Ghostfire

by Christopher Golden

  “My apologies for the delay,” he said with a slight bow. “After dining and cleaning up, I’m afraid I dozed off for a few minutes.”

  “No problem, Caiaphas,” Edgar said. “You earned a little nap for helping to keep our Timothy safe.”

  The navigation mage bowed again. “It was my pleasure—though Timothy kept me safe, more often than not. We survived together.”

  “That certainly sounds like him,” Sheridan said, bending forward slightly to survey the room with his new eyes. “But now our concern must be on locating our other wayward friend.”

  “You have had no luck, then?” Caiaphas asked, stepping into the room to assist them.

  “Not yet,” Edgar answered grimly. “I think Grimshaw’s got to know something about it, though. If we don’t find something soon, we may have to beat the truth out of him.”

  “That would make us as cruel as he is,” Sheridan said.

  Caiaphas grunted softly. “I could live with that.”

  Edgar would have replied, but then he noticed that the acolytes had stopped in the doorway and now simply stood there, not helping at all. The rook clacked his beak in annoyance and tilted his head to stare at them.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, guys,” he squawked. “We got everything under control here.”

  He was not sure if Caiaphas’s presence moved them, or if his jibes had finally hit home, but some of the Alhazred acolytes came into the room and began to help in the search for clues.

  “There has to be something,” Sheridan muttered, scrutinizing every inch of the storage room.

  It wasn’t long before everybody was searching—all the acolytes putting aside their prejudices and fears to help—but they still came up with no sign of Ivar’s presence. Edgar was about to call a halt to the search and suggest that they move on to the storage chambers on the southern side of the floating estate, when the unexpected happened.

  “Excuse me,” said one of the acolytes, a short, chubby man with a wild head of curly black hair. He was squatting down at the far end of the chamber before a large bookcase, and seemed to be looking at something on the floor.

  Sheridan quickly clomped across the room, scattering acolytes as he moved with great haste. “Yes?” the mechanical man asked eagerly.

  “Look,” the acolyte said, moving some dust around on the floor with a fat finger.

  “Yeah, it’s a real mess in here,” Edgar commented. “What this place needs is a good dusting.”

  “No,” said the acolyte. “Here, the dust has been disturbed. And it looks like the stone has been scraped.”

  Sheridan bent at the waist for a closer look. The familiar, still atop his shoulder, listened to the whirring of the mechanics inside his head as he examined the spot of floor.

  “I do believe he’s right,” Sheridan said, a hint of excitement in his voice. He turned his attention to the bookcase pushed up against the wall. “It appears this bookcase has been moved away from the wall and then pushed back again—and recently.”

  The chubby acolyte jumped to his feet, staring in amazement at the bookcase. He grabbed it and pulled … and it swung open.

  “There was a lock here, but a spell has been used to force it open,” he said.

  “Great,” Edgar croaked, eyeing the storage unit. “Maybe we’re on the right track after all.” The rook fluttered his wings. “Ready to go, Sheridan?”

  “Quite ready,” the mechanical man answered, flexing his arms.

  There was a doorway behind the case, leading to a set of stone stairs descending into a sea of darkness.

  Sheridan moved closer to the doorway, reaching up to click the buttons on the side of his head that would return his eyes to their normal setting. The glow from the twin orbs illuminated the descending staircase, but only a little way before the light was swallowed up by the darkness.

  “Do you think Ivar is down there?” the mechanical man asked.

  “I’d bet my tailfeathers on it.”

  “Then we go down.”

  “No,” Edgar said. “Cassandra was very specific about what we are to do if we find anything of importance. You guys stay here,” he said, lifting off from his perch and flying toward the exit. “She is going to want to see this for herself.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Timothy held the lantern high. It was one of his own special lamps, with oil inside that burned with hungry fire. Ghostfire was magical and would have gone dark the moment he touched one of those lights. Now he held his lantern out ahead of him and peered down the winding steps into the impenetrable darkness below.

  “Are you sure about this?” Edgar asked. “Who knows what you’re going to find down there.”

  The boy looked away from the stairs, back to his friends. “I’ll feel much better knowing that all of you are safe, and that things are being properly looked after up here.”

  “And, besides, he won’t be going alone,” Cassandra said, sidling up alongside him.

  Timothy felt himself begin to frown. As much as he was starting to enjoy the girl’s company, or perhaps because of it, he wished that she would stay behind. Magic could not hurt him, but it could kill Cassandra. But he knew it would be useless to even suggest it. She was Grandmaster, after all. She was in charge here.

  “I do wish you’d allow us to accompany you,” Sheridan said fretfully.

  “We’ll be fine,” Timothy said. “Are you ready?” he then asked Cassandra, lifting his lantern to light their way.

  The girl nodded, a look of steely determination upon her delicate features. “Let’s go find Ivar and bring him back.”

  Timothy turned to his gathered friends for one last time.

  “Look after Leander and keep him safe,” he told them. “And keep your eyes open for anything unusual.”

  “Of course,” Edgar squawked. “You just be careful.”

  Timothy smiled and waved good-bye. “That’s my intention.” He held his lantern of hungry fire out before him and carefully descended the steps, watching out for himself as well as for the girl who followed slightly behind him.

  “I don’t know why you insisted on bringing that clunky lantern along,” she said. “I can easily cast a spell of illumination that will provide us with more than enough light.”

  “What if we’re separated?”

  Cassandra made a small noise of displeasure. “Let us hope that doesn’t happen—though I see your point.”

  It seemed as if they were descending forever, down and down the staircase into eternal darkness, deeper into the floating island than seemed possible.

  “How can something as extensive as this exist without anyone knowing?” Cassandra asked, her hand reaching out to clutch his in the small pool of golden illumination that flickered from Timothy’s lantern.

  “It was likely done in secret,” the boy replied.

  At last the hint of a glow could be seen below, growing brighter with each new turn of the spiral stairs. They were getting closer, but to what, Timothy wasn’t sure.

  “Yet another bit of wickedness I’m sure that my grandfather can lay claim to,” she said angrily.

  Timothy said nothing, not wanting to upset her more by agreeing. The flickering of light grew more pronounced upon the walls, and Timothy found himself quickening his descent, eager to see what awaited them.

  Nearing the bottom at last he came in sight of a ghostfire lamp that was set in a detailed sconce upon the wall. He found himself mesmerized by the magical flame, remembering his time with the Children of Karthagia and their feelings about ghostfire.

  “Almost there,” he said, pulling his eyes from the dancing soul fire and continuing with their descent. At last, upon the final step, they stood in front of a heavy wooden door set between two more sconces.

  Timothy steeled himself and then reached out to push against the wood. The door swung slowly open to reveal the room beyond. Ghostfire lanterns came to fife, revealing a kind of magician’s workroom.

  “I’ve read about places l
ike this,” Cassandra said, leaving his side and surveying the chamber.

  Timothy placed his lantern upon a tabletop, its natural light no longer necessary with the multiple lamps of ghostfire burning. “What kind of place is it?” he asked, staring at myriad jars of unknown contents stacked upon multiple shelves. He could have sworn that something inside one of the jars was moving.

  “If I’m not mistaken, this is a wizard’s laboratory,” she explained. “A secret place kept by the Wizards of Old so that they could practice their magical arts unhindered.”

  Timothy approached another table, drawn to the pieces of metal lying atop it. He reached down and picked up one of the pieces and studied it. At once he recognized it as one of the metal frames used as a base for a ghostfire lamp. Again, he recalled his discussion with the Karthagian called Finn.

  He placed the metal upon the tabletop and looked about some more.

  “Do you think it’s possible, Tim?” Cassandra asked in a hushed whisper, hurrying to join him as if afraid to be alone.

  “Do I think what’s possible?”

  “That a wizard from days gone by could still be alive today, and hiding inside of SkyHaven?”

  Their eyes fell on another table, and what lay upon it, in unison. Cassandra gasped, averting her eyes from the sight of the dissected animals resting there. He wasn’t sure if she had seen the desiccated human head, and made it a point to steer her away from the table before she could.

  “I think we’ve seen enough of this room,” he said, ushering her toward another doorway. Timothy wondered what new grotesqueries awaited them beyond it, and prepared himself.

  There were more stairs to walk down, the passage lit by even more ghostfire lamps attached to the wall. Around a final corner, at the bottom of the stairs, he could see an entrance that would take them into yet another secret room below SkyHaven.

  “Hopefully we’ll find some answers at last,” he said, leading Cassandra by the hand into the next chamber.

  The two gasped in unison.

  Everywhere they looked there were lamps of ghostfire—thousands of them, by Timothy’s rough estimate—bolted to the walls and stacked on tables and shelves. Their brilliance seemed to grow more intense the further into the room the pair went.

  “This isn’t right,” Timothy said, shielding his eyes as he attempted to look about the massive stone chamber. It seemed to go on forever, filled with stone columns and archways, but still just one enormous room. He could scarcely imagine the countless souls that were entrapped here.

  “What isn’t?” Cassandra asked.

  “On my travels through the wilderness I learned some interesting views about ghostfire,” he explained as he lowered his hands, his eyes better adjusted to the brightness. “Some cultures believe that it’s wrong to use the soul energies of the mages who’ve passed.”

  “That is how it’s always been,” Cassandra said.

  “Yes, but just because it’s always been this way doesn’t make it right.” Timothy walked farther into the room. Everywhere he looked, there were vessels of ghostfire. “I can’t help but wonder if all these souls aren’t being kept from moving on to someplace better than this.”

  Cassandra stooped to peer at a row of the brightly burning lanterns resting upon a shelf. “I … I never thought about it like that,” she said, looking with new eyes at objects she had seen her entire life.

  Timothy was certain that most mages were kind and good, and that the use of ghostfire was simply a tradition that they had always followed. Most would be horrified to even consider that keeping portions of the spirits of their ancestors trapped in ghostfire lamps and torches might in truth be a torment for the dead, that their loved ones might be suffering because of that old tradition.

  “Could … could it be so?” She looked at him, clearly hoping for an answer that he could not give.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the question haunts me.”

  He watched as she moved around the chamber, reaching out to gently touch the spheres and lamps. “How cruel if it is true,” she said.

  Cassandra stopped suddenly and looked at him. “Why do you think they’re all here? There are so many of them, they can’t all be here for the purpose of lighting the room.”

  “No,” Timothy said, tilting his head to one side. “I can’t imagine that they are.” He had seen something through the nearly overpowering brilliance of the ghostfire lamps, up ahead in the chamber, lying upon the floor. Now, he started deeper into the room to investigate.

  Cassandra followed closely behind. “What is it, Tim? It’s so bright in here, I can barely make it out.”

  Timothy shielded his eyes from the light and tried to peer through slitted lids. It was so difficult to see that he nearly stumbled over the shape that lay on the floor. At first it appeared to be a sack of clothing, but on closer examination, Timothy realized it was something more. With a tentative hand he reached down and flipped back a piece of material to reveal the skeletal face of a mage.

  Cassandra gasped, jumping back from the withered corpse hidden within the robes. “Oh no, the poor man.”

  Timothy nodded grimly, an idea beginning to formulate in his mind. “One of the missing mages, I’d wager.”

  They looked up and scanned the chamber that stretched before them. Among the columns were other figures on the ground, other bodies Uttering the floor. Something moaned in the distance, and Timothy felt his blood turn to ice. As if drawn by some invisible force, he began to inch his way toward the sound.

  “Wait,” Cassandra hissed, gripping his arm. “It could be a trap.”

  Timothy looked into her green eyes and removed her grip from his arm. “Then let’s find out together. It’s what we’ve come for. And I’m not leaving without Ivar.”

  They moved together toward the other bodies, searching for telltale signs of life, but there were none to be found. Timothy was disturbed by how many bodies there were. A far greater number of mages had apparently gone missing than had been originally thought.

  Instinctively, he pulled Cassandra closer to him.

  They heard the sound again, weaker than before but this time much closer. They moved cautiously toward the source of that sound and found themselves standing before a tangle of multicolored robes and withered skin. Whatever had been done to them, it had changed their flesh so much that they did not stink of death but of a kind of damp mold, as though there was nothing left of them but skin and bone and clothing. Someone had made a pile of corpses. How many mages had been thrown into this particular heap, Timothy could not begin to fathom.

  And then the bodies began to move.

  Timothy cried out, jumping away from the writhing pile of the dead, Cassandra in tow.

  Yet it was not the bodies that moved, but something buried beneath. A pale hand and arm shot up from among them, and someone began to emerge.

  “Ivar?” Timothy cried, rushing to assist his friend.

  Cassandra helped him, each of them taking the struggling Asura by an arm and aiding him in crawling out from beneath the pile of dead mages.

  “Are you all right, Ivar?” Timothy asked when his friend was finally free.

  The Asura was weak, his legs unable to support his weight. Carefully they lowered him to the ground. His skin was strangely discolored and dry to the touch, as if he had been attacked by the same force that had caused the dead mages to wither, but had managed to survive.

  Or maybe, Timothy thought, whatever was doing this to him didn’t get a chance to finish the job. Maybe it was interrupted.

  Cassandra gently laid the Asura’s head in her lap

  “Ivar,” Timothy said, kneeling at his friend’s side. “Ivar, what’s happened—who did this to you?”

  Ivar’s head thrashed from side to side as if in the grip of some terrible nightmare. He started to moan, and then his eyes snapped open and he stared at them, fear etched upon his face.

  “It’s me, Ivar, it’s Tim and Cassandra. You’re going to b
e all right,” he assured his friend.

  “No,” the Asura rasped, his voice as dry as the desert. He reached a trembling hand up and grabbed hold of Timothy’s arm in a powerful grip.

  “Run,” Ivar croaked, his dark eyes bulging. “Run for your lives.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  In his dream, Leander Maddox could feel a breeze on his face that carried with it the scent of the ocean. It was only the deep ache in his gut and the ragged pain in his throat that forced him to realize that he was not dreaming after all. He moaned, softly, and knitted his heavy brows in consternation, all without opening his eyes.

  The moment he did open them, narrowing them to slits to protect against the sudden bright light of day, memories swam through his mind. The pain in his belly tripled and he caught his breath, swallowing, shaking his head weakly upon his pillow.

  “No,” he said, sorrow welling up inside him.

  “Professor?” asked a voice.

  Through narrowed eyes, Leander saw the shadow of a figure loom over him. He blinked to clear his vision and saw that it was Carlyle.

  “You’re awake,” Carlyle said, obviously pleased though there was also caution in his voice. “How do you feel?”

  Leander ignored him. The mage had called him professor, which was in itself confirmation of his worst fears. “I remember … terrible things. They weren’t nightmares, were they?”

  Carlyle averted his eyes. “No, sir. No, I’m afraid they were not nightmares at all.”

  The former Grandmaster sat up. Nausea gripped him and he became dizzy, but he only paused to let it pass and then swung his legs off of the bed. “Is Timothy all right?” he asked. “And what of Caiaphas? Please, tell me that they’re safe.”

  Carlyle nodded solemnly. “They are, indeed. Despite the evil that influenced you, Professor, you did them no permanent damage.”

  “And Alethea? The Voice?”

  “She will recover.”

  Leander let out a long breath and sagged a moment at the edge of the bed. The memories of his actions were blurred, but he recalled much of what he had said and done. Even as the presence that had overtaken him had been beating Timothy and forcing him out the window of that sky carriage—speaking with Leander’s voice and moving with his limbs—inside he had been screaming in fury, frustration, and fear.