The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  Deirdre cast an anguished look at Anders’s still-frozen form. He hadn’t told her the truth because he was protecting her. Only that deception had caused her to mistrust him, and now . . .

  Lightning flashed, and thunder crashed outside. Deirdre thought she heard a sharp sound along with the thunder, but before she could think what it was, Marius raised a hand. Had he regained enough of his strength to try another spell?

  It didn’t matter.

  “No you don’t,” Sasha said, pointing the gun at him. “You may be three hundred years old, but I can still blow your head off. And in fact, that’s what they sent me here to do.”

  “So what have they promised you?” Marius said, gazing at Sasha. “Immortality? I know them far better than you ever possibly can. Even if they find what they seek, they will not give that to you.”

  For the first time the smooth mask of Sasha’s calm cracked, and anger twisted her face, ruining its loveliness. “You lie, Marius, just as they warned me you would. Even at this moment, they’re preparing the way for those who have been faithful. We True Seekers will be rewarded. And traitors—they will die.”

  It happened in an instant. Sasha swung her arm to one side, pointed the gun beyond Marius and Deirdre, and fired.

  Deirdre turned. Like a statue tipped on its side, Anders had fallen over, his rigid body still in the shape it had been, arm outstretched, gun in hand. As she watched, a bloom of red appeared on his white shirt, spreading outward.

  “The bigger they are,” Sasha said, her smirk returning. “Now it’s your turn. DEER-dree.”

  She pointed the pistol at Deirdre and squeezed the trigger. At the same moment, Marius took a single step forward. Thunder split the air.

  The thunder rolled away into silence. Smoke curled up from the barrel of Sasha’s gun.

  “Oh,” Marius said. He stumbled back, sitting in one of the wing-backed chairs by the embers of the fire. He looked tired, and it seemed for all the world as if he had sat down to rest. Then a spasm passed through him, and blood gushed out his mouth. He reached a hand inside his suit coat, then pulled it out, staring at his reddened fingers as if in fascination.

  “Great Spirit,” Deirdre whispered. She knelt beside the chair and gripped his arm. “Marius!”

  He did not answer her. She looked up, her voice a snarl of anguish and rage. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing more than a minor mistake,” Sasha said. “After I eliminated you, I was to offer him one last chance to rejoin the Philosophers. But they doubted he would accept, and once he refused I was to destroy him. So it’s no great loss. And neither is this.”

  Sasha moved forward and leveled the gun at Deirdre’s head. Deirdre shut her eyes. One more clap of thunder shattered the dusty air.

  The thunder faded. There was a dull thud as something struck the floor. Not understanding how she could, Deirdre opened her eyes.

  Sasha sprawled on the floor before the fireplace, staring upward, an expression of astonishment on her lovely face. There was a hole in the center of her forehead, oozing blood.

  Deirdre looked up. A rangy figure stepped into view. Rain had darkened his blond hair, plastering it to his brow, and his eyes glinted like emeralds. There was a gash on his cheek, trickling blood. He held a gun in his hand.

  “That is a wicked thing,” Beltan said, then threw the gun to the floor next to Sasha’s body.

  Deirdre’s mind was numb. Did he mean the gun or Sasha? And how was he here? But none of that mattered. Fear flooded her, clearing her mind. Albrecht and Anders had both been shot.

  “Beltan, go see to Anders. I’ll—”

  A bloody hand clamped around her wrist. She gasped and found herself gazing into gold eyes. Only they were dull now, more like tarnished bronze.

  Marius licked red-stained lips. “Your partner is . . . still in stasis. There is time. Call for help. Use the phone in . . . the carriage house.”

  She groped inside his coat; she had to stop the flow of blood. Her hands met a wet, gaping hole. Oh, by the gods. “Beltan, help me!” she cried, her voice shaking with panic.

  She heard quick footsteps, then sensed Beltan standing behind her, but she could not take her eyes off Marius. Even in anguish, his face was beautiful, his golden hair like an angel’s. To her astonishment, he was smiling at her.

  “Do not be sad for me,” he said, the words gentle. “Three and a half centuries is far too long. I’ve endured only so I could find someone to tell my tale to, and now I have. I found you, Deirdre. I am ready to join her now. I am ready to sleep.”

  “No,” she said, but the word was soft: a lament rather than a command.

  Another spasm passed through him. “It seems I am not meant to understand the . . . final mystery. I confess, I never believed I would. But you still can, Deirdre. Go to them for me. Go to . . . the Sleeping Ones.”

  She could only shake her head, beyond words now.

  “Please!” Marius’s eyes flickered like the flames of twin candles. His grip on her arm tightened. “Find the catalyst. Find it and . . . bring it to them. No matter what else happens, they must—”

  His hand slipped away from her wrist. The twin candles flickered one last time, then went out. His head lolled back against the chair. Deirdre stared, unable to move.

  “He looks at peace,” Beltan said gruffly, breaking the silence. “He was the one who was helping you, wasn’t he?”

  Peace. The word was foreign to her. Deirdre looked up at the blond man, trying to make her brain function. “Beltan—how?”

  “That little flea Eustace shot at us with his gun. He fought more fiercely than I would have thought once I cornered him.” Beltan touched his wounded cheek. “But I was able to engage him so Anders could reach the manor. I followed as soon as I finished my work.”

  These words registered on Deirdre only for a moment. Then sudden energy crackled through her.

  “Anders,” she said, standing and rushing across the front hall to where her partner lay on the floor.

  He was still motionless, staring blankly. Blood had seeped from the wound in his chest, making a puddle on the floor, but not nearly as much as she had feared. She touched a finger to his neck and detected, faint but steady, a pulse. He was still in stasis. But for how long?

  Her mind grew clear, crystallizing around a single purpose. She leaped to her feet. “Stay with him, Beltan!”

  Without waiting for an answer, she dashed across the hall, into the foyer, and out the front door. Rain pelted her as she skidded down the stone steps and ran down the gravel drive. She saw a small form crumpled on the ground. Eustace. He had brought her the photo of Anders; he had been working with Sasha. Now he was dead.

  “Hold on, Anders,” she said through clenched teeth as she pushed open the door of the carriage house. “Please, you’ve got to hold on.”

  She grabbed the phone from the wall, dialed, then forced herself to speak in a clear voice. Once she was finished, she hung up. For a moment she shut her eyes, gripping her bear claw necklace, murmuring a prayer for the dead as well as the living.

  Then she went outside and stood in the cold rain until she heard the distant sounds of sirens.

  40.

  Travis watched, transfixed, as the golden woman walked toward them over the slender span of the bridge. He was aware of the others speaking and moving behind him, but only dimly. To his eyes, the woman shone like a sun. Beneath his serafi, sweat trickled down his sides, over the flat of his stomach.

  A pale moon eclipsed the sun, blocking it from sight. Hot anger surged in him. . . .

  “. . . to go, Travis!”

  Anger melted into confusion, and the moon resolved into a familiar face. “Grace?”

  She gripped his arm, her green eyes bright. “Now, Travis— come on. Farr says we can’t let her get close.”

  Her touch seemed to break the torpor that had come over him. Travis grabbed her hand, and together they ran from the bridge, catching up with the others at the arch that led b
ack into the hall of statues.

  “She did that,” Nim said, pointing to the crumpled body of a sorcerer at the top of the stone steps. “The gold lady. She’ll do it to us, too.” She buried her face against Vani’s shoulder.

  “No, daughter, no harm will come to us,” Vani said, hugging the girl tight. However, her gaze was not as confident as her voice. “Never did I think Ti’an might still remain in Morindu. I always believed she died soon after her marriage to Orú. After she became his bride, the stories of my people do not speak of her.”

  “But the stories of the dervishes do,” Farr said, wiping sweat from his brow. “From what I’ve learned, she was her husband’s guardian. She drank of his blood, becoming immortal just like the Fateless. It was said she would destroy any besides the Seven who attempted to draw near the throne room. We must not let her draw close to us.”

  Travis glanced over his shoulder. Ti’an had reached the end of the bridge. Her beaded garment swayed and glittered as she moved, and the ruby in the center of her forehead gleamed like a third eye. She did not run, but rather walked slowly, her feet bare against the stone floor. Travis met her onyx gaze, and once again he felt heat rise within him. . . .

  A hard jerk on his arm brought him back to himself. He turned and stumbled after Grace down the long flight of steps, past the dismembered corpses of the Scirathi. At least now they knew what—or rather who—had slain the Scirathi. But how? Surely, if Ti’an were close, she would not stand taller than Grace’s shoulder. How had one tiny woman torn apart a small army of sorcerers?

  They reached the bottom of the steps. The hall stretched before them, the gigantic statues of spider-eyed women and falcon-beaked men standing sentinel on either side. At the far end, the crack in the door through which they had slipped glowed white hot. It seemed terribly far away. Grace ran toward it, and Travis followed.

  “Avhir, stop!” cried a sharp voice. It was Vani.

  Travis halted, turning around. Avhir was walking up the steps they had all just descended, back toward the arch that led into the dome. The T’gol was more than halfway to the top, moving slowly, mechanically, without his usual sleek stealth.

  Vani took a step toward the arch, Nim in her arms. “Avhir, what are you doing? Get back here now!”

  However, the T’gol seemed not to hear her and kept climbing. A golden figure appeared at the top of the stairs. She raised a delicate hand, making a beckoning gesture. Avhir obeyed, moving toward her. Only a few steps remained. . . .

  Larad fumbled in his robes as if to draw out the box with the Imsari. “We have to stop him.”

  “It’s too late,” Farr said.

  Avhir reached the final step. Ti’an’s onyx eyes flashed, and her arms reached up, coiling around his neck, drawing his face down as her own tilted upward. Their lips touched in a kiss.

  The T’gol’s body went rigid, as if a spike had been driven through him, and his arms shot out to either side. He struggled, trying to pull away, but Ti’an’s small hands clamped on either side of his head, holding him in place so that their mouths remained locked. Like cracks in sun-baked mud, black lines snaked up Avhir’s neck, over his face and hands.

  It happened in a moment. Avhir gave a single jerk, then his skin changed from bronze to gray. His cheeks sank inward, and his hands curled into claws. He no longer struggled, but stood stiff and still as Ti’an continued her kiss. Her golden skin seemed to glow brighter, as if burnished with oil.

  Then it was done. She released Avhir, stepping away. He toppled over, rolling down the steps, coming to a halt at Vani’s feet. The T’gol ’s withered face gazed blindly, eyes like gray raisins in their sockets. Inside his black leathers, his body was a shriveled husk.

  “I think we had best consider leaving,” Larad said, his voice hoarse. “Now.”

  Travis managed to tear his gaze away from the mummy that moments ago had been Avhir. Ti’an was slowly, steadily descending the steps. Her skin shone so brightly it was painful to look at her, though all the same Travis now found it hard to look away. She had drawn Avhir’s blood, his life into her. And now she was going to do the same to them.

  Nim screamed. The sound helped Travis to tear his gaze away from Ti’an. Vani clutched the girl and started running. Travis followed along with the others. However, they had only gone a dozen steps when he heard a groaning sound.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. Ti’an stood at the base of the steps, her arms raised before her, palms outward. The ruby on her brow shone as if on fire.

  “Oh,” he heard Grace say as she and the others came to a halt.

  Why had they stopped? Then Travis turned around, and he understood. At the far end of the hall, the two statues closest to the doorway were moving. Sand fell from their shoulders as they stepped from their pedestals; the stone floor cracked under the pressure of their feet.

  Farr was closest to them. The statue of the spider-eyed woman towered over him, twenty feet tall. Red light flashed in its multifaceted eyes as it brought a fist whistling down toward his head.

  The dervish dived at the last minute, rolling to one side. The statue’s fist crashed into the floor with a sound like thunder, creating a gaping pit three feet across. The figure of the falcon-beaked man lumbered forward, swifter than seemed possible for such an enormous thing, and Farr was forced to roll to one side as a stone foot kicked at him. He jumped to his feet and tried to lunge toward the crack in the door, but both statues stepped in front of it, blocking the line of white light. Farr backed away.

  “If anyone has any ideas how else to get out of here,” Grace said, her face pale, “now would be the time to speak up.”

  However, the only other way out of the hall was the arch that led back to the dome. And that would mean going past Ti’an. She was walking toward them now, the ruby on her brow blazing.

  “We’ve got to get past those statues,” Farr said.

  “How?” Larad said. “I doubt they will step aside from the doors if we ask them.”

  Farr looked at Travis. “They might, if he asked them.”

  Travis shook his head. How could he control the statues?

  “This city rose out of the sand at the touch of your blood,” Farr said, drawing close to Travis. “And these statues are part of this city. Use your blood to command them.”

  Travis wanted to argue, but he felt the eyes of the others on him, and he knew without looking that Ti’an was getting closer; he could feel her like a heat.

  “I’ll try,” he said, then moved toward the statues blocking the door.

  The statues’ eyes glowed crimson. They reached toward him with massive stone hands, moving faster than he had expected. Travis raked his fingernails over the knuckles of his right hand, prying away the scabs, so that blood flowed.

  “Get back,” he shouted, thrusting his hand toward the statues.

  They kept coming. The floor shook under their feet; their hands reached for him.

  “I said get back!”

  Again Travis thrust out with his hand, and this time red droplets flew from his bleeding knuckles, spattering the outstretched arm of the spider-eyed woman.

  The statue stopped moving. The droplets of blood glittered on its arm—then vanished, as if absorbed by the stone. The light in the statue’s eyes changed from crimson to gold. It had worked. . . .

  “Travis, look out!”

  Grace’s shout propelled him into action. He ducked barely in time to avoid the crushing swing of a stone fist. He looked up to see the statue of the falcon-beaked man bearing down on him. Its eyes still shone crimson. Travis’s knuckles were already scabbing over in the dry air; he clawed at them again, trying to open them up, to make the blood flow.

  There was no time. The male statue brought its fist down toward Travis’s head. He tensed, waiting to be crushed to a pulp. The stone fist whistled down—

  —and struck the floor next to Travis with a deafening crash. The force of it threw him to one side. When he looked up, awe filled him. The
statue of the spider-eyed woman was grappling with the male statue. The colossi rocked back and forth, arms entangled, one’s eyes blazing crimson, the other gold. The male statue opened its beak in a silent cry. It shoved hard against the other statue, knocking it back. However, their stone limbs were still entangled. As the one statue toppled, it dragged the other with it.

  They struck the doors of the palace, slamming them shut with a boom! Then the statues crashed against the floor, breaking apart into a heap of rubble. The head of the female statue shattered, while that of the male rolled to a halt against the door. The light in its eyes flickered, then went out.

  “You did it, Master Wilder,” Larad said, gazing at the fallen statues in fascination. “You stopped them.”

  “And us as well,” Farr said, face haggard. “The doors are blocked.”

  Travis stared as elation gave way to new fear. Farr was right. The debris from the statues was piled in front of the doors. And the doors opened inward; they could not be opened without clearing away the rubble. Farr pushed against the falcon-beaked head, but it was no use; it had to weigh two tons.

  Grace was looking at him, her green eyes overbright. “Now what do we do, Travis?”

  Nothing, he wanted to say. However, before he could speak, a high, keening wail filled the hall.

  The sound was like a siren, only higher, louder, threatening to split Travis’s skull. He thrust his hands against his ears, but it was no use. The sound kept building. He turned to see Ti’an no more than a dozen paces away. Her mouth was open; she was making the noise. It was a scream of fury.

  Just when Travis was sure the keening would drive him mad, Ti’an’s mouth shut, and the sound ceased. Farr slumped to his knees with a moan, and Nim was sobbing as Vani clutched her tight. Travis knew they had to do something, but the piercing wail had addled his mind; he couldn’t think.

  Before he could react, Ti’an thrust her hands out before her, and the gem on her forehead blazed with renewed flame. A sound like an earthquake filled the hall.

  Larad stared up, his shattered face going white.