“Very good,” she said, humoring him. “I assure you, he’ll be fine. Go.”
Cassandra at last closed the door on the man, pressing her back against it with a heavy sigh.
“I was certain he would suspect when he tripped,” she said aloud, looking about the sitting room.
“He moved into my path as I was attempting to pass by him,” Ivar replied, the colors upon his flesh changing so that he could be seen. “I do not think he suspected anything other than his own clumsiness.”
“And we can be thankful for that,” Cassandra said, moving away from the door and toward the interior bedroom where Leander was recuperating.
“He is very ill,” Ivar said flatly. “The air reeks of sickness.”
“The healers are doing the best they can,” she explained. “But I fear that there is something far more deadly than illness at work here.”
During a visit she had paid the Grandmaster the previous night, Leander had briefly awakened from a fitful sleep, eyes wide in terror. Carlyle had been out of the room following up on some parliamentary business, and she had tried to comfort Leander, but he seemed to be firmly in the grasp of some horrific nightmare, thrashing about in his bed, raving about things hiding in the darkness—about a voracious evil living among them.
She suspected that he was trying to tell her something, and had tried to encourage him to explain, but Carlyle had returned and the Grandmaster had immediately fallen silent, slipping again into a restless sleep. It was then that she decided she must return, accompanied by Ivar. Together she hoped they might make sense of Leander’s ravings.
Now they entered the gloomy room together. Dim ghostfire lamps burned in wall sconces and on a dresser across from the archmage’s bed. Thick curtains had been pulled across the windows, closing the ailing Grandmaster away in a cocoon of twilight.
Approaching the bed, Cassandra was disturbed at how small the mage appeared beneath the covers, almost as if whatever ailed him were somehow stealing away his size. Leander was sleeping fitfully, his head tossing side to side. Cassandra reached down and took hold of his large hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Shhhh, it’s all right,” she said softly, leaning close so that he could hear. “You’re not alone. Don’t worry.”
Roused by her voice, Grandmaster Maddox opened his eyes. “Cassandra?” he said, looking about the darkened room. “Ivar?” The sickly mage attempted to sit up, but Cassandra put a hand on his chest and easily pushed him back down.
“Relax, Leander,” she told him. “We’re here—we’re both here.”
Ivar had now joined her, standing silently at their friend’s bedside.
The Grandmaster looked about the room, eyes wild. “Not sure how much time I have,” he said, breathlessly. “It’s so hard to fight… so hard. Must try … try to explain, but haven’t… the strength.”
The Asura reached down and laid a pale hand upon Leander’s feverish brow. “Then we will lend you some of ours.”
Leander’s breathing grew ragged and quick, as if he was fighting something that they could not see. Cassandra held his hand more tightly, willing her strength into him.
“While doing … research … about Tora’nah … I found something … something … hidden away…”
The Grandmaster began to tremble, his body horribly rigid.
“What did you find?” Ivar encouraged him.
The Grandmaster looked at them, his tired eyes bulging as if he was afraid. Terribly, terribly afraid. “Down in the darkness,” he croaked. “Hidden … hidden down in the darkness…”
The room was suddenly, brilliantly illuminated as the ghostfire within the lantern on the dresser flared, tripled in brightness, and shattered the spell-glass that contained it.
Cassandra gasped as the room darkened once more.
“Down in the shadows,” Leander repeated, his voice growing weaker. “Hidden, down in the dark … something evil.”
A spell of illumination left her lips, and Cassandra’s hand began to glow with a soft yellow light.
“He is unconscious again,” Ivar said to her, and she noticed that the black patterns upon the Asura’s flesh were moving about. Timothy once had explained that this happened when the warrior sensed danger.
“What do you think he meant?” she asked, staring down at the burly mage who had become a friend as well as her mentor. “Hidden down in the darkness. What’s hidden—and where?”
Ivar removed his hand from the Grandmaster’s brow.
“The what still remains to be determined,” the Asura said as he studied the broken, jagged pieces of the ghostfire lantern that now littered the bedroom floor. “The where, however, I feel is closer than we imagined.”
“Then where, Ivar?” Cassandra asked, her hand still burning like a miniature star, dispelling the gloom that tried to engulf them.
“It is here,” the Asura said, his dark gaze piercing her. “Somewhere in SkyHaven.”
Chapter Eight
Timothy awoke to the stink of something awful.
Careful not to let anyone know that he had regained consciousness, he examined through slitted eyelids his surroundings. There were dwellings on the shore of the lake and others that were on stilts out in the water. He and Caiaphas were in a makeshift cage above the water. The cage hung by a thick rope from a beam that stretched between two of the structures on stilts. He was lying on his side and, from between the wooden slats of the cage, he could see three figures below him cleaning fish in the shallows near the shore of the lake. They were large, ugly fish with gleaming black scales and large, jagged fins that ran the length of their bodies, all the way to their wide tailfins. The horrible smell was coming from these grotesque fish as they were cut open and their insides tossed into the water.
The Lake Dwellers appeared to be a relatively primitive group, dressed in rough clothing that seemed to be made from the skins of whatever they could catch from the lake, and the woods beyond.
He opened his eyes wider now that he knew he was not being directly observed. Still, he was cautious not to move about too much. If the cage rocked, it would draw attention. Timothy craned his neck to get a better view of his surroundings. The village was a cluster of boxy wooden structures that sat upon thick wooden pillars above the surface of the lake. Platforms connected the dwellings, creating a network of wooden plank pathways high above the water. He was surprised by how unpolished everything seemed, and guessed that the use of magic here was minimal.
A low, throaty moan came from behind him. Timothy could not turn toward his companion without setting the cage in gentle motion and perhaps drawing attention, but he did twist his head a bit, hoping to get even a peripheral glimpse.
“Caiaphas, is that you?” he whispered.
“Yes, Timothy,” the navigation mage replied. “Are you well? Did you sustain any injuries in the attack upon us?”
Timothy wiggled a bit to see if anything hurt, and realized that his hands were bound behind his back with rope. His side still ached and the scratches on his face burned, and he had a bit of a headache from where he had been struck on the back of his head, but other than that, he seemed to be fine.
“I’m all right,” he answered. “And you?”
Timothy heard a sharp intake of air from the navigator that told him Caiaphas hadn’t been so lucky.
“They have injured my hands,” he explained. “I think … I think that some of my fingers have been broken.”
“To stop you casting levitation spells,” Timothy said, a sick feeling settling into his stomach. The Lake Dwellers might be primitive, but they were not stupid. He grimaced and stared at the workers below as they cleaned and skinned the ugly lake fish.
“I could cast spells,” Caiaphas explained, “but without the use of my fingers there would be no way to guarantee control, and I could injure myself, or cause the cage to fall, endangering us both. I’m sorry, Timothy, but escape does not appear to be in our imminent future.”
One of t
he workers below suddenly yelped in pain, and Timothy looked out to see that he had cut himself badly on the jagged fins that ran along the back of one of those ugly fish. The worker grumbled beneath his breath, plunging his wounded hand into the bloody water to clean out the gash as the others laughed at his clumsiness.
“That’s all right, Caiaphas,” he said, still watching the workers intently. “We’ll just have to come up with another way out.”
The worker who had injured his hand paused in examining his wound and glanced upward. He had heard their voices. Timothy cursed silently and tried to pretend he was still unconscious, but it did not fool the man.
“Awake at last,” the worker said.
Neither Timothy nor Caiaphas replied, so the man splashed through the water to shore. Reaching land, he climbed a ladder to a wooden platform and disappeared into one of the larger buildings.
It was useless now to pretend he was not awake, so Timothy turned his attention to the sight of multiple boats being paddled upon the vast lake. He watched with interest as those in the boats spread their hands before them and cast spells that wove nets of crackling energy that spread across the water. The Lake Dwellers may not have used magic for all things, Timothy observed, but they did use it to catch their food. He thought it was quite interesting how the importance of magic differed from culture to culture upon Terra. He had little time to pursue such interesting thoughts, however, for in that moment a figure emerged from the building where the injured worker had gone.
Grimshaw.
The Constable stood outside the structure, ebony cloak billowing in the breeze from the lake. Timothy could see the stump where his arm had been bitten off by Verlis, but there was no sign of the tentacle-like magical arm that had replaced it. The cat-creature stood at Grimshaw’s side, tipping its nose to the air and sniffing the wind. Two Lake Dwellers, one the injured worker, emerged from the building behind Grimshaw, and the three descended the ladder to the shore.
“Good morning to you, young sir,” Grimshaw called out to Timothy pleasantly.
“He is a vile man,” Caiaphas sniffed as he shifted his weight and caused the cage to sway.
“You’ve taken the words right out of my mouth,” Timothy agreed. He managed to rise to his knees, hands still bound behind his back.
“What are you up to, Grimshaw?” he asked defiantly. “What use are we as captives? I demand to know what you intend to do with us.”
Grimshaw’s barking laugh echoed out over the lake. “You demand to know?” he repeated as he regained control of himself. “Your insolence amuses me, freak.”
Timothy winced at the word. No matter how many times it was used against him, he could not deny its hurtful power.
“If it were up to me, we would not be having this discussion right now, for you would most certainly be dead,” Grimshaw said. Alastor had jumped to the ground and now padded out into the shallows as though it had little interest in their exchange.
“My master wants you alive,” the Constable continued with a nasty smile, “as a precautionary measure. He seems to think that you might prove useful… can you imagine that? Timothy Cade, freak of nature, useful.”
Master, Timothy thought. Then he remembered the words of the Lake Dwellers who had captured him, what he had heard them say as he’d lost consciousness. The name. Alhazred. It made no sense to him. Even if Alhazred was alive—which in itself seemed impossible—he had no idea what that ancient mage could want with him. Yet what if Alhazred was also the mysterious master Grimshaw referred to? Certainly a mage as powerful as Alhazred would have many allies, many followers. The Lake Dwellers were belligerent and cruel, just the sort who would associate with Alhazred. And Grimshaw … he was truly evil. Timothy shuddered at the thought that the cunning, merciless Alhazred might still be alive.
“Your master, Constable?” he said. “You mean Alhazred?”
He said it casually, as though it meant nothing. He spoke as though it were a fact instead of simply a guess.
The Constable was visibly taken aback by his question. Grimshaw glared at the men beside him. It was obvious they had thought him unconscious when one of them mentioned Alhazred, but Timothy was sure the Constable would make whoever had spoken pay for that mistake. When Grimshaw looked back at Timothy, he had recovered, and his expression was full of ridicule.
“Are you insane, boy?” he scoffed. “Alhazred has been dead for well over a hundred years.”
The Lake Dweller beside Grimshaw eyed him with wide, fear-filled eyes as the Constable remained eerily silent. Alastor hissed, charging out into the water toward them and crouching on his haunches as though to leap up at the cage. Grimshaw raised his one hand and snapped his fingers loudly, bringing the animal to an abrupt stop. It turned to look at him.
“Return to me,” the Constable commanded, and Alastor hissed ferociously as it eyed the prisoners before obeying its master and slinking back to his side. Timothy wasn’t sure if he had ever seen an animal quite as frightening.
“For now, your lives are perceived as having some value,” Grimshaw said testily “But perceptions change.” The Constable pulled his ebony cloak about him and turned to leave. “When the time comes, Timothy Cade, I will be the one who ends your worthless life—of that, you can be certain.”
Timothy watched the man as he departed, climbing a ladder and then striding across a wooden walkway to the largest of the structures built on those pylons above the lake. When the boy was sure they would not be overheard, he turned to Caiaphas.
“How would you feel about getting away from this place tonight?”
Night had fallen, and a kind of celebration was going on in the village. Torchlight illuminated the entire encampment, and music drifted with the cool evening breeze coming down from the forest hills.
“I’m curious what they’re celebrating,” Caiaphas said as he shifted his position to get comfortable.
“Perhaps they had a successful day on the lake,” Timothy suggested. “Or maybe they’re celebrating our capture.”
“Do you really believe that Alhazred is alive?” Caiaphas asked.
“I don’t want to, but I heard what I heard. One of the men who captured us said he was their master. And you saw Grimshaw’s reaction.”
“Yes,” the navigation mage replied. “He was not at all pleased. Maybe it is true. For the sake of the world, I hope it is not. Most mages still believe Alhazred was a great man, but if even half of the stories about him are true, he was a monster.”
They were quiet for several minutes after that, neither knowing what more to say about this troubling news. Timothy heard a faint grumbling coming from Caiaphas’s stomach.
“Pardon me,” the navigator said. “But it has been quite some time since last we ate. My belly is telling me that a meal is long past due.”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Timothy said. “In fact, a meal will play a big part in how we manage to escape.”
“A meal?” Caiaphas echoed in disbelief. “How will feeding us—”
“Trust me,” Timothy said. “If we’re lucky, we may be free soon.”
“And if we are not?” Caiaphas asked.
“Let’s pray we are.”
Timothy was the first to notice the two shapes coming toward them in the distance. The two men were coming from the direction of the celebration, and one was holding two plates. “I hope this is what I think it is,” he said in an excited whisper.
“And so do I,” Caiaphas agreed. “Even though I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re up to, I’m still rather hungry.”
Timothy watched eagerly as the two men approached the shore and waded out toward them. The one who wasn’t holding plates had brought along a ladder that he balanced against the side of their cage.
“Are we famished?” asked the man holding their supper. “If I had my way, you’d not be sharing the wealth of our bounty this night,” he growled, starting up the ladder, one plate atop the other. He was an ugly man, covered in f
ilth, and Timothy could not help but wonder when he had last bathed.
When he reached the cage, the filthy man leaned into the ladder and used his free hand to work the knot that held the door in place. “It’d be moss soup for ya if it was up to me,” he spat as he pulled the door open. “This meal is too good for the likes of prisoners.”
He set the plates down inside the cage and Timothy nearly yelped with joy, but managed to contain his outburst. They had been given fish to eat, the same disgusting fish that he had watched being cleaned in the lake below them.
“Thank you, good sir,” Timothy said. “Your kindness overwhelms me.”
The man growled, slamming the door closed and retying the rope.
“Wait,” Timothy called, struggling to his knees. “Won’t you undo our hands so that we can eat properly?” he asked.
“Eat like dogs,” the man said, and laughed cruelly. “If you are hungry enough, you’ll find a way without the use of your hands.”
He climbed down the ladder, laughing the entire time. They took down the ladder and soon both men were laughing as they splashed their way to shore, and headed back into the village to continue their celebration.
For a moment Timothy wondered about Grimshaw, and if he was participating. He really didn’t seem like the celebrating type.
“I guess we should feel lucky that they decided to feed us,” Caiaphas said, distracting the boy from his thoughts.
“We are very lucky,” Timothy told him, eyeing their meals. “They did exactly as I hoped.”
Caiaphas chuckled, shaking his head in mock confusion. “Perhaps now you will explain to me what it is that you were implying earlier.”
“Watching the Lake Dwellers today, I gathered that a large portion of their diet would consist of fish, and that if they fed us, we would likely be eating fish as well.”
“Continue,” the navigator prodded.
“Well, as you can see, I was correct.”
They both again looked at their meals. The twin fish were hot, and charred from being cooked over a roaring fire. Steam drifted up from the plates.
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