Giggle.
Catrin cast about her, trying to locate the source of the strange, disembodied voice when it sounded again.
Giggle.
This time Catrin sensed the direction the noise came from, and she scanned with her senses. A male energy, full of mischief and humor, soared alongside her. She could not see anything to indicate the presence, but she could feel it, taunting her, constantly flitting away from her scrutiny.
Consumed by her desire to return to Ohmahold, Catrin tried to ignore the entity and continued watching the horizon, but the land seemed to crawl past her now, as if she were flying through mud.
The impish presence followed her, and she felt a change come over it: shame, grief, regret, and anger all flowed freely. The feelings struck her, and she felt pity. No one should have to feel so much pain without consolation, and that was the prevailing undercurrent: No one cares. No one will comfort me. No one loves me. I am no one.
It was painful, even from the outside, and Catrin changed her approach. She poured love and understanding toward the wayward energy, and it responded to her with disbelief, but she continued to convey kindness and caring.
Confusion, helplessness, and a deep wave of regret slammed into Catrin. She felt as if the entity were resisting someone-not her, it was someone else. She could feel the presence by proxy, through the reactions of the anonymous energy. The reactions were childlike, and Catrin suddenly realized she was dealing with a young energy, one that was being coerced. She decided anonymity was a barrier that hampered communication, but when she asked for a name, she received shame and grief in return-no name.
Catrin tried to understand how it would feel to have no name, and she was overcome with compassion. Everyone deserved a name, and she was determined to name the energy, to give him something to hold on to, something around which he could build his own identity. A name was more than a label or moniker. It was the center of one's perception of one's self. It was indelible and, once given, could never be taken away. All of this, she conveyed while searching for the right name.
Prios. A name of power, of that Catrin was certain. She wasn't certain it had any true meaning, but to her, it meant strong of heart. She conveyed this as best she could, and the response she received was one of great honor, but it was short lived.
Pain. Fear. Regret.
Confusion washed over Catrin, but now it was her own. The world seemed to twist and veer beneath her, and the link to her body went slack. In an instant, it became tangled and knotted, and she tumbled out of control. Panic clutched her, and she could feel the wrongness in her tangled lifeline. Prios battered her with energy, and whenever she seemed to have righted herself, he sent her spinning again. Light and dark fluctuated around her, as if the sun and moon had suddenly sped up, and she was helpless to stop it.
In a desperate attempt to dissuade him, she sent forth the mental image of her mother and, more generally, the feeling of unconditional love-the feeling she got when she delved into her earliest memories: mother, safety, warmth, caring, all wrapped up in single-minded intent.
Searing pain. Loss. Regret.
The feelings pummeled her until she relented, and she realized that Prios had relented as well. He was gone, no trace of his energy remained, but the damage was done. Catrin had no idea where she was or how to find her way back. To make matters worse, she sensed pain from her physical body and suddenly knew she was near death. If she did not get back soon, she would never be able to return. It was not just a feeling she had; she could almost hear someone shouting the words at her, repeatedly, like a mantra.
Scanning the landscape below, she saw no snow, only brownish farmland, and she guessed she was still in the south. A glimpse of the sun gave her a bearing on direction as it set at its normal, inexorable pace. She moved north with all the speed she could muster, but the tangle of energy still connected to her body slowed her even as it grew weaker. Snow appeared on the ground below, and her hope was renewed.
When the northern coast of the Greatland loomed on the horizon, she urgently turned east. Mountains pierced the clouds ahead, and she could almost feel the closeness of her body as it called to her in its final throes of life. She felt herself begin to waver and focused all the energy that remained in her. The vibrations took on new intensity, as if the monks knew she was preparing one final attempt to return.
Soaring toward the mountains, she moved faster, now guided by the pain and tingling of her physical form. She was close, and the closer she drew, the more intensely she felt the discomfort. It was strange to seek out pain when her instinct was to avoid it, but it was preferable to the encroaching numbness. In this case, pain meant life, and she hurtled toward it. Cold stone stood before her, an impenetrable barrier, but she passed through it without the slightest lessening of speed. It granted her passage without complaint.
Solid rock gave way to a labyrinth of corridors and rooms, both natural and man-made. Catrin paid them little mind as she struggled to close the distance separating herself from her dying body. Only when she entered a vacuous hall, filled with relics and tomes from a time long past, did she even notice her surroundings, and the myriad of curious items within the hall impressed themselves upon her mind.
The next instant brought relief as she pierced the walls of the viewing chamber. Her body sat in ashen stillness upon the stone seat, and even as she drew close, it took on a bluish hue. Her consciousness slammed into her physical form with jarring impact, and she struggled to orient herself, questing for the remembrance of her form. Her body no longer seemed to fit, as if it could not contain her, but she forced herself into its confines.
She had expected great amounts of pain, but her limbs were leaden, and she was unable to move. Numbness nearly claimed her, and she made herself draw a deep breath; it became more of a choke, but she did begin to breathe again. Her vision was clouded and dark, and though she noticed shadowy forms moving around her, she could identify no one. Sounds collided with her senses, but she could make sense of none of it. The only thing that mattered in the world, at that moment, was breathing. With each breath, the tingling in her flesh grew, and the pain charged in behind it.
Catrin welcomed the pain; she embraced it. Cramps, burning agony, and sharp pangs were all wonderful and delicious. She felt them acutely and relished them. As her breathing grew to a steady rhythm, her senses returned, her eyes focused, and she was stunned to see Benjin, his head completely shaved. He knelt before her with tears in his eyes. He must have sensed her return to cognizance because he rushed forward to hug her.
"Thank the gods you've come back," he whispered, and Catrin returned his hug with her unwieldy arms. She tried to speak, but her throat was so parched that she feared it would crack apart. Mother Gwendolin appeared with a mug of water. She looked horrible, as if she were afflicted with some ghastly illness. Her eyes were sunken; her skin was nearly as ashen as Catrin's, but a weary smile crossed her face. She handed Catrin the mug and waited for her to drink.
Catrin's hands shook as she tipped the mug, and sweet water dribbled over her lips. There was only a small amount in the mug, but it was like a cup of pure life, and it rejuvenated her as it moistened her dehydrated throat. She handed the drained mug to Mother Gwendolin and wordlessly begged for more. Another mug was handed to her, and it contained little more than the first, but Catrin was glad to have it.
"You must rest now," Mother Gwendolin said, but her voice cracked and sounded raw.
Catrin realized for the first time that she was wrapped in warm blankets. Benjin scooped her up, blankets and all, as if she were little more than a fallen leaf. Mother Gwendolin guided him to a sleeping room, and he gently laid her down on the bedding. Once he was certain she was comfortable, he retrieved another mug of water from Mother Gwendolin, into which he stirred a pinch of brown powder.
"Drink this. It'll help you rest."
"Not yet. I have dire news," Catrin croaked as she sat up, but Benjin forced her back down with only a sligh
t push of his finger. He placed the mug in her hands and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever it is, it can wait until morning."
Too weak to argue, Catrin drained the mug for the sake of her thirst as much as anything else. Within moments, she fell into a deep sleep, haunted by visions of a glowing face.
Chapter 14
Fanaticism is a plague. It threatens the fabric of our world and must be stopped regardless of the cost.
- -Von of the Elsics
***
"You gave us quite a scare, young lady," Mother Gwendolin croaked, wagging her finger at Catrin in a good-natured way. "Please, tell me of your experience. The unknown is driving me to distraction."
"How long was I gone?" Catrin asked, her own voice still rough and grating.
"Fourteen days."
Fourteen days! Catrin was stunned. Her journey had felt like little more than an afternoon jaunt, but then she recalled the cycles of light and dark during Prios's attack, and she surmised that he had somehow affected her perception of time. She didn't hate him for it, convinced he had been coerced, but she also realized she was lucky to have survived. After weeks of fasting, her body had been in no condition to sustain her.
"We had to train every monk available to keep up the ritual chanting, and there's not a clear voice left in the hold. Benjin insisted upon being at your side, and he underwent a condensed version of the purification ritual. He never slept; he just sat with you and held your hand. We were worried beyond reason, and I fear he blames me for endangering you. He sleeps now, though he'll be wroth with me when he wakes. I slipped a bit of sedative into his tea."
Guilt stabbed at Catrin, and she resolved herself to set Benjin straight about a few things when she saw him next, but she was so weary. Her journey had taken its toll, and she wasn't certain she would ever be whole again; she felt disconnected and isolated. She seemed more of a spectator than a participant in life, tucked away in her bed, and she yearned to move about, but her body resisted her attempts.
"The journey was dangerous," Catrin said after a moment's consideration. "But it was made disastrous by means of outside interference. Someone was coerced into interfering with my journey. I know it; I could feel it. You did not place me in danger. My enemies did that. Regardless, I bear momentous news. One of the Statues of Terhilian has been found and is being excavated."
Her words seemed to ring Mother Gwendolin's reality like a bell. She sat in stunned silence, unable to formulate a response.
"I followed a trail of pilgrims to their destination, and there I found the bones of the great beast, but it was the exposed face of Istra, on the opposite side of the mountain, that drew the throng. I looked upon her, and she shone back at me. I cannot say for certain what others saw, only my perception of it."
Tears slid down Mother Gwendolin's tired face, and her breath shuddered when she made to speak. "This is the worst possible news, and it comes on the heels of other ill tidings. General Dempsy has returned from the Godfist with only three of his ships. He's spreading a wild tale of destruction that lays total blame at your feet. He claims you destroyed his armies in cold blood, single-handedly, leaving a trail of gore wherever you trod. He has joined with the forces gathering to assault Ohmahold, and we have word they are constructing monstrous siege engines."
General Dempsy was the man who led the siege on the Godfist. Now she had a name, which granted her power, and Catrin stored the information away.
"The Greatland is on the verge of widespread famine and starvation," Mother Gwendolin continued. "Drought and the lack of capable hands threaten to leave thousands without food. The armies have conscripted the majority of able-bodied persons along with the majority of the livestock, and the seeds of war are all that have been sown. Our civilization is on a path to destruction, and events are moving faster than anyone could have foreseen. And now a Statue of Terhilian enters the fray. It is hard to believe, but I do believe you. If you say you have seen the face of Istra, I believe you. I just have no idea what to do about it."
Catrin could empathize. The news was all very overwhelming, and she could find no suitable course of action to take. Depression settled on her, and she shook herself physically to dislodge it. "I need to get out of this bed."
"I suppose we could walk a bit if you are feeling well enough, but we should not go too far."
Sudden flashes of memory returned, images of tomes and artifacts obfuscated by a thick layer of dust. Catrin recalled her frantic return and the wondrous sight that had caught her attention. "I don't mean to pry, but are you aware of a large hall, within Ohmahold, that is filled with books, swords, and a variety of oddities covered in dust?" she asked.
"I'm not aware of any such hall. How did you come to know of it? There is no place in this hold that is allowed to accumulate so much dust."
"When I was returning from the south, the strange presence confused me and I was lost. I came back into Ohmahold through the stone, and during my journey, I passed through the hall. I think I could find it."
Curiosity seemed to overcome Mother Gwendolin's reluctance to tax Catrin's strength, but not without due consideration. "Are you certain you feel strong enough? Is it far?"
"I want to try. I'm not certain how far it is, but I'll let you know if I get too tired." In truth, she was already weary, but her own curiosity drove her onward. She could sleep when she knew what the mysterious room actually contained. Perhaps some lost volume held the answers to her questions. She let her instincts and her memories guide her to the area she had passed through. The trail led them to the maze that secured the entrance of the Inner Sanctuary. "It's in there."
"Are you certain? We've mapped the entire labyrinth, and only the halls that bear the death symbols remain unexplored. You see, the ancients left us a code that we use to identify the safe passages within the labyrinth, and the defensive halls are marked with specific patterns of symbols."
"It's this way," Catrin said as she grabbed a lantern and led the way into the maze. She followed her instincts, and Mother Gwendolin confirmed the safety of every corridor before they entered it. Letting Mother Gwendolin concentrate on remembering where they were, Catrin concentrated on where they were going.
"I've never walked this part of the maze before. This passage is almost never used to my knowledge, for it leads nowhere. There are only death passages leading from it," Mother Gwendolin said, but Catrin walked in anyway. This was the passage, every bit of instinct and guidance she had pointed just beyond it. When they reached a four-way junction, Catrin stopped, and Mother Gwendolin carefully inspected the markings. Catrin was not certain which of the decorations were significant and which were frivolous.
"All these corridors are death chambers. We can go no farther this way."
Catrin used her senses to peer ahead. The corridor that stood directly across from her was the one; she knew it. "What exactly are the death chambers?" she asked.
"We don't know every variation, but they are filled with traps, many triggered by pressure plates. Some will crush you under a pile of rock, while others impale their victims on sharpened stakes. None has been triggered in my lifetime, and I'm uncertain what exactly lies down that corridor." Driven by an impulse, Catrin strode into the hall, and Mother Gwendolin drew a sharp intake of breath.
Nothing happened.
Catrin's steps did not falter, and she did not hesitate. She let her confidence carry her farther along the hall, and still nothing happened.
Mother Gwendolin conquered her own fears and joined her. She took Catrin's hand and held it in her own. "You are very brave. Are you certain you wish to go deeper? We could both die."
"I'm willing to risk my life. I believe I'm right, but I'll not ask you to risk yours, nor can I ask another to go in my stead. This is mine to do."
"And I have faith in you. I believe in you, and I'll walk beside you in this," Mother Gwendolin said, tightening her grip on Catrin's hand. With a squeeze in return, Catrin strode ahead. A small part of her min
d warned against arrogance, but she knew she was safe; this was the way. The two walked, hand in hand, in the lamplight, and when they reached a corner, they each began to breathe again. Resting for a moment, they prepared themselves for what lay ahead. Then they turned the corner together.
Awaiting them was a sight beyond even Catrin's expectations, her memories accounting for only a small fraction of what she saw before her. Row upon row of shelves stood in ranks, lined with hide-bound tomes. Racks of weapons lined the walls, and enormous tapestries hung high above. Fantastically complex devices filled a large corner of the hall, and the sight of them sparked the imagination: Who knew what wondrous purpose they could serve? So much of what she saw was foreign and unidentifiable that it was overwhelming. Mother Gwendolin stood at her side, bereft of words. Her hands were plastered to the sides of her face, and she simply stared in wonder.
The rush of the excitement faded immediately, though, as shouts echoed loudly through the halls and the sound of many booted feet shattered the silence. It was muffled and distorted in the great hall, but its portent was clear: something was very wrong. Mother Gwendolin immediately bolted from the hall and rushed back to the maze. Catrin was close on her heels, her exhaustion banished by fear. When they gained the mighty stair, Mother Gwendolin shouted to those above.
"What is it?"
"Men down in the pastures," someone called back. "Enemy in the hold!"
A chill ran up Catrin's spine, and the words drove her feet. She and Mother Gwendolin pounded up the stair, following a stream of armed men and women. Benjin charged among them, some three turns above her, and still Catrin wondered at his appearance without his hair. He had let it grow for so long, and she felt guilty for getting herself into trouble. Otherwise, she was certain he would not have allowed his head to be shaved.
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