by Martha Wells
Nicholas ran down past the crypts, coming out in the open area before the dais just as the first bullet went off. With another nice touch of irony it almost struck him, tearing through his coat sleeve and ricochetting off the stone wall behind him. Nicholas dived away as other bullets struck the crypts, the floor, the dais. Ghouls shrieked louder, scattering at the onslaught.
It should only take Madeline a moment to slip into the crypt, put the ring on the corpse’s rib, and slip out and back into the shadows. Nicholas got to his feet and bolted down one of the paths between the crypts, hoping the ghouls would chase him now that they had seen him, leaving the way clear for Madeline.
The ghouls were running all right, but in all directions, confused and terrified by the fire and the popping explosions. Nicholas laughed and ducked down another pathway. Then something grabbed him by the back of the neck. He tried to wrench away but he was caught in the grip of an irresistible force. The scene in the street near Fontainon house flashed through his mind: Octave in the grip of that towering, terrifying figure, shaken and cast down like a child’s toy puppet. Then he saw the nearest wall coming toward him and the blow was like being struck by a train.
He didn’t lose consciousness though the world fluttered in and out of existence and everything seemed set at an odd angle. Some snatches of reality were more real than others: the roughness of the stone he tried to grab onto as he was dragged past, the bruising impact on the bottom step of the dais.
At the top he came back to himself enough to recognize the large servant leaning over him. He took a wild swing at him, landing a blow on the man’s jaw, but the return punch knocked him over backward. He struggled to push himself up but the man grabbed his shoulder and shoved him down and he met the rough surface of the dais face first. He had a confused view of Macob looking down at him and struggled to sit up. He was pushed down and held with a knee in his back and despite struggling and cursing he couldn’t prevent his wrists being tightly bound.
The weight left his back and Nicholas rolled over and managed to sit up. The ropes were rough and felt new and strong; he might work his hands loose eventually but not soon enough.
Macob was looking down at him, his hat brim shadowing his expression. The necromancer seemed more solid than he had before and there was an air about him like the breath from an open grave, detectable even in this place of damp and cold and fetid odors. He said, "It wouldn’t have mattered if you had run away. I would have found you."
"I know," Nicholas assured him. "You’re predictable that way."
Macob was already turning away, his form wavering, drifting like smoke, then rematerializing into solidity as he stepped back to the edge of the circle. Nicholas worked at the ropes though he knew it was hopeless. This is damnably embarrassing. He looked at the servant who was standing nearby, staring off into space, his eyes red-rimmed and empty. The other man still lay on the dais, motionless except for the rise and fall of his breath.
Macob must have the two men completely under his control though how, Nicholas had no idea. He had never heard of a spell that could enslave the human mind in such a way. But Macob had used drugs to help render his victims suggestible; this might be any combination of drugs, mental suggestion, and spells.
Macob lifted a hand. The servant retrieved the knife where it had fallen and moved woodenly to where his comrade still lay insensible on the stone. No, not insensible, Nicholas saw. The man’s eyelids were fluttering. He must be aware of exactly what was happening.
From this close an observation point, Nicholas could see dust stirring within the circle, moved by the invisible forces Macob was drawing into it. The movement centered on the urn and from the dust pattern it was as if the currents of power were spiralling down into it.
Macob gave no outward signal but there was a sudden strangled cry. Nicholas twisted around to see the servant grab his former comrade by the shoulder and stab him in the chest. Blood welled and the man clutched helplessly at the protruding blade. The other servant straightened, still no expression on his face. In the circle the urn was trembling. It shook violently, fell on its side, and started to spin.
Over the clatter of the metal urn, Nicholas realized he was hearing something else. Something familiar. He turned his head, pretending to be wincing away from the sight of the man bleeding to death, trying to hear it more clearly. It was the humming, clicking whir the sphere made when it was in the presence of inimical magic. Nicholas swore under his breath. Madeline must be close, only a few steps away.
The urn was still spinning but now a dark gray substance was pouring out of it. It wasn’t dust or ash or at least not anymore; it streamed out in a solid mass, spiralling up until it made a spinning column almost five feet high. Now there was a shape forming out of it, as if a statue was buried in the center and the gray sand was streaming away to reveal it.
The sound of the sphere was closer and Nicholas watched Macob carefully for any sign of awareness. The necromancer was staring at the circle and the thing forming out of the gray sand, all his attention apparently caught by it. One of the ghouls crouched near Nicholas sidled away, its mad eyes empty of anything like thought, as if some unseen force had gently nudged it aside. Nicholas took a relieved breath. He had been afraid the sphere would give itself and Madeline away if it came within striking range of one of the creatures, but either she had managed to restrain it or it knew what it was about. Nicholas sat up a little more, holding his bound hands out from his back. She must be almost there.
Then Macob turned toward him and he saw the gleam in his eye and the cold smile. Nicholas snapped, "He knows, dammit, run."
He heard boots scrape on the stone behind him but it was too late. Macob lifted a hand and light flashed and Nicholas fell away from a searing heat that singed his face. He twisted around to look, heart frozen in fear, but Madeline stood unhurt in the open space below the dais, still holding the sphere. He shouted, "Strike back at him, hurry!"
Madeline’s head twitched. He had disturbed her concentration and Nicholas cursed himself for distracting her. Of course, that was what she was trying to do.
Deliberately, Macob moved to the edge of the dais. He was still smiling. He said, "She cannot strike me. The device was only meant for defense."
Madeline and Nicholas exchanged a look. It might be a guess but it explained too much of the sphere’s behavior. And it would be just like Edouard to build in such a stipulation, Nicholas thought grimly. "He can’t attack you either," Nicholas told her. "If he does you can turn his own power against him. Just walk away." Macob could, however, threaten to kill him, but he was rather hoping that aspect of the situation would slip the necromancer’s mind.
Madeline must have realized the other point that Nicholas hadn’t dared voice aloud. That if she could bring the sphere within range of him, then Macob could hurt neither of them. She leapt forward, made it almost to the last step of the dais before she staggered back as if she had run into an invisible wall. She recovered her balance, swearing loudly.
Macob said, "The barrier is around us." He gestured, indicating Nicholas, the circle and the thing now crouched inside it, the nervous ghouls and the castle crypt, the enslaved servant standing motionless and the man who lay dead in a pool of blood. "It is also purely a work of defense. The sphere will not react."
He turned back to the creature inside the circle. It was a gray, wizened figure, its body human except for clawed hands and three-toed feet. Its head was a triangular wedge with predatory eyes buried in deep sockets. Macob gestured again and the creature disappeared.
"You sent it to the palace," Nicholas said. He was aware of Madeline storming up and down at the bottom of the dais, trying to find a way past the sorcerous barrier. I’m going to have to do this the hard way, Nicholas thought. He met Macob’s eyes. You don’t think I’m capable of it, do you? You won’t suspect anything until it’s too late. "It’s a fay but it’s already dead, so the wards won’t stop it."
"Correct," Macob said. H
is expression was sane and quiet, almost peaceful. "I will have my life and my work. Everything that was taken from me. You have lost."
"You could say that," Nicholas said. But you would be wrong. Even the best go wrong. The trick is to be there when it happens.
In the circle the dead fay winked back into existence with a suddenness that the eye almost refused to accept. Nicholas didn’t realize he was actually seeing it until it stepped forward and handed Macob an ivory casket.
Macob opened it, not even bothering to watch as his messenger dissolved back into dust and ashes. The necromancer tossed the casket away and lifted up the object it contained, a yellowed skull with crystals set into the eye sockets. Macob lifted a brow and said, in the first thing close to humor Nicholas had heard from him, "His Majesty Rogere always did have execrable taste."
He turned and Nicholas’s heart almost stopped. God, no, he has to put it with the rest of his bones. He’ll see the ring, he thought. Then the servant stepped forward and took the skull from Macob and turned to carry it into the crypt.
As the man passed inside the dark doorway of the crypt, Macob looked at Nicholas and said, "I meant to use him for my final effort but I think it would be better with both of you."
"Yes, I gathered that, thank you," Nicholas said bitingly, to cover his relief.
The servant returned, climbed the dais again and stood ready.
Macob turned back toward the circle. He seemed to be using it as a focus, an anchoring point for the forces he was mustering. He made no gesture but the servant moved stiffly toward the body of his late companion, put his foot on the chest and removed the knife with a jerk.
Nicholas realized then what had struck him when he had last looked at Madeline. She had been standing with her hands in front of her as if she was holding the sphere, clutching it protectively to her chest. But her hands were empty.
She had handed it to someone. Someone who had approached the dais unseen, passed through Macob’s barrier without alerting him and now crouched nearby, aided by the relic created by the lost powers of his youth. Nicholas was never more sure of anything in his life.
A faint whisper, barely a breath in his ear, said, "When he strikes at you, fall-down as if you’ve been hit. I’ll take care of the rest."
Arisilde’s voice. Nicholas whispered, just as softly, "No."
There was no answer but he felt something brush against the back of his coat. Arisilde had shifted position. Nicholas drew a deep breath. The last thing he wanted to do was startle Arisilde, who must be at the center of a complex web of spells. One strand pulled at the wrong time and the whole structure might collapse, even with the sphere’s help. He whispered, "If we’re to be rid of him he has to complete this spell."
Again there was no answer from Arisilde. If I were him, I’d kill Macob’s servant as Macob obviously intended to do before I conveniently turned up, and complete the spell for him that way, Nicholas thought. But then, it’s a good thing I’m not Arisilde.
The servant was coming toward him with the knife and everything seemed to happen far more rapidly than it should. Nicholas had no time to brace himself, no time for anything except to flinch back when the blade struck home. He fell backward, a roaring in his ears, a tearing pain in his gut.
A wave of darkness swept over him, then just as abruptly it gave way to bright sunlight. He was in the garden of the house they had lived in when Edouard was working at Lodun, sitting on the bench near the wisteria. Sitting next to him was Edouard himself.
Nicholas looked into his foster father’s eyes and for a moment saw the same distance and determination that had marked Macob’s gaze.
Edouard smiled, a little ruefully, and said, "Two sides of the same coin."
"No," Nicholas said. He didn’t even have to think about it. "If you can see the trap, you’re not likely to fall into it."
"Ah." Edouard nodded. "Remember that."
Somewhere far away there was a scream, compounded of thwarted rage and heartbreaking loss.
"That’s done it," Nicholas told Edouard, though he couldn’t have said what "it" was at the moment.
A cloud passed over the sun and the light started to die. Edouard leaned forward and said something else, but the words were hard to hear and his sight was blurred and. . . .
Nicholas opened his eyes. The reality of the cave, the cold, the stink of death, hard stone under his back, was like a blow. His head was in Madeline’s lap and Arisilde was leaning over him. There was blood everywhere and his chest ached horribly. He took a breath and it was like being stabbed again.
Arisilde sat back on his heels. "That’ll do," he said brightly. "Close, though, wasn’t it?"
Madeline’s face was bruised and pale, streaked with tears and dirt, her eyes huge and reddened from the smoke. He said, "Madeline?"
She shoved him off her lap. "You bastard! I could kill you."
She sounded serious. After a couple of tries, Nicholas managed to roll into a sitting position. "You’re welcome," he said. His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. "Help me up."
It took both of them, since Madeline was more overcome than she appeared and Arisilde was scarcely in better case than Nicholas. The body of Macob’s last servant lay nearby in a pool of his own blood, his throat slit. He must have done it to himself on Macob’s command to increase the power of the spell.
Once Nicholas could stand, he started toward the crypt, Madeline following him.
Macob’s body lay on the slab, still wrapped in the rags of its clothing and winding sheet. It had been restored to an appearance of recent death and the flesh, though bloodless and a little withered, was unmarked by time. The eyelids were open, revealing the crystals King Rogere had had embedded in Macob’s skull.
Nicholas leaned on the slab and pointed up at the sphere suspended above it. "Get that down, can you?"
One hand on his shoulder to steady herself, Madeline found footholds in the side of the slab and got enough height to reach the hanging sphere. She tore the net open on the second try, managed to catch it, and leapt down.
She handed it to him and Nicholas hefted it thoughtfully. It felt dead like the other two spheres that had been stored in Coldcourt’s attic. Cold and silent and motionless. But he would have to make sure.
He put it down and found a loose chunk of stone from the plinth. He hefted the stone thoughtfully, checking its weight, then knelt and steadied the sphere with his free hand. He thought it would take at least several blows; he might not have been surprised if it had proved impossible. But the sphere shattered on the first impact.
Nicholas started back as odd fragments of colored metal scattered everywhere. Sparks of red and blue light splattered across the floor, rolling like marbles until they disappeared into the cracks between the stone flags. He realized there was a white light on his hand, clinging to it like a thick fluid. He was too startled to be worried and it wasn’t painful. He shook his hand and the light dissolved into tiny sparks that vanished in the damp air. He thought he heard voices whispering, almost familiar voices. Rohan’s? Edouard’s? But the sound swelled and died away before he could identify them.
Nicholas stood slowly, looking at the remains of the sphere. It was only so much junk now.
Then he realized he was hearing something, a deep, rumbling reverberation echoing down from one of the tunnels. He looked back at Madeline, frowning, puzzled. He could tell by her expression she had heard it too. She shook her head, baffled.
Then the ground started to shake. They stared at each other, both coming to the same realization at once.
Madeline said, "Dammit, it’s—"
"Fallier," Nicholas finished for her. He started toward the door, staggered as the ground suddenly rolled under his feet. Madeline stumbled into him and they caught each other and almost tumbled out the doorway.
Arisilde had been kneeling beside the smudged circle and was just standing up as they came out. He swayed as the ground shuddered again and the last of the pediment
cherubs on the crypt across the dais crashed to pieces against the rocks. Madeline paused to grab up their sphere, left forgotten on the dais. Nicholas steadied her as she stood and they plunged toward Arisilde.
He caught them, bracing them against the continuous jolts. His eyes were distant and he was muttering, "The structure is still here, yes, the dissipation hasn’t been too great, I think I might. . . ."
Nicholas grabbed the sorcerer’s shoulder to steady himself, keeping an arm around Madeline’s waist. There was a great crash as the balcony and most of the walkway cracked and folded away from the cave wall, smashing down onto the outermost ring of crypts. With forced patience, he said, "Ari, if you would. . . ."
Madeline tried to comment and choked on the cloud of dust that was rolling over them from the passages that had already collapsed.
"Yes," Arisilde was saying, "I think I might—" A portion of the roof went, striking the crypt with the armored knight and smashing it to pieces. "I think I’d better," Arisilde finished. "Madeline, the sphere, please."
She passed it to him. "Can it stop what Fallier is doing?"
"No." Arisilde held it out, one-handed. "But if this works, it won’t have to."
The sphere was reacting as it always did, the wheels inside spinning rapidly. You would think after holding off Macob that long, it would be tired, Nicholas thought, foolishly. Obviously the thing didn’t get tired. If Macob had managed to take it . . . .
Dust and small fragments of rock rained down on them. Arisilde tossed the sphere into the circle. Madeline cried out in protest but instead of smashing on the stone, the sphere hung in midair, buoyed up by the power gathered there.
It spun faster, inside and out, until Arisilde muttered, "It’s not enough."
There was a crack loud enough to be audible over the shaking and crumbling of the walls around them. The sphere exploded, fragments of hot copper showering over them. Nicholas ducked, pulling Madeline closer. Even as the copper fragments struck them and the blue light flared, he felt an iron grip on his arm and Arisilde suddenly dragged them both over the boundary and into the circle.
