She ran, her feet pounding stone, her throat growing drier. Her right hand kept touching the wall at her side. It provided her with sensation, with direction. Here and there, her fingers ran over large cracks, places where the walls had settled poorly after the cataclysm.
Evayne, she thought, stop. You’ve got to be rational. You can’t—
Thought stopped as the slaves’ and combatants’ entrance to the coliseum came fully into view.
Kallandras pulled up at her back; she sensed him stop. He made little noise as he turned, scanning the darkness at her back as she gazed at Darkness in front of her.
The floor of the arena was no longer dirt; it was marble, of the same texture and consistency as the stairs to the cathedral had been. Gold and silver runes were writ large across the marble’s face. The letters were almost as tall as she, and there was a pattern to them, and a magic, that defied her immediate understanding. Nor was this the only change.
In the center of the arena, there was an arch, a single, solitary structure. It was, at first sight, simple stone, but glints of iridescent light shot through it, concentrated at the arch’s keystone. To either side, there was a pillar, each the width and height of three large men.
She froze in place, her hand gripping the edge of the wall.
“Evayne?”
She could not speak, her attention absorbed by the runes on the floor. They encircled the pillared arch in a permanent ring, radiating darkness; Winter power. She did not know the full arts of demonology, but she knew enough to be certain of two things. It was a summoning, and the kin were not its target.
In the center of the arch, suspended as if in air, was a growing darkness that curled in on itself in hunger. It was large; easily the size of two grown men.
“What—what is it?” Kallandras’ question was hushed. For the first time in her life, Evayne heard a trace of fear and nervousness in his question. And her life encompassed many more ages of Kallandras than a mere youth of nineteen.
“It’s—” But she could not speak the name. Because the name had power now. Because the saying of it could attract attention that they both desperately wished to avoid. She swallowed and very gingerly began to back out of the opening to the arena.
No. She stopped. I am not done here, not yet. The path has not opened; the way is not clear. Her jaw ached. She bunched up midnight-blue cloth and folded her sticky hands into fists around it. This she hadn’t done since she was a youth not fully Kallandras’ age.
She drew herself up to her full height, lifted her chin, and stared into the darkness. Her skin was white, her jaw clenched. Kallandras came in behind her, still watching their backs.
Very slowly, they made their way along the outer periphery of the arena. Evayne took care not to touch any of the symbols and wards that covered the marble floor. She swallowed. She never forgot anything important, but it was hard to remember in the face of the arched gate.
No. I was sitting . . . there. Carythas sat on his throne . . . there. The throne was gone; at another time she would have been grateful for it. Myrddion died . . . there. It was the very spot over which the gate had been erected. A sudden anger displaced some part of her fear.
Kallandras sensed the shift in her mood. She could almost feel him relax. Don’t, she thought, but did not say it aloud. She kept her concentration, forced herself to remember every detail of Myrddion’s death—because she knew, if she remembered it well enough now, she would never have to think about it again.
Myrddion lost his hand there. And Carythas came to the pit itself and burned—there. There. She pulled down the hood of her robe—when it had risen to cover her face, to protect her expression, she couldn’t say—and walked, with purpose, to the spot.
There, an orange, glowing ward pulsed in the shadows. It was not the same type or of the same magical texture as the runes surrounding the gate; it was older, and its power was not of darkness, but of a magery so strong she had only twice seen its like.
She could almost hear Meralonne’s voice. The knowledge here, the history, Evayne! Think of all that we could discover about the past! She did not spit, but only because of the noise it might make.
Touching Kallandras very slowly on the shoulder, she pulled him to her right side. She lifted her finger to her lips and then lowered it toward the ground. He raised a brow, pointed to his feet, and then pointed a little distance off. She shook her head, no. He nodded.
She reached into her robes, found the cool, hard surface of the seer’s ball, and then froze in place.
The lights went out.
“Welcome,” a velvet voice said. “Welcome to the dominion of Allasakar.”
• • •
There were ways to sense that did not involve the light. Hearing: the change of a voice’s tenor and volume; its direction; and its strength. Touch: the movement of air as a door swings open and then shut. Smell: the nearness of bodies; of sweat. Of death.
Kallandras had trained in the arts of the night. Darkness was an efficient tool—not a weapon in and of itself, but an augmentation, an advantage. He was not a master of the night kill, but he was an able student.
With ease, he pivoted, crouching, toward the sound of the voice. He recognized it, of course. It belonged to the demoness. Somehow, he had failed in his mark. Shame warred with fear. Fear won. Caution moved him now. He recognized the name.
Allasakar.
Lord of the Hells. God of the Darkness. Reaver of the Chosen road.
“Yes, you were clever, boy. And foolish; you might have bought yourself time, had you run in any direction but this one.”
He rolled at once. The ground erupted in a spray of shards and splinters. They bit into his neck, his back, and his arms, but not very deeply. He steadied himself as he rocked back to his feet.
“You missed. Have care.” Another voice; male. Not Caraxas.
“I know what I do,” Sor na Shannen replied, the velvet gone from her voice. “Do you think inconsequential magics like this could break the gate?” Kallandras rolled again, but this time the spell that struck ground was not dark; it was a sizzle of angry red lightning. Instead of shards, there was a spatter of molten rock.
“No—but the mage is the danger here; you waste time on the boy.”
“Then, my lord,” the sneer belied the title, “deal with the mage as you see fit.”
• • •
She didn’t understand why they chose not to use the darkness; Sor na Shannen’s ability to weave it was greater than Evayne’s ability to weave spellfire. But she did not suggest, and she did not complain.
In the stands, at the exact spot Carythas had once occupied, Sor na Shannen and a demon of more formidable stature stood side by side. Sor na Shannen was naked; all pretense of clothing and civility were gone. Her skin, like the light around the arch, was vaguely iridescent to Evayne’s eyes; her body was distinctly nonhuman. The demon at her side was taller. At seven feet, he towered over his companion. His hair was almost white, and his eyes an unnatural black; he had no horns, no spikes, no fangs—indeed, he seemed to be a tall, very forbidding man.
Which was ill indeed.
There was an old Weston adage. The more human evil’s face, the more dangerous the threat. It was, more often than not, true.
She was already prepared with a countersign when he leaped into the arena, a combatant assured of victory. It was a long drop, but he made no more noise than a cat would have when he landed.
“Greetings, mage.”
She waited, ready for combat, but he did not try to approach her, and in a moment she understood the error of her assumption. He walked quickly, his arrogant demeanor melting into near subservience. He crossed the border of runes and wards, taking care to step between the golden lines, not across them. Then, in front of the pillared arch, he knelt.
“My lord,” he said, his words the loudest t
hat had yet been uttered in the arena. “We bring you two more.” He bowed his head; Evayne could see, in the shimmering light of the keystone, the reflection of his face in black marble.
“Kallandras!” Evayne shouted. It was a command.
• • •
He heard the demon’s words as he rolled, once again avoiding Sor na Shannen’s strike. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end as she readied herself for another.
It faded.
“Kallandras!”
He could not see Evayne, not clearly, but he could hear the command in her words. Taking care to avoid the arch, he began to make his way back to her. His feet made no sound; he held his breath as he moved, and stopped only to renew it.
But there was no further attack.
She reached out for him as he approached; he heard the familiar rustle of her sleeves. He hated to touch her. He took her hand.
Together, they stood in silence.
The darkness confined by the pillars began to convulse. The demon remained as he was, head bowed to floor, shoulders curved to ground. Shadow shot over his head, a living bloom of writhing tentacles—the twisted version of a giant human hand.
Evayne had no time to draw breath. The tentacles wrapped themselves around her body and lifted her above the ground. Kallandras was likewise taken, but he was silent.
She screamed as the darkness pierced her flesh. It left no mark, but it burrowed, searching her body for the spirit it contained—for the shard of immortality that only the gods themselves could touch. She wanted to fight, but she couldn’t; she couldn’t concentrate. She was a mage, but the center of her power had been distorted and shifted; it was unreachable.
Only the reaving was real.
Somebody uttered a piteous cry in the distance. It wasn’t Kallandras, but she didn’t know the voice—she had never heard herself scream so. She reached out with one hand, then with both, trying to touch something that was not darkness or torture.
Her right hand found Kallandras again. Their fingers locked tight, their hands became rigid. Her left hand brushed against cobwebs, or dust; something light, but definitely real.
The cries that continued piteously in the background were distant, the whisper that touched her left ear was not.
Daughter of destiny, you have been long in coming. It was a quiet, strong voice, the whisper of an older man who had lived his life assured of his power. It was Myrddion’s voice; having heard it once before, she would know it anywhere. I have been waiting for you, and now that you are arrived, my travail is at an end.
I was, as you are, a seer-born. The future came in dream and vision, and I saw the end of the world—but so far ahead of my time that only by becoming fell or dark could I hope to survive to fight it. I could not chance it, for once the Winter road is walked, who can say what will become of the walker? Yet I could not turn away.
I went to Fabril, and to the houses of the Unknown lord called guardian of man. Guardian of Man. It was not a name that Evayne had heard before, but she would remember it later. And between us, we forged the five. Some part of our power is in them, and in this way, we give our legacy to those who must be mankind’s warriors.
I give into your keeping that which you seek. They are not yours, but they are your responsibility. You are their guardian, and I trust you to know when your guardianship is at an end. Do not attempt to remove them, or once they are removed, to retain them.
I give you earth, air, fire, and water; the elements that you know. But I give you a fifth ring as well. It is not meant for this world. It is haven on the darkest of roads, comfort in the most evil of places.
And now, I have kept my vow; I have fulfilled my responsibility. May you one day know the peace that I will now know. For I do not think I could have traveled your road.
I have one last gift to offer: Be free!
Evayne lurched forward at the force of the words—and the magic inherent in them. She looked down at the darkspell around her and saw the shadow streaked with fissures of light. The screaming stopped as the fingers of Allasakar lost purchase. Suspended in air by the crumbling remnants of the dark lord’s spell, Evayne could see again.
The marble just below her feet was buckling and heaving. The solitary ward above it was a green, mottled glow. It twisted, resisting the movement beneath it.
“NO!” The voice was Sor na Shannen’s and the demon lord’s combined. “My Lord!”
But it was too late. A fissure cut across the glow, darkening and lengthening as the rock struggled to cast off the ward’s magic. Another crack joined it, and another, and another.
Evayne watched. Everything moved slowly. Even the shadow that bloomed once again like a flower of darkness from the arch grew sluggishly as it crept toward her. She watched, and as the last of the pain receded, she saw a glint of silver light. The mists.
The path was opening beneath her feet.
She could not turn quickly enough to see Kallandras. She didn’t have to; her hand still clutched his. Mother, she thought, have mercy; we are all your children, no matter to whom we make our pledge.
The marble shattered, but its shards turned to vapor before they touched her unprotected legs. A small, sharply edged pit opened up beneath her, and it was filled with light.
Five stars rose, and behind each, a trail of magic seared itself into her vision; Myrddion’s brand. Two were blue, one green, one red, and one a silver that stung the eyes. They came, across the shadow itself, to rest upon the fingers of her outstretched hand. Warmth tingled against her skin.
She did not look. Instead, she called upon her magic, upon the core of the power that she had used little of this eve. She could not take Kallandras with her; the path opened only for her, and no other living being, be they god or mortal. But she could see him to safety if he was not already consumed. That much power, she had.
Lowering her chin, she focused her will. Rings of gray light rippled down her right arm in a wave. They grew in number, in speed, in intensity, and as they touched Kallandras, they began to converge. Unlike all else, they moved quickly. Time’s gift.
She whispered a benediction as the mage-rings connected and the spell’s power fled her body in a cold rush. Shadow-magic collapsed in on itself and she heard the roar of an angry god as Kallandras vanished into Averalaan.
The otherwhen opened around her. Her feet touched the path and the silver mists shot up like impenetrable walls. Her legs began to tremble. As did her arms, her back, her lips. She couldn’t control them.
You pushed too hard, she told herself reprovingly. Called too much. Her knees and her palms struck the ground. Nausea hit as the shaking got stronger. She gave in to it—she hadn’t the will left to do otherwise.
Slowly, and with great difficulty, Evayne began to crawl along the path. The road could only take her someplace if she journeyed along it. The distance didn’t have to be great—it just had to be measurable. She threw up twice and gagged continuously, but concentrated on keeping her tongue flat against the roof of her mouth. The seizures were dangerous, otherwise. Her right hand moved. Her left. Her right leg. Her left.
The path delivered her slowly into the world. The mists cleared; day came, with a sun far too bright, and a season too cold. Her face was three inches above stone steps, and that distance grew less very suddenly.
Chapter Eight
WHY DID YOU HAVE TO bring me to this particular house? Evayne asked of the otherwhen in a tone of mild disgust. She received the usual answer: silence.
She was still in the year 402, although it was later as the seasons went. She didn’t understand why she was in this particular time, but was certain that she would come to. When she had the strength.
The roof in the house of healing was adorned by only a single, fine crack in the plaster between the large, darkly stained cross beams above Evayne’s bed. She knew it well. During the past
week, between intermittent seizures, she had done little but stare at it. The walls were a shell-white, and the sill of the single window was the same dark stain as the cross beams.
“Lady, can I get you anything to drink or anything to eat?” The voice of the slender young woman contrasted with the severity of her starched, stiff uniform. Her smooth, uncallused hands and her pale skin identified her as an apprentice healer, and not just an orderly.
“No. But thank you.” She turned her head to the side to see a look of disappointment cross the young attendant’s features.
“Will—will you be staying much longer?”
“That,” she replied dryly, “is probably a decision best made by Healer Levec. You could ask him.”
The girl’s face told her just how useful that would be. She dropped an almost courtly bow, and then wandered out of the room, lingering a moment in the doorway as if hoping to be recalled.
The orderlies and the attendants of the house were, for the most part, young men and women with romantic notions. The idea of a mysterious, wealthy woman, who was no doubt a mage given her unusual form of dress, spoke to their imaginations.
Evayne smiled, wondering what the truth would do. She propped herself up gingerly and tried to look out the window. The curtains were drawn; it was probably dark. Her elbows began to shake, and she sank back. Ruefully, she looked at her wrists. They were thin and fragile to the eye. She had come rather close.
Lamplight played off her fingers, glinting over gold.
It’s no wonder they think I’m wealthy, she thought, as she turned her hand slowly in front of her face. On her forefinger was a thick, golden band. It wasn’t plain, but rather delicately veined, as if a leaf had been pressed into the mold when the gold was being poured. At its heart was an emerald that flashed with the green of the first forest, cut in a rectangle with a flat, perfect face.
On her second finger was a band that seemed somehow orange in the light. Although it, too, was gold, it looked like liquid caught beneath crystal—molten precious metal. It held a ruby that was bright, not dark; the color of fire, not of blood.
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