Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster

  Turning, she strode across the room and halted before the line of torn and battered banners that hung limply from the ceiling. “See, here.”

  “See what?” Sranul hopped over to join her. The floor around the banners was piled high with broken furniture. “Nothing here but garbage.”

  “Yes. Too much garbage.” She waved at the room. “Not nearly as much as there, or there. The distribution is not even.”

  “So what does that prove? That they preferred to dump their junk here instead of over there?” Suddenly the roo hesitated, as if seeing clearly for the first time. He started digging at the old chairs and couches, shoving them aside, pulling down the frayed banners. They came apart easily in his hands, shredding in his fingers. Most were rotted through.

  When he saw what was hidden behind the banners and woodwork, Praetor joined him. It was a vault door, much smaller than the one they had encountered before, carefully painted to resemble the rockwork in which it was set.

  “Is it real?” Sranul whispered as he stared at it, unable to believe.

  “I am not sure. I sense no danger within, but I would not bet your life on my senses. Not in a place as devious as Shadowkeep.”

  “Sense-shmenses,” burbled Sranul, “what are we waiting for!” He reached for the handle set in the iron mass.

  “Don’t touch that!” Maryld said suddenly.

  Sranul jerked his hand away. “I thought you said you didn’t sense any danger.” He sounded hurt.

  “I said I didn’t sense any danger within. With those ears I’d think you’d listen better. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said about deceptions?”

  The roo studied the handle intently. “Looks just like a handle to me.”

  “Yes, and the chest looked like a simple chest, full of simple junk. Nothing in this place is simple, my big-footed friend.” She pointed toward the center of the door. “See? The handle is large and obvious. That little hole in the iron is small and inconspicuous. It has to be a keyhole. Touch the handle without first inserting the proper key and you might find yourself going the way of the chest.”

  Sranul swallowed. “I understand. But what are we to do?”

  “Well, you could still try the handle, but I wouldn’t.” She pursed her lips and spat toward the door. It wasn’t very ladylike, but it was effective.

  The saliva struck the handle. The handle looked quite normal, but when her spit struck the black metal, the room was filled with a crisp sizzling sound.

  “Suppose you’d grabbed that with both hands?” she asked the roo.

  Praetor stared at the handle. It looked no hotter than the surrounding metal of the door. “How could you tell? It doesn’t even look warm.”

  “Not to you or to Sranul, perhaps, but thaladar eyes are different from those of human and roo, and Zhis’ta as well. It is hard to describe. To us heat has a color all its own. We can see it, just as you see green or yellow.” She nodded at the door. “To me that handle looks red-hot. Just as your cheeks look different when you blush.”

  He turned away from her. “I don’t blush,” he growled softly. “Sranul’s question still applies. If we can’t use the handle and we have no key, how do we get inside? Wrap the handle in something fireproof?” He searched the room. “All I see are the shreds of these old banners, and they would burst into flame in an instant.”

  “Well, we certainly must try.” She smiled at the impatient roo. “We have to do something to assuage poor Sranul’s curiosity, or he’ll be no good to himself or anyone else until we do. We don’t want him thinking of treasure when he should be thinking of saving others.”

  “Now just a minute, thaladar…” the roo began, but she put up a hand to forestall his protest.

  “Do not trouble yourself, my friend. There is no need for you to apologize for what you are. You are brave and bold and willing, if a bit on the avaricious side.”

  Sranul frowned. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  Hargrod unlimbered his ax. “What about thiss? The curve of the blade will fit through that handle. I could brace myself on the wall and pry the door open.”

  “I fear not, good Hargrod,” she told him. “The heat that permeates that handle is not of this world. I am afraid it might melt even the steel of your redoubtable weapon. No, we need something that will not burn. This—” and she held out the staff that they had taken from the Brollachian’s pool.

  “That’s just wood,” Sranul protested. “It’ll burn up in a minute.”

  Maryld shook her head sadly. “Have you heard nothing of what I’ve said? This is not ‘just a piece of wood’. I’ve been saying that ever since we acquired it. Now I will prove it.” She stepped to the left of the door. “Hargrod, would you give me a hand, please? Your grip is steadier than mine.”

  The Zhis’ta came forward. She handed him the staff. “Slip it through the slot in the handle,” she directed him. He did so.

  Praetor waited for the wood to erupt in flame. It did not. It didn’t even smoke. There was a slight odor of charcoal, and that was all.

  Maryld let out a sigh of relief. “I thought, but I wasn’t certain until now. As for the key we don’t have—” She reached into her pouch and produced the tiny stick they had found so long ago, the one that Sranul had almost thrown away but which Maryld had insisted on saving.

  “I thought this might be good for something. Have any of you noticed that it fits exactly in that center hole?” She stepped in front of the door and carefully inserted the slim wand into the opening. When it had penetrated nearly all the way, she was rewarded with a sharp click.

  She moved out of the way and nodded toward Hargrod. “Now. Use the staff, Zhis’ta.”

  Hargrod strained, putting one foot against the wall to give himself more leverage as he pulled. The wood began to bend and Praetor was sure it was going to snap in the Zhis’ta’s hands. It did not. Instead, a metallic moan came from the vicinity of the door’s hinges, an echo of eons. No knowing how long it had been since that door was last opened.

  The sound lent strength to Hargrod’s muscles and he pulled again. This time a gap appeared between the thick metal of the door and the wall. It was wide enough for a hand to slip through. Praetor sniffed. There was a new smell in the air and it issued from behind the door. A musty smell of air infrequently disturbed.

  He moved toward the opening, sniffed cautiously, peered inside. “No light.”

  Hargrod held onto the staff and pulled again. The gap was now wide enough to step through. “Expect trouble.”

  Praetor nodded and moved back. He searched the room, then selected several broken chair legs. Wrapping them in torn material taken from the ruined banners, he shoved straw stuffing from chair seats between the wooden legs. Then he returned to the door and shoved this makeshift torch against the handle. Wood and straw burst instantly into flame and burned with a satisfying steadiness.

  Hargrod and Sranul duplicated his actions. When all was in readiness, Praetor held torch in one hand and sword ready in the other as he stepped through the opening. Whatever lay inside, at least they wouldn’t be confronting it blindly.

  His companions crowded close behind him. “What is it?” Sranul called anxiously to him. “What can you see?”

  “Nothing much,” Praetor told him. But there was a strange lilt to his voice which belied his words. “It’s really quite ordinary, if you stop to think about it.”

  “Stop to think about what?” Sranul was about to die of impatience. He forced his way past Hargrod until he was standing alongside Praetor.

  The vault was awash in flame. But it was a cold flame, a flame different from the kind that had incinerated the old chest. The fire stabbed at the roo’s eyes, making them water. Still he refused to turn away from the brightness. The brightness of his torch thrown back at him from millions of pieces of gold. There were familiar goldens as well as tiny coins the size of a fingernail which were alien to both man and roo. Jeweled crowns and bowls set with diamonds splintered
the spectrum, while atop a richly inlaid table of silver were six table settings all done in platinum and rubies. In front of each plate was a glass. As they moved nearer, Praetor saw that each glass had been cut from a single ruby. They looked like they were filled with crystalized blood.

  “Now, isn’t that grand?” Sranul murmured. Hargrod and Maryld had joined them.

  “Thiss iss not wealth.” The Zhis’ta stared dumbly at the hoard. It filled the vault completely, reaching almost to the ceiling where it was stacked against the back wall. “Thiss iss beyond wealth. I do not have a word for it.”

  “I do.” Maryld knelt and picked up a golden flute, studded with tourmalines and topaz. “It’s beautiful. There is great art here.”

  “Art, yes.” Sranul handed Hargrod his torch, took a single bound, and landed atop the nearest hill of gold. Grabbing his toes, he tucked his tail underneath his backside and slid down the pile of coins as smoothly as a kid on a snowbank. He tossed coins in the air and watched as they twinkled in the torchlight.

  “Think, Zhis’ta,” he said to Hargrod without looking over at him, “what your share of this will buy for your family. You want a piece of land for them on the shores of the southern sea? You can buy the southern sea. Humans there giving you trouble? Buy the whole country and move them somewhere else.”

  Praetor wanted to join in the celebration but couldn’t. Not yet. “We’re not on our way home with saddlebags full of gold yet, my friend.” Was he unnecessarily concerned? If opening the vault had triggered some kind of demonic alarm, it sure was a quiet one. Sranul toyed with the riches of the ages and still nothing appeared to challenge them.

  “Worried?” Maryld had moved to stand close to him. He nodded. “You know what I am thinking, Praetor Fime? I’m thinking that this vault may in itself be a distraction. The ultimate distraction. What matters a little treasure to one who plans to conquer the world? Perhaps Dal’brad senses that anyone clever enough to get this deep into Shadowkeep could represent a real danger to him. So he plants his treasure here to buy off a clever intruder’s good intentions. How many adventurers, chancing upon this hoard, would fill their packs and return home, leaving the demon king in peace to continue his scheming?”

  “There is more to it than that,” he muttered. “I’ve seen men blinded by gold. It changes more than just then-intentions. And a blind man makes a poor fighter.”

  “We agree, then?”

  “Yes. We have to get away from here, and quickly, before the treasure seduces us. If we succeed in our ultimate aim, we can return to load ourselves down with gems. If not, it will not matter. There will be no rich men in a world ruled by Dal’brad.” He raised his voice. “Come on, Sranul. We’re leaving. Now. We can come back for this later.”

  “Later? What do you mean, later?” A dozen necklaces, each different in size and composition and each worth a king’s ransom, hung from his neck.

  “You know what I mean.” He started for the exit. “We have a job to do here in Shadowkeep. We have been assigned a mission. We cannot take the time to think of ourselves until we have accomplished what we came for, until we have addressed the problem of the demon king.”

  “You want to address him? Send him a letter! Mission? It’s your mission. No sneaker through the infinite appeared before me.” He leaned back against the gold. “Me, I’ve accomplished what I came for.”

  Praetor stared at the roo for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s right. You’re under no obligation to follow me, Sranul. None at all.” He switched his attention to the mountain of gold, surprised by the indifference he felt. Norell’s precious gold ring would be nothing alongside this; a mere bauble, a trinket. Maybe he was as unmoved as he was because there was too much of it to comprehend.

  As a child he’d been fond of fruit ices. Once he’d eaten too much and had lain in bed sick for three days afterward. From that moment on he’d never felt the desire for fruit ice again. Was this the same? Could you overdose on wealth as readily as on food?

  Not that it didn’t tempt him. It did. But there was more at stake here than mere wealth. Much more. Maryld too recognized the hoard for what it really was: a gigantic bribe. It wasn’t hard to turn away from it if you realized that. Besides, to one who’d been poor all his life, so much wealth in one place was almost obscene.

  “Come,” he said softly to Maryld, “let’s be about our business.”

  “Lead on,” she replied, and for the first time he had the feeling that she was speaking to him as an equal. He walked a little taller as he slipped past the vault door.

  Sranul, who by now had buried himself in gold and jewels, gazed after them in disbelief. “Crazy. They’re both crazy. Hargrod, you’ll help me carry the choicest gems back to the inn, won’t you? We can come back in after those two later. You remember your dream, the land for your family. What about their future?”

  “They will have no future if Dal’brad iss not sstopped.” He let out a reptilian sniff. “One can alwayss find wealth if one sseekss it long enough. But there iss ssomething more valuable one cannot alwayss find.”

  “More valuable than this?” Sranul rooted through the pile over his belly and produced an exquisitely inscribed dagger carved from a single deep tangerine sapphire. The handle was inlaid with a profusion of small, flawless diamonds.

  “Yess. More valuable than that.” The Zhis’ta turned to follow Praetor and Maryld back out into the hallway.

  “Well, I don’t see it,” Sranul snapped angrily. “Come on, show it to me!”

  “I cannot.” Hargrod paused in the doorway, turned back to look at the roo. “It iss a worthy causse.” He disappeared.

  Sranul was alone in the vault. His torch burned steadily next to him, its light illuminating the wealth of continents. He was rich, richer than even emperors dream of being.

  So why did he feel so uncomfortable? Why the queasy feeling in his stomach? It was all that Praetor’s fault! Sure, that was it. The human had professed indifference to Sranul’s chosen course, but he’d magicked the poor innocent roo on his way out.

  Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it! He wasn’t going to go off and leave Sranul behind feeling sick and guilty for claiming what was rightfully his. Not Sranul he wasn’t.

  “Wait, wait a minute!” The roo struggled to kick his way free. Gold and brightly hued rings went flying in all directions. “You’re not getting away that easy. Wait for me!”

  He was clear of the hoard and hopping for the exit when a sudden thought made him turn and rush back to the pile. Hurriedly he stuffed a couple of handfuls of rings into his pack and shoved the sapphire dagger into his belt. Then he raced out to find his friends.

  Chapter XI

  The empty hall sickened him further, but he soon tracked them down. They had turned a far corner and were walking up a side corridor. Praetor didn’t turn to look at him.

  “Guilt can be a powerful stimulant, Sranul.”

  “Guilt? What guilt? I don’t feel the least bit guilty.” The roo groomed his long ears. “Besides, the treasure will be there for the taking once we’ve defeated the demon king.” He looked around and frowned. “What happened to the thaladar?”

  “She’s up ahead,” Praetor told him, nodding down the corridor.

  A pair of wooden doors gaped at the far end of the hall. Maryld stood in the opening beneath the stone archway. “Hurry,” she called to them, “I’ve found a treasure greater than any we’ve yet seen.”

  Sranul’s eyes bulged. “More treasure? It can’t be. There can’t be so much wealth in one world.” He increased his stride, bounding on ahead of his companions.

  Hargrod’s voice was subdued. “I fear our long-legged friend’ss affinity for gold may kill him ssomeday.”

  “I share your concern. We’ll both have to keep a close watch on him.”

  Their immediate fears were unfounded. Sranul’s enthusiasm slumped considerably the moment he entered the room that lay beyond the double doors.

  “What is this?
” He glanced briefly at Maryld, then scanned the room a second time. “There’s no treasure here.”

  “It is your perception which is poor, my good roo, and not the contents of this chamber. There is ten times the wealth here than in the vault you just abandoned.” She waved a hand at the tall shelves which lined each wall. “I believe we have found Gorwyther’s library.”

  Praetor had never seen so many books, not even in Sasubree’s highly respected university (where he had once gone with Shone Stelft to repair some water pipes). Not only did the books fill every shelf all the way to the ceiling, there were more stacked on the floor and piled haphazardly on reading tables. Some were so big it would’ve taken two men to carry them.

  Others lay open on reading stands and were marked with strips of fine leather. He and his companions wandered through the room and tried to make sense of so much knowledge. Many of the tomes were printed in obscure script. Praetor examined an occasional volume in a familiar language but found the contents no less incomprehensible for all that they appeared in a recognizable alphabet.

  Some of the contents he was able to divine from interpreting the accompanying pictures. There were books on metallurgy and books on plants, books on sculpture and books full of pictures of monstrous things that no doubt existed only in the author’s imagination. Nightmarish concoctions that, for Praetor’s peace of mind, he had to believe did not exist. There were volumes on war, on architecture, on law and child-rearing, and of course, an endless series on magic. Some were printed on vellum, some on parchment or papyrus. There were inscriptions on thin sheets of metal and stone tablets laboriously chiseled. There were even books whose words came and went before your eyes as you tried to make sense of them.

  There were books that contained only pictures and next to them on the same shelves, tomes filled with print too small to have been written by any known hand.

  “Treasure beyond compare,” Maryld murmured. She was seated behind a heavy wooden table that itself stood on a raised platform. A pile of books sat by her right hand. She was perusing the one that lay open on the table before her.