With his new position, Lynar was the center of attention, and he wore his tongue out telling of the ways of the mortals. Many thought he was lying when he spoke of great cities with smoking chariots traveling at great speed and danger and flying machines.
For the feast, many delicacies were offered. Fruit, some familiar, some not, were heaped in wooden bowls along with vegetables and wonderful hearth-baked breads. Wine flowed freely, a pungently sweet brew, each sip praised. Meat from small animals was plentiful, skewered on long sticks and cooked over an open fire.
When the feast was at its end, music was played and songs were sung. Prayers were offered to the gods who provided such a bountiful and lush land.
Though he and Julienne had passed over all foods, both of them had consumed more than their share of wine, to be polite. More than a little buzzed, he took off his coat and heavy tunic, undoing the collar of his white shirt. Hand on Julienne's hip, he turned her onto her back.
"Lynar has gone elsewhere," he whispered, giving her earlobe a nibble. "We are alone."
Julienne rolled over onto her back and rubbed her eyes. She pushed her hair out of her face. Beads rattled--the Danarrans had made her a part of their tribe, delighting in the softness and color.
"Is that so?" she returned, voice husky.
"Yes." He could not take his eyes off her: her position on the blanket, her arms flung over her head, a gentle smile parting her lips. He could feel her heartbeat as he began to undo the sash of her tunic, lift it over her head. Her string-tied blouse was half-undone, and she gasped when he slid his hand under the material to caress her stomach. The storm of feelings she evoked in him began to beat through his veins when her own hands came up to touch him.
A pent up breath rushed from her lungs. "You're seducing me." She reached up and her fingertips trailed slowly down his throat, raising an exquisite sensitivity.
He bent over her, kissing her with a need that surprised both of them. He touched her hair, caressing its softness. "I am doing my best." His hand slid higher and his fingers brushed her erect nipple, tracing the pink aureole. "You know you cannot go with me to Ula'dh."
She sat up abruptly, breaking the mood.
"Why not?" she demanded.
His hand snaked around to her back, and he plucked Xavier's athame from its hiding place, laying it aside.
"You saw me take it?"
"No, but you forget I can read you as clearly as I read a book. Your mind is still unguarded. I do not blame you for wanting him dead, but this is not for you to do. You do not need Xavier's blood on your hands."
"I've killed before!" she protested.
"By accident," he gently reminded her. "It is different to kill out of malice."
Julienne's features distorted. Hate glinted in her eyes as she set her jaw.
"I could kill him!" she spat. "When I saw those women, I felt sick. But the little girl--I saw the pattern of her nightgown, the cute bears in sleeping caps. Can you imagine going to sleep and awakening on a cold altar with Xavier looming over you? It must have been terrifying. I've never been a mother, but I felt my heart break. Please, I want my chance at him. Not for you, not even for me, but for her."
A tear fell. She swept it away.
He inclined his head. "All right. Come, then. But I warn you now it will not be an easy journey. We are going into a place where the energies of nature have burned out. There is no life, and nothing can exist there long without becoming warped. It is dangerous to work any witchcraft. What you intend in mind and what manifests in the physical is often distorted."
"I don't care. Just let me watch the bastard die." Her words had an intensity that seemed to penetrate his heart, flooding through his bloodstream.
"I will promise you that," he said huskily.
Pleased that she had gotten her way, her mouth widened into a smile.
"Honestly," she half laughed. "Did you think I'd let you leave me behind?"
He shook his head, half amazed that he'd given in to her so easily. She was certainly learning how to wrap him around her little finger. Maybe he'd been a fool to fall in love with her, but he damned well didn't care. He enjoyed the high adrenaline charge Julienne gave him--something he'd experienced with no other woman.
It must be the wine, he mused, but any sensible thought afterward was beyond him when her hand began to follow the inside of his thigh, finding his hardness, tracing it. A wicked gleam came into her eyes and he forgot everything...except how much he wanted her. He pulled her body to his, his lips claiming hers in a bruising kiss. Sexually, he was the aggressor. A woman he made love to was engulfed by sheer lust, swept away in the erotic whirlwind he could evoke in the female body. He went from tender to rough, from pleasure to pain, in the blink of an eye.
With her willing consent, clothing was shifted aside so he could commence exploration, his hand parting her legs to stroke the soft petals of her womanhood. Lifting her slightly, he abandoned her mouth to suckle at one erect nipple. Julienne gasped at the pleasure of it, the tip instantly hard under his teasing tongue, the gentle pressure making her whole body shudder with delight. With merciless licks, he continued the sweet torment, making her cry out more than once. Fingers kneading, then gliding, he prepared her to receive him. Then, moving his body over hers, he plunged into her moist depths with one smooth thrust. When he entered her, she closed her eyes and gave herself wholly to the passion, her hips lifting to receive all of him. Muscles tense, nerves alert, their rhythm increased to accommodate the climax toward which they were building. At the crucial moment, he pinned her hands down, concealing her heated cries with kisses until both their bodies trembled at the peak of release.
A few moments later he rolled to one side, relieving her of his weight. They stayed in each other's arms until she fell asleep.
He remained awake. Something about the journey was nagging at the back of his mind. He was not a man given to crediting prophecy, for he knew that outside forces could twist a foretelling in many different directions and render it untrue. Still, a distant voice in the back of his head persisted in warning him that great danger lay ahead.
Not from Xavier. Not from Megwyn.
Something else was waiting.
Something deadly.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Xavier stood on the boundaries of the vanished city. Exhausted, he leaned heavily on his staff. The last few days of travel had been constant, with no time given to food or rest. Ha'rak's warriors had grown bold in the last few hours of the chase. They practically trailed at his heels, bringing out their weapons in case he should not make it to the ravine leading into Ula'dh.
But he had made it, barely upon the stroke of noon. He was victorious!
The crossing of the ravine was, however, a daunting task. Several hundred miles long, it wended into the center of the Danarran forest. At its widest, it was barely a mile, and on its other side began a wintry-looking cascade of solid rock, a mountain of pure gypsum. At its craggy head lay the dead city of Ual'dh.
Where before there had been parching heat and not enough water, there were now cool temperatures and a deep lake. Unlike the dead pools in the center of the city, the water in the ravine was alive with multitudes of fish and crustaceans--soft-shelled, blind and dead white. It was brackish, drinkable if boiled, poisonous if consumed before refining.
In crevices, deadly toadstools sprouted. Snails, spiders, mites and beetles ran rife. A pale species of gremlin also subsisted in the ravine, sometimes venturing out into the plains of the Gidran desert only to be devoured by the tough lizards that survived in the hot, dense wasteland. Periodically, spring floods triggered by volcanic upheavals would bring an influx of remains from the surface world, replenishing the water and insect life.
The sorcerer cursed the damned underworld. It went from one extreme to another. He hated crossing through the waist-high water. At its end, he was miserable. There were no trees or bushes to get a fire going; and the only light was not real light at all, just
the luminosity of calcium deposits that reflected back the distant glow emitted by the fires of Gidrah.
The travelers quickly stripped off their wet garments and discarded them for dry ones. Food was passed around, but he could not eat. Excitement burned in his mind. He wanted to go immediately into the city to search for the tomb of Erabris, but to go exhausted would be foolhardy. They would camp the night on the edge of the ravine and journey into the extinct city tomorrow. The chase was over.
He could afford a little leisure.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ula'dh?" she asked.
Morgan nodded. He and Julienne stood on the edge of the Danarran forest, by the banks of the river separating the city from elvish lands. The only link between the two was a bridge carved of pure limestone, an exquisite work in miniature fashioned from one single mass of stone. A perfect arch, its steps were wide, not high, spaced for the gait of people who were small, perhaps half the height of the average human.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, "but eerie." She closed her eyes. "I feel nothing in it, no life. It's absolutely dead."
She pushed her hood away from her face and moved out of the shelter of the trees to approach the bridge. Their journey had been a long one, but her body was strong and could handle the rigors of travel without much stress. Sleep, too, was hardly needed--she found she could function well on an hour's rest. Morgan had moved fast, but she'd managed to keep up with him as they plunged through thick overgrowth and across the rivers breaking through the ground.
She'd been sorry to see Lynar remain behind. In the time since he'd joined the household, she'd grown fond of the elf. The pouch he'd given her was a larger version of his very own bag of tricks. In it she carried Xavier's athame, a potion to keep the bugs off her exposed face and hands, a flint and pieces of fool's gold, rags for washing and a flask for fresh water. Her slave bracelet, the faux-fangs that served her so well, was on her left hand. Her peach wood charm hung secure around her neck. Thus far, the little trinket had not changed its temperature. Morgan's ring was still in her keep, a thing she fiercely wanted to hang on to.
Hunger had rarely touched her; she'd fed off Morgan's blood only two times. Knowing it weakened him, she'd tried to take only enough to sustain herself. She was worried--he'd been going nonstop since his return to witchcraft. A crash and burn was inevitable. It was just a matter of when.
She reached to touch the stone, tracing with her fingers the lettering etched into the surface. "Who were these people?"
"No one remembers. Most writings of Ula'dh have vanished. They exist only as legend."
"What could have happened to make them go away?"
Morgan shrugged. "No one knows."
"Such is life and death, I suppose," she remarked, a frown wrinkling her brow. "I see now why so many search for immortality. Death is ugly. The brotherhood couldn't have picked a more fitting place to conceal their secrets." She graced her lover with an inquisitive eye. "Tell me why the writings should be so important to Xavier."
Morgan's forehead crinkled in thought. "Through the past days, I have been pondering the text of the funeral tome, trying to make sense of the archaic wording used by the brotherhood. The most I know is that those writings have long been called the 'keys of creation' because they are supposed to open up the last secrets of the astral."
"The astral?" Her gaze raked the boundaries of the ancient city. "Is it another dimension?"
"The third realm, the netherworld," he said. Seeing her confusion, he hastened to explain. "It is the place where all within creation was given birth. It is difficult to explain to one whose mind is not of the occult the existence of a non-physical universe." Frowning, he tapped himself on the forehead, as if trying to dredge up the answer from a sluggish memory holding centuries of knowledge. "The astral is the sphere of the divine consciousness. It is often called the arena of illusions, because elementals not of this world can exhibit themselves to the eyes of man."
"You mean demons?" She hoped he would deny it, reassure her that such creatures were myth. She did not relish the idea there were yet more facets to the occult than she had already witnessed in the brief time she had spent with him.
"A legion of nightmarish creatures inhabit the astral realm and can be manipulated through occult influences to function within our material world," he answered honestly. "But they are fleeting things. It is a strain on the conjurer to hold an apparition not made of solid matter together for any length of time."
Her eyes locked on his face. "Have you ever sought out such yourself?"
She scanned his expression, seeing the muscle of his right cheek contract slightly.
He seemed to think on his answer before speaking. "I abandoned the quest many centuries ago and never became a true adept," he admitted then paused. Finally: "Xavier was the real master. He expended much time in study of the brotherhood, collecting every manuscript written by the monks. He believed the Cachaens could bridge the barrier between the psychic and physical worlds, merge what is real with the unreal."
She listened carefully, struggling not to lash out and judge him. "You spent several years with Xavier, didn't you?"
"Yes. For a time he was my mentor, one who led my growth into witchcraft when I began to delve into my occult heritage."
"Why Xavier?"
"He was not always an evil man," Morgan said honestly. "He was an excellent teacher, one surpassing brilliance. I wish now I had paid more attention to his discourses on the subject of the Cachaens. My own knowledge of them is sketchy, limited to bits and pieces of old folklore, which could be just stories."
"The brotherhood concealed the writings away from all eyes," she commented. "They must have felt they had something to hide. The Danarrans seem to believe they are real."
"They just might be going on old myths passed down through the ages," he pointed out. "The truth does have a way of becoming distorted through time. There is no proof the Cachaens were more learned than others who delve into the occult. All conjurers seek to grow, learn of this vast universe and how to manipulate its energies." He frowned and rubbed his eyes then let his hand drop. "Of course, just thinking of the scrolls being found after several thousand years is giving me a headache. Theorizing about what they really are or can do is impractical at this point."
"What does matter is that if the writings of the Cachaens do rest in Ual'dh Xavier might have a chance of finding them," Julienne said. "Either way, no one can risk him getting his hands on them, even if they are the pursuit of a fool."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Since this began, I have had the feeling those writings are trouble, that they foreshadow the coming of a second dark age."
She studied him for a moment. She felt overwhelmed; a complicated emotion part-anger, part-sorrow, part-fear rose within her. Morgan rarely admitted when he had doubts or was anxious about something. He could usually hide it behind a mask of indifference. By his edgy energy, the way his hand kept drifting toward his weapon, she knew he was anticipating trouble. A lot of trouble.
"I wouldn't doubt that." She shivered, pulling the folds of her cloak closer to her body. "Do you think he's even here?"
Her mind was moving fast, anticipation of the danger ahead acting on her body like a shot of pure adrenaline.
"We will soon find out. If he has been successful in his own journey, he probably traversed the ravine into the city's outskirts yesterday. His travel has been harder than ours, but he is closest to the center of the city. We will have to hurry to find the two obelisks which should mark the entrance to the tomb of Erabris."
Julienne stood and wiped her hand down the front of her cloak. "And if we find him?"
"I will kill him."
"And the scrolls?"
"If they exist, I am of the mind to leave them as the Cachaens wished."
"Then I guess we'd better find them first."
Chapter Forty
Crossing the gypsum mountain was easy. Stairs had been carved into its face,
leading up to a great natural arch. To pass under it was to enter the city.
Azoroath, lamp held aloft, led Xavier. Behind them came the last surviving eunuch. The slave had been starved for several days and given no water. His ribs were clearly outlined under his skin, which was cracked and peeling from dehydration. Hollow eyes held only the hope his death would be a quick one.
At the top of the great stairway were two basins to the right and left of the arch. Both were waist-high and narrow. An aerator protruded from the center of both, surrounded by a thick, oily liquid.
Azoroath cautiously dipped a finger into one. The liquid clung to his skin. An expression of recognition sparked his pock-marked features, and he lowered the fire of his lamp to the tip of the straw-like protrusion. A bright, straight flame flared to life, sucking at the oil in the basin. He lit the wick of the second fountain.
"Ula'dh is alive!" he crowed.
A magnificent vision to behold, the artistry of nature had been finely tempered by the hand of a people long disappeared. Ula'dh was vast, an array of caves and passages that revealed breath-stealing views of stalactites dropping from ceiling to floor. Drop by patient drop of limestone-laden water had trickled down through the crust of the earth to fashion the fragile intricacies of aragonite crystals, grown to glorious proportions as the years added tier after tier of flowstone.
Out of the soft limestone, Ula'dhian artists had carved their city, fashioning Ionic columns out of stalactites. The colors of the formations were incredible--the deep red of iron ore, the blue and purple of manganese oxide, blotches of pink and coral and, lastly, calcite as pure and polished white as any pearl.
Between the columns, walkways of pure limestone ground down to a smooth sheen wound around fountains full of oil to light the city's curious dwellings. Fine crafters of stone and refiners of water, a commodity so needed by the Trolls, the Ula'dhian people had lived aesthetic and contemplative lives. Their city had once been the most prosperous of the underworld civilizations, its borders touching the rich Danarran forests on one side and the dry deserts of Gidrah on the other.
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