tales'… no, I think that is ‘Lore of the Netherworld, as Told by One Who Walked Among the Bright Ones.'”
“You can read this old tongue?” Gaborn asked in astonishment. “I've never heard it spoken outside the House of Understanding, in the Room of Tongues. Where ever did you hear it?”
“I learned it from Chancellor Rodham,” Iome said. “He was quite the scholar and thought it infinitely more worthwhile for me to learn Alnycian than needlepoint.”
Gaborn studied her in frank amazement. “History has been silent as to what Erden Geboren learned from the Bright Ones and glories,” Gaborn mused. “Now we know why: he never finished his book. This is fabulous. Only the most powerful wizards have ever walked the path between our world and the netherworld, the One True World.”
Iome flipped to the second page. “This is old,” she said. “It's hard to decipher.” She struggled to read.
“'Mine voice is coarse… a crude tool, I fear. Mine tongue is of brass, untrustworthy. How may I recount the words of Bright Ones and glories who thunder, who…'—I don't know that word—'men with words of light, who whisper to… ‘or is it ‘in?… the ears of our spirits? Listen to the words of glories, if thou canst. Unless my poor voice fails, as I fear. Yet still I hope that thou shalt hear.'”
Gaborn was immediately riveted. Iome glanced up to see his expression. She flipped open a page at random, halfway through the book, and began to read. “‘Then the Fael saith unto me—'”
“What's a Fael?” Gaborn asked.
Iome said flippantly. “Something that saideth things unto Erden Geboren.” She began to read again. “‘Learn to love all men… ‘He can't decide whether to use the word ‘equally’ or ‘perfectly.'”
“If you loved all men perfectly,” Gaborn suggested, “wouldn't you love them equally?”
Iome nodded and continued. “‘Do not esteem one man above another. Do not love the rich more than the humble, the strong more than the faint, the kind man more than the cruel. But learn to love all men equally.'”
“Hmmm,” Iome said with a thoughtful look on her face, as if the words disturbed her. She began to close the book.
Gaborn had never heard words like that, had never heard anyone other than a king who dared utter a commandment about how men were to treat each other.
A Fael must be a king among the Bright Ones or glories, he decided. “Keep reading.”
Iome forged ahead with great deliberation. “‘Then asketh I: “How can I love all men with equal perfection?” And the Fael answereth…’ “Iome grunted in consternation. “Erden Geboren has got a lot of this blacked out. In part, he seems to say that we learn to love those that we serve, and he writes that ‘Thou must learn to serve each man perfectly.’ But he's scrib-bled a note in the margin, asking, ‘How mayest I fixeth'… I think he means ‘fix in people's minds,’ ‘that serving a man perfectly meaneth to serve his best…'—I don't know that word—'in defiance of his own wants? For truly some men wanteth that which is evil, and still we are bound to provide them with only that which is good. Those men under sway of the… lo… loci fighteth goodness by rote, never guessing that the minions of the One True Master command them.'”
Gaborn's head spun as if he had been slapped. “Are you sure it says that?” he asked. “The One True Master?”
“It does!” Iome said.
“Is he talking about the reaver queen?” Gaborn asked. Binnesman had suggested that Erden Geboren had been hunting for a particular reaver, one that he called the locus, but neither the wizard nor Gaborn could guess what it might be that he sought.
“It sounds to me,” Iome said, “as if he is talking about something more powerful than a mere reaver.”
Gaborn grunted, wondering. The Days taught that there was only one evil: selfishness, a trait that all men have in common. That seemed a sufficient explanation for evil. After all, who among men does not desire endless wealth, or unfailing health, boundless wisdom, or unending life? Who does not crave the love and admiration of others?
Certainly, such longings are only too human, Gaborn thought, and in themselves, they are not evil. For, as Gaborn's father had once pointed out, a man who craves wealth and is thus driven to greater labors blesses both himself and those around him. The woman who wants wisdom and studies long into the night enriches all that she meets. And often Gaborn wished that he could become the kind of lord who could win the undying affection of his people, because to him it seemed an accurate measure of how well he governed.
It is only when we crave such things so much that we are willing to destroy others to get them, Gaborn told himself, that we engage in evil.
“The One True Master… is what Erden Geboren was hunting when he died,” Gaborn mused. “He prosecuted his war with the reavers for more than a decade. Could it possibly be the same creature we are hunting for now, after so long, or is the name merely a title used by the reavers’ lord?”
Gaborn suddenly had some questions for Averan. Could this One True Master have lived for seventeen hundred years? What more could she tell him about it? He looked up the tunnel. She hadn't returned.
“Averan?” Gaborn called. His words echoed through the cave.
There was no answer.
“Averan?” Iome called.
But it was pointless. Gaborn used his Earth Sight, feeling for danger. He sensed her presence, a mile up the tunnel.
“Where is she going?” Gaborn wondered, and panic swept through him, for he sensed where she was going: into danger.
10
THE CONSORT OF SHADOWS
A child must lean on faith to guide him because he lacks both the wisdom that comes from experience and the foresight that comes from a mature mind. While some promote faith as a virtue, I prefer wisdom and foresight.
—Mendellas Draken Orden
Averan had left the camp with her mind in a muddle. She felt a keen sense of worry, and it grew with every minute. The Consort of Shadows was on their trail, and she knew that he would never leave them alone.
Right now, Averan suspected that he would be waiting for them to return back up the cave. Most likely he would dig a hole somewhere along the tunnel, bury himself and hide with nothing but one or two philia above the ground.
Given its reputation as a hunter, Averan doubted that even Gaborn could evade the Consort of Shadows forever.
Their only hope was to find another reaver tunnel, one that led deep into the warrens. And the prospect seemed slim. The Waymaker had never been in this shaft, and Averan felt lost.
For a while she walked alone with her worries. They were getting deeper into the Underworld. The air felt warm and heavy. With the warmth, king's crown began to adorn the walls; it was a bright yellow fungus that slowly grew from a central infestation, then died out in the middle, leaving a golden halo that slowly spread. In the distance Averan heard a strange sound.
She stopped. It sounded almost like the throaty purr of a large cat.
There can't possibly be cats down here, can there? she wondered. But there were blindfish and crabs and other animals that lived aboveground. It seemed remotely possible that a cat might live down here, too.
There are lots of strange things in the Underworld. But none of the reavers she'd eaten had ever seen a cat.
Averan proceeded cautiously to a bend, peeked around. Several cave lizards, like bloated newts, squatted beside a small pool, and were sputtering at one another loudly, as if by doing so they could claim a prize. They sounded almost as if they were purring.
Keeper had known of these lizards. They would dig holes and live in soft mud. Their flavor was mushy and tasteless. Yet despite Keeper's vast lore, the reaver had never heard their songs.
Averan walked near them. The lizards spun their blind heads toward her, listening, and then leapt into the pool.
Just past them, the old riverbed ended. Hund
reds of smaller tunnels, each as narrow as a wolf den, riddled the stone walls where crevasse crawlers, like giant millipedes, had burrowed into the soft stone. The constant tunneling of crawlers had weakened the cave, collapsing the roof.
The only way past is through the holes, Averan realized. But going into one of those narrow holes was risky. Crevasse crawlers could grow to be fifty feet long, and they were carnivores.
The crawler's tunnels could extend for miles. I'll need to find a way through, Averan thought. She imagined how proud Gaborn would be when he learned that she had scouted a path for them.
Shaking, Averan went to the nearest hole, sniffed at it. Nothing. It smelled only of the local stone and feather fern. No crevasse crawlers had been in it for ages.
At the third hole, she detected the musk odor of crawler eggs, and immediately backed away. At the twelfth hole, shefinallyfound what she was looking for, the vague scent of different air blowing up through a passage. Either the hole led to a reaver tunnel or it would give her access to another cave.
Averan hesitated. She studied the burrow. She could crawl through it, but could Gaborn and the others?
Yes, she decided, with some work.
She climbed on her tiptoes and peered in. The burrow was just broad enough so that she could crawl upright without difficulty.
Which means that the crevasse crawler that dug this tunnel is big enough to swallow me whole, Averan realized. I shouldn't do this. Gaborn would be mad.
But Gaborn was waiting for his fish to cook. What if the reavers came after him? He'd be looking for an escape route fast. He was counting on her to lead the way.
Yes, I should do this, Averan told herself. By scouting the path, I could save the party valuable time.
“Averan?” Gaborn called from back up the tunnel. “Wait!” She stopped, heart pounding.
She turned and watched back up the tunnel. Soon, lights reflected from the walls, announcing Gaborn's arrival.
He came running round the bend, and saw her.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Just exploring,” Averan said. “There's a cave-in here. I was looking for a way past.”
“It's dangerous,” he said, the concern clearly etched in the lines of his face.
“It's our only way out,” Averan argued.
Gaborn peered back along the trail they had come. The distant sound of reavers charging through the Underworld came as a low rumble. He licked his lips, and shook his head.
“I agree,” Gaborn said. “But I sense danger ahead. Not… death. But I fear that if we take this course… “
“What?” Averan asked.
“I don't know.” Gaborn said. “Perhaps I should lead the way.” He studied the hole, then stepped back. “No. The Earth warns that I can't go down there, and neither can Iome.”
“Then I have to go,” Averan offered. “It can't be that bad. I smell fresh air. This hole should take me to the other side of the tunnel.”
Gaborn peered at the burrow, as if seeking some hidden danger there, and nodded slightly. “Yes,” he whispered. “That's the one.”
“Let me go first, then,” Averan said.
“Wait,” Gaborn said, stopping her with a touch. “The fish should nearly be cooked. We'll eat, and come back later.”
Averan could tell that he was stalling. Gaborn had a cornered look in his eye.
After a quick dinner, during which Gaborn kept peering into the distance, lost in thought, Averan felt ready to face the burrow. With Gaborn and Iome behind her, Averan scooted into the narrow tunnel. Dried black goo littered the floor, drippings from the crevasse crawler. It was an oil that the monster secreted to lubricate its cave. Reavers liked the taste of it.
“There's nothing in here to be worried about,” Averan told Gaborn.
“Perhaps,” Gaborn said, “but take nothing for granted. I sense danger here. It may be something small. Just remember that you're not a reaver. A bug that is insignificant to a reaver may be devastating to you.”
“I'll be careful,” Averan promised. She forged ahead. Gaborn needed her help.
She scooted through the tunnel quickly, listening for the rattling that accompanied crawlers as they slithered through the rocks.
She reached the exit after only a few hundred yards, and poked her head out.
The exit opened into a large cavern. She was back to the riverbed, but things had changed. The stone here was red, and must have been soft, for the river had fanned out. Over the ages the roof had collapsed again and again, carving a vast chamber. The ceiling soared two hundred feet above her, and stalagmites rose up from the floor like some petrified forest, while stalactites hung down like giant teeth.
On either side of the path, tanglers grew—plants with roots that criss-crossed the cavern floor. Giant bulbs lay lazily in the center of this net-work, like huge seed pods. But Averan knew that as soon as her foot touched one of the roots, the pods would wriggle around on their necks of creeper and try to swallow her.
She carefully lowered herself to the ground and sniffed the air. She walked forward a pace or two.
A whisper of reaver scent hung in the air. She smelled the word, “Wait.” It might have been a shouted command given a hundred years ago, or it might have been something whispered much more recently. There was no way to tell.
“Gaborn,” Averan called. “I'm past the cave-in. Come ahead.”
She dared go no farther without Gaborn at her back.
But if reavers have been here, Averan reasoned, then this cave must lead to a major tunnel. And if I can find the tunnel, find some scent markers, I can figure out how to reach the Lair of Bones.
Cautiously, Averan peered down at the tangler, watching to make sure that her feet weren't near any thin gray roots, lest they snake around her ankle.
Ahead, stalagmite columns pierced the air on either side of her, and a natural stone bridge arched over a deep chasm. Far below, by the sound of it, water churned through a gorge.
Suddenly a single pebble dropped from above, plunking at Averan's side. She peered upward and yelped as something huge dropped like a vast spider. She tried to leap away as an enormous paw swatted down on her, cup-ping over her.
“Reaver!” she cried.
She wriggled between its talons, lunged toward the safety of the crawler's tunnel. A tangler vine, wakened by the presence of the reaver, whipped out and snagged her feet. She sprawled to the ground. The tangler's podlike head swiveled toward her; the pod opened, splitting into four pieces, revealing a strange, toothless mouth full of fibrous hairs. It lunged at her, but never reached her.
The reaver pulled hard at the roots, ripping the vine that held Averan's ankle, and the tangler vine went limp. She tried to lunge to her feet, but too late. The reaver's paw swept her up, crushing her in its grip.
Averan wriggled, tried to draw a breath. Even with all her endowments, her strength could not match that of a reaver. It held her in afistof iron, and spun about. It leapt over the tanglers and bounded across the stone bridge.
“Gaborn,” Averan cried. “Help!”
She craned her neck to peer backward.
Averan beat on the monster's fist, and it responded by shaking her so hard that she feared her head would snap off.
Averan caught the monster's scent. She knew this reaver. How did he find me? she wondered. How did he get here so fast?
In a daze Averan gasped for a breath as the Consort of Shadows whisked her off into darkness.
11
FEYKAALD'S GIFT
Where there is hope, the loci sow fear. Where there is light, the loci spread darkness.
—excerpt on the nature of loci, from The Lore of the Netherworld, by Erden Geboren
Raj Ahten's army was heading north of Maygassa through the Great Salt Sea, the sun splashing down upon the shallows for as far as the eye could see. In his retinue were three flameweavers, a dozen force elephants, and another three thousand Runelords of various strength. Most of these
were nobles who wore armor of thick silk in shades of white or gold, and turbans of blood red adorned with rubies the size of pigeon eggs. Though they were few in number, they were a powerful force, for these were no hireling soldiers; these were princes and kings and sheiks of the old Kingdoms of Indhopal, as rich in endowments as they were in gold. Furthermore, they were men bred to cunning and ruthlessness, for they had been born to wealth and war, and had long ago learned to keep that which they laid claim to.
The bridles and saddles of their horses and camels flashed with gems, and their swords and lances were tipped with the finest steel.
So they rode, their animals’ hooves splashing. Riding across the salt sea was easier than riding around it at this time of the year. In the winter, it would deepen and become impassable by horse, but for now the water was less than a foot deep and barely covered the white salt pan of the lake. Still, it stretched for as far as the eye could see. The noonday sun beating upon distant wavelets sparkled, so that every horizon seemed to beckon with empty promises of silver. Beyond the sea, to the north, a line of mountains could be descried.
Raj Ahten rode in the lead all dressed in white silk, upon the back of a gray imperial warhorse. With each step, the horse's hooves splashed. The water quickly dried on its belly and legs, leaving a crust of white salt. Raj Ahten wore a white kaffiyeh to keep off the midday sun and to hide the scars on his ruined face.
As he rode, in the distance he spotted a single rider making his way across the sea toward them. The rider, swathed all in black, leaned forward like an old man, and rode a black force horse that nearly stumbled beneath the weight of its saddlebags.
Raj Ahten had over a thousand endowments of sight. His eyes were keener than an eagle's, for no eagle can spot the heat that radiates from a human body at night. Nor could it count the hair on a fly's legs at twenty paces. Though the rider was but a distant blur to a common man, Raj Ahten knew his name: Feykaald, his faithful servant.
“O Light of the World!” Feykaald shouted, when at last he rode near. “I bring a gift, a treasure stolen from the very camp of the Earth King!”
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