“No! Oh, no, no, no, no!” Scrambling away, Alec flung himself into the farthest corner. “That’s not true!” he cried. “It can’t be true.”
Cilla raised her head slowly, her eyes black hollows in the dim light of the moon. She smiled, and the fetid stench rolled through the cage again. Her smile widened to a grimace, a snarl, a silent scream, then a black arm shot from her mouth, lengthening impossibly as it reached for Alec. Locking black talons around his arm, it dragged him over Thero’s limp body and back to her. For a moment his face was inches from hers, her wild eyes boring into his, mouth stretched obscenely around the arm protruding from it. Then her whole body swelled into a black, man-shaped form.
“Are you so certain?” the thing asked in the voice from Alec’s nightmare. “Are you so very certain?”
Releasing him, it wavered, then flowed out through the bars like smoke.
“Damn you!” Alec screamed, knowing Vargûl Ashnazai was close by, watching. “Damn you, you blood-swilling son of a whore! You lie! You lie!”
A single harsh, mocking laugh answered him from the darkness beneath the trees.
44
WHITE STONE AND BLACK
The wind whipped Seregil’s cloak around his knees and pulled at the bow case and quiver strapped to his old pack as he stopped to wait for Micum and Nysander. Looking back along the ledges to the north, he could just make them out, Nysander leaning on Micum and a stout staff as they picked their way over an expanse of tumbled stone. Over them loomed Mount Kythes, its jagged peak thrusting above the tree line like an elbow from a worn green sleeve.
Seregil shook his head in wonder. Despite Nysander’s fragile appearance, the wizard had managed to keep up a steady pace over the past two days. Seregil and Micum took turns supporting him while the other scouted ahead. They were at the foot of the great mountain now, toiling south along the edge of the forest that flanked the coastline for as far as they could see. The area was rough and uninhabited, but there was the faint line of an overgrown road through the woods that followed the ledges.
Looking ahead, he shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun and scanned the forest and ledges.
How in the name of Illior were they supposed to find one stone, white or otherwise, in this wilderness? For all they knew they’d passed it somewhere yesterday. Yet Nysander insisted on pressing forward, the light of hope growing brighter daily in his eyes as they moved southward. Micum said little, but Seregil suspected he was as daunted by the unlikely nature of their quest as he was.
What if Nysander is wrong?
Seregil fought a daily battle against that question, and others. What if by losing the battle at the Orëska, Nysander had failed in his Guardianship? What if the wounds he’d received in that fight had addled his brain and he was leading them a fool’s errand while Alec was carried off to some other part of Plenimar?
Yet each night the comet blazed ever closer in the night sky and the mark on Seregil’s breast grew clearer as the skin healed, so he could not voice his doubts. Rational or not, in his heart he believed that Nysander was right. Clinging to this, he pressed on each day, scanning the coastline along the forest’s edge until his eyes burned and his head ached, feeling his heart leap into his throat every time a patch of sunlight or the reflection of a tide pool tricked his eye.
Nysander and Micum had almost caught up. Sitting down on a slab of red granite, Seregil watched a flock of sea ducks bobbing on the waves beyond the breakers. Gradually his gaze wandered to the greenish-brown beards of bladder wrack clinging to the damp rocks below. Scattered patches of it marked the high tide line. Farther down, where the tide was nearly out, it blanketed the wet rocks in thick, slippery beds. He’d noted the difference the day before and the fact had been nagging at the back of his mind ever since, though he wasn’t quite certain why.
Micum and Nysander climbed slowly up to where he stood. The wizard sank down on an outcropping, wiping his brow on his sleeve.
“My goodness,” he panted, “I believe I must sit for a moment.”
Seregil uncorked his water skin and handed it to him. “We only have a few hours of daylight left,” he said, suddenly restless. “I’ll go on ahead. If I’m not back by dusk, light a fire and I’ll backtrack to it.”
Micum frowned and held up a hand. “Hold on, now. I don’t like the idea of us getting split up again.”
“Not to worry,” Nysander assured him. “I shall only need a short rest, and then we can follow. I agree with Seregil; there is no time to lose.”
“It’s settled,” Seregil said, setting off again before Micum could protest.
A quarter of a mile farther on a broad cove cut into the shoreline like a bite from a slice of bread. An expanse of smooth ledge several hundred feet wide sloped gently up to the base of steeper layers of sea-weathered granite that embraced the cove like ruined battlements. Gulls picked their way through the rock pools and seaweed near the water’s edge, spying out a meal left behind by the tide. It was a rather pretty place, Seregil thought, climbing up the rocks to stay near the edge of the forest.
Looking through the trees, he saw that the disused road curved to follow the upper ledges. He was just wondering if he should follow it for a while when something white caught his eye in the edge of the undergrowth across the cove.
Clambering over rocks and fallen trees, he braced for another disappointment; an equally promising flash earlier that morning had turned out to be the shoulder blade of an elk. Another had been nothing more than sunlight striking a spring-fed pool. As he came closer, however, he saw that it was a boulder of milky white stone nearly four feet high.
Dropping his pack, he pushed his way through the thicket of leafless bushes and dead fern that partially obscured it.
It was real—a great chunk of white quartz that had no business being in this type of country. He circled it, looking for carvings or marks, then reached down through the dry bracken until his fingers found a small, smooth stone. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a piece of polished black basalt the size and shape of a goose egg. Digging in farther, he found more of the black stones, as well as a tiny clay figure of a woman and an ornament of carved shell.
Clutching his finds, Seregil bounded back the way he’d come until he saw Micum and Nysander heading his way.
“I found it!” he shouted. “I found your white rock, Nysander. It’s real!”
Micum let out a happy whoop and Seregil answered with one of his own.
“What do you say for Illioran mysticism now, Micum?” Seregil demanded breathlessly as he reached them.
Micum shook his head, grinning. “I’ll never understand it, but it’s surely led us well so far.”
“There were black stones around the base of it, and I found these, too,” Seregil told Nysander excitedly, showing him the clay figure and the carved bit of shell.
“Illior’s Light!” the wizard murmured, examining them. “Come along,” he urged, grasping them both by the arm. “Carry me if you have to, but get me to that stone before the sun goes down.”
But they didn’t have to carry him. Swinging his staff ahead of him, Nysander strode over the ledges with much of his old energy. It was as if his news had revitalized the wizard, Seregil thought. Perhaps Nysander had needed this solid affirmation of his visions as much as the rest of them.
“Oh, yes, this is the one,” Nysander said as they reached the stone. Placing both hands on it, he closed his eyes.
“It is old, so old,” he said almost reverently. “It was placed here long before the first Hierophant landed on Plenimaran soil, but the echo of ancient worship is still so strong in it.”
“You mean this is some ancient shrine?” asked Micum, examining it more closely.
“Something of the sort. Those objects Seregil found have been here for over a thousand years. They should be put back.”
Seregil replaced the figure and shell ornament as he’d found them. “I looked the big stone over, but I didn’t see any markings. Still,
if this was a shrine, maybe it’s the temple the prophecy meant.”
Nysander shook his head. “No, this is only a marker. Of that I am certain. Before the forest grew up it would have been visible from the sea. From the trail, too, if it existed whenever this was placed here.”
“Then the temple must be back up in these woods somewhere,” said Micum. “You rest here, Nysander. Seregil and I’ll take a look.”
The forest here was old virgin growth, Micum saw with a certain degree of relief. The huge, wind-twisted pines were widely spaced, with little undergrowth beneath them. Despite the good visibility, however, after an hour’s searching neither he nor Seregil had found anything remotely resembling a temple or any other structure.
Returning to the shore, they found Nysander down on the ledges. It was late afternoon by now, and the tide was nearing its lowest ebb.
“Nothing, eh? That is very puzzling.” Leaning on his staff, Nysander frowned out at the sea. “Then again, if we are not finding what we seek, then perhaps we are not looking for the right thing.”
Micum sank down on a rock with a discouraged groan. “Then what should we be looking for? We’ve only got three more days before this eclipse of yours.”
Seregil scanned the cove pensively, then set off toward the waterline. “All it means is that it isn’t a building.”
“I know that look,” Micum said, watching him cast back and forth along the ledges like a hound seeking a scent.
The wizard nodded in bemusement. “So do I.”
“What are you looking for?” called Micum.
“Don’t know yet,” Seregil replied absently, poking through the seaweed floating in one of the larger tide pools.
“See how the formation of the stone forms a natural amphitheater?” Nysander pointed out. “You try those higher ledges. I shall take the right.”
Micum scrambled diligently up and down the rocks, but found nothing but bleached shells and bird droppings. He was just wondering if Nysander ought to spare a bit of magic after all when Seregil let out a triumphant cackle below.
“What is it?” Micum demanded.
Seregil lay sprawled on his belly, his arms plunged nearly to the shoulder into one of the long, narrow fissures that ran down the lower ledges to the sea.
“Come see for yourself.”
Climbing down, Micum and Nysander knelt and peered into the cleft in the stone.
“Look here,” said Seregil, pushing aside a clump of rock weed. Beneath it, they saw rows of crudely carved symbols cut into the rock six inches below the top of the crack. Moving along on hands and knees, they found that the symbols formed a continuous band spanning both sides of the fissure all the way down to the sea. A second crevice near the other side of the cove was filled with the same sort of carvings.
“What are they?” asked Micum.
Nysander’s pale face lit up with excitement as he studied the whorls, circles, and cross-hatching that formed the patterns. “Such carvings have been found all round the inner seas, but no one has ever deciphered them. Like that stone up there, they were placed here before our kind arrived.”
“Another sacred spot,” Seregil said, sitting up. “I found the crown in a cave the Dravnians called a spirit chamber. I felt their spirit after I’d gotten the crown. Micum, you remember that underground chamber you found in the Fens?”
“Of course.” Micum grimaced, recalling the scene of slaughter.
“You said there was an altar stone of some sort there,” Nysander said, exchanging an excited glance with Seregil. “That chamber could have been some sort of holy place, too, before the wooden disks were hidden there.” He waved a hand at the carvings they’d found. “And now this place, this ancient temple site. All this suggests that the necromancers use the power of such places to enhance their own magic. Assuming that this is the case, then there must be some significance in Mardus’ choice of this rather obscure location.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Seregil said, sighting down the right-hand fissure. Waves surged up the cleft with the gentle heave of the tide, churning up white foam as they lifted the seaweed. After a moment he began pulling off his boots.
“Fetch a rope, would you, Micum?” he asked, stripping off his tunic and shirt as well.
“What are you up to?”
“I just want a look at where these cracks in the rock lead.”
Seregil tied one end of the rope around his waist and handed the rest to Micum, then waded into the icy water.
He was thigh deep when the undertow knocked him off his feet. Micum tightened his grip on the rope, but Seregil surfaced and motioned for him to slack up again. Struggling against the waves, he swam farther out and dove beneath the surface.
“What is it he’s after?” Micum muttered nervously, paying out more line.
“I cannot imagine,” Nysander replied, shaking his head.
Seregil dove twice more before shouting for Micum to haul him in.
Pale and blue-lipped with cold, Seregil staggered up the rock and flattened himself against its sun-warmed surface. Nysander unfastened his cloak and laid it over him.
Micum squatted down beside him. “Find anything?”
“Nothing. I had thought maybe, with the gift tide coming—” Seregil broke off. Sitting up, he smacked a hand across his forehead. “Illior’s Fingers, I’ve had it all backward!”
“Ah, I think I see!” For the first time in days a little color stole into Nysander’s bleached cheeks. “How could I have overlooked such an obvious factor?”
“A gift tide?” Micum asked, wondering if he’d heard right.
Seregil’s teeth clattered like bakshi stones in a leather cup as he exclaimed, “It’s the last piece of the puzzle. Now the rest falls into place.”
“What in the hell are you—”
“Twice each month, the moon causes the tide to rise and fall to unusual extremes,” Nysander explained. “The fishermen call it a gift tide. On the day of the eclipse there will be such a tide.”
“It was the seaweed,” Seregil went on, as if that explained everything. “It grows thickest around the low tide line. Last night I noticed that an unusually thick band of it was laid bare at low tide.”
“But you just said there was nothing out there,” said Micum.
“That’s right.” Seregil jumped to his feet and headed up the ledges. “And I might have saved myself a swim just now. Leiteus said the eclipse would occur at midday, which is when the tide will be unusually high! That’s the other half of the cycle!” Water dripped from the tip of his nose as he scrutinized the fissure again, following it up toward the high ground. Suddenly he stooped over a collection of stones jumbled together near one of the parallel fissures, then began tossing them aside.
“Look, a hole,” he said, showing them a round hole a hand’s span wide bored deep into the stone. Scrabbling along on his knees he soon found another, and then a third.
With the help of the others, he uncovered a total of fourteen of the holes, spaced evenly to form a half circle around a broad, shallow depression in the stone just above the high tide mark. It was an unremarkable looking spot, littered with driftwood, shells, dried seaweed, and other debris, but both of the mysterious crevices in the rock ran through it.
“Here’s your temple,” Seregil announced.
“I think you may be correct,” Nysander said, looking around in amazement.
“It’s above the normal tide line now, but from the looks of the debris, the highest tides reach it. It’s a sort of natural basin.”
“It must have been used by the people who left the writing we found carved there,” Nysander speculated. “I wonder what the holes represent?”
“So the eclipse and the high tide that fills this thing will happen at the same time,” observed Micum, helping Seregil cover the holes as they had found them.
“The highest point of the tide will lag some minutes behind the completion of the eclipse,” the wizard replied. “Which means Ma
rdus will have only a few moments in which to complete whatever ritual he plans before the sun returns. It is generally believed that the more rare the conjunction, the more powerful its effect. With the added factor of the comet, I should say this conjunction will be an extraordinarily potent and dangerous one. That it is so focused on a specific locale makes it all the more so.”
“By the Flame!” Micum muttered. “And the three of us are supposed to take on that, with however many Plenimarans thrown in?”
“Four,” Seregil amended darkly, shooting Nysander a pointed look. “When the time comes, there are supposed to be four of us.”
45
VENGEANCE
Time passed like a slow nightmare for Alec. By day the cart bumped and jolted over the rough coastal track the column followed. His mounted escort ignored him for the most part, talking among themselves in their own language. With only Thero for company, Alec spent the daylight hours dozing and watching the mountainous countryside go by.
And dreading nightfall.
At night the bear cart was stationed somewhat apart from the camp. Alec quickly learned to fear the moment when his guards faded away into the shadows; this was the signal for Vargûl Ashnazai’s festival of nightmares to begin. Later, when the final horror was over and Alec had been reduced to terrified fury, the guards would reappear and whatever was left of the night would pass in relative peace.
The second night Diomis and his mother materialized in the cage, heads clutched beneath their arms as they cursed and accused him. Alec knew they were only illusions, but their accusations stabbed at enough of his own doubts to bring real pain. Turning his back on them, he stuffed his fingers in his ears and tried to ignore the prodding and buffeting of their cold, ghostly hands. It was pointless to fight back—they had no more substance than air. Curling tighter in his misery, he waited for Ashnazai to tire of the game.
When it was over, Alec lay listening to the small sounds of the night—an owl’s hunting call, the distant nickering of horses, the low murmur of the guards, who’d come back as soon as Ashnazai had gone.