Furniture was stacked along the rearmost wall. The items were rough-hewn and simply made, such as a common laborer might own. Along another wall were the supplies he had seen in his vision. He walked over to one of the amphorae and briefly considered using sorcery to determine its contents and purpose. But the sigil impressed into its seal might well be an anchor for witchery, or even sorcery, so he left it untouched. Anywhere else he would have trusted in his ability to summon knowledge from the thing without triggering a ward, but in Tefilat it was best not to take chances.
Someone was clearly preparing this place for habitation. But why? There wasn’t enough human life in this blighted region to support Souleaters, and the local tribes preferred to keep far away from Tefilat’s polluted resonance. There must be something here that someone wanted .
Something Siderea wanted.
Moving warily, Colivar progressed from the sunlit rooms near the cliff face to a network of chambers and passages that extended deep into the earth. Tefilat’s creators had followed the twists and turns of a natural cavern system, carving out chambers wherever space permitted. The layout was strange to a sorcerer’s eye, as a Magister could simply have created rooms wherever he wanted them. But the witches who had built this place had not been free to waste energy on that scale, and so the complex was random in its arrangement, a veritable labyrinth of twisting corridors and irregular chambers. Colivar had explored the entire system when he had first taken up his post in Anshasa, and it took but a whisper of sorcery to call those memories back to him, so that he had a mental map of the place. By the light of a small sorcerous flame he followed the faint scuffmarks of Tefilat’s recent visitors as he traced their path through the twisting complex, searching for whatever anomaly might explain their interest.
And in a small chamber, deep within the earth, he found it at last.
A far wall had been broken open, giving access to some kind of space beyond. A secret room? He summoned more light, and he could see that the second chamber was richly decorated, with relief carvings of some sort covering the walls.
With one last spell to make sure he was still alone in Tefilat—he was—and another to check for wards at the entrance to the hidden chamber—there were none—he stepped over the rubble at the base of the opening and entered the mysterious room.
Every wall was covered with carvings. They seemed to be historical images, mostly battle scenes from the Great War; he recognized many of the references. He had seen other rooms like this, tucked away in various strongholds throughout the world, though few had been this carefully hidden. They represented the last desperate attempt of the First Kings to record the history of mankind in a form that might weather the fall of human civilization.
One particular set of images drew his eye, and he walked across the room to get a closer look at them.
Souleaters.
He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the ikati depicted in Tefilat. One of the key campaigns of the Great War had been fought here. And yet . . . something seemed wrong about the images. It took him a moment to realize what it was. When he finally did, his heart skipped a beat in his chest.
The carvings depicted a swarm of Souleaters descending upon a town and warriors rising up to fight them. But the Souleaters had been solitary predators during the Great War. It was rare that two would ever have been seen in the sky together, and for them to gather in a swarm like this would simply be unheard of. They would have been too busy killing each other to bother with anything else. Not until their merger with the witches in the arctic had they developed enough tolerance of their own species to come together like this.
So this place must have been created long after the Great War, by someone who knew how the species had changed. But how was that possible, when all the remaining Souleaters had been trapped in the far north? Was it possible that some had remained down here as well? He reached out a hand to touch one of the carved Souleaters, binding a whisper of power to investigate its origin.
Even as he did so, he realized his mistake.
Too late.
A spell that had been hidden deep within the rock sprang to life at his touch, subsuming his own sorcery for strength. A strange shimmering webwork of power appeared along the walls and ceiling of the chamber and began to close in on him; he struggled to hold it at bay, but his sorcery had no effect upon it. The alien power seemed to have his own resonance, as if he himself had summoned it into being; how was that possible? It was closing in around him now, but he could not do anything to stop it, because that would have required protecting himself from . . . himself. Then the light about him began to fade, and he felt himself choking on darkness as the chill of transition began to envelope him. No! he despaired. Not now! He struggled against the cold and the darkness, trying to find a new consort quickly enough to save himself, but he couldn’t break through the spell that was strangling him. His soul was suffocating, its last cold sparks of stolen athra sputtering out, and he could do nothing to save it.
And then the world outside flickered out like a dying candle, and there was only fear.
Chapter 21
M
IST. THAT was all Gwynofar could see at first. Damp mist covering the ground about her feet. Tendrils of mist curling about her ankles. Clouds of mist overhead where the sky should be, a few hints of pale blue seeping through here and there, quickly swallowed by whiteness.
Where was she?
Squinting against the haze, she thought she could make out some vague shapes ahead of her, and she headed toward them. The ground seemed solid enough beneath its foggy blanket, and her shoes made soft squelching sounds as they pressed into the damp earth, disquieting in an otherwise eerie silence. Now and then she felt something small crunch underfoot, and memories from her childhood provided a name: pinecone.
What was this place?
Slowly the mist began to fade, trees becoming visible one by one as she continued walking, emerging from the fog like soldiers in a pine-clad army. Silent. So silent. Then the last of the mist withdrew from the tree-trunks, and she could see where human faces had been carved into them long ago, now glistening from a coating of dew.
Ancestor trees.
She could see now that she was walking along a narrow path that wound its way between several thick stands of the carved trees. This place was both familiar and unfamiliar to her, and though she had the distinct feeling she had been here before, she did not recognize the faces that surrounded her. But their identities did not really matter right now; that was not what she had come for.
She wrapped her arms about herself as she walked, sensing that she was here for an important reason but having no clue what it was.
At last she came to a place where shadowy pine groves gave way to an open field. Here, where more sunlight could reach the ground, a single young sapling had taken root. Gwynofar approached it, then stopped. She felt as if she should recognize this place, but she was unable to put a name to it.
And then the sapling began to transform. Drawing added substance from the air surrounding it, painting itself in colors that could not have arisen from mere bark, it slowly took on the form of a child. A very young child, whose features were hauntingly familiar to her. After a moment she realized why, and a terrible sorrow filled her heart.
“Anrhys,” she whispered. Part of her brain now understood this was a dream, but another part—the larger part—did not care. She fell to her knees as the apparition of her dead child approached her, tears of sorrow and pain running down her cheeks. The real Anrhys had never known the touch of forest air upon his face or the soft crunch of pine needles beneath his feet. She had killed him while he was still in her womb, sacrificing him for a cause he never knew anything about. Even the tree that had been planted over his ashes—the tree that now stood before her—would never bear his true features, only a witch’s estimate of what he might have looked like had he lived long enough to reach manhood. The guilt that welled up inside her seemed vast enough to consu
me an army of souls. She wanted to reach out and embrace him, to bury her face in his pale blond hair—so like her own!—and weep and weep and weep, until all the terrible guilt in her soul was washed away. Telling him she was sorry—so sorry!—and praying to hear some response from him that hinted at forgiveness. Something in which she might discover even a shadow of absolution.
But she could not approach him. She dared not approach him. She was spellbound by his presence, terrified that if she made contact with him—if she tried to make him real in any way—the dream would fade, and he would be lost to her again.
It was he who held out his hands to her. It took her a moment to realize that he was offering her something, and he expected her to come forward and take it. Nestled in each palm, she saw, was a small natural black crystal, whose irregular facets reflected the sunlight in glints of color as he moved. They were of a like size and shape, though not perfectly identical, and it seemed to her that somehow they belonged together. And they belonged to her.
Take them. He did not speak the words aloud, but she could hear them nonetheless. You will need them.
Slowly, hesitantly, she rose to her feet and approached him. How hard it was to be this close to her lost child and not draw him into her arms! But she dared not touch him, lest the flood tide of emotion that was nearly overwhelming her right now drown her. She reached out her own arms toward him, instead, and rather than take the crystals from him directly, cupped her hands beneath his own, waiting to receive them. After a moment he nodded and turned his hands over, dropping one small stone into the center of each hand. Where they touched her palms she could feel that they were radiating a strange warmth, as if they were living things, and they pulsed as if from the beat of an unseen heart.
The centuries are entrusted to you, came the unvoiced words. Guard them well.
Then the crystals in her hands began to change shape. Their columnar spines melted back into the base rock, until there were only smooth black stones in her hands, roughly hemispherical in shape. And then those, too, began to melt. Soon her cupped palms held not rock, but pools of thick red liquid. Blood. She trembled as it began to drip down between her fingers, pattering to the ground like crimson rain. The earth itself seemed to shudder as the first drops struck, as if some sleeping creature buried deep beneath her feet had suddenly stirred to life . . . or perhaps the earth itself was awakening.
Transfixed, she watched as the blood at her feet began to spread out across the earth, finally reaching the base of a nearby tree. The roots seemed to shudder as they drew in the precious liquid, and the slender needles began to transform in color, one after the other, until the entire tree had turned crimson. Other trees were following suit now, as the blood reached them; in a few minutes’ time the entire clearing was filled with transformed foliage: a forest of blood. Then the first tree began to transform in shape. Its branches curled in upon themselves, and the knots in its trunk vanished. The bark that had covered the carved ancestral face grew smooth and pale, like human skin, and the eyes glistened wetly, as though they were somehow conscious.
And a man stood before her. His clothing was ancient in style and gashed in several places. A deep cut across his face glistened with fresh blood, and his tunic was splattered with mud. Another man appeared beside him. Then another. The fourth to take shape was a woman; she was dressed in a man’s garments, her long hair tangled and wild and streaked with blood from a wound in her skull. More and more figures appeared as Gwynofar watched, until there was a veritable army of bloodstained warriors surrounding her. She had seen enough illustrations of the Great War to recognize the style of their armor, and her breath caught in her throat as she realized just who the figures were supposed to be.
These were the men and women who had fought the Souleaters the first time. The martyrs of the lyr. Her ancestors.
She opened her mouth to ask them why they had called her here, what it was they wanted from her . . . but even as the words formed on her lips, the whole of the scene suddenly began to dissolve. Mist rose up around the warriors’ feet as their flesh gave way to less solid substance, and the colors of their clothing dissipated into the air in ripples and eddies, until all of it was gone. Gwynofar looked about desperately for her child, but he had disappeared long ago. She had lost him again! A short moan of anguish escaped her, even as the last details of the dreamscape faded from sight.
And in the end there was only featureless mist, as there had been at the beginning: a vast white silence broken only by the pattering of blood as it dripped from her hands, and by the broken, mournful beating of her heart.
Gwynofar lay upon a bed of silken sheets, her thin linen shift slicked to her skin by a layer of cold sweat, struggling to get her bearings. Moonlight coming in through the narrow windows picked out embroidered details on the canopy overhead but left the fabric itself in shadow, resulting in a ghostly display of feathery patterns that seemed to hang in midair, dreamlike. For a moment she just stared at them, trying to get her mind to focus. Was she awake yet? If so, then she knew she must do her best to interpret the strange dream she’d had while its memory was still fresh in her mind. Once she slept again, many details would be forgotten.
The centuries are entrusted to you, Anrhys had said.
What did that mean? And what were the crystals that he had given to her supposed to represent?
The eyes of the Souleaters look like black crystal, she recalled. She remembered when the northern queen had locked eyes with her, and her soul had almost been sucked into those terrible orbs. But she did not think this dream was meant to refer to Souleaters. No, this was about something more personal, something that would provide strength and healing for the lyr armies. Not something that would harm them.
Her hands curled instinctively at her sides, and it seemed to her for a moment she could see Anrhys standing before her again. Not moving. Not saying anything. She remembered the feel of warm, sticky blood beneath her fingers, and a wave of fresh mourning came over her, as intense as the moment in which she had realized what the cost of her Alkali mission would be, the nature of the sacrifice that would be required to bring the Throne of Tears to life. For a moment she was back in the tower, experiencing the fear of that terrible day, feeling the cold bite of despair in her soul.
And then it came to her. She understood.
And for a moment she just lay still on the bed, her heart pounding so hard the heavy frame seemed to tremble. Unable to move. Barely able to think. Anrhys was gone now—again!—but she knew why he had come to her.
With sudden determination she rose up, reached for the robe that had been laid out across the foot of her bed, and headed toward the door. The moons had set long ago. but the first dim light of dawn was seeping through the windows, just enough to see by as she exited her bedchamber, struggling to get her arms into her sleeves as she walked. Outside her door two startled maidservants stumbled to their feet, trying to look as if they had not just been sleeping, and the pair of guards stationed outside the entrance to her apartment chamber snapped to attention as soon as they saw her. Gwynofar did not acknowledge them. She did not see anyone or anything. The person who she needed would come to her, she knew that. His wards would sense her agitation and alert him to her need, and he would wake up and come to her.
Never mind that he had promised not to work sorcery in Salvator’s palace. She knew him well enough by now to understand when and why that vow might be broken. Besides, Salvator had said that he was allowed to use sorcery for transportation, and that was what she wanted him for, wasn’t it?
He was there as she turned a corner, waiting for her. His black robes were nearly invisible in the pre-dawn darkness, but his white hair and beard glowed as if they contained their own source of light. As it had been on so many occasions when she had been a child: a familiar and comforting sight.
“Majesty?” His eyes were narrow with concern.
“Kierdwyn,” she said breathlessly. Her heart was pounding so hard it was di
fficult to speak. “I must go to Kierdwyn, Ramirus.”
He hesitated only for a moment, then nodded. He shut his eyes for a moment, and it seemed to Gwynofar that he was concentrating on something. She understood sorcerous protocol well enough to know that he must send word ahead to Kierdwyn’s Magister Royal—was it Lazaroth now?—before entering the man’s territory, but it was difficult for her to accept such a delay. Any delay. She paced anxiously in front of him, fearful that her precious moment of revelation would fade before she had a chance to test it.
At last his eyes opened. His expression was calm and serene, and she tried to draw strength from that serenity. He looked her over, shook his head slightly, and with a wave of his hand banished her nightwear, replacing it with a simple day gown of summer-weight wool. Her sleep-tangled hair was smoothed and separated by the same power, and a golden circlet bearing the Aurelius arms took its accustomed place above her brow.
“Now you are fit for your father’s house.” The air before her began to shimmer and ripple like water. “Come,” he said, offering her his hand. She took it, and together they stepped through the portal.
Behind them a note appeared in midair, then slowly began to flutter toward the ground. Salvator, it said. Have gone to Kierdwyn with Ramirus. Will return soon. G.
By the time it reached the floor, the portal had vanished.
“Lord Alkali wanted to keep it, of course.” Lord Kierdwyn’s tone was distracted as he sought the proper key on the ring. “He all but threatened to go to war over it. But in the end he had no real choice. We told him that since a member of House Kierdwyn had unlocked its secret, and might still have some sort of magical connection to it, it belonged in Kierdwyn’s care.” Settling at last on a large brass key, he inserted it into the lock on the ironbound door and turned it clockwise. The mechanism of the lock fell into place with a loud metallic thunk. “Truth be told, it had less to do with you than with the fact that a Souleater invasion had just taken place right under his nose and he hadn’t even known about it. Priceless artifacts should not be guarded by idiots.”