“Perhaps,” Illarion said. “But I doubt mages would go to that much expense for vanity. No, the map in the entrance serves a purpose, but we don’t yet know whether it aligns with your concerns.”
Just then, a loud thump made them turn. “That damn book!” Piran said. The wood-bound book lay on the floor.
“Wait,” Kestel said. She walked over and picked up the heavy tome. Then she looked toward the corners of the room, where even the lanterns and firelight did not fully dispel the shadows. “I’m a little dim, but you keep moving this book around,” Kestel said to the shadows. “All right. You’ve got my attention.” She looked at the others. “Maybe the ghosts weren’t trying to kill me when they pushed this off the shelves. Maybe they were trying to get us to look at this particular book.”
She lifted it to the table and began to page through the book as the others gathered around her. “The cover is heavy,” Kestel murmured. The two pieces of burnished wood were tied together rather than bound with a spine. In between were hundreds of parchment pages, yellowed with age, all cut to fit between the covers.
“What’s the subject?” Blaine asked.
Kestel frowned and shook her head. “This can’t be right. It’s a storybook – or a history – about Valshoa.” She looked up, mystified. “But Valshoa is only a legend.”
“May I take a look?” Geir exchanged places with Kestel and began to leaf through the parchment. “Valshoa is a legend, but most legends have root in fact,” he said. “Valshoa disappeared centuries ago.”
“Maybe a big storm wiped it out,” Piran countered. “Or a volcano. When I soldiered, we passed through a lot of places where there were just ruins of old buildings or towns.”
“Valshoa was a city of mages,” Illarion said. “The legends say that the mages didn’t want to be distracted from their magic, so they built a city for themselves and used their magic to discourage visitors. Over the years, they became more and more reclusive. Their magic made people avoid their city and helped outsiders forget about them.” He shrugged. “So the stories say.”
“So they made people forget they were there, and people thought the city disappeared?” Piran asked, pouring himself another tankard of wine.
“There are many stories, but who knows how much is true?” Illarion said. “If they are true, then at least a few people managed to visit the city and return – or escape.”
Blaine stared at the wood-bound book. “And at least a few who may have wanted their privacy as much as the mages,” he said quietly.
“What are you thinking?” Geir asked.
Blaine frowned. “We’ve got a city that vanished – a city that must have been in a place of power to be known for its mages – and a group of immortals who needed a secure place to hide. And we’ve got Vigus Quintrel, who suspected that something terrible was going to happen and needed sanctuary for the mages and scholars he gathered.”
“You think the Knights of Esthrane found the ruins of Valshoa and made it their sanctuary?” Kestel asked as Geir continued to page through the parchments held between the wooden covers.
“Who knows? But it’s possible there could be talishte who actually remembered Valshoa, isn’t it?” Blaine asked.
Geir nodded. “Yes, although most don’t survive that long.” He paused. “A small number of Elders remain. It’s certainly possible that they could have had firsthand knowledge of Valshoa.”
Piran gave Blaine a horrified look. “I don’t care what you say, I’m not hunting up some thousand-year-old talishte and asking for directions,” he said and drained the tankard.
“I would counsel caution as well,” Geir said. “The Elders are not known to welcome strangers, especially mortals. They live in seclusion and rarely even see others of our kind. If we must seek the counsel of the Elders, it’s a task best left to Penhallow.”
“Listen to the vampire,” Piran said. “He’s talking sense.”
Kestel’s gaze had not left the book in Geir’s hands. “What else did you find in the manuscript?” she asked.
Geir continued to turn the pages. “It’s a fairly complete history of Valshoa, from what I can make out. Oddly enough, it was marked with a blue ribbon. But no map.” He paused. “And a note from our mysterious friend.” He held up a loose sheet of parchment that was much newer than the rest of the manuscript.
“What’s that?” Blaine asked.
Geir gave a thin smile. “Another coded set of jottings signed with a ‘VQ,’” he reported.
“Vigus Quintrel,” Kestel said. “How is it that he’s always a few steps ahead of us?”
“More like we’re a few steps behind him,” Blaine replied, taking a look at the paper. “After all, Quintrel knew what he was planning. We’re scrambling to figure out the puzzle before time runs out.”
Blaine looked at the notations on the loose sheet. Some of the markings resembled those on the obsidian disks. Names and initials were jotted on the sheet, along with words in a language Blaine did not recognize, and a series of numbers.
“The numbers appear to be longitude and latitude,” Geir said. “But what they direct us to, I don’t know.”
“Could it be Valshoa?” Kestel asked, excitement coloring her voice. “Let me see.” Geir obligingly placed the heavy book back on the table. Kestel carefully turned the manuscript over and let her fingers move slowly over the back cover.
“Kestel?” Verran said tentatively. “What are you doing?”
“I noticed when I picked the book up that the back cover seemed different from the front,” she said, still examining the wood. “Then when Geir picked it up, I could see that the back cover is thicker.”
“You think there’s a hidden compartment?” Verran’s interest grew livelier with the prospect of secreted valuables.
Kestel grinned. “I think the back cover is hollow. Do you want to do the honors?”
Verran’s eyes were alight as he traded places with Kestel and let his fingers play over the old wood. “It’s inlaid, but someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look ordinary,” he mused. “Usually it’s the other way around. Someone who can only afford a simple thing wants it to look like more than it is.”
Verran bent to have a closer look. “Wait, I can see the lines where the pieces fit together. Between the grain and the finish, whoever made this did a good job.”
“Can you open it?” Kestel asked excitedly.
It seemed to Blaine as if even the shadows gathered closer to where Verran hunched over the book. “Don’t be doubting me, Kestel dear,” Verran quipped. “Of course I can open it.”
“If it was worth going to that much trouble to hide something, would the book’s owner have spelled the compartment shut?” Piran asked.
Verran gave him a sour look. “Might have. But the magic died, remember? So did binding spells and the like. Ah!” he said suddenly, and he smiled. “I think I found a catch.”
There was a quiet click, and a thin panel of wood came loose in Verran’s hands. “Oh yes,” he enthused. “Oh yes.”
“Don’t make love to the bloody thing,” Piran grumbled. “Just tell us what’s inside.”
Verran was enthralled enough with his find that he did not spare a look for Piran. His slender fingers worked at the small compartment until he had teased out a folded piece of brown parchment. “Yes!” he shouted, then suddenly realized how loud his voice was.
“What have you got?” Kestel asked, moving closer. This time, Blaine was certain he saw the shadows shift in corners of the room quite apart from where the fire cast their silhouettes.
“A rather old piece of parchment,” Verran said, handing the folded square to Geir. Geir carefully opened it. “Now this is interesting,” he said quietly.
“What?” Verran asked, stretching onto his toes to see over Geir’s shoulder.
“By the looks of it, we’ve found Valtyr’s last map,” Geir replied. “And it’s of Valshoa.”
“Valshoa?” Kestel said, frowning. “I mean, it ma
kes sense, given where we found it, but why would Valtyr bother with creating a map like that —”
“Because Valshoa did exist,” Zaryae said triumphantly, her eyes shining.
Geir studied the faded writing on the map. “More so than the other three, it seems to be a detailed map of a fairly small area. Two maps were of entire continents, and the third was of the heavens. This is a map of the city itself and its immediate environs. And perhaps,” he added, looking more closely, “of places where the power waxes or wanes inside the city.”
“Are there any clues that might help us find the city itself?” Illarion asked, peering over Zaryae and Kestel for a glimpse.
“Nothing that I can see,” Geir said and placed the map with the others on the table.
Blaine’s head pounded, and his fever left him sweating and flushed. As the others clustered around the maps, he poured himself another glass of wine.
Kestel studied the maps. “I wonder whether Connor and Penhallow found any more disks.”
Geir shook his head. “I have no news, other than the sense that Penhallow and Connor are reasonably safe. We’ll have to wait for them to rejoin us to find out more.”
Zaryae bent close to the wood-bound manuscript. She turned the manuscript over, focusing on the carving on the front cover. “Look at this,” she said, holding one of the disks next to the carved wood.
“Do you see?” She pointed to a downward-facing curve with a slash through it. “This is the same on both the disk and the cover.” Zaryae frowned. “I’ve seen this symbol somewhere else. Somewhere recently.” She looked up and grinned broadly. “I remember! It was carved into the door of the shrine.”
“Then let’s have a look,” Kestel said excitedly.
“I’m not much for shrines,” Piran said. “And it’s nearly my turn to take over the watch from Desya. I’ll stay here and make sure nothing happens to the maps.” He glanced around himself. “I don’t trust this place. The sooner we’re gone, the better.” Borya nodded his agreement.
“I agree,” Geir said, “but likely for different reasons.”
“I’m staying near the fire,” Verran said. “If there’s a lock to pick, come and get me.”
They could hear the storm tugging at the wood that blocked off the stairs in the entranceway. Blaine, Illarion, Kestel, and Zaryae made their way down the darkened corridor, lanterns held aloft. Once they left the glow of the firelight that radiated from the library’s doorway, the hallway seemed oppressively dark, and each step took them deeper into the shadows.
“You’re limping,” Kestel said quietly. She moved to walk on the same side as his injured leg and slipped an arm around Blaine’s waist. “Lean on me. We’ll have a look at that leg when we get back to the library.”
“I’d be happy for a stiff shot of whiskey to dull the pain, and the chance to sleep it off,” Blaine murmured. “I feel terrible.”
“I sure hope this place was a little more comfortable when the mage-scholars lived here,” Zaryae said with a shiver. “Even ascetics can freeze to death.”
As they passed the kitchen there was a loud, metallic clatter. It echoed against the stone walls of the corridor, making them jump. Kestel and Zaryae exchanged wary glances. “Sounds like the spirits in the kitchen are still at work,” Zaryae remarked.
Illarion was in the lead with a lantern. He stopped in front of a wooden door. Like the library entrance, the door was made from cherry wood, and it was carved with an equally impressive motif. But even in the lantern light, Blaine could see the symbols for Torven, Charrot, and Esthrane.
“Did you go in when you found the room?” Kestel asked, her voice just above a whisper although the four were alone in the corridor.
Zaryae shook her head. “We peered in the door, enough to get a sense of its purpose. We thought it best to explore it with a larger group. I had a strong sense that it and the library would be where we would find what we sought.”
Illarion gave the heavy door a push. Inside was completely dark, and Blaine guessed that the shrine lacked even the shuttered windows of the library. Illarion stepped into the room, holding the lantern aloft.
The corridor had been much colder than the library, but the shrine was colder still. The lantern’s light did not reach to the four corners of the room. It was enough to see a darkened altar, the melted remnants of candles, and a shadowy sculpture that loomed against the far wall.
Blaine’s head throbbed harder, and he reeled. Kestel reached out to steady him, and he could see concern in her features. “Are you all right?”
Blaine grimaced. “I’ve been better. Let’s be done with this so I can go back to the library and sleep off this headache.”
Another step into the shrine revealed a room that might be able to accommodate about twenty-five people. Ornate boxes of metal and wood had windowed panels displaying yellowed bones.
“Looks as if we found those relics you were talking about,” Kestel murmured with a nod toward the boxes.
Against the far wall was a full-sized figure of a robed skeleton holding a scythe in one hand and an astrolabe in the other. The wall behind the figure was painted in brightly colored symbols.
“Look at what the skeleton is wearing,” Kestel whispered to Blaine. He moved a step closer for a better look in the dim light. Nearly hidden by the figure’s robes, an obsidian disk on a leather strap hung on the bony rib cage.
“Do you see?” Blaine whispered to Zaryae.
She nodded but touched his arm in warning as he reached toward the skeleton. “We must ask the goddess’s permission. She takes a dim view of those who desecrate her holy places.”
Whispered voices seemed just beyond the threshold of Blaine’s hearing, and he inclined his head to listen better, but the voices were too distant to make out.
“This is all wrong,” Kestel murmured. “Torven is the harvester of souls. But the color of the robe is green, Esthrane’s color.”
“Esthrane rules the Unseen Realm, where the wandering souls reside,” Zaryae replied in a hushed voice. “Look at the symbols in the background. Sheaves of wheat. Herd animals.” She pointed toward the wall behind the skeletal figure. “And Esthrane’s constellation. This is Mother Esthrane,” Zaryae said. “But I’ve never seen her shown this way before.”
All around them in the darkened shrine, Blaine could hear voices whispering. They were louder now, but still indistinct. He felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck.
“Here’s a taper,” Kestel said. “Let’s light some candles and get a better look at the mural behind the figure.” She lit several candles and turned to Zaryae. “What do you make of it?”
The mural behind the skeletal statue began on the right with figures of the mage-scholars at work in the fields and going about their daily business, milling wheat, baking bread, tending herds. Over them all, in the sky, were symbols of Esthrane’s protection: hawks, crows, and falcons.
In the next panel, directly behind the death-mother figure, the mage-scholars were at their books, studying and teaching or venerating Esthrane with prayer and offerings.
“Look there,” Zaryae said quietly, pointing to the third panel. A gray-green sky replaced the bright blue of the first panel. The birds of protection had been replaced by ravens, owls, and vultures. A faint green ribbon of light could be seen in the gray sky, and a skeletal hand protruding from a burgundy robe hovered, as if to hold the image fixed. Below that, translucent images of men milled about on the banks of a black river. Unlike the first two panels, there was nothing to suggest their purpose or how they passed their time, no daily chores, no study or worship.
“The Unseen Realm,” Zaryae murmured. “The place of restless souls.”
“And for some reason, the mages believed that was their fate,” Kestel said, drawing closer to the mural and leaning forward for a better look. “See – the faces of the ghosts are the same faces of the mages in the first two murals.”
“Why would they believe that they would linger in th
e Unseen Realm instead of passing to the Sea of Souls?” Kestel murmured. “Or worse, to Raka if they had done something to anger the gods?”
Blaine’s fever flared, and he felt the blood leave his head in a rush. He fell, vaguely aware of Kestel’s cry and Zaryae’s shout. Illarion was speaking, but his voice seemed far away. In its place were the voices of the dead. The shadows surrounded Blaine, cooling his fevered skin with their touch, and their words grew clear as the living voices receded.
Lord of the Blood, you have come, a voice said.
Our seer foretold that one remained. We awaited you, but we did not live to greet you, added another voice.
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