Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  “Do not waste time searching for purposes,” Shakari advised. “That is a maze of circles and angles, full of dead ends and locked doors. Full of answers to questions that were never asked."

  Wind and dust stirred around her, grew stronger with every heartbeat. A low moaning filled the night, rose to a fever pitch.

  Suddenly, she stood at the center of a new vortex. The Lords of Light began to gather.

  “We must leave you now, human.” The wail of the vortex drowned speech. Shakari's voice was an echo in her mind. “The Dark Ones no longer walk your earth, and we must prepare ourselves for the greater war to come when Light and Darkness meet for the final time—when the universe will die and be reborn in the image of the victor."

  The swan-god passed the Book of the Last Battle into Almurion's hands. “Yet, there is one thing left to do.” He laid feathered hands on either side of her head and pressed gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You have seen the writing in the Book, and though we are grateful for what you have done, you cannot be permitted to keep that knowledge. Soon, you will sleep, and when you wake you will have no memory of what you saw on those tuneless pages."

  Shakari stepped back.

  Almurion raised a hand in farewell. “Live long, Frost of Esgaria, and remember me."

  Then the world blurred and she sank to the ground, the vortex raging loud in her ears. The Lords of Light rose up through its center, spiraling dizzily and disappeared. Shakari and Almurion with the Book were last. In her mind the swan-god sang a soft song, and she didn't resist as it lulled her to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She awakened to sweet air and a pleasing warmth on her face, recognizing the walls of her room in Erebus. Had it all been a bad dream, then? Another of her nightmares? Beyond the only window the sun shone brightly in an unblemished sky.

  No, not a dream. The livid scar on her palm was real.

  She threw back the coverlet and found herself dressed in a soft linen gown. Someone had bathed her, too, and lightly scented her hair with herbs. She swung her feet out of bed, sat up.

  Movement in the corridor.

  “Kregan?"

  A serving girl turned, startled, when she jerked open the door. Then the young, dust-smeared face lit up. The girl made a quick curtsy, muttered “good morning,” and sped excitedly off, rattling bottles on her tray.

  Frost bit her lip, frowning. The wench could have stayed long enough to answer some questions. Where was everyone? The place was so quiet. Easing the door shut, she went back to her bed, hugged her knees and leaned against the tapestried wall.

  Where was everyone?

  A knock. Somebody called her name.

  Well, whoever it was, she'd welcome the company. If only she'd thought to look for some clothes. But no matter. She called out for them to enter.

  Rhadamanthus led a string of servants inside. At his direction they heaped a small wooden table with platters of meats, fruits, raw vegetables and breads. A cheese was set at her right hand, jugs of wine and fresh water at her left.

  It hadn't occurred to her that she was hungry, yet when the food was set before her she ate ravenously with a relish she had not known for weeks. Dismissing the servants, the Elder of the Black Arrow took a chair opposite her and began carving a plump fruit with a slender dagger. They talked between mouthfuls.

  “Natira was a goddess."

  Rhadamanthus nodded, sipped his wine. “Yes, a Neutral. I'm not sure when I knew for certain, but I suspected.” He set down his dagger, leaned on one elbow. “There was always an aura about her. I feared it at first, but later...” His voice trailed off.

  “I remember.” She chewed a bite of meat and swallowed. “I felt the same."

  Natira's power was gone, expended in the summoning of the Lords of Light, and without it her own witchcraft was dormant again.

  “For a moment, when her magic flowed into me, we shared a common mind, one set of memories. But it ended too quickly. When she died I was left with her power and knowledge to use it, but no more."

  “And you're still not sure what role she really played in it all?"

  Frost nodded. “You called her a Neutral?"

  “Some powers are unaligned with either Light or Dark. They'll have no place in a cosmos ruled by one or the other exclusively. For them, the Last Battle means utter oblivion. Yet, their own natures bind them from taking sides or interfering in that final struggle,"

  “But she did interfere!"

  “Not really.” The elder picked up his dagger, smeared butter on a piece of bread and washed it down with water, then wine. “She struck no blow against the Dark Gods."

  “But she gave me her power!"

  The old man's eyes twinkled. “And you used it against them. It's a fragile difference, I know. But then, gods can be like that sometimes. That's why we Chondites seldom bother with them. It's easier to draw magic from a pile of stones if you know how. And the stones don't require obeisance or make unreasonable demands on your morals."

  She gazed beyond the window. A flock of birds flew through the sapphire sky. “Does a goddess truly die?"

  Rhadamanthus rocked forward and snatched a strip of meat. “She did what she came to do, probably knowing from the first it meant her end. What other reason for her fascination for Demon-fang? She recognized it as the instrument of her death. And to give you her power she had to die."

  Frost considered that for a few moments while they ate in silence. Then a deeper understanding filled her. Rhadamanthus had part of the truth, but not all. “You say that the Last Battle means doom for the Neutral Gods?” Yes, those were his words. She smiled a thin, ironic smile. “Shakari told me that by opening the Book and summoning the Light Lords I caused the time of that Battle to be delayed beyond all foretelling."

  Rhadamanthus thought, then nodded appreciatively. “She knew the dagger was her death,” he said, “but also that it could open the Book."

  “And that delayed the doom of the Neutral Gods beyond all foretelling as well.” She set her own eating dagger aside, regarding the wine in the bottom of her cup pensively. “I thought I sensed a purpose to it all."

  “Purpose?” Rhadamanthus steepled his fingers. “Who can fathom the purposes of gods?"

  “I've heard that before.” She tossed down the last of her wine and wiped her mouth. “In any case, it's over and we won."

  He shook his head. “A costly victory for Chondos, I'm afraid. Our best young men are dead, our brotherhoods depleted. We'll try to recruit new apprentices from the common populace, but it'll be many years before we can raise another army of quality warriors."

  “Cheer up, Elder. Some of the women are already hard at work solving that problem. I've been helping them out wherever I can, myself."

  Hafid grinned broadly from the doorway, in obvious good spirits despite the sling on his arm. Frost launched a chunk of meat at his nose.

  “This woman might take offense at such quaint humor,” she said, matching his grin.

  “No offense meant, milady.” He made a deep bow. “You've already proved your skill with a sword. Now our females have a chance to prove theirs with a not altogether dissimilar weapon. If you'd care to learn its use, I'd be pleased to teach you."

  She mocked his bow with one of her own. “I prefer a longer blade with a hard, sharp point."

  “As do all women who speak truthfully."

  He barely ducked another chunk of meat, and they laughed together. It was good to hear laughter.

  With Indrasad in ruins, Hafid called Erebus home now. He poured himself wine and grabbed some cheese, hauled up a stool to sit on. For the better part of the day the three of them talked.

  Aecus, of course, was dead, and Minos lay near death from a wound received in the earliest part of the final attack. Though the wound had been cauterized against infections and treated with various remedies, his life remained uncertain.

  Of the Nine Cities, two had been utterly destroyed.

  Slowly, the settin
g sun stained the sky indigo and crimson. Though she enjoyed the company of her friends, her thoughts wandered more and more to Kregan. Where was he? Servants had come and gone all day, smiling, wishing her well, showing courtesy and respect.

  Yet, Kregan had not come.

  When a woman came to refill the wine jugs. Frost caught her arm.

  “If you can find Kregan, tell him I want to see his worthless hide on my threshold before the sun is gone, and if he's late Rhadamanthus will hear the tale of how he spent his last night in Zondu."

  The serving woman gave her a look of distress and nearly spilled her tray. The elder motioned her quickly out of the room and closed the door.

  Frost rose carefully, trying to read the old man's eyes. He turned them to the floor. Hafid became suddenly interested in something beyond the window.

  “Has Kregan been hurt?"

  No answer.

  The table shook under her pounding fist. A bottle overturned. Its crash echoed in the room's silence.

  “Tell me!"

  The Chondites regarded each other gravely. Then, Rhadamanthus sighed. “Perhaps, it's best to show her.” A stricken look flashed on Hafid's face, but the old man could not be dissuaded.

  He led the way down a series of corridors and too many flights of stairs to count. The lighted passages were soon left behind; they made their way by the light of a single sconce. Ever downward went the course. The floor turned cold, damp beneath her bare feet. The heavier footsteps of her companions reverberated ominously in the narrow halls. The harsh rasp of her breathing made the only other sound.

  She was sure they had gone far underground, deeper in the city's bowels than Kregan had ever taken her.

  They stopped before a huge door of polished bronze. It was adorned with a heavy ring and the mark of the Black Arrow. Passing the sconce to Hafid the elder seized the ring with both hands and strained.

  The door creaked open.

  As they entered, an apprentice bowed wordlessly and left the chamber. It was ablaze with candles, lamps, and braziers. Clouds of incense floated in the air. Ritual symbols and bizarre geometrical patterns decorated the floor, ceiling and three walls. But on the east wall, in the center of a white triangle, hung an immense horn bow and a quiver of ebon arrows.

  She turned, taking it all in, and caught her breath.

  Kregan's body reposed on an elaborate stone altar at the room's far end. A soft blue cloth stretched over the top of the altar, and a robe of the same material covered him from the chest down. The fingers of one hand curled loosely around a shaft like the ones in the quiver.

  She crept closer, fighting the emotions that swelled within her.

  “You must not touch him,” Rhadamanthus warned. “It would be disrespectful."

  His skin was ashen, and his lips had lost all color. An ugly bruise marred the Chondite's brow.

  She couldn't hold back the tear that trickled on her cheek. Hafid slid an arm around her, offering support, but she shied away.

  “How?” she cried suddenly. “Except for a few cuts he was perfectly well when I summoned the vortex!"

  The old man shook his head sadly. “He was standing when the terrible winds began. I was awake by then, but too weak to move, and I watched helplessly as he was lifted by the maelstrom's raging and slammed against a monolith. You see the bruise where he struck his head."

  It didn't seem possible he was dead. They had survived too much, vanquished too many foes to be parted this way.

  Hafid took a firm grip on her arm, pulled her away. “He would have called it a fair trade. His life for his world. He wouldn't want you to grieve. Come away, now."

  “Not yet."

  His grip tightened. “Please."

  “Let go!” She knocked his hand away, stepped closer to the altar.

  “Stop!"

  Ignoring them, she bent over Kregan and planted a gentle, farewell kiss on his lips.

  And froze.

  What trick was this? There was warmth in those lips, and the nostrils flared ever so slightly. She touched his face. It wasn't cold at all!

  “What in the Nine Hells?” she cried. “He's alive!"

  Rhadamanthus seized her shoulders and pulled her back. His eyes burned into her. “I asked you not to touch him."

  “But you told me he was dead!"

  “No, he didn't,” Hafid answered. “You assumed it. But the truth is—until four days ago, he was dead."

  Confusion, anger flushed her cheeks.

  “It's difficult to explain.” Rhadamanthus folded his hands, rested his forehead on his fingertips before speaking again. “You're not versed in Chondite ways. Kregan died at Demonium. But for a master sorcerer, a Krilar, death is something to experience and conquer. It is the final test of our art."

  “A test very few of us pass,” Hafid added.

  The old man looked away. “Almost none. Eleven masters died fighting Zarad-Krul. Only Kregan has crossed back over the dreadful boundary that separates life from death and returned to us.” He faced her again, and his voice choked with sudden emotion. “For three days and nights he lay cold, unmoving. But, he was always my most apt pupil; I prayed he would succeed where so many others failed, and on the morning of the fourth day breath returned to his body and warmth to his limbs. He had wrestled with death and won."

  “Then, why don't you move him out of this dark hole to a place where he can be cared for properly?"

  “No.” A strange light lit up his face. “He has seen the unnamable things that crawl in the Hells, and the sight has numbed his soul. Anywhere else he would be easy prey for any demon or malevolent spirit to possess; only here in this sacred chamber among the trappings of his brotherhood can he remain safe."

  “How long will he stay like this?"

  The elder shrugged. “We never know. He may awaken in an hour or a day, a week. Maybe not for years. That's happened before."

  Hafid leaned close. “And when he does awake our work will begin. At first, he'll have no memory. We'll have to teach him and retrain him."

  “But he'll learn quickly, and this time he will do more than just absorb our teachings.” Rhadamanthus turned a fatherly gaze on his still pupil. “This time Kregan will know intuitively the truths that bind the universe together. And that will give him power like never before."

  “The power of an elder,” Hafid said. “He'll establish his own brotherhood."

  She repeated that slowly, letting its meaning sink in. She faced Rhadamanthus, then, and a tingle ran up her spine. “You've died and returned to life."

  “A number of times.” The old man regarded her evenly. “But each time is harder than the last. No man can cheat death forever."

  Her voice quivered. “How old are you?"

  “Do you know the story of Tordesh and the building of the causeway?"

  She nodded.

  He indicated the bow and quiver on the east wall. “I killed his horse with that weapon and shamed him back to Zondu. That was in my first incarnation."

  She had lots of questions, but he would speak no more of the past. “You still haven't explained why you wanted me to think Kregan was dead."

  The elder frowned, rubbed his temple. “If I wanted that I would have told you his body was lost on the field and never brought you down here. But because I knew you cared for him I wanted to give you a last chance to see him before you left."

  “But I'm not leaving."

  “I'm afraid you must.” He wore a sad, but unyielding face. “If you have any love for Kregan or friendship for me, then you must leave Chondos."

  Suspicion, resentment flared. She clenched her fists stubbornly. “Why do you want to get rid of me now?"

  Her quick temper triggered all her senses. Hafid made a furtive movement behind her, the faint rustle of his garments betraying his position. One hand felt for the sword she wasn't wearing. Curse her for not dressing when she had the chance.

  “I can't explain everything,” the old man said with genuine anguish. “But
you can't stay.” His cheeks went scarlet with embarrassment. “Forgive us, but you haven't any choice."

  She glared. “What if I refuse?"

  Hafid caught her arm, a grip that meant business.

  All her anger and frustration exploded. Her eyes narrowed, lips curled in a feral expression. Child's play to break Hafid's grasp. Seizing his injured arm she flung him against the wall. Her open hand cracked twice on his face. That wasn't enough to satisfy her. Dazed, he tried to back away; she kicked him in the stomach, ripping right through the light gown she wore. As he fell forward her knuckles beat his head, and when he didn't move she kicked him twice more for good measure.

  He hadn't had a chance to even groan.

  She spun on Rhadamanthus, trembling with unabated fury. “Now,” she hissed through a tight throat, “Now I'll go—before I forget just how old you are!"

  Solemnly, he led her from the chamber, directing the apprentice who waited just beyond the great bronze portal to see to Hafid.

  When they were back in her room, Rhadamanthus was conciliatory. “You needn't leave right away. In the morning I'll have provisions prepared, and Ashur will be waiting. Fresh garments are in that chest by the bed, and your weapons, too."

  He paused, forlorn. “You didn't have to beat him,” meaning Hafid. “His arm was in a sling."

  “So was my heart."

  He departed sadly. She kicked the door shut behind him and paced the floor until the last vestiges of her anger faded, leaving only the hurt.

  She didn't want to leave Kregan. What she felt for the Chondite wasn't love, exactly. But it could be someday. She was sure he loved her.

  What was the reason for Rhadamanthus’ sudden inhospitality? He was right about one thing; she shouldn't have beaten poor Hafid.

  She collapsed on the bed, utterly confused. Sleep stole upon her, bringing the old dreams of her family and new nightmares of the war. She tossed and turned, scattering the covers. She relived it all. Every moment, every bloody death.

  Then, she screamed. Wide awake and shivering, she sat up, stared into the darkness beyond the window to a night speckled with stars.