Uncle Bol smiled encouragement. “There’s nothing to be frightened of here, Elena.”
Behind her, Er’ril nudged her forward. As she crossed to her uncle, the mirrors reflected back sparks of lantern light and movement. Their own reflections shifting in the mirrors made Elena jittery. She snuck closer to the swordsman. She kept catching glimpses of motion from the corner of her eye. One black passageway led away from this chamber toward other dark mysteries.
“What is this place?” Er’ril asked, bringing to voice Elena’s own question.
“We are at the outskirts of the old ruins.” Uncle Bol still had his pipe clenched between his teeth. Its glowing tip acted like a pointing finger. He swung in a circle, encompassing the entire room. “This was the old chamber of worship for the school. Here young initiates—your age, Elena—would come to pray and meditate for guidance from the spirit Chi.”
She stared into all the dark shadows. Weren’t there supposed to be poisonous snakes around the ruins? She stepped even closer to the man with the sword. “Am I supposed to pray to Chi?” she said, her voice a whisper. “Here?”
“No, sweetheart, Chi is gone. The spirit that gave you your gift is different.”
“How so?” Er’ril asked. He didn’t seem the least bothered by the shifting shadows or the possibility of snakes.
Uncle Bol seemed unconcerned, too. He spoke to Er’ril as Elena listened for hissing. “Where Chi was more a male spirit and only communed with men, we believe the spirit that granted both Elena and Sisa’kofa their powers is more the feminine twin of Chi.” He waved the lantern to the mirrors. “Like the mirror image of Chi.”
“But Chi granted his gifts to many men,” Er’ril said. “Why does this spirit only choose this little girl—Elena—to be its instrument?”
“That has been much debated, while the writings of Sisa’kofa ponder that very question. The best answer the Sisterhood could settle on was that Chi, like all men, can spread his seed far and wide, so he could bring many men into his flock. This other spirit, more like a woman, has only one seed at a time to cherish and nurture. That seed was Sisa’kofa in the past and Elena today.”
“So this spirit is weaker than Chi,” Er’ril said.
Uncle Bol frowned at Er’ril, the tips of his white mustache drooping down. “It takes both a man and a woman to birth a child. Who is stronger and who is weaker in this union? It is just sides of a coin.”
Er’ril shrugged. “Words for dreamers.”
“What is this spirit?” Elena asked, becoming slightly intrigued but still watching for snakes. “Where did it come from?”
“Much is still unknown, honey. That’s what I hope your aunt Fila may discover.”
“But Aunt Fila is dead. How can she help now?”
Uncle Bol placed a hand on her cheek. “Aunt Fila is special. Our lineage, even before Sisa’kofa, has always been blessed with a unique connection to the elemental spirits. Even your own mother, Elena.”
“My mother?”
Bol nodded. “You know how she could always tell the sex of an unborn child or when a cow would calf.”
“Yes, all the neighbors used to come to her.” “Well, that was her special skill.” “And Aunt Fila had special skills, too?”
“Yes, and her skills were strong. Your aunt Fila could fold and knead the magick of the elementals like the bread in her bakery. She could wield many sorceries.”
Tears again appeared in Elena’s eyes as she thought of her parents, of her brother, and of Aunt Fila. “Why did she have to die?”
“Hush, sweetie … don’t cry. Let me show you something.” Uncle Bol led her to an alcove between two pillars.
Elena followed, noticing that this was the only section of the wall upon which a mirror did not hang. The alcove, lit by the hand lantern, was not constructed of stacked stones like the walls, but was carved from the rock of the hillside. It contained a pedestal supporting a basin of water. As she watched, a small drop of water rolled down the damp rock wall to dribble into the basin.
“What is this?” Er’ril asked behind her.
“It was a bowl used for ablutions by the initiates. The hands of many ancient mages used this bowl to wash before meditating.”
Elena squeezed forward and had to rise on tiptoe to peer into the water. “What does this have to do with Aunt Fila?”
“This water, seeping from springs deep in the hills, is steeped with elemental powers.” Uncle Bol glanced over her head to Er’ril. “I don’t think the school’s mages, blind to the elemental spirits, even knew what strength flowed through this water. Maybe they somehow sensed it and so intuitively built their chamber of worship here.”
“What does it do?” Er’ril asked.
“As water can carve paths in stone, so this water can carve paths between people. Both Aunt Fila and I had amulets that contained drops from this water, and it allowed us to communicate across distances.” Uncle Bol slipped a small jade amulet in the shape of an alchemist’s vial from his vest pocket. It hung from a gray twisted cord. He offered it to Elena.
She carefully lifted the amulet into the lantern light. “Thank you. It’s beautiful!”
Uncle Bol bent and kissed Elena on her forehead. “It’s a gift from Aunt Fila. In fact, the cord is braided with her hair.” He reached down and removed a tiny sliver of jade acting like a cork in the vial. “Now go fill it with water,” he said, pointing to the basin.
Elena looked at her uncle questioningly, then crossed to the tiny pool and dipped the amulet in. The water’s cold stung her fingers. She lifted the vial free, and Uncle Bol passed her the jade stopper.
“Cork it snug,” he said.
Elena did so, her brows knit tight as she worked the jade sliver in place. “Now what?” she asked.
“With this amulet you can talk to Aunt Fila. You must just hold the amulet tight in your hand and wish it so.”
A trickle of fear dripped down her back. She loved her aunt, but … “I can speak to her ghost?”
“Yes. Her body may be gone, but her spirit lives. I, myself, cannot reach her with my amulet any longer. The elemental power alone is not strong enough to breach the distance to the spirit realm. But Aunt Fila believed you could succeed.”
Elena’s eyes were focused on the amulet. “How?”
“Cross to one of the mirrors. You need a reflecting surface. Then gaze inside as you hold the amulet firm and speak Fila’s name. Try it.”
Elena scrunched up her face and stepped to a mirror in a neighboring alcove. She slipped the cord over her head and clutched the amulet in her palm, its sharp edges pinching her skin. Pressing her fist to her chest, she stared into the mirror. Splotches of green water stains marred her reflection, giving her a diseased appearance.
“Think of her and speak her name,” Uncle Bol whispered beside her. His voice sounded so hopeful, and sad at the same time, that she could not refuse him. In her mind’s eye, she pictured her aunt’s stern expression and the way her hair was always pulled back into a tight knot. “Aunt Fila?” she said to the mirror. “Can you hear me?”
With her words, Elena felt the amulet stir, much like a chick shifting in an egg just before hatching. But nothing else happened. She turned to Uncle Bol. “It’s not working.”
His eyes narrowed, and his shoulders slumped. “Maybe she’s too far.”
“Or maybe she was wrong,” Er’ril said. “We should—”
The bookcase door slammed shut above them, startling Elena. She jumped, and her fist reflexively clamped, piercing her thumb on a sharp edge of the amulet.
The lantern rocked in Uncle Bol’s hand, casting shadows to and fro. He and Er’ril stood stunned for a frozen heartbeat.
Suddenly a new light burst forth into the room. It came from the mirror in front of Elena. Her eyes, drawn by the light, saw a sight she never expected to see again, her aunt Fila! The old woman was draped in waves of light, and stars winked behind her. The starry view reminded Elena of something she had seen be
fore.
But before Elena could ponder this, Aunt Fila spoke, a panicked look blooming across her aunt’s face. “Run!” She pointed a ghostly hand toward the single dark corridor leading out from the chamber and deeper into the ruins. “Flee! Now! Leave the cottage and escape to the woods!”
23
WITH HIS PILLOW covering his ears, exhaustion finally consumed Rockingham, and he fell into a fitful slumber. He dreamed he stood on the edge of a cliff above a dark, choppy surf. As he watched the white-tipped waves crash on black rocks below, he somehow knew he dreamed. Clouds and rain blotted the horizon as a storm brewed far out to sea. As is often the case in dreams, the time of day was unclear; the quality of light was such that a change felt imminent. But whether the light was due to wax brighter as in early morning or to wane into darkness, he was unsure. The only thing he knew for certain was that he recognized this place. He had stood here before. He remembered the salt in his nose and the breeze on his face. The Dev’unberry bluff, on the coast of his island home!
A smile appeared on his face. It had been many years since he had returned to the Archipelago. Even this nighttime fantasy was a welcome visit. He soaked the air deep into his chest, and if he squinted … yes, he could just make out the Isle of Maunsk in the distance, nearly swallowed by roiling clouds.
Suddenly, as he viewed the neighboring island, a feeling of dread clutched his heart. He glanced quickly behind him as if expecting some creature of nightmare to be pouncing toward him, but the rolling green hills stood empty.
What was this fluttering of his heart? This was his home. What should he fear? He stared at the view off the cliffs. The sweep of ocean, wind, and rain seemed strangely familiar, more than just a memory of home. This very picture—the distant island disappearing into cloud, the crash of angry water at his feet, the sting of spray on his cheek—not only had he stood here before, but he had stood at this exact moment before. But when?
He tried to organize his thoughts, but a rising panic rattled him. He had a sudden urge to run. But before he could act on this thought, his feet began to move on their own, not carrying him away to safety, but toward the edge of the cliff! As in many dreams, he could not stop. It was as if his body were a carnival puppet through whose eyes he peered. He could not stop his feet as they continued forward. As he fought, he watched his right foot step into open space.
Now he remembered! Not only had he been here before, he had done this very thing. A welling pain escaped his breast in a scream as his body tumbled off the cliff. “Linora!”
As the water-churned rocks flew toward his face, words tolled in his head, in a cold, familiar tongue, laced with black humor. Dismarum’s voice said, “Don’t worry, Rockingham, I’ll catch you again.” Laughter echoed as he hit the waves.
Rockingham sprang awake in the old man’s cottage, tasting blood in his mouth. His underclothes were drenched in sweat as if he had run a long race. He struggled to sit up, but the ropes held him.
Suddenly a rough hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to scream, but the palm blocked all sound.
“Silence or die,” someone whispered in his ear. Rockingham felt the blade of a knife at his throat. He stopped struggling. The weapon lifted from his neck and sliced his ropes free.
Rockingham pulled his arms down and rubbed his wrists. The bulky shadow of the mountain man loomed beside his bed. “Get dressed. Hurry!” Kral growled at him.
He noticed the small woman, Nee’lahn, fully dressed and peering through the tiny window. “Quickly!” she said. “Both are inside. The way is clear. Once we reach the horses, we can draw them after us.”
“What is going on?” Rockingham asked as he tucked his shirt into his pants. He bent to his boots.
“Skal’tum,” Kral answered.
Rockingham sped his efforts, pouncing into his boots. Now was not the time to be caught by the Dark Lord’s lieutenants. He had no bargaining chip. “Where is the girl … and the others?”
Kral ignored the small man’s question. He pushed him toward the window, not knowing why the woman had insisted on hauling the prisoner along. Rockingham should have been left to the teeth and claws of the beasts. But Nee’lahn had insisted.
Nee’lahn slowly worked the window open. Crashing sounded from below. “Do you think they’re safe?” she whispered.
He stayed silent, unsure and reluctant to voice his fears. If only he had sensed the approach of the beasts earlier. Kral had found himself with only enough time to hurry down and kick the cellar door shut before the first skal’tum had begun digging at the cottage’s door. He had barely escaped back up the stairs himself.
“Will they be hidden long enough for us to get to the horses and draw the monsters away?” Nee’lahn asked, propping the window open.
“The cellar door is well disguised.”
“Still, we must hurry!” With the window now wide open, she climbed through the frame onto the thatched roof.
Kral picked up the prisoner and shoved him over the windowsill. The thin man rolled across the roof, almost tumbling from the edge. Kral wormed through the window next, having to blow all the air from his wide chest to give him room to squeeze through the narrow frame. His belt caught for a difficult moment on the sill before finally popping free and allowing him to scoot the remainder of his bulk through to the roof.
“Like a cow giving birth,” Rockingham commented to no one. His flippant words, though, could not hide the wary crinkle of his brow or the way his eyes kept darting to all corners of the roofline.
Nee’lahn stood at the roof’s edge. The horse barn with its crooked doors and sparse thatching stood just a stone’s throw from her. “We could jump from here,” she whispered. “Or work our way to the back of the house and climb down the woodpile.”
As answer, Kral leaped from the roof to land with a muffled thud on a heap of dead pine needles. He waved the others down. Nee’lahn pointed for Rockingham to go first, obviously distrusting the man. He did not need goading. The speed with which he slipped to the edge of the roof suggested he, too, did not welcome an encounter with what tore through the lower rooms. He hung from the roof’s edge for a moment, then let go to land near Kral.
Nee’lahn adjusted her pack and glanced down to them. Kral took a step forward to catch her if needed. As she hesitated a breath at the edge, a splintering crash erupted from the bedchamber behind her.
“Hurry!” Kral called. But he need not have spoken. Nee’lahn had already launched from the roof.
The word “Run!” blew from her lips as she landed on her feet. Before Kral could get his large bulk moving, she was off and darting for the horse barn. She flew like a fluttering leaf. Kral thudded after her, herding Rockingham ahead of him.
He heard glass shatter behind him, and the explosion of burst planks. He twisted his neck and saw a dark form driving through the window above, claws scrabbling at the thatched roof. It seemed trapped, but from the way it thrashed, it would be free in a heartbeat. He drove faster, shoving Rockingham forward. The townsman stumbled, but Kral caught his shoulder and kept him on his feet.
Kral saw that Nee’lahn had already disappeared into the horse barn. By the time he reached the crooked door with its cracked rawhide hinges, the woman had two of the horses—the girl’s gray mare and the plainsman’s chestnut stallion—already in tow. His own war charger, Rorshaf, would not allow the woman near and stood snorting and digging an iron-shod hoof into the dried manure. His black flanks heaved in excitement, apparently sensing the foul beasts afoot. Kral clucked his tongue twice, and Rorshaf settled his hooves.
Nee’lahn slid bareback atop the chestnut stallion and tossed the reins of the small mare to Rockingham. Kral noted with satisfaction that she had tied a lead from the mare to her stallion, not trusting the prisoner to stay with them. The mare fought Rockingham’s mounting, but Kral—busy with his own beast—could not fault the man’s garrison training. He stayed on the back of the horse and managed to gain control.
Kral tossed
his saddle and packs atop Rorshaf and yanked the strap to secure it. In a heartbeat, he was mounted. He patted one of his packs at his thigh. Its fullness told him that no one had disturbed its contents.
He led the way to the barn door and kicked it wide.
A large shape crashed to the dirt and rock before him. His war charger, who would run through fire with nary a flinch, reared and snorted in fright. Kral twisted his fist in the reins and fought to keep his seat.
Before him, with wings swept wide, stood another of the Dark Lord’s lieutenants. The skal’tum hissed at the rearing horse and blocked the way forward. Kral finally, with a savage yank on the bit, convinced Rorshaf to keep his hooves planted. The other horses and riders had edged back deeper into the ramshackle barn. But in there lay no safety; this beast would not be stopped by rotted and warped boards. Kral kicked Rorshaf forward, and for the first time since broken to the bit, his stallion refused his command. He kicked again with more heel. The horse ignored him, terror holding it frozen.
Kral leaned forward in his saddle, his pommel digging into his stomach, to reach his mount’s ear. “Rorshaf, partu sagui weni sky,” he clucked in the tongue of the crag horses, a language all mountain folk knew as well as their own. Kral was the best of the Whisperers in his clan. Some said he was born to the fire speaking the language of the crag horses. Still, as skilled as he was, it took all his coaxing to work the fear from Rorshaf’s heart and to get his mount to attend him.
The war charger began to respond to Kral’s hands on the reins. Kral tapped his flanks, and the horse edged a few paces closer to the skal’tum.
The winged beast’s ears swiveled forward and back, gauging the situation. The claws of its feet had dug deep into the soil. A greenish ooze dripped from the daggered tips of its claws as it opened and closed its fists. Fangs showed from between thin lips, and in the scant moonlight, its eyes were black pits with red-hot coals glowing deep within. The motion of the horse drew the monster’s full attention.
“Where iss the girl child?” the skal’tum spat toward him. “Give her over, and we will let you die quickly.”