Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light

by Tanya Huff

  “Just wait.” Moth pushed him down and held him.

  “There’s that in the bath to help thy wounds if thou wilt give it a chance.”

  He didn’t have much choice so he sat, teeth gritted, until the pain faded. Slowly, he began to feel better than he had in—he thought back—one day. It had all happened in just one day!

  It’s amazing how soon you can get used to things. He’d thought it first watching Papa Bear eat. He thought it now as two beautiful young women bathed him. And then he realized his body wasn’t nearly as blasé about the situation as his overloaded mind.

  “Best not waste that, Sir Bard,” Moth giggled, digging soapy fingers into knotted shoulder muscles, “or her Highness will in fury rage.”

  Roland blushed, squirmed, and discovered there was no way to hide. His brain reluctantly shifted out of neutral. “Her Highness?” he managed.

  “Thou hast impressed her mightily.” Moth lathered his hair and scrubbed vigorously. When she finished pouring a pitcher of warm water over his head, she added, “First thou wilt feast and then thou wilt frolic.”

  Roland knew what frolic meant where he came from, so he tackled the first bit of information. “I impressed her?”

  “Most surely. With your request of his Majesty her father.”

  “My request?”

  “Thou wast expected,” the other woman said dryly, holding out a large towel for him to step into, “to beg for thy life.”

  That took care of the small physical problem.

  He allowed himself to be dressed in borrowed finery and led to the feasting hall, all the while hoping that if begging was necessary he’d be given another chance. That thought vanished at the first sight of the princess who nodded approvingly and drew him to her side. He sat where she indicated, mesmerized by the startling contrast between her pale skin and the black satin of her gown.

  “Alabaster and ebony,” he murmured, and flushed as she smiled.

  The feast passed in a kaleidoscope of sights: Although the short haired servers dressed in a bright array of colors, those being served wore only combinations of black and red and silver. Roland had never realized that red and black and silver could come in so many shades, could sparkle and shine and burn with such intensity.

  And sound: Laughter rose frequently over the noise of eating and drinking, but it had a brittle edge as though the ones who laughed knew secrets their listeners did not.

  And taste: Roland ate everything that appeared before him, reveling in foods that had the texture of silk and the flavor of sunshine, the sharp tang of a winter’s day, the thick richness of midnight.

  And smell: The scent wafting out from the heavy mass of Her Highness’ hair wrapped around him, capturing and intoxicating him, leaving no room for other scents and very little room for thought.

  He couldn’t hold onto fear or even wariness. Everyone he saw was young and beautiful and, after the king and the princess, they deferred to him. If he was to be killed in the morning, he’d worry about it then and probably go smiling to the firing squad. Or the local equivalent.

  When the last of the food had been cleared away, the huge room fell silent.

  “And now, Master Bard,” the king announced, “mayhap thou wouldst honor our company with a song.”

  A server approached carrying the harp, cleaned, restrung and as beautiful as Roland knew she would be. He ran a gentle finger down the sweet curve of her, and smiled.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I’ll stick with the lady I know.”

  The feel of the silence changed, but the king merely waved a graceful hand and replied, “Thy choice, Sir Bard.”

  Moving slowly, for he suspected he’d had just a little too much of the deep red wine, Roland opened the case and pulled Patience free. “It’s called a guitar,” he answered the king’s raised eyebrow. Running up a scale, he felt in control of events and when he started to play he gave himself over to the music.

  They kept him playing until his hands were cramped and his voice had faded to a husky whisper. Then, amid cries of praise and adulation, the princess took his arm and led him from the room.

  If she’d asked him, he would have pleaded exhaustion, but she didn’t ask—only stripped them both, mounted, and rode him to climax after shuddering climax. Roland had no idea where he found the energy, but his body kept responding to her demands so he gave in and enjoyed it.

  He woke amid pitch blackness, completely disoriented. Panicked, he thrashed about, then jerked up into a sitting position. Gradually, soft gray light filled the room. He saw the glimmering silver and red tapestries, the huge oval mirror, and the discarded clothes strewn about. Turning slightly, he saw a tangled mass of blue-black hair spilling over an ivory breast. He remembered and lay back smiling.

  The light faded until the room was once again in total darkness.

  He sat up.

  The light returned.

  He lay down.

  The light faded.

  Not bad, he thought. I could grow to like this place. Good food, great clothes, a beautiful woman. And they appreciate music. He dozed a little, images of life as a court favorite dancing through his head, and then he sat up again.

  “Bathroom,” he sighed. He considered waking the princess for directions but decided against it. Following his nose, he found the little room off the hall that served the purpose. When he returned, bright gold eyes peered up at him from the end of the bed.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” he murmured, frowning.

  Tom meowed imperiously, working his claws in and out of the mattress.

  “Shhh!” Roland put his finger to his lips. “You’ll wake her.” He dropped the robe he’d found and looked thoughtful. “In fact, that might not be such a bad idea. Now that I’m rested I’m sure we can find something to do.” Sliding back onto the bed, he bent his head over ruby lips.

  “JESUS CHRIST!” He whirled around and glared at the cat. “You scratched me, you little shit!” He grabbed at his right cheek and his hand came away streaked with blood. “I’m going to skin you for a … a … Jesus Christ,” he repeated, only this time it was more like a prayer. For the first time since he’d gazed at the princess, all jade and ebony and silver in the moonlight, he was thinking clearly.

  A quick glance at said princess showed she still slept soundly. A quick glance around the room and he spotted his watch.

  “Two forty-three,” he muttered, strapping it on. It had to have been close to dawn when last night’s party had finally broken up. That made it two forty-three in the afternoon. He looked at the princess again. The middle of the day. And she was sleeping very soundly. Gently at first, and then more violently, Roland shook her shoulder. Her chest still rose and fell, but that remained the only sign of life.

  His heart beating painfully hard, he raced to the mirror and studied his neck. There were no puncture wounds.

  Tom snorted.

  “Well, she could’ve been,” he hissed, feeling like a fool. “Where the hell did you come from?” he demanded again, bending down and staring at the cat. “Did Evan send you to find me?”

  Tom twisted, and began washing the base of his tail.

  “Oh, that’s very helpful.” His tone was sarcastic, but it was helpful. Despair just couldn’t be maintained in the face of such sublime indifference. He straightened and dragged both hands through his hair. I’ve got to get away before she wakes up. Because if he didn’t, Roland knew, if she smiled at him again, he’d be unable to leave. So far, things had been pretty terrific, but he strongly suspected when Royal Interest in their new toy waned, the situation would be very different.

  He dressed quickly in the black silk and velvet he’d worn to the feast—he had no idea where his jeans were—picked up Patience, and started for the door. Tom padded out ahead of him.

  The cat certainly looked like he knew where he was going and as Roland certainly did not, he followed the cat. The hallways glowed, then faded as they passed.

&n

bsp; Even if I’d been in my right mind on the way up last night, I’d never have remembered this. The maze of corridors twisted and turned and doubled back on themselves with joyous abandon. Fortunately, I’m too lost to be scared. That didn’t quite make sense but neither had life lately, so Roland let it stand. Nor was it entirely accurate. It sounded as if he and Tom were the last two creatures alive and that silence weighed on him. In spite of his best efforts to banish it, the phrase “the silence of the tomb” insisted on sitting in the forefront of his mind. He’d never understood it before; he did now.

  Tom padded on, oblivious.

  They passed a large open archway that Roland was sure he’d never seen before. Although Tom kept walking, Roland, for curiosity’s sake, stuck his head into the room. In the dim light he could just barely make out a black rectangle flanked by two white triangles about five feet high. He took a step farther in and the two white triangles became two pyramids of skulls that stared back at him out of empty sockets.

  All at once, the statement “He expected thee to beg for thy life.” made sense.

  Roland hurried to catch up with Tom.

  As his footsteps faded away, the blackness above the altar began to thicken into more than just an absence of light.

  “So you think it will be that easy, do you?” The Dark Adept smiled. “While your hosts sleep, you will slip back out into the light without even thanking them for their hospitality.” The smile hardened and the ebony brows drew down. “I think not.”

  The small park was empty. He took steps to keep it that way. Leaning back on the bench, he stretched out long legs and lifted his face to the sun while his mind made a visit to the shadow realms.

  When they reached the great feasting hall, Roland almost didn’t recognize it. Empty of the court, it looked bleak and cold, the silvers dulled to gray and the blacks only to a reminder of who ruled in this realm. Roland shivered and moved closer to Tom as they began picking their way across to the door on the far side. They’d covered half the distance when a questioning note rang out. Roland paused, sighed, and turned. As he expected, the harp was leaning up against the great black throne.

  “A fine way to treat a treasure,” he said softly, squatting and stroking its graceful curve one last time, hating to leave an instrument he’d become so absurdly fond of. Sneaking out while everyone slept was one thing—with luck he’d be forgotten before breakfast ended—sneaking out with a national treasure was something else again. Regretfully, he stood and spread his hands. “I guess this is good-bye.” The harp sounded again. “I wish I could take you with me.” Very conscious of Tom’s impatient stare, he turned to go. This time the note fairly vibrated throughout the room.

  Roland winced and glanced around. “You’re going to wake everyone up,” he warned. He could feel the harp gathering itself together for another note and because it was what he wanted to do anyway, he scooped it up in his free hand.

  “It was her idea,” he explained sheepishly to Tom, who sat by the door, tail lashing the air. From within the case, Patience chimed an agreement.

  Tom snorted, walked out the door and straight into what looked like a solid wall. There was a faint but audible thunk as his skull came in contact with something marginally harder than it was. Tom blinked, sat down, and began vigorously washing a front paw.

  Nervously, Roland shifted his grip on the harp. “Yeah, okay. I believe you. You meant to do that.” He glanced over his left shoulder, the hairs on his neck rising—he’d heard, or thought he’d heard a sound, metallic and recurrent, just beyond the point where the soft gray light dimmed and died. Forcing his gaze back down to the cat, he hissed, “If you know the way out, I suggest you take me to it.”

  Refusing to be hurried, Tom gave his paw a final polish, then used it to pat at the wall. His tail lashed. He dropped into a crouch, his head snaked from side to side, and he hissed.

  The sound grew louder; identifiable. Metallic, yes. Footsteps. More than one set.

  “Tom!”

  The cat’s ears flattened and he growled low in his throat, his attention still fixed on the wall.

  “Yeah, okay. You’re working on it.” I don’t believe I’m depending on a cat. Roland’s armpits were wet, the black silk sticking to his skin. He could smell his own fear. Almost without willing it, he turned to face down the corridor.

  “Oh, shit!”

  A figure in a suit of black armor, similar to that worn by the riders but with more metal and less leather, stalked out of the shadows. A second followed a pace behind.

  “I thought this lot slept all day,” Roland protested to the universe at large. It isn’t fair! Maybe if I give back the harp … Then he smelled the slightly sweet odor of rotting meat and knew these guardians were beyond reasoning with.

  “No, not again.” He backed up a step. The grinning decaying faces in the giants’ larder jostled for position in his memory. “I can’t …” He swallowed and backed up another step. “I can’t deal with that again.” Another step and a half turn; turning to run. Something soft gave way under his foot.

  He screamed, both in pain and terror as Tom yowled and dug sharp claws into the delicate skin behind his ankle. “I’m not a fighter!” he shrieked at the disinterested cat.

  And then he didn’t have a choice.

  He dropped flat under the first swing, throwing Patience and the harp into what he hoped was safety at the base of the wall. The end of Patience’s case dragged across the harp strings and they sang out, a discordant counterpoint to the clash of metal. Roland watched the great black sword arcing down toward him suddenly change direction and go skittering off point first against the stone floor.

  The harp. The harp controlled the guardians. Or discouraged them. Or something. He scrambled out of the way of another blow, then felt himself slammed sideways as the second guardian brought a mace into play. My shoulder! It broke my fucking shoulder! But it hadn’t, not quite, for fingers wiggled in a hurried experiment still worked. It hurt like hell, but he could use the arm. The harp! I’ve got to get the harp. He ducked a whistling blow that sprayed chips from the wall when it landed and in panicked desperation fell to the floor and rolled.

  His knee crashed into the harp and the sword point descending toward his eye wavered, lightly kissed his cheek—leaving a searing line of pain behind—and vanished from sight. He pushed himself up with his good arm and collapsed against the polished wood as something pounded into his kidneys. Retching and blind with pain, he clawed at the silver strings.

  The Dark Adept shifted slightly so that the sun fell directly on his face. The harp was barely more than an annoyance. Without the skill to play it, it would do this so-called Bard little good. He would finish this quickly. He was growing bored.

  Breathing heavily, Roland forced his eyes back into focus. The random noise he was pulling from the harp appeared to be holding the guardians where they were. They stood swaying slightly, black armor creaking, arms moving in directionless jerks. As he watched, they turned and began making their way slowly toward him. He raked his fingers back and forth, filling the corridor with sound. They fought it and continued to advance.

  “Hey, bubba, spare a buck?”

  Jerked out of the shadow realm, the Dark Adept snarled and reached for power—and barely stopped himself in time. It would do his plans no good if he set a beacon for the Light. He spat a curse at the ragged old woman standing before him. He would remember her and deal with her later.

  She clicked her tongue at him. “If you ain’t got it, bubba, just say so. Ain’t no call to be rude.” Shaking her head and muttering about the ways of the young, she waddled away, dragging a protesting bundle buggy after her.

  The Dark Adept ground his teeth. He did not rule in the shadow realm, though much of it called him Lord, and it would take time and effort he could not spare to reestablish contact. The guardians would have to finish alone.

  “I should have flayed that old woman alive,” he growled. It still wasn’t too late. He sprang to his feet, whirled about, and …

  There was no old woman in the park.

  Tom howled suddenly and Roland’s heart slammed up into his throat. “What!” he screamed spinning about. His jaw dropped as the cat disappeared into what seemed to be a solid wall. “Right. Sure.”

  Tom howled again, sounding barely farther away than he had an instant earlier.

  One of the guardians jerked back and forth until it looked as if it had to fall and the other dragged along on a twitching leg but both kept coming.

  “Right,” Roland repeated. He only had seconds to decide. Well it can’t be worse. Snatching up Patience, he flung himself at the wall, closing his eyes at the last instant.

  A metal hand closed about his ankle.

  A jumbled impression of dark, then gray, then light, and the horrendous sound of something tearing that was never meant to tear.

  He landed on grass, warm and dry and smelling slightly dusty in the warmth of the sun. For a moment, he did nothing but breathe and then, because it felt so good, he flopped over onto his back and did it some more. With one arm thrown up against the sun’s glare, he took inventory.

  His cheek. His shoulder. His back. His thigh. His ankle. His ankle?

  “Oh, shit!” Metal fingers still dug into the bone.

  He had to look, he knew it, but it took him a few minutes to gather the nerve. Finally, he sighed and sat up. The black gauntlet gleamed dully in the sunlight, the jagged edge where it had been torn from the rest of the armor a brighter black. Roland kicked his leg experimentally. The gauntlet hung on.

  “GET IT OFF ME!”

  During the wild thrashing that followed, the gauntlet brushed against the harp and fell free.

  Roland took several deep breaths. “Nobody asked your opinion,” he snarled at Tom, who’d sat quietly, tail curled around toes, watching the whole thing. Somehow, Roland managed to get to his feet. He glared down at the gauntlet. “Empty. The smell was a put-on. He was using my own fear against me. That lousy son of a …” He drew back his foot, thought better of it, and kicked viciously at a tuft of grass instead.

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