by Ian Irvine
“Are you sure? Did you look thoroughly?”
Maigraith groped forward in the semi-darkness, put her hand on what turned out to be Faelamor’s breast and shoved her away. “I searched the library,” she said angrily, moving after her into the daylight. “I followed your path all the way back to the gate. It wasn’t there. It looked as if Mendark picked it up.”
“Mendark!” said Faelamor, her face slowly drawing into a horror mask. “Was there any sign of him?”
“Footprints, a chip off a globe, but that’s all.”
Faelamor convulsed, then bit back a scream. Maigraith wondered if she was going mad. “What does it matter?” she said. “How can this old book be so important?”
Waves of red and white pulsed across Faelamor’s face. She clenched her fists, then took three, deep, deliberate breaths, trying to bring her panic under control.
“It matters!” she said hoarsely.
“Why?” Maigraith pressed her recklessly. “What are you hiding? What does the book say about the Faellem?”
Faelamor exploded. “How dare you question me?”
“I know you’re hiding something,” said Maigraith, determined to find the answer whatever the consequences. “Is this why you were exiled? Why the Faellem refuse to take you back now?”
That turned out to be one question too many.
“You useless, incompetent fool,” Faelamor screamed. “How I despise you.” She shuddered, stumbled away a few steps, then to Maigraith’s astonishment her face scrunched up like paper in a fist. The golden eyes disappeared in the folds, her mouth gaped open and a horrible thin, squeaking wail issued out of her. “No time; no time!”
“Faelamor, what is it?” Maigraith cried, scrambling to her feet.
Faelamor screamed and screamed, her face like a scarlet sponge.
“Tell me what the matter is!”
Maigraith bent down over her, unable to comprehend what was happening. Faelamor had always been the very definition of control. She tried to catch her liege’s hand but a hard little fist struck her right in the throat. Maigraith choked. It felt as if her windpipe had been crushed flat. She fell to her knees, desperately sucking at the air.
The screaming had not stopped for an instant, though now it was growing shrill, cracked, squeak-like. Opening her eyes, Maigraith saw Faelamor staggering around drunkenly through the trees near the river. She’s gone mad, Maigraith thought. She ran soft-footed after her.
The sky turned green, then red, then black. Thick red drops the size of melons drifted in the air, illusions exploding from Faelamor’s tortured mind. She appeared and disappeared randomly as she passed between the trees, but it was illusion concealing her, raw and uncontrolled, breaking out in spectral waves that saturated Maigraith’s eyes with color. She knew that, somewhere within herself, she had the strength to disbelieve them out of existence. She tried to, until her eyes bulged out. Suddenly the colors disappeared.
There was no respite. Now the trees seemed to have come to life, their trunks swelling and contracting as if breathing. Branches thrashed at her—more illusions from Faelamor’s deranged mind. Maigraith ran around a massive tree, a branch slammed into her and she landed hard on her back.
She was slow to rise this time. It felt as if she had been whipped across the face. Her breasts felt bruised. Then, as she lay with her eyes closed, Maigraith heard a strange groaning sound accompanied by a rustle-thud! And again, this time closer.
Her eyes sprang open. A branch end was questing about in the air, its jagged tip stuck with dirt and impaled leaves. With another groan it stabbed at the ground not far away, sprang back and sought out in her direction.
If that’s illusion, it’s the best I’ve ever seen, Maigraith thought. She lay for a moment longer, getting her breath back; then, as the branch thrashed above her, What if it’s not illusion? What if Faelamor’s fit is actually doing this?
The branch whipped down, stabbing at her belly. Maigraith rolled, felt the jagged end tear through her nightshirt, then scrambled to her feet and ran.
Had it been anyone else in the world, she would have struck them down with the Secret Art. She attempted it but felt no power in her hands at all. Faelamor had made sure that Maigraith could not use power against her.
Other branches lashed at her. She weaved and ducked, then found herself in a clearing not far from the river. Faelamor was reeling about on a stony ledge above the water, her screams reduced to a crackling wail. Her staring eyes passed over Maigraith, who felt the grass stab at her ankles, the stones try to crush her bare toes.
She snatched up a stick lying on the ground. A hailstorm of pebbles and twigs exploded upwards, battering her exposed flesh. Protecting her eyes with her hand, Maigraith kept going, beyond the stony area onto smooth rock.
The storm ceased. Instantly the rock split open beneath her, cracks opening and closing like giant clams. She snatched her foot out just in time. Faelamor was spinning round on the ledge, and every time her eyes caught Maigraith’s she felt a stab of horror at what she saw there, a mad world in which every object loathed her and wanted her dead.
The rock moved. Something smashed directly down onto Maigraith’s bare foot. She felt the bones break. The pain was impossible to ignore but she kept going, a running hobble. As Faelamor spun round again, Maigraith thumped her on the back of the head with her stick, as hard as she could.
Faelamor’s feet lifted off the ground and, still making that ghastly cry, she fell forward off the ledge, tumbled over and over and smacked into the water face first. The scream was cut off and the current pulled her under. The illusions stopped instantly.
That wasn’t supposed to happen, Maigraith thought. Her eyes followed the bubbles down to a set of rapids, where Faelamor became wedged between two boulders with her head and chest forced under by the flow. Her legs thrashed uselessly.
Duty suddenly reasserted itself. Faelamor was drowning! Until Maigraith repudiated her oath, face to face, Faelamor remained her liege.
One step revealed that her foot was badly broken. Faelamor would drown long before she hopped down to the rapids. Maigraith did the only thing she could—she stumbled forward and dropped into the river.
Her nightshirt ballooned up around her face, then she struck with an impact that sent a spear of pain up through her foot. Maigraith trod water feebly, just keeping her head up as the current carried her swiftly toward the rocks. The rocks swelled in front of her and she slammed into them, not far from Faelamor.
Maigraith crawled across to heave at Faelamor’s legs. She hardly moved; the force of the water was too great. Almost shrieking with pain, Maigraith stood up on her broken foot and dragged Faelamor out of the water.
Faelamor’s face was battered and bruised blue all over. Water dribbled out of her mouth and nose. Maigraith draped her face-down over the rock and was about to deliver a hard blow in the back when Faelamor released her breath with an explosive gasp and rolled over.
“You took your time!” she choked. Little and old and fraillooking Faelamor might be, but she was as tough as the bones of Santhenar.
“This is the very last time!” Maigraith said; then they crawled together to the bank, up through the forest, which had now reverted to inanimate wood, to the camp.
Faelamor gave no thanks or apologies for her fit; but then, Maigraith had not expected any.
“This is a disaster,” she kept saying as Maigraith attended to her lacerations and bruises. “A catastrophe! We’re doomed!”
Maigraith was sick of it. Her foot was in agony. Why was she working so hard on someone who, mad or not, had just done her best to kill her? “Then crawl away and die,” she screamed in Faelamor’s face, “and the sooner the better!” Packing up the bowl, the rags and bandages, she began to hop to her shelter.
“What’s wrong with your foot?” Faelamor asked sharply, in the hoarse little voice that came out when she was exhausted.
“You smashed it with a rock!” she screamed. “You tried to
kill me.”
Faelamor knew it too—Maigraith saw in her eyes as the memories of her fit came back, one by one.
“I’m sorry!” Faelamor said. “Sit down. I will attend to it.”
Maigraith could hardly bear her touch, but she endured. The bones must be set and she could not do it herself. Faelamor was a healer of rare skill—the foot would recover as quickly as bones could grow together. It would need to, Maigraith sensed.
She sat on the ground, whittling a pair of crutches, while Faelamor put the bones back in place and made a wooden frame to take the place of plaster. Her touch was infinitely gentle. Even her look was caring—until Faelamor caught Maigraith’s eye on her—whereupon the habitual scowl reappeared.
“Wear this for three weeks,” she said. “Then you may remove it, but treat your foot gently for another two. No jumping! After that it will be as good as ever.”
Maigraith tried out her crutches. The frame was grue-somely uncomfortable.
“How are you feeling?” asked Faelamor. “Are you strong?”
“That depends what you require of me.”
“To call the Faellem again.” For a moment that look of despair was back in her eyes, then she shuddered and became her iron-willed self again.
“I think I can manage that,” said Maigraith.
They remade the link.
Hallal? Faelamor called. Ellami? Gethren, answer me!
To their amazement, a response came at once.
Faelamor, sighed the wispy voice in Maigraith’s mind. Is there no end to your arrogance?
Ellami! The voice was like a current through Maigraith’s mind. I need you!
You need us. How novel! But we don’t need you. We refuse you, Faelamor! Your crimes have brought shame on us all.
Ellami! Faelamor begged. Tallallame needs us. We must find the way home.
We know that, said the voice, strengthening as Faelamor weakened. But not your way. Begone!
Faelamor shuddered, clenching her fists until her nails cut red crescents into her palms. Maigraith, fearing that another fit was coming, withdrew from the link hurriedly.
Bring back the link! Faelamor shouted into her mind, and as Maigraith did so, she continued. Ellami, Ellami, don’t go! A disaster—a catastrophe!
Oh? said the voice.
It’s just another of her tricks, said another, deeper voice. Gethren, Maigraith thought.
I’ve been inside Havissard, sent Faelamor.
You used a gate! The voice was incredulous.
I had to, since you refused to aid me.
Don’t dare blame us for your crimes, Faelamor.
Listen to me. I found a book in Havissard An awful book, by Yalkara!
There was a long pause, then the first voice said sharply, What book? What does it say about us?
Maigraith’s curiosity was aroused. Why were they so afraid?
I cannot… could not read it, Faelamor sent. But just the script is a horror. It reminds me—
Not over the link! snapped the second voice.
An even longer pause followed, as if the Faellem were conferring one among another. Put the book away in the safest place, Faelamor. Protect it with your strongest illusion. Do nothing to put us at risk.
The book is lost, Ellami, Faelamor wailed. I dropped it in Havissard and—
And? said the voice, now frigid.
Mendark has it, Faelamor wept.
The voice swore. There seemed to be another hasty conference. Then, in tones like a creeping glacier, These are our orders. Do nothing whatsoever to make this mess worse. Wait upon our coming.
39
* * *
EVENIL
Faelamor sat on the grass, weeping. “This is the worst day of my life,” she said after her tears were used up. “To be abused so by my own people. I cannot bear it.”
They sat silently for a long time, then Faelamor stood up. “I must go back to Havissard.”
“You would disobey their orders?” Maigraith asked. She did not care either way, but she was curious.
“They’re too far away,” Faelamor rationalized. “They don’t know what I know. I’ve got to recover the book. Quick!” She began to throw things in her pack.
“If Mendark used a gate he could be five hundred leagues away by now,” Maigraith said, gathering food, knife, light-glass and all the other little things that Faelamor was sure to forget.
“I don’t think so! I don’t believe he came through a gate at all. I think he’s still there, or nearby, with the book. Send me back!”
“Send you?” Maigraith said. “How?”
“Through the gate, fool!”
“It’s my gate,” Maigraith said softly. “I don’t know that it would work with you.”
“I watched you,” Faelamor said. “I saw how easy it was for you.” She shivered as if afraid of Maigraith’s power, or potential. “I know you can do this for me. It’s your duty to do so.”
Maigraith did not argue. They hurried upstream to the gate stones. She stood to one side while Faelamor squeezed into the cramped space between the stones.
Maigraith was tormented by self-doubt, by mixed emotions. She did not want Faelamor to use her precious gate at all. She hated her, wanted her to die in the gate. And yet she felt the duty of care keenly.
Faelamor stood ready. Maigraith opened the gate and tried to visualize the destination, the library in Havissard, but Faelamor wrenched the image from her and vanished with a tremendous clap of inrushing air.
Maigraith stared at the empty space between the stones. Her head hurt. She was not ready—not nearly—but Faelamor was gone. There was so much that they had never discussed. How was Faelamor going to return? What would happen when the Faellem appeared if she did not come back?
She sat there for two days, staring at the space between the stones. Once she thought Faelamor was on her way. Maigraith tried to take control of the gate but it did not open;
Faelamor did not return.
Ravenous, Maigraith took up her crutches and hobbled down to the camp. There she packed her pack, returned to the gate and tried to open it, to follow Faelamor to Havissard. The gate opened easily but she could not find the destination.
Havissard was completely closed off. Maigraith could not find a trace of it. Faelamor had made sure that she could not follow. After a week of failed attempts she was worn out in body, mind and soul. Initiative deserted her. She could not see what to do. Could not think.
Abandoning the gate, she returned to the camp and began to make preparations for the coming of the Faellem. That was still months away, the end of autumn at the earliest, but if hundreds appeared they would require food and shelter. Maigraith needed to be busy. She set to work.
Faelamor landed in the library at Havissard, after a journey that she never wanted to do again. The gate might have been lined with spines, for it pricked and stung her all the way. It was Maigraith’s creature, one that wished only to torment her.
The minute she arrived at the library, skidding across the dusty floor on her elbows, Faelamor remembered the slim book slipping out of her bag. Mendark’s footprints were clear where he had walked across to pick it up. Maigraith’s were there too, careful not to obscure the others. Faelamor admired her for her cautious mind, and damned her too.
She followed Mendark’s winding path through the rooms and corridors of Havissard. It was a tedious day but Faelamor took no shortcuts. Even when it was clear the tracks had doubled back on themselves, she followed them every step in case Mendark had hidden something. He hadn’t. Faelamor was able to sense out his path where Maigraith had lost it, though only near the end of the day did she find the greasy chute by which he had made his exit.
Faelamor crawled into it, thinking that he might be trapped at the lower end, or broken on the rocks below. She had the foresight to take out her knife, pressing it against the side to brake her slide down.
At the end she smacked into a hatch reduced to a hinge and two pieces of broken timber
. But there she remained, for the protection that Mendark had passed through, by the power of Yalkara’s ring, was an impenetrable barrier to her.
Impenetrable but transparent. Looking down, Faelamor could clearly see the bramble thicket and Mendark’s body trapped in it. His arm moved feebly; he was still alive! Days had gone by but he was still trying to hack his way out. I’ve got the gold he came for, she thought, and he has the book that I so desperately need.
The thicket might as well have been on the dark side of the moon, for she was trapped in Havissard as securely as he was outside. Faelamor tried every power she had but nothing would allow her passage through the protection.
After the sun rose next morning, she saw several figures slashing their way through the thorn bushes. Faelamor struggled until it drove her wild, until illusions exploded out of her in all directions. She animated the stone in the same way that she had brought the trees to life in Elludore. Contractions began to pass along the chute like the motions of a dragon’s bowel.
It could not excrete her though. The protection constipated it. I’m hallucinating, she thought. I’ll kill myself if I’m not careful. Staring out, her view sphinctered down to a pinhole straight in front of her, Faelamor saw Tallia and a huge soldier cut down a limp-looking Mendark and carry him away.
Faelamor stabbed at the transparent barrier, over and over, but it was unbreachable. Her guts were burning again. Digging her knife into the wall, she forced herself backwards up the greasy tunnel, crawled to the library and, using the greatest effort of will that she had ever employed, forced open the gate.
This one was not like any gate she’d ever imagined. It was a wet, dripping, organic tube like the maw of a giant snake, one whose gullet dripped acid from the roof. A belch sent acrid, rot-stinking fumes tumbling past her. But it was her only way out. Faelamor closed her eyes, bent forward then forced her way into the shuddering cave. She did not expect to get out of it.
“Take me to Mendark’s book!” she shrieked. The gate snarled and hurled her into oblivion, then just before the ultimate blackness she sensed Maigraith trying to bring her home.
