The seconds dragged by, until he began to fear some trick of the current had swept them far apart. But at last he glimpsed a vague silhouette, thrashing spastically in the gloom. Charon's prisoners drifted around their victim, pawing at her.
Montrose clawed his way through the watery ghosts and threw his arms around her. Her mind disordered, Louise struggled against him as frantically as she had against the captive souls. But her movements no longer reflected even a vestige of martial arts training, and he found it relatively easy to hold on to her.
He grasped her chin and tilted her head up, so he could gaze down into her face. Blessedly, the alien images and voices dimmed, supplanted by flashes of his own memories:
The first time he'd seen her, at a reception at the Dutch Court. He'd been helh bent on impressing the assembled dignitaries, on accomplishing the difficult diplomatic task of persuading them to provide troops, ships, and treasure to put young Charles on his father's throne. Impoverished exile that she was, Louise had worn a hand-me-down gown reflecting the height of last year's fashion. Still, he could hardly take his eyes off her.
The morning she'd begun painting his portrait. Frowning in concentration, specks of pigment on her hand and cheek, intent on her beloved art, she'd so captivated him that after an hour he simply couldn't stand there posing any longer. He'd had to |p to her and kiss her. She'd protested that someone could wander into the studio at any moment, but ultimately they'd made love at the foot of the easel.
The hours he'd spent striding back and forth beside a table with a map of Britain spread out on it, discussing his plans for the campaign. She'd listened gravely, offering encouragement and sometimes shrewd suggestions, never voicing the concern for his safety which he'd imagined he saw lurking in her eyes.
The evening VanLengen had come to him in Skibo Castle. Sneering, his mask of camaraderie discarded, the mercenary had taken cruel pleasure in telling the weakened, feverish prisoner how he'd betrayed the Royalist force to Strachan's cavalry, and that he and Louise had intended the treachery from the start. Somehow Montrose had maintained his composure, but he'd felt as if the man had driven a sword into his breast.
And the night in Grand Gulf when Louise had lain chained and helpless at his fffeet, at his mercy at last. The terrible ecstasy of beating her unconscious.
Fighting to reestablish his sense of self, Montrose savored all the memories, the pleasant and excruciating alike. When Louise stopped struggling, he ran his fingers over her face, exploring its contours by touch as well as sight.
He felt.his mind stabilizing, but judging from the condition of her body, Louise wasn't faring as well. Her head stretched upward as if it were made of dough, simultaneously becoming translucent. One of Charon's prisoners floated past, and the creature's trailing, elongated toes dragged through her temple.
MonttOSS Wondered why she wasn't deriving the same benefit from their renewed contact that he was. Then she groped at his face, feebly but frantically, and he remembered his mask. He pulled the silvery visor off and let it drop to the seabed.
Her body returning to its normal shape and solidity, Louise stared into his eyes for a second. Then she hurled herself against him and pressed her lips to his.
Caught by surprise, he made no effort to resist. Her kiss was as electric as ever. It suffused him with a hitter, anger, but for an instant, despite himself, a keen pleasure :as well.
In any ease, that contact too reinforced his mental defenses. Louise drew back and waved her hand. Somehow he:comprehended that she was suggesting they move And indeed they'd better, Or the captive wraiths would surely wear them down in the end. Unfortunately, Montrose had become completely disoriented during the psychic assault. He had no idea where the Isle of Sorrows lay in relation to their present position. Praying that his Harbinger instincts, if not his actual powers, were still functional, he groped for some sense of his bearings. When he felt he'd achieved it, he put his arm around Louise's shoulders, and she wrapped hers around his waist. Clinging to one another, they blundered on.
Periodically false memories, burst into Montrose's consciousness faster than he could push them out, at which point he stopped and tugged Louise around to face him. At other moments, no doubt similarly beset, she did the same to him. Then they gazed into one another's eyes, ran their hands over one another's features, until they felt strong enough to press onward. On one such occasion, Louise tried to kiss him again, but he gripped her forearms and held her back.
The captive souls flowed around them. Now that he and Louise were resisting them more successfully, Montrose half expected them to fumble at their intended victims more energetically, or their distorted sobs and moans to turn to howls of frustration. But the spirits' behavior didn't change. Perhaps they weren't sadists or predators after all. Perhaps they truly were the dazed, sluggish creatures they'd initially seemed, simply acting according to. their natures, no more consciously desiring to harm their victims than fire consciously wished to consume its fuel.
Finally, unexpectedly, the Stygian took another step, and in so doing, thrust the top
He desperately wanted to bolt for the shore and bring the psychic torment to an end. But Stygia was teeming with foes who could destroy him just as handily as the ghosts in the bay. So he forced, himself to remain in place and survey the vista before him.
The Isle of Sorrows towered against the churning storm clouds, the multicolored lightning .glinting on the structures encrusting its slopes. The oldest buildings were modeled on colonnaded temples and palaces frOm afiCient Greece and Rome. Others—castles and edifices resembling Gothic cathedrals—dated from the Middle Ages, while the skyscrapers had risen within the last hundred years. But most of the: buildings, whatever their period, sported hideous gargoyles, ornate tableaux celebrating death and decay, and a variety ©f other grotesque architectural details which served to differentiate them from their Shadowlands counterparts as surely as the dull black stone and iron of their construction. And there, were a great m:r.v - cyclopean, bizarrely shaped, reared and held erect only by Artificer magic—unlike anything which had. ever existed on Earth, or ever could.
A complex: of docks serving, a miscellany of vessels occupied the shoreline to Montrose's right. But the section of beach immediately before him appeared deserted. A shattered, fire-blackened shell of a temple Stood beside the groaning water, its statuary defaced, many of its pillars toppled, and its dome of a roof half fallen in. Two sagging piers, equally ruined, projected into the surf.
The Scot smiled. He'd been aiming for this particular landmark, and despite the worst that the water ghosts could do, he'd hit the bull's-eye. Perhaps he was an even better Harbinger than he'd imagined.
Another stab of alien memory—the nasal wail of some woodwind instrument— extinguished his glow of self-satisfaction and goaded him into motion. Leaning on one another, he and Louise staggered out of the surf, picked their way through an expanse of rubble, and entered the derelict house of worship. There, utterly spent, they slumped down on the cracked marble floor.
Some time later, Montrose's eyes fluttered open. He'd only meant to rest, remaining on guard while he did, but now he wondered if he'd actually been Slumbering. He had a brittle, unpleasant feeling in his head, but couldn't tell whether it was an aftereffect of his ordeal in the bay or of tortures inflicted by his Shadow.
Grimacing, he decided it didn't matter. What did wfis that no one had intruded on him and Louise while they recovered. Of course, people seldom visited his current refuge or the other seaside ruins like it. The sites were generally considered accursed. That was why he'd chosen this particular spot to come ashore.
He hauled himself to his feet and peered about, scanning the rubble and the shadows. After a moment he noticed Louise standing before the remains of the altar. Something—magic, he assume.d^had blasted it to pebbles..
Evidently hearing him rise, she turned in his direction. "This was one of the Temples of the Shining Ones, wasn'
t it?" she said.
"Yes," he replied, approaching her, his damp shoes squelching.
"It's been so thoroughly desecrated that I can't even tell what faith it belonged to."
Montrose shrugged. "Originally, who knows? At the time of their insurrection, the Shining Ones were nearly all Christians of one stripe or another."
"As were you, James. Yet the thought of their destruction doesn't trouble you?"
He sneered. "Why should it? It happened centuries before I was born, and more to the point, the Fishers brought it on themselves. All they had to do was pay their taxes and acknowledge Charon's sovereignty. He in turn would have permitted them to continue to carry the gullible away to their fraudulent Far Shores paradises, which was supposedly their only reason for abiding in Stygia in the first place. Instead they chose to mount a rebellion. And lest you forget, I am emphatically not a Christian anymore." Abruptly, with a spasm of irritation, he wondered why he was justifying his sentiments to a treacherous creature like Louise, "I don't see much advantage in discussing Imperial history. Let's fbcus on the present, shall we? How are you?"
She smiled. "I feel as if my mind has been shattered and glued back together, and the glue isn't dry yet. But I'll be all right." She hesitated. "James, . ,,"
He sensed she wanted to discuss the intimacy they'd established at the bottom of the channel. It had been essential to their survival, but he had no desire to perpetuate it now. Indeed, the thought inspired a pang of something that almost felt like fear. "Then you're ready to move on," he said briskly, cutting her off.
She sighed. "Yes, I suppose." She undipped the knife from her belt and held it out to him hilt first. "To replace your saber and crossbow."
He took the weapon. "Thank you. I hope your pistol will still fire after itf immersion."
"If not, I can use it as a club." She moved to a jagged crack in the wall, just wide enough to squeeze through. He followed a pace behind. Pausing at the opening, she gazed up at the city on the mountain.
"I studied this view quite a bit while you were sleeping," she said in a troubled tone, "Stoking the fires of your hatred?" he asked sardonically.
She snorted. "I'm not like that, whatever you choose to believe. Not that there isn't a lot to despise. Surely even a Deathlord's lieutenant can see how monstrous it is. But magnificent, too, in a horrible kind of way. It's so hugs, and intricate. Viewing it, I can almost believe it is the supreme creation in the universe, the great bastion of order that holds the Void at bay." Her generous lips twisted. "Speaking as a Heretic, I don't like feeling tiny and insignificant before the works of my would-be oppressors."
Montrose felt an urge: to pat her on the shoulder. He quashed it, but drawled, "Come now, it isn't all that impressive. It doesn't even have a golf course."
Her blue eyes widened in surprise, and then she chuckled. "That peculiar Scottish game you used to go on about. I remember."
"Golf is not peculiar," he said with feigned hauteur, "It's the finest sport in the world, but I was never able to convince the Smiling Lord to allocate sufficient land and manpower to build me: a place to play, though I would have settled for a humble nine holes."
"I guess even the lords of the Onyx Tower don't get everything they desire."
"Indeed not, and we're more than a little disgruntled about it. But here's my point. Stygia is immense, but how sophisticated can it be if it lacks such a basic amenity of civilized existence? Two wily adventurers such as ourselves shouldn't experience any difficulty outwitting the local bumpkins and reaching our objective. So don't heed any inner voice that tries to persuade you differently. It's just your Shadow, trying to demoralize you."
Louise smiled at him. "All right," she said, then, twisting her shoulders, stepped out under the open sky. Montrose wriggled through behind her.
Senses straining, he peered about, looking for hostile presences. The soft, ceaseless drone of the island metropolis—a sound compounded of the sobbing of the bay, the babble of countless conversations, the slap and scuff of myriad footsteps, the clink and rattle of a million chains, and the hiss and crackle of a host of barrow-flame torches and lamps—a hum which Somehow seemed to overlay a deeper, unbreachable silence, murmured in his hypersensitive ears. But as far as he could determine, no one was stirring close at hand. He led Louise toward the mouth of a narrow, crooked street at the foot of the slope.
Their route carried them upward between rows of grimy tenements. The builders had decorated the buildings' keystones, cornices, and friezes with a crown-of-thorns motif to denote that this, precinct lay under the authority of the Emerald Lord. Blank white faces peered from shadowy doorways and narrow windows.. Other wraiths lay motionless on the cobblestones;, not Slumbering but inert, or shuffled aimlessly up and down. Some seemed blind to obstacles in their paths, and Montrose and Louise learned to sidestep to avoid, collisions.
The Scot frowned. The wretches seemed scarcely more sentient than the ghosts imprisoned in Weeping Bay. He'd heard vague rumors of districts like this, appearing like cancers since Charon's demise, populated chiefly by souls declining into Senility, but until now, he'd never seen one firsthand.
"Is much of the city like this?" asked Louise.
"I hope not," he replied, stepping around the motionless form of a nude woman with varicose veins and curly gray hair. "None of it should be. The Deathlord in charge of the area is supposed to do something about it. Give the inhabitants a festival, force them to work, or impress them into the army. Anything to strike a spark of vitality." He hesitated. "And those who can't be helped should go to the Forges."
She grimaced. "Oh, now there's: a wonderful solution."
"It's better to put them to productive use than to allow them to fall into the Void," he said, feeling momentarily defensive* "That would give Oblivion a foothold on the island."
"As if it doesn't have one already," she replied.
The street turned sharply to the left, then ended at the base of a tower like an iron spike, its base narrower than its top. A ramp spiraled up the side of the building like the thread of a screw. Grateful that the Restless were far less susceptible to ordinary muscular fatigue than their mortal counterparts, Montrose began the dizzying ascent, and Louise climbed along beside him. The metal surface clinked beneath their feet, and gaunt cadavers capered beside them in an endless procession. Graven on the dusky metal wall, the danse macabre was invisible most of the time, but withered grins and skeletal hands sprang from obscurity whenever the lightning flared.
Eventually Louise looked over the side, gasped, and hastily stepped backward. Montrose grabbed her by the arm as if she'd been in some genuine danger of falling over the side, then released her instantly, annoyed at himself.
"I know we've been climbing for a while," she said, "but we can't possibly be as high as we seem to be."
"Stygia is like that," Montrose said. "Sometimes, when you peer down from a high place, the drop seems to extend forever. It may result from spatial distortion, some vestige of the Tempest Charon couldn't purge. Or it may be an illusion he crafted himself, to make the city seem even grander. Either way, it's simply a trick of perspective. It can't harm you."
"I know that," she said, sounding irritated. He remembered that she'd always bristled at any hint of condescension. "It simply startled—"
Above their heads, metal made a faint, shivering sound.
Montrose and Louise looked up, at an arched bridge linking their tower to a gargoyle-encrusted basilica of a structure across the way. Evidently someone was creeping around on it.
The Scot considered veiling himself in darkness, or soaring up to the bridge to survey the situation. But if he drew on his Arcanos every time he heard a suspicious noise, he'd exhaust himself before he completed a fraction of the trek which lay before him. So he simply loosened the knife in its sheath, and then he and Louise tramped on.
As they stepped up onto the foot of the bridge, a pleasant baritone voice said, "Halt, if you please, milord and lady." On
the center of the span stood a lanky man clad in lace, a cocked hat, and a crepe mask. A rapier hung at his side, and he grasped a flintlock pistol in either hand. Despite the threat of the leveled firearms, Montrose was momentarily bemused by the spectacle of what appeared to be a highwayman from the era of his own life. The knight of the road had a henchman standing on either side. The one to his right, a short, bare-chested, bearded man with green skin, aimed a blowgun at Montrose. The one on the left, clad in a gray trench coat, slouch hat, and a metal visor the dull color of lead, pointed a crossbow.
Montrose said, "I believe the traditional greeting is, stand and deliver."
The man in the crepe mask grinned. "I'm mortified. You seem to have us confused with common thieves. We're the bridge keepers, gentle sir. The tollmen."
"Indeed," said Montrose. "You don't look like Legionnaires."
"Most of the soldiers have withdrawn higher up the mountain," the highwayman said. "Positioning themselves to defend the grander precincts of the city from marauders and saboteurs, or so they say. Keeping a distrustful eye on one another, if you believe the more outrageous and seditious rumors, which, I hasten to say, I don't. Either way, in their absence, it falls to humble citizens such as ourselves to maintain public services like this bridge. And sadly, that necessitates our collecting a modest user's fee from passersby."
Montrose levitated several inches into the air. "Actually, we don't need to use the bridge."
None of the robbers seemed impressed by Montrose's display of power. "A Harbinger," their leader said. "How interesting. But I regret that you still have to pay, even if you now choose to fly across. The tax pertains to usage of the path up as well as the span itself."
The Scot settled back onto the platform. "I understand. But unfortunately, my associate and I haven't an obolus between us. Surely there's some charitable provision for the needy."
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