“Get some sleep now,” Rowen told her.
“I don’t know that I can.” Shaltus’s presence grated against her mind like a rasp.
“Tim’s not having any difficulty.” Rowen gestured toward the fire. Leah saw that Fletcher had curled up on his blanket and was already snoring loudly.
She smiled. “I wish I could do that, but I feel as tense as a bowstring. The wraith is waiting for us to relax our guard.”
Rowen stared into the skeleton trees. Beyond their campfire it was pitch black and deathly quiet. There were no sounds of night animals; no wind rustled the plants.
“Maybe so. But you ought to at least lie down and rest.” He glanced at her. “You look tired.”
Leah found the concern in his eyes disturbing. Shrugging, she turned away and studied Tim Fletcher. “Some. He must really be exhausted to fall asleep so easily. This ground doesn’t look very comfortable.” She kicked lightly at the sorcery-hardened earth. The dirt was laced with stones, branches, twigs, and odd patches of moss and fungus.
“We’re used to sleeping in the open. Compared with some of the places we’ve slept, this ground is a mattress. Now it’s hard for us to adjust to the softness of real beds.” He glanced at the cloud-shrouded sky. “I like sleeping under the stars.”
“I know what you mean.” Leah leaned back against one of the trees. “I’ve always felt more comfortable living close to nature than inside Castle Carlton. I guess it’s because I’m half-Sylvan. But I still like the comfort of a mattress.”
Rowen smiled. “You’d like a bed outdoors, I suppose?”
“I think I would.”
“The best of both worlds.”
“If I could have that …” She frowned, suddenly serious, thinking of her mixed blood. She’d often wished she’d been born one thing or the other; she’d dreamed about it, but she’d never dared dream of acceptance on her own terms.
She quickly shifted the subject back to him. “If you get your own kingdom, you’ll have to get used to sleeping indoors.”
“There’s little chance of that now, without Barbara to seal the alliance,” he replied. “Perhaps it’s just as well. I’m used to this wandering life. I don’t know that I’d be happy settled in one place.” He looked across the glade at Fletcher. “Tim thinks I’d be sick of ruling within three months, and he may be right.”
Trying not to look at Rowen’s face, Leah found herself watching his hands. His powerful fingers twisted together nervously as he spoke.
“I thought you wanted your own kingdom?”
He sighed. “Perhaps I’ve wanted only a dream. As a child I saw my father’s castle destroyed in the Great War. The lands of Rowen were transformed into a desert. I’ve thought of returning there and trying to restore what was, but one sorcerer cannot undo the destruction of hundreds.
“Sometimes, though, I remember the way my home was, and I long to find a place like that again. But I’d probably only discover fool’s gold, not the real thing.”
“Maybe it’s better to accept things the way they are than to wonder about might-have-beens or to search for might-be’s that never can be what you really want.” Leah sighed. “I’ve spent my whole life wanting things that never could be, wishing that things had been different. It only leads to frustration and disappointment.”
Rowen’s fingers tapped together uncertainly. “You’re probably right. I’ve enjoyed my life. It’s been exciting, varied, challenging. I shouldn’t want more.”
“But you do.”
“It’s just that I’ve never had a place of my own. I don’t fit anywhere.”
Leah glanced up. “I know the feeling.”
His slate-colored eyes met hers and held them for a moment in wordless communication.
She looked quickly away. “I’d better get some rest.” Leah felt his fingers brush her hand as she turned toward the fire. Without looking back she pulled away, crossed to the other side of the clearing, and stretched out on her bedroll.
She tried to force herself to sleep, to forget Michael Rowen, Shaltus, Quinen, her half-brother, her father, her isolation. She twisted and turned. The ground seemed made of jagged iron. The fire toasted one side of her body, while the cool, moist air chilled the other. The wraith’s presence was a gnawing irritation, like the persistent itch of a mosquito bite. The more she strove to ignore it, the more aware of it she became.
Restless, she opened her eyes and watched dancing flames pirouette along the logs to the music of Fletcher’s rattling snore.
Through the scarlet ballet she glimpsed Michael Rowen sitting on a tree stump by the edge of the glade. The firelight gave crimson highlights to his shoulder-length, auburn hair. His features were finely sculptured—gentle brows over large, intelligent eyes, patrician nose, full lips. Prominent cheekbones, smile lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and worry wrinkles across his high forehead gave his face character.
Suddenly a branch behind Rowen shifted. It became a dark, living rope that uncoiled and arched out of the tree toward his shoulders.
Leah’s spell caught the diamondback in midair and flung it to the ground. Its coils contracted, twitched, relaxed, and stilled.
“What?” He was on his feet.
“Look out,” shouted Leah. The trees behind him were writhing, somehow changing into other serpents.
He jerked around, ready to join his sorcery with hers.
The snakes slid through the double protective fields like worms through earth. Leah’s spell had no effect on them.
“Illusion only,” said Rowen calmly. “Except for this one.” He kicked the dead rattler away.
“How did it get through our shields?” Leah joined him.
“It was probably here when we camped, but the wraith waited until we were more vulnerable.”
Leah frowned as the phantom snakes crawled closer. “Why these?”
“Perhaps to draw our attention or to cause us to waste energy trying to destroy them. Shaltus doesn’t realize that my resistance to magic allows me to distinguish illusion from reality.”
“Are you sure they aren’t real?” asked Leah. She stepped back as a copperhead slithered toward her.
It seemed far from insubstantial. The hourglass-shaped chestnut markings on its brown skin were readily distinguishable.
“It’s only a projection of some sort.” Rowen stepped forward as if to kick it, but his foot passed through the phantom. “There may be some real ones among these, however.” He gestured at the forest. “I’ll keep an eye on them.” Snakes dripped from the trees in a twisting curtain. “You’d better wake Fletcher.”
Leah ran to the ex-priest. He was still in his bedroll.
As she reached to shake him, she realized that his snores had become ragged gasps.
“N’Omb’s fires!” she exclaimed. His face was pale and sweaty. His eyes rolled beneath half-open lids. “I think he’s been bitten,” she called to Rowen.
Fletcher’s brow was already fever-hot.
Something moved on the periphery of her vision. As she jerked away she heard a soft, dry rattle and felt the snake hit her leg.
She looked down and saw a long streak of blood on her trousers. The body of the rattler lay at her feet. Its severed head was a meter away—thrown there by Michael Rowen’s spell when he’d seen the snake strike at her.
“Thanks.”
He nodded. “Just returning the favor.” He turned his attention back to the invading phantoms.
Leah probed the glade carefully with her magic. There were no more living snakes within the hemisphere of their wards.
She knelt by Fletcher and searched for the bite. It was on his right forearm. Taking his knife, she cut across the wound and sucked out as much of the venom as she could. Finally she rinsed out her mouth with tomaad and forced him to drink some of the Sylvan elixir. Fletcher remained semiconscious, but she guessed that he would recover.
“Leah,” called Rowen. His voice was tense.
She saw pinpoints
of silver flame all along the golden shields where something small was trying to penetrate.
Touching Fletcher’s forehead once more to assure herself that it was cooler, she went to Rowen. “What is it?”
“Insects, some illusion, some real.”
Suddenly lightning arched out of the black sky. Bolt after bolt crashed against the wards. The cracking claps were deafening. The earth rocked, the air burned, the light dazzled.
A swarm of wasps swirled into their shields.
Leah screamed as the rune wards exploded with a force that almost knocked her down. Half-blinded by the blast, she stumbled into Rowen. His hands closed on hers. Wordlessly they united their defense, erecting a strong barrier around themselves and the still unconscious Fletcher.
Without the wards, however, it was impossible to protect the horses from the furious attack.
A jagged spear of silver illuminated the glade. Leah saw the animals clearly. They reared in fear, pulling frantically at their tethered reins. Their nostrils flared. Sweat dripped from silken coats. Their lips were stretched tightly over bared teeth. The brown-eyed mare shook. Its shriek became a shrill wail.
A bolt struck them with full force.
Leah shuddered and cried out. Nauseated, she pressed her head against Rowen’s chest and tried to ignore the stench of burning flesh and bitter ozone. His hands squeezed hers comfortingly.
Then she felt a sharp burning sensation on her shoulder, like the stab of a weaver’s needle. Rowen jerked away, grimacing in pain.
Some of the wasps had gotten inside their shield when the wards fell. As the lightning continued to pound them, the insects attacked with a vengeance, stinging them repeatedly. Keeping a grip on Rowen’s left hand to hold their psychic link, Leah swatted the wasps with her right hand. Rowen batted at the insects with his left hand. By the time they had killed them all, their hands were swollen from the stings.
They knelt at Fletcher’s side. He was fully conscious but too weak to join the link.
Throughout the night the thunderbolts continued to bombard them. Bolstered by occasional sips of tomaad, they had little difficulty in maintaining their united shield. They made no attempt to counterattack, however, for the wraith’s power seemed inexhaustible.
At dawn the attack ceased abruptly. After the continuous barrage the sudden silence was almost painful. Leah’s ears still rang with echoing thunder.
“Is it over?” she gasped, not hearing herself say the words.
“I think so.” Rowen’s voice seemed a whisper. They probed the area with spells, seeking further threats, but there were none.
“The wraith will replenish its energy. Then it will attack again.”
“I guess so.”
“Let’s get moving while we can.” Rowen turned to Fletcher. “Are you feeling well enough to walk?”
“I’m all right.” The ex-priest threw off his covers and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“You don’t look too well.” Leah studied his still-pale face and slightly shaking hands. “You’d better drink some more tomaad.”
“I’m just a bit woozy.” Fletcher took a swig from the flask looped across his chest.
“Better take it easy on that,” Rowen advised. “We don’t have too much left.”
Taking inventory they found that each of them still had one canteen. The rest had been destroyed along with the horses and most of their gear. They stuffed the remaining food and supplies into their bedrolls and slung them over their shoulders like packs.
Leah and Rowen set to work advancing the path. After several hours the bramble-laden swamp gave way to firmer ground and a forest of lifeless trees. Spells no longer hindered their progress. Within moments they covered more ground on foot than they had during the previous afternoon.
Leah strode forward quickly, eager to get out of the skeleton forest and into open fields. She smiled as the trees thinned. Then the grin slipped from her face as she reached the edge of the woods.
Instead of the corn fields she remembered, a vast, formal garden in full bloom lay ahead.
Inspecting it for illusion she murmured a spell, but the flowers, shrubs, statues, and fountains seemed real.
Rowen touched her arm. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know.” She studied the rows of azaleas and roses in pink, white, and gold. There were pansies, petunias, fuchsias, goldenrod, gardenias, marigolds, orchids, and a hundred others. “This wasn’t here two years ago. Is it illusion?”
“A large part seems to be real.”
“A trap?”
“Maybe.” Rowen looked glumly at the stylized plots of flowers and shrubs and the intertwining paths. “Which way is the wraithstone?”
Leah studied the sky. It was too overcast to see the sun, but a patch of brightness revealed its hiding place.
She pointed at the large hedges to the right. “Through the garden. Castle Bluefield would be to the left, at the foot of those dark hills. These beds seem to stretch all the way there.”
“Hey …”
Leah jerked around. Fletcher was staring into shrubbery.
“I thought I saw someone there,” he said. “I think it was a woman—but maybe I just imagined it.”
“That’s the direction we have to go. Let’s see what we can find.” Rowen headed off along a neat white pebble path. Fletcher followed quickly to stay within the aura of Rowen’s protective field. Leah brought up the rear.
The walk meandered by a rock garden dotted with cactus plants. They passed topiary shrubs shaped to resemble bears, osmurs, dogs, and other animals and bronze fountains circled by nasturtiums. Beds of gladioli, goldenrod, and marigolds surrounded polished statuary that Shaltus’s magic must have recently created. Rhododendrons, roses, azaleas, and evergreens edged parts of the path. There was even a tiered herbarium.
Rowen paused by a large statue of a man strangling an osmur with his bare hands.
“Notice anything strange about this?” he asked Leah.
The well-muscled figure might have been of some bronze god from an age before N’Omb’s rule, for no mortal man could kill a five-meter-tall, apelike osmur. Still, there was something familiar about the man’s face—his firm jaw, his cruel smile.
“Not really …”
“All these statues are of the same man.” The sorcerer gestured toward the various marble and bronze figures ornamenting the garden. “This place is like a shrine to him.”
“There’s that woman again,” cried Fletcher. He pointed away from the monument toward a figure fleeing along the bank of a lily-filled pond.
Unkempt raven hair hung like knotted ropes to her waist. The torn rags of a blue dress showed more of the slim figure than they concealed. A face, white and stark as a gull’s wing, turned sidewise for a moment, revealing an expression of terror so great that it distorted all the features into a scream. Then she was gone, with only a trembling rose showing where she’d been.
“Barbara!” Leah whispered.
“She’s still alive.” Fletcher’s eyes widened. “Or could she be one of Shaltus’s illusions?”
“No. She’s real.” Rowen’s brow creased into a frown. “Somehow she’s still alive.”
Leah started forward. “Let’s go after her. She must have escaped from the wraith.”
She ran ahead, with Fletcher and Rowen a few steps behind her.
A blue thread hung from a yellow rose’s thorn by a branching path. She turned left. Something moved in front of her. She ran faster. A fleeting glimpse of bare arms and black hair ducking through an ivy-covered archway. She followed, cutting quickly left, right, and left again along a hedge-lined corridor.
“There she is,” Fletcher called some distance behind her.
A patch of blue through the leaves.
Following closely, she shouted, “Barbara!”
“Leah?” Rowen’s voice seemed far behind.
“Yes?” She turned her head, expecting to see him and Fletcher, and stopped in midstride. There was no o
ne there.
“Fletcher? Rowen?”
“Here.” Rowen’s voice, close behind her and to the left.
She hesitated and stared at the path ahead. Barbara was tantalizingly near. But Rusty’s warning not to get separated came into her mind. She turned back. The path between the thick walls of hedges forked, and she turned left, toward the sound of Rowen’s voice. It forked again.
“Rowen?”
“Here.” A loud cry to the left, but from the right came a weak call, like an echo. She turned left.
The path twisted and turned and came out by a large bronze fountain with a dozen lizard figures spewing forth thick sprays of water. Across from each lizard lay a path leading back into the maze, and beside each opening stood the marble figure of a man with a cold, cruel smile. It seemed to be mocking her.
Leah shivered. She had seen that face before, echoed in Vargo’s contorted features.
“Rowen?” she called. Nothing. “Tim—Tim Fletcher?” she shouted at the top of her voice, but there was no answer.
Suddenly she felt panicky. She cupped her spellstone in her hands and sought contact with the sorcerer and the ex-priest. Her probe spun out—and met a malignant wall of force that blocked it completely.
Leah understood clearly now. The garden was a trap. Perhaps Rowen’s voice had only been an illusion to draw her farther into the maze. Perhaps the others had heard the voice call to them, from the wrong direction.
She glanced at the sky. It was a uniform gray.
Taking a deep breath she turned around and began carefully retracing her steps. She turned right, then right again. Which way now? She studied the white gravel path for a footprint, the hedges for a broken branch. Nothing. She shrugged and turned left.
Cautiously she continued to search for a way out. She called for Rowen but got no answer. She tried magic and found walls of sorcery still blocking her spells. They seemed as solid and impenetrable as stone.
She was lost in the maze. Every time she tried to retrace her steps, the path seemed to wind back to the lizard fountain or to curve into a new corridor decorated with statues, benches, or multicolored flowers. She broke twigs to keep from traveling in circles, but this only seemed to lead her farther from her original starting point.
The Spellstone of Shaltus Page 14