“Cythera!” he shouted, because she was gasping in pain.
“I can’t contain it,” she moaned. “So much-so much power!”
This was the gift Coruth had given to her daughter. Cythera was immune to magic in all its forms, for rather than pervading her, arcane energies could only crawl upon her skin in the form of images. As Croy watched, the brambles on her neck thickened and sprouted long, vicious thorns. The flowers on her palms dripped with poison. Malevolent eyes peered out from behind the leaves that curled and dried up on her chest.
“I have to release it. Croy-get back!” she screamed.
The more magical energy she stored in her skin, the more likely Cythera was to release it inadvertently. She could only hold so much. If she touched Croy now, all that power would flow into his body, and he had no protection from its evil. He scuttled backward, all thoughts of saving her flown from his mind.
Moving with terrible slowness, careful not to release her burden before she was ready, Cythera climbed through the chains and made her way to the brick seal beyond. Then she thrust her palms against the stone blocks, and the painted flowers on her skin writhed and twisted as if they were being consumed in an inferno.
Under her hands the bricks shimmered and glowed. Light seeped out from between her fingers as the stone seethed and bubbled and flowed. A stream of red-hot molten rock oozed down the face of the seal, then rolled across the ground to lick at the scorched bones. Croy rushed back and got the horses clear before the burning stone could reach them.
In the cold air the molten rock cooled quickly, like candle wax on a table. Though still hot to the touch, it stopped glowing and lay still. When Croy was certain he would not be incinerated, he hurried forward to search for Cythera. He was very careful not to touch the chains, though this time he did not feel dizzy when he approached them. Cythera must have absorbed the magic that had previously coursed through them.
He found her by the seal. A broad fissure had been melted right through the bricks. At its base the fissure was wide enough for a man to crawl through. Beyond, past the seal, was only darkness.
Cythera sat on the ground near the opening, hugging her knees to her chest. She was weeping, but her skin was clear. There was not a single tattoo anywhere on her that he could see.
“It’s open,” she said. “We can go in now.”
Part III
Some Light Grave Robbing Required
Interlude
The keeper of the milehouse known as the Astrologer always thought he had been blessed with the perfect life. There was a steady trade on the road between Redweir and Helstrow, so he was not reliant for his income on the local farmers. He was close enough to the king’s fortress that bandits never raided his house. Having once been the son of a farmer, expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and work a tiny strip of land until he was bent double and decrepit at twenty-five, he counted himself especially lucky that now his main occupation was giving orders to serving boys and pouring the occasional tankard of ale.
The night the priest came, however, the keeper would gladly have traded places with the lowest serf in Skrae.
“I have simply come for my property. Once it is in my possession, I will leave peacefully,” the priest said. He didn’t look like so much, this little man from Ness who dressed in an undyed habit. The knife in his hand was tiny, the blade no longer than a child’s finger.
When he’d come in demanding information, the keeper had been busy counting the coins in his till. Figures were not the keeper’s strong suit and he’d lost track. He supposed he might have been a little abrupt when he told the priest to have a seat and shut his mouth.
He’d had no idea how fast things would happen then, how the knife would blur through the air, while the priest’s face transformed into the countenance of something from the Bloodgod’s pit.
The keeper stared down at the cut on his arm. It was only perhaps an inch long but it was bleeding furiously. He pressed down hard on the wound with a bar towel but in seconds the cloth was red right through. “I’m telling ye, friend-I don’t know anything of what you’re asking! I never heard naught of this shire reeve. Please, just let me bandage this-”
The priest never raised his voice. He never got angry. But the knife in his hand flicked back and forth, cutting at the air. “You’re lying to me. The shire reeve wrote me just days ago. The message was posted from this house. He claimed he had my property and that I could come collect it at my leisure. Well, here I am. Where is the shire reeve? Where is what is owed to me? Should you lie to me again, I’ll cut your other arm.”
The keeper of the house looked up at his patrons, a dozen or so assorted merchants, tradesmen of various occupations, and three dwarves up from Redweir. They had all jumped back from their tables, abandoning both food and drink to press up against the smoke-stained walls. He’d get no help from that quarter.
“There was a man-a day or two back, sure,” the keeper said. He was beginning to feel faint, probably just from the fear. He took a step back, away from the priest, and nearly slipped on the pool of his own blood that was ruining his floor. “Might have been a reeve of one sort or another. I didn’t see if he carried no white stick, but mayhap that was just under his cloak. He had the look of a lawman.”
“Good,” the priest said. “That’s a good start.”
“Figured he was just playin’ at it, though, for he skipped out before he paid his bill. Figured he was some tricky thief.”
“He was an official of the crown. Now. As to my property.”
“I know nothing ’bout that,” the keeper said. “Please!” he begged as the knife came toward him again. “Please-whatever it was, whatever it was worth, take it out of my till, and be welcome to it! Just-just put the knife away. I beg you!”
“All your coin won’t pay what I’m owed,” the priest said. “I’ve come for a man, a bondservant who ran away from me. His name is Malden. What of him?”
“Malton, you say?” the keeper asked. “I’m not so good with names-”
“A slender fellow, of no great height. Wears a green cloak. He would be traveling with a number of companions-accomplices in his flight.”
“Aye, aye!” the keeper almost laughed with relief. “Aye, they were here, too, the same night as your reeve. He was with a fancy looking gentleman, a lady, and a dwarf. And-And a great big dog-hearted bastard with half his face painted red. That one they made sleep in the stables like the wild man he was. Now, they paid their bill, and left before dawn the next day. Please-no more!”
The knife was inches from the keeper’s face. It seemed to float in the air, as if unconnected to the priest’s hand. The keeper could see his own reflection in its red-smeared blade.
“One more question, only, and then I’ll give you my thanks and take my leave.”
“Anything! I’ll tell ye anything!” Whether it was true or not, the keeper decided. This was not a man who accepted “I don’t know” as a correct answer.
“When they left, which way were they headed?”
The keeper belched mightily as a wave of nausea swept through him. He had no idea how to answer that. He hadn’t watched the travelers depart-he’d been inside, fast asleep, and only knew they’d gone because the stable boy told him so. He had to guess now what the priest wanted to hear. And if he guessed wrong “They headed east,” someone said.
The knife was gone. The keeper sagged backward against the bar, unable to stand a moment longer. The priest was across the room now, standing over a man wearing the mask of an itinerant barber-surgeon.
“They headed east,” the man repeated. “I’m coming from that direction, and I passed them just as they left the road. It looked like they were headed down to the river, though for what purpose I can’t imagine.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” the priest said. The knife disappeared and he smiled at everyone in the room, taking his time to beam at each patron in turn. “I do apologize for the excitement. Please, go back to
your meals. I will not keep you any longer.”
And with that he left, headed back out into the night. As easy as that.
The barber-surgeon rushed over to where the keeper lay, facedown on his own bar, his legs tangled in the stools. With deft hands the healer pulled the bar rag away from the wounded man’s arm and studied the cut. “By the Lady’s elbows,” he swore.
“It’s just… a little scratch,” the keeper insisted.
“He pierced the major vein of your arm without so much as palpating for it,” the barber-surgeon insisted. He reached for a pouch at his belt and brought forth a long strip of dirty bandage. “It normally takes me three tries to find that vein, even when my patient is restrained so I can take my time. Who was that man? Where did he train? At the University at Vijn, perhaps? They bring up fine doctors there, it’s said.” The barber-surgeon worked quickly at stanching the flow of blood.
“Will I live?” the keeper asked.
“Oh, surely,” the barber-surgeon told him. “Eat plenty of fish taken from a cold stream, and purge three times a day with an emetic I give you, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time. Of course, the wound might fester and then you’ll lose the arm. But you’ll definitely survive.”
“Excuse me,” someone said, but the keeper couldn’t see who it was. “Excuse me. Hey! Down fucking here!”
Despite how faint he felt, the keeper leaned over the side of the bar and looked down to see one of the dwarves staring up at him. The keeper was used to getting dwarves in, since there were so many of them at Redweir and they often traveled to Helstrow on business. He’d barely been aware of the three of them before this, except for the fact that one of them was female. You almost never saw female dwarves this far south.
The one addressing him was male, a skinny, tiny fellow with a bushy beard and hair like a mop that should have been thrown out years ago. His eyes were beady and dark but they shone with purpose.
“You said somewhat about a wild man, with a face painted red?”
The keeper frowned. Not again, he thought-no more questions! “Aye,” he replied. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m-”
“He was traveling with the other bunch? You’re sure of it? Think hard on it, man. This is important!”
“Aye, aye, you daft little thing,” the keeper growled. There were spots dancing before his eyes. That couldn’t be good, could it?
“And they went east? Toward the forest there, and the mountains beyond? You weren’t lying just to throw that other fucker off the track? Excuse me! I need to know this!”
The barber-surgeon answered for the keeper, who was having trouble breathing properly. “Yes, yes, just as I told that butcher. East!”
The dwarf nodded and ran back to his fellows. They whispered amongst themselves for a moment, then raced out of the common room in the direction of the stables. The keeper never saw them again.
At least they’d paid in advance.
Chapter Twenty-six
The five of them made a simple camp just outside the seal. There they ate a final meal in the sunlight before heading in. Morget roasted the cave beetle steaks and served out large portions to each of them. “We’ll need our strength,” he explained. “We may be in there for several hours before we find the demon.”
Malden stared at the meat he was given. It was white and stringy and still attached to a piece of shriveled shell. “I’ve always found it best to exercise on an empty stomach,” he protested.
“Don’t be such a ninny,” Cythera said, laughing at him.
Malden felt his cheeks grow red. He took a small bite of the meat, and was surprised, to say the least. “Ha! This is actually pretty good. A little like crabmeat. And a bit like venison.” He ate it all, and then had another serving. There was none left by the time Herward came up to their camp, his nose twitching in the air.
“I smelled your repast,” the hermit said. “Not that I would ever consume flesh. Oh, no. Never. But I’ll admit the odor was tempting.”
Croy shrugged. “Then I am glad to say we have nothing to offer you, for I would hate to lead any man to sin.”
“Yes… that is good.” Malden could hear Herward’s stomach rumbling. “It is what She would want-”
The holy man stopped speaking then. He seemed transfixed as if by a vision.
Malden followed his gaze and saw him looking at the entrance to the Vincularium.
“The Lady be praised,” Herward said, staring in mortal dread at the opening in the seal. “She has ordained that what was closed, now may be opened.”
Malden rolled his eyes but said nothing. In his experience it was a bad idea to try to disillusion the religiously insane. Herward’s cosmology depended on everything that happened making perfect sense in the context of his faith. Upsetting that turnip cart would do no one any good.
“The chains?” Herward asked. “They were enchanted…”
Cythera put a hand on the hermit’s shoulder. “The crone of your vision allowed the enchantment to be removed,” she said. Malden silently applauded her tact. What she said was entirely true. It was Coruth who had appeared in that vision, and it was also Coruth who had given Cythera the power to drain the curses from the chains. “Clearly she approves of our enterprise.”
Herward nodded. His eyes weren’t focusing, Malden saw-they were looking at something invisible. The hermit dropped to his knees, his hands clutched together before him. “The Lady be praised! How long have I waited for this! I’ve spent years of my life studying the Elders, winkling out their secrets. How many times have I dreamt of this, of walking up here and finding the way open. How much can I learn from this place? I cannot begin to tell you what this means!”
Morget laughed. Cythera shot the barbarian a nasty look, but Morget simply shrugged. “Why then, little man, it should be your honor to go inside before us!”
Herward turned toward the barbarian and for a moment his eyes cleared and Malden could tell he was gripped by a sudden fit of lucidity. “Inside?” he asked. “Actually… go inside?”
He turned to face the opening. That dark, forbidding hole in the seal where the breath of ancient times stirred restlessly. Anything could be in there, anything at all, but most likely nothing friendly.
Every eye was on Herward as he took a step forward, then another. Even from a distance Malden could see how badly the hermit’s hands shook. Herward reached up carefully toward one of the chains, but his hand didn’t make contact. Instead, he cleared his throat, and stood up straighter, and said, “No. No… the vision was clear. I am to aid you, not join you. Someone must stay here and see to your things, yes?”
Croy walked over to the hermit and nodded sagely. “It’s what She would wish, I think.”
“Indeed. Her name be praised,” Herward said, and rushed back to stand behind Morget and Slag, who were the farthest from the opening.
Croy stayed where he was. The knight bent down and looked into the hole, and Malden saw that he wasn’t shaking at all. If anything, Croy looked like he was about to run forward and squeeze himself inside, to get at the demon in there as fast as possible.
Malden had to admit that Croy had courage. He supposed that was what made him a knight in the first place-that willingness to throw himself into danger for a noble cause. For the first time in a while, he realized he actually admired the man.
“Malden,” Croy said, “would you be so kind as to take a look, and say if we must proceed?”
“Me?” Malden asked.
But then he remembered why he’d been brought along on this journey. He was the one who was supposed to clear the Vincularium of its deadly traps.
Maybe he should have run off for Helstrow after all, and taken his chances with the law. Nothing for it now, though. He came up next to Croy and then crouched down to look at the hole. “It looks big enough for us to crawl through,” he said, rubbing his chin. He reached up to touch the stone where it had warped and flowed. It was cool to the touch now. “And I suppose there are worse ways
to enter a place than through the front door.”
“Not your usual method of ingress, eh?” Slag asked. The dwarf peered into the darkness beyond the opening and pulled at his beard.
“In my line, the back door is often preferred, yes. Let’s take a look.” Malden lit a lantern and shone its light inside. He saw dull-colored rock, mostly. A wraith of mist swirled inside the opening, droplets of water catching some subterranean breeze and then flinging themselves outward, through his light. Nothing moved in there. Most like, nothing had moved in there for centuries.
He started to crawl inside, but Croy grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “Herward is saying a prayer for us,” the knight told him.
“Oh, good. I’d hate to go in there without divine sanction.”
The prayer was a long one, but Malden consoled himself with the knowledge that the holy man would be taking care of his horse while he was inside. For free. When it was done, Malden looked at Morget, who was sharpening his axe with a whetstone. At Slag, who was trying to peer around Malden’s arm for a better look inside. At Cythera, who failed to meet his gaze. And then at Croy, who set his jaw in a determined angle.
“Shall we go inside now?” Malden asked, and gestured toward the opening.
“You first,” Slag suggested.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Malden crawled forward on his hands and knees a few feet and then slowly stood up. The light coming in through the fissure behind him illuminated no more than a patch of marble floor. On either side, and as far above him as he could imagine, lay nothing but darkness and stale air.
His eyes burned with the dark almost at once. His skin tingled and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Because his vision was next to useless, his other senses leapt to fill the gap in what he could perceive. He heard water dripping, somewhere far off. The echoes it made seemed to roll across vast smooth expanses of stone. He smelled the must of centuries, old dust and a hint of decay. His fingertips felt extremely sensitive, as if he could reach for the great darkness before him and stroke it like fur.
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