“Ela!” Kostimon shouted. “Don’t look at it. You’ll draw it to you. Hurry and pin this to your cloak. It will protect you.”
As he spoke, he drew a metal disk from his pocket and thrust it at her. She saw that he wore a similar disk pinned to his own cloak. Some trick of the torchlight made its polished surface gleam as though it emitted fire.
But when the disk touched her gloved palm, a searing flash of light and heat shot out. Sparks flew between the disk and her glove. She cried out and dropped the disk, which went clattering across the ground.
It rolled up against Caelan’s boot. He stooped and picked it up as though in wonder.
“You!” the emperor shouted at him, barely controlling his plunging, half-rearing mount. “Give that back to the empress. She must wear it. It’s her only protection against the shyrieas.”
Fresh fear leaped into Elandra’s throat. She couldn’t help looking again at the monsters that were forming. They shrieked and struggled, flapping wings and clawing the air with their talons.
Caelan was still studying the disk, turning it over and over in his hands. Elandra was afraid of it, afraid of Kostimon’s suddenly revealed powers, afraid of the way he dared utter the shadow god’s unspeakable name.
“I shall wear no emblem of the darkness,” she declared fearfully.
“Don’t be a fool,” Kostimon said. “You—”
“It’s a warding key,” Caelan interrupted, his voice full of amazement. “Choven made.”
“Give it to the empress,” Kostimon said. He kicked his horse in Caelan’s direction. “She must be protected—”
“Her cloak and gloves do that,” Caelan said. “The protection spells are different. They cannot work together.”
“Give it to her, I say!”
Shrugging, Caelan handed up the disk to Elandra.
“No!” she cried, backing her horse away.
Behind them, the shyrieas shrieked. Ahead of them, a tall figure in long priestly robes suddenly appeared in the bestial mouth of the doorway. He beckoned, and several guardsmen cried out a warning. Panic ran through the air, hot and sour.
“Majesty!” called the priest. “Come quickly.”
“It is safe, men!” Kostimon tried to assure the soldiers. “On my honor, I swear to you that it is safe. It is a secret way of Gault.”
Caelan was also staring at the priest. “It’s not Sien,” he said as though to himself.
Elandra heard him, and relaxed slightly in relief. She never wanted to see the high priest again.
“Captain Vysal,” Kostimon ordered, “send the men through at once. We cannot afford delay.”
Vysal’s voice rang out, tighter and more brusque than usual, and the men reluctantly spurred their shying, frightened horses toward the exit.
“Majesty, come!” the priest called with more urgency than before. “Your Majesty must be the first one through the portal, if the others are to follow where you go.”
The emperor swore, using dark, ancient words that rang in Elandra’s ears. “Never mind your instructions!” he shouted back. “I know what to do. See that you get the cup ready. Hurry!”
Elandra stared at him in wonder, trying to understand what was happening.
He glared at her. “Take the disk and come with me. We must go through first. There’s no more time.”
No matter how great her fear, she could not disobey his direct command. With great reluctance, she reached out her hand and let Caelan give her the disk.
Again, sparks flashed between her glove and the disk. A numbing jolt went through her hand, and the disk went flying.
“I cannot hold it,” she said.
Kostimon swore again. “Ela, stop fooling about or I shall lose you forever. Take off those damned gloves and—”
“The magic she has is stronger than this, and older,” Caelan said, interceding. “She is safe as she is.”
“Nonsense!” Kostimon snapped. “Nothing is stronger than Choven-forged—”
“Women’s magic,” Caelan replied. He glanced at Elandra with his brows lifted, as though for confirmation. “Penestrican?”
“Mahiran,” she answered.
Scowling, Kostimon opened his mouth as though to argue further, but a dreadful screech from the first, and largest, shyriea filled the cavern. Lifting itself into the air with strong flaps of its wings, it flew at them.
Elandra screamed.
Shouting a war cry, Kostimon drew his sword and brandished it aloft. “Choven steel!” he shouted defiantly. “Come and eat it, you harpy of the devil!”
Beside Elandra’s shying horse, Caelan gripped her stirrup and raised the warding key in his hand. He shouted something in a language she did not understand—Trau, perhaps. The sound of the words made her feel dizzy and strange.
The disk in his upraised palm glowed and came to life. Light flashed in a ray from it to the disk pinned to Kostimon’s cloak to his sword. As though in response, Elandra’s gloves and cloak also glowed with light until the combined radiance was blinding.
The shyriea swooped at them from overhead, only to wheel back, screaming. She realized it could not harm her or these two men under their protection spell.
As for the light around her, it grew ever brighter. She felt as though she were being burned up, and yet the fire that blazed through her was both strangely cool and exhilarating.
The horses, lathered and terrified, galloped across the cavern to the others, where the priest was hastily administering a goblet of something—sacramental wine, perhaps—to the guardsmen. Caelan kept pace at Elandra’s horse’s side, running effortlessly, his golden hair on fire, his eyes cold white flames. His skin was like tempered bronze, shining in the unearthly light. He was singing as he ran, the words still in some mysterious tongue that awakened strange sensations in her.
Elandra felt as one with this man, as though she had joined his heart and mind. She saw his goodness, his loyal heart, his honesty, and his pain.
As for Kostimon, on her other side, she felt as one with him also, joined with him for the first time. His aged looks had fallen away. He looked as young as Caelan, lean and glorious, his face radiant as he tipped back his head and laughed aloud. White flames shot from his mouth, driving back the shyriea again. She had never seen a man more handsome or magnificent than Kostimon, with his black curly hair and strong shoulders.
Laughing again, he spoke something even older and more powerful than Caelan’s incantations. The word appeared in the air, blazing with fire, and the largest shyriea swallowed it, only to scream and explode into ashes. The other demons vanished also, their screams echoing long after they faded.
There was an awful stink of sulfur and death in the cavern, choking the air.
The fire blazing in Elandra died, as suddenly as it had come to life. She dropped down in her saddle, not realizing until then that she had been standing in her stirrups. She felt dazed and winded.
On her left, Caelan lowered his hand with the warding key and stumbled. He released her stirrup and let her horse shoot past him. The fiery radiance encircling him like a halo faded and disappeared.
On her right, Kostimon looked around and laughed. Strong, vigorous, and handsome, he was glorious, more splendidly male than she could have ever imagined. This was the man who had vanquished countless foes, who had gathered an army and forged an empire. This was a man who had ruled the world for a thousand years, Kostimon the Great, a man above all men.
Then his sword stopped flaming and the fire in him vanished.
Before her eyes, his youthful looks aged swiftly until he was once again an old man slumping in his saddle. He looked haggard and exhausted. His yellow eyes held torment and regret of a degree she could not bear to witness.
She wanted to weep for him, this man who had once held everything in the palm of his hand. How old he was now, how diminished. And yet, she could see in his eyes that he still had the spirit and the soul of a man in his prime. Only his body was failing him, and perhaps, at l
ast, his mind also. She could see his rage, his frustration, and his fear as his own mortality loomed over him. Now, at last, having glimpsed what he had once been, she could grieve for him.
“Majesty,” the priest said urgently. “Come. You must go through the portal now.”
“Sien,” Kostimon said, his voice quivering and feeble. He reached out blindly. “I want Lord Sien.”
The priest came running to his side. “Lord Sien is not here,” he said. “Please, Majesty. I cannot command the portal as you wish. Drink this and grow strong.”
Kostimon slumped lower and moaned. “Help me.”
“Here is the cup, Majesty,” the priest said, lifting the goblet to the emperor’s lips. “Drink deeply.”
Elandra drew rein beside the guardsmen, who were gaping wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She was not sure just yet exactly what had happened. But the shyrieas were gone. That she did understand.
Kostimon pressed one hand against his face. His shoulders were shaking, and he leaned over his horse’s neck as though he would fall out of the saddle. His sword slid to the ground with a clang of steel upon stone.
“Help him!” Elandra called.
Baiter and another man hurried to him, but the priest was already pushing the emperor back into the saddle. The sergeant bent and picked up the emperor’s sword. Slowly he slid it into its scabbard.
“Get back,” the priest said fiercely. He held up a goblet, and Elandra could see ruby-colored wine swirling inside it. “Drink this. Majesty.”
“Help me,” Kostimon begged piteously. “I am fainting. I cannot go on—”
“You will be well again,” the priest assured him, holding the goblet to his lips. “Drink deeply. This will restore you.”
Kostimon’s fingers groped and clasped the rim of the goblet. He drank noisily, choking on the liquid.
Glancing at the guardsmen who had already drunk the potion, Elandra did not like their glazed looks and semivacant faces. “They look drunk!” she cried. “What have you given them?”
“Forgetfulness,” Lord Sien replied smoothly.
She gasped at the sound of his voice and glanced around swiftly. He was nowhere to be seen, yet his voice was unmistakable.
The priest, thin and serious of expression, walked over to her and lifted the goblet.
From the air, Sien’s voice said, “To walk through the mouth of Beloth is not easy. It is not for the faint of heart, not for the unbelievers.”
“We do not worship the shadow god here!” she said. “Do not utter his dire name in my presence.”
Lord Sien laughed, his voice thin and ghostly. The shadows within the cavern seemed to grow darker as though the torchlight was burning out. The Vindicant priest stood motionless and vacant-eyed, holding the cup.
“Drink, my lady, what this man offers you. Do not refuse what you do not understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” she said grimly, goose bumps rising across her skin.
“It is through Beloth’s mercy that you will escape the trap surrounding you. Drink from the goblet. It will ease you.”
“No, I thank you,” she refused him curtly. “I need no potion of yours.”
“Fool!” Sien’s voice blared loud enough to make the walls of the cavern shake. Elandra’s horse shied, and she struggled to control the animal. Finally the animal quieted.
Elandra drew in a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder at Caelan, who stood apart from her and the others. She could see repudiation and disgust in his face.
“Do you hear Sien’s voice?” she asked.
He glanced at her, his eyes blazing an intense blue, and nodded without speaking.
Elandra heard the sound of splintering wood. Looking back across the cavern, she saw an axe blade cleave through the wooden panels of the door. Suddenly she could hear shouts and war cries.
Her heart lurched anew. “Madruns! They have found us. The spell is not holding.”
“He has released it,” Caelan corrected her angrily.
Kostimon straightened in the saddle and picked up the reins lying slack on his horse’s neck. Turning, the priest hurried back to him and pointed the head of Kostimon’s horse toward the open portal within the open jaws of the stone beast.
“Go,” he commanded, and the horse walked forward.
To Elandra, whatever lay on the other side looked pitch black. A cold air blew forth, and it stank of something she could not identify. She averted her eyes, shivering.
“The emperor knows the way through,” Lord Sien said from his invisible position.
The priest handed a burning torch to Kostimon, who took it without expression. The emperor’s face was slack and strangely empty.
“He has gone this way many times,” Sien’s voice said. “Follow him, and you will be safe.”
“Majesty, no—” Elandra called after her husband, but Kostimon did not look back. Afraid for him, she started to call again, but Caelan touched her foot to silence her.
“He does not hear you,” Caelan said quietly. “Or if he does, it makes no difference to him now.”
Kostimon rode through the portal, lazily ducking his head just in time to go under the low entrance. The darkness engulfed him instantly, and Captain Vysal rode in after him. The other mounted guardsmen followed, then the men on foot. Sergeant Baiter brought up the rear.
The sergeant glanced back at Elandra, who still hesitated.
The door at the other end of the cavern gave way with a splintering crash, and Madruns poured through. She stared at them, caught between two very different kinds of danger, and felt her own resistance give way.
“Caelan,” she said, hearing urgency and fear shaking in her voice, “will your warding key not work again?”
“Not against barbarians of our world,” he replied. “Go.”
It was as though he gave her permission.
“And what of you?” she asked worriedly. “Will you also take this journey?”
He shook his head. “I will hold them as long as I can—”
“Don’t be a fool!” she interrupted angrily. “Your death will not serve me.”
“He fears to walk the hidden ways, Majesty,” Lord Sien said, mocking them even as he remained too much a coward to face them physically again. “Yes, even a warrior like him comes eventually to his own limit. Call it cowardice if you wish, but he will not take the path to safety. He will not pay. its price.”
“What price?” she asked in alarm. “What do you mean?”
Caelan’s gaze shifted to watch the Madruns, who were entering the large cavern cautiously, almost fearfully. A crease appeared between his brows, but he remained aloof, as though nothing could touch him, as though he were encased in ice, without feelings. Yet she knew he was capable of feeling deeply, beneath his icy surface.
“What price?” she asked again. “What lies waiting in there?”
“Only the mysteries,” Lord Sien replied. “Will you take the cup? I can guarantee your safety no other way.”
The unnamed priest held up the goblet to her again.
“I do not trust you,” she said. “I will stay here, and take my chances with the kind of danger I understand.”
Sien’s voice made no reply, but it was Caelan who turned on her.
“Don’t be foolish!” he said angrily, surprising her. “You are needed elsewhere.”
“I will stay.” With you, she wanted to say but did not quite dare.
He glared up at her. “Then you make worthless everything that was done tonight! Every man’s death was for nothing—”
“I will go if you go!” she shouted back, equally angry. “Otherwise I will not.”
“You—”
“Did you not rebuke the emperor’s men for refusing to serve me?” she said over his words. “Did you not take the same oaths as they?”
Caelan’s face darkened. He met her eyes furiously. He said nothing.
She met him look for look, afraid and stubborn. “Unless you hold the bridle of my horse and
enter that darkness with me, I will not go.”
“You put all of us in danger!” the priest suddenly said. “Beloth’s curses on both of you. I will not wait here to be torn to bits.”
As he spoke, a war cry rose from the Madruns.
It chilled Elandra’s blood. She looked and saw them coming now, as though they had finally seen their quarry. Pointing and brandishing their war clubs, they came at a run.
Elandra’s heart filled her mouth, and her hands tightened involuntarily on the reins, making her horse back up. All her courage drained away. She did not think she could carry out her bluff with Caelan, and she was ashamed of herself, bitterly ashamed.
But just before she whirled her horse to bolt through the portal, Caelan gave her a curt nod.
“As you wish,” he said ungraciously.
“The cup,” the priest said quickly. He held up the goblet. “They will be on us in a moment. Drink it now.”
Frowning, feeling as though she were surrendering her soul, Elandra took the goblet. The gleam of triumph in the priest’s eyes frightened her anew. She took a tiny sip, and instantly her mouth was on fire. Choking, she thrust the cup away, almost dropping it so that part of its contents splashed over the side.
Her mouth was on fire, but in its wake came a strange numbness that crept through her face, then down her throat and into her limbs. She found that everything looked strangely crooked and out of perspective. The portal seemed very far away, yet she was already riding through it. Her hair brushed the top of the opening, and she ducked just in time. She entered a darkness as cold and as encompassing as the grave.
Caelan shook his head when the priest offered him the cup. With a curse, the priest fled through the portal ahead of them.
Elandra’s hands rested on the neck of her horse, slackly holding the reins. She listened to the strange and steady boom-boom-boom of her heartbeat.
I am going to the dark god, she thought to herself and was horribly afraid.
With all her soul, she wanted to whirl her horse around and bolt out of there, away from the darkness flowing so cold and tangible around her. Yet she could not command her own hands. It was as though by drinking from that mysterious cup, she had accepted something worse than death.
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